Chapter XV. General Webb Wins The Battle Of Wynendael

By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most brilliant feats

of valour were performed that ever illustrated any war. On the French side

(whose gallantry was prodigious, the skill and bravery of Marshal

Boufflers actually eclipsing those of his conqueror, the Prince of Savoy)

may be mentioned that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg and

Tournefort, who, with a body of horse and dragoons, carried powder into

the town, of which the besieged were in extreme want, each soldier

bringing a bag with forty pounds of powder behind him; with which perilous

provision they engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the foot brought

out to meet them: and though half of the men were blown up in the dreadful

errand they rode on, a part of them got into the town with the succours of

which the garrison was so much in want. A French officer, Monsieur du

Bois, performed an act equally daring, and perfectly successful. The

duke’s great army lying at Helchin, and covering the siege, and it being

necessary for Monsieur de Vendosme to get news of the condition of the

place, Captain du Bois performed his famous exploit: not only passing

through the lines of the siege, but swimming afterwards no less than seven

moats and ditches: and coming back the same way, swimming with his letters

in his mouth.

By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could undertake to

hold the place till October; and that, if one of the convoys of the Allies

could be intercepted, they must raise the siege altogether.

Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at Ostend, and about to

march for the siege; and on the 27th September, we (and the French too)

had news that it was on its way. It was composed of 700 waggons,

containing ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend by

2,000 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time Monsieur de la Mothe

quitted Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty battalions, and upwards of

sixty squadrons and forty guns, in pursuit of the convoy.

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

three squadrons of dragoons, at Turout, whence he moved to cover the

convoy and pursue la Mothe: with whose advanced guard ours came up upon

the great plain of Turout, and before the little wood and castle of

Wynendael; behind which the convoy was marching.

As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced troops were

halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest of our force brought up as

quickly as possible, our little body of horse being brought forward to the

opening of the plain, as our general said, to amuse the enemy. When

Monsieur la Mothe came up he found us posted in two lines in front of the

wood; and formed his own army in battle facing ours, in eight lines, four

of infantry in front, and dragoons and cavalry behind.

The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade which lasted three

hours, when they made their attack, advancing in twelve lines, four of

foot and four of horse, upon the allied troops in the wood where we were

posted. Their infantry behaved ill; they were ordered to charge with the

bayonet, but, instead, began to fire, and almost at the very first

discharge from our men, broke and fled. The cavalry behaved better; with

these alone, who were three or four times as numerous as our whole force,

Monsieur de la Mothe might have won victory: but only two of our

battalions were shaken in the least; and these speedily rallied: nor could

the repeated attacks of the French horse cause our troops to budge an inch

from the position in the wood in which our general had placed them.

After attacking for two hours, the French retired at night-fall entirely

foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon him, the enemy was still

three times stronger than we: and it could not be supposed that our

general could pursue M. de la Mothe, or do much more than hold our ground

about the wood, from which the Frenchman had in vain attempted to dislodge

us. La Mothe retired behind his forty guns, his cavalry protecting them

better than it had been enabled to annoy us; and meanwhile the convoy,

which was of more importance than all our little force, and the safe

passage of which we would have dropped to the last man to accomplish,

marched away in perfect safety during the action, and joyfully reached the

besieging camp before Lille.

Major-General Cadogan, my lord duke’s quartermaster-general (and between

whom and Mr. Webb there was no love lost), accompanied the convoy, and

joined Mr. Webb with a couple of hundred horse just as the battle was

over, and the enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily enough, to charge

with his horse upon the French as they fell back; but his force was too

weak to inflict any damage upon them; and Mr. Webb, commanding as

Cadogan’s senior, thought enough was done in holding our ground before an

enemy that might still have overwhelmed us had we engaged him in the open

territory, and in securing the safe passage of the convoy. Accordingly,

the horse brought up by Cadogan did not draw a sword; and only prevented,

by the good countenance they showed, any disposition the French might have

had to renew the attack on us. And no attack coming, at nightfall General

Cadogan drew off with his squadron, being bound for head quarters, the two

generals at parting grimly saluting each other.

“He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my lord duke’s trenchers at

supper,” says Mr. Webb.

Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that night, and our general

had his supper in the little castle there.

“If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day’s work,” General

Webb said; “and Harry, thou shouldst have a regiment. Thou hast been

reported in the last two actions: thou wert near killed in the first. I

shall mention thee in my dispatch to his grace the commander-in-chief, and

recommend thee to poor Dick Harwood’s vacant majority. Have you ever a

hundred guineas to give Cardonnel? Slip them into his hand to-morrow, when

you go to head quarters with my report.”

In this report the major-general was good enough to mention Captain

Esmond’s name with particular favour; and that gentleman carried the

dispatch to head quarters the next day, and was not a little pleased to

bring back a letter by his grace’s secretary, addressed to

Lieutenant-General Webb. The Dutch officer dispatched by Count Nassau

Woudenbourg, Vælt-Mareschal Auverquerque’s son, brought back also a

complimentary letter to his commander, who had seconded Mr. Webb in the

action with great valour and skill.

Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his dispatch, and

saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant-General, as he gave it in. The gentlemen

round about him—he was riding with his suite on the road to Menin as

Esmond came up with him—gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and opened the

dispatch with rather a flushed eager face.

He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read it. “’Tis not

even writ with his own hand. Read it out, Esmond.” And Esmond read it

out:—

“Sir—Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me with

the success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon

against the body of troops commanded by Monsieur de la Mothe, at

Wynendael, which must be attributed chiefly to your good conduct

and resolution. You may be sure I shall do you justice at home,

and be glad on all occasions to own the service you have done in

securing this convoy.—Yours, &c., M.”

“Two lines by that d——d Cardonnel, and no more, for the taking of

Lille—for beating five times our number—for an action as brilliant as the

best he ever fought,” says poor Mr. Webb. “Lieutenant-General! That’s not

his doing. I was the oldest major-general. By ——, I believe he had been

better pleased if I had been beat.”

The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer and more

complimentary than that to Mr. Webb.

“And this is the man,” he broke out, “that’s gorged with gold—that’s

covered with titles and honours that we won for him—and that grudges even

a line of praise to a comrade in arms! Hasn’t he enough? Don’t we fight

that he may roll in riches? Well, well, wait for the _Gazette_, gentlemen.

The queen and the country will do us justice if his grace denies it us.”

There were tears of rage in the brave warrior’s eyes as he spoke; and he

dashed them off his face on to his glove. He shook his fist in the air.

“Oh, by the Lord!” says he, “I know what I had rather have than a

peerage!”

“And what is that, sir?” some of them asked.

“I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John Churchill, on a fair

green field, and only a pair of rapiers between my shirt and his ——”

“Sir!” interposes one.

“Tell him so! I know that’s what you mean. I know every word goes to him

that’s dropped from every general officer’s mouth. I don’t say he’s not

brave. Curse him! he’s brave enough; but we’ll wait for the _Gazette_,

gentlemen. God save her Majesty! she’ll do us justice.”

The _Gazette_ did not come to us till a month afterwards; when my general

and his officers had the honour to dine with Prince Eugene in Lille; his

highness being good enough to say that we had brought the provisions, and

ought to share in the banquet. ’Twas a great banquet. His grace of

Marlborough was on his highness’s right, and on his left the Mareschal de

Boufflers, who had so bravely defended the place. The chief officers of

either army were present; and you may be sure Esmond’s general was

splendid this day: his tall noble person, and manly beauty of face, made

him remarkable anywhere; he wore, for the first time, the star of the

Order of Generosity, that his Prussian Majesty had sent to him for his

victory. His Highness, the Prince of Savoy, called a toast to the

conqueror of Wynendael. My lord duke drank it with rather a sickly smile.

The aides de camp were present; and Harry Esmond and his dear young lord

were together, as they always strove to be when duty would permit: they

were over against the table where the generals were, and could see all

that passed pretty well. Frank laughed at my lord duke’s glum face: the

affair of Wynendael, and the captain-general’s conduct to Webb, had been

the talk of the whole army. When his highness spoke, and gave—“_Le

vainqueur de Wynendael; son armée et sa victoire_,” adding, “_qui nous

font diner à Lille aujourdhuy_”—there was a great cheer through the hall;

for Mr. Webb’s bravery, generosity, and very weaknesses of character

caused him to be beloved in the army.

“Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave!” whispers Frank Castlewood.

“A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn’t refuse him a pippin. Stand up, Harry.

See, we are drinking the army of Wynendael. Ramillies is nothing to it.

Huzzay! Huzzay!”

At this very time, and just after our general had made his

acknowledgement, some one brought in an English _Gazette_—and was passing

it from hand to hand down the table. Officers were eager enough to read

it; mothers and sisters at home must have sickened over it. There scarce

came out a _Gazette_ for six years that did not tell of some heroic death

or some brilliant achievement.

“Here it is—Action of Wynendael—here you are, general,” says Frank,

seizing hold of the little dingy paper that soldiers love to read so; and,

scrambling over from our bench, he went to where the general sat, who knew

him, and had seen many a time at his table his laughing, handsome face,

which everybody loved who saw. The generals in their great perukes made

way for him. He handed the paper over General Dohna’s buff coat to our

general on the opposite side.

He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: “I thought he’d like it,

Harry,” the young fellow whispered. “Didn’t I like to read my name after

Ramillies, in the _London Gazette_?—Viscount Castlewood serving a

volunteer—I say, what’s yonder?”

Mr. Webb, reading the _Gazette_, looked very strange—slapped it down on

the table—then sprung up in his place, and began,—“Will your highness

please to ——”

His grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too—“There’s some

mistake, my dear General Webb.”

“Your grace had better rectify it,” says Mr. Webb, holding out the letter;

but he was five off his grace the prince duke, who, besides, was higher

than the general (being seated with the Prince of Savoy, the Electoral

Prince of Hanover, and the envoys of Prussia and Denmark, under a

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

“Stay,” says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, and then, with

a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran the _Gazette_ through with

the point, and said, “Permit me to hand it to your grace.”

The duke looked very black. “Take it,” says he, to his master of the

horse, who was waiting behind him.

The lieutenant-general made a very low bow, and retired and finished his

glass. The _Gazette_ in which Mr. Cardonnel, the duke’s secretary, gave an

account of the victory of Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb’s name, but gave

the sole praise and conduct of the action to the duke’s favourite, Mr.

Cadogan.

There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this strange

behaviour of General Webb, who had almost drawn a sword upon the

commander-in-chief; but the general, after the first outbreak of his

anger, mastered it outwardly altogether; and, by his subsequent behaviour,

had the satisfaction of even more angering the commander-in-chief, than he

could have done by any public exhibition of resentment.

On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief adviser, Mr.

Esmond, who was now entirely in the general’s confidence, and treated by

him as a friend, and almost a son, Mr. Webb writ a letter to his grace the

commander-in-chief, in which he said:—

Your grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the _London

Gazette_, in which your grace’s secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, hath

mentioned Major-General Cadogan’s name, as the officer commanding

in the late action of Wynendael, must have caused a feeling of

anything but pleasure to the general who fought that action.

Your grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even present at

the battle, though he arrived with squadrons of horse at its

close, and put himself under the command of his superior officer.

And as the result of the battle of Wynendael, in which

Lieutenant-General Webb had the good fortune to command, was the

capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels, then invested by the

enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the restoration of the great

cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which the enemy (by treason within

the walls) had got possession in the previous year: Mr. Webb

cannot consent to forgo the honours of such a success and service,

for the benefit of Mr. Cadogan, or any other person.

As soon as the military operations of the year are over,

Lieutenant-General Webb will request permission to leave the army,

and return to his place in Parliament, where he gives notice to

his grace the commander-in-chief, that he shall lay his case

before the House of Commons, the country, and her majesty the

queen.

By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the _Gazette_,

which had been written by his grace’s secretary, Mr. Cardonnel,

Mr. Webb, not being able to reach his grace the commander-in-chief

on account of the gentlemen seated between them, placed the paper

containing the false statement on his sword, so that it might more

readily arrive in the hands of his Grace the Duke of Marlborough,

who surely would wish to do justice to every officer of his army.

Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination to

his superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against

any but the enemies of her majesty. He solicits permission to

return to England immediately the military duties will permit, and

take with him to England Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who

acted as his aide de camp, and was present during the entire

action, and noted by his watch the time when Mr. Cadogan arrived

at its close.

The commander-in-chief could not but grant this permission, nor could he

take notice of Webb’s letter, though it was couched in terms the most

insulting. Half the army believed that the cities of Ghent and Bruges were

given up by a treason, which some in our army very well understood; that

the commander-in-chief would not have relieved Lille if he could have

helped himself; that he would not have fought that year had not the Prince

of Savoy forced him. When the battle once began, then, for his own renown,

my Lord Marlborough would fight as no man in the world ever fought better;

and no bribe on earth could keep him from beating the enemy.(11)

But the matter was taken up by the subordinates; and half the army might

have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not been stopped. General

Cadogan sent an intimation to General Webb to say that he was ready if

Webb liked, and would meet him. This was a kind of invitation our stout

old general was always too ready to accept, and ’twas with great

difficulty we got the general to reply that he had no quarrel with Mr.

Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect gallantry, but only with those at

head quarters, who had belied him. Mr. Cardonnel offered General Webb

reparation; Mr. Webb said he had a cane at the service of Mr. Cardonnel,

and the only satisfaction he wanted from him was one he was not likely to

get, namely, the truth. The officers in our staff of Webb’s, and those in

the immediate suite of the general, were ready to come to blows; and hence

arose the only affair in which Mr. Esmond ever engaged as principal, and

that was from a revengeful wish to wipe off an old injury.

My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield’s regiment of the

Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the duke. He had sunk by this time

to the very worst reputation; he had had another fatal duel in Spain; he

had married, and forsaken his wife; he was a gambler, a profligate, and

debauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde; and, as Esmond feared, as soon

as Frank Castlewood heard of his arrival, Frank was for seeking him out,

and killing him. The wound my lord got at Oudenarde prevented their

meeting, but that was nearly healed, and Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest

any chance should bring his boy and this known assassin together. They met

at the mess-table of Handyside’s regiment at Lille; the officer commanding

not knowing of the feud between the two noblemen.

Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohun for nine years,

since they had met on that fatal night in Leicester Field. It was degraded

with crime and passion now; it wore the anxious look of a man who has

three deaths—and who knows how many hidden shames and lusts, and crimes,

on his conscience. He bowed with a sickly low bow, and slunk away when our

host presented us round to one another. Frank Castlewood had not known him

till then, so changed was he. He knew the boy well enough.

’Twas curious to look at the two—especially the young man, whose face

flushed up when he heard the hated name of the other; and who said in his

bad French and his brave boyish voice—“He had long been anxious to meet my

Lord Mohun.” The other only bowed, and moved away from him. I do him

justice, he wished to have no quarrel with the lad.

Esmond put himself between them at table. “D—— it,” says Frank, “why do

you put yourself in the place of a man who is above you in degree? My Lord

Mohun should walk after me. I want to sit by my Lord Mohun.”

Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt in the leg at

Oudenarde; and besought the other to be quiet. Quiet enough he was for

some time; disregarding the many taunts which young Castlewood flung at

him, until after several healths, when my Lord Mohun got to be rather in

liquor.

“Will you go away, my lord?” Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring him to quit

the table.

“No, by G——,” says my Lord Mohun. “I’ll not go away for any man;” he was

quite flushed with wine by this time.

The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday. Webb had offered to

challenge the commander-in-chief: Webb had been ill-used: Webb was the

bravest, handsomest, vainest man in the army. Lord Mohun did not know that

Esmond was Webb’s aide de camp. He began to tell some stories against the

general; which, from t’other side of Esmond, young Castlewood

contradicted.

“I can’t bear any more of this,” says my Lord Mohun.

“Nor can I, my lord,” says Mr. Esmond, starting up. “The story my Lord

Mohun has told respecting General Webb is false, gentlemen—false, I

repeat,” and making a low bow to Lord Mohun, and without a single word

more, Esmond got up and left the dining-room. These affairs were common

enough among the military of those days. There was a garden behind the

house, and all the party turned instantly into it; and the two gentlemen’s

coats were off and their points engaged within two minutes after Esmond’s

words had been spoken. If Captain Esmond had put Mohun out of the world,

as he might, a villain would have been punished and spared further

villanies—but who is one man to punish another? I declare upon my honour

that my only thought was to prevent Lord Mohun from mischief with Frank,

and the end of this meeting was, that after half a dozen passes my lord

went home with a hurt which prevented him from lifting his right arm for

three months.

“Oh, Harry, why didn’t you kill the villain?” young Castlewood asked. “I

can’t walk without a crutch: but I could have met him on horseback with

sword and pistol.” But Harry Esmond said, “’Twas best to have no man’s

life on one’s conscience, not even that villain’s”; and this affair, which

did not occupy three minutes, being over, the gentlemen went back to their

wine, and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, where he was laid up with a fever

which had spared mischief had it proved fatal. And very soon after this

affair Harry Esmond and his general left the camp for London; whither a

certain reputation had preceded the captain, for my Lady Castlewood of

Chelsea received him as if he had been a conquering hero. She gave a great

dinner to Mr. Webb, where the general’s chair was crowned with laurels;

and her ladyship called Esmond’s health in a toast, to which my kind

general was graciously pleased to bear the strongest testimony: and took

down a mob of at least forty coaches to cheer our general as he came out

of the House of Commons, the day when he received the thanks of Parliament

for his action. The mob huzza’ed and applauded him, as well as the fine

company: it was splendid to see him waving his hat, and bowing, and laying

his hand upon his Order of Generosity. He introduced Mr. Esmond to Mr. St.

John and the Right Honourable Robert Harley, Esquire, as he came out of

the House walking between them; and was pleased to make many flattering

observations regarding Mr. Esmond’s behaviour during the three last

campaigns.

Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any man I ever saw,

excepting always my peerless young Frank Castlewood) said he had heard of

Mr. Esmond before from Captain Steele, and how he had helped Mr. Addison

to write his famous poem of the _Campaign_.

“’Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim itself,” Mr.

Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron of letters, and so,

perhaps, it may be—though for my part I think there are twenty beautiful

lines, but all the rest is commonplace, and Mr. Addison’s hymn worth a

thousand such poems.

All the town was indignant at my lord duke’s unjust treatment of General

Webb, and applauded the vote of thanks which the House of Commons gave to

the general for his victory at Wynendael. ’Tis certain that the capture of

Lille was the consequence of that lucky achievement, and the humiliation

of the old French king, who was said to suffer more at the loss of this

great city, than from any of the former victories our troops had won over

him. And, I think, no small part of Mr. Webb’s exultation at his victory,

arose from the idea that Marlborough had been disappointed of a great

bribe the French king had promised him, should the siege be raised. The

very sum of money offered to him was mentioned by the duke’s enemies; and

honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the notion, not only of beating the French,

but of beating Marlborough too, and intercepting a convoy of three

millions of French crowns, that were on their way to the generalissimo’s

insatiable pockets. When the general’s lady went to the queen’s

drawing-room, all the Tory women crowded round her with congratulations,

and made her a train greater than the Duchess of Marlborough’s own. Feasts

were given to the general by all the chiefs of the Tory party, who vaunted

him as the duke’s equal in military skill; and perhaps used the worthy

soldier as their instrument, whilst he thought they were but acknowledging

his merits as a commander. As the general’s aide de camp, and favourite

officer, Mr. Esmond came in for a share of his chief’s popularity, and was

presented to her Majesty, and advanced to the rank of lieutenant-colonel,

at the request of his grateful chief.

We may be sure there was one family in which any good fortune that

happened to Esmond, caused such a sincere pride and pleasure, that he, for

his part, was thankful he could make them so happy. With these fond

friends, Blenheim and Oudenarde seemed to be mere trifling incidents of

the war; and Wynendael was its crowning victory. Esmond’s mistress never

tired to hear accounts of the battle; and I think General Webb’s lady grew

jealous of her, for the general was for ever at Kensington, and talking on

that delightful theme. As for his aide de camp, though, no doubt, Esmond’s

own natural vanity was pleased at the little share of reputation which his

good fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly precious to him (he may say

so, now that he hath long since outlived it) because it pleased his

mistress, and, above all, because Beatrix valued it.

As for the old dowager of Chelsea, never was an old woman in all England

more delighted nor more gracious than she. Esmond had his quarters in her

ladyship’s house, where the domestics were instructed to consider him as

their master. She bade him give entertainments, of which she defrayed the

charges, and was charmed when his guests were carried away tipsy in their

coaches. She must have his picture taken; and accordingly he was painted

by Mr. Jervas, in his red coat, and smiling upon a bombshell, which was

bursting at the corner of the piece. She vowed that unless he made a great

match, she should never die easy, and was for ever bringing young ladies

to Chelsea, with pretty faces and pretty fortunes, at the disposal of the

colonel. He smiled to think how times were altered with him, and of the

early days in his father’s lifetime, when a trembling page he stood before

her, with her ladyship’s basin and ewer, or crouched in her coach-step.

The only fault she found with him was, that he was more sober than an

Esmond ought to be; and would neither be carried to bed by his valet, nor

lose his heart to any beauty, whether of St. James’s or Covent Garden.

What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth of it? ’Tis

a state of mind that men fall into, and depending on the man rather than

the woman. We love being in love, that’s the truth on’t. If we had not met

Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored her. We know our mistresses are

no better than many other women, nor no prettier, nor no wiser, nor no

wittier. ’Tis not for these reasons we love a woman, or for any special

quality or charm I know of; we might as well demand that a lady should be

the tallest woman in the world, like the Shropshire giantess,(12) as that

she should be a paragon in any other character, before we began to love

her. Esmond’s mistress had a thousand faults beside her charms: he knew

both perfectly well! She was imperious, she was light-minded, she was

flighty, she was false, she had no reverence in her character; she was in

everything, even in beauty, the contrast of her mother, who was the most

devoted and the least selfish of women. Well, from the very first moment

he saw her on the stairs at Walcote, Esmond knew he loved Beatrix. There

might be better women—he wanted that one. He cared for none other. Was it

because she was gloriously beautiful? Beautiful as she was, he had heard

people say a score of times in their company, that Beatrix’s mother looked

as young, and was the handsomer of the two. Why did her voice thrill in

his ear so? She could not sing near so well as Nicolini or Mrs. Tofts;

nay, she sang out of tune, and yet he liked to hear her better than St.

Cecilia. She had not a finer complexion than Mrs. Steele (Dick’s wife,

whom he had now got, and who ruled poor Dick with a rod of pickle), and

yet to see her dazzled Esmond; he would shut his eyes, and the thought of

her dazzled him all the same. She was brilliant and lively in talk, but

not so incomparably witty as her mother, who, when she was cheerful, said

the finest things; but yet to hear her, and to be with her, was Esmond’s

greatest pleasure. Days passed away between him and these ladies, he

scarce knew how. He poured his heart out to them, so as he never could in

any other company, where he hath generally passed for being moody, or

supercilious and silent. This society(13) was more delightful than that of

the greatest wits to him. May Heaven pardon him the lies he told the

dowager at Chelsea, in order to get a pretext for going away to

Kensington; the business at the Ordnance which he invented; the interview

with his general, the courts and statesman’s levees which he _didn’t_

frequent and describe; who wore a new suit on Sunday at St. James’s or at

the queen’s birthday; how many coaches filled the street at Mr. Harley’s

levee; how many bottles he had had the honour to drink overnight with Mr.

St. John at the “Cocoa Tree,” or at the “Garter” with Mr. Walpole and Mr.

Steele.

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the point of making

great matches, so the Court scandal said; but for his part Esmond never

would believe the stories against her; and came back, after three years’

absence from her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still

hungering after her and no other; still hopeful, still kneeling, with his

heart in his hand for the young lady to take. We were now got to 1709. She

was near twenty-two years old, and three years at Court, and without a

husband.

“’Tis not for want of being asked,” Lady Castlewood said, looking into

Esmond’s heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness affection gives.

“But she will make no mean match, Harry: she will not marry as I would

have her; the person whom I should like to call my son, and Henry Esmond

knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his claim. Beatrix is

so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would be sure to resist. The

man who would marry her will not be happy with her, unless he be a great

person, and can put her in a great position. Beatrix loves admiration more

than love; and longs, beyond all things, for command. Why should a mother

speak so of her child? You are my son, too, Harry. You should know the

truth about your sister. I thought you might cure yourself of your

passion,” my lady added fondly. “Other people can cure themselves of that

folly, you know. But I see you are still as infatuated as ever. When we

read your name in the _Gazette_, I pleaded for you, my poor boy. Poor boy,

indeed! You are growing a grave old gentleman now, and I am an old woman.

She likes your fame well enough, and she likes your person. She says you

have wit, and fire, and good breeding, and are more natural than the fine

gentlemen of the Court. But this is not enough. She wants a

commander-in-chief, and not a colonel. Were a duke to ask her, she would

leave an earl whom she had promised. I told you so before. I know not how

my poor girl is so worldly.”

“Well,” says Esmond, “a man can but give his best and his all. She has

that from me. What little reputation I have won, I swear I cared for it

because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it. What care I to be a

colonel or a general? Think you ’twill matter a few score years hence,

what our foolish honours to-day are? I would have had a little fame, that

she might wear it in her hat. If I had anything better, I would endow her

with it. If she wants my life, I would give it her. If she marries

another, I will say God bless him. I make no boast, nor no complaint. I

think my fidelity is folly, perhaps. But so it is. I cannot help myself. I

love her. You are a thousand times better: the fondest, the fairest, the

dearest, of women. Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix’s faults as well

as you do. But she is my fate. ’Tis endurable. I shall not die for not

having her. I think I should be no happier if I won her. _Que

voulez-vous?_ as my lady of Chelsea would say. _Je l’aime_.”

“I wish she would have you,” said Harry’s fond mistress, giving a hand to

him. He kissed the fair hand (’twas the prettiest dimpled little hand in

the world, and my Lady Castlewood, though now almost forty years old, did

not look to be within ten years of her age). He kissed and kept her fair

hand, as they talked together.

“Why,” says he, “should she hear me? She knows what I would say. Far or

near, she knows I’m her slave. I have sold myself for nothing, it may be.

Well, ’tis the price I choose to take. I am worth nothing, or I am worth

all.”

“You are such a treasure,” Esmond’s mistress was pleased to say, “that the

woman who has your love, shouldn’t change it away against a kingdom, I

think. I am a country-bred woman, and cannot say but the ambitions of the

town seem mean to me. I never was awe-stricken by my lady duchess’s rank

and finery, or afraid,” she added, with a sly laugh, “of anything but her

temper. I hear of Court ladies who pine because her Majesty looks cold on

them; and great noblemen who would give a limb that they might wear a

garter on the other. This worldliness, which I can’t comprehend, was born

with Beatrix, who, on the first day of her waiting, was a perfect

courtier. We are like sisters, and she the eldest sister, somehow. She

tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and say she adores a

coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of her ambition. ’Tis natural to

her, as to me to love quiet, and be indifferent about rank and riches.

What are they, Harry? and for how long do they last? Our home is not

here.” She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel that was only on

earth on a visit. “Our home is where the just are, and where our sins and

sorrows enter not. My father used to rebuke me, and say that I was too

hopeful about Heaven. But I cannot help my nature, and grow obstinate as I

grow to be an old woman; and as I love my children so, sure our Father

loves us with a thousand and a thousand times greater love. It must be

that we shall meet yonder, and be happy. Yes, you—and my children, and my

dear lord. Do you know, Harry, since his death, it has always seemed to me

as if his love came back to me, and that we are parted no more. Perhaps he

is here now, Harry—I think he is. Forgiven I am sure he is: even Mr.

Atterbury absolved him, and he died forgiving. Oh, what a noble heart he

had! How generous he was! I was but fifteen, and a child when he married

me. How good he was to stoop to me! He was always good to the poor and

humble.” She stopped, then presently, with a peculiar expression, as if

her eyes were looking into Heaven, and saw my lord there, she smiled, and

gave a little laugh. “I laugh to see you, sir,” she says; “when you come,

it seems as if you never were away.” One may put her words down, and

remember them, but how describe her sweet tones, sweeter than music.

My young lord did not come home at the end of the campaign, and wrote that

he was kept at Bruxelles on military duty. Indeed, I believe he was

engaged in laying siege to a certain lady, who was of the suite of Madame

de Soissons, the Prince of Savoy’s mother, who was just dead, and who,

like the Flemish fortresses, was taken and retaken a great number of times

during the war, and occupied by French, English, and Imperialists. Of

course, Mr. Esmond did not think fit to enlighten Lady Castlewood

regarding the young scapegrace’s doings: nor had he said a word about the

affair with Lord Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that man’s name was to his

mistress. Frank did not waste much time or money on pen and ink; and, when

Harry came home with his general, only writ two lines to his mother, to

say his wound in the leg was almost healed, that he would keep his coming

of age next year—that the duty aforesaid would keep him at Bruxelles, and

that Cousin Harry would tell all the news.

But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood always liked to have a

letter about the famous 29th of December, my lord writ her a long and full

one, and in this he must have described the affair with Mohun; for when

Mr. Esmond came to visit his mistress one day, early in the new year, to

his great wonderment, she and her daughter both came up and saluted him,

and after them the dowager of Chelsea, too, whose chairman had just

brought her ladyship from her village to Kensington across the fields.

After this honour, I say, from the two ladies of Castlewood, the dowager

came forward in great state, with her grand tall head-dress of King

James’s reign, that she never forsook, and said, “Cousin Henry, all our

family have met; and we thank you, cousin, for your noble conduct towards

the head of our house.” And pointing to her blushing cheek, she made Mr.

Esmond aware that he was to enjoy the rapture of an embrace there. Having

saluted one cheek, she turned to him the other. “Cousin Harry,” said both

the other ladies, in a little chorus, “we thank you for your noble

conduct;” and then Harry became aware that the story of the Lille affair

had come to his kinswomen’s ears. It pleased him to hear them all saluting

him as one of their family.

The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great entertainment; and the

ladies were in gala dresses—my lady of Chelsea in her highest _tour_, my

lady viscountess out of black, and looking fair and happy, _à ravir_; and

the maid of honour attired with that splendour which naturally

distinguished her, and wearing on her beautiful breast the French

officer’s star which Frank had sent home after Ramillies.

“You see, ’tis a gala day with us,” says she, glancing down to the star

complacently, “and we have our orders on. Does not mamma look charming?

’Twas I dressed her!” Indeed, Esmond’s dear mistress, blushing as he

looked at her, with her beautiful fair hair and an elegant dress,

according to the _mode_, appeared to have the shape and complexion of a

girl of twenty.

On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, and a beautiful

chased silver handle, with a blue ribbon for a sword-knot. “What is this?”

says the captain, going up to look at this pretty piece.

Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. “Kneel down,” says she: “we dub you our

knight with this”—and she waved the sword over his head—“my lady dowager

hath given the sword; and I give the ribbon, and mamma hath sewn on the

fringe.”

“Put the sword on him, Beatrix,” says her mother. “You are our knight,

Harry—our true knight. Take a mother’s thanks and prayers for defending

her son, my dear, dear friend.” She could say no more, and even the

dowager was affected, for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks down

those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just been allowed to salute.

“We had a letter from dearest Frank,” his mother said, “three days since,

whilst you were on your visit to your friend Captain Steele, at Hampton.

He told us all that you had done, and how nobly you had put yourself

between him and that—that wretch.”

“And I adopt you from this day,” says the dowager; “and I wish I was

richer, for your sake, son Esmond,” she added, with a wave of her hand;

and as Mr. Esmond dutifully went down on his knee before her ladyship, she

cast her eyes up to the ceiling (the gilt chandelier, and the twelve wax

candles in it, for the party was numerous), and invoked a blessing from

that quarter upon the newly adopted son.

“Dear Frank,” says the other viscountess, “how fond he is of his military

profession! He is studying fortification very hard. I wish he were here.

We shall keep his coming of age at Castlewood next year.”

“If the campaign permit us,” says Mr. Esmond.

“I am never afraid when he is with you,” cries the boy’s mother. “I am

sure my Henry will always defend him.”

“But there will be a peace before next year; we know it for certain,”

cries the maid of honour. “Lord Marlborough will be dismissed, and that

horrible duchess turned out of all her places. Her Majesty won’t speak to

her now. Did you see her at Bushy, Harry? she is furious, and she ranges

about the park like a lioness, and tears people’s eyes out.”

“And the Princess Anne will send for somebody,” says my lady of Chelsea,

taking out her medal and kissing it.

“Did you see the king at Oudenarde, Harry?” his mistress asked. She was a

stanch Jacobite, and would no more have thought of denying her king than

her God.

“I saw the young Hanoverian only:” Harry said, “the Chevalier de St.

George——”

“The king, sir, the king!” said the ladies and Miss Beatrix; and she

clapped her pretty hands, and cried, “Vive le Roy!”

By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in the doors of the

house almost. It was three o’clock, and the company were arriving; and

presently the servant announced Captain Steele and his lady.

Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had driven to

Kensington from their country-house, the Hovel at Hampton Wick, “Not from

our mansion in Bloomsbury Square,” as Mrs. Steele took care to inform the

ladies. Indeed Harry had ridden away from Hampton that very morning,

leaving the couple by the ears; for from the chamber where he lay, in a

bed that was none of the cleanest, and kept awake by the company which he

had in his own bed, and the quarrel which was going on in the next room,

he could hear both night and morning the curtain lecture which Mrs. Steele

was in the habit of administering to poor Dick.

At night it did not matter so much for the culprit; Dick was fuddled, and

when in that way no scolding could interrupt his benevolence. Mr. Esmond

could hear him coaxing and speaking in that maudlin manner, which punch

and claret produce, to his beloved Prue, and beseeching her to remember

that there was a _distiwisht officer ithe nex roob_, who would overhear

her. She went on, nevertheless, calling him a drunken wretch, and was only

interrupted in her harangues by the captain’s snoring.

In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache and consciousness,

and the dialogue of the night was resumed. “Why do you bring captains home

to dinner when there’s not a guinea in the house? How am I to give dinners

when you leave me without a shilling? How am I to go trapesing to

Kensington in my yellow satin sack before all the fine company? I’ve

nothing fit to put on; I never have:” and so the dispute went on—Mr.

Esmond interrupting the talk when it seemed to be growing too intimate by

blowing his nose as loudly as ever he could, at the sound of which trumpet

there came a lull. But Dick was charming, though his wife was odious, and

’twas to give Mr. Steele pleasure, that the ladies of Castlewood, who were

ladies of no small fashion, invited Mrs. Steele.

Besides the captain and his lady, there was a great and notable assemblage

of company: my lady of Chelsea having sent her lackeys and liveries to aid

the modest attendance at Kensington. There was Lieutenant-General Webb,

Harry’s kind patron, of whom the dowager took possession, and who

resplended in velvet and gold lace; there was Harry’s new acquaintance,

the Right Honourable Henry St. John, Esquire, the general’s kinsman, who

was charmed with the Lady Castlewood, even more than with her daughter;

there was one of the greatest noblemen in the kingdom, the Scots Duke of

Hamilton, just created Duke of Brandon in England; and two other noble

lords of the Tory party, my Lord Ashburnham, and another I have forgot;

and for ladies, her grace the Duchess of Ormonde and her daughters, the

Lady Mary and the Lady Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix’s

colleagues in waiting on the queen.

“What a party of Tories!” whispered Captain Steele to Esmond, as we were

assembled in the parlour before dinner. Indeed, all the company present,

save Steele, were of that faction.

Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele, and so charmed

her that she declared she would have Steele a Tory too.

“Or will you have me a Whig?” says Mr. St. John. “I think, madam, you

could convert a man to anything.”

“If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will teach him what I

know,” says Mrs. Steele, dropping her handsome eyes. “Do you know

Bloomsbury Square?”

“Do I know the Mall? Do I know the Opera? Do I know the reigning toast?

Why, Bloomsbury is the very height of the mode,” says Mr. St. John. “’Tis

_rus in urbe_. You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and palaces

round about you—Southampton House and Montague House.”

“Where you wretches go and fight duels,” cries Mrs. Steele.

“Of which the ladies are the cause!” says her entertainer. “Madam, is Dick

a good swordsman? How charming the _Tatler_ is! We all recognized your

portrait in the 49th number, and I have been dying to know you ever since

I read it. ‘Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of the beauteous order

of love.’ Doth not the passage run so? ‘In this accomplished lady love is

the constant effect, though it is never the design; yet though her mien

carries much more invitation than command, to behold her is an immediate

check to loose behaviour, and to love her is a liberal education.’ ”

“Oh, indeed!” says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to understand a word of

what the gentleman was saying.

“Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?” says Mr. St.

John, still gallant and bowing.

“Mistress! upon my word, sir!” cries the lady. “If you mean me, sir, I

would have you know that I am the captain’s wife.”

“Sure we all know it,” answers Mr. St. John, keeping his countenance very

gravely; and Steele broke in, saying, “’Twas not about Mrs. Steele I writ

that paper—though I am sure she is worthy of any compliment I can pay

her—but of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings.”(14)

“I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet,” says Mr. St.

John. “Is it true that his hand is to be found in your _Tatler_, Mr.

Steele?”

“Whether ’tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near him,”

cries Steele.

“A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison!” cries out his lady: “a gentleman who

gives himself such airs and holds his head so high now. I hope your

ladyship thinks as I do: I can’t bear those very fair men with white

eyelashes—a black man for me.” (All the black men at table applauded, and

made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) “As for this Mr. Addison,”

she went on, “he comes to dine with the captain sometimes, never says a

word to me, and then they walk upstairs, both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I

remember your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his back, and that

with a patch at the elbow.”

“Indeed—a patch at the elbow! You interest me,” says Mr. St. John. “’Tis

charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife of another.”

“Law, I could tell you ever so much about ’em,” continues the voluble

lady. “What do you think the captain has got now?—a little hunchback

fellow—a little hop-o’-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet—a little

Popish brat!”

“Hush, there are two in the room,” whispers her companion.

“Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says the lady. “’Tis

only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote a pastoral

poem—all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.”

“A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress, laughing from

her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, “She did not know, but

the captain brought home this queer little creature when she was in bed

with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner; and Dick

raved about his _genus_, and was always raving about some nonsense or

other.”

“Which of the _Tatlers_ do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?” asked Mr. St. John.

“I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,” says the

lady. “Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it

all is! There’s the captain going on still with the burgundy—I know he’ll

be tipsy before he stops—Captain Steele!”

“I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the captain, who seemed to think his

wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric compliments which

Mr. St. John paid her.

All this while the maid of honour had been trying to get Mr. Esmond to

talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. For, by some mistake, just as

he was going to pop into the vacant place, he was placed far away from

Beatrix’s chair, who sat between his grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and

shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if to say, “Pity

me,” to her cousin. My lord duke and his young neighbour were presently in

a very animated and close conversation. Mrs. Beatrix could no more help

using her eyes than the sun can help shining, and setting those it shines

on a-burning. By the time the first course was done the dinner seemed long

to Esmond: by the time the soup came he fancied they must have been hours

at table: and as for the sweets and jellies he thought they never would be

done.

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance at her duke

as she retreated; a fresh bottle and glasses were fetched, and toasts were

called. Mr. St. John asked his grace the Duke of Hamilton and the company

to drink to the health of his grace the Duke of Brandon. Another lord gave

General Webb’s health, “and may he get the command the bravest officer in

the world deserves.” Mr. Webb thanked the company, complimented his aide

de camp, and fought his famous battle over again.

“_Il est fatiguant_,” whispers Mr. St. John, “_avec sa trompette de

Wynendael_.”

Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of the

Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age.

“I drink to the greatest general with all my heart,” says Mr. Webb; “there

can be no gainsaying that character of him. My glass goes to the general,

and not to the duke, Mr. Steele.” And the stout old gentleman emptied his

bumper; to which Dick replied by filling and emptying a pair of brimmers,

one for the general and one for the duke.

And now his grace of Hamilton, rising up, with flashing eyes (we had all

been drinking pretty freely), proposed a toast to the lovely, to the

incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond; we all drank it with cheers, and my Lord

Ashburnham especially, with a shout of enthusiasm.

“What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton,” whispers St. John, who drank

more wine and yet was more steady than most of the others, and we entered

the drawing-room where the ladies were at their tea. As for poor Dick, we

were obliged to leave him alone at the dining-table, where he was

hiccupping out the lines from the _Campaign_, in which the greatest poet

had celebrated the greatest general in the world; and Harry Esmond found

him, half an hour afterwards, in a more advanced stage of liquor, and

weeping about the treachery of Tom Boxer.

The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of the grand

illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When my lord duke went away,

she practised upon the next in rank, and plied my young Lord Ashburnham

with all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit. Most of the

party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after yawning in the face of

Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more, and talking in his

most brilliant animated way to Lady Castlewood, whom he pronounced to be

beautiful, of a far higher order of beauty than her daughter, presently

took his leave, and went his way. The rest of the company speedily

followed, my Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery glances at the

smiling young temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his in her

thrall.

No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be the last

of all in it; he remained after the coaches had rolled away—after his

dowager aunt’s chair and flambeaux had marched off in the darkness towards

Chelsea, and the town’s-people had gone to bed, who had been drawn into

the square to gape at the unusual assemblage of chairs and chariots,

lackeys and torchmen. The poor mean wretch lingered yet for a few minutes,

to see whether the girl would vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of

consolation. But her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or she

chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking about the dowdy

appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele; and

then she put up her little hand to her mouth and yawned, lighted a taper,

and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping Mr. Esmond a saucy curtsy, sailed

off to bed.

“The day began so well, Henry, that I had hoped it might have ended

better,” was all the consolation that poor Esmond’s fond mistress could

give him; and as he trudged home through the dark alone, he thought, with

bitter rage in his heart, and a feeling of almost revolt against the

sacrifice he had made:—“She would have me,” thought he, “had I but a name

to give her. But for my promise to her father, I might have my rank and my

mistress too.”

I suppose a man’s vanity is stronger than any other passion in him; for I

blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of those distant days, the

memory of which still smarts, though the fever of baulked desire has

passed away more than a score of years ago. When the writer’s descendants

come to read this memoir, I wonder will they have lived to experience a

similar defeat and shame? Will they ever have knelt to a woman, who has

listened to them, and played with them, and laughed at them—who beckoning

them with lures and caresses, and with Yes, smiling from her eyes, has

tricked them on to their knees, and turned her back and left them? All

this shame Mr. Esmond had to undergo; and he submitted, and revolted, and

presently came crouching back for more.

After this _feste_, my young Lord Ashburnham’s coach was for ever rolling

in and out of Kensington Square; his lady-mother came to visit Esmond’s

mistress, and at every assembly in the town, wherever the maid of honour

made her appearance, you might be pretty sure to see the young gentleman

in a new suit every week, and decked out in all the finery that his tailor

or embroiderer could furnish for him. My lord was for ever paying Mr.

Esmond compliments, bidding him to dinner, offering him horses to ride,

and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and goodwill. At last,

one night at the coffee-house, whither my lord came considerably flushed

and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, and cries out—“Give me

joy, my dearest colonel; I am the happiest of men.”

“The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him joy,” says Mr.

Esmond. “What is the cause of this supreme felicity?”

“Haven’t you heard?” says he. “Don’t you know? I thought the family told

you everything: the adorable Beatrix hath promised to be mine.”

“What!” cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy hours with Beatrix that

very morning—had writ verses for her, that she had sung at the

harpsichord.

“Yes,” says he; “I waited on her to-day. I saw you walking towards

Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach; and she looked so lovely, and spoke

so kind, that I couldn’t help going down on my knees, and—and—sure I’m the

happiest of men in all the world; and I’m very young; but she says I shall

get older: and you know I shall be of age in four months; and there’s very

little difference between us; and I’m so happy. I should like to treat the

company to something. Let us have a bottle—a dozen bottles—and drink the

health of the finest woman in England.”

-------------------------------------

Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after bumper, and strolled

away to Kensington to ask whether the news was true. ’Twas only too sure:

his mistress’s sad, compassionate face told him the story; and then she

related what particulars of it she knew, and how my young lord had made

his offer, half an hour after Esmond went away that morning, and in the

very room where the song lay yet on the harpsichord, which Esmond had

writ, and they had sung together.

Book III. Containing The End Of Mr. Esmond’s Adventures In England

Chapter I. I Come To An End Of My Battles And Bruises

That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which Esmond had had,

left him now perhaps that he had attained some portion of his wish, and

the great motive of his ambition was over. His desire for military honour

was that it might raise him in Beatrix’s eyes. ’Twas next to nobility and

wealth the only kind of rank she valued. It was the stake quickest won or

lost too; for law is a very long game that requires a life to practise;

and to be distinguished in letters or the Church would not have forwarded

the poor gentleman’s plans in the least. So he had no suit to play but the

red one, and he played it; and this, in truth, was the reason of his

speedy promotion; for he exposed himself more than most gentlemen do, and

risked more to win more. Is he the only man that hath set his life against

a stake which may be not worth the winning? Another risks his life (and

his honour, too, sometimes) against a bundle of bank-notes, or a yard of

blue ribbon, or a seat in Parliament; and some for the mere pleasure and

excitement of the sport; as a field of a hundred huntsmen will do, each

out-bawling and out-galloping the other at the tail of a dirty fox, that

is to be the prize of the foremost happy conqueror.

When he heard this news of Beatrix’s engagement in marriage, Colonel

Esmond knocked under to his fate, and resolved to surrender his sword,

that could win him nothing now he cared for; and in this dismal frame of

mind he determined to retire from the regiment, to the great delight of

the captain next in rank to him, who happened to be a young gentleman of

good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr. Esmond a thousand guineas for his

majority in Webb’s regiment, and was knocked on the head the next

campaign. Perhaps Esmond would not have been sorry to share his fate. He

was more the Knight of the Woful Countenance than ever he had been. His

moodiness must have made him perfectly odious to his friends under the

tents, who like a jolly fellow, and laugh at a melancholy warrior always

sighing after Dulcinea at home.

Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond quitting the army,

and his kind general coincided in his wish of retirement, and helped in

the transfer of his commission, which brought a pretty sum into his

pocket. But when the commander-in-chief came home, and was forced, in

spite of himself, to appoint Lieutenant-General Webb to the command of a

division of the army in Flanders, the lieutenant-general prayed Colonel

Esmond so urgently to be his aide de camp and military secretary, that

Esmond could not resist his kind patron’s entreaties, and again took the

field, not attached to any regiment, but under Webb’s orders. What must

have been the continued agonies of fears(15) 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 she endured silently, and with what a faithful reliance she

committed the care of those she loved to the awful Dispenser of death and

life.

As for her ladyship at Chelsea, Esmond’s newly-adopted mother, she was now

of an age when the danger of any second party doth not disturb the rest

much. She cared for trumps more than for most things in life. She was firm

enough in her own faith, but no longer very bitter against ours. She had a

very good-natured, easy French director, Monsieur Gauthier by name, who

was a gentleman of the world, and would take a hand of cards with Dean

Atterbury, my lady’s neighbour at Chelsea, and was well with all the High

Church party. No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew what Esmond’s peculiar

position was, for he corresponded with Holt, and always treated Colonel

Esmond with particular respect and kindness; but for good reasons the

colonel and the abbé never spoke on this matter together, and so they

remained perfect good friends.

All the frequenters of my lady of Chelsea’s house were of the Tory and

High Church party. Madame Beatrix was as frantic about the king as her

elderly kinswoman: she wore his picture on her heart; she had a piece of

his hair; she vowed he was the most injured, and gallant, and

accomplished, and unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele, who

quarrelled with very many of his Tory friends, but never with Esmond, used

to tell the colonel that his kinswoman’s house was a rendezvous of Tory

intrigues; that Gauthier was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy; that letters

were constantly going from that house to the queen at St. Germains; on

which Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to say in the army the

Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in correspondence with that

family as any Jesuit. And without entering very eagerly into the

controversy, Esmond had frankly taken the side of his family. It seemed to

him that King James the Third was undoubtedly King of England by right:

and at his sister’s death it would be better to have him than a foreigner

over us. No man admired King William more; a hero and a conqueror, the

bravest, justest, wisest of men—but ’twas by the sword he conquered the

country, and held and governed it by the very same right that the great

Cromwell held it, who was truly and greatly a sovereign. But that a

foreign despotic prince, out of Germany, who happened to be descended from

King James the First, should take possession of this empire, seemed to Mr.

Esmond a monstrous injustice—at least, every Englishman had a right to

protest, and the English prince, the heir-at-law, the first of all. What

man of spirit with such a cause would not back it? What man of honour with

such a crown to win would not fight for it? But that race was destined.

That prince had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome. He

never dared to draw his sword, though he had it. He let his chances slip

by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, or snivelled at the knees of

priests asking pardon; and the blood of heroes, and the devotedness of

honest hearts, and endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in

vain.

But let us return to my lady of Chelsea, who, when her son Esmond

announced to her ladyship that he proposed to make the ensuing campaign,

took leave of him with perfect alacrity, and was down to piquet with her

gentlewoman before he had well quitted the room on his last visit. “Tierce

to a king,” were the last words he ever heard her say: the game of life

was pretty nearly over for the good lady, and three months afterwards she

took to her bed, where she flickered out without any pain, so the Abbé

Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then with his general on the frontier

of France. The Lady Castlewood was with her at her ending, and had written

too, but these letters must have been taken by a privateer in the packet

that brought them; for Esmond knew nothing of their contents until his

return to England.

My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, “as a reparation

for the wrong done to him”; ’twas writ in her will. But her fortune was

not much, for it never had been large, and the honest viscountess had

wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity which terminated

with her life. However, there was the house and furniture, plate and

pictures at Chelsea, and a sum of money lying at her merchant’s, Sir

Josiah Child, which altogether would realize a sum of near three hundred

pounds per annum, so that Mr. Esmond found himself, if not rich, at least

easy for life. Likewise, there were the famous diamonds which had been

said to be worth fabulous sums, though the goldsmith pronounced they would

fetch no more than four thousand pounds. These diamonds, however, Colonel

Esmond reserved, having a special use for them: but the Chelsea house,

plate, goods, &c., with the exception of a few articles which he kept

back, were sold by his orders; and the sums resulting from the sale

invested in the public securities so as to realize the aforesaid annual

income of three hundred pounds.

Having now something to leave, he made a will, and dispatched it home. The

army was now in presence of the enemy; and a great battle expected every

day. ’Twas known that the general-in-chief was in disgrace, and the

parties at home strong against him; and there was no stroke this great and

resolute player would not venture to recall his fortune when it seemed

desperate. Frank Castlewood was with Colonel Esmond; his general having

gladly taken the young nobleman on to his staff. His studies of

fortifications at Bruxelles were over by this time. The fort he was

besieging had yielded, I believe, and my lord had not only marched in with

flying colours, but marched out again. He used to tell his boyish

wickednesses with admirable humour, and was the most charming young

scapegrace in the army.

’Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every penny of his

little fortune to this boy. It was the colonel’s firm conviction that the

next battle would put an end to him: for he felt aweary of the sun, and

quite ready to bid that and the earth farewell. Frank would not listen to

his comrade’s gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep his birthday

at Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign. He had heard of the

engagement at home. “If Prince Eugene goes to London,” says Frank, “and

Trix can get hold of him, she’ll jilt Ashburnham for his highness. I tell

you, she used to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough, when she was only

fourteen and ogling poor little Blandford. _I_ wouldn’t marry her, Harry,

no not if her eyes were twice as big. I’ll take my fun. I’ll enjoy for the

next three years every possible pleasure. I’ll sow my wild oats then, and

marry some quiet, steady, modest, sensible viscountess; hunt my harriers;

and settle down at Castlewood. Perhaps I’ll represent the county—no,

damme, _you_ shall represent the county. You have the brains of the

family. By the Lord, my dear old Harry, you have the best head and the

kindest heart in all the army; and every man says so—and when the queen

dies, and the king comes back, why shouldn’t you go to the House of

Commons and be a minister, and be made a peer, and that sort of thing?

_You_ be shot in the next action! I wager a dozen of burgundy you are not

touched. Mohun is well of his wound. He is always with Corporal John now.

As soon as ever I see his ugly face I’ll spit in it. I took lessons of

Father—of Captain Holtz at Bruxelles. What a man that is! He knows

everything.” Esmond bade Frank have a care; that Father Holt’s knowledge

was rather dangerous; not, indeed, knowing as yet how far the father had

pushed his instructions with his young pupil.

The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English side, have

given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of Blarignies or

Malplaquet, which was the last and the hardest-earned of the victories of

the great Duke of Marlborough. In that tremendous combat, near upon two

hundred and fifty thousand men were engaged, more than thirty thousand of

whom were slain or wounded (the Allies lost twice as many men as they

killed of the French, whom they conquered): and this dreadful slaughter

very likely took place because a great general’s credit was shaken at

home, and he thought to restore it by a victory. If such were the motives

which induced the Duke of Marlborough to venture that prodigious stake,

and desperately sacrifice thirty thousand brave lives, so that he might

figure once more in a _Gazette_, and hold his places and pensions a little

longer, the event defeated the dreadful and selfish design, for the

victory was purchased at a cost which no nation, greedy of glory as it may

be, would willingly pay for any triumph. The gallantry of the French was

as remarkable as the furious bravery of their assailants. We took a few

score of their flags, and a few pieces of their artillery; but we left

twenty thousand of the bravest soldiers of the world round about the

entrenched lines, from which the enemy was driven. He retreated in perfect

good order; the panic-spell seemed to be broke, under which the French had

laboured ever since the disaster of Hochstedt; and, fighting now on the

threshold of their country, they showed an heroic ardour of resistance,

such as had never met us in the course of their aggressive war. Had the

battle been more successful, the conqueror might have got the price for

which he waged it. As it was (and justly, I think), the party adverse to

the duke in England were indignant at the lavish extravagance of

slaughter, and demanded more eagerly than ever the recall of a chief,

whose cupidity and desperation might urge him further still. After this

bloody fight of Malplaquet, I can answer for it, that in the Dutch

quarters and our own, and amongst the very regiments and commanders, whose

gallantry was most conspicuous upon this frightful day of carnage, the

general cry was, that there was enough of the war. The French were driven

back into their own boundary, and all their conquests and booty of

Flanders disgorged. As for the Prince of Savoy, with whom our

commander-in-chief, for reasons of his own, consorted more closely than

ever, ’twas known that he was animated not merely by a political hatred,

but by personal rage against the old French king: the Imperial

Generalissimo never forgot the slight put by Lewis upon the Abbé de

Savoie; and in the humiliation or ruin of his most Christian Majesty, the

Holy Roman Emperor found his account. But what were these quarrels to us,

the free citizens of England and Holland? Despot as he was, the French

monarch was yet the chief of European civilization, more venerable in his

age and misfortunes than at the period of his most splendid successes;

whilst his opponent was but a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging

murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing a half of his army,

filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded like the miscreant

Turks their neighbours, and carrying into Christian warfare their native

heathen habits of rapine, lust, and murder. Why should the best blood in

England and France be shed in order that the Holy Roman and Apostolic

master of these ruffians should have his revenge over the Christian king?

And it was to this end we were fighting; for this that every village and

family in England was deploring the death of beloved sons and fathers. We

dared not speak to each other, even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful

were the gaps left in our army by the cannon of that bloody action. ’Twas

heartrending, for an officer who had a heart, to look down his line on a

parade-day afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of comrades—humble or of

high rank—that had gathered but yesterday full of courage and cheerfulness

round the torn and blackened flags. Where were our friends? As the great

duke reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing

aides de camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank an officer

with those eager smiles and bows of which his grace was always lavish,

scarce a huzzah could be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode

up and cried—“D—n you, why don’t you cheer?” But the men had no heart for

that: not one of them but was thinking, “Where’s my comrade?—where’s my

brother that fought by me, or my dear captain that led me yesterday?”

’Twas the most gloomy pageant I ever looked on; and the _Te Deum_, sung by

our chaplains, the most woful and dreary satire.

Esmond’s general added one more to the many marks of honour which he had

received in the front of a score of battles, and got a wound in the groin,

which laid him on his back; and you may be sure he consoled himself by

abusing the commander-in-chief, as he lay groaning:—“Corporal John’s as

fond of me,” he used to say, “as King David was of General Uriah; and so

he always gives me the post of danger.” He persisted, to his dying day, in

believing that the duke intended he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent

him purposely with a small force, hoping that he might be knocked on the

head there. Esmond and Frank Castlewood both escaped without hurt, though

the division which our general commanded suffered even more than any

other, having to sustain not only the fury of the enemy’s cannonade, which

was very hot and well-served, but the furious and repeated charges of the

famous Maison-du-Roy, which we had to receive and beat off again and

again, with volleys of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of

musketeers and pikemen. They said the King of England charged us no less

than twelve times that day, along with the French Household. Esmond’s late

regiment, General Webb’s own Fusiliers, served in the division which their

colonel commanded. The general was thrice in the centre of the square of

the Fusiliers, calling the fire at the French charges; and, after the

action, his grace the Duke of Berwick sent his compliments to his old

regiment and their colonel for their behaviour on the field.

We drank my Lord Castlewood’s health and majority, the 25th of September,

the army being then before Mons: and here Colonel Esmond was not so

fortunate as he had been in actions much more dangerous, and was hit by a

spent ball just above the place where his former wound was, which caused

the old wound to open again, fever, spitting of blood, and other ugly

symptoms, to ensue; and, in a word, brought him near to death’s door. The

kind lad, his kinsman, attended his elder comrade with a very praiseworthy

affectionateness and care until he was pronounced out of danger by the

doctors, when Frank went off, passed the winter at Bruxelles, and

besieged, no doubt, some other fortress there. Very few lads would have

given up their pleasures so long and so gaily as Frank did; his cheerful

prattle soothed many long days of Esmond’s pain and languor. Frank was

supposed to be still at his kinsman’s bedside for a month after he had

left it, for letters came from his mother at home full of thanks to the

younger gentleman for his care of his elder brother (so it pleased

Esmond’s mistress now affectionately to style him); nor was Mr. Esmond in

a hurry to undeceive her, when the good young fellow was gone for his

Christmas holiday. It was as pleasant to Esmond on his couch to watch the

young man’s pleasure at the idea of being free, as to note his simple

efforts to disguise his satisfaction on going away. There are days when a

flask of champagne at a cabaret, and a red-cheeked partner to share it,

are too strong temptations for any young fellow of spirit. I am not going

to play the moralist, and cry “Fie!” For ages past, I know how old men

preach, and what young men practise; and that patriarchs have had their

weak moments, too, long since Father Noah toppled over after discovering

the vine. Frank went off, then, to his pleasures at Bruxelles, in which

capital many young fellows of our army declared they found infinitely

greater diversion even than in London: and Mr. Henry Esmond remained in

his sick-room, where he writ a fine comedy, that his mistress pronounced

to be sublime, and that was acted no less than three successive nights in

London in the next year.

Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holtz reappeared, and

stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not only won over Colonel Esmond

to the king’s side in politics (that side being always held by the Esmond

family); but where he endeavoured to reopen the controversial question

between the Churches once more, and to recall Esmond to that religion in

which, in his infancy, he had been baptized. Holtz was a casuist, both

dexterous and learned, and presented the case between the English Church

and his own in such a way that those who granted his premisses ought

certainly to allow his conclusions. He touched on Esmond’s delicate state

of health, chance of dissolution, and so forth; and enlarged upon the

immense benefits that the sick man was likely to forgo—benefits which the

Church of England did not deny to those of the Roman communion, as how

should she, being derived from that Church, and only an offshoot from it.

But Mr. Esmond said that his Church was the church of his country, and to

that he chose to remain faithful: other people were welcome to worship and

to subscribe any other set of articles, whether at Rome or at Augsburg.

But if the good father meant that Esmond should join the Roman communion

for fear of consequences, and that all England ran the risk of being

damned for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to take his

chance of the penalty along with the countless millions of his fellow

countrymen, who were bred in the same faith, and along with some of the

noblest, the truest, the purest, the wisest, the most pious and learned

men and women in the world.

As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could agree with the

father much more readily, and had come to the same conclusion, though,

perhaps, by a different way. The right-divine, about which Dr. Sacheverel

and the High Church party in England were just now making a bother, they

were welcome to hold as they chose. If Henry Cromwell and his father

before him, had been crowned and anointed (and bishops enough would have

been found to do it), it seemed to Mr. Esmond that they would have had the

right-divine just as much as any Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. But the

desire of the country being unquestionably for an hereditary monarchy,

Esmond thought an English king out of St. Germains was better and fitter

than a German prince from Herrenhausen, and that if he failed to satisfy

the nation, some other Englishman might be found to take his place; and

so, though with no frantic enthusiasm, or worship of that monstrous

pedigree which the Tories chose to consider divine, he was ready to say,

“God save King James!” when Queen Anne went the way of kings and

commoners.

“I fear, colonel, you are no better than a republican at heart,” says the

priest, with a sigh.

“I am an Englishman,” says Harry, “and take my country as I find her. The

will of the nation being for Church and King, I am for Church and King,

too; but English Church, and English King; and that is why your Church

isn’t mine, though your king is.”

Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French who were elated

by that action, whilst the conquerors were dispirited by it; and the enemy

gathered together a larger army than ever, and made prodigious efforts for

the next campaign. Marshal Berwick was with the French this year; and we

heard that Mareschal Villars was still suffering of his wound, was eager

to bring our duke to action, and vowed he would fight us in his coach.

Young Castlewood came flying back from Bruxelles, as soon as he heard that

righting was to begin; and the arrival of the Chevalier de St. George was

announced about May. “It’s the king’s third campaign, and it’s mine,”

Frank liked saying. He was come back a greater Jacobite than ever, and

Esmond suspected that some fair conspirators at Bruxelles had been

inflaming the young man’s ardour. Indeed, he owned that he had a message

from the queen, Beatrix’s godmother, who had given her name to Frank’s

sister the year before he and his sovereign were born.

However desirous Marshal Villars might be to fight, my lord duke did not

seem disposed to indulge him this campaign. Last year his grace had been

all for the Whigs and Hanoverians; but finding, on going to England, his

country cold towards himself, and the people in a ferment of High-Church

loyalty, the duke comes back to his army cooled towards the Hanoverians,

cautious with the Imperialists, and particularly civil and polite towards

the Chevalier de St. George. ’Tis certain that messengers and letters were

continually passing between his grace and his brave nephew, the Duke of

Berwick, in the opposite camp. No man’s caresses were more opportune than

his grace’s, and no man ever uttered expressions of regard and affection

more generously. He professed to Monsieur de Torcy, so Mr. St. John told

the writer, quite an eagerness to be cut in pieces for the exiled queen

and her family; nay more, I believe, this year he parted with a portion of

the most precious part of himself—his money—which he sent over to the

royal exiles. Mr. Tunstal, who was in the prince’s service, was twice or

thrice in and out of our camp; the French, in theirs of Arlieu and about

Arras. A little river, the Canihe, I think ’twas called (but this is writ

away from books and Europe; and the only map the writer hath of these

scenes of his youth, bears no mark of this little stream), divided our

pickets from the enemy’s. Our sentries talked across the stream, when they

could make themselves understood to each other, and when they could not,

grinned, and handed each other their brandy-flasks or their pouches of

tobacco. And one fine day of June, riding thither with the officer who

visited the outposts (Colonel Esmond was taking an airing on horseback,

being too weak for military duty), they came to this river, where a number

of English and Scots were assembled, talking to the good-natured enemy on

the other side.

Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long fellow, with a

great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, that was half a dozen inches

taller than his swarthy little comrades on the French side of the stream,

and being asked by the colonel, saluted him, and said that he belonged to

the Royal Cravats.

From his way of saying “Royal Cravat”, Esmond at once knew that the

fellow’s tongue had first wagged on the banks of the Liffey, and not the

Loire; and the poor soldier—a deserter probably—did not like to venture

very deep into French conversation, lest his unlucky brogue should peep

out. He chose to restrict himself to such few expressions in the French

language as he thought he had mastered easily; and his attempt at disguise

was infinitely amusing. Mr. Esmond whistled “Lillibullero,” at which

Teague’s eyes began to twinkle, and then flung him a dollar, when the poor

boy broke out with a “God bless—that is, _Dieu bénisse votre honor_”, that

would infallibly have sent him to the provost-marshal had he been on our

side of the river.

Whilst this parley was going on, three officers on horseback, on the

French side, appeared at some little distance, and stopped as if eyeing

us, when one of them left the other two, and rode close up to us who were

by the stream. “Look, look!” says the Royal Cravat, with great agitation,

“_pas lui_, that’s he; not him, _l’autre_,” and pointed to the distant

officer on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun, and over

it a broad blue ribbon.

“Please to take Mr. Hamilton’s services to my Lord Marlborough—my lord

duke,” says the gentleman in English; and, looking to see that the party

were not hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile, “There’s a friend of

yours, gentlemen, yonder; he bids me to say that he saw some of your faces

on the 11th of September last year.”

As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and came quite

close. We knew at once who it was. It was the king, then two-and-twenty

years old, tall and slim, with deep brown eyes, that looked melancholy,

though his lips wore a smile. We took off our hats and saluted him. No

man, sure, could see for the first time, without emotion, the youthful

inheritor of so much fame and misfortune. It seemed to Mr. Esmond that the

prince was not unlike young Castlewood, whose age and figure he resembled.

The Chevalier de St. George acknowledged the salute, and looked at us

hard. Even the idlers on our side of the river set up a hurrah. As for the

Royal Cravat, he ran to the prince’s stirrup, knelt down and kissed his

boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejaculations and blessings. The

prince bade the aide de camp give him a piece of money; and when the party

saluting us had ridden away, Cravat spat upon the piece of gold by way of

benediction, and swaggered away, pouching his coin and twirling his honest

carroty moustache.

The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same little captain of

Handyside’s regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had proposed the garden at Lille,

when my Lord Mohun and Esmond had their affair, was an Irishman too, and

as brave a little soul as ever wore a sword. “Bedad,” says Roger Sterne,

“that long fellow spoke French so beautiful that I shouldn’t have known he

wasn’t a foreigner, till he broke out with his hulla-balloing, and only an

Irish calf can bellow like that.”—And Roger made another remark in his

wild way, in which there was sense as well as absurdity—“If that young

gentleman,” says he, “would but ride over to our camp instead of

Villars’s, toss up his hat and say, ‘Here am I, the king, who’ll follow

me?’ by the Lord, Esmond, the whole army would rise and carry him home

again, and beat Villars, and take Paris by the way.”

The news of the prince’s visit was all through the camp quickly, and

scores of ours went down in hopes to see him. Major Hamilton, whom we had

talked with, sent back by a trumpet several silver pieces for officers

with us. Mr. Esmond received one of these: and that medal, and a

recompense not uncommon amongst princes, were the only rewards he ever had

from a royal person, whom he endeavoured not very long after to serve.

Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, following his

general home; and, indeed, being advised to travel in the fine weather and

attempt to take no further part in the campaign. But he heard from the

army, that of the many who crowded to see the Chevalier de St. George,

Frank Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous: my lord viscount

riding across the little stream bareheaded to where the prince was, and

dismounting and kneeling before him to do him homage. Some said that the

prince had actually knighted him, but my lord denied that statement,

though he acknowledged the rest of the story, and said:—“From having been

out of favour with Corporal John,” as he called the duke, before, his

grace warned him not to commit those follies, and smiled on him cordially

ever after.

“And he was so kind to me,” Frank writ, “that I thought I would put in a

good word for Master Harry, but when I mentioned your name he looked as

black as thunder, and said he had never heard of you.”

Chapter II. I Go Home, And Harp On The Old String

After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a packet at

Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman Castlewood at

Bruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof Frank besought him to be the

bearer to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety.

The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being anxious to

sow his “wild otes”, as he wrote, had married Mademoiselle de Wertheim,

daughter of Count de Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having a

post in the Household of the Governor of the Netherlands.

PS. (the young gentleman wrote): Clotilda is _older than me_,

which perhaps may be objected to her: but I am so _old a raik_

that the age makes no difference, and I am _determined_ to reform.

We were married at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart and

soul for the _good cause_. And here the cry is _Vif-le-Roy_, which

my mother will _join in_, and Trix _too_. Break this news to ’em

gently: and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the people for

their rents, and send me the _ryno_ anyhow. Clotilda sings, and

plays on the Spinet _beautifully_. She is a fair beauty. And if

it’s a son, you shall stand _Godfather_. I’m going to leave the

army, having had _enuf of soldering_; and my lord duke

_recommends_ me. I shall pass the winter here: and stop at least

until Clo’s lying-in. I call her _old Clo_, but nobody else shall.

She is the cleverest woman in all Bruxelles: understanding

painting, music, poetry, and perfect at _cookery and puddens_. I

borded with the count, that’s how I came to know her. There are

four counts her brothers. One an abbey—three with the prince’s

army. They have a lawsuit for _an immense fortune_: but are now in

a _pore way_. Break this to mother, who’ll take anything from

_you_. And write, and bid Finch write _amediately_. Hostel de

’l’Aigle Noire, Bruxelles, Flanders.

So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was expected, and

Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his mistress at London. ’Twas

a difficult embassy; and the colonel felt not a little tremor as he neared

the capital.

He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to announce

his arrival and visit the next morning. The messenger brought back news

that the Court was at Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged in

her duties there. Only Esmond’s mistress remained in her house at

Kensington. She appeared in Court but once in the year; Beatrix was quite

the mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the company

thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure. Whilst

her mother, acting as the young lady’s protectress and elder sister,

pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded.

As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been awake long before the

town), he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so early that he met

his dear mistress coming home from morning prayers. She carried her

Prayer-book, never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else did:

and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupation had been.

He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out as she looked towards

him. She wore her hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when she saw

him. To feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed to give him

strength. They soon were at the door of her ladyship’s house—and within

it.

With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.

“How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry,” she said.

’Tis certain the colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts do not

look very happy, ’tis said. Esmond always felt so on returning to her

after absence, indeed whenever he looked in her sweet kind face.

“I am come back to be nursed by my family,” says he. “If Frank had not

taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone

altogether.”

“Poor Frank, good Frank!” says his mother. “You’ll always be kind to him,

my lord,” she went on. “The poor child never knew he was doing you a

wrong.”

“My lord!” cries out Colonel Esmond. “What do you mean, dear lady?”

“I am no lady,” says she; “I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond’s widow, my

lord. I cannot bear that title. Would we never had taken it from him who

has it now. But we did all in our power, Henry: we did all in our power;

and my lord and I—that is——”

“Who told you this tale, dearest lady?” asked the colonel.

“Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at Mons directly I

heard it,” says Lady Esmond.

“And from whom?” again asked Colonel Esmond—and his mistress then told him

that on her death-bed the dowager countess, sending for her, had presented

her with this dismal secret as a legacy. “’Twas very malicious of the

dowager,” Lady Esmond said, “to have had it so long, and to have kept the

truth from me. ‘Cousin Rachel,’ she said,” and Esmond’s mistress could not

forbear smiling as she told the story, “ ‘cousin Rachel,’ cries the

dowager, ‘I have sent for you, as the doctors say I may go off any day in

this dysentery; and to ease my conscience of a great load that has been on

it. You always have been a poor creature and unfit for great honour, and

what I have to say won’t, therefore, affect you so much. You must know,

cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, plate, and furniture, three

thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds that my late revered saint and

sovereign, King James, presented me with, to my Lord Viscount Castlewood.’

“ ‘To my Frank?’ ” says Lady Castlewood: “ ‘I was in hopes——

“ ‘To Viscount Castlewood, my dear, Viscount Castlewood, and Baron Esmond

of Shandon in the kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of Esmond under

patent of his Majesty King James the Second, conferred upon my husband the

late marquis—for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and man.’

“ ‘And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear marchioness?’ ” asks Lady

Castlewood (she hath told me the story completely since with her quiet

arch way; the most charming any woman ever had: and I set down the

narrative here at length so as to have done with it). “ ‘And have you left

poor Harry nothing?’ ” asks my dear lady: “for you know, Henry,” she says

with her sweet smile, “I used always to pity Esau—and I think I am on his

side—though papa tried very hard to convince me the other way.

“ ‘Poor Harry!’ says the old lady. ‘So you want something left to poor

Harry: he, he! (reach me the drops, cousin). Well then, my dear, since you

want poor Harry to have a fortune: you must understand that ever since the

year 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where the Prince of

Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father, for which crime he is now

suffering in flames (ugh, ugh), Henry Esmond hath been Marquis of Esmond

and Earl of Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and Baron and Viscount

Castlewood of Shandon in Ireland, and a baronet—and his eldest son will

be, by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood—he! he! What do you think of

that, my dear?’

“ ‘Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?’ ” cries the other lady

(thinking perhaps that the old marchioness was wandering in her wits).

“ ‘My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch,’ ” the sick

sinner continued. “ ‘When he was in the Low Countries he seduced a

weaver’s daughter; and added to his wickedness by marrying her. And then

he came to this country and married me—a poor girl—a poor innocent young

thing—I say,’ though she was past forty, you know, Harry, when she

married: and as for being innocent—‘Well,’ she went on, ‘I knew nothing of

my lord’s wickedness for three years after our marriage, and after the

burial of our poor little boy I had it done over again, my dear. I had

myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon as ever I

heard the creature was dead—and having a great illness then, arising from

another sad disappointment I had, the priest came and told me that my lord

had a son before our marriage, and that the child was at nurse in England;

and I consented to let the brat be brought home, and a queer little

melancholy child it was when it came.

“ ‘Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he was bred for this,

until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman. And I had again hopes

of giving an heir to my lord, when he was called away upon the king’s

business, and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne Water.

“ ‘Should I be disappointed—I owed your husband no love, my dear, for he

had jilted me in the most scandalous way; and I thought there would be

time to declare the little weaver’s son for the true heir. But I was

carried off to prison, where your husband was so kind to me—urging all his

friends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favour—that I

relented towards him, especially as my director counselled me to be

silent; and that it was for the good of the king’s service that the title

of our family should continue with your husband the late viscount, whereby

his fidelity would be always secured to the king. And a proof of this is,

that a year before your husband’s death, when he thought of taking a place

under the Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what the

state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large sum for his

Majesty: and engaged him in the true cause so heartily, that we were sure

of his support on any day when it should be considered advisable to attack

the usurper. Then his sudden death came; and there was a thought of

declaring the truth. But ’twas determined to be best for the king’s

service to let the title still go with the younger branch; and there’s no

sacrifice a Castlewood wouldn’t make for that cause, my dear.

“ ‘As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already’ (and then, Harry,” my

mistress said, “she told me of what had happened at my dear husband’s

death-bed). ‘He doth not intend to take the title, though it belongs to

him. But it eases my conscience that you should know the truth, my dear.

And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood so long as his cousin doth

not claim the rank.’ ”

This was the substance of the dowager’s revelation. Dean Atterbury had

knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well knows how:

that divine being the clergyman for whom the late lord had sent on his

death-bed: and when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written to her

son, and conveyed the truth to him, the dean’s advice was that a letter

should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather; that the matter should be

submitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of the family were

bound to abide.

“And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?” says the colonel.

“It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house.”

“It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord’s bedside,” says

Colonel Esmond. “The children must know nothing of this. Frank and his

heirs after him must bear our name. ’Tis his rightfully; I have not even a

proof of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor lord, on

his death-bed, told me that Father Holt had brought such a proof to

Castlewood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and looked at my

poor mother’s grave in her convent. What matter to her now? No court of

law on earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my lord viscount and set me

up. I am the head of the house, dear lady; but Frank is Viscount of

Castlewood still. And rather than disturb him, I would turn monk, or

disappear in America.”

As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would have been

willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice any day, the fond

creature flung herself down on her knees before him, and kissed both his

hands in an outbreak of passionate love and gratitude, such as could not

but melt his heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that God had

given him the power to show his love for her, and to prove it by some

little sacrifice on his own part. To be able to bestow benefits or

happiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred upon

a man—and what wealth or name, or gratification of ambition or vanity,

could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being able to confer

some kindness upon his best and dearest friends?

“Dearest saint,” says he—“purest soul, that has had so much to suffer,

that has blest the poor lonely orphan with such a treasure of love. ’Tis

for me to kneel, not for you: ’tis for me to be thankful that I can make

you happy. Hath my life any other aim? Blessed be God that I can serve

you! What pleasure, think you, could all the world give me compared to

that?”

“Don’t raise me,” she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who would have

lifted her. “Let me kneel—let me kneel, and—and—worship you.”

-------------------------------------

Before such a partial judge, as Esmond’s dear mistress owned herself to

be, any cause which he might plead was sure to be given in his favour; and

accordingly he found little difficulty in reconciling her to the news

whereof he was bearer, of her son’s marriage to a foreign lady, Papist

though she was. Lady Castlewood never could be brought to think so ill of

that religion as other people in England thought of it: she held that ours

was undoubtedly a branch of the Church Catholic, but that the Roman was

one of the main stems on which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted

(she was, for a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this controversy,

having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late dean, and

written many of his sermons, under his dictation); and if Frank had chosen

to marry a lady of the Church of South Europe, as she would call the Roman

communion, that was no need why she should not welcome her as a

daughter-in-law: and accordingly she writ to her new daughter a very

pretty, touching letter (as Esmond thought, who had cognizance of it

before it went), in which the only hint of reproof was a gentle

remonstrance that her son had not written to herself, to ask a fond

mother’s blessing for that step which he was about taking. “Castlewood

knew very well,” so she wrote to her son, “that she never denied him

anything in her power to give, much less would she think of opposing a

marriage that was to make his happiness, as she trusted, and keep him out

of wild courses, which had alarmed her a good deal: and she besought him

to come quickly to England, to settle down in his family house of

Castlewood (‘It is his family house,’ says she, to Colonel Esmond, ‘though

only his own house by your forbearance’), and to receive the accompt of

her stewardship during his ten years’ minority.” By care and frugality,

she had got the estate into a better condition than ever it had been since

the Parliamentary wars; and my lord was now master of a pretty, small

income, not encumbered of debts, as it had been, during his father’s

ruinous time. “But in saving my son’s fortune,” says she, “I fear I have

lost a great part of my hold on him.” And, indeed, this was the case; her

ladyship’s daughter complaining that their mother did all for Frank, and

nothing for her; and Frank himself being dissatisfied at the narrow,

simple way of his mother’s living at Walcote, where he had been brought up

more like a poor parson’s son, than a young nobleman that was to make a

figure in the world. ’Twas this mistake in his early training, very

likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure when he had it in his power;

nor is he the first lad that has been spoiled by the over-careful fondness

of women. No training is so useful for children, great or small, as the

company of their betters in rank or natural parts; in whose society they

lose the overweening sense of their own importance, which stay-at-home

people very commonly learn.

But, as a prodigal that’s sending in a schedule of his debts to his

friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the rogue keeps back

some immense swingeing bill, that he doesn’t dare to own; so the poor

Frank had a very heavy piece of news to break to his mother, and which he

hadn’t the courage to introduce into his first confession. Some misgivings

Esmond might have, upon receiving Frank’s letter, and knowing into what

hands the boy had fallen; but whatever these misgivings were, he kept them

to himself, not caring to trouble his mistress with any fears that might

be groundless.

However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after Frank had received

his mother’s letter there, brought back a joint composition from himself

and his wife, who could spell no better than her young scapegrace of a

husband, full of expressions of thanks, love, and duty to the dowager

viscountess, as my poor lady now was styled; and along with this letter

(which was read in a family council, namely, the viscountess, Mistress

Beatrix, and the writer of this memoir, and which was pronounced to be

vulgar by the maid of honour, and felt to be so by the other two), there

came a private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank, with another

dismal commission for the colonel to execute, at his best opportunity; and

this was to announce that Frank had seen fit, “by the exhortation of Mr.

Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and the blessing of Heaven and the

saints,” says my lord, demurely, “to change his religion, and be received

into the bosom of that Church of which his sovereign, many of his family,

and the greater part of the civilized world, were members.” And his

lordship added a postscript, of which Esmond knew the inspiring genius

very well, for it had the genuine twang of the seminary, and was quite

unlike poor Frank’s ordinary style of writing and thinking; in which he

reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, by birth, of that Church; and

that his mother and sister should have his lordship’s prayers to the

saints (an inestimable benefit, truly!) for their conversion.

If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret he could not; for a day or two

after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles appeared in the

_Post-Boy_, and other prints, announcing that “a young Irish lord, the

Viscount C-stle-w—d, just come to his majority, and who had served the

last campaigns with great credit, as aide de camp to his grace the Duke of

Marlborough, had declared for the Popish religion at Bruxelles, and had

walked in a procession barefoot, with a wax taper in his hand.” The

notorious Mr. Holt, who had been employed as a Jacobite agent during the

last reign, and many times pardoned by King William, had been, the

_Post-Boy_ said, the agent of this conversion.

The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss Beatrix was

indignant at it. “So,” says she, “Castlewood is no longer a home for us,

mother. Frank’s foreign wife will bring her confessor, and there will be

frogs for dinner; and all Tusher’s and my grandfather’s sermons are flung

away upon my brother. I used to tell you that you killed him with the

Catechism, and that he would turn wicked as soon as he broke from his

mammy’s leading-strings. Oh, mother, you would not believe that the young

scapegrace was playing you tricks, and that sneak of a Tusher was not a

fit guide for him. Oh, those parsons! I hate ’em all,” says Mistress

Beatrix, clapping her hands together; “yes, whether they wear cassocks and

buckles, or beards and bare feet. There’s a horrid Irish wretch who never

misses a Sunday at Court, and who pays me compliments there, the horrible

man; and if you want to know what parsons are, you should see his

behaviour, and hear him talk of his own cloth. They’re all the same,

whether they’re bishops or bonzes, or Indian fakirs. They try to domineer,

and they frighten us with kingdom come; and they wear a sanctified air in

public, and expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing; and

they intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and they slander worse

than the worst courtier or the wickedest old woman. I heard this Mr. Swift

sneering at my Lord Duke of Marlborough’s courage the other day. He! that

Teague from Dublin! because his grace is not in favour, dares to say this

of him; and he says this that it may get to her Majesty’s ear, and to coax

and wheedle Mrs. Masham. They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen of

mistresses in his Court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king over

us, I wager that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, will

coax and wheedle them. Oh, those priests and their grave airs! I’m sick of

their square toes and their rustling cassocks. I should like to go to a

country where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of ’em; and I

would, only the dress is not becoming, and I’ve much too pretty a figure

to hide it. Haven’t I, cousin?” and here she glanced at her person and the

looking-glass, which told her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face

never were seen.

“I made that onslaught on the priests,” says Miss Beatrix, afterwards, “in

order to divert my poor dear mother’s anguish about Frank. Frank is as

vain as a girl, cousin. Talk of us girls being vain, what are _we_ to you?

It was easy to see that the first woman who chose would make a fool of

him, or the first robe—I count a priest and a woman all the same. We are

always caballing; we are not answerable for the fibs we tell; we are

always cajoling and coaxing, or threatening; and we are always making

mischief, Colonel Esmond—mark my word for that, who know the the world,

sir, and have to make my way in it. I see as well as possible how Frank’s

marriage hath been managed. The count, our papa-in-law, is always away at

the coffee-house. The countess, our mother, is always in the kitchen

looking after the dinner. The countess, our sister, is at the spinet. When

my lord comes to say he is going on the campaign, the lovely Clotilda

bursts into tears, and faints so; he catches her in his arms—no, sir, keep

your distance, cousin, if you please—she cries on his shoulder, and he

says, ‘Oh, my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry to

part with me?’ ‘Oh, my Francisco,’ says she, ‘oh, my lord!’ and at this

very instant mamma and a couple of young brothers, with moustachios and

long rapiers, come in from the kitchen, where they have been eating bread

and onions. Mark my word, you will have all this woman’s relations at

Castlewood three months after she has arrived there. The old count and

countess, and the young counts and all the little countesses her sisters.

Counts! every one of these wretches says he is a count. Guiscard, that

stabbed Mr. Harvy, said he was a count; and I believe he was a barber. All

Frenchmen are barbers—Fiddle-dee! don’t contradict me—or else

dancing-masters, or else priests;” and so she rattled on.

“Who was it taught _you_ to dance, cousin Beatrix?” says the colonel.

She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsy, coming up to

the recover with the prettiest little foot in the world pointed out. Her

mother came in as she was in this attitude; my lady had been in her

closet, having taken poor Frank’s conversion in a very serious way; the

madcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms round her waist, kissed

her, tried to make her dance, and said: “Don’t be silly, you kind little

mamma, and cry about Frank turning Papist. What a figure he must be, with

a white sheet and a candle walking in a procession barefoot!” And she

kicked off her little slippers (the wonderfullest little shoes with

wonderful tall red heels, Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside

him), and she put on the drollest little _moue_, and marched up and down

the room holding Esmond’s cane by way of taper. Serious as her mood was,

Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing; and as for Esmond he

looked on with that delight with which the sight of this fair creature

always inspired him: never had he seen any woman so arch, so brilliant,

and so beautiful.

Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper. The

colonel knelt down: “If you will be Pope I will turn Papist,” says he; and

her holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot

before he put the slipper on.

Mamma’s feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and Beatrix,

whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of impatience. She

ran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry of, “Oh, you silly

little mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as mine,” says she: “they are,

cousin, though she hides ’em; but the shoemaker will tell you that he

makes for both off the same last.”

“You are taller than I am, dearest,” says her mother, blushing over her

whole sweet face—“and—and it is your hand, my dear, and not your foot he

wants you to give him,” and she said it with a hysteric laugh, that had

more of tears than laughter in it; laying her head on her daughter’s fair

shoulder, and hiding it there. They made a very pretty picture together,

and looked like a pair of sisters—the sweet simple matron seeming younger

than her years, and her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from a

commanding manner and grace which she possessed above most women, her

mother’s superior and protectress.

“But, oh!” cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, and

returning to her usual sad tone, “’tis a shame that we should laugh and be

making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees and asking

pardon.”

“Asking pardon for what?” says saucy Mrs. Beatrix,—“because Frank takes it

into his head to fast on Fridays, and worship images? You know if you had

been born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end of

your days. ’Tis the religion of the king and of some of the best quality.

For my part, I’m no enemy to it, and think Queen Bess was not a penny

better than Queen Mary.”

“Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of what

parentage you come,” cries my lady. Beatrix was ordering her ribbons, and

adjusting her tucker, and performing a dozen provoking pretty ceremonies,

before the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never at that

time could be brought to think but of the world and her beauty; and seemed

to have no more sense of devotion than some people have of music, that

cannot distinguish one air from another. Esmond saw this fault in her, as

he saw many others—a bad wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he thought, for

any man under the degree of a prince. She was born to shine in great

assemblies, and to adorn palaces, and to command everywhere—to conduct an

intrigue of politics, or to glitter in a queen’s train. But to sit at a

homely table, and mend the stockings of a poor man’s children! that was no

fitting duty for her, or at least one that she wouldn’t have broke her

heart in trying to do. She was a princess, though she had scarce a

shilling to her fortune; and one of her subjects—the most abject and

devoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled at a woman’s knees—was this

unlucky gentleman; who bound his good sense, and reason, and independence,

hand and foot; and submitted them to her.

And who does not know how ruthlessly women will tyrannize when they are

let to domineer? and who does not know how useless advice is? I could give

good counsel to my descendants, but I know they’ll follow their own way,

for all their grandfather’s sermon. A man gets his own experience about

women, and will take nobody’s hearsay; nor, indeed, is the young fellow

worth a fig that would. ’Tis I that am in love with my mistress, not my

old grandmother that counsels me; ’tis I that have fixed the value of the

thing I would have, and know the price I would pay for it. It may be

worthless to you, but ’tis all my life to me. Had Esmond possessed the

Great Mogul’s crown and all his diamonds, or all the Duke of Marlborough’s

money, or all the ingots sunk at Vigo, he would have given them all for

this woman. A fool he was, if you will; but so is a sovereign a fool, that

will give half a principality for a little crystal as big as a pigeon’s

egg, and called a diamond: so is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will face

danger or death, and spend half his life, and all his tranquillity,

caballing for a blue ribbon: so is a Dutch merchant a fool, that hath been

known to pay ten thousand crowns for a tulip. There’s some particular

prize we all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture his

life for. With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation for learning;

with that, to be a man of fashion, and the admiration of the town; with

another, to consummate a great work of art or poetry, and go to

immortality that way; and with another, for a certain time of his life,

the sole object and aim is a woman.

Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, he remembers many

a talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally our Knight of the

Rueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he made no disguise, to

Beatrix; and it was with replies such as the above he met his friends’

satire. “Granted, I am a fool,” says he, “and no better than you; but you

are no better than I. You have your folly you labour for; give me the

charity of mine. What flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper in

the ears of a queen’s favourite? What nights of labour doth not the

laziest man in the world endure, forgoing his bottle, and his boon

companions, forgoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning, that

he may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupid

country gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccuping cheers of

the October Club! What days will you spend in your jolting chariot!” (Mr.

Esmond often rode to Windsor, and especially, of later days, with the

secretary.) “What hours will you pass on your gouty feet—and how humbly

will you kneel down to present a dispatch—you, the proudest man in the

world, that has not knelt to God since you were a boy, and in that posture

whisper, flatter, adore almost, a stupid woman, that’s often boozy with

too much meat and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience! If my

pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too.” And then the secretary would fly

out in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this pen cannot pretend to

recall; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing the great good he would

do for his country when he was the undisputed chief of it; backing his

opinion with a score of pat sentences from Greek and Roman authorities (of

which kind of learning he made rather an ostentatious display), and

scornfully vaunting the very arts and meannesses by which fools were to be

made to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters

converted, and enemies overawed.

“I am Diogenes,” says Esmond, laughing, “that is taken up for a ride in

Alexander’s chariot. I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to tame

Bucephalus. I do not want what you want, a great name or a high place: to

have them would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation is taste, not

virtue; and I know that what I do want, is as vain as that which you long

after. Do not grudge me my vanity, if I allow yours; or rather, let us

laugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and at each other.”

“If your charmer holds out,” says St. John, “at this rate, she may keep

you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you are seventy,

and she is old enough to be a grandmother. I do not say the pursuit of a

particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any other kind of

hunting,” he added; “only, for my part, I find the game won’t run long

enough. They knock under too soon—that’s the fault I find with ’em.”

“The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and used to

being pulled down,” says Mr. Esmond.

“But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?” says the other. “Well, honest

Harry, go and attack windmills—perhaps thou art not more mad than other

people,” St. John added, with a sigh.

Chapter III. A Paper Out Of The “Spectator”

Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old grandfather’s

papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passion of Love? There

is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almost specific for the

malady—which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went away from his mistress and

was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to her side, and instantly fell

ill again of the fever. He vowed that he could leave her and think no more

of her, and so he could pretty well, at least, succeed in quelling that

rage and longing he had whenever he was with her; but as soon as he

returned he was as bad as ever again. Truly a ludicrous and pitiable

object, at least exhausting everybody’s pity but his dearest mistress’s,

Lady Castlewood’s, in whose tender breast he reposed all his dreary

confessions, and who never tired of hearing him and pleading for him.