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I  CD 


CO 


f  L*  *- 


THE    BIOGRAPHICAL    EDITION 


OF 


THE    WORKS    OF 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


lly 
THE    WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTIONS  BY 
HIS  DAUGHTER,  ANNE  RITCHIE 

IN  THIRTEEN  VOLUMES 

VOLUME  VII 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND,  ESQ. 

AND 

THE  LECTURES 


SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  WATERLOO  PLACE 

1898 
[All  rights  reserved] 


PR 

5bOO 

£99 


THE  HISTORY  OF 

HENRY   ESMOND,  ESQ. 

WRITTEN   BY   HIMSELF 

THE  ENGLISH  HUMOURISTS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTUEY 

THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

AND 

CHARITY  AND  HUMOUR 


BY 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER 
F.  BARNARD,  AND  FRANK  DICKSEE,  R.A. 


LONDON 
SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  WATERLOO  PLACE 

1898 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  <V  Co. 
At  the  Ballantyne  Press 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  xiii 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND,  ESQ. 
BOOK  I 

THE  EARLY  YOUTH   OF  HENRY  ESMOND,    UP  TO  THE  TIME  OF 

HIS  LEAVING   TRINITY   COLLEGE,   IN  CAMBRIDGE 
CHAP. 

I.       AN   ACCOUNT    OF   THE   FAMILY    OF   ESMOND  OF  CASTLE- 
WOOD    HALL 14 

II.       RELATES    HOW    FRANCIS,   FOURTH   VISCOUNT,    ARRIVES 

AT    CASTLEWOOD        .  .  .  .  .  .19 

III.  WHITHER  IN   THE   TIME  OF  THOMAS,  THIRD  VISCOUNT, 

I    HAD    PRECEDED    HIM    AS    PAGE    TO    ISABELLA    .          26 

IV.  I    AM    PLACED    UNDER    A    POPISH    PRIEST    AND    BRED 

TO    THAT    RELIGION VISCOUNTESS    CASTLEWOOD          36 

V.       MY    SUPERIORS     ARE     ENGAGED     IN     PLOTS     FOR     THE 

RESTORATION    OF   KING    JAMES    THE    SECOND          .          42 

VI.       THE   ISSUE    OF   THE    PLOTS THE    DEATH    OF    THOMAS, 

THIRD     VISCOUNT     OF     CASTLEWOOD;    AND     THE 
IMPRISONMENT   OF    HIS    VISCOUNTESS  .  .          52 

VII.       I   AM    LEFT    AT    CASTLEWOOD    AN    ORPHAN,    AND    FIND 

MOST    KIND    PROTECTORS    THERE  .  .  .65 

VIII.       AFTER   GOOD    FORTUNE    COMES    EVIL  .  .  .72 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAQB 

IX.       I    HAVE    THE    SMALLPOX,     AND    PREPARE    TO    LEAVE 

CASTLEWOOD    .......  80 

X.       I     GO     TO     CAMBRIDGE,     AND     DO     BUT     LITTLE     GOOD 

THERE     ........  97 

XI.       I    COME    HOME  FOR  A  HOLIDAY  TO   CASTLEWOOD,    AND 

FIND   A    SKELETON   IN    THE   HOUSE     .  .  .104 

XII.       MY    LORD    MOHUN    COMES    AMONG   US    FOR   NO    GOOD   .  115 

XIII.  MY   LORD   LEAVES    US    AND    HIS    EVIL   BEHIND    HIM      .  124 

XIV.  WE   RIDE   AFTER    HIM    TO    LONDON  136 


BOOK    II 

CONTAINS   MR.    ESMOND'S    MILITARY   LIFE,    AND   OTHER   MATTERS 
APPERTAINING    TO    THE    ESMOND    FAMILY 

I.       I   AM    IN    PRISON,    AND    VISITED,    BUT    NOT    CONSOLED 

THERE .  .       150 

II.       I     COME    TO     THE    END    OF    MY    CAPTIVITY,    BUT    NOT 

OF   MY   TROUBLE 159 

III.  I    TAKE   THE   QUEEN'S   PAY   IN    QUIN's    REGIMENT          .       167 

IV.  RECAPITULATIONS   .  .  .  .  .  .  .176 

V.       I    GO    ON    THE    VIGO    BAY    EXPEDITIONS,    TASTE    SALT- 
WATER,   AND    SMELL   POWDER    .  .  .  .181 

VI.       THE    29TH    DECEMBER 191 

VII.  I   AM    MADE   WELCOME   AT   WALCOTE             .            .            .197 

VIII.       FAMILY    TALK  .  206 

IX.  I   MAKE    THE    CAMPAIGN    OF    1704      .            .            .            .212 

X.  AN   OLD    STORY   ABOUT    A    FOOL   AND    A   WOMAN             .       220 

XI.  THE    FAMOUS    MR.    JOSEPH    ADDISON              .            .            .       229 

XII.  I  GET   A    COMPANY   IN    THE    CAMPAIGN    OF   1706                   239 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XIII.  I  MEET  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  IN  FLANDERS,  AND 

FIND    MY    MOTHER'S     GRAVE    AND    MY    OWN 
CRADLE  THERE        .         .         .         .         .         .244 

XIV.  THE    CAMPAIGN    OF    1707,    1708          ....  255 
XV.       GENERAL   WEBB    WINS    THE    BATTLE    OF    WYNENDAEL  262 


BOOK  III 

CONTAINING   THE    END    OF    MR.    ESMOND'S    ADVENTURES 
IN    ENGLAND 

I.       I    COME   TO   AN    END   OF   MY   BATTLES   AND   BRUISES    .       285 

II.       I    GO    HOME,    AND    HARP    ON    THE    OLD    STRING    .  .297 

III.       A    PAPER   OUT   OF    THE    "SPECTATOR"          .  .  .       309 

iv.     BEATRIX'S  NEW  SUITOR 326 

V.       MOHUN     APPEARS      FOR      THE      LAST      TIME      IN      THIS 

HISTORY 335 

VI.      POOR   BEATRIX          .......  347 

VII.       I    VISIT    CASTLEWOOD    ONCE    MORE      ....  352 

VIII.       I   TRAVEL   TO    FRANCE    AND   BRING  HOME  A  PORTRAIT 

OF    RIGAUD 361 

IX.       THE   ORIGINAL  OF  THE  PORTRAIT  COMES  TO  ENGLAND  370 
X.       WE    ENTERTAIN    A    VERY    DISTINGUISHED    GUEST    AT 

KENSINGTON 382 

XI.       OUR     GUEST     QUITS     US     AS     NOT     BEING    HOSPITABLE 

ENOUGH 395 

XII.       A   GREAT    SCHEME,    AND   WHO    BALKED   IT             .            .  404 

XIII.       AUGUST    1ST,    1714            .                         ....  409 


i  CONTENTS 

THE  LECTURES 
THE  ENGLISH  HUMOURISTS 

PACK 

SWIFT 423 

COXGEEVE  AXD  ADDISOX  .......     456 

STEELE "488 

PRIOE,    GAY,    AXD    POPE 520 

HOGAETH.    SMOLLETT,    A>T>   FUXDIXG  ....       557 

A>1)   GOLDSMITH  .  5^7 


THE  FOUR  GEORGES 

GEORGE   THE   FIRST 621 

GEOEGE   THE   SECOND  .......  643 

GEOKGE   THE   THIRD  ...  »  663 

GEOEGE   THE   FOURTH  .  ...  686 

CHARITY  AND  HUMOUR  .  711 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE    DUEL    IX    LEICESTER    FIELD 


frontispiece 


JOHXSOX    AXD    B03WELL 

STERXE  .... 

CAPTAIX    STEELE    . 

A   LECTURE   .... 

FIGURE    OF   A    LADY 

MEMOIRS    OF   LIEUT. -GEXERAL    WEBB 
55  ?5  j: 

55  55  ?5 

SLR   CHARLES    GRAXDISOX-ESMOXD    . 

• 

MALBROOK    S'EX    VA-T-EX    GUERRE    . 
EXTERIOR    OF    CLETEDOX    COURT 
LXTERIOR    OF    CLETEDOX    TTAT.T. 
DRILL  ..... 
DR.    JOHXSOX 
A    COXFEREXCE 


xiv 

,.          xiv 
.,         xiv 

To  face  ^siye       xv 
xvii 


;E  (i.) 

.   To  face  page 

xxi 

(n.) 

•                         55 

xxi 

(ni.) 

5? 

xxi 

.      page 

yriii 

. 

55 

xxvi 

. 

•                   •                   55 

xxvii 

' 

•                   •                   55 

xxviii 

•                   •                   5> 

XXX 

•                   •                   J» 

xxxi 

>» 

xlvi 

THE   HISTORY  OF   HEN'RY   ESMOND,   ESQ. 


HEXRY   ESMOND   FIXDS    FRTEXDS 
BEATRIX 


To  face  page       15 
198 


xii                      LIST    OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

RECONCILIATION     .  .                     To  face  page     334 

MONSIEUR   BAPTISTE         .  „                    375 

THE   LAST    OF   BEATRIX  .  416 


THE   ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS 

BEAN    SWIFT    AT    COURT    ......  437 

ADDISON    AT    "  CHILD'S "    .  „  485 

CAPTAIN    STEELE „  499 

LORD    BATHURST    INTRODUCES    HIMSELF    TO    MR. 

STERNE    .  ......  592 

GOLDSMITH    AT    PLAY  615 


THE   FOUR   GEORGES 

THE    DEATH    OF   KONIGSMARK     .            .            .  .            „  634 

AN    IMPROMPTU    DANCE                  ...  „  654 

DR.    JOHNSON    AND    THE    ACTRESSES    .            .  „  672 

THE   LAST   DAYS    OF   GEORGE   THE    THIRD  . .  „  684 

THE    FIRST   GENTLEMAN   IN   EUROPE  .            .  „  699 


x/" 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


ESMOND    AND   TO    THE    LECTURES 

1851-1853 


M 


PART    I. 

Y  dear  Smith,"  my  father  once  wrote,  "  how  would  the  lec- 
tures do  with  no  end  of  illustrations  ? — T.  0. — I  was  drawing 
these,  and  that  made  me  write  to  you, — Yours, 

"W.  M.  T." 


Here  are  the  sketches  over  the  page  in  this  book  as  they  are  in 
my  father's  letter — Captain  Steele  with  his  cane  and  periwig,  Mr. 
Sterne  in  his  bands  and  buckles,  Dr.  Johnson  pacing  the  street 
with  Boswell  by  his  side. 

As  one  reads  the  Lectures  on  the  Humourists,  one  feels  how 
much  my  father  was  at  ease  with  all  these  people,  whom  he  loved 
and  admired.  He  trod  in  the  actual  footsteps  of  Johnson  and 
Goldsmith,  and  Steele  and  Addison.  He  saw  the  things  they  had 
seen,  heard  the  echoes  to  which  they  had  listened,  he  walked  up 
the  very  streets  where  they  had  walked.  He  was  one  of  them,  and 
happy  in  their  good  company.  Sir  Walter  also  wrote  of  these 
times,  also  admired  and  appreciated  all  these  personalities,  but  he 
belonged  to  a  different  and  more  romantic  world  of  chivalry  and 
adventure.  As  for  my  father — so  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters — "  the 
eighteenth  century  occupies  him  to  the  exclusion  almost  of  the 
nineteenth/'  and  he  carried  its  traditions  along  with  him. 

The  first  lecture  was  given  on  the  21st  of  May  1851.  Charlotte 
Bronte  has  described  it,  and  Mrs.  Kemble  has  described  it  and 
Willis's  Rooms,  the  assembled  company,  the  undoubted  success  of  the 

xiii 


STERNE. 


CAPTAIN  STEELE. 


A   LECTURE 

"The  Lecturer's  humour  convulsed  the  audience  with  laughter.  Mr.  Thackeray's 
manner  of  reading  '  How  doth  the  little  Busy  Bee '  was  highly  impressive ;  and  his 
vivid  yet  delicate  description  of  the  Author  of  'Robinson  Crusoe'  in  the  Pillory, 
drew"  tears  from  every  eye.  Among  the  company  present  we  remarked  Messrs. 
McHufiie,  McDuffie,  McGuffie.  Revd.  Messrs.  McMinn  and  McMie,  Mrs.  Col. 
McGaspie  (of  Glenbogie),  Miss  McCraw,  in  a  word  all  the  Notabilities  of  our  town." 

—Kildrummle  Warder. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

venture.  Mrs.  Komble's  friendly,  funny  story  is  well  kiiown,  of  the 
lecturer's  nervousness  and  of  her  trying  to  encourage  him,  and  in  her 
confusion  and  sympathy  letting  his  manuscript  fall  from  the  desk;  and 
there  is  that  saying  of  my  father's  which  she  records,  "  that  she  had 
just  given  him  occupation  and  distraction  in  sorting  the  manu- 
script, during  the  ten  minutes  he  had  still  to  wait."  I  was  scarcely 
in  my  teens  at  the  time,  and  it  is  so  long  ago,  that  the  facts  are  some- 
what confused,  so  that  I  have  no  details  to  add,  except  that  we  all  drove 
home  together,  and  I  do  remember  his  comfortable  look  of  relief  as  we 
settled  down  in  the  family  brougham  and  started  away  from  Willis's 
Rooms  to  homelike  Young  Street.  Very  soon  the  lectures  ceased 
to  alarm  ;  they  became  an  integral  part  of  his  daily  life.  He  used  to 
make  a  little  joke  of  his  own  reading,  and  describe  "  Mr.  Thackeray 
as  having  recited  with  unusual  pathos  the  poem  of  '  How  doth  the 
little  busy  bee '  to  a  large  and  enthusiastic  audience."  We  give  a 
page  from  the  "  Orphan  of  Pimlico,"  which  is  too  much  to  the  point  to 
be  overlooked.  The  original  drawing  belongs  to  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen. 

Requisitions  and  invitations  came  from  every  part  of  the  country, 
written  in  neat  copperplate  handwriting,  from  various  young  men's 
associations  and  literary  clubs.  As  time  went  on,  there  arose  a  great 
deal  of  discussion  over  the  lecturing.  Friends  remonstrated ;  some 
said  it  was  not  proper  work  for  him  (our  old  friend  Sir  Edward 
Hamley  was  among  these) ;  others  applauded,  others  asked  him  to 
give  private  readings  at  their  own  houses — not  for  payment,  but 
for  their  pleasure.  It  was  certainly  not  for  my  father's  pleasure. 
Before  long  he  began  to  get  dreadfully  tired  of  "the  business,"  as 
he  used  to  call  it.  But  he  was  glad  to  get  a  rest  from  quill-driving,  j 
and  to  earn  so  much  money — very  much  more  than  he  ever  earned  in  ' 
the  same  time  by  writing.  The  plans  were  maturing  for  the  American 
journey,  and  meanwhile  the  lectures  were  being  repeated  in  London, 
and  continued  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  and  all  over  the  country. 

Mrs.   Shaen  has  given  me  the  following  letters,   which  were 
addressed  to  her  father  at  Cambridge  in  the  November  of  1851  : — 

"  DEAR  DR.  THACKERAY, — I  want  very  much  to  get  the  Univer- 
sity opinion  about  some  lectures  which  I  delivered  in  June  and  July 
last  to  a  great  audience  in  London,  as  you  may  have  heard.  .  .  . 
What  pleased  me  most  and  best,  Mr.  Macaulay  and  Mr.  Hallam 
came  almost  every  time.  I  am  going  to  take  these  lectures  to 
7  b 


xvi  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

America,  and  to  make  a  little  fortune  out  of  them,  I  hope,  for  my 
little  people.  If  I  ever  get  another  fortune,  I  will  keep  it.  I  must 
have  the  Vice-Chancellor's  authority.  .  .  .  My  man,  S.  James,  is 
the  bearer  of  this,  and  destined  to  be  my  confidential  man  in 
America.  He  has  a  commission  to  find  his  way  to  Mr.  Macmillan's 
Library  to  see  the  person  who  arranges  Mrs.  Kemble's  readings  for 
her,  and  settle  about  bills,  tickets,  and  announcements.  I  hope  he 
will  bring  me  the  news  that  you  are  very  well,  and  have  got  my 
leave  from  the  Vice-Chancellor."  * 

"KENSINGTON,  November  13,  1851. 

"My  DEAR  DR.  THACKERAY, — A  sudden  panic  has  seized  me 
lest,  in  your  good  nature  and  desire  to  serve  one  of  our  race,  you 
should  think  of  purchasing  tickets  for  you  or  any  of  my  cousins 
for  those  lectures  which  begin  to-morrow.  Don't  you  remember 
coming  to  prescribe  for  me  when  I  was  ill  at  Cambridge,  and 
asking  me  '  if  I  thought  you  were  a  cannibal,'  when  I  made  some 
little  proposition  regarding  a  fee  ?  In  like  manner  it  would  shock 
me  to  see  my  cousins  bleed.  ...  I  did  not  ask  your  ladies  the 
other  day,  because  of  my  natural  blushing  bashfulness,  and  because 
I  did  not  know  whether  ladies  could  attend ;  but  at  Oxford  there 
were  dons  and  their  donnas  on  Thursday,  and  I  hope  there  may 
be  some  ladies  at  Cambridge  too,  and  that  my  cousins  and  Mrs. 
Thackeray  will  favour  me,  if  they  are  so  inclined." 

"  Old  Stoddart  is  my  host  at  Oxford,"  he  writes  to  his  mother. 
(It  may  be  remembered  that  in  one  of  his  schoolboy  letters  he  speaks 
of  "  a  friend  of  mine  called  Stoddart.")  "  It  is  curious,  isn't  it,  to 
be  arrived  actually  at  the  date  when  some  money  will  be  put  by  for 
the  young  ones  1  They  will  probably  be  worth  £30  apiece  to-night." 

Here  is  a  note  about  one  of  those  early  ventures  : — 

"MY  DEAR  NAN, — Your  dear  papa  had  a  hundred  subscribers  and 
about  two  hundred  more  people  at  the  first  lecture,  which  was  very 
successful  on  the  whole.  And  he  begins  to  think  America  is  farther 
off  than  it  was,  and  that  it  will  be  a  pity  to  leave  England.  .  .  . 

*  My  father  had  to  obtain  leave  from  the  University  before  lecturing,  and 
when  he  went  to  Oxford,  lie  was  advised  to  apply  in  the  proper  quarters  himself. 
He  was  somewhat  taken  aback  to  find  that  his  name  was  not  known  to  the  digni- 
tary to  whom  he  had  to  apply,  nor  had  this  gentleman  ever  heard  of  "  Vanity 
Fair."  Some  one  happily  was  found  to  vouch  for  the  lecturer's  respectability. 


INTRODUCTION 


xvn 


"And  he  sends  his  gals  his  blessing,  which  they  are  a  hundred 
pound  richer  to-day  than  yesterday  at  this  time." 


FIGURE   OF   A    LADY. 

In  December  he  went  to  Scotland  for  three  weeks,  and  wrote  to 
his  friends  Dr.  and  Mrs.  John  Brown,  with  whom  he  had  been 

staying  :— 

"  WESTBUKY,  January?),  1852. 

"Mv  DEAR  MRS.  BROWN, — The  children  write  me  from  afar 
off  that  you  have  written  them  a  kind  letter,  and  though  I  think 
it  is  twenty  years  ago  since  I  left  Edinburgh,  I  have  not  forgotten 
you,  and  write  a  stupid  line  to  say  how  do  you  do,  and  the  Doctor 
and  Jock  and  Helen  1 

"  Since  I  came  away  I  have  been  out  a-visiting,  and  write  this 
on  this  grand,  thick  official  paper  from  a  grand  house,  where  I  am 


xviii  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

treated  very  hospitably  as  usual,  and  propose  to  pass  two  or  three 
days  more,  very  possibly  to  try  and  work  a  little.  All  this  pleasuring 
has  unfitted  me  for  it,  and  I  begin  to  fancy  I  am  a  gentleman  of 
£5000  a  year.  ...  I  have  no  earthly  news  to  send  you,  only  the 
most  stupid  good  wishes.  But  I  wish,  instead  of  waiting  in  my 
room  up  here  for  dinner  and  three  courses  and  silver  and  cham- 
pagne, I  was  looking  forward  to  23  and  that  dear  old  small  beer, 
and  then  we  would  have  a  cab  and  go  to  the  Music  Hall  and  hear 
Mrs.  Kemble.  I  sometimes  fancy  that  having  been  at  Edinbro'  is 
a  dream — only  there  are  the  daguerreotypes,  and  a  box  of  that 
horrid  shortbread  still,  and  the  hat  full  of  money  to  be  sure.  It 
was  not  at  all  cold  coming  to  London,  and  the  town  of  Berwick-on- 
Tweed  looked  beautiful,  and  I  think  my  fellow-passenger  must  have 
wondered  to  see  how  cleverly  I  slept.  He  was  a  young  Cambridge 
man,  and  knew  your  humble  servant  perfectly  well.  It  was  on  the 
railroad  I  got  the  great  news  of  Palmerston's  going  out.  It  didn't 
frighten  you  in  Rutland  Street  much  I  dare  say,  but  in  the  houses 
where  I  go  we  still  talk  about  it,  and  I  amongst  the  number  as 
gravely  as  if  I  were  a  Minister  myself.  Why  do  we  1  What  does  it 
matter  to  me  who's  Minister?  Depend  upon  it,  23  Rutland  Street  is 
the  best,  and  good,  dear,  kind  friends,  and  quiet  talk,  and  honest  beer. 
"  You  see  by  the  absurd  foregoing  paragraphs  that  I  have  nothing 
in  the  world  to  say,  but  I  want  to  shake  you  and  the  Doctor  by  the 
hand,  and  say  thank  you,  and  God  bless  you. 

"W.  M.  THACKERAY." 

In  January  he  says,  "They  make  me  an  offer  of  £150  at  the 
Portman  Square  Rooms — pretty  well  for  six  hours." 

I  have  been  surprised  sometimes,  reading  the  various  criticisms 
of  my  father's  work,  to  find  how  much — especially  when  lie  first 
began  to  lecture — people  dwelt  on  his  powers  of  criticism,  his  severe 
judgments,  his  sarcastic  descriptions,  whereas  the  other  healing 
qualities  are  almost  passed  over. 

And  yet  the  gift  of  appreciation  was  his  in  no  common  degree, 
the  instinct  of  discerning  true  dignity  and  beauty  in  humble  things ; 
that  Christian  gift  of  making  simplicity  great,  of  seeing  what  is 
noble  and  eternal  in  the  most  natural  and  commonplace  facts.  It 
takes  a  Newton  to  divine  the  secrets  of  nature  from  a  hint ;  a  Bach 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

can  create  a  new  heaven  upon  earth  with  the  tinkling  wires  of  a 
spinet;  working  in  his  own  line,  a  week-day  preacher,  as  my  father 
loved  to  call  himself,  takes  peaceful  reiteration  of  daily  duty  for  his 
text,  and  preaches  the  supremacy  of  goodness. 

Who  will  not  remember  the  passage  in  which  he  says  of  great 
men  :  "  They  speak  of  common  life  more  largely  and  generously  than 
common  men  do ;  they  regard  the  world  with  a  manlier  counte- 
nance. .  .  .  Learn  to  admire  rightly,  try  to  frequent  the  company 
of  your  betters  in  books  and  life." 

On  the  last  day  of  her  life  Mrs.  Brookfield,  my  father's  lifelong 
friend  and  mine,  quoted  this  sentence  to  me,  with  a  smile  and  that 
bright  steadfast  look  in  her  eyes,  which  ever  seomed  like  an  accom- 
paniment to  her  voice. 

Here  is  a  quotation  from  a  letter  of  these  times,  in  which, 
writing  to  his  mother  concerning  some  people  in  trouble,  he  says, 
"  Cowardly  self-love  cries  out  Save — save,  or  you  may  starve  too.  .  .  . 
So  please  God  we  will,  and  do  that  work  resolutely  for  the  next 
year.  I  am  very  well  in  health,  I  think,  having  staved  off  my  old 
complaint ;  and  the  only  thing  that  alarms  me  sometimes  is  the 
absurd  fancy  that,  now  the  money-making  is  actually  at  hand,  some 
disaster  may  drop  down  and  topple  me  over.  But  that's  a  fancy 
only.  .  .  .  The  novel  is  getting  on  pretty  well,  .  .  .  and  now  let's 
call  a  cab  and  go  to  Oxford."  The  novel,  of  course,  was  "  Esmond." 

"  Esmond  "  did  not  seem  to  be  a  part  of  our  lives,  as  "  Pendennis  " 
had  been.  Although  I  have  seen  the  MSS.  as  it  was  written  by 
Mr.  Crowe  to  dictation,  and  also  with  pages  in  our  own  youthful 
handwriting,  I  cannot  remember  either  the  writing  or  the  dictating, 
nor  even  hearing  "Esmond"  spoken  of  except  very  rarely. 

My  sister  and  I  were  a  great  deal  away  at  this  time,  staying  in 
Paris  with  our  grandparents,  who  were  living  just  out  of  the  Champs 
Elyse'es,  in  the  Rue  d'Angouleme,  a  street  which  has  changed  its  name 
with  succeeding  dynasties.  (The  Champs  Elyse'es  happily  remain 
Champs  Elyse'es  still,  impartially  appropriate  to  the  various  govern- 
ments in  turn,  whether  monarchical,  imperial,  or  popular.) 

"  As  you  are  to  be  in  Paris,  my  dearest  fambly,  for  the  fetes," 
my  father  writes  in  August  1852,  "  I  send  you  a  word  and  a  good 
morning,  and  such  a  little  history  of  the  past  week  as  that  time 
affords. 


xx  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

"Eliza  does  for  me,  and  her  brother  runs  my  errands.  I  have 
been  twice  to  Richmond,  where  Mrs.  F—  -  receives  me  with  the 
greatest  graciousness,  and  announces  to  all  her  friends  that  I  am 
the  most  agreeable  of  men — that  she  looks  upon  me  in  the  light  of 

a  son.     At  one  of  these  dinners  was  Mr.  B and  his  daughter,  and 

if  I  had  a  daughter  like  that,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  should  have  a 
bore  for  a  daughter.  She  scarce  ceased  speaking  to  me  the  whole 
of  dinner-time ;  and  told  me  that  the  summer  was  hot,  the.  moun- 
tains were  high,  and  so  forth,  and  next  me,  on  t'other  side,  was  a 
very  nice,  natural,  ugly  girl,  that  was  worth  a  hundred  of  her.  My 
favour  with  Mrs.  F is  riot  yet  over ;  she  sent  me  a  tabinet  waist- 
coat of  green  and  gold,  such  an  ugly  one  !  but  I  shall  have  it  made 
up  and  sport  it  in  America,  arid  keep  the  remainder  for  pin-cushions. 
...  I  sent  away  the  first  sheets  of  *  Esmond '  yesterday.  It  reads 
better  in  print;  it  is  clever,  but  it  is  also  stupid,  no  mistake. 
Other  parts  will  be  more  amusing,  I  hope  and  think." 

"  I  have  been  living  in  the  last  century  for  weeks  past,  in  the 
day,  that  is ;  going  at  night  as  usual  into  the  present  age,  until  I 
get  to  fancy  myself  almost  as  familiar  with  one  as  with  the  other, 
and  Oxford  and  Boliugbroke  interest  me  as  much  as  Russell  and 
Palmerston — more,  very  likely.  The  present  politics  arc  behind  the 
world,  and  not  fit  for  the  intelligence  of  the  nation." 

About  the  translation  of  "  Esmond "  into  French  he  writes  to 
his  mother  :  "  I  was  going  to  write  on  this  very  little  sheet  of  paper 
when  your  letter  came  in.  Mr.  De  Wailly's  is  the  best  offer, 
but  is  it  possible  he  can  give  us  as  much  as  4000  francs "?  There 
must  be  some  mistake,  I  fear.  I  have  given  up,  and  only  had  for 
a  day  or  two,  the  notion  for  the  book  in  numbers ;  it  is  much  too 
grave  and  sad  for  that."  .  .  . 

"  The  great  Revolution's  a-coming,  and  the  man  not  here  who's 
to  head  it.  I  wonder  whether  he  is  born,  and  where  he  lives.  The 
present  writers  are  all  employed  as  by  instinct  in  unscrewing  the 
old  framework  of  society  and  getting  it  ready  for  the  smash." 

To  Lady  Stanley  he  writes  about  the  same  time,  "  I  am  writing 
a  book  of  cut-throat  melancholy  suitable  to  my  state,  and  have  no 
news  of  myself  or  anybody  to  give  you  which  should  not  be  written 
on  black-edged  paper,  and  sealed  with  a  hatchment." 

My  father  used  often  to   go   off  into    the   country   with    his 


M  Hu.  Mcn^ui  5*»C«U^*  »*uuU. 


II 


•* 


Ill 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

work  for  a  day  or  two,  and  among  other  places  he  liked  South- 
borough,  near  Tunbridge  Wells,  where  he  used  to  stay  at  an  inn 
and  write.  The  summer  when  he  was  busy  upon  "  Esmond,"  his 
cousins,  Mrs.  Irvine  and  Miss  Selina  Shakespear,  were  living  on 
Rustington  Common,  and  he  used  to  go  over  sometimes  and 
spend  the  day  with  them.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that 
he  drew  the  scenes  from  the  life  of  Lieut. -General  Webb  here  given, 
and  which  Miss  Shakespear  has  kept  all  these  years. 

Meanwhile  the  Lectures  continued  their  course.  He  under- 
took a  northern  tour,  during  which,  however,  he  still  worked  at 
his  book. 

W.  M.  T.  to  MRS.  CARMICHAEL-SMYTH. 

"GLASGOW,  1852. 

"  Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday. — My  dearest  mother,  I  have  had 
a  working  fit  on  me  for  the  last  many  days,  and  have  slaved  away 
without  a  day's  intermission ;  at  home,  at  Brighton,  and  regularly 
since  I  have  been  here  too.  I  wish  I  had  six  months  more  to  put 
into  the  novel :  now  it's  nearly  done ;  it's  scarce  more  than  a 
sketch,  and  it  might  have  been  made  a  durable  history,  complete 
in  its  parts  and  its  whole.  But  at  the  end  of  six  months  it  would 
want  other  six.  It  takes  as  much  trouble  as  Macaulay's  History 
almost,  and  he  has  the  vast  advantage  of  remembering  everything 
he  has  read,  whilst  everything  but  impressions — I  mean  facts,  dates, 
and  so  forth — slip  out  of  my  head,  in  which  there's  some  great 
faculty  lacking,  depend  upon  it. 

"  I  came  on  Tuesday  night.  What  a  comfort  to  journey  four 
hundred  miles  in  twelve  hours,  reading  a  volume  of  Swift,  and 
noting  it,  all  the  way,  and  got  up  like  a  man  next  morning  to  my 
work.  It's  true  I  couldn't  sleep  for  the  infernal  noise  of  the  place. 
On  Thursday  I  went  off,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Jeames,  to  Balloch, 
on  the  brink  of  Loch  Lomond,  and  passed  two  days  there  scribbling 
away,  but  in  quiet  and  fresh  air.  I  had  a  boat  on  the  loch,  and 
it's  very  pretty,  but  not  so  very  pretty  after  all.  It's  nothing  to  the 
Swiss  lakes  or  Killarney.  And  I'm  glad  I  didn't  bring  the  little 
women,  as  I  had  half  a  thought  of  doing.  .  .  . 

"  The  air  is  choky  with  the  smoke  of  ten  thousand  furnaces  for 
miles  round,  and  the  whole  landscape  blacked  all  over  with  Indian 


xxii  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

ink.  The  steamers  smoke  more,  and  there  are  more  of  them  than 
anywhere  ! — and  after  the  pure  air  of  London,  I  can't  breathe  this, 
nor  sleep  in  the  noisiest  Babel  of  a  place  I've  ever  .  .  . 

"A  man  interrupted  me  in  this  paragraph  yesterday,  and  we 
went  out  a-lionizing,  after  which  no  work  was  done.  Now  my 
dearest  old  mother  comes  in  at  the  fag  end  of  a  day's  writing,  and 
that's  sure  to  be  a  stupid,  yawning  letter.  •  Indeed,  when  isn't 
there  a  day's  work  of  some  sort  in  my  life  as  it  now  is1?  You 
would  have  had  many  a  letter  but  for  that  weariness  which  makes 
the  sight  of  a  pen  odious,  and  sends  me  to  sleep  of  a  night  at  home 
when  I  don't  go  into  the  world.  A  man  must  live  his  life.  Circum- 
stance makes  that  for  us  partly,  independent  of  ourselves.  .  .  . 

"  The  folks  here  don't  understand  in  the  least  what  I'm  about, 
but  are  very  cordial  and  willing  to  be  pleased.  One  fat  old 
merchant  to  whom  I  brought  a  letter  mistook  me,  or  rather  took 
me,  for  an  actor  (and  so  I  am),  and  said,  '  Have  the  goodness  to 
call  upon  me  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock.'  Well,  I  should  have  gone, 
just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  only  the  old  boy,  who  had  never  heard 
of  me  from  Adam,  heard  in  the  meantime  who  I  was,  and  came 
puffing  up  my  stairs  yesterday  and  took  me  out  sight-seeing,  and  to 
dinner  afterwards  at  his  hideous  house,  where  he  dispensed  hospi- 
tality very  kindly  to  a  dozen  people,  and  put  me  in  mind  of  T 's 

good-humour  and  jollity  and  want  of  education.  The  rich  man  had 
toadies  about  him  too,  just  as  in  other  places.  It  was  good  to  watch 
them — two  of  them  were  painters  anxious  for  commissions  from  him. 

"  I  looked  at  Carlisle  as  we  passed  through  with  a  queer  feeling. 
I  was  offered,  do  you  remember?  to  be  editor  of  the  Carlisle 
Patriot  the  first  year  of  my  marriage,  and  refused,  I  think, 
because  it  was  too  Tory  for  me  (it  was  in  the  Lonsdale  interest). 
What  queer  speculations  the  might  have  beens  are  !  .  .  ." 

"Thursday,  February  26,  1852.— I  don't  think  I  have  got 
much  good  news,  or  otherwise,  to  tell  you  since  I  last  wrote.  But 
"my  book  has  got  into  a  more  cheerful  vein,  that's  a  comfort,  and 
I  am  relieved  from  the  lugubrious  doubts  I  had  about  it.  Miss 
Bronte  has  seen  the  first  volume,  and  pronounces  it  *  admirable  and 
odious.'  Well,  I  think  it  is  very  well  done,  and  very  melancholy 
too;  but  the  melancholy  part  ends  with  Vol.  1,  and  everybody 
begins  to  move  and  be  more  cheerful." 


INTRODUCTION 

"  I  wish  the  new  novel  wasn't  so  grand  and  melancholy,"  he 
repeats  elsewhere ;  "  the  hero  is  as  stately  as  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
— something  like  Warrington — -a  handsome  likeness  of  an  ugly  son 
of  yours.  There's  a  deal  of  pains  in  it  that  goes  for  nothing ;  and 
my  paper's  full,  and  I  am  my  dearest  mother's  affectionate  son, 

"W,  M.  T." 


SIR   CHARLES   GRANDiSON-KSMOND. 


Again  he  writes  from  Birmingham,  from  a  friend's  house,  "  Such 
a  nice  family — nice  children,  a  sweet,  kind  wife,  Yorke  a  perfect 
prize  parson — pious,  humble,  merry,  orthodox  to  the  most  lucky 
point,  liked  by  everybody.  How  I  should  like  to  be  like  Yorke  ! 
— not  for  the  being  liked,  but  for  that  happy  orthodoxy,  which  is 
as  natural  with  him  as  with  Addison  and  other  fortunate  people,  and 
which  would  make  my  dear  old  Granny  so  happy  if  I  had  it." 


xxiv  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 


PART  II. 

IT  will  be  remembered  that  E.  FitzGerald,  writing  to  F.  Tenny- 
son in  1852,  says,  "  Though  I  have  had  to  march  to  London  several 
times,  I  generally  ran  back  again  as  fast  as  I  could,  much  preferring 
the  fresh  air  and  the  fields  to  the  wilderness  of  monkeys  in  London. 
Thackeray  I  saw  for  ten  minutes;  he  was  just  in  the  agony  of 
finishing  a  novel,  which  has  arisen  out  of  the  reading  necessary  for 
his  lectures,  and  relates  to  those  times — of  Queen  Anne,  I  mean. 
He  will  get  .£1000  for  his  novel;  he  was  wanting  to  finish  it  and 
rush  off  to  the  Continent  to  shake  off  the  fumes  of  it." 

Here  is  another  mention  by  my  father  of  the  new  book  : — 

"  Esmond  looks  very  stately  and  handsome  in  print,  and,  bore 
as  he  is,  I  think  will  do  me  credit.  But  the  printers  only  send 
me  one  hundred  pages  a  week,  and  at  this  rate  will  be  three  months 
getting  through  the  novel."  .  .  . 

"  I  have  just  recovered  from  a  fine  panic,"  he  says  in  Sep- 
tember 1852;  "my  third  volume  was  lost  at  the  publishers. 
What  on  earth  was  I  to  do,  thinks  II  That  will  keep  me  six 
weeka  more  at  home,  and  that  will  enable  me  to  have  the  children  ; 
but  the  missing  volume  cast  up  again  an  hour  ago." 

By  this  time  the  American  journey  was  settled,  and  the  time 
was  getting  very  near  for  his  going. 

"  Four  more  days  gone,  and  again  this  is  the  very  first  minute 
for  writing.  I  have  been  to  Alderley  for  a  day  since ;  said  adieu 
to  Liverpool,  and  had  plenty  of  audience ;  come  to  London  by  the 
night  mail  train,  and  arrived  at  poor  dreary  old  Kensington  yester- 
day, Sunday  morning,  and  all  to-day  have  been  busy  till  now.  I 
found  at  home  my  women's  letters,  and  my  dearest  old  mother's 
postscript.  I  am  glad  to  have  such  good  accounts  of  you  all,  and 
have  just  sent  off  positively  the  last  sentence  of  the  *  Esmond ' 
dedication ;  and  if  I  had  three  hours  more  on  Saturday,  I  would 
have  been  off  by  that  boat  I  think,  so  beautiful  the  weather  is, 
and  so  tempting  the  sunshine. 

"  I  hope  to  send  you  over  '  Esmond '  next  week.  God  bless  my 
children,  and  kiss  everybody  all  round  for  the  sake  of  son  and 
father." 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

"Now  I  am  going  to  work  for  three  hours,  and  to  re-read 
'  Vanity  Fair '  for  a  cheap  edition." 

One  of  the  things  I  remember  his  saying  about  "Esmond"  I 
have  already  put  into  print.  It  was  when  he  exclaimed  in  pleasure 
and  excitement,  that  a  young  publisher  called  George  Smith — 
almost  a  boy,  he  said — had  come  with  a  liberal  cheque  in  his 
pocket,  to  offer  for  the  unfinished  novel. 

I  have  also  written  of  a  sort  of  second-sight  my  father  used 
sometimes  to  speak  of.  Occasionally  when  he  described  places, 
he  said  he  could  hardly  believe  he  had  not  been  there ;  and  in 
one  of  the  battles  in  "Esmond,"  he  told  us  that  the  very  details 
of  the  foreground  were  visible  to  him  as  he  wrote,  even  to  some 
reeds  growing  by  a  streamlet,  and  the  curve  of  the  bank  by  which 
it  flowed.  I  find  a  sentence  in  one  of  his  letters  which  corroborates 
this  impression. 

"I  was  pleased  to  find  Blenheim,"  he  wrote  to  his  mother  in 
August  1852,  "was  just  exactly  the  place  I  had  figured  to  myself, 
except  that  the  village  is  larger;  but  I  fancied  I  had  actually 
been  there,  so  like  the  aspect  of  it  was  to  what  I  looked  for. 
I  saw  the  brook  which  Harry  Esmond  crossed,  and  almost  the 
spot  where  he  fell  wounded,  and  walked  down  to  the  Danube, 
and  mused  mighty  thoughts  over  it.  It  seems  grand  to  walk 
down  to  the  Danube ;  but  the  Thames  at  Putney  is  twice  as  big 
and  handsome  as  the  river  here." 

We  give  a  version  of  "  Malbrook  "  going  off  on  his  campaign, 
which  may  interest  my  readers. 

"Esmond"  was  the  only  book  of  my  father's  that  was  first 
published  in  all  the  dignity  of  three  volumes.  It  came  out  in 
periwig  and  embroidery,  in  beautiful  type  and  handsome  pro- 
portions. How  well  I  can  remember  the  packet  arriving  at  Paris 
after  he  had  sailed  for  America,  and  our  opening  it  and  finding 
the  handsome  books,  and  reading  the  dedication  ! 

There  are  but  one  or  two  descriptions  of  places  in  the  whole 
of  "Esmond."  It  is  by  allusion  rather  than  by  statement  that 
the  impression  is  given  of  that  brightly  painted,  crowded,  event- 
ful time,  which  he  gives  back  to  us.  Does  not  one  almost  breathe 
the  morning  air  when  Esmond  comes  out  of  Newgate  1  "  The  fellow 
in  the  orange-tawny  livery  with  blue  lace  and  facings  was  in  waiting 


XXVI 


ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 


when  Esmond  came  out  of  prison,  and  taking  the  young  gentleman's 
slender  baggage,  led  the  way  out  of  that  odious  Newgate,  and  by 
Fleet  Conduit  down  to  the  Thames,  where  a  pair  of  oars  was  called, 
and  they  went  up  the  river  to  Chelsey.  Esmond  thought  the  sun 
had  never  shone  so  bright ;  nor  the  air  felt  so  fresh  and  exhilarating. 
Temple  Garden,  as  they  rowed  by,  looked  like  the  Garden  of  Eden 
to  him,  and  the  aspect  of  the  quays,  wharves,  and  buildings  by 


MALBUOOK   S'liN    VA-T-KN   GUEHRE. 


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." 


INTRODUCTION 


xxvn 


It  is  well  known  that  Castlewood  was  Clevedon  Court  in 
Somersetshire,  and  by  the  kindness  of  Sir  Edmund  Elton  we  are 
able  to  give  the  sketch  of  the  interior  of  the  old  hall  (page  xxviii). 
It  is  Kensington  that  echoes  through  the  latter  part  of  "  Esmond." 
Once  when  we  were  walking  with  him  through  "  the  Square,"  as 
Kensington ians  still  call  it,  he  pointed  to  No.  7  and  said,  "  That  is 
where  Lady  Castlewood  lived,"  and  I  think  he  added  something 
about  the  back  windows  looking  across  the  lanes  to  Chelsea.  I 
have  sometimes  wondered  where  Esmond's  lodgings  were.  Perhaps 


*  -  -C-       =-  ',  >  W;/  •     r       !'  !,    '/    '    •'        T£  I  a.    .    >    '    "    ";  't>      >'     r/»-«-  «n   .. 


It    - 


EXTEKIOU   OF   CLEVEDON   COURT. 


he  lived  in  one  of  those  old  houses  among  the  gardens  at  Bromptou  ; 
for  he  meets  Addison  one  night  walking  back  to  his  lodgings  at 
Fulham.  We  all  know  how  Colonel  Esmond  from  Chelsea  spent  one 
night  at  the  "  Greyhound  "  "  over  against "  Lady  Castlewood's  house 
in  Kensington  Square,  the  house  to  which  the  portrait  of  Frank 
Castlewood  by  Rigaud  was  sent.  There  is  a  picture  of  the  old 
Pretender,  magnificent  and  blue-ribboned,  in  the  gallery  at  Dresden, 
which  may  have  suggested  the  Castlewood  picture  in  very  fact, 
for  my  father  must  have  seen  it  when  he  was  in  Dresden 
about  1851. 


xxviii 


ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 


Mr.  Egg,  R.A.,  painted  a  picture  of  Beatrix  and  Esmond,  which 
is  now  in  the  National  Gallery,  and  which  my  father  went  to  look 
at  in  the  artist's  studio ;  but  there  is  a  much  more  striking  picture 
painted  in  the  pages  of  "  Esmond,"  when  Harry,  with  his  terrible 
news,  walks  into  the  room  where  all  the  shop  people  and  mantua- 
makers  are  crowding.  The  well-known  epilogue  will  not  be  forgotten, 


, 


INTERIOR  OF  CLEVEDON  HALL. 


when  Esmond  drives  the  crier  away  from  under  Beatrix's  window, 
where  he  is  proclaiming  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton.  "  The 
world  was  going  to  its  business  again,  although  dukes  lay  dead  and 
ladies  mourned  for  them.  .  .  .  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  thou- 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

sand  great  schemes,  hopes,  ambitions,  that  were  alive  in  the 
gallant  heart,  beating  a  few  hours  since,  and  now  in  a  little  dust 
quiescent."  .  .  . 

A  few  topographical  notes  for  "  Esmond  "  remain  in  my  father's 
writing. 

"Statue  of  the  King  in  Stork's  Market,  a  very  magnificent 
statue  of  Charles  II.  and  Time  on  horseback,  trampling  upon  an 
enemy,  all  in  white  marble,  at  the  sole  cost  of  that  worthy  citizen 
and  alderman,  Sir  R.  Viner,  Knt.  Bart." 

"  Golding  Square. —  Fleet  Brook. —  This  mighty  chargeable 
beautiful  work,  rendering  navigable  the  Fleet  Brook,  a  ditch  from 
the  river  Thames  up  to  Holborn  Bridge ;  the  curious  stone  bridge 
over  it ;  the  many  huge  vaults  on  each  side  thereof  to  treasure  up 
Newcastle  coals  for  the  use  of  the  poor." 

"  The  prisons  were  Newgate,  Ludgate,  and  Queen's  Bench,  Fleet, 
Marshalsea,  New  Prison,  Whitechapel,  and  Westminster  Gate  House." 

"Exchange. — There  be  many  Exchanges  in  London,  besides 
markets  and  the  Royal  Exchange — as  that  stately  building  called 
the  New  Exchange  and  Exeter  Change,  both  in  the  Strand,  where 
all  attire  for  ladies  and  gentlemen  is  sold." 

"St.  Paul's  building  in  1702  appeared,  through  a  wood  of 
scaffolding,  the  wonder  and  glory  of  the  kingdom." 

There  are  also  some  notes  about  the  Duke  of  Maryborough. 
"  Lord  Oxford's  knowledge  of  the  Duke's  misdeeds ;  and  that  Lord 
Oxford,  making  the  Duke  know  that  his  life  was  in  his  hands,  was 
the  reason  of  Marlborough's  voluntary  exile  in  the  year  1712." 
Also  there  are  a  few  incidental  notes— 

"  The  ranks  wore  their  wigs  in  bags,  and  all  have  swords." 

"  Plum  broth  at  Christmas,  and  sillabub  in  May,  were  considered 
suitable  dishes." 

"Queen  Anne  had  forty-eight  chaplains  in  ordinary." 

The  following  letter  to  a  friend  of  his  in  Paris  has  remained 
among  our  papers  :— 

"  DEAR  FORGUES, — I  have  just  read  the  article  in  the  Revue 
des  deux  Mondes,  and  am  glad  to  write  a  line  of  thanks  and  good-will 
to  the  author,  with  whom,  as  I  think  Pichot  has  already  told  you, 
I  have  been  angry  for  these  three  whole  years. 


XXX 


ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 


"  In  1851,  a  propos  of  my  Lectures,  you  wrote  in  a  French  paper 
published  here  that  I  had  praised  Addison  in  order  to  curry  favour 
with  the  English  aristocracy.  My  honour  was  wounded  at  the  idea 
that  a  friend  should  make  such  a  charge  against  me.  A  critic  may 
like  or  dislike  my  books,  and  of  course  is  welcome  to  his  opinion, 
but  he  has  no  right  to  attribute  to  me  mean  motives,  or  at  least, 
I  have  a  right  to  be  angry  if  he  does.  And  now  I  will  give 


DRILL. 


you  the  history  of  Addison,  whom  I  don't  like  personally,  but 
whose  humour  I  admire  with  all  my  heart ;  more  than  his  humour, 
I  admire  his  conduct  through  life;  rich  or  poor,  he  was  an 
upright,  honest,  dignified  gentleman,  a  worthy  man  of  letters ;  he 
underwent  bad  fortune  with  admirable  serenity.  I  thought  it 
was  right  to  praise  him  as  one  of  our  profession,  and  leave  the 
reader  to  make  his  own  moral  from  what  I  said.  You  have 


INTRODUCTION 


XXXI 


seen  there  has  been  an  absurd  outcry  here  about  neglected 
men  of  genius,  about  the  excuses  to  be  made  for  literary  men  ; 
they  are  to  get  drunk,  to  bilk  their  tradesmen,  to  leave  their 
children  without  bread  !  .  .  . 

"I  have  been  earning  my  own  bread  with  my  pen  for  near 
twenty  years  now,  and  sometimes  very  hardly  too,  but  in  the  worst 
time,  please  God,  never  lost  my  own  respect !  " 


DR.    JOHNSON. 


The  picture  of  "  another  worthy  man  of  letters  "  may  perhaps 
not  unfitly  illustrate  this  correspondence. 


xxxii  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 


PART  III. 

WHEN  we  went  abroad  the  summer  before  my  father  sailed  for 
America,  we  met  our  grandparents  on  the  Rhine;  then  we 
travelled  on  to  Switzerland,  where  my  father  left  us.  We  did  not 
see  him  again  after  we  parted  from  him  in  Switzerland.  But  he 
wrote  to  us  very  often.  Here  is  a  letter  to  my  sister  from 
Augsburg : — 

"  MY  DEAREST  Mm., — This  morning  came  a  little  letter,  which 
they  might  as  well  have  given  to  me  yesterday.  (You  see  I  give 
you  my  other  hand*  as  when  we  walk  together  I  give  one  hand  to 
Aimy  and  one  to  you.)  They  might,  I  say,  have  given  me  the  letter 
when  I  went  to  the  post  for  it  yesterday,  for  there  it  has  been 
lying  these  three  days.  Yesterday  when  I  arrived  it  was  all  rain 
and  melancholy  here,  and  to-day,  Sunday,  it's  all  sunshine  and 
pleasure,  the  great  streets  thronged  with  people — such  ugly  women 
in  such  caps  !  and  bands  of  brass-music  blowing  beautifully  all  about 
the  town.  It's  full  of  the  most  extraordinary  churches,  pictures, 
statues,  and  gimcracks  of  every  sort.  I  went  into  many  churches 
yesterday — one  something  like  the  splendid  St.  Ambrogio  at  Milan, 
you  remember,  but  spick  and  span  new,  and  most  byooootifully 
gilt  painted  and  decorated  with  tableaux  representing  St.  Am- 
brogio's  life  and  miracles,  in  which  latter  anybody  may  believe  who 
\  chooses.  In  one  of  the  confessionals  of  another  church,  another  most 
byoooooootifle  sham-antique  church,  where  I  was  at  dusk,  I  heard 
whisswhisswhisspering  in  the  confessional,  and  then  hummummum- 

:  brum  the  priest  talking,  and  all  this  excited  my  awe  and  curiosity, 
and  I  thought  to  myself,  perhaps  there  is  some  lovely  creature  in 
there  on  her  knees  to  a  venerable  friar,  confessing  some  most 
tremendous  crime.  But  presently  hopped  out  of  the  confessional 
a  little  old  speckled  hunched-back  frog  of  a  creature  in  a  green 

.  shawl,  and  plopped  down  on  its  knees  and  said  some  prayer — 
which  it  was  quite  right  no  doubt  to  say — but  all  the  romance  was 
gone  at  the  sight  of  the  queer  little  trot  of  a  woman,  who  I  am  sure 

*  He  used  his  upright  handwriting  when  he  wrote  to  my  sister,  his  slanting 
handwriting  when  he  wrote  to  me. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

could  have  only  had  the  most  trumpery  little  sins  to  chatter  about, 
and  so  I  came  out  of  the  church  not  a  bit  better  Catholic  than  I 
went  in.  Don't  you  see,  if  she  had  been  a  lovely  countess  who  had 
just  killed  her  grandmother  or  smothered  her  babby,  I  might  have 
gone  on  being  interested  and  awe-stricken'?  but  Polly  the  cook- 
maid,  who  owns  to  having  given  a  pie  to  the  policeman,  or  melted 
the  fat  into  the  grease-pot,  I  can't  go  for  to  waste  my  compassion 
and  wonder  upon  her.  And  here's  the  mistake  about  these  fine 
churches,  pictures,  music,  and  splendid  and  gracious  sights  and 
sounds  with  which  the  Catholics  entrap  many  people — their  senses 
are  delighted,  and  they  fancy  they  are  growing  religious ;  it's  a 
romantic  wonder,  not  a  religious  one.  We  must  set  to  work  to 
have  the  truth  with  all  our  hearts  and  soul  and  strength,  and  take 
care  not  to  be  juggled  by  romanticalities  and  sentimentalities. 
This  church  of  St.  Louis  is  ornamented  with  the  most  beautiful 
dolls  you  ever  saw,  the  size  of  life,  and  painted  and  tickled  up  in 
the  most  charming  way,  with  pink  cheeks,  fresh-gilt  glories,  white 
eyes,  wooden  lilies,  and  everything  that's  nice.  And  the  people 
kneel  before  them  in  crowds  and  worship  Madonna  and  her  Sacred 
Infant,  and  the  beautiful  St.  Louis  of  Gonzaga  and  the  beautiful 
St.  Francis  of  the  Indies — that  is  to  say,  charming  figures  repre- 
senting these  holy  persons,  and  acting  them  in  wood,  But  do  I 
believe  that  the  souls  of  the  blest  go  about  with  gilt  cart-wheels 
round  their  heads  1  Fiddledee.  These  are  but  childish  symbols 
and  play — and  there's  the  dinner  bell ;  and  as  I  love  my  children  on 
earth,  I  know  the  Father  of  us  all  loves  us." 

The  following  letter  was  written  to  me  : — 

"  MY  DEAREST  A., — I  must  and  will  go  to  America,  not  because 
I  like  it,  but  because  it  is  right  I  should  secure  some  money  against 
my  death  for  your  poor  mother  and  you  two  girls.  And  I  think  if 
I  have  luck  I  may  secure  nearly  a  third  of  the  sum  that  I  think 
I  ought  to  leave  behind  me  by  a  six  months'  tour  in  the  States. 
And  you  children  during  that  time  must  consider  yourselves  as  at 
college;  and  work,  work  with  all  your  heart.  You'll  never  have 
such  another  opportunity;  when  I  come  back,  please  God,  your 
studies  will  be  interrupted,  as  I  shall  want  a  secretary.  So  now 
please  to  learn  French  very  well,  and  to  play  the  piano  if  you  can. 


xxxiv  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

It  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  in  future  days,  when  we  shall  be  in 
some  quieter  place  and  manner  of  life  than  here  in  London,  and  I 
shall  like  my  women  to  make  music  for  me.  I  should  read  all  the 
books  that  granny  wishes,  if  I  were  you ;  and  you  must  come  to 
your  own  deductions  about  them,  as  every  honest  man  and  woman 
must  and  does.  When  I  was  of  your  age  I  was  accustomed  to  hear 
and  read  a  great  deal  of  the  Evangelical  (so  called)  doctrine,  and  got 
an  extreme  distaste  for  that  sort  of  composition — for  jSTewton,  for 
Scott,  for  the  preachers  I  heard,  and  the  prayer-meetings  I  attended. 
I  have  not  looked  into  half-a-dozen  books  of  the  French  modern 
reformed  churchmen,  but  those  I  have  seen  are  odious  to  me. 
D'Aubigne',  I  believe,  is  the  best  man  of  the  modern  French  Re- 
formers ;  and  a  worse  guide  to  historical  truth  (for  one  who  has  a 
reputation)  I  don't  know.  If  M.  Gossaint  argues  that  because  our 
Lord  quoted  the  Hebrew  scriptures  therefore  the  Scriptures  are  of 
direct  Divine  composition,  you  may  make  yourself  quite  easy ; 
and  the  works  of  a  reasoner  who  would  maintain  an  argument  so 
monstrous,  need  not,  I  should  think,  occupy  a  great  portion  of  your 
time.  Our  Lord  not  only  quoted  the  Hebrew  writings  (drawing 
illustrations  from  everything  familiar  to  the  people  among  whom 
He  taught,  from  their  books  poetic  and  historic,  from  the  landscape 
round  about,  from  the  flowers,  the  children,  and  the  beautiful  works 
of  God),  but  He  contradicted  the  old  scriptures  flatly ;  told  the 
people  that  He  brought  them  a  new  commandment — and  that  new 
commandment  was  not  a  complement,  but  a  contradiction  of  the  old 
— a  repeal  of  a  bad  unjust  law  in  their  statute  books,  which  He 
would  suffer  to  remain  there  no  more.  It  has  been  said  an  eye  for 
an  eye,  &c.,  but  /  say  to  you  no  such  thing ;  Love  your  enemies,  &c. 
It  could  not  have  been  right  to  hate  your  enemies  on  Tuesday  and 
to  love  them  on  Wednesday.  What  is  right  must  always  have  been 
right,  before  it  was  practised  as  well  as  after.  And  if  such  and 
such  a  commandment  delivered  by  Moses  was  wrong,  depend  on 
it,  it  was  not  delivered  by  God,  and  the  whole  question  of  complete 
inspiration  goes  at  once.  And  the  misfortune  of  dogmatic  belief 
is,  that  the  first  principle  granted  that  the  book  called  the  Bible  is 
written  under  the  direct  dictation  of  God ;  for  instance,  that  the 
Catholic  Church  is  under  the  direct  dictation  of  God,  and  solely 
communicates  with  Him  ;  that  Quashimaboo  is  the  direct  appointed 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

priest  of  God,  and  so  forth — pain,  cruelty,  persecution,  separation  of 
dear  relatives  follow  as  a  matter  of  course  What  person  possessing 
the  secret  of  Divine  truth  by  which  she  or  he  is  assured  of  heaven, 
and  which  idea  she  or  he  worships  as  if  it  was  God,  but  must  pass 
nights  of  tears  and  days  of  grief  and  lamentation  if  persons  naturally 
dear  cannot  be  got  to  see  this  necessary  truth  1  Smith's  truth 
being  established  in  Smith's  mind  as  the  Divine  one,  persecution 
follows  as  a  matter  of  course — martyrs  have  roasted  all  over  Europe, 
all  over  God's  world,  upon  this  dogma.  To  my  mind,  scripture 
only  means  a  writing,  and  Bible  means  a  book.  It  contains  Divine 
truths,  and  the  history  of  a  Divine  Character ;  but  imperfect,  but 
not  containing  a  thousandth  part  of  Him  ;  and  it  would  be  an 
untruth  before  God  were  I  to  hide  my  feelings  from  my  dearest 
children  ;  as  it  would  be  a  sin  if,  having  other  opinions,  and  believing 
literally  in  the  Mosaic  writings,  in  the  six  days'  cosmogony,  in  the 
serpent  and  apple  and  consequent  damnation  of  the  human  race,  I 
should  hide  them,  and  not  try  to  make  those  I  loved  best  adopt 
opinions  of  such  immense  importance  to  them.  And  so  God  bless 
my  darlings  and  teach  us  the  truth. 

"  Every  one  of  us  in  every  fact,  book,  circumstance  of  life  sees  a 
different  meaning  and  moral,  and  so  it  must  be  about  religion,  But 
we  can  all  love  each  other  and  say,  '  Our  Father. '  " 

I  have  another  letter  of  October  1852.  It  is  dated  Manchester, 
Liverpool,  Alderley,  Kensington,  Covent  Garden,  "  I  am  writing 
this  at  the  station,  having  missed  the  quick  train,  and  not  sorry 
to  have  half-an-hour  to  myself  and  my  dearest  girls.  I  have 
just  said  good-bye  to  Manchester,  and  stopped  this  morning  to 
hear  Mr.  Scott  address  his  College,  of  which  he  is  Principal.  A 
gentleman,  a  Mr.  Owen,  left  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  to  found 
an  institution  for  educating  his  townsfolk,  and  Scott  is  the  first 
head  of  the  College,  and  a  very  noble  speech  I  thought  he  made 
to  his  boys  and  young  men,  and  I  wished  I  was  a  boy  myself 
that  I  might  learn  something,  but  I  am  too  old  a  boy  to  learn 
much  now,  I  fear.  You  two  must  try.  and  do  so,  and  when 
you  are  at  work,  work  with  all  your  heart,  and  don't  play  with 
learning." 

He  sailed  for  America  from  Liverpool  on  October  30  by  the 


xxxvi  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

Canada,  Captain  Lang.  The  house  in  Kensington  was  shut  up. 
His  publishers  gave  him  a  despatch-box,  his  mother  sent  him  a 
lifebelt,  and  made  him  promise  not  to  leave  it  behind.  We  were 
all  very  anxious  and  sad,  but  very  glad  he  did  not  go  alone : 
Mr.  Eyre  Crowe  went  with  him  as  secretary.  "  Six  months 
tumbling  about  the  world  will  do  you  no  harm,"  he  wrote,  offering 
the  post  to  his  young  friend.  As  the  steamer  was  starting,  a 
messenger  arrived  on  board  with  letters  from  Messrs.  Smith  and 
Elder  and  the  first  copy  of  "  Esmond." 

One  of  the  farewell  notes  was  addressed  to  Dr.  John  Brown* 
of  Edinburgh. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY  to  DR.  JOHN  BROWN,  M.D. 

"85  RENSHAW  STREET,  LIVERPOOL, 

"  Wednesday,  October  6  [1852]. 

"Mv  DEAR  BROWN, — Your  constant  kindness  deserves,  not 
more  good-will  on  my  part,  for  that  you  have,  but  better  marks  of 
friendship  than  my  laziness  is  inclined  to  show.  My  time  is 
drawing  near  for  the  ingens  oequor.  I  have  taken  places  for  self  and 
Crowe,  junior,  by  the  Canada,  which  departs  on  the  30th  of  this 
month,  a  Saturday,  and  all  you  who  pray  for  travellers  by  land  and 
water  (if  you  do  pray  in  your  Scotch  Church)  are  entreated  to 
offer  up  supplications  for  me.  I  don't  like  going  out  at  all ;  have 
dismal  presentiments  sometimes,  but  the  right  thing  is  to  go ;  and 
the  pleasant  one  will  be  to  come  back  again  with  a  little  money 
for  the  young  ladies.  I  hope  to  send  you  { Esmond '  before  I  sail ; 
if  not,  it  will  follow  me  as  a  legacy.  I  doubt  whether  it  will  be 
popular,  although  it  has  cost  me  so  much  trouble. 

"I  wish  this  place  were  like  Edinburgh,  but  I  only  get  a 
small  audience,  say  300,  in  a  hall  capable  of  holding  3000  at 
least,  and  all  the  papers  will  cry  out  at  the  smallness  of  the 
attendance.  At  Manchester  the  audience  isn't  greater,  but  looks 
greater,  or  the  room  is  small,  and  though  pecuniarily  the  affair  is  a 
failure,  it  is  not  so  really ;  I  air  my  reputation,  and  the  people  who 
do  come  seem  to  like  what  they  hear  hugely. 

*  It  is  Dr.  John  Brown's  son  who  with  a  traditional  kindness  has  sent  me 
the  correspondence  to  quote  from. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

"Carlyle  is  away  in  Germany  looking  after  'Frederick  the 
Great.'  I  don't  know  what  Literature  is  about.  I  heard  James 
Martineau  (the  Unitarian)  last  Sunday,  and  was  struck  by  his 
lofty  devotional  spirit,  and  afterwards  an  old  schoolfellow  on  the 
Evangelical  dodge — ah,  what  rubbish  !  and  so  is  this  which  I  am 
writing.  I  think  it  is  partly  owing  to  an  uncomfortable  pen ;  but 
with  bad  pen  and  good  I  am  always  yours  and  your  wife's,  sincerely, 

"  W,  M.  T." 

From  Liverpool  he  wrote  to  Lady  Stanley,  "  Not  above  200 
people  come  to  the  lectures,  and  the  Philharmonic  Hall,  the  most 
beautiful  room  I've  seen,  is  made  for  2500,  so  that  the  little 
audience  shudders  in  the  middle,  and  the  lecturer  stands  in  a  vast 
empty  orchestra,  where  there  is  a  place  for  150  musicians.  It  is 
like  a  dinner  for  twenty,  and  three  people  to  eat  it.  They  go  away 
and  say  unto  each  other  what  a  good  dinner  and  so  forth,  but  I 
don't  think  they'll  have  the  courage  to  come  again. 

"Who  would  like  to  be  one  of  six  in  a  theatre  with  a  good 
actor  performing  a  good  douche  for  a  man's  vanity  1 

"  There  is  a  Boston  boat  sails  on  the  30th  of  October,  and  that 
will  be  the  steamer  which  will  carry  Titmarsh  and  his  lectures." 

Mr.  Crowe  describes  the  passengers  on  board  the  Canada. 
"Lowell,  fresh  from  Italy,  coming  up  the  companion  ladder ;  and 
a  burly  form  in  a  wideawake  hat,  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  the  poet 
and  Oxford  Don.  ..." 

And  here  is  the  welcome  letter  which  came  to  us  at  Paris  from 
the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

"  I  try  to  write  a  little  with  a  pencil,"  says  my  father,  "  now 
the  troubles  of  sea-sickness  are  over,  the  appetite  come  back,  and 
the  sky  bright  overhead ;  the  sea  of  a  wonderful  purple,  except  in 
the  wake  of  the  ship,  where  there  quivers  a  long  line  of  emerald ; 
six  sea-gulls  are  following  after  the  ship,  six  hundred  miles — think 
of  that !  Nobody  really  likes  the  sea ;  they  go  through  with  it 
with  a  brave  heart,  but  the  captain  and  all  like  the  fireside  and 
home  a  thousand  times  better.  ...  I  find  the  vessel  pitches  so  I 
can't  write,  and  my  sentences  lurch  about  and  grasp  hold  of  any- 
thing to  support  themselves,  so  I'll  stop.  ...  In  that  horrid  little 
cabin  below,  where  we  are  tumbling  and  rolling,  and  bumping  and 


xxxviii         ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

creaking  in  the  roaring  black  midnight,  you  may  be  sure  I  am  often 
thinking  of  you.  I  know  you  look  at  the  sky,  and  G.  P.*  at  the 
glass  (I  don't  mean  the  looking-glass),  and  speculate  how  the 
Canada  makes  way.  Well,  we  have  had  the  wind  dead  against 
us,  and  got  on  well  in  spite  of  it,  and  are  now  some  eleven  hundred 
miles  out  at  sea,  lat.  50°  32',  long.  27°  36'.  I  was  trying  as  I 
lay  awake  last  night  to  see  if  I  could  understand  the  difference 
between  latitude  and  longitude.  .  .  . 

"This  morning,  as  I  was  full  in  a  dream  about  A.  and  M. 
eating  a  pot  of  bear's  grease  and  mistaking  it  for  jam,  the  Admiralty 
agent  wakes  me  to  come  and  see  the  sun  rise.  Such  a  royal 
apparition  !  To  see  such  sights  with  the  eyes  is  to  pray  with  the 
heart.  .  .  .  We  have  had  a  tolerable  bad  passage,  wind  against 
us  all  the  way ;  even  against  that,  except  in  the  very  bad  weather, 
running  ten  miles  an  hour.  Isn't  it  wonderful  1  Instead  of  going 
over  yon  thundering  wave,  why  don't  we  go  right  down  and  dis- 
appear 1  Looking  at  the  little  lifebelt  and  then  at  the  ocean  makes 
one  laugh.  The  waves  are  immense ;  about  four  of  them  go  to 
the  horizon,  but  I'm  disappointed  in  the  grandeur  of  the  prospect. 
It  looks  small  somehow,  not  near  so  extensive  as  a  hundred  land- 
scapes we  have  seen.  And  where  shall  we  pass  next  November? 
Shall  we  go  to  Rome  1  Shall  I  make  a  good  bit  of  money  in  America, 
and  write  a  book  about  it  1  I  think  not.  It  seems  impudent  to 
write  a  book,  and  mere  sketches  now  are  somehow  below  my  rank 
in  the  world — I  mean,  a  grave  old  gentleman,  father  of  young  ladies, 
mustn't  be  comic  and  grinning  too  much.  I  wonder  are  the  critics 
praising  or  abusing  'Esmond']  I  have  forgotten  all  about  him, 
and  he  seems  like  everything  else,  to  have  happened  a  hundred 
years  ago.  ..." 

"  How  wonderful  the  thing  is  that  we  should  be  here  at  all," 
he  writes  in  another  letter.  "  On  Tuesday  evening,  at  about  half- 
past  five,  the  captain  goes  on  deck  from  dinner  and  sends  a  sailor 
aloft  to  look  out.  Sailor  comes  down  and  says  he  can  see  nothing. 
The  minute  after  captain  sends  him  up  again.  Again  sailor  sees 
nothing.  Captain  sends  him  up  a  third  time.  He  sees  Beaver 
Island  light;  so  that  we  come  three  thousand  miles  over  the 

*  This  was  always  my  father's  abbreviation  for  "Grand  Papa." 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

enormous  pathless  ocean,  through  storm  and  darkness,  with  many 
a  day  no  sun  to  make  observations  by,  and  the  captain  knows 
within  fifteen  minutes  when  we  shall  see  a  particular  little  rock 
with  a  light  on  it.  Seven  hours  afterwards  the  ship  came  close 
up  to  the  quay  at  Halifax,  as  if  there  had  been  a  rope  pulling  us 
all  the  way  from  Liverpool.  And  so  the  voyage  ends  with  a 
laus  Deo" 

One  of  the  first  welcomes  he  received  on  landing  was  from  Mr. 
Prescott,  with  whom  he  dined  the  first  Sunday  at  Boston.  The 
next  host  to  receive  him,  when  he  reached  New  York,  was  Mr. 
Henry  James,  the  father  of  the  good  friend  of  these  present  days, 
who  has  told  me  that  he  can  remember  going  as  a  little  boy  to  the 
hotel  where  our  lecturer  was  staying  in  New  York,  and  watching 
Mr.  Crowe  at  work  upon  a  portrait  of  his  own  father.  All  the 
national,  well-known  names  follow  in  succession — Washington  Irving 
and  Dana  and  Horace  Greeley  and  George  Curtis  and  Bayard 
Taylor  and  others  less  known  to  the  outer  world,  but  familiarly 
quoted  in  our  home,  such  as  Mrs.  Baxter  and  her  daughters,  for 
whom  my  father  ever  had  a  special  affection. 

The  first  letter  from  New  York  begins  with  a  cheerful,  "  Now 
that  I  am  here  comfortably  settled  with  a  hundred  kind  people  to 
make  your  papa  welcome,  and  two  thousand  every  night  to  come 
and  hear  his  lectures,  doesn't  it  seem  absurd  that  we  should  all 
have  been  so  gloomy  and  foreboding,  so  many  evils  at  my  going 
away?  .  .  . 

"  We  are  up  three  pairs  of  stairs,  in  very  snug  rooms,  at  a  very 
good  hotel.  The  people  have  not  turned  out  with  flags  and  drums  to 
receive  me  like  Dickens,  but  the  welcome  is  a  most  pleasant  one. 
There  is  no  speechifying  or  ceremony  in  it — everybody  has  read 
Somebody's  book." 

W.  M.  T.  to  MRS.  PROCTER. 

"BOSTON,  Wednesday,  December  22,  1852. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  should  like  to  send  you  a  longer  letter 
than  can  be  written  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  mails  close 
for  the  ship,  which  is  on  the  slips  to  start  for  dear  old  home, 
but  a  word  I  know  will  please  you  to  tell  you  how  happy  I  am, 
what  a  many  many  friends  I  have  found  (I  have  found  Beatrix 


xl  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTUKES 

Esmond  and  lost  my  heart  to  her),  and  what  a  fortunate  venture 
this  is  likely  to  prove  to  me.  Last  night  was  the  first  lecture  here — 
twelve  hundred  people,  I  should  think — and  I  left  behind  me  near 
a  thousand  pounds  at  New  York,  which  Baring's  house  will  invest 
for  me,  so  that  my  girls  will  be  very  considerably  the  better  for  this 
journey, 

And  grim  Death,  if  ever  he  come  to  rne, 

Will  find  that  I  have  the  £,  s.  d. 

There's  a  parody  !  I  find  I'm  constantly  talking  of  dying 
somehow,  but  hope  to  wait  time  enough  to  see  the  poor  wife 
and  children  provided.  It  would  have  been  worth  while  even 
for  my  books  to  come  out  here :  the  publishers  are  liberal  enough, 
and  will  be  still  more  so  with  any  future  thing  I  may  do.  As  for 
writing  about  this  country,  about  Goshen,  about  Canada  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey,  about  the  friends  I  have  found  here,  and  who 
are  helping  me  to  procure  independence  for  my  children,  if  I  cut 
jokes  against  them,  may  I  choke  on  the  instant.  If  I  can  say  any- 
thing to  show  that  my  name  is  really  Makepeace,  and  to  increase 
the  source  of  love  between  the  two  countries,  then  please  God  I 
will.  The  laugh  dies  out  as  we  get  old  you  see,  but  the  love  and 
the  truth  don't,  praised  be  God  !  and  I  begin  to  think  of  the  respon- 
sibilities of  this  here  pen  now  writing  to  you  with  a  feeling  of  no 
small  awe.  The  first  name  I  heard  in  the  railroad  going  hence  to 
New  York  was  my  own,  by  a  pretty  child  selling  books,  and  I  was 
touched  somehow  by  his  fresh  voice  and  kind  face,  and  should  have 
liked  to  take  him  by  the  hand.  So — here  it  is  after  fifteen  years, 
think  I,  here's  the  fame  they  talk  about :  my  impression  though 
was  one  of  awe  and  humility  rather  than  exultation,  and  to  pray 
God  I  might  keep  honest  and  tell  truth  always. 

"  This  is  nothing  but  Ego,  but  I  know  you  like  that.  I  was  very 
glad  to  get  your  letter.  God  bless  you,  and  all  yours,  and  my  dear 
old  Dicky  Doyle  when  you  see  him.  The  success  of  '  Esmond '  has 
quite  surprised  me,  for  I  only  looked  for  a  few  to  like  it. 

"Write  again  to  Appleton,  New  York,  please,  to  yours  affec- 
tionately, W.  M.  T." 

The  little  memorandum-book  for  1852-53  gives  the  history  of 
these  eventful  days ;  that  much  of  a  history  that  can  best  be  told 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

by  names  and  dates,  from  which,  as  from  the  notes  of  a  music-book, 
the  tune  of  the  past  can  be  played  once  more.  There  is  a  list 
of  places  and  lectures  all  the  way  from  Boston  to  Savannah,  and 
from  Savannah  to  England  again,  and  the  names  of  the  hospitable 
people  with  whom  my  father  chiefly  spent  his  time,  with  the  dates 
of  their  hospitable  entertainments,  All  noted  in  their  turn,  with 
the  names  of  our  old  friend  Mr.  Synge,  and  Mr.  Crampton,  and 
Governor  Fish,  and  many  others. 

One  of  Mr.  Lowell's  charming  little  invitations  has  been 
preserved : — 

"CAMBRIDGE,  30th  December. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — Have  you  any  engagement  for  Wednesday  or 
Thursday  evening  of  next  week  1  If  not,  will  you  give  me  one  of 
them  ?  Timrnins,  revolving  many  things,  has  decided  on  a  supper, 
because  he  can  have  it  under  his  own  roof,  and  because  he  can  have 
more  pleasant  people  at  it.  He  will  ask  only  clubbable  men,  and 
such  as  can't  make  speeches.  You  shall  either  be  carried  back  to 
Boston,  or  spend  the  night  with  us.  Crowe  survived  it. — Very 
sincerely  yours,  J.  R.  LOWELL." 

"  Mr.  Prescott,  the  historian,  is  delightful,"  my  father  wrote  from 
Boston  ;  "  Mr.  Ticknor  is  a  great  city  magnate  and  litterateur.  It's 
like  the  society  of  a  rich  Cathedral-town  in  England — grave  and 
decorous,  and  very  pleasant  and  well  read," 

One  of  the  first  of  the  lectures  was  delivered  in  a  Unitarian 
Chapel.  My  father  was  rather  nervous  when  he  found  he  was  ex- 
pected to  mount  the  pulpit,  and  asked  whether  the  organ  would 
strike  up  when  he  entered.  He  not  only  gave  lectures,  but  attended 
them.  Bancroft  was  lecturing  at  that  time;  so  was  Theodore 
Parker,  the  eloquent  anti-slavery  champion ;  so  was  Mr.  Home, 
whose  rapping  manifestations  were  then  coming  into  vogue.  We 
have  one  or  two  scraps  pasted  into  an  American  scrap-book,  with 
various  mysterious  messages  like  telegrams  from  the  unseen  world, 
" /  merely  wished  to  say  Make-peace  you  argue  of  importance" 
This  oracle  is  dated  December  1852.  Here  is  another  revelation, 
"Carissima  may  move  the  table."  One  of  the  messages  on  the 
same  page  may  be  spiritual,  but  it  rather  reminds  one  of  common 
life.  "  Please  deliver  to  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Esq.,  a  hat  or  a  cap 


xlii  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

as  he  may  wish,  and  place  the  same  to  the  account  of  John  N. 
Genin,  214  Broadway.'1  A  stamp  in  the  corner  with  '  Genin, 
Broadway,  New  York,'  and  the  picture  of  a  very  tall  hat,  gives 
authority  to  the  document. 

A  letter  to  Lady  Stanley,  written  from  Philadelphia,  sums  up  his 
first  impressions  . — 

"January2\,  1853. 

**  All  those  fine  plans  of  writing  letters,  which  my  friends  were  to 
keep  and  restore  to  me,  and  of  which  I  was  to  make  a  book  on  my 
return  home,  are  of  no  avail.  I  can't  see  the  country,  I  can't  write 
any  letters ;  the  business  I  am  on  prevents  the  one  and  the  other. 
I  am  making  and  receiving  visits  all  day  long,  going  out  to  dinner 
and  supper  prodigiously,  and  perfectly  drunk  with  the  number  of 
new  acquaintances  poured  into  me.  I  tremble  as  I  walk  the  streets 
here,  lest  every  man  I  meet  is  my  friend  of  last  night,  who  will  be 
offended  of  course  if  I  forget  him.  It  is  like  a  man  canvassing,  but 
the  canvass  begins  afresh  in  every  new  city,  and  goes  on  till  I  am 
perfectly  weary  of  shaking  hands  and  acting.  Do  you  know  that 
there  are  over  five  hundred  thousand  inhabitants  in  this  town  ?  The 
great  impression  I  have  got  in  going  about  is  how  small  and  dwindled 
the  old  country  is,  and  how  great  and  strong  the  new.  Here  I  must 
go,  Mr.  M'Michael  of  the  North  American  Enquirer  is  below. 

"It  is  two  hours  afterwards.  M 'Michael  and  I  have  been  to 
the  Mint  (shake  hands  with  everybody),  which  is  a  beautiful  insti- 
tution, of  which  the  Philadelphians  have  a  right  to  be  proud;  to  the 
Free  School  (shake  hands  with  all  the  professors),  a  capital  school 
too,  seemingly,  where  the  youngest  boys  know  much  more  than  I 
do,  where  it  is  a  good  thing  to  think  small  beer  of  one's  self,  com- 
paring one's  own  ignorance  with  the  knowledge  of  these  little  ones. 
I  am  making  money  pretty  well,  and  have  put  by  already  nearly 
two  thousand  pounds  since  I  have  been  here  ;  and  do  you  know  that 
the  common  interest  here  is  eight  per  cent.,  as  safe  as  English 
Funds,  they  tell  me  ?  ...  I  hope  to  make  nearly  double  what  I  have 
"  before  I  bend  my  steps  homeward,  and  then  shall  get  ready  some 
fresh  lectures  for  a  new  campaign.  They  will  bear  me  over  again  in 
this  country,  and  like  me,  I  believe.  I  have  nothing  but  praise  and 
kindness,  except  from  some  of  the  Boston  papers,  who  fired  into  me, 
and  said  I  was  a  humbug.  But  Boston  is  the  centre  of  lecturing ; 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

lecturers  go  out  thence  to  all  quarters  of  the  Union,  lecturers  who 
only  get  one  dollar  to  my  ten,  and  who  are  at  least  quite  as  good  as 
I  am,  hence  animosities  and  natural  heart-burnings ;  and  I  don't  care, 
so  long  as  the  reason  is  with  them,  and  the  dollars  with  me.  I 
find  wonderfully  little  difference  in  manners,  an  accent  not  quite  like 
ours  ;  but  why  should  it  be  1  Why  should  not  Jordan  be  as  good  as 
Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus  1  Even  the  dress  of  the 
New  York  girls,  which  struck  me  as  odious  at  first  on  account  of 
their  splendaciousness,  I  think  now  quite  handsome.  I  have  found 
kind  matrons  and  pretty  girls  everywhere,  and  in  Boston  very  good, 
fogeyfied,  literary  society,  with  everywhere  a  love  for  the  old  country 
quite  curious,  nay,  touching,  to  remark.  They  are  great  about  pro- 
nunciation especially,  and  take  down  at  my  lectures  words  which 
this  present  arbiter  of  English  pronounces  differently  to  them.  If 
Carlyle  comes,  I  wonder  whether  they  will  take  him  as  an  exemplar. 
Crowe  is  my  comfort  and  delight  in  life ;  he  is  worth  his  weight  in 
gold.  Everybody  lectures  in  this  country,  and  it  isn't,  nor  any 
trade  or  calling  else,  for  that  matter,  thought  infra  dig.  Nor  is  a 
man  thought  the  worse  of  for  showing  a  little  independence.  For 
instance,  when  I  came  here  they  told  me  it  was  usual  for  lecturers 
(Mr.  B.  of  London  had  done  it)  to  call  upon  all  the  editors  of  all 
the  papers,  hat  in  hand,  and  ask  them  to  puff  my  lectures.  Says  I, 
'  I'll  see  them  all  .  .  .  ; '  here  I  used  a  strong  expression,  which  you 
will  find  in  the  Athanasian  Creed.  Well,  they  were  pleased  rather 
than  otherwise,  and  now  the  papers  are  puffing  me  so  as  to  make 
me  blush." 

After  Philadelphia,  where  Mr.  Reid  made  the  travellers  at 
home,  came  Baltimore  and  Washington,  and  "an  interminable 
succession  of  balls,  parties,  banquets  at  the  British  Embassy  and 
elsewhere."  Sir  John  Crampton  was  ambassador  in  those  days, 
President  Fillmore  was  at  the  White  House,  and  for  three  weeks 
lecturing  and  hospitality  alternated.  Then  they  took  steamer  to 
Richmond.  "  I  sketched  the  distant  outline  of  Mr.  Washington's 
home,"  says  Mr.  Crowe,  "and  we  tried  to  spot  the  new  Castlewood, 
which  was  raised  on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  Potomac." 

Brief  records  of  Richmond,  Charleston,  and  Savannah  follow 
in  my  father's  little  diary :  "  Calm  passage,  pleasant  boat,  river 


xliv  ESMOND    AND    THE   LECTURES 

like  the  Nile.  Quitted  the  horrible  hotel  for  Mr.  Low's  pleasant 
house.  On  Tuesday  the  15th  of  March  drove  to  Bon  Aventure 
and  Mr.  Faversham's  estate.  Negro  houses,  moss  on  the  trees, 
yellow  jessamine,  splendid  magnolia.  First  lecture  about  360,  I 
should  think.  I  read  in  the  papers  of  snow  twelve  inches  thick 
falling  in  New  England ;  here  all  windows  open,  peach-trees  in  most 
'  lubly '  blossom,  leaves  coming  out,  fresh  salad  for  dinner,  balmy 
air  blowing." 

On  Saturday  the  19th  March  he  wrote  to  us :  "Yesterday  your 
papa  performed  for  the  first  time  in  a  theatre — who  would  ever 
have  thought  of  seeing  him  on  a  stage  ?  The  room  where  I  gene- 
rally act  is  engaged,  and  I  had  such  a  dirty  little  theatre  instead. 
The  proceeds  for  the  three  lectures  are  about  the  smallest  I  shall 
get  in  the  States,  but  it  is  only  a  little  place — a  friendly,  pretty 
little  place — and  Mr.  Low,  my  host,  has  made  me  and  Eyre  as 
comfortable  as  mortal  man  could  be  in  this  hot  weather.  It  doesn't 
agree  with  me,  I  think,  and  I  am  glad  I  am  going  out  of  these 
enervating  damp  climates.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  a  little 
negrillo  of  five  years  old  toddling  about  with  the  plates  at  dinner 
yesterday,  and  listening  to  the  young  ladies  making  music  after- 
wards." 

"  Providence  has  proved  rather  a  failure,"  he  wrote  from  that 
place  after  the  first  lecture.  "  There  are  not  above  500  auditors, 
and  I  must  return  half  the  money  we  agreed  for.  Nobody  must 
lose  money  by  me  in  America,  where  I  have  had  such  a  welcome 
and  hospitality." 

He  says  in  a.  letter  to  Dr.  Brown  : — 

"  CHARLESTOWN,  March  25,  1853. 

"  The  lectures  do  pretty  well,  and  I  have  laid  by  already.  This 
will  make  me  easy  against  the  day  when  work  will  be  over,  and 
then  and  then  who  knows  what  fate  will  bring.  The  idleness  of  the 
life  is  dreary  and  demoralising  though,  and  the  bore  and  humiliation 
of  delivering  these  stale  old  lectures  is  growing  intolerable.  Why, 
what  a  superior  heroism  is  Albert  Smith's,  who  has  ascended  Mont 
Blanc  400  times  ! 

"It's  all  exaggeration  about  this  country — barbarism,  eccen- 
tricities, nigger  cruelties,  and  all.  They  are  not  so  highly  educated 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

as  individuals,  but  a  circle  of  people  knows  more  than  an  equal 
number  of  English  (of  Scotch  I  don't  say — there,  in  Edinburgh 
you  are  educated)." 

By  April  he  was  back  in  New  York.  Mr.  George  Smith  has 
given  me  some  letters  dated  from  the  Clarendon,  New  York. 
"  We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  and  not  unprofitable  tour  in  the 
South,"  my  father  dictates.  "  The  words  are  the  words  of 
Thackeray,  but  the  pen  is  the  pen  of  Crowe.  The  former  is  boil- 
ing himself  in  a  warm  bath,  and  is,  whether  in  or  out  of  Jiot 
water,  yours  very  faithfully  always.  ..." 

The  following  amusing  little  jeu  d' esprit  appeared  in  the  Boston 
Post,  and  is  pasted  into  the  American  scrap-book :  "  High  Life  in 
Boston :  Literary  Breakfast  of  a  family  of  opulence  moving  in  a 
select  circle,  residing  in  a  select  square. 

"Clever  Daughter.  Decidedly  I  esteem  Mr.  Thackeray,  the 
fort  esprit  of  his  time :  strongly  resembling  Bussy  de  Rabutin,  but 
with  a  more  introspective  cast.  He  reminds  one  constantly  of  the 
subtle  companion  of  Faust :  no  moral  obliquity  without  its  pallia- 
tive, no  human  weakness  without  a  claim  to  a  tender  extenuation. 
We  learn  to  love  the  vice,  but  hate  the  sinner ;  I  would  say,  hate 
the  sinner  and  love  the  vice — vice-versa. 

"  Sentimental  Daughter.  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  had  been  born  in 
Queen  Anne's  day,  when  all  the  gentlemen  were  so  enthusiastic,  and 
wore  red  cloaks  and  green  stockings.  They  seem  to  have  had  such 
a  ceaseless  flow  of  spirits. 

"  Pert  Son.  Well,  they  didn't  have  anything  else. 

"  Gruff  Papa.  A  pack  of  d — d  scamps  as  ever  'scaped  hanging. 
If  I'd  had  any  idea  of  such  characters  being  raked  up  at  a  lecture 
in  Boston,  no  son  or  daughter  of  mine  should  have  set  foot  in  the 
hall,  '  if  they  grew  up  ever  so  ignorant.' 

"  Clever  Girl.  But,  dear  papa,  genius  is  ever  eccentric  :  cannot 
be  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined  to  ordinary  limits.  Their  '  noble  rage ' 
will  burst  out,  and,  like  the  Pythian  priestess,  they  are  borne  away 
by  the  afflatus  of  the  tripod.  Byron  had  his  faults,  but 

"Silly  Mamma  to  Gruff  Papa.  I'm  sure,  my  love,  Mr. 
Thackeray  has  made  a  decidedly  favourable  impression  on  our 
most  fashionable  people :  which  could  not  have  happened  if  these 


xlvi  ESMOND    AND    THE    LECTURES 

authors  really  were  to  blame  in  their  behaviour.  If  it  was  the 
fashion  to  be  '  gay,'  and  to  be  carried  about  in  chairs,  it  was  not 
their  fault,  but  that  of  their  rulers.  .  .  . 

'*  Fossil  Grandmother  (timidly).   Mr.  Thackeray  ought  to  be 
spoken  to — dispassionately. " 


A    CONFERENCE. 

In  1855  my  father  returned  to  America  and  delivered  the 
second  series  of  his  lectures,  "  The  Four  Georges,"  which  for  con- 
venience are  bound  up  with  the  Humourists  in  this  present  volume. 

The  American  letters  which  he  wrote  during  his  second  visit 
are  included  in  the  preface  to  "  The  Virginians,"  and  are  altogether 
omitted  here. 


, 


A.  I.  R. 


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 


'• 


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. 


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  re- 
ceived 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  sons'  children, 
whether  established  here  in  our  Republic,  or  at  home  in  the  always 
beloved  mother  country,  from  which  our  late  quarrel  hath  separated 
us,  may  surely  be  proud  to  be  descended  from  one  who  in  all  ways 
was  so  truly  noble. 

My  dear  mother  died  in  1736,  soon  after  our  return  from 
England,  whither  my  parents  took  me  for  my  education;  and 
where  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Warrington,  whom  my 


6  PREFACE 

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  Republic's,  I  am 
sure  that  they  love  me  and  one  another,  and  him  above  all,  my 
father  and  theirs,  the  aearest  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  deport- 
ment, 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  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, 


PREFACE  7 

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  exclu- 
sive 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  ofv 
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  extra- 
ordinary with  how  much  awe  his  people  regarded  him ;  and  the 
servants  on  our  plantation,  both  those  assigned  from  England  and 
the  purchased  negroes,  obeyed  him  with  an  eagerness  such  as  the 
most  severe  taskmasters  round  about  us  could  never  get  from  their 
people.  He  was  never  familiar,  though  perfectly  simple  and  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 


8  PREFACE 

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  com- 
pany 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  com- 
plying 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  Tusker.  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 
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  trans- 
actions which  are  recounted  at  the  close  of  the  volume  of  the 


PREFACE  9 

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  Lam- 
beth, my  papa  used  laughing  to  say.  However,  the  Bishop  died  of 
apoplexy  suddenly,  and  his  wife  erected  a  great  monument  over 
him  •  and  the  pair  sleep  under  that  stone,  with  a  canopy  of  marble 
clouds  and  angels  above  them — the  first  Mrs.  Tusher  lying  sixty 
miles  off  at  Castlewood. 

But  my  papa's  genius  and  education  are  both  greater  than  any 
a  woman  can  be  expected  to  have,  and  his  adventures  in  Europe  far 
more  exciting  than  his  life  in  this  country,  which  was  passed  in  the 
tranquil  offices  of  love  and  duty ;  and  I  shall  say  no  more  by  way 
of  introduction  to  his  Memoirs,  nor  keep  my  children  from  the 
perusal  of  a  story  which  is  much  more  interesting  than  that  of  their 
affectionate  old  mother, 

RACHEL  ESMOND  WARRINGTOK 


CASTLEWOOD,  VIRGINIA  : 
November  3,  1778. 


THE    HISTORY    OF 

HEN  II  Y    ESMOND 

BOOK    I 

THE  EARLY  YOUTH  OF  HENRY  ESMOND,  UP  TO  THE  TIME 
OF  HIS  LEAVING  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  IN  CAMBRIDGE 

THE  actors  in  the  old  tragedies,  as  we  read,  piped  their  iambics 
to  a  tune,  speaking  from  under  a  mask,  and  wearing  stilts 
and  a  great  head-dress.  'Twas  thought  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 
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 

11 


12    THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

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  stag-hounds, 
and  driving  her  one-horse  chaise — a  hot,  red-faced  woman,  not  ill 
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  per- 
forming cringes  and  congee sTike" a ,  court-chamberlain,  and  shuffling 
backwards  out  of  doors  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign.  In  a 
word,  I  wouMJiaveHistpiy_jamiliar  rather  than  heroic  :  and  think 
that  Mr.  Hoga7tITlm3"1y^  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  the  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  Castle- 
wood,  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  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom  of  the  King's 
Posset)  so  highly,  that  he  cheerfully  ruined  himself  for  the  thank- 
less and  thriftless  race  who  bestowed  it.  He  pawned  his  plate  for 
King  Charles  the  First,  mortgaged  his  property  for  the  same  cause, 
and  lost  the  greater  part  of  it  by  fines  and  sequestration :  stood  a 
siege  of  his  castle  by  Ireton,  where  his  brother  Thomas  capitulated 
(afterward  making  terms  with  the  Commonwealth,  for  which  the 
elder  brother  never  forgave  him),  and  where  his  second  brother 
Edward,  who  had  embraced  the  ecclesiastical  profession,  was  slain 
on  Castlewood  Tower,  being  engaged  there  both  as  preacher  and 
artilleryman.  This  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  Castle- 
wood  fled  from  it  once  more  into  exile,  and  henceforward,  and  after 
the  Restoration,  never  was  away  from  the  Court  of  the  monarch 


OUR    MOST    RELIGIOUS    KING  13 

(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  mis- 
fortune ?  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  Brims  only  deal  in  clumsy  and  impos- 
sible allegories  :  and  it  hath  always  seemed  to  me  blasphemy  to 
claim  Olympus  for  such  a  wine-drabbled  divinity  as  that. 

About  the  King's  follower,  the  Viscount  Castlewood — orphaned 
of  his  son,  ruined  by  his  fidelity,  bearing  many  wounds  and  marks 
of  bravery,  old  and  in  exile — his  kinsmen  I  suppose  should  be 
silent ;  nor  if  this  patriarch  fell  down  in  his  cups,  call  fie  upon  him, 
and  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  1  Lives  that  have  noble  commencements  have  often 
no  better  endings ;  it  is  not  without  a  kind  of  awe  and  reverence 
that  an  observer  should  speculate  upon  such  careers  as  he  traces  the 
course  of  them.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  success  in  life  to  take  off 
my  hat  and  huzzah  to  it  as  it  passes  in  its  gilt  coach ;  and  would 
do  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  i 
Mayor  going  in  state  to  mince-pies  and  the  Mansion  House  1  Is  it 
poor  Jack  of  Newgate's  procession,  with  the  sheriff'  and  javelin-men,  S  Yl  , 
conducting  him  on  his  last  journey  to  Tyburn  1  I  look  into  my  heart  \ 
and  think  that  I  am  as  good  as  my  Lord  Mayor,  and  know  I  am  as  j  \J 
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. 


14          THE  'HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   I 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  FAMILY  OF  -ESMOND  OF 
CASTLE  WOOD  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  por- 
traits of  the  family  used  to  hang,  that  fine  piece  among  others  of  Sir 
Antonio  Van  Dyck  of  George,  second  Viscount,  and  that  by  Mr. 
Dobson  of  my  Lord  the  third  Viscount,  just  deceased,  which  it  seems 
his  lady  and  widow  did  not  think  fit  to  carry  away,  when  she  sent 
for  and  carried  off  to  her  house  at  Chelsey,  near  to  London,,  the 
picture  of  herself  by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  in  which  her  Ladyship  was 
represented  as  a  huntress  of  Diana's  court. 

The  new  and  fair  lady  of  Castlewood  found  the  sad,  lonely, 
little  occupant  of  this  gallery  busy  over  his  great  book,  which  he  laid 
down  when  he  was  aware  that  a  stranger  was  at  hand.  And,  know- 
ing 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  1  "And  this  is  our  kinsman,"  she  said;  "and  what 
is  your  name,  kinsman  1 " 

"  My  name  is  Henry  Esmond,"  said  the  lad,  looking  up  at  her 
in  a  sort  of  delight  and  wonder,  for  she  had  come  upon  him  as  a 
Dea  certe,  and  appeared  the  most  charming  object  he  had  ever 
looked  on.  Her  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 


FRIENDLESS,    I    FIND    FRIENDS  15 

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  .^J 
much),  at  the  notion  that  she  should  do  anything  unkind  to  any 
mortal,  great  or  small ;  for,  when  she  returned,  she  had  sent  away 
the  housekeeper  upon  an  errand  by  the  door  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  gallery ;  and,  coming  back  to  the  lad,  with  a  look  of  infinite  pity 
and  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  she  took  his  hand  again,  placing  her  other 
fair  hand  on  his  head,  and  saying  some  words  to  him,  which  were 
so  kind,  and  said  in  a  voice  so  sweet,  that  the  boy,  who  had  never 
looked  upon  so  much  beauty  before,  felt  as  if  the  touch  of  a  superior 
being  or  angel  smote  him  down  to  the  ground,  and  kissed  the  fair 
protecting  hand  as  he  knelt  on  one  knee.  To  the  very  last  hour  of 
his  life,  Esmond  remembered  the  lady  as  she  then  spoke  and  looked, 
the  rings  on  her  fair  hands,  the  very  scent  of  her  robe,  the  beam  of 
her  eyes  lighting  up  with  surprise  and  kindness,  her  lips  blooming 
in  a  smile,  the  sun  making  a  golden  halo  round  her  hair. 

As  the  boy  was  yet  in  this  attitude  of  humility,  enters  behind 
him  a  portly  gentleman,  with  a  little  girl  of  four  years  old  in  his 
hand.  The  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  v 
look  of  appeal  to  her  husband,  for  it  was  fliy  Lord  Viscount  who 
now  arrived,  and  whom  the  lad  knew,  having  once  before  seen  him 
in  the  late  lord's  lifetime. 

"  So  this  is  the  little  priest ! "  says  my  Lord,  looking  down  at 
the  lad.  "  Welcome,  kinsman  ! " 

"  He  is  saying  his  prayers  to  mamma,"  says  the  little  girl,  who 
came  up  to  her  papa's  knees ;  and  my  Lord  burst  out  into  another 
great  laugh  at  this,  and  kinsman  Henry  looked  very  silly.  He 
invented  a  half-dozen  of  speeches  in  reply,  but  'twas  months  after- 
wards when  he  thought  of  this  adventure :  as  it  was,  he  had  never 
a  word  in  answer 

"  Le  pauvre  enfant,  il  n'a  que  nous,"  says  the  lady,  looking  to 


16          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  and  the  people  of  the  village,  and  the 
servants  of  the  house,  had  gone  out  to  welcome  my  Lord  Castle- 
wood — 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  huzzahed 
when  his  carriage  approached  and  rolled  into  the  courtyard  of  the 
Hall),  no  one  ever  took  any  notice  of  young  Henry  Esmond,  who 
sate  unobserved  and  alone  in  the  Book-room,  until  the  afternoon  of 
that  day,  when  his  new  friends  found  him. 

When  my  Lord  and  Lady  were  going  away  thence,  the  little 
girl,  still  holding  her  kinsman  by  the  hand,  bade  him  to  come  too. 
"  Thou  wilt  always  forsake  an  old  friend  for  a  new  one,  Trix,"  says 
her  father  to  her  good-naturedly ;  and  went  into  the  gallery,  giving 
an  arm  to  his  lady.  They  passed  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,  arid  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." 


DR.    TUSHER,    VICAR    AND    CHAPLAIN        17 

"  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  1 " 

"  Thirty,"  says  his  wife,  with  a  laugh. 

"  A  great  deal  too  old  for  you,  Rachel,"  answers  my  Lord,  look- 
ing fondly  down  at  her.  Indeed  she  seemed  to  be  a  girl,  and  was 
at  that  time  scarce  twenty  years  old. 

"  You  know,  Frank,  I  will  do  anything  to  please  you,"  says  she, 
"and  I  promise  you  I  will  grow  older  every  day." 

"  You  mustn't  call  papa  Frank ;  you  must  call  papa  my  Lord 
now,"  says  Miss  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  little  head ;  at  which 
the  mother  smiled,  and  the  good-natured  father  laughed,  and  the 
little  trotting  boy  laughed,  not  knowing  why — but  because  he  was 
happy,  no  doubt — as  every  one  seemed  to  be  there.  How  those 
trivial  incidents  and  words,  the  landscape  and  sunshine,  and  the 
group  of  people  smiling  and  talking,  remain  fixed  on  the  memory  ! 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  the  little  heir  was  sent  in  the  arms  of 
his  nurse  to  bed,  whither  he  went  howling;  but  little  Trix  was 
promised  to  sit  to  supper  that  night — "and  you  will  come  too, 
kinsman,  won't  you  1 "  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  1 " — and  they  all 
wondered  at  Harry's  performance  as  a  trencherman,  in  which 
character  the  poor  boy  acquitted  himself  very  remarkably ;  for  the 
truth  is  he  had  had  no  dinner,  nobody  thinking  of  him  in  the  bustle 
which  the  house  was  in,  during  the  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  punch  bowl ;  and  went 
7  B 


18          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY   ESMOND 

away  home  with  rather  a  reeling  gait,  and  declaring  a  dozen  of  times, 
that  his  Lordship's  affability  surpassed  every  kindness  he  had  ever 
had  from  his  Lordship's  gracious  family. 

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

"Do  you1?"  says  she,  with  a  blush ;  "then,  sir,  you  shall  teach 
me  and  Beatrix."  And  she  asked  him  many  more  questions  re- 
garding himself,  which  had  best  be  told  more  fully  and  explicitly 
than  in  those  brief  replies  which  the  lad  made  to  his  mistress's 
questions. 


THE    LOYAL    ESMONDS  19 


CHAPTER    II 

RELATES  HOW  FRANCIS,  FOURTH  VISCOUNT,  ARRIVES  AT 
CASTLEWOOD 

'*  I  AIS  known  that  the  name  of  Esmond  and  the  estate  of  Castle- 
wood,  com.  Hants,  came  into  possession  of  the  present  family 
•^  through  Dorothea,  daughter  and  heiress  of  Edward,  Earl  and 
Marquis  Esmond,  and  Lord  of  Castlewood,  which  lady  married, 
23  Eliz.,  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  suc- 
cessor's reign. 

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


20          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Sir  George  Esmond,  on  his  part,  was  conspicuous  for  his  at- 
tachment 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  im- 
poverished 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,  who  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  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 


BOLD    THOMAS    ESMOND  21 

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  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  gentle- 
man, and  kept  a  pack  of  beagles,  arid  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 


22          THE    HISTORY    OF    HEFRY    ESMOND 

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.  Madame  Isabel  was  said  to 
have  Royal  jewels  of  great  value ;  whereas  poor  Tom  Esmond's  last 
coat  but  one  was  in  pawn. 

My  Lord  had  at  this  time  a  fine  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
nigh  to  the  Duke's  Theatre  and  the  Portugal  ambassador's  chapel. 
Tom  Esmond,  who  had  frequented  the  one,  as  long  as  he  had  money 
to  spend  among  the  actresses,  now  came  to  the  church  as  assidu- 
ously. He  looked  so  lean  and  shabby,  that  he  passed  without 
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 


WE    ARE    DISGRACED    AT    COURT  23 

nurses  and  physicians,  had  only  a  brief  existence.  His  tainted 
blood  did  not  run  very  long  in  his  poor  feeble  little  body.  Symp- 
toms of  evil  broke  out  early  on  him ;  and,  part  from  flattery,  part 
superstition,  nothing  would  satisfy  my  Lord'  and  Lady,  especially 
the  latter,  but  having  the  poor  little  cripple  touched  by  his  Majesty 
at  his  church.  They  were  ready  to  cry  out  miracle  at  first  (the 
doctors  and  quacksalvers  being  constantly  in  attendance  on  the 
child,  and  experimenting  on  his  poor  little  body  with  every  conceiv- 
able nostrum) — but  though  there  seemed,  from  some  reason,  a 
notable  amelioration  in  the  infant's  health  after  his  Majesty  touched 
him,  in  a  few  weeks  afterward  the  poor  thing  died — causing  the 
lampooners  of  the  Court  to  say,  that  the  King,  in  expelling  evil  out 
of  the  infant  of  Tom  Esmond  and  Isabella  his  wife,  expelled  the  life 
out  of  it,  which  was  nothing  but  corruption. 

The  mother's  natural  pang  at  losing  this  poor  little  child  must 
have  been  increased  when  she  thought  of  her  rival  Frank  Esmond's 
wife,  who  was  a  favourite  of  the  whole  Court,  where  my  poor  Lady 
Castlewood  was  neglected,  and  who  had  one  child,  a  daughter, 
flourishing  and  beautiful,  and  was  about  to  become  a  mother  once 
more. 

The  Court,  as  I  have  heard,  only  laughed  the  more  because  the 
poor  lady,  who  had  pretty  well  passed  the  age  when  ladies  are 
accustomed  to  have  children,  nevertheless  determined  not  to  give 
hope  up,  and  even  when  she  came  to  live  at  Castlewood,  was  con- 
stantly sending  over  to  Hexton  for  the  doctor,  and  announcing  to  her 
friends  the  arrival  of  an  heir.  This  absurdity  of  hers  was  one 
amongst  many  others  which  the  wags  used  to  play  upon.  Indeed, 
to  the  last  days  of  her  life,  my  Lady  Viscountess  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 


24.          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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  Bergamot;*  "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  Castle- 
wood  could  command  her  husband's  obedience,  and  so  broke  up 
her  establishment  at  London ;  she  had  removed  from  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  to  Chelsey,  to  a  pretty  new  house  she  bought  there;  and 
brought  her  establishment,  her  maids,  lapdogs,  and  gentlewomen, 
her  priest,  and  his  Lordship  her  husband,  to  Castlewood  Hall,  that 
she  had  never  seen  since  she  quitted  it  as  a  child  with  her  father 
during  the  troubles  of  King  Charles  the  First's  reign.  The  walls 
were  still  open  in  the  old  house  as  they  had  been  left  by  the  shot 
of  the  Commonwealth-men.  A  part  of  the  mansion  was  restored 
and  furbished  up  with  the  plate,  hangings,  and  furniture  brought 
from  the  house  in  London.  My  Lady  meant  to  have  a  triumphal 
entry  into  Castlewood  village,  and  expected  the  people  to  cheer 
as  she  drove  over  the  Green  in  her  great  coach,  my  Lord  beside 
her,  her  gentlewomen,  lapdogs,  and  cockatoos  on  the  opposite  seat, 
six  horses  to  her  carriage,  and  servants  armed  and  mounted  follow- 
ing 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  Jezebel ! "  a  name  by  which  the  enemies  of  the 

*  Lionel  Tipton,  created  Baron  Bergamot,  ann.  1686,  Gentleman  Usher  of 
the  Back  Stairs,  and  afterwards  appointed  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom 
of  the  King's  Posset  (on  the  decease  of  George,  second  Viscount  Castlewood), 
accompanied  his  Majesty  to  St.  Germain's,  where  he  died  without  issue.  No 
Groom  of  the  Posset  was  appointed  by  the  Prince  of  Orange,  nor  hath  there  been 
such  an  officer  in  any  succeeding  reign. 


SAYING    OF    LADY    SARK  25 

right  honourable  Viscountess  were  afterwards  in  the  habit  of  desig- 
nating 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  arid  haughty,  in  her 
ways,  and  whose  praises  Doctor  Tusher,  the  Vicar,  sounded  loudly 
amongst  his  flock.  As  for  my  Lord,  he  gave  no  great  trouble,  being 
considered  scarce  more  than  an  appendage  to  my  Lady,  who,  as 
daughter  of  the  old  lords  of  Castlewood,  and  possessor  of  vast 
wealth,  as  the  country  folk  said  (though  indeed  nine-tenths  of  it 
existed  but  in  rumour),  was  looked  upon  as  the  real  queen  of  the 
castle,  and  mistress  of  all  it  contained. 


26          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  III 

WHITHER  IN  THE  TIME  OF  THOMAS,   THIRD  VISCOUNT,  I  HAD 
PRECEDED  HIM  AS  PAGE  TO  ISABELLA 

COMING  up  to  London  again  some  short  time  after  this  retreat, 
the  Lord  Castlewood  despatched  a  retainer  of  his  to  a  little 
cottage  in  the  village  of  Baling,  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  re- 
membered 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  Baling.  The 
new  wife  gave  her  children  the  best  of  everything  and  Harry  many 
a  whipping,  he  knew  not  why.  Besides  blows,  he  got  ill  names 
from  her,  which  need  not  be  set  down  here,  for  the  sake  of  old  Mr. 


FATHER    HOLT  27 

Pastoureau,  who  was  still  kind  sometimes.  The  unhappiness  of  those 
days  is  long  forgiven,  though  they  cast  a  shade  of  melancholy  over 
the  child's  youth,  which  will  accompany  him,  no  doubt,  to  the  end 
of  his  days  :  as  those  tender  twigs  are  bent  the  trees  grow  after- 
ward ;  and  he,  at  least,  wjio  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  Baling.  The  noverca,  or  unjust  step-mother,  who  had 
neglected  him  for  her  own  two  children,  gave 'him  supper  enough 
the  night  before  he  went  away,  and  plenty  in  the  morning.  She 
did  not  beat  him  once,  and  told  the  children  to  keep  their  hands  off 
him.  One  was  a  girl,  and  Harry  never  could  bear  to  strike  a  girl ; 
and  the  other  was  a  boy,  whom  he  could  easily  have  beat,  but  he 
always  cried  out,  when  Mrs.  Pastoureau  came  sailing  to  the  rescue 
with  arms  like  a  flail.  She  only  washed  Harry's  face  the  day 
he  went  away;  nor  ever  so  much  as  once  boxed  his  ears.  She 
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  some- 
thing about  Babylon  and  the  scarlet  lady.  He  was  grown  quite 
old,  like  a  child  almost.  Mrs.  Pastoureau  used  to  wipe  his  nose  as 
she  did  to  the  children.  She  was  a  great,  big,  handsome  young 
woman;  but,  though  she  pretended  to  cry,  Harry  thought  'twas 
only  a  sham,  and  sprang  quite  delighted  upon  the  horse  upon  which 
the  lacquey  helped  him. 

He  was  a  Frenchman ;  his  name  was  Blaise.  The  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 
Baling  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  Baling  soon 
became,  at  least  of  much  that  he  suffered  there. 

The  lacquey  before  whom  he  rode  was  very  lively  and  voluble, 
and  informed  the  boy  that  the  gentleman  riding  before  him  was 
my  lord's  chaplain,  Father  Holt — that  he  was  now  to  be  called 
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 


28  THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  ca,"  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  thou- 
sand times  greater  and  finer  than  the  booth  at  Baling  Fair — and 
on  the  next  happy  day  they  took  water  on  the  river,  and  Harry 
saw  London  Bridge,  with  the  houses  and  booksellers'  shops  thereon, 
looking  like  a  street,  and  the  Tower  of  London,  with  the  armour, 
and  the  great  lions  and  bears  in  the  moat — all  under  company  of 
Monsieur  Blaise. 

Presently,  of  an  early  morning,  all  the  party  set  forth  for  the 
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  iny 
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  lacquey ;  and  all  along  the 
journey  put  a  thousand  questions  to  the  child — as  to  his  foster- 
brother  and  relations  at  Ealing;  what  his  old  grandfather  had 
taught  him ;  what  languages  he  knew ;  whether  he  could  read 
and  write,  and  sing,  and  so  forth.  And  Mr.  Holt  found  that 
Harry  could  read  and  write,  and  possessed  the  two  languages  of 
French  and  English  very  well ;  and  when  he  asked  Harry  about 
singing,  the  lad  broke  out  with  a  hymn  to  the  tune  of  Dr.  Martin 
Luther,  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  hymus  were  not  sung  in  the  churches  Mr.  Holt  preached  at. 


I    FIND    NEW    FRIENDS  29 

"  You  must  never  sing  that  song  any  more  :  do  you  hear,  little 
mannikin  1 "  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  Castle  wood,  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  curtseys  to 
my  Lord  Viscount,  who  bowed  to  them  all  languidly;  and  there 
was  one  portly  person  that  wore  a  cassock  and  a  broad-leafed  hat, 
who  bowed  lower  than  any  one — and  with  this  one  both  my  Lord 
and  Mr.  Holt  had  a  few  words.  "This,  Harry,  is  Castlewood 
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  court- 
yard, with  a  fountain  in  the  centre,  where  many  men  came  and 
held  my  Lord's  stirrup  as  he  descended,  and  paid  great  respect  to 


30          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  "  Par  bleu, 
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  tooR  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  through  the  coloured  glass  painted  of  a 
thousand'  hues;  and  here  in  state,  by  the  fire,  sate  a  lady,  to 
whom  the  priest  took  up  Harry,  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  Baling  Fair.  She  sate  in  a  great 
chair  by  the  fire-corner ;  in  her  lap  was  a  spaniel  dog  that  barked 
furiously ;  on  a  little  table  by  her  was  her  Ladyship's  snuffbox 
and  her  sugar-plum  box.  She  wore  a  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  a 
petticoat  of  flame-coloured  brocade.  She  had  as  many  rings  on 
her  fingers  as  the  old  woman  of  Banbury  Cross ;  and  pretty  small 
feet  which  she  was  fond  of  showing,  with  great  gold  clocks  to  her 
stockings,  and  white  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. 


MY    LADY    VISCOUNTESS  31 

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  Castle  wood  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 
Madame  Tusher — the  fair  priestess  of  Castlewood." 

"  Where  I  have  lived  and  hope  to  die,  sir,"  says  Madame  Tusher, 
giving  a  hard  glance  at  the  brat,  and  then  at  my  Lady. 

Upon  her  the  boy's  whole  attention  was  for  a  time  directed. 
He  could  not  keep  his  great  eyes  off  from  her.  Since  the  Empress 
of  Baling,  he  had  seen  nothing  so  awful. 

"  Does  my  appearance  please  you,  little  page  ? "  asked  the  lady. 

"  He  would  be  very  hard  to  please  if  it  didn't,"  cried  Madame 
Tusher. 

"Have  done,  you  silly  Maria,"  said  Lady  Castlewood. 

"Where  I'm  attached,  I'm  attached,  Madame — and  I'd  die 
rather  than  not  say  so." 

"  Je  meurs  ou  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 
on  whom  this  artless  flattery  was  bestowed  ;  for  having  gone  down 
on  his  knee  (as  Father  Holt  had  directed  him,  and  the  mode  then 
was)  and  performed  his  obeisance,  she  said,  "Page  Esmond,  my 
groom  of  the  chamber  will  inform  you  what  your  duties  are,  when 
you  wait  upon  my  Lord  and  me;  and  good  Father  Holt  will 
instruct  you  as  becomes  a  gentleman  of  our  name.  You  will  pay 
him  obedience  in  everything,  and  I  pray  you  may  grow  to  be  as 
learned  and  as  good  as  your  tutor." 


32          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  childless  way.  "Who  is  that  other  woman?"  he 
asked.  "  She  is  fat  and  round ;  she  is  more  pretty  than  my  Lady 
Castlewood." 

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

"  Why  does  she  like  so  to  kiss  my  Lady's  hand  ?  It  is  not 
good  to  kiss." 

"  Tastes  are  different,  little  man.  Madame  Tusher  is  attached 
to  my  Lady,  having  been  her  waiting- woman  before  she  was  married, 
in  the  old  lord's  time.  She  married  Doctor  Tusher  the  chaplain. 
The  English  household  divines  often  marry  the  waiting- women." 

"You  will  not  marry  the  Frenchwoman,  will  you?  I  saw  her 
laughing  with  Blaise  in  the  buttery." 

"  I  belong  to  a  Church  that  is  older  and.  better  than  the  English 
Church,"  Mr.  Holt  said  (making  a  sign  whereof  Esmond  did  not 
then  understand  the  meaning,  across  his  breast  and  forehead) ;  "  in 
our  Church  the  clergy  do  not  marry.  You  will  understand  these 
things  better  soon." 

"  Was  not  Saint  Peter  the  head  of  your  Church  ?— Dr.  Rabbits 
of  Baling  told  us  so." 

The  Father  said,  "  Yes,  he  was." 

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

It  stood  on  a  rising  green  hill,  with  woods  behind  it,  in  which 
were  rooks'  nests,  where  the  birds  at  morning  and  returning  home 
at  evening  made  a  great  cawing.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  a 
river,  with  a  steep  ancient  bridge  crossing  it;  and  beyond  that  a 
large  pleasant  green  flat,  where  the  village  of  Castlewood  stood,  and 
stands,  with  the  church  in  the  midst,  the  parsonage  hard  by  it,  the 
inn  with  the  blacksmith's  forge  beside  it,  and  the  sign  of  the  "  Three 
Castles"  on  the  elm.  The  London  road  stretched  away  towards 


I    BEGIN    TO    HAVE    A    VOCATION  33 

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  ^Eneas,  the  fond  names  of  the  land  of  his 
youth. 

The  Hall  of  Castlewood  was  built  with  two  courts,  whereof  one 
only,  the  fountain-court,  was  now  inhabited,  the  other  having  been 
battered  down,  in  the  Cromwellian  wars.  In  the  fountain-court, 
still  in  good  repair,  was  the  great  hall,  near  to  the  kitchen  and 
butteries ;  a  dozen  of  living-rooms  looking  to  the  north,  and  com- 
municating with  the  little  chapel  that  faced  eastwards  and  the 
buildings  stretching  from  that  to  the  main  gate,  and  with  the  hall 
(which  looked,  to  the  west)  into  the  court  now  dismantled.  This 
court  had  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 
7  C 


34          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Doctor  Tusher,  whose  position  was  indeed  a  difficult  one,  having 
been  chaplain  once  to  the  Hall,  and  still  to  the  Protestant  servants 
there,  seemed  more  like  an  usher  than  an  equal,  and  always  rose  to 
go  away  after  the  first  course. 

Also  there  came  in  these  times  to  Father  Holt  many  private 
visitors,  whom,  after  a  little,  Henry  Esmond  had  little  difficulty  in 
/  recognising  as  ecclesiastics  of  the  Father's  persuasion,  whatever  their 
dresses  (and  they  adopted  all)  might  be.  These  were  closeted  with 
the  Father  constantly,  and  often  came  and  rode .  away  without 
paying  their  devoirs  to  my  Lord  and  Lady — to  the  Lady  and  Lord 
rather — his  Lordship  being  little  more  than  a  cipher  in  the  house, 
and  entirely  under  his-  domineering  partner.  A  little  fowling,  a 
little  hunting,  a  great  deal  of  sleep,  and  a  long  time  at  cards  and 
table,  carried  through  one  day  after  another  with  his  Lordship. 
When  meetings  took  place  in  this  second  year,  which  often  would 
happen  with  closed  doors,  the  page  found  my  Lord's  sheet  of  paper 
scribbled  over  with  dogs  and  horses,  and  'twas  said  he  had  much 
ado  to  keep  himself  awake  at  these  councils :  the  Countess  ruling 
over  them,  and  he  acting  as  little  more  than  her  secretary. 

Father  Holt  began  speedily  to  be  so  much  occupied  with  these 
meetings  as  rather  to  neglect  the  education  of  the  little  lad  who  so 
gladly  put  himself  under  the  kind  priest's  orders.  At  first  they 
read  much  and  regularly,  both  in  Latin  and  French ;  the  Father 
not  neglecting  in  anything  to  impress  his  faith  upon  his  pupil,  but 
not  forcing  him  violently,  and  treating  him  with  a  delicacy  and 
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  their  walks  was  to  tell  Harry  of  the  glories  of 
his  order,  of  its  martyrs  and  heroes,  of  its  Brethren  converting  the 
heathen  by  myriads,  traversing  the  desert,  facing  the  stake,  ruling 
the  courts  and  councils,  or  braving  the  tortures  of  kings  ;  so  that 
Harry  Esmond  thought  that  to  belong  to  the  Jesuits  was  the  greatest 
prize  of  life  and  bravest  end  of  ambition ;  the  greatest  career  here 
and  in  heaven  the  surest  reward ;  and  began  to  long  for  the  day, 
not  only  when  he  should  enter  into  the  one  church  and  receive  his 
first  communion,  but  when  he  might  join  that  wonderful  brother- 
hood, which  was  present  throughout  all  the  world,  and  which  num- 
bered the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  highest  born,  the  most  eloquent 
of  men  among  its  members.  Father  Holt  bade  him  keep  his  views 
secret,  and  to  hide  them  as  a  great  treasure  which  would  escape 
him  if  it  was  revealed  ;  and,  proud  of  this  confidence  and  secret 
vested  in  him,  the  lad  became  fondly  attached  to  the  master  who 
initiated  him  into  a  mystery  so  wonderful  and  awful.  And  when 
little  Tom  Tusher,  his  neighbour,  came  from  school  for  his  holiday, 


I    KEEP    THE    SECRET  35 

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  gown1? 
Have  you  statues  in  your  church  that  can  bleed,  speak,  walk,  and 
cry  ?  My  good  Tommy,  in  dear  Father  Holt's  church  these  things 
take  place  every  day.  You  know  Saint  Philip  of  the  Willows 
appeared  to  Lord  Castlewood,  and  caused  him  to  turn  to  the  one 
true  church.  No  saints  ever  come  to  you."  And  Harry  Esmond, 
because  of  his  promise  to  Father  Holt,  hiding  away  these  treasures  \/ 
of  faith  from  T.  Tusher,  delivered  himself  of  them  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. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   IV 

I  AM  PLACED  UNDER  A  POPISH  PRIEST  AND  BRED   TO 
THAT  RELIGION— VISCOUNTESS  CASTLE  WOOD 

HAD  time  enough  been  given,  and  his  childish  inclinations  been 
properly  nurtured,  Harry  Esmond  had  been  a  Jesuit  priest 
ere  he  was  a  dozen  years  older,  and  might  have  finished  his 
days  a  martyr  in  China  or  a  victim  on  Tower  Hill :  for,  in  the  few 
months  they  spent  together  at  Castlewood,  Mr.  Holt  obtained  an 
entire  mastery  over  the  boy's  intellect  and  affections ;  and  had 
brought  him  to  think,  as  indeed  Father  Holt  thought  with  all  his 
heart  too,  that  no  life  was  so  noble,  no  death  so  desirable,  as  that 
which  many  brethren  of  his  famous  order  were  ready  to  undergo. 
By  love,  by  a  brightness  of  wit  and  good-humour  that  charmed  all, 
by  an  authority  which  he  knew  how  to  assume,  by  a  mystery  and 
silence  about  him  which  increased  the  child's  reverence  for  him,  he 
won  Harry's  absolute  fealty,  and  would  have  kept  it,  doubtless,  if 
schemes  .greater  and  more  important  than  a  poor  little  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  bicker- 
ing), 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 


I    BEGIN    TO    OBSERVE  37 

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  demoli- 
tion, save  in  the  chapel,  where  the  painted  windows  surviving 
Edward  the  Sixth  had  been  broke  by  the  Commonwealth-men.  In 
Father  Holt's  time  little  Harry  Esmond  acted  as  his  familiar,  and 
faithful  little  servitor;  beating  his  clothes,  folding  his  vestments, 
fetching  his  water  from  the  well  long  before  daylight,  ready  to  run 
anywhere  for  the  service  of  his  beloved  priest.  When  the  Father 
was  away,  he  locked  his  private  chamber ;  but  the  room  where  the 
books  were  was  left  to  little  Harry,  who,  but  for  the  society  of  this 
gentleman,  was  little  less  solitary  when  Lord  Castlewood  was  at 
home 

The  French  wit  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  toilette  !  I  have  often  seen  the  poor  wretch  come 
out  with  red  eyes  from  the  closet  where  those  long  and  mysterious 
rites  of  her  Ladyship's  dress  were  performed,  and  the  backgammon- 
box  locked  up  with  a  rap  on  Mrs.  Tusher's  fingers  when  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 


38  THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Doctor  Tusher,  I  believe  he  would  have  left  a  parishioner's 
dying  bed,  if  summoned  to  play  a  rubber  with  his  patroness  at 
Castlewood.  Sometimes,  when  they  were  pretty  comfortable  to- 
gether, my  Lord  took  a  hand.  Besides  these  my  Lady  had  her 
faithful  poor  Tusher,  and  one,  two,  three  gentlemen  whom  Harry 
Esmond  could  recollect  in  his  time.  They  could  not  bear  that 
genteel  service  very  long ;  one  after  another  tried  and  failed  at  it. 
These  and  the  housekeeper,  and  little  Harry  Esmond,  had  a  table 
of  their  own.  Poor  ladies !  their  life  was  far  harder  than  the 
page's.  He  was  sound  asleep,  tucked  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  de- 
served the  penalty  pretty  often,  and  got  it  sometimes.  Father 
Holt  applied  it  twice  or  thrice,  when  he  caught  the  young  scape- 
grace with  a  delightful  wicked  comedy  of  Mr.  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.  How- 
ever, 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 


I  AM    ASSAILED    BY    THE    MOB  39 

hooting  and  jeering  round  the  coach,  bawling  out  "  The  Bishops  for 
ever  !  "  "  Down  with  the  Pope  !  "  "  No  Popery  !  no  Popery  !  Jezebel, 
Jezebel ! "  so  that  my  Lord  began  to  laugh,  my  Lady's  eyes  to  roll 
with  anger,  for  she  was  as  bold  as  a  lioness,  and  feared  nobody ; 
whilst  Mr.  Holt,  as  Esmond  saw  from  his  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  huzzah  at  a  cock-fight,  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  rode 
with  her  coach-and-six)  gave  a  cut  of  his  thong  over  the  shoulders 
of  one  fellow  who  put  his  hand  out  towards  the  leading  horse's  rein. 

It  was  a  market-day,  and  the  country  people  were  all  assembled 
with  their  baskets  of  poultry,  eggs,  and  such  things ;  the  postillion 
had  no  sooner  lashed  the  man  who  would  have  taken  hold  of  his  horse, 
but  a  great  cabbage  came  whirling  like  a  bombshell  into  the  carriage, 
at  which  my  Lord  laughed  more,  for  it  knocked  my  Lady's  fan  out 
of  her  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  said,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  another;  the 
crowd  had  gathered  quite  between  the  horses  and  the  inn  door  by 
this  time,  and  the  coach  was  brought  to  a  dead  stand-still.  My 
Lord  jumped  as  briskly  as  a  boy  out  of  the  door  on  his  side  of  the 


40          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

coach,  squeezing  little  Harry  behind  it ;  had  hold  of  the  potato- 
thrower's  collar  in  an  instant,  and  the  next  moment  the  brute's  heels 
were  in  the  air,  and  he  fell  on  the  stones  with  a  thump. 

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

Some  of  the  mob  cried,  "Huzzah,  my -Lord!"  for  they  knew 
him,  and  the  saddler's  man  was  a  known  bruiser,  near  twice  as  big 
as  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  shrank  back,  and  my  Lord  retreated  with  all 
the  honours  of  the  day.  But  when  the  little  flurry  caused  by  the 
scene  was  over,  and  the  flush  passed  off  his  face,  he  relapsed  into  his 
usual  languor,  trifled  with  his  little  dog,  and  yawned  when  my  Lady 
spoke  to  him. 

This  mob  was  one  of  many  thousands  that  were  going  about  the 
country  at  that  time,  huzzahing  for  the  acquittal  of  the  seven  bishops 
who  had  been  tried  just  then,  and  about  whom  little  Harry  Esmond 
at  that  time  knew  scarce  anything.  It  was  Assizes  at  Hexton,  and 
there  was  a  great  meeting  of  the  gentry  at  the  "  Bell " ;  and  my 
Lord's  people  had  their  new  liveries  on,  and  Harry  a  little  suit  of 
blue-and-silver,  which  he  wore  upon  occasions  of  state ;  and  the 
gentlefolks  came  round  and  talked  to  my  Lord  :  and  a  judge  in  a  rod 
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 


PLEASANT    TIMES  41 

allied  to  Colonel  Esmond,  and  how  much  kindness  he  should  have 
to  owe  him. 

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

Very  soon  afterwards,  my  Lord  and  Lady  went  to  London  with 
Mr.  Holt,  leaving,  however,  the  page  behind  them.  The  little  man 
had  the  great  house  of  Castlewood  to  himself;  or  between  him  and 
the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Worksop,  an  old  lady  who  was  a  kinswoman 
of  the  family  in  some  distant  way,  and  a  Protestant,  but  a  staunch 
Tory  and  king's-man,  as  all  the  Esmonds  were.  He  used  to  go  to 
school  to  Dr.  Tusher  when  he  was  at  home,  though  the  Doctor  was 
much  occupied  too.  There  was  a  great  stir  and  commotion  every- 
where, 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  Sieveright,  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. 


42  THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  V    . 

MY  SUPERIORS  ARE  ENGAGED  IN  PLOTS  FOR  THE  RESTORATION 
OF  KING  JAMES   THE  SECOND 

NOT  having  been  able  to  sleep,  for  thinking  of  some  lines  for 
eels  which  he  had  placed  the  night  before,  the  lad  was  lying 
in  his  little  bed,  waiting  for  the  hour  when  the  gate  would 
be  open,  and  he  and  his  comrade,  John  Lockwood,  the  porter's  son, 
might  go  to  the  pond  and  see  what  fortune  had  brought  them.  At 
daybreak,  John  was  to  awaken  him,  but  his  own  eagerness  for  the 
sport  had  served  as  a  reveillez  long  since — so  long,  that  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  day  never  would  come. 

It  might  have  been  four  o'clock  when  he  heard  the  door  of 
the  opposite  chamber,  the  Chaplain's  room,  open,  and  the  voice  of 
a  man  coughing  in  the  passage.  Harry  jumped  up,  thinking  for 
certain  it  was  a  robber,  or  hoping  perhaps  for  a  ghost,  and,  flinging 
open  his  own  door,  saw  before  him  the  Chaplain's  door  open,  and  a 
light  inside,  and  a  figure  standing  in  the  doorway,  in  the  midst  of 
a  great  smoke  which  issued  from  the  room. 

"  Who's  there  ? "  cried  out  the  boy,  who  was  of  a  good  spirit. 

"  Silentiwm  !  "  whispered  the  other ;  "  'tis  I,  my  boy  ! "  and, 
holding  his  hand  out,  Harry  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  his 
master  and  friend,  Father  Holt.  A  curtain  was  over  the  window 
of  the  Chaplain's  room  that  looked  to  the  court,  arid  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. 

"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  1 " 


THE    SECRET    OF    THE    WARDROBE  43 

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  eccle- 
siastics to  wear  their  proper  dress ;  and  he  was,  in  consequence,  in 
no  wise  astonished  that  the  priest  should  now  appear  before  him  in 
a  riding-dress,  with  large  buff  leather  boots,  and  a  feather  to  his 
hat,  plain,  but  such  as  gentlemen  wore. 

"You  know  the  secret  of  the  cupboard,"  said  he,  laughing, 
"  and  must  be  prepared  for  other  mysteries  ;  "  and  he  opened — but 
not  a  secret  cupboard  this  time— only  a  wardrobe,  which  he  usually 
kept  locked,  and  from  which  he  now  took  out  two  or  three  dresses 
and  perniques  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  con- 
cern nobody — at  least  not  them."  And  to  this  day,  whether  the 
papers  in  cipher  related  to  politics,  or  to  the  affairs  of  that 
mysterious  society  whereof  Father  Holt  was  a  member,  his  pupil, 
Harry  Esmond,  remains  in  entire  ignorance. 

The  rest  of  his  goods,  his  small  wardrobe,  &c.,  Holt  left  un- 
touched 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 


44          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  case- 
ment strongly  barred,  and  looking  on  to  the  green  in  front  of  the 
Hall.  This  window  was  too  high  to  reach  from  the  ground :  but, 
mounting  on  a  buffet  which  stood  beneath  it,  Father  Holt  showed 
me  how,. by  pressing  on  the  base  of  the  window,  the  whole  frame- 
work of  lead,  glass,  and  iron  stanchions  descended  into  a  cavity 
worked  below,  from  which  it  could  be  drawn  and  restored  to  its 
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 
key1? — under  'Chrysostom'  on  the  bookshelf;  and  if  any  ask  for 
it,  say  I  keep  it  there,  and  told  you  where  to  find  it,  if  you  had 
need  to  go  to  my  room.  The  descent  is  easy  down  the  wall  into 
the  ditch ;  and  so  once  more  farewell,  until  I  see  thee  again,  my 
dear  son."  And  with  this  the  intrepid  Father  mounted  the  buffet 
with  great  agility  and  briskness,  stepped  across  the  window,  lifting 
up  the  bars  and  framework  again  from  the  other  side,  and  only 
leaving  room  for  Harry  Esmond  to  stand  on  tiptoe  and  kiss  his 
hand  before  the  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 


DOCTOR    TUSHER  45 

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  1 "  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  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  Mend  the  blacksmith's  laughing 
daughter  pinned  one  into  Harry's  old  hat,  which  he  tore  out  in- 
dignantly when  they  bade  him  to  cry  "  God  save  the  Prince  of 
Orange  and  the  Protestant  religion  !  "  but  the  people  only  laughed, 
for  they  liked  the  boy  in  the  village,  where  his  solitary  condition 
moved  the  general  pity,  and  where  he  found  friendly  welcomes  and 
faces  in  many  houses.  Father  Holt  had  many  friends  there  too, 
for  he  not  only  would  fight  the  blacksmith  at  theology,  never  losing 
his  temper,  but  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 


46  THE    HISTORY  OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

propinquity  and  tolerable  kindness  and  good-humour  on  either  side 
would  he  pretty  sure  to  occasion.  Tom  Tusher  was  sent  oft*  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  Doctor  Tusher  was  away  at  Salisbury  that  there 
came  a  troop  of  dragoons  with  orange  scarfs,  and  quartered  in 
Castlewood,  and  some  of  them  came  up  to  the  Hall,  where  they 
took  possession,  robbing  nothing  however  beyond  the  hen-house 
and  the  beer-cellar;  and  only  insisting  upon  going  through  the 
house  and  looking  for  papers.  The  first  room  they  asked  to  look 
at  was  Father  Holt's  room,  of  which  Harry  Esmond  brought  the 
key,  and  they  opened  the  drawers  and  the  cupboards,  and  tossed 
over  the  papers  and  clothes — but  found  nothing  except  his  books 
and  clothes,  and  the  vestments  in  a  box  by  themselves,  with  which 
the  dragoons  made  merry,  to  Harry  Esmond's  horror.  And  to 
the  questions  which  the  gentleman  put  to  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  appre- 
hended 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  Lady- 
ship 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  livoxl  with. 

"  We  are  prisoners,"  says  she ;  "  in  everything  but  chains  we 


DOCTOR    TUSHER  47 

are  prisoners.  Let  them  come,  let  them  consign  me  to  dungeons, 
or  strike  off  my  head  from  this  poor  little  throat "  (and  she  clasped 
it  in  her  long  fingers).  "  The  blood  of  the  Esmonds  will  always 
flow  freely  for  their  kings.  We  are  not  like  the  Churchills — the 
Judases,  who  kiss  their  master  and  betray  him.  We  know  how  to 
suffer,  how  even  to  forgive  in  the  royal  cause "  (no  doubt  it  was 
that  fatal  business  of  losing  the  place  of  Groom  of  the  Posset  to 
which  her  Ladyship  alluded,  as  she  did  half-a-dozen  times  in  the 
day).  "Let  the  tyrant  of  Orange  bring  his  rack  and  his  odious 
Dutch  tortures — the  beast !  the  wretch  !  I  spit  upon  him  and 
defy  him.  Cheerfully  will  I  lay  this  head  upon  the  block; 
cheerfully  will  I  accompany  my  Lord  to  the  scaffold  :  we  will  cry 
'  God  save  King  James  ! '  with  our  dying  breath,  and  smile  in  the 
face  of  the  executioner."  And  she  told  her  page,  a  hundred  times 
at  least,  of  the  particulars  of  the  last  interview  which  she  had 
with  his  Majesty. 

"  I  flung  myself  before  my  liege's  feet,"  she  said,  "at  Salisbury. 
I  devoted  myself — my  husband — my  house,  to  his  cause.  Perhaps 
he  remembered  old  times,  when  Isabella  Esmond  was  young  arid 
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, 


48          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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  aide-de-camp.  He  re- 
members 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  over- 
thrown, and  their  indomitable  little  master  away  in  Ireland,  'twas 


JUNE    1690  49 

thought  that  our  side  might  move  on  London  itself,  and  a  confident 
victory  was  predicted  for  the  King. 

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

One  day,  it  must  have  been  about  the  month  of  June  1690, 
my  Lord,  in  a  great  horseman's  coat,  under  which  Harry  could  see 
the  shining  of  a  steel  breastplate  he  had  on,  called  little  Harry 
to  him,  put  the  hair  off  the  child's  forehead,  and  kissed  him,  and 
bade  God  bless  him  in  such  an  affectionate  way  as  he  never  had 
used  before.  Father  Holt  blessed  him  too,  and  then  they  took 
leave  of  my  Lady  Viscountess,  who  came  from  her  apartment  with 
a  pocket-handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  her  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  em- 
bracing my  Lord  in  a  grand  manner.  "  Mr.  Holt,  I  ask  your 
blessing : "  and  she  knelt  down  for  that,  whilst  Mrs.  Tusher  tossed 
her  head  up. 

Mr.  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  Castle- 
wood  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  cowboy  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  bell 
rang,  and  old  Lockwood,  waking  up,  let  in  one  of  my  Lord's 
7  D 


50          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  ithat  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  lie  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  cross  way. 

''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  penmit  a  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,  M.  le  Marquis,'— 
why  did  he  say  Marquis  to  M.  le  Vieomte?—  '  we  must  drink  it.' 

"The  poor  gentleman's  horse  was  a  better  one  than  that  I 
rode,"  Blaise  continues :  "  Mr.  Holt  bids  rne  get  on  him,  and  so  I 
gave  a  cut  to  Whitefoot,  and  she  trotted  home.  We  rode  on 
towards  Newbury ;  we  heard  firing  towards  mid-day  :  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  Ecossais  declared  an  hour 
too  soon — General  Girickel  was  down  upon  them.'  The  whole  thing 
was  at  an  end. 

"  *  And  we've  shot  an  officer  on  duty,  and  let  his  orderly  escape,' 
says  my  Lord. 

"  *  Blaise,'  says  Mr.  Holt,  writing  two  lines  on  his  table-book, 
one  for  my  Lady,  and  one  for  you,  Master  Harry ;  '  you  must  go 
back  to  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    SOLDIERS    ARRIVE  51 

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

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


52          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  ISSUE  OF  THE  PLOTS— THE  DEATH  OF  THOMAS,  THIRD 
VISCOUNT  OF  CASTLE  WOOD;  AND  THE  IMPRISONMENT  OF 
HIS  VISCOUNTESS 

An  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  a-bed,"  said  the  page. 

"  What  complaint  has  she  ? "  asked  the  Captain. 

The  boy  said,  "The  rheumatism." 

"Rheumatism!  that's  a  sad  complaint,"  continues  the  good- 
natured  Captain  ;  "  and  the  coach  is  in  the  yard  to  fetch  the  Doctor, 
I  suppose "? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  the  boy. 

"  And  how  long  has  her  Ladyship  been  ill  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  the  boy. 


LADY    CASTLEWOOD'S    SICKNESS  53 

"  When  did  my  Lord  go  away  ? " 

"Yesterday  night." 

"With  Father  Holt?" 

"With  Mr.  Holt." 

"  And  which  way  did  they  travel  1 "  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  noise1?"  says  she.  "  Is  this  gentleman  the  Doctor1?  " 

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

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

"  Is  that  the  Doctor  1 "  she  said. 

"  There  is  no  use  with  this  deception,  madam,"  Captain  West- 
bury  paid  (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  his  face,  as  if  he  was  only  conducting 
the  examination  for  form's  sake. 


54          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Before  one  of  the  cupboards  Victoire  flung  herself  down,  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms,  and,  with  a  piercing  shriek,  cried,  "  Non,  jamais, 
monsieur  1'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  gentle- 
men, Captain'?" 

"  These  articles  are  only  dangerous  when  worn  by  your  Lady- 
ship," 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  authorised  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  1 " 
er^ed  my  Lady,  pointing  to  the  soldier. 

"  What  can  I  do,  madam  1  Somebody  you  must  have  to  smooth 
your  pillow  and  bring  your  medicine — permit  me — 

"  Sir  !  "  screamed  out  my  Lady. 

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

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

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

"  And  now  your  Ladyship  can  move,  I  am  sure ;  permit  mo 
to  give  you  my  hand  to  rise.  You  will  have  to  travel  for  some 
distance,  as  for  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  1 " 

"Your  Ladyship  must  please   to  rise,  and  let  me  search  the 


THEY    SEEK    FOR    PAPERS  55 

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  depart- 
ure 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  aftertimes,  when  Doctor  Tusher  complained 
that  King  William's  .government  had  basely  treated  him  for  services 
done  in  that  cause. 

And  here  he  may  relate,  though  he  was  then  too  young  to  know 
all  that  was  happening,  what  the  papers  contained,  of  which  Captain 
Westbury  had  made  a  seizure,  and  which  .papers  had  been  trans- 
ferred 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.  Cople- 
stone,  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  appoint- 
ment  as  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  County,  and  Major-General.* 

There  were  various  letters  from  the  nobility  and  gentry,  some 
ardent  and  some  doubtful,  in  the  King's  service ;  and  (very  luckily 
for  him)  two  letters  concerning  Colonel  Francis  Esmond :  one  from 
Father  Holt,  which  said,  "  I  have  been  to  see  this  Colonel  at  his 
house  at  Walcote,  near  to  Wells,  where  he  resides  since  the  King's 
departure,  and  pressed  him  very  eagerly  in  Mr.  Freeman's  cause, 
showing  him  the  great  advantage  he  would  have  by  trading  with 
that  merchant,  offering  him  large  premiums  there  as  agreed  between 
us.  But  he  says  no :  he  considers  Mr.  Freeman  the  head  of  the 
firm,  will  never  trade  against  him  or  embark  with  any  other  trading 
company,  but  considers  his  duty  was  done  when  Mr.  Freeman  left 
England.  This  Colonel  seems  to  care  more  for  his  wife  and  his 

*  To  have  this  rank  of  Marquis  restored  in  the  family  had  always  been  my 
Lady  Viscountess's  ambition  ;  and  her  old  maiden  aunt,  Barbara  Topham,  the 
goldsmith's  daughter,  dying  about  this  time,  and  leaving  all  her  property  to  Lady 
Castlewood,  I  have  heard  that  her  Ladyship  sent  almost  the  whole  of  the  money 
to  King  James,  a  proceeding  which  so  irritated  my  Lord  Castlewood  that  he 
actually  went  to  the  parish  church,  and  was  only  appeased  by  the  Marquis's 
title  which  his  exiled  Majesty  sent  to  him  in  return  for  the  ,£15,000  his  faithful 
subject  lent  him. 


Sfi          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

beagles  than  for  affairs.  He  asked  me  much  about  young  H.  E., 
'  that  bastard,'  as  lie  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  0.  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. 

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  whelp1?"  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  boy1?" 


DICK    THE    SCHOLAR  57 

"  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."  0  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  1 " 

"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." 

«  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  1  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  ren- 
dered 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. 


58          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  What  does  he  say  ? "  says  the  lawyer. 

"  Faith,  ask  Dick  yourself,"  cried  Captain  Westhury. 

"  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  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. 


AN    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS  59 

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

"  You  hanged  as  many  of  ours,"  interposed  Harry  ;  "  and,  for 
the  matter  of  persecution,  Father  Holt  told  me  that  a  young  gentle- 
man 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  two  much  persecution  on  both  sides  : 
but  'twas  you  taught  us." 

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

"  Nay,"  says  the  trooper  gravely,  "  the  miracles  of  the  first  three 
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  catechiser,  I  have  some- 
times 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  caldron,  if  it  did  not  boil  one  day, 
boiled  the  next.  Howbeit,  in  our  times,  the  Church  has  lost  that 
questionable  advantage  of  respites.  There  never  was  a  shower  to 
put  out  Ridley's  fire,  nor  an  angel  to  turn  the  edge  of  Campion's  axe. 
The  rack  tore  the  limbs  of  Southwell  the  Jesuit  and  Syrnpson  the 
Protestant  alike.  For  faith,  everywhere  multitudes  die  willingly 


fiO          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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 
Doctor  Cudworth's  which  your  priest  was  quoting  from,  and  which 
suffered  martyrdom  in  the  brazier  " — Dick  added  with  a  smile,  "  I 
had  a  thought  of  wearing  the  black  coat  (but  was  ashamed  of  my 
life,  you  see,  and  took  to  this  sorry  red  one) ;  I  have  often  thought 
of  Joe  Addison — Doctor  Cudworth  says,  '  A  good  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,  deteriwa  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  woeful  state  of  drunkenness. 
He  hiccupped  out  a  sermon ;  and  his  laughing  companions  bade 
him  sing  a  hymn,  on  which  Dick,  swearing  he  would  run  the 
scoundrel  through  the  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  gentle- 
men, yet  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  seemed  ignorant  and  vulgar  boors 
to  Harry  Esmond,  with  the  exception  of  this  good-natured  Corporal 
Steele  the  Scholar,  and  Captain  Westbury  and  Lieutenant  Trant,  who 
were  always  kind  to  the  lad.  They  remained  for  some  weeks  or  months 
encamped  in  Castlewood,  and  Harry  learned  from  them,  from  time  to 
time,  how  the  lady  at  Hexton  Castle  was  treated,  and  the  particulars 


THE    DOAVAGER    IN    PRISON  6l 

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  mis- 
fortune, 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 
riot  a  little  liking,  although  between  her  Ladyship  and  the  child's 
mother  there  was  little  more  love  than  formerly.  There  are  some 
injuries  which  wTomen  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  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  govern- 
ment 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, 


62          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  arid  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  title  or 
promotion  were  not  to  benefit  him  now.  My  Lord  was  wounded 
jit  the  fatal  battle  of  the  Boyue,  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  Jife  been  spared 
him ;  but  the  other  lay  beyond  his  power  to  repair,  though  'tis  to 
be  hoped  that  a  greater  Power  than  a  priest  has  absolved  him  of  it. 
He  got  the  comfort  of  this  absolution,  too,  such  as  it  was :  a  priest 
of  Trim  writing  a  letter  to  my  Lady  to  inform  her  of  this  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  wyell  remembered  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  which 
Lockwood  brought  in  as  Captain  Wcstbury  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  West- 
bury  looked  very  hard  at  the  boy  a,s  he  spoke. 

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


POOR    HARRY    AND    POOR    DICK  63 

"  And  did  he  say  anything  1 " 

"  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  1 " 

"  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  West- 
bury  said  in  a  very  grave  tone — "  something  which  must  happen  to 
us  all.  He  is  dead  of  a  wound  received  at  the  Boyne,  lighting  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  lie  has  made  some  testament,  or  provided  for  thee  some- 
how. This  letter  says  he  recommends  unicutu  jilium  suum  dilec- 
tissimum  to  his  Lady.  I  hope  he  has  left  you  more  than  that." 

Harry  did  not  know,  he  said.  He  was  in  the  hands  of  Heaven 
and  Fate ;  but  more  lonely  now,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  than  he  had 
been  all  the  rest  of  his  life ;  and  that  night,  as  he  lay  in  his  little 
room  which  he  still  occupied,  the  boy  thought  with  many  a  pang 
of  shame  and  grief  of  his  strange  and  solitary  condition  : — how  he 
had  a  father  and  no  father;  a  nameless  mother  that  had  been 
brought  to  ruin,  perhaps,  by  that  very  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  what1?  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,  especi- 
ally his  friend  Scholar  Dick,  who  told  him  about  his  own  father's 
death,  which  had  happened  when  Dick  was  a  child  at  Dublin,  not 


64          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  tkou  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  1  take  him  to  ride  a  spare  horse,  and  be 
servant  to  the  troop?  Though  there  might  be  a  bar  in  Harry 
Esmond's  shield,  it  was  a  noble  one.  The  counsel  of  the  two 
friends  was,  that  little  Harry  should  stay  where  he  was,  and  abide 
his  fortune  :  so  Esmond  stayed  on  at  Castlewood,  awaiting  with  no 
small  anxiety  the  fate,  whatever  it  was,  which  was  over  him. 


SCHOLAR    DICK'S    HEARTACHES  65 


CHAPTER    VII 

/  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  putt-is  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  impos- 
sible that  he  could  continue  to  live.  He  vowed  this  a  thousand 
times  in  a  day,  though  Harry  smiled  to  see  the  love-lorn  swain  had 
his  health  and  appetite  as  well  as  the  most  heart-whole  trooper  in 
the  regiment :  and  he  swore  Harry  to  secrecy  too,  which  vow  the 
lad  religiously  kept,  until  he  found  that  officers  and  privates  were 
all  taken  into  Dick's  confidence,  and  had  the  benefit  of  his  verses. 
And  it  must  be  owned  likewise  that,  while  Dick  was  sighing  after 
Saccharissa  in  London,  he  had  consolations  in  the  country;  for 
there  came  a  wench  out  of  Castlewood  village  who  had  washed  his 
linen,  and  who  cried  sadly  when  she  heard  he  was  gone :  and  with- 
out paying  her  bill  too,  which  Harry  Esmond  took  upon  himself  to 
discharge  by  giving  the  girl  a  silver  pocket-piece,  which  Scholar 
Dick  had  presented  to  him,  when,  with  many  embraces  and  prayers 
for  his  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 
7  E 


66          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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.  0  Deo,  certe,  thought 
he,  remembering  the  lines  of  the  ^Eneis  which  Mr.  Holt  had  taught 
him.  There  seemed,  as  the  boy  thought,  in  every  look  or  gesture 
of  this  fair  creature,  an  angelical  softness  and  bright  pity — in  motion 
or  repose  she  seemed  gracious  alike ;  the  tone  of  her  voice,  though 
she  uttered  words  ever  so  trivial,  gave  him  a  pleasure  that  amounted 
almost  to  anguish.  It  cannot  be  called  love,  that  a  lad  of  twelve 
years  of  age,  little  more  than  a  menial,  felt  for  an  exalted  lady,  his 
mistress :  but  it  was  worship.  To  catch  her  glance,  to  divine  her 
errand  and  run  on  it  before  she  had  spoken  it ;  to  watch,  follow, 
adore  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  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  1  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; 


A    PRIESTESS  67 

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  prepara- 
tion before  his  return  !  The  fond  creature  had  his  armchair  at  the 
chimney-side—delighting  to  put  the  children  in  it,  and  look  at  them 
there.  Nobody  took  his  place  at  the  table ;  but  his  silver  tankard 
stood  there  as  when  my  Lord  was  present. 

A  pretty  sight  it  was  to  see,  during  my  Lord's  absence,  or  on 
those  many  mornings  when  sleep  or  headache  kept  him  a-bed,  this 
fair  young  lady  of  Castlewood,  her  little  daughter  at  her  knee,  and 
her  domestics  gathered  round  her,  reading  the  Morning  Prayer  of 
the  English  Church.  Esmond  long  remembered  how  she  looked  and 
spoke,  kneeling  reverently  before  the  sacred  book,  the  sun  shining 
upon  her  golden  hair  until  it  made  a  halo  round  about  her.  A 
dozen  of  the  servants  of  the  house  kneeled  in  a  line  opposite  their 
mistress.  For  a  while  Harry  Esmond  kept  apart  from  these 
mysteries,  but  Doctor  Tusher  showing  him  that  the  prayers  read 
were  those  of  the  Church  of  all  ages,  and  the  boy's  own  inclination 
prompting  him  to  be  always  as  near  as  he  might  to  his  mistress, 
and  to  think  all  things  she  did  right,  from  listening  to  the  prayers 
in  the  ante-chamber,  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 
catechiser  so  much  that  he  would  have  subscribed  to  anything  she 
bade  him,  and  was  never  tired  of  listening  to  her  fond  discourse  and 
simple  comments  upon  the  book,  which  she  read  to  him  in  a  voice 
of  which  it  was  difficult  to  resist  the  sweet  persuasion  and  tender 
appealing  kindness.  This  friendly  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  laxly  looked  forward — as  what  fond  woman  does 
not  1 — towards  the  future,  she  had  nb  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 
ito  happen  by  which  he  might  show  his  fidelity  to  her.  Now,  at 
he  close  of  his  life,  as  he  sits  and  recalls  in  tranquillity  the  happy 


68          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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 


IDOL    WORSHIP  69 

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  !  vacuce  sedes  et  inania  arcana.  And  now,  supposing  our 
lady  to  have  a  fine  genius  and  a  brilliant  wit  of  her  own,  and  the 
magic  spell  and  infatuation  removed  from  her  which  had  led  her 
to  worship  as  a  god  a  very  ordinary  mortal — and  what  follows? 
They  live  together,  and  they  dine  together,  and  they  say  "my 
dear "  and  "  my  love  "  as  heretofore ;  but  the  man  is  himself,  and 
the  woman  herself:  that  dream  of  love  is  over  as  everything  else  is 
over  in  life ;  as  flowers  and  fury,  and  griefs  and  pleasures  are  over. 

Very  likely  the  Lady  Castlewood  had  ceased  to  adore  her 
husband  herself  long  before  she  got  off  her  knees,  or  would  allow 
her  household  to  discontinue  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  Castle- 
wood'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, 


70          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

playing  at  all  games  with  great  skill.  And  not  only  did  he  do 
these  things  well,  but  he  thought  he  did  them  to  perfection ;  hence 
he  was  often  tricked  about  horses,  which  he  pretended  to  know 
better  than  any  jockey ;  was  made  to  play  at  ball  and  billiards 
by  sharpers  who  took  his  money,  and  came  back  from  London 
woefully  poorer  each  time  than  he  went,  as  the  state  of  his  affairs 
testified  when  the  sudden  accident  came  by  which  his  career  was 
brought  to  an  end. 

He  was  fond  of  the  parade  of  dress,  .and  passed  as  many 
hours  daily  at  his  toilette  as  an  elderly  coquette.  A  tenth  part 
of  his  day  was  spent  in  the  brushing  of  his  teeth,  and  the  oiling 
of  his  hair,  which  was  curling  and  brown,  and  which  he  did  not 
like  to  conceal  under  a  periwig,  such  as  almost  everybody  of  that 
time  wore.  (We  have  the  liberty  of  our  hair  back  now,  but  powder 
and  pomatum  along  with  it.  When,  I  wonder,  will  these  monstrous 
poll-taxes  of  our  age  be  withdrawn,  and  men  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.  Witli 
the  other  sex  perfectly  tolerant  and  kindly,  of  her  own  she  w,-js 
invariably  jealous;  and  a  proof  that  she  had  this  vice  is,  that 


MY    LORD'S    WIT  71 

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  Castle- 
wood,  she  was  so  sure  to  find  out  some  wrong  in  her,  that  my  Lord, 
laughing  in  his  jolly  way,  would  often  joke  with  her  concerning  her 
foible.  Comely  servant-maids  might  come  for  hire,  but  none  were 
taken  at  Castlewood.  The  housekeeper  was  old ;  my  Lady's  own 
waiting-woman  squinted,  and  was  marked  with  the  smallpox ;.  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  his  opinion,  that  my  Lady  was 
jealous  and  henpecked  my  Lord,  put  Harry  in  such  a  fury,  that 
Harry  fell  on  him  and  with  such  rage,  that  the  other  boy,  who 
was  two  years  older  and  by  far  bigger  than  he,  had  by  far  the 
worst  of  the  assault,  until  it  was  interrupted  by  Doctor  Tusher 
walking  out  of  the  dinner-room. 

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

"You  little  bastard  beggar!"  he  said,  "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  aa 
this  had  been. 


72          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  VIII 
AFTER  GOOD  FORTUNE  COMES  EVIL 

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

The  blacksmith,  besides  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  1 "  many  and  many  a  time  in  the  week.  'Tis  surprising  the 
magnetic  attraction  which  draws  people  together  from  ever  HO  far. 


NANCY    SIEVEWRIGHT  73 

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  wThen  in  presence  of  that  humble  enchantress,  who 
knew  nothing  beyond  milking  a  cow,  and  opened  her  black  eyes 
with  wonder,  when  I  made  one  of  my  fine  speeches  out  of  Waller  or 
Ovid.  Poor  Nancy  !  from  the  midst  of  far-off  years  thine  honest 
country  face  beams  out ;  and  I  remember  thy  kind  voice  as  if  I  had 
heard  it  yesterday. 

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

Little  Lady  Beatrix  screamed  out  at  Dr.  Tusher's  news  ;  and 
my  Lord  cried  out,  "  God  bless  me  !  "  He  was  a  brave  man,  and 
not  afraid  of  death  in  any  shape  but  this.  He  was  very  proud  of 
his  pink  complexion  and  fair  hair — but  the  idea  of  death  by  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 
Doctor  Tusher.  "  'Tis  awful  to  think  of  it  beginning  at  the  ale- 
house ;  half  the  people  of  the  village  have  visited  that  to-day,  or 
the  blacksmith's,  which  is  the  same  thing.  My  clerk  Nahum  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  smallpox  sent  to  you,  would  you 
not  go  1 "  asked  my  Lady,  looking  up  from  her  frame  of  work,  with 
her  calm  blue  eyes. 

"  By  the  Lord,  /  wouldn't,"  said  my  Lord. 

"  We  are  not  in  a  Popish  country ;  and  a  sick  man  doth  not 
absolutely  need  absolution  and  confession,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  'Tis 
true  they  are  a  comfort  and  a  help  to  him  when  attainable,  and  to 
be  administered  with  hope  of  good.  But  in  a  case  where  the  life  of 
a  parish  priest  in  the  midst  of  his  flock  is  highly  valuable  to  them, 
he  is  not  called  upon  to  risk  it  (and  therewith  the  lives,  future  pro- 
spects, and  temporal,  even  spiritual  welfare  of  his  own  family)  for 
the  sake  of  a  single  person,  who  is  not  very  likely  in  a  condition 
'•'ven  to  understand  the  religious  message  whereof  the  priest  is  the 


74          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  arid  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  soft- 
ness into  which  it  betrayed  him ;  and  on  this  day  the  poor  fellow 
had  not  only  had  his  young  friend,  the  milkmaid's  brother,  on  his 
knee,  but  had  been  drawing  pictures  and  telling  stories  to  the  little 
Frank  Castlewood,  who  had  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  Esmond  was  obliged  not  to  show  her  love  for  her  son  in  the 
presence  of  the  little  girl,  arid  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  riband  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 
commonly  sat  at  her  embroidery,  would  utter  infantine  sarcasms 
about  the  favour  shown  to  her  brother.  These,  if  spoken  in  the 
presence  of  Lord  Oastlewood,  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  tii.- 
quiet  fireside  at  which  his  lady  passed  many  long  evenings.  My 
Lord  was  hunting  all  day  when  the  season  admitted ;  he  frequert-:*! 
all  the  cock-fights  and  fairs  in  the  country,  and  would  ride  twenty 
miles  to  see  a  main  fought,  or  two  clowns  break  their  heads  ;tf  ; 
cudgelling  match;  and  he  liked  better  to  sit  in  his  parlour  drinl 
ale  and  punch  with  Jack  and  Tom,  than  in  his  wife's  drawin ••; -m., -;i . 
whither,  if  lie  came,  he  brought  only  too  often  bloodshot  e> 


BEATRIX  75 

hiccupping  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  farther 
end  of  the  room,  away  from  him,  playing  with  a  spaniel  dog  which 
she  had  (and  for  which,  by  fits  and  starts,  she  would  take  a  great 
affection),  and  talking  at  Harry  Esmond  over  her  shoulder,  as  she 
pretended  to  caress  the  dog,  saying  that  Fido  would  love  her,  and 
she  would  love  Fido,  and  nothing  but  Fido,  all  her  life. 

When,  then,  the  news  was  brought  that  the  little  boy  at  the 
"  Three  Castles "  was  ill  with  the  smallpox,  poor  Harry  Esmond 
felt  a  shock  of  alarm,  not  so  much  for  himself  as  for  his  mistress'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  (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 
yuch  company.  Beatrix,"  she  said  in  English,  "I  forbid  you  to 
ton^h  Mr.  Esmond.  Come  away,  child — come  to  your  room. 
Cj,ne  fa?  your  room — I  wish  your  Reverence  good-night — and  you, 
sir,  had  you  not  better  go  back  to  your  friends  at  the  alehouse  1 " 
Her  eyes,  ordinarily  so  kind,  darted  flashes  of  anger  as  she  spoke ; 
and  slio  tossed  up  her  head  (which  hung  down  commonly)  with  the 
mi(!ii  of  a  princess. 

"  Heyday  !  "  says  my  Lord,  who  was  standing  by  the  fireplace — 


76          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

indeed  he  was  in  the  position  to  which  he  generally  came  by  that 
hour  of  the  evening — "  Heyday  !  Rachel,  what  are  you  in  a 
passion  about  1  Ladies  ought  never  to  be  in  a  passion — ought 
they,  Doctor  Tusher  1 — -though  it  does  good  to  see  Rachel  in  a 
passion.  Damme,  Lady  Castle  wood,  you  look  dev'lish  handsome 
in  a  passion." 

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

My  Lord  burst  out,  with  a  laugh  and  an  oath  :  "  You  young 
slyboots,  you've  been  at  Nancy  Sieve wright.  D —  -  the  young 
hypocrite,  who'd  have  thought  it  in  him1?  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  laugh- 
ing and  tipsy.  "  Upon  his  honour,  Doctor — Nancy  Sieve " 

"  Take  Mistress  Beatrix  to  bed,"  my  Lady  cried  at  this  moment 
to  Mi-s.  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  accus- 
tomed 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  con- 
tinued 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  alehouse 
all  day,  where  he  has  had  that  little  wretch  who  is  now  ill  of  the 
smallpox  on  his  knee.  And  he  comes  home  reeking  from  that 
place — yes,  reeking  from  it— and  takes  my  boy  into  his  lap  without 
shame,  and  sits  down  by  me,  yes,  by  me.  He  may  have  killed 
Frank  for  what  I  know — killed  our  child.  Why  was  he  brought 
in  to  disgrace  our  house1?  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  lie  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. 


A    WOMAN'S    WAY  77 

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

"  He  wants  to  go  to  the  alehouse — let  him  go,"  cried  my  Lady. 

"  I'm  d d  if  he  shall,"  said  my  Lord.      "  I  didn't  think  you 

could  be  so  d d  ungrateful,  Rachel." 

Her  reply  was  to  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  to  quit  the 
room  with  a  rapid  glance  at  Harry  Esmond, — as  my  Lord,  not 
heeding  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  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,  Doctor1?"  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  do  so,"  cried  the  Doctor.  "  Heaven  grant 
I  may  be  mistaken  in  the  girl,  and  in  you,  sir,  who  have  a  truly 
jwecocious  genius ;  but  that  is  not  the  point  at  issue  at  present. 
It  appears  that  the  smallpox  broke  out  in  the  little  boy  at  the 
'  Three  Castles ' ;  that  it  was  on  him  when  you  visited  the  alehouse, 


78          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

for  your  own  reasons;  and  that  you  sat  with  the  child  for  some 
time,  and  immediately  afterwards  with  my  young  Lord."  The 
Doctor  raised  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  and  looked  towards  my  Lady, 
who  had  now  come  back,  looking  very  pale,  with  a  handkerchief 
in  her  hand. 

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

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

"  From  the  alehouse — yes,"  said  my  Lady. 

"  D it,  I  forgot  when  I  collared  you,  boy,"  cried  my  Lord, 

stepping  back.  "  Keep  off,  Harry  my  boy ;  there's  no  good  in 
running  into  the  wolfs  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  1 "  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,  darnme,"  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  to-morrow  to  Walcote,  my 
Lady." 

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

"  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 


SMALLPOX    AT    CASTLEWOOD  79 

silence  of  some  moments,  during  which  he  stood  at  the  fire,  looking 
rather  vacantly  at  the  dying  embers,  whilst  her  Ladyship  busied 
herself  with  the  tambour-frame  and  needles. 

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

And  with  this  she  dropped  a  stately  curtsey,  and,  taking  her 
candle,  went  away  through  the  tapestry  door,  which  led  to  her 
apartments.  Esmond  stood  by  the  fireplace,  blankly  staring  after 
her.  Indeed,  he  scarce  seemed  to  see  until  she  was  gone ;  and  then 
her  image  was  impressed  upon  him,  and  remained  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. 


80          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   IX 

I  HAVE    THE  SMALLPOX,   AND  PREPARE   TO  LEAVE 
CASTLE  WOOD 

WHEN  Harry  Esmond  piissed  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  ]>oor  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  eye- 
brow) ;  but  the  delicacy  of  her  rosy  colour  and  complexion  was 
gone  :  her  eyes  had  lost  their  brilliancy,  her  hair  fell,  and  her  face 
looked  older.  It  was  as  if  a  coarse  hand  had  rubbed  off  the  delicate 
tints  of  that  sweet  picture,  and  brought  it,  as  one  has  seen  un- 
skilful 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  molehill, 
as  we  know  in  King  William's  case,  can  upset  an  empire.  When 
Tusher  in  his  courtly  way  (at  which  Harry  Esmond  always  chafed 
and  spoke  scornfully)  vowed  and  protested  that  my  Lady's  fa-ce 
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 


QUOVE    COLOR    DECENS?  81 

poor  Lady  Castlewood  gave  a  rueful  smile,  and  a  look  into  a  little 
Venice  glass  she  had,  which  showed  her,  I  suppose,  that  what  the 
stupid  boy  said  was  only  too  true,  for  she  turned  away  from  the 
glass,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

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  riot  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 
changed1?  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  back1?"  the  lady 
asked  with  a  sigh,  and  another  look  at  her  Venice  glass.  "  Sup- 
pose 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  1  '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  mariner  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,  rny  child.  You 
are  well,  praised  be  Heaven.  Your  locks  are  not  thinned  by  this 
dreadful  smallpox  :  nor  your  poor  face  scarred— is  it,  my  angel  ? " 

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

One  day,  as  he  himself  was  recovering,  from  his  fever  and  illness, 
a  pang  of  something  like  shame  shot  across  young  Esmond's  breast, 
as  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  once  during  his  illness  given 
a  thought  to  the  poor  girl  at  the  smithy,  whose  red  cheeks  but 


82          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  smallpox,  and  buried  under  the 
Castlewood  yew-trees.  There  was  no  bright  face  looking  now 
from  the  garden,  or  to  cheer  the  old  smith  at  his  lonely  fireside. 
Esmond  would  have  liked  to  have  kissed  her  in  her  shroud  (like 
the  lass  in  Mr.  Prior's  pretty  poem) ;  but  she  rested  many  a  foot 
below  the  ground,  when  Esmond  after  his  malady  first  trod  on  it. 

Doctor  Tusher  brought  the  news  of  this  calamity,  about  which 
Harry  Esmond  longed  to  ask,  but  did  not  like.  He  said  almost 
the  whole  village  had  been  stricken  with  the  pestilence ;  seventeen 
persons  were  dead  of  it,  among  them  mentioning  the  names  of 
poor  Nancy  and  her  little  brother.  He  did  not  fail  to  say  how 
thankful  we  survivors  ought  to  be.  It  being  this  man's  business 
to  flatter  and  make  sermons,  it  must  be  owned  he  was  most  indus- 
trious 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 
get  to  understand  truth  better,  and  grow  simpler  as  we  grow  older. 

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

"  Harry,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  those  cruel  words  I  used  on 
the  night  you  were  taken  ill.  I  am  shocked  at  the  fate  of  the 
poor  creature,  and  am  sure  that  nothing  had  happened  of  that  with 
which,  in  my  anger,  I  charged  you.  And  the  very  first  day  we 
go  out,  you  must  take  me  to  the  blacksmith,  and  we  must 


MY    LORD    RETURNS  83 

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 
look,  leaning  on  Esmond's  arm,  after  her  illness.  But  her  visit 
brought  no  consolation  to  the  old  father;  and  he  showed  no  soft- 
ness, 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  arid  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  re- 
membered the  'day.  The  lady  his  mistress  was  in  a  Hurry  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  1  A  minute  would  say. 
My  Lord  came  riding  over  the  bridge — he  could  be  seen  from  the 
great  window,  clad  in  scarlet,  and  mounted  on  his  grey  hackney — 
his  little  daughter  ambled  by  him  in  a  bright  riding-dress  of  blue, 
on  a  shining  chestnut  horse.  My  Lady  leaned  against  the  great 
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,  arid  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  smallpox  hasn't  improved 
your  beauty,  and  your  side  of  the  house  hadn't  never  too  much  of 
it— ho,  ho  !  " 

And  he  laughed,  and  sprang  to  the  ground  with  no  small  agility, 
looking  handsome  and  red,  with  a  jolly  face  and  brown  hair,  like  a 


84  THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Beefeater;  Esmond  kneeling  again,  as  soon  as  his  patron  hail 
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  1 " 

"  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  1 " 

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

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

My  Lady's  countenance,  of  which  Harry  Esmond  was  accus- 
tomed to  watch  the  changes,  and  with  a  solicitous  affection  to  note 
and  interpret  the  signs  of  gladness  or  care,  wore  a  sad  and  depressed 
look  for  many  weeks  after  her  Lord's  return :  during  which  it 
seemed  as  if,  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  sub- 


THE    COMMON    LOT  85 

ordinates  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  1 
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  this  part  of  the  contract  at  an  end  when 
the  woman  ceases  to  fulfil  hers,  and  his  love  does  not  survive 
her  beauty.  I  know  'tis  often  otherwise,  I  say ;  and  can  think  (as 
most  men  in  their  own  experience  may)  of  many  a  house,  where, 
lighted  in  early  years,  the  sainted  lamp  of  love  hath  never  been 
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  un- 
heeding ;  or  vice  versd,  'tis  poor  Strephon  that  has  married  a  heart- 
less 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  for- 
saken women  touched  her  immensely,  Harry  remarked ;  and  when 
(Enone  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  be- 
haviour seemed  to  upbraid  him.  When  she  had  got  to  master  these, 


86          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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  1  He  ships  a  jury  mast,  and  steers  as  he  best  can 
with  an  oar.  What  happens  if  your  roof  falls  in  a  tempest  ?  After 
the  first  stun  of  the  calamity  the  sufferer  starts  up,  gropes  around 
to  sec  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 
pauperism  pati,  having  lost  his  thousands,  embarks  a  few  guineas 
upon  the  next  ship.  She  laid  out  her  all  upon  her  children,  in- 
dulging 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,  ;is  it 
might  happen.  During  my  Lord's  many  absences,  these  school-days 
would  go  on  uninterruptedly  :  the  mother  and  daughter  learning 
with  surprising  quickness ;  the  latter  by  fits  and  starts  only,  and 


TATHEMATA    MATHEMATA  87 

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  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  ten  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  of  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  \J 
eight  miles  off — pudet  hcec  approbria  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  further  than  this,  and  submit  not  only  to  neglect  but  to  un- 
faithfulness too — but  here  this  lady's  allegiance  had  failed  her.  Her 
spirit  rebelled,  and  disowned  any  more  obedience.  First  she  had  to 
bear  in  secret  the  passion  of  losing  the  adored  object ;  then  to  get 
a  further  initiation,  and  to  find  this  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  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 


88  THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  re- 
venged, 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  bene- 
factress' 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  oT;  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  awk- 
ward 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  in- 
genuity, 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 
\j  said  with  one  of  her  smiles  to  young  Esmond  (who  was  reading  to 
her  a  version  of  certain  lines  out  of  Euripides),  "  that  Medea 
became  a  learned  woman  and  a  great  enchantress." 

"And  she  could  conjure  the  stars  out  of  heaven,"  the  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." 


SCHOOL-DAYS  89 

"  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  a,bout  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  curtsey  and  a  smile  she  would  end  this  sort 
of  colloquy. 

Indeed  "Mr.  Tutor,"  as  my  Lady  called  Esmond,  had  now 
business  enough  on  his  hands  in  Castlewood  House.  He  had  three 
pupils,  his  lady  and  her  two  children,  at  whose  lessons  she  would 
always  be  present ;  besides  writing  my  Lord's  letters,  and  arranging 
his  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  teach- 
ing— not  Harry  Esmond's,  who  could  scarce  distinguish  between 
"  Green  Sleeves  "  and  "  Lillibullero  "  ;  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  learnt  from  her  young  tutor — and  taught  him  too. 
The  happiest  instinctive  faculty  was  this  lady's — a  faculty  for 
discerning  latent  beauties  and  hidden  graces  of  books,  especially 
books  of  poetry,  as  in  a  walk  she  would  spy  out  field-flowers  and 
make  posies  of  them,  such  as  no  other  hand  could.  She  was  a 
critic,  not  by  reason  but  by  feeling ;  the  sweetest  commentator 
of  those  books  they  read  together;  and  the  happiest  hours  of 


90          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Christmas-time,  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  pro- 
motion 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  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  him- 
self with  a  conversion  which,  in  truth,  was  owing  to  a  much  gentler 
and  fairor  persuader. 

Under  her  Ladyship's  kind  eyes  (my  Lord's  being  sealed  in  sleep 


MY    MOTHER    CHURCH  91 

pretty  generally)  Esmond  read  many  volumes  of  the  works  of  the 
famous  British  divines  of  the  last  age,  and  was  familiar  with  Wake 
and  Sherlock,  with  Stillingfleet  and  Patrick.  His  mistress  never 
tired  to  listen  or  to  read,  to  pursue  the  texts  with  fond  comments, 
to  urge  those  points  which  her  fancy  dwelt  on  most,  or  her  reason 
deemed  most  important.  Since  the  death  of  her  father  the  Dean, 
this  lady  had  admitted  a  certain  latitude  of  theological  reading  which 
her  orthodox  father  would  never  have  allowed  ;  his  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  Castle  wood  than  the  severer  volumes  of  our 
great  English  schoolmen. 

In  later  life,  at  the  University,  Esmond  reopened  the  contro- 
versy, and  pursued  it  in  a  very  different  manner,  when  his  patrons 
had  determined  for  him  that  he  was  to  embrace  the  ecclesiastical 
life.  But  though  his  mistress'  heart  was  in  this  calling,  his  own 
never  was  much.  After  that  first  fervour  of  simple  devotion,  which 
his  beloved  Jesuit  priest  had  inspired  in  him,  speculative  theology 
took  but  little  hold  upon  the  young  man's  mind.  When  his  early 
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  bauds,  as  another  man  does  to 
wear  a  breastplate  and  jackboots,  or  to  mount  a  merchant's  desk, 
for  a  livelihood,  and  from  obedience  and  necessity,  rather  than  from 
choice.  There  were  scores  of  such  men  in  Mr.  Esmond's  time  at 
the  universities,  who  were  going  to  the  Church  with  no  better 
calling  than  his. 

When  Thomas  Tusher  was  gone,  a  feeling  of  no  small  depression 
and  disquiet  fell  upon  young  Esmond,  of  which,  though  he  did  not 
complain,  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  acknowledgment ;  others  only  recall  it  years 
after,  when  the  days  are  past  in  which  those  sweet  kindnesses  were 
spent  on  us,  and  we  otter  back  our  return  for  the  debt  by  a  poor 


92          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,"  said  the  lady,  "what  may  happen,  and 
whether  we  may  be  able  to  keep  such  a  learned  tutor  long  ? " 

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

At  last  comes  a  messenger  from  Winchester  one  day,  bearer  of 
a  letter,  with  a  great  black  seal,  from  the  Dean  there,  to  say  that 
his  sister  was  dead,  and  had  left  her  fortune  of  .£2000  among  her 
six  nieces,  the  Dean's  daughters ;  and  many  a  time  since  has  Harry 
Esmond  recalled  the  flushed  face  and  eager  look  wherewith,  after 
this  intelligence,  his  kind  lady  regarded  him.  She  did  not  pretend 
to  any  grief  about  the  deceased  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  spinnet ; 
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  1 " 
cries  my  Lord.  "  And  what  the  devil  is  there  that  I  don't  give 
you  which  you  want  1 " 

"I  intend  to  give  this  money — can't  you  fancy  how,  my  Lord?" 


I    LOSE    MY    PLACE    AS    TUTOR  93 

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

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

"D it,  Harry's  well  enough  here,"  says  my  Lord,  for  a 

moment  looking  rather  sulky. 

"  Is  Harry  going  away  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  will  go 
away  1 "  cry  out  Frank  and  Beatrix  at  one  breath. 

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

"By  G — ,  Rachel,  you're  a  good  woman!"  says  my  Lord, 
seizing  my  Lady's  hand,  at  which  she  blushed  very  much,  and  shrank 
back,  putting  her  children  before  her.  "  I  wish  you  joy,  iny  kins- 
man," 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  worships'  hand- 
maids, and  your  pleasures  must  of  necessity  lie  elsewhere  than 
at  home." 


94          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  Curse  me,  Rachel,  if  I  know  now  whether  tliou  art  in  earnest 
or  not,"  said  my  Lord. 

"  In  earnest,  my  Lord  ! "  says  she,  still  clinging  by  one  of  her 
children.  "  Is  there  much  subject  here  for  joke  ?"  And  she  made 
him  a  grand  curtsey,  and,  giving  a  stately  look  to  Harry  Esmond, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  Remember ;  you  understand  me,  though  he 
does  not,"  she  left  the  room  witli  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  milk- 
maid, is  as  proud  as  a  princess,"  says  my  Lord.  "  Take  my  counsel, 
Harry  Esmond,  and  keep  clear  of  women.  Since  I  have  had  any- 
thing 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  won  I 
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  oif,  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 •  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  Cjistlewood,  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  lie  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  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), 


FAREWELL  95 

"  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  iny  way  in  life,  or  whether  a  poor  bastard  dies  as  unknown 
as  he  is  now1?  '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  thinks^/ 
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  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 


<)(i          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  ivould  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. 


I    VISIT    THE    LADY    DOWAGER  97 


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  its  swarms  of  sailors, 
barges,  and  wherries.  Harry  laughed  at  recognising  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  recognised  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  con- 
versation," 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. 

7  G 


98          THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

My  Lady  Viscountess  deigned  to  ask  his  Lordship  news  of  his 
wife  and  children  :  she  had  heard  that  Lady  Castlewood  had  had 
the  smallpox ;  she  hoped  she  was  not  so  very  much  disfigured  as 
people  said. 

At  this  remark  about  his  wife's  malady,  my  Lord  Viscount 
winced  and  turned  red  ;  but  the  Dowager,  in  speaking  of  the  dis- 
figurement 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  Castle- 
wood  when  old  Doctor  T usher  vacated  it,  she  did  not  seem  to  show 
any  particular  anger  at  the  notion  of  Harry's  becoming  a  Church  of 
England  clergyman,  nay,  was  rather  glad  than  otherwise  that  the 
youth  should  be  so  provided  for.  She  bade  Mr.  Esmond  not  to 
forget  to  pay  her  a  visit  whenever  he  passed  through  London, 
and  carried  her  graciousness  so  far  as  to  send  a  purse  with 
twenty  guineas  for  him,  to  the  tavern  at  which  my  Lord  put 
up  (the  "  Greyhound,"  in  Charing  Cross) ;  and,  along  with  this 
welcome  gift  for  her  kinsman,  she  sent  a  little  doll  for  a  present 
to  my  Lord's  little  daughter  Beatrix,  who  was  growing  beyond  the 
age  of  dolls  by  this  time,  and  was  as  tall  almost  as  her  venerable 
relative. 

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

Mr.  Esmond  was  entered  a  pensioner  of  Trinity  College  in  Cam- 
bridge, to  which  famous  college  my  Lord  had  also  in  his  youth 
belonged.  Doctor  Montague  was  master  at  this  time,  and  received 
my  Lord  Viscount  with  great  politeness :  so  did  Mr.  Bridge,  who 
was  appointed  to  be  Harry's  tutor.  Tom  Tusher,  who  was  of 
Emanuei  College,  and  was  by  this  time  a  junior  soph,  came  to  wait 
upon  my  Lord,  and  to  take  Harry  under  his  protection ;  and  com- 
fortable 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. 


THOMAS    TUSHER  99 

'Tis  needless  in  these  memoirs  to  go  at  any  length  into  the  par- 
ticulars 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  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  pronuncia- 
tion 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  Castle- 
wood,  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  morti- 
fications 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  young  man  was  an  ugly  subject  for 
wit,  and  that  the  laugh  was  often  turned  against  him.  This  did 
not  make  tutor  and  pupil  any  better  friends ;  but  had,  so  far,  an 
advantage  for  Esmond,  that  Mr.  Bridge  was  induced  to  leave  him 
alone ;  and  so  long  as  he  kept  his  chapels,  and  did  the  college  exer- 
cises required  of  him,  Bridge  was  content- not  to  see  Harry's  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 


100         THE    HISTORY    OF  HENRY    ESMOND 

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

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

Harry  had  very  liberal  allowances,  for  his  dear  mistress  of  Castle- 
wood  not  only  regularly  supplied  him,  but  the  Dowager  of  Chelsey 
made  her  donation  annual,  and  received  Esmond  at  her  house  near 
London  every  Christmas  ;  but,  in  spite  of  these  benefactions,  Esmond 
was  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 


AT    COLLEGE  101 

his  good  looks  so  profitably,  for  nature  had  not  endowed  him  with 
any  particular  charms  of  person,  and  he  ever  was  a  pattern  of  moral 
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  nor  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  Hobbes  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  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  Church- 
man, a  strong  King  William's  man ;  whereas  Harry  brought  his 


102        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  and  beauties  in  flagons 
of  college  ale. 

Thus,  either  from  the  circumstances  of  his  birth,  or  the  natural 
melancholy  of  his  disposition,  Esmond  came  to  live  very  much  by 
himself  during  his  stay  at  the  University,  Having  neither  ambition 
enough  to  distinguish  himself  in  the  college  career,  nor  caring  to 
mingle  witli  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  sus- 
ceptible 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  Univer- 
sity, though  he  was  no  member  of  it,  and  was  the  professor  of  a 
science  scarce  recognised  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-anns.  Though  he  declared  him- 
self 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  agree- 
able and  to  his  taste  than  the  talk  of  the  college  divines  in  the 
common-room ;  he  never  wearied  of  Moreau's  stories  of  the  wars  of 
Turenne  and  Conde',  in  which  he  had  borne  a  part ;  and  being 
familiar  with  the  French  tongue  from  his  youth,  and  in  a  place 
where  but  few  spoke  it,  his  company  became  very  agreeable  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 


THE    PULPIT    NOT    MY    CALLING  103 

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. 


104        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   XI 

I  COME  HOME  FOR  A  HOLIDAY  TO  CASTLEWOOD,  AND 
FIND  A  SKELETON  IN  TH"E  HOUSE     .' 

A1  his  third  long  vacation,  Esmond  came  as  usual  to  Castle- 
wood,  always  feeling  an  eager  thrill  of  pleasure  when  he 
found  himself  once  more  in  the  house  where  he  had  passed 
so  many  years,  and  beheld  the  kind  familiar  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  saluta- 
tion, though  she  took  it,  and  even  courted  it,  when  they  were  alone. 
The  young  lord  was  shooting  up  to  be  like  his  gallant  father  in 
look,  though  with  his  mother's  kind  eyes :  the  lady  of  Castlewood 
herself  seemed  grown,  too,  since  Harry  saw  her — in  her  look  more 
stately,  in  her  person  fuller,  in  her  face  still  as  ever  most  tender 
and  friendly,  a  greater  air  of  command  and  decision  than  had 
appeared  in  that  guileless  sweet  countenance  which  Harry  remem- 
bered 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  after- 
wards when  his  own  eyes  were  gazing  upon  her.  A  something 
hinting  at  grief  and  secret,  and  filling  his  mind  with  alarm  unde- 
fmable,  seemed  to  speak  with  that  low  thrilling  voice  of  hers,  and 
look  out  of  those  clear  sad  eyes.  Her  greeting  to  Esmond  was  so 
cold  that  it  almost  pained  the  lad  (who  would  have  liked  to  fall  on 
his  knees,  and  kiss  the  skirt  of  her  robe,  so  fond  and  ardent  was 
his  respect  and  regard  for  her),  and  he  faltered  in  answering  the 
questions  which  she,  hesitating  on  her  side,  began  to  put  to  him. 
Was  he  happy  at  Cambridge  ?  Did  he  study  too  hard "?  She  hoped 
not.  He  had  grown  very  tall,  and  looked  very  well. 

"  He  has  got  a  moustache  ! "  cries  out  Master  Esmond. 

"  Why  does  he  not  wear  a  peruke  like  my  Lord  Mohnn  ? " 
asked  Miss  Beatrix.  "  My  Lord  says  that  nobody  wears  their 
own  hair." 


MY.  MISTRESS  105 

"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  ago1? — when  I  was  quite 
a  little  girl,"  cries  out  Miss  Beatrix,  on  tiptoe.  "And  Mamma 
put  them  in  your  window." 

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

The  old  room  had  been  ornamented  and  beautified  not  a  little 
to  receive  him.  The  flowers  were  in  the  window  in  a  china  vase  ; 
and  there  was  a  fine  new  counterpane  on  the  bed,  which  chatterbox 
Beatrix  said  Mamma  had  made  too.  A  fire  was  crackling  on  the 
hearth,  although  it  was  June.  My  Lady  thought  the  room  wanted 
warming ;  everything  was  done  to  make  him  happy  and  welcome  : 
"  And  you  are  not  to  be  a  page  any  longer,  but  a  gentleman  and 
kinsman,  and  to  walk  with  papa  and  mamma,"  said  the  children. 
And  as  soon  as  his  dear  mistress  and  children  had  left  him  to  him- 
self, 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  telltales,  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  West! amis,  where  she  was  taller  than  Sir 
George  Harper's  second  daughter,  though  she  was  two  years  younger. 
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  gentle- 
men 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  Doctor  Tusher  was  a  cross  old  plague, 
and  they  did  not  like  to  learn  from  him  at  all ;  and  papa  did  not 
care  about  them  learning,  and  laughed  when  they  were  at  their 
books,  but  mamma  liked  them  to  learn,  and  taught  them;  and  "I 
don't  think  papa  is  fond  of  mamma,"  said  Miss  Beatrix,  with  her 
great  eyes.  She  had  come  quite  close  up  to  Harry  Esmond  by  the 
time  this  prattle  took  place,  and  was  on  his  knee,  and  had  examined 


106        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  for- 
bade 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  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  Ohloe  languish  apart ;  join  in  a  rapture  :  and  presently 
you  hear  that  Ghloe  is  crying,  and  Strephon  lias  broken  his  crook 
across  her  back.  Can  you  mend  it  so  as  to  show  no  marks  of 
rupture  1  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  had  taught  him.  The  persons  whom  he  loved  best  in 
the  world,  and  to  whom  he  owed  most,  were  living  unhappily 
together.  The  gentlest  and  kindest  of  women  was  suffering  ill-usage 
and  shedding  tears  in  secret :  the  man  who  made  her  wretched  by 
neglect,  if  not  by  violence,  was  Harry's  benefactor  and  patron.  In 
houses  where,  in  place  of  that  sacred,  inmost  flame  of  love,  there  is 
discord  at  the  centre,  the  whole  household  becomes  hypocritical, 
and  each  lies  to  his  neighbour.  The  husband  (or  it  may  be  the 
wife)  lies  when  the  visitor  comes  in,  and  wears  a  grin  of  reconcilia- 
tion 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 ; 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE      107 

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,  iny 
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  f 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  as  I  must  own  •  and  there's  not  a  writer  of 
my  time  of  any  note,  with  the  exception  of  poor  Dick  Steele,  that 
does  not  speak  of  a  woman  as  of  a  slave,  and  scorn  and  use  her  as 
such.  Mr.  Pope,  Mr.  Congreve,  Mr.  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  Doctor  Swift,  who  spoke 
of  them,  as  he  treated  them,  worst  of  all. 

Much  of  the  quarrels  and  hatred  which  arise  between  married 
people  come  in  my  mind  from  the  husband's  rage  and  revolt  at 
discovering  that  his  slave  and  bedfellow,  who  is  to  minister  to  all 
his  wishes,  and  is  church-sworn  to  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  you1?  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  un- 
dutiful  and  refractory.  So  the  lamp  was  out  in  Castle  wood  Hall, 


108        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  dis- 
appeared ;  with  his  selfishness  and  faithlessness  her  foolish  fiction 
of  love  and  reverence  was  rent  away.  Love  ! — who  is  to  love  what 
is  base  and  unlovely  ?  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  good -will  away  from  her),  and  thankful 
to  have  saved' such  treasures  as  these  out  of  the  wreck  in  which  the 
better  part  of  her  heart  went  down. 

These  young  ones  'had  had  no  instructors  save  their  mother, 
and  Doctor  Tusher  for  their  theology  occasionally,  and  had  made 
more  progress  than  might  have  been  expected  under  a  tutor  so 
indulgent  and  fond  as  Lady  Castlewood.  Beatrix  could  sing  and 
dance  like  a  nymph.  Her  voice  was  her  father's  delight  after 
dinner.  She  ruled  over  the  house  with  little  imperial  ways,  which 
her  parents  coaxed  and  laughed  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 
riband  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  heir-apparent,  taking  after  the  example  of 
my  Lord  his  father.  If  he  had  a  headache,  his  mother  wax  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 


THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  HOUSE     109 

Year's  Day,  and  an  excess  of  mince-pie) — and  said  with  some  of  his 

usual  oaths,  "  D it,  Harry  Esmond — you  see  how  my  Lady  takes 

on  about  Frank's  megrim.  She  used  to  be  sorry  about  me,  my  boy 
(pass  the  tankard,  Harry),  and  to  be  frightened  if  I  had  a  headache 
once.  She  don't  care  about  my  head  now.  They're  like  that — women 
are — all  the  same,  Harry,  all  jilts  in  their  hearts.  Stick  to  college 
— stick  to  punch  and  buttery  ale :  and  never  see  a  woman  that's 
handsomer  than  an  old  cinder-faced  bedmaker.  That's  my  counsel." 

It  was  my  Lord's  custom  to  fling  out  many  jokes  of  this  nature, 
in  presence  of  his  wife  and  children,  at  meals — clumsy  sarcasms 
which  my  Lady  turned  many  a  time,  or  which,  sometimes,  she 
affected  not  to  hear,  or  which  now  and  again  would  hit  their  mark 
and  make  the  poor  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  Castle- 
wood's  own  making),  and  Harry  divined  my  Lady's ;  his  affection 
leading  him  easily  to  penetrate  the  hypocrisy  under  which  Lady 
Castlewood  generally  chose  to  go  disguised,  and  see  her  heart 
aching  whilst  her  face  wore  a  smile.  'Tis  a  hard  task  for  women 
in  life,  that  mask  which  the  world  bids  them  wear.  But  there  is 
no  greater  crime  than  for  a  woman  who  is  ill-used  and  unhappy 
to  show  that  she  is  so.  The  world  is  quite  relentless  about  bidding 
her  to  keep  a  cheerful  face ;  and  our  women,  like  the  Malabar 
wives,  are  forced  to  go  smiling  and  painted  to  sacrifice  themselves 
with  their  husbands ;  their  relations  being  the  most  eager  to  push 
them  on  to  their  duty,  and,  under  their  shouts  and  applauses,  to 
smother  and  hush  their  cries  of  pain. 

So,  into  the  sad  secret  of  his  patron's  household,  Harry  Esmond 
became  initiated,  he  scarce  knew  how.  It  had  passed  under  his 
eyes  two  years  before,  when  he  could  not  anderstand  it :  but  read- 
ing, 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  under- 
stand 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, 


110        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  recognising 
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  way- 
laying 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  recognised  him  in  after  life,  as  shall  be  shown  in 
its  place ;  and  he  has  little  doubt  now  that  my  Lord  Viscount 
was  implicated  somewhat  in  the  transactions  which  always  kept 
Father  Holt  employed  and  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 


I    SEE    MR.    HOLT    AGAIN  111 

made  of  a  great  number  of  names  of  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  con- 
spiracy ;  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  engaged  in  a  further  conspiracy.  After  this 
my  Lord  ever  spoke  of  King  William  as  he  was — as  one  of  the 
wisest,  the  bravest,  and  the  greatest  of  men.  My  Lady  Esmond 
(for  her  part)  said  she  could  never  pardon  the  King,  first,  for  oust- 
ing 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  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 


112        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  tender- 
ness which  had  grown  up  in  this  little  household,  rather  than  from 
the  exhortations  of  Dean  Armstrong  (though  these  had  no  small 
weight  with  him),  that  Harry  came  to  be  quite  of  the  religion  of 
his  house  and  his  dear  mistress,  of  which  he  has  ever  since  been  a 
professing  member.  As  for  Doctor  Tushcr'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  1 " 

"  What  is  it,  Rachel  1 "  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 


ILL    COMPANY  113 

up,  and  went  out  of  the  room.     What  was  the  matter  1     We  all 
knew  that  some  great  grief  was  over  him. 

Whether  my  Lord's  prudence  had  made  him  richer,  or  legacies 
/iiad  fallen  to  him,  which  enabled  him  to  support  a  greater  establish- 
ment than  that  frugal  one  which  had  been  too  much  for  his  small 
means,  Harry  Esmond  knew  not ;  but  the  house  of  Castlewood 
was  now  on  a  scale  much  more  costly  than  it  had  been  during  the 
first  years  of  his  Lordship's  coming  to  the  title.  There  were  more 
horses  in  the  stable  and  more  servants  in  the  hall,  and  iftany  more 
guests  coming  and  going  now  than  formerly,  when  it  was  found 
difficult  enough  by  the  strictest  economy  to  keep  the  house  as 
befitted  one  of  his  Lordship's  rank,  and  the  estate  out  of  debt. 
And  it  did  not  require  very  much  penetration  to  find  that  many  of 
the  new  acquaintances  at  Castlewood  were  not  agreeable  to  the 
lady  there  :  not  that  she  ever  treated  them  or  any  mortal  with  any- 
thing but  courtesy ;  but  they  were  persons  who  could  not  be 
welcome  to  her ;  and  whose  society  a  lady  so  refined  and  reserved 
could  scarce  desire  for  her  children.  There  came  fuddling  squires 
from  the  country  round,  who  bawled  their  songs  under  her  windows 
and  drank  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 
mothers'  apron  strings  the  latest  being  not  uncommonly  the  wildest 
rakes.  But  it  was  about  her  daughter  that  Lady  Castlewood  was 
the  most  anxious,  and  the  danger  which  she  thought  menaced  the 
little  Beatrix  from  the  indulgences  which  her  father  gave  her  (it 
must  be  owned  that  my  Lord,  since  these  unhappy  domestic  differ- 
ences 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  loth,  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 
7  H 


114        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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  ribands,  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. 


MOHUN  115 


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  noble- 
man, 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  lei  air,  and  a  bright  daring  war- 
like 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  gentle- 
men 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  horse- 
back, and  pronouncing  him  the  best  companion  he  had  met  for 
many  a  long  day.  All  night  long,  over- his  tobacco-pipe,  Castle- 
wood 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  Lord- 
ship was  so  tipsy  that  he  could  not  speak  plainly  any  more. 


116        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  T  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  curtsey,  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  but  of 
respect  regarding  you,"  Harry  Esmond  interposed. 

"  No,  curse  it !  I  wish  she  would  speak.  But  she  never  does. 
She  scorns  me,  and  holds  her  tongue.  She  keeps  off  from  me,  as 
if  I  was  a  pestilence.  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 


MY    LORD    COMPLAINS  117 

about  her  d — d  smiling  red  cheeks :  *  'Tis  as  they  do  at  Saint 
James's ;  I  put  up  my  red  flag  when  my  king  comes.'  I  was  the 
king,  you  see,  she  meant.  But  now,  sir,  look  at  her !  I  believe 
she  would  be  glad  if  I  was  dead ;  and  dead  I've  been  to  her  these 
five  years — ever  since  you  all  of  you  had  the  smallpox :  and  she 
never  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  smallpox?  Where  the  deuce  had  been  the  good  of 
that  1  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-tripping1?  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  cold- 
ness 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  1 " 

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

"  Indeed,  sir."  said  he,  "  I  wish  to  God  that  my  mistress  could 


118        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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 
Hung  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 
J  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  1 

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  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  disparage- 
ment1?" 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  con- 
tinued. 

"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  regard- 

i  ing  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 


I 


AN    AMBASSADOR  119 

handmaid1?     He  is  weary  of  Covent  Garden,  is  he,  that  he  comes 
home  and  would  have  the  fatted  calf  killed  1 " 

"  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  lie  is  tired  of  them  returns  hither,  and  expects  that  I 
shall  kneel  and  welcome  him.  And  he  sends  you  as  his  chamber- 
lain !  What  a  proud  embassy  !  Monsieur,  I  make  you  my  com- 
pliment of  the  new  place." 

"It  would  be  a  proud  embassy,  and  a  happy  embassy  too, 
could  I  bring  you  and  my  Lord  together,"  Esmond  replied. 

"  I  presume  you  have  fulfilled  your  mission  now,  sir.  'Twas  a 
pretty  one  for  you  to  undertake.  I  don't  know  whether  'tis  your 
Cambridge  philosophy,  or  time,  that  has  altered  your  ways  of 
thinking,"  Lady  Castlewood  continued,  still  in  a  sarcastic  tone.  v  / 
"  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  to  London, 
and  have  your  acquaintances  in  Covent  Garden.  My  services 
to  you,  sir,  to  principal  and  ambassador,  to  master  and — and 
lacquey." 

"Great  heavens!  madam,"  cried  Harry,  "what  have  I  done 
that  thus,  for  a  second  time,  you  insult  me1?  Do  you  wish  me 
to  blush  for  what  I  used  to  be  proud  of,  that  I  lived  on  your 
bounty  1  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  1 " 

"  What  wrong  !  "  she  said,  looking  at  Esmond  with  wild  eyes. 
"Well,  none — none  that  you  know  of,  Harry,  or  could  help.  Why 
did  you  bring  back  the  smallpox,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "  from 
Castlewood  village?  You  could  not  help  it,  could  you?  Which 
of  us  knows  whither  fate  leads  us?  But  .we  were  all  happy,  Henry, 
till  then."  And  Harry  went  away  from  this  colloquy,  thinking 
still  that  the  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  Molum  and  Castlewood  ap- 
peared to  increase  as  long  as  the  former  remained  in  the  country ; 


120        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  langaye  for  my  Lady,  and  for  Harry 
Esmond,  who  was  never  tired  of  hearing,  his  stories  of  his  cam- 
paigns 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  Castle- 
wood was  so  devoted  and  respectful,  that  she  soon  recovered  from 
*  ,  the  first  feelings  of  dislike  which  she  had  conceived  against  him — 
nay,  before  long,  began  to  be  interested  in  his  spiritual  welfare,  and 
hopeful  of  his  conversion,  lending  him  books  of  piety,  which  he 
promised  dutifully  to  study.  With  her  my  Lord  talked  of  reform, 
of  settling  into  quiet  life,  quitting  the  court  and  town,  and  buying 
some  land  in  the  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, 


BEATRIX  121 

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  M.  Massillon's  magnificent  image  regarding  King 
William,  a  grain  de  sable  that  perverts  or  perhaps  overthrows  us  ; 
and  so  it  was  but  a  light  word  flung  in  the  air,  a  mere  freak  of 
perverse  child's  temper,  that  brought  down  a  whole  heap  of  crushing 
woes  upon  that  family  whereof  Harry  Esmond  formed  a  part. 

Coming  home  to  his  dear  Castlewood  in  the  third  year  of  his 
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  Phcebe,  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  with- 


122        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

drew  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  dis- 
pleased, 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  sub- 
mission and  artful  humility.  She  was  scevo  Iceta  neyotio,  like 
that  fickle  goddess  Horace  describes,  and  of  whose  "  malicious  joy  " 
a  great  poet  of  our  own  has  written  so  npbly — 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  after- 
wards. 

It  happened,  then,  that  Harry  Esmond  came  home  to  Castle- 
wood  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 


OUR    SERVANTS    AND    OURSELVES 


123 


was  :  and  taking  her  side  in  the  unhappy  matrimonial  differences 
which  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  lacqueys  sit 
in  judgment  on  us.  My  Lord's  intrigues  may  be  ever  so  stealthily 
conducted,  but  his  valet  knows  them ;  and  my  Lady's  woman  carries 
her  mistress's  private  history  to  the  servants'  scandal-market,  and 
exchanges  it  against  the  secrets  of  other  abigails. 


124        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


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  con- 
descended to  be  very  civil  to  him ;  and  some  days  after  his 
arrival,  Harry,  laughing,  told  this  story  to  Lady  Esmond,  remark- 
ing how  strange  it  was  that  men  famous  for  learning  and  renowned 
over  Europe,  should,  nevertheless,  so  bow  down  to  a  title,  and 
cringe  to  a  nobleman  ever  so  poor.  At  this  Mistress  Beatrix 
flung  up  her  head,  and  said  it  became  those  of  low  origin  to  respect 
their  betters  ;  that  the  parsons  made  themselves  a  great  deal  too 
proud,  she  thought ;  and  that  she  liked  the  way  at  Lady  Sark's 
best,  where  the  chaplain,  though  he  loved  pudding,  as  all  parsons 
do,  always  went  away  before  the  custard. 

"  And  when  I  am  a  parson,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  "  will  you  give 
me  no  custard,  Beatrix  1 " 

"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 


MY    LORD    IS    IN    DANGER 


125 


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  Molum  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,  sigh- 
ing, and  wishing  that  unavailingly,  and  for  the  thousandth  time 
in  his  life. 

"Who  can1?  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  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. 


126        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

As  ray  Lord  and  his  friend  Lord  Mohun  were  such  close  com- 
panions, Mistress  Beatrix  chose  to  be  jealous  of  the  latter ;  and  the 
two  gentlemen  often  entertained  each  other  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  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  sprang  up  too  ;  she  was  in  tears  now. 

"  Dearest  mamma,  what  have  I  done  1 "  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. 


A    QUARREL  127 

"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  1  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  do,  besought  your  Lordship, 
as  the  truth  must  be  told,  to  break  your  intimacy  with  my  Lord 
Mohun ;  and  to  give  up  the  habit  which  may  bring  ruin  on  your 
family  ?  But  for  my  Lord  Mohun's  illness,  had  he  not  left  you  1 " 

"  Taith,  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, 
"  D —  -  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. 

f  "'Tis  time  for  me  to  go  to  roost.  I  will  have  my  gruel  a-bed," 
said  my  Lord  Mohun  :  and  limped  off  comically  on  Harry  Esmond's 
arm.  "  By  George,  that  woman  is  a  pearl!"  he  said;  "and  'tis 
only  a  pig  that  wouldn't  value  her.  Have  you  seen  the  vulgar, 
trapesing  orange-girl  whom  Esmond  " — but  here  Mr.  Esmond  inter- 
rupted 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 


128        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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 — 

"  You  heard  what  Mohun  said,  Parson  ? " 

"  That  my  Lady  was  a  saint  1 " 

"That  there  are  two  accounts  to  settle.  I  have  been  going 
wrong  these  five  years,  Harry  Esmond.  Ever  since  you  brought 
that  damned  smallpox  into  the  house,  there  has  been  a  fate  pur- 
suing 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  con- 
founded 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 


TIMETE    DANAOS    ET    DONA    FERENTES     129 

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. 

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  recon- 
ciled 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." 

11  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  or  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  the  sacrifice  1 " 
asked  Esmond,  aghast ;  who  knew  enough  of  men,  and  of  this  one 
in  particular,  to  be  aware  that  such  a  finished  rake  gave  nothing  for 
nothing.  "  How,  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  to  pay  him?" 

"  Pay  him  !  With  a  mother's  blessing  and  a  wife's  prayers  ! " 
cries  my  Lady,  clasping  her  hands  together.  Harry  Esmond  did 
not  know  whether  to  laugh,  to  be  angry,  or  to  love  his  dear  mistress 
more  than  ever  for  the  obstinate  innocency  with  which  she  chose  to 
regard  the  conduct  of  a  man  of  the  world,  whose  designs  he  knew 
better  how  to  interpret.  He  told  the  lady,  guardedly,  but  so  as  to 
make  his  meaning  quite  clear  to  her,  what  he  knew  in  respect  of  the 
7  I 


130        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

former  life  and  conduct  of  this  nobleman ;  of  other  women  against 
whom  he  had  plotted,  and  whom  he  had  overcome ;  of  the  conver- 
sation 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  inter- 
fering," 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  head- 
ache, when  my  Lord  Mohun  would  have  had  her  drive  out,  and  the 
next  day  the  headache  continued  :  a-nd  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  Castle- 
wood was  watching  his  guest  very  narrowly  ;  and  caught  sight  of 
distrust  and  smothered  rage  (as  Harry  thought)  which  foreboded  no 
good.  On  the  point  of  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  Shakspeare  (whom  the  writer  for  his  part, 
mnsideni  to  bo  far  beyond  Mr.  Congreve,  Mr.  Dryden,  or  any  of  the 
wita  of  the  present  period),  that  when  jealousy  is  once  d eel; i red,  nor 


MY    LORD    MOHUN'S    GOUT  131 

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  pro- 
mised 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-students  of  the — 

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

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

"  Your  Lordship  would  be  much  better  if  you  took  off  all  that 
flannel — it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,"  Harry  continued,  looking 
his  man  full  in  the  face. 

"  Oh  !  it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,  does  it  1- "  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  Lord- 
si  lip;  and  besides  it  keeps  your  Lordship's  head  cool  for  play, 
whilst  my  patron's  is  hot  and  flustered  with  drink." 


132        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  'Sdeath,  sir,  you  dare  not  say  that  I  don't  play  fair  1 "  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  night- 
cap. 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  1 "  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  ? "  cries  the 
Lord  Mohun.  "  Did  Frank  Esmond  commission  you  1 " 

"No  one  did.  'Twas  the  honour  of  my  family  that  com- 
missioned me." 

"And  you  are  prepared  to  answer  this1?"  cries  the  other, 
furiously  lashing  his  horses. 

"  Quite,  my  Lord  :  your  Lordship  will  upset  the  carriage  if  you 
whip  so  hotly." 

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

"  'Tis  the  peace  of  the  family  I  love  best  in  the  world,"  Harry 
Esmond  said  warmly — "  'tis  the  honour  of  a  noble  benefactor — the 
happiness  of  my  dear  mistress  and  her  children.  I  owe  them  every- 
thing 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 


A    DRIVE 


133 


makes  you  feign  illness  and  invent  pretexts  for  delay1?  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  inno- 
cent 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,  arid  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  1 " 

"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  1  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." 

"  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  gentle- 
men 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 


134        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  him- 
self, by  which  time  Doctor  Tusher  and  little  Frank  arrived,  and 
found  my  Lord  not  a  corpse  indeed,  but  as  pale  as  one. 

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

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  1 "  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  some- 
how, 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 
lie  made  a  bow  to  the  lady  above. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  you  are  safe  ! "  she  said. 

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


LADY    CASTLEWOOD'S    GREETING  135 

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. 


136        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  XIV 
WE  RIDE  AFTER  HIM  TO  LONDON 

A^TER  a  repose  of  a  couple  of  days,  the  Lord  Mohun  was  so 
far  recovered  of  his  hurt  as  to  be  able  to  announce  his  de- 
parture 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  diiferent  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  ap- 
peared, booted  for  his  journey,  to  take  a  courteous  leave  of  the 
ladies  of  Oastlewood,  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  arid  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  and  bowed.  His  fan. 
wore  a  peculiar  livid  look,  Harry  thought.  He  cursed  and  kicked 


LADY    CASTLEWOOD'S    ANXIETY  137 

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  over- 
head, at  my  Lord  as  he  stood  regarding  the  fountain.  There  was 
in  the  court  a  peculiar  silence  somehow ;  and  the  scene  remained 
long  in  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  bubbling  audibly.  'Tis  strange 
how  that  scene,  and  the  sound  of  that  fountain,  remain  fixed  on 
the  memory  of  a  man  who  has  beheld  a  hundred  sights  of  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.  When- 
ever 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  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  it1?  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, 


138        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

who  know  of  these  letters,  and  had  seen  a  part  of  the  correspond- 
ence, which  related  to  a  new  loan  my  Lord  was  raising ;  and  whm 
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  affec- 
tion 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  con- 
tinue 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  any  schemes  of  ambi- 
tion which  he  might  have  had  in  his  own  bosom.  Indeed,  his 
mistress  had  told  him  that  she  would  not  have  him  leave  her ;  and 
whatever  she  commanded  was  will  to  him. 

The  Lady  Castlewood's  mind  was  greatly  relieved  in  the  last 
few  days  of  this  well-remembered  holiday  time,  by  my  Lord's 
announcing  one  morning,  after  the  post  had  brought  him  letters 
from  London,  in  a  careless  tone,  that  the  Lord  Mohun  was  gone 
to  Paris,  and  was  about  to  make  a  great  journey  in  Europe ;  and 
though  Lord  Castlewood's  own  gloom  did  not  wear  off,  or  his 
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. 


WE    RIDE    TO    LONDON  139 

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  Dr.  Cheyne.  It  was  agreed  that  his 
Lordship  and  Harry  Esmond  should  make  the  journey  as  far  as 
London  together;  and  of  a  Monday  morning,  the  llth  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  fond- 
ness 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  l>e 
private  with  the  lawyer,  Esmond  was  for  leaving  them :  but  my 
Lord  said  his  business  was  short ;  introduced  Mr.  Esmond  particu- 
larly to  the  lawyer,  who  had  been  engaged  for  the  family  in  the  old 
lord's  time ;  who  said  that  he  had  paid  the  money,  as  desired  that 
day,  to  my  Lord  Mohun  himself,  at  his  lodgings  in  Bow  Street ; 
that  his  Lordship  had  expressed  some  surprise,  as  it  was  not 
customary  to  employ  lawyers,  he  said,  in  such  transactions  between 
men  of  honour ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  had  returned  my  Lord  Vis- 
count'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 


140        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

drink  a  bottle.  Every  man  is  ill-humoured  who  loses  such  a  sum 
as  I  have  lost.  But  now  'tis  paid,  ard  my  anger  is  gone  with  it." 

"  Where  shall  we  sup,  sir  1 "  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  1 " 

"  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  1 "  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  astray1?  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 


MY    LORD'S    CAUSE    OF    QUARREL          141 

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  to  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  1  Do  you  vouchsafe  no 
reply  to  billets  that  are  written  with  the  blood  of  my  heart? '  She 
had  more  letters  from  him." 

"  But  she  answered  none,"  cries  Esmond. 

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

"  For  a  light  word  or  two,  will  you  risk  your  lady's  honour 
and  your  family's  happiness,  my  Lord1?"  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." 


142        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  it  your  Lordship :  'tis  the  most  delicate 
point  in  the  world,  and  if  you  miss  it,  your  adversary's  sword  is 
through  you." 

"  By  George,  Harry,  you  ought  to  be  the  head  of  the  house," 

!  says  my  Lord  gloomily/     "  You  had  been  a  better  Lord  Castlewood 

than  a  lazy  sot  like  me,"  he  added,  drawing  his  hand  across  his 

eyes,  and  surveying  his  kinsman  with  very  kind  and  affectionate 

glances. 

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

"You  are  but  a  little  bit  of  a  lad,"  says  my  Lord  good- 
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  1 "  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  villainy,  and  lie 
could  make  no  denial  of  it,  only  he  said  that  my  wife  was  innocent." 


WE    GO    TO    THE    PLAY 


143 


"  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." 

11  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  ex- 
plained what  he  had  only  told  by  hints  before.  When  he  quarrelled 
with  Lord  Mohun  he  was  indebted  to  his  Lordship  in  a  sum  of  six- 
teen 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  Play-house,  as 
agreed.  The  play  was  one  of  Mr.  Wycherley's — "  Love  in  a  Wood." 

Harry  Esmond  has  thought  of  that  play  ever  since  with  a  kind 
of  terror,  and  of  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  the  actress  who  performed  the 
girl's  part  in  the  comedy.  She  was  disguised  as  a  page,  and  came 
and  stood  before  the  gentlemen  as  they  sat  on  the  stage,  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  pair  of  arch  black  eyes,  and  laughed  at  my 
Lord,  and  asked  what  ailed  the  gentleman  from  the  country,  and 
had  he  had  bad  news  from  Bullock  fair  1 

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  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, 


144        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

and  whether  he  and  his  friends  had  come  to  stab  anybody  else,  as 
they  did  poor  Will  Mountford  1  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  walke.d,  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,"  arid  had  all  the  Guards  to  laugh  at 
him  for  his  pains,  for  the  Christian  Hero  was  breaking  the  com- 
mandments 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  Jesuite,  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  1 " 

"  Afraid  !  "  cries  out  Mohun. 

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. 


THE    DISPUTE 


145 


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

"  Do  they  birch  at  College  1 "  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  1 " 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen  !  before  the  servants  1 "  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  1 " 

"Will  my  Lord  Castlewood  withdraw  his  words  1 "  asks  the  Earl 
of  Warwick. 

"My  Lord  Castlewood  will  be first,"  says  Colonel  West- 
bury. 

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

"  And  refused,"  says  my  Lord  Castlewood,  putting  on  his  hat. 
"  Where  shall  the  meeting  be  1  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 
congee,  "  to  be  matched  with  a  gentleman  .who  has  been  at  Mons 
and  Namur." 

"  Will  your  Reverence  permit  me  to  give  you  a  lesson  1 "  says 
the  Captain. 

7  K 


14-6        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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  a-bed 
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, 
arid  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  Esmon/1  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  catas- 
trophe had  happened,  which  caused  Esmond  to  drop  his  sword  and 
look  round,  at  which  moment  his  enemy  wounded  him  in  the  right 
hand.  But  the  young  man  did  not  heed  this  hurt  much,  and  ran 
up  to  the  place  where  he  saw  his  dear  master  was  down. 

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. 


A    DEATH-BED    CONFESSION 


147 


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

My  Lord  Viscount  was  put  to  bed,  and  his  wound  looked  to  by 
the  surgeon,  who  seemed  both  kind  and  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  was  of  his  dear 
patron ;  on  which  the  surgeon  carried  him  to  the  room  where  the 
Lord  Castlewood  lay ;  who  had  already  sent  for  a  priest,  and 
desired  earnestly,  they  said,  to  speak  with  his  kinsman.  He  was 
lying  on  a  bed,  very  pale  and  ghastly,  with  that  fixed,  fatal  look  in 
his  eyes,  which  betokens  death ;  and  faintly  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  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 


148        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    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.  Att'erbury  came 
out  of  the  room,  looking  very  hard  at  Esmond,  and  holding  a 
paper. 

"  He  is  on  the  brink  of  God's  awful  judgment,"  the  priest 
whispered.  "He  has  made  his  breast  clean  to  me.  He  forgives 
and  believes,  and  makes  restitution.  Shall  it  be  in  public  1  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  trifies  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 


REQUIESCAT    IN    PACE  149 

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  on  his  lips,  and  love 
and  repentance  and  kindness  in  his  manly  heart. 

"  Benedict!  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. 


150        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


BOOK   II 

CONTAINS   MR.  ESMOND'S  MILITARY  LIFE,   AND  OTHER 
MATTERS  APPERTAINING  TO  THE  ESMOND  FAMILY 

CHAPTER    I 
/  AM  IN  PRISON,  AND   VISITED,   BUT  NOT  CONSOLED  TPIERE 

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  per- 
plexity upon  all  those  beings  to  whom  lie  was  attached  by  so  many 
tender  ties  of  affection  and  gratitude  ?  degrade  his  father's  widow  1 
impeach  and  sully  his  father's  and  kinsman's  honour  1  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, 
r  On  one  side  were  ambition,  temptation,  justice  even ;  but  love, 
\J  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  mo.     When  I  was  a  nameless 


IN    PRISON  151 

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  in- 
flamed 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  mid 
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  on  him  with  such  a  tragic  glance  of 
woe  and  anger,  as  caused  the  young  man,  unaccustomed  to  unkind- 
ness  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." 

"  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  1 "  she  broke  out.  "  Give  me  back  my 
husband,  Henry  !  Why  did  you  stand  by  at  midnight  and  see  him 
murdered1?  Why  did  the  traitor  escape  who  did  it1?  You,  the 


152        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

champion  of  our  house,  who  offered  to  die  for  us  !  You  that  he 
loved  and  trusted,  and  to  whom  I  confided  him— -you  that  vowed 
devqtion  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  1  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  us1?  '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 
smallpox — and  I  came  myself  and  watched  you,  and  you  didn't 
know  me  in  your  delirium — and  you  called  out  for  me,  though  I 
was  there  at  your  side  ?  All  that  has  happened  since  was  a  just 
judgment  on  my  wicked  heart — my  wicked  jealous  heart.  Oh,  I 
am  punished — awfully  punished  !  My  husband  lies  in  his  blood — 
murdered  for  defending  me,  my  kind,  kind,  generous  lord — and  you 
were  .by,  and  you  let  him  die,  Henry  !  " 

These  words,  uttered  in  the  wildness  of  her  grief  by  one  who 
was  ordinarily  quiet,  and  spoke  seldom  except  witli  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,  un- 
deserved 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  boy  I «l 


LOVE    LIES    A-BLEEDING  153 

and  youth  passed  within  him ;  whilst  his  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  1 " 

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

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

Days  afterwards,  when  Esmond  was  brought  out  of  a  fever 
which  1%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  recognised  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  Maryborough'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." 


154        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Such  was  the  news,  coupled  with  assertions  about  her  own 
honesty  and  that  of  Molly  her  maid,  who  would  never  have  stolen 
a  certain  trumpery  gold  sleeve-button  of  Mr.  Esmond's  that  was 
missing  after  his  fainting-fit,  that  the  keeper's  wife  brought  to  her 
lodger.  His  thoughts  followed  to  that  untimely  grave  the  brave 
heart,  the  kind  friend,  the  gallant  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  the  handkerchief  when  his  nurse  left  him,  and 
very  likely  kissed  it,  and  looked  at  the  bauble  embroidered  in  the 
corner.  "It  has  cost  thee  grief  enough,"  he  thought,  "dear  lady, 
so  loving  and  so  tender.  Shall  I  take  it  from  thee  and  thy 
children  1  No,  never !  Keep  it,  and  wear  it,  my  little  Frank, 
my  pretty  boy  !  If  I  cannot  make  a  name  for  myself,  I  can  die 
without  one.  Some  day,  when  my  dear  mistress  sees  my  heart, 
\  I  shall  be  righted;  or  if  not  here  or  now,  why,  elsewhere;  where 
Honour  doth  not  follow  us,  but  where  Love  reigns  perpetual." 

'Tis  needless  to  relate  here,  as  the  reports  of  the  lawyers  already 
have  chronicled  them,  the  particulars  or  issue  of  that  trial  which 
ensued  upon  my  Lord  Castlcwood's  melancholy  homicide.  Of  the 
two  lords  engaged  in  that  sad  matter,  the  second,  my  Lord  the 
Earl  of  Warwick  and  Holland,  who  had  been  engaged  with  Colonel 
Westbury,  and  wounded  by  him,  was  found  not  guilty  by  his  peers, 
before  whom  he  was  tried  (under  the  presidence  of  the  Lord 
Steward,  Lord  Somers) ;  and  the  principal,  the  Lord  Mohun,  being 
found  guilty  of  the  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  character.  As  there  are  a  thousand  thoughts  lying  within 
a  man  that  he  does  not  know  till  he  takes  up  the  pen  to  write, 
so  the  heart  is  a  secret  even  to  him  (or  her)  who  has  it  in  his 
own  breast.  Who  hath  not  found  himself  surprised  into  revenue, 
or  action,  or  passion,  for  good  or  evil,  whereof  the  seeds  lay  within 
him,  latent  and  unsuspected,  until  the  invasion  (-ailed  them  forth? 


THOMAS    TUSHER  155 

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 
axemen,  the  commoners  engaged  in  that  melancholy  fray  took  their 
trial  at  Newgate,  as  became  them ;  and,  being  all  found  guilty, 
pleaded  likewise  their  benefit  of  clergy.  The  sentence,  as  we  all 
know  in  these  cases,  is,  that  the  culprit  lies  a  year  in  prison,  or 
during  the  King's  pleasure,  and  is  burned  in  the  hand,  or  only 
stamped  with  a  cold  iron;  or  this  part  of  the  punishment  is  alto- 
gether 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  Doctor  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  Doctor  Ken,  was  the  happiest  and  greatest 
lot  in  life ;  how  (if  he  were  obstinately  bent  on  it,  though,  for  her 
part,  she  owned  rather  to  holding]  Queen  Bess's  opinion,  that  a 
bishop  should  have  no  wife,  and  if  not  a  bishop  why  a  clergyman  1) 
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  over- 
thrown 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  ner 
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  Keverence 


156        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  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  for- 
gotten 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,  congratu- 
lating his  Reverence  upon  his  appointment  to  the  living  of  Castle- 
wood  :  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  con- 
cluded, "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  sud. 
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  JIIK! 
remember  :  forgiven  injuries,  conquered  temptations  (now  and  then), 
and  difficulties  vanquished  by  endurance. 

It  was  these  thoughts  regarding  the  living,  far  more  th:m  :MIV 
great  poignancy  of  grief  respecting  the  dead,  which  affected  Hurry 
Esmond  whilst  in  prison  after  his  trial :  but  it  may  be  imagined 


MY    FELLOW-PRISONERS  157 

that  lie  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  i 
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.  0  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  cicatrised  only  —  no  time,  tears,  caresses,  or  repentance  can 
obliterate  the  scar.  We  are  indocile  to  put  up  with  grief,  how- 
ever. Reficimus  rates  quassas :  we  tempt  the  ocean  again  and 
again,  and  try  upon  new  ventures.  Esmond  thought  of  his  early 
time  as  a  noviciate,  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  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  sec  them. 

The  duel,  its  fatal  termination,  the  trial  of  the  two  peers  and 
the  three  commoners  concerned,  had  caused  the  greatest  excitement 


158 


THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


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. 


A    VISIT    FKOM    CAPTAIN    STEELE          159 


CHAPTER  II 

I  COME  TO   THE  END  OF  MY   CAPTIVITY,   BUT  NOT  OF 
MY   TROUBLE 

A  HONG  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  Fusileers,  and 
secretary  to  my  Lord  Cutts,  that  famous  officer  of  King  William's, 
the  bravest  and  most  beloved  man  of  the  English  army.  The  two 
jolly  prisoners  had  been  drinking  with  a  party  of  friends  (for  our 
cellar,  and  that  of  the  keepers  of  Newgate  too,  were  supplied  with 
endless  hampers  of  burgundy  and  champagne  that  the  friends 
of  the  Colonels  sent  in) ;  and  Harry,  having  no  wish  for  their  drink 
or  their  conversation,  being  too  feeble  in  health  for  the  one  and 
too  sad  in  spirits  for  the  other,  was  sitting  apart  in  his  little  room, 
reading  such  books  as  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  thec, 
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  1  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  sakl  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. 


160        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

With  the  exception  of  that  one  cruel  letter  which  he  had  from 
his  mistress,  Mr.  Esmond  heard  nothing  from  her,  and  she  seemed 
determined  to  execute  her  resolve  of  parting  from  him  and  disowning 
him.  But  he  had  news  of  her,  such  as  it  was,  which  Mr.  Steele 
assiduously  brought  him  from  the  Prince's  and  Princess's  Court, 
where  our  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  Castle  wood. 
Angry  words  passed  between  them ;  and  though  Lord  Castlewood 
was  the  kindest  and  most  pliable  soul  alive,  his  spirit  was  very 
high ;  and  hence  that  meeting  which  has  brought  us  all  here,"  says 
Mr.  Esmond,  resolved  never  to  acknowledge  that  there  had  ever 
been  any  other  cause  but  cards  for  the  duel. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  use  bad  words  of  a  nobleman,"  says  Westbury ; 
"  but  if  my  Lord  Mohun  were  a  commoner,  I  would  say,  'twas  a  pity 
he  was  not  hanged.  He  was  familiar  with  dice  and  women  at  a  time 
other  boys  are  at  school  being  birched;  he  was  as  wicked  as  the 
oldest  rake,  years  ere  he  had  done  growing ;  and  handled  a  sword 
and  a  foil,  and  a  bloody  one  too,  before  he  ever  used  a  razor.  He 
\J  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.  Stecle'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 


MY    RAGE    AND    DESPAIR  l6l 

compared  to  the  promise  of  that  extreme  loveliness  which  the  good 
Captain  saw  in  her  daughter.  It  was  matre  pulcra,  Jilia  pulcriar. 
Steele  composed  sonnets  whilst  he  was  on  duty  in  his  Prince's  ante- 
chamber, 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 
wras  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  kind- 
ness, or  show  of  relenting  even,  on  the  part  of  a  mistress  obdurate 
now  after  ten  years  of  love  and  benefactions.  The  poor  young  man 
getting  no  answer,  save  Tusher's,  to  that  letter  which  he  had  written, 
and  being  too  proud  to  write  more,  opened  a  part  of  his  heart  to 
Steele,  than  whom  no  man,  when  unhappy,  could  find  a  kinder 
hearer,  or  more  friendly  emissary ;  described  (in  words  which  were 
no  doubt  pathetic,  for  they  came  imo  pectore,  and  caused  honest 
Dick  to  weep  plentifully)  his  youth,  his  constancy,  his  fond  devotion 
to  that  household  which  had  reared  him  ;  his  affection,  how  earned, 
and  how  tenderly  requited  until  but  yesterday,  and  (as  far  as  he 
might)  the  circumstances  and  causes  for  which  that  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  recollec- 
tions 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." 

7  L 


162        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  de- 
signed to  move.  Esmond's  ambassador  came  back  from  the  mission 
with  which  the  poor  young  gentleman  had  charged  him,  with  a  sad 
blank  face  and  a  shake  of  the  head,  which  told  that  there  was  no 
hope  for  the  prisoner ;  and  scarce  a  wretched  culprit  in  that  prison 
of  Newgate  ordered  for  execution,  and  trembling  for  a  reprieve, 
felt  more  cast  down  than  Mr.  Esmond,  innocent  and  condemned. 

As  had  been  arranged  between  the  prisoner  and  his  counsel  in 
their  consultations,  Mr.  Steele  had  gone  to  the  Dowager's  house  in 
Chelsey,  where  it  has  been  said  the  widow  and  her  orphans  were, 
had  seen  rny  Lady  Viscountess,  and  pleaded  the  cause  of  her  un- 
fortunate 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  1  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  i  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  1 "  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond  sadly. 

"  A  lovely  creature  in  affliction  seems  always  doubly  beautiful 
to  me,"  says  the  poor  Captain,  who  indeed  was  but  too  often  in  a 
state  to  see  double,  and  so  checked  he  resumed  the  interrupted 
thread  of  his  story.  "  As  I  spoke  my  business,"  Mr.  Steele  said, 
"  and  narrated  to  your  mistress  what  all  the  world  knows,  and  the 
other  side  hath  been  eager  to  acknowledge — that  you  had  tried  to 


MY   MISTRESS    IS    RELENTLESS  163 

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  con- 
tinued, "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  murder  of  their  father  1 
The  wretch  who  did  the  deed  has  not  even  a  punishment.  Con- 
science !  what  conscience  has  he,  who  can  enter  the  house  of  a 
friend,  whisper  falsehood  and  insult  to  a  woman  that  never  harmed 
him,  and  stab  the  kind  heart  that  trusted  him'?  My  Lord — my 
Lord  Wretch's,  my  Lord  Villain's,  my  Lord  Murderer's  peers  meet  \J 
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  false- 
hood, 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  mine — he  never  shall  be.  He,  too,  robbed  the  throne 
from  the  king  his  father — the  true  king — and  he  has  gone  un- 
punished, 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 


164        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1 '  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  trine — 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 

i  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  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  Vis- 
countess 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  jilia,  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 


OUR    LIFE    IN    NEWGATE  165 

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  storey  looking  up 
Newgate  Street  towards  Cheapside  and  Paul's  Church.  And  we 
had  leave  to  walk  on  the  roof,  and  could  see  thence  Sinithfield  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  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  ble'ssay — du 
coste7  de  feu  M.  le  Vicomte.  M.  le  Compte  de  Varique  ne  se  playt 
qua  parlay  de  vous  :  M.  de  Moon  au^y.  II  di  que  vous  avay  voulew 
vous  bastre  avecque  luy — que  vous  estes  plus  fort  que  luy  fur 
rayscrimme — quil'y  a  surtout  certaine  Botte  que  vous  scavay  quil 
n'a  jammay  sceu  pariay  :  et  .que  e'en  eut  e'te'  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 


166        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

ong  tousjours  estd.  La  veuve  est  chay  moy.  J'ay  recuilly  cet' 
pauve  famme.  Elle  est  furieuse  cont  vous,  allans  tous  les  jours 
chercher  ley  Roy  (d'icy)  demandant  a  gran  cri  revanche  pour  son 
Mary.  Elle  ne  veux  voyre  ni  entende  parlay  de  vous :  pourtant 
elle  ne  fay  qu'en  parlay  milfoy  par  jour.  Quand  vous  seray  hor 
prison  venay  me  voyre.  J'auray  soing  de  vous.  Si  cette  petite 
Prude  veut  se  deTaire  de  song  pety  Monste  (Helas  je  craing  quil 
ne  soy  trotar !)  je  m'en  chargeray.  J'ay  encor  quelqu  interay  et 
quelques  escus  de  costay. 

"La  Veuve  se  raccommode  avec  Miladr  Marlboro  qui  est  tout 
pui9ante  avecque  la  Princesse  Anne.  Cet  dam  senteVaysent  pour  la 
petite  prude ;  qui  pourctant  a  un  fi  du  mesme  asge  que  vous  savay. 

"En  sortant  de  prisong  venez  icy.  Je  ne  puy  vous  recevoir 
chaymoy  a  cause  des  me'chansete's  du  monde,  may  pre  du  moy  vous 
aurez  logement.  ISABELLE,  VISCOMTESSE  D'ESMOND." 

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

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


I    COME    OUT    OF    PRISON  167 


CHAPTER  m 

/  TAKE   THE  QUEEN'S  PAY  LV  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  Chelsey.  Esmond  thought  the  sun  had  never  shone  so 
bright ;  nor  the  air  felt  so  fresh  and  exhilarating.  Temple  Garden, 
as  they  rowed  by,  looked  like  the  garden  of  Eden  to  him,  and  the 
aspect  of  the  quays,  wharves,  and  buildings  by  the  river,  Somerset 
House,  and  Westminster  (where  the  splendid  new  bridge  was  just 
beginning),  Lambeth  tower  and  palace,  and  that  busy  shining  scene 
of  the  Thames  swarming  with  boats  and  barges,  filled  his  heart  with 
pleasure  and  cheerfulness — as  well  such  a  beautiful  scene  might  to 
one  who  had  been  a  prisoner  so  long,  and  with  so  many  dark 
thoughts  deepening  the  gloom  of  his  captivity.  They  rowed  up  at 
length  to  the  pretty  village  of  Chelsey,  where  the  nobility  have 
many  handsome  country  houses ;  and  so  came  to  my  Lady  Vis- 
countess'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  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 


168        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  re- 
collected 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  relation- 
ship 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  good-will  too,  and  the  kindness  of 
v  .  consanguinity.  She  had  been  his  father's  wife,  and  was  his  grand- 
'  father's  daughter.  She  had  suffered  him  in  old  day's,  and  was 
kind  to  him  now  after  her  fashion.  And  now, that  bar-sinister 
was  removed  from  Esmond's  thought,  and  that  secret  opprobrium 
no  longer  cast  upon  his  mind,  he  was  pleased  to  feel  family  ties  and 
own  them — perhaps  secretly  vain  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made, 
and  to  think  that  he,  Esmond,  was  really  the  chief  of  his  house, 
and  only  prevented  by  his  own  magnanimity  from  advancing  his 
claim. 

At  least,  ever  since  he  had  learned  that  secret  from  his  poor 
patron  on  his  dying  bed,  actually  as  lie  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 


I    SPEAK    MY    MIND  169 

suspected  the  truth  about  his  birth  1  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  Boyne, 
told  the  truth  to  a  French  priest,  who  was  in  hiding  after  the 
battle,  as  well  as  to  the  priest  there,  at  whose  house  he  died.  This 
gentleman  did  not  think  fit  to  divulge  the  story  till  he  met  with  Mr. 
Holt  at  Saint  Omer's.  And  the  latter  kept  it  back  for  his  own 
purpose,  and  until  he  had  learned  whether  my  mother  was  alive  or 
no.  She  is  dead  years  since,  my  poor  patron  told  me  with  his 
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,  how- 
ever 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  £tes  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. 


J 


170        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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  1  What  matters  who  has  it  ? 
'Tis  with  the  family  still." 

"  What  can  there  be  in  that  little  prude  of  a  woman  that  makes 
men  so  rajfoler  about  her1?"  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  1  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  each  other  twice  or  thrice  like 
brothers  already.  'Twas  that  wicked  young  Mohun  who,  coining 
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,  nephew1?  Tell  me  now — was  there  anything1? 
About  yourself,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  answer  questions." 

Mr.  Esmond  blushed  up.  "  My  Lady's  virtue  is  like  that  of 
a  saint  in  heaven,"  he  cried  out. 

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

"Indeed,  I  loved  and  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 


I    JOIN    QUIN'S    REGIMENT  171 

Ormond  that  played  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  Abbd  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,  con- 
trasting 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,  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,  con- 
sidering 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  Fusileers 
on  the  Irish  establishment. 

Mr.  Esmond's  commission  was  scarce  three  weeks  old  when  that 
accident  befell  King  William  which  ended  the  life  of  the  greatest, 
the  wisest,  the  bravest,  and  most  clement  sovereign  whom  England 
ever  knew.  'Twas  the  fashion  of  the  hostile  party  to  assail  this 
great  Prince's  reputation  during  his  life ;  but  the  joy  which  they 


172        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  her  sympathies,  recollections,  prejudices,  engaged  on 
King  James's  side  ;  and  was  certainly  as  noisy  a  conspirator  as  ever 
asserted  the  King's  rights,  or  abused  his  opponent's,  over  a  quadrille 
table  or  a  dish  of  bohea.  Her  Ladyship's  house  swarmed  with  eccle- 
siastics, in  disguise  and  out;  whilst  tale-bearers  from  St.  Gennains ; 
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  well-nigh  killed  him,  but  he 
besought  relief  of  Heaven  through  the  merits  and  intercession  of 
the  blessed  King,  arid  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  inter- 
cession, 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. 


JACOBITES    ALL  173 

But  truth  and  honour,  as  they  thought,  bound  them  to  the  exiled 
King's  side ;  nor  had  the  banished  family  any  wanner  supporter 
than  that  kind  lady  of  Castlewood,  in  whose  house  Esmond  was 
brought  up.  She  influenced  her  husband,  very  much  more  perhaps 
than  my  Lord  knew,  who  admired  his  wife  prodigiously  though  he 
might  be  inconstant  to  her,  and  who,  adverse  to  the  trouble  of 
thinking  himself,  gladly  enough  adopted  the  opinions  which  she 
chose  for  him.  To  one  of  her  simple  and  faithful  heart,  allegiance 
to  any  sovereign  but  the  one  was  impossible.  To  serve  King 
William  for  interest's  sake  would  have  been  a  monstrous  hypocrisy 
and  treason.  Her  pure  conscience  could  no  more  have  consented 
to  it  than  to  a  theft,  a  forgery,  or  any  other  base  action.  Lord 
Castlewood  might  have  been  won  over,  no  doubt,  but  his  wife  never 
could  :  and  he  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  characterised  all  Esmond's 
youth,  that  the  young  man  subscribed  to  this,  and  other  articles  of 
faith,  which  his  fond  benefactress  sent  him.  Had  she  been  a  Whig, 
he  had  been  one  •  had  she  followed  Mr.  Fox,  and  turned  Quaker, 
no  doubt  he  would  have  abjured  ruffles  and  a  periwig,  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  \J 
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.* 

When  the  Princess  Anne  succeeded,  the  wearied  nation  was  glad 
enough  to  cry  a  truce  from  all  these  wars,  controversies,  and  con- 
spiracies, and  to  accept  in  the  person  of  a  Princess  of  the  blood 
royal  a  compromise  between  the  parties  into  which  the  country  was 
divided.  The  Tories  could  serve  under  her  with  easy  consciences ; 

*  vft  TTOTTOI,,  olov  drj  vv  0eoi>$  (Sporol  alTi6ii)VTai' 
e£  r)/j.£a)v  yap  0acrt  KO.K   fyt/Aerat,  ol  5£  icai  avrol 
virep  fj.6pov  AXye' 


174        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

though  a  Tory  herself,  she  represented  the  triumph  of  the  Whig 
opinion.  The  people  of  England,  always  liking  that  their  Princes 
should  be  attached  to  their  own  families,  were  pleased  to  think  the 
Princess  was  faithful  to  hers ;  and  up  to  the  very  last  day  and 
hour  of  her  reign,  and  but  for  that  fatality  which  he  inherited  from 
his  fathers  along  with  their  claims  to  the  English  .crown,  King 
James  the  Third  might  have  worn  it.  But  he  neither  knew  how  to 
wait  an  opportunity,  nor  to  use  it  when  he  had  it ;  he  was  venture- 
some when  he  ought  to  have  been  cautious,  and  cautious  when  he 
ought  to  have  dared  everything.  'Tis  with  a  sort  of  'rage  at  his 
inaptitude  that  one  thinks  of  his  melancholy  story.  Do  the  Fates 
deal  more  specially  with  kings  than  with  common  men  1  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  1 "  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  last  occurred  to  a  family  which  stood  in 
great  need  of  it,  by  the  advancement  of  these  famous  personages, 
who  benefited  humbler  people  that  had  the  luck  of  being  in  their 

1  favour.     Before  Mr.  Esmond  left  England  in  the  month  of  August, 

and  being  then  at  Portsmouth,  where  he  had  joined  his  regiment, 
and  was  busy  at  drill,  learning  the  practice  and  mysteries  of  the 
-1  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 


MY    COMRADES    IN    MISFORTUNE  175 

and  the  late  misfortune,  Colonel  Westbury  was  with  the  Captain- 
General  gone  to  Holland  •  Captain  Macartney  was  now  at  Ports- 
mouth, with  his  regiment  of  Fusileers  and  the  force  under  command 
of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormoncl,  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. 


176        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


.      CHAPTER    IV 

RECAPITULATIONS 

1  ^  ROM  such  fitful  lights  as  could  be  cast  upon  his  dark  history 
r~H  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  influ- 
ence 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  witli 
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,  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, 
possessed  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    CURSE    OF    KINGS"  177 

the  Prince's  affairs,  being  in  the  hands  of  priests  and  women,  were 
conducted  as  priests  and  women  will  conduct  them, — artfully,  cruelly, 
feebly,  and  to  a  certain  bad  issue.  The  moral  of  the  Jesuits'  story 
I  think  as  wholesome  a  one  as  ever  was  writ :  the  artfullest,  the 
wisest,  the  most  toilsome  and  dexterous  plot-builders  in  the  world — 
there  always  comes  a  day  when  the  roused  public  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  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  1679,  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  1 685,  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),  dis- 
7  M 


178        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

appeared  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  other's  being  taken, 
in  daily  apprehension  of  his  return,  when  (as  my  Lord  Castlewood 
declared,  calling  God  to  witness,  and  with  tears  in  his  dying  eyes) 
it  had  been  his  intention  at  once  to  give  up  his  estate  and  his  title 
to  their  proper  owner,  and  to  retire  to  his  own  house  at  Walcote 
with  his  family.  "And  would  to  God  I  had  done  it,"  the  poor 
lord  said.  "  I  would  not  be  here  now,  wounded  to  death,  a  miser- 
able, 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  ten  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  incor- 
rigible 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, 


OLD    PASTOUREAU'S    GRAVE  179 

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  1  Perhaps  he  took  a  greater  pride  out  of  his  sacri- 
fice than  he  would  have  had  in  those  honours  which  he  was  resolved 
to  forego.  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  Baling  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  relique  which  he  found 
of  old  M.  Pastoureau  was  a  stone  in  the  churchyard,  which  told 
that  Athanasius  Pastoureau,  a  native  of  Flanders,  lay  there  buried, 
aged  87  years.  The  old  man's  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  Baling  this  seven  year ;  and  so  Mr.  Esmond's  hopes  of  gain- 
ing 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  1  What  had  her  name  been  ?  When  did 
she  die  ?  Esmond  longed  to  find  some  one  who  could  answer  these 
questions  to  him,  and  thought  even  of  putting  them  to  his  aunt  the 
Viscountess,  who  had  innocently  taken  the  name  which  belonged  of 


180        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  en- 
lighten 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  liber- 
ally ;  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  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. 


I    SMELL    POWDER 


181 


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  Kidd,  than  a 
war  between  crowned  heads,  carried  on  by  generals  of  rank  and 
honour.  On  the  first  day  of  July  1702,  a  great  fleet,  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  sail,  set  sail  from  Spithead,  under  the  command  of  Admiral 
Shovell,  having  on  board  12,000  troops,  with  his  Grace  the  Duke 
of  Ormond  as  the  Capt.-General  of  the  expedition.  One  of  these 
12,000  heroes  having  never  been  to  sea  before,  or,  at  least,  only  once 
in  his  infancy,  when  he  made  the  voyage  to  England  from  that 
unknown  country  where  he  was  born — one  of  those  12,000 — the 
junior  ensign  of  Colonel  Quin's  regiment  of  Fusileers — was  in  a 
quite  unheroic  state  of  corporal  prostration  a  few  hours  after  sailing ; 
and  an  enemy,  had  he  boarded  the  ship,  would  have  had  easy  work 
of  him.  From  Portsmouth  we  put  into  Plymouth,  and  took  in 
fresh  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. 

But  the  campaign,  if  not  very  glorious,  was  very  pleasant.  New 
sights  of  nature,  by  sea  and  land — a  life  of  action,  beginning  now 
for  the  first  time — occupied  and  excited  the  young  man.  The  many 
accidents  and  the  routine  of  shipboard — the  military  duty — the  new 
acquaintances,  both  of  his  comrades  in  anus  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 


182        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1  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  him- 
self, was  yet  enough  to  cheer  and  console  him  1  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 ;  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 


OUR    COMMANDER'S    PROCLAMATIONS      183 

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 
lie  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,  '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  two  officers  had  been  taken  to  see  the  town,  and  the  Alameda, 
and  the  theatre,  where  bull-fights  are  fought,  and  the  convents,  where 
the  admirable  works  of  Don  Bartholomew  Murillo  inspired  one  of  them 
with  a  great  wonder  and  delight — such  as  he  had  never  felt  before — 
concerning  this  divine  art  of  painting ;  and  these  sights  over,  and 
a  handsome  refection  and  chocolate  being  served  to  the  English 
gentlemen,  they  were  accompanied  back  to  their  shallop  with  every 
courtesy,  and  were  the  only  two  officers  of  the  English  army  that 
saw  at  that  time  that  famous  city. 

The  general  tried  the  power  of  another  proclamation  on  the 
Spaniards,  in  which  he  announced  that  we  only  came  in  the  interest 
of  Spain  and  King  Charles,  and  for  ourselves  wanted  to  make  no 
conquest  nor  settlement  in  Spain  at  all.  But  all  this  eloquence  was 
lost  upon  the  Spaniards,  it  would  seem  :  the  Captain-General  of 
Andalusia  would  no  more  listen  to  us  than  the  Governor  of  Cadiz ; 
and  in  reply  to  his  Grace's  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  who  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 


184        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1  or  a  princess  ?  or  perhaps 
Esmond's  mother  that  "he  had  lost  and  never  seen  ?  Alas  no :  it 
was  but  a  poor  wheezy  old  dropsical  woman,  with  a  wart  upon  her 
nose.  But  having  been  early  taught  a  part  of  the  Roman  religion, 
he  never  had  the  horror  of  it  that  some  Protestants  have  shown, 
and  seem  to  think  to  be  a  part  of  ours. 

After  the  pillage  and  plunder  of  St.  Mary's,  and  an  assault  upon 
a  fort  or  two,  the  troops  all  took  shipping,  and  finished  their  ex- 
pedition, 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 


I    RETURN    TO    ENGLAND  185 

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  Luinley,  whose  command  was  over,  and 
parting  with  that  officer  with  many  kind  expressions  of  good-will 
on  the  General's  side,  had  leave  to  go  to  London,  to  see  if  he  could 
push  his  fortunes  any  way  further,  and  found  himself  once  more  in 
his  dowager  aunt's  comfortable  quarters  at  Chelsey,  and  in  greater 
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  levdes. 
The  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  protection  any  longer,  the  elder 


186'        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  whp  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  snuffboxes  himself),  that  goes  home  and 
tells  his  wife  how  poor  Tom  is  spoiled,  he  fears,  and  no  better  than 
a  sneak,  parasite,  and  beggar  on  horseback.  I  remember  how  furious 
the  coffee-house  wits  were  with  Dick  Steele  when  he  set  up  his 
coach  and  fine  house  at  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  Rochefou- 
cault,  "  in  our  friends'  misfortunes  there's  something  secretly  pleasant 
to  us ; "  so,  on  the  other  hand,  their  good  fortune  is  disagreeable. 
If  'tis  hard  for  a  man  to  bear  his  own  good  luck,  'tis  harder  still  for 
his  friends  to  bear  it  for  him  ;  and  but  few  of  them  ordinarily  can 
stand  that  trial :  whereas  one  of  the  "  precious  uses  "  of  adversity 
is,  that  it  is  a  great  reconciler  ;  that  it  brings  back  averted  kindness, 
disarms  animosity,  and  causes  yesterday's  enemy  to  fling  his  hatred 
aside,  and  hold  out  a  hand  to  the  fallen  friend  of  old  days.  There's 
pity  and  love,  as  well  as  envy,  in  the  same  heart  and  towards  the 
same  person.  The  rivalry  stops  when  the  competitor  tumbles; 
and,  as  I  view  it,  we  should  look  at  these  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 


THE    DOWAGER    LADY    OASTLEWOOD       187 

(but  the  sum  conies  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  pro- 
tector. 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  lacquey  in  black,  and  his  accomplished 
mamma  the  waiting-woman,"  cries  my  Lady.  "  What  do  you  sup- 
pose that  a  sentimental  widow,  who  will  live  down  in  that  dingy 
dungeon  of  a  Castlewood,  where  she  spoils  her  boy,  kills  the  poor 
with  her  drugs,  has  prayers  twice  a  day,  and  sees  nobody  but  the 
chaplain — what  do  you  suppose  she  can  do,  mon  cousin,  but  let 
the  horrid  parson,  with  his  great  square  toes  and  hideous  little 
green  eyes,  make  love  to  her  1  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  chatted  on  for  an  hour. 


188        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1 
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  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 


"A    PANG    OF    JEALOUSY  189 

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  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  Etheredge  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  Castle- 
wood, 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  end  of  the  village,  where  he  alighted  and  sent  a  man 


190        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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. 


A   MEETING  191 


CHAPTER   VI 
THE    2<)TH   DECEMBER 

THERE  was  scarce  a  score  of  persons  in  the  Cathedral  beside 
the  Dean  and  some  of  his  clergy,  and  the  choristers,  young 
and  old,  that  performed  the  beautiful  evening  prayer.  But 
Mr.  Tusher  was  one  of  the  officiants,  and  read  from  the  eagle  in  an 
authoritative  voice,  and  a  great  black  periwig ;  and  in  the  stalls, 
still  in  her  black  widow's  hood,  sat  Esmond's  dear  mistress,  her  son 
by  her  side,  very  much  grown,  and  indeed  a  noble-looking  youth, 
with  his  mother's  eyes,  and  his  father's  curling  brown  hair,  that  fell 
over  his  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  so  much  of  his  heart  for  so  many  years,  Lord  Castlewood, 
with  a  start,  pulled  at  his  mother's  sleeve  (her  face  had  scarce  been 
lifted  from  her  book),  and  said,  "  Look,  mother ! "  so  loud,  that 
Esmond  could  hear  on  the  other  side  of  the  church,  and  the  old 
Dean  on  his  throned  stall.  Lady  Castlewood  looked  for  an  instant 
as  her  son  bade  her,  and  held  up  a  warning  finger  to  Frank ;  Esmond 
felt  his  whole  face  flush,  and  his  heart  throbbing,  as  that  dear  lady 
beheld  him  once  more.  The  rest  of  the  prayers  were  speedily  over  : 
Mr.  Esmond  did  not  hear  them  ;  nor  did  his  mistress,  very  likely, 
whose  hood  went  more  closely  over  her  face,  and  who  never  lifted 
her  head  again  until  the  service  was  over,  the  blessing  given,  and 
Mr.  Dean,  and  his  procession  of  ecclesiastics,  out  of  the  inner 
chapel. 

Young  Castlewood  came  clambering  over  the  stalls  before  the 


192        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  hac^ 
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  suffer- 
ing, and  that  experience  it  brings,  was  older  now  than  she ;  but 
more  fondly  cherished  as  woman  perhaps  than  ever  she  had  been 
adored  as  divinity.  What  is  it  ?  Where  lies  it  ?  the  secret  which 
makes  one  little  hand  the  dearest  of  all?  Whoever  can  unriddle 
that  mystery  ?  Here  she  was,  her  son  by  his  side,  his  dear  boy. 
Here  she  was,  weeping  and  happy.  She  took  his  hand  in  both 
hers  ;  he  felt  her  tears.  It  was  a  rapture  of  reconciliation. 

"  Here  comes  Squaretoes,"  says  Frank.     "  Here's  Tusher." 

Tusher,  indeed,  now  appeared,  creaking  on  his  great  heels.  Mr. 
Tom  had  divested  himself  of  his  alb  or  surplice,  and  came  forward 


WE    WALK    HAND    IN    HAND  193 

habited  in  his  cassock  and  great  black  periwig.  How  had  Esmond 
ever  been  for  a  moment  jealous  of  this  fellow  1 

"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,  I  shall  run  home  and  bid  Beatrix  put 
her  ribands  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." 

"  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  Maryborough  has  been  good  to 
us.  You  know  how  kind  they  were  in  my  misfortune.  And  so 

7  N 


194     THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND 

was  your — your  father's  widow.  No  one  knows  how  good  the 
world  is,  till  grief  comes  to  try  us.  'Tis  through  my  Lady  Marl- 
borough'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  1 " 

Esmond  said,  "Yes.  As  far  as  present  favour  went,  Lady 
Castle  wood  was  very  good  to  him.  And  should  her  mind  change," 
he  added  gaily,  "  as  ladies'  minds  will,  I  am  strong  enough  to  bear 
iny  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 
will  that  I  should  be  punished,  and  that  my  dear  lord  should  fall." 

"He  gave  me  his  blessing  on  his  deathbed,"  Esmond  said. 
"  Thank  God  for  that  legacy  !  " 

"  Amen,  amen  !  dear  Henry,"  said  the  lady,  pressing  his  arm. 
"  I  knew  it.  Mr.  Atterbury,  of  St.  Bride's,  who  was  called  to  him, 
told  me  so.  And  I  thanked  God,  too,  and  in  my  prayers  ever 
since  remembered  it." 

"You  had  spared  me  many  a  bitter  night,  had  you  told  me 
sooner,"  Mr.  Esmond  said. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  such  sweet 
humility,  as  made  Esmond  repent  that  he  should  ever  have  dared 
to  reproach  her.  "  I  know  how  wicked  my  heart  has  been ;  and 
I  have  suffered  too,  my  dear.  I  confessed  to  Mr.  Atterbury — I 
must  not  tell  any  more.  He — I  said  I  would  not  write  to  you  or 
go  to  you — and  it  was  better  even  that,  having  parted,  we  should 
part.  But  I  knew  you  would  come  back— I  own  that.  That  is 
no  one's  fault.  And  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 


QUI    SEMINANT    IN    LACRYMIS  195 

joy ;  and  he  that  goeth  forth  and  weepeth,  shall  doubtless  come 
again  with  rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him ; '  I  looked  up 
from  the  book,  and  saw  you.  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  saw  you. 
I  knew  you  would  come,  my  dear,  and  saw  the  gold  sunshine,  round 
your  head." 

She  smiled  an  almost  wild  smile  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  The 
moon  was  up  by  this  time,  glittering  keen  in  the  frosty  sky.  He 
could  see,  for  the  first  time  now  clearly,  her  sweet  careworn  face. 

"Do  you  know  what  day  it  is?"  she  continued.  "It  is  the 
29th  of  December — it  is  your  birthday  !  But  last  year  we  did  not 
drink  it — no,  no.  My  Lord  was  cold,  and  my  Harry  was  likely  to 
die  :  and  my  brain  was  in  a  fever ;  and  we  had  no  wine.  But  now 
— now  you  are  come  again,  bringing  your  sheaves  with  you,  my 
dear."  She  burst  into  a  wild  flood  of  weeping  as  she  spoke  ;  she 
laughed  and  sobbed  on  the  young  man's  heart,  crying  out  wildly, 
"  bringing  your  sheaves  with  you — your  sheaves  with  you  !  " 

As  he  had  sometimes  felt,  gazing  up  from  the  deck  at  midnight 
into  the  boundless  starlit  depths  overhead,  in  a  rapture  of  devout 
wonder  at  that  endless  brightness  and  beauty— in  some  such  a  way 
now,  the  deptli  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  1  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  vanity1?  To  be  rich,  to  be 
famous  ?  What  do  these  profit  a  year  hence,  when  other  names 
sound  louder  than  yours,  wrhen  you  lie  hidden  away  under  the 
ground,  along  with  idle  titles  engraven  on  your  coftin  1  But  only 
true  love  lives  after  you — follows  your  memory  with  secret  bless- 
ing— 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  1     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  death  separate  us.    Come  away — leave  this  Europe,  this  place 
which  has  so  many  sad  recollections  for  you.      Begin  a  new  life  in      \ 
a  new  world.     My  good  Lord  often  talked  of  visiting  that  land  in       \ 
Virginia  which  King  Charles  gave  us — gave  his  ancestor.     Frank        \ 
will  give  us  that.     No  man  there  wilt  ask  if  there  is  a  blot  oil  my 
name,  or  inquire  in  the  woods  what  my  title  is." 


196"        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  And  my  children  —  and  my  duty  —  and  my  good  father, 
Henry  1 "  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,  some- 
times, 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  1 " 

"  Hush,  boy !  "  she  said,  and  it  was  with  a  mother's  sweet 
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  smallpox,  and  I  came  and  sat  by  you.  Ah  !  I 
prayed  that  I  might  die,  but  it  would  have  been  in  sin,  Henry. 
Oh,  it  is  horrid  to  look  back  to  that  time !  It  is  over  now  and 
past,  and  it  has  been  forgiven  me.  When  you  need  me  again,  I 
will  come  ever  so  far.  When  your  heart  is  wounded,  then  come  to 
me,  my  dear.  Be  silent !  let  me  say  all.  You  never  loved  me, 
dear  Henry — no,  you  do  not  now,  and  I  thank  Heaven  for  it.  I 
used  to  watch  you,  and  knew  by  a  thousand  signs  that  it  was  so. 
Do  you  remember  how  glad  you  were  to  go  away  to  college  1  '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. 


WELCOME  197 


CHAPTER   VII 

/  AM  MADE   WELCOME  AT  IVALCOTE 

AS  they  came  up  to  the  house  at  Waleote,  the  windows  from 
within  were  lighted  up  with  friendly  welcome ;  the  supper- 
table  was  spread  in  the  oak-parlour ;  it  seemed  as  if  forgive- 
ness and  love  were  awaiting  the  returning  prodigal.  Two  or  three 
familiar  faces  of  domestics  were  on  the  look-out  at  the  porch— the 
old  housekeeper  was  there,  and  young  Lockwood  from  Oastlewood 
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  1 "  and  Pincot,  who  was  older  and  no  handsomer  than 
usual,  made  a  curtsey  to  the  Captain,  as  she  called  Esmond,  and 
told  my  Lord  to  "  Have  done,  now  !  " 

"  And  here's  Jack  Lockwood.  He'll  make  a  famous  grenadier, 
Jack  ;  and  so  shall  I ;  we'll  both  'list  under  you,  cousin.  As  soon 
as  I  am  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  riband ;  I  knew  she  would  put  on 
one  as  soon  as  she  heard  a  captain  was  coming  to  supper." 

This  laughing  colloquy  took  place  in  the  hall  of  Waleote  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  riband  which  she 
wore,  and  upon  the  most  brilliant  white  neck  in  the  world. 

Esmond  had  left  a  child  and  found  a  woman,  grown  beyond  the 
common  height ;  and  arrived  at  such  a  dazzling  Completeness  of 
beauty,  that  his  eyes  might  well  show  surprise  and  delight  at  be- 


198        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

holding  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  undu- 
lations, and  waving  over  her  shoulders  ;  but  her  complexion  was 
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.  "  0  my  fine  mistress  !  is  this  the  way 
you  set  your  cap  at  the  Captain  1 "  She  approached,  shining  smiles 
upon  Esmond,  who  could  look  at  nothing  but  her  eyes.  She  ad- 
vanced holding  forward  her  head,  as  if  she  would  have  him  kiss  her 
as  he  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  child. 

"  Stop,"  she  said,  "  I  am  grown  too  big !  Welcome,  Cousin 
Harry  !  "  and  she  made  him  an  arch  curtsey,  sweeping  down  to  the 
ground  almost,  with  the  most  gracious  bend,  looking  up  the  while 
with  the  brightest  eyes  and  sweetest  smile.  Love  seemed  to  radiate; 
from  her.  Harry  eyed  her  with  such  a  rapture  as  the  first  lover 
is  described  as  having  by  Milton. 

"N'est-ee  pas?"  says  my  Lady,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  still 
hanging  on  his  arm. 

Esmond  turned  round  with  a  start  and  a  blush,  as  he  met  his 
mistress's  clear  eyes.  He  had  forgotten  her,  rapt  in  admiration  of 
the  filia  pidcrior. 

"  Right  foot  forward,  toe  turned  out,  so  :  now  drop  the  curtsey, 
and  show  the  red  stockings,  Trix.  They've  silver  clocks,  H;in\. 
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 


BEATRIX 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  AT  WALOOTE     199 

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,  "0  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  blessed  his  sleep  with  her  prayers. 

Next  morning  the  chaplain  read  prayers  to  the  little  household 
at  Walcote,  as  the  custom  was ;  Esmond  thought  Mistress  Beatrix 
did  not  listen  to  Tusher's  exhortation  much  :  her  eyes  were  wander- 
ing 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  conies 
and  takes  away  pretty  Beatrix  " — and  the  best  part  of  Tom  Tusher's 
exposition,  which  may  have  been  very  learned  and  eloquent,  was 
quite  lost  to  poor  Harry  by  this  vision  of  the  destined  lover,  who 
put  the  preacher  out. 

All  the  while  of  the  prayers,  Beatrix  knelt  a  little  way  before 
Harry  Esmond.  The  red  stockings  were  changed  for  a  pair  of 
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  look  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." 


200        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"She'll  never  look  as  good  as  you  do  if  she  lives  till  she's 
a  hundred,"  says  my  Lord,  taking  his  mother  by  the  waist,  and 
kissing  her  hand. 

"Do  I  look  very  wicked,  cousin?"  says  Beatrix,  turning  full 
round  on  Esmond,  with  her  pretty  face  so  close  under  his  chin,  that 
the  soft  perfumed  hair  touched  it.  She  laid  her  finger-tips  on  his 
sleeve  as  she  spoke ;  and  he  put  his  other  hand  over  hers. 

"  I'm  like  your  looking-glass,"  says  he,  "  and  that  can't  flatter 
you." 

"  He  means  that  you  are  always  looking  at  him,  my  dear,"  says 
her  mother  archly.  Beatrix  ran  away  from  Esmond  at  this,  and 
flew  to  her  mamma,  whom  she  kissed,  stopping  my  Lady's  mouth 
with  her  pretty  hand. 

"  And  Harry  is  very  good  to  look  at,"  says  my  Lady,  with  her 
fond  eyes  regarding  the  young  man. 

"If 'tis  good  to  see  a  happy  face,"  says  he,  "  you  see  that." 
My  Lady  said,  "  Amen,"  with  a  sigh ;  and  Harry  thought  the 
memory  of  her  dear  lord  rose  up  and  rebuked  her  back  again 
into  sadness ;  for  her  face  lost  the  smile,  and  resumed  its  look  of 
melancholy. 

"  Why,  Harry,  how  fine  we  look  in  our  scarlet  and  silver,  and 
our  black  periwig  !  "  cries  my  Lord.  "  Mother,  I  am  tired  of  my 
own  hair.  When  shall  I  have  a  peruke  ?  Where  did  you  get  your 
steenkirk,  Harry  1 " 

"It's  some  of  my  Lady  Dowager's  lace,"  says  Harry;  "she 
gave  me  this  and  a  number  of  other  fine  things." 

"  My  Lady  Dowager  isn't  such  a  bad  woman,"  my  Lord 
continued. 

"  She's  not  so — so  red  as  she's  painted,"  says  Miss  Beatrix. 

Her  brother  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I'll  tell  her  you  said  so  ;  by 
the  Lord,  Trix,  I  will ! "  he  cries  out. 

"  She'll  know  that  you  hadn't  the  wit  to  say  it,  my  Lord,"  says 
Miss  Beatrix. 

"  We  won't  quarrel  the  first  day  Harry's  here,  will  we,  mother  ? " 
said  the  young  lord.  "  We'll  see  if  we  can  get  on  to  the  new  year 
without  a  fight.  Have  some  of  this  Christmas  pie.  And  here 
comes  the  tankard ;  no,  it's  Pincot  with  the  tea." 

"  Will  the  Captain  choose  a  dish  1 "  asked  Mistress  Beatrix. 

"I  say,  Harry,"  my  Lord  goes  on,  "I'll  show  thee  my  horses 
after  breakfast ;  and  we'll  go  a  bird-netting  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." 


A    THEME    FOR    A    POET  201 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Beatrix,  to  amuse  our  kinsman  1 "  asks 
my  Lady. 

"I'll  listen  to  him,"  says  Beatrix.  "I  am  sure  he  has  a  hun- 
dred things  to  tell  us.  And  I'm  jealous  already  of  the  Spanish 
ladies.  Was  that  a  beautiful  mm  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  ;  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  1  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  waff  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 


202        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

to  this  treasure  ?  Is  memory  as  strong  as  expectancy  1  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  'ein ;  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  moi 
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  1 

The  second  day  after  Esmond's  coming  to  Walcote,  Tom  Tusher 
had  leave  to  take  a  holiday,  and  went  off  in  his  very  best  gown  and 
bands  to  court  the  young  woman  whom  his  Reverence  desired  to 
marry,  and  who  was  not  a  viscount's  widow,  as  it  turned  out,  but 
a  brewer's  relict  at  Southampton,  with  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds 
to  her  fortune  :  for  honest  Tom's  heart  was  under  such  excellent 
control,  that  Venus  herself  without  a  portion  would  never  have 
caused  it  to  flutter.  So  lie  rode  away  on  his  heavy-paced  gelding 
to  pursue  his  jogtrot  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  him- 
self, 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  under- 
stand 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    MARCHIONESS    OF    BLANDFORD"     203 

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  arid  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),  recalled  the  career 
of  Rochester,  and  outdid  the  successes  of  Grain mont.  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  pajig  of  wonder,  for 
he  was  curious  and  jealous  already. 

"  Nonsense,  my  Lord,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
My  Lady  Viscountess  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Esmond  and  cast 
her  eyes  down. 

"The  Marchioness  of  Blandford,"  says  Frank.  "Don't  you 
know — hath  not  Rouge  Dragon  told  you?"  (My  Lord  used  to 
call  the  Dowager  of  Chelsey  by  this  and  other  names.)  "  Bland- 
ford  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." 


204        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  I  think  we  had  best  leave  the  gentlemen  to  their  wine  and 
their  talk,"  says  Mrs.  Beatrix,  rising  up  with  the  air  of  a  young 
queen,  tossing  her  rustling  flowing  draperies  about  her,  and  quitting 
the  room,  followed  by  her  mother. 

Lady  Gas  tie  wood  again  looked  at  Esmond,  as  she  stooped  down 
and  kissed  Frank.  "Do  not  tell  those  silly  stories,  child,"  she  said: 
"  do  not  drink  much  wine,  sir ;  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  1  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  1  Damn  it,  sir,  what  are  they,  to 
turn  up  their  noses  at  us  1  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  —  !  lie  shall  marry  Beatrix,  or  tell  me  the 
reason  why.  We'll  marry  with  the  best  blood  of  England,  and  none 
\J  but  the  best  blood  of  England.  You  are  an  Esmond,  and  you  can't 
help  your  birth,  my  boy.  Let's  have  another  bottle.  What !  no 
more  ?  I've  drunk  three  parts  of  this  myself.  I  had  many  a  night 
with  my  father ;  you  stood  to  him  like  a  man,  Harry.  You  backed 
your  blood ;  you  can't  help  your  misfortune,  you  know, — no  man 
can  help  that." 

The  elder  said  he  would  go  in  to  his  mistress's  tea-table.     The 


BEATRIX'S    STARS  205 

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  svjv£§.tfix.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  1 703.  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  me1?"  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. 


206        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


\] 


CHAPTER   VIII 

FAMILY  TALK    ' 

WHAT  Harry  admired  and  submitted  to  in  the  pretty  lad 
his  kinsman  .was  (for  why  should  he  resist  it  ?)  the  calm- 
ness 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.  "Tin  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  1)  Francis  James, 
Marquis  and  Earl  of  Esmond  in  that  of  England.  The  late  lord 
refused  the  title  which  was  offered  to  him  by  my  godfather,  his  late 
Majesty.  You  should  know  that — you  are  of  our  family,  you  know 
-f-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  1 703 — I  shall  come  of  age  in 
1709.  I  shall  go  back  to  Castlewood ;  I  shall  live  at  Castlewood  ; 
I  shall  build  up  the  house.  My  property  will  be  pretty  well  restored 
by  then.  The  late  viscount  mismanaged  my  property,  and  left  it 
in  a  very  bad  state.  My  mother  is  living  close,  as  you  see,  and 
keeps  me  in  a  way  hardly  befitting  a  peer  of  these  realms ;  for  I 
have  but  a  pair  of  horses,  a  governor,  and  a  man  that  is  valet  and 
groom.  But  when  I  am  of  age,  these  things  will  be  set  right, 
Harry.  Our  house  will  be  as  it  should  be.  You  will  always  come 
to  Castlewood,  won't  you  1  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  1 "  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  every- 
thing. Blandford  will  marry  her — or —  "  and  here  he  put  his 


A    SECRET  207 

little  hand  on  his  sword — "  you  understand  the  rest.  Blandibrd 
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,  u  that  you  can  force  my  Lord  Blandford,  the 
son  of  the  first  man  of  this  kingdom,  to  marry  your  sister  at  sword's 
point  1 " 

"  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  Powis,  and  Francis  James, 
Marquis  of  Esmond ;  and  hark  you,  Harry, — now  swear  you  will 
never  mention  this.  Give  me  your  honour  as  a  gentleman,  for  you 
are  a  gentleman,  though  you  are  a — 

"  Well,  well  1 "  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  1 " 

Harry  again  made  a  vow  of  secrecy. 

"  WTell,  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  at  Trix  and  Blandford — you  should  have  seen  it !  And 
then  she  said  that  we  must  leave  directly,  and  abused  my  mamma 
who  was  cognisant  of  the  business  ;  but  she  wasn't — never  thinking 
about  anything  but  father.  And  so  we  came  down  to  Walcote. 


208        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Blandford  being  locked  up,  and  not  allowed  to  see  Trix.  But  / 
got  at  him.  I  climbed  along  the  gutter,  and  in  through  the  window, 
where  he  was  crying. 

"  '  Marquis,'  says  I,  when  he  had  opened  it  and  helped  me  in, 
'  you  know  I  wear  a  sword/  for  I  had  brought  it. 

"  *  O  Viscount,'  says  he — *  0  my  dearest  Frank  ! '  and  he 
threw  himself  into  my  arms  and  burst  out  a-crying.  '  I  do  love 
Mistress  Beatrix  so,  that  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  have  her.' 

" '  My  dear  Blandford,'  says  I,  '  you  '  are  young  .to  think  of 
marrying ; '  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 
ivitk  my  blodej  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  Fm  going  to 
Cambridge  soon  ;  and  if  he  doesn't  stand  to  his  promise  (for  he's 
only  wrote  once), — he  knows  I  wear  a  sword,  Harry.  Come  along, 
and  let's  go  see  the  cocking-match  at  Winchester." 

"...  But  I  say,"  he  added,  laughing,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't 
think  Trix  will  break  her  heart  about  him.  La  bless  you  !  when- 
ever 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 


I    AM    TEMPTED,—  20.0 

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  1  There  is  but  eight  years'  difference  between  us,  to  be 
sure ;  but  in  life  I  am  thirty  years  older.  How  could  I  ever  hope 
to  please  such  a  sweet  creature  as  that,  with  my  rough  ways  and 
glum  face  1  Say  that  I  have  merit  ever  so  much,  and  won  myself 
a  name,  could  she  ever  listen  to  me1?  She  must  be  my  Lady 
Marchioness,  and  I  remain  a  nameless  bastard.  0  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.)  "0  my 
mistress,  dearest  and  kindest,  will  you  be  contented  with  the  sacri- 
fice which  the  poor  orphan  makes  for  you,  whom  you  love,  and  who 
so  loves  you  1 " 

And  then  came  a  fiercer  pang  of  temptation.  "A  word  from 
me,"  Harry  thought,  "  a  syllabic  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  dis- 
covered, in  the  very  act,  as  it  were,  and  took  one  of  her  fair 
little  hands — it  was  that  which  had  her  marriage  ring  on — and 
kissed  it. 

"  It  is  best  that  it  should  be  so,  dearest  lady,"  he  said. 

"I  knew  you  were  going,  at  breakfast.  I — I  thought  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?" 

7  O 


210        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  I  had  but  three  days'  leave  from  Chelsey,"  Esmond  said,  as 
gaily  as  he  could.  "  My  aunt — she  lets  me  call  her  aunt — is  my 
mistress  now  !  I  owe  her  my  lieutenancy  and  my  laced  coat.  She 
has  taken  me  into  high  favour ;  and  my  new  General  is  to  dine  at 
Chelsey  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 
Chelsey  missive,  in  the  poor  Dowager's  usual  French  jargon,  per- 
mitted 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  1 " 

"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  1  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." 

"  0  Harry,  Harry !  it  is  none  of  these  follies  that  frighten 
me,"  cried  out  Lady  Castlewood.  "  Lord  Churchill  is  but  a  child, 
his  outbreak  about  Beatrix  was  a  mere  boyish  folly.  His  parents 
would  rather  see  him  buried  than  married  to  one  below  him  in 
rank.  And  do  you  think  that  I  would  stoop  to  sue  for  a  husband 
for  Francis  Esmond's  daughter ;  or  submit  to  have  my  girl  smuggled 
into  that  proud  family  to  cause  a  quarrel  between  son  and  parents, 
and  to  be  treated  only  as  an  inferior?  I  would  disdain  such  a 
meanness.  Beatrix  would  scorn  it.  Ah  !  Henry,  'tis  not  with 
you  the  fault  lies,  'tis  with  her.  I  know  you  both,  and  love  you : 
need  I  be  ashamed  of  that  love  now1?  No,  never,  never,  and  'tis 


AND    FLY    FROM    TEMPTATION  211 

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.  0 
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  wrords  true  which  his  fond 
mistress  spoke  from  her  sad  heart  1  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  despatched  thither 
with  a  flag ;  and  as  for  his  mistress,  'twas  difficult  to  say  with 
what  a  feeling  he  regarded  her.     'Twas  happiness  to  have  seen  \ 
her ;  'twas  no  great  pang  to  part ;  a  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,    I 
and  from  now  till  death  is  past,  and  beyond  it,  he  prays  that  sacred 
flame  may  ever  burn. 


212        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  IX 

7  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  Fusileers,  then  with 
their  colonel  in  Flanders ;  but  being  now  attached  to  the  suite  of 
Mr.  Lumley,  Esmond  did  not  join  his  own  regiment  until  more  than 
a  year  afterwards,  and  after  his  return  from  the  campaign  of  Blen- 
heim, 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  mourn- 
ing ;  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  smallpox,  and  was  dead  at  sixteen  years  of  age, 
\  and  so  poor  Frank's  schemes  for  his  sister's  advancement  were  over, 
and  that  innocent  childish  passion  nipped  in  the  birth. 

Esmond's  mistress  would  have  had  him  return,  at  least  her 
letters  hinted  as  much ;  but  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  this  was 
impossible,  and  our  young  man  took  his  humble  share  in  the  siege, 
which  need  not  be  described  here,  and  had  the  good-luck  to  escape 
without  a  wound  of  any  sort,  and  to  drink  his  General's  health  after 
the  surrender.  He  was  in  constant  military  duty  this  year,  and 
did  not  think  of  asking  for  a  leave  of  absence,  as  one  or  two  of  his 


HONOURS    TO    THE    CAPTAIN-GENERAL     213 

less  fortunate  friends  did,  who  were  cast  away  in  that  trememdous 
storm  which  happened  towards  the  close  of  November,  that  "jwhich 
ofjutu  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  en- 
hanced 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  civil  authorities  coming  to  meet  his  coaches ;  salvoes  of  cannon 
saluting  him,  canopies  of  state  being  erected  for  him  where  he 
stopped,  and  feasts  prepared  for  the  numerous  gentlemen  following 
in  his  suite.  His  Grace  reviewed  the  troops  of  the  States-General 
between  Liege  and  Maestricht,  and  afterwards  the  English  forces, 
under  the  command  of  General  Churchill,  near  Bois-le-Duc.  Every 
preparation  was  made  for  a  long  march ;  and  the  army  heard,  with 
no  small  elation,  that  it  was  the  Commandcr-in-Chief's  intention  to 
carry  the  war  out  of  the  Low  Countries,  and  to  march  on  the 
Mozelle.  Before  leaving  our  camp  at  Maestricht  we  heard  that  the 
French,  under  the  Marshal  Villeroy,  were  also  bound  towards  the 
Mozelle. 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  the  army  reached  Coblentz ;  and  next 
day,  his  Grace,  and  the  generals  accompanying  him,  went  to  visit 
the  Elector  of  Treves  at  his  Castle  of  Ehrenbreitstein,  the  horse  and 
dragoons  passing  the  Rhine  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, 


21-t        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  J;o  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  intrenchments  were  thrown  up,  and  thousands  of 
pioneers  employed  to  strengthen  the  position. 

On  the  2nd  of  July  his  Grace  stormed  the  post,  with  what 
success  on  our  part  need  scarce  be  told.  His  Grace  advanced  with 
six  thousand  foot,  English  and  Dutch,  thirty  squadrons,  and  three 
regiments  of  Imperial  Cuirassiers,  the  Duke  crossing  the  river  at 
the  head  of  the  cavalry.  Although  our  troops  made  the  attack  with 
unparalleled  courage  and  fury — rushing  up  to  the  very  guns  of  the 
enemy,  and  being  slaughtered  before  their  works — we  were  driven 
back  many  times,  and  should  not  have  carried  them,  but  that  the 
Imperialists  came  up  under  the  Prince  of  Baden,  when  the  enemy 
could  make  no  head  against  us :  we  pursued  him  into  the  trenches, 
making  a  terrible  slaughter  there,  and  into  the  very  Danube,  where 
a  great  part  of  his  troops,  following  the  example  of  their  generals, 
Count  Darcos  and  the  Elector  himself,  tried  to  save  themselves  by 
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  linkboys  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. 


MARLBOROUGH  2%]5 

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.  ^hy  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  Avar  *?  You,  gentk'iueii  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  fondle  1  Our 
chief,  whom  England  and  all  Europe,  saving  only  the  Frenchmen, 
worshipped  almost,  had  this  of  the  godlike  in  him,  ihat  he  was  im- 
passable 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 


v 
<\ 


2^)        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  pro- 
digious 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  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  1 
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. 


BLENHEIM  217 

Before  these  two  villages  and  the  French  lines  ran  a  little 
stream,  not  more  than  two  foot  broad,  through  a  marsh  (that  was 
mostly  dried  up  from  the  heats  of  the  weather),  and  this  stream 
was  the  only  separation  between  the  two  armies — ours  coming  up 
and  ranging  themselves  in  line  of  battle  before  the  French,  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning ;  so  that  our  line  was  quite  visible  to  theirs ; 
and  the  whole  of  this  great  plain  was  black  and  swarming  with 
troops  for  hours  before  the  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  mid-day  when  the  attack  began  on  our  left,  where 
Lord  Cutts  commanded,  the  bravest  and  most  beloved  officer  in  the 
English  army.  And  now,  as  if  to  make  his  experience  in  war 
complete,  our  young  aide-de-camp  having  seen  two  great  armies 
facing  each  other  in  line  of  battle,  and  had  the  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  peqptTcESrged  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, 


218        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

which  we  had  crossed  so  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  j  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  mis- 
fortunes 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  Hampshire  *  was  blubbering  over  his  master, 
whom  he  found  and  had  thought  dead,  and  a  surgeon  was  probing 
a  wound  in  the  shoulder,  which  he  must  have  got  at  the  same 
moment  when  his  horse  was  shot  and  fell  over  him.  The  battle 
was  over  at  this  end  of  the  field,  by  this  time :  the  village  was  in 
possession  of  the  English,  its  brave  defenders  prisoners,  or  fled,  or 
drowned,  many  of  them,  in  the  neighbouring  waters  of  Donau.  But 
for  honest  Lockwood's  faithful  search  after  his  master,  there  had 
no  doubt  been  an  end  of  Esmond  here,  and  of  this  his  story.  The 
marauders  were  out  rifling  the  bodies  as  they  lay  on  the  field,  and 
Jack  had  brained  one  of  these  gentry  with  the  club-end  of  his 
musket,  who  had  eased  Esmond  of  his  hat  and  periwig,  his  purse, 
and  fine  silver-mounted  pistols  which  the  Dowager  gave  him,  and 
was  fumbling  in  his  pockets  for  further  treasure,  when  Jack 
Lockwood  came  up  and  put  an  end  to  the  scoundrel's  triumph. 

Hospitals  for  our  wounded  were  established  at  Blenheim,  and 
here  for  several  weeks  Esmond  lay  in  very  great  danger  of  his  life  ; 
the  wound  was  not  very  great  from  which  he  suffered,  and  the  ball 
extracted  by  the  surgeon  on  the  spot  where  our  young  gentleman 
received  it ;  but  a  fever  set  in  next  day,  as  he  was  lying  in  hospital, 
'  and  that  almost  carried  him  away.  Jack  Lockwood  said  he  talked 
in  the  wildest  manner  during  his  delirium ;  that  he  called  himself 
the  Marquis  of  Esmond,  and  seizing  one  of  the  surgeon's  assistants 
who  came  to  dress  his  wounds,  swore  that  he  was  Madame  Beatrix,  and 

*  My  mistress,  before  I  went  this  campaign,  sent  me  John  Lockwood  out  of 
Walcote,  who  hath  ever  since  remained  with  me. — H.  E. 


EURYDICE  21J) 

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  Wiirtemberg's  city  of  Stuttgard  that  he  made  his 
way  homewards,  revisiting  Heidelberg  again,  whence  he  went  to 
Mannheim,  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  some- 
thing far  more  beautiful  and  delightful. 

^x^As  bright  and  welcome  as  the  eyes  almost  of  his  mistress  shone 
the  lights  of  Harwich,  as  the  packet  came  in  from  Holland.  It 
was  not  many  hours  ere  he,  Esmond,  was  in  London,  of  that  you 
may  be  sure,  and  received  with  open  arms  by  the  old  Dowager  of 
Chelsey,  who  vowed,  in  her  jargon  of  French  and  English,  that 
he  had  the  air  noble,  that  his  pallor  embellished  him,  that  he  was 
an  Amadis  and  deserved  a  Gloriana ;  and  oh  !  flames  and  darts  ! 
what  was  his  joy  at  hearing  that  his  mistress  was  come  into  wait- 
ing, and  was  now  with  her  Majesty  at  Kensington  !  Although  Mr. 
Esmond  had  told  Jack  Lock  wood  to  get  horses  and  they  would 
ride  for  Winchester  that  night,  when  he  heard  this  news  he  counter- 
manded 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  Gloriana. 
Was  the  fire  of  the  French  lines  half  so  murderous  as  the  killing 
glances  from  her  Ladyship's  eyes  ?  Oh  !  darts  and  raptures,  how 
beautiful  were  they  ! 

And  as,  before  the  blazing  sun  of  morning,  the  moon  fades 
away  in  the  sky  almost  invisible,  Esmond  thought,  with  a  blush 
perhaps,  of  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. 


220        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER    X 

• 
AN  OLD  STORY  ABOUT  A  FOOL  AND  A 

,    ' 

ATY  taste  for  pleasure  which  Esmond  had  (and  he  liked  to 
desipere  in  loco,  neither  more  nor  less  than  most  young  men 
of  his  age)  he  could  now  gratify  to  the  utmost  extent,  and 
in  the  best  company  which  the  town  afforded.  When  the  army 
went  into  winter  quarters  abroad,  those  of  the  officers  who  had 
interest  or  money  easily  got  leave  of  absence,  and  found  it  much 
pleasanter  to  spend  their  time  in  Pall  Mall  and  Hyde  Park,  than 
to  pass  the  winter  away  behind  the  fortifications  of  the  dreary 
old  Flanders  towns,  where  the  English  troops  were  gathered. 
Yachts  and  packets  passed  daily  between  the  Dutch  and  Flemish 
ports  and  Harwich ;  the  roads  thence  to  London  and  the  great  inns 
were  crowded  with  army  gentlemen ;  the  taverns  and  ordinaries  of 
the  town  swarmed  with  red-coats;  and  our  great  Duke's  levdes 
at  St.  James's  were  as  thronged  as  they  had  been  at  Ghent  and 
Brussels,  where  we  treated  him,  and  he  us,  witli  the  grandeur 
and  ceremony  of  a  sovereign.  Though  Esmond  had  been  appointed 
to  a  lieutenancy  in  the  Fusileer  regiment,  of  which  that  celebrated 
officer,  Brigadier  John  Richmond  Webb,  was  colonel,  he  had  never 
joined  the  regiment,  nor  been  introduced  to  its  excellent  commander, 
though  they  had  made  the  same  campaign  together,  and  been 
engaged  in  the  same  battle.  But  being  aide-de-camp  to  General 
Lumley,  who  commanded  the  division  of  horse,  and  the  army 
marching  to  its  point  of  destination  on  the  Danube  by  different 
routes,  Esmond  had  not  fallen  in,  as  yet,  with  his  commander 
and  future  comrades  of  the  fort ;  and  it  was  in  London,  in  Golden 
Square,  where  Major-General  Webb  lodged,  that  Captain  Esmond 
had  the  honour  of  first  paying  his  respects  to  his  friend,  patron, 
an<^  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  :  — 


BRIGADIER    WEBB  221 

"  To  noble  danger  Webb  conducts  tbe  way, 
His  great  example  all  his  troops  obey  ; 
Before  the  front  the  General  sternly  rides, 
With  such  an  air  as  Mars  to  battle  strides : 
Propitious  Heaven  must  sure  a  hero  save, 
Like  Paris  handsome,  and  like  Hector  brave." 

Mr.  Webb  thought  these  verses  quite  as  fine  as  Mr.  Addison's 
on  the  Blenheim  Campaign,  and,  indeed,  to  be  Hector  a  la  mode  de 
Paris  was  part  of  this  gallant  gentleman's  ambition.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  an  officer  in  the  whole  army,  or  amongst 
the  splendid  courtiers  and  cavaliers  of  the  Maison  du  Roy,  that 
fought  under  Vendosme  and  Villeroy  in  the  army  opposed  to  ours. 
who  was  a  more  accomplished  soldier  and  perfect  gentleman,  and 
either  braver  or  better-looking.  And  if  Mr.  Webb  believed  of  him- 
self 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  1  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,  Koaldus  de 
Richmond,  rode  by  William  the  Conqueror's  side  on  Hastings  field. 
"  We  were  gentlemen,  Esmond,"  he  used  to  say,  "when  the  Chinchilla 
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  peri- 
wig, and  hat  and  feather,  he  could  not  have  been  less  than  eight 
feet  high).  "  I  arn  taller  than  Churchill,"  he  would  say,  surveying 
himself  in  the  glass,  "  and  I  am  a  better-made  man ;  and  if  the 
women  won't  like  a  man  that  hasn't  a  wart  on  his  nose,  faith,  I 
can't  help  myself,  and  Churchill  has  the  better  of  me  there."  In- 
deed, 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  encour- 
age 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  lieu- 
tenants 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 


222        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


wives 
Duke 


wives  to  feel  against  their  husbands'  enemies.  Not  that  my  Lord 
was  so  yet ;  Mr.  Webb  had  said  a  thousand  things  against 
him,  which  his  superior  had  pardoned ;  and  his  Grace,  whose  spies 
were  everywhere,  had  heard  a  thousand  things  more  that  Webb  had 
never  said.  But  it  cost  this  great  man  no  pains  to  pardon ;  and  he 
passed  over  an  injury  or  a  benefit  alike  easily. 

Should  any  child  of  mine  take  the  pains  to  read  these  his 
ancestor's  memoirs,  I  would  not  have  him  judge  of  the  great  Duke  * 
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  levde,  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  representatives  of  the  Viscount  Castlewood,  took  no  sort 
_of  notice  of  the  poor  lieutenant  who  bore  their  name.  A  word  of 
kindness  or  acknowledgment,  or  a  single  glance  of  approbation, 
[  might  have  changed  Esmond's  opinion  of  the  great  man ;  and  instead 
"of  a  satire,  which  his  pen  cannot  help  writing,  who  knows  but  that 
JJie^ humble  historian  might  have  taken  the  other  side  of  panegyric? 
We  have  but  to  change  the  point  of  view,  and  the  greatest  action 
^5  1  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 
grieat  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 

*  This  passage  in  the  Memoirs  of  Esmond  is  written  on  a  leaf  inserted  into 
the  MS.  book,  and  dated  1744,  probably  after  he  had  heard  of  the  Duchess's 
death. 


THE    CONTROVERSY    AT    COURT  223 

more  notice  of  him  than  of  the  smallest  drummer  in  his  Grace's 
army.  The  Dowager  of  Chelsey  was  furious  against  this  neglect  of 
her  family,  and  had  a  great  battle  with  Lady  Marlborough  (as  Lady 
Castlewood  insisted  on  calling  the  Duchess).  Her  Grace  was  now 
Mistress  of  the  Robes  to  her  Majesty,  and  one  of  the  greatest  per- 
sonages 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  among  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.  "  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  deatli  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  levies  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  £3000  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 


224        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  youth- 
ful extravagances,  so  that  Doctor  Bentley,  the  new  Master  of  Trinity, 
thought  fit  to  write  to  the  Viscountess  Castlewood,  my  Lord's 
mother,  and  beg  her  to  remove  the  young  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  prank ;  he  gave  a  dinner- 
party on  the  Prince  of  Wales's  birthday,  which  was  within  a  fort- 
night of  his  own,  and  the  twenty  young  gentlemen  then  present 
sallied  out  after  their  wine,  having  toasted  King  James's  health  with 
open  windows,  and  sung  cavalier  songs,  and  shouted  "God  save 
the  King ! "  in  the  great  court,  so  that  the  Master  came  out  of  his 
lodge  at  midnight,  and  dissipated  the  riotous  assembly. 

This  was  my  Lord's  crowning  freak,  and  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Tusher,  Domestic  Chaplain  to  the  Right  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  a  guardian  and  adviser 
to  his  wayward  young  kinsman ;  but  my  young  lord  would  hear 
of  nothing  but  the  Guards,  and  a  commission  was  got  for  him  in  the 
Duke  of  Ormond's  regiment :  so  Esmond  found  my  Lord  ensign  and 
lieutenant  when  he  returned  from  Germany  after  the  Blenheim 
campaign. 

The  effect  produced  by  both  Lady  Castlewood's  children  when 
they  appeared  in  public  was  extraordinary,  and  the  whole  town 
speedily  rang  with  their  fame :  such  a  beautiful  couple,  it  was 
declared,  never  had  been  seen;  the  young  maid  of  honour  was 
toasted  at  every  table  and  tavern,  and  as  for  my  young  lord,  liis 
good  looks  were  even  more  admired  than  his  sister's.  A  hundred 


THE    YOUNG    PEOPLE  225 

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  Chelsey,  though  she  could  never  be  got 
to  acknowledge  that  Mistress  Beatrix  was  any  beauty  at  all  (in  which 
opinion,  as  it  may  be  imagined,  a  vast  number  of  the  ladies  agreed 
with  her),  yet,  on  the  very  first  sight  of  young  Castlewood,  she 
owned  she  fell  in  love  with  him ;  and  Henry  Esmond,  on  his  return 
to  Chelsey,  found  himself  quite  superseded  in  her  favour  by  her 
younger  kinsman.  The  feat  of  drinking  the  King's  health  at  Cam- 
bridge would  have  won  her  heart,  she  said,  if  nothing  else  did. 
"How  had  the  dear  young  fellow  got  such  beauty1?"  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  gentle- 
man. 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,  Shakspeare  (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 
7  p 


226        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

man  blushing  and  in  confusion  before  her,  then  fairly  burst  out 
a-crying,  and  kissed  him  before  her  daughters  and  company.  "  He 
was  my  boy's  friend,"  she  said,  through  her  sobs.  "My  Bland- 
ford  might  have  been  like  him."  And  everybody  saw,  after 
this  mark  of  the  Duchess's  favour,  that  my  young  Lord's  pro- 
motion was  secure,  and  people  crowded  round  the  favourite's 
favourite,  who  became  vainer  and  gayer,  and  more  good-humoured 
than  ever. 

Meanwhile  Madame  Beatrix  was  making  her  conquests  on  her 
own  side,  and  amongst  them  was  one  poor  gentleman,  wlio  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  amor  is,  a  speedy  retreat  from  before  the  charmer, 
and  a  long  absence  from  her ;  and  not  being  dangerously  smitten 
in  the  first  instance,  Esmond  pretty  soon  got  the  better  of  his  com- 
plaint, 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  fied ;  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  arid  Harry,  being  on  the  same  errand,  used  to  meet  constantly 
at  Kensington.  They  were  always  prowling  about  that  place,  or 
dismally  walking  thence,  or  eagerly  running  thither.  They  emptied 
scores  of  bottles  at  the  "  King's  Arms,"  each  man  prating  of  his 
love,  and  allowing  the  other  to  talk  on  condition  that  he  might 
have  his  own  turn  as  a  listener.  Hence  arose  an  intimacy  be- 
tween them,  though  to  all  the  rest  of  their  friends  they  must 


I  RELAPSE  INTO  THE  OLD  FEVER    227 

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  1 — 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  surfer,  so  that  he  may  ease  his 
selfish  heart  of  a  part  of  its  own  pain  1  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,  Avhat  days  of  torment,  of  passionate  unfulfilled 
desire,  of  sickening  jealousy  can  he  recall !  Beatrix  thought  no 
more  of  him  than  of  the  lacquey  that  followed  her  chair.  His  com- 
plaints 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,  con- 
stant 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  stand-dish,  and 
performing  a  hundred  mad  freaks  of  passionate  folly;  seeing  his 
mistress  at  last  quite  pale  and  tired  out  with  sheer  weariness  of 
compassion,  and  watching  over  his  fever  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Esmond  seized  up  his  hat  and  took  his  leave.  As  he  got  into 
Kensington  Square,  a  sense  of  remorse  came  over  him  for  the  weari- 
some pain  he  had  been  inflicting  upon  the  dearest  and  kindest  friend 
ever  man  had.  He  went  back  to  the  house,  where  the  servant  still 
stood  at  the  open  door,  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  found  his  mistress 
where  he  had  left  her  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  looking 
over  the  fields  towards  Chelsey.  She  laughed,  wiping  away  at  the 
same  time  the  tears  which  were  in  her  kind  eyes ;  he  flung  himself 


228 


THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


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. 


DICK    ST-EELE  229 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  FAMOUS  MR.  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

THE  gentlemen-ushers  had  a  table  at  Kensington  and  the  Guard 
a  very  splendid  dinner  daily  at  St.  James's,  at  either  of  which 
ordinaries  Esmond  was  free  to  dine.  Dick  Steele  liked  the 
Guard-table  better  than  his  own  at  the  gentlemen-ushers',  where 
there  was  less  wine  and  more  ceremony ;  and  Esmond  had  many  a 
jolly  afternoon  in  company  of  his  friend,  and  a  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  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  one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  by  chance 


230        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  com- 
panion'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  book-stall,  took  him 
in  his  arms,  hugged  him,  and  would  have  kissed  him — for  Dick  was 
always  hugging  and  bussing  his  friends — but  the  other  stepped  back 
with  a  flush  on  his  pale  face,  seeming  to  decline  this  public  mani- 
festation of  Steele's  regard. 

"My  dearest  Joe,  where  hast  thou  hidden  thyself  this  age1?" 
cries  the  Captain,  still  holding  both  his  friend's  hands ;  "I  have 
been  languishing  for  thee  this  fortnight." 

"  A  fortnight  is  not  an  age,  Dick,"  says  the  other,  very  good- 
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  1 " 

"  What !  not  across  the  water,  my  dear  Joe  1 "  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  1 " 

" Harry  Esmond,  come  hither,"  cries  out  Dick.  "Thou  hast 
heard  me  talk  over  and  over  again  of  my  dearest  Joe,  my  guardian 
angel?" 

" Indeed,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  with  a  bow,  "it  is  not  from  you 
only  that  I  have  learnt  to  admire  Mr.  Addison.  We  loved  good 
poetry  at  Cambridge  as  well  as  at  Oxford;  and  I  have  some  of 
yours  by  heart,  though  I  have  put  on  a  red  coat.  .  .  .  '0  qui 
canoro  blandius  Orpheo  vocale  ducis  carmen ; '  shall  I  go  on,  sir  1 " 
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. 


MR.    ADDISON  231 

"We  were  going  to  the  'George'  to  take  a  bottle  before  the 
play,"  says  Steele  :  "wilt  thou  be  one,  Joel" 

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  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  ate  his  simple  dinner  in  a  very  few  minutes,  after  which 
the  three  fell  to  and  began  to  drink.  "  You  see,"  says  Mr.  Addison, 
pointing  to  his  writing-table,  whereon  was  a  map  of  the  action  at 
Hochstedt,  and  several  other  gazettes  and  pamphlets  relating  to  the 
battle,  "that  I,  too,  am  busy  about  your  affairs,  Captain.  lam 
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  depu- 
tation to  compliment  the  chief,  and  fired  a  salute  with  all  their 
artillery  from  their  walls." 

"  And  drunk  the  great  chiefs  health  afterward,  did  not  they  ? " 
says  Captain  Steele,  gaily  filling  up  a  bumper  ; — he  never  was  tardy 
at  that  sort  of  acknowledgment  of  a  friend's  .merit. 

"  And  the  Duke,  since  you  will  have  me  act  his  Grace's  part," 
says  Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile,  and  something  of  a  blush,  "  pledged 
his  friends  in  return.  Most  Serene  Elector  of  Covent  Garden,  I 


232        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

drink  to  your  Higlmess's  health,"  and  he  filled  himself  a  glass. 
Joseph  required  scarce  more  pressing  than  Dick  to  that  sort  of 
amusement ;  but  the  wine  never  seemed  at  all  to  fluster  Mr. 
Addison's  brains ;  it  only  unloosed  his  tongue :  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  sound  in  every  brake. 
The  listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow  stands, 
Loth  to  obey  his  leader's  just  commands. 
The  leader  grieves,  by  generous  pity  swayed, 
To  see  his  just  commands  so  well  obeyed  ;"— 

by  this  time  wine  and  friendship  had  brought  poor  Dick  to  a 
perfectly  maudlin  state,  and  he  hiccupped  out  the  last  line  with 
a  tenderness  that  set  one  of  his  auditors  a-laughing. 

"I  admire  the  licence  of  your  poets,"  says  Esmond  to  Mr. 
Addison.  (Dick,  after  reading  of  the  verses,  was  fain  to  go  off, 
insisting  on  kissing  his  two  dear  friends  before  his  departure,  and 
reeling  away  with  his  periwig  over  his  eyes.)  "  I  admire  your 
art :  the  murder  of  the  campaign  is  done  to  military  music,  like  a 
battle  at  the  opera,  and  the  virgins  shriek  in  harmony  as  our 
victorious  grenadiers  march  into  their  villages.  Do  you  know  what 
a  scene  it  was1?" — (by  this  time,  perhaps,  the  wine  had  warmed 
Mr.  Esmond's  head  too) — "what  a  triumph  you  are  celebrating? 
what  scenes  of  shame  and  horror  were  enacted,  over  which  the 
commander's  genius  presided,  as  calm  as  though  he  didn't  belong 
to  our  sphere  ?  "  You  talk  of  the  '  listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow/ 


ARS    POETICA  233 

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.  0  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  1 "  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  1  Of  all  the  weeds 
grown  on  earth,  sure  the  nicotian  is  the  most  soothing  and  salutary. 
We  must  paint  our  great  Duke,"  Mr.  Addison  went  on,  "not  as  a 
man,  which  no  doubt  he  is,  with  weaknesses  like  the  rest  of  us, 
but  as  a  hero.  'Tis  in  a  triumph,  not  a  battle,  that  your  humble 
servant  is  riding  his  sleek  Pegasus.  We  college  poets  trot,  you 
know,  on  very  easy  nags ;  it  hath  been,  time  out  of  mind,  part  of 
the  poet's  profession  to  celebrate  the  actions  of  heroes  in  verse, 
and  to  sing  the  deeds  which  you  men  of  war  perform.  I  must 
follow  the  rules  of  my  art,  and  the  composition  of  such  a  strain 
as  this  must  be  harmonious  and  majestic,  not  familiar,  or  too 
near  the  vulgar  truth.  Si  parva  .licet :  if  Virgil  could  invoke 
the  divine  Augustus,  a  'humbler  poet  from  the  banks  of  the  Isis 
may  celebrate  a  victory  and  a  conqueror  of  our  own  nation,  in 
whose  triumphs  every  Briton  has  a  share,  and  whose  glory  and 
genius  contributes  to  every  citizen's  individual  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  distinction1?  If  'tis  in  my  power  to  sing  that 
song  worthily,  I  will  do  so,  and  be  thankful  to  my  Muse.  If  I 


234        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

fail  as  a  poet,  as  a  Briton  at  least  I  will  show  my  loyalty,  and 
fling  up  my  cap  and  liuzzali  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  chiefs  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  1  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 
brave1?  every  man  is  brave.  But  in  being  victorious,  as  he  is,  I 
fancy  there  is  something  divine.  In  presence  of  the  occasion,  the 
great  soul  of  the  leader  shines  out,  and  the  god  is  confessed.  Death 
itself  respects  him,  and  passes  by  him  to  lay  others  low.  War  and 
carnage  flee  before  him  to  ravage  other  parts  of  the  field,  as  Hector 
from  before  the  divine  Achilles.  You  say  he  hath  no  pity  :  no 
more  have  the  gods,  who  are  above  it,  and  superhuman.  The 
fainting  battle  gathers  strength  at  his  aspect ;  and,  wherever  he 
rides,  victory  charges  with  him." 

A  couple  of  days  after,  when  Mr.  Esmond  revisited  his  poetic 
friend,  he  found  this  thought,  struck  out  in  the  fervour  of  con- 
versation, improved  and  shaped  into  those  famous  lines,  which  are 
in  truth  the  noblest  in  the  poem  of  the  "  Campaign."  As  the  two 
gentlemen  sat  engaged  in  talk,  Mr.  Addison  solacing  himself  with 
his  customary  pipe,  the  little  maid-servant  that  waited  on  his 
lodging  came  up,  preceding  a  gentleman  in  fine  laced  clothes,  that 
had  evidently  been  figuring  at  Court  or  a  great  man's  leve'e.  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. 


A    MESSENGER    OF    FORTUNE  235 

"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 :  hie  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  proelia  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,  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. 


236        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  Does  not  the  chamber  look  quite  dark  1 "  says  Addison,  survey- 
ing 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  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 


I    RETURN    TO    FLANDERS  237 

once  as  the  greatest  poet  the  world  had  seen  for  ages ;  the  people 
huzzahed  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  the  countess  his  wife,  was  no  better  than  a 
shrew  and  a  vixen. 

Gay  as  the  town  was,  'twas  but  a  dreary  place  for  Mr.  Esmond, 
whether  his  charmer  was  in  or  out  of  it,  and  he  was  glad  when  his 
General  gave  him  notice  that  he  was  going  back  to  his  division  of 
the  army  which  lay  in  winter  quarters  at  Bois-le-Duc.  His  dear 
mistress  bade  him  farewell  with  a  cheerful  face ;  her  blessing  he 
knew  he  had  always,  and  wheresoever  fate  carried  him.  Mistress 
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  1 
and  she  was  pleased  to  say  that  she  would  like  a  mantle  of  Mechlin 
lace.  She  made  him  a  saucy  curtsey  in  reply  to  his  own  dismal 
bow.  She  deigned  to  kiss  her  finger-tips  from  the  window,  where 
she  stood  laughing  with  the  other  ladies,  and  chanced  to  see  him  as 
he  made  his  way  to  the  "Toy."  The  Dowager  at  Chelsey  was  not 
sorry  to  part  with  him  this  time.  "Mon  cher,  vous  etes  triste 
comme  un  sermon,"  she  did  him  the  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, 


238         THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

though,  God  knows,  that  fond  heart  was  fearful  enough  when  others 
were  concerned,  though  so  resolute  in  bearing  its  own  pain. 

Esmond's  General  embarked  at  Harwich.  'Twas  a  grand  sight 
to  see  Mr.  Webb  dressed  in  scarlet  on  the  deck,  waving  his  hat  as 
our  yacht  put  off',  and  the  guns  saluted  from  the  shore.  Harry  did 
not  see  his  Viscount  again,  until  three  months  after,  at  Bois-le-Duc, 
when  his  Grace  the  Duke  came  to  take  the  command,  and  Frank 
brought  a  budget  of  news  from  home :  how  he  had  supped  with 
this  actress,  and  got  tired  of  that ;  how  he  -had  got  the  better  of 
Mr.  St.  John,  both  over  the  bottle,  and  with  Mrs.  Mo'untford,  of 
the  Hay  market  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. 


THE    DUKE'S    MODESTY  239 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  GET  A   COMPANY  IN   THE  CAMPAIGN  OF  1706 

ON  Whit  Sunday,  the  famous  23rd  of  May  1706,  rny  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-dglise, 
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  Mare'chal  Villeroy,  over  whom  the  Prince 
of  Savoy  had  gained  the  famous  victory  of  Chiari.  What  English- 
man or  Frenchman  doth  not  know  the  issue  of  that  day  1  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  pre- 
sence 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  irre- 
sistibly 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  vain-glory,  in  nowise  to  his  own  bravery  or  skill,  but  to 


240        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  recognised  the  Prince-Duke, 
and  calling  out  "  Marlborough,  Marlborough  ! "  fired  his  pistol  at 
him  a  bout-portant,  and  that  a  score  more  carbines  and  pistols  were 
discharged  at  him.  Not  one  touched  him :  he  rode  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  Commaiider-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  re 
treat  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  numerous  fleet,  flung  it  all 
to  the  winds,  shattered,  sunk,  and  annihilated  it :  ajflavit  I)eus,  et 


RAMILLIES  241 

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  Seignior's  Janissaries,  and  round  which 
they  rally  even  more  than  round  their  lilies. 

The  pursuit,  and  a  dreadful  carnage  which  ensued  (for  the  dregs 
of  a  battle,  however  brilliant,  are  ever  a  base  residue  of  rapine, 
cruelty,  and  drunken  plunder),  was  carried  far  beyond  the  field  of 
Rarnillies. 

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  headquarters,  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 ;  and 
after  the  song  came  a  chorus,  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ; "  and 
Esmond  heard  Frank's  fresh  voice,  soaring,  as  it  were,  over  the 
songs  of  the  rest  of  the  young  men— a  voice  that  had  always  a 
certain  artless,  indescribable  pathos  with  it,  and  indeed  which  caused 
Mr.  Esmond's  eyes  to  fill  with  tears  now,  out  of  thankfulness  to  God 
the  child  was  safe  and  still  alive  to  laugh  and  sing. 

When  the  song  was  over,  Esmond  entered  the  room,  where  he 
knew  several  of  the  gentlemen  present,  and  there  sat  my  young  lord, 
having  taken  off  his  cuirass,  his  waistcoat  open,  his  face  flushed,  his 
long  yellow  hair  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  drinking  with  the  rest ; 
the  youngest,  gayest,  handsomest  there.  As  soon  as  lie  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, 
7  Q 


242        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

while  my  Lady  sits  and  thinks  about  her  boy  that  is  at  the  war." 
As  Esmond  embraced  his  young  pupil  now,  'twas  with  a  feeling  of 
quite  religious  thankfulness  and  an  almost  paternal  pleasure  that  he 
beheld  him. 

Round  his  neck  was  a  star  with  a  striped  riband,  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  gentle- 
men :  "  did  you  win  it  in  battle  1 " 

"  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  Fd  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  1  Go, 
find  them  in  the  proper  books  ;  this  is  only  the  story  of  your  grand- 
father 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 
nowise  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  Major- 
General  Webb  in  his  report  after  the  action;  and  the  major  of  his 
regiment  and  two  of  the  captains  having  been  killed  upon  tho  d;iy 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  243 

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  pro- 
tection 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  gentleman  of  St.  James's 
said,  and  then  jilted  him  for  a  duke,  who,  in  his  turn,  had  drawn 
off.  Earl  or  duke  it  might  be  who  should  win  this  Helen,  Esmond 
knew  she  would  never  bestow  herself  on  a  poor  captain.  Her  con- 
duct, 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. 


244        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER  XIII 

/  MEET  A\T  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,  ad- 
miring 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  officer's  face.  As  he  rose  up,  putting  away  into  his  pocket 
a  little  black  breviary,  such  as  priests  use,  Esmond  beheld  a  counte- 
nance 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  mustachio  as 
any  Pandour. 

He  laughed — we  were  on  the  church  steps  by  this  time,  passing 
through  the  crowd  of  beggars  that  usually  is  there  holding  up  little 
trinkets  for  sale  and  whining  for  alms.  "  You  speak  Latin,"  says 
he,  "in  the  English  way,  Harry  Esmond;  you  have  forsaken  the 


A    JESUIT    CAPTAIN  245 

old  true  Roman  tongue  you  once  knew."  His  tone  was  very  frank, 
and  quite  friendly ;  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  after- 
wards :  we  have  friends  everywhere ;  and  I  am  told  that  Mr. 
Esmond  at  Cambridge  was  as  good  a  fencer  as  lie  was  a  bad  theo- 
logian." (So;  thinks  Esmond,  my  old  maltre  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, 
M.  de  Castlewood,  served  his  first  campaign  this  year  in  the  Guard. 
Yes,  I  do  know  a  few  things,  as  you  see." 

Captain  Esmond  laughed  in  his  turn.  "  You  have  indeed  a 
curious  knowledge,"  he  says.  A  foible  of  Mr.  Holt's,  who  did  know 
more  about  books  and  men  than,  perhaps,  almost  any  person  Esmond 
had  ever  met,  was  omniscience ;  thus  in  every  point  he  here  pro- 
fessed 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  1  The  Princess  Anne 
has  the  gout  and  eats  too  much;  when  the  King  returns,  Collier 
will  be  an  archbishop." 


246        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"Amen!"  says  Esmond,  laughing;  "and  I  hope  to  see  your 
Eminence  no  longer  in  jackboots,  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  least  sign  of 
intelligence  in  his  impenetrable  grey  eyes — how  well  Harry  remem- 
bered 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  sour-crout  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  domination1?  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  her1?  This  talk,  very  idle  and  abusive  much  of  it  was,  went 
on  at  a  hundred  mess-tables  in  the  army;  there  was  scarce  an 


A    NEGOTIATOR 


247 


ensign  that  did  not  hear  it,  or  join  in  it,  and  everybody  knew,  or 
affected  to  know,  that  the  Commander-in-Chief  himself  had  relations 
with  his  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Berwick  ('twas  by  an  Englishman, 
thank  God,  that  we  were  beaten  at  Almanza),  and  that  his  Grace 
was  most  anxious  to  restore  the  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  entertain- 
ing 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  con- 
summate 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,  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  Fusileers  were  thrown  very  much  together.  Esmond 
had  no  difficulty  in  finding  out  (indeed,  the  other  made  no  secret 
of  it  to  him,  being  assured  from  old  times  of  his  pupil's  fidelity) 
that  the  negotiator  of  prisoners  was  an  agent  from  St.  Germains, 
and  that  he  carried  intelligence  between  great  personages  in  our 


248        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  sub- 
jects 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  botli  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  Villars'  own  guinguette.  Another  day 
he  had  the  news  of  his  Majesty's  ague :  the  King  had  not  had  a 
fit  these  ten  days,  and  might  be  said  to  be  well.  Captain 
Holtz  made  a  visit  to  England  during  this  time,  so  eager  was  he 
about  negotiating  prisoners ;  and  'twas  on  returning  from  this 
voyage  that  he  began  to  open  himself  more  to  Esmond,  and  to 
make  him,  as  occasion  served,  at  their  various  meetings,  several 
of  those  confidences  which  are  here  set  down  all  together. 

The  reason  of  his  increased  confidence  was  this  :  upon  going 
to  London,  the  old  director  of  Esmond's  aunt,  the  Dowager,  paid 
her  Ladyship  a  visit  at  Chelsey,  and  there  learnt  from  her  that 
Captain  Esmond  was  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  his  family,  and 
was  determined  never  to  divulge  it.  The  knowledge  of  this  fact 
raised  Esmond  in  his  old  tutor's  eyes,  so  Holt  was  pleased  to  say, 
and  he  admired  Harry  very  much  for  his  abnegation. 

"The  family  at  Castlewood  have  done  far  more  for  me  than 
my  own  ever  did,"  Esmond  said.  "  I  would  give  my  life  for  them. 
Why  should  I  grudge  the  only  benefit  that  'tis  in  my  power  to 
confer  on  them  3  "  The  good  Father's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  this 
speech,  which  to  the  other  seemed  very  simple :  he  embraced 
Esmond,  and  broke  out  into  many  admiring  expressions ;  he  said  he 
was  a  noble  coeur,  that  he  was  proud  of  him,  and  fond  of  him  as 
his  pupil  and  friend — regretted  more  than  ever  that  he  had  lost  him, 
and  been  forced  to  leave  him  in  those  early  times,  when  Ire  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 


FATHER    HOLT    FLATTERS    ME  249 

heroes  the  world  ever  knew : — warriors  brave  enough  to  dare  or 
endure  anything,  to  encounter  any  odds,  to  die  any  death  ; — soldiers 
that  have  won  triumphs  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant  than  those  of 
the  greatest  general ;  that  have  brought  nations  on  their  knees  to 
their  sacred  banner,  the  Cross ;  that  have  achieved  glories  and 
palms  incomparably  brighter  than  those  awarded  to  the  most  splendid 
earthly  conquerors — crowns  of  immortal  light,  and  seats  in  the  high 
places  of  heaven. 

Esmond  was  thankful  for  his  old  friend's  good  opinion,  however 
little  he  might  share  the  Jesuit  Father's  enthusiasm.  "  I  have 
thought  of  that  question,  too,"  says  he,  "dear  Father,"  and  he  took 
the  other's  hand — "thought  it  out  for  myself,  as  all  men  must, 
and  contrive  to  do  the  right,  and  trust  to  Heaven  as  devoutly  in 
my  way  as  you  in  yours.  Another  six  months  of  you  as  a,  child, 
and  I  had  desired  no  better.  I  used  to  weep  upon  my  pillow  at 
Castlewood  as  I  thought  of  you,  and  I  might  have  been  a  brother 
of  your  order;  and  who  knows,"  Esmond  added  with  a  smile,  "a 
priest  in  full  orders,  and  with  a  pair  of  mustachios,  and  a  Bavarian 
uniform  1 " 

"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  Saint  Francis  Xavier  sailed  over  the  sea  in  a  cloak, 
or  raised  the  dead — I  tried,  and  very  nearly  did  once,  but  cannot. 
Suffer  me  to  do  the  right,  and  to  hope  for  the  best  in  my 
own  way." 

Esmond  wished  to  cut  short  the  good  Father's  theology,  and 
succeeded ;  and  the  other,  sighing  over  his  pupil's  invincible  igno- 
rance, 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. 

V  She  was  of  this  very  town,"  Holt  said,  and  took  Esmond  to 
see  the  street  where  her  father  lived,  and  where,  as  he  believed, 


250\       THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

\  she  was  born.  "In  1679,  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  him- 
self Captain  Thomas,  having  good  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  con- 
duct 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  wretched- 
ness 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,  your  Lordship 
was  christened  at  St.  Gudule  by  the  same  curd  who  married  your 
parents,  and  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thomas,  son  of  E.  Thomas, 
officier  Anglois,  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  con- 
fession 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  Virginian  plantations,  where,  indeed,  your  family 


MY    EARLY    HISTORY  251 

had  a  grant  of  land  from  King  Charles  the  First ;  sent  her  a  supply 
of  money,  the  half  of  the  last  hundred  guineas  he  had,  entreated  her 
pardon,  and  bade  her  farewell. 

"  Poor  Gertrude  never  thought  that  the  news  in  this  letter  might 
be  untrue  as  the  rest  of  your  father's  conduct  to  her.  But  though 
a  young  man  of  her  own  degree,  who  knew  her  history,  and  whom 
she  liked  before  she  saw  the  English  gentleman  who  was  the  cause 
of  all  her  misery,  offered  to  marry  her,  and  to  adopt  you  as  his  own 
child,  and  give  you  his  name,  she  refused  him.  This  refusal  only 
angered  her  father,  who  had  taken  her  home ;  she  never  held  up 
her  head  there,  being  the  subject  of  constant  unkindness  after  her 
fall;  and  some  devout  ladies  of  her  acquaintance  offering  to  pay 
a  little  pension  for  her,  she  went  into  a  convent,  and  you  were  put 
out  to  nurse. 

"  A  sister  of  the  young  fellow  who  would  have  adopted  you  as 
his  son  was  the  person  who  took  charge  of  you.  Your  mother  and 
this  person  were  cousins.  She  had  just  lost  a  child  of  her  own, 
which  you  replaced,  your  own  mother  being  too  sick  and  feeble  to 
feed  you ;  and  presently  your  nurse  grew  so  fond  of  you,  that  she 
even  grudged  letting  you  visit  the  convent  where  your  mother  was, 
and  where  the  nuns  petted  the  little  infant,  as  they  pitied  and  loved 
its  unhappy  parent.  Her  vocation  became  stronger  every  day,  and 
at  the  end  of  two  years  she  was  received  as  a  sister  of  the  house. 

"Your  nurse's  family  were  silk- weavers  out  of  France,  whither 
they  returned  to  Arras  in  French  Flanders,  shortly  before  your 
mother  took  her  vows,  carrying  you  with  them,  then  a  child  of  three 
years  old.  'Twas  a  town,  before  the  late  vigorous  measures  of  the 
French  King,  full  of  Protestants,  and  here  your  nurse's  father,  old 
Pastoureau,  he  with  whom  you  afterwards  lived  at  Baling,  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 


252        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

and  her  son.  Mr.  Thomas  Esmond  also  recognised  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  caj6le  a  woman 
or  a  dun  with  a  volubility,  and  an  air  of  simplicity  at  the  same  time, 
of  which  many  a  creditor  of  his  has  been  the  dupe.  His  tales  used 
to  gather  verisimilitude  as  he  went  on  with  them.  He  strung 
together  fact  after  fact  with  a  wonderful  rapidity  and  coherence.  It 
required,  saving  your  presence,  a  very  long  habit  of  acquaintance 

with  your  father  to  know  when  his  Lordship  was  1 ,  — telling 

the  truth  or  no. 

"  He  told  me  with  rueful  remorse  when  he  was  ill— for  the  fear 
of  death  set  him  instantly  repenting,  and  with  shrieks  of  laughter 
when  he  was  well,  his  Lordship  having  a  very  great  sense  of  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  to :  that  he  could  not  help :  he  was  quite  ready  with  tears 
at  a  moment's  warning,  and  shed  them  profusely  to  melt  his  credulous 
listener.  He  wept  for  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  the  care  of  the  infant :  you  were  now  near  six  years  old ;  and  on 
Pastoureau  bluntly  telling  him,  when  he  proposed  to  go  that  instant 
and  see  the  darling  child,  that  they  never  wished  to  see  his  ill- 
omened  face  again  within  their  doors ;  that  he  might  have  the  boy, 
though  they  should  all  be  very  sorry  to  lose  him ;  and  that  they 


MY    EARLY    HISTORY  253 

would  take  his  money,  they  being  poor,  if  he  gave  it ;  or  bring  him 
up,  by  God's  help,  as  they  had  hitherto  done,  without :  he  acquiesced 
in  this  at  once,  with  a  sigh,  said,  '  Well,  'twas  better  that  the  dear 
child  should  remain  with  friends  who  had  been  so  admirably  kind 
to  him ; '  and  in  his  talk  to  me  afterwards,  honestly  praised  and 
admired  the  weaver's  conduct  and  spirit ;  owned  that  the  Frenchman 
was  a  right  fellow,  and  he,  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  him,  a  sad 
villain. 

"Your  father,"  Mr.  Holt  went  on  to  say,  "was  good-natured 
with  his  money  when  he  had  it ;  and  having  that  day  received  a 
supply  from  his  uncle,  gave  the  weaver  ten  pieces  with  perfect  free- 
dom, 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  pro- 
tector 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  Sceur  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.  Surely  he  knelt 


254        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  witli  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. 


THE    CAMPAIGN    OF    1707  255 


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  began  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  in- 
trigues, 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  Fusileers,"  says  our 
General,  "  we  would  not  have  laid  down  our  arms,  even  to  our  old 
colonel,  as  Galway  did ;  "  and  Webb's  officers  swore  if  we  had  had 
Webb,  at  least  we  would  not  have  been  taken  prisoners.  Our  dear 
old  General  talked  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. 

Mysterious  Mr.  Holtz  went  olf  on  a  secret  expedition  in  the 


2.56        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  keep- 
ing 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  1 708  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  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  signalised  his  arrival  at  the  army 


CASTLEWOOD    IS    HIT  257 

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  IVEajor  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  headquarters,  but  Webb's  regiment, 
as  its  Colonel,  was  known  to  be  in  the  Commander-in-Chief's  black 
books  :  "  And  if  he  did  not  dare  to  break  it  up  at  home,"  our 
gallant  old  chief  used  to  say,  "he  was  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  him- 
self 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 
7  B, 


258        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

passion  he  had  still  lurking  about  him.  Away  from  Beatrix,  it  did 
not  trouble  him  ;  but  he  knew  as  certain  that  if  he  returned  home, 
his  fever  would  break  out  again,  and  avoided  Walcote  as  a  Lincoln- 
shire man  avoids  returning  to  his  fens,  where  he  is  sure  that  the 
ague  is  lying  in  wait  for  him. 

We  of  the  English  party  in  the  army,  who  were  inclined  to 
sneer  at  everything  that  came  out  of  Hanover,  and  to  treat  as  little 
better  than  boors  and  savages  the  Elector's  Court  and  family,  were 
yet  forced  to  confess  that,  on  the  day  of  Oudenardo,  the  young 
Electoral  Prince,  then  making  his  first  campaign,  conducted  himself 
with  the  spirit  and  courage  of  an  approved  soldier.  On  this  occa- 
sion 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  admir- 
able commander  on  their  own  side,  they  chose  to  neglect  the 
counsels,  and  to  rush  into  a  combat  with  the  former,  which  would 
have  ended  in  the  utter  annihilation  of  their  army  but  for  the 
great  skill  and  bravery  of  the  Duke  of  Vendosme,  who  remedied,  as 
far  as  courage  and  genius  might,  the  disasters  occasioned  by  the 
squabbles  and  follies  of  his  kinsmen,  the  legitimate  princes  of  the 
blood  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  always 
going  on,  and  was  at  least  that  ostensible  one  which  kept  Mr. 
Holtz  perpetually  on  the  move  between  the  forces  of  the  French 
and  the  Allies.  I  can  answer  for  it,  that  he  was  once  very  near 
hanged  as  a  spy  by  Major-General  Wayne,  when  he  was  released 
and  sent  on  to  headquarters  by  a  special  order  of  the  Commander- 
in-chief.  He  came  and  went,  always  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. 


PRINCE    EUGENE  259 

"  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  oppor- 
tunity fell  into  General  Webb's  way,  which  that  gallant  warrior  did 
not  neglect,  and  which  gave  him  the  means  of  immensely  increasing 
His  reputation  at  home. 

After  Oudenarde,  and  against  the  counsels  of  Marlborough,  it 
was  said,  the  Prince  of  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  iii  the  assault  and  the  defence.  The 
enmity  of  the  Prince  of  Savoy  against  the  French  King  was  a 
furious  personal  hate,  quite  unlike  the  calm  hostility  of  our  great 
English  General,  who  was  no  more  moved  by  the  game  of  war  than 
that  of  billiards,  and  pushed  forward  his  squadrons,  and  drove  his 
red  battalions  hither  and  thither,  as  calmly  as  he  would  combine  a 
stroke  or  make  a  cannon  with  the  balls.  The  game  over  (and  he 
played  it  so  as  to  be  pretty  sure  to  win  it),  not  the  least  animosity 
against  the  other  party  remained  in  the  breast  of  this  consummate 
tactician.  Whereas  between  the  Prince  of  Savoy  and  the  French 
it  was  guerre  a  mort.  Beaten  off  in  one  quarter,  as  he  had  been 
in  Toulon  in  the  last  year,  he  was  back  again  on  another  frontier 
of  France,  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 


260        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

hundreds  of  thousands  of  men.  The  Emperor's  General  was  repay- 
ing, and  with  a  vengeance,  the  slight  the  French  King  had  put  upon 
the  fiery  little  Abb£  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  com- 
manded 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  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  com- 
mission was  to  rob  these  almost  starving  wretches — to  tear  the  food 
out  of  their  granaries,  and  strip  them  of  their  rags.  'Twas  an  ex- 
pedition 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, 


WAS    HE    A    TRAITOR?  261 

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  com- 
mander. 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 
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  had  betrayed  every  friend  he  had,  to  further  his  own 
schemes  of  avarice  or  ambition.  But  for  the  miraculous  victory 
which  Esmond's  General  won  over  an  army  six  or  seven  times  greater 
than  his  own,  the  siege  of  Lille  must  have  been  raised ;  and  it  must 
be  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  afterwards  by  the  most  open  and  shameless 
injustice  to  rob  him  of  the  credit  of  his  victory. 


262        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


•A) 


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  per- 
fectly successful.  The  Duke's  great  army  lying  at  Helchin,  and 
covering  the  siege,  and  it  being  necessary  for  M.  de  Vendosme  to 
get  news  of  the  condition  of  the  place,  Captain  du  Bois  performed 
his  famous  exploit :  not  only  passing  through  the  lines  of  the  siege, 
but  swimming  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  under- 
take to  hold  the  place  till  October;  and  that  if  one  of  the  con- 
voys 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  2000  infantry  and  300  horse.  At 
the  same  time  M.  de  la  Mothe  quitted  Bruges,  having  with  him 
five-and-thirty  battalions,  and  upwards  of  sixty  squadrons  and  forty 
guns,  in  pursuit  of  the  convoy. 

Major-General  Webb  had  meanwhile  made  up  a  force  of  twenty 


WYNENDAEL  263 

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  M.  de  la  Mothe  came  up,  he 
found  us  posted  in  two  lines  in  front  of  the  wood ;  and  formed  his 
own  army  in  battle  facing  ours,  in  eight  lines,  four  of  infantry  in 
front,  and  dragoons  and  cavalry  behind. 

The  French  began  the  action,  as  usual,  with  a  cannonade  which 
lasted  three  hours,  when  they  made  their  attack,  advancing  in  eight 
lines,  four  of  foot  and  four  of  horse,  upon  the  allied  troops  in  the 
wood  where  we  were  posted.  Their  infantry  behaved  ill :  they 
were  ordered  to  charge  with  the  bayonet,  but,  instead,  began  to 
fire,  and  almost  at  the  very  first  discharge  from  our  men,  broke 
and  fled.  The  cavalry  behaved  better;  with  these  alone,  who 
were  three  or  four  times  as  numerous  as  our  whole  force,  Monsieur 
de  la  Mothe  might  have  won  victory  :  but  only  two  of  our  battalions 
were  shaken  in  the  least ;  and  these  speedily  rallied  :  nor  could  the 
repeated  attacks  of  the  French  horse  cause  our  troops  to  budge 
an  inch  from  the  position  in  the  wood  in  which  our  General  had 
placed  them. 

After  attacking  for  two  hours,  the  French  retired  at  nightfall 
entirely  foiled.  With  all  the  loss  we  had  inflicted  upon  him,  the 
enemy  was  still  three  times  stronger  than  we  :  and  it  could  not  be 
supposed  that  our  General  could  pursue  M.  de  la  Mothe,  or  do 
much  more  than  hold  our  ground  about  the  wood,  from  which  the 
Frenchmen  had  in  vain  attempted  to  dislodge  us.  La  Mothe 
retired  behind  his  forty  guns,  his  cavalry  protecting  them  better 
than  it  had  been  able  to  annoy  us;  and  meanwhile  the  convoy, 
which  was  of  more  importance  than  all  our  little  force,  and  the  safe 
passage  of  which  we  would  have  dropped  to  the  last  man  to  accom- 
plish, 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),  accom- 
panied 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 


THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  headquarters,  the  two  Generals 
at  parting  grimly  saluting  each  other. 

"  He  will  be  at  Roncq  time  enough  to  lick  my  Lord  Duke's 
trenchers  at  supper,"  says  Mr.  Webb. 

Our  own  men  lay  out  in  the  woods  of  Wynendael  that  night, 
and  our  General  had  his  supper  in  the  little  castle  there. 

"  If  I  was  Cadogan,  I  would  have  a  peerage  for  this  day's 
work,"  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  despatch 
to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and  recommend  thee  to  poor 
Dick  Harwood's  vacant  majority.  Have  you  ever  a  hundred 
guineas  to  give  CardonneU  Slip  them  into  his  hand  to-morrow, 
when  you  go  to  headquarters  with  my  report." 

In  this  report  the  Major-General  was  good  enough  to  mention 
Captain  Esmond's  name  with  particular  favour;  and  that  gentle- 
man carried  the  despatch  to  headquarters  the  next  day,  and  was 
not  a  little  pleased  to  bring  back  a  letter  by  his  Grace's  secretary, 
addressed  to  Lieuten.ant-General  Webb.  The  Dutch  officer  de- 
spatched by  Count  Nassau  Woudenbourg,  Vselt-Mareschal  Auver- 
querque'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 
despatch,  and  saluted  Mr.  Webb  as  Lieutenant-General,  as  he 
gave  it  in.  The  gentlemen  round  about  him — he  was  riding  with 
his  suite  on  the  road  to  Menin  as  Esmond  came  up  with  him — gave 
a  cheer,  and  he  thanked  them,  and  opened  the  despatch  with 
rather  a  flushed,  eager  face. 

He  slapped  it  down  on  his  boot  in  a  rage  after  he  had  read  it. 
"'Tis  not  even  writ  with  his  own  hand.  Read  it  out,  Esmond." 
And  Esmond  read  it  out : — 

"  SIB, — Mr.  Cadogan  is  just  now  come  in,  and  has  acquainted 
me  with  the  success  of  the  action  you  had  yesterday  in  the  after- 
noon against  the  body  of  troops  commanded  by  M.  de  la  Mothe,  at 


WE    DINE    WITH    PKINCE    EUGENE          265 

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. 

"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  1  Don't  we  fight  that  he  may  roll  in  riches  1  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  oft' 
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 


266        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Highness  spoke, 
and  gave,  "  Le  vainqueurde  Wynendael;  son  arme'e  et'sa  victoire," 
adding,  "qui  nous  font  diner  a  Lille  aujourd'huy" — 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  Castle  wood.  "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 
acknowledgment,  some  one  brought  in  an  English  Gazette — and  was 
passing  it  from  hand  to  hand  down  the  table.  Officers  were  eager 
enough  to  read  it ;  mothers  and  sisters  at  home  must  have  sickened 
over  it.  There  scarce  came  out  a  Gazette  for  six  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  Dolma's  buff-coat  to  OUT  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 
\J  to  read  my  name  after  Ramillies,  in  the  London  Gazette  ? — Viscount, 
Castlewood  serving  a  volunteer I  say,  what's  yonder  1 " 

Mr.  Webb,  reading  the  Gazette,  looked  very  strange — slapped 
it  down  on  the  table — then  sprang  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 


THE    "GAZETTE"    NOT    TRUTHFUL          267 

and  Denmark,  under  a  baldaquin),  and  Webb  could  not  reach  him, 
tall  as  he  was. 

"  Stay,"  says  he,  with  a  smile,  as  if  catching  at  some  idea,  and 
then,  with  a  perfect  courtesy,  drawing  his  sword,  he  ran  the  Gazette 
through  with  the  point,  and  said,  "  Permit  me  to  hand  it  to 
your  Grace. 

The  Duke  looked  very  black.  "  Take  it,"  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  subse- 
quent behaviour,  had  the  satisfaction  of  even  more  angering  the 
Commander-in-Chief,  than  he  could  have  done  by  any  public  exhi- 
bition of  resentment. 

On  returning  to  his  quarters,  and  consulting  with  his  chief 
adviser,  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  now  entirely  in  the  General's  confi- 
dence, 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  com- 
manding in  the  late  action  of  Wynendael,  must  have  caused  a  feeling 
of  anything  but  pleasure  to  the  General  who  fought  that  action. 

"  Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  Mr.  Cadogan  was  not  even 
present  at  the  battle,  though  he  arrived  with  squadrons  of  horse  at 
its  close,  and  put  himself  under  the  command  of  his  superior  officer. 
And  as  the  result  of  the  battle  of  Wynendael,  in  which  Lieutenant- 
General  Webb  had  the  good  fortune  to  command,  was  the  capture 
of  Lille,  the  relief  of  Brussels,  then  invested  by  the  enemy  under 
the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  the  restoration  of  the  great  cities  of  Ghent 
and  Bruges,  of  which  the  enemy  (by  treason  within  the  walls)  had 
got  possession  in  the  previous  year,  Mr.  Webb  cannot  consent  to 
forego  the  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 


268        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

army,  and  return  to  his  place  in  Parliament,  where  he  gives  notice 
to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief,  that  he  shall  lay  his  case 
before  the  House  of  Commons,  the  country,  and  her  Majesty  the 
Queen. 

"  By  his  eagerness  to  rectify  that  false  statement  of  the  Gazette, 
which  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  his  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.* 

*  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  Chelsey,  who  afterwards  told  Colonel 
Esmond  :  "Tom  Esmond's  bastard  has  been  to  my  lev£e  :  he  has  the  hangdog 
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  exceed- 
ingly partial  to  Webb,  whose  side  he  took  against  the  more  celebrated  general. 
We  have  General  Webb's  portrait  now  at  Castlewood,  Va. 


BLOODY    MOHUN  269 

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  headquarters,  who 
had  belied  him.  Mr.  Cardonnel  offered  General  WTebb  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  regi- 
ment 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  Castle- 
wood  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  pre- 
sented 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.  To  do  him  justice,  he  wished 
to  have  no  quarrel  with  the  lad. 

Esmond  put  himself  between  them  at  table.     "  D it,"  says 


270        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Frank,  "  why  do  you  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  a  man  who  is 
above  you  in  degree  1  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,  im- 
ploring 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  had  put  Mohun  out 
J  of  the  world,  as  he  might,  a  villain  would  have  been  punished  and 
spared  further  villainies — but  who  is  one  man  to  punish  another  ? 
I  declare  upon  my  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. 

"0  Harry!  why  didn't  you  kill  the  villain?"  young  Castle- 
wood asked.  "  I  can't  walk  without  a  crutch  :  but  I  could  have 
met  him  on  horseback  with  sword  and  pistol."  But  Harry  Esmond 
said,  "  'Twas  best  to  have  no  man's  life  on  one's  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, 


GENERAL    WEBB    IS    FEASTED  271 

for  my  Lady  Castlewood  of  Chelsey  received  him  as  if  he  had  been 
a  conquering  hero.  She  gave  a  great  dinner  to  Mr.  Webb,  where 
the  General's  chair  was  crowned  with  laurels ;  and  her  Ladyship 
called  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'd  and  applauded  him, 
as  well  as  the  fine  company  :  it  was  splendid  to  see  him  waving  his 
hat,  and  bowing,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  Order  of  Generosity. 
He  introduced  Mr.  Esmond  to  Mr.  St.  John  and  the  Right  Honourable 
Robert  Harley,  Esquire,  as  he  came  out  of  the  House  walking  between 
them ;  and  was  pleased  to  make  many  flattering  observations  re- 
garding 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  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 


272        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  chiefs  popularity,  and  was  presented  to  her 
Majesty,  and  advanced  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel,  at  the 
request  of  his  grateful  chief. 

We  may  be  sure  there  was  one  family  in  which  any  good  fortune 
that  happened  to  Esmond  caused  such  a  sincere  pride  and  pleasure, 
that  he,  for  his  part,  was  thankful  he  could"  make  them  so  happy. 
With  these  fond  friends  Blenheim  and  Oudenarde  seemed  to  be  mere 
trifling  incidents  of  the  war;  and  Wynendael  was  its  crowning 
victory.  Esmond's  mistress  never  tired  to  hear  accounts  of  the 
battle  ;  and  I  think  General  Webb's  lady  grew  jealous  of  her,  for 
the  General  was  for  ever  at  Kensington,  and  talking  on  that  delight- 
ful theme.  As  for  his  aide-de-camp,  though,  no  doubt,  Esmond's 
own  natural  vanity  was  pleased  at  the  little  share  of  reputation 
which  his  good  fortune  had  won  him,  yet  it  was  chiefly  precious  to 
him  (he  may  say  so,  now  that  he  hath  long  since  outlived  it)  because 
it  pleased  his  mistress,  and,  above  all,  because  Beatrix  valued  it. 

As  for  the  old  Dowager  of  Chelsey,  never  was  an  old  woman  in 
all  England  more  delighted  nor  more  gracious  than  she.  Esmond 
had  his  quarters  in  her  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  Chelsey,  with  pretty  faces  and  pretty 
fortunes,  at  the  disposal  of  the  Colonel.  He  smiled  to  think  how 
times  were  altered  with  him,  and  of  the  early  days  in  his  father's 
lifetime,  when  a  trembling  page  he  stood  before  her,  with  her  Lady- 
ship'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  1  '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 


WHY    DO    WE    FALL    IN    LOVE?  273 

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,*  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,  she  was  flighty,  she  was  false,  she  had  no  rever- 
ence 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  1  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  1  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  society!  was  more  delightful  than  that  of  the  greatest  wits 
to  him.  May  Heaven  pardon  him  the  lies  he  told  the  Dowager  at 
Chelsey  in  order  to  get  a  pretext  for  going  away  to  Kensington : 
the  business  at  the  Ordnance  which  he  invented ;  the  interviews 
with  his  General,  the  courts  and  statesmen's  levies  which  he  didn't 
frequent,  arid  described ;  who  wore  a  new  suit  on  Sunday  at  St. 
James's  or  at  the  Queen's  birthday ;  how  many  coaches  filled  the 
street  at  Mr.  Barley's  leve'e  ;  how  many  bottles  he  had  had  the 
honour  to  drink  over-night  with  Mr.  St.  John  at  the  !'  Cocoa-Tree," 
or  at  the  "  Garter"  with  Mr.  Walpole  and  Mr.  Steele. 

Mistress  Beatrix  Esmond  had  been  a  dozen  times  on  the  point 
of  making  great  matches,  so  the  Court  scandal  said ;  but  for  his 

*  Tis  not  thus  woman  loves :  Col.  E.  hath  owned  to  this  folly  for  a  score  of 
women  besides. — R. 

f  And,  indeed,  so  .was  his  to  them,  a  thousand  thousand  times  more  charm- 
ing, for  where  was  his  equal  ? — R. 

7  S 


274        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

part  Esmond  never  would  believe  the  stories  against  her ;  and  came 
back,  after  three  years'  absence  from  her,  not  so  frantic  as  he  had 
been  perhaps,  but  still  hungering  after  her  and  no  other ;  still  hope- 
ful, 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  perceptive- 
ness  affection  gives.  "But  she  will  make- no  mean  match,  Harry; 
she  will  not  marry  as  I  would  have  her ;  the  person  wliom  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  com- 
mand. Why  should  a  mother  speak  so  of  her  child  1  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,  iny  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 
^y  with  it.  What  care  I  to  be  a  colonel  or  a  general  1  Think  you 
'twill  matter  a  few  score  years  hence,  what  our  foolish  honours 
to-day  are  1  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  com- 
plaint. I  think  my  fidelity  is  folly,  perhaps.  But  so  it  is.  I 
cannot  help  myself.  I  love  her.  You  are  a  thousand  times  better : 
the  fondest,  the  fairest,  the  dearest  of  women.  Sure,  my  dear  lady, 
I  see  all  Beatrix's  faults  as  well  as  you  do.  But  she  is  my  fate. 
'Tis  endurable.  I  shall  not  die  for  not  having  her.  I  think  I 


QUE    VOULEZ-VOUS?     JE    L'AIME  275 

should  be  no  happier  if  I  won  her.  Que  voulez-vous  ?  as  my  Lady 
of  Chelsey  would  say.  Je  1'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  met  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  com- 
prehend, was  born  with  Beatrix,  who,  on  the  first  day  of  her 
waiting,  was  a  perfect  courtier.  We  are  like  sisters,  and  she 
the  elder  sister,  somehow.  She  tells  me  I  have  a  mean  spirit. 
I  laugh,  and  say  she  adores  a  coach-and-six.  I  cannot  reason  her 
out  of  her  ambition.  'Tis  natural  to  her,  as  to  me  to  love  quiet, 
and  be  indifferent  about  rank  and  riches.  What  are  they,  Harry  1 
and  for  how  long  do  they  last  1  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  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  expres- 


276        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

sion,  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  Chelsey,  too,  whose  chairman  had 
just  brought  her  Ladyship  from  her  village  to  Kensington  across 
the  fields.  After  this  honour,  I  say,  from  the  two  ladies  of  Castle- 
wood, 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  entertain- 
ment ;  and  the  ladies  were  in  gala  dresses— my  Lady  of  Chelsey  in 
her  highest  tour,  my  Lady  Viscountess  out  of  black,  and  looking  fair 


A    FEAST    AT    KENSINGTON  277 

and  happy  a  ravir;  and  the  Maid  of  Honour  attired  with  that  splen- 
dour 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  riband  for  a  sword- 
knot.  "  What  is  this  1 "  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  riband,  and  mamma  hath  sewn  on  the  fringe. 

"  Put  the  sword  on  him,  Beatrix,"  says  her  mother.  "You  are 
our  knight,  Harry — our  true  knight.  Take  a  mother's  thanks  and 
prayers  for  defending  her  son,  my  dear,  dear  friend.  She  could  say 
no  more,  and  even  the  Dowager  was  affected,  for  a  couple  of  re- 
bellious 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        \j 
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 


278        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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, 
Harry1?  She  is  furious,  and  she  ranges  about  the  Park  like  a  lioness, 
and  tears  people's  eyes  out." 

"  And  the  Princess  Anne  will  send  for  somebody,"  says  my  Lady 
of  Chelsey,  taking  out  her  medal  and  kissing  it. 

"Did  you  see  the  King  at  Oudenarde,  Harry1?"  his  mistress 
asked.  She  was  a  staunch  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. 

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  bene- 
volence. 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  distiivisht 
officer  ithe  rex  roob,  who  would  overhear  her.  She  went  on,  never- 
theless, 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  1  How  am  I  to  go  trapesing  to  Kensington  in  my  yellow 
satin  sack  before  all  the  fine  company  1  I've  nothing  fit  to  put  on ; 
I  never  have : "  and  so  the  dispute  went  on — Mr.  Esmond  inter- 
rupting the  talk  when  it  seemed  to  be  growing  too  intimate  by 


MRS.    STEELE  279 

blowing  his  nose  as  loudly  as  ever  he  could,  at  the  sound  of  which 
trumpet  there  came  a  lull.  But  Dick  was  charming,  though  his 
wife  was  odious,  and  'twas  to  give  Mr.  Steele  pleasure  that  the 
ladies  of  Castlewood,  who  were  ladies  of  no  small  fashion,  invited 
Mrs.  Steele. 

^-Besides  the  Captain  and  his  lady  there  was  a  great  and  notable 
assemblage  of  company :  my  Lady  of  Chelsey  having  sent  her 
lacqueys  and  liveries  to  aid  the  modest  attendance  at  Kensington. 
There  was  Lieutenarit-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  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  oi 
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.  In- 
deed, 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  1 " 

"  Do  I  know  the  Mall  ?  Do  I  know  the  Opera  1  Do  I  know 
the  reigning  toast1?  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 — South- 
ampton 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  recognised  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 
••(  instant  effect,  though  it  is  never  the  design ;  yet  though  her  mien 


\1 


280        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  under- 
stand a  word  of  what  the  gentleman  was  saying. 

"Who  could  fail  to  be  accomplished  under  such  a  mistress1?" 
says  Mr.  St.  John,  still  gallant  and  bowing. 

"  Mistress  !  upon  my  word,  sir  !  "  cries  the  lady.  "  If  you  mean 
me,  sir,  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  am  the  Captain's  wife." 

"  Sure  we  all  know  it,"  answers  Mr.  St.  John,  keeping  his 
countenance  very  gravely ;  and  Steele  broke  in  saying,  "  'Twas 
not  about  Mrs.  Steele  I  writ  that  paper — though  I  am  sure  she 
is  worthy  of  any  compliment  I  can  pay  her — but  of  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  Hastings." 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Addison  is  equally  famous  as  a  wit  and  a  poet," 
says  Mr.  St.  John.  "Is  it  true  that  his  hand  is  to  be  found  in 
your  Tatler,  Mr.  Steele  ? " 

"  Whether  'tis  the  sublime  or  the  humorous,  no  man  can  come 
near  him,"  cries  Steele. 

"A  fig,  Dick,  for  your  Mr.  Addison  ! "  cries  out  his  lady :  "a 
gentleman  who  gives  himself  such  airs  and  holds  his  head  so  higli 
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." 

"  La,  I  could  tell  you  ever  so  much  about  'em,"  continues  the 
voluble  lady.  "What  do  you  think  the  Captain  has  got  now1? — 
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  shep- 
herdesses, you  know." 

"A  shepherd  should  have  a  little  crook,"  says  my  mistress, 
laughing  from  her  end  of  the  table  :  on  which  Mrs.  Steele  said, 
rt  She  did  not  know,  but  the  Captain  brought  home  this  queer  little 


WE    DRINK    TOASTS  281 

creature  when  she  was  in  bed  with  her  first  boy,  and  it  was  a  mercy 
he  had  come  no  sooner ;  and  Dick  raved  about  his  genus,  and  was 
always  raving  about  some  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-burniug.  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. 

"II  est  fatiguant,"  whispers  Mr.  St.  John,  "avec  sa  trompette 
de  Wyriendael." 

Captain  Steele,  who  was  not  of  our  side,  loyally  gave  the  health 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  greatest  general  of  the  age. 

"I  drink  to  the  greatest  general  with  all  my  heart,"  says 
Mr.  Webb ;  "  there  can  be  no  gainsaying  -that  character  of  him. 
My  glass  goes  to  the  General,  and  not  to  the  Duke,  Mr.  Steele." 
And  the  stout  old  gentleman  emptied  his  bumper ;  to  which  Dick 
replied  by  filling  and  emptying  a  pair  of  brimmers,  one  for  the 
General  and  one  for  the  Duke. 


282        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Chelsey,  and  the  town's  people  had 
gone  to  bed,  who  had  been  drawn  into  the  square  to  gape  at  .the 
unusual  assemblage  of  chairs  and  chariots,  lacqueys,  and  torchnieu. 
The  poor  mean  wretch  lingered  yet  for  a  few  minutes,  to  see 
whether  the  girl  would  vouchsafe  him  a  smile,  or  a  parting  word  of 
consolation.  But  her  enthusiasm  of  the  morning  was  quite  died 
out,  or  she  chose  to  be  in  a  different  mood.  She  fell  to  joking 
about  the  dowdy  appearance  of  Lady  Betty,  and  mimicked  the 
vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Steele ;  and  then  she  put  up  her  little  hand  to 
her  mouth  and  yawned,  lighted  a  taper,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and  dropping  Mr.  Esmond  a  saucy  curtsey,  sailed  oft'  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  i<m<l 
mistress  could  give  him  ;  and  as  he  trudged  home  through  the  dark 


MY    LORD    ASHBURNHAM 


283 


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  pro- 
mise to  her  father,  I  might  have  my  rank  and  my  mistress  too." 

I  suppose  a  man's  vanity  is  stronger  than  any  other  passion  in 
him ;  for  I  blush,  even  now,  as  I  recall  the  humiliation  of  those 
distant  days,  the  memory  of  which  still  smarts,  though  the  fever  of 
balked  desire  has  passed  away  more  than  a  score  of  years  ago. 
When  the  writer's  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  with  them — who  beckoning 
them  with  lures  and  caresses,  and  with  Yes  smiling  from  her  eyes, 
has  tricked  them  on  to  their  knees,  and  turned  her  back  and  left 
them  1  All  this  shame  Mr.  Esmond  had  to  undergo ;  and  he  sub- 
mitted, 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  com- 
pliments; bidding  him  to  dinner,  offering  him  horses  to  ride,  and 
giving  him  a  thousand  uncouth  marks  of  respect  and  good-will.  At 
last,  one  night  at  the  coffee-house,  whither  my  Lord  came  consider- 
ably flushed  and  excited  with  drink,  he  rushes  up  to  Mr.  Esmond, 
and  cries  out,  "  Give  me  joy,  my  dearest  Colonel ;  I  am  the  happiest 
of  men." 

"  The  happiest  of  men  needs  no  dearest  colonel  to  give  him 
joy,"  says  Mr.  Esmond.  "What  is  the  cause  of  this  supreme 
felicity  ? " 

"  Haven't  you  heard  1 "  says  he.  "  Don't  you  know  1  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  am  the  happiest  of  men  in  all  the  world ; 
and  I'm  very  young ;  but  she  says  I  shall  get  older :  and  you  know 
I  shall  be  of  age  in  four  months ;  and  there's  very  little  difference 


284        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  harpischord,  which  Esmond  had  writ,  and  they 
had  sung  together. 


I    RETIRE    FROM    THE    REGIMENT          285 


BOOK    III 

CONTAINING  THE  END  OF  MR.  ESMOND'S  ADVENTURES 
IN  ENGLAND 

CHAPTER    1 

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  timt  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  morej  Is 
he  the  only  man  that  hath  set  his  life  against  a  stake  which  may 
be  not  worth  the  winning  1  Another  risks  his  life  (and  his  honour, 
too,  sometimes)  against  a  bundle  of  bank-notes,  or  a  yard  of  blue 
riband,  or  a  seat  in  Parliament ;  and  some  for  the  mere  pleasure 
and  excitement  of  the  sport ;  as  a  field  of  a  hundred  huntsmen  will 
do,  each  out-bawling  and  out-galloping  the  other  at  the  tail  of  a 
dirty  fox,  that  is  to  be  the  prize  of  the  foremost  happy  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 
regiment,  and  was  knocked  on  the  head  the  next  campaign.  Perhaps 


286        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Esmond  would  not  have  been  sorry  to  share  his  fate.  He  was 
more  the  Knight  of  the  Woeful  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-Cliief  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, 
I  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  fears  *  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  how  fond  her  heart  was, 
how  humble  and  pious  her  spirit,  what  pangs  of  apprehension  slit- 
endured  silently,  and  with  what  a  faithful  reliance  she  committed 
the  care  of  those  she  loved  to  the  awful  Dispenser  of  death  and  life. 

As   for   her   Ladyship   at   Chelsey,   Esmond's   newly   adopted 

mother,  she  was  now  of  an  age  when  the  danger  of  any  second 

party  doth  not  disturb  the  rest  much.     She  cared  for  trumps  more 

than  for  most  things  in  life.     She  was  firm  enough  in  her  own 

*  What  indeed?     Psm.  xci.  2,  3,  7.— R.  E. 


MONSIEUR    GAUTHIER  287 

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  Chelsey,  and  was  well 
with  all  the  High  Church  party.  No  doubt  Monsieur  Gauthier 
knew  what  Esmond's  peculiar  position  was,  for  he  corresponded 
with  Holt,  and  always  treated  Colonel  Esmond  with  particular 
respect  and  kindness;  but  for  good  reasons  the  Colonel  and  the 
Abbe'  never  spoke  on  this  matter  together,  and  so  they  remained 
perfect  good  friends. 

'  All  the  frequenters  of  my  Lady  of  Chelsey 's  house  were  of  the 
Tory  and  High  Church  party.  Madam  Beatrix  was  as  frantic 
about  the  King  as  her  elderly  kinswoman  :  she  wore  his  picture 
on  her  heart ;  she  had  a  piece  of  his  hair ;  she  vowed  he  was  the 
most  injured,  and  gallant,  and  accomplished,  and  unfortunate,  and 
beautiful  of  princes.  Steele,  who  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  enter- 
ing 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  con- 
quered the  country,  and  held  and  governed  it  by  the  very  same 
right  that  the  great  Cromwell  held  it,  who  was  truly  and  greatly  a 
sovereign.  But  that  a  foreign  despotic  prince,  out  of  Germany,  who 
happened  to  be  descended  from  King  James  the  First,  should  take 
possession  of  this  empire,  seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond  a  monstrous  in- 
justice— 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. 


288        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

But  let  us  return  to  my  Lady  of  Chelsey,  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  Abbd  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.  How- 
ever, there  was  the  house  and  furniture,  plate  and  pictures  at 
Chelsey,  and  a  sum  of  money  lying  at  her  merchant's,  Sir  Josiah 
Child,  which  altogether  would  realise  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  gold- 
smith pronounced  they  would  fetch  no  more  than  four  thousand 
pounds.  These  diamonds,  however,  Colonel  Esmond  reserved, 
having  a  special  use  for  them;  but  the  Chelsey  house,  plate, 
goods,  &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  realise  the  aforesaid 
annual  income  of  three  hundred  pounds. 

Having  now  something  to  leave,  he  made  a  will  and  despatched 
it  home.  The  army  was  now  in  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  fortifica- 
tion 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. 


MALPLAQUET  289 

Tis  needless  to  say  that  Colonel  Esmond  had  left  every  penny 
of  his  little  fortune  to  this  boy.  It  was  the  Colonel's  firm  convic- 
tion 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  fore- 
bodings, 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.  / 
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  you  go  to  the  House  of  Commons,  and  be  a  Minister, 
and  be  made  a  Peer,  and  that  sort  of  thing?  You  be  shot  in  the 
next  action !  I  wager  a  dozen  of  burgundy  you  are  not  touched. 
Mohun  is  well  of  his  wound.  He  is  always  with  Corporal  John 
now.  As  soon  as  ever  I  see  his  ugly  face  I'll  spit  in  it.  I  took 
lessons  of  Father — of  Captain  Holt  at  Bruxelles.  What  a  man 
that  is !  He  knows  everything."  Esmond  bade  Frank  have  a 
care ;  that  Father  Holt's  knowledge  was  rather  dangerous  ;  not, 
indeed,  knowing  as  yet  how  far  the  Father  had  pushed  his  instruc- 
tions with  his  young  pupil. 

The  gazetteers  and  writers,  both  of  the  French  and  English 
side,  have  given  accounts  sufficient  of  that  bloody  battle  of  Blareg- 
nies  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 
7  T 


290        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

the  victory  was  purchased  at  a  cost  which  no  nation,  greedy  of 
glory  as  it  might  be,  would  willingly  pay  for  any  triumph.  The 
gallantry  of  the  French  was  as  remarkable  as  the  furious  bravery 
of  their  assailants.  We  took  a  few  score  of  their  flags,  and  a  few 
pieces  of  their  artillery  ;  but  we  left  twenty  thousand  of  the  bravest 
soldiers  of  the  world  round  about  the  intrenched  lines,  from  which 
the  enemy  was  driven.  He  retreated  in  perfect  good  order;  the 
panic-spell  seemed  to  be  broke  under  which  the  French  had  laboured 
ever  since  the  disaster  of  Hochstedt;  and,  fighting  now  on  the 
threshold  of  their  country,  they  showed  an  heroic  ardour  of  resist- 
ance, 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  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  Abbd  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  1  Despot  as  he  was,  the  French  monarch 
was  yet  the  chief  of  European  civilisation,  more  venerable  in  his 
age  and  misfortunes  than  at  the  period  of  his  most  splendid  suc- 
cesses ;  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  Chris- 
tian 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  d;uv<l 
not  speak  to  each  other,  even  at  table,  of  Malplaquet,  so  frightful 


A    GLOOMY    PAGEANT  291 

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  yester- 
day full  of  courage  and  cheerfulness  round  the  torn  and  blackened 
flags.  Where  were  our  friends  1  As  the  great  Duke  reviewed  us, 
riding  along  our  lines  with  his  fine  suite  of  prancing  aides-de-camp 
and  generals,  stopping  here  and  there  to  thank  an  officer  with  those 
eager  smiles  and  bows  of  which  his  Grace  was  always  lavish,  scarce 
a  huzzah  could  be  got  for  him,  though  Cadogan,  with  an  oath,  rode 

up  and  cried,  "D you,  why  don't  you  cheer1?"  But  the  men 

had  no  heart  for  that :  not  one  of  them  but  was  thinking,  "  Where's 
my  comrade  1— where's  my  brother  that  fought  by  me,  or  my  dear 
captain  that  led  me  yesterday  ? "  'Twas  the  most  gloomy  pageant 
I  ever  looked  on ;  and  the  "  Te  Deum  "  sung  by  our  chaplains,  the 
most  woeful  and  dreary  satire. 

Esmond's  General  added  one  more  to  the  many  marks  of  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  Eoy, 
which  we  had  to  receive  and  beat  off  again  and  again,  with  volleys 
of  shot  and  hedges  of  iron,  and  our  four  lines  of  musqueteers  and 
pikemen.  They  said  the  King  of  England  charged  us  no  less  than 
twelve  times  that  day,  along  with  the  French  Household.  Esmond's 
late  regiment,  General  Webb's  own  Fusileers,  served  in  the  division 
which  their  Colonel  commanded.  The  General  was  thrice  in  the 
centre  of  the  square  of  the  Fusileers,  calling  the  fire  at  the  French 
charges,  and,  after  the  action,  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Berwick  sent 
his  compliments  to  his  old  regiment  and  their  Colonel  for  their 
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 


292        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

his  former  wound  was,  which  caused  the  old  wound  to  open  again, 
fever,  spitting  of  blood,  and  other  ugly  symptoms,  to  ensue ;  and, 
in  a  word,  brought  him  near  to  death's  door.  The  kind  lad, 
his  kinsman,  attended  his  elder  comrade  with  a  very  praiseworthy 
affectionateness  and  care  until  he  was  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  affection- 
ately to  style  him) ;  nor  was  Mr.  Esmond  in  a  hurry  to  undeceive 
her,  when  the  good  young  fellow  was  gone  for  his  Christmas  holiday. 
It  was  as  pleasant  to  Esmond  on  his 'couch  to  watch  the  young  man's 
pleasure  at  the  idea  of  being  free,  as  to  note  his  simple  efforts  to 
disguise  his  satisfaction  on  going  away.  There  are  days  when  a  flask 
of  champagne  at  a  cabaret,  and  a  red-cheeked  partner  to  share  it, 
are  too  strong  temptations  for  any  young  fellow  of  spirit.  I  am 
not  going  to  play  the  moralist,  and  cry  "  Fie  ! "  For  ages  past,  I 
know  how  old  men  preach,  and  what  young  men  practise  ;  and  that 
patriarchs  have  had  their  weak  moments  too,  long  since  Father 
Noah  toppled  over  after  discovering  the  vine.  Frank  went  off, 
then,  to  his  pleasures  at  Bruxelles,  in  which  capital  many  young 
fellows  of  our  army  declared  they  found  infinitely  greater  diversion 
even  than  in  London  :  and  Mr.  Henry  Esmond  remained  in  his  sick- 
room, where  he  writ  a  fine  comedy,  that  his  mistress  pronounced  to 
be  sublime,  and  that  was  acted  no  less  than  three  successive  nights 
in  London  in  the  next  year. 

Here,  as  he  lay  nursing  himself,  ubiquitous  Mr.  Holt  reappeared, 
and  stopped  a  whole  month  at  Mons,  where  he  not  only  won  over 
Colonel  Esmond  to  the  King's  side  in  politics  (that  side  being  always 
held  by  the  Esmond  family) ;  but  where  he  endeavoured  to  re-open 
the  controversial  question  between  the  Churches  once  more,  and  to 
recall  Esmond  to  that  religion  in  which,  in  his  infancy,  he  had  been 
baptized.  Holt  was  a  casuist,  both  dexterous  and  learned,  and 
presented  the  case  between  the  English  Church  and  his  own  in  such 
a  way  that  those  who  granted  his  premises  ought  certainly  to  allow 
his  conclusions.  He  touched  on  Esmond's  delicate  state  of  health, 
chance  of  dissolution,  and  so  forth ;  and  enlarged  upon  the  immense 
benefits  that  the  sick  man  was  likely  to  forego — benefits  which  the 
Church  of  England  did  not  deny  to  those  of  the  Roman  Communion, 
as  how  should  she,  being  derived  from  that  Church,  and  only  an 


THE    RIGHT    DIVINE  293 

offshoot  from  if?  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  com- 
munion 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  Avorld. 

As  for  the  political  question,  in  that  Mr.  Esmond  could  agree 
with  the  Father  much  more  readily,  and  had  come  to  the  same 
conclusion,  though,  perhaps,  by  a  different  way.  The  right  divine, 
about  which  Dr.  Sacheverel  and  the  High  Church  party  in  England 
were  just  now  making  a  bother,  they  were  welcome  to  hold  as  they 
chose.  If  Richard  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  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  dis- 
spirited  by  it ;  and  the  enemy  gathered  together  a  larger  army  than 
ever,  and  made  prodigious  efforts  for  the  next  campaign.  Marshal 
Berwick  was  with  the  French  this  year;  and  we  heard  that 
Mareschal  Villars  was  still  suffering  of  his  wound,  was  eager  to  bring 
our  Duke  to  action,  and  vowed  he  would  fight  us  in  his  coach. 
Young  Castlewood  came  flying  back  from  Bruxelles  as  soon  as  he 
heard  that  fighting  was  to  begin ;  and  the  arrival  of  the  Chevalier 


294        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Mareschal  Villars  might  be  to  fight,  my  Lord 
Duke  did  not  seem  disposed  to  indulge  him  this  campaign.  Last 
year  his  Grace  had  been  all  for  the  Whigs  and  Hanoverians ;  but 
finding,  on  going  to  England,  his  country  cold  towards  himself,  and 
the  people  in  a  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  con- 
tinually 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  only  map  the  writer  hath 
of  these  scenes  of  his  youth,  bears  no  mark  of  this  little  stream), 
divided  our  picquets  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  ;it  once 
know  that  the  fellow's  tongue  had  first  wagged  on  the  banks  of 


WE    SEE    THE    KING  295 

the  Liff'ey,  and  not  the  Loire  ;  and  the  poor  soldier — a  deserter 
probably — did  not  like  to  venture  very  deep  into  French  conversa- 
tion, 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  bdnisse  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  Eoyal 
Cravat,  with  great  agitation,  "  pas  lui,  that's  he ;  not  him,  1'autre," 
and  pointed  to  the  distant  officer  on  a  chestnut  horse,  with  a  cuirass 
shining  in  the  sun,  and  over  it  a  broad  blue  riband. 

"  Please  to  take  Mr.  Hamilton's  services  to  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough — my  Lord  Duke,"  says  the  gentleman  in  English  ;  and 
looking  to  see  that  the  party  were  riot  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  llth  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  un- 
like 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 


296        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

beautiful  that  I  shouldn't  have  known  he  wasn't  a  foreigner,  till 
he  broke  out  with  his  hulla-ballooing,  and  only  an  Irish  calf  can 
bellow  like  that."  And  Roger  made  another  remark  in  his  wild 
way,  in  which  there  was  sense  as  well  as  absurdity :  "  If  that 
young  gentleman,"  says  he,  "  would  but  ride  over  to  our  camp, 
instead  of  Villars's,  toss  up  his  hat  and  say,  '  Here  am  I,  the  King, 
who'll  follow  me  1 '  by  the  Lord,  Esmond,  the  whole  army  would 
rise  and  carry  him  home  again,  and  beat  .Villars,  and  take  Paris 
by  the  way." 

The  news  of  the  Prince's  visit  was  all  through  the  camp  quickly, 
and  scores  of  ours  went  down  in  hopes  to  see  him.  Major  Hamilton, 
whom  we  had  talked  with,  sent  back  by  a  trumpet  several  silver 
pieces  for  officers  with  us.  Mr.  Esmond  received  one  of  these ;  and 
that  medal,  and  a  recompense  not  uncommon  amongst  Princes,  were 
the  only  rewards  he  ever  had  from  a  Royal  person  whom  he  en- 
deavoured not  very  long  after  to  serve 

Esmond  quitted  the  army  almost  immediately  after  this,  follow- 
ing 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,"  Fra*nk  writ,  "  that  I  thought  I 
would  put  in  a  good  word  for  Master  Harry,  but  when  I  mentioned 
your  name  lie  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  and  said  he  had  never 
heard  of  you." 


A    LETTER    FROM    FRANK  297 


CHAPTER    II 

/  GO  HOME,   AND  HARP  ON   THE  OLD  STRING 


A~^TER  quitting  Mons  arid  the  army,  and  as  he  was  waiting  for 
a  packet  at  Ostend,  Esmond  had  a  letter  from  his  young 
kinsman  Castlewood  at  Bruxelles,  conveying  intelligence 
whereof  Frank  besought  him  to  be  the  bearer  to  London,  and  which 
caused  Colonel  Esmond  no  small  anxiety. 

The  young  scapegrace,  being  one-and-twenty  years  old,  and 
being  anxious  to  sow  his  "wild  otes,"  as  he  wrote,  had  married 
Mademoiselle  de  Wertheim,  daughter  of  Count  de  Wertheim, 
Chamberlain  to  the  Emperor,  and  having  a  post  in  the  Household 
of  the  Governor  of  the  Netherlands  "  P./S.,"  the  young  gentleman 
wrote  :  "  Clotilda  is  older  than  me,  which  perhaps  may  be  objected 
to  her  :  but  I  am  so  old  a  raik  that  the  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  immence  fortune  :  but  are  now 
in  a  pore  ivay.  Break  this  to  mother,  who'll  take  anything  from 
you.  And  write,  and  bid  Finch  write  amediately.  Hostel  de 
1'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. 


298        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


i 
to  a 


He  reached  his  inn  late,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  Kensington 
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,  pur- 
sued 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),  lie  took  a  coach  for  Kensington,  and  reached 
it  so  early  that  he  met  his  dear  mistress  corning  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  beln.  He  called  to  the 
coachman  to  stop,  and  jumped  out  as  she  looked  towards  him. 
She  wore  her  hood  as  usual,  and  she  turned  quite  pale  when  she 
saw  him.  To  feel  that  kind  little  hand  near  to  his  heart  seemed 
to  give  him  strength.  They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  her  Lady- 
ship'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  return- 
ing 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 

Vnever  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  riot  had  the  letter  I  writ  you  ?  I  writ  to  you  at 
Mons  directly  I  heard  it,"  says  Lady  Esmond. 


THE    DOWAGER'S    LEGACY  299 

"And  from  whom?"  again  asked  Colonel  Esmond — and  his 
mistress  then  told  him  that  on  her  deathbed  the  Dowager  Countess, 
sending  for  her,  had  presented  her  with  this  dismal  secret  as  a 
legacy.  "  'Twas  very  malicious  of  the  Dowager,"  Lady  Esmond 
said,  "  to  have  had  it  so  long,  and  to  have  kept  the  truth  from 
me."  "  Cousin  Rachel,"  she  said — and  Esmond's  mistress  could 
not  forbear  smiling  as  she  told  the  story — "  Cousin  Rachel,"  cries 
the  Dowager,  "  I  have  sent  for  you,  as  the  doctors  say  I  may  go 
off  any  day  in  this  dysentery  ;  and  to  ease  my  conscience  of  a  great 
load  that  has  been  on  it.  You  always  have  been  a  poor  creature 
and  unfit  for  great  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." 

"  To    my    Frank  1 "    says    Lady    Castlewood :     "  I    was    in 


"  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  Marchioness1?" 
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  1 "  asks  my 
dear  lady  :  "  for  you  know,  Henry,"  she  says  with  her  sweet  smile, 
"I  used  always  to  pity  Esau — arid  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  dear1?" 

"  Gracious  mercy  !  how  long  have  you  known  this  ? "  cries  the 
other  lady  (thinking  perhaps  that  the  old  Marchioness  was  wandering 
in  her  wits). 


300        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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, 
as  soon  as  ever  I  heard  the  creature  was  dead — and  having  a  great 
illness  then,  arising  from  another  sad  disappointment  I  had,  the 
priest  came  and  told  me  that  my  Lord  had  a  son  before  our  marriage, 
and  that  the  child  was  at  nurse  in  England ;  and  I  consented  to  let 
the  brat  be  brought  home,  and  a  queer  little  melancholy  child  it 
was  when  it  came. 

"  Our  intention  was  to  make  a  priest  of  him  :  and  he  was  bred 

-   for  this,  until  you  perverted  him  from  it,  you  wicked  woman.     And 

I  had  again  hopes  of  giving  an  heir  to  my  Lord,  when  he  was  called 

away  upon  the  King's  business,  and  died  fighting  gloriously  at  the 

Boyne  water. 

"  Should  I  be  disappointed— I  owed  your  husband  no  love,  my 
dear,  for  he  had  jilted  me  in  the  most  scandalous  way — I  thought 
there  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  con- 
tinue 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 
Gastlewood  wouldn't  make  for  that  cause,  my  dear. 

"  As  for  Colonel  Esmond,  lie  knew  the  truth  already."  ("And 
then,  Harry,"  my  mistress  said,  "she  told  me  of  what  had  happened 
at  my  dear  husband's  deathbed.")  "  He  doth  not  intend  to  take 


FAMILY    SECRETS 

the  title,  though  it  belongs  to  him.  But  it  eases  ray  conscience  that 
you  should  know  the  truth,  ray  dear.  And  your  son  is  lawfully 
Viscount  Castlewood  so  long  as  his  cousin  doth  not  claim  the  rank." 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  Dowager's  revelation.  Dean 
Atterbury  had  knowledge  of  it,  Lady  Castlewood  said,  and  Esmond 
very  well  knows  how :  that  divine  being  the  clergyman  for  whom 
the  late  lord  had  sent  on  his  deathbed ;  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  right- 
fully :  I  have  not  even  a  proof  of  that  marriage  of  my  father  and 
mother,  though  my  poor  lord,  on  his  deathbed,  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  gratifi- 
cation of  ambition  or  vanity,  could  compare  with  the  pleasure 
Esmond  now  had  of  being  able  to  confer  some  kindness  upon  his 
best  and  dearest  friends  1 

"  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  thank- 
ful that  I  can  make  you  happy.  Hath  my  life  any  other  aimf 
Blessed  be  God  that  I  can  serve  you !  What  pleasure,  think  you, 
could  all  the  world  give  me  compared  to  that  1 " 


302        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"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 
Catholic  Church,  but  that  the  Roman  was  one  of  the  main  stems  on 
which,  no  doubt,  many  errors  had  been  grafted  (she  was,  for  a 
woman,  extraordinarily  well  versed  in  this  controversy,  having 
acted,  as  a  girl,  as  secretary  to  her  father,  the  late  Dean,  and 
written  many  of  his  sermons,  under  his  dictation) ;  and  if  Frank 
had  chosen  to  marry  a  lady  of  the  Church  of  South  Europe,  as  she 
would  call  the  Roman  communion,  there  was  no  need  why  she 
should  not  welcome  her  as  a  daughter-in-law  :  and  accordingly  she 
wrote  to  her  new  daughter  a  very  pretty,  touching  letter  (as  Esmond 
thought,  who  had  cognisance  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  yoiir  forbearance  ")  and  to  receive 
the  accompt  of  her  stewardship  during  his  ten  years'  minority.  By 
care  and  frugality,  she  had  got  the  estate  into  a  better  condition 
than  ever  it  had  been  since  the  Parliamentary  wars  ;  and  my  Lord 
was  now  master  of  a  pretty,  small  income,  not  encumbered  of  debts, 
as  it  had  been  during  his  father's  ruinous  time.  "  But  in  saving 
my  son's  fortune,"  says  she,  "  I  fear  I  have  lost  a  great  part  of  my 
hold  on  him."  And,  indeed,  this  was  the  case :  her  Ladyship's 
daughter  complaining  that  their  mother  did  all  for  Frank,  and 
nothing  for  her  ;  and  Frank  himself  being  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 


FRANK    CHANGES    HIS    RELIGION          303 

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  him- 
self, not  caring  to  trouble  his  mistress  with  any  fears  that  might  be 
groundless. 

However,  the  next  mail  which  came  from  Bruxelles,  after  Frank 
had  received  his  mother's  letters  there,  brought  back  a  joint  com- 
position 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  oppor- 
tunity ;  and  this  was  to  announce  that  Frank  had  seen  fit,  "by  the  v 
exhortation  of  Mr.  Holt,  the  influence  of  his  Clotilda,  and  the  bless- 
ing of  Heaven  and  the  saints,"  says  my  Lord  demurely,  "  to  change 
his  religion,  and  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  that  Church  of  which 
his  sovereign,  many  of  his  family,  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
civilised  world,  were  members."  And  his  Lordship  added  a  post- 
script, 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  ap- 
peared in  the  Post-Boy  and  other  prints,  announcing  that  "  a  young 
Irish  lord,  the  Viscount  C-stlew— d,  just  come  to  his  majority, 
and  who  had  served  the  last  campaigns  with  great  credit,  as  aide- 


304        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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 
u^ed  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  lead- 
ing-strings. 0  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  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  iny  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  Herrenhause/i, 
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,  cousin1?"  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 


A    PARSON-HATER  305 

about  Frank.  Frank  is  as  vain  as  a  girl,  cousin.  Talk  of  us  girls 
being  vain,  what  are  we  to  you  1  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  first 
woman  who  chose  would  make  a  fool  of  him,  or  the  first  robe — I 
count  a  priest  and  a  woman  all  the  same.  We  are  always  caballing ; 
we  are  not  answerable  for  the  fibs  we  tell ;  we  are  always  cajoling 
and  coaxing,  or  threatening ;  and  we  are  always  making  mischief, 
Colonel  Esmond — mark  my  word  for  that,  who  know  the  world, 
sir,  and  have  to  make  my  way  in  it.  I  see  as  well  as  possible  how 
Frank's  marriage  hath  been  managed.  The  Count,  our  papa-in-law, 
is  always  away  at  the  coffee-house.  The  Countess,  our  mother,  is 
always  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,  '  0  my 
divine,  my  adored,  my  beloved  Clotilda,  are  you  sorry  to  part  with 
me?'  '0  my  Francisco,'  says  she,  '0  my  Lord!'  and  at  this 
very  instant  mamma  and  a  couple  of  young  brothers,  with  mous- 
taches 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. 
Harvey,  said  he  was  a  count ;  and  I  believe  he  was  a  barber.  All 
Frenchmen  are  barbers — Fiddledee  !  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  curtsey, 
coming  up  to  the  recover  with  the  prettiest  little  foot  in  the  world 
pointed  out.  Her  mother  came  in  as  she  was  in  this  attitude ;  my 
Lady  had  been  in  her  closet,  having  taken  poor  Frank's  conversion 
in  a  very  serious  way ;  the  madcap  girl  ran  up  to  her  mother,  put 
her  arms  round  her  waist,  kissed  her,  tried  to  make  her  dance,  and 
said,  "  Don't  be  silly,  you  kind  little  mamrna,  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  oft* 
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 
7  u 


306        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

of  this  fair  creature  always  inspired  him  :  iiever  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  lie  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,  witli 
her  usual  cry  of,  "  0  you  silly  little  mamma :  your  fe'et  are  quite 
as  pretty  as  mine,"  says  she :  "  they  are,  cousin,  though  she  hides 
'em  ;  but  the  shoemaker  will  tell  you  that  he  makes  for  both  off 
the  same  last." 

"You  are  taller  than  I  am,  dearest,"  says  her  mother,  blushing 
over  her  whole  sweet  face — "  and — and  it  is  your  hand,  my  dear, 
and  not  your  foot  he  wants  you  to  give  him ; "  and  she  said  it  with 
a  hysteric  laugh,  that  had  more  of  tears  than  laughter  in  it ;  laying 
her  head  on  her  daughter's  fair  shoulder,  and  hiding  it  there.  They 
made  a  very  pretty  picture  together,  and  looked  like  a  pair  of 
sisters — the  sweet  simple  matron  seeming  younger  than  her  years, 
and  her  daughter,  if  not  older,  yet  somehow,  from  a  commanding 
manner  and  grace  which  she  possessed  above  most  women,  her 
mother's  superior  and  protectress. 

"  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  1 "  says  saucy  Mrs.  Beatrix — "  because 
Frank  takes  it  into  his  head  to  fast  on  Fridays  and  worship  images  1 
You  know  if  you  had  been  born  a  Papist,  mother,  a  Papist  you 
would  have  remained  till  the  end  of  your  days  1  '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  ribands,  and  adjusting   her  tucker,  and   performing  a  dozen 

provokingly  pretty  ceremonies  before  the  glass.     The  girl  was  no 

hypocrite  at  least.     She  never  at  that  time  could  be  brought  to 

''-•   think  but  of  the  world  and  her  beauty ;  and  seemed  to  have  no 

j  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 


WHAT    WE    STRUGGLE    FOR  307 

to  shine  in  great  assemblies,  and  to  adorn  palaces,  and  to  command 
everywhere — to  conduct  an  intrigue  of  politics,  or  to  glitter  in  a 
queen's  train.  But  to  sit  at  a  homely  table,  and  mend  the  stockings 
of  a  poor  man's  children  !  that  was  no  fitting  duty  for  her,  or  at 
least  one  that  she  wouldn't  have  broke  her  heart  in  trying  to  do. 
She  was  a  princess,  though  she  had  scarce  a  shilling  to  her  fortune ; 
and  one  of  her  subjects — the  most  abject  and  devoted  wretch,  sure, 
that  ever  drivelled  at  a  woman's  knees — was  this  unlucky  gentleman  ; 
who  bound  his  good  sense,  and  reason,  and  independence,  hand  and 
foot,  and  submitted  them  to  her. 

And  who  does  not  know  how  ruthlessly  women  will  tyrannise 
when  they  are  let  to  domineer  1  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 
riband ;  so  is  a  Dutch  merchant  a  fool,  that  hath  been  known  to 
pay  ten  thousand  crowns  for  a  tulip.  There's  some  particular  prize 
we  all  of  us  value,  and  that  every  man  of  spirit  will  venture  his 
life  for.  With  this,  it  may  be  to  achieve  a  great  reputation  for 
learning;  with  that,  to  be  a  man  of  fashion,  and  the  admiration 
of  the  town ;  with  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  of  a  queen's  favourite'?  What  nights  of  labour  doth 


308        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

not  the  laziest  man  in  the  world  endure,  foregoing  his  bottle,  and 
his  boon  companions,  foregoing  Lais,  in  whose  lap  he  would  like 
to  be  yawning,  that  he  may  prepare  a  speech  full  of  lies,  to  cajole 
three  hundred  stupid  country-gentlemen  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  get  the  hiccupping  cheers  of  the  October  Club !  What  days 
will  you  spend  in  your  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  despatch- — you,  the  proudest  man 
in  the  world,  that  has  not  knelt  to  God  since  you  were  a  boy,  and 
in  that  posture  whisper,  flatter,  adore  almost,  a  stupid  woman, 
that's  often  boozy  with  too  much  meat  and  drink,  when  Mr. 
Secretary  goes  for  his  audience !  If  my  pursuit  is  vanity,  sure 
yours  is  too."  And  then  the  Secretary  would  fly  out  in  such  a 
rich  flow  of  eloquence  as  this  pen  cannot  pretend  to  recall ;  advo- 
cating 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." 

"  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  1 "  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. 


BEATRIX    AND    I  309 


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  lie  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  gentle- 
man newly  arrived  in  the  town,  that  this  incorrigible  flirt  would  set 
her  nets  and  baits  to  draw  in.  If  Esmond  remonstrated,  the  little 
rebel  would  say,  "Who  are  you?  I  shall  go  my  own  way,  sirrah, 
and  that  way  is  towards  a  husband,  and  I  don't  want  you  on  the 
way.  I  am  for  your  betters,  Colonel,  for  your  betters :  do  you 
hear  that  ?  You  might  do  if  you  had  an  estate  and  were  younger  : 
only  eight  years  older  than  I,  you  say !  pish,  you  are  a  hundred 
years  older.  You  are  an  old,  old  Graveairs,  and  I  should,  make 
you  miserable,  that  would  be  the  only  comfort  I  should  have  in 
marrying  you.  But  you  have  not  money  enough  to  keep  a  cat 
decently  after  you  have  paid  your  man  his  wages,  and  your  land- 


310        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

lady  her  bill.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  live  in  a  lodging,  and 
turn  the  mutton  on  a  string  whilst  your  honour  nurses  the  baby  1 
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  wordliness,  my  poor  Trix,"  says  her 
mother. 

"  Worldliness  !  0  my  pretty  lady  !  Do  you  think  that  I  am 
a  child  in  the  nursery,  and  to  be  frightened  by  Bogey  1  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  1  Merci !  I  have  been  long  enough  Frank's 
humble  servant.  Why  am  I  not  a  man  1  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  riband,  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  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  thou- 
sand 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 


I    WRITE    A    COMEDY  311 

Graveairs — and  a  parrot  and  a  spaniel,  and  I  must  have  a  husband. 
Cupid,  you  hear  1 " 

"  Iss,  missis  !  "  says  Pompey,  a  little  grinning  negro  Lord  Peter- 
borow  gave  her,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  in  his  turbant,  and  a  collar 
with  his  mistress'  name  on  it. 

"Iss,  missis!"  says  Beatrix,  imitating  the  child.  "And  if 
husband  not  come,  Pompey  must  go  fetch  one." 

And  Pompey  went  away  grinning  with  his  chocolate  tray  as 
Miss  Beatrix  ran  up  to  her  mother  and  ended  her  sally  of  mischief 
in  her  common  way,  with  a  kiss — no  wonder  that  upon  paying  such 
a  penalty  her  fond  judge  pardoned  her. 

When  Mr.  Esmond  came  home,  his  health  was  still  shattered ; 
and  he  took  a  lodging  near  to  his  mistresses,  at  Kensington,  glad 
enough  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  glass  of  good  claret  at  his  lodging,  whilst  their 
entertainer,  through  his  wound,  was  kept  to  diet  drink  and  gruel. 
These  gentlemen  were  Whigs,  and  great  admirers  of  my  Lord  Duke 
of  Marlborough  ;  and  Esmond  was  entirely  of  the  other  party.  But 
their  different  views  of  politics  did  not  prevent  the  gentlemen  from 
agreeing  in  private,  nor  from  allowing,  on  one  evening  when 
Esmond's  kind  old  patron,  Lieutenant-General  Webb,  with  a  stick 
and  a  crutch,  hobbled  up  to  the  Colonel's  lodging  (which  was 
prettily  situate  at  Knightsbridge,  between  London  and  Kensington, 
and  looking  over  the  Gardens),  that  the  Lieutenant-General  was  a 
noble  and  gallant  soldier— and  even  that  he  had  been  hardly  used 
in  the  Wynendael  affair.  He  took  his  revenge  in  talk,  that  must 
be  confessed ;  and  if  Mr.  Addison  had  had  a  mind  to  write  a  poem 
about  Wynendael,  he  might  have  heard  from  the  commander's  own 
lips  the  story  a  hundred  times  over. 

Mr.  Esmond,  forced  to  be  quiet,  betook  himself  to  literature 
for  a  relaxation,  and  composed  his  comedy,  whereof  the  prompter's 
copy  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 


312         THE    HISTORY    OF  HENRY    ESMOND 

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. 

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'  breakfast-table 
the  following — 

"  SPECTATOR. 
"No.  341.  "Tuesday,  April  1,  1712. 

Mutato  nomine  do  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 — 


JOCASTA  313 

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  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  agree- 
able 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  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  riband  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  acquaint- 
ances 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. 


314        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  Jocasta  acknowledged  this  salute  with  one  of  those  smiles  and 
curtseys  of  which  that  lady  hath  the  secret.  She  curtseys  with  a 
languishing  air,  as  if  to  say,  *  You  are  come  at  last.  I  have  been 
pining  for  you : '  and  then  she  finishes  her  victim  with  a  killing 
look,  which  declares :  '  0  Philander !  I  have  no  eyes  but  for  you.' 
Camilla  hath  as  good  a  curtsey  perhaps,  and  Thalestris  much  such 
another  look ;  but  the  glance  and  the  curtsey  together  belong  to 
Jocasta  of  all  the  English  beauties  alone. 

"  *  Welcome  to  London,  sir,'  says  she:  c  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  chayney,  and  Cavendish  Candish,  and  Chol- 
mondeley  Chumley'?  If  we  call  Pulteney  Poltney,  why  shouldn't 
we  call  poultry  pultry — and ' 

"  *  Such  an  enchantress  as  your  Ladyship,'  says  he,  '  is  mistress 
of  all  sorts  of  spells.'  But  this  was  Dr.  Swift's  pun,  and  we  all 
knew  it. 

"  '  And — and  how  do  you  spell  your  name  ? '  says  she,  coming 
to  the  point  at  length  ;  for  this  sprightly  conversation  had  lasted 
much  longer  than  is  here  set  down,  and  been  carried  on  through  at 
least  three  dishes  of  tea. 

"  'Oh,  madam,'  says  he,  '/  spell  my  name  ivith  the  ?/.'  And 
laying  down  his  dish,  my  gentleman  made  another  elegant  bow,  :md 
was  gone  in  a  moment. 

"Jocasta  hath  had  no  sleep  since  this  mortification,  and  the 
stranger's  disappearance.  If  balked  in  anything  she  is  sure  to 
lose  her  health  and  temper ;  and  we,  her  servants,  suffer,  as  usual, 


JOCASTA  315 

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 
— (Empus." 

"THE  TRUMPET  COFFEE-HOUSE,  WHITEHALL. 

"ME.  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  grea,t  Kentish  house,  and  be  kind  to  my  tenantry  (for  whom 
a  woman  can  do  a  great  deal  more  good  than  the  best-intention ed 
man  can),  I  was  greatly  fascinated  by  a  young  lady  of  London,  who 
was  the  toast  of  all  the  company  at  the  Wells.  Every  one  knows 
Saccharissa's  beauty ;  and  I  think,  Mr.  Spectator,  no  one  better 
thaB-'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  admira- 
tion such  women  want,  not  love  that  touches  them ;  and  I  can  con- 
ceive, in  her  old  age,  no  more  wretched  creature  than  this  lady  will 
be,  when  her  beauty  hath  deserted  her,  when  her  admirers  have  left 
her,  and  she  hath  neither  friendship  nor  religion  to  console  her. 

"  Business  calling  me  to  London,  I  went  to  St.  James's  Church 
last  Sunday,  and  there  opposite  me  sat  my  beauty  of  the  Wells. 
Her  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 


316        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  play-house ;  and  here  nothing  would  satisfy 
her  but  she  must  elbow  through  the  crowd  and  speak  to  me,  and 
invite  me  to  the  assembly,  which  she  holds  at  her  house,  not  very 
far  from  Ch-r-ng  Cr-ss. 

"  Having  made  her  a  promise  to  attend,  of  course  I  kept  my 
promise ;  and  found  the  young  widow  in  the  midst  of  a  half-dozen 
of  card-tables,  and  a  crowd  of  wits  and  admirers.  I  made  the  best 
bow  I  could,  and  advanced  towards  her;  and  saw  by  a  peculiar 
puzzled  look  in  her  face,  though  she  tried  to  hide  her  perplexity, 
that  she  had  forgotten  even  my  name. 

"  Her  talk,  artful  as  it  was,  convinced  me  that  I  had  guessed 
aright.  She  turned  the  conversation  most  ridiculously  upon  the 
spelling  of  names  and  words;  and  I  replied  with  as  ridiculous 
fulsome  compliments  as  I  could  pay  her :  indeed,  one  in  which  I 
compared  her  to  an  angel  visiting  the  sick  wells,  went  a  little  too 
far ;  nor  should  I  have  employed  it,  but  that  the  allusion  came 
from  the  Second  Lesson  last  Sunday,  which  we  both  had  heard, 
and  I  was  pressed  to  answer  her. 

"Then  she  came  to  the  question,  which  I  knew  was  awaiting 
me,  and  asked  how  I  spelt  my  name  ?  '  Madam,'  says  I,  turning 
on  my  heel,  *  I  spell  it  with  a  y.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  letter  as  hupsilon.  But  if  the  lady,  whom  I  have  called 
Saccharissa,  wonders  that  I  appear  no  more  at  the  tea-tables,  she 
is  hereby  respectfully  informed  the  reason  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  MM- 


THE    OLD    SUBJECT  317 

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  gentle- 
man 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  as  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  endur- 
ance ;  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  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  1 "  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 
roder  about  her  mother's  house,  willing  to  be  put  on  the  ranks  of 
suitors,  though  he  knew  he  might  be  cast  off  the  next  week.  If  he 


318         THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  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  per- 
mitted 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  1 
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 


ASHBURNHAM    MARRIES    ELSEWHERE     319 

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  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  passes  in  Queen's  ante-chambers 
and  at  Court  tables  1  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  thou- 
sand a  year  of  fortune,  for  which  Miss  Beatrix  had  rather  coveted 
him,  were  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 


320        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

with  his  bride,  over  whom  the  revenge  that  Beatrix  took  was  to  look 
so  imperial  and  lovely  that  the  modest  downcast  young  lady  could 
not  appear  beside  her,  and  Lord  Ashburnham,  who  had  his  reasons 
for  wishing  to  avoid  her,  slunk  away  quite  shamefaced,  and  very 
early.  This  time  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  whom  Esmond 
had  seen  about  her  before,  was  constant  at  Miss  Beatrix's  side  :  he 
was  one  of  the  most  splendid  gentlemen  of  Europe,  accomplished  by 
books,  by  travel,  by  long  command  of  the  best  company,  distinguished 
as  a  statesman,  having  been  ambassador  in  King  William's  time, 
and  a  noble  speaker  in  the  Scots'  Parliament,  where  he  had  led  the 
party  that  was  against  the  Union,  and  though  now  five  or  six-and- 
forty  years  of  age,  a  gentleman  so  high  in  stature,  accomplished  in 
wit,  and  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 
Lindamiras1?  Why  does  he  not  call  women  Nelly  and  Betty,  as 
their  godfathers  and  godmothers  did  for  them  in  their  baptism  1 " 

"  Beatrix,  Beatrix  !  "  says  her  mother,  "  speak  gravely  of  grave 
things." 

"Mamma  thinks  the  Church  Catechism  came  from  heaven,  I 
believe,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  laugh,  "  and  was  brought  down  by  a 
bishop  from  a  mountain.  Oh,  how  I  used  to  break  my  heart  over 
it !  Besides,  I  had  a  Popish  godmother,  mamma ;  why  did  you 
give  me  one  1 " 

"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 


BEATRIX    AND    HER    MOTHER  321 

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  over-night,  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  1 " 

"  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  dear1?"  asks  her  mother, 
the  kind  soul,  who  was  always  thinking  what  we  would  like,  and 
how  she  could  please  us. 

The  girl  runs  up  to  her.  "0  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  thousand  million  times  better." 

7  x 


322        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  'em1? 
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  inter- 
ruption 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.  0  Harry,  I'm  jealous  of  that  guardian  angel ! "  here 
broke  out  Mistress  Beatrix.  "  It's  horrid,  I  know;  but  my  mother's 
life  is  all  for  heaven,  and  mine — all  for  earth.  We  can  never  be 
friends  quite ;  and  then  she  cares  more  for  Frank's  little  finger  than 
she  does  for  me — I  know  she  does :  and  she  loves  you,  sir,  a  great 
deal  too  much  ;  and  I  hate  you  for  it.  I  would  have  had  her  all  to 
myself;  but  she  wouldn't.  In  my  childhood,  it  was  my  father  she 
loved — (oh,  how  could  she  1  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  ;  :md 
this  world  is  only  a  pied-a-terre  for  the  good,  where  they  stay  for 
a  night,  as  we  do,  coming  from  Walcote,  at  that  great,  dreary, 


A    LAME    LOVER  323 

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  1  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  Lock  wood  can  do  that. 
He  took  me  out  of  the  fire  upon  his  shoulders,  and  nursed  me 
through  my  illness  as  love  will  scarce  ever  do.  Only  good  wages, 
and  a  hope  of  my  clothes,  and  the  contents  of  my  portmanteau. 
How  long  was  it  that  Jacob  served  an  apprenticeship  for  Rachel  1 " 

"For  mamma?"  says  Beatrix.  "It  is  mamma  your  honour 
wants,  and  that  I  should  have  the  happiness  of  calling  you  papa  1 " 

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  reputa- 
tion 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, 


324        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  divin- 
ing 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  Virginian  estate  King  Charles  gave  our  grandfather." 
(She  gave  a  superb  curtsey,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Our  grand- 
father, indeed!  Thank  you,  Mr.  Bastard.")  "Yes,- 1  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  will  provide  you  with  tobacco.  I  am  not 
quite  clever  enough,  or  not  rogue  enough — I  know  not  which — for 
the  Old  World.  I  may  make  a  place  for  myself  in  the  New,  which 
is  not  so  full ;  and  found  a  family  there.  When  you  are  a  mother 
yourself,  and  a  great  lady,  perhaps  I  shall  send  you  over  from  the 
plantation  some  day  a  little  barbarian  that  is  half  Esmond  half 
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  curtsey  on  Mistress  Beatrix's  part),  "  and  I  will  go. 
I  have  enough  to  buy  axes  and  guns  for  my  men,  and  beads  and 
blankets  for  the  savages ;  and  I'll  go  and  live  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  misfor- 
tune, 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  1 

"It's  too  much,"  says  Esmond,  turning  away.     "I  <-;m't  )n';ir 


DUKE    HAMILTON  325 

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  riband.  He  gave  Mr.  Esmond  just 
that  gracious  bow  which  he  would  have  given  to  a  lacquey  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  hangdog 
look. 

Esmond's  mistress  was  in  the  lower  room  as  he  passed  down- 
stairs. She  often  met  him  as  he  was  coming  away  from  Beatrix ; 
and  she  beckoned  him  into  the  apartment. 

"  Has  she  told  you,  Harry  1 "  Lady  Castlewood  said. 
"  She  has  been  very  frank— very,"  says  Esmond. 
"  But — but  about  what  is  going  to  happen  1 " 
"  What  is  going  to  happen  1 "  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." 


326        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER    IV 

BEATRIX'S  NEW  SUITOR 

THE  gentleman  whom  Beatrix  had  selected  was,  to  be  sure, 
twenty  years  t)lder  than  the  Colonel,  with  whom  she 
quarrelled  for  being  too  old  ;  but  this  one  was  but  a  name- 
less 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  de- 
parture 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  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  riot 
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 


DUKE    HAMILTON  327 

signed  at  Loo,  1690,  created  Duke  of  Hamilton,  Marquis  of  Clydes- 
dale, 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  in  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  jn  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." 

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 


328        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

'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  arid  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  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  misfortune1?"  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 


BEATRIX    AND    I  329 

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  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  me1?  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-dyed  Othello  ! " 

"  I  think  I  should,  Beatrix,"  says  the  Colonel. 

"  And  I  want  no  such  ending.  I  intend  to  live  to  be  a  hundred, 
arid  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 


330        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

who's  to  laugh  at  your  dismal  face,  I  should  like  to  know  1  and  I 

like  a  coach-and-six  or  a  coach-and-eight ;  and  I  like  diamonds,  and 

a  new  gown  every  week ;  and  people  to  say,  *  That's  the  Duchess. 

How  well  her  Grace  looks !    Make  way  for  Madame  I'Ambassadrice 

d'Angleterre.     Call  her  Excellency's  people' — that's  what  I  like. 

And  as  for  you,  you  want  a  woman  to  bring  your  slippers  and  cap, 

and  to  sit  at  your  feet,  and  cry,  '  0  caro  !  0  bravo  ! '  whilst  you 

read   your  Shakspeares  and  Miltons   and.  stuff.      Mamma  would 

have  been  the  wife  for  you,  had  you  been  a  little  older,  though 

you  look  ten  years  older  than  she  does — you  do,  you  glum-faced, 

blue-bearded  little  old  man  !    Jfou  might  have  sat^ik^  TinrKy 

j  and  .Joan,   q.nH   fl».tt.Pryd   each  other  i   a.nd  hillprl"^dcooR(l   like  a 

I  pair  of  old  pigeons  on  a  perch./  I  want  my  wings  andjaj. 11Sft  thf>"\ 

I  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  conies  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  tliat  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." 


THE    DIAMOND    NECKLACE  331 

"  Twenty-six,  my  dear,"  says  Esmond. 

"  Twenty-five,  sir — I  choose  to  be  twenty-five ;  and  in  eight 
years  no  man  hath  ever  touched  my  heart.  Yes — you  did  once, 
for  a  little,  Harry,  when  you  came  back  after  Lille,  and  engaging 
with  that  murderer  Mohun,  and  saving  Frank's  life.  I  thought 
I  could  like  you ;  and  mamma  begged  me  hard,  on  her  knees,  and 
I  did — for  a  day.  But  the  old  chill  came  over  me,  Henry,  and  the 
old  fear  of  you  and  your  melancholy ;  and  I  was  glad  when  you 
went  away,  and  engaged  with  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  that  I  might 
hear  no  more  of  you,  that's  the  truth.  You  are  too  good  for  me, 
somehow.  I  could  not  make  you  happy,  and  should  break  my 
heart  in  trying,  and  not  being  able  to  love  you.  But  if  you  had 
asked  me  when  we  gave  you  the  sword,  you  might  have  had  me, 
sir,  and  we  both  should  have  been  miserable  by  this  time.  I  talked 
with  that  silly  lord  all  night  just  to  vex  you  and  mamma,  and  I 
succeeded,  didn't  1 1  How  frankly  we  can  talk  of  these  things  ! 
It  seems  a  thousand  years  ago :  and,  though  we  are  here  sitting  in 
the  same  room,  there  is  a  great  wall  between  us.  My  dear,  kind, 
faithful,  gloomy  old  cousin  !  I  can  like  now,  and  admire  you  too, 
sir,  and  say  that  you  are  brave,  and  very  kind,  and  very  true,  and 
a  fine  gentleman  for  all- — for  all  your  little  mishap  at  your  birth," 
says  she,  wagging  her  arch  head. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  says  she,  with  a  curtsey,  "  we  must  have  no 
more  talk  except  when  mamma  is  by,  or  his  Grace  is  with  us ;  for 
he  does  not  half  like  you,  cousin,  and  is  jealous  as  the  black  man 
in  your  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 
fellow  that  is  fit  to  be  the  grandfather  of  you  all ;  and  in  this 
character  let  me  make  my  Lady  Duchess  her  wedding  present. 
They  are  the  diamonds  my  father's  widow  left  me.  I  had  thought 
Beatrix  might  have  had  them  a  year  ago ;  but  they  are  good 
enough  for  a  Duchess,  though  not  bright  enough  for  the  handsomest 
woman  in  the  world."  And  he  took  the  case  out  of  his  pocket  in 
which  the  jewels  were,  and  presented  them  to  his  cousin. 


332        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

She  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  for  the  stones  were  indeed  very  hand- 
some, 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  Mistress  Beatrix,  advancing  to 
him,  and  showing  the  diamonds  on  her  breast. 

"Diamonds,"  says  his  Grace.     "Hm  !  they  seem  pretty." 

"  They  are  a  present  on  my  marriage,"  says  Beatrix. 

"From  her  Majesty1?"  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  Lady- 
ship'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  1 " 

"  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 :  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  bene- 
factor 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  1 


EXPLANATION  333 

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 
Qolonel  Esmond." 

"  My  (laughter  may  receive  presents  from  the  Head  of  our  House; 
my  daughter  may  thankfully  take  kindness  fron  her  father's,  her 
mother's,  her  brother's  dearest  friend ;  and  be  grateful  for  one  more 
benefit  besides  the  thousand  we  owe  him,"  cries  Lady  Castlewood. 
"  What  is  a  string  of  diamond  stones  compared  to  that  affection  he 
hath  given  us — our  dearest  preserver  and  benefactor?  We  owe 
him  not  only  Frank's  life,  but  our  all — yes,  our  all,"  says  my 
mistress,  with  a  heightened  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  of  Castlewood  and  Marquis  of  Esmond 
before  him ;  and  he  is  his  father's  lawful  son  and  true  heir,  and  we 
are  the  recipients  of  his  bounty,  and  he  the  chief  of  a  house  that's 
as  old  as  your  own.  And  if  he  is  content  to  forego  his  name  that 
my  child  may  bear  it,  we  love  him  and  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." 


334        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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  Castle- 
wood  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  dis- 
turbed ;  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." 

"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  curtsey,  and  the  two 
ladies  quitted  the  room  together. 

"When  does  your  Excellency  go  for  Paris?"  asks  Colonel 
Esmond. 

"As  soon  after  the  ceremony  as  may  be,"  his  Grace  answered. 
"  'Tis  fixed  for  the  first  of  December :  it  cannot  be  sooner.  The 
equipage  will  not  be  ready  till  then.  The  Queen  intends  the  em- 
bassy 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." 


MY    PATRONS  335 


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  patron- 
age 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  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  Lieuten ant-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  Maryborough. 

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." 


336        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Bridge  water, 
was  absolutely  obliged  to  give  up  his  lodgings  at  St.  James's,  and 
had  his  half-pension,  as  Master  of  the  Horse,  taken  away.  But  I 
think  the  lowest  depth  of  Marlborough's  fall  was  when  he  humbly 
sent  to  ask  General  Webb  when  he  might  Wait  upon  him ;  he  who 
had  commanded  the  stout  old  General,  who  had  injured  him  and 
sneered  at  him,  who  had  kept  him  dangling  in  his  ante-chamber, 
who  could  not  even  after  his  great  service  condescend  to  write  him 
a  letter  in  his  own  hand  !  The  nation  was  as  eager  for  peace  as 
ever  it  had  been  hot  for  war.  The  Prince  of  Savoy  came  amongst 
us,  had  his  audience  of  the  Queen,  and  got  his  famous  Sword  of 
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  us  into  any  anger,  though  such  an  action  so  lost 
two  years  before  would  have  set  all  England  in  a  fury.  'Twas  easy 
to  see  that  the  great  Marlborough  was  not  with  the  army.  Eugene 
was  obliged  to  fall  back  in  a  rage,  and  forego  the  dazzling  revenge 
of  his  life.  'Twas  in  vain  the  Duke's  side  asked,  "  Would  we  suffer 
our  arms  to  be  insulted?  Would  we  not  send  back  the  only 
champion  who  could  repair  our  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  con- 
troversy 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,  a  dm  i  ring  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough's  prodigious  talents,  and  deploring  the  dis- 
grace 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, 


PAMPHLETEERS  337 

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 
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  pre- 
vailed. 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  notori- 
ously 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 
7  Y 


338        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  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  dis- 
comforts, 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  Arbtithnot,  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,  appear- 


THE    WITS    OF    1712  339 

ing  seldom  in  public  places.  There  were  hundreds  of  men,  wits,  . 
and  pretty  fellows  frequenting  the  theatres  and  coffee-houses  of  that 
day — whom  "mine  perscribere  longum  est."  Indeed  I  think  the 
most  brilliant  of  that  sort  I  ever  saw  was  not  till  fifteen  years  after- 
wards, 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  Doctor  Swift,  I  can  say  of  him,  "Vidi 
tan  turn."  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  intel- 
lect 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  desperately  on  the  French  lines,  that  he  got  his  company ; 
arid  came  a  captain  out  of  the  action,  and  had  to  marry  the  sutler's 


340        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

daughter  after  all,  who  brought  him  his  cancelled  debt  to  her  father 
as  poor  Roger's  fortune.  To  rim  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  per- 
petually 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  particularising1?  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  ?  0  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  rny 
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  1  Mine  befooled 
me  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  and  in  dear  old  England ;  thou 
mayest  find  thine  own  by  Rappahanuoc. 

To  please  that  woman  then  I  tried  to  distinguish  myself  as 
a  soldier,  and  afterwards  as  a  wit  and  a  politician;  as  to  please 
another  I  would  have  put  on  a  black  cassock  and  a  pair  of  bands, 
and  had  done  so  but  that  a  superior  fate  intervened  to  defeat  that 
project.  And  I  say,  I  think  the  world  is  like  Captain  Esmond's 
company  I  spoke  of  anon ;  and  could  you  see  every  man's  career 
in  life,  you  would  find  a  woman  clogging  him ;  or  clinging  round 
his  march  and  stopping  him ;  or  cheering  him  and  goading  him ; 
or  beckoning  him  out  of  her  chariot,  so  that  he  goes  up  to  her,  and 
leaves  the  race  to  be  run  without  him  ;  or  bringing  him  the  apple, 
and  saying  "  Eat ; "  or  fetching  him  the  daggers  and  whispering 
"  Kill !  yonder  lies  Duncan,  and  a  crown,  and  an  opportunity." 

Your  grandfather  fought  with  more  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 


DOCTOR    BOBADIL  341 

had  never  seen  beyond  the  fire  of  a  tobacco-pipe  at  "  Wills V  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,  Doctor 
Swift,  who  actually  chose  to  doubt  the  Duke  of  Maryborough'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  Maryborough  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-Roy  (a  letter  upon  Bouchain,  that  the  town 
talked  about  for  two  whole  days,  when  the  appearance  of  an  Italran 
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  Doctor  Swift  came  in,  his  Irish 
fellow  with  him  that  used  to  walk  before  his  chair,  and  bawled  out 
his  master's  name  with  great  dignity. 

Mr.  Esmond  was  waiting  for  the  printer  too,  whose  wife  had 
gone  to  the  tavern  to  fetch  him,  and  was  meantime  engaged  in 
drawing  a  picture  of  a  soldier  on  horseback  for  a  dirty  little  pretty 
boy  of  the  printer's  wife,  whom  she  had  left  behind  her. 

"I  presume  you  are  the  editor  of  the  Post- Boy,  sir1?"  says  the  • 
Doctor  in  a  grating  voice  that  had  an  Irish  twang  ;  and  he  looked 
at  the  Colonel  from  under  his  two  bushy  eyebrows  with  a  pair  of 
very  clear  blue  eyes.  His  complexion  was  muddy,  his  figure  rather 
fat,  his  chin  double.  He  wore  a  shabby  cassock,  and  a  shabby  hat 
over  his  black  wig,  and  he  pulled  out  a  great  gold  watch,  at  which 
he  looks  very  fierce. 

"  I  am  but  a  contributor,  Doctor  Swift,"  says  Esmond,  with 
the  little  boy  still  on  his  knee.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back  in 
the  window,  so  that  the  Doctor  could  not  see  him. 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  Doctor  Swift  1 "  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  1 " 

"And  pray,  sir,  what  right  have  you  to  judge  whether  my 
servant  came  from  Ireland  or  no1?  I  want  to  speak  with  your 
employer,  Mr.  Leach.  I'll  thank  ye  go  fetch  him." 


342        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  Where's  your  papa,  Tommy  1 "  asks  the  Colonel  of  the  child, 
a  smutty  little  wretch  in  a  frock. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  child  begins  to  cry ;  the  Doctor's  ap- 
pearance 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  1 "  cries  the  Doctor ;  "  are  ye  a 
printer's  man,  or  are  ye  not  1 "  he  pronounced  it  like  naught. 

"Your  Reverence  needn't  raise  the  devil  to  ask  who  I  am," 
says  Colonel  Esmond.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  Doctor  Faustus, 
little  Tommy?  or  Friar  Bacon,  who  invented  gunpowder,  and  set 
the  Thames  on  fire  ? " 

Mr.  Swift  turned  quite  red,  almost  purple.  "  I  did  not  intend 
any  offence,  sir,"  says  he. 

"  I  dare  say,  sir,  you  offended  without  meaning,"  says  the  other 
drily. 

"  Who  are  ye,  sir  1  Do  you  know  who  I  am,  sir  ?  You  are 
one  of  the  pack  of  Grubb  Street  scribblers  that  my  friend  Mr. 
Secretary  hath  laid  by  the  heels.  How  dare  ye,  sir,  speak  to  rne 
in  this  tone  1 "  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.  "  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  Doctor  Swift  he  had  best  keep  it, 
do  ye  hear  1  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." 


DOCTOR    SWIFT  34S 

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  Secre- 
tary, 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  Secre- 
tary from  exercising  this  act  of  good-nature,  and  boasted  that  he 
had  had  the  man  hanged ;  and  great  as  the  Doctor's  genius  might 
be,  and  splendid  his  ability,  Esmond  for  one  would  affect  no  love  for 
him,  and  never  desired  to  make  his  acquaintance.  The  Doctor  was 
at  Court  every  Sunday  assiduously  enough,  a  place  the  Colonel 
frequented  but  rarely,  though  he  had  a  great  inducement  to  go  there 
in  the  person  of  a  fair  maid  of  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 


344        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Doctor  Swift." 

Mr.  Esmond  went  up  to  the  Doctor  with  a  bow  and  a  smile : — 
"I  gave  Doctor  Swift's  message,"  says  he,  -"to  the  printer :  I  hope 
he  brought  your  pamphlet  to  your  lodgings  in  time."  Indeed  poor 
Leach  had  come  to  his  house  very  soon  after  the  Doctor  left  it, 
being  brought  away  rather  tipsy  from  the  tavern  by  his  thrifty 
wife ;  and  he  talked  of  Cousin  Swift  in  a  maudlin  way,  though  of 
course  Mr.  Esmond  did  not  allude  to  this  relationship.  The  Doctor 
scowled,  blushed,  and  was  much  confused,  and  said  scarce  a  word 
during  the  whole  of  dinner.  A  very  little  stone  will  sometimes 
knock  down  these  Goliaths  of  wit ;  and  this  one  was  often  dis-' 
comfited  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  con- 
versation 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 
Woudenbourg,  had  been  slain  there.  Mr.  Swift,  when  Esmond 
\/  pledged  him,  said  he  drank  no  wine,  and  took  his  hat  from  the 
peg  and  went  away,  beckoning  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  to  follow 
him ;  but  the  other  bade  him  ta,ke  his  chariot  and  save  his  roach - 
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; 


THE    SECRETARY    OVER    HIS    WINE         345 

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  nothjng  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  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  sante'  de  la  bonne  cause  !  Every- 
thing 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  1 " 

"  Give  us  up  to  the  French  ! "  starts  up  Bolingbroke  :  "is  there 
any  English  gentleman  that  fears  that  1  You  who  have  seen  Blen- 
heim 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  Westmoreland1? 
Give  us  up  to  the  French,  pshaw  !  " 

"  His  uncle  did,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"  And  what  happened  to  his  grandfather  1 "  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 


346        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1  Are  there  no  men  equal  to  him,  think  you,  as  good — ay, 
as  good  1  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." 

"0  Beatrix,  Beatrix,"  thought  Esmond,  "and  here  ends  my 
poor  girl's  ambition  !  " 


BEATRIX  347 


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  about  this  girl  of  which  neither  Colonel  Esmond  nor 
his  fond  mistress  could  forego  the  fascination ;  in  spite  of  her  faults 
and  her  pride  and  wilfulness,  they  were  forced  to  love  her ;  and, 
indeed,  might  be  set  down  as  the  two  chief  flatterers  of  the  brilliant 
creature's  court. 

Who,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  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  afterwards  influence  him ;  just  as 
the  wound  I  had  at  Blenheim,  and  of  which  I  wear  the  scar,  hath 
become  part  of  my  frame  and  influenced  my  whole  body,  nay,  spirit 
subsequently,  though  'twas  got  and  healed  forty  years  ago.  Parting 
and  forgetting !  What  faithful  heart  can  do  these  1  Our  great 
thoughts,  our  great  affections,  the  Truths  of  our  life,  never  leave  us. 
Surely,  they  cannot  separate  from  our  consciousness ;  shall  follow 
it  whithersoever  that  shall  go ;  and  are  of  their  nature  divine  and 
immortal. 

With  the  horrible  news  of  this  catastrophe,  which  was  con- 
firmed by  the  weeping  domestics  at  the  Duke's  own  door,  Esmond 


348        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

rode  homewards  as  quick  as  his  lazy  coach  would  carry  him,  devis- 
ing 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. her  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  vowed  she  would  wear  it  at  King  James  the  Third's 
coronation,  and  never  a  princess  in  the  land  would  have  become 
ermine  better.  Esmond  found  the  ante-chamber  crowded  with 
milliners  and  toyshop  women,  obsequious  goldsmiths  with  jewels, 
salvers,  and  tankards ;  and  mercers'  men  with  hangings,  and  velvets, 
and  brocades.  My  Lady  Duchess  elect  was  giving  audience  to  one 
famous  silversmith  from  Exeter  Change,  who  brought  with  him  a 
great  chased  salver,  of  which  he  was  pointing  out  the  beauties  as 
Colonel  Esmond  entered.  "Come,"  says  she,  "cousin,  and  admire 
the  taste  of  this  pretty  thing."  I  think  Mars  and  Venus  were 
lying  in  the  golden  bower,  that  one  gilt  Cupid  carried  off  the 
war-god's  casque — another  his  sword — another  his  great  buckler, 
upon  which  my  Lord  Duke  Hamilton's  arms  with  ours  were  to  be 
engraved — -and  a  fourth  was  kneeling  down  to  the  reclining  goddess 
with  the  ducal  coronet  in  her  hands,  God  help  us  !  The  next  time 
Mr.  Esmond  saw  that  piece  of  plate,  the  arms  were  changed :  the 
ducal  coronet  had  been  replaced  by  a  viscount's  :  it  formed  part  of 
the  fortune  of  the  thrifty  goldsmith's  own  daughter,  when  she 
married  my  Lord  Viscount  Squanderfield  two  years  after. 

"  Isn't  this  a  beautiful  piece  1 "  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 
(J  around  him  ;  and  of  this  smiling  creature  attiring  herself,  as  it  were, 
for  that  nuptial  deathbed.  "  'Tis  a  pretty  piece  of  vanity,"  says 
he,  looking  gloomily  at  the  beautiful  creature  :  there  were  flambc;iiix 
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 ; 
V  but  have  it  I  will,  if  only  to  spite  Mr.  Esmond." 


VANITAS    VANITATUM  349 

"  0  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  1 "  says  she,  running  to  him,  and  seizing  both  his 
hands.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  your  pale  face  and  gloomy  tones'? " 

"  Come  away,  come  away  ! "  says  Esmond,  leading  her :  she 
clung  frightened  to  him,  and  he  supported  her  upon  his  heart,  bid- 
ding the  scared  goldsmith  leave  them.  The  man  went  into  the  next 
apartment,  staring  with  surprise,  and  hugging  his  precious  charger. 

"  Oh,  my  Beatrix,  my  sister ! "  says  Esmond,  still  holding  in 
his  anns  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. 

uHe  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  com- 
mission !  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  1  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  drunk  your  own  father's  blood.  0  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." 


350        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Esmond  had  scarce  done  speaking,  when  his  mistress  came  in. 
The  colloquy  between  him  and  Beatrix  had  lasted  but  a  few  minutes, 
during  which  time  Esmond's  servant  had  carried  the  disastrous 
news  through  the  household.  The  army  of  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  ani  best  in  my  own  room  and  by 
myself,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  were  quite  dry  ;  nor  did  Esmond  ever 
see  them  otherwise,  save  once,  in  respect  to  that  grief.  She  gave 
him  a  cold  hand  as  she  went  out :  "  Thank  you,  brother,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  simplicity  more  touching  than  tears ; 
"  all  you  have  said  is  true  and  kind,  and  I  will  go  away  and  ask 
pardon."  The  three  others  remained  behind,  and  talked  over  the 
dreadful  story.  It  affected  Doctor  Atterbury  more  even  than  us, 
as  it  seemed.  The  death  of  Mohun,  her  husband's  murderer,  was 
more  awful  to  my  mistress  than  even  the  Duke's  unhappy  end. 
Esmond  gave  at  length  what  particulars  he  knew  of  their  quarrel, 
and  the  cause  of  it.  The  two  noblemen  had  long  been  at  war  with 
respect  to  the  Lord  Gerard's  property,  whose  two  daughters  my 
Lord  Duke  and  Mohun  had  married.  They  had  met  by  appoint- 
ment 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  sprang  from  so  trifling  a 
cause,  that  all  men  agreed  at  the  time  that  there  was  a  party,  of 
which  these  three  notorious  brawlers  were  but  agents,  who  desired 
to  take  Duke  Hamilton's  life  away.  They  fought  three  on  a  side, 
as  in  that  tragic  meeting  twelve  years  back,  which  hath  been  re- 
counted already,  and  in  which  Mohun  performed  his  second  murder. 
They  rushed  in,  and  closed  upon  each  other  at  once  without  any 
-I  feints  or  crossing  of  swords  even,  and  stabbed  one  at  the  other 
desperately,  each  receiving  many  wounds ;  and  Mohun  having  his 
death-wound,  and  my  Lord  Duke  lying  by  him,  Macartney  came 
up  and  stabbed  his  Grace  as  he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  gave  him  the 
blow  of  which  he  died.  Colonel  Macartney  denied  this,  of  which 
the  horror  and  indignation  of  the  whole  kingdom  would  nevertheless 
have  him  guilty,  and  fled  the  country,  whither  he  never  returned. 


THE    DUKE'S    DEATH 


351 


What  was  the  real  cause  of  the  Duke  Hamilton's  death1? — 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  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  Molmii, 
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  carry- 
ing the  confidence,  the  repentance  of  Queen  Anne  along  with  his 
own  open  devotion,  and  the  good-will  of  millions  in  the  country  more, 
to  the  Queen's  exiled  brother  and  sovereign. 

That  party  to  which  Lord  Mohim  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  drink- 
ing 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  dis- 
coursing 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  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. 


t> 


J- 


352        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


T 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  VISIT  CASTLEWOOD  ONCE  MORE    • 

LHUS,  for  a  third  time,  Beatrix's  ambitious  hopes  were  circum- 
vented, arid  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  arid  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  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  awfid  sub- 
mission 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  humilia- 
tion 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 


THE    BEGINNING    OF    A    PLOT  353 

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-  her  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  resent- 
ment, should  this  scheme  be  persisted  in,  prevented  it  from  being 
carried  into  effect. 

The  boldest  on  our  side  were,  in  like  manner,  for  having  our 
Prince  into  the  country.  The  undoubted  inheritor  of  the  right 
divine ;  the  feelings  of  more  than  half  the  nation,  of  almost  all  the 
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} 
7  Z 


354        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  accom- 
plishment of  their  dearest  wishes. 

My  young  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  had  not  come  to  England 
to  keep  his  majority,  and  had  now  been  absent  from  the  country  for 
several  years.  The  year  when  his  sister  was  to  be  married  and 
Duke  Hamilton  died,  my  Lord  was  kept  at  Bruxelles  by  his  wife's 
lying-in.  The  gentle  Clotilda  could  not  bear  her  husband  out  of 
her  sight ;  perhaps  she  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  negotia- 
tions 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  com- 
pany, 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  gentle- 
men 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 


MY    MISTRESS'S    KNIGHT  355 

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  iis.  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  nearly  fourteen 
years,  and  since  he  rode  thence  with  my  Lord,  to  whom  his  mistress 
with  her  young  children  by  her  side  waved  an  adieu.  What  ages 
seemed  to  have  passed  since  then,  what  years  of  action  and  passion, 
of  care,  love,  hope,  disaster !  The  children  were  grown  up  now, 
and  had  stories  of  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  furni- 
ture, the  carved  chair  my  late  lord  used,  the  very  flagon  he  drank 
from.  Esmond's  mistress  knew  he  would  like  to  sleep  in  the  little 
room  he  used  to  occupy ;  'twas  made  ready  for  him,  and  wallflowers 
and  sweet  herbs  set  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  the  chaplain's  room. 

In  tears  of  not  unmanly  emotion,  with  prayers  of  submission  to 
the  awful  Dispenser  of  death  and  life,  of  good  and  evil  fortune, 
Mr.  Esmond  passed  a  part  of  that  first  night  at  Castlewood,  lying 
awake  for  many  hours  as  the  clock  kept  tolling  (in  tones  so  well 
remembered),  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  wallflowers ;  looked 
into  the  brazier  where  the  papers  had  been  burnt,  into  the  old 
presses  where  Holt's  books  and  papers  had  been  kept,  and  tried  the 


356        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

spring  and  whether  the  window  worked  still.  The  spring  had  not 
been  touched  for  years,  but  yielded  at  length,  and  the  whole  fabric 
of  the  window  sank  down.  He  lifted  it  and  it  relapsed  into  its 
frame ;  no  one  had  ever  passed  thence  since  Holt  used  it  sixteen 
years  ago. 

Esmond  remembered  his  poor  lord  saying,  on  the  last  day  of  his 
life,  that  Holt  used  to  come  in  and  out  of  the  house  like  a  ghost, 
and  knew  that  the  Father  liked  these  mysteries,  and  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  thing* 
we  divine  without  speaking,  and  know  though  they  happen  out  of 
our  sight.  This  fond  lady  hath  told  me  that  she  knew  both  days 


I    ACQUAINT    MY    MISTRESS  357 

when  I  was  wounded  abroad.  Who  shall  say  how  far  sympathy 
reaches,  and  how  truly  love  can  prophesy  1  "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  remem- 
bered !  The  ancient  towers  and  gables  of  the  Hall  darkling  against 
the  east,  the  purple  shadows  on  the  green  slopes,  the  quaint  devices 
and  carvings  of  the  dial,  the  forest-crowned  heights,  the  fair  yellow 
plain  cheerful  with  crops  and  corn,  the  shining  river  rolling  through 
it  towards  the  pearly  hills  beyond  ;  all  these  were  before  us,  along 
with  a  thousand  beautiful  memories  of  our  youth,  beautiful  and 
sad,  but  as  real  and  vivid  in  our  minds  as  that  fair  and  always- 
remembered  scene  our  eyes  beheld  once  more.  We  forget  nothing. 
The  memory  sleeps,  but  wakens  again ;  I  often  think  how  it  shall 
be  when,  after  the  last  sleep  of  death,  the  reveillee  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  staunch  a  little  loyalist  as  any  in  the  kingdom), 
and  indeed  was  quite  sure  that  any  plan  of  his  was  secure  of  her 
applause  and  sympathy.  Never  was  such  a  glorious  scheme  to  her 
partial  mind,  never  such  a  devoted  knight  to  execute  it.  An  hour 
or  two  may  have  passed  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  curtseys  smiling,  and  called  us 
"  the  young  people."  She  was  older,  paler,  and  more  majestic 
than  in  the  year  before;  her  mother  seemed  the  younger  of  the 
two.  She  never  once  spoke  of  her  grief,  Lady  Castlewood  told 
Esmond,  or  alluded,  save  by  a  quiet  word  or  two,  to  the  death  of 
her  hopes. 

W7hen  Beatrix  came  back  to  Castlewood  she  took  to  visiting  all  f    ^j 
the  cottages  and  all  the  sick.     She  set  up  a  school  of  children,  and 


358         THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

taught  singing  to  some  of  them.  We  had  a  pair  of  beautiful  old 
organs  in  Castle  wood  Church,  on  which  she  played  admirably,  so 
that  the  music  there  became  to  be  known  in  the  country  for  many 
miles  round,  and  no  doubt  people  came  to  see  the  fair  organist  as 
well  as  to  hear  her.  Parson  Tusher  and  his  wife  were  established 
at  the  vicarage,  but  his  wife  had  brought  him  110  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  be- 
haved 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  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." 


y 

• 


A    LAST    WORD    FROM    BEATRIX  35.9 

"  Beatrix,"   Esmond  burst  out,   the  old  fire  flaming  out  as  it  \ 
would  at  times,  "  will  you  wear  those  trinkets  at  your  marriage  1 
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 
foregone ! " 

"  A  price  for  your  constancy,  my  Lord  !  "  says  she ;  "  such  a 
preux  chevalier  wants  to  be  paid.  Oh  fie,  cousin  !  " 

"  Again,"  Esmond  spoke  out,  "  if  I  do  something  you  have  at 
heart ;  something  worthy  of  me  and  you ;  something  that  shall 
make  me  a  name  with  which  to  endow  you;  will  you  take  it1? 
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  1  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  1 " 

"  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  1  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  country1?"  says  Beatrix,  in  some 
agitation. 

"  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 — 


360        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

and  was  too  vain  to  break  it.  0  Harry !  I  cried  once  or  twice, 
not  for  him,  but  with  tears  of  rage  because  I  could  not  be  sorry 
for  him.  I  was  frightened  to  find  I  was  glad  of  his  death  ;  and 
were  I  joined  to  you,  I  should  have  the  same  sense  of  servitude, 
the  same  longing  to  escape.  We  should  both  be  unhappy,  and  you 
the  most,  who  are  as  jealous  as  the  Duke  was  himself.  I  tried 
to  love  him  ;  I  tried,  indeed  I  did :  affected  gladness  when  he 
came ;  submitted  to  hear  when  he  was  by  .me,  and  tried  the  wife's 
part  I  thought  I  was  to  play  for  the  rest  of  my  days.'  But  half- 
an-hour  of  that  complaisance  wearied  me,  and  what  would  a  lifetime 
be?  My  thoughts  were  away  when  he  was  speaking;  and  I  was 
thinking,  Oh  that  this  man  would  drop  my  hand,  and  rise  up  from 
before  my  feet !  I  knew  his  great  and  noble  qualities,  greater  and 
nobler  than  mine  a  thousand  times,  as  yours  are,  cousin,  I  tell  you, 
a  million  and  a  million  times  better.  But  'twas  not  for  these  I  took 
him.  I  took  him  to  have  a  great  place  in  the  world,  and  I  lost 
it.  I  lost  it,  and  do  not  deplore  him — -and  I  often  thought,  as 
I  listened  to  his  fond  vows  and  ardent  words,  Oh,  if  I  yield  to 
this  man  and  meet  the  other,  I  shall  hate  him  and  leave  him  !  I 
am  not  good,  Harry  :  my  mother  is  gentle  and  good  like  an  angel. 
I  wonder  how  she  should  have  had  such  a  child.  She  is  weak, 
but  she  would  die  rather  than  do  a  wrong ;  I  am  stronger  than  she, 
but  I  would  do  it  out  of  defiance.  I  do  not  care  for  what  the 
parsons  tell  me  with  their  droning  sermons :  I  used  to  see  them 
at  Court  as  mean  and  as  worthless  as  the  meanest  woman  there. 
Oh,  I  am  sick  and  weary  of  the  world  !  I  wait  but  for  one  thing, 
and  when  'tis  done,  I  will  take  Frank's  religion  and  your  poor 
mother's  and  go  into  a  nunnery,  and  end  like  her.  Shall  I  wear  the 
diamonds  then  1  —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. 


1    GO    TO    ANTWERP    AND    BRUXELLES     361 


CHAPTER   VIII 

/   TRAVEL   TO  FRANCE  AND   BRING  HOME  A   PORTRAIT 
OF  RIGAUD 

MR.  ESMOND  did  not  think  fit  to  take  leave  at  Court,  or  to 
inform  all  the  world  of  Pall  Mall  and  the  coffee-houses,  that 
he  was  about  to  quit  England ;  and  chose  to  depart  in  the 
most  private  manner  possible.  He  procured  a  pass  as  for  a  French- 
man, through  Doctor  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  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 
around  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,  nee  Comptesse  Wertheim ;  to  the  numerous  Counts, 
the  Lady  Clotilda's  tall  brothers ;  to  her  father  the  Chamberlain ; 
and  to  the  lady  his  wife,  Frank's  mother-in-law,  a  tall  and  majestic 
person  of  large  proportions,  such  as  became  the  mother  of  such  a 
company  of  grenadiers  as  her  warlike  sons  formed.  The  whole  race 
were  at  free  quarters  in  the  little  castle  nigh  to  Bruxelles  which 
Frank  had  taken  ;  rode  his  horses  ;  drank  his. wine  ;  and  lived  easily 
at  the  poor  lad's  charges.  Mr.  Esmond  had  always  maintained  a 
perfect  fluency  in  the  French,  which  was  his  mother. tongue ;  and  if 
this  family  (that  spoke  French  with  the  twang  which  the  Flemings 
use)  discovered  any  inaccuracy  in  Mr.  Simon's  pronunciation,  'twas 


362        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  means 
in  his  power,  wearing  fair  brown  periwigs,  such  as  the  Prince  wore, 
and  ribands,  and  so  forth,  of  the  Chevalier's  colour. 

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 
Maliries,  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  grand- 
father'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 


THE    PRINCE  363 

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  counsel.  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  Eoyal. 

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  recognised  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 


364        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  con- 
version, 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 :  "  Your  father  and  your  mother,  M.  le  Marquis," 
her  Majesty  said  (that  was  the  only  time  she  used  the  phrase). 
Monsieur  Simon  bowed  very  low,  and  saicj  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  splendours  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  under  his  coat,  a  blue 
riband,  and  a  fall  of  Bruxelles  lace.  Many  of  her  Ladyship's 


THE    PICTURE    FROM    PARIS  365 

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  Doctor  Tusher  happening  to  come  up  to  London,  and  seeing 
the  picture  (it  was  ordinarily  covered  by  a  curtain,  but  on  this  day 
Miss  Beatrix  happened  to  be  looking  at  it  when  the  Doctor  arrived), 
the  Vicar  of  Castlewood  vowed  he  could  not  see  any  resemblance 
in  the  piece  to  his  old  pupil,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  about  the  chin 
and  the  periwig ;  but  we  all  of  us  convinced  him  that  he  had  not 
seen  Frank  for  five  years  or  more ;  that  he  knew  no  more  about 
the  Fine  Arts  than  a  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  1  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  in- 
complete 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  from 
Castlewood ;  the  former  to  resume  her  services  at  Court,  which  had 
been  interrupted  by  the  fatal  catastrophe  of  Duke  Hamilton's  death. 
She  once  more  took  her  place,  then,  in  her  Majesty's  suite  and  at 
the  Maids'  table,  being  always  a  favourite  with  Mrs.  Masham,  the  \  I 
Queen's  chief  woman,  partly  perhaps  on  account  of  their  bitterness 
against  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  whom  Miss  Beatrix  loved  no 


366        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  despatched  into  the  kingdom  of  Ireland  to  see  my 
Lord's  estate  there;  the  housekeeper,  who  had  been  my  Lady's 
woman  time  out  of  mind,  and  the  attendant  of  the  young  children, 
was  sent  away  grumbling  to  Walcote,  to  see  to  the  new  painting 
and  preparing  of  that  house,  which  my  Lady  Dowager  intended  to 
occupy  for  the  future,  giving  up  Castlewood  to  her  daughter-in-law 
that  might  be  expected  daily  from  France.  Another  servant  the 
Viscountess  had  was  dismissed  too — with  a  gratuity — on  the  pretext 
that  her  Ladyship's  train  of  domestics  must  be  diminished;  so, 
finally,  there  was  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  mes- 
senger 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  entertain- 
ments 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 
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 


A    LETTER    WITHIN    A    LETTER  367 

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  despatched  by  the  public 
post  of  France,  in  the  same  open  way,  and  this,  after  giving  news 
of  the  fashion  at  Court  there,  ended  by  the  following  sentences,  in 
which,  but  for  those  that  had  the  key,  'twould  be  difficult  for  any 
man  to  find  any  secret  lurked  at  all : — 

"  (The  King  will  take)  medicine  on  Thursday.  His  Majesty  is 
better  than  he  hath  been  of  late,  though  incommoded  by  indigestion 
from  his  too  great  appetite.  Madame  Maintenon  continues  well. 
They  have  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  pass- 
ports) 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  1'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  Castlewood's  house  in  Kensington  Square).  I  think  no 
English  painter  could  produce  such  a  piece. 

"  Our  poor  friend  the  Abbd  hath  been  at  the  Bastile,  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  over-night,  and  tipsy  or  sober  am 

"  Thine  ever ." 


368        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  JSngland  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  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  per- 
secute 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  for- 
ward to  its  completion  ;  the  reverence  which  they  paid  the  minister 
who  initiated  them  into  that  secret  Truth,  now  known  only  to  a 


A    KNOT    OF    CONSPIRATORS  369 

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  1  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,  but 
I  can't ;  I  have  tried,  and  I  can't."  And  she  went  away,  shaking 
her  head  mournfully,  but  always,  it  seemed  to  Esmond,  that  her 
liking  and  respect  for  him  was  greatly  increased,  since  she  knew 
what  capability  he  had  both  to  act  and  bear ;  to  do  and  to  forego. 


2A 


370        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  ORIGINAL  OF   THE  PORTRAIT  CO'MES   TO  ENGLAND 


7/~insWAS  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  a  sword  of  my  poor  Lord  Castlewood  under- 
neath it,  and  a  little  picture  or  emblem  which  the  widow  loved 
always  to  have  before  her  eyes  on  waking,  and  in  which  the  hair 
of  her  lord  and  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 


PREPARATIONS    FOR    A    GUEST  371 

for  herself.  The  ladies  showed  Mr.  Esmond,  when  they  were  com- 
pleted, the  fond  preparations  they  had  made.  'Twas  then  Beatrix 
knelt  down  and  kissed  the  linen  sheets.  As  for  her  mother,  Lady 
Castlewood  made  a  curtsey  at  the  door,  as  she  would  have  done 
to  the  altar  on  entering  a  church,  and  owned  that  she  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. 

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 


372        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Gas  tie  wood'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  witli  him 
at  table.  He  was  in  better  spirits  than  poor  Frank  Castlewood, 
who  Esmond  thought  might  be  woebegone  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  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  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  se'rieux,'  Don  Bellianis  of 
Greece,  and  I  don't  know  what  names ;  mimicking  your  manner" 
(here  Castlewood  laughed  himself) — "and  he  did  it  very  well. 


FRANK'S    GOOD    HEART  373 

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,"  said  Colonel-  Esmond,  touched 
at  the  young  fellow's  simplicity,  "  and  there  will  be  a  noble  gentle- 
man 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,  mafoi,  it  hath  turned  my  head." 

The  effect  of  the  ale  was  like  a  spur  upon  our  horses,  and  we 
rode  very  quickly  to  London,  reaching  Kensington  at  nightfall. 
Mr.  Esmond's  servant  was  left  behind  at  Rochester,  to  take  care  of 
the  tired  horses,  whilst  we  had  fresh  beasts  provided  along  the  road. 
And  galloping  by  the  Prince's  side  the  Colonel  explained  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales  what  his  movements  had  been ;  who  the  friends 
were  that  knew  of  the  expedition ;  whom,  as  Esmond  conceived, 
the  Prince  should  trust ;  entreating  him,  above  all,  to  maintain  the 
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  pre- 
sence 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  woefully  misguided  him,  and  it  was  from  these 


374        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

especially,  that  the  persons  engaged  in  the  present  venture  were 
anxious  to  defend  the  chief  actor  in  it.* 

The  party  reached  London  by  nightfall,  leaving  their  horses 
at  the  Posting-House  over  against  Westminster,  and  being  ferried 
over  the  water,  where  Lady  Esmond's  coach  was  already  in  waiting. 
In  another  hour  we  were  all  landed  at  Kensington,  and  the  mistress 
of  the  house  had  that  satisfaction  which  her  heart  had  yearned  after 
for  many  years,  once  more  to  embrace  her-  son,  who,  on  his  side, 
with  all  his  waywardness,  ever  retained  a  most  tender  affection  for 
his  parent. 

She  did  not  refrain  from  this  expression  of  her  feeling,  though 
the  domestics  were  by,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood's  attendant  stood 
in  the  hall.  Esmond  had  to  whisper  to  him  in  French  to  take  his 
hat  off.  Monsieur  Baptiste  was  constantly  neglecting  his  part  with 
an  inconceivable  levity  :  more  than  once  on  the  ride  to  London, 
little  observations  of  the  stranger,  light  remarks,  and  words  betoken- 
ing 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  characterised  his  talk,  scarce 
befitted  such  a  great  Prince,  and  such  a  solemn  occasion.  Not  but 
that  he  could  act  at  proper  times  with  spirit  and  dignity.  He  had 
behaved,  as  we  all  knew,  in  a  very  courageous  manner  on  the  field. 
Esmond  had  seen  a  copy  of  the  letter  the  Prince  had  writ  with  his 
own  hand  when  urged  by  his  friends  in  England  to  abjure  his 
religion,  and  admired  that  manly  and  magnanimous  reply  by  which 
he  refused  to  yield  to  the  temptation.  Monsieur  Baptiste  took  off 
his  hat,  blushing  at  the  hint  Colonel  Esmond  ventured  to  give  him, 
and  said,  "  Tenez,  elle  est  jolie,  la  petite  mere.  Foi  de  Chevalier  ! 
elle  est  charmante ;  mais  1'autre,  qui  est  cette  nymphe,  cet  astre  qui 
brille,  cette  Diane  qui  descend  sur  nous1?"  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 ; 

*  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. 


THE    CHIEF    ACTOR    FORGETS    HIS    PART     375 

he  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  his  sister  as  though  he  had  not  been 
aware  before  (nor  was  he  very  likely)  how  perfectly  lovely  she  was, 
and  I  thought  blushed  as  he  embraced  her.  The  Prince  could  not 
keep  his  eyes  off  her ;  he  quite  forgot  his  menial  part,  though  he 
had  been  schooled  to  it,  and  a  little  light  portmanteau  prepared 
expressly  that  he  should  carry  it.  He  pressed  forward  before  my 
Lord  Viscount.  'Twas  lucky  the  servants'  eyes  were  busy  in  other 
directions,  or  they  must  have  seen  that  this  was  no  servant,  or  at 
least  a  very  insolent  and  rude  one. 

Again  Colonel  Esmond  was  obliged  to  cry  out,  "  Baptiste,"  in 
a  loud  imperious  voice,  "  have  a  care  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  Castle  wood  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  kind- 
ness 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  kiridle 
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 


376        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

she  gave  the  Prince ;  and  he  clenched  his  hand  involuntarily,  and 
looked  across  to  Castlewood,  whose  eyes  answered  his  alarm-signal, 
and  were  also  on  the  alert.  The  Prince  gave  his  subjects  an  audience 
of  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  two  ladies  and  Colonel  Esmond 
quitted  the  chamber.  Lady  Castlewood  pressed  his  hand  as  they 
descended  the  stair,  and  the  three  went  down  to  the  lower  rooms, 
where  they  waited  awhile  till  the  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  d:nv 
s:iy,  looked  very  glum. 

When  the  time  came  to  take  leave,  Esmond  marched  homewards 
to  his  lodgings,  and  met  Mr.  Addison  on  the  road  that  night, 
walking  to  a  cottage  he  had  at  Fulham.  the  moon  shining  on  his 
handsome  serene  face: — "What  cheer,  brother1?"  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 


THE    DEED    IS    DONE  377 

dark  ;  'tis  better  than  fighting  by  daylight.  Why  should  we  quarrel, 
because  I  am  a  Whig  and  thou  art  a  Tory  1  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  1 — no,  never  !  There 
is  no  such  word  as  enough  as  a  stopper  for  good  wine.  Thou  wilt 
not  come  1  Come  any  day,  come  soon.  You  know  I  remember 
Simois  and  the  Sigeia  tellus,  and  the  prcelia,  mixta  niero,  mixta 
mero"  he  repeated,  with  ever  so  slight  a  touch  of  nwruni  in  his 
voice,  and  walked  back  a  little  way  on  the  road  with  Esmond, 
bidding  the  other  remember  he  was  always  his  friend,  and  indebted 
to  him  for  his  aid  in  the  "  Campaign  "  poem.  And  very  likely  Mr. 
Under-Secretary  would  have  stepped  in  and  taken  t'other  bottle  at 
the  Colonel's  lodging,  had  the  latter  invited  him,  but  Esmond's 
mood  was  none  of  the  gayest,  and  he  bade  his  friend  an  inhospitable 
good-night  at  the  door. 

"  I  have  done  the  deed,"  thought  he,  sleepless,  and  looking  out 
into  the  night;  "he  is  here,  and  I  have  brought  him;  he  and 
Beatrix  are  Bleeping  under  the  same  roof  now.  Whom  did  I  mean 
to  serve  in  bringing  him?  Was  it  the  Prince1?  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  a,bout  his  own  undoing. 
Undoing  1  Should  he  write  that  word  in  his  late  years  1  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  he  could 
answer  for  John's  fidelity  as  for  his  own.  John  returned  with  the 
horses  from  Rochester  betimes  the  next  morning,  and  the  Colonel 
gave  him  to  understand  that  on  going  to  Kensington,  where  he  was 
free  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  indeed  courting  Miss  Beatrix's  maid, 
he  was  to  ask  no  questions,  and  betray  no  surprise,  but  to  vouch 
stoutly  that  the  young  gentleman  he  should  see  in  a  red  coat  there 
was  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood,  and  that  his  attendant  in  grey 
was  Monsieur  Baptiste  the  Frenchman.  He  was  to  tell  his  friends 


378        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

in  the  kitchen  such  stories  as  he  remembered  of  my  Lord  Viscount's 
youth  at  Castle  wood ;  what  a  wild  boy  he  was ;  how  he  used  to 
drill  Jack  and  cane  him,  before  ever  he  was  a  soldier ;  everything, 
in  fine,  he  knew  respecting  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  momen- 
tary imperfect  glimpse  of  the  two  strangers  on  the  night  of  their 
arrival,  never  had  a  reason  to  doubt  the  fidelity  of  the  portrait; 
and  next  day,  when  they  saw  the  original  of  the  piece  habited 
exactly  as  he  was  represented  in  the  painting,  with  the  same  periwig, 
ribands,  and  uniform  of  the  Guard,  quite  naturally  addressed  the 
gentleman  as  my  Lord  Castlewood,  my  Lady  Viscountess'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  forget  his  own  tongue  and  spoke  it  like  a  French- 
man. "  I  warrant,"  says  he,  "  that  with  the  English  beef  and  beer, 
his  Lordship  will  soon  get  back  the  proper  use  of  his  mouth ; "  and, 
to  do  his  new  lordship  justice,  he  took  to  beer  and  beef  very  kindly. 

The  Prince  drank  so  much,  and  was  so  loud  and  imprudent  in 
his  talk  after  his  drink,  that  Esmond  often  trembled  for  him.  His 
meals  were  served  as  much  as  possible  in  his  own  chamber,  though 
frequently  he  made  his  appearance  in  Lady  Castlewood's  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,  ;m<l 
said  :  "  My  Lord — that  is,  the  gentleman — lias  been  tampering  with 


MY    REMONSTRANCES  379 

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  mis- 
fortunes in  Europe,  was  often  content  to  lay  the  dignity  of  his  birth 
and  grief  at  the  wooden  shoes  of  a  French  chambermaid,  and  to 
repent  afterwards  (for  he  was  very  devout)  in  ashes  taken  from  the 
dust-pan.  'Tis  for  mortals  such  as  these  that  nations  suffer,  that 
parties  struggle,  that  warriors  fight  and  bleed.  A  year  afterwards 
gallant  heads  were  falling,  and  Nithsdale  in  escape,  and  Derwent- 
water  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. 

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  1  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  a  la  preche ;  I  am  not  come  to  London  to  go  to  the 
sermon."  And  he  complained  afterwards  to  Castlewood,  that  "le 
petit  jaune,  le  noir  Colonel,  le  Marquis  Misanthrope "  (by  which 
facetious  names  his  Royal  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 


380        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  p'oor  "  ColoneJ  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  Castle- 
wood  was  denied  to  all  friends  of  the  house  who  waited  on  his 
Lordship.  The  wound  he  had  received  had  broke  out  again  from 
his  journey  on  horseback,  so  the  world  and  the  domestics  were 
informed.  And  Doctor  A— — ,*  his  physician  (I  shall  not  men- 
tion his  name,  but  he  was  physician  to  the  Queen,  of  the  Scots 
nation,  and  a  man  remarkable  for  his  benevolence  as  well  as  his 
wit),  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  kept  perfectly  quiet  until  the 
wound  should  heal.  With  this  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  the 
most  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  w:is 
entirely  of  their  opinion;  she  thought  he  was  very  light,  very  light. 
and  reckless;  she  could  not  even  see  the  good  looks  Colonel  Esmond 

*  There  can  be  very  little   doubt   that   the  Doctor  mentioned  by  my  dear 
father  was  the  famous  Doctor  Arbuthnot. — R.  E.  W, 


OUR    GUEST'S    AMUSEMENTS  381 

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  conies  to  your  Majesty's  Court,  I  will  hang 
myself  in  my  own  garters,  or  will  cry  my  eyes  out."  "  Rather  than 
lose  those,"  says  the  Prince,  "  he  shall  be  made  Archbishop  and 
Colonel  of  the  Guard  "  (it  was  Frank  Castlewood  who  told  me  of 
this  conversation  over  their  supper). 

"  Yes/'  cries  she,  with  one  of  her  laughs— I  fancy  I  hear  it  now. 
Thirty  years  afterwards  I  hear  that  delightful  music.  "Yes,  he 
shall  be  Archbishop  of  Esmond  and  Marquis  of  Canterbury." 

"And  what  will  your  Ladyship  be?"  says  the  Prince;  "you 
have  but  to  choose  your  place." 

"  I,"  says  Beatrix,  "  will  be  mother  of  the  maids  to  the  Queen 
of  his  Majesty  King  James  the  Third — Vive  le  Roy  ! "  and  she 
made  him  a  great  curtsey,  and  drank  a  part  of  a  glass  of  wine  in 
his  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  thau  ever. 


382        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


CHAPTER   X 

WE  ENTERTAIN  A   VERY  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST  AT 
KENSINGTON 

^HOULD  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  denned  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  Marl  borough  for  John  Churchill,  always ;  and 
according  as  they  could  get  help  from  St.  Germains  or  Hanover, 
they  sent  over  proffers  of  allegiance  to  the  princes  there,  or  betrayed 
one  to  the  other:  one  cause,  or  one  sovereign,  was  as  good  as 
another  to  them,  so  that  they  could  hold  the  best  place  under  him ; 
and,  like  Lockit  and  Peachum,  the  Newgate  chiefs  in  the  "Rogue's 
\J  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  tied  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 


ROGUES    ALL  383 

State,  and  offer  it  to  either  family  that  should  bribe  him  best,  or 
that  the  nation  should  declare  for.  Whichever  the  King  was, 
Barley'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  bravely 
in  his  fall,  as  he  gallantly  had  supported  him  in  his  better 
fortune. , 

Incomparably  more  brilliant,  more  splendid,  eloquent,  accom- 
plished than  his  rival,  the  great  St.  John  could  be  as  selfish  as 
Oxford  was,  and  could  act  the  double  part  as  skilfully  as  ambi- 
dextrous Churchill.  He  whose  talk  was  always  of  liberty,  no  more 
shrank  from  using  persecution  and  the  pillory  against  his  opponents 
than  if  he  had  been  at  Lisbon  and  Grand  Inquisitor.  This  lofty 
patriot  was  on  his  knees  at  Hanover  and  St.  Germains  too ;  notori- 
ously 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  backstair 
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 


384        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

her  own  family.  The  Prince  was  lying  actually  in  London,  within 
a  stone's-cast  of  his  sister's  palace ;  the  first  tMinister  toppling  to  his 
fall,  and  so  tottering  that  the  weakest  push  of  a  woman's  finger 
would  send  him  down ;  and  as  for  Bolingbroke,  his  successor,  we 
know  on  whose  side  his  power  and  his  splendid  eloquence  would  be 
on  the  day  when  the  Queen  should  appear  openly  before  her  Council 
and  say : — "  This,  my  Lords,  is  my  brother ;  here  is  my  father's 
heir,  and  mine  after  me." 

During  the  whole  of  the  previous  year  the  Queen  had  had  many 
and  repeated  fits  of  sickness,  fever,  and  lethargy,  and  her  death  had 
been  constantly  looked  for  by  all  her  attendants.  The  Elector  of 
Hanover  had  wished  to  .send  his  son,  the  Duke  of  Cambridge — to 
pay  his  court  to  his  cousin  the  Queen,  the  Elector  said ; — in  truth, 
to  be  on  the  spot  when  death  should  close  her  career.  Frightened 
perhaps  to  have  such  a  memento  mori  under  her  royal  eyes,  her 
Majesty  had  angrily  forbidden  the  young  Prince's  coming  into 
England.  Either  she  desired  to  keep  the  chances  for  her  brother 
open  yet ;  or  the  people  about  her  did  not  wish  to  close  with  the 
Whig  candidate  till  they  could  make  terms  with  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 
would  allow  him  to  bend  his  knee  before  the  Queen.  At  the  com- 
mencement 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  would  undoubtedly  be  the  man.  And  now  the 


THE    TIME    WAS    NOW    COME  385 

time  was  come,  the  Queen's  Abigail  said  :  and  now  my  Lord  Castle- 
wood  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  1 "  asked  Colonel  Esmond,  not  know- 
ing what  had  been  arranged,  though  in  fact  the  stroke  next  in 
importance  to  that  of  bringing  the  Prince,  and  of  having  him  acknow- 
ledged 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  else- 
where, as  to  the  means  best  to  be  adopted  for  presenting  our  young 
adventurer  to  his  sister  the  Queen.  The  simple  and  easy  plan  pro- 
posed by  Colonel  Esmond  had  been  agreed  to  by  all  parties,  which 
was  that  on  some  rather  private  day,  when  there  were  not  many 
persons  about  the  Court,  the  Prince  should  appear  there  as  my 
Lord  Castlewood,  should  be  greeted  by  his  sister-in-waiting,  and  led 
by  that  other  lady  into  the  closet  of  the  Queen.  And  according  to 
her  Majesty's  health  or  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. 

7  2B 


386        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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,  Doctor  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  trans- 
actions 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  crea- 
tures, whom  the  girl  commanded  rather  than  obeyed.  And  feeling 
she  was  wrong,  and  that  by  a  thousand  coquetries  (which  she  could 
no  more  help  exercising  on  every  man  that  came  near  her,  than  the 
sun  can  help  shining  on  great  and  small)  she  had  provoked  the 
Prince's  dangerous  admiration,  and  allured  him  to  the  expression  of 
it,  she  was  only  the  more  wilful  and  imperious  the  more  she  felt 
her  error. 

To  this  party,  the  Prince  being  served  with  chocolate  in  his  bed- 
chamber, where  he  lay  late  sleeping  away  the  fumes  of  his  wine,  the 
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  apart- 
ment :  he  bade  Monsieur  Baptiste  go  up  to  his  master  instantly, 
and  requested  that  my  Lord  Viscount  Castleivood  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 
Banquetiug-house.  Her  Majesty  will  be  drawn  in  a  garden  chair, 
Madam  Beatrix  Esmond  and  her  brother,  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle- 
wood, will  be  walking  in  the  private  garden  (here  is  Lady  Masham's 
key),  and  will  come  unawares  upon  the  Royal  party.  The  man 
that  draws  the  chair  will  retire,  and  leave  the  Queen,  the  favourite, 
and  the  Maid  of  Honour  and  her  brother  together ;  Mistress  Beatrix 
will  present  her  brother,  and  then ! — and  then,  my  Lord  Bishop 
will  pray  for  the  result  of  the  interview,  and  his  Scots  clerk  will 
say  Amen  !  Quick,  put  on  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 


DOCTOR    ARBUTHNOT'S    PLAN  Sfl7 

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. 

"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.' 


388        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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  anima- 
tion 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  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  pass- 
ing through  the  minds  of  all. 

But  who  should  begin  to  break  the  news  ?     Monsieur  Baptists, 


BEATRIX    AT    BAY  389 

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  speak- 
ing 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  1 "  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  health1?  or  is  it  the  head  of  the 
family "  (here  she  turned  with  an  imperious  look  towards  Colonel 
Esmond),  "  who  has  taken  of  late  to  preach  the  King  sermons  1 " 

"  We  do  not  say  you  are  too  free  with  his  Majesty." 

"  I  thank  you,  madam,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  the  head 
and  a  curtsey. 

But  her  mother  continued,  with  very  great  calmness  and  dignity : 
"At  least  we  have  not  said  so,  though  we  might,  were  it  possible 
for  a  mother  to  say  such  words  to  her  own  daughter,  your  father's 
daughter." 

" Eh?  mon  pere"  breaks  out  Beatrix,  "was  no  better  than 
other  persons'  fathers."  And  again  she  looked  towards  the  Colonel. 

We  all  felt  a  shock  as  she  uttered  those  two  or  three  French 
words ;  her  manner  was  exactly  imitated  from  that  of  our  foreign 
guest. 

"  You  had  not  learned  to  speak  French  a  month  ago,  Beatrix," 
says  her  mother  sadly,  "  nor  to  speak  ill  of  your  father." 

Beatrix,  no  doubt,  saw  that  slip  she  had  made  in  her  flurry,  for 
she  blushed  crimson :  "  I  have  learnt  to  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  1 "  she  went  on ;  "he  rules  everything  here. 
When  his  chaplain  has  done  singing  the  psalms,  will  his  Lordship 
deliver  the  sermon  1  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 


390        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  1" 

"  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 ;  uo,  you 
would  not  dare  ! "  cries  Frank's  sister.  "  Keep  your  oaths,  my 
Lord,  for  your  wife  ;  we  are  not  used  here  to  such  language.  Till 
you  came,  there  used  to  be  kindness  between  me  and  mamma,  and 
I  cared  for  her  when  you  never  did,  when  you  were  away  for  years 
with  your  horses  and  your  mistress,  and  your  Popish  wife." 

"By  -  — ,"  says  my  Lord,  rapping  out  another  oath,  "  Clotilda 
is  an  angel ;  how  dare  you  say  a  word  against  Clotilda  1 " 

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  Ca&tlewood,"  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  a  while,  and  leave  it  to  the  other  actors  of  the  play." 

As  the  Colonel  spoke  with  a  perfect  calmness  and  politeness,  such 
as  'tis  to  be  hoped  he  hath  always  shown  to  women,*  his  mistress 

*  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 


SHE    SURRENDERS  391 

stood  by  him  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  Frank  Castlewood  on 
the  other,  hemming  in  poor  Beatrix,  that  was  behind  it,  and,  as 
it  were,  surrounding  her  with  our  approaches. 

Having  twice  sallied  out  and  been  beaten  back,  she  now,  as 
I  expected,  tried  the  ultima  ratio  of  women,  and  had  recourse  to 
tears.  Her  beautiful  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  me1?  Is  it  my  fault  that  the  Prince  should,  as  you 
say,  admire  me  ?  Did  I  bring  him  here  1  Did  I  do  aught  but 
what  you  bade  me,  in  making  him  welcome  1  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  1 
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 
arid  brother  are  acting  but  as  you  bid  them  :  whither  would  you 
have  me  go  1 " 

"  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 
counsel  is  that  you  go  out  of  harm's  way  ;  for,  by  the  Lord,  were 
the  Prince  to  play  any  tricks  with  you,  King  as  he  is,  or  is  to  be, 
Harry  Esmond  and  I  would  have  justice  of  him." 

"  Are  not  two  such  champions  enough  to  guard  me  1 "  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." 

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. 


392        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  But  does  he  know  you  ? "  interposed  Lady  Castlewood,  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 ;  niy 
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  1  My  family  suspects  me.  As  those  mis- 
trust 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  un- 
happy 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-iu-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,  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. 


HAMILTON'S    PORTRAIT 


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,  iny  Lord  Marquis?  Will  you 
send  your  valet  to  see  that  I  do  not  run  away1?"  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  orna- 
mented 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,  be- 
sides 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  1 "  says  her  mother,  taking  the 
miniature  out,  and  with  a  cruelty  she  did  not  very  often  Jshow ; 
but  there  are  some  moments  when  the  tenderest  women  are  cruel, 
and  some  triumphs  which  angels  can't  forego.* 

Having  delivered  this  stab,  Lady  Castlewood  was  frightened  at 
the  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  ine  from  the  time  I  s&t  on  my  father's  knee. 

*  This  remark  shows  how  unjustly  and  contemptuously  even  the  best  of  men 
will  sometimes  judge  of  our  sex.  Lady  Castlewood  had  no  intention  of  triumph- 
ing over  her  daughter  ;  but  from  a  sense  of  duty  alone  pointed  out  her  deplor- 
able wrong. — R.  E. 


394        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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. 


BEATRIX    DEPARTS  395 


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  Castlewood's  male 
domestics,  Mr.  Esmond's  faithful  John  Lock  wood  came  to  wait 
on  his  mistress  during  their  absence,  though  he  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  escort  Mrs.  Lucy,  his  sweetheart,  on  her  journey  into  the 
country. 

We  had  a  gloomy  and  silent  meal ;  it  seemed  as  if  a  darkness 
was  over  the  house,  since  the  bright  face  of  Beatrix  had  been  with- 
drawn 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 
a-bed  now,  and  more  quiet.  Be  ready  against  morning,  when  I 
still  hope  all  will  be  well." 

The  Prince  came  home  shortly  after  the  messenger  who  bore 
this  billet  had  left  the  house.  His  Royal  Highness  was  so  much 
the  better  for  the  Bishop's  liquor,  that  to  talk  affairs  to  him  now 
was  of  little  service.  He  was  helped  to  the  Royal  bed ;  he  called 
Castlewood  familiarly  by  his  own  name ;  he  quite  forgot  the  part 
upon  the  acting  of  which  his  crown,  his  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 


396        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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.  jYe  regretted,  perhaps,  that  she  was  gone. 

One  of  tHe  party  at  Kensington  Square  was  fool  enough  to  ride 
to  Hounslow  that  night,  coram  latronibus,  and  to  the  inn  which 
the  family  used  ordinarily  in  their  journeys  out  of  London.  Esmond 
desired  my  landlord  not  to  acquaint  Madam  Beatrix  with  his  coming, 
and  had  the  grim  satisfaction  of  passing  by  the  door  of  the  chamber 
where  she  lay  with  her  maid,  and  of  watching  her  chariot  set  forth 
in  the  early  morning.  He  saw  her  smile  and  slip  money  into  the 
man's  hand  who  was  ordered  to  ride  behind  the  coach  as  far  as 
Bagshot.  The  road  being  open,  and  the  other  servant  armed,  it 
appeared  she  dispensed  with  the  escort  of  a  second  domestic ;  and 
this  fellow,  bidding  his  young  mistress  adieu  with  many  bows,  went 
and  took  a  pot  of  ale  in  the  kitchen,  and  returned  in  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  pro- 
claimed 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    PRINCE    IN    COUNCIL  397 

the  cruel  charge  of  having  been  for  once  in  his  life  a  little  tipsy. 
He  toasted  your  lovely  sister  a  dozen  times,  at  which  we  all 
laughed,"  says  the  Bishop,  "admiring  so  much  fraternal  affection . 
—Where  is  that  charming  nymph,  and  why  doth  she  not  adorn 
your  Ladyship's  tea-table  with  her  bright  eyes  ? " 

Her  Ladyship  said  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.  Ayme''?" 
"  II  faut  etre  aimable  pour  etre  aimeV"  says  the  merry  Doctor ; 
Esmond  pulled  his  sleeve,  and  bade  him  hush.  It  was  to  Aym^'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 
fate ;  and  when  our  guest  above  gave  his  signal  that  he  was  awake, 
the  Doctor,  the  Bishop,  and  Colonel  Esmond  waited  upon  the 
Prince's  leve'e,  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 ;  an-  V 
nouncing  the  arrival  of  the  exile  descendant  of  three  Sovereigns, 
and  his  acknowledgment  by  his  sister  as  heir  to  the  throne.  Every 
safeguard  for  their  liberties,  the  Church  and  people  could  ask,  was 
promised  to  them.  The  Bishop  could  answer  for  the  adhesion  of 
very  many  prelates,  who  besought  of  their  flocks  and  brother  eccle- 
siastics to  recognise  the  sacred  right  of  the  future'  Sovereign  and  to 
purge  the  country  of  the  sin  of  rebellion. 

During  the  composition  of  these  papers  more  messengers  than 


398        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

one  came  from  the  Palace  regarding  the  state  of  the  august  patient 
there  lying.  At  mid-day  she  was  somewhat  better ;  at  evening  the 
torpor  again  seized  her  and  she  wandered  in  her  mind.  At  night 
Dr.  A —  -  was  with  us  again,  with  a  report  rather  more  favour- 
able ;  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  plea- 
sant, when  looking  towards  the  little  company  assembled,  and  wait- 
•ing  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,  :md 
Esmond  was  no  less  embarrassed.  I  think  women  have  an  instinct  of 
U  I  dissimulation ;  they  know  by  nature  how  to  disguise  their  emotions 


LE    PRINCE    SE    FASCHE 


399 


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  1 

Our  guest  swallowed  his  supper  very  sulkily  ;  it  was  not  till  the 
second  bottle  his  Highness  began  to  rally.  When  Lady  Castlewood 
asked  leave  to  depart,  he  sent  a  message  to  Beatrix,  hoping  she 
would  be  present  at  the  next  day's  dinner,  and  applied  himself  to 
drink,  and  to  talk  afterwards,  for  which  there  was  subject  in  plenty. 

The  next  day,  we  heard  from  our  informer  at  Kensington  that 
the  Queen  was  somewhat  better,  and  had  been  up  for  an  hour, 
though  she  was  not  well  enough  yet  to  receive  any  visitor. 

At  dinner  a  single  cover  was  laid  for  his  Royal  Highness ;  and 
the  two  gentlemen  alone  waited  on  him.  We  had  had  a  consulta- 
tion in  the  morning  with  Lady  Castlewood,  in  which  it  had  been 
determined  that,  should  his  Highness  ask  further  questions  about 
Beatrix,  lie  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  diffi- 
culty keep  a  serene  countenance ;  and  having  made  some  foolish 
attempts  at  trivial  talk,  he  came  to  his  point  presently,  and  in  as 
easy  a  manner  as  he  could,  saying  to  Lord  Castlewood,  he  hoped,  he 
requested,  his  Lordship's  mother  and  sister  would  be  of  the  supper 
that  night.  As  the  time  hung  heavy  on  him,  and  he  must  not  go 
abroad,  would  not  Miss  Beatrix  hold  him  company  at  a  game  of 
cards  1 

At  this,  looking  up  at  Esmond,  and  taking  the  signal  from  him, 
Lord  Castlewood  informed  his  Royal  Highness*  that  his  sister 
Beatrix  was  not  at  Kensington ;  and  that  her  family  had  thought 
it  best  she  should  quit  the  town. 

"  Not  at  Kensington  !  "  says  he.  "  Is  she  ill  ?  she  was  well 
yesterday ;  wherefore  should  she  quit  the-  town  1  Is  it  at  your 
orders,  my  Lord,  or  Colonel  Esmond's,  who  seems  the  master  of 
this  house1?" 

*  In  London  we  addressed  the  Prince  as  Royal  Highness  invariably ;  though 
the  women  persisted  in  giving  him  the  title  of  King. 


/I 


400        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  Not  of  this,  sir,"  says  Frank  very  nobly,  "  only  of  our  house 
in  the  country,  which  he  hath  given  to  us.  This  is  my  mother's 
house,  and  Walcote  is  my  father's,  and  the  Marquis  of  Esmond 
knows  he  hath  but  to  give  his  word,  and  I  return  his  to  him." 

"  The  Marquis  of  Esmond  ! — the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  says  the 
Prince,  tossing  off  a  glass,  "  meddles  too  much  with  my  affairs,  and 
presumes  on  the  service  he  hath  done  me.  If  you  want  to  carry 
your  suit  with  Beatrix,  my  Lord,  by  locking  her  up  in  gaol,  let  me 
tell  you  that  is  not  the  way  to  win  a  woman." 

"  I  was  not  aware,  sir,  that  I  had  spoken  of  my  suit  to  Madam 
Beatrix  to  your  Royal  Highness." 

"Bali,  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  lache,  yes,  lache  "  (he  spoke  rapidly  in  French, 
his  rage  carrying  him  away  with  each  phrase) :  "I  come  to  your 
house ;  I  risk  my  life  ;  I  pass  it  in  ennui ;  I  repose  myself  on  your 
fidelity ;  I  have  no  company  but  your  Lordship's  sermons  or  the 
conversations  of  that  adorable  young  lady,  and  you  take  her  from 
me,  and  you,  you  rest !  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 
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  gesticulation  such  as  the 
French  use,  and  in  the  language  of  that  nation.  The  Prince  striding 
up  and  down  the  room ;  his  face  flushed,  and  his  hands  trembling 
•  with  anger.  He  was  very  thin  and  frail  from  repeated  illness  and 
a  life  of  pleasure.  Either  Castlewood  or  Esmond  could  have  broke 
him  across  their  knee,  and  in  half-a-minute's  struggle  put  an  end  to 
him ;  and  here  he  was  insulting  us  both,  and  scarce  deigning  to 
hide  from  the  two,  whose  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. 


A    DISAGREEABLE    NIGHT  401 

"  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  1 " 
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,  arid  the  watchman  again  sang  his  cry  of  "  Past  ten  o'clock, 
and  a  starlight  night,"  Esmond  spoke  to  the  Prince  in  a  low  voice, 
and  said,  "  Your  Royal  Highness  hears  that  man  1 " 

"  Apres,  monsieur  1 "  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  ottered  a  reward  of  £500,  as  your 
Royal  Highness  saw  on  our  ride  from  Rochester.  I  have  but  to  say 
the  word,  and,  by  the  Heaven  that  made  me,  I  would  say  it  if  I 
thought  the  Prince,  for  his  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  1 " 

"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  T' 

"  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 
7  2c 


402        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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 
sup  ping-room,  and  the  other  through  which  we  passed,  after  us. 
It  led  into  the  small  chamber  which  Frank  Castlewood  or  Monsieur 
Baptiste  occupied,  and  by  which  Martin  entered  when  Colonel 
Esmond  but  now  saw  him  in  the  chamber. 

At  an  early  hour  next  morning  the  Bishop  arrived,  and  was 
closeted  for  some  time  with  his  master  in  his  own  apartment,  where 
the  Prince  laid  open  to  his  counsellor  the  wrongs  which;  according 
to  his  version,  he  had  received  from  the  gentlemen  of  the  Esmond 
family.  The  worthy  prelate  came  out  from  the  conference  with  an 
air  of  great  satisfaction ;"  he  was  a  man  full  of  resources,  and  of  a 
most  assured  fidelity,  and  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    LEAVES    US  403 

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  Doctor  Atterbury," 
says  he,  "I  don't  know,  gentlemen,  what  may  happen  to  me.  I 
spoke  very  hastily,  my  lords,  last  night,  and  ask  pardon  of  both  of 
you.  But  I  must  not  stay  any  longer,"  says  he,  "giving  umbrage 
to  good  friends,  or  keeping  pretty  girls  away  from  their  homes. 
My  Lord  Bishop  hath  found  a  safe  place  for  me,  hard  by  at  a 
curate's  house,  whom  the  Bishop  can  trust,  and  whose  wife  is  so 
ugly  as  to  be  beyond  all  danger ;  we  will  decamp  into  those  new 
quarters,  and  I  leave  you,  thanking  you  for  a  hundred  kindnesses 
here.  Where  is  my  hostess,  that  I  may  bid  her  farewell1?  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. 


404-        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 


As 


CHAPTER  XII 

A   GREAT  SCHEME,  AND  WHO  BALKED  IT  ' 

S  characters  written,  with  a  secret  ink  come  out  with  the  appli- 
cation 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  pro- 
tested 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  for  him  :  should  the  Hano- 
verian party  bring  in  their  Sovereign,  who  more  ready  to  go  on  his 
knee,  and  cry  "  God  save  King  George "  1  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  mon- 
strous professions  of  devotion,  which  the  Elector  rightly  scorned, 
he  proved  the  justice  of  their  contempt  for  him  by  flying  and  taking 
.  renegade  service  with  St.  Germains,  just  when  he  should  have  kept 
aloof:  and  that  Court  despised  him,  as  the  manly  and  resolute 
men  who  established  the  Elector  in  England  had  before  done.  He 
signed  his  own  name  to  every  accusation  of  insincerity  his  enemies 
made  against  him  ;  and  the  King  and  the  Pretender  alike  could 
show  proofs  of  St.  John's  treachery  under  his  own  hand  and  seal. 

Our  friends  kept  a  pretty  close  watch  upon  his  motions,  as  on 
those  of  the  brave  and  hearty  Whig  party,  that  made  little  con- 


DIFFERENCE    AMONGST    COUNCILLORS     405 

cealment  of  theirs.  They  would  have  in  the  Elector,  and  used 
every  means  in  their  power  to  effect  their  end.  My  Lord  Marl- 
borough  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  arrny  was  always  with  their  illustrious  leader ; 
even  the  Tories  in  it  were  indignant  at  the  injustice  of  the  per- 
secution 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  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,  and  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  and  the  three  Secretaries  of  State,  being  there  as- 
sembled. 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 


406        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  Ken- 
sington Square),  and  Esmond's  gallant  young  aide-de-camp,  Frank 
Castlewood,  putting  on  sword  and  uniform,  took  a  brief  leave  of 
their  dear  lady,  who  embraced  and  blessed  them  both,  and  went  to 
her  chamber  to  pray  for  the  issue  of  the  great  event  which  was 
then  pending. 

Castlewood  sped  to  the  barrack  to  give  warning  to  the  captain 
of  the  Guard  there ;  and  then  went  to  the  "  King's  Arms  "  tavern 
at  Kensington,  where  our  friends  were  assembled,  having  come  by 
parties  of  twos  and  threes,  riding  or  in  coaches,  and  were  got 
together  in  the  upper  chamber,  fifty-three  of  them ;  their  servants, 
who  had  been  instructed  to  bring  arms  likewise,  being  below  in  the 
garden  of  the  tavern,  where  they  were  served  with  drink.  Out 
of  this  garden  is  a  little  door  that  leads  into  the  road  of  the  Palace, 
and  through  this  it  was  arranged  that  masters  and  servants  were  to 
march ;  when  that  signal  was  given,  and  that  Personage  appeared, 
for  whom  all  were  waiting.  There  was  in  our  company  the  famous 
officer  next  in  command  to  the  Captain-General  of  the  Forces,  his 
Grace  the  Duke  of  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,  <>\cr 
against  my  Lady  Castlewood'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  Hcmn- 


WE    CANNOT    FIND    THE    PRINCE  407 

slow,  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  wakefumess  before  his 
business  was  ended. 

He  ran  to  the  curate's  house  in  Kensington  Mall,  and  asked  for 
Mr.  Bates,  the  name  the  Prince  went  by.  The  curate's  wife  said 
Mr.  Bates  had  gone  abroad  very  early  in  the  morning  in  his  boots, 
saying  he  was  going  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester's  house  at  Chelsey. 
But  the  Bishop  had  been  at  Kensington  himself  two  hours  ago  to 
seek  for  Mr.  Bates,  and  had  returned  in  his  coach  to  his  own  house, 
when  he  heard  that  the  gentleman  was  gone  thither  to  seek  him. 

This  absence  was  most  unpropitious,  for  an  hour's  delay  might 
cost  a  kingdom ;  Esmond  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  hasten  to  the 
"  King's  Arms,"  and  tell  the  gentlemen  there  assembled  that  Mr. 
George  (as  we  called  the  Prince  there)  was  not  at  home,  but  that 
Esmond  would  go  fetch  him  ;  and  taking  a  General's  coach  that 
happened  to  be  there,  Esmond  drove  across  the  country  to  Chelsey, 
to  the  Bishop's  house  there. 

The  porter  said  two  gentlemen  were  with  his  Lordship,  and 
Esmond  ran  past  this  sentry  up  to  the  locked  door  of  the 
Bishop's  study,  at  which  he  rattled,  and  was  admitted  presently. 
Of  the  Bishop's  guests  one  was  a  brother  prelate,  and  the  other 
the  Abbe'  G—  — . 

"  Where  is  Mr.  George  1 "  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  Wynendacl — they  were 
back  at  Kensington  in  half-an-hour. 

Again  Esmond  went  to  the  curate's  house.  Mr.  Bates  had 
not  returned.  The  Colonel  had  to  go  with  this  blank  errand  to 
the  gentlemen  at  the  "  King's  Arms,"  that  were  grown  very  impatient 
by  this  time. 

Out  of  the  window  of  the  tavern,  and  looking  over  the  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. 


408        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"  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  West- 
minster, and  that  took  the  place  of  the  regiment  at  Kensington  on 
which  we  could  rely. 

"  0  Harry  ! "  says  one  of  the  Generals  there  present,  "  you 
were  born  under  an  unlucky  star :  I  begin  to  think  that  there's  no 
Mr.  George,  nor  Mr.  Dragon  either.  'Tis  not  the  peerage  I  care 
for;  for  our  name  is  so  ancient  and  famous,  that  merely  to  be  called 
Lord  Lydiard  would  do  me  no  good  ;  but  'tis  the  chance  you 
promised  me  of  fighting  Marlborough." 

As  we  were  talking,  Castlewood  entered  the  room  with  a  dis- 
turbed air. 

"  What  news,  Frank  ? "  says  the  Colonel.  "  Is  Mr.  George 
coming  at  last  1 " 

"  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 ;  some- 
thing hath  happened — and — and  —I  very  much  fear  some  accident 
may  befall  him,  which  mast  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  over 
night  to  breakfast  at  the  "  King's  Arms,"  at  Kensington  ;  and  they 
had  called  for  their  bill  and  gone  home. 


A    ROYAL    VILLAIN  409 


CHAPTER   XIII 

AUGUST  IST,    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  lie  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  ready1?"  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  Castle  wood?"  The  Bishop  blushed  and  stammered:  "Well," 
says  he,  "  I— 

"You  served  the  villain  right,"  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond,  "and 
he  has  lost  a  crown  by  what  you  told  him." 

My  mistress  turned  quite  white.  "Henry,  Henry,"  says  she, 
"  do  not  kill  him  !  " 

"  It  may  not  be  too  late,"  says  Esmond ;  "  he  may  not  have 
gone  to  Castlewood ;  pray  God,  it  is  not  too  late."  The  Bishop 
was  breaking  out  with  some  banale  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  Lock- 
wood  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  Hexton  flying-coach,  who  slept  the  night  at 


410        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

Alton.  Lockwood  said  his  young  mistress  had  arrived  at  home  on 
Wednesday  night,  and  this  morning,  Friday,  had  despatched  him 
with  a  packet  for  my  Lady  at  Kensington,  saying  the  letter  was  of 
great  importance.  t 

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  Lock- 
wood  ;  she  sent  her  duty  to  a  certain  Person,  if  certain  other 
persons  permitted  her  to  take  such  a  freedom ;  how  that,  as  she 
was  not  able  to  play  cards  with  him,  she  hoped  he  would  read  good 
books,  such  as  Doctor  Atterbury's  sermons  and  "  Eikon  Basilike'  :  " 
she  was  going  to  read  good  books ;  she  thought  her  pretty  mamma 
would  like  to  know  she  was  not  crying  her  eyes  out. 

"  Who  is  in  the  house  besides  you,  Lockwood  ? "  says  the  Colonel. 

"There  be  the  laundry-maid,  and  the  kitchen-maid,  Madam 
Beatrix's  maid,  the  man  from  London,  and  that  be  all ;  and  he 
sloopeth  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. 

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 


FATHER    HOLT'S    PRIVATE    DOOR  411 

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  there1?"  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  1 "  says  the  other ;  "  my  Lord's  here, 
and  in  bed." 

"  Open,  d you,"  says  Castlewood,  with  a  curse. 

"  I  shall  open  to  no  one,"  says  the  man,  shutting  the  glass 
window  as  Frank  drew  a  pistol.  He  would  have  fired  at  the 
porter,  but  Esmond  again  held  his  hand. 

"There  are  more  ways  than  one,"  says  he,  "  of  entering  such  a 
great  house  as  this."  Frank  grumbled  that  the  west  gate  was  half- 
a-mile  round.  "  But  I  know  of  a  way  that's  not  a  hundred  yards 
off,"  says  Mr  Esmond ;  and  leading  his  kinsman  close  along  the 
wall,  and  by  the  shrubs  which  had  now  grown  thick  on  what  had 
been  an  old  moat  about  the  house,  they  came  to  the  buttress,  at 
the  side  of  which  the  little  window  was,  which  was  Father  Holt's 
private  door.  Esmond  climbed  up  to  this  easily,  broke  a  pane  that 
had  been  mended,  and  touched  the  spring  inside,  and  the  two  gentle- 
men passed  in  that  way,  treading  as  lightly  as  they  could  ;  and  so 
going  through  the  passage  into  the  court,  over  which  the  dawn  was 
now  reddening,  and  where  the  fountain  plashed  in  the  silence. 

They  sped  instantly  to  the  porter's  lodge,  where  the  fellow  had 
not  fastened  his  door  that  led  into  the  court ;  and  pistol  in  hand 
came  upon  the  terrified  wretch,  and  bade  him  be  silent.  Then 
they  asked  him  (Esmond's  head  reeled,  and  he  almost  fell  as  he 
spoke)  when  Lord  Castlewood  had  arrived?  He  said  on  the 
previous  evening,  about  eight  of  the  clock. — "  And  what  then  ?  "- 
His  Lordship  supped  with  his  sister. — "  Did  the  man  wait  ? " — 
Yes,  he  and  my  Lady's  maid  both  waited :  the  other  servants 
made  the  supper ;  and  there  was  no  wine,  and  they  could  give  his 
Lordship  but  milk,  at  which  he  grumbled ;  and — and  Madam 
Beatrix  kept  Miss  Lucy  always  in  the  -room  with  her.  And  there 
being  a  bed  across  the  court  in  the  Chaplain's  room,  she  had  arranged 
my  Lord  was  to  sleep  there.  Madam  Beatrix  had  come  downstairs 
laughing  with  the  maids,  and  had  locked  herself  in,  and  my  Lord 
had  stood  for  a  while  talking  to  her  through  the  door,  and  she 


412        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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?"— T-" 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  well-nigh  throttled  the  amazed 
miscreant  who  was  speaking,  whereas  Castlewood,  seizing  hold  of 
his  cousin's  hand,  burst  into  a  great  fit  of  laughter. 

"If  it  amuses  thee,"  says  Esmond  in  French,  "that  your  sister 
should  be  exchanging  of  kisses  with  a  stranger,  I  fear  poor  Beatrix 
will  give  thee  plenty  of  sport." — Esmond  darkly  thought,  how 
Hamilton,  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  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  com- 
municate with  him?  The  treacherous  heart  within  her  had  sur- 
rendered, 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 


TOO    MUCH    OF    MAJESTY  413 

if  the  door  is  barred  as  he  saith."  We  tried  ;  it  was  indeed  as  the 
lacquey  had  said,  closed  within. 

"  It  may  have  been  opened  and  shut  afterwards,"  says  poor 
Esmond ;  "  the  foundress  of  our  family  let  our  ancestor  in  in 
that  way." 

"  What  will  you  do,  Harry,  if — if  what  that  fellow  saith  should 
turn  out  untrue  1 "  The  young  man  looked  scared  and  frightened 
into  his  kinsman's'  face ;  I  dare  say  it  wore  no  very  pleasant 
expression. 

"  Let  us  first  go  see  whether  the  two  stories  agree,"  says 
Esmond  ;  and  went  in  at  the  passage  and  opened  the  door  into 
what  had  been  his  own  chamber  now  for  well-nigh  nve-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 
la1?  "'says  he,  and  took  a  pistol  from  under  his  pillow. 

"It  is  the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  says  the  Colonel,  "come  to 
welcome  his  Majesty  to  his  house  of  Castlewood,  and  to  report 
of  what  hath  happened  in  London.  Pursuant  to  the  King's  orders, 
I  passed  the  night  before  last,  after  leaving  his  Majesty,  in  waiting 
upon  the  friends  of  the  King.  It  is  a  pity  that  his  Majesty's  desire 
to  see  the  country  and  to  visit  our  poor  house  should  have  caused 
the  King  to  quit  London  without  notice  yesterday,  when  the  oppor- 
tunity 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  gentle- 
men of  the  greatest  names  of  this  kingdom  were  assembled  to 
accompany  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  might  have  been  the  acknow- 
ledged 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,  "riot  much  oftener  to 
offend  in  that  particular." 


414        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

"What  mean  you,  my  Lord?"  says  the  Prince,  and  muttered 
something  about  a  yuet-a-jwns,  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  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." 

"  Malediction  !  "  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 


"RESIGNO    QUJ5    DEBIT"  415 

of  my  fathers  marriage  to  my  mother,  and  of  my  birth  and  christen- 
ing ;  I  was  christened  of  that  religion  of  which  your  sainted  sire 
gave  all  through  life  so  shining  an  example.  These  are  my  titles, 
dear  Frank,  and  this  what  I  do  with  them  :  here  go  Baptism  and 
Marriage,  and  here  the  Marquisate  and  the  August  Sign-Manual, 
with  which  your  predecessor  was  pleased  to  honour  our  race."  And 
as  Esmond  spoke  he  set  the  papers  burning  in  the  brazier.  "  You 
will  please,  sir,  to  remember,"  he  continued,  "that  our  family  hath 
ruined  itself  by  fidelity  to  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  riband.  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,  cousin1?" 

Frank,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  a  stupid  air  at  the  papers 
as  they  flamed  in  the  old  brazier,  took  out  his  sword  and  broke  it, 
holding  his  head  down  : — "  I  go  with  my  cousin,"  says  he,  giving 

Esmond  a  grasp  of  the  hand.  Marquis  or  not,  by ,  I  stand  by 

him  any  day.  I  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon  for  swearing  ;  that  is — 
that  is — 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  humiliation1? — 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  cross- 
ing the  sword  with  mine  :  yours  is  broke — see,  yonder  in  the  aruioire 
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 


416        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

of  his  own,  which  he  had  broke  off  short  at  the  shell;  and  the 
Colonel  falling  back  a  step  dropped  his  point  with  another  very  low 
bow,  and  declared  himself  perfectly  satisfied. 

"  Eh  bien,  Vicomte  ! "  says  the  young  Prince,  who  was  a  boy, 
and  a  French  boy,  "  il  ne  nous  reste  qu'une  chose  a  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  riot  divine  it  1 "  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  brazier. 

"  Charming  Beatrix,"  says  the  Prince,  with  a  blush  which  be- 
came 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 
*  tj  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  BasilikeV'  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 


WE    JOURNEY    LONDONWARDS  417 

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  Castle- 
wood  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  coining  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  alive1?  These 
questions  were  put  hurriedly,  as  Boniface  stood  waiting  before  his 
noble  guests  to  bow  them  up  the  stair. 

"  Is  she  safe  1 "  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  Ports- 
mouth, and  sent  abroad  for  more ;  the  Whigs  were  on  the  alert,  a 
pest  on  them  (I  am  not  sure  but  the  Bishop  swore  as  he  spoke), 
and  so  too  were  our  people.  And  all  might  be  saved,  if  only  the 
Prince  could  be  at  London  in  time.  We  called  for  horses,  instantly 
to  return  to  London.  We  never  went  up  poor  crestfallen  Boni- 
face's stairs,  but  into  our  coaches  again.  The  Prince  and  his  Prime 
Minister  in  one,  Esmond  in  the  other,  with  only  his  dear  mistress 
as  a  companion. 

Castlewood  galloped  forwards  on  horseback  to  gather  the 
Prince's  friends  and  warn  them  of  his  coming.  We  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. 

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 
7  2  D 


418        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

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  acclama- 
tions 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  headquarters 
of  his  Order ;  and  actually  reappeared  among  us  in  America,  very 
old,  and  busy,  and  hopeful.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  assume 
the  hatchet  and  moccasins  there ;  and,  attired  in  a  blanket  and 
war-paint,  skulk  about  a  missionary  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  of  rny  own  life  was 
U  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  thank- 
fulness, 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 
fears,  hath  blessed  me,  I  own  to  a  transport  of  wonder  and  grati- 
tude 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 


MY    CROWNING    HAPPINESS  419 

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  constant  fidelity  and 
passion;  but  ever  after  that  day  at  Castlewood,  when  we  rescued 
her,  she  persisted  in  holding  all  her  family  as  her  enemies,  and  left 
us,  and  escaped  to  France,  to  what  a  fate  I  disdain  to  tell.  Nor 
was  her  son's  house  a  home  for  my  dear  mistress ;  my  poor  Frank 
was  weak,  as  perhaps  all  our  race  hath  been,  and  led  by  women. 
Those  around  him  were  imperious,  and  in  a  terror  of  his  mother's 
influence  over  him,  lest  he  should  recant,  and  deny  the  creed  which 
he  had  adopted  by  their  persuasion.  The  difference  of  their  religion 
separated  the  son  and  the  mother :  my  dearest  mistress  felt  that 
she  was  severed  from  her  children  and  alone  in  the  world — 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  con- 
nected 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 


420        THE    HISTORY    OF    HENRY    ESMOND 

my  son  Frank's  gallantry  in  Scotland  made   his   peace  with  the 
King's  Government.     But  we  two  cared  no  longer  to  live  in  Eng- 
land :  and  Frank  formally  and  joyfully  yielded  over  to  us  the  pos- 
session 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  suii- 
,   shine.     Heaven  hath  btessed  us  with  a  child,  which  each  parent 
-.  loves  for  her  resemblance  to  the  other.     Our  diamonds  are  turned 
into  ploughs  and  axes  for  our  plantations ;  and  into  negroes,  the 
happiest  and  merriest,  I  think,  in  all  this  country :  and  the  only 
jewel  by  which  my  wife  sets  any  store,  and  from  which -she  hath 
never  parted,  is  that  gold  button  she  took  from  my  arm  on  the  day 
when  she  visited  me  in  prison,  and  which  she  wore  ever  after,  as 
she  told  me,  on  the  tenderest  heart  in  the  world. 


THE    LECTURES 


THE   ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 


THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

OP   THE 

EIGHTEENTH    CENTU11Y* 

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  humourous  or 
facetious  story.  Harlequin  without  his  mask  is  known  to  present  a 
very  sober  countenance,  and  was  himself,  the  story  goes,  the  melan- 
choly patient  whom  the  doctor  advised  to  go  and  see  Harlequin  f — 
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  other- 
wise than  serious,  and  often  very  sad.  If  Humour  only  meant 
laughter,  you  would  scarcely  feel  more  interest  about  humourous 
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  humourous  writer  professes  to  awaken  and  direct  your  love, 

*  The  notes  to  these  lectures  were  chiefly  written  by  James  Hannay.  A  few 
corrections  and  additions,  chiefly  due  to  later  investigations,  are  now  inserted  ; 
for  which  the  publishers  have  to  thank  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  Mr.  Sidney  Lee, 
and  Mr.  L.  Stephen. 

f  The  anecdote  is  frequently  told  of  our  performer  John  Rich  (16827-1761), 
who  first  introduced  pantomimes,  and  himself  acted  Harlequin. 

423 


424  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

your  pity,  your  kindness — your  scorn  for  untruth,  pretension,  im- 
posture— your  tenderness  for  the  weak,  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  the 
unhappy.  To  the  best  of  his  means  and  ability  he  comments  on  all 
the  ordinary  actions  and  passions  of  life  almost.  He  takes  upon  him- 
self 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  moralise  upon  his  life  when  he  has 
gone — and  yesterday's  preacher  becomes  the  text  for  to-day's  sermon. 
Of  English  parents,  and  of  a  good  English  family  of  clergymen,* 
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  1694,  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  Esther  Johnson,!  Temple's 

*  He  was  from  a  younger  branch  of  the  Swifts  of  Yorkshire.  His  grand- 
father, the  Reverend  Thomas  Swift,  vicar  of  Goodrich,  in  Herefordshire,  suf- 
fered 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  char- 
acteristic 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. 

f  "  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.  [The  statement  that  Esther 
Johnson  was  Temple's  natural  daughter,  was  first  made  by  a  writer  in  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1757,  who  also  asserted  that  Swift  was  Temple's  natural 
son;  and  that  a  discovery  of  their  relationship  was  the  secret  of  Swift's  melancholy. 
The  statement  about  Swift  is  inconsistent  with  known  dates.  The  story  about 
Esther  may  be  true,  but  it  depends  mainly  upon  late  and  anonymous  evidence.] 


SWIFT  425 

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  1710  he  came  to  England,  and,  with  a  brief  visit  to  Ireland, 
during  which  he  took  possession  of  his  deanery  of  Saint  Patrick, 
he  now  passed  four  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*  Esther  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.f 

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,|  who,  forced  to  admit  him  into  the  company  of 

*  The  marriage  is  accepted  by  Swift's  last  biographer,  Sir  H.  Craik.  It  was 
disbelieved  by  Forster,  and  cannot  be  regarded  as  certain. 

•f  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  obstruc- 
tion 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  !  " 

J  Besides  these  famous  books  of  Scott's  and  Johnson's,  there  is  a  copious 
"Life"  by  Thomas  Sheridan  (Doctor  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  Doctor  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 


426  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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.  Doctor  (afterwards  Sir 
W.  R.)  Wilde  of  Dublin,*  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.f 
Would  we  have  liked  to  live  with  him  1  That  is  a  question 
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  1 
I  should  like  to  have  been  Shakspeare'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,  Esquire, 

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  Orerrys  Remarks,  &c. ,  of  Doctor  Delany. 

*  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  Saint  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. 

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."  [In  1882  Dr  Bucknell  wrote  an 
interesting  article  to  show  that  Swift's  disease  was  '  labyrinthine  vertigo,'  an 
affection  of  the  ear,  which  would  account  for  some  of  the  symptoms.] 

t  "  He  [Doctor  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. 


SWIFT  427 

of  Auchinleck  ]  The  charm  of  Addison's  companionship  and  con- 
versation has  passed  to  us  by  fond  tradition — but  Swift1?  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,*  and  not  had  the  pluck  to  reply, 
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  riband,  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 ;  f  he  would  have  done 
your  errands,  but  with  the  air  of  patronising  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, 

*  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 — 

"  Thus  at  the  bar,  the  booby  Bettesworth, 
Though  half-a-crown  o'er  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. 

f  "  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  softest  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. 


428  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

content  to  take  that  sort  of  pay  for  his  tremendous  services  as  a 
bravo.* 

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  riband  or  a  coach-and-six."  y 

Could  there  be  a  greater  candour  1  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  riband,  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.  kThe  great  prize  has  not  come  yet.  The  coach  with  the 
mitre  and  crozier  in  it,  which  he  intends  to  have  for  his  share,  has 
been  delayed  on  the  way  from  Saint  James's;  and  he  waits  and  waits 

*  "...  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  conversa- 
tion. 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. 

f  "  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,  for  fear  he  should  think 
that  I  counterfeited  to  make  my  court  f" — Journal  to  Stella. 


SWIFT  429 

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.* 

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  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. 

*  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.  Boling- 
broke  laid  hold  of  several  of  the  Opposition  pamphleteers,  and  bewails  their 
"  factitiousness  "  in  the  following  letter  : — 

Bolingbroke  to  the  Earl  of  Strafford. 

"  WHITEHALL  :  July  2$rd,  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  pro- 
secuted ;  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  last  four  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  defama- 
tion, 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 


430  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

His  bitterness,  his  scorn,  his  rage,  his  subsequent  misanthropy  are 
ascribed  by  some  panegyrists  to  a  deliberate  conviction  of  mankind's 
un worthiness,  and  a  desire  to  amend  them  by  castigation.  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,*  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,  or  disappointment,  or  self-will.  What  public  man 
— what  statesman  projecting  a  coup — what  king  determined1  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 

session  that  there  was  no  time  to  pass  it,  for  there  always  appeared  an  unwilling- 
ness 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,  ' '  besides  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  25^,  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  z^th,  1711. 

"  I  was  this  afternoon  with  Mr.  Secretary  at  his  office,  and  helped  to  hinder 
a  man  of  his  pardon,  who  was  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  con- 
sequently a  rogue,  and  deserved  hanging  for  something  else,  and  so  he  shall 
swing." 

*  It  was  his  constant  practice  to  keep  his  birthday  as  a  day  of  mourning. 


SWIFT  431 

some  excuse  for  men  of  the  aggressive  turn.  They  are  of  their 
nature  warlike,  predatory,  eager  for  fight,  plunder,  dominion.* 

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  Avill  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.!  Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  and  always  an  Irish- 
man :  Steele  was  an  Irishman,  and  always  an  Irishman  :  Swift's 
heart  wTas  English  and  in  England,  his  habits  English,  his  logic 

*  ' '  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. 

f  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  dis- 
tinction 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  civilised  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.  vi.  p.  453. 

He  goes  further,  in  a  good-humoured  satirical  paper,  On  Barbarous  De- 
nominations in  Ireland,  where  (after  abusing,  as  he  was  wont,  the  Scotch 
cadence,  as  well  as  expression)  he  advances  to  the  "Irish  Brogue,"  and  speak- 
ing 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  ! 


432  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  neat- 
ness.* Dreading  ridicule  too,  as  a  man  of  bis  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 
he  does  not  speak  above  his  voice,  as  it  were,  and  the  tone  of 
society. 

His  initiation  into  politics,  his  knowledge  of  business,  his  know- 
ledge 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. f  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 ! 

*  "  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.  on  Swift." 
London,  1754. 

t  ' '  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 


SWIFT  433 

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  1  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  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,*  clipping  his 

a  hundred  reasons?  I  have  plucked  up  my  spirits  since  then,  faith ;  he  spoiled 
a  fine  gentleman." — Journal  to  Stella. 

[It  should  be  added  that  this  statement  about  the  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  the 
upper  servants'  table,  came  from  a  hostile  story  told  long  afterwards  by  a  nephew 
of  Temple  to  Richardson  the  novelist.  It  is  probably  true  enough  of  Swift's 
first  stay  as  a  raw  lad  in  the  family  ;  but  Temple  came  to  value  Swift's  services 
much  more  highly,  and  induced  him  to  return  from  Ireland  by  promises  of 
preferment.  Temple's  death  prevented  their  fulfilment,  but  it  is  clear  that  he 
had  come  to  treat  Swift  with  great  respect.  ] 

*  "...  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 
7 


434  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

apricots  and  pruning  his  essays, — the  statesman,  the  ambassador 
no  more ;  but  the  philosopher,  the  Epicurean,  the  fine  gentleman 
and  courtier  at  Saint  James's  as  at  Shene ;  where,  in  place  of  kings 
and  fair  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  spirit  and  motion  through  the  whole." 

Isn't  that  line  in  which  grief  is  described  as  putting  the  menials 
into  a  mourning  livery,  a  fine  image  1  One  of  the  menials  wrote  it, 

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  enjoy- 
ment 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  aliae  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  Stafford- 
shire, 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." 


SWIFT  435 

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  1  When  Sir  William  has  the  gout  or  scolds  it 
must  be  hard  work  at  the  second  table ;  *  the  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 

*  SWIFT'S  THOUGHTS  ON  HANGING. 
(Directions  to  Servants.) 

"  To  grow  old  in  the  office  of  a  footman  is  the  highest  of  all  indignities  ;  there- 
fore, when  you  find  years  coming  on  without  hopes  of  a  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  make  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  frame  shall  continue  until  a  successor  of  equal  renown  succeeds 
in  your  place.  ..." 


436  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  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  per- 
petually quote  Latin  and  the  ancient  classics  a  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  1  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  honour's  family — that  is, 
whether  the  last  was  occasioned  by  any  ill  action.  They  are  left 


DEAN    SWIFT   AT   COURT 


SWIFT  437 

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  acknow- 
ledgments 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  1  could  a  slave  bow  lower  1  * 

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  was  the  principal  man  of  talk 
and  business.  He  was  soliciting  the  Earl  of  Arran  to  speak  to  his 

*  "  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  good  and  great  person  to  himself." — 
Preface  to  Temple  s  Works. 

On  all  public  occasions,  Swift  speaks  of  Sir  William  in  the  same  tone.  [The 
letter  given  above  was  written  6th  October  1694,  and  is  humiliating  enough. 
Swift's  relation  to  Temple  changed,  as  already  said.  The  passages,  however, 
which  follow,  no  doubt  show  a  strong  sense  of  "  indignities  "  at  one  time  or  other.] 
But  the  reader  will  better  understand  how  acutely  he  remembered  the  indigni- 
ties 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.—/ournal 
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  apiece  to  begin  with  ;  it  put  me  in  mind  of  Sir 
William  Temple.  "—Ibid.  0 

' '  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. 


438  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  ,£200  per  annum  as  member  of 
the  English  Church  at  Rotterdam.  He  stopped  F.  Gwynne, 
Esquire,  going  into  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  nobjeman,  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.'  *  Lord  Treasurer,  after  leaving 
the  Queen,  came  through  the  room,  beckoning  Doctor  Swift  to 
follow  him — both  went  off  just  before  prayers."  f 

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  1 
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.  |  He  insulted  a  man  as  he  served  him,  made  women 

*  "Swift  must  be  allowed,"  says  Doctor  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. 

f  The  passage  as  quoted  in  the  text  is  slightly  abbreviated.  It  may  be 
observed  that  Swift  fulfilled  his  promises  of  support  to  the  "clergyman," 
Dr.  Fiddes,  author  of  a  good  life  of  Wolsey,  and  was  very  useful  to  Pope. 
Many  other  instances  could  be  given  of  the  "kind  acts"  mentioned  in  the 
next  paragraph. 

±  "  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  th«M)pearance  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 


SWIFT  439 

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 
Saint  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  Boling- 
broke,  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  bur- 
gundy, 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  as  he  advised  him  to  husband  his 
shillings  and  put  his  thousand  pounds  out  at  interest.  The  Queen, 
and  the  bishops,  and  the  world,  were  right  in  mistrusting  the  religion 
of  that  man.* 

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  recom- 
mended him  to  me  that  the  fellow  was  a  blockhead,  and  I  had  done  with  him.'  " 
— SHERIDAN'S  Life  of  Swift. 

*  From  the  Archbishop  of  Cashell.  ^^ 

"CASHELL:  flfJfpsf,  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 


440  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  expres- 
sions 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  upon'  their  knees  and  cried 

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  pre- 
decessors. 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  laud- 
able 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,  base- 
ness, 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  caiji  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  t \vel\Arniles' ^^1 
Kilkenny  hither  is  twenty  long  miles,  bad  road,  and  no  innMat  all:  bur  I 
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  bye-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^w  you.  It  may  be,  if  you  ask  him,  Cope  will  come :  he  will  do 
nothing  lor  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, 

V*THEO.  CASHELL." 


SWIFT  441 

"  Peccavi "  with  a  most  sonorous  orthodoxy.  Yes ;  poor  Harry  Field- 
ing and  poor  Dick  Steele  were  trusty  and  undoubting  Church  of  Eng- 
land men ;  they  abhorred  Popery,  Atheism,  and  wooden  shoes  and 
idolatries  in  general ;  and  hiccupped  Church  and  State  with  fervour. 

But  Swift1?  His  mind  had  had  a  different  schooling,  and 
possessed  a  very  different  logical  power.  He  was  not  bred  up  in 
a  tipsy  guardroom,  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  admir- 
ing, not  the  genius,  but  the  consequences  to  which  the  genius  had 
brought  him — a  vast  genius,  a  magnificent  genius,  a  genius  wonder- 
fully 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  life-long  hypocrisy  before  the 
Heaven  which  you  adored  with  such  real  wonder,  humility,  and 
reverence1?  For  Swift's  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 
shining  serenely,  though  hidden  by  the  driving  clouds  and  the 
ened  hurricane  of  his  life. 

It  is  my  belief  that  he  suffered  frightfully  from  the  consciousness 
of  his  oyn  scepticism,  and  that  he  had  bent  his  pride  so  far  down 
s*%  p4HMFp9stasy  out  to  hire.*  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  thal^ssock  on, 
it  poisoned  him ;  he  was  strangled  in  his  bands.  He  ^B  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. 

*  ' '  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. 


442  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

What  a  night,  my  God,  it  was !  what  a  lonely  rage  and  long 
agony — what  a  vulture  that  tore  the  heart  of  that  giant !  *  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  Shakspeare  otherwise.  The  giants  must  live  apart.  The 
kings  can  have  no  company.  But  this  man  suffered  so;  and  de- 
served so  to  suffer.  One  hardly  reads  anywhere  of  such  a  pain. 

The  "sseva  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  judgment  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  in- 
vective :  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,  nishing  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.f  "I  have  been  assured,"  says  he  in  the  "Modest 

*  "Dr.  Swift  had  a  natural  severity  of  face,  which  even  his  smiles  could 
scarce  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. 

t  "LONDON  :  April  ioth,  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  every- 
thing, to  stick  to  what  is  so  much  the  interest  of  the  public,  as  well  as  her 
own.  .  ." — Journal. 


SWIFT  443 

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  ragout"  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  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  entertain- 
ment 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  rotisseur." 

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  argu- 
ments 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.* 

The  grave  and  logical  conduct  of  an  absurd  proposition,  as 
exemplified  in  the  cannibal  proposal  just  mentioned,  is  our  author's  1 
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 

*  "  My  health  is  somewhat  mended,  but  at  best  I  have  an  ill  head  and  an 
aching  heart." — In  May  1719. 


444  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Royal  Sovereign,  the  King  of  Brobdingnag  observes  how  con- 
temptible a  thing  human  grandeur  is,  as  represented  by  such  a 
contemptible  little  creature  as  Gulliver.  "  The  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 
Y  .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  pigmies  is  measured  by  the  same  standard. 
We  have  all  read  in  Milton  of  the  spear  that  was  like  "  the  mast  of 
some  great  ammiral "  ;  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.* 

*  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  four- 
score 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  dreadful  prospect  of  never  dying.  They  weje  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 


SWIFT 


445 


"  I  took,"  he  says,  "  a  second  leave  of  my  master,  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  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  have  I  forgotten  how  apt  some  travellers 
are  to  boast  of  extraordinary  favours  they  have  received.  But  if 
these  censurers  were  better  acquainted  with  the  noble  and  cour- 
teous 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 

former,  they  find  themselves  cut  off  from  all  possibility  of  pleasure ;  and  when- 
ever they  see  a  funeral,  they  lament,  and  repine  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.  happen  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  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 
relations.  For  the  same  reason,  they  can  never  amuse  themselves  with 
reading,  because  their  memory  will  not  serve  to  carry  them  from  the  begin- 


446  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

there  is  no  person  who  reads  but  must  admire ;  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 

I  audience  mayn't  have  read  the  last  part  of  Gulliver,  and  to  such  I 

f  would  recall  the  advice  of  the  venerable  Mr.  Punch  to  persons  about 

j  to  marry,  and  say  "  Don't."     When  Gulliver  first  lands  among  the 

I  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 

ning  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  upon  the  flux,  the  Struld- 
brugs  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  at  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  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. 


SWIFT  44/7  \   , 

gone  before ;  and  the  worthlessness  of  all  mankind,  the  pettiness,  ; 
cruelty,  pride,  imbecility,  the  general  vanity,  the  foolish  pretension,  • 
the  mock  greatness,  the  pompous  dulness,  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  1  what  secret 
remorse  was  rankling  at  his  heart  ?  what  fever  was  boiling  in  him, 
that  he  should  see  all  the  world  bloodshot  1  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,  "  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  him  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  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.f  Two  women  whom  he  loved  and  injured  are  known 

*  This  remarkable  story  came  to  Scott  from  an  unnamed  friend  of  Delany's 
widow.  It  has  been  supposed  to  confirm  the  conjecture  about  his  natural 
relationship  to  Stella;  but,  even  if  correctly  reported,  is  open  to  any  number 
of  interpretations. 

f  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 


448  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  1  Who 
does  not  love  her  1  Fair  and  tender  creature  :  pure  and  affectionate 
heart !  Boots  it  to  you,  now  that  you  have  been  at  rest  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  count- 
less 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  woeful  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 

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  after- 
wards, 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  arritre  penste  of  a  sad 
character  about  the  great  Dean  ! 


SWIFT  449 

story,  the  pure  star  in  that  dark  and  tempestuous  life  of  Swift's, 
is  his  love  for  Hester  Johnson.  It  has  been  my  business,  pro- 
fessionally 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.*  ; 
He  writes  to  her  night  and  morning  often.  He  never  sends  away 
a  letter  to  her  but  he  begins  a  new  one  on  the  same  day.  He  can't  j 
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,  arid  what  say 
you  to  Stella  this  morning  fresh  and  fasting  1  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  wTit,  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  wretched- 

*  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  "Good-night,  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,  mince-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." 
7  2  F 


450  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

ness  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, 

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  pattern  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  Doctor  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.*  He  kept  Bolingbroke's,  and  Pope's,  and  Harley's, 

*  The  following  passages  are  from  a  paper  begun  by  Swift  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  of  her  death,  Jan.  28,  1727-28  : — 

"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  happi- 
ness of  her  friendship  agreed  unanimously,  that  in  an  afternoon's  or  evening's 


SWIFT  451 

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  bed-chamber,  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  '  1  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  riot  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.*  The  rival  is  at  the  Dean's  feet. 

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  bans  mots,  wherein  she  excelled  beyond 
belief." 

The  specimens  on  record,  however,  in  the  Dean's  paper,  called  "  Bon  Mots 
de  Stella,"  scarcely  bear  out  this  last  part  of  the  panegyric.  But  the  following 
prove  her  wit : — 

"  A  gentleman  who  had  lx:en  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.' 
1  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.  295-96. 

*  "  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 


452  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

The  pupil  and  teacher  are  reading  together,  and  drinking  tea  to- 
gether, and  going  to  prayers  together,  and  learning  Latin  together, 
and  conjugating  amo,  amas,  amavi  together.  The  "  little  lan- 
guage "  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  Vanessa  *  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  god-like, 
and  only  prays  to  be  admitted  to  lie  at  his  feet.f  As  they  are 
bringing  him  home  from  church,  those  divine  feet  of  Doctor  Swift's 
are  found  pretty  often  in  Vanessa'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 

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  as  Swift  and  Steele  ;  and,  in  our  own  time,  Moore  and 
Crabbe. 

*  ' '  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  intend- 
ing to  be  his  wife." — Lord  Orrery. 

t  "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  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.) 


SWIFT  453 

— 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.* 

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  Doctor 
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. 

See  the  various  notions  of  critics  !     Do   those  words  indicate 

*  "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  would  have  smiled  to  have  found  his  house  a  constant  seraglio  of 
very  virtuous  women,  who  attended  him  from  morning  till  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  when  a  boy.  He  remembered  the  unfor- 
tunate 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  melan- 
choly, 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 


454  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

indifference  or  an  attempt  to  hide  feeling1?  Did  you  ever  hear 
or  read  four  words  more  pathetic1?  Only  a  woman's  hair;  only 
love,  only  fidelity,  only  purity,  innocence,  beauty;  only  the  ten- 
derest  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 

object  of  her  affections — to  the  hope  of  which  she  had  clung  amid  every  vicissi- 
tude of  his  conduct  towards  her.  The  most  probable  bar  was  his  undefined 
connection  with  Mrs.  Johnson,  which,  as  it  must  have  been  perfectly  known 
to  her,  had,  doubtless,  long  excited  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  pre- 
vailed, and  she  ventured  on  the  decisive  step  of  writing  to  Mrs.  Johnson  herself, 
requesting  to  know  the  nature  of  that  connection.  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  in- 
quiries implied,  she  sent  to  him  her  rival's  letter  of  interrogation,  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,  mounted  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  ot 
him  for  whose  sake  she  had  indulged  them.  How  long  she  survived  this  last 
interview  is  uncertain,  but  the  time  does  not  seem  to  have  exceeded  a  few 
weeks." — Scott. 

*  Thackeray  wrote  to  Hay  ward,  who  had  said  something  of  this  lecture 
when  originally  delivered,  and  had  apparently  misunderstood  this  passage, 
that  the  phrase  quoted  seemed  to  him  to  be  "the  most  affecting  words  I  ever 
heard,  indicating  the  truest  love,  passion,  and  remorse." — Hayward  Corre- 
spondence, \.  119. 


SWIFT  455 

for  having  been  there.*  He  shrank  away  from  all  affection  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  seven  score  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. 

*  "  M.  Swift  est  Rabelai^  dans  son  bon  sens,  et  vivant  en  bonne  compagnie. 
II  n'a  pas,  a  la  ve'rite',  la  gaite"  du  premier,  mais  il  a  toute  la  finesse,  la  raison, 
le  choix,  le  bon  gout  qui  manquent  a  not  re  cure'  de  Meudon.  Ses  vers  sont 
d'un  gout  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  :  Lett  res  sur  les  Anglais.  Lettre  XX. 


456  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


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  re- 
nowned 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  com- 
rnissionership,  or  a  post  in  the  Stamps,  or  the  secretaryship  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, 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  457 

Steele,  Prior,  Tickell,  Congreve,  John  Gay,  John  Dennis,  and 
many  others,  who  got  public  employment,  and  pretty  little  pickings 
out  of  the  public  purse.*  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  coining  round  for  them. 

They  all  began  at  school  or  college  in  the  regular  way,  pro- 
ducing 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  du  Permesse,"  says  Boileau,  celebrating  the  Grand 
Monarch.  "  Des  sons  que  ma  lyre  enfante  ces  arbres  sont  re'jouis ; 
marquez-en  bien  la  cadence ;  et  vous,  vents,  faites  silence  !  je  vais 
parler  de  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  1  In  the  past  century 
the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Universities  all  exercised  themselves 
at  these  queer  compositions ;  and  some  got  fame,  and  some  gained 

*  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  Bed- 
chamber 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  honnenr  qu'ici." — VOLTAIRE: 
Lettres  sur  les  Anglais.     Lettre  XX. 


458  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

patrons  and  places  for  life,  and  many  more  took  nothing  by  these 
efforts  of  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  their  muses. 

William  Congreve's*  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  ^ragic  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  £600.  f 

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  ?  } 
"  Ah,  1'heureux  temps  que  celui  de  ces  fables ! "  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 

*  He  was  the  son  of  Colonel  William  Congreve,  and  grandson  of  Richard 
Congreve,  Esquire,  of  Congreve  and  Stretton  in  Staffordshire — a  very  ancient 
family. 

f  The  Old  Bachelor  was  produced  January  1693.  Congreve  was  made 
Commissioner  of  Hackney-Coaches  in  1695. 

%  "  PIPK. — Pipa,  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." — RF.KS  : 
Cyclopad.  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.] 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  459 

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.*  From  the  beginning  of  his 
career  until  the  end  everybody  admired  him.  Having  got  his 
education  in  Ireland,  at  the  same  school  and  college  witli  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 j  and  victorious  from 
the  first.  Everybody  acknowledged  the  young  chieftain.  The 
great  Mr.  Dryden  f  declared  that  he  was  equal  to  Shakspeare, 
and  bequeathed  to  him  his  own  undisputed  poetical  crown,  and 
writes  of  him  :  "  Mr.  Congreve  has  done  me  the  favour  to  review 
the  '  Mneis'  and  compare  my  version  with  the  original.  I  shall 

*  "  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  yenr. "— 
Biog.  Brit.  Art.  CONGUEVE. 

f  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  judgment  please  ; 
Yet,  doubling  Fletcher's  force,  he  wants  his  ease. 
In  differing  talents  both  adorned  their  age  : 
One  for  the  study,  t'other  for  the  stage. 
But  both  to  Congreve  justly  shall  submit, 
One  match'd  in  judgment,  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  henrtily  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  repre- 
sented some  women  vicious  and  affected.  How  can  Ihelp  it?t  It  is  the  busi- 
ness 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." 


460  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  ;  *  Swift,  Addison,  Steele,  all  acknow- 
ledge Congreve's  rank,  and  lavish  compliments  upon  him.  Voltaire 
went  to  wait  upon  him  as  on  one  of  the  Representatives  of  Litera- 
ture ;  and  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,!  was  hat  in  hand  to  Mr. 
Gongreve ;  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,  J  the  heroine  of  all  his  plays,  the  favourite 
of  all  the  town  of  her  day ;  and  the  Duchess  of  Maryborough,  Marl- 
borough's  daughter,  had  such  an  admiration  of  him,  that  when  he 
died  she  had  an  ivory  figure  made  to  imitate  him,§  and  a  large  wax 
doll  with  gouty  feet  to  be  dressed  just  as  the  great  Congreve's  gouty 

*  "  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,  March  25,  1720. 

f  "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  generously  took  him  under  his  protection  in  his  high  authori- 
tative manner." — THOS.  DAVIES  :  Dramatic  Miscellanies. 

%  "  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  me  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. 

§  "  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. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  461 

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,  but  to 
the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who  didn't,  f 

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  little  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,  J  and  others,  defended  themselves  with  the  same 
success,  and  for  the  same  cause  which  set  Nell's  lacquey  fighting. 
She  was  a  disreputable,  daring,  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  Restora- 
tion— a  wild  dishevelled  Lais,  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 

*  The  sum  Congreve  left  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was  £200,  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  Gibber,  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  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. 

f  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. 

%  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 


462  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  Oongreve's  plays  over  before  speaking  of  him  ; 
and  my  feelings  were  rather  like  those,  which  I  dare  say  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  coveretl  yon  ghastly  yellow  framework.  They  used  to  call 
those  teeth  pearls  once.  See,  there's  the  cup  she  drank  from,  the 
gold-chain  she  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  ! 

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  significa- 
tion, 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  Doctor  Johnson,  "  a  very  young  man,  elated  with  success, 
and  impatient  of  censure,  assumed  an  air  of  confidence  and  security.  .  .  .  The 
dispute  was  protracted  through  ten  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. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  463 

Reading  in  these  plays  now,  is  like  shutting  your  ears  and  look- 
ing at  people  dancing.  What  does  it  mean1?  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,  symbolising  a  Pagan  doc-trine ;  pro- 
testing— as  the  Pompeians  very  likely  were,  assembled  at  their 
theatre  and  laughing  at  their  games ;  as  Sal!ust  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  bids  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  paste- 
board chalet  (whither  he  returns  to  take  another  nap  in  case  the 
young  people  get  an  encore) :  when  Harlequin,  splendid  in  youth, 
strength,  and  agility,  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  Pa,gan  protest  1  Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  Life  puts 
in  its  plea  and  sings  its  comment  1  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 


464  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

beauty  of  your  springtime.  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  Seyreto  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  1  The  lights  of  the  festival  burn  dim — the  cheeks  turn 
pale — the  voice  quavers — and  the  cup  drops  on  the  floor.  Who's 
there  1  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  the 
part  in  the  dramas  which  the  wicked  enchanter  or  the  great  blunder-, 
ing  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  hunks.  The  old 
fool,  what  business  has  he  to  hoard  his  money,  or  to  lock  up  blush- 
ing 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  grand- 
daughter 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,  Esquire.  They  are  full  of  wit. 
Such  manners  as  he  observes,  he  observes  with  great  humour  i  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  head- 
aches in  the  morning. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  465 

I  can't  pretend  to  quote  scenes  from  the  splendid  Congreve's 
plays  * — which  are  undeniably  bright,  witty,  and  daring — any  more 
than  I  could  ask  you  to  hear  the  dialogue  of  a  witty  bargeman  and 
a  brilliant  fishwoman  exchanging  compliments  at  Billingsgate ;  but 
some  of  his  verses — they  were  amongst  the  most  famous  lyrics  of 

*  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  shall  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 
to-morrow. 

"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.   \  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  bov/d.  Pray,  pray  for  a  metamorphosis — 
change  thy  shape,  and  shake  off  age ;  get  thee  Medea  s  kettle  and  be  boiled 
anew ;  come  forth  with  lab'ring  callous  hands,  and  chine  of  steel,  and  Atlas'1 
shoulders.  Let  Taliacotius  trim  the  calves  of  twenty  chairmen,  and  make 
thee  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. 

7 


466  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

the  time,  and  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 

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  ! 

1 '  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 t  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. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  467 

writes  as  if  he  was  so  accustomed  to  conquer,  that  he  has  a  poor 
opinion  of  his  victims.  Nothing's  new  except  their  faces,  says  he : 
''every  woman  is  the  same."  He  says  this  in  his  first  comedy,  , 


"  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  Ply  ant.  Oh!  reflect  upon  the  horror  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  Ply  ant.  O  Lord,  ask  me  the  question!  I  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  Ply  ant.  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  My  aside  all  thoughts  of  the 
marriage,  for  though  I  know  you  don't  love  Cynthia,  only  as  a  blind  to  your 
passion  for  me — yet  it  will  make  me  jealous.  O  Lord,  what  did  I  say  ?  Jealous ! 
No,  no,  I  can't  be  jealous  ;  for  I  must  not  love  you.  Therefore  don't  hope  ;  but 
don't  despair  neither.  Oh,  they're  coming;  I  must  fly." — The  Double  Dealer, 
act  ii.  sc.  v.  page  156. 


468  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

which  he  wrote  languidly  *  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  of  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  which  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  iny  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. 

Coquet  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Roth  studied,  though  both  seem  neglected  ; 

Careless  she  is  with  artful  care, 
Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 


*  "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  elaborate- 
ness of  dialogue  and  incessant  ambition  of  wit." — JOHNSON  :  Lives  of  the  Poets. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON 

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  that  she  despises. " 

What  could  Amoret  have  done  to  bring  down  such  shafts  of  ridicule 
upon  her  1  Could  she  have  resisted  the  irresistible  Mr.  Congreve  ? 
Could  anybody  1  Could  Sabina,  when  she  woke  and  heard  such  a 
bard  singing  under  her  window  1  "  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  1  Don't  you  think  him  a  divine  man  1  If  not 
touched  by  the  brilliant  Sabina,  hear  the  devout  Belinda : — 

' '  Pious  Selinda  goes  to  prayers, 

If  I  but  ask  the  favour ; 
And  yet  the  tender  fool's  in  tears, 

When  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  irre- 
sistible 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  through  his  dishevelled  periwig,  and  delivering  a 
killing  ogle  along  with  his  scented  billet.  And  Sabina  1  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  lady- 
ship :  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 


470  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

his  glory  is  hardly  more  splendid  than  our  Phoebus  Apollo  of  the 
Mall  and  Spring  Gardens.* 

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,  f  A  touch  of  Steele's  tender- 
ness is  worth  all  his  finery ;  a  flash  of  Swift's  lightning,  a  beam  of 
Addison's  pure  sunshine,  and  his  tawdry  playhouse  taper  is  invisible. 
But  the  ladies  loved  him,  and  he  was  undoubtedly  a  pretty  fellow,  f 

We  have  seen  in  Swift  a  humourous  philosopher,  whose  truth 
frightens  one,  and  whose  laughter  makes  one  melancholy.  %  We  have 
had  in  Congreve  a  humourous  observer  of  another  school,  to  whom 

*  "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 
Bacltelor,  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. 

f  It  was  in  Surrey  Street,  Strand  (where  he  afterwards  died),  that  Voltaire 
visited  him,  in  the  decline  of  his  life. 

The  anecdote  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  (Euvres  Completes  in  the  "Pantheon  Litte"raire. "  Vol.  v.  of  his 
works.  (Paris,  1837.) 

"Celui  de  tous  les  Anglais  qui  a  port6  le  plus  loin  la  gloire  du  theatre 
comique  est  feu  M.  Congreve.  II  n'a  fait  que  pen  de  pieces,  mais  toutes  sont 
excellentes  dans  leur  genre.  .  .  .  Vous  y  voyez  partout  le  langage  des  honndtes 
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.  Lettre  XIX. 

%  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 — 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  471 

the  world  seems  to  have  no  morals  at  all,  and  whose  ghastly 
doctrine  seems  to  be  that  we  should  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  when 

"  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  or  savage  tigers  are  ! 

With  lambs  and  sheep  their  hungers  are  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  forego, 
And  dumb  distress  and  new  compassion  show, 
Nature  herself  attentive  silence  kept, 
And  motion  seemed  suspended  while  she  wept  T' 

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  SHAKSPEAKE  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  Judgment  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  Shad- 
well,  Higgons,  Congreve,  and  the  comic  authors  of  their  time,  when  gentlemen 


l 


472  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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 

^r~          y  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 

X^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 
Review  *  may  be  cited  as  a  magnificent  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  1     I  may 

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  gentleman  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. 

*  "To  Addison  himself  we  are  bound  by  a  sentiment  as  much  like  affec- 
tion 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  formid- 
able, 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  oppo- 
sition drove  against  him,  though  he  might  lose  the  love,  he  retained  the 
reverence. " — Johnson. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  473 

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  1 1  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,  be-  ) 
cause  he  measured  his  compeers  by  a  higher  standard  than  common  V 
people  have.*  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  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  riband  into  discredit.  Everybody  had  his 
majesty's  orders.  Everybody  had  his  majesty's  cheap  portrait,  on 
a  box  surrounded  by  diamonds  worth  twopence  apiece.  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,  f  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 

*  "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.  Spences 
Anecdotes, 

f  "Milton's  chief  talent,  and  indeed  his  distinguishing  excellence,  lies  in 
the  sublimity  of  his  thoughts.  There  are  others  of  the  moderns,  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  only  excepted. 
It  is  impossible  for  the  imagination  of  man  to  distend  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 
igth  to  May  3rd,  1712.  Besides  his  services  to  Milton,  we  may  place  those  he 
did  to  Sacred  Music. 


474  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Mr.  Pope,  I  don't  think  Addison  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to 
contradict  them.* 

Addison's  father  was  a  clergyman  of  good  repute  in  Wiltshire, 
and  rose  in  the  Church,  f  His  famous  son  never  lost  his  clerical 
training  and  scholastic  gravity,  and  was  called  "  a  parson  in  a  tye- 
wig"  J  in  London  afterwards  at  a  time  when  tie-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  Salis- 
bury, and  the  Charterhouse,  in  1687,  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old, 
he  went  to  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  where  he  speedily  b'egan  to  dis- 
tinguish 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  Lyseus :  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  £300  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 

*  "  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 ; 
1  he  will  certainly  play  you  some  devilish  trick  else :  he  has  an  appetite  to 
satire.'" — LADY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

f  Lancelot  Addison,  his  father,  was  the  son  of  another  Lancelot  Addison, 
a  clergyman  in  Westmoreland.  He  became  Dean  of  Lichfield  and  Archdeacon 
of  Coventry. 

£  "  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.  (Mandeville  was  the  author  of  the  famous  Fable  of  the  Bees.) 

"  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  be- 
sides ;  and  had  no  amour  that  I  know  of ;  and  I  think  I  should  have  known  it 
if  he  had  had  any."— ABBI?:  PHILIPPEAUX  OF  BLOIS.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  475 

his  fingers'  ends  when  he  travelled  in  Italy.  *  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,f  upon  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,  pro- 
posed 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  Hertford. 

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  Hertford'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  jn  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  1     He  must  have 
been   one   of  v  the  finest  gentlemen   the_  world^  ever   saw  :    at   alk 
moments  of  life~^efene  and  courteous,  cheerful  and   calm.§      He\ 
could  scarcely  ever  have  had  a  degrading  thought.     He  might  have  I 
omitted  a  virtue  or  two,  or  many,  but  could  not  have  committed/ 
many  faults  for  which  he  need  blush  or  turn  pale.     When  warmed/ 
into  confidence,  his  conversation  appears  to  have  been  so  delightftn  i 
that  the  greatest  wits  sat  rapt  and  charmed  to  listen  to  him.     No 
man  bore  poverty  and  narrow  fortune  with  a  more  lofty  cheerful 
ness.     His  letters  to  his  friends  at  this  period  of  his  life,  when  he 
had  lost  his  Government  pension  and  given  up  his  college  chances, 


i 

j 
/ 


*  "  His  knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  from  Lucretius  and  Catullus  down  to 
Claudian  and  Prudentius,  was  singularly  exact  and  profound." — Macaulay. 

f  "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  Muses  Anglicance"  TlCKELL :  Preface  to  Addison  s 
Works. 

%  This  proposal  was  made  to  Addison  when  he  was  in  Holland  on  the 
return  from  his  travels.  He  was  recommended  to  the  Duke  by  the  bookseller, 
Tonson,  for  whom  he  had  undertaken  a  translation  of  Herodotus.  He  had  as 
yet  published  nothing  separately,  though  he  was  well  known  in  Oxford,  and  to 
some  of  the  Whig  nobility. 

§  "  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. 


476  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  letters  are  written 
when  his  honest  hand  was  shaking  a  little  in  the  morning  after 
libations  to  purple  'Lyajus  over-night.  He  was  fond  of  drinking  the 
healths  of  his  friends  :  he  writes  to  Wyche,*  of  Hamburg,  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  excel- 
lent champagne,"  he  writes  again.  Swift  f  describes  him  over  his 
cups,  when  Joseph  yielded  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  tie-wig,  recollect. 

/  A  better  and  more  Christian  man  scarcely  ever  breathed  than  Joseph 
Addisou.  If  he  had  not  that  little  weakness  for  wine — why,  we 

*  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  1  should  certainly  have  done  could  I  have  found  out  a 
rhyme  to  rummer.  But  though  you  have  escaped  for  y°  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  West- 
phalia. If  drinking  your  health  will  do  you  any  good,  you  may  expect  to  be 
as  long-lived  as  Methuselah,  or,  to  use  a  more  familiar  instance,  as  y°  oldest 
hoc  in  y°  cellar.  I  hope  y°  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  y°  owners  of  them,  and  desiring  you  to  believe  me 
always,  "  Dear  Sir, 

'"  Yours,  "&c. 

"  To  Mr.  Wyche,  His  Majesty's  Resident  at 
"  Hambourg,  May  1703." 

— From  the  Life  of  Addison,  by  Miss  AIKIN.     Vol.  i.  p.  146. 

t  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  testi- 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  477 

could  scarcely  have  found  a  fault  with  him,  and  could  not  have 
liked  him  as  we  do.* 

At  thirty-three  years  of  age,  this  most  distinguished  wit,  scholar,  \ 
and  gentleman  was  without  a  profession  and  an  income.  His  book  \-K 
of  "  Travels  "  had  failed  :  his  "  Dialogues  on  Medals  "  f  had  had  no 
particular  success  :  his  Latin  verses,  even  though  reported  the  best 
since  Virgil,  or  Statins  at  any  rate,  had  not  brought  him  a  Govern- 
ment place,  and  Addison  was  living  up  three  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.J  A  poem  was 
wanted  about  the  Duke  of  Maryborough's  victory  of  Blenheim. 
Would  Mr.  Addison  write  one  ?  Mr.  Boyle,  afterwards  Lord 

mony,  when  nothing  personal  inflamed  his  vision  or  warped  his  judgment,  can 
be  doubted  by  nobody. 

"  Sept.  10,  1710. — I  sat  till  ten  in  the  evening  with  Addison  and  Steele. 

"  ii. — Mr.  Addison  and  I  dined  together  at  his  lodgings,  and  I  sat  with  him 
part  of  this  evening. 

"  1 8. — 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. 

*  "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.  Spencers  Anecdotes. 

\  The  Dialogues  on  Medals  only  appeared  posthumously.  The  Travels 
appeared  in  1705,  i.e.  after  the  Campaign.  It  is  announced  in  the  Diverting 
Post  of  December  2-9,  1704,  that  Mr.  Addison's  1*  long-expected  poem  "  on  the 
Campaign  is  to  be  published  "  next  week." 

%  "  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          Y\ 
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. 


478  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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,  0  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  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound  ; 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise. 
Twas  then  great  Maryborough'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  sent  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  in  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  pro- 
moted. In  the  following  year  Mr.  Addison  went  to  Hanover  with 
Lord  Halifax,  and  the  year  after  was  made  Under-Secretary  of 
State.  0  angel  visits  !  you  come  "  few  and  far  between  "  to  literary 
gentlemen's  lodgings !  Your  wings  seldom  quiver  at  second-floor 
windows  now !  * 

*  [The  famous  story  in  the  text,  which  has  been  generally  accepted,  is 
probably  inaccurate.  It  was  first  told  in  1732  by  Addison's  cousin,  Eustace 
Budgell,  then  ruined  and  half  sane,  who  was  trying  to  puff  himself  by  professing 
familiar  knowledge  of  his  eminent  relation.  The  circumstantiality  of  the  story 
is  suspicious ;  Godolphin  was  the  last  man  to  give  preferment  to  a  poet  in  the 
way  described,  and  Addison  was  not  in  the  position  implied.  He  had  strong 
claims  upon  Halifax,  his  original  patron.  When  Halifax  lost  office,  Addison's 
pension  had  ceased.  Halifax  was  now  being  courted  by  Godolphin,  and  could 
make  an  effective  application  on  behalf  of  his  client.  This  and  not  the  simile  of 
the  angel,  was  probably  at  the  bottom  of  Addison's  preferment.  It  has  lately 
appeared,  from  the  publication  of  Hearne's  diaries  by  the  Oxford  Historical 
Society,  that,  in  December  1705,  it  was  reported  that  Addison  was  to  marry  the 
Countess  of  Warwick.  The  marriage  was  delayed  for  eleven  years  ;  but  it  is 
clear  that  Addison  had  powerful  friends  at  this  time.] 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  479 

/  You  laugh  ?  You  think  it  is  in  the  power  of  few  writers  nowa- 
days to  call  up  such  an  angel  1  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  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,  whoso  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  turned  and  finished  for  the  camp  or  court !  " 

How  many  fourth-form  boys  at  Mr.  Addison's  school  of  Char- 
terhouse could  write  as  well  as  that  now  1  The  "  Campaign " 
has  blunders,  triumphant  as  it  was ;  and  weak  points  like  all 
campaigns.* 

In  the  year  1713  "  Cato"  came  out.  Swift  has  left  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  first  night  of  the  performance.  All  the  laurels  of  Europe 
were  scarcely  sufficient  for  the  author  of  this  prodigious  poem.t 

*  "  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. 

f  "  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 


480  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Laudations  of  Whig  and  Tory  chiefs,  popular  ovations,  compli- 
mentary 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 


hand  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  acknowledgment  (as  he 
expressed  it)  for  defending  the  cause  of  liberty  so  well  against  a  perpetual 
dictator."—  POPE'S  Letters  to  SIR  W.  TRUMRULL. 

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  ! 

*  '  '  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  pro- 
nounce, '  Daughter,  I  give  thee  this  man  for  thy  slave.'  The  marriage,  if 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  481 

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  unfair  blow;  the 
kind  judge  who  castigated  only  in  smiling.  While  Swift  went 
about,  hanging  and  ruthless — a  literary  Jeffreys — in  Addison's 
kind  court  only  minor  cases  were  tried ;  only  peccadilloes  and  small 
sins  against  society :  only  a  dangerous  libertinism  in  tuckers  and 


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  Coun- 
tess, 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  Wharncli/es  edit., 
vol.  ii.  p.  in. 

The  issue  of  this  marriage  was  a  daughter,  Charlotte  Addison,  who  in- 
herited, on  her  mother's  death,  the  estate  of  Bilton,  near  Rugby,  which  her 
father  had  purchased.  She  was  of  weak  intellect,  and  died,  unmarried,  at  an 
advanced  age. 

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  : — 

11  What  though  I  have  skill  to  complain — 
Though  the  Muses  my  temples  have  crowned  ; 
What  though,  when  they  hear  my  soft  strain, 
The  virgins  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." 
7  2H 


482  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

\  hoops;*  or  a  nuisance  in  the  abuse  of  beaux'  canes  and  snuff- 
1  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, 

*  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  revenge1.  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  know  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  head-dresses ;  for  as  the 
humour  of  a  sick  person  is  often  driven  out  of  one  limb  into  another,  their  super- 
fluity 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  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-constituted  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  en- 
trenched than  after  this  manner,  in  circle  within  circle,  amidst  such  a  variety 
of  outworks  of  lines  and  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  Etherege'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  tail  of  a  blazing  star.  For  my  part,  I  am  apt  to  think  it 
is  a  sign  that  multitudes  are  coming  into  the  world  rather  than  going  out  of 
it,"  &c.  &c.—  Spectator,  No.  127. 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  483 

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  obser- 
vation, 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, 
sub-soiling  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  :  M|  ./ 
let  gentlemen  of  a  profound  genius,  critics  accustomed  to  the  plunge  1  |  ty\ 
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 ;  *  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,  whicly 
I  take  to  be,  one  the  consequence  of  the  other.  He  walks  about 
the  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  rival's 
hoops,  or  the  breadth  of  their  laces,  as  they  sweep  down  the  aisles. 
Or  he  looks  out  of  his  window  at  the  "  Garter "  in  Saint  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  earring,  and  how  many  drums  of  figs  to  build  her 
coach-box ;  or  he  demurely  watches  behind  a  tre"e  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 

*  "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, 


484  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  * — to  mingle  in 


*  "  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  reputa- 
tion 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  a  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 


- 


ADDISON   AT    "  CHILD'S 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  485 

that  great  club  of  the  world — sitting  alone  in  it  somehow :  having 
good-will  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  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  1  *  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  a  propos  de  bottes,  and  merely  to  show 
his  dignity  to  Mr.  Spectator :  f  if  he  did  not  mistake  Madam  Doll 

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.  i.  *" 

*  "  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. 

f  "  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. 


486  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  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  1  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  1  Commend  me  to  this  dear  preacher  with- 
out orders — this  parson  in  the  tie-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  1 — 

"  Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the^tory  of  her  birth  ; 
Whilst  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  v 

Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  bo  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 


CONGREVE    AND    ADDISON  487 

at  a  country  merry-making  or  a  town  assembly,  good-will  and  peace 
to  God's  creatures,  and  love  and  awe  of  Him  who  made  them,  fill 
his  pure  heart  and  shine  from  his  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  * 

*  "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  us  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,  No.  381. 


488  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


STEELE 


WHAT  do  we  look  for  in  studying  the  history  of  a  past 
age  1  Is  it  to  learn  the  political  transactions  and  char- 
acters 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  1  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  Marl- 
borough'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  Maryborough's  career, 
which  caused  his  turnings  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 


STEELE  489 

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, 
"  0  venerable  daughter  of  Mnemosyne,  I  doubt  every  single  state- 
ment 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  on  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  auto- 
biography :  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  cheer- 
fully give,  and  do  not  force  me  to  tax  my  credulity  or  to  fortify  it 
by  evidence.  I  take  up  a  volume  of  Doctor  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  1 " 

As  we  read  in  these  delightful  volumes  of  the  Tatler  and^ 
Spectator  the  past  age  returns,  the  England  of  our  ancestors  isj) 
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  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,  WTill  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 


490  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

the  great  stair  to  the  state  apartments,  whilst  her  carriage  rumbles 
into  the  courtyard,  where  the  "  Exeter  Fly "  is  housed  that  per- 
forms 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  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,  behirid  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. 


STEELE  491 

Swift  laughed  at  him,  grimly  advising  him  to  provide  a  Holland 
shirt  and  white  cap  crowned  with  a  crimson  or  black  riband  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  1  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  L 
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  charms  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle,  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  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  ran  him  clean  through  the  body. 


492  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  in  "Lockit's"  at 
Charing  Cross,  when  angry  words  arose  between  Captain  Coote 
and  Captain  French ;  whom  my  Lord  Mohun  and  my  Lord  the 
Earl  of  Warwick  *  and  Holland  endeavoured  to  pacify.  •  My  Lord 
Warwick  was  a  dear  friend  of  Captain  Coote,  lent  him  £100  to 
buy  his  commission  in  "the  Guards ;  once  when  the  Captain  was 
arrested  for  £13  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 

*  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  his  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  (in  Esmond], 


STEELE  493 

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  lamp- 
less  streets,  and  smoking  their  pipes'  by  the  railings,  whilst  swords 
are  clashing  in  the  garden  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  is  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  1 70^_when_the  publication  of^  the  Tatler  began,  OUT  great- 
great-grandfathers  must  Tmve~  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    I 
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 
booka,  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  news-    j 
paper  collection  at  the  British  Museum,  you  may  see,  besides,  the    / 
Craftsman*  and  Postboy  specimens — and  queer  specimens  they  are  / 
— of  the  higher  literature  of  Queen  Anne's  time.      Here   is  an  ' 
*  The  Craftsman  did  not  appear  till  1726. 


494  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

abstract  from  a  notable  journal  bearing  date  Wednesday,  October 
13th,  1708,  and  entitled  The  British  Apollo;  or,  curious  amuse- 
ments 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  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  tliat  polygamy  is  justifi- 
able 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  gentleman,"  con- 
cerning the  souls  of  the  dead,  whether  they  shall  have  the  satisfac- 
tion to  know  those  whom  they  most  valued  in  this  transitory  life. 
The  gentlemen  of  the  Apollo  give  but  poor  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  1  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  with- 
stand 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  winds  up  with  a  letter  from 


STEELE  4-95 

Leghorn,  an  account  of  the  Duke  of  Marl  borough  and  Prince  Eugene 
before  Lille,  and  proposals  for  publishing  two  sheets  on  the  present 
state  of  ^Ethiopia,  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  Taller  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 
Irjah  boy.  He  was_jery  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  instru- 
ment 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  fond- 
ness 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  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  Gazelle,  the  Taller,  and  Spectator,  the  expelled  Member  of 


496  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Parliament,  and  the  author  of  the  "Tender  Husband  "  and  tlie  "Con- 
scious 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  schoomaster  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  lime,  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. 

s~*   Dick  Steele,   the   Charterhouse   gownboy,   contracted  such  an 

|  admiration  in  the  years  of  his  childhood,  and  retained  it  faithfully 

j  through  his  life.      Through   the   school   and  through  the  world, 

;  whithersoever  his  strange  fortune  led  this  erring,  wayward,  affec- 

1  tionate  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.  * 

Steele  found  Addison  a  stately  College  Don  at  Oxford,  and  him- 
self 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  gentle- 
men's compositions  at  that  age ;  but  being  smitten  with  a  sudden  love 

*  "Steele had  the  greatest  veneration  for  Addison,  and  used  to  show  it,  in  all 
I  companies,  in  a  particular  manner.  Addison,  now  and  then,  used  to  play  a 
\  little  upon  him  ;  but  he  always  took  it  well." — POPE.  -S/^«^'j  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. 

Steele,  it  may  be  noted,  was  a  few  weeks  older  than  Addison.  He  was  born 
in  March,  Addison  on  ist  May,  1672. 


STEELE  497 

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  thej 
follies  of  the  town ;  it  is  related  that  all  the  officers  of  Lucas's, 
and  the  gentlemen  of  the  Guards,  laughed  at  Dick.f  And  in  truth 

*  Steele  appears  to  have  been  a  trooper  in  the  Life  Guards ;  but  in  1699  he 
had  received  from  Lord  Cutts  an  ensigncy  in  the  Coldstream  Guards.  In 
1702  he  became  captain  in  Lucas's  regiment,  which,  however,  was  not  called 
"  Fusiliers." — See  AITKEN'S  Life  of  Steele. 

f  "The  gaiety  of  his  dramatic  tone  may  be  seen  in  this  little  scene  between 
two  brilliant  sisters,  from  his  comedy  The  Funeral,  or  Grief  a  la  Mode.  Dick 
wrote  this,  he  said,  from  "a  necessity  of  enlivening  his  character,"  which,  it 
semed,  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  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 
7  2  I 


498  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  sinningand  repenting. 

~He  beat  his  breast  and  cried  most  jJiteously^wEeiThe  ^Jid  repent : 
but  as  soon  as  crying  had  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  Gangway'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  them- 
selves, and  not  separating  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

His  life  was  so.     Jack  the  drawer  was  always  interrupting  it, 

softness.  {Looking  in  the  glass.]  They  a'n'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  contradic- 
tion in  me  :  I  don't  know  I'm  in  love  with  myself,  only  to  rival  the  men. 

"  L.  Ch.  Ay,  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, 

4  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. 

"Z,.  Ha.  Vanity  !  All  the  matter  is,  we  gay  people  are  more  sincere  than 
you  wise  folks:  all  your  life's  an  art. — Speak  your  soul. — 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  too  soon  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." — Gibber. 


SW/tt//    Si 


CAPTAIN    STEELE 


STEELE  499 

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,1  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  j  \ 
in  the  Haymarket,   young   Captain    Steele  was  cutting   a   much  \ 
smarter   figure  than  that  of  his  classical  friend  of  Charterhouse  I 
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  school-days,  of  all  days?     How  Dick  must  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    over-night   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  Saint  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,"  con-^j 
tinued  to  make  no  small  figure  about  town  by  the  use  of  his  wits.*  • 
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.f      Is  it  not  a  pleasant  partnership 

*  "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. 

f  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  employes  about  their  duty. 

"  Sable.  Ha,  you! — A  little  more  upon  the  dismal  \_forming  their  counte- 
nances} ;  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 


500  ENGLIS'H    HUMOURISTS 

to  remember1?  Can't  one  fancy  Steele  full  of  spirits  and  youth,"^ 
leaving  his  gay  company  to  go  to  Addison's  lodging,  where  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 

1  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, 

t  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.! 

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  yoti  are/" 

*  There  is  some  confusion  here  as  to  dates.  Steele's  first  play,  the  Funeral 
was  brought  out  in  December  1701 ;  his  second,  the  Lying  Lover  in  December 
1703  ;  and  his  third  the  Tender  Husband  in  April  1705. 

f  "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, 


STEELE  501 

After  the  Tatler  in  1711,  the  famous  Spectator  made  its 
appearance,  and  this  was  followed  at  various  intervals,  by  many  / 
periodicals  under  the  same  editor — the  Guardian — the  Englishman  \ 
— the  Lover,  whose  love  was  rather  insipid — the  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  Eoyal  Company  of  Comedians,  to  which  post,  and 

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  under- 
stand— 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 


502  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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 ; 

buffoons  is  inferior  to  the  elegant  mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh  !  she  is  an  inestim- 
able 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  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  inward  reflection  and  melancholy.1 

' '  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  observ- 
ing 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 


STEELE  503 

and  a  golden  opportunity  came  to  Dick  Steele,  whose  hand,  alas, 
was  too  careless  to  gripe  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  1 
of  our  writers  who  really  seemed  to  admire  and  respect  them.  \ 
Congreve  the  Grea.t,  who  alludes  to  the  low  estimation  in  which 
women  were  held  in  Elizabeth's  time,  as  a  reason  why  the  women 
of  Shakspeare  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 

great  master  of  all  the  learning  on  the  other  side  of  eight  years  old.  I  per- 
ceived him  a  very  great  historian  in  sEsop'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  for- 
wardness 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  Saint  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  sprights ;  and  some- 
times 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. 

*  He  took  what  he  could  get,  though  it  was  not  much. 


504  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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     (tf 
her  own  natural  tongue."     Addison  laughs  at  women  equally;  but/1*^ 
with  the  gentleness  and  politeness  of  his-  nature,  smiles  at  them  | 
and  watches  them,  as  if  they  were  harmless,  half-witted,  amusing,   f 
pretty  creatures,  only  made  to  be  men's  playthings.     It  was  Steele  Ir 
who  first  began  to  pay  a  manly  homage   to  their  goodness  and' 
understanding,  as  well  as  to  their  tenderness  and  beauty.*     In  his 
comedies  the  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  good- will  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   «"yj 
with  his  hat  that  he  salutes  her.     About  children,  and  all  that  f 
relates  to  home,  he  is  not  less  tender,  and  more  than  once  speaks  j 
in  apology  of  what  he  calls  his  softness.     He  wouldjhaye  been 

*  "  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. 


STEELE  505 

nothing  without  tha^jlelightriil  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.*  Most  men's  letters,  from  Cicero  down  to  Walpole, 

*  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  ambi- 
tion, 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  love  best,  has  been  often 
drunk ;  so  that  1  may  say  that  I  am  dead  drunk  for  your  sake,  which  is  more 
than  /  die  for  you.  RICH.  STEELE.  " 

To  Mrs.  Scurlock. 

"Sept.  i,  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 


506  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

or  down  to  the  great  men  of  our  own  time,  if  you  will,  are  doctored 
compositions,  and  written  with  an  eye  suspicious  towards  posterity. 
That  dedication  of  Steele's  to  his  wife  is  an  artificial  performance, 
possibly ;  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  the  stage.  But 
there  are  some  four  hundred  letters  of  Dick  Steele's  to  his  wife, 
which  that  thrifty  woman  preserved  accurately,  and  which  could 
have  been  written  but  for  her  and  her  alone.  They  contain  details 

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  dwelt  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,  White- 
hall; "  and  states  his  clear  income  at  ^1025  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  Sept.  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  pro- 
gress, however,  may  be  seen  from  the  following  notes.  The  "house  in  Bury 
Street,  Saint  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  d 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,— T  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 


STEELE  507 

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 
proof-sheets  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  excite- 
ment, when  his  head  is  flustered  with  burgundy,  and  his  heart 

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  7th,  1710  : — 

"  I  enclose  to  you  ['  Dear  Prue']  a  receipt  for  the  saucepan  and  spoon,  and 
a  note  of  ^23  of  Lewis's,  which  will  make  up  the  ,£50  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." 


508  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  Sep- 
tember 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  prbmises  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  chariots  and  horses  and  income,  the  Captain  was  con- 
stantly 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  sheriffs  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 


STEELE  509 

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  exe- 
cution on  Captain  Steele's  furniture.  Addison  sold  the  house  and 
furniture  at  Hampton,  and,  after  deducting  the  sum  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  Saint  James's,  and  where  it  is  re- 
corded 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  com- 
plimenting Addison  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  Doctor  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  Doctor  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  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 


510  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  chairman  carried  him  home,  and  got  him 
upstairs,  when  his  great  complaisance  would  wait  on  them  down- 
stairs, which  he  did,  and  then  was  got  quietly  to  bed."  * 

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  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. 

nThe  great  charm  of  Steele's  writing  is  its  naturalness.     He 
vrote  so  quickly  and  carelessly  that  he  was  forced  to  make  the 
eader  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  gentlemen  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  boxful  of  children  at  the  pantomime. 
\   He  was  not  of  those  lonely  ones  of  the  earth  whose  greatness  obliged 
1\  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 

*  Of  this  famous  Bishop,  Steele  wrote — 

"  Virtue  with  so  much  ease  on  Bangor  sits, 
All  faults  he  pardons,  though  he  none  commits." 

This  coup'let  was  sent  to  Hoadly  next  day  in  an  apologetic  letter. 


STEELE  511 

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  Shak- 
speare  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  Addjson's  lonely  serenity.*  Permit  me  to  read  to  you  a_ 

*  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,  con- 
sidering 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, 

"  RICHARD  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  rne  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 


512  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

passage   from    each   writer,    curiously   indicative    of   his    peculiar 

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 

Vand  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  * : — 

"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  : 

1  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  ; 
/  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  that  I  do  not  think  Addison's  heart  melted  very  much, 
or  that  he  indulged  very  inordinately  in  the  "vanity  of  grieving.") 

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. 

*  Lord  Chesterfield  sends  these  verses  to  Voltaire  in  a  characteristic  letter. 


STEELE  513 

"  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  six 
hundred  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  on  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  sate  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  my 
battledore  in  my  hand,  arid  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  1 "  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,  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  tomb- 
7  2  K 


514.  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

stones ;  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  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  charm- 
ing scene  of  Love  and  Grief  and  Death,  who  can  refuse  it  1     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 
r  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 
I    most  brilliant  of  wits  nor  the  deepest  of  thinkers :  but  he  is  our 
\  friend :    we  love  him,   as  children    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  vir- 
tuous, or  talks  French  or  plays  the  piano  better  than  the  rest  of 
v  her  sex  1     I  own  to  liking  Dick  Steele  the  man,  and  Dick  Steele 
uthe  author,  much  better  than  much  better  men  and  much  better 
\authors. 

The  misfortune  regarding  Steele  is,  that  most  part  of  the  com- 
pany 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  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  1  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. 


STEELE  515 

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  break- 
fast with  my  Lady  Smart,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  my 
Lord  Smart  was  absent  at  the  levde.  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  Answerall  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  beef- 
steak 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  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  the  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  gentlefolk  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 
*  Swift's  Polite  Conversation."  L/ 


516  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  gentle- 
woman was  Tom's  sweetheart :  on  which  Miss  remarked,  that  she 
loved  Tom  "  like  pie."  After  the  goose,  some  of  the  gentlewomen 
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  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  sirloin, 
and  provided  besides  a  great  shoulder  of  veal,  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  dinner1?  Fancy  a 


STEELE  517 

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  Saint  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  sr~\ 

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     1 
short  forehead,  a  broad  flat  face,  and  a  dusky  countenance.     Yet     I 
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  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."  * 

*  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  fool  and  knave  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 


518  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Although  this  portrait  is  the  work  of  a  man  w4io  was  neither 
the  friend  of  Steele  nor  of  any  other  man  alive,^yet  there  is  a 
dreadful  resemblance  to  the  original  in  the  savage  and  exaggerated 
traits  of  the  caricature,  and  everybody  who  knows  him  must 
recognise  Dick  Steele.  I  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  over-night ;  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  bailiffs  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 ! 

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  Gibber  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  overvalued  his  whole  carcase.  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." 


STEELE  519 

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  remem- 
brances, 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  f 
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. 


520  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


PRIOR,   GAY,  AND  POPE 


MATTHEW  PRIOR  was  one  of  those  famous  and  lucky  wits 
of  the  auspicious  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  whose  name  it  be- 
hoves us  not  to  pass  over.     Mat  was  a  world-philosopher  of 
no  small  genius,  good-nature,  and  acumen.*     He  loved,  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 

*  Catcalls  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  Marl  borough,  he  adds, 
"Detestably  covetous,"  &c.  Prior  is  thus  noticed — 

"  Matthew  Prior,  Esquire,  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  forty 
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  humble  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.] 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  521 

'J 
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 
Saint  John's  College,  Cambridge,  and,  coming  up  to  town,  aided 
Montague  f  in  an  attack  on  the  noble  old  English  lion  John  Dryden ; 
injridicule  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  if?  Have  you  not  all  got 
it  by  heart  1  What !  have  you  never  heard  of  it  1  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  diplo- 
matists 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  two1?  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  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,§  where  he  somehow  was  cheated  out  of  his 

*  [He  was  a  joiner's  son.  His  uncle  was  a  vintner,  and  kept  the  Rhenish 
Wine  House  in  Channel  (now  Cannon)  Row,  Westminster.] 

f  "  They  joined  to  produce  a  parody,  entitled  The  Town  and  Country  Mouset 
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.  336. 

%  [It  is  doubtful,  however,  whether  Prior's  appointment  had  much  to  do  with 
his  literary  reputation.] 

§  "  He  was  to  have  been  in  the  same  commission  with  the  Duke  of  Shrews- 
bury, 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 


522  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

ambassadorial  plate ;  and  in  an  heroic  poem,  addressed  by  him  to 
her  late  lamented  Majesty,  Queen  Anne,  Mat  makes  some  magnifi- 
cent allusions  to  these  dishes  and  spoons,  of  which  Fate  had  deprived 
him.  All  that  he  wants,  he  says,  is  her  Majesty's  picture ;  with- 
out 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  dis- 
appeared in  Essex.  When  deprived  of  all  his  pensions  and  emolu- 
ments, 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,  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  conver- 
sation 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  humourous 

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. 

*  [Prior's  poems  published  (in  folio)  by  subscription  brought  him  ,£4000.  Lord 
Harley  (not  his  father,  the  Earl  of  Oxford)  added  ^4000  to  this  for  the  purchase 
of  an  estate  (Down  Hall)  in  Essex.] 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  523 

of  English  lyrical  poems. *  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  whilst  in  fevered  dreams  we  sink, 
And  waking,  taste  what  we  desire, 
The  real  draught  but  feeds  the  fire, 
The  drearn  is  better  than  the  drink. 

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  f  was  sing- 

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  his  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  deathbed  poor  Lubin  lies, 

His  spouse  is  in  despair  ; 
With  frequent  sobs  and  mutual  cries 
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.'  " 

f  [Thackeray,  however,  has  ingeniously  transposed  the  order  of  these  verses, 
which,  in  the  original,  are  not  in  the  metre  made  familiar  by  a  poet  of  our  own 
days]. 


524  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

ing  ?  and  in  the  verses  of  Chloe  weeping  and  reproaching  him  for 
his  inconstancy,  where  he  says — 

"  The  God  of  us  versemen,  you  know,  child,  the  Sun, 

How,  after  his  journeys,  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  u&  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  Prior1? 
Love  and  pleasure  find  singers  in  all  days.  Roses  are  always  blow- 
ing 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  fleeting  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  flourish,  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  thy  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  Mapes 
sang.*  Perhaps  Samuel  Johnson,  who  spoke  slightingly  of  Prior's 

*  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 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  525 

verses,  enjoyed  them  more  than  he  was  willing  to  own.  The  old 
moralist  had  studied  them  as  well  as  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  and 
defended  them  and  showed  that  he  remembered  them  very  well 

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  Epic- 
tetus,  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  :  \st-\-2th  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  com- 
manded) 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,  riimporte] ;  having  been  left  by  him  in  the  greatest  char- 
acter (that  of  her  Majesty's  Plenipotentiary),  exercising  that  power  conjointly 
with  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  and  solely  after  his  departure ;  having  here  re- 
ceived 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  honour- 
able— at  a  time  when  the  Earl  of  Oxford  is  Lord  Treasurer  and  Lord  Boling- 
broke 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  Commis- 
sioners for  settling  the  commerce.  In  all  cases  I  am  ready,  but  in  the  mean- 
time, die  aliquid  de  tribus  capellis.  Neither  of  these  two  are,  I  presume, 


526  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

too,  on  an  occasion  when  their  morality  was  called  in  question  by 
that  noted  puritan,  James  Bos  well,  Esquire,  of  Auchinleck.* 

In  the  great  society  of  the  wits,  John  Gay  deserved  to  be  a 
favourite,  and  to  have  a  good  place. f     In  his  set  all  were  fond  of  him. 

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  re- 
turn 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.Jlat  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. 

"  P.S. — 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. 

*  "  1  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  col- 
lection 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  opprobrium  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. 

f  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  [It  has  been  lately  shown  that  Gay  was  born 
in  1685],  and  in  1712  the  Duchess  of  Monmouth  made  him  her  secretary.  Next 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  527 

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  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 
neglige  tf  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,*  as  the  enormous 
Brobdingnag  maids  of  honour  were  with  little  Gulliver.  He  could 
frisk  and  fondle  round  Pope,t  and  sport,  and  bark,  and  caper,  without 

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 
princesses.  Secretary  Craggs  made  Gay  a  present  of  stock  in  the  South  Sea 
year ;  and  he  was  once  worth  ^20,000,  but  lost  it  all  again.  He  got  about  ^400 
by  the  first  '  Beggar's  Opera,'  and  ^noo  or  ^1200  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  £3000. "— POPE.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

"  Mr.  Gay  is,  in  all  regards,  as  honest  and  sincere  a  man  as  ever  I  knew." 
— SWIFT,  To  Lady  Betty  Germaine,  Jan.  1733. 

f  "  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  thy  end. 
These  are  thy  honours ;  not  that  here  thy  bust 
Is  mixed  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." 


528  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  Queeiisberry  * 
(the  "  Kitty,  beautiful  and  young,"  of  Prior)  pleaded  his  cause 
with  indignation,  and  quitted  the  Court  in  a  huff,  carrying  off  with 
them  into  their  retirement  their  kind  gentle  protege.  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 

*  "I  can  give  you  no  account  of  Gay,"  says  Pope  curiously,  "since  he 
was  raffled  for,  and  won  back  by  his  Duchess." — Works,  Roscoes  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  Shepherds  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  desponding  Tory,  equally 
all  hail !  equally  beloved  and  welcome  to  me  !  If  happy,  I  am  to  partake  in 
your  elevation  ;  if  unhappy,  you  have  still  a  warm  corner  in  my  heart,  and  a 
retreat  at  Binfield  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  heard  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  how  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  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  Rosa- 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  529 

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.  *  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  Saint  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.f  • 

Swift's  letters  to  him  are  beautiful  •  and  having  no  purpose  but 

lindas  of  Britain  as  charming  as  the  Blousalindas  of  the  Hague?  or  have  the 
two  great  Pastoral  poets  of  our  nation  renounced  love  at  the  same  time  ?  for 
Philips,  immortal  Philips,  hath  deserted,  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  coming  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  con- 
founded 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." 

*  "  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 

f  Swift  endorsed  the  letter — "On  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Gay's  death;  re- 
ceived Dec.  15,  but  not  read  till  the  soth,  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  nearest  and  longest  ties  I  have  ever  had  is  broken  all  on 
a  sudden  by  the  unexpected  death  of  poor  Mr.  Gay.  An  inflammatory  fever 
hurried  him  out  of  this  life  in  three  days.  .  .  .  H,e  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. " 

7  2L 


530  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  abbd  of  a  man,  sleek, 
soft-handed,  ami  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  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  accom- 
panying them.  The  pretty  little  personages  of  the  pastoral,  with 
gold  clocks  to  their  stockings,  and  fresh  satin  ribands  to  their 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  531 

crooks  and  waistcoats  and  bodices,  danced  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  a,nd  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 
pirouetting  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  folk  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  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,  t  and  of  one  other  humourist  of  wThom  we 
shall  have  to  speak.  In  almost  every  ballad  of  his,  however  slight,  \ 

*  [This  was  said  earlier  of  Mdlle.  Duchesnois  of  the  Theatre  Fran9ais,  who 
was  not  beautiful,  but  had  a  most  beautiful  voice]. 

f  "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. 

%  "  '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? 


532  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

in  the  "  Beggar's  Opera  "  *  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  fra- 
grance is  of  a  violet,  or  freshness  of  a  rose. 

Let  me  read  a  piece  from  one  of  his  letters,  which  is  so  famous 

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  wailed  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  (Tye  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  roar- 
ing'? I  have  been  well  informed  that  they  all  contributed." — Cowper  to 
Unwin,  1783. 

*  "  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  ; 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  533 

that  most  people  here  are  no  doubt  familiar  with  it,  but  so  delight- 
ful 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  field,  where,  under  the  shade  of  a  haycock,  sat  two  lovers 
as  constant  as  ever  were  found  in  romance — beneath  a  spreading 
beech.  The  name  of  the  one  (let  it  sound  as  it  will)  was  John 
Hewet ;  of  the  other  Sarah  Drew.  John  was  a  well-set  man,  about 
five-and-twenty  ;  Sarah  a  brown  woman  of  eighteen.  John  had  for 
several  months  borne  the  labour  of  the  day  in  the  same  field  with 
Sarah  ;  when  she  milked,  it  wras  his  morning  and  evening  charge 
to  bring  the  cows  to  her  pail.  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  her  complexion,  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  haycock  ; 
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  crack,  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 

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  ft,  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  knack  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. 


534  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  oft'  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  riot  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  complete  his  own ; 
borrowing  an  idea  or  a  cadence  from  another  poet  as  he  would  a 
figure  or  a  simile  from  a  flower,  or  a  river,  stream,  or  any  object 
which  struck  him  in  his  walk,  or  contemplation  of  nature.  He 
began  to  imitate  at  an  early  age  ;  t  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 

*  [This  was  a  natural  conjecture,  but  now  appears  to  be  erroneous.  The 
letter  seems  to  have  been  a  joint  composition  of  Gay  and  Pope,  who  were  stay- 
ing together  at  Lord  Harcourt's  house.  Gay  wrote  to  Fortescue,  while  Pope 
sent  substantially  the  same  letter  to  Martha  Blount,  Lord  Bathurst,  and  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu. — See  Mr.  Courthope's  notes  in  Pope's  Works,  vol. 
ix.,  284,  399.] 

t  "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 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  535 

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  him- 
self, for  which  he  had  a  very  great  eagerness  and  enthusiasm, 
especially  for  poetry.  He  learnt  versification  from  Dryden,  he 
said.  In  his  youthful  poem  of  "Alcander,"  he  imitated  every 
poet,  Cowley,  Milton,  Spenser,  Statins,  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 
picture1?  The  forest  and  the  fairy  story-book — the  boy  spelling 
Ariosto  or  Virgil  under  the  trees,  battling  with  the  Cid  for  the  love 
of  Chimene,  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, 

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  Abbe"  Southcote.  The  Abbe"  was  extremely  con- 
cerned 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  everyday. 
The  following  his  advice  soon  restored  him  to  his  health."— POPE.  Spence. 


536  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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-com- 
positions 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  after- 
wards, 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  compli- 
ments and  politenesses,-  a  something  which  makes  one  distrust  the 
little  pert,  prurient  bard.  There  is  very  little  indeed  to  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  a  deux 
fins,  and  after  having  poured  out  his  heart  to  the  beloved,  serves  up 
the  same  dish  rechauffe  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.!  You  live  in  them  in  the  finest  company  in  the 

*  [See  note  on  p.  534.  Pope,  however,  was  capable  of  very  similar  perform- 
ances.] 

f  Mr.  Pope  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Broom,  Pulham,  Norfolk. 

"Aug.  zgth,  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  infprmed  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  complica- 
tion 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  con- 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  537 

world.  A  little  stately,  perhaps ;  a  little  apprete  and  conscious 
that  they  are  speaking  to  whole  generations  who  are  listening; 
but  in  the  tone  of  their  voices — pitched,  as  no  doubt  they  are, 
beyond  the  mere  conversation  key — in  the  expression  of  their 
thoughts,  their  various  views  and  natures,  there  is  something 
generous,  and  cheering,  and  ennobling.  You  are  in  the  society  of 
men  who  have  filled  the  greatest  parts  in  the  world's  story — you 

tempt  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  witli  pleasure  take  upon  me  to  draw  this  amiable,  quiet,  deserving, 
unpretending,  Christian,  and  philosophical  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's  sake,  and  would  rather  show  their  own  fine  parts  than  report  the 
valuable  ones  of  any  other  man.  So  the  elegy  I  renounce. 

41 1  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  stone-horse,  overtook  me  in  Windsor  Forest.  He  said 
he  heard  I  designed  for  Oxford,  the  seat  of  the  Muses,  and  would,  as  my  book- 
seller, by  all  means  accompany  me  thither. 

' '  I  asked  him  where  he  got  his  horse  ?  He  answered  he  got  it  of  his  pub- 
lisher ;  '  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  fricassee  of  rabbits, 
which  cost  ten  shillings,  with  two  quarts  of  wine,  besides  my  conversation.  I 
thought  myself  cock-sure  of  his  horse,  which  he  readily  promised  me,  but  said 


538  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

are  with  St.  John  the  statesman ;  Peterborough  the  conqueror ; 
Swift,  the  greatest  wit  of  all  times ;  Gay,  the  kindliest  laughter,— 
it  is  a  privilege  to  sit  in  that  company.  Delightful  and  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 

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  stone-horse  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  the  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'\l  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 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  539 

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 

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  judgment  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  apiece  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  tiptop  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 


540  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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 

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  com- 
mendable, 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  Carlton,  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  signalise  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  dispersions ;  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  or  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  misemploy- 
ing 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  nations,  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  forth. 

"...   I  have  got  materials  towards  a  treatise  proving  the  falsity  of  that 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  541 

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  1  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 

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.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  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  gene- 
rally 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  atom  of  the  other,  remains 
just  the  same ;  I  have  fancied,  I  say,  that  we  should  meet  like  the  righteous  in 
the  millennium,  quite  in  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.  ..." 


542  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

nobleman  of  the  Court  could  no  more  have  won  Barcelona,  than  he 
could  have  written  Peterborough's  letters  to  Pope,*  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,  "an'd  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. 

*  Of  the  Earl  of  Peterborough,  Wai  pole  says  : — "He  was  one  of  those  men 
of  careless  wit  and  negligent  grace,  who  scatter  a  thousand  bon-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  expe- 
ditious in  his  journeys :  for  he  is  said  to  have  seen  more  kings  and  more 
postillions  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  letters  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  upon  this  point,  I 
doubt  every  jury  will  give  a  verdict  against  me.  So,  sir,  with  a  Mahometan 
indulgence,  I  allow  your  pluralities,  the  favourite  privilege  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 
much  out  of  the  way  as  himself.  Yours." 

Peterborough  married  Mrs.  Anastasia  Robinson,  the  celebrated  singer. 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  543 

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  contained  the  very  smallest  portion  of  one  or  the  other. 
The  chiefs  spoke,  the  faithful  habitues  sat  round;  strangers  came 
to  wonder  and  listen.  Old  Dry  den  had  his  headquarters  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  snuffbox.  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."*  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.t  Dick  Steele,  the  editor  of  the  Tatler, 

*  "  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. 

t  "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.  Spences  Anecdotes. 

"  Addison  had  Budgell,  and  I  think  Philips,  in  the  house  with  him. — Gay  they 
would  call  one  of  my  dleves. — They  were  angry  with  me  for  keeping  so  much 
with  Dr.  Swift  and  some  of  the  late  Ministry." — POPE.  Spences  Anecdotes. 


544  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

Mr.  Addison's  man,  and  his  own  man  too — a  person  of  no  little 
figure  in  the  world  of  letters — patronised  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  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 

*  To  Mr.  Blount. 

"/an.  21,  1715-16. 

"  I  know  of  nothing  that  will  be  so  interesting  to  you  at  present  as  some 
circumstances  of  the  last  act  of  that  eminent  comic  poet  and  our  friend, 
Wycherley.  He  had  often  told  me,  and  I  doubt  not  he  did  all  his  acquaint- 
ance, that  he  would  marry  as  soon  as  his  life  was  despaired  of.  Accordingly, 
a  few  days  before  his  death,  he  underwent  the  ceremony,  and  joined  together 
those  two  sacraments  which  wise  men  say  we  should  be  the  last  to  receive ; 
for,  if  you  observe,  matrimony  is  placed  after  extreme  unction  in  our  cate- 
chism, as  a  kind  of  hint  of  the  order  of  time  in  which  they  are  to  be  taken. 
The  old  man  then  lay  down,  satisfied  in  the  consciousness  of  having,  by  this 
one  act,  obliged  a  woman  who  (he  was  told)  had  merit,  and  shown  an  heroic 
resentment  of  the  ill-usage  of  his  next  heir.  Some  hundred  pounds  which  he 
had  with  the  lady  discharged  his  debts  ;  a  jointure  of  ^500  a  year  made  her  a 
recompence ;  and  the  nephew  was  left  to  comfort  himself  as  well  as  he  could 
with  the  miserable  remains  of  a  mortgaged  estate.  I  saw  our  friend  twice 
after  this  was  done — less  peevish  in  his  sickness  than  he  used  to  be  in  his 
health  ;  neither  much  afraid  of  dying,  nor  (which  in  him  had  been  more 
likely)  much  ashamed  of  marrying.  The  evening  before  he  expired,  he  called 
his  young  wife  to  the  bedside,  and  earnestly  entreated  her  not  to  deny  him  one 
request — the  last  he  should  make.  Upon  her  assurances  of  consenting  to  it, 
he  told  her  :  '  My  dear,  it  is  only  this — that  you  will  never  marry  an  old  man 
again. '  I  cannot  help  remarking  that  sickness,  which  often  destroys  both  wit 
and  wisdom,  yet  seldom  has  power  to  remove  that  talent  which  we  call  humour. 
Mr.  Wycherley  showed  his  even  in  his  last  compliment ;  though  I  think  his 
request  a  little  hard,  for  why  should  he  bar  her  from  doubling  her  jointure  on 
the  same  easy  terms  ? 

"  So  trivial  as  these  circumstances  are,  I  should  not  be  displeased  myself 
to  know  such  trifles  when  they  concern  or  characterize  any  eminent  person. 
The  wisest  and  wittiest  of  men  are  seldom  wiser  or  wittier  than  -others  in  these 
sober  moments ;  at  least,  our  friend  ended  much  in  the  same  character  he  had 
lived  in ;  and  Horace's  rule  for  play  may  as  well  be  applied  to  him  as  a 
playwright : — 

' '  '  Servetur  ad  imum 
Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit  et  sibi  constet.' 

"  I  am,"  &c. 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  545 

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.*  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  Addisou  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  pinion  of  that  age  could  follow,  he  rose  and  left  Addison's 
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,  f  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 

*  "Addison,  who  was  no  stranger  to  the  world,  probably  saw  the  sefishness 
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. 

\  "  While  I  was  heated  with  -what  I  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.  Spences  Anecdotes. 

7  2  M 


546  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

the  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  ?  *  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,  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  his 
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  pre- 
judices 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  : 

*  "That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villainy  seems  to  us  highly 
improbable ;  that  Addison  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villainy  seems  to  us 
highly  improbable ;  but  that  these  two  men  should  have  conspired  together  to 
commit  a  villainy,  seems,  to  us,  improbable  in  a  tenfold  degree." — Macaulay, 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  547 

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  con- 
temptuous 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  Saint  Sebastian,  with  that  arrow  in  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  mveurs  of  the  former  age  was  awful.  Peter- 
borough lived  into  the  very  jaws  of  death ;  Godolphin  laboured  all 
day  and  gambled  at  night;  Bolingbroke,t  writing  to  Swift,  from 

*  [This  story  has  been  now  upset  by  the  researches  of  Mr.  Dilke,  Mr.  Elwin, 
and  others  ;  though,  when  Thackeray  wrote,  it  was  the  accepted  version.  There 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Addison  ever  saw  the  verses.  The  statement 
is  part  of  an  elaborate  fiction  concocted  by  Pope,  and  supported  by  manufactur- 
ing letters  to  Addison  out  of  letters  really  written  to  another  correspondent. 
The  whole  story  may  be  found  in  the  edition  of  Pope  by  Elwin  and  Courthope, 
and  is  one  of  the  most  curious  cases  of  literary  imposture  on  record.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  all  stain  has  been  removed  from  Addison's  character. 
Thackeray  would  have  rejoiced  at  that  result,  though  he  would  have  had  to 
modify  some  of  the  eulogy  bestowed  upon  Pope.  1 

f  Lord  Bolingbroke  to  the  Three  Yahoos  of  Twickenham. 

"July  23,  1726. 

"JONATHAN,  ALEXANDER,  JOHN,  MOST  EXCELLENT  TRIUMVIRS  OF  PAR- 
NASSUS,— 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 


548 


ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


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.*  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  withdrew 
in  a  great  measure  from  this  boisterous  London  company,  and  being 
put  into  an  independence  by  the  gallant  exertions  of  Swift  f  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  parent  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.  Dry  den  wa,s  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 

beneficent  temper,  I  will  likewise  inform  you,  that  I  shall  be  in  your  neigh- 
bourhood 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  !  " 

*  Prior  must  be  excepted  from  this  observation.  "He  was  lank  and 
lean." 

f  Swift  exerted  himself  very  much  in  promoting  the  Iliad  subscription ; 
and  also  introduced  Pope  to  Harley  and  Bolingbroke.  Pope  realised  by  the 
Iliad  upwards  of  .£5000,  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." 

%  "  His  (Pope's)  voice  in  common  conversation  was  so  naturally  musical, 
that  I  remember  honest  Tom  Southerne  used  always  to  call  him  '  the  little 
nightingale.' " — Orrery. 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  54-9 

their  age.  Garth,*  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,f  one  of  the 

*  Garth,  whom  Dryden  calls  "generous  as  his  Muse,"  was  a  Yorkshire- 
man.  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-Cat,"  and  a  friendly,  convivial,  able  man.  He  was 
knighted  by  George  I. ,  with  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  sword.  He  died  in  1718. 

t  "  Arbuthnotwas  the  son  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman  in  Scotland,  andbelonged 
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  presenti- 
ment 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 


550  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

wisest,  wittiest,  most  accomplished,  gentlest  of  mankind ;  Boling- 
broke,  the  Alcibiades  of  his  age  ;  the  generous  Oxford  ;  the  magnifi- 
cent, the  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  were  penned,* — and 

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  Encyclopedia  Britannica, 
note  to  p.  242,  and  also  note  B.  B.  B.  ,  p.  285. 

*  To  Mr.  Richardson. 

"  TWICKENHAM,  June  10,  1733. 

"  As  I  know  you  and  I  mutually  desire  to  see  one  another,  I  hoped  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  paint- 
ing 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  prevalent  obstacle,  you  will  leave  any  common  business 
to  do  this ;  and  I  hope  to  see  you  this  evening,  as  late  as  you  will,  or  to-morrow 
morning  as  early,  before  this  winter  flower  is  faded.  I  will  defer  her  inter- 
ment 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  happily  !  Yours,"  &c. 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  551 

the  wonderful  Kneller,  who  bragged  more,  spelt  worse,  and  painted 
better  than  any  artist  of  his  day.* 

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  achieve- 
ments, 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  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  ac- 
count that  constant  tenderness  and  fidelity  of  affection  which  pervaded  j 
and  sanctified  his  life,  and  never  forget  that  maternal  benediction.! 

*  ' '  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. 

f  Swift's  mention  of  him  as  one 

1 '  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,  &  propos  of  this  subject.  He  charitably  sneers,  in  one  of 
his  letters,  at  Spence's  "  fondling  an  old  mother — in  imitation  of  Pope  !  " 


552  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  that1?'  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,*  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, 

*  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. 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  553 

'  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  l 
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.*  He  was  sewed 
up  in  a  buckram  suit  every  morning,  and  required  a  nurse  like  a 
child.  His  contemporaries  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  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. 

*  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  "  buck- 
ram," but  "it  now  appears,"  says  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  "from  his  unpub- 
lished 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?  " 


554  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  Gibber'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  1  Can't  one 
fancy  one  is  reading  Horace  1  Can't  one  fancy  one  is  s'peaking  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  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  Gibber,  and  the  worn  and  hungry  press- 
men 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  folk  on  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  instruc- 
tions how  to  find  C mil'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  Com- 
missioner, and  Swift  all  but  a  Bishop.  The  profession  of  letters 


PRIOR,    GAY,    AND    POPE  555 

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  two- 
pence 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  reading  world  (delighted  with  the  mischief,  as  who  would  not 
be  that  reads  it  1)  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  familiarised  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  "  concludes  : — t 

"  She  comes,  she  comes  !  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  Night  primeval  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. 

*  [This  statement  would  require  qualification.  The  Grub  Street  author  was 
probably  worse  off  in  the  time  of  Queen  Anne  than  in  the  time  of  George  II., 
and  the  "Dunciad"  really  showed  that  he  could  make  himself  more  effectually 
unpleasant  to  his  superiors.  The  prizes  of  Queen  Anne's  time  did  not  go  to  the 
professional  author,  but  to  the  authors  who  were  in  a  good  enough  position 
to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  ministers.] 

f  "  He  (Johnson)  repeats  to  us,  in  his  forcible  melodious  manner,  the  con- 
cluding lines  of  the  '  Dunciad.'  " — Boswell. 


556  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

See  skulking  Truth  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."  * 

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,  dulness,  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 


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  arc  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  com- 
paring 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. 

*  "  Mr.  Langton  informed  me  that  he  once  related  to  Johnson  (on  the  autho- 
rity 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.'  " — /.  Boswell,  junior. 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       557 


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  I 
gallant  hero,  a  wicked  monster  his  opposite,  and  a  pretty  girl  ; 
who  finds  a  champion ;  bravery  and  virtue  conquer  beauty ;  and  \is" 
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  folk  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.* 
His  art  is  quite  simple ;  t  he  speaks  popular  parables  to  interest 

*  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. 

f  "I  was  pleased  with  the  reply  of  a  gentleman,  who,  being  asked  which 
book  he  esteemed  most  in  his  library,  answered  '  Shakspeare '  :  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  unvulgarise  every  subject  which  he  might  choose.  .  .  . 

"  I  say  not  that  all  the  ridiculous  subjects  of  Hogarth  have  necessarily 


558  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

simple  hearts,  and  to  inspire  them  with  pleasure  or  pity  or  warning 
and  terror.  Not  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  tjxe  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  Doctor  Harrison's," 
Fielding  says,  in  "Amelia," — speaking  of  the  benevolent  diyine  and 

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  t&dium  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  re- 
garded 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 
b'y  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  por- 
traits. He  gives  the  extremes  of  character  and  expression,  but  he  gives  them 
with  perfect  truth  and  accuracy.  This  is,  in  fact,  what  distinguishes  his  com- 
positions 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. 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       559 

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  edifica- 
tion. Masters  sent  their  apprentices,  fathers  took  their  children, 
to  see  Jack  Sheppard  or  Jonathan  Wild  hanged,  and  it  was  as  unj 
doubting  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  a  la  Mode,"  and 
which  are  now  exhibited  in  the  National  Gallery  in  London,  con- 
tains 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  Squanderneld, 
the  dissipated  son  of  a  gouty  old  Earl.  Pride  and  pomposity 
appear  in  every  accessory  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  Con- 
queror, 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  pend- 
ing between  them.  Whilst  the  steward  f  (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 

*  [There  is  no  coronet  on  the  dogs  in  the  picture.  A  coronet  was  conferred 
upon  one  dog  in  the  engraving.] 

f  [This  person  is  the  Alderman's  clerk  or  cashier.  The  Methodist  steward 
(a  different  person)  appears  in.  the  next  picture — the  breakfast  scene.] 


560  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

in  the  glass,  while  his  bride  is  twiddling  her  marriage  ring  on  her 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  listening  with  rueful  countenance  to  Coun- 
sellor 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  f  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,  evi- 
dently 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  stream- 
ing in ;  or  he  amuses  himself  with  the  very  worst  company  abroad, 
whilst  his  wife  sits  at  home  listening  to  foreign  singers,  or  wastes 
her  money  at  auctions,  or,  worse  still,  seeks  amusement  at  mas- 
querades. 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  J  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 

*  [This  is  a  mistake.     The  only  person  likely  to  be  intended  is  St.  Sebastian. 
Any  reference  to  the  incidents  is  very  doubtful.] 
f  [Really  the  fourth.] 
£  [She  has  taken  laudanum  and  is  dead.] 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       561 

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  " Whittingtou "  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  black- 
guards, 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,  Esquire,  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  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  recognises  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 — 0  crowning  delight  and  glory  of  all 
— whilst  his  Majesty  the  King  *  looks  out  from  his  royal  balcony, 
with  his  riband  on  his  breast,  and  his  Queen  and  his  star  by  his 
side,  at  the  corner  house  of  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard. 

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 
*  [Really  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  with  the  Princess  of  Wales.] 
7  2  N 


fvJ1^ 


562  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  abode  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  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  civilisation  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 
policeman,  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. 

To  the  student  of  history,  these  admirable  works  must  be  in- 
valuable, 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, 
I  foreign  singers  surrounding  her,  and  the  chamber  filled  with  gew- 
gaws 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  drinks  his  punch  at  the  night-cellar, 
and  how  he  finishes  his  career  at  the  gibbet.  We  may  depend 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       563 

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.  The  Yorkshire  waggon  rolls  into  the  inn  yard;  the 
country  parson,  in  his  jack-boots,  and  his  bands  and  short  cassock, 
comes  trotting  into  town,  and  we  fancy  it  is  Parson  Adams,  with 
his  sermons  in  his  pocket.  The  Salisbury  fly  sets  forth  from  the 
old  "Angel" — you  see  the  passengers  entering  the  great  heavy 
vehicle,  up  the  wooden  steps,  their  hats  tied  down  with  hand- 
kerchiefs over  their  faces,  and  under  their  arms,  sword,  hanger, 
and  case-bottle ;  the  landlady — apoplectic  with  the  liquors  in  her 
own  bar — is  tugging  at  the  bell ;  the  hunchbacked  postillion — he 
may  have  ridden  the  leaders  to  Humphrey  Clinker — is  begging 
a  gratuity;  the  miser  is  grumbling  at  the  bill;  Jack  of  the 
"  Centurion  "  lies  on  the  top  of  the  clumsy  vehicle,  with  a  soldier 
by  his  side  * — it  may  be  Smollett's  Jack  Hatchway — it  has  a  like- 
ness to  Lismaha.go.  You  see  the  surburban  fair  and  the  strolling 
company  of  actors  ;  the  pretty  milkmaid  singing  under  the  windows 
of  the  enraged  French  musician :  it  is  such  a  girl  as  Steele  charm- 
ingly described  in  the  Guardian,  a  few  years  before  this  date,f 
singing,  under  Mr.  Ironside's  window  in  Shire  Lane,  her  pleasant 
carol  of  a  May  morning.  You  see  noblemen  and  blacklegs  bawling 
and  betting  in  the  Cockpit :  you  see  Garrick  as  he  was  arrayed  in 
"  King  Richard  " ;  Macheath  and  Polly  in  the  dresses  which  they 
wore  when  they  charmed  our  ancestors,  and  when  noblemen  in 
blue  ribands  sat  on  the  stage  and  listened  to  their  delightful 
music.  You  see  the  ragged  French  soldiery,  in  their  white  coats 
and  cockades,  at  Calais  Gate :  they  are  of  the  regiment,  very 
likely,  which  friend  Roderick  Random  joined  before  he  was  rescued 
by  his  preserver  Monsieur  de  Strap,  with  whom  he  fought  on  the 
famous  day  of  Dettingen.  You  see  the  judges  on  the  bench ;  the 
audience  laughing  in  the  pit ;  the  student  in  the  Oxford  theatre ; 
the  citizen  on  his  country  walk;  you  see  Broughton  the  boxer, 
Sarah  Malcolm  the  murderess,  Simon  Lovat  the  traitor,  John 
Wilkes  the  demagogue,  leering  at  you  with  that  squint  which  has 
become  historical,  and  that  face  which,  ugly  as  it  was,  he  said  he 
could  make  as  captivating  to  woman  as  the  countenance  of  the 

*  [The  commentators  say  that  the  soldier  is  a  Frenchman.] 

t  [The  Guardian  ended  in  1713.     The  "enraged  musician"  is  dated  1741.] 


564  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

handsomest  beau  in  town.  All  these  sights  and  people  are  with 
you.  After  looking  in  the  "  Rake's  Progress  "  at  Hogarth's  picture 
of  Saint  James's  Palace  Gate,  you  may  people  the  street,  but  little 
altered  within  these  hundred  years,  with  the  gilded  carriages  and 
thronging  chairmen  that  bore  the  courtiers  your  ancestors  to  Queen 
Caroline's  drawing-room  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago. 

What  manner  of  man*  was  he  who  executed  these  portraits 

*  Hogarth  (whose  family  name  was  Hogart)  was  the  grandson  of  a  West- 
moreland yeoman.  His  father  came  to  London,  and  was  an  author  and 
schoolmaster.  William  was  born  loth  November  1697,  in  the  parish  of  Saint 
Martin,  Ludgate.  He  was  early  apprenticed  to  an  engraver  of  arms  on 
plate.  The  following  touches  are  from  his  Anecdotes  of  Himself  (Edition 
of  1833) :- 

"  As  I  had  naturally  a  good  eye,  and  a  fondness  for  drawing,  shows  of  all 
sorts  gave  me  uncommon  pleasure  when  an  infant ;  and  mimicry,  common  to 
all  children,  was  remarkable  in  me.  An  early  access  to  a  neighbouring  painter 
drew  my  attention  from  play ;  and  I  was,  at  every  possible  opportunity,  em- 
ployed in  making  drawings.  1  picked  up  an  acquaintance  of  the  same  turn, 
and  soon  learnt  to  draw  the  alphabet  with  great  correctness.  My  exercises, 
when  at  school,  were  more  remarkable  for  the  ornaments  which  adorned  them, 
than  for  the  exercise  itself.  In  the  former,  I  soon  found  that  blockheads  with 
better  memories  could  much  surpass  me ;  but  for  the  latter  I  was  particularly 
distinguished.  .  .  . 

"  I  thought  it  still  more  unlikely  that  by  pursuing  the  common  method,  and 
copying  old  drawings,  I  could  ever  attain  the  power  of  making  new  designs, 
which  was  my  first  and  greatest  ambition.  I  therefore  endeavoured  to  habituate 
myself  to  the  exercise  of  a  sort  of  technical  memory ;  and  by  repeating  in  my 
own  mind  the  parts  of  which  objects  were  composed,  I  could  by  degrees  com- 
bine and  put  them  down  with  my  pencil.  Thus,  with  all  the  drawbacks  which 
resulted  from  the  circumstances  I  have  mentioned,  I  had  one  material  advantage 
over  my  competitors,  viz.,  the  early  habit  I  thus  acquired  of  retaining  in  my 
mind's  eye,  without  coldly  copying  it  on  the  spot,  whatever  I  intended  to 
imitate. 

"The  instant  I  became  master  of  my  own  time,  I  determined  to  qualify 
myself  for  engraving  on  copper.  In  this  I  readily  got  employment ;  and 
frontispieces  to  books,  such  as  prints  to  Hudibras,  in  twelves,  &c. ,  soon  brought 
me  into  the  way.  But  the  tribe  of  booksellers  remained  as  my  father  had  left 
them  .  .  .  which  put  me  upon  publishing  on  my  own  account.  But  here  again 
I  had  to  encounter  a  monopoly  of  printsellers,  equally  mean  and  destructive 
to  the  ingenious ;  for  the  first  plate  I  published,  called  '  The  Taste  of  the  Town,' 
in  which  the  reigning  follies  were  lashed,  had  no  sooner  begun  to  take  a  run, 
than  I  found  copies  of  it  in  the  print-shops,  vending  at  half-price,  while  the 
original  prints  were  returned  to  me  again,  and  I  was  thus  obliged  to  sell  the 
plate  for  whatever  these  pirates  pleased  to  give  me,  as  there  was  no  place  of 
sale  but  at  their  shops.  Owing  to  this,  and  other  circumstances,  by  engraving, 
until  I  was  near  thirty,  I  could  do  little  more  than  maintain  myself;  but  even 
then  1  was  a  punctual  paymaster. 
"  I  then  married,  and " 

[But  William  is  going  too  fast  here.      He  made  a   "stolen  union,"   on 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       565 

— so  various,  so  faithful,  and  so  admirable1?  In  the  National 
Collection  of  Pictures  most  of  us  have  seen  the  best  and  most  care- 
fully finished  series  of  his  comic  paintings,  and  the  portrait  of  his 
own  honest  face,  of  which  the  bright  blue  eyes  shine  out  from  the 

March  23,  1729,  with  Jane,  daughter  of  Sir  James  Thornhill,  serjeant-painter. 
For  some  time  Sir  James  kept  his  heart  and  his  purse-strings  close,  but  "soon 
after  became  both  reconciled  and  generous  to  the  young  couple." — Hogarth 's 
Works,  by  NICHOLS  and  STEEVENS,  vol.  i.  p.  44.] 

' '  —commenced  painter  of  small  Conversation  Pieces,  from  twelve  to  fifteen 
inches  high.  This,  being  a  novelty,  succeeded  for  a  few  years." 

[About  this  time  Hogarth  had  summer  lodgings  at  South  Lambeth,  and  did 
all  kinds  of  work,  "embellishing"  the  "Spring  Gardens"  at  "Vauxhall,"  and 
the  like.  In  1731  he  published  a  satirical  plate  against  Pope,  founded  on  the 
well-known  imputation  against  him  of  his  having  satirised  the  Duke  of  Chandos, 
under  the  name  of  Timon,  in  his  poem  on  "Taste."  The  plate  represented 
a  view  of  Burlington  House,  with  Pope  whitewashing  it,  and  bespattering  the 
Duke  of  Chandos's  coach.  Pope  made  no  retort,  and  has  never  mentioned 
Hogarth.] 

"  Before  I  had  done  anything  of  much  consequence  in  this  walk,  I  enter- 
tained some  hopes  of  succeeding  in  what  the  puffers  in  books  call  The  Great 
Style  of  History  Painting;  so  that  without  having  had  a  stroke  of  this  grand 
business  before,  I  quitted  small  portraits  and  familiar  conversations,  and  with 
a  smile  at  my  own  temerity,  commenced  history-painter,  and  on  a  great  stair- 
case at  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  painted  two  Scripture  stories,  the  '  Po9l 
of  Bethesda'  and  the  'Good  Samaritan,'  with  figures  seven  feet  high.  .  .  . 
But  as  religion,  the  great  promoter  of  this  style  in  other  countries,  rejected  it 
in  England,  I  was  unwilling  to  sink  into  a  portrait  manufacturer ;  and,  still 
ambitious  of  being  singular,  dropped  all  expectations  of  advantage  from  that 
source,  and  returned  to  the  pursuit  of  my  former  dealings  with  the  public  at 
large. 

' '  As  to  portrait-painting,  the  chief  branch  of  the  art  by  which  a  painter  can 
procure  himself  a  tolerable  livelihood,  and  the  only  one  by  which  a  lover  of 
money  can  get  a  fortune,  a  man  of  very  moderate  talents  may  have  great  success 
in  it,  as  the  artifice  and  address  of  a  mercer  is  infinitely  more  useful  than  the 
abilities  of  a  painter.  By  the  manner  in  which  the  present  race  of  professors 
in  England  conduct  it,  that  also  becomes  still  life." 

"  By  this  inundation  of  folly  and  puff"  (he  has  been  speaking  of  the  success  of 
Vanloo,  who  came  over  here  in  1737),  "I  must  confess  I  was  much  disgusted, 
and  determined  to  try  if  by  any  means  I  could  stem  the  torrent,  and,  by  opposing, 
end  it,  I  laughed  at  the  pretensions  of  these  quacks  in  colouring,  ridiculed 
their  productions  as  feeble  and  contemptible,  and  asserted  that  it  required 
neither  taste  nor  talents  to  excel  their  most  popular  performances.  This  inter- 
ference excited  much  enmity,  because,  as  my  opponents  told  me,  my  studies 
were  in  another  way.  'You  talk,'  added  they,  u with  ineffable  contempt  of 
portrait-painting ;  if  it  is  so  easy  a  task,  why  do  not  you  convince  the  world  by 
painting  a  portrait  yourself?'  Provoked  at  this  language,  I,  one  day  at  the 
Academy  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  put  the  following  question:  'Supposing  any 
man,  at  this  time,  were  to  paint  a  portrait  as  well  as  Vandyke,  would  it  be 


566  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

canvas  and  give  you  an  idea  of  that  keen  and  brave  look  with  which 
William  Hogarth  regarded  the  world.  No  man  was  ever  less  of  a 
hero ;  you  see  him  before  you,  and  can  fancy  what  he  was — a  jovial, 
honest  London  citizen,  stout  and  sturdy;  a  hearty,  plain-spoken 

seen  or  acknowledged,  and  could  the  artist  enjoy  the  benefit  or  acquire  the 
reputation  due  to  his  performance?' 

"They  asked  me  in  reply,  if  I  could  paint  one  as  well;  and  I  frankly 
answered,  I  believed  I  could.  .  .  . 

"Of  the  mighty  talents  said  to  be  requisite  for  portrait  painting  I  had  not 
the  most  exalted  opinion." 

Let  us  now  hear  him  on  the  question  of  the  Academy : — 

"To  pester  the  three  .great  estates  of  the  empire,  about  twenty  or  thirty 
students  drawing  after  a  man  or  a  horse,  appears,  as  must  be  acknowledged, 
foolish  enough :  but  the  real  motive  is,  that  a  few  bustling  characters,  who 
have  access  to  people  of  rank,  think  they  can  thus  get  a  superiority  over  their 
brethren,  be  appointed  to  places,  and  have  salaries,  as  in  France,  for  telling  a 
lad  when  a  leg  or  an  arm  is  too  long  or  too  short.  .  .  . 

"  France,  ever  aping  the  magnificence  of  other  nations,  has  in  its  turn 
assumed  a  foppish  kind  of  splendour  sufficient  to  dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  neigh- 
bouring states,  and  draw  vast  sums  of  money  from  this  country.  .  .  . 

4 '  To  return  to  our  Royal  Academy :  I  am  told  that  one  of  their  leading 
objects  will  be,  sending  young  men  abroad  to  study  the  antique  statues,  for 
such  kind  of  studies  may  sometimes  improve  an  exalted  genius,  but  they  will 
not  create  it ;  and  whatever  has  been  the  cause,  this  same  travelling  to  Italy 
tias,  in  several  instances  that  I  have  seen,  seduced  the  student  from  nature  and 
led  him  to  paint  marble  figures,  in  which  he  has  availed  himself  of  the  great 
works  of  antiquity,  as  a  coward  does  when  he  puts  on  the  armour  of  an 
Alexander  ;  for,  with  similar  pretensions  and  similar  vanity,  the  painter  supposes 
he  shall  be  adored  as  a  second  Raphael  Urbino." 

We  must  now  hear  him  on  his  "  Sigismunda  "  : — 

"As  the  most  violent  and  virulent  abuse  thrown  on  'Sigismunda'  was 
from  a  set  of  miscreants,  with  whom  I  am  proud  of  having  been  ever  at  war 
— I  mean  the  expounders  of  the  mysteries  of  old  pictures — I  have  been  some- 
times told  they  were  beneath  my  notice.  This  is  true  of  them  individually; 
but  as  they  have  access  to  people  of  rank,  who  seem  as  happy  in  being  cheated 
as  these  merchants  are  in  cheating  them,  they  have  a  power  of  doing  much 
mischief  to  a  modern  artist.  However  mean  the  vendor  of  poisons,  the  mineral 
is  destructive :—  to  me  its  operation  was  troublesome  enough.  Ill  nature 
spreads  so  fast  that  now  was  the  time  for  every  little  dog  in  the  profession 
to  bark ! " 

Next  comes  a  characteristic  account  of  his  controversy  with  Wilkes  and 
Churchill. 

"The  stagnation  rendered  it  necessary  that  I  should  do  some  timed  thing, 
to  recover  my  lost  time,  and  stop  a  gap  in  my  income.  This  drew  forth  my 
print  of  'The  Times,'  a  subject  which  tended  to  the  restoration  of  peace  and 
unanimity,  and  put  the  opposers  of  these  humane  objects  in  a  light  which  gave 
great  offence  to  those  who  were  trying  to  foment  disaffection  in  the  minds  of 
the  populace.  One  of  the  most  notorious  of  them,  till  now  my  friend  and 
flatterer,  attacked  me  in  the  North  Briton,  in  so  infamous  and  malign  a  style, 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       567 

man,*  loving  his  laugh,  his  friend,  his  glass,  his  roast  beef  of  Old 
England,  and  having  a  proper  bourgeois  scorn  for  French  frogs,  for 
mounseers,  and  wooden  shoes  in  general,  for  foreign  fiddlers,  foreign 
singers,  and,  above  all,  for  foreign  painters,  whom  he  held  in  the 
most  amusing  contempt. 

It  must  have  been  great  fun  to  hear  him  rage  against  Correggio 
and  the  Caracci;  to  watch  him  thump  the  table  and  snap  his 
fingers,  and  say,  "  Historical  painters  be  hanged !  here's  the  man 
that  will  paint  against  any  of  them  for  a  hundred  pounds.  Cor- 
reggio's  '  Sigismunda ' !  Look  at  Bill  Hogarth's  *  Sigismunda ' ; 
look  at  my  altar-piece  at  Saint  Mary  Redcliffe,  Bristol ;  look  at  my 

that  he  himself,  when  pushed  even  by  his  best  friends,  was  driven  to  so  poor 
an  excuse  as  to  say  he  was  drunk  when  he  wrote  it.  ... 

"This  renowned  patriot's  portrait,  drawn  like  as  I  could  as  to  features,  and 
marked  with  some  indications  of  his  mind,  fully  answered  my  purpose.  The 
ridiculous  was  apparent  to  every  eye  !  A  Brutus  !  A  saviour  of  his  country 
with  such  an  aspect  —  was  so  arrant  a  farce,  that  though  it  gave  rise  to 
much  laughter  in  the  lookers-on,  galled  both  him  and  his  adherents  to  the 
bone.  .  .  . 

"Churchill,  Wilkes's  toad-echo,  put  the  North  Briton  attack  into  verse,  in 
an  Epistle  to  Hogarth ;  but  as  the  abuse  was  precisely  the  same,  except  a  little 
poetical  heightening,  which  goes  for  nothing,  it  made  no  impression.  .  .  . 
However,  having  an  old  plate  by  me,  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  and  pecuniary  advantage 
which  I  derived  from  these  two  engravings,  together  with  occasionally  riding 
on  horseback,  restored  me  to  as  much  health  as  can  be  expected  at  my  time 
of  life." 

*  "  It  happened  in  the  early  part  of  Hogarth's  life,  that  a  nobleman  who 
was  uncommonly  ugly  and  deformed  came  to  sit  to  him  for  his  picture.  It  was 
executed  with  a  skill  that  did  honour  to  the  artist's  abilities ;  but  the  likeness 
was  rigidly  observed,  without  even  the  necessary  attention  to  compliment  or 
flattery.  The  peer,  disgusted  at  this  counterpart  of  himself,  never  once  thought 
of  paying  for  a  reflection  that  would  only  disgust  him  with  his  deformities. 
Some  time  was  suffered  to  elapse  before  the  artist  applied  for  his  money ;  but 
afterwards  many  applications  were  made  by  him  (who  had  then  no  need  of  a 
banker)  for  payment,  without  success.  The  painter,  however,  at  last  hit  upon 
an  expedient.  ...  It  was  couched  in  the  following  card  : — 

"  'Mr.  Hogarth's  dutiful  respects  to  Lord .  Finding  that  he  does  not 

mean  to  have  the  picture  which  was  drawn  for  him,  is  informed  again  of  Mr. 
Hogarth's  necessity  for  the  money.  If,  therefore,  his  Lordship  does  not  send 
for  it,  in  three  days  it  will  be  disposed  of,  with  the  addition  of  a  tail,  and  some 
other  little  appendages,  to  Mr.  Hare,  the  famous  wild-beast  man :  Mr.  Hogarth 
having  given  that  gentleman  a  conditional  promise  of  it,  for  an  exhibition- 
picture,  on  his  Lordship's  refusal.' 

"This  intimation  had  the  desired  effect." — Works,  by  NICHOLS  and 
STEEVENS,  vol.  i.  p.  25. 


568  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

'  Paul  before  Felix,'  and  see  whether  I'm  not  as  good  as  the  best 
of  them."  * 

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  dis- 
covered a  difference  between  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  per- 
sisted 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,  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 

*  "  Garrick  himself  was  not  more  ductile  to  flattery.  A  word  in  favour  of 
'  Sigismunda'  might  have  commanded  a  proof-print  or  forced  an  original  print 
out  of  our  artist's  hands.  .  .  . 

' '  The  following  authenticated  story  of  our  artist  (furnished  by  the  late  Mr. 
Ilelchier,  F.R.S. ,  a  surgeon  of  eminence)  will  also  serve  to  show  how  much 
more  easy  it  is  to  detect  ill-placed  or  hyperbolical  adulation  respecting  others, 
than  when  applied  to  ourselves.  Hogarth,  being  at  dinner  with  the  great 
Cheselden  and  some  other  company,  was  told  that  Mr.  John  Freke,  surgeon  of 
St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  a  few  evenings  before  at  Dick's  Coffee-house,  had 
asserted  that  Greene  was  as  eminent  in  composition  as  Handel.  '  That  fellow 
Freke,'  replied  Hogarth,  '  is  always  shooting  his  bolt  absurdly,  one  way  or 
another.  Handel  is  a  giant  in  music  ;  Greene  only  a  light  Florimel  kind  of  a 
composer.1  '  Ay,'  says  our  artist's  informant,  '  but  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Freke 
declared  you  were  as  good  a  portrait-painter  as  Vandyke.'  '  There  he  was 

right,'  adds  Hogarth,  '  and  so,  by  G ,  I  am,  give  me  my  time  and  let  me 

choose  my  subject.'" — Works,  by  NICHOLS  and  STEEVENS,  vol.  i.  pp.  236,  237. 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       569 

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  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  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,  f  One  of  the  gentlemen  noted  down  the  proceed- 
ings 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 

*  Of  Hogarth's  kindliness  of  disposition,  the  story  of  his  rescue  of  the 
drummer-girl  from  the  ruffian  at  Southwark  Fair  is  an  illustration  ;  and  in  this 
case  virtue  was  not  its  own  reward,  since  her  pretty  face  afterwards  served  him 
for  a  model  in  many  a  picture. 

f  He  made  this  excursion  in  1732,  his  companions  being  John  Thornhill  (son 
of  Sir  James),  Scott  the  landscape-painter,  Tothall,  and  Forrest.  [The  account 
was  first  published  in  1782,  and  is  in  the  third  volume  of  the  "Genuine 
Works,"  1817.] 


570 


ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


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 
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.* 

*  Doctor  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."  " 

[Johnson's  lines  were  only  a  suggested  emendation  upon  the  first  form  of  the 
verses,  submitted  to  him  by  Garrick  for  criticism. — Bos  WELL'S  Johnson  (Birk- 
beck  Hill),  i.  187.] 

"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  Doctor 
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. 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       571 

Of  SMOLLETT'S  associates  and  manner  of  life  the  author  of  the 
admirable  "  Humphrey  Clinker  "  has  given  us  an  interesting  account 
in  that  most  amusing  of  novels.* 

*  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  con- 
stellation of  genius.  A  small  stock  of  ideas  is  more  easily  managed,  and  sooner 
displayed,  than  a  great  quantity  crowded  together.  There  is  very  seldom  any- 
thing 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  charac- 
teristic 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  assem- 
blage of  originals.  Among  their  peculiarities,  I  do  not  mention  those  of  dress, 
which  may  be  purely  accidental.  What  struck  me  were  oddities  originally  pro- 
duced 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 


572  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

I  have  no  doubt  that  this  picture  by  Smollett  is  as  faithful  a 
one  as  any  from  the  pencil  of  his  kindred  humourist,  Hogarth. 

We  have  before  us,  and  painted  by  his  own  hand,  Tobias 
Smollett,  the  manly,  kindly,  honest,  and  irascijble ;  worn  and 
battered,  but  still  brave  and  full  of  heart,  after  a  long  struggle 
against  a  hard  fortune.  His  brain  had  been  busied  with  a  hundred 
different  schemes;  he  had  been  reviewer  and  historian,  critic, 
medical  writer,  poet,  pamphleteer.  He  had  fought  endless  literary 

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-ill  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  between 
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  imper- 
fection, 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  de- 
clining 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  pub- 
lished 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  journey- 
men, to  more  creditable  authors,  for  whom  they  translated,  collated,  and 
compiled,  in  the  business  of  bookmaking ;  and  that  all  of  them  had,  at  different 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       573 

battles ;  and  braved  and  wielded  for  years  the  cudgels  of  con- 
troversy. 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  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 

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  endea- 
voured 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  ex- 
pelled 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. 

1 '  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  inti-, 
macy  with  the  elegancies  of  the  English  language.  The  sage,  who  laboured 
under  the  aypo^ofiia,  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 


574  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

fidelity,  the  great  Scotch  novelist  has  painted  so  charmingly.  Of 
gentle  birth  *  and  narrow  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, 

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  he  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  pro- 
pagation 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  preposses- 
sing, 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  honour- 
ably maintained  himself  on  his  literary  labours.  ...  He  was  a  doting  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. 

*  Smollett  of  Bonhill,  in  Dumbartonshire.  Arms,  azure,  a  bend,  or,  between 
a  lion  rampant,  ppr. ,  holding  in  his  paw  a  banner,  argent,  and  a  bugle-horn, 
also  ppr.  Crest,  an  oak-tree,  ppr.  Motto,  Vires co. 

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  commis- 
sioners 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  ten,  his  grandfather  died,  and  left  him  without  pro- 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       575 

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,*  through  which  the  stout  Scotch- 
man bore  it  courageously.  You  see  somehow  that  he  is  a  gentleman, 

vision  {figuring  as  the  old  judge  in  Roderick  Random  in  consequence,  according 
to  Sir  Walter).  Tobias,  armed  with  the  Regicide,  a  Tragedy— a  provision  pre- 
cisely similar  to  that  with  which  Doctor  Johnson  had  started,  just  before — came 
up  to  London.  The  Regicide  came  to  no  good,  though  at  first  patronised  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  "beau- 
tiful 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,  2ist  of  October  1771,  in  the  fifty- 
first  year  of  his  age. 

*  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 
Rochefort  expedition  came  to  be  examined  before  the  tribunal  of  the  Critical 
Review. 

"  He  is,"  said  our  author,  "an  admiral  without  conduct,  an  engineer  with- 
out 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  Doctor  Moore's  biography  of  him  is  a  pleasant  anecdote.  After  publish- 
ing 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  char- 
acter, he  endeavoured  to  preserve  a  serious  countenance,  approaching  to  a 


576 


ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


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  person- 
ages 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  wonder- 
ful 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 
Doctor  Caius.  What  man  who  has  made  his  inestimable  acquaint- 
ance— what  novel-reader  who  loves  Don  Quixote  and  Major  Dalgetty 
— will  refuse  his  most  cordial  acknowledgments  to  the  admirable 
Lieutenant  Lismahago1?  The  novel  of  "Humphrey  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. 

frown ;  but  while  his  mother's  eyes  were  riveted  on  hiaj  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  Humphrey 
Clinker.  This  delightful  work  was  published  in  1771." — Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       577 

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  recollec- 
tion of  the  great  wits  was  still  fresh  in  the  coffee-houses  and  assem- 
blies, 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  captain* 
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  Montagu  f  prettily 
characterises  Fielding  and  this  capacity  for  happiness  which  he 

*  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." 

f  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. 

7  20 


578  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  healthy  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  1  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  ex- 
pensive 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  remon- 
strated 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  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  1  Why  conceal  his  weaknesses  in  a  cloud  of  peri- 
phrases 1  Why  not  show  him,  like  him  as  he  is,  not  robed  in  a 
marble  toga,  and  draped  and  polished  in  an  heroic  attitude,  but 
with  inked  ruffles,  and  claret  stains  on  his  tarnished  laced  coat, 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       579 

and  on  his  manly  face  the  marks  of  good  fellowship,  of  illness,  of 
kindness,  of  care  and  wine  1  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  admir- 
able 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.* 

If  that  theory  be — and  I  have  no  doubt  it  is — the  right  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,  f 

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  naivete  and  freshness, 
and  prepossess  one  in  favour  of  that  handsome  young  hero.  The 

*  He  sailed  for  Lisbon,  from  Gravesend,  on  Sunday  morning,  June  soth, 
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  churchyard,  near  the  Estrella  Church,  with  this 
inscription  over  him  : — 

"HENRICUS   FIELDING 
LUGET  BRITANNIA   GREMIO  NON   DARI 
FOVERE   NATUM." 

f  Fielding  himself  is  said  by  Doctor  Warton  to  have  preferred  Joseph 
Andrews  to  his  other  writings. 


580  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  from  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,  mollcoddle 
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  " ;  * 
and  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 : 

*  "  Richardson,"  says  worthy  Mrs.  Barbauld,  in  her  Memoir  of  him,  pre- 
fixed 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 
Gibber." 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       581 

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.* 
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  tower- 
ing 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  humour 
and  manners,  will  outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escurial  and  the 
Imperial  Eagle  of  Austria." 

There  can  be  no  gainsaying  the  sentence  of  this  great  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,  f  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 

*  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. 

f  "  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.  lyttce,  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. 


582  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

state  of  the  atmosphere.  It  might  clear  the  air  when  such  person- 
ages 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  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,  0  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  heave  spoilt  the 
little  dish  of  boiled  mutton  thereby,  and  caused  pangs  and  pains 
to  Amelia's  tender  heart.*  You  have  got  into  debt  without  the 

*  "  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 


HOGAKTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       583 

means  of  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  dis- 
charge. 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  admira- 
tion 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  1  why  not  history  1  I  know  Amelia 

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  broken-hearted  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  Worthy  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  ^1500,  whom  he  married  in  1736.  About  the  same  time  he 
succeeded,  himself,  to  an  estate  of  .£200  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  theatrical  manager.  [Recent  researches  have  not  confirmed  the 
report  as  to  the  "estate  of  .£200  a  year"  ;  nor  can  he  have  spent  three  years  in 
the  country.  ] 


584  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  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  play  and  drink,  Booth's  fond- 
ness 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  &c- 
customed"~:fn~^Te"exercT8e  of  thoughtful  humour  and  the  manly 
play  of  wit !  What  a  courage  he  had !  What  a  dauntless  and 
constant  cheerfulness  of  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 


HOGARTH,    SMOLLETT,    AND    FIELDING       585 

view  of  truth  never  warped,  and  his  generous  human  kindness  never 
surrendered.* 

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's  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  imme- 
diately forgave  him."  Indeed,  I  think,  with  his  noble  spirit  and 

*  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.  '  Friend- 
ship 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." 

In  1748,  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  com- 
mitted 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 


586  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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,  when  disease  had  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  recognise  in  the  manly,  the  English 
Harry  Fielding. 

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  j£6oo  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  ^200  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  ,£500  a  year  of  the  dirtiest  money  upon  earth 
to  little  more  than  ^300,  a  considerable  portion  of  which  remained  with  my 
clerk." 


STERNE   AND    GOLDSMITH  587 


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  Charles  II.;  *  and  children  of  Simon 
Sterne  and  Mary  Jaques,  his  wife  heiress  of  Elvington,  near  York,  f 
Roger  was  an  ensign  in  Colonel  Hans  Hamilton'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 ;  she  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  he  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.  || 

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 

*  [1664  to  1683.] 

f  He  came  of  a  Suffolk  family — one  of  whom  settled  in  Nottinghamshire. 
The  famous  "  starling"  was  actually  the  family  crest. 

J  [He  was  appointed  ensign  about  1710.  The  regiment  became  Colonel 
Chudleigh's  in  1711,  and  afterwards  the  34th  Foot.  He  did  not  become  lieutenant 
till  late  in  life.] 

§  [March  1731.] 

||  "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. 


588  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

parted  company  with  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  peda- 
gogue in  chief  rebuked  the  understrapper,  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  some  years,*  and,  taking 
orders,  got,  through  his  uncle's  interest,  the  living  of  Sutton  and  a 
prebendal  stall  at  York.f  Through  his  wife's  connections  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  ac- 
quainted 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  reverend  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."  J 

*  [He  was  admitted  sizar  on  6th  July  1733,  became  an  exhibitioner  in  1734, 
graduated  B.A.  in  1736,  and  M.A.  1740.] 

t  [Sterne  was  presented  to  Sutton,  where  he  generally  lived  till  1760,  in  1738. 
He  became  prebendary  of  York  in  January  1740-41.  In  1760  he  moved  to  Cox- 
wold,  on  being  presented  to  the  perpetual  curacy.  He  held  a  stall  at  York, 
and  the  three  livings,  Sutton,  Stillington,  and  Coxwold,  till  his  death.] 

J  "My  wife  returns  to  Toulouse,  and  proposes  to  pass  the  summer  at 
Bagneres.  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 ; 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH 


589 


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  affec- 
tions 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  pre- 
sides 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  segrotus  " — Sum  mortaliter  in  a/niore  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  re- 
freshed from  the  same  gushing  source.!  It  was  in  December 
1767,  that  the  Reverend  Laurence  Sterne,  the  famous  Shandean, 
the  charming  Yorick,  the  delight  of  the  fashionable  world,  the 

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.  [His  wife  was 
Elizabeth,  only  daughter  of  Richard  Lumley,  formerly  rector  of  Bedale.  Both 
parents  died  in  her  infancy.] 

*  [This  is  probably  a  mistake.  The  Latin  letter  addressed  to  John  Hall 
Stevenson  is  now  known  to  have  been  written  in  1758.  Mrs.  Sterne  had  a  fit 
of  insanity  next  year,  and  was  for  a  time  at  a  private  asylum  in  York.  ] 

f  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  : — 

1 '  Nous  arrivames  le  lendemain  a  Montpellier,  ou  nous  trouvames  notre  ami 
Mr.  Sterne,  sa  femme,  sa  fille,  Mr.  Huet,  et  quelques  autres  Anglaises. 
J'eus,  je  vous  1'avoue,  beaucoup  de  plaisir  en  revoyant  le  bon  et  agrdable 
Tristram.  ...  II  avail  £t6  assez  longtemps  a  Toulouse,  ou  il  se  serait  amus6 
sans  sa  femme,  qui  le  poursuivit  partout,  et  qui  voulait  6tre  de  tout.  Ces 
dispositions  dans  cette  bonne  dame  lui  ont  fait  passer  d'assez  mauvais  momens  ; 
il  supporte  tous  ces  desagr^mens  avec  une  patience  d'ange." 

About  four  months  after  this  very  characteristic  letter,  Sterne  wrote  to  the 


590  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

delicious  divine  for  whose  sermons  the  whole  polite  world  was 
subscribing,*  the  occupier  of  Rabelais's  easy-chair,  only  fresh 
stuffed  and  more  elegant  than  when  in  possession  of  the  cynical 
old  curate  of  Meudon,f — the  more  than  rival  of  the  Dean  of 
Saint  Patrick's,  wrote  the  above-quoted  respectable  letter  to  his 

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  cantered  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  may'st  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  comddie,  I  fell  ill,  and  broke  a  vessel  in 
my  lungs,  and  half  bled  to  death.  Voila  mon  histoire  !  " 

Whether  husband  or  wife  had  most  of  the  "patience  d'ange"  may  be 
uncertain  ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  which  needed  it  most ! 

*  "  '  Tristram  Shandy'  is  still  a  greater  object  of  admiration,  the  man  as 
well  as  the  book  :  one  is  invited  to  dinner,  where  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  imagina- 
tion 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.'  " — Ibid. 

f  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  f— 

"  To  be  convinced  of  this,  go  with  me  for  a  moment  into  the  prisons  of  the 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  591 

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,  Esquire,  Councillor  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 

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  II  see  every  nerve  and 
muscle  as  it  su/ers. — 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  27 'th. 

The  next  extract  is  preached  on  a  text  to  be  found  in  Judges  xix.  vv.  i,  2, 
3,  concerning  a  "  certain  Levite"  : — 

"Such  a  one  the  Levite  wanted  to  share  his  solitude  and  fill  up  that  un- 
comfortable 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  sweets  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  yearn- 
ings 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. 

1 '  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  i%th. 

The  first  of  these  passages  gives  us  another  drawing  of  the  famous  "  Captive.1' 
The  second  shows  that  the  same  reflection  was  suggested  to  the  Reverend 
Laurence  by  a  text  in  Judges  as  by  \htfille-de-chambre. 

Sterne's  Sermons  were  published  as  those  of  "  Mr.  Yorick." 

*  [Mrs.  Draper,  daughter  of  May  Sclater,  of  a  good  west-country  family, 
was  married  at  Bombay  in  1758,  when  little  more  than  fourteen.  She  first  met 
Sterne  when  on  a  visit  to  England  in  December  1766.] 


592  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

merit  in  it,  that  it  contains  a  pleasant  reminiscence  of  better  men 
than  Sterne,  and  introduces  us  to  a  portrait  of  a  kind  old  gentle- 
man)— "  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),  "  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  1  I  have  lived  my  life  with  geniuses  of  that  cast ; 
but  have  survived  them;  and,  despairing  ever  to  find  their  equals, 
it  is  some  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  !  * 

*  "  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  ever  have  some  Dulcinea 
in  my  head  ;  it  harmonises  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  23,  1765. 

"  P.S. — My  Sentimental  Journey-will  please  Mrs.  J(ames)  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], 


LORD  BATHURST  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF  TO  MR.  STERNE 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  593 

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  wilt  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  Councillor  at  Bom- 
bay, 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  civilise  savages — though  pity  were 
it  thou  shouldst  be  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  3rd  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  com- 
parison with  the  contrasted  crew  with  which  thou  beholdest  them. 
So  was — you  know  who — from  the  same  fallacy  which  was  put 
upon  your  judgment  when— but  I  will  not  mortify  you  !  " 

"  You  know  who  "  was,  of  course,  Daniel  Draper,  Esquire,  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 
7  2  P 


59*  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  him,  offering  that  precious  treasure  his 

heart  to  Lady  P ,*  asking  whether  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see 

him  unhappy  1  whether  it  added  to  her  triumph  that  her  eyes  and 
lips  had  turned  a  man  into  a  fool1? — 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  Coxwold  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 ;  f  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 

*  [i.e.  Lady  Percy,  daughter  of  Lord  Bute.] 

f  To  Mrs.  H . 

"  COXWOULD  :  Now.  15,  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.  28,  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 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  595 

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.  *  In  his  last  letter  there  is  one 
sign  of  grace — the  real  affection  with  which  he  entreats  a  friend  to 
be  a  guardian  to  his  daughter  Lydia.  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  recol- 

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." 

[From  April  to  August  1767,  Sterne  wrote  a  "Journal  to  Eliza,"  which  he 
called  the  ' '  Bramine's  Journal, "  and  described  as  a  "  diary  of  the  miserable  feel- 
ings of  a  person  separated  from  a  lady  for  whose  society  he  languished."  It  has 
never  been  printed.  It  was  bequeathed  to  the  British  Museum  by  Mr.  Thomas 
Washbourne  Gibbs,  of  Bath,  who,  in  1851,  showed  it  to  Thackeray  with 
a  view  to  this  lecture.  Thackeray  returned  it  without  using  it,  and  told 
the  owner  that  it  made  him  think  worse  of  Sterne  than  any  of  the  published 
writings.] 

*  "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  Falsta/,  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. 

"  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.  [At  Sterne's  death  it  is' said  to  have  been  a 
"  silk-bag  shop  "  ;  it  is  now  Agnew's  Picture  Gallery.  At  his  death,  John  Craw- 
ford of  Erroll,  who  was  entertaining  some  of  Sterne's  friends,  sent  a  footman 
to  James  Macdonald  to  inquire  after  his  health.  -Macdonald,  who  published 
memoirs,  was  sent  to  Sterne's  bedside,  and  heard  the  dying  man  say, 
"Now  it  has  come."  A  few  minutes  later  he  was  dead.  He  was  buried  in 
St.  George's  burial-ground  in  the  Bayswater  Road,  which  has  recently  been  put 
in  order.] 


596  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

lections,  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  1  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  1  His  audience  trusts  him  :  can  he 
trust  himself?  How"  much  was  deliberate  calculation  and  imposture 
— how  much  was  false  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 
utilised  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,  f  The  man  is  a  great 
jester,  not  a  great  humourist.^)  He  goes  to  work  systematically  and 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  597 

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  desoUi- 
geante). 

"Four  months  had  elapsed  since  it  had  finished  its  career  of 
Europe  in  the  corner  of  Monsieur  Dessein's  coach-yard,  and  having 
sallied  out  thence  but  a  vamped-up  business  at  first,  though  it  had 
been  twice  taken  to  pieces  on  Mont  Cenis,  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  coach-yard. 
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  desobligeante,  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  1  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  snuffboxes  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  Mon- 
sieur de  Soubise's  cook  on  the  campaign,  Sterne  dresses  it,  and 
serves  it  up  quite  tender  and  with  a  very  piquant  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,  mounte- 
bank !  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  " 


598  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  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 
outT 

"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  thoughtfully  about,  and  looked  wistfully 
the  opposite  way. 

"  *  I  understand  thee  perfectly,'  answered  I :  '  if  thou  takes*  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  he  had  cast  aside  the  stem),  'and  thou  hast  not  a 


'STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  599 

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  benevo- 
lence 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  backwards,  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  enjoy- 
ment 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  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. 


600  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

"  The  sister  of  the  youth — who  had  stolen  her  voice  from  heaven 
— sang  alternately  with  her  brother.  'Twas  a  Gascoigne  roundelay  : 
*  Viva  lajoia,  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  1  '  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  1 '  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.* 

Some  of  that  dreary  double  entendre  may  be  attributed  to  freer 
times  and  manners  than  ours,  but  not  all.  The  foul  satyr's  eyes 

*  "  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,  ist,  on  the  modesty  it  gives  pain  to ; 
or,  andly,  on  the  innocence  and  innocent  ignorance  over  which  it  triumphs ; 
or,  srdly,  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. 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  601 

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. 


"  Jete  sur  cette  boule, 
Laid,  chetif  et  souffrant ; 
Etouffe  dans  la  foule, 
Faute  d'etre  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  tacbe  ici-bas. 
Tous  ceux  qu'ainsi  j'amuse 
Ne  m'aimeront-ils  pas?" 

In  those  charming  lines  of  Be'ranger,  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  !  *  A  wild  youth, 
wayward,  but  full  of  tenderness  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 

*  "  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. 


602  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  1  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  "  *  he  has  found  entry  into  every  castle  and  every  hamlet 

*  "  Now  Herder  came,"  says  Goethe  in  his  Autobiography,  relating  his  first 
acquaintance  with  Goldsmith's  masterpiece,  "  and  together  with  his  great  know- 
ledge 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,  per- 
chance, pass  over  to  a  smaller  ;  grant  him  good-nature,  placabilUy,  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 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  60S 

in  Europe.  Not  one  of  us,  however  busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  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.*     Swift  was  yet  alive,  when  the  little  Oliver 

entirely  natural  with  the  strange  and  the  singular,  make  this  novel  one  of  the 
best  which  have  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 
good- will  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 
elevation  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  owt* 
Life.  (English  Translation,  vol.  i.  pp.  378,  379.) 

"  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. 

*  "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  clergy- 
men ;  and  two  of  them  married  clergymen's  daughters. 


604  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  the  kind  parson  *  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  hojnest  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  Goldsmith  f  left  but  little  provision 
for  his  hungry  race  when  death  summoned  him ;  and  one  of  his 

*  "  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  its  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. 

f  "  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  re-assembling  at  Athlone, 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  605 

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  smallpox,  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  schooldays  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  land- 
lord'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  ^Esop ;  and 
little  Noll  made  his  repartee  of  "  Heralds  proclaim  aloud  this  saying 
— See  JEsop  dancing  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 

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. 


606  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

dignity.  He  likes  to  deck  ouj;  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  their  little  account  in  Hades.* 

They  showed  until  lately  a  window  at  Trinity  College,!  Dublin, 
on  which  the  name  of  0.  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 :  J  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. 

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^  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 

*  "When  Goldsmith  died,  half  the  unpaid  bill  he  owed  to  Mr.  William 
Filby  (amounting  in  all  to  ^79)  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. 

t  [The  pane  is  still  preserved  in  the  library  of  Trinity  College.] 

£  "  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. 

§  "  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.1  " — Boswell. 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  607 

away  the  fifty  pounds  given  to  him  for  his  outfit,  and  whence  he 
returned  to  the  indefatigable  forgiveness  of  home.  Then  he  deter- 
mined 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  examina- 
tion, 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  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view  ; 
That  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies : 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
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  honour- 
able 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.*  The  poor  fellow  was  never  so  friendless  but  he  could 

*  "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. 


608  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  1 " 
he  asked  of  one  of  his  old  pupils.  "  Not  seen  it  1  not  bought  it  1 
Sure,  Jack,  if  your  picture  had  been  published,  I'd  not  have  been 
without  it  half-an-hour."  His  purse  and  his  heart  were  every- 
body'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  Lieutenant  to  Ireland,  asked  if  he  could  be  of  any 
service  to  Doctor  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."*  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  patronised  Beattie ; 

*  "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  generous  master.  It  is  indeed  too  fre- 
quently 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  touch- 
stone 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. 


STERNE   AND    GOLDSMITH  609 

the  fashion  did  not  shine  on  him — fashion  adored  Sterne.*  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  manuscript  for  two  years;  had  a 
right  to  be  a  little  peevish  with  Sterne ;  a  little  angry  when  Col- 
man'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, 

*  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  humourous  mot  on  the  subject  of  the  gravest  part  of  the  charges, 
then,  as  now,  made  against  him,  may  perhaps  be  quoted  here,  from  the  excel- 
lent, 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,1  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  tunic)  : 
'  he  shows  at  times  a  good  deal  that  is  usually  concealed,  but  it  is  all  in  perfect 
innocence.'  " 

7  2Q 


6lO  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

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  book- 
seller, 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  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  to-morrow  1  What 
weak  heart,  confident  before  trial,  may  not  succumb  under  tempta- 
tion invincible  1  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  re- 
moved 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,* 
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  ,£2000  when  he  died.  "Was  ever  poet,"  Johnson  asked, 

*  "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  Edgware  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  after- 
wards. 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. 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  611 

"  so  trusted  before  1"  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.*  I  have  been  many  a  time  in  the 
chambers  in  the  Temple  which  were  his,  and  passed  up  the  stair- 
case, 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.t  Ah  !  it  was  a  different  lot  from  that  for  which 
the  poor  fellow  sighed,  when  he  wrote  with  heart  yearning  for 

*  "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 
BoswelT). 

"  Chambers,  you  find,  is  gone  far,  and  poor  Goldsmith  is  gone  much  further. 
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. 

f  ' '  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. 


612  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

home  those  most  charming  of  all  fond  verses,  in  which  he  fancies 
he  revisits  Auburn  : — 

*  Here,  as  I  take  iny  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  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  breast,  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  he  flew — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

0  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  the  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  bis  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past." 

In  these  verses,  I  need  not  say  with  what  melody,  with  what 
touching  truth,  with  what  exquisite  beauty  of  comparison — as 
indeed  in  hundreds  more  pages  of  the  writings  of  thjs  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 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  613 

chief  of  the  Utopia,  and  the  monarch  of  the  Irish  Yvetot.  He 
would  have  told  again,  and  without  fear  of  their  failing,  those 
famous  jokes  *  which  had  hung  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, 

*  "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  Doctor 
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  Auchin- 
leck'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. 


614  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

and  was  hand  and  glove  with  some  of  the  best  men  in  town — and 
he  would  have  spoken  of  Johnson  and  of  Burke,  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  beautiful 
still,  in  Northcote's  painting-room,  who  told  the  eager  critic  how 
proud  she  always  was  that  Goldsmith  had  admired  her.  The 
younger  Column  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 


GOLDSMITH   AT  PLAY 


STERNE    AND    GOLDSMITH  615 

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  con- 
stantly ensued,  and  we  were  always  cordial  friends  and  merry  play- 
fellows. 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  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 
1  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  affec- 
tion 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  experi- 
ence— that  our  profession  was  neglected  in  this  country ;  and  that 
men  of  letters  were  ill  received  and  held  in  slight  esteem.  It  would 


616  ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 

hardly  be  grateful  of  me  now  to  alter  my  old  opinion  that  we  do 
meet  with  good-will  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  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 
below1?  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  pro- 
vided for  the  author  of  the  last  new  novel  or  poem  ?  how  long  is  lie 
to  reign,  and  keep  other  potentates  out  of  possession  ?  He  retires, 


STERNE   AND    GOLDSMITH  617 

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  announce  that  the  bar  is  in- 
sulted. 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  martyr- 
dom :  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  un- 
generously with  your  weaknesses;  it  recognises  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  1  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,  bene- 
factors !  who  shall  say  that  our  country,  which  continues  to  bring 
you  such  an  unceasing  tribute  of  applause,  admiration,  love,  sym- 
pathy, does  not  do  honour  to  the  literary . calling  in  the  honour  which 
it  bestows  upon  you  ? 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

SKETCHES  OF  MANNERS,  MOKALS, 
COURT  AND  TOWN  LIFE 


THE   FOUR    GEORGES 


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 
Doctor  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  Brummel,  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  Maryborough  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  com- 
plete notion;  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 


622  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

of  many  a  day's  and  night's  pleasant  reading,  to  try  and  while  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  Luneburg, 
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  was  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  after- 
wards, 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,  and  his  seven  sons  tossing  up  which  should  inherit  and 
transmit  the  crown  of  Brentford.  Duke  George,  the  lucky  prize- 
man.  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 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  623 

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  Protes- 
tant 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  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. 
Eleanoi  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  genera- 
tion the  Protestant  faith  was  very  nearly  extinguished  in  the 


624  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  Doctor 
Luther  sang.  Louis  XIV.  gave  this  and  other  converts  a  splendid 
pension.  Crowds  of  Frenchmen  and  brilliant  French  fashions  came 
to  his  Court.  It  is  incalculable  how  much  that  Royal  bigwig  cost 
Germany.  Every  prince  imitated  the  French  King,  and  had  his 
Versailles,  his  Wilhelrashohe  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  jand  duchies 
for  these  latter ;  his  enormous  festivities,  his  gaming-tables,  tourna- 
ments, masquerades,  and  banquets  lasting  a  week  long,  for  which 
the  people  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 
postillions,  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  Mon bijou,  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  beat- 
ing 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  Pollnitz,  or  the  Count  de  Konigs- 
marck,  or  the  excellent  Chevalier  de  Seingalt,  sees  the  procession 
gleaming  through  the  trim  avenues  of  the  wood,  and  hastens  to 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  625 

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  chamber- 
lain, 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  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  fear- 
fully 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  Konigsmarck,  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  Vendome,  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  kst  army  with  the  last  crownpiece  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  well-nigh  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. 

7  2R 


626  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

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  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,  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 
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  6700  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  1400  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 
interests.  He  achieved  the  electoral  dignity  for  himself :  he 
his  eldest  son  George  to  his  beautiful  cousin  of  Zell ;  and 
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 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  627 

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  primo- 
geniture 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. 

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  corre- 
spondence (part  of  which  has  been  printed  in  German  and  French), 
recollections  of  the  Electress,  and  of  George  her  son.  Elizabeth 
Charlotte  was  at  Osnaburgh  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,  manag- 
ing his  own  affairs,  and  understanding  his  own  interests  remark- 
ably well. 

In  his  father's  lifetime,  and  at  the  head  of  the  Hanover  forces 
of  8000  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,  some- 
what, 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  make  no  scruple  in  so  disposing  of 


628  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  pavilions  of  Herrenhausen  are 
scarce  changed  since  the  day  when  the  stout  old  Electress  Sophia 
fell  down  in  her  last  walk  there,  preceding  by  but  a  few  weeks 
to  the  tomb  James  II.  's  daughter,  whose  death  made  way  for  the 
Brunswick  Stuarts  in  England. 

The  first  two  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  prin- 
ciple. 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  garment1? — 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  house- 
hold, 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- 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  629 

world  ceremonies  1  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.  Up  goes  Gessler'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  Gessler'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,  Leber- 
kuchen,  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  of  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  accomplish- 
ments that  it  is  possible  to  have  at  his  age,  with  an  air  of  spright- 
liness  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  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,  Pollnitz  says, 


630  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  1090  thalers  of  pay ;  the 
high  chamberlain,  2000 — 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  fecht-meister  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 
lacqueys  in  livery ;  a  maltre-d'hotel,  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  pastrycooks  (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  postillions; 
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  premises,  and  only  two  washer- 
women 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  every- 
day 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 
in  to  dinner ;  John  Cook  and  his  procession  bringing  the  meal 


GEORGE   THE    FIRST  631 

from  the  kitchen ;  the  jolly  butlers  bearing  in  the  flagons  from  the 
cellar ;  the  stout  coachman  driving  the  ponderous  gilt  waggon,  with 
eight  cream-coloured  horses  in  housings  of  scarlet  velvet  and  morocco 
leather ;  a  postillion  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  torch- 
bearers,  trumpeters  blowing  their  lusty  cheeks  out,  and  squadrons 
of  jack-booted  lifeguardsmen,  girt  with  shining  cuirasses,  and  be- 
striding 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  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  Mademoiselle  de  Que'rouailles,  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  Konigsmarck  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  posses- 
sion) journeyed  to  Hanover,  and  became  favourites  of  the  Serene 
house  there  reigning. 

That  beautiful  Aurora  von  Konigsmarck  and  her  brother  are 
wonderful  as  types  of  bygone  manners,  and  strange  illustrations  of 


632  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

the  morals  of  old  days.  The  Konigsmarcks  were  descended  from 
an  ancient  noble  family  of  Brandenburg,  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  did1?  Far  from  being  discon- 
certed, 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  Konigs- 
marck,  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  Konigsmarck,  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  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  Doctor  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  unfor- 
tunate 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  Konigsmarck,  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 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  633 

Library  at  Upsala,  written  by  Philip  and  Dorothea  to  each  other, 
and  telling  their  miserable  story. 

The  bewitching  Konigsmarck  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  Konigsmarck  was  seen  no 
more. 

Konigsmarck,  inflamed  with  drink — there  is  scarcely  any  vice 
of  which,  according  to  his  own  showing,  this  gentleman  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.  Tho  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. 

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 


634,  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

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  1 
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  with  their  heads  off.  She  never  dropped  the  key,  or  stained 
it  with  blood ;  and  her  brothers  were  quite  right  in  finishing  Blue- 
beard, 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  trans- 
action in  which  Philip  of  Konigsmarck  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,  Konigsmarck  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  despatched  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 


THE   DEATH    OF    KONIGSMARK 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  635 

than  thirty-two  years.  A  separation  had  been  pronounced  previ- 
ously 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  Konigsmarck  catastrophe,  Ernest  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  Konigsmarck'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  Saint  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 
Saint  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  a  while;  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,  could  not 
come  on  account  of  her  debts ;  but  finding  the  Maypole  would  not 


. 


636  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

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  ruddled  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  conge'es  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  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  pent  amongst  the  Tory  party  !  How  muni  the  Tories 
became  ;  how  the  House  of  Lords  and  House  of  Commons  chopped 
round ;  and  how  decorously  the  majorities  welcomed  King  George ! 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  631 

Bolingbroke,  making  his  last  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
pointed  out  the  shame  of  the  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  magni- 
ficent 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  after- 
wards, and  it  was  asked,  what  next  should  be  done  with  him1?  "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  thou- 
sand 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  Braemar.  Mar,  with  8000  men,  and 
but  1500  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's  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  rendez- 
vous 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  on  the  castle.  Suppose  they  had  not 


638  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

stopped  to  powder  their  hair?  Edinburgh  Castle,  and  town,  and 
all  Scotland  were  King's  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  Corn- 
wall. The  Elector  of  Hanover  and  his  hideous  mistresses  pack  up 
the  plate,  and  perhaps  the  Crown  jewels,  in  London,  and  are  off, 
vid  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  Saint  Paul's ;  matins  and  vespers  are 
sung  in  York  Minster ;  and  Doctor  Swift  is  turned  out  of  his  stall 
and  deanery  house  at  Saint  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 — 
f  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  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  that  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  riband,  and  lifts  his  eyes  more  grace- 
fully 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 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  639 

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,  ribands,  embroidery ;  we  think  within  ourselves, 
0  you  unfathomable  schemer  !  0  you  warrior  invincible  !  0  you 
beautiful  smiling  Judas !  What  master  would  you  not  kiss  or 
betray1?  What  traitor's  head,  blackening  on  the  spikes  on  yonder 
gate,  ever  hatched  a  tithe  of  the  treason  which  has  worked  under 
your  periwig  1 

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  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  lacquey  marching  before  him ;  or  Mrs.  Dinah  in  her  sack,  trip- 
ping to  chapel,  her  footboy  carrying  her  Ladyship's  great  prayer- 
book;  with  itinerant  tradesmen  singing  their  hundred  cries  (I 
remember  forty  years  ago,  as  boy  in  London  city,  a  score  of  cheery 
familiar  cries  that  are  silent  now).  Fancy  the  beaux  thronging  to 
the  chocolate-houses,  tapping  their  snuffboxes  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 


640  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

them,  with  their  ruff  and  velvet  flat  caps.  Perhaps  the  King's 
Majesty  himself  is  going  to  Saint  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  accom- 
pany Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  Mr.  Spectator  to  Spring  Garden 
— it  will  be  called  Vauxhall  a  few  years  hence,  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,  Esquire,  George  I.'s  Secretary  of  State,  but  to  the  delight- 
ful 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  Pollnitz, 
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  half-a-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 


GEORGE    THE    FIRST  641 

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  appear- 
ance as  they  do  elsewhere." 

After  our  friend,  the  man  of  quality,  has  had  his  morning  or  un- 
dress walk  in  the  Mall,  he  goes  home  to  dress,  and  then  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  Blucher,  a 
hundred  years  afterwards,  when  the  bold  old  Reiter  looked  down 
from  Saint  Paul's,  and  sighed  out,  "  Was  fur  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  un- 
couth 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  Saint  Germains  with  the 
French  King's  orders  in  his  pocket,  and  a  swarm  of  Jesuits  in 
his  train. 

7  2s 


642  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

The  Fates  are  supposed  to  interest  themselves  about  Royal 
personages ;  and  so  this  one  had  omens  and  prophecies  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  postillion  can  out- 
ride 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  recognise  ere  we  turn  the  picture  to  the  wall. 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  643 


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  Sweetlips 
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  !  Never- 
theless, 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  1 

"  I  am  Sir  Robert  Walpole,"  said  the  messenger.  The  awrakened 
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  instant." 

"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 


644.  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  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. 

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-grand- 
father, who  did  not  try.  It  was  righting  itself  during  their  occu- 
pation. 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 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  645 

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  senti- 
mentalities 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,  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  1  He  readily  detected 
lying  and  flattery,  and  liars  and  flatterers  were  perforce  his  com- 
panions. 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  came  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 


646  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  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  remark- 
able 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 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  647 

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  face,  called  him  a  rogue,  and  provoked  his 
august  father.  He  and  his  wife  were  turned  out  of  Saint  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  Saint 
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  \J 
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 


648  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

is  ludicrous  somehow;  even  at  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. 

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  con- 
versant with  that  history,  "  Show  me  some  good  person  about  that 
Court ;  find  me,  among  those  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  1  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  1  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 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  649 

weary ;  and  laugh  at  bis  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  1  Why,  to  her  last 
hour,  did  she  love  him  so  1  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 
deathbed?  How  she  bade  him  marry  again,  and  the  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  deathbed  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  arn  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  deathbed,  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  1 — 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  syco- 
phancies — 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 


650  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  .£5000.  (He 
betted  her  £5000  that  he  would  not  be  made  a  bishop,  and  he  lost, 
and  paid  her.)  Was  he  the  only  prelate  of  his  time  led  up  by  such 
hands  for  consecration  1  As  I  peep  into  George  II.'s  Saint  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  1 
— about  righteousness  and  judgment?  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  Doctor  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  wilder- 
ness, that  Wesley  quitted  the  insulted  temple  to  pray  on  the  hill- 
side. 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  1  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  1  Where  is  the  pure 
person  one  may  like  r(  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  English- 
man, contrasting  it  with  the  past,  shall  I  not  acknowledge  the 
change  of  to-day  1  As  the  mistress  of  Saint  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  sympathiser  in  her  people's  glories  and 
sorrows. 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  651 

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  gracious- 
ness  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  charm- 
ing, 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  indomit- 
able 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  arid  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  acknowledgment ;  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. 
"  0  wonderful  creature  ! "  he  writes  : — 

"  0  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  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  : 


652  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  1 "  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, 
toward,  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  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  honoi 
was  of  all  things  the  most  miserable,  and  wished  that  all  we 
who  envied  it  had  a  specimen  of  it.     To  eat  Westphalia  ham 
a  morning,  ride  over  hedges  and  ditches  on  borrowed  hacks, 
home  in  the  heat  of  the  day  with  a  fever,  and  (what  is  worse 
hundred  times)  with  a  red  mark  on  the  forehead  from  an  uiicns 
hat — all  this  may  qualify  them  to  make  excellent  wives  for  hunters. 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  653 

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  them- 
selves 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  Saint  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  village  its  wake.  The  old  poets  have 
sung  a  hundred  jolly  ditties  about  great  cudgel-play  ings,  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  sharne  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 


654  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  of  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  mata- 
dores :  but  this  lady,  who  is  but  seventeen,  and  has  £30,000  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  tene- 
ments, 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-times,  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  com- 
pany, 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. 


AN    IMPROMPTU    DANCE 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  655 

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,  beruffled,  snuffboxed,  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  riband 
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,  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 ;  arid  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  cow- 
keeper  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  well- 
nigh  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 


656  THE   FOUR   GEORGES 

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  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  altar 
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  pre- 
cipitated 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  back- 
gammon 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  20 ;  Princess  Caro- 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  657 

line,  10;  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  cross-ways.  He  was 
servant  to  Mr.  St.  Leger,  and  committed  the  murder  with  the 
privity  of  the  servant-maid,  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  3rd. — 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  Suffolk,  by  a  person  who  cut  him  down,  and  running 
for  assistance,  left  his  penknife  behind  him.  The  poor  man  recover- 
ing, 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  Not- 
tingham, 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,  chap- 
lain in  ordinary  to  her  Majesty,  and  rector  of  Great  Berkhampstead, 
in  the  county  of  Hertford,  are  appointed  clerks  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Bankruptcy." 

"  Charles  Creagh,  Esq..  and  • Macnamara,  Esq.,  between 

whom  an  old  grudge  of  three  years  had  subsisted,  which  had  occa- 
sioned their  being  bound  over  about  fifty  times  for  breaking  the 
peace,  meeting  in  company  with  Mr.  Eyres,  of  Galloway,  they  dis- 
charged 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,  9Jd.  ;  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  1000 
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." 

7  2  T 


658  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

"  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  lamp-post, 
which  he  climbed  to  see  Mother  Needham  stand  in  the  pillory." 

"  Mary  Lynn  was  burnt  to  ashes  at  the  stake  for  being  con- 
cerned in  the  murder  of  her  mistress." 

"Alexander  Russell,  the  foot  soldier,  who  was  capitally  con- 
victed 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  Marl  borough  House.  He  has  a  fortune  of  £30,000  down,  and 
is  to  have  £100,000  at  the  death  of  the  Duchess  Dowager  of 
Marl  borough,  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  bed-chamber, 
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,  £40."  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  riot  trouble  you,"  writes  Hervey  to  Lady  Sandon,  "  with 
any  account  of  our  occupations  at  Hampton  Court.  No  mill-horse 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  659 

ever  went  in  a  more  constant  track,  or  a  more  unchanging  circle ; 
so  that,  by  the  assistance  of  an  almanack  for  the  day  of  the  week, 
and  a  watch  for  the  hour  of  the  day,  you  may  inform  yourself  fully, 
without  any  other  intelligence  but  your  memory,  of  every  transac- 
tion within  the  verge  of  the  Court.  Walking,  chaises,  levies,  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  gantlet,  the  Queen  pulling  her 
hood,  and  the  Princess  Royal  rapping  her  knuckles.  The  Duke  of 
Graf  ton  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  pro- 
duced 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  cook  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  re- 
mained there  exactly  as  in  the  Prince's  presence.  There  were  eight 
hundred  horses  in  the  stables,  there  was  all  the  apparatus  of 
chamberlains,  Court-marshals,  and  equerries ;  and  Court  assemblies 
were  held  every  Saturday,  where  all  the  nobility  of  Hanover  as- 
sembled at  what  I  can't  but  think  a  fine  and  touching  ceremony. 


660  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

A  large  arm-chair  was  placed  in  the  assembly  room,  and  on  it  the 
King's  portrait.  The  nobility  advanced,  and  made  a  bow  to  the 
arm-chair,  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  Churfurst  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  amuse- 
ment 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  fetes;  among  others,  a  magnificent  masked 
ball,  in  the  green  theatre  at  Herrenhausen — the  garden  theatre, 
with  linden  and  box  for  screen,  and  grass  for  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  dominoes, 
"  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 


GEORGE    THE    SECOND  661 

Hanover,  a  great  assembly.  The  King  appeared  in  a  Turkish 
dress;  his  turban  was  ornamented  with  a  magnificent  agrafe  of 
diamonds ;  the  Lady  Yarmouth  was  dressed  as  a  sultana ;  nobody 
was  more  beautiful  than  the  Princess  of  Hesse."  So,  while  poor 
Caroline  is  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.  0  strutting  Turkey-cock  of  Herrenhausen  ! 
0  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  agrafe  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  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  humanise  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 


662  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

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  ejample ;  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 
the  Second's  memory  wore  George  the  Third's  lawn.  I  don't  know 
whether  people  still  admire  his  poetry  or  his  sermons. 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  663 


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  is  to  be  but  an  episode,  and  George  III.  is  to 
be  alive  through  all  these  varied  changes,  to  accompany  his  people 
through  all  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  1  The  palace  exists  no  more 
than  the  palace  of  Nebuchadnezzar.  It  is  but  a  name  now.  Where 


664  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  Saint  James's  Park.  A  score  of  grave  gentlemen  are 
taking  their  tea  at  the  "  Athenaeum  Club ; "  as  many  grisly  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  despatch  from  the  Crimea,  the  last  speech 
of  Lord  Derby,  the  next  move  of  Lord  John.  And,  now  and  then, 
to  a  few  antiquaries  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  Konigsmarck'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  Mistress  Eleanor 
Gwynn,  comedian.  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 
Brooks'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  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  :m<l 
voluptuous  people — one  almost  hears  the  voice  of  the  dead  past; 

*  1856. 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  665 

the  laughter  and  the  chorus ;  the  toast  called  over  the  brimming 
cups ;  the  shout  of  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 
anterooms  with  a  fulsome  dedication,  for  which  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 
despatch,  or  beginning  to  cry  because  Prince  Albert  said  some- 
thing civil ! 

At  the  accession  of  George  III.,  the  patricians  were  yet  at  the 
height  of  their  good  fortune.  Society  recognised  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  multi- 
tude of  Government  places,  and  not  merely  these,  but  bribes  of 
actual  <£500  notes,  which  members  of  the  House  took  not  much 
shame  in  receiving.  Fox  went  into  Parliament  at  twenty :  Pitt 
when  just  of  age :  his  father  when  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  riband,  a  coroneted 
chair,  and  an  immense  star  on  his  bosom,  to  whom  commoners  paid 


666  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  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  deathbed :  we  can  see  Charles  Fox  cursing 
over  the  cards,  or  March  bawling  out  the  odds  at  Newmarket :  we 
can  imagine  Burgoyne  tripping  off  from  Saint  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  par- 
ticular 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  Doctor  Warner,  than 
whom  Plautus,  or  Ben  Jonson,  or  Hogarth,  never  painted  a  better 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  667 

character.  In  letter  after  letter  lie  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 
which  he  leered,  worms  and  skulls ;  all  the  fine  gentlemen  whose 
shoe-buckles  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  explo- 
sions 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  inex- 
pressibly 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  popu- 
larity by  the  pleasing,  manly,  and  eloquent  style  of  his  delivery." 
Was  infidelity  endemic,  and  corruption  in  the  air  1  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  manifestoes  in  the  Royal  Neiv  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. 

This  good,  clever,  kind,  highly-bred  Lord  Carlisle  was  one  of 
the  English  fine  gentlemen  who  was  well-nigh  ruined  by  the  awful 
debauchery  and  extravagance  which  prevailed  in  the  great  English 

*  1856. 


668  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

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  pic- 
tures :  it  had  brought  over  singing- worn  en  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,  Vaux- 
halls,  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  consump- 
tion, 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  cards,  flung  hers  into  Lady 
Mary's  face ;  and  where  they  sat  conspiring  how  they  should  receive 
a  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 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  669 

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,  after- 
wards 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.  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 


670  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  sleep- 
ingvat  "  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  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  1  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  thou- 
sand 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  stories  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 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  671 

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  con- 
versation :  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  witli  him  and  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  Avise,  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, 
lie  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.  0  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. 


672  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  1 

I  hold  old  Johnson  (and  shall  we  not  pardon  James  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  1 "  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  curtsey  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  some- 
times tea  in  the  pleasant  green  arbours  along  with  that  polite  noble- 
man. 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 


DR.    JOHNSON    AND   THE    ACTRESSES 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  673 

quite  as  good  as  her  neighbours.  Chatham  lent  the  aid  of  his  great 
malice  to  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.  1  Let  us  not  seek 
for  stones  to  batter  that  forgotten  grave,  but  acquiesce  in  the  con- 
temporary 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  good 
will.  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  1 "  he  asked. 

His  mother's  bigotry  and  hatred  he  inherited  with  the  coura- 
geous 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  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 
7  2  u 


674  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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 
Quakeress,  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 
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  king- 
dom 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  compli- 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  675 

mented  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  couples  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. 
0  Arcadia !  what  a  life  it  must  have  been !  There  used  to  be 
Sunday  drawing-rooms  at  Court ;  but  the  young  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  among  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 ;  accord- 
ingly, the  most  clumsy  heathen  sculptures  decorate  that  edifice  at 
present.  It  is  fortunate  that  the  paintings,  too,  were  spared,  for 
painting  and  drawing  were  woefully  unsound  at  the  close  of  the 
last  century ;  and  it  is  far  better  for  our  eyes  to  contemplate  white- 


676  THE    FOUR   GEORGES 

wash  (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  Saint  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  as  a  performer.  Many  stories,  mirth- 
ful 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  blind- 
ness, his  captivity,  and  his  affliction.  He  would  beat  time  with  his 
music-roll  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  Shakspeare  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  hi 
silence.  "I  am  thinking,"  said  the  poor  child.  "Thinking,  sir! 
and  of  what  ? "  "  I  am  thinking  if  ever  I  have  a  son  I  will  nc 
make  him  so  unhappy  as  you  make  me."  The  other  sons  were  all 
wild,  except  George.  Dutifully  every  evening  George  and  Charlotte 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  677 

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  morn- 
ing. "  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 
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,  pig- 
tails, 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  lie  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. 


678 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


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  con- 
venient premiss,  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  1  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  1  — so  was  the  Revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantes  popular  in  France:  so  was  the  .Massacre  of 
Saint  Bartholomew :  so  was  the  Inquisition  exceedingly  popular 
in  Spain. 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  679 

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  make  the  subjects  of  an  hour's 
light  talk.  Let  us  return  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 ! 

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  Kttle  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." 

A  quieter  household,  a  more  prosaic  life  than  this  of  Kew  or 
Windsor,  cannot  be  imagined.  Rain  or  shine,  the  King  rode  every 


680  I  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  :  some- 
times 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  walk- 
ing together,  they  met  a  little  boy — they  were  always  fond  of 
children,  the  good  folk — 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 
with  her  pail,  who  was  scrubbing  the  doorsteps  ;  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  Bridge1?"  asked  our  gracious 
monarch  ;  and  the  people  answered  him,  "  Yes,  your  Majesty." 
"  Why,  then,  my  boys,"  said  he,  "  lefr  us  have  a  huzzay  ! "  After 
giving  them  which  intellectual  gratification,  he  went  home  to  break- 
fast. Our  fathers  read  these  simple  tales  with  fond  pleasure; 
laughed  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  pigmy  1  Our  fathers 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  681 

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  folk  spent  enor- 
mous 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.  Bubb 
Doddington,  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  1 "  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  pro- 
ceeded to  the  King's  chapel  in  the  castle.  There  were  no  fires  in 


682  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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 
i  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  Bumey  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  husbarid, 
in  those  long  days  about  which  nobody  will  ever  know  anything 
now;  when  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  wo.nder  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 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  683 

not  big  enough  to  hold  the  Prince ;  and  his  father  had  a  portable 
Xhouse  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  dulness  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  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  Elizabeth  Waldegrave,  as  lady  of  the  bedchamber, 
walked  before  a  duchess.  "General  Bude,  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 


684  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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,' 
Baid  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  : 
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  agonised 
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  harp- 
sichord. 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. 


THE   LAST    DAYS    OF   GEORGE   THE   THIRD 


GEORGE    THE    THIRD  685 

What  preacher  need  moralise  on  this  story ;  what  words  save 
the  simplest  are  requisite  to  tell  it  1  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.  "0  brothers,"  I  said  to  those  who  heard  me  first  in 
America — "  0  brothers  !  speaking  the  same  dear  mother  tongue — 
0  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  !  " 


686 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


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  respect- 
ing the  authenticity  of  the  relic,  that  Bessy  Eldon  his  wife  s"at  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  heir- 
loom 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 
sheriffs  prize  unbroken  now  at  Abbotsford,  should  we  not  smile 
with  something  like  pity  as  we  beheld  it  1  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  1  Madame  Tussaud  has  got  King 
George's  coronation  robes :  is  there  any  man  now  alive  who  would 
kiss  the  hem  of  that  trumpery  1  He  sleeps  since  thirty  years :  do 
not  any  of  you,  who  remembered  him,  wonder  that  you  once  re- 
spected 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  recognisable  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  a  wig  and  a  mask  smiling  below  it — 
nothing  but  a  great  simulacrum.  His  sire  and  grandsires  were  men. 
One  knows  what  they  were  like :  wl^at  they  would  do  in  given 
circumstances :  that  on  occasion  they  fought  and  demeaned  them- 
selves like  tough  good  soldiers.  They  had  friends  whom  they  liked 
according  to  their  natures ;  enemies  whom  they  hated  fiercely ; 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  687 

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  recognise  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  riband,  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  underwaistcoats,  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  some- 
thing behind,  but  what  1  We  cannot  get  at  the  character ;  no  doubt 
never  shall.  Will  men  of  the  future  have  nothing  better  to  do  than 
to  unswathe  and  interpret  that  Royal  old  mummy  1  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  Luneburg, 
Duke  of  Cornwall  and  Rothesay,  Earl  of  Carrick,  Baron  of  Renfrew, 
Lord  of  tjbe  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  Saint  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 


688  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  per- 
sonage than  of  any  other  human  being  who  ever  was  born  and  died 
— in  every  kind  of  uniform  and  every  possible  Court-dregs — in  long 
fair  hair,  with  powder,  with  and  without  a  pigtail — in  every  con- 
ceivable cocked-hat — in  dragoon  uniform — in  Windsor  uniform — in 
a  field-marshal's  clothes — in  a  Scotch  kilt  and  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. 

There  is  plenty  of  biographical  tattle  about  the  Prince's  boy- 
hood. It  is  told  with  what  astonishing  rapidity  he  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  pro- 
sody ;  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  £50,000,  £70,000,  £100,000, 
£120,000  a  year,  we  read  of  three  applications  to  Parliament; 
debts  to  the  amount  of  £160,000,  of  £650,000;  besides 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  689 

mysterious  foreign  loans,  whereof  he  pocketed  the  proceeds.  What 
did  he  do  for  all  this  money  1  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  £10,000 
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  was  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  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  gentlemen  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  dulness  of  papa's  Court,  its 
stupid  amusements,  its  dreary  occupations,  the  maddening  hum- 
drum, the  stifling  sobriety  of  its  routine,  would  have  made  a  scape- 
grace 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 
7 


690  THE   POUR   GEORGES 

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  signalised  his 
entrance  into  the  world  by  a  feat  worthy  of  his  future  life.  He 
invented  a  new  shoe-buckle.  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  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  encourage- 
ment 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  com- 
panions. At  first  he  made  a  pretence  of  having  Burke  and  Fox 
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  fribble  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 
up  a  creature,  lazy,  weak,  indolent,  besotted,  of  monstrous  vanity, 
and  levity  incurable — it  is  absurd.  They  thought  to  use  him, 
did  for  a  while  ;  but  they  must  have  known  how  timid  he  was ;  how 
entirely  heartless  and  treacherous,  and  have  expected  his  desertion. 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  691 

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  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.  Fitz-Herbert  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  idle- 
ness, 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  moonlit  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,  but 
some  ribald,  some  harmless,  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." 


692 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


This  delightful  boon  companion  of  the  Prince's  found  "a  reason 
fair  "  to  forego  filling  and  drinking,  saw  the  error  of  his  ways,  gave 
up  the  bowl  and  chorus,  and  died  retired  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  a  while, 
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  deathbed,  and  would  have  sent  more  had 
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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  693 

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  Brummel,  and  on  Thursday 
forgot  him ;  cheated  him  even  out  of  a  snuffbox  which  he  owed  the 
poor  dandy ;  saw  him  years  afterwards  in  his  downfall  and  poverty, 
when  the  bankrupt  Beau  sent  him  another  snuffbox  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  noble- 
men were  to  receive  the  Garter,  says  Wraxall,  "A  great  personage 
observed  that  never  did  three  men  receive  the  order  in  so  charac- 
teristic 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 
characterise  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  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 


694  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  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  Brooks'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  pullingr  his  own  coat  off,  and  thrashing  a  bargeman 
in  a  street  row.  That  gentleman  has  been  in  a  watch-house.  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  rne  almost 
every  other  word  he  uttered  was  an  oath  :  as  they  used  (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 
them  even  in  writing  to  his  friends,  and  swears  by  the  post.  Read 
his  account  of  the  doings  of  the  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.  f 
Read  Matthews's  description  of  the  boyish  lordling's  housekeeping  at 
Newstead,  the  skull-cup  passed  round,  the  monk's  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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  695 

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  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  1  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 ! 


696 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


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  yester- 
day ?  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,  so  that  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  adhoesit  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,  how- 
ever, 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  1 " 

The  bar  laughed.     At  last  one  of  them  said — 

"  My  Lord,  Mr.  Boswell  last  night  adhcesit  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  Saint  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  1 " 

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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  69? 

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  appear  to  have  frightened 
the  prim  household  of  Windsor,  and  set  all  the  teacups  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  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  gentle- 
men 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  Saint  James's  on  his  birthday.  Pray,  have  you  all  drunk  his 
Majesty's  health  1 ' 

"  *  No,  your  Royal  Highness ;  your  Royal  Highness  might  make 
dem  do  dat,5  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.' " 


698  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  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  Piickler  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  per- 
ceptible change  in  his  countenance." 

"  I  remember,"  says  Piickler,  "  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  Jocky  of  Norfolk  in  his  time,  and 
celebrated  for  his  table  exploits.  He  had  quarrelled  with  the 


THE    FIRST   GENTLEMAN    OF   EUROPE 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  699 

Prince,  like  the  rest  of  the  Whigs ;  but  a  sort  of  reconciliation  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  pro- 
posed 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  postillions  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  some- 
times 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  them- 
selves 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.  Egalite' 
Orleans,  it  was  believed,  punished  him  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 


700 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


well  as  discreditable :  though  I  believe  he,  and  his  jockey,  and  his 
horse,  Escape,  were  all  innocent  in  that  aftair  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,  Queens- 
berry  all  undergoing  the  probation.  Charles  Fox,  a  dreadful 
gambler,  was  cheated  in  very  late  times — lost  .£200,000  at  play. 
Gibbon  tells  of  his  playing  for  twenty-two  hours  at  a  sitting,  and 
losing  .£500  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  looses  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  tran- 
quilly 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,  Brummel — 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  cheat- 
ing 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  race-courses  and  tavern  parlours,  and  now 
and  then  inveigle  silly  yokels  with  greasy  packs  of  cards  in  railroad 
cars ;  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  com- 
batants 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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  701 

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  youth1?  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  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 
folly1?  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 


702  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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  allow- 
ing 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  inter- 
view 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  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  Malmes- 
bury in  quest  of  her;  we  are  introduced  to  her  illustrious  father 
and  Royal  mother ;  we  witness  the  balls  and  fStes  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,  romp- 
ing 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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  703 

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.  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  "Qa  ira;"  and  we  take  shipping  at  Stade,  and  we  land  at 
Greenwich,  where  the  Princess's  ladies  and  the  Prince's  ladies  are 
in  waiting  to  receive  Her  Royal  Highness. 

What  a  history  follows !  Arrived  in  London,  the  bridegroom 
hastened  eagerly  to  receive  his  bride.  When  she  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 


704 


THE    FOUR    GEORGES 


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  make  our  hearts  beat  when  we  hear  their 
names,  and  whose  memory  we  fondly  salute  when  that  of  yonder 
imperial  mannikiu  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  sympa- 
thise 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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  705 

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  conse- 
quences, 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  2iart  !  " 

This  was  a  poor  literary  gentleman.  The  First  Gentleman  in 
Europe  had  a  wife  and  daughter  too.  Did  he  love  them  so  1  Was 
he  faithful  to  them  1  Did  he  sacrifice  ease  for  them,  or  show  them 
the  sacred  examples  of  religion  and  honour1?  Heaven  gave  the 
Great  English  Prodigal  no  such  good  fortune.  Peel  proposed  to 
make  a  baronet  of  Southey;  and  to  this  advancement  the  King 
agreed.  The  poet  nobly  rejected  the  offered  promotion. 

"  I  have,"  he  wrote,  "  a  pension  of  <£200  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  appro- 
priated, as  far  as  it  went,  to  a  life  insurance  for  .£3000,  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  be- 
forehand. 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  oppo- 
nents' satire :  but  think  of  the  merit  and  modesty  of  this  State 
pensioner ;  and  that  other  enormous  drawer  of  public  money,  who 
receives  £100,000  a  year,  and  comes  to  Parliament  with  a  request 
for  £650,000  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 
7  2 


706  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

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 
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  ear  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 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  707 

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  gentlemen1?  The 
charming  poet,  the  happy  possessor  of  all  sorts  of  gifts  and  accom- 
plishments, birth,  wit,  fame,  high  character,  competence — he  was 
the  beloved  parish  priest  in  his  own  home  of  Hodnet,  "  counselling 
his  people  in  their  troubles,  advising  them  in  their  difficulties,  com- 
forting them  in  distress,  kneeling  often  at  their  sick-beds  at  the 
hazard  of  his  own  life;  exhorting,  encouraging  where  thetfe  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,  per- 
haps, 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,  or  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  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! ' 


708  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

Is  it  not  Collingwood  and  Sarah,  and  Southey  and  Edith1?  His 
affection  is  part  of  his  life.  What  were  life  without  it  ?  Without 
love,  I  can  fancy  no  gentleman. 

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  Cleveland, 
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  Cleveland  died  in  .1784,  and  is  still  loved  by  the  .heathen, 
is  he1?  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 
Saint  George  with  a  superb  gloria. 

"  But  the  saloon  may  be  styled  the  chef  d'ceuvre,  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  paint- 
ings, 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  extra- 
ordinary workmanship,  as  well  as  design,  of  the  ornaments.  They 
each  consist  of  a  palm,  branching  out  in  five  directions  for  the 
reception  of  lights.  A  beautiful  figure  of  a  rural  nymph  is  repre- 


GEORGE    THE    FOURTH  709 

sented  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 
ball-room,  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  ad- 
mitted 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  sove- 
reignty, 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  employ- 
ments 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.' " 

Which  was  the  most  splendid  spectacle  ever  witnessed, — the 
opening  feast  of  Prince  George  in  London,  or  the  resignation  of 
Washington  1  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  unre- 
proached,  a  courage  indomitable,  and  a  consummate  victory  ?  Which 


710  THE    FOUR    GEORGES 

of  these  is  the  true  gentleman  1  What  is  it  to  be  a  gentleman  1  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  1 
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. 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR* 


SEVERAL  charitable  ladies  of  this  city,  to  some  of  whom  I  am 
under  great  personal  obligation,  having  thought  that  a  Lecture 
of  mine  would  advance  a  benevolent  end  which  they  had  in  view, 
I  have  preferred,  in  place  of  delivering  a  Discourse,  which  many  of 
my  hearers  no  doubt  know  already,  upon  a  subject  merely  literary 
or  biographical,  to  put  together  a  few  thoughts  which  may  serve 
as  a  supplement  to  the  former  Lectures,  if  you  like,  and  which  have 
this  at  least  in  common  with  the  kind  purpose  which  assembles  you 
here,  that  they  rise  out  of  the  same  occasion,  and  treat  of  charity. 

Besides  contributing  to  our  stock  of  happiness,  to  our  harmless 
laughter  and  amusement,  to  our  scorn  for  falsehood  and  pretension, 
to  our  righteous  hatred  of  hypocrisy,  to  our  education  in  the 
perception  of  truth,  our  love  of  honesty,  our  knowledge  of  life, 
and  shrewd  guidance  through  the  world,  have  not  our  humorous 
writers,  our  gay  and  kind  weekday  preachers,  done  much  in  support 
of  that  holy  cause  which  has  assembled  you  in  this  place  ;  and  which 
you  are  all  abetting — the  cause  of  love  and  charity,  the  cause  of 
the  poor,  the  weak,  and  the  unhappy ;  the  sweet  mission  of  love 
and  tenderness,  and  peace  and  good-will  towards  men  ?  That  same 
theme  which  is  urged  upon  you  by  the  eloquence  and  example  of 

*  This  lecture  was  first  delivered  in  New  York  on  behalf  of  a  charity  at  the 
time  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  visit  to  America  in  1852,  when  he  had  been  giving 
his  series  of  lectures  on  the  English  Humourists.  It  was  subsequently  re- 
peated with  slight  variations  in  London  (once  under  the  title  of  "Weekday 
Preachers")  for  the  benefit  of  the  families  of  Angus  B.  Reach  and  Douglas 
Jerrold.  The  lecture  on  behalf  of  the  Jerrold  Fund  was  given  on  July  22, 
1857,  the  day  after  the  declaration  of  the  poll  in  the  Oxford  election,  when 
Mr.  Thackeray  was  a  candidate  for  Parliament,  and  was  defeated  by  Mr. 
Cardwell.  The  Times,  in  its  account  of  the  lecture,  says:  "The  opening 
words  of  the  discourse,  uttered  with  a  comical  solemnity,  of  which  Mr. 
Thackeray  alone  is  capable,  ran  thus  : — '  Walking  yesterday  in  the  High 
Street  of  a  certain  ancient  city.'  So  began  the  lecturer,  and  was  interrupted 
by  a  storm  of  laughter  that  deferred  for  ,some  moments  the  completion  of 
the  sentence." 

713 


714  CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 

good  men  to  whom  you  are  delighted  listeners  on  Sabbath-days,  is 
taught  in  his  way  and  according  to  his  power  by  the  humorous 
writer,  the  commentator  on  everyday  life  and  manners. 

And  as  you  are  here  assembled  for  a  charitable  purpose,  giving 
your  contributions  at  the  door  to  benefit  deserving  people  who 
need  them,  I  like  to  hope  and  think  that  the  men  of  our  calling 
have  done  something  in  aid  of  the  cause  of  charity,  and  have  helped, 
with  kind  words  and  kind  thoughts  at  least,  to  confer  happiness 
and  to  do  good.  If  the  humorous  writers  claim  to  be  weekday 
preachers,  have  they  conferred  any  benefit  by  their  sermons  ?  Are 
people  happier,  better,  better  disposed  to  their  neighbours,  more 
inclined  to  do  works  of  kindness,  to  love,  forbear,  forgive,  pity,  after 
reading  in  Addison,  in  Steele,  in  Fielding,  in  Goldsmith,  in  Hood,  in 
Dickens "?  I  hope  and  believe  so,  and  fancy  that  in  writing  they  are 
also  acting  charitably,  contributing  with  the  means  which  Heaven 
supplies  them  to  forward  the  end  which  brings  you  too  together. 

A  love  of  the  human  species  is  a  very  vague  and  indefinite  kind 
of  virtue,  sitting  very  easily  on  a  man,  not  confining  his  actions  at 
all,  shining  in  print,  or  exploding  in  paragraphs,  after  which  efforts 
of  benevolence,  the  philanthropist  is  sometimes  said  to  go  home, 
and  be  no  better  than  his  neighbours.  Tartuffe  and  Joseph 
Surface,  Stiggins  and  Chadband,  who  are  always  preaching  fine 
sentiments,  and  are  no  more  virtuous  than  hundreds  of  those 
whom  they  denounce  and  whom  they  cheat,  are  fair  objects  of 
mistrust  and  satire;  but  their  hypocrisy,  the  homage,  according 
to  the  old  saying,  which  vice  pays  to  virtue,  has  this  of  good  in  it, 
that  its  fruits  are  good :  a  man  may  preach  good  morals,  though 
he  may  be  himself  but  a  lax  practitioner;  a  Pharisee  may  put 
pieces  of  gold  into  the  charity-plate  out  of  mere  hypocrisy  and 
ostentation,  but  the  bad  man's  gold  feeds  the  widow  and  the  father- 
less as  well  as  the  good  man's.  The  butcher  and  baker  must  needs 
look,  not  to  motives,  but  to  money,  in  return  for  their  wares. 

I  am  not  going  to  hint  that  we  of  the  Literary  calling  resemble 
Monsieur  Tartuffe  or  Monsieur  Stiggins,  though  there  may  be  such 
men  in  our  body,  as  there  are  in  all. 

A  literary  man  of  the  humouristic  turn  is  pretty  sure  to  be  of 
a  philanthropic  nature,  to  have  a  great  sensibility,  to  be  easily 
moved  to  pain  or  pleasure,  keenly  to  appreciate  the  varieties  of 
temper  of  people  round  about  him,  and  sympathise  in  their  laughter, 
love,  amusement,  tears.  Such  a  man  is  philanthropic,  man-loving 
by  nature,  as  another  is  irascible,  or  red-haired,  or  six  feet  high. 
And  so  I  would  arrogate  no  particular  merit  to  literary  men  for 
the  possession  of  this  faculty  of  doing  good  which  some  of  them 
enjoy.  It  costs  a  gentleman  no  sacrifice  to  be  benevolent  on  paper ; 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR  715 

and  the  luxury  of  indulging  in  the  most  beautiful  and  brilliant 
sentiments  never  makes  any  man  a  penny  the  poorer.  A  literary 
rnan  is  no  better  than  another,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes ;  and 
a  man  writing  a  book,  no  better  nor  no  worse  than  one  who  keeps 
accounts  in  a  ledger,  or  follows  any  other  occupation.  Let  us,  how- 
ever, give  him  credit  for  the  good,  at  least,  which  he  is  the  means 
of  doing,  as  we  give  credit  to  a  man  with  a  million  for  the  hundred 
which  he  puts  into  the  plate  at  a  charity-sermon.  He  never  misses 
them.  He  has  made  them  in  a  moment  by  a  lucky  speculation,  and 
parts  with  them,  knowing  that  he  has  an  almost  endless  balance  at  his  t 
bank,  whence  he  can  call  for  more.  But  in  esteeming  the  benefaction, 
we  are  grateful  to  the  benefactor,  too,  somewhat ;  and  so  of  men  of 
genius,  richly  endowed,  and  lavish  in  parting  with  their  mind's  wealth, 
we  may  view  them  at  least  kindly  and  favourably,  and  be  thankful 
for  the  bounty  of  which  Providence  has  made  them  the  dispensers. 

I  have  said  myself  somewhere,  I  do  not  know  with  what  correct- 
ness (for  definitions  never  are  complete),  that  humour  is  wit  and 
love ;  I  am  sure,  at  any  rate,  that  the  best  humour  is  that  which 
contains  most  humanity,  that  which  is  flavoured  throughout  with 
tenderness  and  kindness.  This  love  does  not  demand  constant 
utterance  or  actual  expression,  as  a  good  father,  in  conversation  with 
his  children  or  wife,  is  not  perpetually  embracing  them,  or  making 
protestations  of  his  love ;  as  a  lover  in  the  society  of  his  mistress 
is  not,  at  least  as  far  as  I  am  led  to  believe,  for  ever  squeezing 
her  hand,  or  sighing  in  her  ear,  "  My  soul's  darling,  I  adore  you  ! " 
He  shows  his  love  by  his  conduct,  by  his  fidelity,  by  his  watchful 
desire  to  make  the  beloved  person  happy ;  it  lightens  from  his  eyes 
when  she  appears,  though  he  may  not  speak  it ;  it  fills  his  heart 
when  she  is  present  or  absent ;  influences  all  his  words  and  actions ; 
suffuses  his  whole  being ;  it  sets  the  father  cheerily  to  work  through 
the  long  day,  supports  him  through  the  tedious  labour  of  the  weary 
absence  or  journey,  and  sends  him  happy  home  again,  yearning 
towards  the  wife  and  children.  This  kind  of  love  is  not  a  spasm, 
but  a  life.  It  fondles  and  caresses  at  due  seasons,  no  doubt ;  but 
the  fond  heart  is  always  beating  fondly  and  truly,  though  the  wife 
is  not  sitting  hand-in-hand  with  him,  or  the  children  hugging  at  his 
knee.  And  so  with  a  loving  humour :  I  think,  it  is  a  genial 
writer's  habit  of  being ;  it  is  the  kind  gentle  spirit's  way  of  looking 
out  on  the  world — that  sweet  friendliness  which  fills  his  heart  and 
his  style.  You  recognise  it,  even  though  there  may  not  be  a  single 
point  of  wit,  or  a  single  pathetic  touch  in  the  page ;  though  you 
may  not  be  called  upon  to  salute  his  genius  by  a  laugh  or  a  tear. 
That  collision  of  ideas,  which  provokes  the  one  or  the  other,  must 
be  occasional.  They  must  be  like  papa's  embraces  which  I  spoke 


716  CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 

of  anon,  who  only  delivers  them  now  and  again,  and  cannot  be 
expected  to  go  on  kissing  the  children  all  night.  And  so  the 
writer's  jokes  and  sentiment,  his  ebullitions  of  feeling,  his  outbreaks 
of  high  spirits,  must  not  be  too  frequent.  One  tires  of  a  page  of 
which  every  sentence  sparkles  with  points,  of  a  sentimentalist  who 
is  always  pumping  the  tears  from  his  eyes  or  your  own.  One 
suspects  the  genuineness  of  the  tear,  the  naturalness  of  the  humour ; 
these  ought  to  be  true  and  manly  in  a  man,  as  everything  else  in 
his  life  should  be  manly  and  true ;  and  he  loses  his  dignity  by 
laughing  or  weeping  out  of  place,  or  too  often. 

When  the  Reverend  Laurence  Sterne  begins  to  sentimentalise 
over  the  carriage  in  Monsieur  Dessein's  courtyard,  and  pretends 
to  squeeze  a  tear  out  of  a  rickety  old  shandrydan ;  when,  presently, 
he  encounters  the  dead  donkey  on  his  road  to  Paris,  and  -snivels 
over  that  asinine  corpse,  I  say :  tf  Away,  you  drivelling  quack : 
do  not  palm  off  these  grimaces  of  grief  upon  simple  folks  who  know 
no  better,  and  cry  misled  by  your  hypocrisy."  Tears  are  sacred. 
The  tributes  of  kind  hearts  to  misfortune,  the  mites  which  gentle 
souls  drop  into  the  collections  made  for  God's  poor  and  unhappy, 
are  not  to  be  tricked  out  of  them  by  a  whimpering  hypocrite, 
handing  round  a  begging-box  for  your  compassion,  and  asking  your 
pity  for  a  lie.  When  that  same  man  tells  me  of  Lefevre's  illness 
and  Uncle  Toby's  charity;  of  the  noble  at  Rennes  coming  home 
and  reclaiming  his  sword,  I  thank  him  for  the  generous  emotion 
which,  springing  genuinely  from  his  own  heart,  has  caused  mine 
to  admire  benevolence  and  sympathise  with  honour ;  and  to  feel 
love,  and  kindness,  and  pity. 

If  I  do  not  love  Swift,  as,  thank  God,  I  do  not,  however 
immensely  I  may  admire  him,  it  is  because  I  revolt  from  the  man  who 
placards  himself  as  a  professional  hater  of  his  own  kind ;  because 
he  chisels  his  savage  indignation  on  his  tombstone,  as  if  to  per- 
petuate his  protest  against  being  born  of  our  race — the  suffering,  the 
weak,  the  erring,  the  wicked,  if  you  will,  but  still  the  friendly, 
the  loving  children  of  God  our  Father :  it  is  because,  as  I  read 
through  Swift's  dark  volumes,  I  never  find  the  aspect  of  nature 
seems  to  delight  him;  the  smiles  of  children  to  please  him;  the 
sight  of  wedded  love  to  soothe  him.  I  do  not  remember  in  any 
line  of  his  writing  a  passing  allusion  to  a  natural  scene  of  beauty. 
When  he  speaks  about  the  families  of  his  comrades  and  brother 
clergymen,  it  is  to  assail  them  with  gibes  and  scorn,  and  to  laugh 
at  them  brutally  for  being  fathers  and  for  being  poor.  He  does 
mention  in  the  Journal  to  Stella  a  sick  child,  to  be  sure — a 
child  of  Lady  Masham,  that  was  ill  of  the  smallpox — but  then 
it  is  to  confound  the  brat  for  being  ill,  and  the  mother  for  attending 


CHARITY   AND    HUMOUR  717 

to  it,  when  she  should  have  been  busy  about  a  Court  intrigue,  in 
which  the  Dean  was  deeply  engaged.     And  he  alludes  to  a  suitor 
of  Stella's,  and  a  match  she  might  have  made,  and  would  have  made, 
very  likely,  with  an  honourable  and  faithful  and  attached  man, 
Tisdall,  who  loved  her,  and  of  whom  Swift  speaks,  in  a  letter  to 
this  lady,  in  language  so  foul  that  you  would  not  bear  to  hear  it. 
In  treating  of  the  good  the  humourists  have  done,  of  the  love  and  / 
kindness  they  have  taught  and  left  behind  them,  it  is  not  of  this 
one  I  dare  speak.     Heaven  help  the  lonely  misanthrope  !  be  kind  ; 
to  that  multitude  of  sins,  with  so  little  charity  to  cover  them  ! 

Of  Mr.  Congreve's  contributions  to  the  English  stock  of  bene- 
volence, I  do  not  speak;  for,  of  any  moral  legacy  to  posterity, 
I  doubt  whether  that  brilliant  man  ever  thought  at  all.  He  had 
some  money,  as  I  have  told ;  every  shilling  of  which  he  left  to  his 
friend  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  a  lady  of  great  fortune  and  the 
highest  fashion.  He  gave  the  gold  of  his  brains  to  persons  of  j 
fortune  and  fashion,  too.  There  is  no  more  feeling  in  his  comedies 
than  in  as  many  books  of  Euclid.  He  no  more  pretends  to  teach 
love  for  the  poor,  and  good-will  for  the  unfortunate,  than  a  dancing- 
master  does ;  he  teaches  pirouettes  and  flic-flacs ;  and  how  to  bow 
to  a  lady,  and  to  walk  a  minuet.  In  his  private  life  Congreve  i 
was  immensely  liked — more  so  than  any  man  of  his  age,  almost ; 
and,  to  have  been  so  liked,  must  have  been  kind  and  good-natured. 
His  good-nature  bore  him  through  extreme  bodily  ills  and  pain,  with 
uncommon  cheerfulness  and  courage.  Being  so  gay,  so  bright,  so 
popular,  such  a  grand  seigneur,  be  sure  he  was  kind  to  those  about 
him,  generous  to  his  dependants,  serviceable  to  his  friends.  Society 
does  not  like  a  man  so  long  as  it  liked  Congreve,  unless  he  is  likeable ; 
it  finds  out  a  quack  very  soon  ;  it  scorns  a  poltroon  or  a  curmudgeon  : 
we  may  be  certain  that  this  man  was  brave,  good-tempered,  and 
liberal ;  so,  very  likely,  is  Monsieur  Pirouette,  of  whom  we  spoke ; 
he  cuts  his  capers,  he  grins,  bows,  and  dances  to  his  fiddle.  In 
private  he  may  have  a  hundred  virtues ;  in  public,  he  teaches 
dancing.  His  business  is  cotillons,  not  ethics. 

As  much  may  be  said  of  those  charming  and  lazy  Epicureans, 
Gay  and  Prior,  sweet  lyric  singers,  comrades  of  Anacreon,  and 
disciples  of  love  and  the  bottle.  "  Is  there  any  moral  shut  within 
the  bosom  of  a  rose  1 "  sings  our  great  Tennyson.  Does  a  nightingale 
preach  from  a  bough,  or  the  lark  from  his  cloud  1  Not  knowingly  ; 
yet  we  may  be  grateful,  and  love  larks  and  roses,  and  the  flower- 
crowned  minstrels,  too,  who  laugh  and  who  sing. 

Of  Addison's  contributions  to  the  charity  of  the  world  I  have 
spoken  before,  in  trying  to  depict  that  noble  figure ;  and  say  now, 
as  then,  that  we  should  thank  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  bene- 


718  CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 

factors  of  that  vast  and  immeasurably  spreading  family  which 
speaks  our  common  tongue.  Wherever  it  is  spoken,  there  is  no 
man  that  does  not  feel,  and  understand,  and  use  the  noble  English 
word  "gentleman."  And  there  is  no  man  that  teaches  us  to  be 
[gentlemen  better  than  Joseph  Addison.  Gentle  in  our  bearing 
;  through  life;  gentle  and  courteous  to  our  neighbour;  gentle  in 
dealing  with  his  follies  and  weaknesses ;  gentle  in  treating  his 
:  opposition ;  deferential  to  the  old ;  kindly  to  the  poor,  and  those 
below  us  in  degree;  for  people  above  us  and  below  us  we  must 
find,  in  whatever  hemisphere  we  dwell,  whether  kings  or  presidents 
govern  us ;  and  in  no  republic  or  monarchy  that  I  know  of,  is  a 
citizen  exempt  from  the  tax  of  befriending  poverty  and  weakness, 
of  respecting  age,  and  of  honouring  his  father  and  mother.  It  has 
just  been  whispered  to  me — I  have  not  been  three  months*  in  the 
country,  and,  of  course,  cannot  venture  to  express  an  opinion  of 
my  own  — that,  in  regard  to  paying  this  latter  tax  of  respect  and 
honour  to  age,  some  very  few  of  the  Republican  youths  are  occa- 
sionally a  little  remiss.  I  have  heard  of  young  Sons  of  Freedom 
publishing  their  Declaration  of  Independence  before  they  could  well 
spell  it ;  and  cutting  the  connection  with  father  and  mother  before 
they  had  learned  to  shave.  My  own  time  of  life  having  been 
\stated,  by  various  enlightened  organs  of  public  opinion,  at  almost 
any  figure  from  forty-five  to  sixty,  I  cheerfully  own  that  I  belong 
jto  the  Fogey  interest,  and  ask  leave  to  rank  in,  and  plead  for,  that 
respectable  class.  Now  a  gentleman  can  but  be  a  gentleman,  in 
Broadwood  or  the  backwoods,  in  Pall  Mall  or  California;  and 
where  and  whenever  he  lives,  thousands  of  miles  away  in  the 
wilderness,  or  hundreds  of  years  hence,  I  am  sure  that  reading  the 
writings  of  this  true  gentleman,  this  true  Christian,  this  noble 
Joseph  Addison,  must  do  him  good.  He  may  take  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  to  the  Diggings  with  him,  and  learn  to  be  gentle  and 
good-humoured,  and  urbane,  and  friendly  in  the  midst  of  that 
struggle  in  which  his  life  is  engaged.  I  take  leave  to  say  that 
the  most  brilliant  youth  of  this  city  may  read  over  this  delightful 
memorial  of  a  bygone  age,  of  fashions  long  passed  away ;  of  manners 
long  since  changed  and  modified ;  of  noble  gentlemen,  and  a  great, 
and  a  brilliant  and  polished  society ;  and  find  in  it  much  to  charm 
and  polish,  to  refine  and  instruct  him,  a  courteousness,  which  can 
be  out  of  place  at  no  time,  and  under  no  flag,  a  politeness  and 
simplicity,  a  truthful  manhood,  a  gentle  respect  and  deference, 
which  may  be  kept  as  the  unbought  grace  of  life,  and  cheap  defence 
of  mankind,  long  after  its  old  artificial  distinctions,  after  periwigs, 
and  small-swords,  and  ruffles,  and  red-heeled  shoes,  and  titles,  and 
stars  and  garters  have  passed  away.  I  will  tell  you  when  I  have 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR  719 

been  put  in  mind  of  two  of  the  finest  gentlemen  books  bring  us  any 
mention  of.  I  mean  our  books  (not  books  of  history,  but  books  of 
humour).  I  will  tell  you  when  I  have  been  put  in  mind  of  the 
courteous  gallantry  of  the  noble  knight,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  of 
Coverley  Manor,  of  the  noble  Hidalgo  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha : 
here  in  your  own  omnibus-carriages  and  railway-cars,  when  I  have 
seen  a  woman  step  in,  handsome  or  not,  well  dressed  or  not,  and 
a  workman  in  hobnail  shoes,  or  a  dandy  in  the  height  of  the  fashion, 
rise  up  and  give  her  his  place.  I  think  Mr.  Spectator,  with  his 
short  face,  if  he  had  seen  such  a  deed  of  courtesy,  would  have 
smiled  a  sweet  smile  to  the  doer  of  that  gentleman-like  action, 
and  have  made  him  a  low  bow  from  under  his  great  periwig,  and 
have  gone  home  and  written  a  pretty  paper  about  him. 

I  am  sure  Dick  Steele  would  have  hailed  him,  were  he  dandy 
or  mechanic,  and  asked  him  to  a  tavern  to  share  a  bottle,  or  perhaps 
half-a-dozen.  Mind,  I  do  not  set  down  the  five  last  flasks  to  Dick's 
score  for  virtue,  and  look  upon  them  as  works  of  the  most  question- 
able supererogation. 

Steele,  as  a  literary  benefactor  to  the  world's  charity,  must 
rank  very  high,  indeed,  not  merely  from  his  givings,  which  were 
abundant,  but  because  his  endowments  are  prodigiously  increased 
in  value  since  he  bequeathed  them,  as  the  revenues  of  the  lands, 
bequeathed  to  our  Foundling  Hospital  at  London,  by  honest  Captain 
Coram,  its  founder,  are  immensely  enhanced  by  the  houses  since 
built  upon  them.  Steele  was  the  founder  of  sentimental  writing 
in  English,  and  how  the  land  has  been  since  occupied,  and  what 
hundreds  of  us  have  laid  out  gardens  and  built  up  tenements  on 
Steele's  ground !  Before  his  time,  readers  or  hearers  were  never 
called  upon  to  cry  except  at  a  tragedy,  and  compassion  was  not 
expected  to  express  itself  otherwise  than  in  blank  verse,  or  for 
personages  much  lower  in  rank  than  a  dethroned  monarch,  or  a 
widowed  or  a  jilted  empress.  He  stepped  off  the  high-heeled 
cothurnus,  and  came  down  into  common  life ;  he  held  out  his 
great  hearty  arms,  and  embraced  us  all;  he  had  a  bow  for  all 
women ;  a  kiss  for  all  children ;  a  shake  of  the  hand  for  all  men, 
high  or  low;  he  showed  us  Heaven's  sun  shining  every  day  on 
quiet  homes ;  not  gilded  palace-roofs  only,  or  Court  processions,  or 
heroic  warriors  fighting  for  princesses,  and  pitched  battles.  He 
took  away  comedy  from  behind  the  fine  ladies'  alcove,  or  the  screen 
where  the  libertine  was  watching  her.  He  ended  all  that  wretched 
business  of  wives  jeering  at  their  husbands,  of  rakes  laughing  wives, 
and  husbands  too,  to  scorn.  That  miserable,  rouged,  tawdry, 
sparkling,  hollow-hearted  comedy  of  the  Restoration  fled  before 
him,  and,  like  the  wicked  spirit  in  the  Fairy-books,  shrank,  as 


720 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOTJR 


Stecle  let  the  daylight  in,  and  shrieked,  and  shuddered,  and 
vanished.  The  stage  of  humourists  has  been  common  life  ever 
since  Steele's  and  Addison's  time ;  the  joys  and  griefs,  the  aversions 
and  sympathies,  the  laughter  and  tears  of  nature. 

And  here,  coming  off  the  stage,  and  throwing  aside  the  motley 
habit,  or  satiric  disguise,  in  which  he  had  before  entertained  you, 
mingling  with  the  world,  and  wearing  the  same  coat  as  his  neigh- 
bour, the  humourist's  service  became  straightway  immensely  more 
available ;  his  means  of  doing  good  infinitely  multiplied ;  his  success, 
and  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held,  proportionately  increased. 
It  requires  an  effort,  of  which  all  minds  are  not  capable,  to  under- 
|  stand  "Don  Quixote";  children  and  common  people  still  read 
!  "  Gulliver"  for  the  story  merely.  Many  more. persons  are  sickened 
.  by  "Jonathan  Wild"  than  can  comprehend  the  satire  of  it.  Each 
of  the  great  men  who  wrote  those  books  was  speaking  from  behind 
the  satiric  mask  I  anon  mentioned.  Its  distortions  appal  many 
simple  spectators;  its  settled  sneer  or  laugh  is  unintelligible  to 
thousands,  who  have  not  the  wit  to  interpret  the  meaning  of  the 
vizored  satirist  preaching  from  within.  Many  a  man  was  at  fault 
about  Jonathan  Wild's  greatness,  who  could  feel  and  relish  All- 
worthy's  goodness  in  "  Tom  Jones,"  and  Doctor  Harrison's  in 
"  Amelia,"  and  dear  Parson  Adams,  and  Joseph  Andrews.  We  love 
to  read — we  may  grow  ever  so  old,  but  we  love  to  read  of  them 
'•  still — of  love  and  beauty,  of  frankness,  and  bravery,  and  generosity. 
We  hate  hypocrites  and  cowards;  we  long  to  defend  oppressed 
innocence,  and  to  soothe  and  succour  gentle  women  and  children. 
We  are  glad  when  vice  is  foiled  and  rascals  punished  ;  we  lend  a 
foot  to  kick  Blifil  downstairs  ;  and  as  we  attend  the  brave  bride- 
groom to  his  wedding,  on  the  happy  marriage  day,  we  ask  the 
groom's-man's  privilege  to  salute  the  blushing  cheek  of  Sophia. 
A^ax  morality  in  many  a  vital  point  I  own  in  Fielding,  but  a  great 
hearty  sympathy  and  benevolence ;  a  great  kindness  for  the  poor ; 
a  great  gentleness  and  pity  for  the  unfortunate  ;  a  great  love  for 
the  pure  and  good ;  these  are  among  the  contributions  to  the  charity 
of  the  world  with  which  this  erring  but  noble  creature  endowed  it. 

As  for  Goldsmith,  if  the  youngest  and  most  unlettered  person 

here  has  not  been  happy  with  the  family  at  Wakefield;  has  not 

rejoiced  when  Olivia  returned,  and  been  thankful  for  her  forgiveness 

and  restoration ;  has  not  laughed  with  delighted  good-humour  over 

Moses's  gross  of  green  spectacles ;  has  not  loved  with  all  his  heart 

I  the  good  Vicar,  and  that  kind  spirit  which  created  these  charming 

figures,  and  devised  the  beneficent  fiction  which  speaks  to  us  so 

tenderly — what  call  is  there  for  me  to  speak  1     In  this  place,  and 

j  on  this  occasion,  remembering  these  men,  I  claim  from  you  your 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR  721 

sympathy  for  the  good  they  have  done,  and  for  the  sweet  charity 
which  they  have  bestowed  on  the  world. 

When  humour  joins  with  rhythm  and  music,  and  appears  in 
song,  its  influence  is  irresistible,  its  charities  are  countless,  it  stirs 
the  feelings  to  love,  peace,  friendship,  as  scarce  any  moral  agent 
can.  The  songs  of  Be'ranger  are  hymns  of  love  and  tenderness ;  I 
have  seen  great  whiskered  Frenchmen  warbling  the  "  Bonne  Vieille," 
the  "  Soldats,  au  pas,  au  pas,"  with  tears  rolling  down  their 
mustachios.  At  a  Burns's  Festival  I  have  seen  Scotchmen  singing 
Burns,  while  the  drops  twinkled  on  their  furrowed  cheeks ;  while 
each  rough  hand  was  flung  out  to  grasp  its  neighbour's ;  while  early 
scenes  and  sacred  recollections,  and  dear  and  delightful  memories 
of  the  past  came  rushing  back  at  the  sound  of  the  familiar  words 
and  music,  and  the  softened  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  friendship, 
and  home.  Humour !  if  tears  are  the  alms  of  gentle  spirits,  and 
may  be  counted,  as  sure  they  may,  among  the  sweetest  of  life's 
charities, — of  that  kindly  sensibility,  and  sweet  sudden  emotion, 
which  exhibits  itself  at  the  eyes,  I  know  no  such  provocative  as 
humour.  It  is  an  irresistible  sympathiser ;  it  surprises  you  into 
compassion :  you  are  laughing  and  disarmed,  and  suddenly  forced 
into  tears.  I  heard  a  humorous  balladist  not  long  since,  a  minstrel 
with  wool  on  his  head,  and  an  ultra-Ethiopian  complexion,  who 
performed  a  negro  ballad  that  I  confess  moistened  these  spectacles 
in  the  most  unexpected  manner.  They  have  gazed  at  dozens  of 
tragedy-queens,  dying  on  the  stage,  and  expiring  in  appropriate 
blank  verse,  and  I  never  wanted  to  wipe  them.  They  have  looked 
up,  with  deep  respect  be  it  said,  at  many  scores  of  clergymen  in 
pulpits,  and  without  being  dimmed  ;  and  behold  a  vagabond  with  a 
corked  face  and  a  banjo  sings  a  little  song,  strikes  a  wild  note  which 
sets  the  whole  heart  thrilling  with  happy  pity.  Humour !  humour 
is  the  mistress  of  tears ;  she  knows  the  way  to  the  fans  lachry- 
marum,  strikes  in  dry  and  rugged  places  with  her  enchanting  wand, 
and  bids  the  fountain  gush  and  sparkle.  She  has  refreshed  myriads 
more  from  her  natural  springs  than  ever  tragedy  has  watered  from 
her  pompous  old  urn. 

Popular  humour,  and  especially  modern  popular  humour,  and  the 
writers,  its  exponents,  are  always  kind  and  chivalrous,  taking  the 
side  of  the  weak  against  the  strong.  In  our  plays,  and  books,  and 
entertainments  for  the  lower  classes  in  England,  I  scarce  remember 
a  story  or  theatrical  piece  in  which  a  wicked  aristocrat  is  not  be- 
pummelled  by  a  dashing  young  champion  of  the  people.  There  was 
a  book  which  had  an  immense  popularity  in  England,  and  I  believe 
has  been  greatly  read  here,  in  which  the  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of 
London  were  said  to  be  unveiled  by  a  gentleman  who,  I  suspect, 
7  2z 


722  CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 

knows  about  as  much  about  the  Court  of  London  as  he  does  of  that 
!  of  Pekin.  Years  ago  I  treated  myself  to  sixpenny  worth  of  this 
performance  at  a  railway  station,  and  found  poor  dear  George  IV., 
our  late  most  religious  and  gracious  king,  occupied  in  the  most 
flagitious  designs  against  the  tradesmen's  families  in  his  metropolitan 
city.  A  couple  of  years  after,  I  took  sixpennyworth  more  of  the 
same  delectable  history  :  George  IV.  was  still  at  work,  still  ruining 
the  peace  of  tradesmen's  families ;  he  had  been  at  it  for  two  whole 
years,  and  a  bookseller  at  the  Brighton  station  told  me  that  this 
book  was  by  many,  many  times  the  most  popular  of  all  periodical 
tales  then  published,  because,  says  he,  "  it  lashes  the  aristocracy  ! " 
Not  long  since  I  went  to  two  penny  theatres  in  London ;  immense 
eager  crowds  of  people  thronged  the  buildings,  and  the  vast  masses 
thrilled  and  vibrated  with  the  emotion  produced  by  the  piece  repre- 
sented on  the  stage,  and  burst  into  applause  or  laughter,  such  as 
many  a  polite  actor  would  sign  for  in  vain.  In  both  these  pieces 
there  was  a  wicked  Lord  kicked  out  of  the  window — there  is  always 
a  wicked  Lord  kicked  out  of  the  window.  First  piece  : — "Domestic 
drama — Thrilling  interest ! — Weaver's  family  in  distress  ! — Fanny 
gives  away  her  bread  to  little  Jacky,  and  starves ! — Enter  wicked 
Lord :  tempts  Fanny  with  offer  of  Diamond  Necklace,  Champagne 
Suppers,  and  Coach  to  ride  in  ! — Enter  sturdy  Blacksmith. — Scuffle 
between  Blacksmith  and  Aristocratic  minion  :  exit  wicked  Lord  out 
of  the  window."  Fanny,  of  course,  becomes  Mrs.  Blacksmith. 

The  second  piece  was  a  nautical  drama,  also  of  thrilling  interest, 
consisting  chiefly  of  hornpipes,  and  acts  of  most  tremendous  oppres- 
sion on  the  part  of  certain  Earls  and  Magistrates  towards  the  people. 
Two  wicked  Lords  were  in  this  piece  the  atrocious  scoundrels :  one 
Aristocrat,  a  deep-dyed  villain,  in  short  duck  trousers  and  Berlin 
cotton  gloves ;  while  the  other  minion  of  wealth  enjoyed  an  eyeglass 
with  a  blue  riband,  and  whisked  about  the  stage  with  a  penny  cane. 
Having  made  away  with  Fanny  Forester's  lover,  Tom  Bowling,  by 
means  of  a  pressgang,  they  meet  her  all  alone  on  a  common,  and 
subject  her  to  the  most  opprobrious  language  and  behaviour :  "  Re- 
lease me,  villains  !  "  says  Fanny,  pulling  a  brace  of  pistols  out  of  her 
pockets,  and  crossing  them  over  her  breast  so  as  to  cover  wicked 
Lord  to  the  right,  wicked  Lord  to  the  left ;  and  they  might  have 
remained  in  that  position  ever  so  much  longer  (for  the  aristocratic 
rascals  had  pistols  too),  had  not  Tom  Bowling  returned  from  sea  at 
the  very  nick  of  time,  armed  with  a  great  marlinespike,  with  which 
— whack !  whack !  down  goes  wicked  Lord  No.  1 — wicked  Lord 
No.  2.  Fanny  rushes  into  Tom's  arms  with  an  hysterical  shriek, 
and  I  dare  say  they  marry,  and  are  very  happy  ever  after.  Popular 
vj  fun  is  always  kind :  it  is  the  champion  of  the  humble  against  the 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR  723 

great.  In  all  popular  parables,  it  is  Little  Jack  that  conquers,  and 
the  Giant  that  topples  down.  I  think  our  popular  authors  are 
rather  hard  upon  the  great  folks.  Well,  well !  their  Lordships  have 
all  the  money,  and  can  afford  to  be  laughed  at. 

In  our  days,  in  England,  the  importance  of  the  humorous 
preacher  has  prodigiously  increased ;  his  audiences  are  enormous  : 
every  week  or  month  his  happy  congregations  flock  to  him ;  they 
never  tire  of  such  sermons.  I  believe  my  friend  Mr.  Punch  is  as 
popular  to-day  as  he  has  been  any  day  since  his  birth ;  I  believe 
that  Mr.  Dickens's  readers  are  even  more  numerous  than  they  have 
ever  been  since  his  unrivalled  pen  commenced  to  delight  the  world 
with  its  humour.  We  have  among  us  other  literary  parties;  we 
have  Punch,  as  I  have  said,  preaching  from  his  booth;  we  have  a 
Jerrold  party  very  numerous,  and  faithful  to  that  acute  thinker  and 
distinguished  wit ;  and  we  have  also — it  must  be  said,  and  it  is  still 
to  be  hoped — a  Vanity-Fair  party,  the  author  of  which  work  has  lately 
been  described  by  the  London  Times  newspaper  as  a  writer  of 
considerable  parts,  but  a  dreary  misanthrope,  who  sees  no  good 
anywhere,  who  sees  the  sky  above  him  green,  I  think,  instead  of 
blue,  and  only  miserable  sinners  round  about  him.  So  we  are ;  so 
is  every  writer  and  every  reader  I  ever  heard  of ;  so  was  every  being 
who  ever  trod  this  earth,  save  One.  I  cannot  help  telling  the  truth 
as  I  view  it,  and  describing  what  I  see.  To  describe  it  otherwise 
than  it  seems  to  me  would  be  falsehood  in  that  calling  in  which  it 
has  pleased  Heaven  to  place  me ;  treason  to  that  conscience  which 
says  that  men  are  weak ;  that  truth  must  be  told ;  that  fault  must 
be  owned ;  that  pardon  must  be  prayed  for ;  and  that  love  reigns 
supreme  over  all. 

I  look  back  at  the  good  which  of  late  years  the  kind  English 
Humourists  have  done ;  and  if  you  are  pleased  to  rank  the  present 
speaker  among  that  class,  I  own  to  an  honest  pride  at  thinking  what\ 
benefits  society  has  derived  from  men  of  our  calling.  That  "  Song\ 
of  the  Shirt,"  which  Punch  first  published,  and  the  noble,  the 
suffering,  the  melancholy,  the  tender  Hood  sang,  may  surely  rank  as 
a  great  act  of  charity  to  the  world,  and  call  from  it  its  thanks  and 
regard  for  its  teacher  and  benefactor.  That  astonishing  poem,  which 
you  all  of  you  know,  of  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  who  can  read  it 
without  tenderness,  without  reverence  to  Heaven,  charity  to  man, 
and  thanks  to  the  beneficent  genius  which  sang  for  us  nobly  1 

I  never  saw  the  writer  but  once ;  but  shall  always  be  glad  to 
think  that  some  words  of  mine,  printed  in  a  periodical  of  that  day, 
and  in  praise  of  these  amazing  verses  (which,  strange  to  say,  appeared 
almost  unnoticed  at  first  in  the  magazine  in  which  Mr.  Hood  published 
them) — I  am  proud,  I  say,  to  think  that  some  words  of  appreciation 


724  CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR 

of  mine  reached  him  on  his  deathbed,  and  pleased  and  soothed  him 
in  that  hour  of  manful  resignation  and  pain. 

As  for  the  charities  of  Mr.  Dickens,  multiplied  kindnesses 
which  he  has  conferred  upon  us  all ;  upon  our  children ;  upon 
people  educated  and  uneducated;  upon  the  myriads  here  and  at 
home,  who  speak  our  common  tongue;  have  not  you,  have  not 
I,  all  of  us  reason  to  be  thankful  to  this  kind  friend,  who  soothed 
and  charmed  so  many  hours,  brought  pleasure  and  sweet  laughter  to 
so  many  homes;  made  such  multitudes  of  children  happy;  en- 
dowed us  with  such  a  sweet  store  of  gracious  thoughts,  fair  fancies, 
soft  sympathies,  hearty  enjoyments'?  There  are  creations  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  which  seem  to  me  to  rank  as  personal  benefits ;  figures  so 
delightful,  that  one  feels  happier  and  better  for  knowing  them,  as 
one  does  for  being  brought  into  the  society  of  very  good  men  and 
women.  The  atmosphere  in  which  these  people  live  is  wholesome 
to  breathe  in ;  you  feel  that  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  them  is  a 
personal  kindness;  you  come  away  better  for  your  contact  with 
them ;  your  hands  seem  cleaner  from  having  the  privilege  of  shaking 
theirs.  Was  there  ever  a  better  charity  sermon  preached  in  the 
world  than  Dickens's  "Christmas  Carol"?  I  believe  it  occasioned 
immense  hospitality  throughout  England ;  was  the  means  of  lighting 
up  hundreds  of  kind  fires  at  Christmas-time;  caused  a  wonderful 
outpouring  of  Christmas  good  feeling ;  of  Christinas  punch-brewing .; 
an  awful  slaughter  of  Christinas  turkeys,  and  roasting  and  basting 
of  Christmas  beef.  As  for  this  man's  love  of  children,  that  amiable 
organ  at  the  back  of  his  honest  head  must  be  perfectly  monstrous. 
All  children  ought  to  love  him.  I  know  two  that  do,  and  read  his 
books  ten  times  for  once  that  they  peruse  the  dismal  preachments 
of  their  father.  I  know  one  who,  when  she  is  happy,  reads 
''Nicholas  Nickleby";  when  she  is  unhappy,  reads  "Nicholas 
Nickleby  " ;  when  she  is  tired,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  ;  when 
she  is  in  bed,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  ;  when  she  has  nothing  to 
do,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby " ;  and  when  she  has  finished  the 
book,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  over  again.  This  candid  young 
critic,  at  ten  years  of  age,  said,  "  I  like  Mr.  Dickens's  books  much 
better  than  your  books,  papa  " ;  and  frequently  expressed  her  desire 
that  the  latter  author  should  write  a  book  like  one  of  Mr.  Dickens's 
books.  Who  can  1  Every  man  must  say  his  own  thoughts  in  his 
own  voice,  in  his  own  way ;  lucky  is  he  who  has  such  a  charming 
gift  of  nature  as  this,  which  brings  all  the  children  in  the  world 
trooping  to  him,  and  being  fond  of  him. 

I  remember,  when  that  famous  "Nicholas  Nickleby"  came 
out,  seeing  a  letter  from  a  pedagogue  in  the  north  of  England, 
which,  dismal  as  it  was,  was  immensely  comical.  "  Mr.  Dickens's 


CHARITY    AND    HUMOUR  725 

ill-advised  publication,"  wrote  the  poor  schoolmaster,  "has  passed 
like  a  whirlwind  over  the  schools  of  the  North."  He  was  a  pro- 
prietor of  a  cheap  school;  Dotheboys  Hall  was  a  cheap  school. 
There  were  many  such  establishments  in  the  northern  counties. 
Parents  were  ashamed  that  never  were  ashamed  before  until  the 
kind  satirist  laughed  at  them ;  relatives  were  frightened ;  scores  of 
little  scholars  were  taken  away ;  poor  schoolmasters  had  to  shut 
their  shops  up ;  every  pedagogue  was  voted  a  Squeers,  and  many 
suffered,  no  doubt  unjustly ;  but  afterwards  schoolboys'  backs  were 
not  so  much  caned ;  schoolboys'  meat  was  less  tough  and  more 
plentiful;  and  schoolboys'  milk  was  not  so  sky-blue.  Wha,t  a 
kind  light  of  benevolence  it  is  that  plays  round  Crummies  and  the 
Phenomenon,  and  all  those  poor  theatre  people  in  that  charming 
book !  What  a  humour  !  and  what  a  good-humour  !  I  coincide 
with  the  youthful  critic,  whose  opinion  has  just  been  mentioned, 
and  own  to  a  family  admiration  for  "  Nicholas  Nickleby." 

One  might  go  on,  though  the  task  would  be  endless  and  need- 
less, chronicling  the  names  of  kind  folks  with  whom  this  kind  genius 
has  made  us  familiar.  Who  does  not  love  the  Marchioness,  and 
Mr.  Richard  Swiveller1?  Who  does  not  sympathise,  not  only  with 
Oliver  Twist,  but  his  admirable  young  friend  the  Artful  Dodger? 
Who  has  not  the  inestimable  advantage  of  possessing  a  Mrs. 
Nickleby  in  his  own  family1?  Who  does  not  bless  Sairey  Gamp 
and  wonder  at  Mrs.  Harris.  Who  does  not  venerate  the  chief  of 
that  illustrious  family  who,  being  stricken  by  misfortune,  wisely 
and  greatly  turned  his  attention  to  "  coals,"  the  accomplished,  the 
Epicurean,  the  dirty,  the  delightful  Micawber? 

I  may  quarrel  with  Mr.  Dickens's  art  a  thousand  and  a  thousand 
times,  I  delight  and  wonder  at  his  genius ;  I  recognise  in  it — I 
speak  with  awe  and  reverence — a  commission  from  that  Divine 
Beneficence,  whose  blessed  task  we  know  it  will  one  day  be  to  wipe 
every  tear  from  every  eye.  Thankfully  I  take  my  share  of  the 
feast  of  love  and  kindness  which  this  gentle,  and  generous,  and 
charitable  soul  has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of  the  world.  I 
take  and  enjoy  my  share,  and  say  a  Benediction  for  the  meal. 


THE    END 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  &>  Co. 
Edinburgh  &>  London 


•" 


Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 
Works  cBiographical  ed.3 


'fem.The  o/  n\  -  ,.