XIV. The Campaign Of 1707, 1708…

XIV. The Campaign Of 1707, 1708

During the whole of the year which succeeded that in which the glorious battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army made no movement of importance, much to the disgust of very many of our officers remaining inactive in Flanders, who said that his grace the captain-general had had fighting enough, and was all for money now, and the enjoyment of his five thousand a year and his splendid palace at Woodstock, which was now being built. And his grace had sufficient occupation fighting his enemies at home this year, where it begun to be whispered that his favour was decreasing, and his duchess losing her hold on the queen, who was transferring her royal affections to the famous Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham’s humble servant, Mr. Harley. Against their intrigues, our duke passed a great part of his time intriguing. Mr. Harley was got out of office, and his grace, in so far, had a victory. But her Majesty, convinced against her will, was of that opinion still, of which the poet says people are when so convinced, and Mr. Harley before long had his revenge.

Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way to the satisfaction of Marlborough’s gallant lieutenants. During all 1707, with the French before us, we had never so much as a battle; our army in Spain was utterly routed at Almanza by the gallant Duke of Berwick; and we of Webb’s, which regiment the young duke had commanded before his father’s abdication, were a little proud to think that it was our colonel who had achieved this victory. “I think if I had had Galway’s place, and my Fusiliers,” says our general, “we would not have laid down our arms, even to our old colonel, as Galway did; and Webb’s officers swore if we had had Webb, at least we would not have been taken prisoners.” Our dear old general talked incautiously of himself and of others; a braver or a more brilliant soldier never lived than he; but he blew his honest trumpet rather more loudly than became a commander of his station, and, mighty man of valour as he was, shook his great spear, and blustered before the army too fiercely.

Mysterious Mr. Holtz went off on a secret expedition in the early part of 1708, with great elation of spirits, and a prophecy to Esmond that a wonderful something was about to take place. This secret came out on my friend’s return to the army, whither he brought a most rueful and dejected countenance, and owned that the great something he had been engaged upon had failed utterly. He had been indeed with that luckless expedition of the Chevalier de St. George, who was sent by the French king with ships and an army from Dunkirk, and was to have invaded and conquered Scotland. But that ill wind which ever opposed all the projects upon which the prince ever embarked, prevented the Chevalier’s invasion of Scotland, as ’tis known, and blew poor Monsieur von Holtz back into our camp again, to scheme and foretell, and to pry about as usual. The Chevalier (the King of England, as some of us held him) went from Dunkirk to the French army to make the campaign against us. The Duke of Burgundy had the command this year, having the Duke of Berry with him, and the famous Mareschal Vendosme and the Duke of Matignon to aid him in the campaign. Holtz, who knew everything that was passing in Flanders and France (and the Indies for what I know), insisted that there would be no more fighting in 1708 than there had been in the previous year, and that our commander had reasons for keeping him quiet. Indeed, Esmond’s general, who was known as a grumbler, and to have a hearty mistrust of the great duke, and hundreds more officers besides, did not scruple to say that these private reasons came to the duke in the shape of crown-pieces from the French king, by whom the generalissimo was bribed to avoid a battle. There were plenty of men in our lines, quidnuncs, to whom Mr. Webb listened only too willingly, who could specify the exact sums the duke got, how much fell to Cadogan’s share, and what was the precise fee given to Doctor Hare.

And the successes with which the French began the campaign of 1708, served to give strength to these reports of treason, which were in everybody’s mouth. Our general allowed the enemy to get between us and Ghent, and declined to attack him, though for eight-and-forty hours the armies were in presence of each other. Ghent was taken, and on the same day Monsieur de la Mothe summoned Bruges; and these two great cities fell into the hands of the French without firing a shot. A few days afterwards La Mothe seized upon the fort of Plashendall: and it began to be supposed that all Spanish Flanders, as well as Brabant, would fall into the hands of the French troops; when the Prince Eugene arrived from the Mozelle, and then there was no more shilly-shallying.

The Prince of Savoy always signalized his arrival at the army by a great feast (my lord duke’s entertainments were both seldom and shabby): and I remember our general returning from this dinner with the two commanders-in-chief; his honest head a little excited by wine, which was dealt out much more liberally by the Austrian than by the English commander:—“Now,” says my general, slapping the table, with an oath, “he must fight; and when he is forced to it, d—— it, no man in Europe can stand up against Jack Churchill.” Within a week the battle of Oudenarde was fought, when, hate each other as they might, Esmond’s general and the commander-in-chief were forced to admire each other, so splendid was the gallantry of each upon this day.

The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave and received about as hard knocks as any that were delivered in that action, in which Mr. Esmond had the fortune to serve at the head of his own company in his regiment, under the command of their own colonel as major-general; and it was his good luck to bring the regiment out of action as commander of it, the four senior officers above him being killed in the prodigious slaughter which happened on that day. I like to think that Jack Haythorn, who sneered at me for being a bastard and a parasite of Webb’s, as he chose to call me, and with whom I had had words, shook hands with me the day before the battle begun. Three days before, poor Brace, our lieutenant-colonel, had heard of his elder brother’s death, and was heir to a baronetcy in Norfolk, and four thousand a year. Fate, that had left him harmless through a dozen campaigns, seized on him just as the world was worth living for, and he went into action, knowing, as he said, that the luck was going to turn against him. The major had just joined us—a creature of Lord Marlborough, put in much to the dislike of the other officers, and to be a spy upon us, as it was said. I know not whether the truth was so, nor who took the tattle of our mess to head quarters, but Webb’s regiment, as its colonel, was known to be in the commander-in-chief’s black books: “And if he did not dare to break it up at home,” our gallant old chief used to say, “he was determined to destroy it before the enemy;” so that poor Major Proudfoot was put into a post of danger.

Esmond’s dear young viscount, serving as aide de camp to my lord duke, received a wound, and won an honourable name for himself in the Gazette; and Captain Esmond’s name was sent in for promotion by his general, too, whose favourite he was. It made his heart beat to think that certain eyes at home, the brightest in the world, might read the page on which his humble services were recorded; but his mind was made up steadily to keep out of their dangerous influence, and to let time and absence conquer that passion he had still lurking about him. Away from Beatrix, it did not trouble him; but he knew as certain that if he returned home, his fever would break out again, and avoided Walcote as a Lincolnshire man avoids returning to his fens, where he is sure that the ague is lying in wait for him.

We of the English party in the army, who were inclined to sneer at everything that came out of Hanover, and to treat as little better than boors and savages the Elector’s court and family, were yet forced to confess that, on the day of Oudenarde, the young electoral prince, then making his first campaign, conducted himself with the spirit and courage of an approved soldier. On this occasion his electoral highness had better luck than the King of England, who was with his cousins in the enemy’s camp, and had to run with them at the ignominious end of the day. With the most consummate generals in the world before them, and an admirable commander on their own side, they chose to neglect the councils, and to rush into a combat with the former, which would have ended in the utter annihilation of their army but for the great skill and bravery of the Duke of Vendosme, who remedied, as far as courage and genius might, the disasters occasioned by the squabbles and follies of his kinsmen, the legitimate princes of the blood royal.

“If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the fate of the day would have been very different,” was all that poor Mr. von Holtz could say; “and you would have seen that the hero of Almanza was fit to measure swords with the conqueror of Blenheim.”

The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was always going on, and was at least that ostensible one which kept Mr. Holtz perpetually on the move between the forces of the French and the Allies. I can answer for it, that he was once very near hanged as a spy by Major-General Wayne, when he was released and sent on to head quarters by a special order of the commander-in-chief. He came and went, always favoured, wherever he was, by some high though occult protection. He carried messages between the Duke of Berwick and his uncle, our duke. He seemed to know as well what was taking place in the prince’s quarter as our own: he brought the compliments of the King of England to some of our officers, the gentlemen of Webb’s among the rest, for their behaviour on that great day; and after Wynendael, when our general was chafing at the neglect of our commander-in-chief, he said he knew how that action was regarded by the chiefs of the French army, and that the stand made before Wynendael wood was the passage by which the Allies entered Lille.

“Ah!” says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to listen to him), “if the king came by his own, how changed the conduct of affairs would be! His Majesty’s very exile has this advantage, that he is enabled to read England impartially, and to judge honestly of all the eminent men. His sister is always in the hand of one greedy favourite or another, through whose eyes she sees, and to whose flattery or dependants she gives away everything. Do you suppose that his Majesty, knowing England so well as he does, would neglect such a man as General Webb? He ought to be in the House of Peers as Lord Lydiard. The enemy and all Europe know his merit; it is that very reputation which certain great people, who hate all equality and independence, can never pardon.” It was intended that these conversations should be carried to Mr. Webb. They were welcome to him, for great as his services were, no man could value them more than John Richmond Webb did himself, and the differences between him and Marlborough being notorious, his grace’s enemies in the army and at home began to court Webb, and set him up against the all-grasping domineering chief. And soon after the victory of Oudenarde, a glorious opportunity fell into General Webb’s way, which that gallant warrior did not neglect, and which gave him the means of immensely increasing his reputation at home.

After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough, it was said, the Prince of Savoy sat down before Lille, the capital of French Flanders, and commenced that siege, the most celebrated of our time, and almost as famous as the siege of Troy itself, for the feats of valour performed in the assault and the defence. The enmity of that Prince of Savoy against the French king was a furious personal hate, quite unlike the calm hostility of our great English general, who was no more moved by the game of war than that of billiards, and pushed forward his squadrons, and drove his red battalions hither and thither as calmly as he would combine a stroke or make a cannon with the balls. The game over (and he played it so as to be pretty sure to win it), not the least animosity against the other party remained in the breast of this consummate tactician. Whereas between the Prince of Savoy and the French it was guerre à mort. Beaten off in one quarter, as he had been at Toulon in the last year, he was back again on another frontier of France, assailing it with his indefatigable fury. When the prince came to the army, the smouldering fires of war were lighted up and burst out into a flame. Our phlegmatic Dutch allies were made to advance at a quick march—our calm duke forced into action. The prince was an army in himself against the French; the energy of his hatred prodigious, indefatigable—infectious over hundreds of thousands of men. The emperor’s general was repaying, and with a vengeance, the slight the French king had put upon the fiery little Abbé of Savoy. Brilliant and famous as a leader himself, and beyond all measure daring and intrepid, and enabled to cope with almost the best of those famous men of war who commanded the armies of the French king, Eugene had a weapon, the equal of which could not be found in France, since the cannon-shot of Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, and could hurl Marlborough at the heads of the French host, and crush them as with a rock, under which all the gathered strength of their strongest captains must go down.

The English duke took little part in that vast siege of Lille, which the Imperial generalissimo pursued with all his force and vigour, further than to cover the besieging lines from the Duke of Burgundy’s army, between which and the Imperialists our duke lay. Once, when Prince Eugene was wounded, our duke took his highness’s place in the trenches; but the siege was with the Imperialists, not with us. A division under Webb and Rantzau was detached into Artois and Picardy upon the most painful and odious service that Mr. Esmond ever saw in the course of his military life. The wretched towns of the defenceless provinces, whose young men had been drafted away into the French armies, which year after year the insatiable war devoured, were left at our mercy; and our orders were to show them none. We found places garrisoned by invalids, and children and women: poor as they were, and as the costs of this miserable war had made them, our commission was to rob these almost starving wretches—to tear the food out of their granaries, and strip them of their rags. ’Twas an expedition of rapine and murder we were sent on: our soldiers did deeds such as an honest man must blush to remember. We brought back money and provisions in quantity to the duke’s camp; there had been no one to resist us, and yet who dares to tell with what murder and violence, with what brutal cruelty, outrage, insult, that ignoble booty had been ravished from the innocent and miserable victims of the war?

Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had been conducted, the Allies had made but little progress, and ’twas said when we returned to the Duke of Marlborough’s camp, that the siege would never be brought to a satisfactory end, and that the Prince of Savoy would be forced to raise it. My Lord Marlborough gave this as his opinion openly; those who mistrusted him, and Mr. Esmond owns himself to be of the number, hinted that the duke had his reasons why Lille should not be taken, and that he was paid to that end by the French king. If this was so, and I believe it, General Webb had now a remarkable opportunity of gratifying his hatred of the commander-in-chief, of balking that shameful avarice, which was one of the basest and most notorious qualities of the famous duke, and of showing his own consummate skill as a commander. And when I consider all the circumstances preceding the event which will now be related, that my lord duke was actually offered certain millions of crowns provided that the siege of Lille should be raised; that the Imperial army before it was without provisions and ammunition, and must have decamped but for the supplies that they received; that the march of the convoy destined to relieve the siege was accurately known to the French; and that the force covering it was shamefully inadequate to that end, and by six times inferior to Count de la Mothe’s army, which was sent to intercept the convoy; when ’tis certain that the Duke of Berwick, de la Mothe’s chief, was in constant correspondence with his uncle, the English generalissimo: I believe on my conscience that ’twas my Lord Marlborough’s intention to prevent those supplies, of which the Prince of Savoy stood in absolute need, from ever reaching his highness; that he meant to sacrifice the little army which covered this convoy, and to betray it as he had betrayed Tollemache at Brest; as he betrayed every friend he had, to further his own schemes of avarice or ambition. But for the miraculous victory which Esmond’s general won over an army six or seven times greater than his own, the siege of Lille must have been raised; and it must be remembered that our gallant little force was under the command of a general whom Marlborough hated, that he was furious with the conqueror, and tried by the most open and shameless injustice afterwards to rob him of the credit of his victory.

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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III. A Paper Out Of The “Spectator”

Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old grandfather’s papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passion of Love? There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almost specific for the malady—which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went away from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to her side, and instantly fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he could leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty well, at least, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever he was with her; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as ever again. Truly a ludicrous and pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody’s pity but his dearest mistress’s, Lady Castlewood’s, in whose tender breast he reposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing him and pleading for him.

Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then again he would be plagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his mistress. For days they would be like brother and sister, or the dearest friends—she, simple, fond, and charming—he, happy beyond measure at her good behaviour. But this would all vanish on a sudden. Either he would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff him instantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear: or he would be jealous, and with perfect good reason, of some new admirer that had sprung up, or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that this incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond remonstrated, the little rebel would say—“Who are you? I shall go my own way, sirrah, and that way is towards a husband, and I don’t want you on the way. I am for your betters, colonel, for your betters: do you hear that? You might do if you had an estate and were younger; only eight years older than I, you say! pish, you are a hundred years older. You are an old, old Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, that would be the only comfort I should have in marrying you. But you have not money enough to keep a cat decently after you have paid your man his wages, and your landlady her bill. Do you think I’m going to live in a lodging, and turn the mutton at a string whilst your honour nurses the baby? Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this nonsense knocked out of your head when you were in the wars? You are come back more dismal and dreary than ever. You and mamma are fit for each other. You might be Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end of your lives.”

“At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix,” says her mother.

“Worldliness—O my pretty lady! Do you think that I am a child in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey? Worldliness, to be sure; and pray, madam, where is the harm of wishing to be comfortable? When you are gone, you dearest old woman, or when I am tired of you and have run away from you, where shall I go? Shall I go and be head nurse to my Popish sister-in-law, take the children their physic, and whip ’em, and put ’em to bed when they are naughty? Shall I be Castlewood’s upper servant, and perhaps marry Tom Tusher? Merci! I have been long enough Frank’s humble servant. Why am I not a man? I have ten times his brains, and had I worn the—well, don’t let your ladyship be frightened—had I worn a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode, to which nature has condemned me—(though ’tis a pretty stuff, too—cousin Esmond! you will go to the Exchange to-morrow, and get the exact counterpart of this ribbon, sir, do you hear?)—I would have made our name talked about. So would Graveairs here have made something out of our name if he had represented it. My Lord Graveairs would have done very well. Yes, you have a very pretty way, and would have made a very decent, grave speaker;” and here she began to imitate Esmond’s way of carrying himself, and speaking to his face, and so ludicrously that his mistress burst out a-laughing, and even he himself could see there was some likeness in the fantastical malicious caricature.

“Yes,” says she, “I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that I want a good husband. Where’s the harm of one? My face is my fortune. Who’ll come?—buy, buy, buy! I cannot toil, neither can I spin, but I can play twenty-three games on the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can hunt the stag, and I think I could shoot flying. I can talk as wicked as any woman of my years, and know enough stories to amuse a sulky husband for at least one thousand and one nights. I have a pretty taste for dress, diamonds, gambling, and old china. I love sugar-plums, Malines lace (that you brought me, cousin, is very pretty), the opera, and everything that is useless and costly. I have got a monkey and a little black boy—Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs,—and a parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a husband. Cupid, you hear?”

“Iss, missis,” says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord Peterborow gave her, with a bird of Paradise in his turbant, and a collar with his mistress’s name on it.

“Iss, missis!” says Beatrix, imitating the child. “And if husband not come, Pompey must go fetch one.”

And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray, as Miss Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of mischief in her common way, with a kiss—no wonder that upon paying such a penalty her fond judge pardoned her.

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When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shattered; and he took a lodging near to his mistress’s, at Kensington, glad enough to be served by them, and to see them day after day. He was enabled to see a little company—and of the sort he liked best. Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison both did him the honour to visit him: and drank many a flask of good claret at his lodging, whilst their entertainer, through his wound, was kept to diet drink and gruel. These gentlemen were Whigs, and great admirers of my Lord Duke of Marlborough; and Esmond was entirely of the other party. But their different views of politics did not prevent the gentlemen from agreeing in private, nor from allowing, on one evening when Esmond’s kind old patron, Lieutenant-General Webb, with a stick and a crutch, hobbled up to the colonel’s lodging (which was prettily situate at Knightsbridge, between London and Kensington, and looking over the Gardens), that the lieutenant-general was a noble and gallant soldier—and even that he had been hardly used in the Wynendael affair. He took his revenge in talk, that must be confessed; and if Mr. Addison had had a mind to write a poem about Wynendael, he might have heard from the commander’s own lips the story a hundred times over.

Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to literature for a relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the prompter’s copy lieth in my walnut escritoire, sealed up and docketed, The Faithful Fool, a Comedy, as it was performed by her Majesty’s servants. ’Twas a very sentimental piece; and Mr. Steele, who had more of that kind of sentiment than Mr. Addison, admired it, whilst the other rather sneered at the performance; though he owned that, here and there, it contained some pretty strokes. He was bringing out his own play of Cato at the time, the blaze of which quite extinguished Esmond’s farthing candle: and his name was never put to the piece, which was printed as by a Person of Quality. Only nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, the great critic, praised it, and said ’twas a work of great merit; and Colonel Esmond had the whole impression burned one day in a rage, by Jack Lockwood, his man.

All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against a certain young lady. The plot of the piece was quite a new one. A young woman was represented with a great number of suitors, selecting a pert fribble of a peer, in place of the hero (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks, the Faithful Fool), who persisted in admiring her. In the fifth act, Teraminta was made to discover the merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), and to feel a partiality for him too late; for he announced that he had bestowed his hand and estate upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed with every virtue. But it must be owned that the audience yawned through the play; and that it perished on the third night, with only half a dozen persons to behold its agonies. Esmond and his two mistresses came to the first night, and Miss Beatrix fell asleep; whilst her mother, who had not been to a play since King James the Second’s time, thought the piece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral.

Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with the conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire, in which he relieved his mind. When smarting under the faithlessness of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in which he held the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these moods, he made a little joke, in which (swearing him to secrecy) he got his friend Dick Steele to help him; and, composing a paper, he had it printed exactly like Steele’s paper, and by his printer, and laid on his mistress’s breakfast-table the following:—

“SPECTATOR.

No. 341. Tuesday, April 1, 1712.

Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.—HORACE.

Thyself the moral of the Fable see.—CREECH.

“Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one of the most amiable persons of this Court and country. She is at home two mornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the beauties of London flock to her assemblies. When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or the Bath, a retinue of adorers rides the journey with her; and, besides the London beaux, she has a crowd of admirers at the Wells, the polite amongst the natives of Sussex and Somerset pressing round her tea-tables, and being anxious for a nod from her chair. Jocasta’s acquaintance is thus very numerous. Indeed, ’tis one smart writer’s work to keep her visiting-book—a strong footman is engaged to carry it; and it would require a much stronger head, even than Jocasta’s own, to remember the names of all her dear friends.

“Either at Epsom Wells or at Tunbridge (for of this important matter Jocasta cannot be certain) it was her ladyship’s fortune to become acquainted with a young gentleman, whose conversation was so sprightly, and manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable young spark to visit her if ever he came to London, where her house in Spring Garden should be open to him. Charming as he was, and without any manner of doubt a pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like continually marching round her standard, that ’tis no wonder her attention is distracted amongst them. And so, though this gentleman made a considerable impression upon her, and touched her heart for at least three-and-twenty minutes, it must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He is a dark man, and may be eight-and-twenty years old. His dress is sober, though of rich materials. He has a mole on his forehead over his left eye; has a blue ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his own hair.

“Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for that everybody admires who sees her is a point which she never can for a moment doubt) in the next pew to her at St. James’s Church last Sunday; and the manner in which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon—though from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of respectful rapture towards Jocasta—deeply moved and interested her. On coming out of church, he found his way to her chair, and made her an elegant bow as she stepped into it. She saw him at Court afterwards, where he carried himself with a most distinguished air, though none of her acquaintances knew his name; and the next night he was at the play, where her ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box.

“During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so to remember his name, that she did not hear a word of the piece: and having the happiness to meet him once more in the lobby of the playhouse, she went up to him in a flutter, and bade him remember that she kept two nights in the week, and that she longed to see him at Spring Garden.

“He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very fine taste both in the tailor and wearer; and though a knot of us were gathered round the charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know every face upon the town, not one could tell the gentleman’s name in reply to Jocasta’s eager inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he advanced up the room with a bow that would become a duke.

“Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and curtsies of which that lady hath the secret. She curtsies with a languishing air, as if to say, ‘You are come at last. I have been pining for you:’ and then she finishes her victim with a killing look, which declares: ‘O Philander! I have no eyes but for you.’ Camilla hath as good a curtsy perhaps, and Thalestris much such another look; but the glance and the curtsy together belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone.

“ ‘Welcome to London, sir,’ says she. ‘One can see you are from the country by your looks.’ She would have said ‘Epsom’, or ‘Tunbridge’, had she remembered rightly at which place she had met the stranger; but, alas! she had forgotten.

“The gentleman said, ‘he had been in town but three days; and one of his reasons for coming hither was to have the honour of paying his court to Jocasta.’

“She said, ‘the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.’

“ ‘The waters were for the sick,’ the gentleman said: ‘the young and beautiful came but to make them sparkle. And, as the clergyman read the service on Sunday,’ he added, ‘your ladyship reminded me of the angel that visited the pool.’ A murmur of approbation saluted this sally. Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage that he revoked when he heard it.

“Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters; but at which of the Bethesdas? She was puzzled more and more; and, as her way always is, looked the more innocent and simple, the more artful her intentions were.

“ ‘We were discoursing,’ says she, ‘about spelling of names and words when you came. Why should we say goold and write gold, and call china chayny, and Cavendish Candish, and Cholmondeley Chumley? If we call Pulteney Poltney, why shouldn’t we call poultry pultry—and——’

“ ‘Such an enchantress as your ladyship,’ says he, ‘is mistress of all sorts of spells.’ But this was Dr. Swift’s pun, and we all knew it.

“ ‘And—and how do you spell your name?’ says she, coming to the point, at length; for this sprightly conversation had lasted much longer than is here set down, and been carried on through at least three dishes of tea.

“ ‘Oh, madam,’ says he, ‘I spell my name with the y.’ And laying down his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a moment.

“Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the stranger’s disappearance. If balked in anything, she is sure to lose her health and temper; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual, during the angry fits of our queen. Can you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything, to read this riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds? We find in her list, Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler—who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know. She hath turned away the clerk of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of children. Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your admirer—OEDIPUS.”

THE “TRUMPET” COFFEE-HOUSE, Whitehall.

“MR. SPECTATOR—I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town, though I have had a university education, and passed some years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the coffee-houses and St. James’s.

“Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more good than the best-intentioned man can), I was greatly fascinated by a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the company at the Wells. Everyone knows Saccharissa’s beauty; and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one better than herself.

“My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twenty sets with her at the assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It was only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman’s wife; and that this fair creature was but a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. ’Tis admiration such women want, not love that touches them; and I can conceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her.

“Business calling me to London, I went to St. James’s Church last Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behaviour during the whole service was so pert, languishing, and absurd; she flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring at me. I fell in with her afterwards at Court, and at the playhouse; and here nothing would satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her house, nor very far from Ch-r-ng Cr-ss.

“Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise; and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advanced towards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name.

“Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed aright. She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names and words; and I replied with as ridiculous, fulsome compliments as I could pay her: indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel visiting the sick-wells, went a little too far; nor should I have employed it, but that the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both had heard, and I was pressed to answer her.

“Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and asked how I spelt my name? ‘Madam,’ says I, turning on my heel, ‘I spell it with the y.’ And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader.

“CYMON WYLDOATS.

“You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a letter as hupsilon. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa, wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed the reason y.”

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The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, maid of honour to her Majesty. She had told Mr. Esmond this little story of having met a gentleman, somewhere, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman, with no such malicious intentions as those of “Cymon” in the above fable, made the answer simply as above; and we all laughed to think how little Mistress Jocasta-Beatrix had profited by her artifice and precautions.

As for Cymon he was intended to represent yours and her very humble servant, the writer of the apologue and of this story, which we had printed on a Spectator paper at Mr. Steele’s office, exactly as those famous journals were printed, and which was laid on the table at breakfast in place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, could not live without her Spectator to her tea; and this sham Spectator was intended to convey to the young woman that she herself was a flirt, and that Cymon was a gentleman of honour and resolution, seeing all her faults, and determined to break the chains once and for ever.

For though enough hath been said about this love business already—enough, at least, to prove to the writer’s heirs what a silly fond fool their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider him a a very wise old gentleman; yet not near all has been told concerning this matter, which, if it were allowed to take in Esmond’s journal the space it occupied in his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of a hundred years’ time beyond all endurance; and form such a diary of folly and drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinary vanity would like to leave behind him.

The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged him; whether she smiled or was cold, and turned her smiles on another—worldly and ambitious, as he knew her to be; hard and careless, as she seemed to grow with her Court life, and a hundred admirers that came to her and left her; Esmond, do what he would, never could get Beatrix out of his mind; thought of her constantly at home or away. If he read his name in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a greater danger in the campaign, as has happened to him more than once, the instant thought after the honour achieved or the danger avoided, was “What will she say of it?” “Will this distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch her, so as to be better inclined towards me?” He could no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he could help the eyes he saw with—one or the other seemed a part of his nature; and knowing every one of her faults as well as the keenest of her detractors, and the folly of an attachment to such a woman, of which the fruition could never bring him happiness for above a week, there was yet a charm about this Circe from which the poor deluded gentleman could not free himself; and for a much longer period than Ulysses (another middle-aged officer, who had travelled much, and been in the foreign wars), Esmond felt himself enthralled and besotted by the wiles of this enchantress. Quit her! He could no more quit her, as the Cymon of this story was made to quit his false one, than he could lose his consciousness of yesterday. She had but to raise her finger, and he would come back from ever so far; she had but to say, “I have discarded such-and-such an adorer,” and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come and rôder about her mother’s house, willing to be put on the ranks of suitors, though he knew he might be cast off the next week. If he were like Ulysses in his folly at least, she was in so far like Penelope, that she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after day and night after night the handiwork of fascination and the web of coquetry with which she was wont to allure and entertain them.

Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the Court, where the beautiful maid of honour was the light about which a thousand beaux came and fluttered; where she was sure to have a ring of admirers round her, crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire her beauty; and where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlewood’s daughter would have uttered or heard. When in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, the Court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding parties together; Mrs. Beatrix in a horseman’s coat and hat, the foremost after the staghounds and over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows at her heels. If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure and modest of any ladies in the world—the English town and Court ladies permitted themselves words and behaviour that were neither modest nor pure; and claimed, some of them, a freedom which those who love that sex most would never wish to grant them. The gentlemen of my family that follow after me (for I don’t encourage the ladies to pursue any such studies), may read in the works of Mr. Congreve, and Dr. Swift, and others, what was the conversation and what the habits of our time.

The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond returned to this country, a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners—Beatrix Esmond—was now six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still. Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband; and those who had asked had been jilted by her; and more still had left her. A succession of near ten years’ crops of beauties had come up since her time, and had been reaped by proper _husband_men, if we may make an agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably long ago. Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by this time; girls with not a tithe of her charms, or her wit, having made good matches, and now claiming precedence over the spinster who but lately had derided and outshone them. The young beauties were beginning to look down on Beatrix as an old maid, and sneer, and call her one of Charles the Second’s ladies, and ask whether her portrait was not in the Hampton Court Gallery? But still she reigned, at least in one man’s opinion, superior over all the little misses that were the toasts of the young lads; and in Esmond’s eyes was ever perfectly lovely and young.

Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possessing her, or, rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this siren? ’Tis a marvel to think that her mother was the purest and simplest woman in the whole world, and that this girl should have been born from her. I am inclined to fancy, my mistress, who never said a harsh word to her children (and but twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too fond and pressing with the maternal authority; for her son and her daughter both revolted early; nor after their first flight from the nest could they ever be brought back quite to the fond mother’s bosom. Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was as well, knew little of her daughter’s life and real thoughts. How was she to apprehend what passed in queens’ antechambers and at Court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own authority so resolutely that her mother quickly gave in. The maid of honour had her own equipage; went from home and came back at her own will: her mother was alike powerless to resist her or to lead her, or to command or to persuade her.

She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, Esmond believed. When he quitted home, it hath been said, she was promised to my Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his return, behold his lordship was just married to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of Ormonde’s daughter, and his fine houses, and twelve thousand a year of fortune, for which Miss Beatrix had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her Esmond could say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match; and, asking his mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered was: “Do not speak to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you how or why they parted, and I fear to inquire. I have told you before, that with all her kindness, and wit, and generosity, and that sort of splendour of nature she has; I can say but little good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the marriage she will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and making a great figure: and, this achieved, she will tire of it as she does of everything. Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall be! My Lord Ashburnham was a most excellent young man, gentle and yet manly, of very good parts, so they told me, and as my little conversation would enable me to judge: and a kind temper—kind and enduring I’m sure he must have been, from all that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from some crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers; and now he has married a young woman that will make him a thousand times happier than my poor girl ever could.”

The rupture, whatever its cause was (I heard the scandal, but indeed shall not take pains to repeat at length in this diary the trumpery coffee-house story), caused a good deal of low talk; and Mr. Esmond was present at my lord’s appearance at the birthday with his bride, over whom the revenge that Beatrix took was to look so imperial and lovely that the modest downcast young lady could not appear beside her, and Lord Ashburnham, who had his reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunk away quite shamefaced, and very early. This time his grace the Duke of Hamilton, whom Esmond had seen about her before, was constant at Miss Beatrix’s side: he was one of the most splendid gentlemen of Europe, accomplished by books, by travel, by long command of the best company, distinguished as a statesman, having been ambassador in King William’s time, and a noble speaker in the Scots Parliament, where he had led the party that was against the union, and though now five- or six-and-forty years of age, a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit, and favoured in person, that he might pretend to the hand of any princess in Europe.

“Should you like the duke for a cousin?” says Mr. Secretary St. John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; “it appears that the widower consoles himself.”

But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversation which grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was quite bit (as the phrase of that day was) and did not “smoke” the authorship of the story: indeed Esmond had tried to imitate as well as he could Mr. Steele’s manner (as for the other author of the Spectator, his prose style I think is altogether inimitable); and Dick, who was the idlest and best-natured of men, would have let the piece pass into his journal and go to posterity as one of his own lucubrations, but that Esmond did not care to have a lady’s name whom he loved sent forth to the world in a light so unfavourable. Beatrix pished and psha’d over the paper; Colonel Esmond watching with no little interest her countenance as she read it.

“How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!” cries Miss Beatrix. “Epsom and Tunbridge! Will he never have done with Epsom and Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, and Jocastas and Lindamiras? Why does he not call women Nelly and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers did for them in their baptism?”

“Beatrix, Beatrix!” says her mother, “speak gravely of grave things.”

“Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from Heaven, I believe,” says Beatrix, with a laugh, “and was brought down by a bishop from a mountain. Oh, how I used to break my heart over it! Besides, I had a Popish god-mother, mamma; why did you give me one?”

“I gave you the queen’s name,” says her mother, blushing. “And a very pretty name it is,” said somebody else.

Beatrix went on reading—“Spell my name with a y—why, you wretch,” says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, “you have been telling my story to Mr. Steele—or stop—you have written the paper yourself to turn me into ridicule. For shame, sir!”

Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which was nevertheless an entire falsehood. “Upon my honour,” says he, “I have not even read the Spectator of this morning.” Nor had he, for that was not the Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place.

She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read. “No,” she says, “I think you couldn’t have written it. I think it must have been Mr. Steele when he was drunk—and afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and some outrageous panegyric about female virtue, I always feel sure that the captain and his better half have fallen out overnight, and that he has been brought home tipsy, or has been found out in ——”

“Beatrix!” cries the Lady Castlewood.

“Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I am not going to say anything wrong. I won’t give you more annoyance than I can help, you pretty kind mamma. Yes, and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix, and she leaves undone those things which she ought to have done, and does those things which she ought not to have done, and there’s——well now—I won’t go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me.” And with this the young lady lays aside her paper, and runs up to her mother and performs a variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could speak to Mr. Esmond—“There, sir: would not you like to play the very same pleasant game?”

“Indeed, madam, I would,” says he.

“Would what?” asked Miss Beatrix.

“What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way,” answers Esmond.

“What a confessor!” cries Beatrix, with a laugh.

“What is it Henry would like, my dear?” asks her mother, the kind soul, who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could please us.

The girl runs up to her—“Oh, you silly kind mamma,” she says, kissing her again, “that’s what Harry would like;” and she broke out into a great joyful laugh: and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid of sixteen.

“Look at her, Harry,” whispers Beatrix, running up, and speaking in her sweet low tones. “Doesn’t the blush become her? Isn’t she pretty? She looks younger than I am: and I am sure she is a hundred million thousand times better.”

Esmond’s kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away with her.

“If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that,” continues Beatrix, with her laugh, “what wouldn’t we do to preserve ’em? We’d clip their stalks and put ’em in salt and water. But those flowers don’t bloom at Hampton Court and Windsor, Henry.” She paused for a minute, and the smile fading away from her April face, gave place to a menacing shower of tears: “Oh, how good she is, Harry,” Beatrix went on to say. “Oh, what a saint she is! Her goodness frightens me. I’m not fit to live with her. I should be better, I think, if she were not so perfect. She has had a great sorrow in her life, and a great secret; and repented of it. It could not have been my father’s death. She talks freely about that; nor could she have loved him very much—though who knows what we women do love, and why?”

“What, and why, indeed,” says Mr. Esmond.

“No one knows,” Beatrix went on, without noticing this interruption except by a look, “what my mother’s life is. She hath been at early prayer this morning: she passes hours in her closet; if you were to follow her thither, you would find her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the place—the horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate’s sermons—oh, those dreary sermons! And you see, on a beau dire; but good as they are, people like her are not fit to commune with us of the world. There is always, as it were, a third person present, even when I and my mother are alone. She can’t be frank with me quite; who is always thinking of the next world, and of her guardian angel, perhaps that’s in company. Oh, Harry, I’m jealous of that guardian angel!” here broke out Mistress Beatrix. “It’s horrid, I know; but my mother’s life is all for Heaven, and mine—all for earth. We can never be friends quite; and then, she cares more for Frank’s little finger than she does for me—I know she does: and she loves you, sir, a great deal too much; and I hate you for it. I would have had her all to myself; but she wouldn’t. In my childhood, it was my father she loved—(Oh, how could she? I remember him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being able to speak after drinking wine). And then, it was Frank; and now, it is Heaven and the clergyman. How I would have loved her! From a child I used to be in a rage that she loved anybody but me; but she loved you all better—all, I know she did. And now, she talks of the blessed consolation of religion. Dear soul! she thinks she is happier for believing, as she must, that we are all of us wicked and miserable sinners; and this world is only a pied à terre for the good, where they stay for a night, as we do, coming from Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncomfortable Hounslow inn, in those horrid beds. Oh, do you remember those horrid beds?—and the chariot comes and fetches them to Heaven the next morning.”

“Hush, Beatrix,” says Mr. Esmond.

“Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henry, with your grave airs and your glum face. We are all hypocrites. Oh dear me! We are all alone, alone, alone,” says poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh.

“It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear,” says Mr. Esmond. “You are not so worldly as you think yourself, Beatrix, and better than we believe you. The good we have in us we doubt of; and the happiness that’s to our hand we throw away. You bend your ambition on a great marriage and establishment—and why? You’ll tire of them when you win them; and be no happier with a coronet on your coach——”

“Than riding pillion with Lubin to market,” says Beatrix. “Thank you, Lubin!”

“I’m a dismal shepherd, to be sure,” answers Esmond, with a blush; “and require a nymph that can tuck my bed-clothes up, and make me water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do that. He took me out of the fire upon his shoulders, and nursed me through my illness as love will scarce ever do. Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the contents of my portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an apprenticeship for Rachel?”

“For mamma?” says Beatrix. “Is it mamma your honour wants, and that I should have the happiness of calling you papa?”

Esmond blushed again. “I spoke of a Rachel that a shepherd courted five thousand years ago; when shepherds were longer lived than now. And my meaning was, that since I saw you first after our separation—a child you were then——”

“And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember, sir.”

“You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was; and such as you were, I cared for no other woman. What little reputation I have won, it was that you might be pleased with it: and, indeed, it is not much; and I think a hundred fools in the army have got and deserved quite as much. Was there something in the air of that dismal old Castlewood that made us all gloomy, and dissatisfied, and lonely under its ruined old roof? We were all so, even when together and united, as it seemed, following our separate schemes, each as we sat round the table.”

“Dear, dreary old place!” cries Beatrix. “Mamma hath never had the heart to go back thither since we left it, when—never mind how many years ago,” and she flung back her curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at the mirror superbly, as if she said, “Time, I defy you.”

“Yes,” says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of divining many of her thoughts. “You can afford to look in the glass still; and only be pleased by the truth it tells you. As for me, do you know what my scheme is? I think of asking Frank to give me the Virginia estate King Charles gave our grandfather.” (She gave a superb curtsy, as much as to say, “Our grandfather, indeed! Thank you, Mr. Bastard.”) “Yes, I know you are thinking of my bar-sinister, and so am I. A man cannot get over it in this country; unless, indeed, he wears it across a king’s arms, when ’tis a highly honourable coat: and I am thinking of retiring into the plantations, and building myself a wigwam in the woods, and perhaps, if I want company, suiting myself with a squaw. We will send your ladyship furs over for the winter; and, when you are old, we’ll provide you with tobacco. I am not quite clever enough, or not rogue enough—I know not which—for the Old World. I may make a place for myself in the new, which is not so full; and found a family there. When you are a mother yourself, and a great lady, perhaps I shall send you over from the plantation some day a little barbarian that is half Esmond half Mohock, and you will be kind to him for his father’s sake, who was, after all, your kinsman; and whom you loved a little.”

“What folly you are talking, Harry!” says Miss Beatrix, looking with her great eyes.

“’Tis sober earnest,” says Esmond. And, indeed, the scheme had been dwelling a good deal in his mind for some time past, and especially since his return home, when he found how hopeless, and even degrading to himself, his passion was. “No,” says he, then, “I have tried half a dozen times now. I can bear being away from you well enough; but being with you is intolerable” (another low curtsy on Mrs. Beatrix’s part), “and I will go. I have enough to buy axes and guns for my men, and beads and blankets for the savages; and I’ll go and live amongst them.”

“Mon ami,” she says, quite kindly, and taking Esmond’s hand, with an air of great compassion. “You can’t think that in our position anything more than our present friendship is possible. You are our elder brother—as such we view you, pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with it. Why, you are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I always thought you a hundred years old, Harry, with your solemn face and grave air. I feel as a sister to you, and can no more. Isn’t that enough, sir?” And she put her face quite close to his—who knows with what intention?

“It’s too much,” says Esmond, turning away. “I can’t bear this life, and shall leave it. I shall stay, I think, to see you married, and then freight a ship, and call it the Beatrix, and bid you all——”

Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his grace the Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with something like an imprecation on his lips, as the nobleman entered, looking splendid in his star and green ribbon. He gave Mr. Esmond just that gracious bow which he would have given to a lackey who fetched him a chair or took his hat, and seated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor colonel went out of the room with a hang-dog look.

Esmond’s mistress was in the lower room as he passed downstairs. She often met him as he was coming away from Beatrix; and she beckoned him into the apartment.

“Has she told you, Harry?” Lady Castlewood said.

“She has been very frank—very,” says Esmond.

“But—but about what is going to happen?”

“What is going to happen?” says he, his heart beating.

“His grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her,” says my lady. “He made his offer yesterday. They will marry as soon as his mourning is over; and you have heard his grace is appointed ambassador to Paris; and the ambassadress goes with him.”

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IV. Beatrix’s New Suitor

The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, twenty years older than the colonel, with whom she quarrelled for being too old; but this one was but a nameless adventurer, and the other the greatest duke in Scotland, with pretensions even to a still higher title. My Lord Duke of Hamilton had, indeed, every merit belonging to a gentleman, and he had had the time to mature his accomplishments fully, being upwards of fifty years old when Madam Beatrix selected him for a bridegroom. Duke Hamilton, then Earl of Arran, had been educated at the famous Scottish University of Glasgow, and, coming to London, became a great favourite of Charles the Second, who made him a lord of his bedchamber, and afterwards appointed him ambassador to the French king, under whom the earl served two campaigns as his Majesty’s aide de camp; and he was absent on this service when King Charles died.

King James continued my lord’s promotion—made him master of the wardrobe, and colonel of the Royal Regiment of Horse; and his lordship adhered firmly to King James, being of the small company that never quitted that unfortunate monarch till his departure out of England; and then it was, in 1688, namely, that he made the friendship with Colonel Francis Esmond, that had always been, more or less, maintained in the two families.

The earl professed a great admiration for King William always, but never could give him his allegiance; and was engaged in more than one of the plots in the late great king’s reign, which always ended in the plotters’ discomfiture, and generally in their pardon, by the magnanimity of the king. Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the Tower during this reign, undauntedly saying, when offered his release, upon parole not to engage against King William, that he would not give his word, because “he was sure he could not keep it”; but, nevertheless, he was both times discharged without any trial; and the king bore this noble enemy so little malice, that when his mother, the Duchess of Hamilton, of her own right, resigned her claim on her husband’s death, the earl was, by patent signed at Loo, 1690, created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of Clydesdale, and Earl of Arran, with precedency from the original creation. His grace took the oaths and his seat in the Scottish Parliament in 1700: was famous there for his patriotism and eloquence, especially in the debates about the Union Bill, which Duke Hamilton opposed with all his strength, though he would not go the length of the Scottish gentry, who were for resisting it by force of arms. ’Twas said he withdrew his opposition all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters from the king at St. Germains, who entreated him on his allegiance not to thwart the queen, his sister, in this measure; and the duke, being always bent upon effecting the king’s return to his kingdom through a reconciliation between his Majesty and Queen Anne, and quite averse to his landing with arms and French troops, held aloof, and kept out of Scotland during the time when the Chevalier de St. George’s descent from Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in England in his great estate of Staffordshire.

When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the queen began to show his grace the very greatest marks of her favour. He was created Duke of Brandon and Baron of Dutton in England; having the Thistle already originally bestowed on him by King James the Second, his grace was now promoted to the honour of the Garter—a distinction so great and illustrious, that no subject hath ever borne them hitherto together. When this objection was made to her Majesty, she was pleased to say, “Such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton has a pre-eminent claim to every mark of distinction which a crowned head can confer. I will henceforth wear both orders myself.”

At the Chapter held at Windsor in October, 1712, the duke and other knights, including Lord-Treasurer, the new-created Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, were installed; and a few days afterwards his grace was appointed Ambassador-Extraordinary to France, and his equipages, plate, and liveries commanded, of the most sumptuous kind, not only for his excellency the ambassador, but for her excellency the ambassadress, who was to accompany him. Her arms were already quartered on the coach panels, and her brother was to hasten over on the appointed day to give her away.

His lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698, Elizabeth, daughter of Digby, Lord Gerard, by which marriage great estates came into the Hamilton family; and out of these estates came, in part, that tragic quarrel which ended the duke’s career.

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From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there’s no pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more cruel than the certainty; and we make up our mind to the misfortune when ’tis irremediable, part with the tormentor, and mumble our crust on t’other side of the jaws. I think Colonel Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach-and-six came and whisked his charmer away out of his reach, and placed her in a higher sphere. As you have seen the nymph in the opera-machine go up to the clouds at the end of the piece where Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and all the divine company of Olympians are seated, and quaver out her last song as a goddess: so when this portentous elevation was accomplished in the Esmond family, I am not sure that every one of us did not treat the divine Beatrix with special honours; at least, the saucy little beauty carried her head with a toss of supreme authority, and assumed a touch-me-not air, which all her friends very good-humouredly bowed to.

An old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond’s, honest Tom Trett, who had sold his company, married a wife, and turned merchant in the city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long time, though living in a fine house on the river, and carrying on a great trade to all appearance. At length Esmond saw his friend’s name in the Gazette as a bankrupt; and a week after this circumstance my bankrupt walks into Mr. Esmond’s lodging with a face perfectly radiant with good humour, and as jolly and careless as when they had sailed from Southampton ten years before for Vigo. “This bankruptcy,” says Tom, “has been hanging over my head these three years; the thought hath prevented my sleeping, and I have looked at poor Polly’s head on t’other pillow, and then towards my razor on the table, and thought to put an end to myself, and so give my woes the slip. But now we are bankrupts: Tom Trett pays as many shillings in the pound as he can; his wife has a little cottage at Fulham, and her fortune secured to herself. I am afraid neither of bailiff nor of creditor; and for the last six nights have slept easy.” So it was that when Fortune shook her wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled himself up in his ragged virtue, and fell asleep.

Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied to Esmond too; but he laughed at it, and used it; and having fairly struck his docket in this love transaction, determined to put a cheerful face on his bankruptcy. Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended at his gaiety. “Is this the way, sir, that you receive the announcement of your misfortune,” says she, “and do you come smiling before me as if you were glad to be rid of me?”

Esmond would not be put off from his good humour, but told her the story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. “I have been hankering after the grapes on the wall,” says he, “and lost my temper because they were beyond my reach; was there any wonder? They’re gone now, and another has them—a taller man than your humble servant has won them.” And the colonel made his cousin a low bow.

“A taller man, cousin Esmond!” says she. “A man of spirit would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them! A man of courage would have fought for ’em, not gaped for ’em.”

“A duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth,” says Esmond, with another low bow.

“Yes, sir,” says she, “a duke is a taller man than you. And why should I not be grateful to one such as his grace, who gives me his heart and his great name? It is a great gift he honours me with; I know ’tis a bargain between us; and I accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part of it. ’Tis no question of sighing and philandering between a nobleman of his grace’s age and a girl who hath little of that softness in her nature. Why should I not own that I am ambitious, Harry Esmond; and if it be no sin in a man to covet honour, why should a woman too not desire it? Shall I be frank with you, Harry, and say that if you had not been down on your knees, and so humble, you might have fared better with me? A woman of my spirit, cousin, is to be won by gallantry, and not by sighs and rueful faces. All the time you are worshipping and singing hymns to me, I know very well I am no goddess, and grow weary of the incense. So would you have been weary of the goddess too—when she was called Mrs. Esmond, and got out of humour because she had not pin-money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. Eh! cousin, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has to make her husband’s gruel, ceases to be divine—I am sure of it. I should have been sulky and scolded; and of all the proud wretches in the world Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell him that. You never fall into a passion; but you never forgive, I think. Had you been a great man, you might have been good humoured; but being nobody, sir, you are too great a man for me; and I’m afraid of you, cousin—there; and I won’t worship you, and you’ll never be happy except with a woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, and after one of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over my head some night, and smothered me, as the black man does the woman in the play that you’re so fond of. What’s the creature’s name?—Desdemona. You would, you little black-eyed Othello!”

“I think I should, Beatrix,” says the colonel.

“And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a hundred, and to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to play cards every night of my life till the year eighteen hundred. And I like to be the first of my company, sir; and I like flattery and compliments, and you give me none; and I like to be made to laugh, sir, and who’s to laugh at your dismal face, I should like to know; and I like a coach-and-six or a coach-and-eight; and I like diamonds, and a new gown every week; and people to say—‘That’s the duchess—How well her grace looks—Make way for Madame l’Ambassadrice d’Angleterre—Call her excellency’s people’—that’s what I like. And as for you, you want a woman to bring your slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet, and cry, ‘O caro! O bravo!’ whilst you read your Shakespeares, and Miltons, and stuff. Mamma would have been the wife for you, had you been a little older, though you look ten years older than she does—you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded, little old man! You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, and flattered each other; and billed and cooed like a pair of old pigeons on a perch. I want my wings and to use them, sir.” And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she could fly off like the pretty “Gawrie”, whom the man in the story was enamoured of.

“And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?” says Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled and laughed at him.

“A duchess knows her place,” says she, with a laugh. “Why, I have a son already made for me, and thirty years old (my Lord Arran), and four daughters. How they will scold, and what a rage they will be in, when I come to take the head of the table! But I give them only a month to be angry; at the end of that time they shall love me every one, and so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his grace’s Scots vassals and followers in the Highlands. I’m bent on it; and, when I take a thing in my head, ’tis done. His grace is the greatest gentleman in Europe, and I’ll try and make him happy; and, when the king comes back, you may count on my protection, Cousin Esmond—for come back the king will and shall: and I’ll bring him back from Versailles, if he comes under my hoop.”

“I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix,” says Esmond, with a sigh. “You’ll be Beatrix till you are my lady duchess—will you not? I shall then make your grace my very lowest bow.”

“None of these sighs and this satire, cousin,” she says. “I take his grace’s great bounty thankfully—yes, thankfully; and will wear his honours becomingly. I do not say he hath touched my heart; but he has my gratitude, obedience, admiration—I have told him that, and no more; and with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all—even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged to—and that I could not love; and I gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own. I am twenty-five years old.”

“Twenty-six, my dear,” says Esmond.

“Twenty-five, sir—I choose to be twenty-five; and, in eight years, no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes—you did once, for a little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, and engaging with that murderer, Mohun, and saving Frank’s life. I thought I could like you; and mamma begged me hard, on her knees, and I did—for a day. But the old chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might hear no more of you, that’s the truth. You are too good for me somehow. I could not make you happy, and should break my heart in trying, and not being able to love you. But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword, you might have had me, sir, and we both should have been miserable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, didn’t I? How frankly we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand years ago: and, though we are here sitting in the same room, there’s a great wall between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can like you now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are brave, and very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all—for all your little mishap at your birth,” says she, wagging her arch head.

“And now, sir,” says she, with a curtsy, “we must have no more talk except when mamma is by, as his grace is with us; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is as jealous as the black man in your favourite play.”

Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound by any look of his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned to him), but said, with a perfect command of himself and an easy smile, “The interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here comes your mother” (indeed she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond, going up, kissed her hand respectfully). “My dear lady may hear, too, the last words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction accompanying a present for your marriage from an old gentleman your guardian; for I feel as if I was the guardian of all the family, and an old, old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of you all; and in this character let me make my lady duchess her wedding present. They are the diamonds my father’s widow left me. I had thought Beatrix might have had them a year ago; but they are good enough for a duchess, though not bright enough for the handsomest woman in the world.” And he took the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and presented them to his cousin.

She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the necklace was where Belinda’s cross is in Mr. Pope’s admirable poem, and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly-shaped neck in all England.

The girl’s delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, that after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Beatrix was running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps for paying her cousin with a price, that he would have liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers, but at this moment the door opened, and his grace the bridegroom elect was announced.

He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and the Thistle.

“Look, my lord duke,” says Mrs. Beatrix, advancing to him, and showing the diamonds on her breast.

“Diamonds,” says his grace. “Hm! they seem pretty.”

“They are a present on my marriage,” says Beatrix.

“From her Majesty?” asks the duke. “The queen is very good.”

“From my cousin Henry—from our cousin Henry”—cry both the ladies in a breath.

“I have not the honour of knowing the gentleman. I thought that my Lord Castlewood had no brother: and that on your ladyship’s side there were no nephews.”

“From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord,” says Beatrix, taking the colonel’s hand very bravely—“who was left guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown his love and friendship for our family.”

“The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from her husband, madam,” says the duke—“may I pray you to restore these to Mr. Esmond?”

“Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and benefactor, my lord duke,” says Lady Castlewood, with an air of great dignity. “She is my daughter yet: and if her mother sanctions the gift—no one else hath the right to question it.”

“Kinsman and benefactor!” says the duke. “I know of no kinsman: and I do not choose that my wife should have for benefactor a——”

“My lord,” says Colonel Esmond.

“I am not here to bandy words,” says his grace: “frankly I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from gentlemen that bear a name they have no right to.”

“My lord!” breaks out Lady Castlewood, “Mr. Esmond hath the best right to that name of any man in the world: and ’tis as old and as honourable as your grace’s.”

My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was mad, that was so talking to him.

“If I called him benefactor,” said my mistress, “it is because he has been so to us—yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest, the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband’s life from Mohun’s sword. He did save my boy’s, and defended him from that villain. Are those no benefits?”

“I ask Colonel Esmond’s pardon,” says his grace, if possible more haughty than before; “I would say not a word that should give him offence, and thank him for his kindness to your ladyship’s family. My Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know, by marriage—though neither by blood nor friendship; but I must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no presents from Colonel Esmond.”

“My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our House: my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her father’s, her mother’s, her brother’s dearest friend; and be grateful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe him,” cries Lady Esmond. “What is a string of diamond stones compared to that affection he hath given us—our dearest preserver and benefactor? We owe him not only Frank’s life, but our all—yes, our all,” says my mistress, with a heightened colour and a trembling voice. “The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. ’Tis we who have no right to our name: not he that’s too great for it. He sacrificed his name at my dying lord’s bedside—sacrificed it to my orphan children; gave up rank and honour because he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before him; and he is his father’s lawful son and true heir, and we are the recipients of his bounty, and he the chief of a house that’s as old as your own. And if he is content to forgo his name that my child may bear it, we love him and honour him and bless him under whatever name he bears”—and here the fond and affectionate creature would have knelt to Esmond again, but that he prevented her; and Beatrix, running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced her and said, “Mother, what is this?”

“’Tis a family secret, my lord duke,” says Colonel Esmond: “poor Beatrix knew nothing of it: nor did my lady till a year ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as your grace’s mother to abdicate hers to you.”

“I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,” said my mistress, “had his grace applied to me for my daughter’s hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you this very day in private, my lord, had not your words brought about this sudden explanation—and now ’tis fit Beatrix should hear it; and know, as I would have all the world know, what we owe to our kinsman and patron.”

And then in her touching way, and having hold of her daughter’s hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know already—lauding up to the skies her kinsman’s behaviour. On his side Mr. Esmond explained the reasons that seemed quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession in the family, as at present it stood, should not be disturbed; and he should remain, as he was, Colonel Esmond.

“And Marquis of Esmond, my lord,” says his grace, with a low bow. “Permit me to ask your lordship’s pardon for words that were uttered in ignorance; and to beg for the favour of your friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honour under whatever name you are known” (so his grace was pleased to say): “and in return for the splendid present you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you will please to command any service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy until I repay you a part of my obligations at least; and ere very long, and with the mission her Majesty hath given me,” says the duke, “that may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as a favour, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride.”

“And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is welcome,” says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and as Esmond kissed her, she whispered, “Oh, why didn’t I know you before?”

My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said never a word: Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two ladies quitted the room together.

“When does your excellency go for Paris?” asks Colonel Esmond.

“As soon after the ceremony as may be,” his grace answered. “’Tis fixed for the first of December: it cannot be sooner. The equipage will not be ready till then. The queen intends the embassy should be very grand—and I have law business to settle. That ill-omened Mohun has come, or is coming, to London again: we are in a lawsuit about my late Lord Gerard’s property; and he hath sent to me to meet him.”

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