V. Mohun Appears For The Last Time In This History…

V. Mohun Appears For The Last Time In This History

Besides my Lord Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, who, for family reasons, had kindly promised his protection and patronage to Colonel Esmond, he had other great friends in power now, both able and willing to assist him, and he might, with such allies, look forward to as fortunate advancement in civil life at home as he had got rapid promotion abroad. His grace was magnanimous enough to offer to take Mr. Esmond as secretary on his Paris embassy, but no doubt he intended that proposal should be rejected; at any rate, Esmond could not bear the thoughts of attending his mistress farther than the church-door after her marriage, and so declined that offer which his generous rival made him.

Other gentlemen, in power, were liberal at least of compliments and promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr. Harley, now become my Lord Oxford and Mortimer, and installed Knight of the Garter on the same day as his grace of Hamilton had received the same honour, sent to the colonel to say that a seat in Parliament should be at his disposal presently, and Mr. St. John held out many flattering hopes of advancement to the colonel when he should enter the House. Esmond’s friends were all successful, and the most successful and triumphant of all was his dear old commander, General Webb, who was now appointed Lieutenant-General of the Land Forces, and received with particular honour by the ministry, by the queen, and the people out of doors, who huzza’d the brave chief when they used to see him in his chariot, going to the House or to the Drawing-room, or hobbling on foot to his coach from St. Stephen’s upon his glorious old crutch and stick, and cheered him as loud as they had ever done Marlborough.

That great duke was utterly disgraced; and honest old Webb dated all his grace’s misfortunes from Wynendael, and vowed that Fate served the traitor right. Duchess Sarah had also gone to ruin; she had been forced to give up her keys, and her places, and her pensions:—“Ah, ah!” says Webb, “she would have locked up three millions of French crowns with her keys had I but been knocked on the head, but I stopped that convoy at Wynendael.” Our enemy Cardonnel was turned out of the House of Commons (along with Mr. Walpole) for malversation of public money. Cadogan lost his place of Lieutenant of the Tower. Marlborough’s daughters resigned their posts of ladies of the bedchamber; and so complete was the duke’s disgrace, that his son-in-law, Lord Bridgewater, was absolutely obliged to give up his lodging at St. James’s, and had his half-pension, as Master of the Horse, taken away. But I think the lowest depth of Marlborough’s fall was when he humbly sent to ask General Webb when he might wait upon him; he who had commanded the stout old general, who had injured him and sneered at him, who had kept him dangling in his antechamber, who could not even after his great service condescend to write him a letter in his own hand. The nation was as eager for peace, as ever it had been hot for war. The Prince of Savoy came amongst us, had his audience of the queen, and got his famous Sword of Honour, and strove with all his force to form a Whig party together, to bring over the young Prince of Hanover—to do anything which might prolong the war, and consummate the ruin of the old sovereign whom he hated so implacably. But the nation was tired of the struggle; so completely wearied of it that not even our defeat at Denain could rouse us into any anger, though such an action so lost two years before, would have set all England in a fury. ’Twas easy to see that the great Marlborough was not with the army. Eugene was obliged to fall back in a rage, and forgo the dazzling revenge of his life. ’Twas in vain the duke’s side asked, “Would we suffer our arms to be insulted? Would we not send back the only champion who could repair our honour?” The nation had had its bellyful of fighting; nor could taunts or outcries goad up our Britons any more.

For a statesman, that was always prating of liberty, and had the grandest philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must be owned that Mr. St. John sometimes rather acted like a Turkish than a Greek philosopher, and especially fell foul of one unfortunate set of men, the men of letters, with a tyranny a little extraordinary in a man who professed to respect their calling so much. The literary controversy at this time was very bitter, the Government side was the winning one, the popular one, and I think might have been the merciful one. ’Twas natural that the Opposition should be peevish and cry out; some men did so from their hearts, admiring the Duke of Marlborough’s prodigious talents, and deploring the disgrace of the greatest general the world ever knew: ’twas the stomach that caused other patriots to grumble, and such men cried out because they were poor, and paid to do so. Against these my Lord Bolingbroke never showed the slightest mercy, whipping a dozen into prison or into the pillory without the least commiseration.

From having been a man of arms Mr. Esmond had now come to be a man of letters, but on a safer side than that in which the above-cited poor fellows ventured their liberties and ears. There was no danger on ours, which was the winning side; besides, Mr. Esmond pleased himself by thinking that he writ like a gentleman if he did not always succeed as a wit.

Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen Anne’s reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all Englishmen’s hands in ages yet to come, Mr. Esmond saw many, but at public places chiefly; never having a great intimacy with any of them, except with honest Dick Steele and Mr. Addison, who parted company with Esmond, however, when that gentleman became a declared Tory, and lived on close terms with the leading persons of that party. Addison kept himself to a few friends, and very rarely opened himself except in their company. A man more upright and conscientious than he, it was not possible to find in public life, and one whose conversation was so various, easy, and delightful. Writing now in my mature years, I own that I think Addison’s politics were the right, and were my time to come over again, I would be a Whig in England and not a Tory; but with people that take a side in politics, ’tis men rather than principles that commonly bind them. A kindness or a slight puts a man under one flag or the other, and he marches with it to the end of the campaign. Esmond’s master in war was injured by Marlborough, and hated him: and the lieutenant fought the quarrels of his leader. Webb coming to London was used as a weapon by Marlborough’s enemies (and true steel he was, that honest chief); nor was his aide de camp, Mr. Esmond, an unfaithful or unworthy partisan. ’Tis strange here, and on a foreign soil, and in a land that is independent in all but the name (for that the North American colonies shall remain dependants on yonder little island for twenty years more, I never can think), to remember how the nation at home seemed to give itself up to the domination of one or other aristocratic party, and took a Hanoverian king, or a French one, according as either prevailed. And while the Tories, the October Club gentlemen, the High Church parsons that held by the Church of England, were for having a Papist king, for whom many of their Scottish and English leaders, firm churchmen all, laid down their lives with admirable loyalty and devotion; they were governed by men who had notoriously no religion at all, but used it as they would use any opinion for the purpose of forwarding their own ambition. The Whigs, on the other hand, who professed attachment to religion and liberty too, were compelled to send to Holland or Hanover for a monarch around whom they could rally. A strange series of compromises is that English history; compromise of principle, compromise of party, compromise of worship! The lovers of English freedom and independence submitted their religious consciences to an Act of Parliament; could not consolidate their liberty without sending to Zell or the Hague for a king to live under; and could not find amongst the proudest people in the world a man speaking their own language, and understanding their laws, to govern them. The Tory and High Church patriots were ready to die in defence of a Papist family that had sold us to France; the great Whig nobles, the sturdy Republican recusants who had cut off Charles Stuart’s head for treason, were fain to accept a king whose title came to him through a royal grandmother, whose own royal grandmother’s head had fallen under Queen Bess’s hatchet. And our proud English nobles sent to a petty German town for a monarch to come and reign in London; and our prelates kissed the ugly hands of his Dutch mistresses, and thought it no dishonour. In England you can but belong to one party or t’other, and you take the house you live in with all its encumbrances, its retainers, its antique discomforts, and ruins even; you patch up, but you never build up anew. Will we of the New World submit much longer, even nominally, to this ancient British superstition? There are signs of the times which make me think that ere long we shall care as little about King George here, and peers temporal and peers spiritual, as we do for King Canute or the Druids.

This chapter began about the wits, my grandson may say, and hath wandered very far from their company. The pleasantest of the wits I knew were the Doctors Garth and Arbuthnot, and Mr. Gay, the author of Trivia, the most charming kind soul that ever laughed at a joke or cracked a bottle. Mr. Prior I saw, and he was the earthen pot swimming with the pots of brass down the stream, and always and justly frightened lest he should break in the voyage. I met him both at London and Paris, where he was performing piteous congees to the Duke of Shrewsbury, not having courage to support the dignity which his undeniable genius and talent had won him, and writing coaxing letters to Secretary St. John, and thinking about his plate and his place, and what on earth should become of him should his party go out. The famous Mr. Congreve I saw a dozen of times at Button’s, a splendid wreck of a man, magnificently attired, and though gouty, and almost blind, bearing a brave face against fortune.

The great Mr. Pope (of whose prodigious genius I have no words to express my admiration) was quite a puny lad at this time, appearing seldom in public places. There were hundreds of men, wits, and pretty fellows frequenting the theatres and coffee-houses of that day—whom nunc prescribere longum est. Indeed I think the most brilliant of that sort I ever saw was not till fifteen years afterwards, when I paid my last visit in England, and met young Harry Fielding, son of the Fielding that served in Spain and afterwards in Flanders with us, and who for fun and humour seemed to top them all. As for the famous Dr. Swift, I can say of him, “vidi tantum.” He was in London all these years up to the death of the queen; and in a hundred public places where I saw him, but no more; he never missed Court of a Sunday, where once or twice he was pointed out to your grandfather. He would have sought me out eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title to my name, or a star on my coat. At Court the doctor had no eyes but for the very greatest. Lord Treasurer and St. John used to call him Jonathan, and they paid him with this cheap coin for the service they took of him. He writ their lampoons, fought their enemies, flogged and bullied in their service, and it must be owned with a consummate skill and fierceness. ’Tis said he hath lost his intellect now, and forgotten his wrongs and his rage against mankind. I have always thought of him and of Marlborough as the two greatest men of that age. I have read his books (who doth not know them?) here in our calm woods, and imagine a giant to myself as I think of him, a lonely fallen Prometheus, groaning as the vulture tears him. Prometheus I saw, but when first I ever had any words with him, the giant stepped out of a sedan-chair in the Poultry, whither he had come with a tipsy Irish servant parading before him, who announced him, bawling out his reverence’s name, whilst his master below was as yet haggling with the chairman. I disliked this Mr. Swift, and heard many a story about him, of his conduct to men, and his words to women. He could flatter the great as much as he could bully the weak; and Mr. Esmond, being younger and hotter in that day than now, was determined, should he ever meet this dragon, not to run away from his teeth and his fire.

Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in life, and are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be of distinction, from a hundred different causes. There was one comrade of Esmond’s, an honest little Irish lieutenant of Handyside’s, who owed so much money to a camp sutler, that he began to make love to the man’s daughter, intending to pay his debt that way; and at the battle of Malplaquet, flying away from the debt and lady too, he rushed so desperately on the French lines, that he got his company; and came a captain out of the action, and had to marry the sutler’s daughter after all, who brought him his cancelled debt to her father as poor Rogers’s fortune. To run out of the reach of bill and marriage, he ran on the enemy’s pikes; and as these did not kill him he was thrown back upon t’other horn of his dilemma. Our great duke at the same battle was fighting, not the French, but the Tories in England; and risking his life and the army’s, not for his country but for his pay and places; and for fear of his wife at home, that only being in life whom he dreaded. I have asked about men in my own company (new drafts of poor country boys were perpetually coming over to us during the wars, and brought from the ploughshare to the sword), and found that a half of them under the flags were driven thither on account of a woman: one fellow was jilted by his mistress and took the shilling in despair; another jilted the girl, and fled from her and the parish to the tents where the law could not disturb him. Why go on particularizing? What can the sons of Adam and Eve expect, but to continue in that course of love and trouble their father and mother set out on? O my grandson! I am drawing nigh to the end of that period of my history, when I was acquainted with the great world of England and Europe, my years are past the Hebrew poet’s limit, and I say unto thee, all my troubles and joys too, for that matter, have come from a woman; as thine will when thy destined course begins. ’Twas a woman that made a soldier of me, that set me intriguing afterwards; I believe I would have spun smocks for her had she so bidden me; what strength I had in my head I would have given her; hath not every man in his degree had his Omphale and Delilah? Mine befooled me on the banks of the Thames, and in dear old England; thou mayest find thine own by Rappahannoc.

To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself as a soldier, and afterwards as a wit and a politician; as to please another I would have put on a black cassock and a pair of bands, and had done so but that a superior fate intervened to defeat that project. And I say, I think the world is like Captain Esmond’s company I spoke of anon; and, could you see every man’s career in life, you would find a woman clogging him; or clinging round his march and stopping him; or cheering him and goading him; or beckoning him out of her chariot, so that he goes up to her, and leaves the race to be run without him; or bringing him the apple, and saying “Eat”; or fetching him the daggers and whispering “Kill! yonder lies Duncan, and a crown, and an opportunity”.

Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician than as a wit; and having private animosities and grievances of his own and his general’s against the great duke in command of the army, and more information on military matters than most writers, who had never seen beyond the fire of a tobacco-pipe at Wills’s, he was enabled to do good service for that cause which he embarked in, and for Mr. St. John and his party. But he disdained the abuse in which some of the Tory writers indulged; for instance, Dr. Swift, who actually chose to doubt the Duke of Marlborough’s courage, and was pleased to hint that his grace’s military capacity was doubtful: nor were Esmond’s performances worse for the effect they were intended to produce (though no doubt they could not injure the Duke of Marlborough nearly so much in the public eyes as the malignant attacks of Swift did, which were carefully directed so as to blacken and degrade him), because they were writ openly and fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was now out of the army, and who never attacked the prodigious courage and talents, only the selfishness and rapacity, of the chief.

The colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory journals, called the Post-Boy (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked about for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer supplied a fresh subject for conversation), and having business at the Exchange, where Mrs. Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely, Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer’s, when the famous Dr. Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master’s name with great dignity.

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a picture of a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of the printer’s wife, whom she had left behind her.

“I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?” says the doctor, in a grating voice that had an Irish twang; and he looked at the colonel from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes. His complexion was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, and he pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce.

“I am but a contributor, Dr. Swift,” says Esmond, with the little boy still on his knee. He was sitting with his back in the window, so that the doctor could not see him.

“Who told you I was Dr. Swift?” says the doctor, eyeing the other very haughtily.

“Your reverence’s valet bawled out your name,” says the colonel. “I should judge you brought him from Ireland.”

“And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I’ll thank ye go fetch him.”

“Where’s your papa, Tommy?” asks the colonel of the child, a smutty little wretch in a frock.

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the doctor’s appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.

“Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid ye, sir,” says the doctor.

“I must finish the picture first for Tommy,” says the colonel, laughing. “Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?”

“Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

“Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the doctor; “are ye a printer’s man or are ye not?” he pronounced it like naught.

“Your reverence needn’t raise the devil to ask who I am,” says Colonel Esmond. “Did you ever hear of Dr. Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?”

Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. “I did not intend any offence, sir,” says he.

“I daresay, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the other drily.

“Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You are one of the pack of Grub-Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid by the heels. How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?” cries the doctor, in a great fume.

“I beg your honour’s humble pardon if I have offended your honour,” says Esmond, in a tone of great humility. “Rather than be sent to the Compter, or be put in the pillory, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do. But Mrs. Leach, the printer’s lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for her husband to the tavern, and I daren’t leave the child lest he should fall into the fire; but if your reverence will hold him——”

“I take the little beast!” says the doctor, starting back. “I am engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes an appointment with Dr. Swift he had best keep it, do ye hear? And keep a respectful tongue in your head, sir, when you address a person like me.”

“I’m but a poor broken-down soldier,” says the colonel, “and I’ve seen better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. We can’t help our fate, sir.”

“You’re the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume. Have the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to—and tell Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the papers with him to-night at ten o’clock. And the next time you see me, you’ll know me, and be civil, Mr. Kemp.”

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war, and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post-Boy, and now took honest Mr. Leach’s pay in place of her Majesty’s. Esmond had seen this gentleman, and a very ingenious, hard-working honest fellow he was, toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching up many a long winter night to keep the wolf from his door. And Mr. St. John, who had liberty always on his tongue, had just sent a dozen of the Opposition writers into prison, and one actually into the pillory, for what he called libels, but libels not half so violent as those writ on our side. With regard to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remonstrated strongly with the secretary, who laughed and said, the rascals were served quite right; and told Esmond a joke of Swift’s regarding the matter. Nay, more, this Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon a poor wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented the secretary from exercising this act of good nature, and boasted that he had had the man hanged; and great as the doctor’s genius might be, and splendid his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and never desired to make his acquaintance. The doctor was at Court every Sunday assiduously enough, a place the colonel frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement to go there in the person of a fair maid of honour of her Majesty’s; and the airs and patronage Mr. Swift gave himself, forgetting gentlemen of his country whom he knew perfectly, his loud talk at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his very intimacy with lord treasurer and the secretary, who indulged all his freaks and called him Jonathan, you may be sure, were remarked by many a person of whom the proud priest himself took no note, during that time of his vanity and triumph.

’Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712 (Esmond minds him well of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his general, the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive occasions, as he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign. This was a great feast, and of the latter sort; the honest old gentleman loved to treat his friends splendidly: his grace of Ormonde, before he joined his army as generalissimo, my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her Majesty’s secretaries of state, my Lord Orkney, that had served with us abroad, being of the party. His grace of Hamilton, master of the ordnance, and in whose honour the feast had been given, upon his approaching departure as ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to General Webb at two o’clock, but an hour before the dinner: nothing but the most immediate business, his grace said, should have prevented him having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to the health of General Webb. His absence disappointed Esmond’s old chief, who suffered much from his wounds besides; and though the company was grand, it was rather gloomy. St. John came last, and brought a friend with him:—“I’m sure,” says my general, bowing very politely, “my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift.”

Mr. Esmond went up to the doctor with a bow and a smile:—“I gave Dr. Swift’s message,” says he, “to the printer: I hope he brought your pamphlet to your lodgings in time.” Indeed poor Leach had come to his house very soon after the doctor left it, being brought away rather tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife; and he talked of cousin Swift in a maudlin way, though of course Mr. Esmond did not allude to this relationship. The doctor scowled, blushed, and was much confused, and said scarce a word during the whole of dinner. A very little stone will sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit; and this one was often discomfited when met by a man of any spirit; he took his place sulkily, put water in his wine that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said a word.

The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about persons than affairs: my Lady Marlborough’s fury, her daughters in old clothes and mob-caps looking out from their windows and seeing the company pass to the Drawing-room; the gentleman-usher’s horror when the Prince of Savoy was introduced to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man out of a full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the royal hand before; about the Mohawks and the damage they were doing, rushing through the town, killing and murdering. Some one said the ill-omened face of Mohun had been seen at the theatre the night before, and Macartney and Meredith with him. Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of drink, and talk, was as dismal as a funeral. Every topic started subsided into gloom. His grace of Ormonde went away because the conversation got upon Denain, where we had been defeated in the last campaign. Esmond’s general was affected at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade of Wynendael, the Count of Nassau-Woudenberg, had been slain there. Mr. Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took his hat from the peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow him; but the other bade him take his chariot and save his coach-hire, he had to speak with Colonel Esmond; and when the rest of the company withdrew to cards, these two remained behind in the dark.

Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely. His enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition; women were even employed to ply him, and take his words down. I have heard that my Lord Stair, three years after, when the secretary fled to France and became the pretender’s minister, got all the information he wanted by putting female spies over St. John in his cups. He spoke freely now:—“Jonathan knows nothing of this for certain, though he suspects it, and by George, Webb will take an archbishopric, and Jonathan a—no, damme—Jonathan will take an archbishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough. Your duke hath the string of the whole matter in his hand,” the secretary went on. “We have that which will force Marlborough to keep his distance, and he goes out of London in a fortnight. Prior hath his business; he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, should fate carry off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric queen, and defender of the faith, la bonne cause triomphera. A la santé de la bonne cause! Everything good comes from France. Wine comes from France; give us another bumper to the bonne cause.” We drank it together.

“Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?” asked Mr. Esmond.

“No, hang it,” says the other, “he’ll defend our faith as in duty bound, but he’ll stick by his own. The Hind and the Panther shall run in the same car, by Jove. Righteousness and peace shall kiss each other; and we’ll have Father Massillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul’s, cheek by jowl, with Dr. Sacheverel. Give us more wine; here’s a health to the bonne cause, kneeling—damme, let’s drink it kneeling.” He was quite flushed and wild with wine as he was talking.

“And suppose,” says Esmond, who always had this gloomy apprehension, “the bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father and uncle did before him?”

“Give us up to the French!” starts up Bolingbroke; “is there any English gentleman that fears that? You who have seen Blenheim and Ramillies, afraid of the French! Your ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb’s yonder, have met them in a hundred fields, and our children will be ready to do the like. Who’s he that wishes for more men from England? My cousin Westmoreland? Give us up to the French, pshaw!”

“His uncle did,” says Mr. Esmond.

“And what happened to his grandfather?” broke out St. John, filling out another bumper. “Here’s to the greatest monarch England ever saw; here’s to the Englishman that made a kingdom of her. Our great king came from Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn’t look for a Dutchman to rule us. Let him come and we’ll keep him, and we’ll show him Whitehall. If he’s a traitor let us have him here to deal with him; and then there are spirits here as great as any that have gone before. There are men here that can look at danger in the face and not be frightened at it. Traitor, treason! what names are these to scare you and me? Are all Oliver’s men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years? Are there no men equal to him, think you, as good—aye, as good? God save the king! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the British republic!”

He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained it wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels approaching was stopped at our door, and after a hurried knock and a moment’s interval, Mr. Swift came into the hall, ran upstairs to the room we were dining in, and entered it with a perturbed face. St. John, excited with drink, was making some wild quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift stopped him.

“Drink no more, my lord, for God’s sake,” says he, “I come with the most dreadful news.”

“Is the queen dead?” cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass.

“No, Duke Hamilton is dead, he was murdered an hour ago by Mohun and Macartney; they had a quarrel this morning; they gave him not so much time as to write a letter. He went for a couple of his friends, and he is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who was set on him. They fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the duke killed Mohun, and Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled. I have your chariot below; send to every part of the country and apprehend that villain; come to the duke’s house and see if any life be left in him.”

“O Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought Esmond, “and here ends my poor girl’s ambition!”

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VI. Poor Beatrix

There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity of a separation between him and Beatrix: Fate had done that completely; and I think from the very moment poor Beatrix had accepted the duke’s offer, she began to assume the majestic air of a duchess, nay, queen elect, and to carry herself as one sacred and removed from us common people. Her mother and kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, and uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own. There was a certain charm about this girl of which neither Colonel Esmond nor his fond mistress could forgo the fascination; in spite of her faults and her pride and wilfulness, they were forced to love her; and, indeed, might be set down as the two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature’s court.

Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitched, and worshipped some idol or another? Years after this passion hath been dead and buried, along with a thousand other worldly cares and ambitions, he who felt it can recall it out of its grave, and admire, almost as fondly as he did in his youth, that lovely queenly creature. I invoke that beautiful spirit from the shades and love her still; or rather I should say such a past is always present to a man; such a passion once felt forms a part of his whole being, and cannot be separated from it; it becomes a portion of the man of to-day, just as any great faith or conviction, the discovery of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever afterward influence him; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, and of which I wear the scar, hath become part of my frame and influenced my whole body, nay spirit, subsequently, though ’twas got and healed forty years ago. Parting and forgetting! What faithful heart can do these? Our great thoughts, our great affections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely, they cannot separate from our consciousness; shall follow it whithersoever that shall go; and are of their nature divine and immortal.

With the horrible news of this catastrophe, which was confirmed by the weeping domestics at the duke’s own door, Esmond rode homewards as quick as his lazy coach would carry him, devising all the time how he should break the intelligence to the person most concerned in it; and if a satire upon human vanity could be needed, that poor soul afforded it in the altered company and occupations in which Esmond found her. For days before, her chariot had been rolling the street from mercer to toyshop—from goldsmith to laceman: her taste was perfect, or at least the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had given entire authority over all tradesmen, and for all the plate, furniture, and equipages, with which his grace the ambassador wished to adorn his splendid mission. She must have her picture by Kneller, a duchess not being complete without a portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on a cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She vowed she would wear it at King James the Third’s coronation, and never a princess in the land would have become ermine better. Esmond found the antechamber crowded with milliners and toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths with jewels, salvers, and tankards; and mercer’s men with hangings, and velvets, and brocades. My lady duchess elect was giving audience to one famous silversmith from Exeter “Change,” who brought with him a great chased salver, of which he was pointing out the beauties as Colonel Esmond entered. “Come,” says she, “cousin, and admire the taste of this pretty thing.” I think Mars and Venus were lying in the golden bower, that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god’s casque—another his sword—another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke Hamilton’s arms with ours were to be engraved—and a fourth was kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in his hands, God help us! The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece of plate, the arms were changed, the ducal coronet had been replaced by a viscount’s; it formed part of the fortune of the thrifty goldsmith’s own daughter, when she married my Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years after.

“Isn’t this a beautiful piece?” says Beatrix, examining it, and she pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of the languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as he thought of the warrior dead in his chamber, his servants and children weeping around him; and of this smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial death-bed. “’Tis a pretty piece of vanity,” says he, looking gloomily at the beautiful creature: there were flambeaux in the room lighting up the brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold salver with her fair arms.

“Vanity!” says she haughtily. “What is vanity in you, sir, is propriety in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves; but have it I will, if only to spite Mr. Esmond.”

“O Beatrix, lay it down!” says Mr. Esmond. “Herodias! you know not what you carry in the charger.”

She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize his fallen ware. The lady’s face caught the fright from Esmond’s pale countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm:—“What is it, Henry?” says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands. “What do you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?”

“Come away, come away!” says Esmond, leading her: she clung frightened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, bidding the scared goldsmith leave them. The man went into the next apartment, staring with surprise, and hugging his precious charger.

“O my Beatrix, my sister!” says Esmond, still holding in his arms the pallid and affrighted creature, “you have the greatest courage of any woman in the world; prepare to show it now, for you have a dreadful trial to bear.”

She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her:—“Hath he left me?” says she. “We had words this morning: he was very gloomy, and I angered him: but he dared not, he dared not!” As she spoke a burning blush flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond saw it reflected in the glass by which she stood, with clenched hands, pressing her swelling heart.

“He has left you,” says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than sorrow was in her looks.

“And he is alive,” cries Beatrix, “and you bring me this commission! He has left me, and you haven’t dared to avenge me! You, that pretend to be the champion of our house, have let me suffer this insult! Where is Castlewood? I will go to my brother.”

“The duke is not alive, Beatrix,” said Esmond.

She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as though shot in the breast:—“And you come here, and—and—you killed him?”

“No; thank Heaven,” her kinsman said, “the blood of that noble heart doth not stain my sword! In its last hour it was faithful to thee, Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel woman! kneel and thank the awful Heaven which awards life and death, and chastises pride, that the noble Hamilton died true to you; at least that ’twas not your quarrel, or your pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate. He died by the bloody sword which already had drank your own father’s blood. O woman, O sister! to that sad field where two corpses are lying—for the murderer died too by the hand of the man he slew—can you bring no mourners but your revenge and your vanity? God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as He brings this awful punishment to your hard and rebellious heart.”

Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress came in. The colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted but a few minutes, during which time Esmond’s servant had carried the disastrous news through the household. The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without, gathered up all their fripperies and fled aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood had been in talk above with Dean Atterbury, the pious creature’s almoner and director; and the dean had entered with her as a physician whose place was at a sick-bed. Beatrix’s mother looked at Esmond and ran towards her daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, all kindness and pity. But Beatrix passed her by, nor would she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual physician. “I am best in my own room and by myself,” she said. Her eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see them otherwise, save once, in respect to that grief. She gave him a cold hand as she went out: “Thank you, brother,” she said, in a low voice, and with a simplicity more touching than tears; “all you have said is true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon.” The three others remained behind, and talked over the dreadful story. It affected Dr. Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed. The death of Mohun, her husband’s murderer, was more awful to my mistress than even the duke’s unhappy end. Esmond gave at length what particulars he knew of their quarrel, and the cause of it. The two noblemen had long been at war with respect to the Lord Gerard’s property, whose two daughters my lord duke and Mohun had married. They had met by appointment that day at the lawyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn Fields; had words which, though they appeared very trifling to those who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long and previous enmity. Mohun asked my lord duke where he could see his grace’s friends, and within an hour had sent two of his own to arrange this deadly duel. It was pursued with such fierceness, and sprung from so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the time that there was a party, of which these three notorious brawlers were but agents, who desired to take Duke Hamilton’s life away. They fought three on a side, as in that tragic meeting twelve years back, which hath been recounted already, and in which Mohun performed his second murder. They rushed in, and closed upon each other at once without any feints or crossing of swords even, and stabbed one at the other desperately, each receiving many wounds; and Mohun having his death-wound, and my lord duke lying by him, Macartney came up and stabbed his grace as he lay on the ground, and gave him the blow of which he died. Colonel Macartney denied this, of which the horror and indignation of the whole kingdom would nevertheless have him guilty, and fled the country, whither he never returned.

What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton’s death—a paltry quarrel that might easily have been made up, and with a ruffian so low, base, profligate, and degraded with former crimes and repeated murders, that a man of such a renown and princely rank as my lord duke might have disdained to sully his sword with the blood of such a villain. But his spirit was so high that those who wished his death knew that his courage was like his charity, and never turned any man away; and he died by the hands of Mohun, and the other two cut-throats that were set on him. The queen’s ambassador to Paris died, the loyal and devoted servant of the House of Stuart, and a royal prince of Scotland himself, and carrying the confidence, the repentance of Queen Anne along with his own open devotion, and the goodwill of millions in the country more, to the queen’s exiled brother and sovereign.

That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit of his service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian. He, and Meredith, and Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough’s men; and the two colonels had been broke but the year before for drinking perdition to the Tories. His grace was a Whig now and a Hanoverian, and as eager for war as Prince Eugene himself. I say not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton’s death, I say that his party profited by it; and that three desperate and bloody instruments were found to effect that murder.

As Esmond and the dean walked away from Kensington discoursing of this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause which they both had at heart; the street-criers were already out with their broadsides, shouting through the town the full, true, and horrible account of the death of Lord Mohun and Duke Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had got to Kensington, and was crying it in the square there at very early morning, when Mr. Esmond happened to pass by. He drove the man from under Beatrix’s very window, whereof the casement had been set open. The sun was shining though ’twas November: he had seen the market-carts rolling into London, the guard relieved at the Palace, the labourers trudging to their work in the gardens between Kensington and the City—the wandering merchants and hawkers filling the air with their cries. The world was going to its business again, although dukes lay dead and ladies mourned for them; and kings, very likely, lost their chances. So night and day pass away, and to-morrow comes, and our place knows us not. Esmond thought of the courier, now galloping on the north road to inform him, who was Earl of Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant heart, beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent.

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VII. I Visit Castlewood Once More

Thus, for a third time, Beatrix’s ambitious hopes were circumvented, and she might well believe that a special malignant fate watched and pursued her, tearing her prize out of her hand just as she seemed to grasp it, and leaving her with only rage and grief for her portion. Whatever her feelings might have been of anger or of sorrow (and I fear me that the former emotion was that which most tore her heart), she would take no confidant, as people of softer natures would have done under such a calamity; her mother and her kinsman knew that she would disdain their pity, and that to offer it would be but to infuriate the cruel wound which fortune had inflicted. We knew that her pride was awfully humbled and punished by this sudden and terrible blow; she wanted no teaching of ours to point out the sad moral of her story. Her fond mother could give but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship and patience to the unhappy stricken creature; and it was only by hints, and a word or two uttered months afterwards, that Beatrix showed she understood their silent commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful for their forbearance. The people about the Court said there was that in her manner which frightened away scoffing and condolence: she was above their triumph and their pity, and acted her part in that dreadful tragedy greatly and courageously; so that those who liked her least were yet forced to admire her. We, who watched her after her disaster, could not but respect the indomitable courage and majestic calm with which she bore it. “I would rather see her tears than her pride,” her mother said, who was accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different way, and to receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful submission and meekness. But Beatrix’s nature was different to that tender parent’s; she seemed to accept her grief, and to defy it; nor would she allow it (I believe not even in private, and in her own chamber) to extort from her the confession of even a tear of humiliation or a cry of pain. Friends and children of our race, who come after me, in which way will you bear your trials? I know one that prays God will give you love rather than pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place. Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than charitably. ’Tis nature hath fashioned some for ambition and dominion, as it hath formed others for obedience and gentle submission. The leopard follows his nature as the lamb does, and acts after leopard law; she can neither help her beauty, nor her courage, nor her cruelty; nor a single spot on her shining coat; nor the conquering spirit which impels her; nor the shot which brings her down.

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During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the queen should forsake their Hanoverian prince, bound by oaths and treaties as she was to him, and recall her brother, who was allied to her by yet stronger ties of nature and duty; the Prince of Savoy, and the boldest of that party of the Whigs, were for bringing the young Duke of Cambridge over, in spite of the queen and the outcry of her Tory servants, arguing that the electoral prince, a peer and prince of the blood-royal of this realm too, and in the line of succession to the crown, had a right to sit in the Parliament whereof he was a member, and to dwell in the country which he one day was to govern. Nothing but the strongest ill will expressed by the queen, and the people about her, and menaces of the royal resentment, should this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from being carried into effect.

The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having our prince into the country. The undoubted inheritor of the right divine; the feelings of more than half the nation, of almost all the clergy, of the gentry of England and Scotland with him; entirely innocent of the crime for which his father suffered—brave, young, handsome, unfortunate—who in England would dare to molest the prince should he come among us, and fling himself upon British generosity, hospitality, and honour? An invader with an army of Frenchmen behind him, Englishmen of spirit would resist to the death, and drive back to the shores whence he came; but a prince, alone, armed with his right only, and relying on the loyalty of his people, was sure, many of his friends argued, of welcome, at least of safety, among us. The hand of his sister the queen, of the people his subjects, never could be raised to do him a wrong. But the queen was timid by nature, and the successive ministers she had, had private causes for their irresolution. The bolder and honester men, who had at heart the illustrious young exile’s cause, had no scheme of interest of their own to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, provided only he came as an Englishman, were ready to venture their all to welcome and defend him.

St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for the prince’s adherents, and gave him endless promises of future support; but hints and promises were all they could be got to give; and some of his friends were for measures much bolder, more efficacious, and more open. With a party of these, some of whom are yet alive, and some whose names Mr. Esmond has no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year after that miserable death of Duke Hamilton, which deprived the prince of his most courageous ally in this country. Dean Atterbury was one of the friends whom Esmond may mention, as the brave bishop is now beyond exile and persecution, and to him, and one or two more, the colonel opened himself of a scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution on the prince’s part, could not fail of bringing about the accomplishment of their dearest wishes.

My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to England to keep his majority, and had now been absent from the country for several years. The year when his sister was to be married and Duke Hamilton died, my lord was kept at Bruxelles by his wife’s lying-in. The gentle Clotilda could not bear her husband out of her sight; perhaps she mistrusted the young scapegrace should he ever get loose from her leading-strings; and she kept him by her side to nurse the baby and administer posset to the gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had about Frank’s uxoriousness: his mother would have gone to Clotilda when her time was coming, but that the mother-in-law was already in possession, and the negotiations for poor Beatrix’s marriage were begun. A few months after the horrid catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter retired to Castlewood, where my lord, it was expected, would soon join them. But, to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste; he could be got to come to Walcote but once after his first campaign; and then the young rogue spent more than half his time in London, not appearing at Court, or in public under his own name and title, but frequenting plays, bagnios, and the very worst company, under the name of Captain Esmond (whereby his innocent kinsman got more than once into trouble); and so under various pretexts, and in pursuit of all sorts of pleasures, until he plunged into the lawful one of marriage, Frank Castlewood had remained away from this country, and was unknown, save amongst the gentlemen of the army, with whom he had served abroad. The fond heart of his mother was pained by this long absence. ’Twas all that Henry Esmond could do to soothe her natural mortification, and find excuses for his kinsman’s levity.

In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of returning home. His first child had been a daughter; Clotilda was in the way of gratifying his lordship with a second, and the pious youth thought that, by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. Philip of Castlewood, and what not, Heaven might be induced to bless him with a son this time, for whose coming the expectant mamma was very anxious.

The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the end of March; and France was open to us. Just as Frank’s poor mother had made all things ready for Lord Castlewood’s reception, and was eagerly expecting her son, it was by Colonel Esmond’s means that the kind lady was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer once more the darling hope of her heart.

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its ancient grey towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and since he rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her young children by her side waved an adieu, what ages seem to have passed since then, what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster! The children were grown up now, and had stories of their own. As for Esmond, he felt to be a hundred years old; his dear mistress only seemed unchanged; she looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was the fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its furniture, the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank from. Esmond’s mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room he used to occupy; ’twas made ready for him, and wall-flowers and sweet herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain’s room.

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the awful Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond passed a part of that first night at Castlewood, lying awake for many hours as the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), looking back, as all men will, that revisit their home of childhood, over the great gulf of time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad little melancholy boy, with his lord still alive—his dear mistress, a girl yet, her children sporting around her. Years ago, a boy on that very bed, when she had blessed him and called him her knight, he had made a vow to be faithful and never desert her dear service. Had he kept that fond boyish promise? Yes, before Heaven; yes, praise be to God! His life had been hers; his blood, his fortune, his name, his whole heart ever since had been hers and her children’s. All night long he was dreaming his boyhood over again, and waking fitfully; he half fancied he heard Father Holt calling to him from the next chamber, and that he was coming in and out from the mysterious window.

Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, where the air was heavy with the odour of the wall-flowers; looked into the brasier where the papers had been burnt, into the old presses where Holt’s books and papers had been kept, and tried the spring, and whether the window worked still. The spring had not been touched for years, but yielded at length, and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He lifted it and it relapsed into its frame; no one had ever passed thence since Holt used it sixteen years ago.

Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day of his life, that Holt used to come in and out of the house like a ghost, and knew that the father liked these mysteries, and practised such secret disguises, entrances, and exits; this was the way the ghost came and went, his pupil had always conjectured. Esmond closed the casement up again as the dawn was rising over Castlewood village; he could hear the clinking at the blacksmith’s forge yonder among the trees, across the green, and past the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping.

Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used to keep sundry secret properties of his. The two swords he remembered so well as a boy, lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and wiped them, with a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of papers here, too, which no doubt had been left at Holt’s last visit to the place, in my lord viscount’s life, that very day when the priest had been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free with these papers, and found treasonable matter of King William’s reign, the names of Charnock and Perkins, Sir John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick, Lords Montgomery and Ailesbury, Clarendon and Yarmouth, that had all been engaged in plots against the usurper; a letter from the Duke of Berwick too, and one from the king at St. Germains, offering to confer upon his trusty and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood the titles of Earl and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent royal, and in the fourth year of his reign, upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs male of his body, in default of which issue the ranks and dignities were to pass to Francis aforesaid.

This was the paper, whereof my lord had spoken, which Holt showed him the very day he was arrested, and for an answer to which he would come back in a week’s time. I put these papers hastily into the crypt whence I had taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger at the ring of the chamber-door: ’twas my kind mistress, with her face full of love and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wakefully, no doubt; but neither asked the other how the hours had been spent. There are things we divine without speaking, and know though they happen out of our sight. This fond lady hath told me that she knew both days when I was wounded abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly love can prophesy? “I looked into your room,” was all she said; “the bed was vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should find you here.” And tender and blushing faintly with a benediction in her eyes, the gentle creature kissed him.

They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and to the terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, and the birds in the green woods above were singing their delicious choruses under the blushing morning sky. How well all things were remembered! The ancient towers and gables of the hall darkling against the east, the purple shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices and carvings of the dial, the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with crops and corn, the shining river rolling through it towards the pearly hills beyond; all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful memories of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and vivid in our minds as that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once more. We forget nothing. The memory sleeps, but awakens again; I often think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the réveillé shall arouse us for ever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness rush back, like the soul, revivified.

The house would not be up for some hours yet (it was July, and the dawn was only just awake), and here Esmond opened himself to his mistress, of the business he had in hand, and what part Frank was to play in it. He knew he could confide anything to her, and that the fond soul would die rather than reveal it; and bidding her keep the secret from all, he laid it entirely before his mistress (always as stanch a little loyalist as any in the kingdom), and indeed was quite sure that any plan of his was secure of her applause and sympathy. Never was such a glorious scheme to her partial mind, never such a devoted knight to execute it. An hour or two may have passed whilst they were having their colloquy. Beatrix came out to them just as their talk was over; her tall beautiful form robed in sable (which she wore without ostentation ever since last year’s catastrophe), sweeping over the green terrace, and casting its shadows before her across the grass.

She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called us “the young people”. She was older, paler, and more majestic than in the year before; her mother seemed the youngest of the two. She never once spoke of her grief, Lady Castlewood told Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet word or two, to the death of her hopes.

When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting all the cottages and all the sick. She set up a school of children, and taught singing to some of them. We had a pair of beautiful old organs in Castlewood Church, on which she played admirably, so that the music there became to be known in the country for many miles round, and no doubt people came to see the fair organist as well as to hear her. Parson Tusher and his wife were established at the vicarage, but his wife had brought him no children wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the gate. Honest Tom took care not to have many such, his great shovel-hat was in his hand for everybody. He was profuse of bows and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the colonel had been a commander-in-chief; he dined at the hall that day, being Sunday, and would not partake of pudding except under extreme pressure. He deplored my lord’s perversion, but drank his lordship’s health very devoutly; and an hour before at church sent the colonel to sleep, with a long, learned, and refreshing sermon.

Esmond’s visit home was but for two days; the business he had in hand calling him away and out of the country. Ere he went, he saw Beatrix but once alone, and then she summoned him out of the long tapestry room, where he and his mistress were sitting, quite as in old times, into the adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel’s sleeping-apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well remembered seeing the old lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when the troop of guard came to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in England lay in that bed now, whereof the great damask hangings were scarce faded since Esmond saw them last.

Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her hand; ’twas that which Esmond had given her before her marriage, stamped with a coronet which the disappointed girl was never to wear; and containing his aunt’s legacy of diamonds.

“You had best take these with you, Harry,” says she; “I have no need of diamonds any more.” There was not the least token of emotion in her quiet low voice. She held out the black shagreen-case with her fair arm, that did not shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet bracelet on it, with my lord duke’s picture in enamel; he had given it her but three days before he fell.

Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off that proffered restoration with a laugh: “Of what good,” says he, “are they to me? The diamond loop to his hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and will not make my yellow face look any handsomer.”

“You will give them to your wife, cousin,” says she. “My cousin, your wife has a lovely complexion and shape.”

“Beatrix,” Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would at times, “will you wear those trinkets at your marriage? You whispered once you did not know me: you know me better now: how I sought, what I have sighed for, for ten years, what forgone!”

“A price for your constancy, my lord!” says she; “such a preux chevalier wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!”

“Again,” Esmond spoke out, “if I do something you have at heart; something worthy of me and you; something that shall make me a name with which to endow you; will you take it? There was a chance for me once, you said; is it impossible to recall it? Never shake your head, but hear me: say you will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and bring you fame, will that please you? If I do what you desire most—what he who is dead desired most—will that soften you?”

“What is it, Henry?” says she, her face lighting up; “what mean you?”

“Ask no questions,” he said, “wait, and give me but time; if I bring back that you long for, that I have a thousand times heard you pray for, will you have no reward for him who has done you that service? Put away those trinkets, keep them: it shall not be at my marriage, it shall not be at yours, but if man can do it, I swear a day shall come when there shall be a feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them. I say no more now; put aside these words, and lock away yonder box until the day when I shall remind you of both. All I pray of you now is, to wait and to remember.”

“You are going out of the country?” says Beatrix, in some agitation.

“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond.

“To Lorraine, cousin?” says Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm; ’twas the hand on which she wore the duke’s bracelet. “Stay, Harry!” continued she, with a tone that had more despondency in it than she was accustomed to show. “Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you—who would not, that has known such love as yours has been for us all? But I think I have no heart; at least, I have never seen the man that could touch it; and, had I found him, I would have followed him in rags had he been a private soldier, or to sea, like one of those buccaneers you used to read to us about when we were children. I would do anything for such a man, bear anything for him: but I never found one. You were ever too much of a slave to win my heart; even my lord duke could not command it. I had not been happy had I married him. I knew that three months after our engagement—and was too vain to break it. O Harry! I cried once or twice, not for him, but with tears of rage because I could not be sorry for him. I was frightened to find I was glad of his death; and were I joined to you, I should have the same sense of servitude, the same longing to escape. We should both be unhappy, and you the most, who are as jealous as the duke was himself. I tried to love him; I tried, indeed I did: affected gladness when he came: submitted to hear when he was by me, and tried the wife’s part I thought I was to play for the rest of my days. But half an hour of that complaisance wearied me, and what would a lifetime be? My thoughts were away when he was speaking; and I was thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, and rise up from before my feet! I knew his great and noble qualities, greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours are, cousin, I tell you, a million and a million times better. But ’twas not for these I took him. I took him to have a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and do not deplore him—and I often thought, as I listened to his fond vows and ardent words, Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet the other, I shall hate him and leave him! I am not good, Harry: my mother is gentle and good like an angel. I wonder how she should have had such a child. She is weak, but she would die rather than do a wrong; I am stronger than she, but I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the parsons tell me with their droning sermons: I used to see them at Court as mean and as worthless as the meanest woman there. Oh, I am sick and weary of the world! I wait but for one thing, and when ’tis done, I will take Frank’s religion and your poor mother’s, and go into a nunnery, and end like her. Shall I wear the diamonds then?—they say the nuns wear their best trinkets the day they take the veil. I will put them away as you bid me; farewell, cousin, mamma is pacing the next room, racking her little head to know what we have been saying. She is jealous, all women are. I sometimes think that is the only womanly quality I have.”

“Farewell. Farewell, brother!” She gave him her cheek as a brotherly privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble.

Esmond’s mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he returned to the room where she was. She had schooled herself so as to look quite inscrutably, when she had a mind. Amongst her other feminine qualities she had that of being a perfect dissembler.

He rid away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was bound on, and stand or fall by it; in truth his state of mind was such, that he was eager for some outward excitement to counteract that gnawing malady which he was inwardly enduring.

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VIII. I Travel To France And Bring Home A Portrait Of Rigaud

Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to inform all the world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that he was about to quit England; and chose to depart in the most private manner possible. He procured a pass as for a Frenchman, through Dr. Atterbury, who did that business for him, getting the signature even from Lord Bolingbroke’s office, without any personal application to the secretary. Lockwood, his faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood, and left behind there: giving out ere he left London that he himself was sick, and gone to Hampshire for country air, and so departed as silently as might be upon his business.

As Frank Castlewood’s aid was indispensable for Mr. Esmond’s scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing by way of Antwerp, where the Duke of Marlborough was in exile), and in the first-named place Harry found his dear young Benedict, the married man, who appeared to be rather out of humour with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with the obstinate embraces which Clotilda kept round his neck. Colonel Esmond was not presented to her; but Monsieur Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal Cravat (Esmond bethought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman, whom he had seen that day after Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on the young king); and Monsieur Simon was introduced to the Viscountess Castlewood, née Comptesse Wertheim; to the numerous counts, the Lady Clotilda’s tall brothers; to her father the chamberlain; and to the lady his wife, Frank’s mother-in-law, a tall and majestic person of large proportions, such as became the mother of such a company of grenadiers as her warlike sons formed. The whole race were at free quarters in the little castle nigh to Bruxelles which Frank had taken; rode his horses; drank his wine; and lived easily at the poor lad’s charges. Mr. Esmond had always maintained a perfect fluency in the French, which was his mother tongue; and if this family (that spoke French with the twang which the Flemings use) discovered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon’s pronunciation, ’twas to be attributed to the latter’s long residence in England, where he had married and remained ever since he was taken prisoner at Blenheim. His story was perfectly pat; there were none there to doubt it save honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kinsman’s scheme, when he became acquainted with it; and, in truth, always admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate fidelity, and thought his cousin the wisest and best of all cousins and men. Frank entered heart and soul into the plan, and liked it the better as it was to take him to Paris, out of reach of his brothers, his father, and his mother-in-law, whose attentions rather fatigued him.

Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as the Prince of Wales; had not a little of the prince’s air, height, and figure; and, especially since he had seen the Chevalier de St. George on the occasion before named, took no small pride in his resemblance to a person so illustrious; which likeness he increased by all the means in his power, wearing fair brown periwigs, such as the prince wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of the chevalier’s colour. This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which Mr. Esmond’s scheme was founded; and, having secured Frank’s secrecy and enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journey, and see the other personages on whom its success depended. The place whither Mr. Simon next travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, where that merchant arrived with a consignment of broadcloths, valuable laces from Malines, and letters for his correspondent there.

Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, and descended from a line of kings, whose race seemed to be doomed like the Atridae of old—would you know how he was employed, when the envoy who came to him through danger and difficulty beheld him for the first time? The young king, in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the gentlemen of his suite, crying out after the balls, and swearing like the meanest of his subjects. The next time Mr. Esmond saw him, ’twas when Monsieur Simon took a packet of laces to Miss Oglethorpe; the prince’s antechamber in those days, at which ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission to his Majesty. The admission was given, the envoy found the king and the mistress together; the pair were at cards, and his Majesty was in liquor. He cared more for three honours than three kingdoms; and a half-dozen glasses of ratafia made him forget all his woes and his losses, his father’s crown, and his grandfather’s head.

Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the prince then. His Majesty was scarce in a condition to hear him; and he doubted whether a king who drank so much could keep a secret in his fuddled head; or whether a hand that shook so, was strong enough to grasp at a crown. However at last, and after taking counsel with the prince’s advisers, amongst whom were many gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond’s plan was laid before the king, and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. The prince liked the scheme well enough; ’twas easy and daring, and suited to his reckless gaiety and lively youthful spirit. In the morning after he had slept his wine off, he was very gay, lively, and agreeable. His manner had an extreme charm of archness, and a kind simplicity; and, to do her justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, and of good counsel; she gave the prince much good advice that he was too weak to follow, and loved him with a fidelity which he returned with an ingratitude quite royal.

Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it ever be fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the benefit which might accrue to the country by bringing a tipsy young monarch back to it, Colonel Esmond had his audience of leave and quiet. Monsieur Simon took his departure. At any rate the youth at Bar was as good as the older Pretender at Hanover; if the worst came to the worst, the Englishman could be dealt with as easy as the German. Monsieur Simon trotted on that long journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw that famous town, stealthily and like a spy, as in truth he was; and where, sure, more magnificence and more misery is heaped together, more rags and lace, more filth and gilding, than in any city in this world. Here he was put in communication with the king’s best friend, his half-brother, the famous Duke of Berwick; Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had visited Castlewood now near twenty years ago. His grace opened to him when he found that Mr. Esmond was one of Webb’s brave regiment, that had once been his grace’s own. He was the sword and buckler indeed of the Stuart cause: there was no stain on his shield except the bar across it, which Marlborough’s sister left him. Had Berwick been his father’s heir, James the Third had assuredly sat on the English throne. He could dare, endure, strike, speak, be silent. The fire and genius, perhaps, he had not (that were given to baser men), but except these he had some of the best qualities of a leader. His grace knew Esmond’s father and history; and hinted at the latter in such a way as made the colonel to think he was aware of the particulars of that story. But Esmond did not choose to enter on it, nor did the duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, “No doubt he should come by his name if ever greater people came by theirs.”

What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of Berwick knew of his case was, that when the colonel went to pay his duty at St. Germains, her Majesty once addressed him by the title of Marquis. He took the queen the dutiful remembrances of her goddaughter, and the lady whom, in the days of her prosperity, her Majesty had befriended. The queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had heard of my Lord Castlewood’s conversion, and was much edified by that act of Heaven in his favour. She knew that others of that family had been of the only true Church too: “Your father and your mother, monsieur le marquis,” her Majesty said (that was the only time she used the phrase). Monsieur Simon bowed very low, and said he had found other parents than his own who had taught him differently; but these had only one king: on which her Majesty was pleased to give him a medal blessed by the Pope, which had been found very efficacious in cases similar to his own, and to promise she would offer up prayers for his conversion and that of the family: which no doubt this pious lady did, though up to the present moment, and after twenty-seven years, Colonel Esmond is bound to say that neither the medal nor the prayers have had the slightest known effect upon his religious convictions.

As for the splendour of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the merchant, only beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, seeing the old king but once, when he went to feed his carps; and asking for no presentation at his Majesty’s Court.

By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to Paris, where, as the London prints presently announced, her ladyship was brought to bed of a son and heir. For a long while afterwards she was in a delicate state of health, and ordered by the physicians not to travel; otherwise ’twas well known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to England, and taking up his residence at his own seat.

Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his picture done by the famous French painter Monsieur Rigaud, a present for his mother in London; and this piece Monsieur Simon took back with him when he returned to that city, which he reached about May, in the year 1714, very soon after which time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and their kinsman, Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood all this time, likewise returned to London; her ladyship occupying her house at Kensington, Mr. Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knightsbridge, nearer the town, and once more making his appearance at all public places, his health greatly improved by his long stay in the country.

The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was hung up in the place of honour in her ladyship’s drawing-room. His lordship was represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain of the Guard, with a light-brown periwig, a cuirass under his coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall of Bruxelles lace. Many of her ladyship’s friends admired the piece beyond measure, and flocked to see it; Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good old Mr. Collier, and others amongst the clergy, were delighted with the performance, and many among the first quality examined and praised it; only I must own that Dr. Tusher happening to come up to London, and seeing the picture (it was ordinarily covered by a curtain, but on this day Miss Beatrix happened to be looking at it when the doctor arrived), the Vicar of Castlewood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the piece to his old pupil, except perhaps, a little about the chin and the periwig; but we all of us convinced him, that he had not seen Frank for five years or more; that he knew no more about the fine arts than a ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken; and we sent him home assured that the piece was an excellent likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honoured her ladyship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond showed him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked what devilry he was engaged on? Esmond owned simply that the portrait was not that of Viscount Castlewood, besought the secretary on his honour to keep the secret, said that the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites, as was well known; and confessed that the picture was that of the Chevalier St. George.

The truth is, that Mr. Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood one day at Monsieur Rigaud’s, whilst his lordship was sitting for his picture, affected to be much struck with a piece representing the chevalier, whereof the head only was finished, and purchased it of the painter for a hundred crowns. It had been intended the artist said, for Miss Oglethorpe, the prince’s mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris, had left the work on the artist’s hands; and taking this piece home, when my lord’s portrait arrived, Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, had copied the uniform and other accessories from my lord’s picture to fill up Rigaud’s incomplete canvas: the colonel all his life having been a practitioner of painting, and especially followed it during his long residence in the cities of Flanders, among the masterpieces of Vandyck and Rubens. My grandson hath the piece, such as it is, in Virginia now.

At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix Esmond, and my lady viscountess, her mother, arrived from Castlewood; the former to resume her service at Court, which had been interrupted by the fatal catastrophe of Duke Hamilton’s death. She once more took her place, then, in her Majesty’s suite and at the maids’ table, being always a favourite with Mrs. Masham, the queen’s chief woman, partly perhaps on account of her bitterness against the Duchess of Marlborough, whom Miss Beatrix loved no better than her rival did. The gentlemen about the Court, my Lord Bolingbroke amongst others, owned that the young lady had come back handsomer than ever, and that the serious and tragic air, which her face now involuntarily wore, became her better than her former smiles and archness.

All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington Square were changed; the old steward that had served the family any time these five-and-twenty years, since the birth of the children of the house, was dispatched into the kingdom of Ireland to see my lord’s estate there: the housekeeper, who had been my lady’s woman time out of mind, and the attendant of the young children, was sent away grumbling to Walcote, to see to the new painting and preparing of that house, which my lady dowager intended to occupy for the future, giving up Castlewood to her daughter-in-law, that might be expected daily from France. Another servant the viscountess had was dismissed too—with a gratuity—on the pretext that her ladyship’s train of domestics must be diminished; so, finally, there was not left in the household a single person who had belonged to it during the time my young Lord Castlewood was yet at home.

For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the stroke he intended, ’twas necessary that the very smallest number of persons should be put in possession of his secret. It scarce was known, except to three or four out of his family, and it was kept to a wonder.

On the 10th of June, 1714, there came by Mr. Prior’s messenger from Paris, a letter from my Lord Viscount Castlewood to his mother, saying that he had been foolish in regard of money matters, that he was ashamed to own he had lost at play, and by other extravagances; and that instead of having great entertainments as he had hoped at Castlewood this year, he must live as quiet as he could, and make every effort to be saving. So far every word of poor Frank’s letter was true, nor was there a doubt that he and his tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more than they ought, and engaged the revenues of the Castlewood property, which the fond mother had husbanded and improved so carefully during the time of her guardianship.

His “Clotilda”, Castlewood went on to say, “was still delicate, and the physicians thought her lying-in had best take place at Paris. He should come without her ladyship, and be at his mother’s house about the 17th or 18th day of June, proposing to take horse from Paris immediately, and bringing but a single servant with him; and he requested that the lawyers of Gray’s Inn might be invited to meet him with their account, and the land-steward come from Castlewood with his, so that he might settle with them speedily, raise a sum of money whereof he stood in need, and be back to his viscountess by the time of her lying-in.” Then his lordship gave some of the news of the town, sent his remembrance to kinsfolk, and so the letter ended. ’Twas put in the common post, and no doubt the French police and the English there had a copy of it, to which they were exceeding welcome.

Two days after another letter was dispatched by the public post of France, in the same open way, and this, after giving news of the fashion at Court there, ended by the following sentences, in which, but for those that had the key, ’twould be difficult for any man to find any secret lurked at all:—

(The king will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty is better than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from his too great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well. They have performed a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury and Mr. Prior, our envoy, and all the English nobility here were present at it. (The Viscount Castlewood’s passports) were refused to him, ’twas said; his lordship being sued by a goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and a pearl necklace supplied to Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. ’Tis a pity such news should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young nobility here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort l’Evesque; they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture, and a chariot and horses (under that lord’s name), of which extravagance his unfortunate viscountess knows nothing.

(His majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next birthday. The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast. Mr. Prior is in a sad way about their refusing at home to send him his plate. All here admired my lord viscount’s portrait, and said it was a masterpiece of Rigaud. Have you seen it? It is (at the Lady Castlewood’s house in Kensington Square). I think no English painter could produce such a piece.

Our poor friend the abbé hath been at the Bastille, but is now transported to the Conciergerie (where his friends may visit him. They are to ask for) a remission of his sentence soon. Let us hope the poor rogue will have repented in prison.

(The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and departs for England.

Is not this a dull letter? I have a cursed headache with drinking with Mat and some more overnight, and tipsy or sober am

Thine ever ——.

All this letter, save some dozen of words which I have put above between brackets, was mere idle talk, though the substance of the letter was as important as any letter well could be. It told those that had the key, that the king will take the Viscount Castlewood’s passports and travel to England under that lord’s name. His Majesty will be at the Lady Castlewood’s house in Kensington Square, where his friends may visit him; they are to ask for the Lord Castlewood. This note may have passed under Mr. Prior’s eyes, and those of our new allies the French, and taught them nothing; though it explains sufficiently to persons in London what the event was which was about to happen, as ’twill show those who read my memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that errand on which Colonel Esmond of late had been busy. Silently and swiftly to do that about which others were conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites all over the country, clumsily caballing; alone to effect that which the leaders here were only talking about; to bring the Prince of Wales into the country openly in the face of all, under Bolingbroke’s very eyes, the walls placarded with the proclamation signed with the secretary’s name, and offering five hundred pounds reward for his apprehension: this was a stroke, the playing and winning of which might well give any adventurous spirit pleasure: the loss of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, but all our family were eager to risk that for the glorious chance of winning the game.

Nor should it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief player, who was not more or less sceptical than most public men with whom he had acquaintance in that age. (Is there ever a public man in England that altogether believes in his party? Is there one, however doubtful, that will not fight for it?) Young Frank was ready to fight without much thinking, he was a Jacobite as his father before him was; all the Esmonds were Royalists. Give him but the word, he would cry, “God save King James!” before the palace guard, or at the Maypole in the Strand; and with respect to the women, as is usual with them, ’twas not a question of party but of faith; their belief was a passion; either Esmond’s mistress or her daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I have laughed often, talking of King William’s reign, and said I thought Lady Castlewood was disappointed the king did not persecute the family more; and those who know the nature of women may fancy for themselves, what needs not here be written down, the rapture with which these neophytes received the mystery when made known to them; the eagerness with which they looked forward to its completion; the reverence which they paid the minister who initiated them into that secret Truth, now known only to a few, but presently to reign over the world. Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women. Look at Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her; look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her son; I have known a woman preach Jesuit’s bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkeley’s tar-water, as though to swallow them were a divine decree, and to refuse them no better than blasphemy.

On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at the head of this little knot of fond conspirators. No death or torture he knew would frighten them out of their constancy. When he detailed his plan for bringing the king back, his elder mistress thought that that restoration was to be attributed under Heaven to the Castlewood family and to its chief, and she worshipped and loved Esmond, if that could be, more than ever she had done. She doubted not for one moment of the success of his scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed impious in her eyes. And as for Beatrix, when she became acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as she did with all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching bright looks: “Ah, Harry,” says she, “why were you not the head of our house? You are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give that silly boy the name and the honour? But ’tis so in the world; those get the prize that don’t deserve or care for it. I wish I could give you your silly prize, cousin, but I can’t; I have tried and I can’t.” And she went away, shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to Esmond, that her liking and respect for him was greatly increased, since she knew what capability he had both to act and bear; to do and to forgo.

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IX. The Original Of The Portrait Comes To England

’Twas announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood would arrive, having a confidential French gentleman in his suite, who acted as secretary to his lordship, and who being a Papist, and a foreigner of a good family, though now in rather a menial place, would have his meals served in his chamber, and not with the domestics of the house. The viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her daughter’s, and having a large convenient closet attached to it, in which a bed was put up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, the Frenchman; though, ’tis needless to say, when the doors of the apartments were locked, and the two guests retired within it, the young viscount became the servant of the illustrious prince whom he entertained, and gave up gladly the more convenient and airy chamber and bed to his master. Madam Beatrix also retired to the upper region, her chamber being converted into a sitting-room for my lord. The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix affected to grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that she was turned out of her chamber to make way for my lord.

No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and no slight tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle ladies of Castlewood to flutter, before the arrival of the personages who were about to honour their house. The chamber was ornamented with flowers; the bed covered with the very finest of linen; the two ladies insisting on making it themselves, and kneeling down at the bedside and kissing the sheets out of respect for the web that was to hold the sacred person of a king. The toilet was of silver and crystal; there was a copy of Eikon Basilike laid on the writing-table; a portrait of the martyred king hung always over the mantel, having a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it, and a little picture or emblem which the widow loved always to have before her eyes on waking, and in which the hair of her lord and her two children was worked together. Her books of private devotions, as they were all of the English Church, she carried away with her to the upper apartment which she destined for herself. The ladies showed Mr. Esmond, when they were completed, the fond preparations they had made. ’Twas then Beatrix knelt down and kissed the linen sheets. As for her mother, Lady Castlewood made a curtsy at the door, as she would have done to the altar on entering a church, and owned that she considered the chamber in a manner sacred.

The company in the servants’ hall never for a moment supposed that these preparations were made for any other person than the young viscount, the lord of the house, whom his fond mother had been for so many years without seeing. Both ladies were perfect housewives, having the greatest skill in the making of confections, scented waters, &c., and keeping a notable superintendence over the kitchen. Calves enough were killed to feed an army of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, and laughed when he came to wait on the ladies, on the day when the guests were to arrive, to find two pairs of the finest and roundest arms to be seen in England (my Lady Castlewood was remarkable for this beauty of her person), covered with flour up above the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning rolling-pins in the housekeeper’s closet. The guest would not arrive till supper-time, and my lord would prefer having that meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the brightest plate of the house was laid out there, and can understand why it was that the ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon the young chief of the family.

Taking horse, Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester, and there awaited the king in that very town where his father had last set his foot on the English shore. A room had been provided at an inn there for my Lord Castlewood and his servant; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so well that he had scarce been half an hour in the place, and was looking over the balcony into the yard of the inn, when two travellers rode in at the inn-gate, and the colonel running down, the next moment embraced his dear young lord.

My lord’s companion, acting the part of a domestic, dismounted, and was for holding the viscount’s stirrup; but Colonel Esmond, calling to his own man, who was in the court, bade him take the horses and settle with the lad who had ridden the post along with the two travellers, crying out in a cavalier tone in the French language to my lord’s companion, and affecting to grumble that my lord’s fellow was a Frenchman, and did not know the money or habits of the country:—“My man will see to the horses, Baptiste,” says Colonel Esmond: “do you understand English?” “Very leetle.” “So, follow my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room.” The landlord and his people came up presently bearing the dishes; ’twas well they made a noise and stir in the gallery, or they might have found Colonel Esmond on his knee before Lord Castlewood’s servant, welcoming his Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing the hand of the king. We told the landlord that the Frenchman would wait on his master; and Esmond’s man was ordered to keep sentry in the gallery without the door. The prince dined with a good appetite, laughing and talking very gaily, and condescendingly bidding his two companions to sit with him at table. He was in better spirits than poor Frank Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be wobegone on account of parting with his divine Clotilda; but the prince wishing to take a short siesta after dinner, and retiring to an inner chamber where there was a bed, the cause of poor Frank’s discomfiture came out; and bursting into tears, with many expressions of fondness, friendship, and humiliation, the faithful lad gave his kinsman to understand that he now knew all the truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel Esmond had made for him.

Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, Mr. Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to her son. The prince had told the poor lad all as they were riding from Dover: “I had as lief he had shot me, cousin,” Frank said: “I knew you were the best and the bravest, and the kindest of all men” (so the enthusiastic young fellow went on); “but I never thought I owed you what I do, and can scarce bear the weight of the obligation.”

“I stand in the place of your father,” says Mr. Esmond kindly, “and sure a father may dispossess himself in favour of his son. I abdicate the twopenny crown, and invest you with the kingdom of Brentford; don’t be a fool and cry; you make a much taller and handsomer viscount than ever I could.” But the fond boy with oaths and protestations, laughter and incoherent outbreaks of passionate emotion, could not be got, for some little time, to put up with Esmond’s raillery; wanted to kneel down to him, and kissed his hand; asked him and implored him to order something, to bid Castlewood give his own life up or take somebody else’s; anything, so that he might show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed him.

“The k——, he laughed,” Frank said, pointing to the door where the sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone, “I don’t think he should have laughed as he told me the story. As we rode along from Dover, talking in French, he spoke about you, and your coming to him at Bar; he called you ‘le grand sérieux’, Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don’t know what names; mimicking your manner” (here Castlewood laughed himself)—“and he did it very well. He seems to sneer at everything. He is not like a king: somehow, Harry, I fancy you are like a king. He does not seem to think what a stake we are all playing. He would have stopped at Canterbury to run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him to come on. He hath a house at Chaillot where he used to go and bury himself for weeks away from the queen, and with all sorts of bad company,” says Frank, with a demure look; “you may smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was; no, no, I have been taught better,” says Castlewood devoutly, making a sign on his breast.

“Thou art my dear brave boy,” says Colonel Esmond, touched at the young fellow’s simplicity, “and there will be a noble gentleman at Castlewood so long as my Frank is there.”

The impetuous young lad was for going down on his knees again, with another explosion of gratitude, but that we heard the voice from the next chamber of the august sleeper, just waking, calling out:—“Eh, La-Fleur, un verre d’eau”; his Majesty came out yawning:—“A pest,” says he, “upon your English ale; ’tis so strong that, ma foi, it hath turned my head.”

The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we rode very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. Mr. Esmond’s servant was left behind at Rochester, to take care of the tired horses, whilst we had fresh beasts provided along the road. And galloping by the prince’s side the colonel explained to the Prince of Wales what his movements had been; who the friends were that knew of the expedition; whom, as Esmond conceived, the prince should trust; entreating him, above all, to maintain the very closest secrecy until the time should come when his royal highness should appear. The town swarmed with friends of the prince’s cause; there were scores of correspondents with St. Germains; Jacobites known and secret; great in station and humble; about the Court and the queen; in the Parliament, Church, and among the merchants in the City. The prince had friends numberless in the army, in the Privy Council, and the officers of state. The great object, as it seemed, to the small band of persons who had concerted that bold stroke, who had brought the queen’s brother into his native country, was, that his visit should remain unknown till the proper time came, when his presence should surprise friends and enemies alike; and the latter should be found so unprepared and disunited, that they should not find time to attack him. We feared more from his friends than from his enemies. The lies, and tittle-tattle sent over to St. Germains by the Jacobite agents about London, had done an incalculable mischief to his cause, and wofully misguided him, and it was from these especially, that the persons engaged in the present venture were anxious to defend the chief actor in it.(16)

The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses at the Posting-House over against Westminster, and being ferried over the water where Lady Esmond’s coach was already in waiting. In another hour we were all landed at Kensington, and the mistress of the house had that satisfaction which her heart had yearned after for many years, once more to embrace her son, who on his side, with all his waywardness, ever retained a most tender affection for his parent.

She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling, though the domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood’s attendant stood in the hall. Esmond had to whisper to him in French to take his hat off. Monsieur Baptiste was constantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity: more than once on the ride to London, little observations of the stranger, light remarks, and words betokening the greatest ignorance of the country the prince came to govern, had hurt the susceptibility of the two gentlemen forming his escort; nor could either help owning in his secret mind that they would have had his behaviour otherwise, and that the laughter and the lightness, not to say licence, which characterized his talk, scarce befitted such a great prince, and such a solemn occasion. Not but that he could act at proper times with spirit and dignity. He had behaved, as we all knew, in a very courageous manner on the field. Esmond had seen a copy of the letter the prince writ with his own hand when urged by his friends in England to abjure his religion, and admired that manly and magnanimous reply by which he refused to yield to the temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took off his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel Esmond ventured to give him, and said:—“Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite mère; Foi-de-Chevalier! elle est charmante; mais l’autre, qui est cette nymphe, cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descend sur nous?” And he started back, and pushed forward, as Beatrix was descending the stair. She was in colours for the first time at her own house; she wore the diamonds Esmond gave her; it had been agreed between them, that she should wear these brilliants on the day when the king should enter the house, and a queen she looked, radiant in charms, and magnificent and imperial in beauty.

Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and splendour; he stepped back and gazed at his sister as though he had not been aware before (nor was he, very likely) how perfectly lovely she was, and I thought blushed as he embraced her. The prince could not keep his eyes off her; he quite forgot his menial part, though he had been schooled to it, and a little light portmanteau prepared expressly that he should carry it. He pressed forward before my lord viscount. ’Twas lucky the servants’ eyes were busy in other directions, or they must have seen that this was no servant, or at least a very insolent and rude one.

Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, “Baptiste”, in a loud imperious voice, “have a care to the valise”; at which hint the wilful young man ground his teeth together with something very like a curse between them, and then gave a brief look of anything but pleasure to his Mentor. Being reminded, however, he shouldered the little portmanteau, and carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding him, and a servant with lighted tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in the bedchamber:—“A prince that will wear a crown must wear a mask,” says Mr. Esmond, in French.

“Ah, peste! I see how it is,” says Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the talk in French. “The Great Serious is seriously”—“alarmed for Monsieur Baptiste,” broke in the colonel. Esmond neither liked the tone with which the prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded them.

The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet and the apartment which was to be called my lord’s parlour, were already lighted and awaiting their occupier; and the collation laid for my lord’s supper. Lord Castlewood and his mother and sister came up the stair a minute afterwards, and, so soon as the domestics had quitted the apartment, Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went down on their knees before the prince, who graciously gave a hand to each. He looked his part of prince much more naturally than that of servant, which he had just been trying, and raised them both with a great deal of nobility, as well as kindness in his air. “Madam,” says he, “my mother will thank your ladyship for your hospitality to her son; for you, madam,” turning to Beatrix, “I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a posture. You will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him; sure ’tis his place rather to kneel to you.”

A light shone out of her eyes; a gleam bright enough to kindle passion in any breast. There were times when this creature was so handsome, that she seemed, as it were, like Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash of brightness. She appeared so now; radiant, and with eyes bright with a wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot through Esmond’s heart, as he caught the look she gave the prince; and he clenched his hand involuntarily and looked across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his alarm-signal, and were also on the alert. The prince gave his subjects an audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and Colonel Esmond quitted the chamber. Lady Castlewood pressed his hand as they descended the stair, and the three went down to the lower rooms, where they waited awhile till the travellers above should be refreshed and ready for their meal.

Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her beautiful neck. “I have kept my word,” says he: “And I mine,” says Beatrix, looking down on the diamonds.

“Were I the Mogul emperor,” says the colonel, “you should have all that were dug out of Golconda.”

“These are a great deal too good for me,” says Beatrix, dropping her head on her beautiful breast,—“so are you all, all:” and when she looked up again, as she did in a moment, and after a sigh, her eyes, as they gazed at her cousin, wore that melancholy and inscrutable look which ’twas always impossible to sound.

When the time came for the supper, of which we were advertised by a knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and the two ladies went to the upper apartment, where the prince already was, and by his side the young viscount, of exactly the same age, shape, and with features not dissimilar, though Frank’s were the handsomer of the two. The prince sat down, and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing; there was, indeed, but one more cover laid at the table:—“Which of you will take it?” says he.

“The head of our house,” says Lady Castlewood, taking her son’s hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great tremor of the voice; “the Marquis of Esmond will have the honour of serving the king.”

“I shall have the honour of waiting on his royal highness,” says Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion of that day was, he presented it to the king on his knee.

“I drink to my hostess and her family,” says the prince, with no very well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately off his face, and he talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, quite undisturbed by poor Mr. Esmond’s yellow countenance, that I dare say looked very glum.

When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched homewards to his lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that night, walking to a cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene face:—“What cheer, brother?” says Addison, laughing; “I thought it was a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold ’tis an old friend. We may shake hands, colonel, in the dark, ’tis better than fighting by daylight. Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a Tory? Turn thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there is a nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool bottle in a cave I know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if you like, and I will drink my liquor my own way: I have had enough of good liquor?—no, never! There is no such word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt not come? Come any day, come soon. You know I remember Simois and the Sigeia tellus, and the praelia mixta mero, mixta mero,” he repeated, with ever so slight a touch of merum in his voice, and walked back a little way on the road with Esmond, bidding the other remember he was always his friend, and indebted to him for his aid in the Campaign poem. And very likely Mr. Under Secretary would have stepped in and taken t’other bottle at the colonel’s lodgings, had the latter invited him, but Esmond’s mood was none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an inhospitable good-night at the door.

“I have done the deed,” thought he, sleepless, and looking out into the night; “he is here, and I have brought him; he and Beatrix are sleeping under the same roof now. Whom did I mean to serve in bringing him? Was it the prince, was it Henry Esmond? Had I not best have joined the manly creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doctrine of right divine, that boldly declares that Parliament and people consecrate the sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies, nor oils, nor coronations.” The eager gaze of the young prince, watching every movement of Beatrix, haunted Esmond and pursued him. The prince’s figure appeared before him in his feverish dreams many times that night. He wished the deed undone, for which he had laboured so. He was not the first that has regretted his own act, or brought about his own undoing. Undoing? Should he write that word in his late years? No, on his knees before Heaven, rather be thankful for what then he deemed his misfortune, and which hath caused the whole subsequent happiness of his life.

Esmond’s man, honest John Lockwood, had served his master and the family all his life, and the colonel knew that he could answer for John’s fidelity as for his own. John returned with the horses from Rochester betimes the next morning, and the colonel gave him to understand that on going to Kensington, where he was free of the servants’ hall, and indeed courting Mrs. Beatrix’s maid, he was to ask no questions, and betray no surprise, but to vouch stoutly that the young gentleman he should see in a red coat there was my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and that his attendant in grey was Monsieur Baptiste the Frenchman. He was to tell his friends in the kitchen such stories as he remembered of my lord viscount’s youth at Castlewood; what a wild boy he was; how he used to drill Jack and cane him, before ever he was a soldier; everything, in fine, he knew respecting my lord viscount’s early days. Jack’s ideas of painting had not been much cultivated during his residence in Flanders with his master; and, before my young lord’s return, he had been easily got to believe that the picture brought over from Paris, and now hanging in Lady Castlewood’s drawing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, the young lord. And the domestics having all seen the picture many times, and catching but a momentary imperfect glimpse of the two strangers on the night of their arrival, never had a reason to doubt the fidelity of the portrait; and next day, when they saw the original of the piece habited exactly as he was represented in the painting, with the same periwig, ribbon, and uniform of the Guard, quite naturally addressed the gentleman as my Lord Castlewood, my lady viscountess’s son.

The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount; the viscount wore the secretary’s grey frock; and John Lockwood was instructed to hint to the world below stairs that my lord being a Papist, and very devout in that religion, his attendant might be no other than his chaplain from Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals in my lord’s company there was little reason for surprise. Frank was further cautioned to speak English with a foreign accent, which task he performed indifferently well, and this caution was the more necessary because the prince himself scarce spoke our language like a native of the island; and John Lockwood laughed with the folks below stairs at the manner in which my lord, after five years abroad, sometimes forgot his own tongue and spoke it like a Frenchman. “I warrant,” says he, “that with the English beef and beer, his lordship will soon get back the proper use of his mouth;” and, to do his new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very kindly.

The prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent in his talk after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for him. His meals were served as much as possible in his own chamber, though frequently he made his appearance in Lady Castlewood’s parlour and drawing-room, calling Beatrix “sister”, and her ladyship “mother”, or “madam”, before the servants. And, choosing to act entirely up to the part of brother and son, the prince sometimes saluted Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood with a freedom which his secretary did not like, and which, for his part, set Colonel Esmond tearing with rage.

The guests had not been three days in the house when poor Jack Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to his master, and said: “My lord, that is—the gentleman, has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy” (Jack’s sweetheart), “and given her guineas and a kiss.” I fear that Colonel Esmond’s mind was rather relieved than otherwise, when he found that the ancillary beauty was the one whom the prince had selected. His royal tastes were known to lie that way, and continued so in after-life. The heir of one of the greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, and of the greatest misfortunes in Europe, was often content to lay the dignity of his birth and grief at the wooden shoes of a French chambermaid, and to repent afterwards (for he was very devout) in ashes taken from the dustpan. ’Tis for mortals such as these that nations suffer, that parties struggle, that warriors fight and bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads were falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and Derwentwater on the scaffold; whilst the heedless ingrate, for whom they risked and lost all, was tippling with his seraglio of mistresses in his petite maison of Chaillot.

Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had to go to the prince and warn him that the girl whom his highness was bribing, was John Lockwood’s sweetheart, an honest resolute man, who had served in six campaigns, and feared nothing, and who knew that the person, calling himself Lord Castlewood, was not his young master: and the colonel besought the prince to consider what the effect of a single man’s jealousy might be, and to think of other designs he had in hand, more important than the seduction of a waiting-maid, and the humiliation of a brave man. Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr. Esmond had to warn the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or some freedom. He received these remonstrances very testily, save perhaps in this affair of poor Lockwood’s, when he deigned to burst out a-laughing, and said, “What! the soubrette has peached to the amoureux, and Crispin is angry, and Crispin has served, and Crispin has been a corporal, has he? Tell him we will reward his valour with a pair of colours, and recompense his fidelity.”

Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but the prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, “Assez, milord: je m’ennuye à la prêche; I am not come to London to go to the sermon.” And he complained afterwards to Castlewood, that “le petit jaune, le noir colonel, le Marquis Misanthrope” (by which facetious names his royal highness was pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), “fatigued him with his grand airs and virtuous homilies.”

The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in the transaction which had brought the prince over, waited upon his royal highness, constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood on their arrival at Kensington, and being openly conducted to his royal highness in that character, who received them either in my lady’s drawing-room below, or above in his own apartment; and all implored him to quit the house as little as possible, and to wait there till the signal should be given for him to appear. The ladies entertained him at cards, over which amusement he spent many hours in each day and night. He passed many hours more in drinking, during which time he would rattle and talk very agreeably, and especially if the colonel was absent, whose presence always seemed to frighten him; and the poor “Colonel Noir” took that hint as a command accordingly, and seldom intruded his black face upon the convivial hours of this august young prisoner. Except for those few persons of whom the porter had the list, Lord Castlewood was denied to all friends of the house who waited on his lordship. The wound he had received had broke out again from his journey on horseback, so the world and the domestics were informed. And Doctor A——,(17) his physician (I shall not mention his name, but he was physician to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man remarkable for his benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders that he should be kept perfectly quiet until the wound should heal. With this gentleman, who was one of the most active and influential of our party, and the others before spoken of, the whole secret lay; and it was kept with so much faithfulness, and the story we told so simple and natural, that there was no likelihood of a discovery except from the imprudence of the prince himself, and an adventurous levity that we had the greatest difficulty to control. As for Lady Castlewood, although she scarce spoke a word, ’twas easy to gather from her demeanour, and one or two hints she dropped, how deep her mortification was at finding the hero whom she had chosen to worship all her life (and whose restoration had formed almost the most sacred part of her prayers), no more than a man, and not a good one. She thought misfortune might have chastened him; but that instructress had rather rendered him callous than humble. His devotion, which was quite real, kept him from no sin he had a mind to. His talk showed good-humour, gaiety, even wit enough; but there was a levity in his acts and words that he had brought from among those libertine devotees with whom he had been bred, and that shocked the simplicity and purity of the English lady, whose guest he was. Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely about the prince, getting her brother to put in a word of warning. Beatrix was entirely of their opinion; she thought he was very light, very light and reckless; she could not even see the good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken of. The prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. How could we say he did not squint? His eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in them. She rallied him at table with wonderful wit; she spoke of him invariably as of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever, praised him to her brother, praised him to the prince, when his royal highness was pleased to sneer at the colonel, and warmly espoused his cause: “And if your Majesty does not give him the Garter his father had, when the Marquis of Esmond comes to your Majesty’s Court, I will hang myself in my own garters, or will cry my eyes out.” “Rather than lose those,” says the prince, “he shall be made archbishop and colonel of the Guard” (it was Frank Castlewood who told me of this conversation over their supper).

“Yes,” cries she, with one of her laughs,—(I fancy I hear it now; thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music)—“yes, he shall be Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury.”

“And what will your ladyship be?” says the prince; “you have but to choose your place.”

“I,” says Beatrix, “will be mother of the maids to the queen of his Majesty King James the Third—Vive le Roy!” and she made him a great curtsy, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honour.

“The prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of it,” Castlewood said, “and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up and asked leave to retire. But that ’Trix is my mother’s daughter, Harry,” Frank continued, “I don’t know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish—I wish this business were over. You are older than I am, and wiser, and better, and I owe you everything, and would die for you—before George I would; but I wish the end of this were come.”

Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night; horrible doubts and torments racked Esmond’s soul; ’twas a scheme of personal ambition, a daring stroke for a selfish end—he knew it. What cared he, in his heart, who was king? Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions on the other side—on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom? And here was he, engaged for a prince, that had scarce heard the word “liberty”; that priests and women, tyrants by nature both, made a tool of. The misanthrope was in no better humour after hearing that story, and his grim face more black and yellow than ever.

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X. We Entertain A Very Distinguished Guest At Kensington

Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter end of Queen Anne’s time, or any historian be inclined to follow it, ’twill be discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of the great personages about the queen had a defined scheme of policy, independent of that private and selfish interest which each was bent on pursuing; St. John was for St. John, and Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for John Churchill, always; and according as they could get help from St. Germains or Hanover, they sent over proffers of allegiance to the princes there, or betrayed one to the other: one cause, or one sovereign, was as good as another to them, so that they could hold the best place under him; and like Lockit and Peachem, the Newgate chiefs in the Rogues’ Opera Mr. Gay wrote afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs of treason which would hang the other, only he did not dare to use the weapon, for fear of that one which his neighbour also carried in his pocket. Think of the great Marlborough, the greatest subject in all the world, a conqueror of princes, that had marched victorious over Germany, Flanders, and France, that had given the law to sovereigns abroad, and been worshipped as a divinity at home, forced to sneak out of England—his credit, honours, places, all taken from him; his friends in the army broke and ruined; and flying before Harley, as abject and powerless as a poor debtor before a bailiff with a writ. A paper, of which Harley got possession, and showing beyond doubt that the duke was engaged with the Stuart family, was the weapon with which the treasurer drove Marlborough out of the kingdom. He fled to Antwerp, and began intriguing instantly on the other side, and came back to England, as all know, a Whig and a Hanoverian.

Though the treasurer turned out of the army and office every man, military or civil, known to be the duke’s friend, and gave the vacant posts among the Tory party; he, too, was playing the double game between Hanover and St. Germains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of the queen’s death to be master of the state, and offer it to either family that should bribe him best, or that the nation should declare for. Whichever the king was, Harley’s object was to reign over him; and to this end he supplanted the former famous favourite, decried the actions of the war which had made Marlborough’s name illustrious, and disdained no more than the great fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts, flatteries, intimidations, that would secure his power. If the greatest satirist the world ever hath seen had writ against Harley, and not for him, what a history had he left behind of the last years of Queen Anne’s reign! But Swift, that scorned all mankind, and himself not the least of all, had this merit of a faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs who treated him well, and stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he gallantly had supported him in his better fortune.

Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accomplished, than his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as Oxford was, and could act the double part as skilfully as ambidextrous Churchill. He whose talk was always of liberty, no more shrunk from using persecution and the pillory against his opponents, than if he had been at Lisbon and Grand Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and St. Germains too; notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and queen as boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed at; and to serve his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, he could intrigue, coax, bully, wheedle, fawn on the Court favourite, and creep up the back-stair as silently as Oxford who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself supplanted. The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this very time whereat my history is now arrived. He was come to the very last days of his power, and the agent whom he employed to overthrow the conqueror of Blenheim, was now engaged to upset the conqueror’s conqueror, and hand over the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who had been panting to hold it.

In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the Irish regiments in the French service were all brought round about Boulogne in Picardy, to pass over if need were with the Duke of Berwick; the soldiers of France no longer, but subjects of James the Third of England and Ireland King. The fidelity of the great mass of the Scots (though a most active, resolute, and gallant Whig party, admirably and energetically ordered and disciplined, was known to be in Scotland too) was notoriously unshaken in their king. A very great body of Tory clergy, nobility, and gentry, were public partisans of the exiled prince; and the indifferents might be counted on to cry King George or King James, according as either should prevail. The queen, especially in her latter days, inclined towards her own family. The prince was lying actually in London, within a stone’s-cast of his sister’s palace; the first minister toppling to his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push of a woman’s finger would send him down; and as for Bolingbroke, his successor, we know on whose side his power and his splendid eloquence would be on the day when the queen should appear openly before her council and say:—“This, my lords, is my brother; here is my father’s heir, and mine after me.”

During the whole of the previous year the queen had had many and repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and her death had been constantly looked for by all her attendants. The Elector of Hanover had wished to send his son, the Duke of Cambridge—to pay his court to his cousin the queen, the Elector said;—in truth, to be on the spot when death should close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a memento mori under her royal eyes, her Majesty had angrily forbidden the young prince’s coming into England. Either she desired to keep the chances for her brother open yet; or the people about her did not wish to close with the Whig candidate till they could make terms with him. The quarrels of her ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks of conscience very likely, the importunities of her ministers, and constant turmoil and agitation round about her, had weakened and irritated the princess extremely; her strength was giving way under these continual trials of her temper, and from day to day it was expected she must come to a speedy end of them. Just before Viscount Castlewood and his companion came from France, her Majesty was taken ill. The St. Anthony’s fire broke out on the royal legs; there was no hurry for the presentation of the young lord at Court, or that person who should appear under his name; and my lord viscount’s wound breaking out opportunely, he was kept conveniently in his chamber until such time as his physician should allow him to bend his knee before the queen. At the commencement of July, that influential lady, with whom it has been mentioned that our party had relations, came frequently to visit her young friend, the maid of honour, at Kensington, and my lord viscount (the real or supposititious), who was an invalid at Lady Castlewood’s house.

On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held the most intimate post about the queen, came in her chair from the palace hard by, bringing to the little party in Kensington Square, intelligence of the very highest importance. The final blow had been struck, and my Lord of Oxford and Mortimer was no longer treasurer. The staff was as yet given to no successor, though my Lord Bolingbroke would undoubtedly be the man. And now the time was come, the queen’s Abigail said: and now my Lord Castlewood ought to be presented to the sovereign.

After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and described to his cousin, who passed such a miserable night of mortification and jealousy as he thought over the transaction; no doubt the three persons who were set by nature as protectors over Beatrix came to the same conclusion, that she must be removed from the presence of a man whose desires towards her were expressed only too clearly; and who was no more scrupulous in seeking to gratify them than his father had been before him. I suppose Esmond’s mistress, her son, and the colonel himself, had been all secretly debating this matter in their minds, for when Frank broke out, in his blunt way, with:—“I think Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,”—Lady Castlewood said:—“I thank you, Frank, I have thought so too”; and Mr. Esmond, though he only remarked that it was not for him to speak, showed plainly, by the delight on his countenance, how very agreeable that proposal was to him.

“One sees that you think with us, Henry,” says the viscountess, with ever so little of sarcasm in her tone: “Beatrix is best out of this house whilst we have our guest in it, and as soon as this morning’s business is done, she ought to quit London.”

“What morning’s business?” asked Colonel Esmond, not knowing what had been arranged, though in fact the stroke next in importance to that of bringing the prince, and of having him acknowledged by the queen, was now being performed at the very moment we three were conversing together.

The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who was a chief agent in it, the Court-physician, and the Bishop of Rochester, who were the other two most active participators in our plan, had held many councils in our house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the means best to be adopted for presenting our young adventurer to his sister the queen. The simple and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been agreed to by all parties, which was that on some rather private day, when there were not many persons about the Court, the prince should appear there as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted by his sister-in-waiting, and led by that other lady into the closet of the queen. And according to her Majesty’s health or humour, and the circumstances that might arise during the interview; it was to be left to the discretion of those present at it, and to the prince himself, whether he should declare that it was the queen’s own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, who kissed her royal hand. And this plan being determined on, we were all waiting in very much anxiety for the day and signal of execution.

Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of July, the Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castlewood and her family, and the meal scarce over, Dr. A——’s coach drove up to our house at Kensington, and the doctor appeared amongst the party there, enlivening a rather gloomy company; for the mother and daughter had had words in the morning in respect to the transactions of that supper, and other adventures perhaps, and on the day succeeding. Beatrix’s haughty spirit brooked remonstrances from no superior, much less from her mother, the gentlest of creatures, whom the girl commanded rather than obeyed. And feeling she was wrong, and that by a thousand coquetries (which she could no more help exercising on every man that came near her, than the sun can help shining on great and small) she had provoked the prince’s dangerous admiration, and allured him to the expression of it, she was only the more wilful and imperious the more she felt her error.

To this party, the prince being served with chocolate in his bedchamber, where he lay late sleeping away the fumes of his wine, the doctor came, and by the urgent and startling nature of his news, dissipated instantly that private and minor unpleasantry under which the family of Castlewood was labouring.

He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his own apartment: he bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his master instantly, and requested that my Lord Viscount Castlewood would straightway put his uniform on, and come away in the doctor’s coach now at the door.

He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was to be:—“In half an hour,” says he, “her Majesty and her favourite lady will take the air in the cedar-walk behind the new banqueting-house. Her Majesty will be drawn in a garden-chair, Madam Beatrix Esmond and her brother, my Lord Viscount Castlewood, will be walking in the private garden (here is Lady Masham’s key), and will come unawares upon the royal party. The man that draws the chair will retire, and leave the queen, the favourite, and the maid of honour and her brother together; Mrs. Beatrix will present her brother, and then!—and then, my lord bishop will pray for the result of the interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen! Quick, put on your hood, Madam Beatrix; why doth not his Majesty come down? Such another chance may not present itself for months again.”

The prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost that chance through his indolence. The queen was actually about to leave the garden just when the party reached it; the doctor, the bishop, the maid of honour and her brother went off together in the physician’s coach, and had been gone half an hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington Square.

The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course for a moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out of Colonel Esmond’s head. In half an hour more the coach returned; the bishop descended from it first, and gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His lordship went back into the carriage again, and the maid of honour entered the house alone. We were all gazing at her from the upper window, trying to read from her countenance the result of the interview from which she had just come.

She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very pale; she asked for a glass of water as her mother went to meet her, and after drinking that and putting off her hood, she began to speak:—“We may all hope for the best,” says she; “it has cost the queen a fit. Her Majesty was in her chair in the cedar-walk accompanied only by Lady ——, when we entered by the private wicket from the west side of the garden, and turned towards her, the doctor following us. They waited in a side-walk hidden by the shrubs, as we advanced towards the chair. My heart throbbed so I scarce could speak; but my prince whispered, ‘Courage, Beatrix’, and marched on with a steady step. His face was a little flushed, but he was not afraid of the danger. He who fought so bravely at Malplaquet fears nothing.” Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other at this compliment, neither liking the sound of it.

“The prince uncovered,” Beatrix continued, “and I saw the queen turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these two were. Her Majesty looked very pale and ill, and then flushed up; the favourite made us a signal to advance, and I went up, leading my prince by the hand, quite close to the chair: ‘Your Majesty will give my lord viscount your hand to kiss,’ says her lady, and the queen put out her hand, which the prince kissed, kneeling on his knee, he who should kneel to no mortal man or woman.

“ ‘You have been long from England, my lord,’ says the queen: ‘why were you not here to give a home to your mother and sister?’

“ ‘I am come, madam, to stay now, if the queen desires me,’ says the prince, with another low bow.

“ ‘You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion; was not that of England good enough for you?’

“ ‘In returning to my father’s Church,’ says the prince, ‘I do not love my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful servant of your Majesty.’

“Here,” says Beatrix, “the favourite gave me a little signal with her hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear what should pass; and whispered something to the queen, which made her Majesty start and utter one or two words in a hurried manner, looking towards the prince, and catching hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He advanced still nearer towards it; he began to speak very rapidly; I caught the words, ‘Father, blessing, forgiveness,’—and then presently the prince fell on his knees; took from his breast a paper he had there, handed it to the queen, who, as soon as she saw it, flung up both her arms with a scream, and took away that hand nearest the prince, and which he endeavoured to kiss. He went on speaking with great animation of gesture, now clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them as though to say: ‘I am here, your brother, in your power.’ Lady Masham ran round on the other side of the chair, kneeling too, and speaking with great energy. She clasped the queen’s hand on her side, and picked up the paper her Majesty had let fall. The prince rose and made a further speech as though he would go; the favourite on the other hand urging her mistress, and then, running back to the prince, brought him back once more close to the chair. Again he knelt down and took the queen’s hand, which she did not withdraw, kissing it a hundred times; my lady all the time, with sobs and supplications, speaking over the chair. This while the queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one hand, as my prince embraced the other; then of a sudden she uttered several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of hysteric tears and laughter. ‘Enough, enough, sir, for this time,’ I heard Lady Masham say; and the chairman, who had withdrawn round the banqueting-room, came back, alarmed by the cries: ‘Quick,’ says Lady Masham, ‘get some help,’ and I ran towards the doctor, who, with the Bishop of Rochester, came up instantly. Lady Masham whispered the prince he might hope for the very best; and to be ready to-morrow; and he hath gone away to the Bishop of Rochester’s house, to meet several of his friends there. And so the great stroke is struck,” says Beatrix, going down on her knees, and clasping her hands, “God save the King: God save the King!”

Beatrix’s tale told, and the young lady herself calmed somewhat of her agitation, we asked with regard to the prince, who was absent with Bishop Atterbury, and were informed that ’twas likely he might remain abroad the whole day. Beatrix’s three kinsfolk looked at one another at this intelligence; ’twas clear the same thought was passing through the minds of all.

But who should begin to break the news? Monsieur Baptiste, that is Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and looked towards Esmond; the colonel bit his lips, and fairly beat a retreat into the window: it was Lady Castlewood that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we knew would do anything but please her.

“We are glad,” says she, taking her daughter’s hand, and speaking in a gentle voice, “that the guest is away.”

Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and as if divining a danger. “Why glad?” says she, her breast beginning to heave; “are you so soon tired of him?”

“We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,” cries out Frank Castlewood.

“And which is it—you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous because he drinks my health? or is it the head of the family” (here she turned with an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), “who has taken of late to preach the king sermons?”

“We do not say you are too free with his Majesty.”

“I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a curtsy.

But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity—“At least we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a mother to say such words to her own daughter, your father’s daughter.”

“Eh! mon père,” breaks out Beatrix, “was no better than other persons’ fathers;” and again she looked towards the colonel.

We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words; her manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest.

“You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,” says her mother, sadly, “nor to speak ill of your father.”

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she blushed crimson: “I have learnt to honour the king,” says she, drawing up, “and ’twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor me.”

“If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said, “’Trix, you would do yourself no hurt.”

“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him; “we have lived very well these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, and I intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house speak?” she went on; “he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the psalms.” The prince had used almost the very same words, in regard to Colonel Esmond, that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.

“You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the colonel; and, turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use these words in your ladyship’s hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased to impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?”

“Have you seen him alone?” cries my lord, starting up with an oath: “by God, have you seen him alone?”

“Were he here, you wouldn’t dare so to insult me; no, you would not dare!” cries Frank’s sister. “Keep your oaths, my lord, for your wife; we are not used here to such language. ’Till you came, there used to be kindness between me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never did, when you were away for years with your horses, and your mistress, and your Popish wife.”

“By ——,” says my lord, rapping out another oath, “Clotilda is an angel; how dare you say a word against Clotilda?”

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy Frank’s attack was drawn off by that feint:—“I fancy Clotilda is not the subject in hand,” says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; “her ladyship is at Paris, a hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord Castlewood’s sister, and not his wife, the question is.”

“He is not my Lord Castlewood,” says Beatrix, “and he knows he is not; he is Colonel Francis Esmond’s son, and no more, and he wears a false title; and he lives on another man’s land, and he knows it.” Here was another desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an alerte in another quarter. “Again, I beg your pardon,” says Esmond. “If there are no proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknowledged no heir, yours was his lawful successor, and my Lord Castlewood hath as good a right to his rank and small estate as any man in England. But that again is not the question, as you know very well: let us bring our talk back to it, as you will have me meddle in it. And I will give you frankly my opinion, that a house where a prince lies all day, who respects no woman, is no house for a young unmarried lady; that you were better in the country than here; that he is here on a great end, from which no folly should divert him; and that having nobly done your part of this morning, Beatrix, you should retire off the scene awhile, and leave it to the other actors of the play.”

As the colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, such as ’tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,(18) his mistress stood by him on one side of the table, and Frank Castlewood on the other, hemming in poor Beatrix, that was behind it, and, as it were, surrounding her with our approaches.

Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as I expected, tried the ultima ratio of women, and had recourse to tears. Her beautiful eyes filled with them; I never could bear in her, nor in any woman, that expression of pain:—“I am alone,” sobbed she; “you are three against me—my brother, my mother, and you. What have I done, that you should speak and look so unkindly at me? Is it my fault that the prince should, as you say, admire me? Did I bring him here? Did I do aught but what you bade me, in making him welcome? Did you not tell me that our duty was to die for him? Did you not teach me, mother, night and morning, to pray for the king, before even ourselves? What would you have of me, cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me; I know you are, sir, and that my mother and brother are acting but as you bid them; whither would you have me go?”

“I would but remove from the prince,” says Esmond gravely, “a dangerous temptation; Heaven forbid I should say you would yield: I would only have him free of it. Your honour needs no guardian, please God, but his imprudence doth. He is so far removed from all women by his rank, that his pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful. We would remove the dearest and fairest of our family from the chance of that insult, and that is why we would have you go, dear Beatrix.”

“Harry speaks like a book,” says Frank, with one of his oaths, “and, by ——, every word he saith is true. You can’t help being handsome, ’Trix; no more can the prince help following you. My council is that you go out of harm’s way; for, by the Lord, were the prince to play any tricks with you, king as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I would have justice of him.”

“Are not two such champions enough to guard me?” says Beatrix, something sorrowfully; “sure, with you two watching, no evil could happen to me.”

“In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” says Colonel Esmond; “nor if the prince knew us would he try.”

“But does he know you?” interposed Lady Esmond, very quiet: “he comes of a country where the pursuit of kings is thought no dishonour to a woman. Let us go, dearest Beatrix. Shall we go to Walcote or to Castlewood? We are best away from the city; and when the prince is acknowledged, and our champions have restored him, and he hath his own house at St. James’s or Windsor, we can come back to ours here. Do you not think so, Harry and Frank?”

Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.

“We will go, then,” says Beatrix, turning a little pale; “Lady Masham is to give me warning to-night how her Majesty is, and to-morrow——”

“I think we had best go to-day, my dear,” says my Lady Castlewood; “we might have the coach and sleep at Hounslow, and reach home to-morrow. ’Tis twelve o’clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready at one.”

“For shame!” burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and mortification. “You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; my own mother is the first to suspect me, and would take me away as my gaoler. I will not go with you, mother; I will go as no one’s prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, do you think I could find no means of evading you? My family suspects me. As those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let me leave them; I will go, but I will go alone: to Castlewood, be it. I have been unhappy there and lonely enough; let me go back, but spare me at least the humiliation of setting a watch over my misery, which is a trial I can’t bear. Let me go when you will, but alone, or not at all. You three can stay and triumph over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne it before. Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that is to take me away. I thank you, Henry Esmond, for your share in the conspiracy. All my life long I’ll thank you, and remember you; and you, brother, and you, mother, how shall I show my gratitude to you for your careful defence of my honour?”

She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging glances of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the field, but scared, and almost ashamed of our victory. It did indeed seem hard and cruel that we three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation of that fair creature. We looked at each other in silence; ’twas not the first stroke by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being done, we wished undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking stealthily to one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged in an act they felt ashamed in doing.

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when she left us. She held a shagreen-case in her hand; Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds which he had given to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton, and which she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious night of the prince’s arrival. “I have brought back,” says she, “to the Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned to make me in days when he trusted me better than now. I will never accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry Esmond more, and I give back these family diamonds, which belonged to one king’s mistress, to the gentleman that suspected I would be another. Have you been upon your message of coach-caller, my lord marquis; will you send your valet to see that I do not run away?” We were right, yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong; we were conquerors, yet the honours of the day seemed to be with the poor oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with a baron’s coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman from whom she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady Castlewood opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she did; and behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond’s present, there lay in the box the enamelled miniature of the late duke, which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning when the king came into the house; and which the poor heedless thing very likely had forgotten.

“Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?” says her mother, taking the miniature out and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but there are some moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which angels can’t forgo.(19)

Having delivered this stab, Lady Esmond was frightened at the effect of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix’s heart; she flushed up and passed a handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the miniature, and put it into her bosom:—“I had forgot it,” says she; “my injury made me forget my grief, my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother, I think I never can forgive you; something hath broke between us that no tears nor years can repair. I always said I was alone; you never loved me, never—and were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father’s knee. Let me go away, the sooner the better; I can bear to be with you no more.”

“Go, child,” says her mother, still very stern; “go and bend your proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility and repentance. ’Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy, ’tis your hard heart, my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach you one day to feel for your mother!”

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix’s; and, if the girl had a proud spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance.

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XI. Our Guest Quits Us As Not Being Hospitable Enough

Beatrix’s departure took place within an hour, her maid going with her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the coach-box to prevent any danger of the road. Esmond and Frank thought of escorting the carriage, but she indignantly refused their company, and another man was sent to follow the coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow Heath on the next day. And these two forming the whole of Lady Castle wood’s male domestics, Mr. Esmond’s faithful John Lockwood came to wait on his mistress during their absence, though he would have preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his sweetheart, on her journey into the country.

We had a gloomy and silent meal; it seemed as if a darkness was over the house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been withdrawn from it. In the afternoon came a message from the favourite to relieve us somewhat from this despondency. “The queen hath been much shaken,” the note said; “she is better now, and all things will go well. Let my Lord Castlewood be ready against we send for him.”

At night there came a second billet: “There hath been a great battle in Council; lord treasurer hath broke his staff, and hath fallen never to rise again; no successor is appointed. Lord B—— receives a great Whig company to-night at Golden Square. If he is trimming, others are true; the queen hath no more fits, but is abed now, and more quiet. Be ready against morning, when I still hope all will be well.”

The prince came home shortly after the messenger who bore this billet had left the house. His royal highness was so much the better for the bishop’s liquor, that to talk affairs to him now was of little service. He was helped to the royal bed; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own name; he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which his crown, his safety, depended. ’Twas lucky that my Lady Castlewood’s servants were out of the way, and only those heard him who would not betray him. He inquired after the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice; he was easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged in that deep slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries of that god. We wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his cups. We regretted, perhaps, that she was gone.

One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to ride to Hounslow that night, coram latronibus, and to the inn which the family used ordinarily in their journeys out of London. Esmond desired my landlord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming, and had the grim satisfaction of passing by the door of the chamber where she lay with her maid, and of watching her chariot set forth in the early morning. He saw her smile and slip money into the man’s hand who was ordered to ride behind the coach as far as Bagshot. The road being open, and the other servant armed, it appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second domestic; and this fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many bows, went and took a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company with his brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to London.

They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies stopped for more drink, and here they were scared by seeing Colonel Esmond gallop by them. The man said in reply to Colonel Esmond’s stern question, that his young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no other message: she had had a very good night, and would reach Castlewood by nightfall. The colonel had no time for further colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to London, having business of great importance there, as my reader very well knoweth. The thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed his mind not a little. His horse was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple knew the way thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night was awake and sober.

The account of the previous evening was known all over the town early next day. A violent altercation had taken place before the queen in the Council-chamber; and all the coffee-houses had their version of the quarrel. The news brought my lord bishop early to Kensington Square, where he awaited the waking of his royal master above stairs, and spoke confidently of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and heir to the throne before that day was over. The bishop had entertained on the previous afternoon certain of the most influential gentlemen of the true British party. His royal highness had charmed all, both Scots and English, Papists and Churchmen: “Even Quakers,” says he, “were at our meeting; and, if the stranger took a little too much British punch and ale, he will soon grow more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord Castlewood,” says the bishop, with a laugh, “must bear the cruel charge of having been for once in his life a little tipsy. He toasted your lovely sister a dozen times, at which we all laughed,” says the bishop, “admiring so much fraternal affection.—Where is that charming nymph, and why doth she not adorn your ladyship’s tea-table with her bright eyes?” Her ladyship said, drily, that Beatrix was not at home that morning; my lord bishop was too busy with great affairs to trouble himself much about the presence or absence of any lady, however beautiful.

We were yet at table when Dr. A—— came from the Palace with a look of great alarm; the shocks the queen had had the day before had acted on her severely; he had been sent for, and had ordered her to be blooded. The surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the queen, and her Majesty was now more easy and breathed more freely. What made us start at the name of Mr. Aymé? “Il faut être aimable pour être aimé,” says the merry doctor; Esmond pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. It was to Aymé’s house, after his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castlewood, Frank’s father, had been carried to die.

No second visit could be paid to the queen on that day at any rate; and when our guest above gave his signal that he was awake, the doctor, the bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited upon the prince’s levee, and brought him their news, cheerful or dubious. The doctor had to go away presently, but promised to keep the prince constantly acquainted with what was taking place at the palace hard by. His counsel was, and the bishop’s, that as soon as ever the queen’s malady took a favourable turn, the prince should be introduced to her bedside; the Council summoned; the guard at Kensington and St. James’s, of which two regiments were to be entirely relied on, and one known not to be hostile, would declare for the prince, as the queen would before the lords of her Council, designating him as the heir to her throne.

With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, the prince and his lordship of Rochester passed many hours of this day composing Proclamations and Addresses to the Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy, to the People of London and England; announcing the arrival of the exile descendant of three sovereigns, and his acknowledgement by his sister as heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties the Church and People could ask was promised to them. The bishop could answer for the adhesion of very many prelates, who besought of their flocks and brother ecclesiastics to recognize the sacred right of the future sovereign, and to purge the country of the sin of rebellion.

During the composition of these papers, more messengers than one came from the Palace regarding the state of the august patient there lying. At midday she was somewhat better; at evening the torpor again seized her, and she wandered in her mind. At night Dr. A—— was with us again, with a report rather more favourable: no instant danger at any rate was apprehended. In the course of the last two years her Majesty had had many attacks similar, but more severe.

By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations (the wording of them so as to offend no parties, and not to give umbrage to Whigs or Dissenters, required very great caution), and the young prince, who had indeed shown, during a long day’s labour, both alacrity at seizing the information given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning the phrases which were to go out signed by his name, here exhibited a good humour and thoughtfulness that ought to be set down to his credit.

“Were these papers to be mislaid,” says he, “or our scheme to come to mishap, my Lord Esmond’s writing would bring him to a place where I heartily hope never to see him; and so, by your leave, I will copy the papers myself, though I am not very strong in spelling; and if they are found they will implicate none but the person they most concern;” and so, having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the prince burned those in Colonel Esmond’s handwriting: “And now, and now, gentlemen,” says he, “let us go to supper, and drink a glass with the ladies. My Lord Esmond, you will sup with us to-night; you have given us of late too little of your company.”

The prince’s meals were commonly served in the chamber which had been Beatrix’s bedroom, adjoining that in which he slept. And the dutiful practice of his entertainers was to wait until their royal guest bade them take their places at table before they sat down to partake of the meal. On this night, as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood and his mother were in waiting when the supper was announced to receive the prince; who had passed the whole of the day in his own apartment, with the bishop as his minister of state, and Colonel Esmond officiating as secretary of his Council.

The prince’s countenance wore an expression by no means pleasant; when looking towards the little company assembled, and waiting for him, he did not see Beatrix’s bright face there as usual to greet him. He asked Lady Esmond for his fair introducer of yesterday: her ladyship only cast her eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the supper that night; nor did she show the least sign of confusion, whereas Castlewood turned red, and Esmond was no less embarrassed. I think women have an instinct of dissimulation; they know by nature how to disguise their emotions far better than the most consummate male courtiers can do. Is not the better part of the life of many of them spent in hiding their feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles and artful gaiety their doubt, or their grief, or their terror?

Our guest swallowed his supper very sulky; it was not till the second bottle his highness began to rally. When Lady Castlewood asked leave to depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at the next day’s dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards, for which there was subject in plenty.

The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington that the queen was somewhat better, and had been up for an hour, though she was not well enough yet to receive any visitor.

At dinner a single cover was laid for his royal highness; and the two gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a consultation in the morning with Lady Castlewood, in which it had been determined that, should his highness ask further questions about Beatrix, he should be answered by the gentlemen of the house.

He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards the door constantly, as if expecting some one. There came, however, nobody, except honest John Lockwood, when he knocked with a dish, which those within took from him; so the meals were always arranged, and I believe the council in the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had brought over a priest, who had converted us all into Papists, and that Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not choosing to take their meals in the sight of Christians.

The prince tried to cover his displeasure; he was but a clumsy dissembler at that time, and when out of humour could with difficulty keep a serene countenance; and having made some foolish attempts at trivial talk, he came to his point presently, and in as easy a manner as he could, saying to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his lordship’s mother and sister would be of the supper that night. As the time hung heavy on him, and he must not go abroad, would not Miss Beatrix hold him company at a game of cards?

At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from him, Lord Castlewood informed his royal highness(20) that his sister Beatrix was not at Kensington; and that her family had thought it best she should quit the town.

“Not at Kensington!” says he; “is she ill? she was well yesterday; wherefore should she quit the town? Is it at your orders, my lord, or Colonel Esmond’s, who seems the master of this house?”

“Not of this, sir,” says Frank very nobly, “only of our house in the country, which he hath given to us. This is my mother’s house, and Walcote is my father’s, and the Marquis of Esmond knows he hath but to give his word, and I return his to him.”

“The Marquis of Esmond!—the Marquis of Esmond,” says the prince, tossing off a glass, “meddles too much with my affairs, and presumes on the service he hath done me. If you want to carry your suit with Beatrix, my lord, by blocking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not the way to win a woman.”

“I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix to your royal highness.”

“Bah, bah, monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see that. It makes itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, my lord, and the maid of honour cannot look at another face without yours beginning to scowl. That which you do is unworthy, monsieur; is inhospitable—is, is lâche, yes lâche:” (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with each phrase:) “I come to your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I repose myself on your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship’s sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take her from me; and you, you rest! Merci, monsieur! I shall thank you when I have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little importunate, my lord—a little importunate. For a month past your airs of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign to offer me the crown, and bid me take it on my knees like King John—eh! I know my history, monsieur, and mock myself of frowning barons. I admire your mistress, and you send her to a Bastile of the Province; I enter your house, and you mistrust me. I will leave it, monsieur; from to-night I will leave it. I have other friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to question mine. If I have Garters to give away, ’tis to noblemen who are not so ready to think evil. Bring me a coach and let me quit this place, or let the fair Beatrix return to it. I will not have your hospitality at the expense of the freedom of that fair creature.”

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulations such as the French use, and in the language of that nation. The prince striding up and down the room; his face flushed, and his hands trembling with anger. He was very thin and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in half a minute’s struggle put an end to him; and here he was insulting us both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose honour it most concerned, the passion he felt for the young lady of our family. My Lord Castlewood replied to the prince’s tirade very nobly and simply.

“Sir,” says he, “your royal highness is pleased to forget that others risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few Englishmen, please God, would dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though none would ever think of respecting ours. Our family’s lives are at your service, and everything we have except our honour.”

“Honour! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honour?” says the prince, with a peevish air.

“We implore your royal highness never to think of hurting it,” says Lord Castlewood, with a low bow. The night being warm, the windows were open both towards the gardens and the square. Colonel Esmond heard through the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the square on the other side. He opened the door communicating with the prince’s room; Martin, the servant that had rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of “Past ten o’clock, and a starlight night,” Esmond spoke to the prince in a low voice, and said—“Your royal highness hears that man?”

“Après, monsieur?” says the prince.

“I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him fifty yards, and he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver up to him the body of the person calling himself James the Third, for whose capture Parliament hath offered a reward of 5,000_l._, as your royal highness saw on our ride from Rochester. I have but to say the word, and, by the Heaven that made me, I would say it if I thought the prince, for his honour’s sake, would not desist from insulting ours. But the first gentleman of England knows his duty too well to forget himself with the humblest, or peril his crown for a deed that were shameful if it were done.”

“Has your lordship anything to say,” says the prince, turning to Frank Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; “any threat or any insult, with which you would like to end this agreeable night’s entertainment?”

“I follow the head of our house,” says Castlewood, bowing gravely. “At what time shall it please the prince that we should wait upon him in the morning?”

“You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will bid him bring his coach hither; and prepare an apartment for me in his own house, or in a place of safety. The king will reward you handsomely, never fear, for all you have done in his behalf. I wish you a good night, and shall go to bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his colleague, the watchman, and that I should pass the night with the Kensington guard. Fare you well, be sure I will remember you. My Lord Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night without need of a chamberlain.” And the prince dismissed us with a grim bow, locking one door as he spoke, that into the supping-room, and the other through which we passed, after us. It led into the small chamber which Frank Castlewood or Monsieur Baptiste occupied, and by which Martin entered when Colonel Esmond but now saw him in the chamber.

At an early hour next morning the bishop arrived, and was closeted for some time with his master in his own apartment, where the prince laid open to his counsellor the wrongs which, according to his version, he had received from the gentlemen of the Esmond family. The worthy prelate came out from the conference with an air of great satisfaction; he was a man full of resources, and of a most assured fidelity, and possessed of genius, and a hundred good qualities; but captious and of a most jealous temper, that could not help exulting at the downfall of any favourite; and he was pleased in spite of himself to hear that the Esmond ministry was at an end.

“I have soothed your guest,” says he, coming out to the two gentlemen and the widow, who had been made acquainted with somewhat of the dispute of the night before. (By the version we gave her, the prince was only made to exhibit anger because we doubted of his intentions in respect to Beatrix; and to leave us, because we questioned his honour.) “But I think, all things considered, ’tis as well he should leave this house; and then, my Lady Castlewood,” says the bishop, “my pretty Beatrix may come back to it.”

“She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,” Esmond’s mistress said, “till everything is over.”

“You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,” says the good bishop, assuming the airs of a prime minister. “The prince hath expressed himself most nobly in regard of the little difference of last night, and I promise you he hath listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other folks,” says the doctor archly; “he hath every great and generous quality, with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to his family, and hath been known in scores of popular sovereigns from King David downwards.”

“My lord, my lord,” breaks out Lady Esmond, “the levity with which you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you call weakness I call deplorable sin.”

“Sin it is, my dear creature,” says the bishop, with a shrug, taking snuff; “but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in spite of a thousand of wives too.”

“Enough of this, my lord,” says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush, and walked out of the room very stately.

The prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, and if he felt any offence against us on the previous night, at present exhibited none. He offered a hand to each gentleman with great courtesy. “If all your bishops preach so well as Dr. Atterbury,” says he, “I don’t know, gentlemen, what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my lords, last night, and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay any longer,” says he, “giving umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty girls away from their homes. My lord bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard by at a curate’s house, whom the bishop can trust, and whose wife is so ugly as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp into those new quarters, and I leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses here. Where is my hostess, that I may bid her farewell? to welcome her in a house of my own, soon I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to quarrel with me.”

Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, and tears filling her eyes as the prince graciously saluted her. She looked so charming and young, that the doctor, in his bantering way, could not help speaking of her beauty to the prince; whose compliment made her blush, and look more charming still.

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XII. A Great Scheme, And Who Balked It

As characters written with a secret ink come out with the application of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper white, so soon as it is cool, a hundred names of men, high in repute and favouring the prince’s cause, that were writ in our private lists, would have been visible enough on the great roll of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open under the sun. What crowds would have pressed forward, and subscribed their names and protested their loyalty, when the danger was over! What a number of Whigs, now high in place and creatures of the all-powerful minister, scorned Mr. Walpole then! If ever a match was gained by the manliness and decision of a few at a moment of danger; if ever one was lost by the treachery and imbecility of those that had the cards in their hands, and might have played them, it was in that momentous game which was enacted in the next three days, and of which the noblest crown in the world was the stake.

From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were interested in the scheme we had in hand, saw pretty well that he was not to be trusted. Should the prince prevail, it was his lordship’s gracious intention to declare for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in their sovereign, who more ready to go on his knee, and cry “God save King George”? And he betrayed the one prince and the other; but exactly at the wrong time. When he should have struck for King James, he faltered and coquetted with the Whigs; and having committed himself by the most monstrous professions of devotion, which the Elector rightly scorned, he proved the justness of their contempt for him by flying and taking renegado service with St. Germains, just when he should have kept aloof: and that Court despised him, as the manly and resolute men who established the Elector in England had before done. He signed his own name to every accusation of insincerity his enemies made against him; and the king and the pretender alike could show proofs of St. John’s treachery under his own hand and seal.

Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as on those of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little concealment of theirs. They would have in the Elector, and used every means in their power to effect their end. My Lord Marlborough was now with them. His expulsion from power by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on the Whig side. We heard he was coming from Antwerp; and in fact, on the day of the queen’s death, he once more landed on English shore. A great part of the army was always with their illustrious leader; even the Tories in it were indignant at the injustice of the persecution which the Whig officers were made to undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, and at the head of them one of the most intrepid men in the world, the Scots Duke of Argyle, whose conduct, on the second day after that to which I have now brought down my history, ended, as such honesty and bravery deserved to end, by establishing the present royal race on the English throne.

Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion amongst the councillors surrounding the prince, as to the plan his highness should pursue. His female minister at Court, fancying she saw some amelioration in the queen, was for waiting a few days, or hours it might be, until he could be brought to her bedside, and acknowledged as her heir. Mr. Esmond was for having him march thither, escorted by a couple of troops of Horse Guards, and openly presenting himself to the Council. During the whole of the night of the 29th-30th July, the colonel was engaged with gentlemen of the military profession, whom ’tis needless here to name; suffice it to say that several of them had exceeding high rank in the army, and one of them in especial was a general, who, when he heard the Duke of Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march out and engage him. Of the three secretaries of state, we knew that one was devoted to us. The Governor of the Tower was ours: the two companies on duty at Kensington barrack were safe; and we had intelligence, very speedy and accurate, of all that took place at the Palace within.

At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the prince’s friends that the Committee of Council was sitting at Kensington Palace, their graces of Ormonde and Shrewsbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the three Secretaries of State, being there assembled. In an hour afterwards, hurried news was brought that the two great Whig dukes, Argyle and Somerset, had broke into the Council-chamber without a summons, and taken their seat at table. After holding a debate there, the whole party proceeded to the chamber of the queen, who was lying in great weakness, but still sensible, and the lords recommended his grace of Shrewsbury as the fittest person to take the vacant place of lord treasurer; her Majesty gave him the staff, as all know. “And now,” writ my messenger from Court, “now or never is the time.”

Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig dukes, our side had still the majority in the Council, and Esmond, to whom the message had been brought (the personage at Court not being aware that the prince had quitted his lodging in Kensington Square), and Esmond’s gallant young aide de camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on sword and uniform, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and blessed them both; and went to her chamber to pray for the issue of the great event which was then pending.

Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the captain of the guard there; and then went to the “King’s Arms” tavern at Kensington, where our friends were assembled, having come by parties of twos and threes, riding or in coaches, and were got together in the upper chamber, fifty-three of them; their servants, who had been instructed to bring arms likewise, being below in the garden of the tavern, where they were served with drink. Out of this garden is a little door that leads into the road of the Palace, and through this it was arranged that masters and servants were to march; when that signal was given, and that Personage appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was in our company the famous officer next in command to the Captain-General of the Forces, his grace the Duke of Ormonde, who was within at the Council. There were with him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven peers of Parliament, and twenty-one members of the House of Commons. The guard was with us within and without the Palace: the queen was with us; the Council (save the two Whig dukes, that must have succumbed); the day was our own, and with a beating heart Esmond walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where he had parted with the prince on the night before. For three nights the colonel had not been to bed: the last had been passed summoning the prince’s friends together, of whom the great majority had no sort of inkling of the transaction pending until they were told that he was actually on the spot, and were summoned to strike the blow. The night before and after the altercation with the prince, my gentleman, having suspicions of his royal highness, and fearing lest he should be minded to give us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive beauty, had spent, if the truth must be told, at the “Greyhound” tavern, over against my Lady Esmond’s house in Kensington Square, with an eye on the door, lest the prince should escape from it. The night before that he had passed in his boots at the “Crown” at Hounslow, where he must watch forsooth all night, in order to get one moment’s glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. And fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night’s ride and wakefulness before his business was ended.

He ran to the curate’s house in Kensington Mall, and asked for Mr. Bates, the name the prince went by. The curate’s wife said Mr. Bates had gone abroad very early in the morning in his boots, saying he was going to the Bishop of Rochester’s house at Chelsea. But the bishop had been at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek for Mr. Bates, and had returned in his coach to his own house, when he heard that the gentleman was gone thither to seek him.

This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour’s delay might cost a kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to hasten to the “King’s Arms”, and tell the gentlemen there assembled that Mr. George (as we called the prince there) was not at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him; and taking a general’s coach that happened to be there, Esmond drove across the country to Chelsea, to the bishop’s house there.

The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship, and Esmond ran past this sentry up to the locked door of the bishop’s study, at which he rattled, and was admitted presently. Of the bishop’s guests one was a brother prelate, and the other the Abbé G——.

“Where is Mr. George?” says Mr. Esmond; “now is the time.” The bishop looked scared; “I went to his lodging,” he said, “and they told me he was come hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry me; and he hath not been here.”

The colonel burst out with an oath; that was all he could say to their reverences; ran down the stairs again, and bidding the coachman, an old friend and fellow-campaigner, drive as if he was charging the French with his master at Wynendael—they were back at Kensington in half an hour.

Again Esmond went to the curate’s house. Mr. George had not returned. The colonel had to go with this blank errand to the gentlemen at the “King’s Arms”, that were grown very impatient by this time.

Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the garden-wall, you can see the green before Kensington Palace, the Palace gate (round which the ministers’ coaches were standing), and the barrack building. As we were looking out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the front room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and saw a regiment of horse coming.

“It’s Ormonde’s Guards,” says one.

“No, by God, it’s Argyle’s old regiment!” says my general, clapping down his crutch.

It was, indeed, Argyle’s regiment that was brought from Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we could rely.

“Oh, Harry!” says one of the generals there present, “you were born under an unlucky star; I begin to think that there’s no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon either. ’Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me no good; but ’tis the chance you promised me of fighting Marlborough.”

As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air.

“What news, Frank?” says the colonel, “is Mr. George coming at last?”

“Damn him, look here!” says Castlewood, holding out a paper. “I found it in the book—the what you call it, Eikum Basilikum,—that villain Martin put it there—he said his young mistress bade him. It was directed to me, but it was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal and read it.”

The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before Esmond’s eyes as he read the paper; all that was written on it was:—“Beatrix Esmond is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier days.”

“Can you guess where he is?” says Castlewood.

“Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, Frank knew full well: our instinct told whither that traitor had fled.

He had courage to turn to the company and say, “Gentlemen, I fear very much that Mr. George will not be here to-day; something hath happened—and—and—I very much fear some accident may befall him, which must keep him out of the way. Having had your noon’s draught, you had best pay the reckoning and go home; there can be no game where there is no one to play it.”

Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others called to pay their duty to her Majesty and ask for her health. The little army disappeared into the darkness out of which it had been called; there had been no writings, no paper to implicate any man. Some few officers and members of Parliament had been invited overnight to breakfast at the “King’s Arms”, at Kensington; and they had called for their bill and gone home.

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XIII. August 1st, 1714

“Does my mistress know of this?” Esmond asked of Frank, as they walked along.

“My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She had writ it ere she had left home,” Frank said. “Mother met her on the stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never left her after that till she went away. He did not think of looking at it there, nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I believe the poor devil meant no harm, though I half killed him; he thought ’twas to Beatrix’s brother he was bringing the letter.”

Frank never said a word of reproach to me, for having brought the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said; “When will the horses be ready?” Frank pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that moment.

We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful state of agitation by this time, and that bishop was with her whose company she was so fond of.

“Did you tell him, my lord,” says Esmond, “that Beatrix was at Castlewood?” The bishop blushed and stammered:

“Well,” says he, “I——”

“You served the villain right,” broke out Mr. Esmond, “and he has lost a crown by what you told him.”

My mistress turned quite white. “Henry, Henry,” says she, “do not kill him.”

“It may not be too late,” says Esmond; “he may not have gone to Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late.” The bishop was breaking out with some banales phrases about loyalty and the sacredness of the sovereign’s person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in five minutes he and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards Castlewood at a rapid pace.

We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John’s father, walking by the side of the Hexham flying-coach, who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and this morning, Friday, had dispatched him with a packet for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter was of great importance.

We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder, and cried out his “Lord bless me’s”, and “Who’d a thought it’s”, at the sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years.

The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her captivity. She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk beyond the court and the garden-wall. She gave news of the peacocks, and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain person, if certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom; how that, as she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Dr. Atterbury’s sermons and Eikon Basilike: she was going to read good books: she thought her pretty mamma would like to know she was not crying her eyes out.

“Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the colonel.

“There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix’s maid, the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids,” says old Lockwood.

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of Eikon Basilike. She writ this letter to put the prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way.

“We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says Esmond; “Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet.” All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a grey suit, with a light-brown periwig, just the colour of my lord’s, had been seen to pass. He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours ahead of us still when we reached the last stage.

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We passed the very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since; and Mohun lay. The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by the church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate.

“If she is safe,” says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling with tears, “a silver statue to Our Lady!” He was going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman’s hand. He had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs, too: but he spoke not a word of these to his companion, or showed any signs of emotion.

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter’s lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.

“Who’s there?” says he, looking out; it was the servant from Kensington.

“My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond,” we said, from below. “Open the gate and let us in without any noise.”

“My Lord Castlewood?” says the other; “my lord’s here, and in bed.”

“Open, d—n you,” says Castlewood, with a curse.

“I shall open to no one,” says the man, shutting the glass window as Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the porter, but Esmond again held his hand.

“There are more ways than one,” says he, “of entering such a great house as this.” Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile round. “But I know of a way that’s not a hundred yards off,” says Mr. Esmond; and leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by the shrubs, which had now grown thick on what had been an old moat about the house, they came to the buttress, at the side of which the little window was, which was Father Holt’s private door. Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a pane that had been mended, and touched the spring inside, and the two gentlemen passed in that way, treading as lightly as they could; and so going through the passage into the court, over which the dawn was now reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence.

They sped instantly to the porter’s lodge, where the fellow had not fastened his door that led into the court; and pistol in hand came upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. Then they asked him (Esmond’s head reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when Lord Castlewood had arrived? He said on the previous evening, about eight of the clock.—“And what then?”—His lordship supped with his sister.—“Did the man wait?” Yes, he and my lady’s maid both waited: the other servants made the supper; and there was no wine, and they could give his lordship but milk, at which he grumbled; and—and Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room with her. And there being a bed across the court in the chaplain’s room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep there. Madam Beatrix had come downstairs laughing with the maids, and had locked herself in, and my lord had stood for a while talking to her through the door, and she laughing at him. And then he paced the court awhile, and she came again to the upper window; and my lord implored her to come down and walk in the room; but she would not, and laughed at him again, and shut the window; and so my lord uttering what seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went to the chaplain’s room to bed.

“Was this all?”—“All,” the man swore upon his honour; “all as he hoped to be saved.—Stop, there was one thing more. My lord, on arriving, and once or twice during supper, did kiss his sister as was natural, and she kissed him.” At this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and wellnigh throttled the amazed miscreant who was speaking, whereas Castlewood, seizing hold of his cousin’s hand, burst into a great fit of laughter.

“If it amuses thee,” says Esmond in French, “that your sister should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix will give thee plenty of sport.”—Esmond darkly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before been masters of those roses that the young prince’s lips were now feeding on. He sickened at that notion. Her cheek was desecrated, her beauty tarnished; shame and honour stood between it and him. The love was dead within him; had she a crown to bring him with her love, he felt that both would degrade him.

But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feelings of the colonel against the man who had been the occasion if not the cause of the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard, and fairly fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the court, debating what should ensue. What mattered how much or how little had passed between the prince and the poor faithless girl? They were arrived in time perhaps to rescue her person, but not her mind; had she not instigated the young prince to come to her; suborned servants, dismissed others, so that she might communicate with him? The treacherous heart within her had surrendered, though the place was safe; and it was to win this that he had given a life’s struggle and devotion; this, that she was ready to give away for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the prince’s eye.

When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor Frank from his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been dreaming of Clotilda. “You must back me,” says Esmond, “in what I am going to do. I have been thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been instructed to tell that story, and that the whole of it may be a lie; if it be, we shall find it out from the gentleman who is asleep yonder. See if the door leading to my lady’s rooms” (so we called the rooms at the north-west angle of the house), “see if the door is barred as he saith.” We tried; it was indeed as the lackey had said, closed within.

“It may have been open and shut afterwards,” says poor Esmond; “the foundress of our family let our ancestor in that way.”

“What will you do, Harry, if—if what that fellow saith should turn out untrue?” The young man looked scared and frightened into his kinsman’s face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression.

“Let us first go see whether the two stories agree,” says Esmond; and went in at the passage and opened the door into what had been his own chamber now for wellnigh five-and-twenty years. A candle was still burning, and the prince asleep dressed on the bed—Esmond did not care for making a noise. The prince started up in his bed, seeing two men in his chamber: “Qui est là?” says he, and took a pistol from under his pillow.

“It is the Marquis of Esmond,” says the colonel, “come to welcome his Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report of what hath happened in London. Pursuant to the king’s orders, I passed the night before last, after leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the friends of the king. It is a pity that his Majesty’s desire to see the country and to visit our poor house should have caused the king to quit London without notice yesterday, when the opportunity happened which in all human probability may not occur again; and had the king not chosen to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales might have slept at St. James’s.”

“’Sdeath! gentlemen,” says the prince, starting off his bed, whereon he was lying in his clothes, “the doctor was with me yesterday morning, and after watching by my sister all night, told me I might not hope to see the queen.”

“It would have been otherwise,” says Esmond, with another bow; “as, by this time, the queen may be dead in spite of the doctor. The Council was met, a new treasurer was appointed, the troops were devoted to the king’s cause; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest names of this kingdom were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales, who might have been the acknowledged heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by this time, had your Majesty not chosen to take the air. We were ready; there was only one person that failed us, your Majesty’s gracious——”

“Morbleu! monsieur, you give me too much Majesty,” said the prince; who had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help him to his coat. But neither stirred.

“We shall take care,” says Esmond, “not much oftener to offend in that particular.”

“What mean you, my lord?” says the prince, and muttered something about a guet-à-pens, which Esmond caught up.

“The snare, sir,” said he, “was not of our laying; it is not we that invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, the dishonour of our family.”

“Dishonour! Morbleu! there has been no dishonour,” says the prince, turning scarlet, “only a little harmless playing.”

“That was meant to end seriously.”

“I swear,” the prince broke out impetuously, “upon the honour of a gentleman, my lords——”

“That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank,” says Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the door as the talk was going on. “See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty hath deigned to commence some verses in honour, or dishonour, of Beatrix. Here is madame and flamme, cruelle and rebelle, and amour and jour, in the royal writing and spelling. Had the gracious lover been happy, he had not passed his time in sighing.” In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which my young prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his charmer on the morrow.

“Sir,” says the prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his royal coat unassisted by this time), “did I come here to receive insults?”

“To confer them, may it please your Majesty,” says the colonel, with a very low bow, “and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank you.”

“Malédiction!” says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with helpless rage and mortification. “What will you with me, gentlemen?”

“If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,” says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, “I have some papers there which I would gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way;” and, taking the taper up, and backing before the prince with very great ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little chaplain’s room, through which we had just entered into the house:—“Please to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank,” says the colonel to his companion, who wondered almost as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the other actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the mantelpiece, the colonel opened it, and drew thence the papers which so long had lain there.

“Here, may it please your Majesty,” says he, “is the patent of Marquis sent over by your royal father at St. Germains to Viscount Castlewood, my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my father’s marriage to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that religion of which your sainted sire gave all through life so shining example. These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them: here go baptism and marriage, and here the marquisate and the august sign-manual, with which your predecessor was pleased to honour our race.” And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the brasier. “You will please, sir, to remember,” he continued, “that our family hath ruined itself by fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord’s grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father’s second wife, after giving away her honour to your wicked perjured race, sent all her wealth to the king; and got in return that precious title that lies in ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your feet and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and break it and deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you designed us, by Heaven I would have driven it through your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father pardoned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won’t you, cousin?”

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers as they flamed in the old brasier, took out his sword and broke it, holding his head down:—“I go with my cousin,” says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the hand. “Marquis or not, by ——, I stand by him any day. I beg your Majesty’s pardon for swearing; that is—that is—I’m for the Elector of Hanover. It’s all your Majesty’s own fault. The queen’s dead most likely by this time. And you might have been king if you hadn’t come dangling after ’Trix”.

“Thus to lose a crown,” says the young prince, starting up, and speaking French in his eager way; “to lose the loveliest woman in the world; to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough of humiliation?—Marquis, if I go on my knees will you pardon me?—No, I can’t do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of honour, that of gentlemen. Favour me by crossing the sword with mine: yours is broke—see, yonder in the armoire are two;” and the prince took them out as eager as a boy, and held them towards Esmond:—“Ah! you will? Merci, monsieur, merci!”

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as almost to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred on him such an honour, and took his guard in silence. The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked up Esmond’s with the blade of his own, which he had broke off short at the shell; and the colonel falling back a step dropped his point with another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly satisfied.

“Eh bien, vicomte,” says the young prince, who was a boy, and a French boy, “il ne nous reste qu’une chose à faire:” he placed his sword upon the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast:—“We have one more thing to do,” says he; “you do not divine it?” He stretched out his arms:—“Embrassons nous!”

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:—What came she to seek there? She started and turned pale at the sight of her brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet smouldering in the brasier.

“Charming Beatrix,” says the prince, with a blush which became him very well, “these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my sister lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes himself desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I had been so long a prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and my horse naturally bore me towards you. I found you a queen in your little court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present my homages to your maids of honour. I sighed as you slept, under the window of your chamber, and then retired to seek rest in my own. It was there that these gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a happy day that makes a prince acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such a noble heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, may we take your coach to town? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor marquis must be dropping with sleep.”

“Will it please the king to breakfast before he goes?” was all Beatrix could say. The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her eyes were glaring; she looked quite old. She came up to Esmond and hissed out a word or two:—“If I did not love you before, cousin,” says she, “think how I love you now.” If words could stab, no doubt she would have killed Esmond; she looked at him as if she could.

But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have loved her. His love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensington tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of _Eikon __ Basilike_. The prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and quitted the chamber. I have never seen her from that day.

Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in the carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach came into Alton.

As we drove to the “Bell Inn” comes a mitred coach with our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady Castlewood and the bishop were inside; she gave a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered the inn almost together; the landlord and people coming out with lights to welcome the visitors.

We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear lady, and above all, the doctor in his cassock. What was the news? Was there yet time? Was the queen alive? These questions were put hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow them up the stair.

“Is she safe?” was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to Esmond.

“All’s well, thank God,” says he, as the fond lady took his hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. She wasn’t thinking of queens and crowns.

The bishop’s news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the queen yet breathed or was alive when they left London, six hours since. (“It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming,” the doctor said;) Argyle had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them (I am not sure but the bishop swore as he spoke), and so too were our people. And all might be saved, if only the prince could be at London in time. We called for horses, instantly to return to London. We never went up poor crestfallen Boniface’s stairs, but into our coaches again. The prince and his prime minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a companion.

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the prince’s friends, and warn them of his coming. We travelled through the night. Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours; of Castlewood’s ride and his; of the prince’s generous behaviour and their reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the starlit hours passed away serenely in that fond company.

So we came along the road; the bishop’s coach heading ours; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about four o’clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour after, it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick’s house, and so down the street of Kensington.

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, and many people moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to the palace, where the guard is, there was especially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, and the bishop’s man got down to know what the concourse meant?

There presently came from out of the gate: Horse Guards with their trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards. The trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed GEORGE, by the grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith. And the people shouted, “God save the King!”

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many disguises. It was no other than poor Mr. Holt’s, who had slipped over to England to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people. The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbours in the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to cheer. Sure he was the most unlucky of men: he never played a game but he lost it; or engaged in a conspiracy but ’twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him in Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the head quarters of his Order; and actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and warpaint, skulk about a missionary amongst the Indians. He lies buried in our neighbouring province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace.

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With the sound of King George’s trumpets, all the vain hopes of the weak and foolish young pretender were blown away; and with that music, too, I may say, the drama of my own life was ended. That happiness, which hath subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in words; ’tis of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear alone—to one fond being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed with. As I think of the immense happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath blessed me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a boon—nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift which God hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit omnia; is immeasurably above all ambition, more precious than wealth, more noble than name. He knows not life who knows not that: he hath not felt the highest faculty of the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my wife I write the completion of hope, and the summit of happiness. To have such a love is the one blessing, in comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value; and to think of her, is to praise God.

It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our plot—our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way—that the great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear mistress became my wife. We had been so accustomed to an extreme intimacy and confidence, and had lived so long and tenderly together, that we might have gone on to the end without thinking of a closer tie; but circumstances brought about that event which so prodigiously multiplied my happiness and hers (for which I humbly thank Heaven), although a calamity befell us, which, I blush to think, hath occurred more than once in our house. I know not what infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and wayward woman, whose name hath occupied so many of these pages, and who was served by me with ten years of such a constant fidelity and passion; but ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us, and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son’s house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by women. Those around him were imperious, and in a terror of his mother’s influence over him, lest he should recant, and deny the creed which he had adopted by their persuasion. The difference of their religion separated the son and the mother: my dearest mistress felt that she was severed from her children and alone in the world—alone but for one constant servant on whose fidelity, praised be Heaven, she could count. ’Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank’s wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had connected himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one who, by God’s help, would never forsake her. And then the tender matron, as beautiful in her autumn, and as pure as virgins in their spring, with blushes of love and “eyes of meek surrender”, yielded to my respectful importunity, and consented to share my home. Let the last words I write thank her, and bless her who hath blessed it.

By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and every obstacle against our return to England, was removed; and my son Frank’s gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the king’s Government. But we two cared no longer to live in England; and Frank formally and joyfully yielded over to us the possession of that estate which we now occupy, far away from Europe and its troubles, on the beautiful banks of the Potomac, where we have built a new Castlewood, and think with grateful hearts of our old home. In our Transatlantic country we have a season, the calmest and most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian summer: I often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and serene weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine. Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for her resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs and axes for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and merriest, I think, in all this country: and the only jewel by which my wife sets any store, and from which she hath never parted, is that gold button she took from my arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in the world.

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I. , chap, viii, p. 80, line 9: “mist” was wrongly altered in revised edition to “midst”

Book I, chap, xii, p. 130, line 2 from foot: “through” was wrongly altered in revised edition to “to”.

Book II, chap, ii, p. 179, line 7 from foot: “guests,” though never altered, should clearly be “hosts”.

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II. , chap, xv, p. 307, line 8: the following passage was omitted in the edition of 1858

“I always thought that paper was Mr. Congreve’s,” cries Mr. St. John, showing that he knew more about the subject than he pretended to Mr. Steele, and who was the original Mr. Bickerstaffe drew.

“Tom Boxer said so in his Observator. But Tom’s oracle is often making blunders,” cries Steele.

“Mr. Boxer and my husband were friends once, and when the captain was ill with the fever, no man could be kinder than Mr. Boxer, who used to come to his bedside every day, and actually brought Dr. Arbuthnot who cured him,” whispered Mrs. Steele.

“Indeed, madam! How very interesting,” says Mr. St. John.

“But when the captain’s last comedy came out, Mr. Boxer took no notice of it—you know he is Mr. Congreve’s man, and won’t ever give a word to the other house—and this made my husband angry.”

“Oh! Mr. Boxer is Mr. Congreve’s man!” says Mr. St. John.

“Mr. Congreve has wit enough of his own,” cries out Mr. Steele. “No one ever heard me grudge him or any other man his share.”

Book III, chap, i, p. 326, line 19: for “Frank”, Thackeray by an interesting reminiscence of Pendennis wrote “Arthur”.

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THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS

OF THE

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

A Series of Lectures

DELIVERED IN ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[First edition, 1853; second edition, revised, 1853]

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