Produced by Tapio Riikonen
THE VIRGINIANS
A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY
By William Makepeace Thackeray
TO SIR HENRY MADISON, Chief Justice of Madras, this book is inscribed by
an affectionate old friend.
London, September 7, 1859.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I In which one of the Virginians visits Home
II In which Harry has to pay for his Supper
III The Esmonds in Virginia
IV In which Harry finds a New Relative
V Family Jars
VI The Virginians begin to see the World
VII Preparations for War
VIII In which George suffers from a common Disease
IX Hospitalities
X A Hot Afternoon
XI Wherein the two Georges prepare for Blood
XII News from the Camp
XIII Profitless Quest
XIV Harry in England
XV A Sunday at Castlewood
XVI In which Gumbo shows Skill with the Old English Weapon
XVII On the Scent
XVIII An Old Story
XIX Containing both Love and Luck
XX Facilis Descensus
XXI Samaritans
XXII In Hospital
XXIII Holydays
XXIV From Oakhurst to Tunbridge
XXV New Acquaintances
XXVI In which we are at a very great distance from Oakhurst
XXVII Plenum Opus Aleae
XXVIII The Way of the World
XXIX In which Harry continues to enjoy Otium sine Dignitate
XXX Contains a Letter to Virginia
XXXI The Bear and the Leader
XXXII In which a Family Coach is ordered
XXXIII Contains a Soliloquy by Hester
XXXIV In which Mr. Warrington treats the Company with Tea and a Ball
XXXV Entanglements
XXXVI Which seems to mean Mischief
XXXVII In which various Matches are fought
XXXVIII Sampson and the Philistines XXXIX Harry to the Rescue
XL In which Harry pays off an Old Debt, and incurs some New Ones
XLI Rake's Progress
XLII Fortunatus Nimium
XLIII In which Harry flies high
XLIV Contains what might, perhaps, have been expected
XLV In which Harry finds two Uncles
XLVI Chains and Slavery
XLVII Visitors in Trouble
XLVIII An Apparition
XLIX Friends in Need
L Contains a Great deal of the Finest Morality
LI Conticuere Omnes
LII Intentique Ora tenebant
LIII Where we remain at the Court End of the Town
LIV During which Harry sits smoking his Pipe at Home
LV Between Brothers
LVI Ariadne
LVII In which Harry's Nose continues to be put out of joint
LVIII Where we do what Cats may do
LIX In which we are treated to a Play
LX Which treats of Macbeth, a Supper, and a Pretty Kettle of Fish
LXI In which the Prince marches up the Hill and down again
LXII Arma Virumque
LXIII Melpomene
LXIV In which Harry lives to fight another day
LXV Soldier's Return
LXVI In which we go a-courting
LXVII In which a Tragedy is acted, and two more begun
LXVIII In which Harry goes Westward
LXIX A Little Innocent
LXX In which Cupid plays a considerable part
LXXI With Favours
LXXII (From the Warrington MS.) In which my Lady is on the Top
of the Ladder
LXXIII We keep Christmas at Castlewood. 1759
LXXIV News from Canada
LXXV The Course of True Love
LXXVI Informs us how Mr. Warrington jumped into a Landau
LXXVII And how everybody got out again
LXXVIII Pyramus and Thisbe
LXXIX Containing both Comedy and Tragedy
LXXX Pocahontas
LXXXI Res Angusta Domi
LXXXII Mile's Moidore
LXXXIII Troubles and Consolations
LXXXIV In which Harry submits to the Common Lot
LXXXV Inveni Portum
LXXXVI At Home
LXXXVII The Last of God Save the King LXXXVIII Yankeee Doodle comes to
Town LXXXIX A Colonel without a Regiment
XC In which we both fight and run away
XCI Satis Pugnae
XCII Under Vine and Fig-Tree
THE VIRGINIANS
CHAPTER I. In which one of the Virginians visits home
On the library wall of one of the most famous writers of America, there
hang two crossed swords, which his relatives wore in the great War of
Independence. The one sword was gallantly drawn in the service of
the king, the other was the weapon of a brave and honoured republican
soldier. The possessor of the harmless trophy has earned for himself a
name alike honoured in his ancestors' country and his own, where genius
such as his has always a peaceful welcome.
The ensuing history reminds me of yonder swords in the historian's study
at Boston. In the Revolutionary War, the subjects of this story, natives
of America, and children of the Old Dominion, found themselves engaged
on different sides in the quarrel, coming together peaceably at its
conclusion, as brethren should, their love ever having materially
diminished, however angrily the contest divided them. The colonel in
scarlet, and the general in blue and buff, hang side by side in the
wainscoted parlour of the Warringtons, in England, where a descendant
of one of the brothers has shown their portraits to me, with many of
the letters which they wrote, and the books and papers which belonged
to them. In the Warrington family, and to distinguish them from other
personages of that respectable race, these effigies have always gone
by the name of “The Virginians”; by which name their memoirs are
christened.
They both of them passed much time in Europe. They lived just on the
verge of that Old World from which we are drifting away so swiftly. They
were familiar with many varieties of men and fortune. Their lot brought
them into contact with personages of whom we read only in books, who
seem alive, as I read in the Virginians' letters regarding them, whose
voices I almost fancy I hear, as I read the yellow pages written scores
of years since, blotted with the boyish tears of disappointed passion,
dutifully despatched after famous balls and ceremonies of the grand Old
World, scribbled by camp-fires, or out of prison; nay, there is one that
has a bullet through it, and of which a greater portion of the text is
blotted out with the blood of the bearer.
These letters had probably never been preserved, but for the
affectionate thrift of one person, to whom they never failed in their
dutiful correspondence. Their mother kept all her sons' letters, from
the very first, in which Henry, the younger of the twins, sends his
love to his brother, then ill of a sprain at his grandfather's house of
Castlewood, in Virginia, and thanks his grandpapa for a horse which he
rides with his tutor, down to the last, “from my beloved son,” which
reached her but a few hours before her death. The venerable lady never
visited Europe, save once with her parents in the reign of George the
Second; took refuge in Richmond when the house of Castlewood was burned
down during the war; and was called Madam Esmond ever after that event;
never caring much for the name or family of Warrington, which she held
in very slight estimation as compared to her own.
The letters of the Virginians, as the reader will presently see, from
specimens to be shown to him, are by no means full. They are hints
rather than descriptions--indications and outlines chiefly: it may be,
that the present writer has mistaken the forms, and filled in the colour
wrongly: but, poring over the documents, I have tried to imagine the
situation of the writer, where he was, and by what persons surrounded. I
have drawn the figures as I fancied they were; set down conversations
as I think I might have heard them; and so, to the best of my ability,
endeavoured to revivify the bygone times and people. With what success
the task has been accomplished, with what profit or amusement to
himself, the kind reader will please to determine.
One summer morning in the year 1756, and in the reign of his Majesty
King George the Second, the Young Rachel, Virginian ship, Edward Franks
master, came up the Avon river on her happy return from her annual
voyage to the Potomac. She proceeded to Bristol with the tide, and
moored in the stream as near as possible to Trail's wharf, to which she
was consigned. Mr. Trail, her part owner, who could survey his ship from
his counting-house windows, straightway took boat and came up her side.
The owner of the Young Rachel, a large grave man in his own hair, and of
a demure aspect, gave the hand of welcome to Captain Franks, who stood
on his deck, and congratulated the captain upon the speedy and fortunate
voyage which he had made. And, remarking that we ought to be thankful
to Heaven for its mercies, he proceeded presently to business by asking
particulars relative to cargo and passengers.
Franks was a pleasant man, who loved a joke. “We have,” says he, “but
yonder ugly negro boy, who is fetching the trunks, and a passenger who
has the state cabin to himself.”
Mr. Trail looked as if he would have preferred more mercies from Heaven.
“Confound you, Franks, and your luck! The Duke William, which came in
last week, brought fourteen, and she is not half of our tonnage.”
“And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't pay nothin',”
continued the Captain. “Swear now, it will do you good, Mr. Trail,
indeed it will. I have tried the medicine.”
“A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gracious mercy, are you a
fool, Captain Franks?”
“Ask the passenger himself, for here he comes.” And, as the master
spoke, a young man of some nineteen years of age came up the hatchway.
He had a cloak and a sword under his arm, and was dressed in deep
mourning, and called out, “Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the
baggage out of the cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. You will
see all the little folks to-night whom you have been talking about. Give
my love to Polly, and Betty, and Little Tommy; not forgetting my duty to
Mrs. Franks. I thought, yesterday, the voyage would never be done, and
now I am almost sorry it is over. That little berth in my cabin looks
very comfortable now I am going to leave it.”
Mr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid no money for
his passage. He scarcely nodded his head to the stranger, when Captain
Franks said, “This here gentleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you have
a-heerd of.”
“It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir,” says Mr. Trail, majestically.
“And this is Mr. Warrington, Madam Esmond Warrington's son, of
Castlewood,” continued the Captain.
The British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, and the owner of
the beaver was making a prodigious number of bows as if a crown prince
were before him.
“Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, indeed! What a
crowning mercy that your voyage should have been so prosperous! You must
have my boat to go on shore. Let me cordially and respectfully welcome
you to England: let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress and
patroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on
Bristol 'Change, I warrant you. Isn't it, Franks?”
“There's no sweeter tobacco comes from Virginia, and no better brand
than the Three Castles,” says Mr. Franks, drawing a great brass
tobacco-box from his pocket, and thrusting a quid into his jolly mouth.
“You don't know what a comfort it is, sir! you'll take to it, bless you,
as you grow older. Won't he, Mr. Trail? I wish you had ten shiploads of
it instead of one. You might have ten shiploads: I've told Madam Esmond
so; I've rode over her plantation; she treats me like a lord when I go
to the house; she don't grudge me the best of wine, or keep me cooling
my heels in the counting-room as some folks does” (with a look at Mr.
Trail). “She is a real born lady, she is; and might have a thousand
hogsheads as easy as her hundreds, if there were but hands enough.”
“I have lately engaged in the Guinea trade, and could supply her
ladyship with any number of healthy young negroes before next fall,”
said Mr. Trail, obsequiously.
“We are averse to the purchase of negroes from Africa,” said the young
gentleman, coldly. “My grandfather and my mother have always objected to
it, and I do not like to think of selling or buying the poor wretches.”
“It is for their good, my dear young sir! for their temporal and their
spiritual good!” cried Mr. Trail. “And we purchase the poor creatures
only for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my own
house. I can introduce you to a happy home, a Christian family, and a
British merchant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?”
“Can't say,” growled the Captain. “Never asked me to take bite or sup at
your table. Asked me to psalm-singing once, and to hear Mr. Ward preach:
don't care for them sort of entertainments.”
Not choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail continued in
his low tone: “Business is business, my dear young sir, and I know,
'tis only my duty, the duty of all of us, to cultivate the fruits of the
earth in their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak,
I believe, to the heir of that great property?--”
The young gentleman made a bow.
“--I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the propriety,
the duty of increasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed
you. As an honest factor, I could not do otherwise; as a prudent man,
should I scruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No,
my dear Mr. George.”
“My name is not George; my name is Henry,” said the young man as he
turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.
“Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were my
lady's heir? and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq.----”
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant a
tough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. “Don't
you see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black
clothes?”
“What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners?
Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough.”
“Mr. George is there,” said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the
deck.
“Where?” cries the factor.
“Mr. George is there!” reiterated the Captain, again lifting up his
finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. “He is dead a year, sir,
come next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that
dreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never
came back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know
the Indian way, Mr. Trail?” And here the Captain passed his hand rapidly
round his head. “Horrible! ain't it, sir? horrible! He was a fine young
man, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now
hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on board of
the Young Rachel, and would have his chests of books broke open on deck
before they was landed. He was a shy and silent young gent: not like
this one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow, full of his
songs and fun. He took on dreadful at the news; went to his bed, had
that fever which lays so many of 'em by the heels along that swampy
Potomac, but he's got better on the voyage: the voyage makes every one
better; and, in course, the young gentleman can't be for ever a-crying
after a brother who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we
sighted Ireland he has been quite gay and happy, only he would go off at
times, when he was most merry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgy
could enjoy this here sight along with me, and when you mentioned
the t'other's name, you see, he couldn't stand it.'” And the honest
Captain's own eyes filled with tears, as he turned and looked towards
the object of his compassion.
Mr. Trail assumed a lugubrious countenance befitting the tragic
compliment with which he prepared to greet the young Virginian; but the
latter answered him very curtly, declined his offers of hospitality, and
only stayed in Mr. Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of wine
and to take up a sum of money of which he stood in need. But he and
Captain Franks parted on the very warmest terms, and all the little crew
of the Young Rachel cheered from the ship's side as their passenger left
it.
Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had pored over the
English map, and determined upon the course which they should take
upon arriving at Home. All Americans who love the old country--and what
gently-nurtured man or woman of Anglo-Saxon race does not?--have ere
this rehearsed their English travels, and visited in fancy the spots
with which their hopes, their parents' fond stories, their friends'
descriptions, have rendered them familiar. There are few things to me
more affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two great
nations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the younger
towards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out.
Before London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's;
its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from
Wallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts;
before the awful window of Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles
had issued, to kneel once more, and then ascend to Heaven;--before
Playhouses, Parks, and Palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure, and
splendour;--before Shakspeare's Resting-place under the tall spire which
rises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures;--before Derby,
and Falkirk, and Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had
fallen, it might be to rise no more:--before all these points of their
pilgrimage there was one which the young Virginian brothers held even
more sacred, and that was the home of their family,--that old Castlewood
in Hampshire, about which their parents had talked so fondly. From
Bristol to Bath, from Bath to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to
Home; they knew the way, and had mapped the journey many and many a
time.
We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow,
whose suit of sables only made him look the more interesting. The plump
landlady from her bar, surrounded by her china and punch-bowls, and
stout gilded bottles of strong waters, and glittering rows of silver
flagons, looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through
the inn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed
him upstairs to the Rose or the Dolphin. The trim chambermaid dropped
her best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the
townsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young
master's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which
he was heir. The postchaise whirled the traveller through the most
delightful home-scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If English
landscape is pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needs
contrast the rich woods and glowing pastures, and picturesque ancient
villages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, how much
pleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys had
lain through swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary
to another log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted
suddenly upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And the
highroad, a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the
present time. It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the country
towns and inns swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with
its bells and plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved the
journey from the White Hart, Salisbury, to the Swan with Two Necks,
London, in two days; the strings of packhorses that had not yet left the
road; my lord's gilt postchaise-and-six, with the outriders galloping
on ahead; the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; the
farmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the cathedral town
on Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion--all these crowding sights
and brisk people greeted the young traveller on his summer journey.
Hodge, the farmer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milkmaid,
bobbed a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village-green,
and the white-headed children lifted their chubby faces and cheered.
The church-spires glistened with gold, the cottage-gables glared in
sunshine, the great elms murmured in summer, or cast purple shadows over
the grass. Young Warrington never had such a glorious day, or witnessed
a scene so delightful. To be nineteen years of age, with high health,
high spirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey, and
rolling through the country in a postchaise at nine miles an hour--O
happy youth! almost it makes one young to think of him! But Harry was
too eager to give more than a passing glance at the Abbey at Bath,
or gaze with more than a moment's wonder at the mighty Minster at
Salisbury. Until he beheld Home it seemed to him he had no eyes for any
other place.
At last the young gentleman's postchaise drew up at the rustic inn on
Castlewood Green, of which his grandsire had many a time talked to him,
and which bears as its ensign, swinging from an elm near the inn porch,
the Three Castles of the Esmond family. They had a sign, too, over the
gateway of Castlewood House, bearing the same cognisance. This was the
hatchment of Francis, Lord Castlewood, who now lay in the chapel hard
by, his son reigning in his stead.
Harry Warrington had often heard of Francis, Lord Castlewood. It was
for Frank's sake, and for his great love towards the boy, that Colonel
Esmond determined to forgo his claim to the English estates and rank of
his family, and retired to Virginia. The young man had led a wild youth;
he had fought with distinction under Marlborough; he had married a
foreign lady, and most lamentably adopted her religion. At one time he
had been a Jacobite (for loyalty to the sovereign was ever hereditary
in the Esmond family), but had received some slight or injury from the
Prince, which had caused him to rally to King George's side. He had,
on his second marriage, renounced the errors of Popery which he had
temporarily embraced, and returned to the Established Church again. He
had, from his constant support of the King and the Minister of the time
being, been rewarded by his Majesty George II., and died an English
peer. An earl's coronet now figured on the hatchment which hung over
Castlewood gate--and there was an end of the jolly gentleman. Between
Colonel Esmond, who had become his stepfather, and his lordship there
had ever been a brief but affectionate correspondence--on the Colonel's
part especially, who loved his stepson, and had a hundred stories to
tell about him to his grandchildren. Madam Esmond, however, said she
could see nothing in her half-brother. He was dull, except when he drank
too much wine, and that, to be sure, was every day at dinner. Then
he was boisterous, and his conversation not pleasant. He was
good-looking--yes--a fine tall stout animal; she had rather her boys
should follow a different model. In spite of the grandfather's encomium
of the late lord, the boys had no very great respect for their kinsman's
memory. The lads and their mother were staunch Jacobites, though having
every respect for his present Majesty; but right was right, and nothing
could make their hearts swerve from their allegiance to the descendants
of the martyr Charles.
With a beating heart Harry Warrington walked from the inn towards
the house where his grandsire's youth had been passed. The little
village-green of Castlewood slopes down towards the river, which is
spanned by an old bridge of a single broad arch, and from this the
ground rises gradually towards the house, grey with many gables and
buttresses, and backed by a darkling wood. An old man sate at the wicket
on a stone bench in front of the great arched entrance to the house,
over which the earl's hatchment was hanging. An old dog was crouched at
the man's feet. Immediately above the ancient sentry at the gate was an
open casement with some homely flowers in the window, from behind which
good-humoured girls' faces were peeping. They were watching the young
traveller dressed in black as he walked up gazing towards the castle,
and the ebony attendant who followed the gentleman's steps also
accoutred in mourning. So was he at the gate in mourning, and the girls
when they came out had black ribbons.
To Harry's surprise, the old man accosted him by his name. “You have had
a nice ride to Hexton, Master Harry, and the sorrel carried you well.”
“I think you must be Lockwood,” said Harry, with rather a tremulous
voice, holding out his hand to the old man. His grandfather had often
told him of Lockwood, and how he had accompanied the Colonel and the
young Viscount in Marlborough's wars forty years ago. The veteran seemed
puzzled by the mark of affection which Harry extended to him. The old
dog gazed at the new-comer, and then went and put his head between his
knees. “I have heard of you often. How did you know my name?”
“They say I forget most things,” says the old man, with a smile; “but
I ain't so bad as that quite. Only this mornin', when you went out, my
darter says, 'Father, do you know why you have a black coat on?' 'In
course I know why I have a black coat,' says I. 'My lord is dead. They
say 'twas a foul blow, and Master Frank is my lord now, and Master
Harry'--why, what have you done since you've went out this morning? Why,
you have a-grow'd taller and changed your hair--though I know--I know
you.”
One of the young women had tripped out by this time from the porter's
lodge, and dropped the stranger a pretty curtsey. “Grandfather sometimes
does not recollect very well,” she said, pointing to her head. “Your
honour seems to have heard of Lockwood?”
“And you, have you never heard of Colonel Francis Esmond?”
“He was Captain and Major in Webb's Foot, and I was with him in two
campaigns, sure enough,” cries Lockwood. “Wasn't I, Ponto?”
“The Colonel as married Viscountess Rachel, my late lord's mother? and
went to live amongst the Indians? We have heard of him. Sure we have his
picture in our gallery, and hisself painted it.”
“Went to live in Virginia, and died there seven years ago, and I am his
grandson.”
“Lord, your honour! Why, your honour's skin's as white as mine,” cries
Molly. “Grandfather, do you hear this? His honour is Colonel Esmond's
grandson that used to send you tobacco, and his honour have come all the
way from Virginia.”
“To see you, Lockwood,” says the young man, “and the family. I only set
foot on English ground yesterday, and my first visit is for home. I may
see the house, though the family are from home?” Molly dared to say Mrs.
Barker would let his honour see the house, and Harry Warrington made
his way across the court, seeming to know the place as well as if he had
been born there, Miss Molly thought, who followed, accompanied by Mr.
Gumbo making her a profusion of polite bows and speeches.