 Book 2, Chapter 7 of The History of Henry Esmond Desquire, by William Makepeace Thackeray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Henry Esmond Desquire, by William Makepeace Thackeray. Part 2, Chapter 7, I Am Made Welcome at Walcott. As they came up to the house at Walcott, the windows from within were lighted up with friendly welcome. The supper-table was spread in the oak parlor. It seemed as if forgiveness and love were awaiting the returning prodigal. Two or three familiar faces of domestics were on the lookout at the porch. The old housekeeper was there, and young Lockwood from Castlewood in my lord's livery of tawny and blue. His dear mistress pressed his arm as they passed into the hall. Her eyes beamed out on him with affection indescribable. Welcome, was all she said, as she looked up, putting back her fair curls and black hood. A sweet, rosy smile blushed on her face. Harry thought he had never seen her look so charming. Her face was lighted with a joy that was brighter than beauty. She took a hand of her son, who was in the hall, waiting his mother. She did not quit Esmond's arm. Welcome, Harry, my young lord echoed after her. Here we are all come to say so. Here's old Pincut. Hasn't she grown handsome? And Pincut, who was older, and no hansomer than usual, made a curtsy to the captain, as she called Esmond, and told my lord to have done now. And here's Jack Lockwood. He'll make a famous grenadier, Jack, and so shall I. We'll both list under you, cousin. As soon as I'm seventeen I go to the army. Every gentleman goes to the army. Look, who comes here? Ho-ho! he burst into a laugh. Chis mistress tricks with a new ribbon. I knew she would put one on as soon as she heard a captain was coming to supper. This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Wolcott House, in the midst of which is a staircase that leads from an open gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping chambers. And from one of these a wax candle in her hand, and illuminating her, came mistress Beatrix, the light falling indeed upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most brilliant white neck in the world. Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown beyond the common height, and arrived at such a dazzling completeness of beauty, that his eyes might well show surprise and delight at beholding her. In hers there was a brightness so lustrous and melting that I have seen a whole assembly follow her, as if by an attraction irresistible. And that night the great Duke was at the playhouse after Rameleys. Every soul turned and looked. She chanced to enter at the opposite side of the theatre at the same moment. At her, and not at him, she was a brown beauty. That is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows, and eyelashes were dark, her hair curling with rich undulations, and waving over her shoulders. But her complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine, except her cheeks, which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full, and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot, as it planted itself on the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace, agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen, now melting, now imperious, now sarcastic. There was no single movement of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon. So she came, holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond. She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes, says my lord, still laughing. Oh, my fine mistress, is this the way you set your cap at the captain? She approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look at nothing but her eyes. She advanced, holding forward her head, as she would have him kiss her as he used to do when she was a child. Stop! she said. I am grown too big. Welcome, cousin Harry. And she made him an arch-curtsy, sweeping down to the ground almost with the most gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest smile. Love seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with such a rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton. Anispa, says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on his arm. Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met his mistress's clear eyes. He had forgotten her, wrapped in admiration of the filia pulchrior. Right foot forward, toe turned out. So now dropped the curtsy and showed the red stockings, tricks. They've silver clocks, Harry. The dowager sent them. She went to put them on, cried my lord. Hush, you stupid child, says Miss, smothering her brother with kisses. And then she must come and kiss her mamma, looking all the while at Harry over his mistress's shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, she gave him both her hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said, Oh, Harry, we are so glad you've come. The reward cocks for supper, says my lord. Huzzay, it was such a hungry sermon. And it is the twenty-ninth of December, and our Harry has come home. Huzzay, old Pinkert, again says my lord, and my dear lady's lips looked as if they were trembling with a prayer. She would have Harry lead in beer-tricks to the supper room, going herself with my young lord Viscount, and to this party came Tom Tusher directly, whom four at least out of the company of five wished away. Away he went, however, as soon as the sweet-meats were put down. And then, by the great crackling fire, his mistress or beer-tricks, with her blushing graces, filling his glass for him, Harry told the story of his campaign, and past the most delightful night his life had ever known. The sun was up long ere he was, so deep, sweet, and refreshing was his slumber. He woke as if angels had been watching at his bed all night. I daresay one that was as pure and loving as an angel had blessed his sleep with her prayers. Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little household at Walcott, as the custom was. Esmond thought Mistress Beatrick did not listen to Tusher's exhortation much. Her eyes were wandering everywhere during the service, at least whenever he looked up he met them. Perhaps he also was not very attentive to his reverence the chaplain. This might have been my life, he was thinking. This might have been my duty from now till old age. Well, were it not a pleasant one to be with these dear friends, and part from them no more? Until the destined lover comes, and takes away pretty beer-tricks. And the best part of Tom Tush's exposition, which may have been very learned and eloquent, was quite lost to poor Harry by this vision of the destined lover who put the preacher out. All the while of the prayers Beatrick's knelt a little way before Harry Esmond. The red stockings were changed for a pair of grey, and black shoes in which her feet looked to the full as pretty. All the roses of spring could not vie with the brightness of her complexion. Esmond thought he had never seen anything like the sunny luster of her eyes. My Lady Viscountess looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face was pale. Miss Beatrick's remarked these signs of indisposition in her mother, and deplored them. I am an old woman," says my lady, with a kind smile. I cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear. She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred," said my Lord, taking his mother by the waist and kissing her hand. Do I look very wicked, cousin? says Beatrick's, turning full round on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his chin that the soft, perfumed hair touched it. She laid her fingertips on his sleeve as she spoke, and he put his other hand over hers. I'm like your looking-glass, says he, and that can't flatter you. He means that you're always looking at him, my dear," says her mother, archly. Beatrick's ran away from Esmond at this, and flew to her mama, whom she kissed, stopping my lady's mouth with her pretty hand. And Harry is very good to look at, says my lady, with her fond eyes regarding the young man. If it is good to see a happy face, says he, you see that. My lady said, Amen, with a sigh, and Harry thought the memory of her dear Lord rose up and rebuked her back again into sadness, for her face lost the smile and resumed its look of melancholy. Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver and our black periwig, cries my Lord. Mother, I am tired of my own hair. When shall I have a periwk? Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry? It's some of my Lady Dowager's lace, said Harry. She gave me this and a number of other fine things. My Lady Dowager isn't such a bad woman, my Lord continued. She is not so red as she's painted, says Miss Beatrix. Her brother broke into a laugh. I'll tell her you said so. By the Lord Tricks I will, he cries out. She'll know that you hadn't the wit to say it, my Lord, says Miss Beatrix. We won't quarrel the first day, Harry's here, will we, Mother? said the young Lord. We'll see if we can get on to the new year without a fight. Have some of this Christmas pie. And here comes a tankard. No, it's pinkert with the tea. Will the Captain choose a dish? asked Miss Beatrix. I say, Harry, my Lord goes on. I'll show thee my horses after breakfast, and we'll go a bird netting to-night, and on Monday there's a cock-match at Winchester. Do you love cock-fighting, Harry? Between the gentlemen of Sussex and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pounds the battle, and fifty pounds the odd battle to show one and twenty cocks. And what would you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsmen? asks my lady. I'll listen to him, says Beatrix. I'm sure he has a hundred things to tell us. And I'm jealous already of the Spanish ladies. Was that a beautiful nun at Cadiz that you rescued from the soldiers? Your man talked of it last night in the kitchen, and Mrs. Betty told me this morning as she combed my hair. And he says you must be in love, you sat on deck all night and scribbled verses all day in your table-book. Harry thought that if he had wanted a subject for verses yesterday, to-day he had found one, and not all the Lindemirers and Ardilius of the poets were half so beautiful as this young creature. But he did not say so, though someone did for him. This was his dear lady, who, after the meal was over, and the young people were gone, began talking of her children with Mr. Esmond, and of the characters of one and the other, and of her hopes and fears for both of them. "'Tis not while there at home,' she said, and in their mother's nest, I fear for them, it is when they are gone into the world, whether I shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will begin her service next year. You may have heard a rumour about my Lord Blandford. They were both children, and it is but idle talk. I know my kin's woman would never let him make such a poor marriage as our Beatrix would be. The scarce a princess in Europe that she thinks is good enough for him, or for her ambition. "'Tis not a princess in Europe to compare with her,' says Esmond. "'In beauty? No, perhaps not,' answered my lady. "'She is most beautiful, isn't she? "'Tis not a mother's partiality that deceives me. I marked you yesterday when she came down the stair and read it in your face. We look when you don't fancy as looking, and see better than you think, dear Harry. And just now, when they spoke about your poems, you writ pretty lines when you were but a boy. You thought Beatrix was a pretty subject for verse, did you not, Harry?' The gentleman could only blush for a reply. And so she is. Nor are you the first her pretty face has captivated. It is quickly done. Such a pair of bright eyes as hers learn their power very soon, and use it very early. And looking at him keenly with hers, the fair widow left him. And so it is. A pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances suffice to subdue a man, to enslave him and inflame him, to make him even forget. They dazzle him so that the past becomes straightway dim to him, and he so prizes them that he would give all his life to possess him. What is the fond love of dearest friends compared to this treasure? Is memory as strong as expectancy, fruition as hunger, gratitude as desire? I have looked at royal diamonds in the dual rooms of Europe, and thought how wars have been made about them. Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled for them, or ransomed with them, millions expended to buy them, and daring lives lost in digging out the little shining toys that I value no more than the button in my hat. And so there are other glittering baubles of rare water, too, for which men have been set to kill and quarrel ever since mankind began, and which last but for a score of years, when their sparkle is over. Where are those duels now that beamed under clear patras for it, or shone in the sockets of Helen? The second day, after Esmond's coming to Walcott, Tom Tusher had leave to take a holiday, and went off in his very best gown and bands to court the young woman whom his reverence desired to marry, and who was not a Viscount's widow, as it turned out, but a brewer's relict at Southampton, with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune. For honest, Tom's heart was under such excellent control that Venus herself, without a portion, would never have cost it to flutter. So he rode away on his heavy-paced gelding to pursue his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to the satiety of his dear mistress and her daughter, and with his young lord for a companion who was charmed not only to see an old friend, but to have the tutor and his Latin books put out of the way. The boy talked of things and people, and not a little about himself in his frank, artless way. It was easy to see that he and his sister had the better of their fond mother. For the first place in whose affections, though, they fought constantly. And though the kind lady persisted that she loved both equally, which was not difficult to understand that Frank was his mother's darling and favourite, he ruled the whole household, always accepting rebellious Beatrix, not less now, than when he was a child marshalling the village boys in playing at soldiers, and caning them lustily, too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for Tom Tusher, his reverence treated the young lord with that politeness and deference, which he always showed for a great man whatever his age or his stature was. Indeed, with respect to this young one, it was impossible not to love him, so Frank and winning were his manners, his beauty, his gaiety, the ring of his laughter, and the delightful tone of his voice. Whenever he went, he charmed and domineered. I think his old grandfather, the dean, and the grim old housekeeper, Mrs. Pinkett, were as much his slaves as his mother was. And as for Esmond, he found himself presently submitting to a certain fascination the boy had, enslaving it like the rest of the family. The pleasure in which he had in Frank's mere company and converse exceeded that which he had ever enjoyed in the society of any other man, however delightful in talk or famous for wit. His presence brought sunshine into a room, his laugh, his prattle, his noble beauty and brightness of look, cheered and charmed indescribably. At the least tale of sorrow his hands were in his purse, and he was eager with sympathy and bounty. The way in which women loved and petted him, when a year or two afterwards he came upon the world yet a mere boy, and the follies which they did for him, as indeed he for them, recalled the career of Rochester and outdid the successes of Grummont. His very creditors loved him and the hardest usurers, and some of the rigid prudes of the other sex, too, could deny him nothing. He was no more witted than another man. But what he said, he said and looked as no man else could say or look it. I have seen the women at the comedy at Brucell crowd round him in the lobby, and as he sat on the stage more people looked at him than at the actors, and watched him, and I remember at Ramelies when he was hit and fell a great big red-haired scotch sergeant flung his halberd down, burst out crying like a woman, seizing him up as if he had been an infant and carrying him out of the fire. This brother and sister were the most beautiful couple ever seen, though after he winged away from the maternal nest this pair was seldom together. Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond's arrival, it was the last day of the year, and so happier one to Harry Esmond that to enjoy it was quite worth all the previous pain which he had endured and forgot, my young lord, filling a bumper and bidding Harry take another, drank to his sister, saluting her under the title of Marcianess. Marcianess, says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, for he was curious and jealous already. Nonsense, my lord, says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. My lady Viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond, and cast her eyes down. The Marcianess of Blandford, says Frank, don't you know, hath not Rouge Dragon told you? My lord used to call the dowager of Chelsea by this and other names. Blandford has a lock of her hair. The Duchess found him on his knees to mistress' tricks, boxed his ears, and said Dr. Hare should whip him. I wish Mr. Tusha would whip you too, says Beatrix. My lady only said, I hope you will tell none of these silly stories elsewhere than at home, Francis. It is true, on my word, continued Frank, look at Harry's scowling mother and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the silver-clock stockings. I think we had better leave the gentleman to their wine and their talk, says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a young queen, tossing her rustling, flowing draperies about her and quitting the room, followed by her mother. Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond as she stooped down and kissed Frank. Do not tell those silly stories, child, she said. Do not drink much wine, sir. Harry never loved to drink wine, and she went away, too, in her black robes, looking back on the young man with her fair, fond face. They gared it's true, says Frank, sipping his wine with the air of a lord. What do you think of this, Lisbon? Real calares. It is better than your heady port. We got it out of one of the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year. My mother bought it at Southampton as the ship was lying there. The rose. Captain Hawkins. Why, I came home in that ship, says Harry. And it brought home a good fellow and good wine, says my lord. I say, Harry, I wish thou had stopped that cursed bar sinister. And why not the bar sinister? asked the other. Suppose I go to the army and am killed. Every gentleman goes to the army, who is to take care of the women. Tricks will never stop at home. Mother's in love with you. Yes, I think mother's in love with you. She was always praising you and always talking about you, and when she went to Southampton to see the ship, I found her out. But you see, it is impossible. We are of the oldest blood in England. We came in with a conqueror. We were only baronets. But what then? We were forced into that. James I forced our great-grandfather. We are above titles. We hold English gentry. Don't want them. The Queen can make a duke any day. Look at Blandford's father, Duke Churchill, and Duchess Jennings. What were they, Harry? Damn it, sir. What are they to turn up their noses at us? Where were they when our ancestor rode with King Henry at Agincourt and filled up the French King's cup after Poitiers? For George, sir, why shouldn't Blandford marry Beatrix? By—he shall marry Beatrix, or tell me the reason why. We'll marry with the best blood of England, and not but the best blood of England. You're an Esmond, and you can't help your birth, my boy. Let's have another bottle. What, no more? I've drunk three parts of this myself. I had many a night with my father. You stood to him like a man, Harry. You backed your blood. You can't help your misfortune, you know. No man can help that. The elder said he would go into his mistress's tea-table. The young lad, with a heightened colour and voice, began singing a snatch of a song, and marched out of the room. Esmond heard him presently calling his dogs about him, and cheering and talking to them, and by a hundred of his looks and gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded of the dead lord, Frank's father. And so the Sylvester night passed away. The family parted long before midnight. Lady Castlewood, remembering no doubt, foreman New Year's Eves, when healths were drunk, and laughter went round in the company of him, to whom years past and present and future were to be as one, and so cared not to sit with her children, and hear the cathedral bells ringing the birth of the year 1703. Esmond heard the chimes as he sat in his own chamber, ruminating by the blazing fire there, and listened to the last notes of them, looking out from his window towards the city, and the great grey towers of the cathedral lying under the frosty sky, with the keen stars shining above. The sight of these brilliant orbs, no doubt made him think of other luminaries. And so her eyes have already done execution, thought Esmond, on whom? Who can tell me? Luckily his kinsman was by, and Esmond knew he would have no difficulty in finding out Mistress Beatrix's history from the simple talk of the boy. of the history of Henry Esmond, disquire by William Makepeace Thackeray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Andy Minter. The history of Henry Esmond, disquire by William Makepeace Thackeray. Part 2 Chapter 8 Family Talk What Harry admired and submitted to, in the pretty lad his kinsman, was, for why should he resist it, the calmness of patronage, which my young lord assumed, as if the command was his undoubted right, and all the world, below his degree, ought to bow down to Viscount Castlewood. I know my place, Harry, he said. I'm not proud. The boys at Winchester College, sir. I'm proud, but I'm not proud. I am simply Francis James Viscount Castlewood, in the Peerage of Ireland. I might have been. Do you know that? Francis James Marquis and Earl of Esmond, in that of England. The late Lord refused the title, which was offered to him by my godfather, his late majesty. You should know that. You are of our family. You know you can't help your bar, sinister Harry, my dear fellow, and you belong to one of the best families in England, in spite of that. And you stood by my father, and by I'll stand by you. You shall never want a friend, Harry, while Francis James Viscount Castlewood has a shilling. It's now 1703. I shall come to age in 1709. I shall go back to Castlewood. I shall live at Castlewood. I shall build up the house. My property will be pretty well restored by then. The late Viscount mismanaged my property and left it in a very bad state. My mother is living close, as you see, and keeps me in a way hardly befitting a peer of these realms, for I have but a pair of horses, a guffner, and a man that is valet and groom. But when I am of age, these things will be set right, Harry. Our house will be as it should be. You will always come to Castlewood, won't you? You shall always have your two rooms in the court kept for you. And if anybody slights you, damn them. Let them have a care of me. I shall marry early. Tricks will be a duchess by that time, most likely, for a cannonball may knock over his grace any day, you know. How? says Harry. Hush, my dear, says my Lord Viscount. You are of the family. You are faithful to us by George, and I'll tell you everything. Blandford will marry her, or—and here he put his little hand on his sword. You understand the rest? Blandford knows which of us, too, is the best weapon. That small sword, or back-sword, or sword, or dagger, if he likes, I can beat him. I have tried him, Harry, and begad he knows I am a man not to be trifled with. But you do not mean, says Harry, concealing his laughter, but not his wonder, that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the first man of the kingdom, to marry your sister at sword's point. I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother's side, though that's nothing to boast of. I mean to say that an Esmond is as good as a Churchill. And when the king comes back, the Marquis of Esmond's sister may be a match for any nobleman's daughter in the kingdom. There are but two Marquises in all England, William Herbert, Marquis of Paris, and Francis James, Marquis of Esmond, and Hark, you, Harry. Now, swear you will never mention this. Give me your honour as a gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though you are a—well, well, says Harry, a little impatient. Well, then, when after my late Lord's misfortune my mother went up with us to London to ask for justice against you all, as for Mohan I'll have his blood as sure as my name is Francis Viscount Esmond, we went to stay with our cousin, my Lady Marlborough, with whom we had quarrelled for ever so long. But when misfortune came she stood by her blood. So did the Dowager Viscountess stand by her blood. So did you. Well, sir, whilst my mother was petitioning the late Prince of Orange, for I will never call him King, and while you were in prison we lived at my Lord Marlborough's house, who was only a little there, being away with the army in Holland, and then I say, Harry, you won't tell now. Harry again made a vow of secrecy. Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know. My Lady Marlborough was very fond of us, and she said I was to be her page, and she got tricks to be a maid of honour. And while she was up in her room crying, we used to be always having fun, you know. And the Duchess used to kiss me, and so did her daughters, and Blandford felt tremendous in love with tricks. And she liked him, and one day he kissed her behind the door. He did, though, and the Duchess called him, and she banged such a box of the ear, both at tricks, and Blandford, you should have seen it. And then she said that we must leave directly, and abused my mamma, who was cognizant of the business. But she wasn't, never thinking about anything but father. And so we came down to Walcott, Blandford being locked up, and not allowed to see tricks. But I got at him. I climbed along the gutter, and in through the window, where he was crying. Markwith says I, when he had opened it and helped me in, you know I were a sword, for I had brought it. Oh, Viscount, says he, oh, my dearest Frank, and he threw himself into my arms, and burst out of crying, I do love Mistress Beatrix so that I shall die if I don't have her. My dear Blandford says I, you are young to think of marrying. For he was but fifteen, and a young fellow of that age can scarce do so, you know. But I'll wait twenty years if she'll have me, says he, I'll never marry, no, never, never, never marry anybody but her. No, not a princess, though they would have me do it ever so. If Beatrix will wait for me, her Blandford swears he will be faithful. And he wrote a paper. He wasn't spelt right, for he wrote, I'm ready to sign, S-I-N-E, with my blood, B-L-O-D-E, which you know, Harry, isn't the way of spelling it, and vowing that he would marry none other but the Honourable Mistress Gertrude Beatrix Esmond, only sister of his dearest friend, Francis James, fourth five-count Esmond. And so I gave him a locket of her hair. A locket of her hair? Prize, Esmond? Yes, Tricks gave me one after the fight with the Duchess that very day. I'm sure I didn't want it, and so I gave it to him. And we kissed at parting, and he said, Goodbye, brother. And I got back through the gutter, and we set off home that very evening, and he went to King's College in Cambridge, and I'm going to Cambridge soon, and if he doesn't stand to his promise, for he's only wrote once, he knows I wear a sword, Harry. Come along, and let's go and see the cocking match at Winchester. But I say, he added, laughing, after a pause, I don't think Tricks will break her heart about him. La, bless you. Whenever she sees a man, she makes eyes at him. And Youngs of Wilmot Crawley of Queens Crawley, and Anthony Henley of Ayersford, were at swords drawn about her at the Winchester assembly a month ago. That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant or sweet as it had been on the first two evenings after his arrival at Walcott. So the bright eyes have been already shining on another, thought he, and the pretty lips, or the cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they were made for. Here's a girl, not sixteen, and one young gentleman is already whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country squires are ready to cut each other's throats that they must have the honour of a dance with her. What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion, and singing my wings in this foolish flame. Wings? Why not say crutches? There is but eight years difference between us to be sure, but in life I'm thirty years older. How could I ever hope to please such a sweet creature as that with my rough ways and glum face? Say that I have married ever so much, and won myself a name. Could she ever listen to me? She must be my Lady Marchioness, and I remain a nameless bastard. Oh, my master, my master! Here he felt a thinking with a passionate grief of the vow which he had made to his poor dying lord. Oh, my mistress, dearest and kindest, will you be contented with the sacrifice which the poor orphan makes for you, whom you love, and who so loves you? And then came a fearsome pang of temptation. A word from me, Harry thought, a syllable of explanation, and all this might be changed. But no, I swore it over the dying bed of my benefactor. For the sake of him and his, for the sacred love and kindness of old days, I gave my promise to him, and made kind heaven enable me to keep my vow. The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily gay and cheerful when he met his friends at the morning meal, his dear mistress, whose clear eyes it seemed no emotion of his could escape, perceived that something troubled him. For she looked anxiously towards him more than once during the breakfast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards, she presently followed him and knocked at his door. As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her at once, for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, pursuant to the resolution which he had come to overnight, of making a brisk retreat out of this temptation. She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then lent against it very pale. Her hands folded before her, looking at the young man who was kneeling over his work of packing. Are you going so soon? she said. He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps to be so discovered in the very act as it were, and took one of her fair little hands. It was that which had her marriage ring on, and kissed it. It is best that it should be so, dearest lady, he said. I knew you were going at breakfast. I thought you might stay. What has happened? Why can't you remain longer with us? What has Frank told you? You were talking together late last night. I had but three days leave from Chelsea, Esmond said as gaily as he could. My aunt, she lets me call her aunt, is my mistress now. I owe her my left tenancy and my laced coat. She has taken me into high favour, and my new general is to dine at Chelsea to-morrow. General Lumley, madame, who has appointed me, he's a decant, and on whom I must have the honour of waiting. See, here is a letter from the Dowager. The post brought it last night, and I would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing our last merry meeting. My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that was somewhat contemptuous. I have no need to read the letter, says she. Indeed, it was as well as she did not, for the Chelsea missive in the poor Dowager's usual French jargon permitted him a longer holiday than he said. J'avoue's don, quoth her ladyship, aoui d'eure, pour vous fatiguez par fécatement de vos parents' fatigans. I have no need to read the letter, says she. What was it Frank told you last night? He told me little, I did not know, Mr Edmond answered, but I have thought of that little, and here's the result. I have no right to the name I bear, dear lady, and it is only by your sufferance that I am allowed to keep it, if I thought for an hour of what has perhaps crossed your mind too. Yes, I did, Harry, said she. I thought of it, and think of it. I would sooner call you my son and the greatest prince in Europe, yes, than the greatest prince, for who is there so good and so brave, and who would love her as you would? But there are reasons a mother can't tell. I know them, said Mr Esmond, interrupting her with a smile. I know that Sir William Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Mr Anthony Henley of the Grange, and my Lord Marquis of Blandford—that seems to be the favoured suitor—you shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness's favours, and to dance at her ladyship's wedding. Oh, Harry, Harry, it is none of those follies that frighten me, cried out Lady Castlewood. Lord Churchill is but a child. His outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. His parents would rather see him buried than married to one below him in rank, and do you think I would stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Hedsman's daughter, or submit to have my girl smuggled into that proud family to cause a quarrel between son and parents, and to be treated only as an inferior? I would disdain such a meanness. Beatrix would scorn it. Oh, Harry, it is not with you the fault lies, it is with her. I know you both, and love you. Need I be ashamed of that love now? No, never, never, and it is not you, dear Harry, that is unworthy. It is for my poor Beatrix, I tremble, whose headstrong will frightens me, whose jealous temper—they say I was jealous, too, but pray God I am cured of that sin, and whose vanity no words or prayers of mine can cure, only suffering, only experience, and remorse afterwards. Oh, Henry, she will make no man happy who loves her. Go away, my son, leave her. Love us always, and think kindly of us. And for me, my dear, you know that these walls contain all that I love in the world. In afterlife did Esmond find the words true, which his fond mistress spoke from her sad heart? Warning he had, but I doubt others had warning before his time, and sins, and he benefited by it as most men do. My young Lord Viscount was exceedingly sorry when he heard that Harry could not come to the cock-match with him and must go to London, but no doubt my Lord consoled himself when the Hampshire cocks won the match, and he saw every one of the battles, and crowed properly over the conquered Sussex gentleman. As Esmond rode towards town, his servant, coming up to him, informed him with a grin that Mistress Beatrix had brought out a new gown of blue stockings for that day's dinner, in which she intended to appear, and had flown into a rage, and had given her made a slap on the face soon after she heard that he was going away. Mistress Beatrix's woman, the fellow said, came down to the servant's hall crying, and with the mark of a blow still on her cheek. But Esmond peromptorily ordered him to fall back and be silent, and rode on with thoughts enough of his own to occupy him, some sad ones, some inexpressibly dear and pleasant. His mistress, from whom he had been a year separated, was his dearest mistress again. The family from which he had been parted, and which he loved with the fondest devotion, was his family once more. If Beatrix's beauty shone upon him, it was with a friendly luster. And he could regard it with much such a delight as he brought away after seeing the beautiful pictures of the smiling Madonna's in the convent at Cadiz, when he was dispatched in with a flag. And as for his mistress, it was difficult to say with what feeling he regarded her, it was happiness to have seen her, it was no great pang to part, a filial tenderness, a love that was at once respect and protection, filled his mind as he thought of her, and near her, or far from her, and from that day until now, and from now till death is passed and beyond it, he prays that sacred flame may ever burn. Please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 9 I Make the Campaign of 1704 Mr. Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the dowager had been angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she was mightily pleased at his speedy return. He went immediately and paid court to his new general, General Lumley, who received him graciously, having known his father, and also, he was pleased to say, having had the very best accounts of Mr. Esmond from the officer whose aid to camp he had been at Vigo. During this winter Mr. Esmond was gazetted to a left tenancy in Brigadier Webb's regiment of Fusiliers. Then, with their colonel in Flanders, but being now attached to the suites of Mr. Lumley, Esmond did not join his own regiment until more than a year afterwards, and after his return from the campaign of Blenheim, which was fought the next year. The campaign began very early, our troops marching out of their quarters, for the winter was almost over, and investing the city of Bonne on the Rhine under the Duke's command. His grace joined the army in deep grief of mind, with crepe on his sleeve, and his household in mourning, and the very same packet, which brought the commander-in-chief over, brought letters to the forces which preceded him, and one from his dear mistress to Esmond, which interested him not a little. The young Marcus of Blamford, his grace's son, who had been entered in King's College in Cambridge, whether my Lord Viscount had also gone to Trinity with Mr. Tushar as his governor, had been seized with smallpox, and was dead at sixteen years of age, and so poor Frank's schemes for his sister's advancement were over, and that innocent childish passion nipped in the birth. Esmond's mistress would have had him return, at least her letters hinted as much, but in the presence of the enemy this was impossible, and our young man took his humble share in the siege, which need not be described here, and had the good look to escape without a wound of any sort, and to drink his general's health after the surrender. He was in constant military duty this year, and did not think of asking for a leave of absence, as one or two of his less fortunate friends did, who were cast away in that tremendous storm which happened towards the close of November, that which of later or pale Britannia passed, as Mr Addison sang of it, and in which scores of our greatest ships and fifteen thousand of our seamen went down. They said that our duke was quite heartbroken by the calamity, which had befallen his family, but his enemies found that he could subdue them as well as master his grief. Successful, as had been this great general's operations in the past year, they were far enhanced by the splendour of his victory in the ensuing campaign. His grace the captain general went to England after Bonne, and our army fell back into Holland, where in 1704 his grace again found the troops, embarking from Harwich and landing at Messlan, Slees, then his grace came immediately to the Hague, where he received the foreign ministers, general officers, and other people of quality. The greatest honours were paid to his grace everywhere, at the Hague, Utrecht, Ruremont, and Maastricht. The civil authorities, coming to meet his coaches, salvos of cannons saluting him, canopies of state being erected for him where he stopped, and feasts prepared for the numerous gentlemen following in his suite. His grace reviewed the troops of the state's general between Liege and Maastricht, and afterwards the English forces, under the command of general Churchill near Boilarduck. Every preparation was made for a long march, and the army heard, with no small elation, that it was the commander in chief's intention to carry the war out of the low countries, and to march on the Moselle. Before leaving our camp at Maastricht, we heard that the French under the Marshal Velroy were also bound towards the Moselle. Towards the end of May the army reached Cablence, and next day his grace, and the generals accompanying him, went to visit the Elector of Treves, at his castle of Ehrenbretstein, the horse Andrew Goons passing the Rhine, whilst the duke was entertained at a grand feast by the Elector. All as yet was novelty, festivity, and splendour, a brilliant march of a great and glorious army, through a friendly country, and sure through some of the most beautiful scenes of nature, which I ever witnessed. The foot and artillery, following after the horse as quick as possible, crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbretstein, and so to Castel, over against Mainz, in which city his grace, his generals, and his retinue were received at the landing-place by the Elector's coaches, carried to his highness's palace amidst the thunder of Canaan, and then once more magnificently entertained. Gidlingon in Bavaria was appointed as the general rendezvous of the army, and thither, by different routes, the whole forces of English, Dutch, Danes, and German auxiliaries took their way. The foot and artillery under general Churchill passed the Neckar at Heidelberg, and Esmond had an opportunity of seeing that city and palace one so famous and beautiful, though shattered and battered by the French and the Thorene in the late war, where his grandsire had served the beautiful and unfortunate Electra's Palatine, the first King Charles's sister. At Middlesheim the famous Prince of Savoy came to visit our commander, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight of that brilliant and intrepid warrior, and our troops were drawn up in battalion before the prince, who was pleased to express his admiration of this noble English army. At length became in sight of the enemy, between Gidlingon and Loingon, the Brents lying between the two armies. The Elector, judging that the Nowat would be the point of his grace's attack, sent a strong detachment of his best troops to Count Darkos, who was posted at Schellenberg near that place, where great entrenchments were thrown up, and thousands of pioneers employed to strengthen the position. On the 2nd of July his grace stormed the post, with what success on our part needs scarce be told. His grace advanced with six thousand foot, English and Dutch, thirty squadrons, and three regiments in imperial curassaires, the Duke crossing the river at the head of the cavalry. Although our troops made the attack with unparalleled courage and fury, rushing up to the very guns of the enemy, and being slaughtered before their works, we were driven back many times, and should not have carried them, but that the imperialists came up under the Prince of Barden, when the enemy could make no head against us. We pursued them into the trenches, making a terrible slaughter there, and into the very Danube, where a great part of his troops, following the example of their generals, Count Darkos and the Elector himself tried to save themselves by swimming. Our army entered Danoert, which the Bavarians evacuated, and where, to have said the Elector, purposed to have given us a warm reception by burning us in our beds, the sellers of the houses, when we took possession of them, being found stuffed with straw, but though the links were there, the link-boys had run away. The townsmen saved their houses, and our general took possession of the enemy's ammunition in the arsenals, his stores and magazines. Five days afterward, a great Tay Dayam was sung in Prince Louis's army, and a solemn day of thanksgiving held in our own. The Prince of Savoy's compliments coming to his grace, the Captain General, during the day's religious ceremony, and concluding, as it were, with an amen. And now, having seen a great military march through a friendly country, the pumps and festivities of more than one German court, the severe struggle of a hotly contested battle, and the triumph of victory, Mr. Esmond beheld another part of military duty. Our troops entering the enemy's territory, and putting all around them to fire and sword, burning farms, wasted fields, shrieking women, slaughtered sons and fathers, and drunken soldiery, cursing and carousing in the midst of tears, terror, and murder. Why does the stately muse of history, that delights in describing the valour of heroes and the grandeur of conquest, leave out these scenes, so brutal, mean, and degrading, that yet form by far the greater part of the drama of war? You gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease and compliment yourselves in the song of triumph, with which our trieftons are be praised. You pretty maidens that come tumbling down the stairs when the fife and drum call you, and hazzar for the British grenadiers. Do you take account that these items go up to make the amount of triumph you admire, and form part of the duties of the heroes you fondle? Our chief, whom England and all Europe, saving only the Frenchmen, worshipped almost have this of the godlike in him. That he was impassable before victory, before danger, before defeat, before the greatest obstacle or the most trivial ceremony, before a hundred thousand men drawn in batalia, or a peasant slaughtered at the door of his burning hovel, before a carouse of drunken German lords, or a monarch's coat, or a cottage table, where his plans were laid, or an enemy's battery vomiting flame and death and stewing corpses around him, he was always cold, calm, resolute like fate. He performed a treason or a court bow, he told a falsehood as black as sticks, as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He took a mistress and left her, he betrayed his benefactor and supported him, or would have murdered him with the same calmness always, and having no more remorse than clotho, when she weaves the thread, or lechesis when she cuts it. In the hour of battle I have heard the prince of Savoy's officers say, the prince became obsessed with a sort of war-like fury. His eyes lighted up, he rushed hither and thither, raging, he shrieked curses and encouragement, yelling and harking his bloody war-dogs on, and himself always at the first of the hunt. Our Duke was as calm at the mouth of the cannon, as at the door of a drawing-room. Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had he had a heart either for love or hatred, or pity or fear, or regret or remorse. He achieved the highest deed of daring or deepest calculation of thought, as he performed the very meanest action of which a man is capable, told a lie or cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar of a hipney, with a like awful serenity, an equal capacity of the highest and lowest act of our nature. His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where there were parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness and wit, but there existed such a perfect confidence in him, as the first captain of the world, and such a faith and admiration in his prodigious genius and fortune, that the very men whom he notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs whom he used and injured, for he used all men great and small that came near him, as instruments alike, and took something of theirs either some quality or some property. The blood of a soldier it might be, or a dueled hat, or a hundred thousand crowns from a king, or a portion out of a starving sentinel's three farthings, or, when he was young, a kiss from a woman, and the gold chain off her neck, taking all he could from woman or man, and having, as I have said, this of the godlike in him, that he could see a hero perish, or a sparrow fall, with the same amount of sympathy for either. Not that he had no tears, he could always order up the reserve at the proper moment to battle, he could draw upon tears or smiles alike, and whenever need was for using this cheap coin, he would cringe to a shoe-black, as he would flatter a minister or a monarch, be haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, grasp your hand, or stab you whenever he saw occasion, but yet those of the enemy who knew him best, and had suffered most from him, admired him most of all, and as he rode along the lines to battle, or galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion reeling from the enemy's charge or shot, the fainting men and officers got new courage, as they saw the splendid calm of his face, and felt that his will made them irresistible. After the great victory of Blenheim, the enthusiasm of the army for the duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in it, amounted to a sort of rage, neither very officers who cursed him in their hearts were among the most frantic to cheer him, who could refuse his mead of admiration to such a victory and such a victor. Not he who writes, a man may profess to be ever so much a philosopher, but he who fought on that day must feel a thrill of pride as he recalls it. The French rite was posted near to the village of Blenheim on the Danube, where the Marshal Tallard's quarters were, the line extending through it may be a leg and a half before Lutsingham, and up to a woody hill round the base of which, and acting against the Prince of Savoy, were forty of his squadrons. Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the wood being in fact a better shelter, and easier of guard than any village. Before these two villagers and the French lines ran a little stream, not more than two foot broad, through a marsh that was mostly dried up from the heat of the weather, and this stream was the only separation between the two armies, hours coming up and ranging themselves in line of battle before the French at six o'clock in the morning, so that our line was quite visible to theirs, and this whole of this great plain was black and swarming with troops for hours before the cannonading began. On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many hours, the French guns being in position in front of their line, and doing severe damage among our horse especially, and on our right wing of imperialists under the Prince of Savoy, who could neither advance his artillery nor his lines, the ground before him being cut up by ditches, morasses, and very difficult of passage for the guns. It was past midday when the attack began on our left, where Lord Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved officer in the English army. And now, as if to make his experience in war complete, our young Ada Camp, having seen two great armies facing each other in line of battle, and had the honour of riding with orders from one end to the other of the line, came in for a not uncommon accompaniment of military glory, and was knocked on the head along with many hundred of brave fellows, almost at the very commencement of this famous day of Blenheim. A little afternoon, the disposition for attack being completed with much delay and difficulty, and under a severe fire from the enemy's guns, that were better posted and more numerous than ours, a body of English and Hessians, with Major General Wilts commanding at the extreme left of our line, marched upon Blenheim, advancing with great gallantry, the Major General on foot, with his officers at the head of the column, and marching with his hat off, intrepidly in the face of the enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from his guns and musketry, to which our people were instructed not to reply, except with pike, and bayonet, when they reached the French palisades. To these Wilts walked intrepidly, and struck the woodwork with his sword, before our people charged it. He was shot down at the instant, with his colonel, Major, and several officers, and our troops cheering and huzzying and coming on as they did, with immense resolution and gallantry, were nevertheless stopped by the murderous fire from behind the enemy's defences, and then attacked in flank by a furious charge of French horse, which swept out of Blenheim, and cut down our men in great numbers. Three fierce and desperate assaults of our foot were made, and repulsed by the enemy, so that our columns of foot were quite shattered, and fell back scrambling over the little rivulet, which we had crossed so resolutely an hour before, and pursued by the French cavalry, slaughtering us and cutting us down. And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of English horse, under Esmond's general, General Lumley, behind whose squadrons the flying foot found refuge, and formed a gain, whilst Lumley drove back the French horse, charging up to the village of Blenheim, and the palisades where Wilks, and many hundreds more gallant Englishmen, lay in slaughtered heaps. Beyond this moment, and of this famous victory, Mr. Esmond knows nothing, for a shot brought down his horse, and our young gentleman on it, who fell crushed and stunned under the animal, and came to his senses he knows not how long after, only to lose them again from pain and loss of blood. A dim sense, as of people groaning about him, a wild, incoherent thought or two, for her who occupied so much of his heart now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and his fortunes were ended. He remembers in the course of these hours, a dim sense, as of people groaning round about him, a wild, incoherent thought or two, for her who occupied so much of his heart now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and his fortunes were ended. He remembers in the course of these hours. When he woke up it was with a pang of extreme pain. His breastplate was taken off, his servant was holding his head up, the good and faithful lad of Hampshire was blubbering over his master, whom he found, and had thought dead, and a surgeon was probing a wound in the shoulder, which he must have got at the same moment when his horse was shot and fell over him. The battle was over at this end of the field by this time. The village was in possession of the English, its brave defenders prisoner, or fled, or drowned, many of them in the neighbouring waters of Dano. But for honest, lock-wards, faithful search after his master, there had no doubt been an end of Esmond here, and of this history. The Marauders were out rifling the bodies as they lay on the field, and Jack had brained one of these gentry with the club end of his musket, who had eased Edmund off of his heart and periwig his purse, and fine silver-mounted pistols, which the Dowager gave him, and was fumbling in his pockets for further treasure, when Jack Lockwood came up and put an end to the scoundrel's triumph. Note, my mistress, before I went this campaign, sank me John Lockwood out of Walcott, who half ever since remained with me, Henry Esmond. Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim, and here, for several weeks, Esmond lay in very great danger off his life. The wound was not very great from which he suffered, and the ball extracted by the surgeon on the spot where our young gentleman received it. But a fever set in next day, as he was lying in hospital, and that almost carried him away. Jack Lockwood said he talked in the wildest manner during his delirium, that he called himself the Marquis of Esmond, and seizing one of the surgeon's assistants, who came to dress his wounds, swore that he was Madame Beatrix, and that he would make her a duchess if she would but say yes. He was passing the days in these crazy fancies and Vannesomnia, whilst the army was singing Te Deum for the victory, and those famous festivities were taking place, at which our duke now made a prince of the empire, was entertained by the king of the Romans and his nobility. His grace went home by Burling and Hanover, and Esmond lost the festivities which took place at those cities, and which his general shared in company of the other general officers, who travelled with our great captain. When it could move, it was by the duke of Waterberg City of Stuttgart that he made his way homewards, revisiting Heidelberg again, whence he went to Mannheim, and hence had a tedious but easy water journey down the river of Rhine, which he had thought a delightful and beautiful voyage indeed, but that his heart was longing for home, and something far more beautiful and delightful. As bright and welcome as the eyes, almost off his mistress, shone the lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from Holland, and it was not many hours air, he Esmond was in London, of that you may be sure, and received with open arms by the old Dowager of Chelsea, who vowed in her jargon of French and English that he had the air noble, that his paler embellished him, that he was an amadis and deserved a gloriana, and o' flames and darts, what was his joy at hearing that, his mistress was coming to waiting, and was now with her majesty at Kensington. Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack Lockwood to get horses, and they would ride for Winchester that night, when he heard this news, he countermandered the horses at once, his business lay no longer in hands, all his hope and desire lay within a couple of miles of him in Kensington Park wall. Poor Harry had never looked in the glass before so eagerly to see whether he had the bell air, and his paleness really did be coming. He never took such pains about the curl of his periwig, and the taste of his embroidery and pointless, as now, before Mr. Amadis presented himself to Madame Gloriana, was the fire of the French line half so murderous as the killing glances from her ladyship's eyes, o' darts and raptures how beautiful were they! And as before, the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades away in the sky almost invisible, Esmond thought, with a blush perhaps, of another sweet pale face, sad and faint and fading out of sight, with its sweet fond gaze of affection, such a last look it seemed to cast as Eurydice she might have given, yearning after her lover, when fates and Pluto summoned her, and she passed away into the shades. END OF BOOK TWO CHAPTER X AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A WOMAN Any taste for pleasure which Esmond had, and he liked to Decipera in loco neither more nor less than most young men of his age, he could now gratify to the utmost extent and in the best company which the town afforded. When the army went into winter quarters abroad, those of the officers who had interest or money easily got leave of absence, and found it much pleasanter to spend their time in Palmalen Hyde Park than to pass the winter away behind the fortifications of the dreary old Flanders towns where the English troops were gathered. Yachts and packets passed daily between the Dutch and Flemish ports and Harwich, the roads thence to London and the Great Inns were crowded with army gentlemen, the taverns and ordinaries of the town swarmed with red coats, and our great Dukes, Leves, and St. James were as thronged as they had been against in Brussels, where we treated him and he asked with the grandeur and ceremony of a sovereign. Though Esmond had been appointed to a left-hencey and fusillier regiment, of which that celebrated officer Brigadier John Richmond Webb was Colonel, he had never joined the regiment, nor had been introduced to its excellent commander, though they had made the same campaign together and been engaged in the same battle. But, being aided to come to General Lumley, who commanded the Division of Horse, and the army marching to its point of destination on the Danube by different routes, Esmond had not fallen in as yet with his commander and future comrades of the fort, and it was in London, in Golden Square, where Major General Webb lodged that Captain Esmond had the honour of first paying his respects to his friend, patron, and commander of after-days. Those who remember this brilliant and accomplished gentleman may recollect his character, upon which he prided himself, I think, not a little, of being the handsomest man in the army. A poet who, writ a dull copy of verses, upon the battle of Udenard three years after, describing Webb says, To noble danger Webb conducts the way, his great example all his troops obey. Before the front the General sternly rides, with such an air as Mars to battle strides. Propitious heaven must sure a hero save, like Paris Hanson, and like Hector brave. And Mr. Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr. Addison's on the Blenheim campaign, and indeed to be a Hector à la mode de Paris was part of this gallant gentleman's ambition. It would have been difficult to find an officer in the whole army, or amongst the splendid courtiers and cavaliers of the Maison du Roy, that fought under Vendosme and Ville Roy in the army opposed to ours, who was a more accomplished soldier and perfect gentleman, and either braver or better looking. And if Mr. Webb believed of himself what the world said of him, and was deeply convinced of his own indisputable genius, beauty and valor, who has a right to quarrel with him very much. This self-content of his kept him in general good humour, of which his friends and dependents got the benefit. He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he respected above all families in the world. He could prove a lineal descent from King Edward I, and his first ancestor, Roelderstor Richmond, rode by William the Conqueror's side on Hastingsfield. We were gentlemen, Esmond, he used to say, when the Churchill's were horse-boys. He was a very tall man, standing in his pump six feet three inches. In his great jack-boots, with his tall fair periwig and hat and feather, he could not have been less than eight feet high. I am taller than Churchill, he would say, surveying himself in the glass. And I am a better-made man. And if the women went like a man that hasn't a wart on his nose, faith I can't help myself, and Churchill has the better of me there. Indeed, he was always measuring himself with the Duke, and always asking his friends to measure them. And, talking in this frank way, as he would do over his cups, wags would laugh and encourage him, friends would be sorry for him, schemers and flatterers would egg him on, and tail-bearers carry the stories to headquarters, and widen the difference which already existed there between the great captain and one of the ableist and bravest lieutenants he ever had. His rancour against the Duke was so apparent that one saw it in the first half-hour's conversation with General Webb, and his lady, who adored her general and thought him a hundred times taller, handsomer and braver than a prodigal nature had made him, hated the great Duke with such an intensity as it becomes faithful wives to feel against their husband's enemies. Not that my Lord Duke was so yet. Mr. Webb had said a thousand things against him which his superior had pardoned, and his grace, whose spies were everywhere, had heard a thousand things more that Webb had never said, but it cost this great man no pains to pardon, and he passed over an injury or a benefit, alike easily. Should any child of mine take the pains to read these his ancestors' memoirs, I would not have him judge of the great Duke by what a contemporary has written of him. No man have been so immensely lorded and decried as this great statesman and warrior, as indeed no man ever deserved better the very greatest praise and the strongest censure. If the present writer joins with the latter faction, very likely a private peak of his own, may be the cause of his ill feeling. Footnote This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf inserted into the manuscript book, and dated 1744, probably after he had heard of the Duchess's death. End of footnote. Return to main text. On presenting himself at the Commander-in-Chief's levee, his grace had not the least remembrance of General Lumley's aid to God, and though he knew Esmond's family perfectly well, having served with both lords, my Lord Francis and the Viscount Esmond's father, in Flanders, and in the Duke of York's guard, the Duke of Malbrough, who was friendly and serviceable to the so-styled legitimate representatives of the Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of notice of the poor lieutenant who bore their name. A word of kindness or acknowledgement or a single glance of approbation might have changed Esmond's opinion of the great man, and instead of a satire, which his pen cannot help writing, who knows but that the humble historian might have taken the other side of Panagiric. We have but to change the point of view, and the greatest action looks mean, as we turn the perspective glass and a giant pierce a pygmy. You may describe, but who can tell whether your sight is clear or not, or your means of information accurate? Had the great man said but a word of kindness to the small one, as he would have stepped out of his guilt chariot to shake hands with Lazarus in rags and sores, if he thought Lazarus could have been of any service to him, no doubt Esmond would have fought for him with pen and sword to the utmost of his might. But my Lord the Lion did not want Master Miles at this moment. And so Muscipulus went off, and nibbled in opposition. So it was, however, that young gentleman who, in the eyes of his family, and in his own doubtless, was looked upon as a consummate hero, found that the great hero of the day took no more notice of him than of the smallest drummer in his grace's army. The dowager to Chelsea was furious against this neglect of her family, and had a great battle with Lady Morbra, as Lady Castle would insist on calling the duchies. Her grace was now mistress of the robes to Her Majesty, and one of the greatest personages in this kingdom, as her husband was in all Europe, and the battle between the two ladies took place in the Queen's drawing-room. The duchies, in reply to my aunt's eager clamour, said haughtily that she had done her best for the legitimate branch of the Esmonds, and could not be expected to provide for the bastard brats of the family. Bastards, says the Viscountess in a fury. There are bastards among the Churchill's, as your grace knows, and the Duke of Berwick is provided for well enough. Madam, says the duchies, you know whose fault it is that there are no such dukes in the Esmond family, too, and how that little scheme of a certain lady miscarried. Esmond's friend Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the Prince, heard the controversy between the ladies at court, and Faith, says Dick, I think Harry, thy kin's woman, had the worst of it. He could not keep the store required. Toss all over the coffee-houses ere night. It was printed in a newsletter before the month was over, and the reply of her grace, the duchies of Malboro to a popish lady of the court, once a favourite of the late King James, was printed in half a dozen places with a note stating that this duchies, when the head of this lady's family came by his death lately in a fatal duel, never rested until she got a pension for the orphan air and widow from Her Majesty's bounty. The squabble did not advance poor Esmond's promotion much, and indeed made him so ashamed of himself that he dared not show his face at the Commander-in-Chief's levees again. During those eighteen months which had passed since Esmond saw his dear mistress, her good father, the old dean, quitted this life, firm in his principles to the very last, and in joining his family always to remember that the Queen's brother, King James III, was their rightful sovereign. He made a very edifying end, as his daughter told Esmond, and not a little to her surprise after his death, for he had lived always very poorly. My lady found that her father had left no less a son than three thousand pounds behind him, which he bequeathed to her. With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled when her daughter's turn at court came to come to London, where she took a small Gentile house at Kensington, in the neighbourhood of the court, bringing her children with her, and here it was that Esmond found his friends. As for the young Lord, his university career had ended rather abruptly. Honest Tasha, his governor, had found my young gentleman quite ungovernable. My Lord worried his life away with tricks, and broke out his homebred lad's wheel into a hundred youthful extravagances, so that Dr. Bentley, the new master of Trinity, thought fit to write to the vicantess Castlewood, my Lord's mother, and begged her to remove the young nobleman from a college where he declined to learn, and where he only did harm by his riotous example. Indeed, I believe, he nearly set fire to Neville's Court, that beautiful new quadrangle of our college, which Sir Christopher Wren had lately built. He knocked down a procter's man that wanted to arrest him in a midnight prank. He gave a dinner party on the Prince of Wales's birthday, which was within a fortnight of his own, and the twenty young gentlemen then present salid out after their wine, having toasted King James' health with open windows, and sung cavalier songs, and shouted, God save the king in the great court, so that the master came out of his lodge at midnight, and dissipated the riotous assembly. This was my Lord's crowning freak, and the Reverend Thomas Tasha, domestic chaplain to the right honourable the Lord, vicant Castlewood, finding his prayers and sermons of no earthly avail to his lordship, gave up his duties of governor, went and married his brewers widow at Southampton, and took her and her money to his Parsonage house at Castlewood. My lady could not be angry with her son for drinking King James' health, being herself a loyal Tory, as all the Castlewood family were, and acquiesced with a sigh, knowing perhaps that her refusal would be of no avail to the young Lord's desire for a military life. She would have liked him to be in Mr Esmond's regiment, hoping that Harry might act as a guardian and an advisor to his wayward young kinsman, but my young Lord would hear of nothing but the guards, and a commission was got for him in the Duke of Ormond's regiment. So Esmond found my Lord, Ensign and Lieutenant, when he returned from Germany after the Blenheim campaign. The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood's children, when they appeared in public, was extraordinary, and the whole town speedily rang with their fame. Such a beautiful couple, it was declared, never had been seen. The young maid of honour was toasted at every table and tavern, and as for my young Lord, his good looks were even more admired than his sisters. A hundred songs were written about the pair, and as the fashion of that day was, my young Lord was praised in these anachronautics as warmly as Bethyllis. You may be sure that he accepted very complacently at the town's opinion of him, and acquiesced with that frankness and charming good humour he always showed in the idea that he was the prettiest fellow in all London. The old dowager, Chelsea, though she could never begot to acknowledge that Mistress Beatrix was any beauty at all, in which opinion, as it may be imagined, a vast number of the ladies agreed with her, yet on the very first sight of young Castlewood she owned, she fell in love with him, and Henry Esmond, on his return to Chelsea, found himself quite superseded in her favour by her younger kinsmen. The feat of drinking the King's health at Cambridge would have won her heart, she said, if nothing else did. How had the dear young fellow got such beauty, she asked? Not from his father, certainly not from his mother. How had he come by such noble manners and the perfect belayer that countryfied Walkard Widow could never have taught him? Esmond had his own opinion about the countryfied Walkard Widow, who had acquired grace and serene kindness that had always seemed to him the perfection of good reading, though he did not try to argue the point with his aunt. But he could agree in most of the praises which the enraptured old dowager bestowed on my Lord Viscount, than whom he never beheld a more fascinating and charming gentleman. Castlewood had not twit so much as enjoyment. The lad looks good things, Mr. Steel used to say, and his laugh lights up a conversation as much as ten repartees from Mr. Congreve. I would as soon sit over a bottle with him as Mr. Addison, and rather listen to his talk than hear Nicolini. Whatsever man so gracefully drunk as my Lord Castlewood, I would give anything to carry my wine, though indeed Dick bore his very kindly, and plenty of it too, like this incomparable young man, when he is sober he is delightful and when tipsy perfectly irresistible, and, referring to his favourite Shakespeare, who was quite out of fashion until Steel brought him back into the mode, Dick compared Lord Castlewood to Prince Hal, and was pleased to dub Esmond as Ancient Pistol. The Mistress of the Robes, the greatest lady in England after the Queen, or even before her Majesty as the world said, though she could never begot to say a civil word to Beatrix, whom she had promoted to her place as maid vonna, took her brother into instant favour. When young Castlewood, in his new uniform, and looking like a Prince out of a fairytale, went to pay his duty to her grace, she looked at him for a minute in silence, the young man blushing and in confusion before her, then fairly burst out crying and kissed him before her daughters and company. He was by boys friend, she said through her sobs. My Blandford might have been like him. And everyone saw, after this mark of the Duchess's favour, that my young Lord's promotion was secure, and people crowded round the favourites' favourites who became vainer and gayer and more good-humoured than ever. Meanwhile, Madame Beatrix was making her conquests on her own side, and amongst them was one poor gentleman, who had been shot by her young eyes two years before, and had never been quite cured of that wound. He knew to be sure how hopeless any passion might be directed in that quarter, and had taken the best, though ignoble, Remedial Mamoris, her speedy retreat from before the charmer, and a long absence from her, and not being dangerously smitten in the first instance. Esmond pretty soon got the better of his complaint, and if he had it still, did not know he had it, and bore it easily. But when he returned after Blenheim, the young lady of sixteen, who had appeared the most beautiful object his eyes had ever looked on two years back, was now advanced to a perfect ripeness and perfection of beauty, such as instantly enthralled the poor devil, who had already been fugitive from her charms, then he had seen her but for two days, and fled. Now he beheld her day after day, and when she was at court, watched after her, when she was at home, made one of the family party, when she was abroad, rode after her mother's chariot, when she appeared in public places was in the box near her, or in the pit, looking at her, when she went to church was sure to be there, though he might not listen to the sermon, and be ready to hand her to her chair, if she deigned to accept of his services, and select him from a score of young men who were always hanging round about her. When she went away, accompanying her majesty to Hampton Court, a darkness fell over London. Gods what knights has Esmond passed, thinking of her, rhyming about her, talking about her. His friend Dick Steele was at this time, courting the young lady, Mrs. Scurlock, whom he married. She had a lodging in Kensington Square, hard by my Lady Castlewood's house there. Dick and Harry, being on the same errand, used to meet constantly at Kensington. They were always prowling about that place, or dismally walking vents, or eagerly running thither. They emptied scores of bottles at the king's arms, each man preting of his love, and allowing the other to talk on condition that he might have his own turn as a listener. Hence arose an intimacy between them, though to all the rest of their friends they must have been insufferable. Esmond's verses to Gloriana at the Hubsicord, to Gloriana's no-scape, to Gloriana at Court appeared this year in the Observatory. Have you never read them? They were thought pretty poems, and attributed by some to Mr. Pryor. This passion did not escape, how should it? The clear eyes of Esmond's mysteries. He told her all. What will a man not do in frantic with love? To what baseness will he not demean himself? What pangs will he not make others suffer, so that he may ease his selfish heart of a part of its own pain? Day after day he would seek his dear mistress. Poor, insane hopes, supplications, rhapsodies raptures into her ear. She listened, smiled, consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness. Esmond was the eldest of her children, so she was pleased to say, and as for her kindness, whoever had or would look for ought else from one who was an angel of goodness and pity. After what has been said, it is needless almost to add that poor Esmond's suit was unsuccessful. What was a nameless, penniless lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the land were in the field? Esmond never so much as thought of asking permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew this prize was, and past his foolish, useless, life-ing mere abject size and impotent longing. What nights of rage, what days of torment, of passionate, unfulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy, can he recall? Beatrix thought no more of him than of the lackey that followed her chair. His complaints did not touch her in the least. His raptures rather fatigued her. She cared for his verses no more than for tantourses. Who's dead these ever-so many hundred years? She didn't hate him. She rather despised him and just suffered him. A one day after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear fond constant mysteries for hours, for all day long, pouring out his flame and his passion, his despair and rage, returning again and again to the theme, pacing the room, tearing up the flowers on the table, twisting and breaking into bits the wax out of the stand-dition, and performing a hundred mad freaks of passion at folly, seeing his mysteries at last quite pale and tired out with sheer weariness of compassion, and watching over his fever for the hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat and took his leave. As he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came over him for the weariest and pain he had been inflicting upon the dearest and kindest friend ever man had. He went back to the house, where the servant still stood at the open door, ran up the stairs, and found his mysteries where he had left her, in the ombra sure of the window, looking over the fields towards Chelsea. She laughed, wiping away at the same time the tears which were in her kind eyes. He flung himself down on his knees and buried his head in her lap. She had in her hand the stalk of one of the flowers, a pink that he had torn to pieces. Oh, pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kindest, he said, I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings me a drop of water. I am your mother. You're my son, and I love you always, she said, holding her hands over him. And he went away, comforted and humbled in mind, as he thought of that amazing and constant love and tenderness, with which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him. The gentleman Usher's had a table at Kensington, and the guard, a very splendid dinner at Aliots and James's, at either of which ordinaries, Esmond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked the guard table better than his own at the gentleman Usher's, where there was less wine and more ceremony, and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of his friend, and a hundred times at least, saw Dick into his chair. If there is verity in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable natured character Dick's must have been. In proportion, as he took in wine, he overflowed with kindness. His talk was not witty so much as charming. He never said a word that could anger anybody, and only became the more benevolent, the more tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided the poor fellow in his cups, and chose him as a but for their satire, but there was a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy that seemed to Esmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the brightest wits, with their elaborate repartees, and effected severities. I think Steele's shorn, rather than sparkled. Those famous beauses of the coffee-houses, Mr. William Congreve, for example, when his gout and his grandeur permitted him to come among us, would make many brilliant hits, half a dozen in a night sometimes, but, like sharp shooters, when they had fired their shot, they were obliged to retire under cover till their pieces were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance at their enemy. Whereas Dick never thought that his bottle companion was a but to aim at, only a friend to shake by the hand. The poor fellow had, half the town in his confidence, everybody knew everything about his loves and his debts, his creditors, or his mistresses' obduracy. When Esmond first came on the town, Honest Dick was all flames and raptures for a young lady, a West India fortune whom he married. In a couple of years the lady was dead, the fortune was all but spent, and the honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a new paragon of beauty, as if he had never courted, and married, and buried the last one. Quitting the guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when by chance Dick had a sober fit upon him, he and his friend were making their way down German Street, and Dick, all of a sudden, left his companion's arm, and ran after a gentleman who was pouring over a folio volume at the bookshop near St James's Church. He was a fair tall man in a snuff-colored suit, with a plain sword, very sober, and almost shabby in appearance, at least when compared to Captain Steele, who loved to adorn his jolly round person with the finest of clothes, and shone in scarlet and gold lace. The captain rushed up then to the student of the bookstore, took him in his arms, hugged him, and would have kissed him, for Dick was always hugging and bussing his friends, but the other stepped back, with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this public manifestation of Steele's regard. My dearest Joe, whereas thou hidden thyself this age, cries the captain, still holding both his friends' hands, I've been languishing for thee this fortnight. A fortnight is not an age, Dick, says the other, very good-humidly. He had light blue eyes, extraordinary bright, and a face perfectly regular and handsome, like a tinted statue. And I have been hiding myself. Where do you think? What? Not across the water, my dear Joe, says Steele, the look of great alarm. Thou knowest I've always know, said his friend, interrupting him with a smile. We are not come to such straits as that, Dick. I've been hiding, sir, at a place where people never think of finding you, at my own lodgings, wither I am going to smoke a pipe now, and drink a glass of sack. Will your honour come? Harry Esmond, come hither, cries out, Dick, thou hast heard me talk over and over again of my dearest Joe, my guardian angel. Indeed! says Mr. Esmond with a bow. It is not from you only that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. We loved good poetry at Cambridge as well as at Oxford, and I have some of yours by heart, though I have put on a red coat. Oh, que canoro blandius or feo vocale ducchis carmen, shall I go on, sir, says Mr. Esmond, who indeed had read and loved the charming Latin poems of Mr. Addison, as every scholar of that time knew and admired them. This is Captain Esmond, who was at Blenheim, says Steele. Lieutenant Esmond says the other over the low bow at Mr. Addison's service. I have heard of you, said Mr. Addison with a smile, as indeed everybody about time had heard that unlucky story about Esmond's dowager aunt and the ducches. We were going to the George to take a bottle before the place is Steele. Would thou be one, Joe? Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where he was still rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his friends, and invited the two gentlemen to his apartment in the hay market with a we accordingly went. I shall get credit with my land, ladies, as he with a smile, when she sees two such fine gentlemen as you will come up my stair. And he politely made his visitors welcome to his apartment, which was indeed but a shabby one, though no grandee of the land could receive his guests with a more perfect and courtly grace than this gentleman. A frugal dinner consisting of a slice of meat and a penny loaf was awaiting the owner of the lodgings. My wine is better than my meat, says Mr. Addison. My Lord Halifax sent me the burgundy, and he set a bottle and glasses before his friends and ate his simple dinner in a very few minutes after which the three fell to and began to drink. You see, says Mr. Addison, pointing to his writing-table, whereon was a map of the action Hockstead, and several other gazettes and pamphlets relating to the battle, that I too am busy about your affairs, Captain. I am engaged as a poetical gazetteer to say truths, and am writing a poem on the campaign. So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he knew about the famous battle, drew the river on the table, aliquomero, and with the aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe, showed the advance of the left wing where he had been engaged. A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside our bottles and glasses and dick, having plentifully refreshed himself from the latter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ out with scarce sublottor correction in the author's slim, neat handwriting, and began to read therefrom with great emphasis and volubility. At pauses of the verse the enthusiastic reader stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause. Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. You are like the German burger, says he, and the princess on the moselle. When our army came to a halt they always sent a deputation to compliment the chief, and fired a salute with all their artillery from their walls. And drunk the great chief's health afterwards did not they? says Captain Steele gaily filling up a bumper. He was never tardy at that sort of acknowledgement of a friend's merit. And the duke, since you will have me act his gracious part, says Mr. Addison with a smile as something of a blush, pledged his friends in return. Most serene elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your highness's health, and he filled himself a glass. Joseph required scarce more pressing than Dick to that sort of amusement, but the wine never seemed at all to fluster Mr. Addison's brains it only loosened his tongue, whereas Captain Steele's head and speech were quite overcome by a single bottle. No matter what the verses were, and to say truth, Mr. Esmond found some of them more than indifferent, Dick's enthusiasm for his chief never faltered, and in every line from Addison's pen Steele found a master-stroke. By the time Dick had come to that part of the poem, wherein the bard describes, as blandly as though he were recording a dance at the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cuddling at village fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our campaign, with the remembrance whereof every soldier who bore a part in it must sicken with shame. When we were ordered to ravage and lay waste to the elector's country, and with fire and murder, slaughter and crime, a great part of his dominions was overrun, when Dick came to the lines, In vengeance roused, the soldier fills his hand with sword and fire, and ravages the land. In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, a thousand villages to ashes turn. To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, and mixed with bellowing herds, confusedly bleed. Their trembling lords the common shade partake, and cries of infants found in every break, the listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands, loathed to obey his leader's just commands. The leader grieves by generous pity suede, to see his just commands so well obeyed. By this time, wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccuped out the last line with a tenderness that set one of his auditors a laughing. I admire the license of your poets, says Esmond to Mr. Haddison. Dick, after reading of the verses, was feigned to go off insisting on kissing his two dear friends before his departure, and reeling away with his periwig over his eyes. I admire your art. The murder of the campaign is done to military music like a battle at the opera, and the virgins of shrieking harmony as our victorious grenadiers march into their villages. Do you know what a scene it was? By this time perhaps the wine had warmed Mr. Esmond's head, too. What a triumph you were celebrating. What scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over which the command as genius presided as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere. You talk of the listening soldier fixed in sorrow, the leader's grief suede by generous pity. To my belief the leader cared no more for bleeding flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many of our ruffians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity. I was ashamed of my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated, which came under every man's eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a stately image of smiling victory. I tell you, it is an uncouth, distorted, savage, idle, hideous, bloody and barbarous. The rites performed before it are shocking to think of. You great poets should show it as it is, ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, you never would have sung it so. During this little outbreak Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out of his long pipe and smiling very placidly. What would you have, says he? In our polished days and according to the rules of art, it is impossible that the muse should depict tortures, or begrime her hands with the horrors of war. These are indicated rather than described, as in the Greek tragedies that I dare say you have read. And, sure, there can be no more elegant specimens for composition. Agamemnon is slain, or Medea's children destroyed, away from the scene. The chorus occupying the stage and singing of the action to pathetic music. Something of this I attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way. Tis a panagyric, I mean to write, and not satyr. Were I to sing, as you would have me, the town would tear the poet in pieces and burn his book by the hands of the common hangman. Do not use tobacco. Of all the weeds grown on earth, sure, the Nicotian is the most soothing and salatory. We must paint our great duke, Mr. Addison went on, not as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero. Tis in a triumph, not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his sleek pegasus. We college poets trot, you know, on very easy nags. It has been time out of mind, part of the poet's profession, to celebrate the actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which you men of war perform. I must follow the rules of my art, and the composition of such a strain as this must be harmonious and majestic, not familiar, or too near the vulgar truth. Sipava liket, if Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a humbler poet from the banks of the Isis, may celebrate a victory and a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Britain has a share, and whose glory and genius contributes to every citizen's individual honour. When hath there been, since our Henry's and Edward's days, such a great feat of arms as that from which you yourself have brought away marks of distinction, if Tis in my power to sing that song worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my muse. If I fail as a poet, as a Briton at least, I will show my loyalty, and fling up my cap, and huzzah for the conqueror. Reini paccato et istri, omnis in hock, uno varis discordiac esit ordinibus, laitato eques plaudit quesenato, votacue patricchio chetant plebeia favore. There were as brave men on that field, says Mr. Esmond, who never could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, and ought to forget the stories which he used to hear in his youth regarding that great chief's selfishness and treachery. There were men at Blenheim as good as the leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeian or patrician favoured, and who lie there forgotten under the clods. What poet is there to sing them? To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades, says Mr. Addison with a smile. Would you celebrate them all? If I may venture to question anything in such an admirable work, the catalogue of the ships in Homer have always appeared to me as somewhat wearisome. What had the poet been, supposing the writer had chronicled the names of captains' lieutenants' rank and file? One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is success, which is the result of all the others, it is a latent power in him which compels the favour of the gods and subjugates fortune. Of all his gifts I admire that one in the great Malbrough. To be brave every man is brave, but in being victorious as he is, I fancy there is something divine. In presence of the occasion the great soul of the leader shines out and the god is confessed. Death itself respects him, and passes by him to lay others low. War and carnage flee before him to ravage other parts of the field, as hector from before the divine Achilles. You say he has no pity. No more have the gods who are above it and superhuman. The fainting battle gathers strength at his aspect, and wherever he rides victory charges with him. A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his poetic friend, he found this thought, struck out in the fervour of conversation, improved, and shaped into those famous lines which in truth are the noblest in the poem of the campaign. As the two gentlemen sat engaged in talk, Mr. Addison, solacing himself with his customary pipe, the little maid servant that waited on his lodging came up, preceding a gentleman in fine laced clothes that had evidently been figuring at court or a great man's levy. The courtier coughed a little at the smoke of the pipe, and looked around the room curiously, which was shabby enough as was the owner in his worn, snuff-coloured suit, and plain tie-wig. How goes the magnum opus, Mr. Addison? says the court gentleman on looking down at the papers that were on the table. We were but now over it, says Addison. The greatest courtier in the land could not have a more splendid politeness or greater dignity of manner. Here is my plan, says he on the table. Hac ebat simois, here ran the little of a navel. Hic est sigae, Yatelus, here are Talard's quarters at the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of which Captain Esmond was present. I have the honour to introduce him to Mr. Boyle and Mr. Esmond, was but now depicting Aliquoproili amic stamero when you came in. In truth, the two gentlemen had been so engaged when the visitor arrived, and Addison, in his smiling way, speaking of Mr. Webb, Colonel of Esmond's regiment, who commanded a brigade in the action and greatly distinguished himself there, was lamenting that he could find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise the brigade should have a place in the poet's verses. And for you, you are but a lieutenant, says Addison, and the muse can't occupy herself with gentlemen under the rank of a field officer. Mr. Boyle was impatient to hear, saying that my Lord Treasurer and my Lord Halifax were equally anxious, and Addison, blushing, began reading of his verses, and, I suspect, knew their weak parts as well as the most critical hearer. When he came to the lines describing the angel, that inspired repulsed battalions to engage, and taught the doubtful battle where to rage, he read with great animation, looking at Esmond as much to say, you know where that simile came from, from our talk and our bottle of burgundy the other day. The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and applauded the verses with all their might. The gentlemen of the court sprang up in great delight. Not a word more, my dear sir, says he. Trust me with the papers, I'll defend them with my life. Let me read them over to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in half an hour. I venture to promise the verses shall lose nothing in my reading, and then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to complain that his friend's pension is no longer paid. And without more ado, the courtier in lace seized the manuscript pages, placed them in his breast with his ruffled hand over his heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with the disengaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, leaving an odour of pommander behind him. Does not the chamber look quite dark, says Addison, surveying it, after the glorious appearance and disappearance of that gracious messenger? Why, he illuminated the whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, will bear any light. But this threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn it looked under the glare of that splendour. I wonder whether they will do anything for me, he continued. When I came out of Oxford into the world, my patrons promised me great things, and you see where their promises have landed me, in a lodging up two pairs of stairs with a six-man dinner from the cook's shop. Well, I suppose this promise will go after the others, and fortune will jilt me, as the jade has been doing any time these seven years. I puffed the prostitute away, says he, smiling, and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. There is no hardship in poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable. No hardship, even in honest dependence, that an honest man may not put up with. I came out of the lap of Alma Mater, puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to make a figure in the world of the parts and learning which had got me no small name in our college. The world is the ocean, and Isis and Charwell are but little drops of which the sea takes no account. My reputation ended a mile beyond Mordentah. No one took note of me, and I learned this, at least, to bear up against evil fortune with a cheerful heart. Friend Dick has made a figure in the world, and has passed me in the race long ago. What matters, a little name, or a little fortune, there is no fortune that a philosopher cannot endure. I have been not unknown as a scholar, and yet forced to live by turning dare leader and teaching a boy to spell. What, then? The life was not pleasant, but possible. The bear was bearable. Should this venture fail, I will go back to Oxford, and some day when you are a general, you shall find me a curate in a cassock, and bans, and I shall welcome your honour to my cottage in the country, and to a mug of penny ale. It is not poverty that is the hardest to bear, or the least happy lot in life, says Mr. Addison, shaking the ash out of his pipe. See, my pipe is smoked out. Shall we have another bottle? I have still a couple in the cupboard, and of the right sort. No more? Let us go abroad, and take a turn on the mail, or look in at the theatre, and see Dick's comedy. It is not a masterpiece of wit, but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the Thames on fire. Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had come up a prodigious prize in the lottery of life. All the town was in an uproar of admiration of his poem, The Campaign, which Dick's deal was spouting at every coffee-house in Whitehall and Govnt Garden. The wits on the other side of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the greatest poet the world has seen for ages. The people huzzard for Malbra and for Addison, and more than this, the party in power provided for the meditorious poet, and Addison got the appointment of Commissioner of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke vacated and rose from this place to other dignities and honours. His prosperity from henceforth to the end of his life being scarce ever interrupted. But I doubt whether he was not happier in his garret in the hay market than ever he was in his splendid palace in Kensington, and I believe the fortune that came to him in the shape of the Countess's wife was no better than a shrew and a vixen. Gay as the town was, twas but a dreary place for Mr. Esmond, whether his charmer was he in or out of it, and he was glad when his general gave him notice that he was going back to his division of the army which lay in winter quarters at Boilidook. His dear mistress bade him farewell with a cheerful face. Her blessing he knew he had always, and where so ever fate carried him. Mistress Beatrix was away in attendance on Her Majesty at Hampton Court, and kissed her fair fingertips to him by way of adieu when he rode thither to take his leave. She received her kinsman in a waiting-room, where there were half a dozen more ladies of the court, so that his high-flown speeches had he intended to make any, and very likely he did, were impossible. She announced to her friends that her cousin was going to the army in as easy a manner as she would have said he was going to a chocolate house. He asked with a rather rueful face if she had any orders for the army, and she was pleased to say that she would like a mantle of Michelin lace. She made him a saucy curtsy, reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to kiss her fingertips from the window, where she stood laughing with the other ladies, and chanced to see him as he made his way to the toy. The dowager to Chelsea was not sorry to part with him this time. M'en cher vous êtes triste comme serment, she did him the honour to say to him. Indeed, gentlemen in his condition are by no means amusing companions, and besides, the fickle old woman had now found a much more amiable favourite, and raffled for her darling lieutenant of the guard. Frank remained behind for a while, and did not join the army till later, in the suite of his grace the commander-in-chief. His dear mother, on the last day before Esmond went away, and when the three dined together, made Esmond promised to befriend her boy, and besought Frank to take the example of his kinsmen, as of a loyal gentleman and brave soldier, so she was pleased to say, and at parting betrayed not the least sign of faltering or weakness. Though God knows that fond heart was fearful enough when others were concerned, though so resolute in bearing its own pain. Esmond's general embarked at Harwich. It was grand sight to see Mr Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving his hat as our yacht put off, and the guns saluted from the shore. Harwich did not see his vikant again until three months after, at Boiladuke, when his grace the Duke came to take the command, and Frank brought a budget of news from home, how he had supped with this actress, and got tired of that, how he had got the better of Mr St John, both over the bottle, and with Mrs Mountford of the Haymarket Theatre, a veteran charmer of fifty, with whom the young scape-grace chose to fancy himself in love, how his sister was always at her tricks, and had jilted a young baron for an old earl. I can't make out Beatrix, he said. She cares for none of us, she only thinks about herself, she's never happy unless she's quarrelling, but as for my mother, my mother Harry is an angel. Harry tried to impress on the young fellow the necessity of doing everything in his power to please that angel, not to drink too much, not to go into debt, not to run after the pretty Flemish girls, and so forth, as became a senior speaking to a lad. But Lord bless thee, the boy said, I may do what I like, but I know she will love me all the same. And so indeed he did what he liked. Everybody spoiled him, and his grave kinsmen, as much as the rest. End of book two, chapter eleven