"THE VIRGINIANS\n\nA TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY\n\n\nBy William Makepeace Thackeray\n\n\n\nTO SIR HENRY MADISON, Chief Justice of Madras, this book is inscribed by\nan affectionate old friend.\n\nLondon, September 7, 1859.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  CHAPTER\n      I  In which one of the Virginians visits Home\n     II  In which Harry has to pay for his Supper\n    III  The Esmonds in Virginia\n     IV  In which Harry finds a New Relative\n      V  Family Jars\n     VI  The Virginians begin to see the World\n    VII  Preparations for War\n   VIII  In which George suffers from a common Disease\n     IX  Hospitalities\n      X  A Hot Afternoon\n     XI  Wherein the two Georges prepare for Blood\n    XII  News from the Camp\n   XIII  Profitless Quest\n    XIV  Harry in England\n     XV  A Sunday at Castlewood\n    XVI  In which Gumbo shows Skill with the Old English Weapon\n   XVII  On the Scent\n  XVIII  An Old Story\n    XIX  Containing both Love and Luck\n     XX  Facilis Descensus\n    XXI  Samaritans\n   XXII  In Hospital\n  XXIII  Holydays\n   XXIV  From Oakhurst to Tunbridge\n    XXV  New Acquaintances\n   XXVI  In which we are at a very great distance from Oakhurst\n  XXVII  Plenum Opus Aleae\n XXVIII  The Way of the World\n   XXIX  In which Harry continues to enjoy Otium sine Dignitate\n    XXX  Contains a Letter to Virginia\n   XXXI  The Bear and the Leader\n  XXXII  In which a Family Coach is ordered\n XXXIII  Contains a Soliloquy by Hester\n  XXXIV  In which Mr. Warrington treats the Company with Tea and a Ball\n   XXXV  Entanglements\n  XXXVI  Which seems to mean Mischief\n XXXVII  In which various Matches are fought\nXXXVIII Sampson and the Philistines  XXXIX  Harry to the Rescue\n     XL  In which Harry pays off an Old Debt, and incurs some New Ones\n    XLI  Rake's Progress\n   XLII  Fortunatus Nimium\n  XLIII  In which Harry flies high\n   XLIV  Contains what might, perhaps, have been expected\n    XLV  In which Harry finds two Uncles\n   XLVI  Chains and Slavery\n  XLVII  Visitors in Trouble\n XLVIII  An Apparition\n   XLIX  Friends in Need\n      L  Contains a Great deal of the Finest Morality\n     LI  Conticuere Omnes\n    LII  Intentique Ora tenebant\n   LIII  Where we remain at the Court End of the Town\n    LIV  During which Harry sits smoking his Pipe at Home\n     LV  Between Brothers\n    LVI  Ariadne\n   LVII  In which Harry's Nose continues to be put out of joint\n  LVIII  Where we do what Cats may do\n    LIX  In which we are treated to a Play\n     LX  Which treats of Macbeth, a Supper, and a Pretty Kettle of Fish\n    LXI  In which the Prince marches up the Hill and down again\n   LXII  Arma Virumque\n  LXIII  Melpomene\n   LXIV  In which Harry lives to fight another day\n    LXV  Soldier's Return\n   LXVI  In which we go a-courting\n  LXVII  In which a Tragedy is acted, and two more begun\n LXVIII  In which Harry goes Westward\n   LXIX  A Little Innocent\n    LXX  In which Cupid plays a considerable part\n   LXXI  With Favours\n  LXXII  (From the Warrington MS.) In which my Lady is on the Top\n           of the Ladder\n LXXIII  We keep Christmas at Castlewood. 1759\n  LXXIV  News from Canada\n   LXXV  The Course of True Love\n  LXXVI  Informs us how Mr. Warrington jumped into a Landau\n LXXVII  And how everybody got out again\nLXXVIII Pyramus and Thisbe\nLXXIX  Containing both Comedy and Tragedy\n   LXXX  Pocahontas\n  LXXXI  Res Angusta Domi\n LXXXII  Mile's Moidore\nLXXXIII Troubles and Consolations\n LXXXIV  In which Harry submits to the Common Lot\n  LXXXV  Inveni Portum\n LXXXVI  At Home\nLXXXVII The Last of God Save the King LXXXVIII Yankeee Doodle comes to\nTown LXXXIX  A Colonel without a Regiment\n     XC  In which we both fight and run away\n    XCI  Satis Pugnae\n   XCII  Under Vine and Fig-Tree\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VIRGINIANS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. In which one of the Virginians visits home\n\n\nOn the library wall of one of the most famous writers of America, there\nhang two crossed swords, which his relatives wore in the great War of\nIndependence. The one sword was gallantly drawn in the service of\nthe king, the other was the weapon of a brave and honoured republican\nsoldier. The possessor of the harmless trophy has earned for himself a\nname alike honoured in his ancestors' country and his own, where genius\nsuch as his has always a peaceful welcome.\n\nThe ensuing history reminds me of yonder swords in the historian's study\nat Boston. In the Revolutionary War, the subjects of this story, natives\nof America, and children of the Old Dominion, found themselves engaged\non different sides in the quarrel, coming together peaceably at its\nconclusion, as brethren should, their love ever having materially\ndiminished, however angrily the contest divided them. The colonel in\nscarlet, and the general in blue and buff, hang side by side in the\nwainscoted parlour of the Warringtons, in England, where a descendant\nof one of the brothers has shown their portraits to me, with many of\nthe letters which they wrote, and the books and papers which belonged\nto them. In the Warrington family, and to distinguish them from other\npersonages of that respectable race, these effigies have always gone\nby the name of \"The Virginians\"; by which name their memoirs are\nchristened.\n\nThey both of them passed much time in Europe. They lived just on the\nverge of that Old World from which we are drifting away so swiftly. They\nwere familiar with many varieties of men and fortune. Their lot brought\nthem into contact with personages of whom we read only in books, who\nseem alive, as I read in the Virginians' letters regarding them, whose\nvoices I almost fancy I hear, as I read the yellow pages written scores\nof years since, blotted with the boyish tears of disappointed passion,\ndutifully despatched after famous balls and ceremonies of the grand Old\nWorld, scribbled by camp-fires, or out of prison; nay, there is one that\nhas a bullet through it, and of which a greater portion of the text is\nblotted out with the blood of the bearer.\n\nThese letters had probably never been preserved, but for the\naffectionate thrift of one person, to whom they never failed in their\ndutiful correspondence. Their mother kept all her sons' letters, from\nthe very first, in which Henry, the younger of the twins, sends his\nlove to his brother, then ill of a sprain at his grandfather's house of\nCastlewood, in Virginia, and thanks his grandpapa for a horse which he\nrides with his tutor, down to the last, \"from my beloved son,\" which\nreached her but a few hours before her death. The venerable lady never\nvisited Europe, save once with her parents in the reign of George the\nSecond; took refuge in Richmond when the house of Castlewood was burned\ndown during the war; and was called Madam Esmond ever after that event;\nnever caring much for the name or family of Warrington, which she held\nin very slight estimation as compared to her own.\n\nThe letters of the Virginians, as the reader will presently see, from\nspecimens to be shown to him, are by no means full. They are hints\nrather than descriptions--indications and outlines chiefly: it may be,\nthat the present writer has mistaken the forms, and filled in the colour\nwrongly: but, poring over the documents, I have tried to imagine the\nsituation of the writer, where he was, and by what persons surrounded. I\nhave drawn the figures as I fancied they were; set down conversations\nas I think I might have heard them; and so, to the best of my ability,\nendeavoured to revivify the bygone times and people. With what success\nthe task has been accomplished, with what profit or amusement to\nhimself, the kind reader will please to determine.\n\nOne summer morning in the year 1756, and in the reign of his Majesty\nKing George the Second, the Young Rachel, Virginian ship, Edward Franks\nmaster, came up the Avon river on her happy return from her annual\nvoyage to the Potomac. She proceeded to Bristol with the tide, and\nmoored in the stream as near as possible to Trail's wharf, to which she\nwas consigned. Mr. Trail, her part owner, who could survey his ship from\nhis counting-house windows, straightway took boat and came up her side.\nThe owner of the Young Rachel, a large grave man in his own hair, and of\na demure aspect, gave the hand of welcome to Captain Franks, who stood\non his deck, and congratulated the captain upon the speedy and fortunate\nvoyage which he had made. And, remarking that we ought to be thankful\nto Heaven for its mercies, he proceeded presently to business by asking\nparticulars relative to cargo and passengers.\n\nFranks was a pleasant man, who loved a joke. \"We have,\" says he, \"but\nyonder ugly negro boy, who is fetching the trunks, and a passenger who\nhas the state cabin to himself.\"\n\nMr. Trail looked as if he would have preferred more mercies from Heaven.\n\"Confound you, Franks, and your luck! The Duke William, which came in\nlast week, brought fourteen, and she is not half of our tonnage.\"\n\n\"And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't pay nothin',\"\ncontinued the Captain. \"Swear now, it will do you good, Mr. Trail,\nindeed it will. I have tried the medicine.\"\n\n\"A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gracious mercy, are you a\nfool, Captain Franks?\"\n\n\"Ask the passenger himself, for here he comes.\" And, as the master\nspoke, a young man of some nineteen years of age came up the hatchway.\nHe had a cloak and a sword under his arm, and was dressed in deep\nmourning, and called out, \"Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the\nbaggage out of the cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. You will\nsee all the little folks to-night whom you have been talking about. Give\nmy love to Polly, and Betty, and Little Tommy; not forgetting my duty to\nMrs. Franks. I thought, yesterday, the voyage would never be done, and\nnow I am almost sorry it is over. That little berth in my cabin looks\nvery comfortable now I am going to leave it.\"\n\nMr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid no money for\nhis passage. He scarcely nodded his head to the stranger, when Captain\nFranks said, \"This here gentleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you have\na-heerd of.\"\n\n\"It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir,\" says Mr. Trail, majestically.\n\n\"And this is Mr. Warrington, Madam Esmond Warrington's son, of\nCastlewood,\" continued the Captain.\n\nThe British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, and the owner of\nthe beaver was making a prodigious number of bows as if a crown prince\nwere before him.\n\n\"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, indeed! What a\ncrowning mercy that your voyage should have been so prosperous! You must\nhave my boat to go on shore. Let me cordially and respectfully welcome\nyou to England: let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress and\npatroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on\nBristol 'Change, I warrant you. Isn't it, Franks?\"\n\n\"There's no sweeter tobacco comes from Virginia, and no better brand\nthan the Three Castles,\" says Mr. Franks, drawing a great brass\ntobacco-box from his pocket, and thrusting a quid into his jolly mouth.\n\"You don't know what a comfort it is, sir! you'll take to it, bless you,\nas you grow older. Won't he, Mr. Trail? I wish you had ten shiploads of\nit instead of one. You might have ten shiploads: I've told Madam Esmond\nso; I've rode over her plantation; she treats me like a lord when I go\nto the house; she don't grudge me the best of wine, or keep me cooling\nmy heels in the counting-room as some folks does\" (with a look at Mr.\nTrail). \"She is a real born lady, she is; and might have a thousand\nhogsheads as easy as her hundreds, if there were but hands enough.\"\n\n\"I have lately engaged in the Guinea trade, and could supply her\nladyship with any number of healthy young negroes before next fall,\"\nsaid Mr. Trail, obsequiously.\n\n\"We are averse to the purchase of negroes from Africa,\" said the young\ngentleman, coldly. \"My grandfather and my mother have always objected to\nit, and I do not like to think of selling or buying the poor wretches.\"\n\n\"It is for their good, my dear young sir! for their temporal and their\nspiritual good!\" cried Mr. Trail. \"And we purchase the poor creatures\nonly for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my own\nhouse. I can introduce you to a happy home, a Christian family, and a\nBritish merchant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?\"\n\n\"Can't say,\" growled the Captain. \"Never asked me to take bite or sup at\nyour table. Asked me to psalm-singing once, and to hear Mr. Ward preach:\ndon't care for them sort of entertainments.\"\n\nNot choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail continued in\nhis low tone: \"Business is business, my dear young sir, and I know,\n'tis only my duty, the duty of all of us, to cultivate the fruits of the\nearth in their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak,\nI believe, to the heir of that great property?--\"\n\nThe young gentleman made a bow.\n\n\"--I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the propriety,\nthe duty of increasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed\nyou. As an honest factor, I could not do otherwise; as a prudent man,\nshould I scruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No,\nmy dear Mr. George.\"\n\n\"My name is not George; my name is Henry,\" said the young man as he\nturned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.\n\n\"Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were my\nlady's heir? and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq.----\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, you fool!\" cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant a\ntough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. \"Don't\nyou see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black\nclothes?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners?\nMr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough.\"\n\n\"Mr. George is there,\" said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the\ndeck.\n\n\"Where?\" cries the factor.\n\n\"Mr. George is there!\" reiterated the Captain, again lifting up his\nfinger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. \"He is dead a year, sir,\ncome next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that\ndreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never\ncame back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know\nthe Indian way, Mr. Trail?\" And here the Captain passed his hand rapidly\nround his head. \"Horrible! ain't it, sir? horrible! He was a fine young\nman, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now\nhanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on board of\nthe Young Rachel, and would have his chests of books broke open on deck\nbefore they was landed. He was a shy and silent young gent: not like\nthis one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow, full of his\nsongs and fun. He took on dreadful at the news; went to his bed, had\nthat fever which lays so many of 'em by the heels along that swampy\nPotomac, but he's got better on the voyage: the voyage makes every one\nbetter; and, in course, the young gentleman can't be for ever a-crying\nafter a brother who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we\nsighted Ireland he has been quite gay and happy, only he would go off at\ntimes, when he was most merry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgy\ncould enjoy this here sight along with me, and when you mentioned\nthe t'other's name, you see, he couldn't stand it.'\" And the honest\nCaptain's own eyes filled with tears, as he turned and looked towards\nthe object of his compassion.\n\nMr. Trail assumed a lugubrious countenance befitting the tragic\ncompliment with which he prepared to greet the young Virginian; but the\nlatter answered him very curtly, declined his offers of hospitality, and\nonly stayed in Mr. Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of wine\nand to take up a sum of money of which he stood in need. But he and\nCaptain Franks parted on the very warmest terms, and all the little crew\nof the Young Rachel cheered from the ship's side as their passenger left\nit.\n\nAgain and again Harry Warrington and his brother had pored over the\nEnglish map, and determined upon the course which they should take\nupon arriving at Home. All Americans who love the old country--and what\ngently-nurtured man or woman of Anglo-Saxon race does not?--have ere\nthis rehearsed their English travels, and visited in fancy the spots\nwith which their hopes, their parents' fond stories, their friends'\ndescriptions, have rendered them familiar. There are few things to me\nmore affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two great\nnations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the younger\ntowards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out.\nBefore London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's;\nits grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from\nWallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts;\nbefore the awful window of Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles\nhad issued, to kneel once more, and then ascend to Heaven;--before\nPlayhouses, Parks, and Palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure, and\nsplendour;--before Shakspeare's Resting-place under the tall spire which\nrises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures;--before Derby,\nand Falkirk, and Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had\nfallen, it might be to rise no more:--before all these points of their\npilgrimage there was one which the young Virginian brothers held even\nmore sacred, and that was the home of their family,--that old Castlewood\nin Hampshire, about which their parents had talked so fondly. From\nBristol to Bath, from Bath to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to\nHome; they knew the way, and had mapped the journey many and many a\ntime.\n\nWe must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow,\nwhose suit of sables only made him look the more interesting. The plump\nlandlady from her bar, surrounded by her china and punch-bowls, and\nstout gilded bottles of strong waters, and glittering rows of silver\nflagons, looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through\nthe inn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed\nhim upstairs to the Rose or the Dolphin. The trim chambermaid dropped\nher best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the\ntownsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young\nmaster's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which\nhe was heir. The postchaise whirled the traveller through the most\ndelightful home-scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If English\nlandscape is pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needs\ncontrast the rich woods and glowing pastures, and picturesque ancient\nvillages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, how much\npleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys had\nlain through swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary\nto another log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted\nsuddenly upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And the\nhighroad, a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the\npresent time. It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the country\ntowns and inns swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with\nits bells and plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved the\njourney from the White Hart, Salisbury, to the Swan with Two Necks,\nLondon, in two days; the strings of packhorses that had not yet left the\nroad; my lord's gilt postchaise-and-six, with the outriders galloping\non ahead; the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; the\nfarmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the cathedral town\non Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion--all these crowding sights\nand brisk people greeted the young traveller on his summer journey.\nHodge, the farmer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milkmaid,\nbobbed a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village-green,\nand the white-headed children lifted their chubby faces and cheered.\nThe church-spires glistened with gold, the cottage-gables glared in\nsunshine, the great elms murmured in summer, or cast purple shadows over\nthe grass. Young Warrington never had such a glorious day, or witnessed\na scene so delightful. To be nineteen years of age, with high health,\nhigh spirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey, and\nrolling through the country in a postchaise at nine miles an hour--O\nhappy youth! almost it makes one young to think of him! But Harry was\ntoo eager to give more than a passing glance at the Abbey at Bath,\nor gaze with more than a moment's wonder at the mighty Minster at\nSalisbury. Until he beheld Home it seemed to him he had no eyes for any\nother place.\n\nAt last the young gentleman's postchaise drew up at the rustic inn on\nCastlewood Green, of which his grandsire had many a time talked to him,\nand which bears as its ensign, swinging from an elm near the inn porch,\nthe Three Castles of the Esmond family. They had a sign, too, over the\ngateway of Castlewood House, bearing the same cognisance. This was the\nhatchment of Francis, Lord Castlewood, who now lay in the chapel hard\nby, his son reigning in his stead.\n\nHarry Warrington had often heard of Francis, Lord Castlewood. It was\nfor Frank's sake, and for his great love towards the boy, that Colonel\nEsmond determined to forgo his claim to the English estates and rank of\nhis family, and retired to Virginia. The young man had led a wild youth;\nhe had fought with distinction under Marlborough; he had married a\nforeign lady, and most lamentably adopted her religion. At one time he\nhad been a Jacobite (for loyalty to the sovereign was ever hereditary\nin the Esmond family), but had received some slight or injury from the\nPrince, which had caused him to rally to King George's side. He had,\non his second marriage, renounced the errors of Popery which he had\ntemporarily embraced, and returned to the Established Church again. He\nhad, from his constant support of the King and the Minister of the time\nbeing, been rewarded by his Majesty George II., and died an English\npeer. An earl's coronet now figured on the hatchment which hung over\nCastlewood gate--and there was an end of the jolly gentleman. Between\nColonel Esmond, who had become his stepfather, and his lordship there\nhad ever been a brief but affectionate correspondence--on the Colonel's\npart especially, who loved his stepson, and had a hundred stories to\ntell about him to his grandchildren. Madam Esmond, however, said she\ncould see nothing in her half-brother. He was dull, except when he drank\ntoo much wine, and that, to be sure, was every day at dinner. Then\nhe was boisterous, and his conversation not pleasant. He was\ngood-looking--yes--a fine tall stout animal; she had rather her boys\nshould follow a different model. In spite of the grandfather's encomium\nof the late lord, the boys had no very great respect for their kinsman's\nmemory. The lads and their mother were staunch Jacobites, though having\nevery respect for his present Majesty; but right was right, and nothing\ncould make their hearts swerve from their allegiance to the descendants\nof the martyr Charles.\n\nWith a beating heart Harry Warrington walked from the inn towards\nthe house where his grandsire's youth had been passed. The little\nvillage-green of Castlewood slopes down towards the river, which is\nspanned by an old bridge of a single broad arch, and from this the\nground rises gradually towards the house, grey with many gables and\nbuttresses, and backed by a darkling wood. An old man sate at the wicket\non a stone bench in front of the great arched entrance to the house,\nover which the earl's hatchment was hanging. An old dog was crouched at\nthe man's feet. Immediately above the ancient sentry at the gate was an\nopen casement with some homely flowers in the window, from behind which\ngood-humoured girls' faces were peeping. They were watching the young\ntraveller dressed in black as he walked up gazing towards the castle,\nand the ebony attendant who followed the gentleman's steps also\naccoutred in mourning. So was he at the gate in mourning, and the girls\nwhen they came out had black ribbons.\n\nTo Harry's surprise, the old man accosted him by his name. \"You have had\na nice ride to Hexton, Master Harry, and the sorrel carried you well.\"\n\n\"I think you must be Lockwood,\" said Harry, with rather a tremulous\nvoice, holding out his hand to the old man. His grandfather had often\ntold him of Lockwood, and how he had accompanied the Colonel and the\nyoung Viscount in Marlborough's wars forty years ago. The veteran seemed\npuzzled by the mark of affection which Harry extended to him. The old\ndog gazed at the new-comer, and then went and put his head between his\nknees. \"I have heard of you often. How did you know my name?\"\n\n\"They say I forget most things,\" says the old man, with a smile; \"but\nI ain't so bad as that quite. Only this mornin', when you went out, my\ndarter says, 'Father, do you know why you have a black coat on?' 'In\ncourse I know why I have a black coat,' says I. 'My lord is dead. They\nsay 'twas a foul blow, and Master Frank is my lord now, and Master\nHarry'--why, what have you done since you've went out this morning? Why,\nyou have a-grow'd taller and changed your hair--though I know--I know\nyou.\"\n\nOne of the young women had tripped out by this time from the porter's\nlodge, and dropped the stranger a pretty curtsey. \"Grandfather sometimes\ndoes not recollect very well,\" she said, pointing to her head. \"Your\nhonour seems to have heard of Lockwood?\"\n\n\"And you, have you never heard of Colonel Francis Esmond?\"\n\n\"He was Captain and Major in Webb's Foot, and I was with him in two\ncampaigns, sure enough,\" cries Lockwood. \"Wasn't I, Ponto?\"\n\n\"The Colonel as married Viscountess Rachel, my late lord's mother? and\nwent to live amongst the Indians? We have heard of him. Sure we have his\npicture in our gallery, and hisself painted it.\"\n\n\"Went to live in Virginia, and died there seven years ago, and I am his\ngrandson.\"\n\n\"Lord, your honour! Why, your honour's skin's as white as mine,\" cries\nMolly. \"Grandfather, do you hear this? His honour is Colonel Esmond's\ngrandson that used to send you tobacco, and his honour have come all the\nway from Virginia.\"\n\n\"To see you, Lockwood,\" says the young man, \"and the family. I only set\nfoot on English ground yesterday, and my first visit is for home. I may\nsee the house, though the family are from home?\" Molly dared to say Mrs.\nBarker would let his honour see the house, and Harry Warrington made\nhis way across the court, seeming to know the place as well as if he had\nbeen born there, Miss Molly thought, who followed, accompanied by Mr.\nGumbo making her a profusion of polite bows and speeches.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. In which Harry has to pay for his Supper\n\n\nColonel Esmond's grandson rang for a while at his ancestors' house of\nCastlewood, before any one within seemed inclined to notice his summons.\nThe servant, who at length issued from the door, seemed to be very\nlittle affected by the announcement that the visitor was a relation of\nthe family. The family was away, and in their absence John cared very\nlittle for their relatives, but was eager to get back to his game at\ncards with Thomas in the window-seat. The housekeeper was busy getting\nready for my lord and my lady, who were expected that evening. Only by\nstrong entreaties could Harry gain leave to see my lady's sitting-room\nand the picture-room, where, sure enough, was a portrait of his\ngrandfather in periwig and breastplate, the counterpart of their picture\nin Virginia, and a likeness of his grandmother, as Lady Castlewood, in a\nyet earlier habit of Charles II.'s time; her neck bare, her fair golden\nhair waving over her shoulders in ringlets which he remembered to have\nseen snowy white. From the contemplation of these sights the sulky\nhousekeeper drove him. Her family was about to arrive. There was my lady\nthe Countess, and my lord and his brother, and the young ladies, and the\nBaroness, who was to have the state bedroom. Who was the Baroness? The\nBaroness Bernstein, the young ladies' aunt. Harry wrote down his name\non a paper from his own pocket-book, and laid it on a table in the hall.\n\"Henry Esmond Warrington, of Castlewood, in Virginia, arrived in England\nyesterday--staying at the Three Castles in the village.\" The lackeys\nrose up from their cards to open the door to him, in order to get their\n\"wails,\" and Gumbo quitted the bench at the gate, where he had been\ntalking with old Lockwood, the porter, who took Harry's guinea, hardly\nknowing the meaning of the gift. During the visit to the home of his\nfathers, Harry had only seen little Polly's countenance that was\nthe least unselfish or kindly: he walked away, not caring to own how\ndisappointed he was, and what a damp had been struck upon him by the\naspect of the place. They ought to have known him. Had any of them\nridden up to his house in Virginia, whether the master were present or\nabsent, the guests would have been made welcome, and, in sight of his\nancestors' hall, he had to go and ask for a dish of bacon and eggs at a\ncountry alehouse!\n\nAfter his dinner, he went to the bridge and sate on it, looking towards\nthe old house, behind which the sun was descending as the rooks came\ncawing home to their nests in the elms. His young fancy pictured to\nitself many of the ancestors of whom his mother and grandsire had told\nhim. He fancied knights and huntsmen crossing the ford;--cavaliers\nof King Charles's days; my Lord Castlewood, his grandmother's first\nhusband, riding out with hawk and hound. The recollection of his dearest\nlost brother came back to him as he indulged in these reveries, and\nsmote him with a pang of exceeding tenderness and longing, insomuch that\nthe young man hung his head and felt his sorrow renewed for the dear\nfriend and companion with whom, until of late, all his pleasures and\ngriefs had been shared. As he sate plunged in his own thoughts, which\nwere mingled up with the mechanical clinking of the blacksmith's forge\nhard by, the noises of the evening, the talk of the rooks, and the\ncalling of the birds round about--a couple of young men on horseback\ndashed over the bridge. One of them, with an oath, called him a fool,\nand told him to keep out of the way--the other, who fancied he might\nhave jostled the foot-passenger, and possibly might have sent him over\nthe parapet, pushed on more quickly when he reached the other side of\nthe water, calling likewise to Tom to come on; and the pair of young\ngentlemen were up the hill on their way to the house before Harry had\nrecovered himself from his surprise at their appearance, and wrath at\ntheir behaviour. In a minute or two, this advanced guard was followed by\ntwo livery servants on horseback, who scowled at the young traveller\non the bridge a true British welcome of Curse you, who are you? After\nthese, in a minute or two, came a coach-and-six, a ponderous vehicle\nhaving need of the horses which drew it, and containing three ladies, a\ncouple of maids, and an armed man on a seat behind the carriage. Three\nhandsome pale faces looked out at Harry Warrington as the carriage\npassed over the bridge, and did not return the salute which, recognising\nthe family arms, he gave it. The gentleman behind the carriage glared at\nhim haughtily. Harry felt terribly alone. He thought he would go back to\nCaptain Franks. The Rachel and her little tossing cabin seemed a cheery\nspot in comparison to that on which he stood. The inn-folks did not know\nhis name of Warrington. They told him that was my lady in the coach,\nwith her stepdaughter, my Lady Maria, and her daughter, my Lady Fanny;\nand the young gentleman in the grey frock was Mr. William, and he with\npowder on the chestnut was my lord. It was the latter had sworn the\nloudest, and called him a fool; and it was the grey frock which had\nnearly galloped Harry into the ditch.\n\nThe landlord of the Three Castles had shown Harry a bedchamber, but\nhe had refused to have his portmanteaux unpacked, thinking that, for a\ncertainty, the folks of the great house would invite him to theirs. One,\ntwo, three hours passed, and there came no invitation. Harry was fain\nto have his trunks open at last, and to call for his slippers and\ngown. Just before dark, about two hours after the arrival of the first\ncarriage, a second chariot with four horses had passed over the bridge,\nand a stout, high-coloured lady, with a very dark pair of eyes, had\nlooked hard at Mr. Warrington. That was the Baroness Bernstein, the\nlandlady said, my lord's aunt, and Harry remembered the first Lady\nCastlewood had come of a German family. Earl, and Countess, and\nBaroness, and postillions, and gentlemen, and horses, had all\ndisappeared behind the castle gate, and Harry was fain to go to bed at\nlast, in the most melancholy mood and with a cruel sense of neglect and\nloneliness in his young heart. He could not sleep, and, besides, ere\nlong, heard a prodigious noise, and cursing, and giggling, and screaming\nfrom my landlady's bar, which would have served to keep him awake.\n\nThen Gumbo's voice was heard without, remonstrating, \"You cannot go in,\nsar--my master asleep, sar!\" but a shrill voice, with many oaths,\nwhich Harry Warrington recognised, cursed Gumbo for a stupid, negro\nwoolly-pate, and he was pushed aside, giving entrance to a flood of\noaths into the room, and a young gentleman behind them.\n\n\"Beg your pardon, Cousin Warrington,\" cried the young blasphemer, \"are\nyou asleep? Beg your pardon for riding you over on the bridge. Didn't\nknow you--course shouldn't have done it--thought it was a lawyer with a\nwrit--dressed in black, you know. Gad! thought it was Nathan come to nab\nme.\" And Mr. William laughed incoherently. It was evident that he was\nexcited with liquor.\n\n\"You did me great honour to mistake me for a sheriff's-officer, cousin,\"\nsays Harry, with great gravity, sitting up in his tall nightcap.\n\n\"Gad! I thought it was Nathan, and was going to send you souse into the\nriver. But I ask your pardon. You see I had been drinking at the Bell at\nHexton, and the punch is good at the Bell at Hexton. Hullo! you, Davis!\na bowl of punch; d'you hear?\"\n\n\"I have had my share for to-night, cousin, and I should think you have,\"\nHarry continues, always in the dignified style.\n\n\"You want me to go, Cousin What's-your-name, I see,\" Mr. William said,\nwith gravity. \"You want me to go, and they want me to come, and I didn't\nwant to come. I said, I'd see him hanged first,--that's what I said. Why\nshould I trouble myself to come down all alone of an evening, and look\nafter a fellow I don't care a pin for? Zackly what I said. Zackly what\nCastlewood said. Why the devil should he go down? Castlewood says,\nand so said my lady, but the Baroness would have you. It's all the\nBaroness's doing, and if she says a thing, it must be done; so you must\njust get up and come.\" Mr. Esmond delivered these words with the most\namiable rapidity and indistinctness, running them into one another, and\ntacking about the room as he spoke. But the young Virginian was in\ngreat wrath. \"I tell you what, cousin,\" he cried, \"I won't move for the\nCountess, or for the Baroness, or for all the cousins in Castlewood.\"\nAnd when the landlord entered the chamber with the bowl of punch, which\nMr. Esmond had ordered, the young gentleman in bed called out fiercely\nto the host, to turn that sot out of the room.\n\n\"Sot, you little tobacconist! Sot, you Cherokee!\" screams out Mr.\nWilliam. \"Jump out of bed, and I'll drive my sword through your body.\nWhy didn't I do it to-day when I took you for a bailiff--a confounded\npettifogging bum-bailiff!\" And he went on screeching more oaths and\nincoherencies, until the landlord, the drawer, the hostler, and all the\nfolks of the kitchen were brought to lead him away. After which Harry\nWarrington closed his tent round him in sulky wrath, and, no doubt,\nfinally went fast to sleep.\n\n\nMy landlord was very much more obsequious on the next morning when he\nmet his young guest, having now fully learned his name and quality.\nOther messengers had come from the castle on the previous night to bring\nboth the young gentlemen home, and poor Mr. William, it appeared, had\nreturned in a wheelbarrow, being not altogether unaccustomed to that\nmode of conveyance. \"He never remembers nothin' about it the next day.\nHe is of a real kind nature, Mr. William,\" the landlord vowed, \"and\nthe men get crowns and half-crowns from him by saying that he beat them\novernight when he was in liquor. He's the devil when he's tipsy,\nMr. William, but when he is sober he is the very kindest of young\ngentlemen.\"\n\nAs nothing is unknown to writers of biographies of the present kind, it\nmay be as well to state what had occurred within the walls of Castlewood\nHouse, whilst Harry Warrington was without, awaiting some token of\nrecognition from his kinsmen. On their arrival at home the family\nhad found the paper on which the lad's name was inscribed, and his\nappearance occasioned a little domestic council. My Lord Castlewood\nsupposed that must have been the young gentleman whom they had seen on\nthe bridge, and as they had not drowned him they must invite him. Let a\nman go down with the proper messages, let a servant carry a note. Lady\nFanny thought it would be more civil if one of the brothers would go to\ntheir kinsman, especially considering the original greeting which\nthey had given. Lord Castlewood had not the slightest objection to his\nbrother William going--yes, William should go. Upon this Mr. William\nsaid (with a yet stronger expression) that he would be hanged if he\nwould go. Lady Maria thought the young gentleman whom they had remarked\nat the bridge was a pretty fellow enough. Castlewood is dreadfully dull,\nI am sure neither of my brothers do anything to make it amusing. He may\nbe vulgar--no doubt, he is vulgar--but let us see the American. Such was\nLady Maria's opinion. Lady Castlewood was neither for inviting nor for\nrefusing him, but for delaying. \"Wait till your aunt comes, children;\nperhaps the Baroness won't like to see the young man; at least, let us\nconsult her before we ask him.\" And so the hospitality to be offered by\nhis nearest kinsfolk to poor Harry Warrington remained yet in abeyance.\n\nAt length the equipage of the Baroness Bernstein made its appearance,\nand whatever doubt there might be as to the reception of the Virginian\nstranger, there was no lack of enthusiasm in this generous family\nregarding their wealthy and powerful kinswoman. The state-chamber had\nalready been prepared for her. The cook had arrived the previous day\nwith instructions to get ready a supper for her such as her ladyship\nliked. The table sparkled with old plate, and was set in the oak\ndining-room with the pictures of the family round the walls. There was\nthe late Viscount, his father, his mother, his sister--these two lovely\npictures. There was his predecessor by Vandyck, and his Viscountess.\nThere was Colonel Esmond, their relative in Virginia, about whose\ngrandson the ladies and gentlemen of the Esmond family showed such a\nvery moderate degree of sympathy.\n\nThe feast set before their aunt, the Baroness, was a very good one,\nand her ladyship enjoyed it. The supper occupied an hour or two, during\nwhich the whole Castlewood family were most attentive to their guest.\nThe Countess pressed all the good dishes upon her, of which she freely\npartook: the butler no sooner saw her glass empty than he filled it with\nchampagne: the young folks and their mother kept up the conversation,\nnot so much by talking, as by listening appropriately to their friend.\nShe was full of spirits and humour. She seemed to know everybody in\nEurope, and about those everybodies the wickedest stories. The Countess\nof Castlewood, ordinarily a very demure, severe woman, and a stickler\nfor the proprieties, smiled at the very worst of these anecdotes; the\ngirls looked at one another and laughed at the maternal signal; the boys\ngiggled and roared with especial delight at their sisters' confusion.\nThey also partook freely of the wine which the butler handed round, nor\ndid they, or their guest, disdain the bowl of smoking punch, which was\nlaid on the table after the supper. Many and many a night, the Baroness\nsaid, she had drunk at that table by her father's side. \"That was his\nplace,\" she pointed to the place where the Countess now sat. She saw\nnone of the old plate. That was all melted to pay his gambling debts.\nShe hoped, \"Young gentlemen, that you don't play.\"\n\n\"Never, on my word,\" says Castlewood.\n\n\"Never, 'pon honour,\" says Will--winking at his brother.\n\nThe Baroness was very glad to hear they were such good boys. Her face\ngrew redder with the punch; and she became voluble, might have been\nthought coarse, but that times were different, and those critics were\ninclined to be especially favourable.\n\nShe talked to the boys about their father, their grandfather--other men\nand women of the house. \"The only man of the family was that,\" she said,\npointing (with an arm that was yet beautifully round and white) towards\nthe picture of the military gentleman in the red coat and cuirass, and\ngreat black periwig.\n\n\"The Virginian? What is he good for? I always thought he was good for\nnothing but to cultivate tobacco and my grandmother,\" says my lord,\nlaughing.\n\nShe struck her hand upon the table with an energy that made the glasses\ndance. \"I say he was the best of you all. There never was one of the\nmale Esmonds that had more brains than a goose, except him. He was not\nfit for this wicked, selfish old world of ours, and he was right to go\nand live out of it. Where would your father have been, young people, but\nfor him?\"\n\n\"Was he particularly kind to our papa?\" says Lady Maria.\n\n\"Old stories, my dear Maria!\" cries the Countess. \"I am sure my dear\nEarl was very kind to him in giving him that great estate in Virginia.\"\n\n\"Since his brother's death, the lad who has been here to-day is heir to\nthat. Mr. Draper told me so! Peste! I don't know why my father gave up\nsuch a property.\"\n\n\"Who has been here to-day?\" asked the Baroness, highly excited.\n\n\"Harry Esmond Warrington, of Virginia,\" my lord answered: \"a lad whom\nWill nearly pitched into the river, and whom I pressed my lady the\nCountess to invite to stay here.\"\n\n\"You mean that one of the Virginian boys has been to Castlewood, and has\nnot been asked to stay here?\"\n\n\"There is but one of them, my dear creature,\" interposes the Earl. \"The\nother, you know, has just been----\"\n\n\"For shame, for shame!\"\n\n\"Oh! it ain't pleasant, I confess, to be se----\"\n\n\"Do you mean that a grandson of Henry Esmond, the master of this house,\nhas been here, and none of you have offered him hospitality?\"\n\n\"Since we didn't know it, and he is staying at the Castles?\" interposes\nWill.\n\n\"That he is staying at the Inn, and you are sitting there!\" cries the\nold lady. \"This is too bad--call somebody to me. Get me my hood--I'll go\nto the boy myself. Come with me this instant, my Lord Castlewood.\"\n\nThe young man rose up, evidently in wrath. \"Madame the Baroness of\nBernstein,\" he said, \"your ladyship is welcome to go; but as for me, I\ndon't choose to have such words as 'shameful' applied to my conduct. I\nwon't go and fetch the young gentleman from Virginia, and I propose to\nsit here and finish this bowl of punch. Eugene! Don't Eugene me, madam.\nI know her ladyship has a great deal of money, which you are desirous\nshould remain in our amiable family. You want it more than I do. Cringe\nfor it--I won't.\" And he sank back in his chair.\n\nThe Baroness looked at the family, who held their heads down, and then\nat my lord, but this time without any dislike. She leaned over to him\nand said rapidly in German, \"I had unright when I said the Colonel was\nthe only man of the family. Thou canst, if thou willest, Eugene.\" To\nwhich remark my lord only bowed.\n\n\"If you do not wish an old woman to go out at this hour of the night,\nlet William, at least, go and fetch his cousin,\" said the Baroness.\n\n\"The very thing I proposed to him.\"\n\n\"And so did we--and so did we!\" cried the daughters in a breath.\n\n\"I am sure, I only wanted the dear Baroness's consent!\" said their\nmother, \"and shall be charmed for my part to welcome our young\nrelative.\"\n\n\"Will! Put on thy pattens and get a lantern, and go fetch the\nVirginian,\" said my lord.\n\n\"And we will have another bowl of punch when he comes,\" says William,\nwho by this time had already had too much. And he went forth--how we\nhave seen; and how he had more punch; and how ill he succeeded in his\nembassy.\n\nThe worthy lady of Castlewood, as she caught sight of young Harry\nWarrington by the river-side, must have seen a very handsome and\ninteresting youth, and very likely had reasons of her own for not\ndesiring his presence in her family. All mothers are not eager to\nencourage the visits of interesting youths of nineteen in families where\nthere are virgins of twenty. If Harry's acres had been in Norfolk or\nDevon, in place of Virginia, no doubt the good Countess would have been\nrather more eager in her welcome. Had she wanted him she would have\ngiven him her hand readily enough. If our people of ton are selfish, at\nany rate they show they are selfish; and, being cold-hearted, at least\nhave no hypocrisy of affection.\n\nWhy should Lady Castlewood put herself out of the way to welcome the\nyoung stranger? Because he was friendless? Only a simpleton could ever\nimagine such a reason as that. People of fashion, like her ladyship, are\nfriendly to those who have plenty of friends. A poor lad, alone, from a\ndistant country, with only very moderate means, and those not as yet in\nhis own power, with uncouth manners very likely, and coarse provincial\nhabits; was a great lady called upon to put herself out of the way for\nsuch a youth? Allons donc! He was quite as well at the alehouse as at\nthe castle.\n\nThis, no doubt, was her ladyship's opinion, which her kinswoman, the\nBaroness Bernstein, who knew her perfectly well, entirely understood.\nThe Baroness, too, was a woman of the world, and, possibly, on occasion,\ncould be as selfish as any other person of fashion. She fully understood\nthe cause of the deference which all the Castlewood family showed to\nher--mother, and daughter, and sons,--and being a woman of great humour,\nplayed upon the dispositions of the various members of this family,\namused herself with their greedinesses, their humiliations, their\nartless respect for her money-box, and clinging attachment to her purse.\nThey were not very rich; Lady Castlewood's own money was settled on\nher children. The two elder had inherited nothing but flaxen heads from\ntheir German mother, and a pedigree of prodigious distinction. But\nthose who had money, and those who had none, were alike eager for the\nBaroness's; in this matter the rich are surely quite as greedy as the\npoor.\n\nSo if Madam Bernstein struck her hand on the table, and caused the\nglasses and the persons round it to tremble at her wrath, it was because\nshe was excited with plenty of punch and champagne, which her ladyship\nwas in the habit of taking freely, and because she may have had a\ngenerous impulse when generous wine warmed her blood, and felt indignant\nas she thought of the poor lad yonder, sitting friendless and lonely on\nthe outside of his ancestors' door; not because she was specially angry\nwith her relatives, who she knew would act precisely as they had done.\n\nThe exhibition of their selfishness and humiliation alike amused her,\nas did Castlewood's act of revolt. He was as selfish as the rest of the\nfamily, but not so mean; and, as he candidly stated, he could afford the\nluxury of a little independence, having tolerable estate to fall back\nupon.\n\nMadam Bernstein was an early woman, restless, resolute, extraordinarily\nactive for her age. She was up long before the languid Castlewood\nladies (just home from their London routs and balls) had quitted their\nfeather-beds, or jolly Will had slept off his various potations of\npunch. She was up, and pacing the green terraces that sparkled with the\nsweet morning dew, which lay twinkling, also, on a flowery wilderness\nof trim parterres, and on the crisp walls of the dark box hedges, under\nwhich marble fauns and dryads were cooling themselves, whilst a thousand\nbirds sang, the fountains plashed and glittered in the rosy morning\nsunshine, and the rooks cawed from the great wood.\n\nHad the well-remembered scene (for she had visited it often in\nchildhood) a freshness and charm for her? Did it recall days of\ninnocence and happiness, and did its calm beauty soothe or please,\nor awaken remorse in her heart? Her manner was more than ordinarily\naffectionate and gentle, when, presently, after pacing the walks for a\nhalf-hour, the person for whom she was waiting came to her. This was our\nyoung Virginian, to whom she had despatched an early billet by one of\nthe Lockwoods. The note was signed B. Bernstein, and informed Mr. Esmond\nWarrington that his relatives at Castlewood, and among them a dear\nfriend of his grandfather, were most anxious that he should come to\n\"Colonel Esmond's house in England.\" And now, accordingly, the lad made\nhis appearance, passing under the old Gothic doorway, tripping down the\nsteps from one garden terrace to another, hat in hand, his fair hair\nblowing from his flushed cheeks, his slim figure clad in mourning. The\nhandsome and modest looks, the comely face and person, of the young lad\npleased the lady. He made her a low bow which would have done credit\nto Versailles. She held out a little hand to him, and, as his own palm\nclosed over it, she laid the other hand softly on his ruffle. She looked\nvery kindly and affectionately in the honest blushing face.\n\n\"I knew your grandfather very well, Harry,\" she said. \"So you came\nyesterday to see his picture, and they turned you away, though you know\nthe house was his of right?\"\n\nHarry blushed very red. \"The servants did not know me. A young gentleman\ncame to me last night,\" he said, \"when I was peevish, and he, I fear,\nwas tipsy. I spoke rudely to my cousin, and would ask his pardon.\nYour ladyship knows that in Virginia our manners towards strangers are\ndifferent. I own I had expected another kind of welcome. Was it you,\nmadam, who sent my cousin to me last night?\"\n\n\"I sent him; but you will find your cousins most friendly to you to-day.\nYou must stay here. Lord Castlewood would have been with you this\nmorning, only I was so eager to see you. There will be breakfast in\nan hour; and meantime you must talk to me. We will send to the Three\nCastles for your servant and your baggage. Give me your arm. Stop, I\ndropped my cane when you came. You shall be my cane.\"\n\n\"My grandfather used to call us his crutches,\" said Harry.\n\n\"You are like him, though you are fair.\"\n\n\"You should have seen--you should have seen George,\" said the boy, and\nhis honest eyes welled with tears. The recollection of his brother,\nthe bitter pain of yesterday's humiliation, the affectionateness of the\npresent greeting--all, perhaps, contributed to soften the lad's heart.\nHe felt very tenderly and gratefully towards the lady who had received\nhim so warmly. He was utterly alone and miserable a minute since, and\nhere was a home and a kind hand held out to him. No wonder he clung to\nit. In the hour during which they talked together, the young fellow\nhad poured out a great deal of his honest heart to the kind new-found\nfriend; when the dial told breakfast-time, he wondered to think how much\nhe had told her. She took him to the breakfast-room; she presented\nhim to his aunt, the Countess, and bade him embrace his cousins. Lord\nCastlewood was frank and gracious enough. Honest Will had a headache,\nbut was utterly unconscious of the proceedings of the past night. The\nladies were very pleasant and polite, as ladies of their fashion know\nhow to be. How should Harry Warrington, a simple truth-telling lad\nfrom a distant colony, who had only yesterday put his foot upon English\nshore, know that my ladies, so smiling and easy in demeanour, were\nfurious against him, and aghast at the favour with which Madam Bernstein\nseemed to regard him?\n\nShe was folle of him, talked of no one else, scarce noticed the\nCastlewood young people, trotted with him over the house, and told him\nall its story, showed him the little room in the courtyard where his\ngrandfather used to sleep, and a cunning cupboard over the fireplace\nwhich had been made in the time of the Catholic persecutions; drove out\nwith him in the neighbouring country, and pointed out to him the most\nremarkable sites and houses, and had in return the whole of the young\nman's story.\n\nThis brief biography the kind reader will please to accept, not in\nthe precise words in which Mr. Harry Warrington delivered it to Madam\nBernstein, but in the form in which it has been cast in the Chapters\nnext ensuing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. The Esmonds in Virginia\n\n\nHenry Esmond, Esq., an office who had served with the rank of Colonel\nduring the wars of Queen Anne's reign, found himself, at its close,\ncompromised in certain attempts for the restoration of the Queen's\nfamily to the throne of these realms. Happily for itself, the nation\npreferred another dynasty; but some of the few opponents of the house\nof Hanover took refuge out of the three kingdoms, and amongst others,\nColonel Esmond was counselled by his friends to go abroad. As Mr. Esmond\nsincerely regretted the part which he had taken, and as the august\nPrince who came to rule over England was the most pacable of sovereigns,\nin a very little time the Colonel's friends found means to make his\npeace.\n\nMr. Esmond, it has been said, belonged to the noble English family which\ntakes its title from Castlewood, in the county of Hants; and it was\npretty generally known that King James II. and his son had offered the\ntitle of Marquis to Colonel Esmond and his father, and that the former\nmight have assumed the (Irish) peerage hereditary in his family, but\nfor an informality which he did not choose to set right. Tired of the\npolitical struggles in which he had been engaged, and annoyed by family\ncircumstances in Europe, he preferred to establish himself in Virginia,\nwhere he took possession of a large estate conferred by King Charles I.\nupon his ancestor. Here Mr. Esmond's daughter and grandsons were born,\nand his wife died. This lady, when she married him, was the widow of the\nColonel's kinsman, the unlucky Viscount Castlewood, killed in a duel by\nLord Mohun, at the close of King William's reign.\n\nMr. Esmond called his American house Castlewood, from the patrimonial\nhome in the old country. The whole usages of Virginia, indeed, were\nfondly modelled after the English customs. It was a loyal colony. The\nVirginians boasted that King Charles II. had been king in Virginia\nbefore he had been king in England. English king and English church were\nalike faithfully honoured there. The resident gentry were allied to good\nEnglish families. They held their heads above the Dutch traders of New\nYork, and the money-getting Roundheads of Pennsylvania and New England.\nNever were people less republican than those of the great province which\nwas soon to be foremost in the memorable revolt against the British\nCrown.\n\nThe gentry of Virginia dwelt on their great lands after a fashion almost\npatriarchal. For its rough cultivation, each estate had a multitude\nof hands--of purchased and assigned servants--who were subject to the\ncommand of the master. The land yielded their food, live stock, and\ngame. The great rivers swarmed with fish for the taking. From their\nbanks the passage home was clear. Their ships took the tobacco off their\nprivate wharves on the banks of the Potomac or the James river, and\ncarried it to London or Bristol,--bringing back English goods and\narticles of home manufacture in return for the only produce which the\nVirginian gentry chose to cultivate. Their hospitality was boundless.\nNo stranger was ever sent away from their gates. The gentry received one\nanother, and travelled to each other's houses, in a state almost feudal.\nThe question of Slavery was not born at the time of which we write. To\nbe the proprietor of black servants shocked the feelings of no Virginian\ngentleman; nor, in truth, was the despotism exercised over the negro\nrace generally a savage one. The food was plenty; the poor black people\nlazy and not unhappy. You might have preached negro emancipation to\nMadam Esmond of Castlewood as you might have told her to let the horses\nrun loose out of her stables; she had no doubt but that the whip and the\ncorn-bag were good for both.\n\nHer father may have thought otherwise, being of a sceptical turn on very\nmany points, but his doubts did not break forth in active denial, and\nhe was rather disaffected than rebellious. At one period, this gentleman\nhad taken a part in active life at home, and possibly might have been\neager to share its rewards; but in latter days he did not seem to care\nfor them. A something had occurred in his life, which had cast a tinge\nof melancholy over all his existence. He was not unhappy--to those about\nhim most kind--most affectionate, obsequious even to the women of\nhis family, whom be scarce ever contradicted; but there had been some\nbankruptcy of his heart, which his spirit never recovered. He submitted\nto life, rather than enjoyed it, and never was in better spirits than in\nhis last hours when he was going to lay it down.\n\nHaving lost his wife, his daughter took the management of the Colonel\nand his affairs; and he gave them up to her charge with an entire\nacquiescence. So that he had his books and his quiet, he cared for no\nmore. When company came to Castlewood, he entertained them handsomely,\nand was of a very pleasant, sarcastical turn. He was not in the least\nsorry when they went away.\n\n\"My love, I shall not be sorry to go myself,\" he said to his daughter,\n\"and you, though the most affectionate of daughters, will console\nyourself after a while. Why should I, who am so old, be romantic? You\nmay, who are still a young creature.\" This he said, not meaning all he\nsaid, for the lady whom he addressed was a matter-of-fact little person,\nwith very little romance in her nature.\n\nAfter fifteen years' residence upon his great Virginian estate, affairs\nprospered so well with the worthy proprietor, that he acquiesced in his\ndaughter's plans for the building of a mansion much grander and more\ndurable than the plain wooden edifice in which he had been content to\nlive, so that his heirs might have a habitation worthy of their noble\nname. Several of Madam Warrington's neighbours had built handsome houses\nfor themselves; perhaps it was her ambition to take rank in the country,\nwhich inspired this desire for improved quarters. Colonel Esmond, of\nCastlewood, neither cared for quarters nor for quarterings. But his\ndaughter had a very high opinion of the merit and antiquity of her\nlineage; and her sire, growing exquisitely calm and good-natured in his\nserene, declining years, humoured his child's peculiarities in an easy,\nbantering way,--nay, helped her with his antiquarian learning, which was\nnot inconsiderable, and with his skill in the art of painting, of which\nhe was a proficient. A knowledge of heraldry, a hundred years ago,\nformed part of the education of most noble ladies and gentlemen: during\nher visit to Europe, Miss Esmond had eagerly studied the family history\nand pedigrees, and returned thence to Virginia with a store of documents\nrelative to her family on which she relied with implicit gravity and\ncredence, and with the most edifying volumes then published in France\nand England, respecting the noble science. These works proved, to her\nperfect satisfaction, not only that the Esmonds were descended from\nnoble Norman warriors, who came into England along with their victorious\nchief, but from native English of royal dignity: and two magnificent\nheraldic trees, cunningly painted by the hand of the Colonel,\nrepresented the family springing from the Emperor Charlemagne on the\none hand, who was drawn in plate-armour, with his imperial mantle and\ndiadem, and on the other from Queen Boadicea, whom the Colonel insisted\nupon painting in the light costume of an ancient British queen, with\na prodigious gilded crown, a trifling mantle of furs, and a lovely\nsymmetrical person, tastefully tattooed with figures of a brilliant blue\ntint. From these two illustrious stocks the family-tree rose until\nit united in the thirteenth century somewhere in the person of the\nfortunate Esmond who claimed to spring from both.\n\nOf the Warrington family, into which she married, good Madam Rachel\nthought but little. She wrote herself Esmond Warrington, but was\nuniversally called Madam Esmond of Castlewood, when after her father's\ndecease she came to rule over that domain. It is even to be feared that\nquarrels for precedence in the colonial society occasionally disturbed\nher temper; for though her father had had a marquis's patent from King\nJames, which he had burned and disowned, she would frequently act as if\nthat document existed and was in full force. She considered the English\nEsmonds of an inferior dignity to her own branch; and as for the\ncolonial aristocracy, she made no scruple of asserting her superiority\nover the whole body of them. Hence quarrels and angry words, and even\na scuffle or two, as we gather from her notes, at the Governor's\nassemblies at Jamestown. Wherefore recall the memory of these squabbles?\nAre not the persons who engaged in them beyond the reach of quarrels\nnow, and has not the republic put an end to these social inequalities?\nEre the establishment of Independence, there was no more aristocratic\ncountry in the world than Virginia; so the Virginians, whose history\nwe have to narrate, were bred to have the fullest respect for the\ninstitutions of home, and the rightful king had not two more faithful\nlittle subjects than the young twins of Castlewood.\n\nWhen the boys' grandfather died, their mother, in great state,\nproclaimed her eldest son George her successor and heir of the estate;\nand Harry, George's younger brother by half an hour, was always enjoined\nto respect his senior. All the household was equally instructed to pay\nhim honour; the negroes, of whom there was a large and happy family, and\nthe assigned servants from Europe, whose lot was made as bearable as it\nmight be under the government of the lady of Castlewood. In the whole\nfamily there scarcely was a rebel save Mrs. Esmond's faithful friend and\ncompanion, Madam Mountain, and Harry's foster-mother, a faithful negro\nwoman, who never could be made to understand why her child should not be\nfirst, who was handsomer, and stronger, and cleverer than his brother,\nas she vowed; though, in truth, there was scarcely any difference in the\nbeauty, strength, or stature of the twins. In disposition, they were in\nmany points exceedingly unlike; but in feature they resembled each other\nso closely, that but for the colour of their hair it had been difficult\nto distinguish them. In their beds, and when their heads were covered\nwith those vast ribboned nightcaps which our great and little ancestors\nwore, it was scarcely possible for any but a nurse or mother to tell the\none from the other child.\n\nHowbeit alike in form, we have said that they differed in temper. The\nelder was peaceful, studious, and silent; the younger was warlike\nand noisy. He was quick at learning when he began, but very slow at\nbeginning. No threats of the ferule would provoke Harry to learn in\nan idle fit, or would prevent George from helping his brother in his\nlesson. Harry was of a strong military turn, drilled the little\nnegroes on the estate and caned them like a corporal, having many\ngood boxing-matches with them, and never bearing malice if he was\nworsted;--whereas George was sparing of blows and gentle with all about\nhim. As the custom in all families was, each of the boys had a special\nlittle servant assigned him; and it was a known fact that George,\nfinding his little wretch of a blackamoor asleep on his master's bed,\nsat down beside it and brushed the flies off the child with a feather\nfan, to the horror of old Gumbo, the child's father, who found his young\nmaster so engaged, and to the indignation of Madam Esmond, who ordered\nthe young negro off to the proper officer for a whipping. In vain George\nimplored and entreated--burst into passionate tears, and besought a\nremission of the sentence. His mother was inflexible regarding the young\nrebel's punishment, and the little negro went off beseeching his young\nmaster not to cry.\n\nA fierce quarrel between mother and son ensued out of this event. Her\nson would not be pacified. He said the punishment was a shame--a shame;\nthat he was the master of the boy, and no one--no, not his mother,--had\na right to touch him; that she might order him to be corrected, and that\nhe would suffer the punishment, as he and Harry often had, but no\none should lay a hand on his boy. Trembling with passionate rebellion\nagainst what he conceived the injustice of procedure, he vowed--actually\nshrieking out an oath, which shocked his fond mother and governor, who\nnever before heard such language from the usually gentle child--that on\nthe day he came of age he would set young Gumbo free--went to visit the\nchild in the slaves' quarters, and gave him one of his own toys.\n\nThe young black martyr was an impudent, lazy, saucy little personage,\nwho would be none the worse for a whipping, as the Colonel no doubt\nthought; for he acquiesced in the child's punishment when Madam Esmond\ninsisted upon it, and only laughed in his good-natured way when his\nindignant grandson called out,\n\n\"You let mamma rule you in everything, grandpapa.\"\n\n\"Why, so I do,\" says grandpapa. \"Rachel, my love, the way in which I am\npetticoat-ridden is so evident that even this baby has found it out.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you stand up like a man?\" says little Harry', who always\nwas ready to abet his brother.\n\nGrandpapa looked queerly.\n\n\"Because I like sitting down best, my dear,\" he said. \"I am an old\ngentleman, and standing fatigues me.\"\n\nOn account of a certain apish drollery and humour which exhibited itself\nin the lad, and a liking for some of the old man's pursuits, the first\nof the twins was the grandfather's favourite and companion, and would\nlaugh and talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, to whom\nthe younger had seldom a word to say. George was a demure studious boy,\nand his senses seemed to brighten up in the library, where his brother\nwas so gloomy. He knew the books before he could well-nigh carry them,\nand read in them long before he could understand them. Harry, on the\nother hand, was all alive in the stables or in the wood, eager for all\nparties of hunting and fishing, and promised to be a good sportsman from\na very early age. Their grandfather's ship was sailing for Europe once\nwhen the boys were children, and they were asked, what present Captain\nFranks should bring them back? George was divided between books and a\nfiddle; Harry instantly declared for a little gun: and Madam Warrington\n(as she then was called) was hurt that her elder boy should have low\ntastes, and applauded the younger's choice as more worthy of his name\nand lineage. \"Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice,\" she replied\nto her father, who tried to convince her that George had a right to his\nopinion, \"though I am sure you must have pretty nigh all the books in\nthe world already. But I never can desire--I may be wrong, but I never\ncan desire--that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond,\nshould be a fiddler.\"\n\n\"Should be a fiddlestick, my dear,\" the old Colonel answered.\n\n\"Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born\nhas a little kingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to\ninvade. Suppose George loves music? You can no more stop him than you\ncan order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing.\"\n\n\"A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the world\nwith a fiddle in his hand,\" says Mrs. Warrington, with a toss of her\nhead. \"I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington\nSchool, and only learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will,\ndear sir, I can not believe that this fiddling is work for persons of\nfashion.\"\n\n\"And King David who played the harp, my dear?\"\n\n\"I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak about him in that\nway,\" said Mrs. Warrington.\n\n\"Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration,\" the father replied\ngently. It was Colonel Esmond's nature, as he has owned in his own\nbiography, always to be led by a woman; and, his wife dead, he coaxed\nand dandled and spoiled his daughter; laughing at her caprices, but\nhumouring them; making a joke of her prejudices, but letting them have\ntheir way; indulging, and perhaps increasing, her natural imperiousness\nof character, though it was his maxim that we can't change dispositions\nby meddling, and only make hypocrites of our children by commanding them\nover-much.\n\nAt length the time came when Mr. Esmond was to have done with the\naffairs of this life, and he laid them down as if glad to be rid of\ntheir burthen. We must not ring in an opening history with tolling\nbells, or preface it with a funeral sermon. All who read and heard\nthat discourse, wondered where Parson Broadbent of Jamestown found the\neloquence and the Latin which adorned it. Perhaps Mr. Dempster knew, the\nboys' Scotch tutor, who corrected the proofs of the oration, which was\nprinted, by desire of his Excellency and many persons of honour, at Mr.\nFranklin's press in Philadelphia. No such sumptuous funeral had ever\nbeen seen in the country as that which Madam Esmond Warrington ordained\nfor her father, who would have been the first to smile at that pompous\ngrief. The little lads of Castlewood, almost smothered in black trains\nand hatbands, headed the procession, and were followed by my Lord\nFairfax from Greenway Court, by his Excellency the Governor of Virginia\n(with his coach), by the Randolphs, the Careys, the Harrisons, the\nWashingtons, and many others, for the whole county esteemed the departed\ngentleman, whose goodness, whose high talents, whose benevolence\nand unobtrusive urbanity had earned for him the just respect of his\nneighbours. When informed of the event, the family of Colonel Esmond's\nstepson, the Lord Castlewood of Hampshire in England, asked to be at the\ncharges of the marble slab which recorded the names and virtues of his\nlordship's mother and her husband; and after due time of preparation,\nthe monument was set up, exhibiting the arms and coronet of the Esmonds,\nsupported by a little chubby group of weeping cherubs, and reciting an\nepitaph which for once did not tell any falsehoods.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. In which Harry finds a New Relative\n\n\nKind friends, neighbours hospitable, cordial, even respectful,--an\nancient name, a large estate and a sufficient fortune, a comfortable\nhome, supplied with all the necessaries and many of the luxuries\nof life, and a troop of servants, black and white, eager to do your\nbidding; good health, affectionate children, and, let us humbly add, a\ngood cook, cellar, and library--ought not a person in the possession of\nall these benefits to be considered very decently happy? Madam Esmond\nWarrington possessed all these causes for happiness; she reminded\nherself of them daily in her morning and evening prayers. She was\nscrupulous in her devotions, good to the poor, never knowingly did\nanybody a wrong. Yonder I fancy her enthroned in her principality of\nCastlewood, the country gentlefolks paying her court, the sons dutiful\nto her, the domestics tumbling over each other's black heels to do her\nbidding, the poor whites grateful for her bounty and implicitly taking\nher doses when they were ill, the smaller gentry always acquiescing in\nher remarks, and for ever letting her win at backgammon--well, with all\nthese benefits, which are more sure than fate allots to most mortals, I\ndon't think the little Princess Pocahontas, as she was called, was to\nbe envied in the midst of her dominions. The Princess's husband, who\nwas cut off in early life, was as well perhaps out of the way. Had\nhe survived his marriage by many years, they would have quarrelled\nfiercely, or, he would infallibly have been a henpecked husband, of\nwhich sort there were a few specimens still extant a hundred years ago.\nThe truth is, little Madam Esmond never came near man or woman, but she\ntried to domineer over them. If people obeyed, she was their very good\nfriend; if they resisted, she fought and fought until she or they gave\nin. We are all miserable sinners that's a fact we acknowledge in public\nevery Sunday--no one announced it in a more clear resolute voice than\nthe little lady. As a mortal, she may have been in the wrong, of course;\nonly she very seldom acknowledged the circumstance to herself, and to\nothers never. Her father, in his old age, used to watch her freaks of\ndespotism, haughtiness, and stubbornness, and amuse himself with them.\nShe felt that his eye was upon her; his humour, of which quality she\npossessed little herself, subdued and bewildered her. But, the Colonel\ngone, there was nobody else whom she was disposed to obey,--and so I\nam rather glad for my part that I did not live a hundred years ago at\nCastlewood in Westmorland County in Virginia. I fancy, one would not\nhave been too happy there. Happy, who is happy? Was not there a serpent\nin Paradise itself? and if Eve had been perfectly happy beforehand,\nwould she have listened to him?\n\nThe management of the house of Castlewood had been in the hands of the\nactive little lady long before the Colonel slept the sleep of the just.\nShe now exercised a rigid supervision over the estate; dismissed\nColonel Esmond's English factor and employed a new one; built, improved,\nplanted, grew tobacco, appointed a new overseer, and imported a new\ntutor. Much as she loved her father, there were some of his maxims by\nwhich she was not inclined to abide. Had she not obeyed her papa and\nmamma during all their lives, as a dutiful daughter should? So ought\nall children to obey their parents, that their days might be long in\nthe land. The little Queen domineered over her little dominion, and the\nPrinces her sons were only her first subjects. Ere long she discontinued\nher husband's name of Warrington and went by the name of Madam Esmond\nin the country. Her family pretensions were known there. She had no\nobjection to talk of the Marquis's title which King James had given to\nher father and grandfather. Her papa's enormous magnanimity might induce\nhim to give up his titles and rank to the younger branch of the family,\nand to her half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his children; but she\nand her sons were of the elder branch of the Esmonds, and she expected\nthat they should be treated accordingly. Lord Fairfax was the only\ngentleman in the colony of Virginia to whom she would allow precedence\nover her. She insisted on the pas before all Lieutenant-Governors' and\nJudges' ladies; before the wife of the Governor of a colony she would,\nof course, yield as to the representative of the Sovereign. Accounts\nare extant, in the family papers and letters, of one or two tremendous\nbattles which Madam fought with the wives of colonial dignitaries upon\nthese questions of etiquette. As for her husband's family of Warrington,\nthey were as naught in her eyes. She married an English baronet's\nyounger son out of Norfolk to please her parents, whom she was always\nbound to obey. At the early age at which she married--a chit out of\na boarding-school--she would have jumped overboard if her papa had\nordered. \"And that is always the way with the Esmonds,\" she said.\n\nThe English Warringtons were not over-much flattered by the little\nAmerican Princess's behaviour to them, and her manner of speaking about\nthem. Once a year a solemn letter used to be addressed to the Warrington\nfamily, and to her noble kinsmen the Hampshire Esmonds; but a Judge's\nlady with whom Madam Esmond had quarrelled returning to England out of\nVirginia chanced to meet Lady Warrington, who was in London with\nSir Miles attending Parliament, and this person repeated some of the\nspeeches which the Princess Pocahontas was in the habit of making\nregarding her own and her husband's English relatives, and my Lady\nWarrington, I suppose, carried the story to my Lady Castlewood; after\nwhich the letters from Virginia were not answered, to the surprise and\nwrath of Madam Esmond, who speedily left off writing also.\n\nSo this good woman fell out with her neighbours, with her relatives,\nand, as it must be owned, with her sons also.\n\nA very early difference which occurred between the Queen and Crown\nPrince arose out of the dismissal of Mr. Dempster, the lad's tutor and\nthe late Colonel's secretary. In her father's life Madam Esmond bore him\nwith difficulty, or it should be rather said Mr. Dempster could scarce\nput up with her. She was jealous of books somehow, and thought your\nbookworms dangerous folks, insinuating bad principles. She had heard\nthat Dempster was a Jesuit in disguise, and the poor fellow was obliged\nto go build himself a cabin in a clearing, and teach school and practise\nmedicine where he could find customers among the sparse inhabitants of\nthe province. Master George vowed he never would forsake his old tutor,\nand kept his promise. Harry had always loved fishing and sporting better\nthan books, and he and the poor Dominie had never been on terms of close\nintimacy. Another cause of dispute presently ensued.\n\nBy the death of an aunt, and at his father's demise, the heir of Mr.\nGeorge Warrington became entitled to a sum of six thousand pounds, of\nwhich their mother was one of the trustees. She never could be made to\nunderstand that she was not the proprietor, and not merely the trustee\nof this money; and was furious with the London lawyer, the other\ntrustee, who refused to send it over at her order. \"Is not all I have\nmy sons'?\" she cried, \"and would I not cut myself into little pieces\nto serve them? With the six thousand pounds I would have bought Mr.\nBoulter's estate and negroes, which would have given us a good thousand\npounds a year, and made a handsome provision for my Harry.\" Her young\nfriend and neighbour, Mr. Washington of Mount Vernon, could not convince\nher that the London agent was right, and must not give up his trust\nexcept to those for whom he held it. Madam Esmond gave the London lawyer\na piece of her mind, and, I am sorry to say, informed Mr. Draper that\nhe was an insolent pettifogger, and deserved to be punished for\ndoubting the honour of a mother and an Esmond. It must be owned that the\nVirginian Princess had a temper of her own.\n\nGeorge Esmond, her firstborn, when this little matter was referred to\nhim, and his mother vehemently insisted that he should declare himself,\nwas of the opinion of Mr. Washington, and Mr. Draper, the London lawyer.\nThe boy said he could not help himself. He did not want the money: he\nwould be very glad to think otherwise, and to give the money to his\nmother, if he had the power. But Madam Esmond would not hear any of\nthese reasons. Feelings were her reasons. Here was a chance of making\nHarry's fortune--dear Harry, who was left with such a slender younger\nbrother's; pittance--and the wretches in London would not help him; his\nown brother, who inherited all her papa's estate, would not help him.\nTo think of a child of hers being so mean at fourteen year of age! etc.\netc. Add tears, scorn, frequent innuendo, long estrangement, bitter\noutbreak, passionate appeals to Heaven, and the like, and we may fancy\nthe widow's state of mind. Are there not beloved beings of the gentler\nsex who argue in the same way nowadays? The book of female logic is\nblotted all over with tears, and Justice in their courts is for ever in\na passion.\n\nThis occurrence set the widow resolutely saving for her younger son,\nfor whom, as in duty bound, she was eager to make a portion. The fine\nbuildings were stopped which the Colonel had commenced at Castlewood,\nwho had freighted ships from New York with Dutch bricks, and imported,\nat great charges, mantelpieces, carved cornice-work, sashes and glass,\ncarpets and costly upholstery from home. No more books were bought.\nThe agent had orders to discontinue sending wine. Madam Esmond deeply\nregretted the expense of a fine carriage which she had had from England,\nand only rode in it to church groaning in spirit, and crying to the sons\nopposite her, \"Harry, Harry! I wish I had put by the money for thee, my\npoor portionless child--three hundred and eighty guineas of ready money\nto Messieurs Hatchett!\"\n\n\"You will give me plenty while you live, and George will give me plenty\nwhen you die,\" says Harry, gaily.\n\n\"Not unless he changes in spirit, my dear,\" says the lady, with a\ngrim glance at her elder boy. \"Not unless Heaven softens his heart and\nteaches him charity, for which I pray day and night; as Mountain knows;\ndo you not, Mountain?\"\n\nMrs. Mountain, Ensign Mountain's widow, Madam Esmond's companion and\nmanager, who took the fourth seat in the family coach on these Sundays,\nsaid, \"Humph! I know you are always disturbing yourself and crying out\nabout this legacy, and I don't see that there is any need.\"\n\n\"Oh no! no need!\" cries the widow, rustling in her silks; \"of course I\nhave no need to be disturbed, because my eldest born is a disobedient\nson and an unkind brother--because he has an estate, and my poor Harry,\nbless him, but a mess of pottage.\"\n\nGeorge looked despairingly at his mother until he could see her no more\nfor eyes welled up with tears. \"I wish you would bless me, too, O my\nmother!\" he said, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Harry's\narms were in a moment round his brother's neck, and he kissed George a\nscore of times.\n\n\"Never mind, George. I know whether you are a good brother or not. Don't\nmind what she says. She don't mean it.\"\n\n\"I do mean it, child,\" cries the mother. Would to Heaven----\"\n\n\"HOLD YOUR TONGUE, I SAY\" roars out Harry. \"It's a shame to speak so to\nhim, ma'am.\"\n\n\"And so it is, Harry,\" says Mrs. Mountain, shaking his hand. \"You never\nsaid a truer word in your life.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Mountain, do you dare to set my children against me?\" cries the\nwidow. \"From this very day, madam----\"\n\n\"Turn me and my child into the street? Do,\" says Mrs. Mountain. \"That\nwill be a fine revenge because the English lawyer won't give you the\nboy's money. Find another companion who will tell you black is white,\nand flatter you: it is not my way, madam. When shall I go? I shan't be\nlong a-packing. I did not bring much into Castlewood House, and I shall\nnot take much out.\"\n\n\"Hush! the bells are ringing for church, Mountain. Let us try, if you\nplease, and compose ourselves,\" said the widow, and she looked with eyes\nof extreme affection, certainly at one--perhap at both--of her children.\nGeorge kept his head down, and Harry, who was near, got quite close to\nhim during the sermon, and sat with his arm round his brother's neck.\n\n\nHarry had proceeded in his narrative after his own fashion,\ninterspersing it with many youthful ejaculations, and answering a number\nof incidental questions asked by his listener. The old lady seemed never\ntired of hearing him. Her amiable hostess and her daughters came more\nthan once, to ask if she would ride, or walk, or take a dish of tea, or\nplay a game at cards; but all these amusements Madam Bernstein declined,\nsaying that she found infinite amusement in Harry's conversation.\nEspecially when any of the Castlewood family were present, she redoubled\nher caresses, insisted upon the lad speaking close to her ear, and would\ncall out to the others, \"Hush, my dears! I can't hear our cousin speak.\"\nAnd they would quit the room, striving still to look pleased.\n\n\"Are you my cousin, too?\" asked the honest boy. \"You see kinder than my\nother cousins.\"\n\nTheir talk took place in the wainscoted parlour, where the family had\ntaken their meals in ordinary for at least two centuries past, and\nwhich, as we have said, was hung with portraits of the race. Over\nMadam Bernstein's great chair was a Kneller, one of the most brilliant\npictures of the gallery, representing a young lady of three or four\nand twenty, in the easy flowing dress and loose robes of Queen Anne's\ntime--a hand on a cushion near her, a quantity of auburn hair parted off\na fair forehead, and flowing over pearly shoulders and a lovely neck.\nUnder this sprightly picture the lady sate with her knitting-needles.\n\nWhen Harry asked, \"Are you my cousin, too?\" she said, \"That picture is\nby Sir Godfrey, who thought himself the greatest painter in the world.\nBut he was not so good as Lely, who painted your grandmother--my--my\nLady Castlewood, Colonel Esmond's wife; nor he so good as Sir Anthony\nVan Dyck, who painted your great-grandfather, yonder--and who looks,\nHarry, a much finer gentleman than he was. Some of us are painted\nblacker than we are. Did you recognise your grandmother in that picture?\nShe had the loveliest fair hair and shape of any woman of her time.\"\n\n\"I fancied I knew the portrait from instinct, perhaps, and a certain\nlikeness to my mother.\"\n\n\"Did Mrs. Warrington--I beg her pardon, I think she calls herself Madam\nor my Lady Esmond now----?\"\n\n\"They call my mother so in our province,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Did she never tell you of another daughter her mother had in England,\nbefore she married your grandfather?\"\n\n\"She never spoke of one.\"\n\n\"Nor your grandfather?\"\n\n\"Never. But in his picture-books, which he constantly made for us\nchildren, he used to draw a head very like that above your ladyship.\nThat, and Viscount Francis, and King James III., he drew a score of\ntimes, I am sure.\"\n\n\"And the picture over me reminds you of no one, Harry?\"\n\n\"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"Ah! Here is a sermon!\" says the lady, with a sigh. \"Harry, that was my\nface once--yes, it was--and then I was called Beatrix Esmond. And your\nmother is my half-sister, child, and she has never even mentioned my\nname!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. Family Jars\n\n\nAs Harry Warrington related to his new-found relative the simple story\nof his adventures at home, no doubt Madam Bernstein, who possessed a\ngreat sense of humour and a remarkable knowledge of the world, formed\nher judgment respecting the persons and events described; and if her\nopinion was not in all respects favourable, what can be said but that\nmen and women are imperfect, and human life not entirely pleasant or\nprofitable? The court and city-bred lady recoiled at the mere thought of\nher American sister's countrified existence. Such a life would be rather\nwearisome to most city-bred ladies. But little Madam Warrington knew no\nbetter, and was satisfied with her life, as indeed she was with herself\nin general. Because you and I are epicures or dainty feeders, it does\nnot follow that Hodge is miserable with his homely meal of bread and\nbacon. Madam Warrington had a life of duties and employments which might\nbe humdrum, but at any rate were pleasant to her. She was a brisk little\nwoman of business, and all the affairs of her large estate came under\nher cognisance. No pie was baked at Castlewood but her little finger was\nin it. She set the maids to their spinning, she saw the kitchen wenches\nat their work, she trotted afield on her pony, and oversaw the overseers\nand the negro hands as they worked in the tobacco-and corn-fields. If a\nslave was ill, she would go to his quarters in any weather, and doctor\nhim with great resolution. She had a book full of receipts after the old\nfashion, and a closet where she distilled waters and compounded elixirs,\nand a medicine-chest which was the terror of her neighbours. They\ntrembled to be ill, lest the little lady should be upon them with her\ndecoctions and her pills.\n\nA hundred years back there were scarce any towns in Virginia; the\nestablishments of the gentry were little villages in which they\nand their vassals dwelt. Rachel Esmond ruled like a little queen in\nCastlewood; the princes, her neighbours, governed their estates round\nabout. Many of these were rather needy potentates, living plentifully\nbut in the roughest fashion, having numerous domestics whose liveries\nwere often ragged; keeping open houses, and turning away no stranger\nfrom their gates; proud, idle, fond of all sorts of field sports\nas became gentlemen of good lineage. The widow of Castlewood was as\nhospitable as her neighbours, and a better economist than most of\nthem. More than one, no doubt, would have had no objection to share her\nlife-interest in the estate, and supply the place of papa to her boys.\nBut where was the man good enough for a person of her ladyship's exalted\nbirth? There was a talk of making the Duke of Cumberland viceroy, or\neven king, over America. Madam Warrington's gossips laughed, and said\nshe was waiting for him. She remarked, with much gravity and dignity,\nthat persons of as high birth as his Royal Highness had made offers of\nalliance to the Esmond family.\n\nShe had, as lieutenant under her, an officer's widow who has been before\nnamed, and who had been Madam Esmond's companion at school, as her late\nhusband had been the regimental friend of the late Mr. Warrington. When\nthe English girls at the Kensington Academy, where Rachel Esmond had her\neducation, teased and tortured the little American stranger, and laughed\nat the princified airs which she gave herself from a very early age,\nFanny Parker defended and befriended her. They both married ensigns\nin Kingsley's. They became tenderly attached to each other. It was \"my\nFanny\" and \"my Rachel\" in the letters of the young ladies. Then, my\nFanny's husband died in sad out-at-elbowed circumstances, leaving\nno provision for his widow and her infant; and, in one of his annual\nvoyages, Captain Franks brought over Mrs. Mountain, in the Young Rachel,\nto Virginia.\n\nThere was plenty of room in Castlewood House, and Mrs. Mountain served\nto enliven the place. She played cards with the mistress: she had some\nknowledge of music, and could help the eldest boy in that way: she\nlaughed and was pleased with the guests: she saw to the strangers'\nchambers, and presided over the presses and the linen. She was a kind,\nbrisk, jolly-looking widow, and more than one unmarried gentleman of the\ncolony asked her to change her name for his own. But she chose to keep\nthat of Mountain, though, and perhaps because, it had brought her no\ngood fortune. One marriage was enough for her, she said. Mr. Mountain\nhad amiably spent her little fortune and his own. Her last trinkets went\nto pay his funeral; and, as long as Madam Warrington would keep her at\nCastlewood, she preferred a home without a husband to any which as\nyet had been offered to her in Virginia. The two ladies quarrelled\nplentifully; but they loved each other: they made up their differences:\nthey fell out again, to be reconciled presently. When either of the boys\nwas ill, each lady vied with the other in maternal tenderness and care.\nIn his last days and illness, Mrs. Mountain's cheerfulness and kindness\nhad been greatly appreciated by the Colonel, whose memory Madam\nWarrington regarded more than that of any living person. So that, year\nafter year, when Captain Franks would ask Mrs. Mountain, in his pleasant\nway, whether she was going back with him that voyage? she would decline,\nand say that she proposed to stay a year more.\n\nAnd when suitors came to Madam Warrington, as come they would, she would\nreceive their compliments and attentions kindly enough, and asked more\nthan one of these lovers whether it was Mrs. Mountain he came after? She\nwould use her best offices with Mountain. Fanny was the best creature,\nwas of a good English family, and would make any gentleman happy. Did\nthe Squire declare it was to her and not her dependant that he paid his\naddresses; she would make him her gravest curtsey, say that she really\nhad been utterly mistaken as to his views, and let him know that the\ndaughter of the Marquis of Esmond lived for her people and her sons,\nand did not propose to change her condition. Have we not read how Queen\nElizabeth was a perfectly sensible woman of business, and was pleased to\ninspire not only terror and awe, but love in the bosoms of her subjects?\nSo the little Virginian princess had her favourites, and accepted their\nflatteries, and grew tired of them, and was cruel or kind to them as\nsuited her wayward imperial humour. There was no amount of compliment\nwhich she would not graciously receive and take as her due. Her little\nfoible was so well known that the wags used to practise upon it.\nRattling Jack Firebrace of Henrico county had free quarters for months\nat Castlewood, and was a prime favourite with the lady there, because\nhe addressed verses to her which he stole out of the pocket-books. Tom\nHumbold of Spotsylvania wagered fifty hogsheads against five that he\nwould make her institute an order of knighthood, and won his wager.\n\nThe elder boy saw these freaks and oddities of his good mother's\ndisposition, and chafed and raged at them privately. From very early\ndays he revolted when flatteries and compliments were paid to the little\nlady, and strove to expose them with his juvenile satire; so that\nhis mother would say gravely, \"The Esmonds were always of a jealous\ndisposition, and my poor boy takes after my father and mother in this.\"\nGeorge hated Jack Firebrace and Tom Humbold, and all their like;\nwhereas Harry went out sporting with them, and fowling, and fishing, and\ncock-fighting, and enjoyed all the fun of the country.\n\nOne winter, after their first tutor had been dismissed, Madam Esmond\ntook them to Williamsburg, for such education as the schools and college\nthere afforded, and there it was the fortune of the family to listen to\nthe preaching of the famous Mr. Whitfield, who had come into Virginia,\nwhere the habits and preaching of the established clergy were not very\nedifying. Unlike many of the neighbouring provinces, Virginia was a\nChurch of England colony: the clergymen were paid by the State and had\nglebes allotted to them; and, there being no Church of England bishop as\nyet in America, the colonists were obliged to import their divines from\nthe mother-country. Such as came were not, naturally, of the very best\nor most eloquent kind of pastors. Noblemen's hangers-on, insolvent\nparsons who had quarrelled with justice or the bailiff, brought their\nstained cassocks into the colony in the hopes of finding a living there.\nNo wonder that Whitfield's great voice stirred those whom harmless Mr.\nBroadbent, the Williamsburg chaplain, never could awaken. At first the\nboys were as much excited as their mother by Mr. Whitfield: they sang\nhymns, and listened to him with fervour, and, could he have remained\nlong enough among them, Harry and George had both worn black coats\nprobably instead of epaulettes. The simple boys communicated their\nexperiences to one another, and were on the daily and nightly look-out\nfor the sacred \"call,\" in the hope or the possession of which such a\nvast multitude of Protestant England was thrilling at the time.\n\nBut Mr. Whitfield could not stay always with the little congregation of\nWilliamsburg. His mission was to enlighten the whole benighted people of\nthe Church, and from the East to the West to trumpet the truth and bid\nslumbering sinners awaken. However, he comforted the widow with precious\nletters, and promised to send her a tutor for her sons who should be\ncapable of teaching them not only profane learning, but of strengthening\nand confirming them in science much more precious.\n\nIn due course, a chosen vessel arrived from England. Young Mr. Ward had\na voice as loud as Mr. Whitfield's, and could talk almost as readily\nand for as long a time. Night and evening the hall sounded with his\nexhortations. The domestic negroes crept to the doors to listen to him.\nOther servants darkened the porch windows with their crisp heads to hear\nhim discourse. It was over the black sheep of the Castlewood flock that\nMr. Ward somehow had the most influence. These woolly lamblings were\nimmensely affected by his exhortations, and, when he gave out the hymn,\nthere was such a negro chorus about the house as might be heard across\nthe Potomac--such a chorus as would never have been heard in the\nColonel's time--for that worthy gentleman had a suspicion of all\ncassocks, and said he would never have any controversy with a clergyman\nbut upon backgammon. Where money was wanted for charitable purposes no\nman was more ready, and the good, easy Virginian clergyman, who loved\nbackgammon heartily, too, said that the worthy Colonel's charity must\ncover his other shortcomings.\n\nWard was a handsome young man. His preaching pleased Madam Esmond from\nthe first, and, I daresay, satisfied her as much as Mr. Whitfield's. Of\ncourse it cannot be the case at the present day when they are so finely\neducated, but women, a hundred years ago, were credulous, eager to\nadmire and believe, and apt to imagine all sorts of excellences in the\nobject of their admiration. For weeks, nay, months, Madam Esmond\nwas never tired of hearing Mr. Ward's great glib voice and voluble\ncommonplaces: and, according to her wont, she insisted that her\nneighbours should come and listen to him, and ordered them to be\nconverted. Her young favourite, Mr. Washington, she was especially\nanxious to influence; and again and again pressed him to come and\nstay at Castlewood and benefit by the spiritual advantages there to\nbe obtained. But that young gentleman found he had particular business\nwhich called him home or away from home, and always ordered his horse\nof evenings when the time was coming for Mr. Ward's exercises. And--what\nboys are just towards their pedagogue?--the twins grew speedily tired\nand even rebellious under their new teacher.\n\nThey found him a bad scholar, a dull fellow, and ill-bred to boot.\nGeorge knew much more Latin and Greek than his master, and caught him\nin perpetual blunders and false quantities. Harry, who could take much\ngreater liberties than were allowed to his elder brother, mimicked\nWard's manner of eating and talking, so that Mrs. Mountain and even\nMadam Esmond were forced to laugh, and little Fanny Mountain would crow\nwith delight. Madam Esmond would have found the fellow out for a vulgar\nquack but for her sons' opposition, which she, on her part, opposed with\nher own indomitable will. \"What matters whether he has more or less of\nprofane learning?\" she asked; \"in that which is most precious, Mr. W.\nis able to be a teacher to all of us. What if his manners are a little\nrough? Heaven does not choose its elect from among the great and\nwealthy. I wish you knew one book, children, as well as Mr. Ward does.\nIt is your wicked pride--the pride of all the Esmonds--which prevents\nyou from listening to him. Go down on your knees in your chamber and\npray to be corrected of that dreadful fault.\" Ward's discourse that\nevening was about Naaman the Syrian, and the pride he had in his native\nrivers of Abana and Pharpar, which he vainly imagined to be superior to\nthe healing waters of Jordan--the moral being, that he, Ward, was the\nkeeper and guardian of the undoubted waters of Jordan, and that the\nunhappy, conceited boys must go to perdition unless they came to him.\n\nGeorge now began to give way to a wicked sarcastic method, which,\nperhaps, he had inherited from his grandfather, and with which, when a\nquiet, skilful young person chooses to employ it, he can make a whole\nfamily uncomfortable. He took up Ward's pompous remarks and made jokes\nof them, so that that young divine chafed and almost choked over his\ngreat meals. He made Madam Esmond angry, and doubly so when he sent\noff Harry into fits of laughter. Her authority was defied, her officer\nscorned and insulted, her youngest child perverted, by the obstinate\nelder brother. She made a desperate and unhappy attempt to maintain her\npower.\n\nThe boys were fourteen years of age, Harry being taller and much more\nadvanced than his brother, who was delicate, and as yet almost childlike\nin stature and appearance. The baculine method was a quite common mode\nof argument in those days. Sergeants, schoolmasters, slave-overseers,\nused the cane freely. Our little boys had been horsed many a day by Mr.\nDempster, their Scotch tutor, in their grandfather's time; and Harry,\nespecially, had got to be quite accustomed to the practice, and made\nvery light of it. But, in the interregnum after Colonel Esmond's death,\nthe cane had been laid aside, and the young gentlemen of Castlewood\nhad been allowed to have their own way. Her own and her lieutenant's\nauthority being now spurned by the youthful rebels, the unfortunate\nmother thought of restoring it by means of coercion. She took counsel\nof Mr. Ward. That athletic young pedagogue could easily find chapter and\nverse to warrant the course which he wished to pursue--in fact, there\nwas no doubt about the wholesomeness of the practice in those clays. He\nhad begun by flattering the boys, finding a good berth and snug quarters\nat Castlewood, and hoping to remain there.\n\nBut they laughed at his flattery, they scorned his bad manners, they\nyawned soon at his sermons; the more their mother favoured him, the more\nthey disliked him; and so the tutor and the pupils cordially hated each\nother. Mrs. Mountain, who was the boys' friend, especially George's\nfriend, whom she thought unjustly treated by his mother, warned the lads\nto be prudent, and that some conspiracy was hatching against them. \"Ward\nis more obsequious than ever to your mamma. It turns my stomach, it\ndoes, to hear him flatter, and to see him gobble--the odious wretch! You\nmust be on your guard, my poor boys--you must learn your lessons, and\nnot anger your tutor. A mischief will come, I know it will. Your mamma\nwas talking about you to Mr. Washington the other day, when I came into\nthe room. I don't like that Major Washington, you know I don't. Don't\nsay--O Mounty! Master Harry. You always stand up for your friends, you\ndo. The Major is very handsome and tall, and he may be very good, but he\nis much too old a young man for me. Bless you, my dears, the quantity\nof wild oats your father sowed and my own poor Mountain when they were\nensigns in Kingsley's, would fill sacks full! Show me Mr. Washington's\nwild oats, I say--not a grain! Well, I happened to step in last Tuesday,\nwhen he was here with your mamma; and I am sure they were talking about\nyou, for he said, 'Discipline is discipline, and must be preserved.\nThere can be but one command in a house, ma'am, and you must be the\nmistress of yours.'\"\n\n\"The very words he used to me,\" cries Harry. \"He told me that he did not\nlike to meddle with other folks' affairs, but that our mother was very\nangry, dangerously angry, he said, and he begged me to obey Mr. Ward,\nand specially to press George to do so.\"\n\n\"Let him manage his own house, not mine,\" says George, very haughtily.\nAnd the caution, far from benefiting him, only rendered the lad more\nsupercilious and refractory.\n\nOn the next day the storm broke, and vengeance fell on the little\nrebel's head. Words passed between George and Mr. Ward during the\nmorning study. The boy was quite insubordinate and unjust: even his\nfaithful brother cried out, and owned that he was in the wrong. Mr. Ward\nkept his temper--to compress, bottle up, cork down, and prevent your\nanger from present furious explosion, is called keeping your temper--and\nsaid he should speak upon this business to Madam Esmond. When the family\nmet at dinner, Mr. Ward requested her ladyship to stay, and, temperately\nenough, laid the subject of dispute before her.\n\nHe asked Master Harry to confirm what he had said: and poor Harry was\nobliged to admit all the dominie's statements.\n\nGeorge, standing under his grandfather's portrait by the chimney, said\nhaughtily that what Mr. Ward had said was perfectly correct.\n\n\"To be a tutor to such a pupil is absurd,\" said Mr. Ward, making a long\nspeech, interspersed with many of his usual Scripture phrases, at each\nof which, as they occurred, that wicked young George smiled, and pished\nscornfully, and at length Ward ended by asking her honour's leave to\nretire.\n\n\"Not before you have punished this wicked and disobedient child,\" said\nMadam Esmond, who had been gathering anger during Ward's harangue, and\nespecially at her son's behaviour.\n\n\"Punish!\" says George.\n\n\"Yes, sir, punish! If means of love and entreaty fail, as they have with\nyour proud heart, other means must be found to bring you to obedience.\nI punish you now, rebellious boy, to guard you from greater punishment\nhereafter. The discipline of this family must be maintained. There can\nbe but one command in a house, and I must be the mistress of mine. You\nwill punish this refractory boy, Mr. Ward, as we have agreed that you\nshould do, and if there is the least resistance on his part, my overseer\nand servants will lend you aid.\"\n\nIn some such words the widow no doubt must have spoken, but with many\nvehement Scriptural allusions, which it does not become this\nchronicler to copy. To be for ever applying to the Sacred Oracles, and\naccommodating their sentences to your purpose--to be for ever taking\nHeaven into your confidence about your private affairs, and\npassionately calling for its interference in your family quarrels and\ndifficulties--to be so familiar with its designs and schemes as to be\nable to threaten your neighbour with its thunders, and to know precisely\nits intentions regarding him and others who differ from your infallible\nopinion--this was the schooling which our simple widow had received from\nher impetuous young spiritual guide, and I doubt whether it brought her\nmuch comfort.\n\nIn the midst of his mother's harangue, in spite of it, perhaps, George\nEsmond felt he had been wrong. \"There can be but one command in the\nhouse, and you must be mistress--I know who said those words before\nyou,\" George said, slowly, and looking very white--\"and--and I know,\nmother, that I have acted wrongly to Mr. Ward.\"\n\n\"He owns it! He asks pardon!\" cries Harry. \"That's right, George! That's\nenough: isn't it?\"\n\n\"No, it is not enough!\" cried the little woman. \"The disobedient boy\nmust pay the penalty of his disobedience. When I was headstrong, as I\nsometimes was as a child before my spirit was changed and humbled, my\nmamma punished me, and I submitted. So must George. I desire you will do\nyour duty, Mr. Ward.\"\n\n\"Stop, mother!--you don't quite know what you are doing,\" George said,\nexceedingly agitated.\n\n\"I know that he who spares the rod spoils the child, ungrateful boy!\"\nsays Madam Esmond, with more references of the same nature, which George\nheard, looking very pale and desperate.\n\nUpon the mantelpiece, under the Colonel's portrait, stood a china\ncup, by which the widow set great store, as her father had always been\naccustomed to drink from it. George suddenly took it, and a strange\nsmile passed over his pale face.\n\n\"Stay one minute. Don't go away yet,\" he cried to his mother, who was\nleaving the room. \"You--you are very fond of this cup, mother?\"--and\nHarry looked at him, wondering. \"If I broke it, it could never be\nmended, could it? All the tinkers' rivets would not make it a whole cup\nagain. My dear old grandpapa's cup! I have been wrong. Mr. Ward, I ask\npardon. I will try and amend.\"\n\nThe widow looked at her son indignantly, almost scornfully. \"I thought,\"\nshe said, \"I thought an Esmond had been more of a man than to be afraid,\nand--\" here she gave a little scream as Harry uttered an exclamation,\nand dashed forward with his hands stretched out towards his brother.\n\nGeorge, after looking at the cup, raised it, opened his hand, and let it\nfall on the marble slab below him. Harry had tried in vain to catch it.\n\n\"It is too late, Hal,\" George said. \"You will never mend that\nagain--never. Now, mother, I am ready, as it is your wish. Will you come\nand see whether I am afraid? Mr. Ward, I am your servant. Your servant?\nYour slave! And the next time I meet Mr. Washington, madam, I will thank\nhim for the advice which he gave you.\"\n\n\"I say, do your duty, sir!\" cried Mrs. Esmond, stamping her little foot.\nAnd George, making a low bow to Mr. Ward, begged him to go first out of\nthe room to the study.\n\n\"Stop! For God's sake, mother, stop!\" cried poor Hal. But passion was\nboiling in the little woman's heart, and she would not hear the boy's\npetition. \"You only abet him, sir!\" she cried.--\"If I had to do it\nmyself, it should be done!\" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in his\ncountenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. Ward and his\nbrother had just issued.\n\nThe widow sank down on a great chair near it, and sat a while vacantly\nlooking at the fragments of the broken cup. Then she inclined her head\ntowards the door--one of half a dozen of carved mahogany which the\nColonel had brought from Europe. For a while there was silence: then a\nloud outcry, which made the poor mother start.\n\nIn another minute Mr. Ward came out bleeding, from a great wound on his\nhead, and behind him Harry, with flaring eyes, and brandishing a little\ncouteau-de-chasse of his grandfather, which hung, with others of the\nColonel's weapons, on the library wall.\n\n\"I don't care. I did it,\" says Harry. \"I couldn't see this fellow strike\nmy brother; and, as he lifted his hand, I flung the great ruler at him.\nI couldn't help it. I won't bear it; and, if one lifts a hand to me or\nmy brother, I'll have his life,\" shouts Harry, brandishing the hanger.\n\nThe widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked at the young\nchampion and his victim. She must have suffered terribly during the few\nminutes of the boys' absence; and the stripes which she imagined had\nbeen inflicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed\nto take both boys to it. She was not angry now. Very likely she was\ndelighted with the thought of the younger's prowess and generosity.\n\"You are a very naughty disobedient child,\" she said, in an exceedingly\npeaceable voice. \"My poor Mr. Ward! What a rebel, to strike you! Papa's\ngreat ebony ruler, was it? Lay down that hanger, child. 'Twas General\nWebb gave it to my papa after the siege of Lille. Let me bathe your\nwound, my good Mr. Ward, and thank Heaven it was no worse. Mountain!\nGo fetch me some court-plaster out of the middle drawer in the japan\ncabinet. Here comes George. Put on your coat and waistcoat, child! You\nwere going to take your punishment, sir, and that is sufficient. Ask\npardon, Harry, of good Mr. Ward, for your wicked rebellious spirit,--I\ndo, with all my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionate\nnature, child--and pray to be forgiven. My son, O my son!\" Here, with a\nburst of tears which she could no longer control, the little woman threw\nherself on the neck of her eldest-born; whilst Harry, laying the hanger\ndown, went up very feebly to Mr. Ward, and said, \"Indeed, I ask your\npardon, sir. I couldn't help it; on my honour I couldn't; nor bear to\nsee my brother struck.\"\n\nThe widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked up at George's\npale face. In reply to her eager caresses, he coldly kissed her on the\nforehead, and separated from her. \"You meant for the best, mother,\" he\nsaid, \"and I was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king's\nhorses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There--put the fair side\noutwards on the mantelpiece, and the wound will not show.\"\n\nAgain Madam Esmond looked at the lad, as he placed the fragments of the\npoor cup on the ledge where it had always been used to stand. Her power\nover him was gone. He had dominated her. She was not sorry for the\ndefeat; for women like not only to conquer, but to be conquered; and\nfrom that day the young gentleman was master at Castlewood. His mother\nadmired him as he went up to Harry, graciously and condescendingly gave\nHal his hand, and said, \"Thank you, brother!\" as if he were a prince,\nand Harry a general who had helped him in a great battle.\n\nThen George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still piteously bathing his\neye and forehead in the water. \"I ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir,\"\nGeorge said, in great state. \"You see, though we are very young, we\nare gentlemen, and cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should\nhave submitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no longer\nentertains it.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?\" says Mr. Ward; \"who is to\nrepair the insult done to me?\"\n\n\"We are very young,\" says George, with another of his old-fashioned\nbows. \"We shall be fifteen soon. Any compensation that is usual amongst\ngentlemen\"\n\n\"This, sir, to a minister of the Word!\" bawls out Ward, starting up,\nand who knew perfectly well the lads' skill in fence, having a score of\ntimes been foiled by the pair of them.\n\n\"You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might like to be considered\nas a gentleman. We did not know.\"\n\n\"A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!\" says Ward, glaring furiously, and\nclenching his great fists.\n\n\"Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you forgive?\" says Harry. \"If\nyou don't forgive, why don't you fight? That's what I call the horns of\na dilemma;\" and he laughed his frank, jolly laugh.\n\n\nBut this was nothing to the laugh a few days afterwards, when, the\nquarrel having been patched up, along with poor Mr. Ward's eye, the\nunlucky tutor was holding forth according to his custom. He tried to\npreach the boys into respect for him, to reawaken the enthusiasm which\nthe congregation had felt for him; he wrestled with their manifest\nindifference, he implored Heaven to warm their cold hearts again, and to\nlift up those who were falling back. All was in vain. The widow wept no\nmore at his harangues, was no longer excited by his loudest tropes and\nsimiles, nor appeared to be much frightened by the very hottest menaces\nwith which he peppered his discourse. Nay, she pleaded headache, and\nwould absent herself of an evening, on which occasion the remainder of\nthe little congregation was very cold indeed. One day, then, Ward,\nstill making desperate efforts to get back his despised authority, was\npreaching on the beauty of subordination, the present lax spirit of the\nage, and the necessity of obeying our spiritual and temporal rulers.\n\"For why, my dear friends,\" he nobly asked (he was in the habit of\nasking immensely dull questions, and straightway answering them with\ncorresponding platitudes), \"why are governors appointed, but that we\nshould be governed? Why are tutors engaged, but that children should be\ntaught?\" (here a look at the boys). \"Why are rulers----\" Here he paused,\nlooking with a sad, puzzled face at the young gentlemen. He saw in their\ncountenances the double meaning of the unlucky word he had uttered,\nand stammered, and thumped the table with his fist. \"Why, I say, are\nrulers----\"\n\n\"Rulers,\" says George, looking at Harry.\n\n\"Rulers!\" says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where the poor tutor\nstill bore marks of the late scuffle. Rulers, o-ho! It was too much. The\nboys burst out in an explosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who was full\nof fun, could not help joining in the chorus; and little Fanny, who had\nalways behaved very demurely and silently at these ceremonies, crowed\nagain, and clapped her little hands at the others laughing, not in the\nleast knowing the reason why.\n\nThis could not be borne. Ward shut down the book before him; in a few\nangry, but eloquent and manly words, said he would speak no more in that\nplace; and left Castlewood not in the least regretted by Madam Esmond,\nwho had doted on him three months before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. The Virginians begin to see the World\n\n\nAfter the departure of her unfortunate spiritual adviser and chaplain,\nMadam Esmond and her son seemed to be quite reconciled: but although\nGeorge never spoke of the quarrel with his mother, it must have weighed\nupon the boy's mind very painfully, for he had a fever soon after the\nlast recounted domestic occurrences, during which illness his brain\nonce or twice wandered, when he shrieked out, \"Broken! Broken! It never,\nnever can be mended!\" to the silent terror of his mother, who sate\nwatching the poor child as he tossed wakeful upon his midnight bed.\nHis malady defied her skill, and increased in spite of all the nostrums\nwhich the good widow kept in her closet and administered so freely to\nher people. She had to undergo another humiliation, and one day little\nMr. Dempster beheld her at his door on horseback. She had ridden through\nthe snow on her pony, to implore him to give his aid to her poor boy. \"I\nshall bury my resentment, madam,\" said he, \"as your ladyship buried your\npride. Please God, I maybe time enough to help my dear young pupil!\" So\nhe put up his lancet, and his little provision of medicaments; called\nhis only negro-boy after him, shut up his lonely hut, and once more\nreturned to Castlewood. That night and for some days afterwards it\nseemed very likely that poor Harry would become heir of Castlewood; but\nby Mr. Dempster's skill the fever was got over, the intermittent attacks\ndiminished in intensity, and George was restored almost to health again.\nA change of air, a voyage even to England, was recommended, but the\nwidow had quarrelled with her children's relatives there, and owned with\ncontrition that she had been too hasty. A journey to the north and east\nwas determined on, and the two young gentlemen, with Mr. Dempster as\ntheir tutor, and a couple of servants to attend them, took a voyage to\nNew York, and thence up the beautiful Hudson river to Albany, where they\nwere received by the first gentry of the province, and thence into the\nFrench provinces, where they had the best recommendations, and were\nhospitably entertained by the French gentry. Harry camped with the\nIndians, and took furs and shot bears. George, who never cared for\nfield-sports, and whose health was still delicate, was a special\nfavourite with the French ladies, who were accustomed to see very few\nyoung English gentlemen speaking the French language so readily as our\nyoung gentlemen. George especially perfected his accent so as to be able\nto pass for a Frenchman. He had the bel air completely, every person\nallowed. He danced the minuet elegantly. He learned the latest imported\nFrench catches and songs, and played them beautifully on his violin,\nand would have sung them too but that his voice broke at this time, and\nchanged from treble to bass; and, to the envy of poor Harry, who was\nabsent on a bear-hunt, he even had an affair of honour with a young\nensign of the regiment of Auvergne, the Chevalier de la Jabotiere, whom\nhe pinked in the shoulder, and with whom he afterwards swore an eternal\nfriendship. Madame de Mouchy, the superintendent's lady, said the mother\nwas blest who had such a son, and wrote a complimentary letter to Madam\nEsmond upon Mr. George's behaviour. I fear, Mr. Whitfield would not\nhave been over-pleased with the widow's elation on hearing of her son's\nprowess.\n\nWhen the lads returned home at the end of ten delightful months, their\nmother was surprised at their growth and improvement. George especially\nwas so grown as to come up to his younger-born brother. The boys could\nhardly be distinguished one from another, especially when their hair was\npowdered; but that ceremony being too cumbrous for country life, each\nof the gentlemen commonly wore his own hair, George his raven black, and\nHarry his light locks tied with a ribbon.\n\nThe reader who has been so kind as to look over the first pages of the\nlad's simple biography, must have observed that Mr. George Esmond was\nof a jealous and suspicious disposition, most generous and gentle and\nincapable of an untruth, and though too magnanimous to revenge, almost\nincapable of forgiving any injury. George left home with no goodwill\ntowards an honourable gentleman, whose name afterwards became one of the\nmost famous in the world; and he returned from his journey not in the\nleast altered in his opinion of his mother's and grandfather's friend.\nMr. Washington, though then but just of age, looked and felt much older.\nHe always exhibited an extraordinary simplicity and gravity; he had\nmanaged his mother's and his family's affairs from a very early age, and\nwas trusted by all his friends and the gentry of his county more than\npersons twice his senior.\n\nMrs. Mountain, Madam Esmond's friend and companion, who dearly loved the\ntwo boys and her patroness, in spite of many quarrels with the latter,\nand daily threats of parting, was a most amusing, droll letter-writer,\nand used to write to the two boys on their travels. Now, Mrs. Mountain\nwas of a jealous turn likewise; especially she had a great turn for\nmatch-making, and fancied that everybody had a design to marry everybody\nelse. There scarce came an unmarried man to Castlewood but Mountain\nimagined the gentleman had an eye towards the mistress of the mansion.\nShe was positive that odious Mr. Ward intended to make love to\nthe widow, and pretty sure the latter liked him. She knew that Mr.\nWashington wanted to be married, was certain that such a shrewd young\ngentleman would look out for a rich wife, and, as for the differences of\nages, what matter that the Major (major was his rank in the militia)\nwas fifteen years younger than Madam Esmond? They were used to such\nmarriages in the family; my lady her mother was how many years older\nthan the Colonel when she married him?--When she married him and was so\njealous that she never would let the poor Colonel out of her sight.\nThe poor Colonel! after his wife, he had been henpecked by his little\ndaughter. And she would take after her mother, and marry again, be\nsure of that. Madam was a little chit of a woman, not five feet in her\nhighest headdress and shoes, and Mr. Washington a great tall man of\nsix feet two. Great tall men always married little chits of women:\ntherefore, Mr. W. must be looking after the widow. What could be more\nclear than the deduction?\n\nShe communicated these sage opinions to her boy, as she called George,\nwho begged her, for Heaven's sake, to hold her tongue. This she said she\ncould do, but she could not keep her eyes always shut; and she narrated\na hundred circumstances which had occurred in the young gentleman's\nabsence, and which tended, as she thought, to confirm her notions. Had\nMountain imparted these pretty suspicions to his brother? George asked\nsternly. No. George was her boy; Harry was his mother's boy. \"She likes\nhim best, and I like you best, George,\" cries Mountain. \"Besides, if I\nwere to speak to him, he would tell your mother in a minute. Poor Harry\ncan keep nothing quiet, and then there would be a pretty quarrel between\nMadam and me!\"\n\n\"I beg you to keep this quiet, Mountain,\" said Mr. George, with great\ndignity, \"or you and I shall quarrel too. Neither to me nor to any one\nelse in the world must you mention such an absurd suspicion.\"\n\nAbsurd! Why absurd? Mr. Washington was constantly with the widow. His\nname was forever in her mouth. She was never tired of pointing out his\nvirtues and examples to her sons. She consulted him on every question\nrespecting her estate and its management. She never bought a horse\nor sold a barrel of tobacco without his opinion. There was a room at\nCastlewood regularly called Mr. Washington's room. \"He actually leaves\nhis clothes here and his portmanteau when he goes away. Ah! George,\nGeorge! One day will come when he won't go away,\" groaned Mountain, who,\nof course, always returned to the subject of which she was forbidden\nto speak. Meanwhile Mr. George adopted towards his mother's favourite a\nfrigid courtesy, at which the honest gentleman chafed but did not care\nto remonstrate, or a stinging sarcasm, which he would break through as\nhe would burst through so many brambles on those hunting excursions\nin which he and Harry Warrington rode so constantly together; whilst\nGeorge, retreating to his tents, read mathematics, and French, and\nLatin, and sulked in his book-room more and more lonely.\n\nHarry was away from home with some other sporting friends (it is to be\nfeared the young gentleman's acquaintances were not all as eligible as\nMr. Washington), when the latter came to pay a visit at Castlewood. He\nwas so peculiarly tender and kind to the mistress there, and received by\nher with such special cordiality, that George Warrington's jealousy had\nwell-nigh broken out in open rupture. But the visit was one of adieu, as\nit appeared.\n\nMajor Washington was going on a long and dangerous journey, quite to the\nwestern Virginia frontier and beyond it. The French had been for some\ntime past making inroads into our territory. The government at home,\nas well as those of Virginia and Pennsylvania, were alarmed at this\naggressive spirit of the Lords of Canada and Louisiana. Some of our\nsettlers had already been driven from their holdings by Frenchmen in\narms, and the governors of the British provinces were desirous to stop\ntheir incursions, or at any rate to protest against their invasion.\n\nWe chose to hold our American colonies by a law that was at least\nconvenient for its framers. The maxim was, that whoever possessed the\ncoast had a right to all the territory inland as far as the Pacific; so\nthat the British charters only laid down the limits of the colonies from\nnorth to south, leaving them quite free from east to west. The French,\nmeanwhile, had their colonies to the north and south, and aimed at\nconnecting them by the Mississippi and the St. Lawrence and the great\nintermediate lakes and waters lying to the westward of the British\npossessions. In the year 1748, though peace was signed between the\ntwo European kingdoms, the colonial question remained unsettled, to be\nopened again when either party should be strong enough to urge it. In\nthe year 1753, it came to an issue, on the Ohio river, where the British\nand French settlers met. To be sure, there existed other people besides\nFrench and British, who thought they had a title to the territory about\nwhich the children of their White Fathers were battling, namely, the\nnative Indians and proprietors of the soil. But the logicians of St.\nJames's and Versailles wisely chose to consider the matter in dispute\nas a European and not a Red-man's question, eliminating him from the\nargument, but employing his tomahawk as it might serve the turn of\neither litigant.\n\nA company, called the Ohio Company, having grants from the Virginia\ngovernment of lands along that river, found themselves invaded in their\nsettlements by French military detachments, who roughly ejected the\nBritons from their holdings. These latter applied for protection to Mr.\nDinwiddie, Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia, who determined upon sending\nan ambassador to the French commanding officer on the Ohio, demanding\nthat the French should desist from their inroads upon the territories of\nhis Majesty King George.\n\nYoung Mr. Washington jumped eagerly at the chance of distinction which\nthis service afforded him, and volunteered to leave his home and his\nrural and professional pursuits in Virginia, to carry the governor's\nmessage to the French officer. Taking a guide, an interpreter, and a\nfew attendants, and following the Indian tracks, in the fall of the year\n1753, the intrepid young envoy made his way from Williamsburg almost\nto the shores of Lake Erie, and found the French commander at Fort le\nBoeuf. That officer's reply was brief: his orders were to hold the place\nand drive all the English from it. The French avowed their intention of\ntaking possession of the Ohio. And with this rough answer the messenger\nfrom Virginia had to return through danger and difficulty, across lonely\nforest and frozen river, shaping his course by the compass, and camping\nat night in the snow by the forest fires.\n\nHarry Warrington cursed his ill-fortune that he had been absent from\nhome on a cock-fight, when he might have had chance of sport so much\nnobler; and on his return from his expedition, which he had conducted\nwith an heroic energy and simplicity, Major Washington was a greater\nfavourite than ever with the lady of Castlewood. She pointed him out\nas a model to both her sons. \"Ah, Harry!\" she would say, \"think of you,\nwith your cock-fighting and your racing-matches, and the Major away\nthere in the wilderness, watching the French, and battling with the\nfrozen rivers! Ah, George! learning may be a very good thing, but I wish\nmy eldest son were doing something in the service of his country!\"\n\n\"I desire no better than to go home and seek for employment, ma'am,\"\nsays George. \"You surely will not have me serve under Mr. Washington, in\nhis new regiment, or ask a commission from Mr. Dinwiddie?\"\n\n\"An Esmond can only serve with the king's commission,\" says Madam, \"and\nas for asking a favour from Mr. Lieutenant-Governor Dinwiddie, I would\nrather beg my bread.\"\n\nMr. Washington was at this time raising such a regiment as, with the\nscanty pay and patronage of the Virginian government, he could get\ntogether, and proposed, with the help of these men-of-war, to put a more\nperemptory veto upon the French invaders than the solitary ambassador\nhad been enabled to lay. A small force under another officer, Colonel\nTrent, had been already despatched to the west, with orders to fortify\nthemselves so as to be able to resist any attack of the enemy. The\nFrench troops, greatly outnumbering ours, came up with the English\noutposts, who were fortifying themselves at a place on the confines of\nPennsylvania where the great city of Pittsburg now stands. A Virginian\nofficer with but forty men was in no condition to resist twenty times\nthat number of Canadians, who appeared before his incomplete works. He\nwas suffered to draw back without molestation; and the French, taking\npossession of his fort, strengthened it, and christened it by the name\nof the Canadian governor, Du Quesne. Up to this time no actual blow of\nwar had been struck. The troops representing the hostile nations were in\npresence--the guns were loaded, but no one as yet had cried \"Fire.\" It\nwas strange, that in a savage forest of Pennsylvania, a young Virginian\nofficer should fire a shot, and waken up a war which was to last for\nsixty years, which was to cover his own country and pass into Europe, to\ncost France her American colonies, to sever ours from us, and create the\ngreat Western republic; to rage over the Old World when extinguished in\nthe New; and, of all the myriads engaged in the vast contest, to leave\nthe prize of the greatest fame with him who struck the first blow!\n\nHe little knew of the fate in store for him. A simple gentleman, anxious\nto serve his king and do his duty, he volunteered for the first service,\nand executed it with admirable fidelity. In the ensuing year he took the\ncommand of the small body of provincial troops with which he marched to\nrepel the Frenchmen. He came up with their advanced guard and fired upon\nthem, killing their leader. After this he had himself to fall back\nwith his troops, and was compelled to capitulate to the superior French\nforce. On the 4th of July, 1754, the Colonel marched out with his troops\nfrom the little fort where he had hastily entrenched himself (and which\nthey called Fort Necessity), gave up the place to the conqueror, and\ntook his way home.\n\nHis command was over: his regiment disbanded after the fruitless,\ninglorious march and defeat. Saddened and humbled in spirit, the\nyoung officer presented himself after a while to his old friends at\nCastlewood. He was very young: before he set forth on his first campaign\nhe may have indulged in exaggerated hopes of success, and uttered them.\n\"I was angry when I parted from you,\" he said to George Warrington,\nholding out his hand, which the other eagerly took. \"You seemed to\nscorn me and my regiment, George. I thought you laughed at us, and your\nridicule made me angry. I boasted too much of what we would do.\"\n\n\"Nay, you have done your best, George,\" says the other, who quite forgot\nhis previous jealousy in his old comrade's misfortune. \"Everybody knows\nthat a hundred and fifty starving men, with scarce a round of ammunition\nleft, could not face five times their number perfectly armed, and\neverybody who knows Mr. Washington knows that he would do his duty.\nHarry and I saw the French in Canada last year. They obey but one will:\nin our provinces each governor has his own. They were royal troops the\nFrench sent against you...\"\n\n\"Oh, but that some of ours were here!\" cries Madam Esmond, tossing her\nhead up. \"I promise you a few good English regiments would make the\nwhite-coats run.\"\n\n\"You think nothing of the provincials: and I must say nothing now we\nhave been so unlucky,\" said the Colonel, gloomily. \"You made much of me\nwhen I was here before. Don't you remember what victories you prophesied\nfor me--how much I boasted myself very likely over your good wine? All\nthose fine dreams are over now. 'Tis kind of your ladyship to receive a\npoor beaten fellow as you do:\" and the young soldier hung down his head.\n\nGeorge Warrington, with his extreme acute sensibility, was touched at\nthe other's emotion and simple testimony of sorrow under defeat. He was\nabout to say something friendly to Mr. Washington, had not his mother,\nto whom the Colonel had been speaking, replied herself: \"Kind of us to\nreceive you, Colonel Washington!\" said the widow. \"I never heard that\nwhen men were unhappy, our sex were less their friends.\"\n\nAnd she made the Colonel a very fine curtsey, which straightway caused\nher son to be more jealous of him than ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. Preparations for War\n\n\nSurely no man can have better claims to sympathy than bravery, youth,\ngood looks, and misfortune. Madam Esmond might have had twenty sons, and\nyet had a right to admire her young soldier. Mr. Washington's room\nwas more than ever Mr. Washington's room now. She raved about him\nand praised him in all companies. She more than ever pointed out his\nexcellences to her sons, contrasting his sterling qualities with Harry's\nlove of pleasure (the wild boy!) and George's listless musings over his\nbooks. George was not disposed to like Mr. Washington any better for\nhis mother's extravagant praises. He coaxed the jealous demon within him\nuntil he must have become a perfect pest to himself and all the friends\nround about him. He uttered jokes so deep that his simple mother did not\nknow their meaning, but sate bewildered at his sarcasms, and powerless\nwhat to think of his moody, saturnine humour.\n\nMeanwhile, public events were occurring which were to influence the\nfortunes of all our homely family. The quarrel between the French and\nEnglish North Americans, from being a provincial, had grown to be a\nnational, quarrel. Reinforcements from France had already arrived in\nCanada; and English troops were expected in Virginia. \"Alas! my dear\nfriend!\" wrote Madame la Presidente de Mouchy, from Quebec, to her young\nfriend George Warrington. \"How contrary is the destiny to us! I see you\nquitting the embrace of an adored mother to precipitate yourself in the\narms of Bellona. I see you pass wounded after combats. I hesitate almost\nto wish victory to our lilies when I behold you ranged under the\nbanners of the Leopard. There are enmities which the heart does not\nrecognise--ours assuredly are at peace among the tumults. All here love\nand salute you, as well as Monsieur the Bear-hunter, your brother (that\ncold Hippolyte who preferred the chase to the soft conversation of our\nladies!) Your friend, your enemy, the Chevalier de la Jabotiere, burns\nto meet on the field of Mars his generous rival. M. Du Quesne spoke\nof you last night at supper. M. Du Quesne, my husband, send affectuous\nremembrances to their young friend, with which are ever joined those of\nyour sincere Presidente de Mouchy.\"\n\n\"The banner of the Leopard,\" of which George's fair correspondent wrote,\nwas, indeed, flung out to the winds, and a number of the king's soldiers\nwere rallied round it. It was resolved to wrest from the French all the\nconquests they had made upon British dominion. A couple of regiments\nwere raised and paid by the king in America, and a fleet with a couple\nmore was despatched from home under an experienced commander. In\nFebruary, 1755, Commodore Keppel, in the famous ship Centurion, in which\nAnson had made his voyage round the world, anchored in Hampton Roads\nwith two ships of war under his command, and having on board General\nBraddock, his staff, and a part of his troops. Mr. Braddock was\nappointed by the Duke. A hundred years ago the Duke of Cumberland was\ncalled The Duke par excellence in England--as another famous warrior has\nsince been called. Not so great a Duke certainly was that first-named\nPrince as his party esteemed him, and surely not so bad a one as his\nenemies have painted him. A fleet of transports speedily followed Prince\nWilliam's general, bringing stores, and men, and money in plenty.\n\nThe great man landed his troops at Alexandria on the Potomac river, and\nrepaired to Annapolis in Maryland, where he ordered the governors of the\ndifferent colonies to meet him in council, urging them each to call upon\ntheir respective provinces to help the common cause in this strait.\n\nThe arrival of the General and his little army caused a mighty\nexcitement all through the provinces, and nowhere greater than at\nCastlewood. Harry was off forthwith to see the troops under canvas at\nAlexandria. The sight of their lines delighted him, and the inspiring\nmusic of their fifes and drums. He speedily made acquaintance with the\nofficers of both regiments; he longed to join in the expedition upon\nwhich they were bound, and was a welcome guest at their mess.\n\nMadam Esmond was pleased that her sons should have an opportunity of\nenjoying the society of gentlemen of good fashion from England. She had\nno doubt their company was improving, that the English gentlemen were\nvery different from the horse-racing, cock-fighting Virginian\nsquires, with whom Master Harry would associate, and the lawyers, and\npettifoggers, and toad-eaters at the lieutenant-governor's table. Madam\nEsmond had a very keen eye for detecting flatterers in other folks'\nhouses. Against the little knot of official people at Williamsburg she\nwas especially satirical, and had no patience with their etiquettes and\nsquabbles for precedence.\n\nAs for the company of the king's officers, Mr. Harry and his elder\nbrother both smiled at their mamma's compliments to the elegance and\npropriety of the gentlemen of the camp. If the good lady had but known\nall, if she could but have heard their jokes and the songs which they\nsang over their wine and punch, if she could have seen the condition\nof many of them as they were carried away to their lodgings, she would\nscarce have been so ready to recommend their company to her sons. Men\nand officers swaggered the country round, and frightened the peaceful\nfarm and village folk with their riot: the General raved and stormed\nagainst his troops for their disorder; against the provincials for their\ntraitorous niggardliness; the soldiers took possession almost as of a\nconquered country, they scorned the provincials, they insulted the wives\neven of their Indian allies, who had come to join the English warriors,\nupon their arrival in America, and to march with them against the\nFrench. The General was compelled to forbid the Indian women his\ncamp. Amazed and outraged their husbands retired, and but a few months\nafterwards their services were lost to him, when their aid would have\nbeen most precious.\n\nSome stories against the gentlemen of the camp, Madam Esmond might have\nheard, but she would have none of them. Soldiers would be soldiers, that\neverybody knew; those officers who came over to Castlewood on her son's\ninvitation were most polite gentlemen, and such indeed was the case. The\nwidow received them most graciously, and gave them the best sport the\ncountry afforded. Presently, the General himself sent polite messages\nto the mistress of Castlewood. His father had served with hers under\nthe glorious Marlborough, and Colonel Esmond's name was still known and\nrespected in England. With her ladyship's permission, General Braddock\nwould have the honour of waiting upon her at Castlewood, and paying his\nrespects to the daughter of so meritorious an officer.\n\nIf she had known the cause of Mr. Braddock's politeness, perhaps\nhis compliments would not have charmed Madam Esmond so much. The\nCommander-in-Chief held levees at Alexandria, and among the gentry of\nthe country, who paid him their respects, were our twins of Castlewood,\nwho mounted their best nags, took with them their last London suits,\nand, with their two negro-boys, in smart liveries behind them, rode\nin state to wait upon the great man. He was sulky and angry with the\nprovincial gentry, and scarce took any notice of the young gentlemen,\nonly asking, casually, of his aide-de-camp at dinner, who the young\nSquire Gawkeys were in blue and gold and red waistcoats?\n\nMr. Dinwiddie, the Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia, the Agent from\nPennsylvania, and a few more gentlemen, happened to be dining with\nhis Excellency. \"Oh!\" says Mr. Dinwiddie, \"those are the sons of the\nPrincess Pocahontas;\" on which, with a tremendous oath, the General\nasked, \"Who the deuce was she?\"\n\nDinwiddie, who did not love her, having indeed undergone a hundred\npertnesses from the imperious little lady, now gave a disrespectful and\nridiculous account of Madam Esmond, made merry with her pomposity and\nimmense pretensions, and entertained General Braddock with anecdotes\nregarding her, until his Excellency fell asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke, Dinwiddie was gone, but the Philadelphia gentleman was\nstill at table, deep in conversation with the officers there present.\nThe General took up the talk where it had been left when he fell asleep,\nand spoke of Madam Esmond in curt, disrespectful terms, such as soldiers\nwere in the habit of using in those days, and asking, again, what was\nthe name of the old fool about whom Dinwiddie had been talking? He then\nbroke into expressions of contempt and wrath against the gentry, and the\ncountry in general.\n\nMr. Franklin of Philadelphia repeated the widow's name, took quite\na different view of her character from that Mr. Dinwiddie had given,\nseemed to know a good deal about her, her father, and her estate; as,\nindeed, he did about every man or subject which came under discussion;\nexplained to the General that Madam Esmond had beeves, and horses, and\nstores in plenty, which might be very useful at the present juncture,\nand recommended him to conciliate her by all means. The General\nhad already made up his mind that Mr. Franklin was a very shrewd,\nintelligent person, and graciously ordered an aide-de-camp to invite the\ntwo young men to the next day's dinner. When they appeared he was very\npleasant and good-natured; the gentlemen of the General's family made\nmuch of them. They behaved, as became persons of their name, with\nmodesty and good-breeding; they returned home delighted with their\nentertainment, nor was their mother less pleased at the civilities which\nhis Excellency had shown to her boys. In reply to Braddock's message,\nMadam Esmond penned a billet in her best style, acknowledging his\npoliteness, and begging his Excellency to fix the time when she might\nhave the honour to receive him at Castlewood.\n\nWe may be sure that the arrival of the army and the approaching campaign\nformed the subject of continued conversation in the Castlewood family.\nTo make the campaign was the dearest wish of Harry's life. He\ndreamed only of war and battle; he was for ever with the officers at\nWilliamsburg; he scoured and cleaned and polished all the guns and\nswords in the house; he renewed the amusements of his childhood, and had\nthe negroes under arms. His mother, who had a gallant spirit, knew that\nthe time was come when one of her boys must leave her and serve the\nking. She scarce dared to think on whom the lot should fall. She admired\nand respected the elder, but she felt that she loved the younger boy\nwith all the passion of her heart.\n\nEager as Harry was to be a soldier, and with all his thoughts bent on\nthat glorious scheme, he too scarcely dared to touch on the subject\nnearest his heart. Once or twice when he ventured on it with George, the\nlatter's countenance wore an ominous look. Harry had a feudal attachment\nfor his elder brother, worshipped him with an extravagant regard, and in\nall things gave way to him as the chief. So Harry saw, to his infinite\nterror, how George, too, in his grave way, was occupied with military\nmatters. George had the wars of Eugene and Marlborough down from his\nbookshelves, all the military books of his grandfather, and the most\nwarlike of Plutarch's lives. He and Dempster were practising with the\nfoils again. The old Scotchman was an adept in the military art, though\nsomewhat shy of saying where he learned it.\n\nMadam Esmond made her two boys the bearers of the letter in reply to his\nExcellency's message, accompanying her note with such large and handsome\npresents for the General's staff and the officers of the two Royal\nRegiments, as caused the General more than once to thank Mr. Franklin\nfor having been the means of bringing this welcome ally into the camp.\n\"Would not one of the young gentlemen like to see the campaign?\"\nthe General asked. \"A friend of theirs, who often spoke of them--Mr.\nWashington, who had been unlucky in the affair of last year--had already\npromised to join him as aide-de-camp, and his Excellency would gladly\ntake another young Virginian gentleman into his family.\" Harry's eyes\nbrightened and his face flushed at this offer. \"He would like with all\nhis heart to go!\" he cried out. George said, looking hard at his younger\nbrother, that one of them would be proud to attend his Excellency,\nwhilst it would be the other's duty to take care of their mother\nat home. Harry allowed his senior to speak. His will was even still\nobedient to George's. However much he desired to go, he would not\npronounce until George had declared himself. He longed so for the\ncampaign, that the actual wish made him timid. He dared not speak on the\nmatter as he went home with George. They rode for miles in silence, or\nstrove to talk upon indifferent subjects; each knowing what was passing\nin the other's mind, and afraid to bring the awful question to an issue.\n\nOn their arrival at home the boys told their mother of General\nBraddock's offer. \"I knew it must happen,\" she said; \"at such a crisis\nin the country our family must come forward. Have you--have you settled\nyet which of you is to leave me?\" and she looked anxiously from one to\nanother, dreading to hear either name.\n\n\"The youngest ought to go, mother; of course I ought to go!\" cries\nHarry, turning very red.\n\n\"Of course he ought,\" said Mrs. Mountain, who was present at their talk.\n\n\"There! Mountain says so! I told you so!\" again cries Harry, with a\nsidelong look at George.\n\n\"The head of the family ought to go, mother,\" says George, sadly.\n\n\"No! no! you are ill, and have never recovered your fever. Ought he to\ngo, Mountain?\"\n\n\"You would make the best soldier, I know that, dearest Hal. You and\nGeorge Washington are great friends, and could travel well together, and\nhe does not care for me, nor I for him, however much he is admired in\nthe family. But, you see, 'tis the law of Honour, my Harry.\" (He\nhere spoke to his brother with a voice of extraordinary kindness and\ntenderness.) \"The grief I have had in this matter has been that I must\nrefuse thee. I must go. Had Fate given you the benefit of that extra\nhalf-hour of life which I have had before you, it would have been your\nlot, and you would have claimed your right to go first, you know you\nwould.\"\n\n\"Yes, George,\" said poor Harry, \"I own I should.\"\n\n\"You will stay at home, and take care of Castlewood and our mother. If\nanything happens to me, you are here to fill my place. I would like to\ngive way, my dear, as you, I know, would lay down your life to serve me.\nBut each of us must do his duty. What would our grandfather say if he\nwere here?\"\n\nThe mother looked proudly at her two sons. \"My papa would say that his\nboys were gentlemen,\" faltered Madam Esmond, and left the young men, not\nchoosing, perhaps, to show the emotion which was filling her heart. It\nwas speedily known amongst the servants that Mr. George was going on the\ncampaign. Dinah, George's foster-mother, was loud in her lamentations\nat losing him; Phillis, Harry's old nurse, was as noisy because Master\nGeorge, as usual, was preferred over Master Harry. Sady, George's\nservant, made preparations to follow his master, bragging incessantly\nof the deeds which he would do, while Gumbo, Harry's boy, pretended to\nwhimper at being left behind, though, at home, Gumbo was anything but a\nfire-eater.\n\nBut, of all in the house, Mrs. Mountain was the most angry at George's\ndetermination to go on the campaign. She had no patience with him. He\ndid not know what he was doing by leaving home. She begged, implored,\ninsisted that he should alter his determination; and vowed that nothing\nbut mischief would come from his departure.\n\nGeorge was surprised at the pertinacity of the good lady's opposition.\n\"I know, Mountain,\" said he, \"that Harry would be the better soldier;\nbut, after all, to go is my duty.\"\n\n\"To stay is your duty!\" says Mountain, with a stamp of her foot.\n\n\"Why did not my mother own it when we talked of the matter just now?\"\n\n\"Your mother!\" says Mrs. Mountain, with a most gloomy, sardonic laugh;\n\"your mother, my poor child!\"\n\n\"What is the meaning of that mournful countenance, Mountain?\"\n\n\"It may be that your mother wishes you away, George!\" Mrs. Mountain\ncontinued, wagging her head. \"It may be, my poor deluded boy, that you\nwill find a father-in-law when you come back.\"\n\n\"What in heaven do you mean?\" cried George, the blood rushing into his\nface.\n\n\"Do you suppose I have no eyes, and cannot see what is going on? I tell\nyou, child, that Colonel Washington wants a rich wife. When you are\ngone, he will ask your mother to marry him, and you will find him master\nhere when you come back. That is why you ought not to go away, you poor,\nunhappy, simple boy! Don't you see how fond she is of him? how much\nshe makes of him? how she is always holding him up to you, to Harry, to\neverybody who comes here?\"\n\n\"But he is going on the campaign, too,\" cried George.\n\n\"He is going on the marrying campaign, child!\" insisted the widow.\n\n\"Nay; General Braddock himself told me that Mr. Washington had accepted\nthe appointment of aide-de-camp.\"\n\n\"An artifice! an artifice to blind you, my poor child!\" cries Mountain.\n\"He will be wounded and come back--you will see if he does not. I have\nproofs of what I say to you--proofs under his own hand--look here!\" And\nshe took from her pocket a piece of paper in Mr. Washington's well-known\nhandwriting.\n\n\"How came you by this paper?\" asked George, turning ghastly pale.\n\n\"I--I found it in the Major's chamber!\" says Mrs. Mountain, with a\nshamefaced look.\n\n\"You read the private letters of a guest staying in our house?\" cried\nGeorge. \"For shame! I will not look at the paper!\" And he flung it from\nhim on to the fire before him.\n\n\"I could not help it, George; 'twas by chance, I give you my word, by\nthe merest chance. You know Governor Dinwiddie is to have the Major's\nroom, and the state-room is got ready for Mr. Braddock, and we are\nexpecting ever so much company, and I had to take the things which\nthe Major leaves here--he treats the house just as if it was his own\nalready--into his new room, and this half-sheet of paper fell out of his\nwriting-book, and I just gave one look at it by the merest chance, and\nwhen I saw what it was it was my duty to read it.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are a martyr to duty, Mountain!\" George said grimly. \"I dare\nsay Mrs. Bluebeard thought it was her duty to look through the keyhole.\"\n\n\"I never did look through the keyhole, George. It's a shame you should\nsay so! I, who have watched, and tended, and nursed you, like a mother;\nwho have sate up whole weeks with you in fevers, and carried you from\nyour bed to the sofa in these arms. There, sir, I don't want you there\nnow. My dear Mountain, indeed! Don't tell me! You fly into a passion,\nand, call names, and wound my feelings, who have loved you like your\nmother--like your mother?--I only hope she may love you half as well. I\nsay you are all ungrateful. My Mr. Mountain was a wretch, and every one\nof you is as bad.\"\n\nThere was but a smouldering log or two in the fireplace, and no doubt\nMountain saw that the paper was in no danger as it lay amongst the\nashes, or she would have seized it at the risk of burning her own\nfingers, and ere she uttered the above passionate defence of her\nconduct. Perhaps George was absorbed in his dismal thoughts; perhaps\nhis jealousy overpowered him, for he did not resist any further when she\nstooped down and picked up the paper.\n\n\"You should thank your stars, child, that I saved the letter,\" cried\nshe. \"See! here are his own words, in his great big handwriting like\na clerk. It was not my fault that he wrote them, or that I found them.\nRead for yourself, I say, George Warrington, and be thankful that your\npoor dear old Mounty is watching over you!\"\n\nEvery word and letter upon the unlucky paper was perfectly clear.\nGeorge's eyes could not help taking in the contents of the document\nbefore him. \"Not a word of this, Mountain,\" he said, giving her a\nfrightful look. \"I--I will return this paper to Mr. Washington.\"\n\nMountain was scared at his face, at the idea of what she had done, and\nwhat might ensue. When his mother, with alarm in her countenance, asked\nhim at dinner what ailed him that he looked so pale? \"Do you suppose,\nmadam,\" says he, filling himself a great bumper of wine, \"that to leave\nsuch a tender mother as you does not cause me cruel grief?\"\n\nThe good lady could not understand his words, his strange, fierce looks,\nand stranger laughter. He bantered all at the table; called to the\nservants and laughed at them, and drank more and more. Each time the\ndoor was opened, he turned towards it; and so did Mountain, with a\nguilty notion that Mr. Washington would step in.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. In which George suffers from a Common Disease\n\n\nOn the day appointed for Madam Esmond's entertainment to the General,\nthe house of Castlewood was set out with the greatest splendour; and\nMadam Esmond arrayed herself in a much more magnificent dress than she\nwas accustomed to wear. Indeed, she wished to do every honour to her\nguest, and to make the entertainment--which, in reality, was a sad\none to her--as pleasant as might be for her company. The General's new\naide-de-camp was the first to arrive. The widow received him in the\ncovered gallery before the house. He dismounted at the steps, and\nhis servants led away his horses to the well-known quarters. No young\ngentleman in the colony was better mounted or a better horseman than Mr.\nWashington.\n\nFor a while ere the Major retired to divest himself of his riding-boots,\nhe and his hostess paced the gallery in talk. She had much to say to\nhim; she had to hear from him a confirmation of his own appointment as\naide-de-camp to General Braddock, and to speak of her son's approaching\ndeparture. The negro servants bearing the dishes for the approaching\nfeast were passing perpetually as they talked. They descended the steps\ndown to the rough lawn in front of the house, and paced a while in the\nshade. Mr. Washington announced his Excellency's speedy approach, with\nMr. Franklin of Pennsylvania in his coach.\n\nThis Mr. Franklin had been a common printer's boy, Mrs. Esmond had\nheard; a pretty pass things were coming to when such persons rode in the\ncoach of the Commander-in-Chief! Mr. Washington said, a more shrewd and\nsensible gentleman never rode in coach or walked on foot. Mrs. Esmond\nthought the Major was too liberally disposed towards this gentleman; but\nMr. Washington stoutly maintained against the widow that the printer was\na most ingenious, useful, and meritorious man.\n\n\"I am glad, at least, that, as my boy is going to make the campaign, he\nwill not be with tradesmen, but with gentlemen, with gentlemen of honour\nand fashion,\" says Madam Esmond, in her most stately manner.\n\nMr. Washington had seen the gentlemen of honour and fashion over their\ncups, and perhaps thought that all their sayings and doings were not\nprecisely such as would tend to instruct or edify a young man on his\nentrance into life; but he wisely chose to tell no tales out of school,\nand said that Harry and George, now they were coming into the world,\nmust take their share of good and bad, and hear what both sorts had to\nsay.\n\n\"To be with a veteran officer of the finest army in the world,\" faltered\nthe widow; \"with gentlemen who have been bred in the midst of the Court;\nwith friends of his Royal Highness, the Duke----\"\n\nThe widow's friend only inclined his head. He did not choose to allow\nhis countenance to depart from its usual handsome gravity.\n\n\"And with you, dear Colonel Washington, by whom my father always set\nsuch store. You don't know how much he trusted in you. You will take\ncare of my boy, sir, will not you? You are but five years older, yet\nI trust to you more than to his seniors; my father always told the\nchildren, I alway bade them, to look up to Mr. Washington.\"\n\n\"You know I would have done anything to win Colonel Esmond's favour.\nMadam, how much would I not venture to merit his daughter's?\"\n\nThe gentleman bowed with not too ill a grace. The lady blushed,\nand dropped one of the lowest curtsies. (Madam Esmond's curtsey was\nconsidered unrivalled over the whole province.) \"Mr. Washington,\" she\nsaid, \"will be always sure of a mother's affection, whilst he gives so\nmuch of his to her children.\" And so saying she gave him her hand, which\nhe kissed with profound politeness. The little lady presently re-entered\nher mansion, leaning upon the tall young officer's arm. Here they were\njoined by George, who came to them, accurately powdered and richly\nattired, saluting his parent and his friend alike with low and\nrespectful bows. Nowadays, a young man walks into his mother's room with\nhobnailed high-lows, and a wideawake on his head; and instead of making\nher a bow, puffs a cigar into her face.\n\nBut George, though he made the lowest possible bow to Mr. Washington and\nhis mother, was by no means in good-humour with either of them. A\npolite smile played round the lower part of his countenance, whilst\nwatchfulness and wrath glared out from the two upper windows. What had\nbeen said or done? Nothing that might not have been performed or uttered\nbefore the most decent, polite, or pious company. Why then should Madam\nEsmond continue to blush, and the brave Colonel to look somewhat red, as\nhe shook his young friend's hand?\n\nThe Colonel asked Mr. George if he had had good sport? \"No,\" says\nGeorge, curtly. \"Have you?\" And then he looked at the picture of his\nfather, which hung in the parlour.\n\nThe Colonel, not a talkative man ordinarily, straightway entered into\na long description of his sport, and described where he had been in the\nmorning, and what woods he had hunted with the king's officers; how many\nbirds they had shot, and what game they had brought down. Though not\na jocular man ordinarily, the Colonel made a long description of Mr.\nBraddock's heavy person and great boots, as he floundered through\nthe Virginian woods, hunting, as they called it, with a pack of dogs\ngathered from various houses, with a pack of negroes barking as loud as\nthe dogs, and actually shooting the deer when they came in sight of him.\n\"Great God, sir!\" says Mr. Braddock, puffing and blowing, \"what\nwould Sir Robert have said in Norfolk, to see a man hunting with a\nfowling-piece in his hand, and a pack of dogs actually laid on to a\nturkey!\"\n\n\"Indeed, Colonel, you are vastly comical this afternoon!\" cries Madam\nEsmond, with a neat little laugh, whilst her son listened to the story,\nlooking more glum than ever. \"What Sir Robert is there at Norfolk? Is he\none of the newly arrived army-gentlemen?\"\n\n\"The General meant Norfolk at home, madam, not Norfolk in Virginia,\"\nsaid Colonel Washington. \"Mr. Braddock had been talking of a visit to\nSir Robert Walpole, who lived in that county, and of the great hunts the\nold Minister kept there, and of his grand palace, and his pictures at\nHoughton. I should like to see a good field and a good fox-chase at home\nbetter than any sight in the world,\" the honest sportsman added with a\nsigh.\n\n\"Nevertheless, there is good sport here, as I was saying,\" said young\nEsmond, with a sneer.\n\n\"What sport?\" cries the other, looking at him.\n\n\"Why, sure you know, without looking at me so fiercely, and stamping\nyour foot, as if you were going to charge me with the foils. Are you not\nthe best sportsman of the country-side? Are there not all the fish\nof the field, and the beasts of the trees, and the fowls of the\nsea--no--the fish of the trees, and the beasts of the sea--and the--bah!\nYou know what I mean. I mean shad, and salmon, and rock-fish, and\nroe-deer, and hogs, and buffaloes, and bisons, and elephants, for what I\nknow. I'm no sportsman.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said Mr. Washington, with a look of scarcely repressed\nscorn.\n\n\"Yes, I understand you. I am a milksop. I have been bred at my mamma's\nknee. Look at these pretty apron-strings, Colonel! Who would not like to\nbe tied to them? See of what a charming colour they are! I remember when\nthey were black--that was for my grandfather.\"\n\n\"And who would not mourn for such a gentleman?\" said the Colonel, as the\nwidow, surprised, looked at her son.\n\n\"And, indeed, I wish my grandfather were here, and would resurge, as he\npromises to do on his tombstone; and would bring my father, the Ensign,\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Ah, Harry!\" cries Mrs. Esmond, bursting into tears, as at this juncture\nher second son entered the room--in just such another suit, gold-corded\nfrock, braided waistcoat, silver-hilted sword, and solitaire, as that\nwhich his elder brother wore. \"Oh, Harry, Harry!\" cries Madam Esmond,\nand flies to her younger son.\n\n\"What is it, mother?\" asks Harry, taking her in his arms. \"What is the\nmatter, Colonel?\"\n\n\"Upon my life, it would puzzle me to say,\" answered the Colonel, biting\nhis lips.\n\n\"A mere question, Hal, about pink ribbons, which I think vastly becoming\nto our mother; as, no doubt, the Colonel does.\"\n\n\"Sir, will you please to speak for yourself?\" cried the Colonel,\nbustling up, and then sinking his voice again.\n\n\"He speaks too much for himself,\" wept the widow.\n\n\"I protest I don't any more know the source of these tears, than the\nsource of the Nile,\" said George, \"and if the picture of my father were\nto begin to cry, I should almost as much wonder at the paternal tears.\nWhat have I uttered? An allusion to ribbons! Is there some poisoned pin\nin them, which has been struck into my mother's heart by a guilty fiend\nof a London mantua-maker? I professed to wish to be led in these lovely\nreins all my life long,\" and he turned a pirouette on his scarlet heels.\n\n\"George Warrington! what devil's dance are you dancing now?\" asked\nHarry, who loved his mother, who loved Mr. Washington, but who, of all\ncreatures, loved and admired his brother George.\n\n\"My dear child, you do not understand dancing--you care not for the\npoliter arts--you can get no more music out of a spinet than by pulling\na dead hog by the ear. By nature you were made for a man--a man of\nwar--I do not mean a seventy-four, Colonel George, like that hulk which\nbrought the hulking Mr. Braddock into our river. His Excellency, too,\nis a man of warlike turn, a follower of the sports of the field. I am a\nmilksop, as I have had the honour to say.\"\n\n\"You never showed it yet. You beat that great Maryland man was twice\nyour size,\" breaks out Harry.\n\n\"Under compulsion, Harry. 'Tis tuptu, my lad, or else 'tis tuptomai, as\nthy breech well knew when we followed school. But I am of a quiet turn,\nand would never lift my hand to pull a trigger, no, nor a nose, nor\nanything but a rose,\" and here he took and handled one of Madam Esmond's\nbright pink apron ribbons. \"I hate sporting, which you and the Colonel\nlove, and I want to shoot nothing alive, not a turkey, nor a titmouse,\nnor an ox, nor an ass, nor anything that has ears. Those curls of Mr.\nWashington's are prettily powdered.\"\n\nThe militia colonel, who had been offended by the first part of the\ntalk, and very much puzzled by the last, had taken a modest draught from\nthe great china bowl of apple-toddy which stood to welcome the guests\nin this as in all Virginian houses, and was further cooling himself by\npacing the balcony in a very stately manner.\n\nAgain almost reconciled with the elder, the appeased mother stood giving\na hand to each of her sons. George put his disengaged hand on Harry's\nshoulder. \"I say one thing, George,\" says he with a flushing face.\n\n\"Say twenty things, Don Enrico,\" cries the other.\n\n\"If you are not fond of sporting and that, and don't care for killing\ngame and hunting, being cleverer than me, why shouldst thou not stop\nat home and be quiet, and let me go out with Colonel George and Mr.\nBraddock?--that's what I say,\" says Harry, delivering himself of his\nspeech.\n\nThe widow looked eagerly from the dark-haired to the fair-haired boy.\nShe knew not from which she would like to part.\n\n\"One of our family must go because honneur oblige, and my name being\nnumber one, number one must go first,\" says George.\n\n\"Told you so,\" said poor Harry.\n\n\"One must stay, or who is to look after mother at home? We cannot afford\nto be both scalped by Indians or fricasseed by French.\"\n\n\"Fricasseed by French!\" cries Harry; \"the best troops of the world!\nEnglishmen! I should like to see them fricasseed by the French!--What a\nmortal thrashing you will give them!\" and the brave lad sighed to think\nhe should not be present at the battue.\n\nGeorge sate down to the harpsichord and played and sang \"Malbrouk s'en\nva-t-en guerre, Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,\" at the sound of which\nmusic the gentleman from the balcony entered. \"I am playing 'God save\nthe King,' Colonel, in compliment to the new expedition.\"\n\n\"I never know whether thou art laughing or in earnest,\" said the simple\ngentleman, \"but surely methinks that is not the air.\"\n\nGeorge performed ever so many trills and quavers upon his harpsichord,\nand their guest watched him, wondering, perhaps, that a gentleman of\nGeorge's condition could set himself to such an effeminate business.\nThen the Colonel took out his watch, saying that his Excellency's coach\nwould be here almost immediately, and asking leave to retire to his\napartment, and put himself in a fit condition to appear before her\nladyship's company.\n\n\"Colonel Washington knows the way to his room pretty well,\" said George,\nfrom the harpsichord, looking over his shoulder, but never offering to\nstir.\"\n\n\"Let me show the Colonel to his chamber,\" cried the widow, in great\nwrath, and sailed out of the apartment, followed by the enraged and\nbewildered Colonel, as George continued crashing among the keys. Her\nhigh-spirited guest felt himself insulted, he could hardly say how; he\nwas outraged and he could not speak; he was almost stifling with anger.\n\nHarry Warrington remarked their friend's condition. \"For heaven's sake,\nGeorge, what does this all mean?\" he asked his brother. \"Why shouldn't\nhe kiss her hand?\" (George had just before fetched out his brother from\ntheir library, to watch this harmless salute.) \"I tell you it is nothing\nbut common kindness.\"\n\n\"Nothing but common kindness!\" shrieked out George. \"Look at that, Hal!\nIs that common kindness?\" and he showed his junior the unlucky paper\nover which he had been brooding for some time. It was but a fragment,\nthough the meaning was indeed clear without the preceding text.\n\nThe paper commenced: \"... is older than myself, but I, again, am older\nthan my years; and you know, dear brother, have ever been considered a\nsober person. All children are better for a father's superintendence,\nand her two, I trust, will find in me a tender friend and guardian.\"\n\n\"Friend and guardian! Curse him!\" shrieked out George, clenching his\nfists--and his brother read on:\n\n\"... The flattering offer which General Braddock hath made me, will, of\ncourse, oblige me to postpone this matter until after the campaign. When\nwe have given the French a sufficient drubbing, I shall return to repose\nunder my own vine and fig-tree.\"\n\n\"He means Castlewood. These are his vines,\" George cries again, shaking\nhis fist at the creepers sunning themselves on the wall.\n\n\"... Under my own vine and fig-tree; where I hope soon to present my\ndear brother to his new sister-in-law. She has a pretty Scripture name,\nwhich is...\"--and here the document ended.\n\n\"Which is Rachel,\" George went on bitterly. \"Rachel is by no means\nweeping for her children, and has every desire to be comforted. Now,\nHarry! Let us upstairs at once, kneel down as becomes us, and say, 'Dear\npapa, welcome to your house of Castlewood.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. Hospitalities\n\n\nHis Excellency the Commander-in-Chief set forth to pay his visit to\nMadam Esmond in such a state and splendour as became the first personage\nin all his Majesty's colonies, plantations, and possessions of North\nAmerica. His guard of dragoons preceded him out of Williamsburg in the\nmidst of an immense shouting and yelling of a loyal, and principally\nnegro, population. The General rode in his own coach. Captain Talmadge,\nhis Excellency's Master of the Horse, attended him at the door of the\nponderous emblazoned vehicle, and riding by the side of the carriage\nduring the journey from Williamsburg to Madam Esmond's house. Major\nDanvers, aide-de-camp, sate in the front of the carriage with the little\npostmaster from Philadelphia, Mr. Franklin, who, printer's boy as he had\nbeen, was a wonderful shrewd person, as his Excellency and the gentlemen\nof his family were fain to acknowledge, having a quantity of the most\ncurious information respecting the colony, and regarding England too,\nwhere Mr. Franklin had been more than once. \"'Twas extraordinary how\na person of such humble origin should have acquired such a variety\nof learning and such a politeness of breeding too, Mr. Franklin!\" his\nExcellency was pleased to observe, touching his hat graciously to the\npostmaster.\n\nThe postmaster bowed, said it had been his occasional good fortune to\nfall into the company of gentlemen like his Excellency, and that he had\ntaken advantage of his opportunity to study their honours' manners, and\nadapt himself to them as far as he might. As for education, he could not\nboast much of that--his father being but in straitened circumstances,\nand the advantages small in his native country of New England: but he\nhad done to the utmost of his power, and gathered what he could--he knew\nnothing like what they had in England.\n\nMr. Braddock burst out laughing, and said, \"As for education, there were\ngentlemen of the army, by George, who didn't know whether they should\nspell bull with two b's or one. He had heard the Duke of Marlborough\nwas no special good penman. He had not the honour of serving under that\nnoble commander--his Grace was before his time--but he thrashed the\nFrench soundly, although he was no scholar.\"\n\nMr. Franklin said he was aware of both those facts.\n\n\"Nor is my Duke a scholar,\" went on Mr. Braddock--\"aha, Mr. Postmaster,\nyou have heard that, too--I see by the wink in your eye.\"\n\nMr. Franklin instantly withdrew the obnoxious or satirical wink in his\neye, and looked in the General's jolly round face with a pair of orbs as\ninnocent as a baby's. \"He's no scholar, but he is a match for any French\ngeneral that ever swallowed the English for fricassee de crapaud.\nHe saved the crown for the best of kings, his royal father, his Most\nGracious Majesty King George.\"\n\nOff went Mr. Franklin's hat, and from his large buckled wig escaped a\ngreat halo of powder.\n\n\"He is the soldier's best friend, and has been the uncompromising enemy\nof all beggarly red-shanked Scotch rebels and intriguing Romish Jesuits\nwho would take our liberty from us, and our religion, by George. His\nRoyal Highness, my gracious master, is not a scholar neither, but he is\none of the finest gentlemen in the world.\"\n\n\"I have seen his Royal Highness on horseback, at a review of the Guards,\nin Hyde Park,\" says Mr. Franklin. \"The Duke is indeed a very fine\ngentleman on horseback.\"\n\n\"You shall drink his health to-day, Postmaster. He is the best of\nmasters, the best of friends, the best of sons to his royal old father;\nthe best of gentlemen that ever wore an epaulet.\"\n\n\"Epaulets are quite out of my way, sir,\" says Mr. Franklin, laughing.\n\"You know I live in a Quaker City.\"\n\n\"Of course they are out of your way, my good friend. Every man to his\nbusiness. You, and gentlemen of your class, to your books, and welcome.\nWe don't forbid you; we encourage you. We, to fight the enemy and govern\nthe country. Hey, gentlemen? Lord! what roads you have in this colony,\nand how this confounded coach plunges! Who have we here, with the two\nnegro boys in livery? He rides a good gelding.\"\n\n\"It is Mr. Washington,\" says the aide-de-camp.\n\n\"I would like him for a corporal of the Horse Grenadiers,\" said the\nGeneral. \"He has a good figure on a horse. He knows the country too, Mr.\nFranklin.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed.\"\n\n\"And is a monstrous genteel young man, considering the opportunities he\nhas had. I should have thought he had the polish of Europe, by George I\nshould.\"\n\n\"He does his best,\" says Mr. Franklin, looking innocently at the stout\nchief, the exemplar of English elegance, who sat swagging from one side\nto the other of the carriage, his face as scarlet as his coat--swearing\nat every other word; ignorant on every point off parade, except the\nmerits of a bottle and the looks of a woman; not of high birth, yet\nabsurdly proud of his no-ancestry; brave as a bulldog; savage, lustful,\nprodigal, generous; gentle in soft moods; easy of love and laughter;\ndull of wit; utterly unread; believing his country the first in the\nworld, and he as good a gentleman as any in it. \"Yes, he is mighty well\nfor a provincial, upon my word. He was beat at Fort What-d'ye-call-um\nlast year, down by the Thingamy river. What's the name on't, Talmadge?\"\n\n\"The Lord knows, sir,\" says Talmadge; \"and I dare say the Postmaster,\ntoo, who is laughing at us both.\"\n\n\"Oh, Captain!\"\n\n\"Was caught in a regular trap. He had only militia and Indians with him.\nGood day, Mr. Washington. A pretty nag, sir. That was your first affair,\nlast year?\"\n\n\"That at Fort Necessity? Yes, sir,\" said the gentleman, gravely\nsaluting, as he rode up, followed by a couple of natty negro grooms,\nin smart livery-coats and velvet hunting-caps. \"I began ill, sir, never\nhaving been in action until that unlucky day.\"\n\n\"You were all raw levies, my good fellow. You should have seen our\nmilitia run from the Scotch, and be cursed to them. You should have had\nsome troops with you.\"\n\n\"Your Excellency knows 'tis my passionate desire to see and serve with\nthem,\" said Mr. Washington.\n\n\"By George, we shall try and gratify you, sir,\" said the General, with\none of his usual huge oaths; and on the heavy carriage rolled towards\nCastlewood; Mr. Washington asking leave to gallop on ahead, in order to\nannounce his Excellency's speedy arrival to the lady there.\n\nThe progress of the Commander-in-Chief was so slow, that several\nhumbler persons who were invited to meet his Excellency came up with\nhis carriage, and, not liking to pass the great man on the road, formed\nquite a procession in the dusty wake of his chariot-wheels. First\ncame Mr. Dinwiddie, the Lieutenant-Governor of his Majesty's province,\nattended by his negro servants, and in company of Parson Broadbent, the\njolly Williamsburg chaplain. These were presently joined by little Mr.\nDempster, the young gentlemen's schoolmaster, in his great Ramillies\nwig, which he kept for occasions of state. Anon appeared Mr. Laws, the\njudge of the court, with Madam Laws on a pillion behind him, and their\nnegro man carrying a box containing her ladyship's cap, and bestriding\na mule. The procession looked so ludicrous, that Major Danvers and Mr.\nFranklin espying it, laughed outright, though not so loud as to disturb\nhis Excellency, who was asleep by this time, bade the whole of this\nqueer rearguard move on, and leave the Commander-in-Chief and his\nescort of dragoons to follow at their leisure. There was room for all at\nCastlewood when they came. There was meat, drink, and the best tobacco\nfor his Majesty's soldiers; and laughing and jollity for the negroes;\nand a plenteous welcome for their masters.\n\nThe honest General required to be helped to most dishes at the table,\nand more than once, and was for ever holding out his glass for drink;\nNathan's sangaree he pronounced to be excellent, and had drunk largely\nof it on arriving before dinner. There was cider, ale, brandy, and\nplenty of good Bordeaux wine, some which Colonel Esmond himself had\nbrought home with him to the colony, and which was fit for ponteeficis\ncoenis, said little Mr. Dempster, with a wink to Mr. Broadbent, the\nclergyman of the adjoining parish. Mr. Broadbent returned the wink and\nnod, and drank the wine without caring about the Latin, as why should\nhe, never having hitherto troubled himself about the language? Mr.\nBroadbent was a gambling, guzzling, cock-fighting divine, who had passed\nmuch time in the Fleet Prison, at Newmarket, at Hockley-in-the-Hole; and\nhaving gone of all sorts of errands for his friend, Lord Cingbars,\nLord Ringwood's son (my Lady Cingbars's waiting-woman being Mr. B.'s\nmother--I dare say the modern reader had best not be too particular\nregarding Mr. Broadbent's father's pedigree), had been of late sent out\nto a church-living in Virginia. He and young George had fought many\na match of cocks together, taken many a roe in company, hauled in\ncountless quantities of shad and salmon, slain wild geese and wild\nswans, pigeons and plovers, and destroyed myriads of canvas-backed\nducks. It was said by the envious that Broadbent was the midnight\npoacher on whom Mr. Washington set his dogs, and whom he caned by the\nriver-side at Mount Vernon. The fellow got away from his captor's grip,\nand scrambled to his boat in the dark; but Broadbent was laid up for\ntwo Sundays afterwards, and when he came abroad again had the evident\nremains of a black eye and a new collar to his coat. All the games\nat the cards had George Esmond and Parson Broadbent played together,\nbesides hunting all the birds in the air, the beasts in the forest, and\nthe fish of the sea. Indeed, when the boys rode together to get their\nreading with Mr. Dempster, I suspect that Harry stayed behind and\ntook lessons from the other professor of European learning and\naccomplishments,--George going his own way, reading his own books, and,\nof course, telling no tales of his younger brother.\n\nAll the birds of the Virginia air, and all the fish of the sea in season\nwere here laid on Madam Esmond's board to feed his Excellency and the\nrest of the English and American gentlemen. The gumbo was declared to be\nperfection (young Mr. George's black servant was named after this\ndish, being discovered behind the door with his head in a bowl of this\ndelicious hotch-potch, by the late Colonel, and grimly christened on the\nspot), the shad were rich and fresh, the stewed terrapins were worthy of\nLondon aldermen (before George, he would like the Duke himself to taste\nthem, his Excellency deigned to say), and indeed, stewed terrapins are\nworthy of any duke or even emperor. The negro-women have a genius for\ncookery, and in Castlewood kitchens there were adepts in the art brought\nup under the keen eye of the late and the present Madam Esmond. Certain\nof the dishes, especially the sweets and flan, Madam Esmond prepared\nherself with great neatness and dexterity; carving several of the\nprincipal pieces, as the kindly cumbrous fashion of the day was, putting\nup the laced lappets of her sleeves, and showing the prettiest round\narms and small hands and wrists as she performed this ancient rite of\na hospitality not so languid as ours. The old law of the table was that\nthe mistress was to press her guests with a decent eagerness, to watch\nand see whom she could encourage to further enjoyment, to know culinary\nanatomic secrets, and execute carving operations upon fowls, fish, game,\njoints of meat, and so forth; to cheer her guests to fresh efforts, to\nwhisper her neighbour, Mr. Braddock \"I have kept for your Excellency\nthe jowl of this salmon.--I will take no denial! Mr. Franklin, you drink\nonly water, sir, though our cellar has wholesome wine which gives no\nheadaches.--Mr. Justice, you love woodcock pie?\"\n\n\"Because I know who makes the pastry,\" says Mr. Laws, the judge, with\na profound bow. \"I wish, madam, we had such a happy knack of pastry at\nhome as you have at Castlewood. I often say to my wife, 'My dear, I wish\nyou had Madam Esmond's hand.'\"\n\n\"It is a very pretty hand; I am sure others would like it too,\" says Mr.\nPostmaster of Boston, at which remark Mr. Esmond looks but half-pleased\nat the little gentleman.\n\n\"Such a hand for a light pie-crust,\" continues the Judge, \"and\nmy service to you, madam.\" And he thinks the widow cannot but be\npropitiated by this compliment. She says simply that she had lessons\nwhen she was at home in England for her education, and that there were\ncertain dishes which her mother taught her to make, and which her father\nand sons both liked. She was very glad if they pleased her company. More\nsuch remarks follow: more dishes; ten times as much meat as is\nneedful for the company. Mr. Washington does not embark in the general\nconversation much, but he and Mr. Talmadge, and Major Danvers, and\nthe Postmaster, are deep in talk about roads, rivers, conveyances,\nsumpter-horses and artillery train; and the provincial militia Colonel\nhas bits of bread laid at intervals on the table before him, and\nstations marked out, on which he has his finger, and regarding which he\nis talking to his brother aides-de-camp, till a negro servant, changing\nthe courses, brushes off the Potomac with a napkin, and sweeps up the\nOhio in a spoon.\n\nAt the end of dinner, Mr. Broadbent leaves his place and walks up behind\nthe Lieutenant-Governor's chair, where he says grace, returning to his\nseat and resuming his knife and fork when this work of devotion is over.\nAnd now the sweets and puddings are come, of which I can give you a\nlist, if you like; but what young lady cares for the puddings of to-day,\nmuch more for those which were eaten a hundred years ago, and which\nMadam Esmond had prepared for her guests with so much neatness and\nskill? Then, the table being cleared, Nathan, her chief manager, lays a\nglass to every person, and fills his mistress's. Bowing to the company,\nshe says she drinks but one toast, but knows how heartily all the\ngentlemen present will join her. Then she calls, \"His Majesty,\" bowing\nto Mr. Braddock, who with his aides-de-camp and the colonial gentlemen\nall loyally repeat the name of their beloved and gracious Sovereign. And\nhereupon, having drunk her glass of wine and saluted all the company,\nthe widow retires between a row of negro servants, performing one of her\nvery handsomest curtsies at the door.\n\nThe kind Mistress of Castlewood bore her part in the entertainment with\nadmirable spirit, and looked so gay and handsome, and spoke with such\ncheerfulness and courage to all her company, that the few ladies who\nwere present at the dinner could not but congratulate Madam Esmond upon\nthe elegance of the feast, and especially upon her manner of presiding\nat it. But they were scarcely got to her drawing-room when her\nartificial courage failed her, and she burst into tears on the sofa by\nMrs. Laws' side, just in the midst of a compliment from that lady. \"Ah,\nmadam!\" she said, \"it may be an honour, as you say, to have the\nKing's representative in my house, and our family has received greater\npersonages than Mr. Braddock. But he comes to take one of my sons away\nfrom me. Who knows whether my boy will return, or how? I dreamed of him\nlast night as wounded, and quite white, with blood streaming from his\nside. I would not be so ill-mannered as to let my grief be visible\nbefore the gentlemen; but, my good Mrs. Justice, who has parted with\nchildren, and who has a mother's heart of her own, would like me none\nthe better, if mine were very easy this evening.\"\n\nThe ladies administered such consolations as seemed proper or palatable\nto their hostess, who tried not to give way further to her melancholy,\nand remembered that she had other duties to perform, before yielding to\nher own sad mood. \"It will be time enough, madam, to be sorry when they\nare gone,\" she said to the Justice's wife, her good neighbour. \"My boy\nmust not see me following him with a wistful face, and have our parting\nmade more dismal by my weakness. It is good that gentlemen of his rank\nand station should show themselves where their country calls them.\nThat has always been the way of the Esmonds, and the same Power which\ngraciously preserved my dear father through twenty great battles in the\nQueen's time, I trust and pray, will watch over my son now his turn\nis come to do his duty.\" And, now, instead of lamenting her fate, or\nfurther alluding to it, I dare say the resolute lady sate down with\nher female friends to a pool of cards and a dish of coffee, whilst the\ngentlemen remained in the neighbouring parlour, still calling their\ntoasts and drinking their wine. When one lady objected that these latter\nwere sitting rather long, Madam Esmond said: \"It would improve and amuse\nthe boys to be with the English gentlemen. Such society was very rarely\nto be had in their distant province, and though their conversation\nsometimes was free, she was sure that gentleman and men of fashion would\nhave regard to the youth of her sons, and say nothing before them which\nyoung people should not hear.\"\n\nIt was evident that the English gentlemen relished the good cheer\nprovided for them. Whilst the ladies were yet at their cards, Nathan\ncame in and whispered Mrs. Mountain, who at first cried out--\"No! she\nwould give no more--the common Bordeaux they might have, and welcome,\nif they still wanted more--but she would not give any more of the\nColonel's.\" It appeared that the dozen bottles of particular claret had\nbeen already drunk up by the gentlemen, \"besides ale, cider, Burgundy,\nLisbon, and Madeira,\" says Mrs. Mountain, enumerating the supplies.\n\nBut Madam Esmond was for having no stint in the hospitality of the\nnight. Mrs. Mountain was fain to bustle away with her keys to the sacred\nvault where the Colonel's particular Bordeaux lay, surviving its master,\nwho, too, had long passed underground. As they went on their journey,\nMrs. Mountain asked whether any of the gentlemen had had too much?\nNathan thought Mister Broadbent was tipsy--he always tipsy; be then\nthought the General gentleman was tipsy; and he thought Master George\nwas a lilly drunk.\n\n\"Master George!\" cries Mrs. Mountain: \"why, he will sit for days without\ntouching a drop.\"\n\nNevertheless, Nathan persisted in his notion that Master George was\na lilly drunk. He was always filling his glass, he had talked, he had\nsung, he had cut jokes, especially against Mr. Washington, which made\nMr. Washington quite red and angry, Nathan said. \"Well, well!\" Mrs.\nMountain cried eagerly; \"it was right a gentleman should make himself\nmerry in good company, and pass the bottle along with his friends.\"\nAnd she trotted to the particular Bordeaux cellar with only the more\nalacrity.\n\nThe tone of freedom and almost impertinence which young George Esmond\nhad adopted of late days towards Mr. Washington had very deeply vexed\nand annoyed that gentleman. There was scarce half a dozen years'\ndifference of age between him and the Castlewood twins;--but Mr.\nWashington had always been remarked for a discretion and sobriety much\nbeyond his time of life, whilst the boys of Castlewood seemed younger\nthan theirs. They had always been till now under their mother's anxious\ntutelage, and had looked up to their neighbour of Mount Vernon as their\nguide, director, friend--as, indeed, almost everybody seemed to do who\ncame in contact with the simple and upright young man. Himself of the\nmost scrupulous gravity and good breeding, in his communication with\nother folks he appeared to exact, or, at any rate, to occasion, the same\nbehaviour. His nature was above levity and jokes: they seemed out of\nplace when addressed to him. He was slow of comprehending them: and they\nslunk as it were abashed out of his society. \"He always seemed great to\nme,\" says Harry Warrington, in one of his letters many years after the\ndate of which we are writing; \"and I never thought of him otherwise than\nof a hero. When he came over to Castlewood and taught us boys surveying,\nto see him riding to hounds was as if he was charging an army. If he\nfired a shot, I thought the bird must come down, and if be flung a net,\nthe largest fish in the river were sure to be in it. His words were\nalways few, but they were always wise; they were not idle, as our words\nare, they were grave, sober, and strong, and ready on occasion to do\ntheir duty. In spite of his antipathy to him, my brother respected and\nadmired the General as much as I did--that is to say, more than any\nmortal man.\"\n\nMr. Washington was the first to leave the jovial party which were doing\nso much honour to Madam Esmond's hospitality. Young George Esmond, who\nhad taken his mother's place when she left it, had been free with the\nglass and with the tongue. He had said a score of things to his guest\nwhich wounded and chafed the latter, and to which Mr. Washington could\ngive no reply. Angry beyond all endurance, he left the table at length,\nand walked away through the open windows into the broad verandah or\nporch which belonged to Castlewood as to all Virginian houses.\n\nHere Madam Esmond caught sight of her friend's tall frame as it strode\nup and down before the windows; and, the evening being warm, or her game\nover, she gave up her cards to one of the other ladies, and joined her\ngood neighbour out of doors. He tried to compose his countenance as well\nas he could: it was impossible that he should explain to his hostess why\nand with whom he was angry.\n\n\"The gentlemen are long over their wine,\" she said; \"gentlemen of the\narmy are always fond of it.\"\n\n\"If drinking makes good soldiers, some yonder are distinguishing\nthemselves greatly, madam,\" said Mr. Washington.\n\n\"And I dare say the General is at the head of his troops?\"\n\n\"No doubt, no doubt,\" answered the Colonel, who always received this\nlady's remarks, playful or serious, with a peculiar softness and\nkindness. \"But the General is the General, and it is not for me to make\nremarks on his Excellency's doings at table or elsewhere. I think very\nlikely that military gentlemen born and bred at home are different from\nus of the colonies. We have such a hot sun, that we need not wine to\nfire our blood as they do. And drinking toasts seems a point of honour\nwith them. Talmadge hiccupped to me--I should say, whispered to me just\nnow, that an officer could no more refuse a toast than a challenge, and\nhe said that it was after the greatest difficulty and dislike at first\nthat he learned to drink. He has certainly overcome his difficulty with\nuncommon resolution.\"\n\n\"What, I wonder, can you talk of for so many hours?\" asked the lady.\n\n\"I don't think I can tell you all we talk of, madam, and I must not\ntell tales out of school. We talked about the war, and of the force Mr.\nContrecoeur has, and how we are to get at him. The General is for making\nthe campaign in his coach, and makes light of it and the enemy. That we\nshall beat them, if we meet them, I trust there is no doubt.\"\n\n\"How can there be?\" says the lady, whose father had served under\nMarlborough.\n\n\"Mr. Franklin, though he is only from New England,\" continued the\ngentleman, \"spoke great good sense, and would have spoken more if the\nEnglish gentlemen would let him; but they reply invariably that we are\nonly raw provincials, and don't know what disciplined British troops can\ndo. Had they not best hasten forwards and make turnpike roads and\nhave comfortable inns ready for his Excellency at the end of the day's\nmarch?--'There's some sort of inns, I suppose,' says Mr. Danvers, 'not\nso comfortable as we have in England: we can't expect that.'--'No,\nyou can't expect that,' says Mr. Franklin, who seems a very shrewd\nand facetious person. He drinks his water, and seems to laugh at the\nEnglishmen, though I doubt whether it is fair for a water-drinker to sit\nby and spy out the weaknesses of gentlemen over their wine.\"\n\n\"And my boys? I hope they are prudent?\" said the widow, laying her hand\non her guest's arm. \"Harry promised me, and when he gives his word, I\ncan trust him for anything. George is always moderate. Why do you look\nso grave?\"\n\n\"Indeed, to be frank with you, I do not know what has come over George\nin these last days,\" says Mr. Washington. \"He has some grievance against\nme which I do not understand, and of which I don't care to ask the\nreason. He spoke to me before the gentlemen in a way which scarcely\nbecame him. We are going the campaign together, and 'tis a pity we begin\nsuch ill friends.\"\n\n\"He has been ill. He is always wild and wayward, and hard to understand.\nBut he has the most affectionate heart in the world. You will bear with\nhim, you will protect him--promise me you will.\"\n\n\"Dear lady, I will do so with my life,\" Mr. Washington said with great\nfervour. \"You know I would lay it down cheerfully for you or any you\nlove.\"\n\n\"And my father's blessing and mine go with you, dear friend!\" cried the\nwidow, full of thanks and affection.\n\nAs they pursued their conversation, they had quitted the porch under\nwhich they had first began to talk, and where they could hear the\nlaughter and toasts of the gentlemen over their wine, and were pacing a\nwalk on the rough lawn before the house. Young George Warrington, from\nhis place at the head of the table in the dining-room, could see the\npair as they passed to and fro, and had listened for some time past,\nand replied in a very distracted manner to the remarks of the gentlemen\nround about him, who were too much engaged with their own talk and\njokes, and drinking, to pay much attention to their young host's\nbehaviour. Mr. Braddock loved a song after dinner, and Mr. Danvers, his\naide-de-camp, who had a fine tenor voice, was delighting his General\nwith the latest ditty from Marybone Gardens, when George Warrington,\njumping up, ran towards the window, and then returned and pulled his\nbrother Harry by the sleeve, who sate with his back towards the window.\n\n\"What is it?\" says Harry, who, for his part, was charmed, too, with the\nsong and chorus.\n\n\"Come,\" cried George, with a stamp of his foot, and the younger followed\nobediently.\n\n\"What is it?\" continued George, with a bitter oath. \"Don't you see what\nit is? They were billing and cooing this morning; they are billing and\ncooing now before going to roost. Had we not better both go into the\ngarden, and pay our duty to our mamma and papa?\" and he pointed to Mr.\nWashington, who was taking the widow's hand very tenderly in his.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. A Hot Afternoon\n\n\nGeneral Braddock and the other guests of Castlewood being duly consigned\nto their respective quarters, the boys retired to their own room, and\nthere poured out to one another their opinions respecting the great\nevent of the day. They would not bear such a marriage--no. Was the\nrepresentative of the Marquises of Esmond to marry the younger son of\na colonial family, who had been bred up as a land-surveyor? Castlewood,\nand the boys at nineteen years of age, handed over to the tender mercies\nof a stepfather of three-and-twenty! Oh, it was monstrous! Harry was for\ngoing straightway to his mother in her bedroom--where her black maidens\nwere divesting her ladyship of the simple jewels and fineries which she\nhad assumed in compliment to the feast--protesting against the odious\nmatch, and announcing that they would go home, live upon their little\nproperty there, and leave her for ever, if the unnatural union took\nplace.\n\nGeorge advocated another way of stopping it, and explained his plan to\nhis admiring brother. \"Our mother,\" he said, \"can't marry a man with\nwhom one or both of us has been out on the field, and who has wounded us\nor killed us, or whom we have wounded or killed. We must have him out,\nHarry.\"\n\nHarry saw the profound truth conveyed in George's statement, and admired\nhis brother's immense sagacity. \"No, George,\" says he, \"you are right.\nMother can't marry our murderer; she won't be as bad as that. And if we\npink him he is done for. 'Cadit quaestio,' as Mr. Dempster used to say.\nShall I send my boy with a challenge to Colonel George now?\"\n\n\"My dear Harry,\" the elder replied, thinking with some complacency of\nhis affair of honour at Quebec, \"you are not accustomed to affairs of\nthis sort.\"\n\n\"No,\" owned Harry, with a sigh, looking with envy and admiration on his\nsenior.\n\n\"We can't insult a gentleman in our own house,\" continued George, with\ngreat majesty; \"the laws of honour forbid such inhospitable treatment.\nBut, sir, we can ride out with him, and, as soon as the park gates are\nclosed, we can tell him our mind.\"\n\n\"That we can, by George!\" cries Harry, grasping his brother's hand, \"and\nthat we will, too. I say, Georgy...\" Here the lad's face became very\nred, and his brother asked him what he would say?\n\n\"This is my turn, brother,\" Harry pleaded. \"If you go the campaign, I\nought to have the other affair. Indeed, indeed, I ought.\" And he prayed\nfor this bit of promotion.\n\n\"Again the head of the house must take the lead, my dear,\" George said,\nwith a superb air. \"If I fall, my Harry will avenge me. But I must fight\nGeorge Washington, Hal: and 'tis best I should; for, indeed, I hate him\nthe worst. Was it not he who counselled my mother to order that wretch,\nWard, to lay hands on me?\"\n\n\"Ah, George,\" interposed the more pacable younger brother, \"you ought to\nforget and forgive.\"\n\n\"Forgive? Never, sir, as long as I remember. You can't order remembrance\nout of a man's mind; and a wrong that was a wrong yesterday must be a\nwrong to-morrow. I never, of my knowledge, did one to any man, and I\nnever will suffer one, if I can help it. I think very ill of Mr. Ward,\nbut I don't think so badly of him as to suppose he will ever forgive\nthee that blow with the ruler. Colonel Washington is our enemy, mine\nespecially. He has advised one wrong against me, and he meditates a\ngreater. I tell you, brother, we must punish him.\"\n\nThe grandsire's old Bordeaux had set George's ordinarily pale\ncountenance into a flame. Harry, his brother's fondest worshipper,\ncould not but admire George's haughty bearing and rapid declamation, and\nprepared himself, with his usual docility, to follow his chief. So the\nboys went to their beds, the elder conveying special injunctions to his\njunior to be civil to all the guests so long as they remained under the\nmaternal roof on the morrow.\n\nGood manners and a repugnance to telling tales out of school, forbid us\nfrom saying which of Madam Esmond's guests was the first to fall under\nthe weight of her hospitality. The respectable descendants of Messrs.\nTalmadge and Danvers, aides-de-camp to his Excellency, might not care to\nhear how their ancestors were intoxicated a hundred years ago; and yet\nthe gentlemen themselves took no shame in the fact, and there is little\ndoubt they or their comrades were tipsy twice or thrice in the week.\nLet us fancy them reeling to bed, supported by sympathising negroes; and\ntheir vinous General, too stout a toper to have surrendered himself to\na half-dozen bottles of Bordeaux, conducted to his chamber by the young\ngentlemen of the house, and speedily sleeping the sleep which friendly\nBacchus gives. The good lady of Castlewood saw the condition of her\nguests without the least surprise or horror; and was up early in the\nmorning, providing cooling drinks for their hot palates, which the\nservants carried to their respective chambers. At breakfast, one of\nthe English officers rallied Mr. Franklin, who took no wine at all, and\ntherefore refused the morning cool draught of toddy, by showing how the\nPhiladelphia gentleman lost two pleasures, the drink and the toddy. The\nyoung fellow said the disease was pleasant and the remedy delicious, and\nlaughingly proposed to continue repeating them both. The General's new\nAmerican aide-de-camp, Colonel Washington, was quite sober and serene.\nThe British officers vowed they must take him in hand, and teach him\nwhat the ways of the English army were; but the Virginian gentleman\ngravely said he did not care to learn that part of the English military\neducation.\n\nThe widow, occupied as she had been with the cares of a great dinner,\nfollowed by a great breakfast on the morning ensuing, had scarce leisure\nto remark the behaviour of her sons very closely, but at least saw that\nGeorge was scrupulously polite to her favourite, Colonel Washington, as\nto all the other guests of the house.\n\nBefore Mr. Braddock took his leave, he had a private audience of Madam\nEsmond, in which his Excellency formally offered to take her son into\nhis family; and when the arrangements for George's departure were\nsettled between his mother and future chief, Madam Esmond, though she\nmight feel them, did not show any squeamish terrors about the dangers\nof the bottle, which she saw were amongst the severest and most certain\nwhich her son would have to face. She knew her boy must take his part in\nthe world, and encounter his portion of evil and good. \"Mr. Braddock\nis a perfect fine gentleman in the morning,\" she said stoutly to her\naide-de-camp, Mrs. Mountain; \"and though my papa did not drink, 'tis\ncertain that many of the best company in England do.\" The jolly General\ngood-naturedly shook hands with George, who presented himself to his\nExcellency after the maternal interview was over, and bade George\nwelcome, and to be in attendance at Frederick three days hence; shortly\nafter which time the expedition would set forth.\n\nAnd now the great coach was again called into requisition, the General's\nescort pranced round it, the other guests and their servants went to\nhorse. The lady of Castlewood attended his Excellency to the steps of\nthe verandah in front of her house, the young gentlemen followed, and\nstood on each side of his coach-door. The guard trumpeter blew a shrill\nblast, the negroes shouted \"Huzzay, and God sabe de King,\" as Mr.\nBraddock most graciously took leave of his hospitable entertainers, and\nrolled away on his road to headquarters.\n\nAs the boys went up the steps, there was the Colonel once more taking\nleave of their mother. No doubt she had been once more recommending\nGeorge to his namesake's care; for Colonel Washington said: \"With my\nlife. You may depend on me,\" as the lads returned to their mother and\nthe few guests still remaining in the porch. The Colonel was booted and\nready to depart. \"Farewell, my dear Harry,\" he said. \"With you, George,\n'tis no adieu. We shall meet in three days at the camp.\"\n\nBoth the young men were going to danger, perhaps to death. Colonel\nWashington was taking leave of her, and she was to see him no more\nbefore the campaign. No wonder the widow was very much moved.\n\nGeorge Warrington watched his mother's emotion, and interpreted it with\na pang of malignant scorn. \"Stay yet a moment, and console our mamma,\"\nhe said with a steady countenance, \"only the time to get ourselves\nbooted, and my brother and I will ride with you a little way, George.\"\nGeorge Warrington had already ordered his horses. The three young\nmen were speedily under way, their negro grooms behind them, and Mrs.\nMountain, who knew she had made mischief between them and trembled for\nthe result, felt a vast relief that Mr. Washington was gone without a\nquarrel with the brothers, without, at any rate, an open declaration of\nlove to their mother.\n\nNo man could be more courteous in demeanour than George Warrington to\nhis neighbour and namesake, the Colonel. The latter was pleased and\nsurprised at his young friend's altered behaviour. The community of\ndanger, the necessity of future fellowship, the softening influence of\nthe long friendship which bound him to the Esmond family, the tender\nadieux which had just passed between him and the mistress of Castlewood,\ninclined the Colonel to forget the unpleasantness of the past days, and\nmade him more than usually friendly with his young companion. George\nwas quite gay and easy: it was Harry who was melancholy now: he rode\nsilently and wistfully by his brother, keeping away from Colonel\nWashington, to whose side he used always to press eagerly before. If\nthe honest Colonel remarked his young friend's conduct, no doubt he\nattributed it to Harry's known affection for his brother, and his\nnatural anxiety to be with George now the day of their parting was so\nnear.\n\nThey talked further about the war, and the probable end of the campaign:\nnone of the three doubted its successful termination. Two thousand\nveteran British troops with their commander must get the better of any\nforce the French could bring against them, if only they moved in decent\ntime. The ardent young Virginian soldier had an immense respect for the\nexperienced valour and tactics of the regular troops. King George II.\nhad no more loyal subject than Mr. Braddock's new aide-de-camp.\n\nSo the party rode amicably together, until they reached a certain rude\nlog-house, called Benson's, of which the proprietor, according to the\ncustom of the day and country, did not disdain to accept money from\nhis guests in return for hospitalities provided. There was a recruiting\nstation here, and some officers and men of Halkett's regiment assembled,\nand here Colonel Washington supposed that his young friends would take\nleave of him.\n\nWhilst their horses were baited, they entered the public room, and\nfound a rough meal prepared for such as were disposed to partake. George\nWarrington entered the place with a particularly gay and lively air,\nwhereas poor Harry's face was quite white and woebegone.\n\n\"One would think, Squire Harry, 'twas you who was going to leave home\nand fight the French and Indians, and not Mr. George,\" says Benson.\n\n\"I may be alarmed about danger to my brother,\" said Harry, \"though I\nmight bear my own share pretty well. 'Tis not my fault that I stay at\nhome.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, brother,\" cries George.\n\n\"Harry Warrington's courage does not need any proof!\" cries Mr.\nWashington.\n\n\"You do the family honour by speaking so well of us, Colonel,\" says Mr.\nGeorge, with a low bow. \"I dare say we can hold our own, if need be.\"\n\nWhilst his friend was vaunting his courage, Harry looked, to say the\ntruth, by no means courageous. As his eyes met his brother's, he read in\nGeorge's look an announcement which alarmed the fond faithful lad. \"You\nare not going to do it now?\" he whispered his brother.\n\n\"Yes, now,\" says Mr. George, very steadily.\n\n\"For God's sake, let me have the turn. You are going on the campaign,\nyou ought not to have everything--and there may be an explanation,\nGeorge. We may be all wrong.\"\n\n\"Psha, how can we? It must be done now--don't be alarmed. No names shall\nbe mentioned--I shall easily find a subject.\"\n\nA couple of Halkett's officers, whom our young gentlemen knew, were\nsitting under the porch, with the Virginian toddy-bowl before them.\n\n\"What are you conspiring, gentlemen?\" cried one of them. \"Is it a\ndrink?\"\n\nBy the tone of their voices and their flushed cheeks, it was clear the\ngentlemen had already been engaged in drinking that morning.\n\n\"The very thing, sir,\" George said gaily. \"Fresh glasses, Mr. Benson!\nWhat, no glasses? Then we must have at the bowl.\"\n\n\"Many a good man has drunk from it,\" says Mr. Benson; and the lads one\nafter another, and bowing first to their military acquaintance, touched\nthe bowl with their lips. The liquor did not seem to be much diminished\nfor the boys' drinking, though George especially gave himself a toper's\nairs, and protested it was delicious after their ride. He called out\nto Colonel Washington, who was at the porch, to join his friends, and\ndrink.\n\nThe lad's tone was offensive, and resembled the manner lately adopted by\nhim, and which had so much chafed Mr. Washington. He bowed, and said he\nwas not thirsty.\n\n\"Nay, the liquor is paid for,\" says George; \"never fear, Colonel.\"\n\n\"I said I was not thirsty. I did not say the liquor was not paid for,\"\nsaid the young Colonel, drumming with his foot.\n\n\"When the King's health is proposed, an officer can hardly say no. I\ndrink the health of his Majesty, gentlemen,\" cried George. \"Colonel\nWashington can drink it or leave it. The King!\"\n\nThis was a point of military honour. The two British officers of\nHalkett's, Captain Grace and Mr. Waring, both drank \"The King.\" Harry\nWarrington drank \"The King.\" Colonel Washington, with glaring eyes,\ngulped, too, a slight draught from the bowl.\n\nThen Captain Grace proposed \"The Duke and the Army,\" which toast there\nwas likewise no gainsaying. Colonel Washington had to swallow \"The Duke\nand the Army.\"\n\n\"You don't seem to stomach the toast, Colonel,\" said George.\n\n\"I tell you again, I don't want to drink,\" replied the Colonel. \"It\nseems to me the Duke and the Army would be served all the better if\ntheir healths were not drunk so often.\"\n\n\"You are not up to the ways of regular troops as yet,\" said Captain\nGrace, with rather a thick voice.\n\n\"May be not, sir.\"\n\n\"A British officer,\" continues Captain Grace, with great energy but\ndoubtful articulation, \"never neglects a toast of that sort, nor any\nother duty. A man who refuses to drink the health of the Duke--hang me,\nsuch a man should be tried by a court-martial!\"\n\n\"What means this language to me? You are drunk, sir!\" roared Colonel\nWashington, jumping up, and striking the table with his fist.\n\n\"A cursed provincial officer say I'm drunk!\" shrieks out Captain Grace.\n\"Waring, do you hear that?\"\n\n\"I heard it, sir!\" cried George Warrington. \"We all heard it. He\nentered at my invitation--the liquor called for was mine: the table was\nmine--and I am shocked to hear such monstrous language used at it as\nColonel Washington has just employed towards my esteemed guest, Captain\nWaring.\"\n\n\"Confound your impudence, you infernal young jackanapes!\" bellowed out\nColonel Washington. \"You dare to insult me before British officers, and\nfind fault with my language? For months past, I have borne with such\nimpudence from you, that if I had not loved your mother--yes, sir, and\nyour good grandfather and your brother--I would--I would--\" Here his\nwords failed him, and the irate Colonel, with glaring eyes and purple\nface, and every limb quivering with wrath, stood for a moment speechless\nbefore his young enemy.\n\n\"You would what, sir?\" says George, very quietly, \"if you did not\nlove my grandfather, and my brother, and my mother. You are making her\npetticoat a plea for some conduct of yours--you would do what, sir, may\nI ask again?\"\n\n\"I would put you across my knee and whip you, you snarling little puppy,\nthat's what I would do!\" cried the Colonel, who had found breath by this\ntime, and vented another explosion of fury.\n\n\"Because you have known us all our lives, and made our house your own,\nthat is no reason you should insult either of us!\" here cried Harry,\nstarting up. \"What you have said, George Washington, is an insult to me\nand my brother alike. You will ask pardon, sir!\"\n\n\"Pardon?\"\n\n\"Or give us the reparation that is due to gentlemen,\" continues Harry.\n\nThe stout Colonel's heart smote him to think that he should be at mortal\nquarrel or called upon to shed the blood of one of the lads he loved.\nAs Harry stood facing him, with his fair hair, flushing cheeks, and\nquivering voice, an immense tenderness and kindness filled the bosom of\nthe elder man. \"I--I am bewildered,\" he said. \"My words, perhaps, were\nvery hasty. What has been the meaning of George's behaviour to me for\nmonths back? Only tell me, and, perhaps----\"\n\nThe evil spirit was awake and victorious in young George Warrington:\nhis black eyes shot out scorn and hatred at the simple and guileless\ngentleman before him. \"You are shirking from the question, sir, as you\ndid from the toast just now,\" he said. \"I am not a boy to suffer under\nyour arrogance. You have publicly insulted me in a public place, and I\ndemand a reparation.\"\n\n\"In Heaven's name, be it!\" says Mr. Washington, with the deepest grief\nin his face.\n\n\"And you have insulted me,\" continues Captain Grace, reeling towards\nhim. \"What was it he said? Confound the militia captain--colonel, what\nis he? You've insulted me! Oh, Waring! to think I should be insulted by\na captain of militia!\" And tears bedewed the noble Captain's cheek as\nthis harrowing thought crossed his mind.\n\n\"I insult you, you hog!\" the Colonel again yelled out, for he was little\naffected by humour, and had no disposition to laugh as the others had at\nthe scene. And, behold, at this minute a fourth adversary was upon him.\n\n\"Great Powers, sir!\" said Captain Waring, \"are three affairs not enough\nfor you, and must I come into the quarrel, too? You have a quarrel with\nthese two young gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Hasty words, sir!\" cries poor Harry once more.\n\n\"Hasty words, sir!\" cries Captain Waring. \"A gentleman tells another\ngentleman that he will put him across his knees and whip him, and you\ncall those hasty words? Let me tell you if any man were to say to me,\n'Charles Waring,' or 'Captain Waring, I'll put you across my knees and\nwhip you,' I'd say, 'I'll drive my cheese-toaster through his body,'\nif he were as big as Goliath, I would. That's one affair with young Mr.\nGeorge Warrington. Mr. Harry, of course, as a young man of spirit, will\nstand by his brother. That's two. Between Grace and the Colonel apology\nis impossible. And, now--run me through the body!--you call an officer\nof my regiment--of Halkett's, sir!--a hog before my face! Great heavens,\nsir! Mr. Washington, are you all like this in Virginia? Excuse me, I\nwould use no offensive personality, as, by George! I will suffer none\nfrom any man! but, by Gad, Colonel! give me leave to tell you that you\nare the most quarrelsome man I ever saw in my life. Call a disabled\nofficer of my regiment--for he is disabled, ain't you, Grace?--call him\na hog before me! You withdraw it, sir--you withdraw it?\"\n\n\"Is this some infernal conspiracy in which you are all leagued against\nme?\" shouted the Colonel. \"It would seem as if I was drunk, and not you,\nas you all are. I withdraw nothing. I apologise for nothing. By heavens!\nI will meet one or half a dozen of you in your turn, young or old, drunk\nor sober.\"\n\n\"I do not wish to hear myself called more names,\" cried Mr. George\nWarrington. \"This affair can proceed, sir, without any further insult on\nyour part. When will it please you to give me the meeting?\"\n\n\"The sooner the better, sir!\" said the Colonel, fuming with rage.\n\n\"The sooner the better,\" hiccupped Captain Grace, with many oaths\nneedless to print--(in those days, oaths were the customary garnish of\nall gentlemen's conversation)--and he rose staggering from his seat, and\nreeled towards his sword, which he had laid by the door, and fell as he\nreached the weapon. \"The sooner the better!\" the poor tipsy wretch again\ncried out from the ground, waving his weapon and knocking his own hat\nover his eyes.\n\n\"At any rate, this gentleman's business will keep cool till to-morrow,\"\nthe militia Colonel said, turning to the other king's officer. \"You will\nhardly bring your man out to-day, Captain Waring?\"\n\n\"I confess that neither his hand nor mine are particularly steady,\" said\nWaring.\n\n\"Mine is!\" cried Mr. Warrington, glaring at his enemy.\n\nHis comrade of former days was as hot and as savage. \"Be it so--with\nwhat weapon, sir?\" Washington said sternly.\n\n\"Not with small-swords, Colonel. We can beat you with them. You know\nthat from our old bouts. Pistols had better be the word.\"\n\n\"As you please, George Warrington--and God forgive you, George! God\npardon you, Harry! for bringing me into this quarrel,\" said the Colonel,\nwith a face full of sadness and gloom.\n\nHarry hung his head, but George continued with perfect calmness: \"I,\nsir? It was not I who called names, who talked of a cane, who insulted a\ngentleman in a public place before gentlemen of the army. It is not the\nfirst time you have chosen to take me for a negro, and talked of the\nwhip for me.\"\n\nThe Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if struck by a sudden\nremembrance.\n\n\"Great heavens, George! is it that boyish quarrel you are still\nrecalling?\"\n\n\"Who made you the overseer of Castlewood?\" said the boy, grinding his\nteeth. \"I am not your slave, George Washington, and I never will be. I\nhated you then, and I hate you now. And you have insulted me, and I am a\ngentleman, and so are you. Is that not enough?\"\n\n\"Too much, only too much,\" said the Colonel, with a genuine grief on\nhis face, and at his heart. \"Do you bear malice too, Harry? I had not\nthought this of thee!\"\n\n\"I stand by my brother,\" said Harry, turning away from the Colonel's\nlook, and grasping George's hand. The sadness on their adversary's face\ndid not depart. \"Heaven be good to us! 'Tis all clear now,\" he muttered\nto himself. \"The time to write a few letters, and I am at your service,\nMr. Warrington,\" he said.\n\n\"You have your own pistols at your saddle. I did not ride out with\nany; but will send Sady back for mine. That will give you time enough,\nColonel Washington?\"\n\n\"Plenty of time, sir.\" And each gentleman made the other a low bow,\nand, putting his arm in his brother's, George walked away. The Virginian\nofficer looked towards the two unlucky captains, who were by this time\nhelpless with liquor. Captain Benson, the master of the tavern, was\npropping the hat of one of them over his head.\n\n\"It is not altogether their fault, Colonel,\" said my landlord, with a\ngrim look of humour. \"Jack Firebrace and Tom Humbold of Spotsylvania was\nhere this morning, chanting horses with 'em. And Jack and Tom got 'em to\nplay cards; and they didn't win--the British Captains didn't. And Jack\nand Tom challenged them to drink for the honour of Old England, and\nthey didn't win at that game, neither, much. They are kind, free-handed\nfellows when they are sober, but they are a pretty pair of fools--they\nare.\"\n\n\"Captain Benson, you are an old frontier man, and an officer of ours,\nbefore you turned farmer and taverner. You will help me in this matter\nwith yonder young gentlemen?\" said the Colonel.\n\n\"I'll stand by and see fair play, Colonel. I won't have no hand in it,\nbeyond seeing fair play. Madam Esmond has helped me many a time, tended\nmy poor wife in her lying-in, and doctored our Betty in the fever. You\nain't a-going to be very hard with them poor boys? Though I seen 'em\nboth shoot: the fair one hunts well, as you know, but the old one's a\nwonder at an ace of spades.\"\n\n\"Will you be pleased to send my man with my valise, Captain, into any\nprivate room which you can spare me? I must write a few letters before\nthis business comes on. God grant it were well over!\" And the Captain\nled the Colonel into almost the only other room of his house, calling,\nwith many oaths, to a pack of negro servants, to disperse thence, who\nwere chattering loudly among one another, and no doubt discussing the\nquarrel which had just taken place. Edwin, the Colonel's man, returned\nwith his master's portmanteau, and as he looked from the window, he\nsaw Sady, George Warrington's negro, galloping away upon his errand,\ndoubtless, and in the direction of Castlewood. The Colonel, young and\nnaturally hot-headed, but the most courteous and scrupulous of men, and\never keeping his strong passions under guard, could not but think with\namazement of the position in which he found, himself, and of the three,\nperhaps four enemies, who appeared suddenly before him, menacing his\nlife. How had this strange series of quarrels been brought about? He\nhad ridden away a few hours since from Castlewood, with his young\ncompanions, and, to all seeming, they were perfect friends. A shower of\nrain sends them into a tavern, where there are a couple of recruiting\nofficers, and they are not seated for half an hour at a social table,\nbut he has quarrelled with the whole company, called this one names,\nagreed to meet another in combat, and threatened chastisement to a\nthird, the son of his most intimate friend!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. Wherein the two Georges prepare for Blood\n\n\nThe Virginian Colonel remained in one chamber of the tavern, occupied\nwith gloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting; his adversary in the\nother room thought fit to make his testamentary dispositions, too, and\ndictated, by his obedient brother and secretary, a grandiloquent letter\nto his mother, of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemn farewell.\nShe would hardly, he supposed, pursue the scheme which she had in view\n(a peculiar satirical emphasis was laid upon the scheme which she had\nin view), after the event of that morning, should he fall, as, probably,\nwould be the case.\n\n\"My dear, dear George, don't say that!\" cried the affrighted secretary.\n\n\"'As probably will be the case,'\" George persisted with great majesty.\n\"You know what a good shot Colonel George is, Harry. I, myself, am\npretty fair at a mark, and 'tis probable that one or both of us will\ndrop.--'I scarcely suppose you will carry out the intentions you have\nat present in view.'\" This was uttered in a tone of still greater\nbitterness than George had used even in the previous phrase. Harry wept\nas he took it down.\n\n\"You see I say nothing; Madame Esmond's name does not even appear in the\nquarrel. Do you not remember in our grandfather's life of himself, how\nhe says that Lord Castlewood fought Lord Mohun on a pretext of a quarrel\nat cards? and never so much as hinted at the lady's name, who was the\nreal cause of the duel? I took my hint, I confess, from that, Harry.\nOur mother is not compromised in the--Why, child, what have you been\nwriting, and who taught thee to spell?\" Harry had written the last\nwords \"in view,\" in vew, and a great blot of salt water from his honest,\nboyish eyes may have obliterated some other bad spelling.\n\n\"I can't think about the spelling now, Georgy,\" whimpered George's\nclerk. \"I'm too miserable for that. I begin to think, perhaps it's all\nnonsense, perhaps Colonel George never----\"\n\n\"Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never gave himself airs,\nand patronised us there; never advised my mother to have me flogged,\nnever intended to marry her; never insulted me, and was insulted before\nthe king's officers; never wrote to his brother to say we should be the\nbetter for his parental authority? The paper is there,\" cried the young\nman, slapping his breast-pocket, \"and if anything happens to me, Harry\nWarrington, you will find it on my corse!\"\n\n\"Write yourself, Georgy, I can't write,\" says Harry, digging his fists\ninto his eyes, and smearing over the whole composition, bad spelling and\nall, with his elbows.\n\nOn this, George, taking another sheet of paper, sate down at his\nbrother's place, and produced a composition in which he introduced the\nlongest words, the grandest Latin quotations, and the most profound\nsatire of which the youthful scribe was master. He desired that his\nnegro boy, Sady, should be set free; that his Horace, a choice of his\nbooks, and, if possible, a suitable provision should be made for his\naffectionate tutor, Mr. Dempster; that his silver fruit-knife, his\nmusic-books, and harpsichord, should be given to little Fanny Mountain;\nand that his brother should take a lock of his hair, and wear it in\nmemory of his ever fond and faithfully attached George. And he sealed\nthe document with the seal of arms that his grandfather had worn.\n\n\"The watch, of course, will be yours,\" said George, taking out his\ngrandfather's gold watch, and looking at it. \"Why, two hours and a-half\nare gone! 'Tis time that Sady should be back with the pistols. Take the\nwatch, Harry dear.\"\n\n\"It's no good!\" cried out Harry, flinging his arms round his brother.\n\"If he fights you, I'll fight him, too. If he kills my Georgy, ---- him,\nhe shall have a shot at me!\" and the poor lad uttered more than one of\nthose expressions, which are said peculiarly to affect recording angels,\nwho have to take them down at celestial chanceries.\n\nMeanwhile, General Braddock's new aide-de-camp had written five letters\nin his large resolute hand, and sealed them with his seal. One was to\nhis mother, at Mount Vernon; one to his brother; one was addressed M. C.\nonly; and one to his Excellency, Major-General Braddock. \"And one, young\ngentleman, is for your mother, Madam Esmond,\" said the boys' informant.\n\nAgain the recording angel had to fly off with a violent expression,\nwhich parted from the lips of George Warrington. The chancery previously\nmentioned was crowded with such cases, and the messengers must have been\nfor ever on the wing. But I fear for young George and his oath there was\nno excuse; for it was an execration uttered from a heart full of hatred,\nand rage, and jealousy.\n\nIt was the landlord of the tavern who communicated these facts to the\nyoung men. The Captain had put on his old militia uniform to do honour\nto the occasion, and informed the boys that the Colonel was walking up\nand down the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars was a'most\nsober, too, by this time.\n\nA plot of ground near the Captain's log-house had been enclosed with\nshingles, and cleared for a kitchen-garden; there indeed paced Colonel\nWashington, his hands behind his back, his head bowed down, a grave\nsorrow on his handsome face. The negro servants were crowded at the\npalings, and looking over. The officers under the porch had wakened\nup also, as their host remarked. Captain Waring was walking, almost\nsteadily, under the balcony formed by the sloping porch and roof of the\nwooden house; and Captain Grace was lolling over the railing, with eyes\nwhich stared very much, though perhaps they did not see very clearly.\nBenson's was a famous rendezvous for cock-fights, horse-matches, boxing,\nand wrestling-matches, such as brought the Virginian country-folks\ntogether. There had been many brawls at Benson's, and men who came\nthither sound and sober, had gone thence with ribs broken and eyes\ngouged out. And squires, and farmers, and negroes, all participated in\nthe sport.\n\nThere, then, stalked the tall young Colonel, plunged in dismal\nmeditation. There was no way out of his scrape, but the usual cruel one,\nwhich the laws of honour and the practice of the country ordered. Goaded\ninto fury by the impertinence of a boy, he had used insulting words. The\nyoung man had asked for reparation. He was shocked to think that George\nWarrington's jealousy and revenge should have rankled in the young\nfellow so long but the wrong had been the Colonel's, and he was bound to\npay the forfeit.\n\nA great hallooing and shouting, such as negroes use, who love noise at\nall times, and especially delight to yell and scream when galloping on\nhorseback, was now heard at a distance, and all the heads, woolly and\npowdered, were turned in the direction of this outcry. It came from the\nroad over which our travellers had themselves passed three hours before,\nand presently the clattering of a horse's hoofs was heard, and now Mr.\nSady made his appearance on his foaming horse, and actually fired a\npistol off in the midst of a prodigious uproar from his woolly brethren.\nThen he fired another pistol off, to which noises Sady's horse, which\nhad carried Harry Warrington on many a hunt, was perfectly accustomed;\nand now he was in the courtyard, surrounded by a score of his bawling\ncomrades, and was descending amidst fluttering fowls and turkeys,\nkicking horses and shrieking frantic pigs; and brother-negroes crowded\nround him, to whom he instantly began to talk and chatter.\n\n\"Sady, sir, come here!\" roars out Master Harry.\n\n\"Sady, come here! Confound you!\" shouts Master George. (Again the\nrecording angel is in requisition, and has to be off on one of his\nendless errands to the register office.) \"Come directly, mas'r,\" says\nSady, and resumes his conversation with his woolly brethren. He grins.\nHe takes the pistols out of the holster. He snaps the locks. He points\nthem at a grunter, which plunges through the farmyard. He points down\nthe road, over which he has just galloped, and towards which the woolly\nheads again turn. He says again, \"Comin', mas'r. Everybody a-comin'.\"\nAnd now, the gallop of other horses is heard. And who is yonder? Little\nMr. Dempster, spurring and digging into his pony; and that lady in a\nriding-habit on Madam Esmond's little horse, can it be Madam Esmond? No.\nIt is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madam's grey!\n\n\"O Lor! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!\" A chorus of negroes rises\nup. \"Here dey are!\" Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain have clattered\ninto the yard, have jumped from their horses, have elbowed through the\nnegroes, have rushed into the house, have run through it and across the\nporch, where the British officers are sitting in muzzy astonishment;\nhave run down the stairs to the garden where George and Harry are\nwalking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere\nGeorge Warrington has had time sternly to say, \"What do you do here,\nmadam?\" Mrs. Mountain has flung her arms round his neck and cries:\n\"Oh, George, my darling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my\nfault!\"\n\n\"What's a mistake?\" asks George, majestically separating himself from\nthe embrace.\n\n\"What is it, Mounty?\" cries Harry, all of a tremble.\n\n\"That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I picked up,\nchildren; where the Colonel says he is going to marry a widow with two\nchildren. Who should it be but you, children, and who should it be but\nyour mother?\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, it's--it's not your mother. It's that little widow Custis whom\nthe Colonel is going to marry. He'd always take a rich one; I knew he\nwould. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. He told Madam so to-day, just\nbefore he was going away, and that the marriage was to come off after\nthe campaign. And--and your mother is furious, boys. And when Sady came\nfor the pistols, and told the whole house how you were going to fight,\nI told him to fire the pistols off; and I galloped after him, and I've\nnearly broken my poor old bones in coming to you.\"\n\n\"I have a mind to break Mr. Sady's,\" growled George. \"I specially\nenjoined the villain not to say a word.\"\n\n\"Thank God he did, brother!\" said poor Harry. \"Thank God he did!\"\n\n\"What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant\ntelling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?\" asks Mr.\nGeorge, still in wrath.\n\n\"You have shown your proofs before, George,\" says Harry, respectfully.\n\"And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old friend,--our\ngrandfather's old friend. For it was a mistake and there is no quarrel\nnow, dear, is there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression.\"\n\n\"I certainly acted under a wrong impression,\" owns George, \"but----\"\n\n\"George! George Washington!\" Harry here cries out, springing over\nthe cabbage-garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was\nstalking, and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands\nout, and with the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and\nwith love and affection thrilling in his honest voice we imagine the lad\ntelling his tale to his friend.\n\nThere was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners\nnow, but which then lingered. When Harry had finished his artless story,\nhis friend the Colonel took him fairly to his arms, and held him to\nhis heart: and his voice faltered as he said, \"Thank God, thank God for\nthis!\"\n\n\"Oh, George,\" said Harry, who felt now how he loved his friend with all\nhis heart, \"how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!\" The other\npressed both the boy's hands, in a grasp of friendship, which each knew\nnever would slacken.\n\nThen the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elder\nbrother. Perhaps Harry wondered that the two did not embrace as he and\nthe Colonel had just done. But, though hands were joined, the salutation\nwas only formal and stern on both sides.\n\n\"I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington,\" George said, \"and\nmust apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour\nwhich has resulted from it.\"\n\n\"The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room, and\nshowed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women are\njealous,\" cried Mrs. Mountain.\n\n\"'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, madam,\"\nsaid Mr. Washington. \"You will permit me to say so. A great deal of\nmischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned only\nmyself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart has\nbeen black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own,\nscarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to both\nof us, had my private papers only been read by those for whom they were\nwritten. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray\nme into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And\ntake a true friend's advice, and try and be less ready to think evil of\nyour friends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons\nfor the enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene to-morrow, you\nwill know where to find me.\" And with a very stately bow to the English\nofficers, the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. News from the Camp\n\n\nWe must fancy that the parting between the brothers is over, that George\nhas taken his place in Mr. Braddock's family, and Harry has returned\nhome to Castlewood and his duty. His heart is with the army, and his\npursuits at home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own how\ndeep his disappointment is, at being obliged to stay under the homely,\nquiet roof, now more melancholy than ever since George is away. Harry\npasses his brother's empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's\nplace at the head of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his silver\ntankard. Madam Warrington calls the toast of \"The King\" stoutly every\nday; and, on Sundays, when Harry reads the service, and prays for all\ntravellers by land and by water, she says, \"We beseech Thee to hear\nus,\" with a peculiar solemnity. She insists on talking about George\nconstantly, but quite cheerfully, and as if his return was certain. She\nwalks into his vacant room, with head upright, and no outward signs of\nemotion. She sees that his books, linen, papers, etc., are arranged\nwith care; talking of him with a very special respect, and specially\nappealing to the old servants at meals, and so forth, regarding things\nwhich are to be done \"when Mr. George comes home.\" Mrs. Mountain is\nconstantly on the whimper when George's name is mentioned, and Harry's\nface wears a look of the most ghastly alarm; but his mother's is\ninvariably grave and sedate. She makes more blunders at piquet and\nbackgammon than you would expect from her; and the servants find her\nawake and dressed, however early they may rise. She has prayed Mr.\nDempster to come back into residence at Castlewood. She is not severe or\nhaughty (as her wont certainly was) with any of the party, but quiet in\nher talk with them, and gentle in assertion and reply. She is for ever\ntalking of her father and his campaigns, who came out of them all with\nno very severe wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts will her\neldest son.\n\nGeorge writes frequent letters home to his brother, and, now the army\nis on its march, compiles a rough journal, which he forwards as occasion\nserves. This document is perused with great delight and eagerness by\nthe youth to whom it is addressed, and more than once read out in family\ncouncil, on the long summer nights, as Madam Esmond sits upright at her\ntea-table--(she never condescends to use the back of a chair)--as\nlittle Fanny Mountain is busy with her sewing, as Mr. Dempster and Mrs.\nMountain sit over their cards, as the hushed old servants of the house\nmove about silently in the gloaming, and listen to the words of the\nyoung master. Hearken to Harry Warrington reading out his brother's\nletter! As we look at the slim characters on the yellow page, fondly\nkept and put aside, we can almost fancy him alive who wrote and who read\nit--and yet, lo! they are as if they never had been; their portraits\nfaint images in frames of tarnished gold. Were they real once, or are\nthey mere phantasms? Did they live and die once? Did they love each\nother as true brothers, and loyal gentlemen? Can we hear their voices\nin the past? Sure I know Harry's, and yonder he sits in the warm summer\nevening, and reads his young brother's simple story:\n\n\"It must be owned that the provinces are acting scurvily by his Majesty\nKing George II., and his representative here is in a flame of fury.\nVirginia is bad enough, and poor Maryland not much better, but\nPennsylvania is worst of all. We pray them to send us troops from home\nto fight the French; and we promise to maintain the troops when they\ncome. We not only don't keep our promise, and make scarce any provision\nfor our defenders, but our people insist upon the most exorbitant prices\nfor their cattle and stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are\ncome to fight their battles. No wonder the General swears, and the\ntroops are sulky. The delays have been endless. Owing to the failure\nof the several provinces to provide their promised stores and means of\nlocomotion, weeks and months have elapsed, during which time, no doubt,\nthe French have been strengthening themselves on our frontier and in the\nforts they have turned us out of. Though there never will be any love\nlost between me and Colonel Washington, it must be owned that your\nfavourite (I am not jealous, Hal) is a brave man and a good officer.\nThe family respect him very much, and the General is always asking his\nopinion. Indeed, he is almost the only man who has seen the Indians in\ntheir war-paint, and I own I think he was right in firing upon Mons.\nJumonville last year.\n\n\"There is to be no more suite to that other quarrel at Benson's Tavern\nthan there was to the proposed battle between Colonel W. and a certain\nyoung gentleman who shall be nameless. Captain Waring wished to pursue\nit on coming into camp, and brought the message from Captain Grace,\nwhich your friend, who is as bold as Hector, was for taking up, and\nemployed a brother aide-de-camp, Colonel Wingfield, on his side. But\nwhen Wingfield heard the circumstances of the quarrel, how it had arisen\nfrom Grace being drunk, and was fomented by Waring being tipsy, and how\nthe two 44th gentlemen had chosen to insult a militia officer, he swore\nthat Colonel Washington should not meet the 44th men; that he would\ncarry the matter straightway to his Excellency, who would bring the\ntwo captains to a court-martial for brawling with the militia, and\ndrunkenness, and indecent behaviour, and the captains were fain to put\nup their toasting-irons, and swallow their wrath. They were good-natured\nenough out of their cups, and ate their humble-pie with very good\nappetites at a reconciliation dinner which Colonel W. had with the 44th,\nand where he was as perfectly stupid and correct as Prince Prettyman\nneed be. Hang him! He has no faults, and that's why I dislike him. When\nhe marries that widow--ah me! what a dreary life she will have of it.\"\n\n\"I wonder at the taste of some men, and the effrontery of some women,\"\nsays Madam Esmond, laying her teacup down. \"I wonder at any woman who\nhas been married once, so forgetting herself as to marry again! Don't\nyou, Mountain?\"\n\n\"Monstrous!\" says Mountain, with a queer look.\n\nDempster keeps his eyes steadily fixed on his glass of punch. Harry\nlooks as if he was choking with laughter, or with some other concealed\nemotion, but his mother says, \"Go on, Harry! Continue with your\nbrother's journal. He writes well: but, ah, will he ever be able to\nwrite like my papa?\"\n\nHarry resumes: \"We keep the strictest order here in camp, and the orders\nagainst drunkenness and ill-behaviour on the part of the men are very\nsevere. The roll of each company is called at morning, noon, and night,\nand a return of the absent and disorderly is given in by the officer\nto the commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see that they are\nproperly punished. The men are punished, and the drummers are always at\nwork. Oh, Harry, but it made one sick to see the first blood drawn from\na great strong white back, and to hear the piteous yell of the poor\nfellow.\"\n\n\"Oh, horrid!\" says Madam Esmond.\n\n\"I think I should have murdered Ward if he had flogged me. Thank Heaven\nhe got off with only a crack of the ruler! The men, I say, are looked\nafter carefully enough. I wish the officers were. The Indians have just\nbroken up their camp, and retired in dudgeon, because the young officers\nwere for ever drinking with the squaws--and--and--hum--ha.\" Here Mr.\nHarry pauses, as not caring to proceed with the narrative, in the\npresence of little Fanny, very likely, who sits primly in her chair by\nher mother's side, working her little sampler.\n\n\"Pass over that about the odious tipsy creatures,\" says Madam. And Harry\ncommences, in a loud tone, a much more satisfactory statement: \"Each\nregiment has Divine Service performed at the head of its colours every\nSunday. The General does everything in the power of mortal man to\nprevent plundering, and to encourage the people round about to bring in\nprovisions. He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dare to interrupt\nor molest the market-people. He has ordered the price of provisions to\nbe raised a penny a pound, and has lent money out of his own pocket to\nprovide the camp. Altogether, he is a strange compound, this General. He\nflogs his men without mercy, but he gives without stint. He swears most\ntremendous oaths in conversation, and tells stories which Mountain would\nbe shocked to hear--\"\n\n\"Why me?\" asks Mountain; \"and what have I to do with the General's silly\nstories?\"\n\n\"Never mind the stories; and go on, Harry,\" cries the mistress of the\nhouse.\n\n\"--would be shocked to hear after dinner; but he never misses service.\nHe adores his Great Duke, and has his name constantly on his lips. Our\ntwo regiments both served in Scotland, where I dare say Mr. Dempster\nknew the colour of their facings.\"\n\n\"We saw the tails of their coats, as well as their facings,\" growls the\nlittle Jacobite tutor.\n\n\"Colonel Washington has had the fever very smartly, and has hardly been\nwell enough to keep up with the march. Had he not better go home and\nbe nursed by his widow? When either of us is ill, we are almost as good\nfriends again as ever. But I feel somehow as if I can't forgive him for\nhaving wronged him. Good Powers! How I have been hating him for these\nmonths past! Oh, Harry! I was in a fury at the tavern the other day,\nbecause Mountain came up so soon, and put an end to our difference. We\nought to have burned a little gunpowder between us, and cleared the air.\nBut though I don't love him, as you do, I know he is a good soldier, a\ngood officer, and a brave, honest man; and, at any rate, shall love him\nnone the worse for not wanting to be our stepfather.\"\n\n\"A stepfather, indeed!\" cries Harry's mother. \"Why, jealousy and\nprejudice have perfectly maddened the poor child! Do you suppose the\nMarquis of Esmond's daughter and heiress could not have found other\nstepfathers for her sons than a mere provincial surveyor? If there are\nany more such allusions in George's journal, I beg you skip 'em, Harry,\nmy dear. About this piece of folly and blundering, there hath been quite\ntalk enough already.\"\n\n\"'Tis a pretty sight,\" Harry continued, reading from his brother's\njournal, \"to see a long line of redcoats, threading through the woods\nor taking their ground after the march. The care against surprise is so\ngreat and constant, that we defy prowling Indians to come unawares upon\nus, and our advanced sentries and savages have on the contrary fallen in\nwith the enemy and taken a scalp or two from them. They are such cruel\nvillains, these French and their painted allies, that we do not think\nof showing them mercy. Only think, we found but yesterday a little\nboy scalped but yet alive in a lone house, where his parents had been\nattacked and murdered by the savage enemy, of whom--so great is his\nindignation at their cruelty--our General has offered a reward of five\npounds for all the Indian scalps brought in.\n\n\"When our march is over, you should see our camp, and all the care\nbestowed on it. Our baggage and our General's tents and guard are placed\nquite in the centre of the camp. We have outlying sentries by twos, by\nthrees, by tens, by whole companies. At the least surprise, they are\ninstructed to run in on the main body and rally round the tents\nand baggage, which are so arranged themselves as to be a strong\nfortification. Sady and I, you must know, are marching on foot now, and\nmy horses are carrying baggage. The Pennsylvanians sent such rascally\nanimals into camp that they speedily gave in. What good horses were\nleft, 'twas our duty to give up: and Roxana has a couple of packs upon\nher back instead of her young master. She knows me right well, and\nwhinnies when she sees me, and I walk by her side, and we have many a\ntalk together on the march.\n\n\"July 4. To guard against surprises, we are all warned to pay especial\nattention to the beat of the drum; always halting when they hear the\nlong roll beat, and marching at the beat of the long march. We are\nmore on the alert regarding the enemy now. We have our advanced pickets\ndoubled, and two sentries at every post. The men on the advanced pickets\nare constantly under arms, with fixed bayonets, all through the night,\nand relieved every two hours. The half that are relieved lie down by\ntheir arms, but are not suffered to leave their pickets. 'Tis evident\nthat we are drawing very near to the enemy now. This packet goes out\nwith the General's to Colonel Dunbar's camp, who is thirty miles behind\nus; and will be carried thence to Frederick, and thence to my honoured\nmother's house at Castlewood, to whom I send my duty, with kindest\nremembrances, as to all friends there, and bow much love I need not say\nto my dearest brother from his affectionate--GEORGE E. WARRINGTON.\"\n\nThe whole land was now lying parched and scorching in the July heat. For\nten days no news had come from the column advancing on the Ohio. Their\nmarch, though it toiled but slowly through the painful forest, must\nbring them ere long up with the enemy; the troops, led by consummate\ncaptains, were accustomed now to the wilderness, and not afraid of\nsurprise. Every precaution had been taken against ambush. It was the\noutlying enemy who were discovered, pursued, destroyed, by the vigilant\nscouts and skirmishers of the British force. The last news heard\nwas that the army had advanced considerably beyond the ground of Mr.\nWashington's discomfiture on the previous year, and two days after must\nbe within a day's march of the French fort. About taking it no fears\nwere entertained; the amount of the French reinforcements from Montreal\nwas known. Mr. Braddock, with his two veteran regiments from Britain,\nand their allies of Virginia and Pennsylvania, were more than a match\nfor any troops that could be collected under the white flag.\n\nSuch continued to be the talk, in the sparse towns of our Virginian\nprovince, at the gentry's houses, and the rough roadside taverns, where\npeople met and canvassed the war. The few messengers who were sent back\nby the General reported well of the main force. 'Twas thought the enemy\nwould not stand or defend himself at all. Had he intended to attack, he\nmight have seized a dozen occasions for assaulting our troops at passes\nthrough which they had been allowed to go entirely free. So George had\ngiven up his favourite mare, like a hero as he was, and was marching\nafoot with the line? Madam Esmond vowed that he should have the best\nhorse in Virginia or Carolina in place of Roxana. There were horses\nenough to be had in the provinces, and for money. It was only for the\nKing's service that they were not forthcoming.\n\nAlthough at their family meetings and repasts the inmates of Castlewood\nalways talked cheerfully, never anticipating any but a triumphant issue\nto the campaign, or acknowledging any feeling of disquiet, yet, it must\nbe owned they were mighty uneasy when at home, quitting it ceaselessly,\nand for ever on the trot from one neighbour's house to another in quest\nof news. It was prodigious how quickly reports ran and spread. When,\nfor instance, a certain noted border warrior, called Colonel Jack, had\noffered himself and his huntsmen to the General, who had declined the\nruffian's terms or his proffered service, the defection of Jack and his\nmen was the talk of thousands of tongues immediately. The house negroes,\nin their midnight gallops about the country, in search of junketing or\nsweethearts, brought and spread news over amazingly wide districts. They\nhad a curious knowledge of the incidents of the march for a fortnight\nat least after its commencement. They knew and laughed at the cheats\npractised on the army, for horses, provisions, and the like; for a good\nbargain over the foreigner was not an unfrequent or unpleasant practice\namong New Yorkers, Pennsylvanians, or Marylanders; though 'tis known\nthat American folks have become perfectly artless and simple in later\ntimes, and never grasp, and never overreach, and are never selfish\nnow. For three weeks after the army's departure, the thousand reports\nregarding it were cheerful; and when our Castlewood friends met at their\nsupper, their tone was confident and their news pleasant.\n\nBut on the 10th of July a vast and sudden gloom spread over the\nprovince. A look of terror and doubt seemed to fall upon every face.\nAffrighted negroes wistfully eyed their masters and retired, and hummed\nand whispered with one another. The fiddles ceased in the quarters: the\nsong and laugh of those cheery black folk were hushed. Right and left,\neverybody's servants were on the gallop for news. The country taverns\nwere thronged with horsemen, who drank and cursed and brawled at the\nbars, each bringing his gloomy story. The army had been surprised. The\ntroops had fallen into an ambuscade, and had been cut up almost to a\nman. All the officers were taken down by the French marksmen and the\nsavages. The General had been wounded, and carried off the field in his\nsash. Four days afterwards the report was that the General was dead, and\nscalped by a French Indian.\n\nAh, what a scream poor Mrs. Mountain gave, when Gumbo brought this\nnews from across the James River, and little Fanny sprang crying to her\nmother's arms! \"Lord God Almighty, watch over us, and defend my boy!\"\nsaid Mrs. Esmond, sinking down on her knees, and lifting her rigid hands\nto Heaven. The gentlemen were not at home when this rumour arrived, but\nthey came in an hour or two afterwards, each from his hunt for news.\nThe Scots tutor did not dare to look up and meet the widow's agonising\nlooks. Harry Warrington was as pale as his mother. It might not be true\nabout the manner of the General's death--but he was dead. The army had\nbeen surprised by Indians, and had fled, and been killed without seeing\nthe enemy. An express had arrived from Dunbar's camp. Fugitives were\npouring in there. Should he go and see? He must go and see. He and stout\nlittle Dempster armed themselves and mounted, taking a couple of mounted\nservants with them.\n\nThey followed the northward track which the expeditionary army had hewed\nout for itself, and at every step which brought them nearer to the scene\nof action, the disaster of the fearful day seemed to magnify. The day\nafter the defeat a number of the miserable fugitives from the fatal\nbattle of the 9th July had reached Dunbar's camp, fifty miles from the\nfield. Thither poor Harry and his companions rode, stopping stragglers,\nasking news, giving money, getting from one and all the same gloomy\ntale--a thousand men were slain--two-thirds of the officers were\ndown--all the General's aides-de-camp were hit. Were hit?--but were they\nkilled? Those who fell never rose again. The tomahawk did its work upon\nthem. O brother, brother! All the fond memories of their youth, all the\ndear remembrances of their childhood, the love and the laughter, the\ntender romantic vows which they had pledged to each other as lads, were\nrecalled by Harry with pangs inexpressibly keen. Wounded men looked up\nand were softened by his grief: rough women melted as they saw the woe\nwritten on the handsome young face: the hardy old tutor could scarcely\nlook at him for tears, and grieved for him even more than for his dear\npupil who lay dead under the savage Indian knife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. Profitless Quest\n\n\nAt every step which Harry Warrington took towards Pennsylvania, the\nreports of the British disaster were magnified and confirmed. Those two\nfamous regiments which had fought in the Scottish and Continental wars,\nhad fled from an enemy almost unseen, and their boasted discipline and\nvalour had not enabled them to face a band of savages and a few French\ninfantry. The unfortunate commander of the expedition had shown the\nutmost bravery and resolution. Four times his horse had been shot under\nhim. Twice he had been wounded, and the last time of the mortal hurt\nwhich ended his life three days after the battle. More than one of\nHarry's informants described the action to the poor lad,--the passage of\nthe river, the long line of advance through the wilderness, the firing\nin front, the vain struggle of the men to advance, and the artillery\nto clear the way of the enemy; then the ambushed fire from behind every\nbush and tree, and the murderous fusillade, by which at least half of\nthe expeditionary force had been shot down. But not all the General's\nsuite were killed, Harry heard. One of his aides-de-camp, a Virginian\ngentleman, was ill of fever and exhaustion at Dunbar's camp.\n\nOne of them--but which? To the camp Harry hurried, and reached it at\nlength. It was George Washington Harry found stretched in a tent\nthere, and not his brother. A sharper pain than that of the fever Mr.\nWashington declared he felt, when he saw Harry Warrington, and could\ngive him no news of George.\n\nMr. Washington did not dare to tell Harry all. For three days after\nthe fight his duty had been to be near the General. On the fatal 9th of\nJuly, he had seen George go to the front with orders from the chief,\nto whose side he never returned. After Braddock himself died, the\naide-de-camp had found means to retrace his course to the field. The\ncorpses which remained there were stripped and horribly mutilated.\nOne body he buried which he thought to be George Warrington's. His\nown illness was increased, perhaps occasioned, by the anguish which he\nunderwent in his search for the unhappy young volunteer.\n\n\"Ah, George! If you had loved him you would have found him dead or\nalive,\" Harry cried out. Nothing would satisfy him but that he, too,\nshould go to the ground and examine it. With money he procured a guide\nor two. He forded the river at the place where the army had passed\nover: he went from one end to the other of the dreadful field. It was\nno longer haunted by Indians now. The birds of prey were feeding on\nthe mangled festering carcases. Save in his own grandfather, lying very\ncalm, with a sweet smile on his lip, Harry had never yet seen the face\nof Death. The horrible spectacle of mutilation caused him to turn away\nwith shudder and loathing. What news could the vacant woods, or those\nfestering corpses lying under the trees, give the lad of his lost\nbrother? He was for going, unarmed and with a white flag, to the French\nfort, whither, after their victory, the enemy had returned; but his\nguides refused to advance with him. The French might possibly respect\nthem, but the Indians would not. \"Keep your hair for your lady mother,\nmy young gentleman,\" said the guide. \"'Tis enough that she loses one son\nin this campaign.\"\n\nWhen Harry returned to the English encampment at Dunbar's, it was his\nturn to be down with the fever. Delirium set in upon him, and he lay\nsome time in the tent and on the bed from which his friend had just\nrisen convalescent. For some days he did not know who watched him; and\npoor Dempster, who had tended him in more than one of these maladies,\nthought the widow must lose both her children; but the fever was so\nfar subdued that the boy was enabled to rally somewhat, and get to\nhorseback. Mr. Washington and Dempster both escorted him home. It was\nwith a heavy heart, no doubt, that all three beheld once more the gates\nof Castlewood.\n\nA servant in advance had been sent to announce their coming. First came\nMrs. Mountain and her little daughter, welcoming Harry with many\ntears and embraces, but she scarce gave a nod of recognition to Mr.\nWashington; and the little girl caused the young officer to start, and\nturn deadly pale, by coming up to him with her hands behind her, and\nasking, \"Why have you not brought George back too?\" Harry did not hear.\nThe sobs and caresses of his good friend and nurse luckily kept him from\nlistening to little Fanny.\n\nDempster was graciously received by the two ladies. \"Whatever could be\ndone, we know you would do, Mr. Dempster,\" says Mrs. Mountain, giving\nhim her hand. \"Make a curtsey to Mr. Dempster, Fanny, and remember,\nchild, to be grateful to all who have been friendly to our benefactors.\nWill it please you to take any refreshment before you ride, Colonel\nWashington?\"\n\nMr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and counted as\ncertainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood, as he would upon the\nshelter of his own house.\n\n\"The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for myself, and I will\ntrouble Castlewood hospitality no further,\" Mr. Washington said.\n\n\"Sure, George, you have your room here, and my mother is above-stairs\ngetting it ready!\" cries Harry. \"That poor horse of yours stumbled with\nyou, and can't go farther this evening.\"\n\n\"Hush! Your mother won't see him, child,\" whispered Mrs. Mountain.\n\n\"Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the house,\" cries Harry.\n\n\"She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more in family matters,\nchild: but when the Colonel's servant rode in, and said you were coming,\nMadam Esmond left this room, my dear, where she was sitting reading\nDrelincourt, and said she felt she could not see Mr. Washington. Will\nyou go to her?\" Harry took his friend's arm, and excusing himself to the\nColonel, to whom he said he would return in a few minutes, he left the\nparlour in which they had assembled, and went to the upper rooms, where\nMadam Esmond was.\n\nHe was hastening across the corridor, and, with an averted head, passing\nby one especial door, which he did not like to look at, for it was that\nof his brother's room; but as he came to it, Madam Esmond issued from\nit, and folded him to her heart, and led him in. A settee was by the\nbed, and a book of psalms lay on the coverlet. All the rest of the room\nwas exactly as George had left it.\n\n\"My poor child! How thin thou art grown--how haggard you look! Never\nmind. A mother's care will make thee well again. 'Twas nobly done to go\nand brave sickness and danger in search of your brother. Had others been\nas faithful, he might be here now. Never mind, my Harry; our hero will\ncome back to us,--I know he is not dead. One so good, and so brave,\nand so gentle, and so clever as he was, I know is not lost to us\naltogether.\" (Perhaps Harry thought within himself that his mother had\nnot always been accustomed so to speak of her eldest son.) \"Dry up thy\ntears, my dear! He will come back to us, I know he will come.\" And when\nHarry pressed her to give a reason for her belief, she said she had seen\nher father two nights running in a dream, and he had told her that her\nboy was a prisoner among the Indians.\n\nMadam Esmond's grief had not prostrated her as Harry's had when first\nit fell upon him; it had rather stirred and animated her: her eyes were\neager, her countenance angry and revengeful. The lad wondered almost at\nthe condition in which he found his mother.\n\nBut when he besought her to go downstairs, and give a hand of welcome\nto George Washington, who had accompanied him, the lady's excitement\npainfully increased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand.\nShe declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her, she could not\nsleep under the same roof with him.\n\n\"He gave me his bed when I was ill, mother; and if our George is alive,\nhow has George Washington a hand in his death? Ah! please God it be only\nas you say,\" cried Harry, in bewilderment.\n\n\"If your brother returns, as return he will, it will not be through Mr.\nWashington's help,\" said Madam Esmond. \"He neither defended George on\nthe field, nor would he bring him out of it.\"\n\n\"But he tended me most kindly in my fever,\" interposed Harry. \"He was\nyet ill when he gave up his bed to me, and was thinking only of his\nfriend, when any other man would have thought only of himself.\"\n\n\"A friend! A pretty friend!\" sneers the lady. \"Of all his Excellency's\naides-de-camp, my gentleman is the only one who comes back unwounded.\nThe brave and noble fall, but he, to be sure, is unhurt. I confide\nmy boy to him, the pride of my life, whom he will defend with his,\nforsooth! And he leaves my George in the forest, and brings me back\nhimself! Oh, a pretty welcome I must give him!\"\n\n\"No gentleman,\" cried Harry, warmly, \"was ever refused shelter under my\ngrandfather's roof.\"\n\n\"Oh no--no gentleman!\" exclaims the little widow; \"let us go down, if\nyou like, son, and pay our respects to this one. Will you please to give\nme your arm?\" And taking an arm which was very little able to give her\nsupport, she walked down the broad stairs, and into the apartment where\nthe Colonel sate.\n\nShe made him a ceremonious curtsey, and extended one of the little\nhands, which she allowed for a moment to rest in his. \"I wish that our\nmeeting had been happier, Colonel Washington,\" she said.\n\n\"You do not grieve more than I do that it is otherwise, madam,\" said the\nColonel.\n\n\"I might have wished that the meeting had been spared, that I might not\nhave kept you from friends whom you are naturally anxious to see,--that\nmy boy's indisposition had not detained you. Home and his good nurse\nMountain, and his mother and our good Doctor Dempster, will soon restore\nhim. 'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you, who have so many affairs\non your hands, military and domestic, should turn doctor too.\"\n\n\"Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty to ride by him,\"\nfaltered the Colonel.\n\n\"You yourself, sir, have gone through the fatigues and dangers of the\ncampaign in the most wonderful manner,\" said the widow, curtseying\nagain, and looking at him with her impenetrable black eyes.\n\n\"I wish to Heaven, madam, some one else had come back in my place!\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, you have ties which must render your life more than ever\nvaluable and dear to you, and duties to which, I know, you must be\nanxious to betake yourself. In our present deplorable state of doubt and\ndistress, Castlewood can be a welcome place to no stranger, much less\nto you, and so I know, sir, you will be for leaving us ere long. And you\nwill pardon me if the state of my own spirits obliges me for the most\npart to keep my chamber. But my friends here will bear you company as\nlong as you favour us, whilst I nurse my poor Harry upstairs. Mountain,\nyou will have the cedar-room on the ground-floor ready for Mr.\nWashington, and anything in the house is at his command. Farewell, sir.\nWill you be pleased to present my compliments to your mother, who will\nbe thankful to have her son safe and sound out of the war,--as also\nto my young friend Martha Custis, to whom and to whose children I\nwish every happiness. Come, my son!\" and with these words, and another\nfreezing curtsey, the pale little woman retreated, looking steadily at\nthe Colonel, who stood dumb on the floor.\n\nStrong as Madam Esmond's belief appeared to be respecting her son's\nsafety, the house of Castlewood naturally remained sad and gloomy.\nShe might forbid mourning for herself and family; but her heart was\nin black, whatever face the resolute little lady persisted in wearing\nbefore the world. To look for her son, was hoping against hope. No\nauthentic account of his death had indeed arrived, and no one appeared\nwho had seen him fall; but hundreds more had been so stricken on that\nfatal day, with no eyes to behold their last pangs, save those of the\nlurking enemy and the comrades dying by their side. A fortnight after\nthe defeat, when Harry was absent on his quest, George's servant,\nSady, reappeared wounded and maimed at Castlewood. But he could give\nno coherent account of the battle, only of his flight from the centre,\nwhere he was with the baggage. He had no news of his master since the\nmorning of the action. For many days Sady lurked in the negro quarters\naway from the sight of Madam Esmond, whose anger he did not dare to\nface. That lady's few neighbours spoke of her as labouring under a\ndelusion. So strong was it, that there were times when Harry and the\nother members of the little Castlewood family were almost brought to\nshare in it. It seemed nothing strange to her, that her father out of\nanother world should promise her her son's life. In this world or the\nnext, that family sure must be of consequence, she thought. Nothing\nhad ever yet happened to her sons, no accident, no fever, no important\nillness, but she had a prevision of it. She could enumerate half a dozen\ninstances, which, indeed, her household was obliged more or less to\nconfirm, how, when anything had happened to the boys at ever so great a\ndistance, she had known of their mishap and its consequences. No, George\nwas not dead; George was a prisoner among the Indians; George would come\nback and rule over Castlewood; as sure, as sure as his Majesty would\nsend a great force from home to recover the tarnished glory of the\nBritish arms, and to drive the French out of the Americas.\n\nAs for Mr. Washington, she would never with her own goodwill behold him\nagain. He had promised to protect George with his life. Why was her son\ngone and the Colonel alive? How dared he to face her after that promise,\nand appear before a mother without her son? She trusted she knew her\nduty. She bore illwill to no one: but as an Esmond, she had a sense of\nhonour, and Mr. Washington had forfeited hers in letting her son out of\nhis sight. He had to obey superior orders (some one perhaps objected)?\nPsha! a promise was a promise. He had promised to guard George's life\nwith his own, and where was her boy? And was not the Colonel (a pretty\nColonel, indeed!) sound and safe? Do not tell me that his coat and hat\nhad shots through them! (This was her answer to another humble plea in\nMr. Washington's behalf.) Can't I go into the study this instant and\nfire two shots with my papa's pistols through this paduasoy skirt,--and\nshould I be killed? She laughed at the notion of death resulting from\nany such operation; nor was her laugh very pleasant to hear. The satire\nof people who have little natural humour is seldom good sport for\nbystanders. I think dull men's faceticae are mostly cruel.\n\nSo, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret, at\ncourt-houses, taverns, or various places of resort; or in their little\ntowns, where the provincial gentry assembled. No man of spirit, she\nvowed, could meet Mr. Washington after his base desertion of her family.\nShe was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and her son\nabsolutely had met. What a heart must Harry have to give his hand to one\nwhom she considered as little better than George's murderer! For shame\nto say so! For shame upon you, ungrateful boy, forgetting the dearest,\nnoblest, most perfect of brothers, for that tall, gawky, fox-hunting\nColonel, with his horrid oaths! How can he be George's murderer, when\nI say my boy is not dead? He is not dead, because my instinct never\ndeceived me: because, as sure as I see his picture now before me,--only\n'tis not near so noble or so good as he used to look,--so surely two\nnights running did my papa appear to me in my dreams. You doubt about\nthat, very likely? 'Tis because you never loved anybody sufficiently, my\npoor Harry; else you might have leave to see them in dreams, as has been\nvouchsafed to some.\"\n\n\"I think I loved George, mother,\" cried Harry. \"I have often prayed that\nI might dream about him, and I don't.\"\n\n\"How you can talk, sir, of loving George, and then--go and meet your Mr.\nWashington at horse-races, I can't understand! Can you, Mountain?\"\n\n\"We can't understand many things in our neighbours' characters. I can\nunderstand that our boy is unhappy, and that he does not get strength,\nand that he is doing no good here, in Castlewood, or moping at the\ntaverns and court-houses with horse-coupers and idle company,\" grumbled\nMountain in reply to her patroness; and, in truth, the dependant was\nright.\n\nThere was not only grief in the Castlewood House, but there was\ndisunion. \"I cannot tell how it came,\" said Harry, as he brought the\nstory to an end, which we have narrated in the last two numbers,\nand which he confided to his new-found English relative, Madame de\nBernstein; \"but since that fatal day of July, last year, and my return\nhome, my mother never has been the same woman. She seemed to love none\nof us as she used. She was for ever praising George, and yet she did\nnot seem as if she liked him much when he was with us. She hath plunged,\nmore deeply than ever, into her books of devotion, out of which she\nonly manages to extract grief and sadness, as I think. Such a gloom has\nfallen over our wretched Virginian house of Castlewood, that we all\ngrew ill, and pale as ghosts, who inhabited it. Mountain told me, madam,\nthat, for nights, my mother would not close her eyes. I have had her at\nmy bedside, looking so ghastly, that I have started from my own sleep,\nfancying a ghost before me. By one means or other she has wrought\nherself into a state of excitement which if not delirium, is akin to\nit. I was again and again struck down by the fever, and all the Jesuits'\nbark in America could not cure me. We have a tobacco-house and some land\nabout the new town of Richmond, in our province, and went thither, as\nWilliamsburg is no wholesomer than our own place; and there I mended a\nlittle, but still did not get quite well, and the physicians strongly\ncounselled a sea-voyage. My mother, at one time, had thoughts of coming\nwith me, but--\" (and here the lad blushed and hung his head down)\n\"--we did not agree very well, though I know we loved each other very\nheartily, and 'twas determined that I should see the world for myself.\nSo I took passage in our ship from the James River, and was landed at\nBristol. And 'twas only on the 9th of July, this year, at sea, as had\nbeen agreed between me and Madam Esmond, that I put mourning on for my\ndear brother.\"\n\nSo that little Mistress of the Virginian Castlewood, for whom, I am\nsure, we have all the greatest respect, had the knack of rendering the\npeople round about her uncomfortable; quarrelled with those she loved\nbest, and exercised over them her wayward jealousies and imperious\nhumours, until they were not sorry to leave her. Here was money enough,\nfriends enough, a good position, and the respect of the world; a house\nstored with all manner of plenty, and good things, and poor Harry\nWarrington was glad to leave them all behind him. Happy! Who is\nhappy? What good in a stalled ox for dinner every day, and no content\ntherewith? Is it best to be loved and plagued by those you love, or to\nhave an easy, comfortable indifference at home; to follow your fancies,\nlive there unmolested, and die without causing any painful regrets or\ntears?\n\nTo be sure, when her boy was gone, Madam Esmond forgot all these little\ntiffs and differences. To hear her speak of both her children, you would\nfancy they were perfect characters, and had never caused her a moment's\nworry or annoyance. These gone, Madam fell naturally upon Mrs. Mountain\nand her little daughter, and worried and annoyed them. But women\nbear with hard words more easily than men, are more ready to forgive\ninjuries, or, perhaps, to dissemble anger. Let us trust that Madam\nEsmond's dependants found their life tolerable, that they gave her\nladyship sometimes as good as they got, that if they quarrelled in the\nmorning they were reconciled at night, and sate down to a tolerably\nfriendly game at cards and an amicable dish of tea.\n\nBut, without the boys, the great house of Castlewood was dreary to the\nwidow. She left an overseer there to manage her estates, and only paid\nthe place an occasional visit. She enlarged and beautified her house\nin the pretty little city of Richmond, which began to grow daily in\nimportance. She had company there, and card-assemblies, and preachers in\nplenty; and set up her little throne there, to which the gentlefolks of\nthe province were welcome to come and bow. All her domestic negroes,\nwho loved society as negroes will do, were delighted to exchange the\nsolitude of Castlewood for the gay and merry little town; where, for\na time, and while we pursue Harry Warrington's progress in Europe, we\nleave the good lady.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. Harry in England\n\n\nWhen the famous Trojan wanderer narrated his escapes and adventures to\nQueen Dido, her Majesty, as we read, took the very greatest interest\nin the fascinating story-teller who told his perils so eloquently. A\nhistory ensued, more pathetic than any of the previous occurrences in\nthe life of Pius Aeneas, and the poor princess had reason to rue the day\nwhen she listened to that glib and dangerous orator. Harry Warrington\nhad not pious Aeneas's power of speech, and his elderly aunt, we may\npresume, was by no means so soft-hearted as the sentimental Dido;\nbut yet the lad's narrative was touching, as he delivered it with his\nartless eloquence and cordial voice; and more than once, in the course\nof his story, Madam Bernstein found herself moved to a softness to which\nshe had very seldom before allowed herself to give way. There were not\nmany fountains in that desert of a life--not many sweet, refreshing\nresting-places. It had been a long loneliness, for the most part, until\nthis friendly voice came and sounded in her ears and caused her heart to\nbeat with strange pangs of love and sympathy. She doted on this lad,\nand on this sense of compassion and regard so new to her. Save once,\nfaintly, in very very early youth, she had felt no tender sentiment for\nany human being. Such a woman would, no doubt, watch her own sensations\nvery keenly, and must have smiled after the appearance of this boy, to\nmark how her pulses rose above their ordinary beat. She longed after\nhim. She felt her cheeks flush with happiness when he came near. Her\neyes greeted him with welcome, and followed him with fond pleasure. \"Ah,\nif she could have had a son like that, how she would have loved him!\"\n\"Wait,\" says Conscience, the dark scoffer mocking within her, \"wait,\nBeatrix Esmond! You know you will weary of this inclination, as you have\nof all. You know, when the passing fancy has subsided, that the boy may\nperish, and you won't have a tear for him; or talk, and you weary of\nhis stories; and that your lot in life is to be lonely--lonely.\" Well?\nsuppose life be a desert? There are halting-places and shades, and\nrefreshing waters; let us profit by them for to-day. We know that we\nmust march when to-morrow comes, and tramp on our destiny onward.\n\nShe smiled inwardly, whilst following the lad's narrative, to recognise\nin his simple tales about his mother, traits of family resemblance.\nMadam Esmond was very jealous?--Yes, that Harry owned. She was fond of\nColonel Washington? She liked him, but only as a friend, Harry declared.\nA hundred times he had heard his mother vow that she had no other\nfeeling towards him. He was ashamed to have to own that he himself had\nbeen once absurdly jealous of the Colonel. \"Well, you will see that my\nhalf-sister will never forgive him,\" said Madam Beatrix. \"And you need\nnot be surprised, sir, at women taking a fancy to men younger than\nthemselves; for don't I dote upon you; and don't all these Castlewood\npeople crevent with jealousy?\"\n\nHowever great might be their jealousy of Madame de Bernstein's new\nfavourite, the family of Castlewood allowed no feeling of illwill to\nappear in their language or behaviour to their young guest and\nkinsman. After a couple of days' stay in the ancestral house, Mr.\nHarry Warrington had become Cousin Harry with young and middle-aged.\nEspecially in Madame Bernstein's presence, the Countess of Castlewood\nwas most gracious to her kinsman, and she took many amiable private\nopportunities of informing the Baroness how charming the young Huron\nwas, of vaunting the elegance of his manners and appearance, and\nwondering how, in his distant province, the child should ever have\nlearned to be so polite?\n\nThese notes of admiration or interrogation, the Baroness took with\nequal complacency (speaking parenthetically, and, for his own part, the\npresent chronicler cannot help putting in a little respectful remark\nhere, and signifying his admiration of the conduct of ladies towards one\nanother, and of the things which they say, which they forbear to say,\nand which they say behind each other's backs. With what smiles and\ncurtseys they stab each other! with what compliments they hate each\nother! with what determination of long-suffering they won't be offended!\nwith what innocent dexterity they can drop the drop of poison into the\ncup of conversation, hand round the goblet, smiling, to the whole family\nto drink, and make the dear, domestic circle miserable!)--I burst out of\nmy parenthesis. I fancy my Baroness and Countess smiling at each other\na hundred years ago, and giving each other the hand or the cheek, and\ncalling each other, My dear, My dear creature, My dear Countess, My dear\nBaroness, My dear sister--even, when they were most ready to fight.\n\n\"You wonder, my dear Maria, that the boy should be so polite?\" cries\nMadame de Bernstein. \"His mother was bred up by two very perfect\ngentlefolks. Colonel Esmond had a certain grave courteousness, and a\ngrand manner, which I do not see among the gentlemen nowadays.\"\n\n\"Eh, my dear, we all of us praise our own time! My grandmamma used to\ndeclare there was nothing like Whitehall and Charles the Second.\"\n\n\"My mother saw King James the Second's court for a short while, and\nthough not a court-educated person, as you know,--her father was a\ncountry clergyman--yet was exquisitely well-bred. The Colonel, her\nsecond husband, was a person of great travel and experience, as well as\nof learning, and had frequented the finest company of Europe. They could\nnot go into their retreat and leave their good manners behind them, and\nour boy has had them as his natural inheritance.\"\n\n\"Nay, excuse me, my dear, for thinking you too partial about your\nmother. She could not have been that perfection which your filial\nfondness imagines. She left off liking her daughter--my dear creature,\nyou have owned that she did--and I cannot fancy a complete woman who has\na cold heart. No, no, my dear sister-in-law! Manners are very requisite,\nno doubt, and, for a country parson's daughter, your mamma was very\nwell--I have seen many of the cloth who are very well. Mr. Sampson, our\nchaplain, is very well. Dr. Young is very well. Mr. Dodd is very well;\nbut they have not the true air--as how should they? I protest, I beg\npardon! I forgot my lord bishop, your ladyship's first choice. But, as I\nsaid before, to be a complete woman, one must have, what you have, what\nI may say and bless Heaven for, I think I have--a good heart. Without\nthe affections, all the world is vanity, my love! I protest I only live,\nexist, eat, drink, rest, for my sweet, sweet children!--for my wicked\nWilly, for my self-willed Fanny, dear naughty loves!\" (She\nrapturously kisses a bracelet on each arm which contains the miniature\nrepresentations of those two young persons.) \"Yes, Mimi! yes, Fanchon!\nyou know I do, you dear, dear little things! and if they were to die,\nor you were to die, your poor mistress would die too!\" Mimi and Fanchon,\ntwo quivering Italian greyhounds, jump into their lady's arms, and kiss\nher hands, but respect her cheeks, which are covered with rouge. \"No,\nmy dear! For nothing do I bless Heaven so much (though it puts me\nto excruciating torture very often) as for having endowed me with\nsensibility and a feeling heart!\"\n\n\"You are full of feeling, dear Anna,\" says the Baroness. \"You are\ncelebrated for your sensibility. You must give a little of it to our\nAmerican nephew--cousin--I scarce know his relationship.\"\n\n\"Nay, I am here but as a guest in Castlewood now. The house is my Lord\nCastlewood's, not mine, or his lordship's whenever he shall choose to\nclaim it. What can I do for the young Virginian that has not been done?\nHe is charming. Are we even jealous of him for being so, my dear? and\nthough we see what a fancy the Baroness de Bernstein has taken for him,\ndo your ladyship's nephews and nieces--your real nephews and nieces--cry\nout? My poor children might be mortified, for indeed, in a few hours,\nthe charming young man has made as much way as my poor things have been\nable to do in all their lives: but are they angry? Willy hath taken him\nout to ride. This morning, was not Maria playing the harpsichord whilst\nmy Fanny taught him the minuet? 'Twas a charming young group, I assure\nyou, and it brought tears into my eyes to look at the young creatures.\nPoor lad! we are as fond of him as you are, dear Baroness!\"\n\nNow, Madame de Bernstein had happened, through her own ears or her\nmaid's, to overhear what really took place in consequence of this\nharmless little scene. Lady Castlewood had come into the room where the\nyoung people were thus engaged in amusing and instructing themselves,\naccompanied by her son William, who arrived in his boots from the\nkennel.\n\n\"Bravi, bravi! Oh, charming!\" said the Countess, clapping her hands,\nnodding with one of her best smiles to Harry Warrington, and darting a\nlook at his partner, which my Lady Fanny perfectly understood; and\nso, perhaps, did my Lady Maria at her harpsichord, for she played with\nredoubled energy, and nodded her waving curls, over the chords.\n\n\"Infernal young Choctaw! Is he teaching Fanny the war-dance? and is Fan\ngoing to try her tricks upon him now?\" asked Mr. William, whose temper\nwas not of the best.\n\nAnd that was what Lady Castlewood's look said to Fanny. \"Are you going\nto try your tricks upon him now?\"\n\nShe made Harry a very low curtsey, and he blushed, and they both stopped\ndancing, somewhat disconcerted. Lady Maria rose from the harpsichord and\nwalked away.\n\n\"Nay, go on dancing, young people! Don't let me spoil sport, and let me\nplay for you,\" said the Countess; and she sate down to the instrument\nand played.\n\n\"I don't know how to dance,\" says Harry, hanging his head down, with a\nblush that the Countess's finest carmine could not equal.\n\n\"And Fanny was teaching you? Go on teaching him, dearest Fanny!\"\n\n\"Go on, do!\" says William, with a sidelong growl.\n\n\"I--I had rather not show off my awkwardness in company,\" adds Harry,\nrecovering himself. \"When I know how to dance a minuet, be sure I will\nask my cousin to walk one with me.\"\n\n\"That will be very soon, dear Cousin Warrington, I am certain,\" remarks\nthe Countess, with her most gracious air.\n\n\"What game is she hunting now?\" thinks Mr. William to himself, who\ncannot penetrate his mother's ways; and that lady, fondly calling her\ndaughter to her elbow, leaves the room.\n\nThey are no sooner in the tapestried passage leading away to their\nown apartment, but Lady Castlewood's bland tone entirely changes. \"You\nbooby!\" she begins to her adored Fanny. \"You double idiot! What are\nyou going to do with the Huron? You don't want to marry a creature like\nthat, and be a squaw in a wigwam?\"\n\n\"Don't, mamma!\" gasps Lady Fanny. Mamma was pinching her ladyship's arm\nblack-and-blue. \"I am sure our cousin is very well,\" Fanny whimpers,\n\"and you said so yourself.\"\n\n\"Very well! Yes; and heir to a swamp, a negro, a log-cabin and a barrel\nof tobacco! My Lady Frances Esmond, do you remember what your ladyship's\nrank is, and what your name is, and who was your ladyship's mother,\nwhen, at three days' acquaintance, you commence dancing--a pretty dance,\nindeed--with this brat out of Virginia?\"\n\n\"Mr. Warrington is our cousin,\" pleads Lady Fanny.\n\n\"A creature come from nobody knows where is not your cousin! How do we\nknow he is your cousin? He may be a valet who has taken his master's\nportmanteau, and run away in his postchaise.\"\n\n\"But Madame de Bernstein says he is our cousin,\" interposes Fanny; \"and\nhe is the image of the Esmonds.\"\n\n\"Madame de Bernstein has her likes and dislikes, takes up people and\nforgets people; and she chooses to profess a mighty fancy for this young\nman. Because she likes him to-day, is that any reason why she should\nlike him to-morrow? Before company, and in your aunt's presence,\nyour ladyship will please to be as civil to him as necessary; but, in\nprivate, I forbid you to see him or encourage him.\"\n\n\"I don't care, madam, whether your ladyship forbids me or not!\" cries\nout Lady Fanny, wrought up to a pitch of revolt.\n\n\"Very good, Fanny! then I speak to my lord, and we return to Kensington.\nIf I can't bring you to reason, your brother will.\"\n\nAt this juncture the conversation between mother and daughter stopped,\nor Madame de Bernstein's informer had no further means of hearing or\nreporting it.\n\nIt was only in after days that she told Harry Warrington a part of what\nshe knew. At present he but saw that his kinsfolks received him not\nunkindly. Lady Castlewood was perfectly civil to him; the young ladies\npleasant and pleased; my Lord Castlewood, a man of cold and haughty\ndemeanour, was not more reserved towards Harry than to any of the rest\nof the family; Mr. William was ready to drink with him, to ride with\nhim, to go to races with him, and to play cards with him. When he\nproposed to go away, they one and all pressed him to stay. Madame de\nBernstein did not tell him how it arose that he was the object of\nsuch eager hospitality. He did not know what schemes he was serving or\ndisarranging, whose or what anger he was creating. He fancied he was\nwelcome because those around him were his kinsmen, and never thought\nthat those could be his enemies out of whose cup he was drinking, and\nwhose hand he was pressing every night and morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. A Sunday at Castlewood\n\n\nThe second day after Harry's arrival at Castlewood was a Sunday. The\nchapel appertaining to the castle was the village church. A door from\nthe house communicated with a great state pew which the family occupied,\nand here after due time they all took their places in order, whilst a\nrather numerous congregation from the village filled the seats below. A\nfew ancient dusty banners hung from the church roof; and Harry pleased\nhimself in imagining that they had been borne by retainers of his family\nin the Commonwealth wars, in which, as he knew well, his ancestors had\ntaken a loyal and distinguished part. Within the altar-rails was the\neffigy of the Esmond of the time of King James the First, the common\nforefather of all the group assembled in the family pew. Madame de\nBernstein, in her quality of Bishop's widow, never failed in attendance,\nand conducted her devotions with a gravity almost as exemplary as that\nof the ancestor yonder, in his square beard and red gown, for ever\nkneeling on his stone hassock before his great marble desk and\nbook, under his emblazoned shield of arms. The clergyman, a tall,\nhigh-coloured, handsome young man, read the service in a lively,\nagreeable voice, giving almost a dramatic point to the chapters of\nScripture which he read. The music was good--one of the young ladies\nof the family touching the organ--and would have been better but for an\ninterruption and something like a burst of laughter from the servants'\npew, which was occasioned by Mr. Warrington's lacquey Gumbo, who,\nknowing the air given out for the psalm, began to sing it in a voice so\nexceedingly loud and sweet, that the whole congregation turned towards\nthe African warbler; the parson himself put his handkerchief to his\nmouth, and the liveried gentlemen from London were astonished out of all\npropriety. Pleased, perhaps, with the sensation which he had created,\nMr. Gumbo continued his performance until it became almost a solo, and\nthe voice of the clerk himself was silenced. For the truth is, that\nthough Gumbo held on to the book, along with pretty Molly, the porter's\ndaughter, who had been the first to welcome the strangers to Castlewood,\nhe sang and recited by ear and not by note, and could not read a\nsyllable of the verses in the book before him.\n\nThis choral performance over, a brief sermon in due course followed,\nwhich, indeed, Harry thought a deal too short. In a lively, familiar,\nstriking discourse the clergyman described a scene of which he had\nbeen witness the previous week--the execution of a horse-stealer after\nAssizes. He described the man and his previous good character, his\nfamily, the love they bore one another, and his agony at parting from\nthem. He depicted the execution in a manner startling, terrible,\nand picturesque. He did not introduce into his sermon the Scripture\nphraseology, such as Harry had been accustomed to hear it from those\nsomewhat Calvinistic preachers whom his mother loved to frequent, but\nrather spoke as one man of the world to other sinful people, who might\nbe likely to profit by good advice. The unhappy man just gone, had begun\nas a farmer of good prospects; he had taken to drinking, card-playing,\nhorse-racing, cock-fighting, the vices of the age; against which the\nyoung clergyman was generously indignant. Then he had got to poaching\nand to horse-stealing, for which he suffered. The divine rapidly drew\nstriking and fearful pictures of these rustic crimes. He startled his\nhearers by showing that the Eye of the Law was watching the poacher\nat midnight, and setting traps to catch the criminal. He galloped the\nstolen horse over highway and common, and from one county into another,\nbut showed Retribution ever galloping after, seizing the malefactor in\nthe country fair, carrying him before the justice, and never unlocking\nhis manacles till he dropped them at the gallows-foot. Heaven be pitiful\nto the sinner! The clergyman acted the scene. He whispered in the\ncriminal's ear at the cart. He dropped his handkerchief on the clerk's\nhead. Harry started back as that handkerchief dropped. The clergyman had\nbeen talking for more than twenty minutes. Harry could have heard\nhim for an hour more, and thought he had not been five minutes in the\npulpit. The gentlefolks in the great pew were very much enlivened by the\ndiscourse. Once or twice, Harry, who could see the pew where the house\nservants sate, remarked these very attentive; and especially Gumbo, his\nown man, in an attitude of intense consternation. But the smockfrocks\ndid not seem to heed, and clamped out of church quite unconcerned.\nGaffer Brown and Gammer Jones took the matter as it came, and the\nrosy-cheeked, red-cloaked village lasses sate under their broad\nhats entirely unmoved. My lord, from his pew, nodded slightly to the\nclergyman in the pulpit, when that divine's head and wig surged up from\nthe cushion.\n\n\"Sampson has been strong to-day,\" said his lordship. \"He has assaulted\nthe Philistines in great force.\"\n\n\"Beautiful, beautiful!\" says Harry.\n\n\"Bet five to four it was his Assize sermon. He has been over to Winton\nto preach, and to see those dogs,\" cries William.\n\nThe organist had played the little congregation out into the sunshine.\nOnly Sir Francis Esmond, temp. Jac. I., still knelt on his marble\nhassock, before his prayer-book of stone. Mr. Sampson came out of his\nvestry in his cassock, and nodded to the gentlemen still lingering in\nthe great pew.\n\n\"Come up, and tell us about those dogs,\" says Mr. William, and the\ndivine nodded a laughing assent.\n\nThe gentlemen passed out of the church into the gallery of their house,\nwhich connected them with that sacred building. Mr. Sampson made his\nway through the court, and presently joined them. He was presented by my\nlord to the Virginian cousin of the family, Mr. Warrington: the chaplain\nbowed very profoundly, and hoped Mr. Warrington would benefit by the\nvirtuous example of his European kinsmen. Was he related to Sir Miles\nWarrington of Norfolk? Sir Miles was Mr. Warrington's father's elder\nbrother. What a pity he had a son! 'Twas a pretty estate, and Mr.\nWarrington looked as if he would become a baronetcy, and a fine estate\nin Norfolk.\n\n\"Tell me about my uncle,\" cried Virginian Harry.\n\n\"Tell us about those dogs!\" said English Will, in a breath.\n\n\"Two more jolly dogs, two more drunken dogs, saving your presence, Mr.\nWarrington, than Sir Miles and his son, I never saw. Sir Miles was a\nstaunch friend and neighbour of Sir Robert's. He can drink down any man\nin the county, except his son and a few more. The other dogs about which\nMr. William is anxious, for Heaven hath made him a prey to dogs and all\nkinds of birds, like the Greeks in the Iliad----\"\n\n\"I know that line in the Iliad,\" says Harry, blushing. \"I only know five\nmore, but I know that one.\" And his head fell. He was thinking, \"Ah, my\ndear brother George knew all the Iliad and all the Odyssey, and almost\nevery book that was ever written besides!\"\n\n\"What on earth\" (only he mentioned a place under the earth) \"are you\ntalking about now?\" asked Will of his reverence.\n\nThe chaplain reverted to the dogs and their performance. He thought Mr.\nWilliam's dogs were more than a match for them. From dogs they went off\nto horses. Mr. William was very eager about the Six Year Old Plate at\nHuntingdon. \"Have you brought any news of it, Parson?\"\n\n\"The odds are five to four on Brilliant against the field,\" says the\nparson, gravely, \"but, mind you, Jason is a good horse.\"\n\n\"Whose horse?\" asks my lord.\n\n\"Duke of Ancaster's. By Cartouche out of Miss Langley,\" says the divine.\n\"Have you horse-races in Virginia, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"Haven't we!\" cries Harry; \"but oh! I long to see a good English race!\"\n\n\"Do you--do you--bet a little?\" continues his reverence.\n\n\"I have done such a thing,\" replies Harry with a smile.\n\n\"I'll take Brilliant even against the field, for ponies with you,\ncousin!\" shouts out Mr. William.\n\n\"I'll give or take three to one against Jason!\" says the clergyman.\n\n\"I don't bet on horses I don't know,\" said Harry, wondering to hear the\nchaplain now, and remembering his sermon half an hour before.\n\n\"Hadn't you better write home, and ask your mother?\" says Mr. William,\nwith a sneer.\n\n\"Will, Will!\" calls out my lord, \"our cousin Warrington is free to bet,\nor not, as he likes. Have a care how you venture on either of them,\nHarry Warrington. Will is an old file, in spite of his smooth face, and\nas for Parson Sampson, I defy our ghostly enemy to get the better of\nhim.\"\n\n\"Him and all his works, my lord!\" said Mr. Sampson, with a bow.\n\nHarry was highly indignant at this allusion to his mother. \"I'll tell\nyou what, cousin Will,\" he said, \"I am in the habit of managing my own\naffairs in my own way, without asking any lady to arrange them for me.\nAnd I'm used to make my own bets upon my own judgment, and don't need\nany relations to select them for me, thank you. But as I am your\nguest, and, no doubt, you want to show me hospitality, I'll take your\nbet--there. And so Done and Done.\"\n\n\"Done,\" says Will, looking askance.\n\n\"Of course it is the regular odds that's in the paper which you give me,\ncousin?\"\n\n\"Well, no, it isn't,\" growled Will. \"The odds are five to four, that's\nthe fact, and you may have 'em, if you like.\"\n\n\"Nay, cousin, a bet is a bet; and I take you, too, Mr. Sampson.\"\n\n\"Three to one against Jason. I lay it. Very good,\" says Mr. Sampson.\n\n\"Is it to be ponies too, Mr. Chaplain?\" asks Harry with a superb air, as\nif he had Lombard Street in his pocket.\n\n\"No, no. Thirty to ten. It is enough for a poor priest to win.\"\n\n\"Here goes a great slice out of my quarter's hundred,\" thinks Harry.\n\"Well, I shan't let these Englishmen fancy that I am afraid of them. I\ndidn't begin, but for the honour of Old Virginia I won't go back.\"\n\nThese pecuniary transactions arranged, William Esmond went away scowling\ntowards the stables, where he loved to take his pipe with the grooms;\nthe brisk parson went off to pay his court to the ladies, and partake of\nthe Sunday dinner which would presently be served. Lord Castlewood and\nHarry remained for a while together. Since the Virginian's arrival\nmy lord had scarcely spoken with him. In his manners he was perfectly\nfriendly, but so silent that he would often sit at the head of his\ntable, and leave it without uttering a word.\n\n\"I suppose yonder property of yours is a fine one by this time?\" said my\nlord to Harry.\n\n\"I reckon it's almost as big as an English county,\" answered Harry, \"and\nthe land's as good, too, for many things.\" Harry would not have the Old\nDominion, nor his share in it, underrated.\n\n\"Indeed!\" said my lord, with a look of surprise. \"When it belonged to my\nfather it did not yield much.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, my lord. You know how it belonged to your father,\" cried the\nyouth, with some spirit. \"It was because my grandfather did not choose\nto claim his right.\" [This matter is discussed in the Author's previous\nwork, The Memoirs of Colonel Esmond.]\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" says my lord, hastily.\n\n\"I mean, cousin, that we of the Virginian house owe you nothing but\nour own,\" continued Harry Warrington; \"but our own, and the hospitality\nwhich you are now showing me.\"\n\n\"You are heartily welcome to both. You were hurt by the betting just\nnow?\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied the lad, \"I am sort o' hurt. Your welcome, you see, is\ndifferent to our welcome, and that's the fact. At home we are glad to\nsee a man, hold out a hand to him, and give him of our best. Here you\ntake us in, give us beef and claret enough, to be sure, and don't seem\nto care when we come, or when we go. That's the remark which I have been\nmaking since I have been in your lordship's house; I can't help telling\nit out, you see, now 'tis on my mind; and I think I am a little easier\nnow I have said it.\" And with this, the excited young fellow knocked\na billiard-ball across the table, and then laughed, and looked at his\nelder kinsman.\n\n\"A la bonne heure! We are cold to the stranger within and without our\ngates. We don't take Mr. Harry Warrington into our arms, and cry when we\nsee our cousin. We don't cry when he goes away--but do we pretend?\"\n\n\"No, you don't. But you try to get the better of him in a bet,\" says\nHarry, indignantly.\n\n\"Is there no such practice in Virginia, and don't sporting men there try\nto overreach one another? What was that story I heard you telling our\naunt, of the British officers and Tom somebody of Spotsylvania!\"\n\n\"That's fair!\" cries Harry. \"That is, it's usual practice, and a\nstranger must look out. I don't mind the parson; if he wins, he may\nhave, and welcome. But a relation! To think that my own blood cousin\nwants money out of me!\"\n\n\"A Newmarket man would get the better of his father. My brother has\nbeen on the turf since he rode over to it from Cambridge. If you play at\ncards with him--and he will if you will let him--he will beat you if he\ncan.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm ready!\" cries Harry. \"I'll play any game with him that I\nknow, or I'll jump with him, or I'll ride with him, or I'll row with\nhim, or I'll wrestle with him, or I'll shoot with him--there--now.\"\n\nThe senior was greatly entertained, and held out his hand to the boy.\n\"Anything, but don't fight with him,\" said my lord.\n\n\"If I do, I'll whip him! hanged if I don't!\" cried the lad. But a look\nof surprise and displeasure on the nobleman's part recalled him to\nbetter sentiments. \"A hundred pardons, my lord!\" he said, blushing very\nred, and seizing his cousin's hand. \"I talked of ill manners, being\nangry and hurt just now; but 'tis doubly ill-mannered of me to show my\nanger, and boast about my prowess to my own host and kinsman. It's not\nthe practice with us Americans to boast, believe me, it's not.\"\n\n\"You are the first I ever met,\" says my lord, with a smile, \"and I take\nyou at your word. And I give you fair warning about the cards, and the\nbetting, that is all, my boy.\"\n\n\"Leave a Virginian alone! We are a match for most men, we are,\" resumed\nthe boy.\n\nLord Castlewood did not laugh. His eyebrows only arched for a moment,\nand his grey eyes turned towards the ground. \"So you can bet fifty\nguineas, and afford to lose them? So much the better for you, cousin.\nThose great Virginian estates yield a great revenue, do they?\"\n\n\"More than sufficient for all of us--for ten times as many as we are\nnow,\" replied Harry. (\"What, he is pumping me,\" thought the lad.)\n\n\"And your mother makes her son and heir a handsome allowance?\"\n\n\"As much as ever I choose to draw, my lord!\" cried Harry.\n\n\"Peste! I wish I had such a mother!\" cried my lord. \"But I have only the\nadvantage of a stepmother, and she draws me. There is the dinner-bell.\nShall we go into the eating-room?\" And taking his young friend's arm, my\nlord led him to the apartment where that meal was waiting.\n\nParson Sampson formed the delight of the entertainment, and amused the\nladies with a hundred agreeable stories. Besides being chaplain to his\nlordship, he was a preacher in London, at the new chapel in Mayfair, for\nwhich my Lady Whittlesea (so well known in the reign of George I.) had\nleft an endowment. He had the choicest stories of all the clubs and\ncoteries--the very latest news of who had run away with whom--the last\nbon-mot of Mr. Selwyn--the last wild bet of March and Rockingham. He\nknew how the old king had quarrelled with Madame Walmoden, and the Duke\nwas suspected of having a new love; who was in favour at Carlton House\nwith the Princess of Wales, and who was hung last Monday, and how\nwell he behaved in the cart. My lord's chaplain poured out all this\nintelligence to the amused ladies and the delighted young provincial,\nseasoning his conversation with such plain terms and lively jokes as\nmade Harry stare, who was newly arrived from the colonies, and unused to\nthe elegances of London life. The ladies, old and young, laughed quite\ncheerfully at the lively jokes. Do not be frightened, ye fair readers\nof the present day! We are not going to outrage your sweet modesties,\nor call blushes on your maiden cheeks. But 'tis certain that their\nladyships at Castlewood never once thought of being shocked, but sate\nlistening to the parson's funny tales, until the chapel bell, clinking\nfor afternoon service, summoned his reverence away for half an hour.\nThere was no sermon. He would be back in the drinking of a bottle of\nBurgundy. Mr. Will called a fresh one, and the chaplain tossed off a\nglass ere he ran out.\n\nEre the half-hour was over, Mr. Chaplain was back again bawling for\nanother bottle. This discussed, they joined the ladies, and a couple\nof card-tables were set out, as, indeed, they were for many hours every\nday, at which the whole of the family party engaged. Madame de Bernstein\ncould beat any one of her kinsfolk at piquet, and there was only Mr.\nChaplain in the whole circle who was at all a match for her ladyship.\n\nIn this easy manner the Sabbath-day passed. The evening was beautiful,\nand there was talk of adjourning to a cool tankard and a game of whist\nin a summer-house; but the company voted to sit indoors, the ladies\ndeclaring they thought the aspect of three honours in their hand,\nand some good court-cards, more beautiful than the loveliest scene of\nnature; and so the sun went behind the elms, and still they were at\ntheir cards; and the rooks came home cawing their evensong, and they\nnever stirred except to change partners; and the chapel clock tolled\nhour after hour unheeded, so delightfully were they spent over the\npasteboard; and the moon and stars came out; and it was nine o'clock,\nand the groom of the chambers announced that supper was ready.\n\nWhilst they sate at that meal, the postboy's twanging horn was heard,\nas he trotted into the village with his letter-bag. My lord's bag was\nbrought in presently from the village, and his letters, which he put\naside, and his newspaper which he read. He smiled as he came to a\nparagraph, looked at his Virginian cousin, and handed the paper over\nto his brother Will, who by this time was very comfortable, having had\npretty good luck all the evening, and a great deal of liquor.\n\n\"Read that, Will,\" says my lord.\n\nMr. William took the paper, and, reading the sentence pointed out by his\nbrother, uttered an exclamation which caused all the ladies to cry out.\n\n\"Gracious heavens, William! What has happened?\" cries one or the other\nfond sister.\n\n\"Mercy, child, why do you swear so dreadfully?\" asks the young man's\nfond mamma.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" inquires Madame de Bernstein, who has fallen into a\ndoze after her usual modicum of punch and beer.\n\n\"Read it, Parson!\" says Mr. William, thrusting the paper over to the\nchaplain, and looking as fierce as a Turk.\n\n\"Bit, by the Lord!\" roars the chaplain, dashing down the paper.\n\n\"Cousin Harry, you are in luck,\" said my lord, taking up the sheet, and\nreading from it. \"The Six Year Old Plate at Huntingdon was won by Jason,\nbeating Brilliant, Pytho, and Ginger. The odds were five to four on\nBrilliant against the field, three to one against Jason, seven to two\nagainst Pytho, and twenty to one against Ginger.\"\n\n\"I owe you a half-year's income of my poor living, Mr. Warrington,\"\ngroaned the parson. \"I will pay when my noble patron settles with me.\"\n\n\"A curse upon the luck!\" growls Mr. William; \"that comes of betting on a\nSunday,\"--and he sought consolation in another great bumper.\n\n\"Nay, cousin Will. It was but in jest,\" cried Harry. \"I can't think of\ntaking my cousin's money.\"\n\n\"Curse me, sir, do you suppose, if I lose, I can't pay?\" asks Mr.\nWilliam; \"and that I want to be beholden to any man alive? That is a\ngood joke. Isn't it, Parson?\"\n\n\"I think I have heard better,\" said the clergyman; to which William\nreplied, \"Hang it, let us have another bowl.\"\n\nLet us hope the ladies did not wait for this last replenishment of\nliquor, for it is certain they had had plenty already during the\nevening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. In which Gumbo shows Skill with the Old English Weapon\n\n\nOur young Virginian having won these sums of money from his cousin and\nthe chaplain, was in duty bound to give them a chance of recovering\ntheir money, and I am afraid his mamma and other sound moralists would\nscarcely approve of his way of life. He plays at cards a great deal too\nmuch. Besides the daily whist or quadrille with the ladies, which set in\nsoon after dinner at three o'clock, and lasted until supper-time, there\noccurred games involving the gain or loss of very considerable sums of\nmoney, in which all the gentlemen, my lord included, took part. Since\ntheir Sunday's conversation, his lordship was more free and confidential\nwith his kinsman than he had previously been, betted with him quite\naffably, and engaged him at backgammon and piquet. Mr. William and the\npious chaplain liked a little hazard; though this diversion was enjoyed\non the sly, and unknown to the ladies of the house, who had exacted\nrepeated promises from cousin Will that he would not lead the Virginian\ninto mischief, and that he would himself keep out of it. So Will\npromised as much as his aunt or his mother chose to demand from him,\ngave them his word that he would never play--no, never; and when the\nfamily retired to rest, Mr. Will would walk over with a dice-box and\na rum-bottle to cousin Harry's quarters, where he, and Hal, and his\nreverence would sit and play until daylight.\n\nWhen Harry gave to Lord Castlewood those flourishing descriptions of the\nmaternal estate in America, he had not wished to mislead his kinsman,\nor to boast, or to tell falsehoods, for the lad was of a very honest and\ntruth-telling nature; but, in his life at home, it must be owned\nthat the young fellow had had acquaintance with all sorts of queer\ncompany,--horse-jockeys, tavern loungers, gambling and sporting men,\nof whom a great number were found in his native colony. A landed\naristocracy, with a population of negroes to work their fields, and\ncultivate their tobacco and corn, had little other way of amusement\nthan in the hunting-field, or over the cards and the punch-bowl. The\nhospitality of the province was unbounded: every man's house was his\nneighbour's; and the idle gentlefolks rode from one mansion to another,\nfinding in each pretty much the same sport, welcome, and rough plenty.\nThe Virginian squire had often a barefooted valet, and a cobbled saddle;\nbut there was plenty of corn for the horses, and abundance of drink and\nvenison for the master within the tumble-down fences, and behind the\ncracked windows of the hall. Harry had slept on many a straw mattress,\nand engaged in endless jolly night-bouts over claret and punch in\ncracked bowls till morning came, and it was time to follow the hounds.\nHis poor brother was of a much more sober sort, as the lad owned with\ncontrition. So it is that Nature makes folks; and some love books and\ntea, and some like Burgundy and a gallop across country. Our young\nfellow's tastes were speedily made visible to his friends in England.\nNone of them were partial to the Puritan discipline; nor did they like\nHarry the worse for not being the least of a milksop. Manners, you see,\nwere looser a hundred years ago; tongues were vastly more free-and-easy;\nnames were named, and things were done, which we should screech now to\nhear mentioned. Yes, madam, we are not as our ancestors were. Ought we\nnot to thank the Fates that have improved our morals so prodigiously,\nand made us so eminently virtuous?\n\nSo, keeping a shrewd keen eye upon people round about him, and fancying,\nnot incorrectly, that his cousins were disposed to pump him, Harry\nWarrington had thought fit to keep his own counsel regarding his own\naffairs, and in all games of chance or matters of sport was quite a\nmatch for the three gentlemen into whose company he had fallen. Even in\nthe noble game of billiards he could hold his own after a few days' play\nwith his cousins and their revered pastor. His grandfather loved the\ngame, and had over from Europe one of the very few tables which existed\nin his Majesty's province of Virginia. Nor, though Mr. Will could\nbeat him at the commencement, could he get undue odds out of the young\ngamester. After their first bet, Harry was on his guard with Mr. Will,\nand cousin William owned, not without respect, that the American was his\nmatch in most things, and his better in many. But though Harry played so\nwell that he could beat the parson, and soon was the equal of Will, who\nof course could beat both the girls, how came it, that in the contests\nwith these, especially with one of them, Mr. Warrington frequently\ncame off second? He was profoundly courteous to every being who wore a\npetticoat; nor has that traditional politeness yet left his country. All\nthe women of the Castlewood establishment loved the young gentleman.\nThe grim housekeeper was mollified by him: the fat cook greeted him with\nblowsy smiles; the ladies'-maids, whether of the French or the English\nnation, smirked and giggled in his behalf; the pretty porter's daughter\nat the lodge had always a kind word in reply to his. Madame de Bernstein\ntook note of all these things, and, though she said nothing, watched\ncarefully the boy's disposition and behaviour.\n\nWho can say how old Lady Maria Esmond was? Books of the Peerage were\nnot so many in those days as they are in our blessed times, and I cannot\ntell to a few years, or even a lustre or two. When Will used to say she\nwas five-and-thirty, he was abusive, and, besides, was always given\nto exaggeration. Maria was Will's half-sister. She and my lord were\nchildren of the late Lord Castlewood's first wife, a German lady, whom,\n'tis known, my lord married in the time of Queen Anne's wars. Baron\nBernstein, who married Maria's Aunt Beatrix, Bishop Tusher's widow, was\nalso a German, a Hanoverian nobleman, and relative of the first Lady\nCastlewood. If my Lady Maria was born under George I., and his Majesty\nGeorge II. had been thirty years on the throne, how could she be\nseven-and-twenty, as she told Harry Warrington she was? \"I am old,\nchild,\" she used to say. She used to call Harry \"child\" when they were\nalone. \"I am a hundred years old. I am seven-and-twenty. I might be your\nmother almost.\" To which Harry would reply, \"Your ladyship might be the\nmother of all the cupids, I am sure. You don't look twenty, on my word\nyou do Dot!\"\n\nLady Maria looked any age you liked. She was a fair beauty with a\ndazzling white and red complexion, an abundance of fair hair which\nflowed over her shoulders, and beautiful round arms which showed to\nuncommon advantage when she played at billiards with cousin Harry. When\nshe had to stretch across the table to make a stroke, that youth caught\nglimpses of a little ankle, a little clocked stocking, and a little\nblack satin slipper with a little red heel, which filled him with\nunutterable rapture, and made him swear that there never was such a\nfoot, ankle, clocked stocking, satin slipper in the world. And yet, oh,\nyou foolish Harry! your mother's foot was ever so much more slender, and\nhalf an inch shorter, than Lady Maria's. But, somehow, boys do not look\nat their mammas' slippers and ankles with rapture.\n\nNo doubt Lady Maria was very kind to Harry when they were alone. Before\nher sister, aunt, stepmother, she made light of him, calling him a\nsimpleton, a chit, and who knows what trivial names? Behind his back,\nand even before his face, she mimicked his accent, which smacked\nsomewhat of his province. Harry blushed and corrected the faulty\nintonation, under his English monitresses. His aunt pronounced that they\nwould soon make him a pretty fellow.\n\nLord Castlewood, we have said, became daily more familiar and friendly\nwith his guest and relative. Till the crops were off the ground there\nwas no sporting, except an occasional cock-match at Winchester, and a\nbull-baiting at Hexton Fair. Harry and Will rode off to many jolly fairs\nand races round about the young Virginian was presented to some of the\ncounty families--the Henleys of the Grange, the Crawleys of Queen's\nCrawley, the Redmaynes of Lionsden, and so forth. The neighbours came\nin their great heavy coaches, and passed two or three days in country\nfashion. More of them would have come, but for the fear all the\nCastlewood family had of offending Madame de Bernstein. She did not like\ncountry company; the rustical society and conversation annoyed her. \"We\nshall be merrier when my aunt leaves us,\" the young folks owned. \"We\nhave cause, as you may imagine, for being very civil to her. You know\nwhat a favourite she was with our papa? And with reason. She got him his\nearldom, being very well indeed at Court at that time with the King and\nQueen. She commands here naturally, perhaps a little too much. We are\nall afraid of her: even my elder brother stands in awe of her, and my\nstepmother is much more obedient to her than she ever was to my papa,\nwhom she ruled with a rod of iron. But Castlewood is merrier when our\naunt is not here. At least we have much more company. You will come to\nus in our gay days, Harry, won't you? Of course you will: this is your\nhome, sir. I was so pleased--oh, so pleased--when my brother said he\nconsidered it was your home!\"\n\nA soft hand is held out after this pretty speech, a pair of very well\npreserved blue eyes look exceedingly friendly. Harry grasps his cousin's\nhand with ardour. I do not know what privilege of cousinship he would\nnot like to claim, only he is so timid. They call the English selfish\nand cold. He at first thought his relatives were so: but how mistaken he\nwas! How kind and affectionate they are, especially the Earl,--and\ndear, dear Maria! How he wishes he could recall that letter which he\nhad written to Mrs. Mountain and his mother, in which he hinted that his\nwelcome had been a cold one! The Earl his cousin was everything that was\nkind, had promised to introduce him to London society, and present him\nat Court, and at White's. He was to consider Castlewood as his English\nhome. He had been most hasty in his judgment regarding his relatives\nin Hampshire. All this, with many contrite expressions, he wrote in his\nsecond despatch to Virginia. And he added, for it hath been hinted\nthat the young gentleman did not spell at this early time with especial\naccuracy, \"My cousin, the Lady Maria, is a perfect Angle.\"\n\n\"Ille praeter omnes angulus ridet,\" muttered little Mr. Dempster, at\nhome in Virginia.\n\n\"The child can't be falling in love with his angle, as he calls her!\"\ncries out Mountain.\n\n\"Pooh, pooh! my niece Maria is forty!\" says Madam Esmond. \"I perfectly\nwell recollect her when I was at home--a great, gawky, carroty creature,\nwith a foot like a pair of bellows.\" Where is truth, forsooth, and who\nknoweth it? Is Beauty beautiful, or is it only our eyes that make it\nso? Does Venus squint? Has she got a splay-foot, red hair, and a crooked\nback? Anoint my eyes, good Fairy Puck, so that I may ever consider the\nBeloved Object a paragon! Above all, keep on anointing my mistress's\ndainty peepers with the very strongest ointment, so that my noddle may\never appear lovely to her, and that she may continue to crown my honest\nears with fresh roses!\n\nNow, not only was Harry Warrington a favourite with some in the\ndrawing-room, and all the ladies of the servants'-hall, but, like master\nlike man, his valet Gumbo was very much admired and respected by very\nmany of the domestic circle. Gumbo had a hundred accomplishments. He\nwas famous as a fisherman, huntsman, blacksmith. He could dress hair\nbeautifully, and improved himself in the art under my lord's own Swiss\ngentleman. He was great at cooking many of his Virginian dishes, and\nlearned many new culinary secrets from my lord's French man. We have\nheard how exquisitely and melodiously he sang at church; and he sang not\nonly sacred but secular music, often inventing airs and composing rude\nwords after the habit of his people. He played the fiddle so charmingly,\nthat he set all the girls dancing in Castlewood Hall, and was ever\nwelcome to a gratis mug of ale at the Three Castles in the village, if\nhe would but bring his fiddle with him. He was good-natured and loved\nto play for the village children: so that Mr. Warrington's negro was a\nuniversal favourite in all the Castlewood domain.\n\nNow it was not difficult for the servants'-hall folks to perceive that\nMr. Gumbo was a liar, which fact was undoubted in spite of all his good\nqualities. For instance, that day at church, when he pretended to read\nout of Molly's psalm-book, he sang quite other words than those which\nwere down in the book, of which he could not decipher a syllable. And\nhe pretended to understand music, whereupon the Swiss valet brought him\nsome, and Master Gumbo turned the page upside down. These instances of\nlong-bow practice daily occurred, and were patent to all the Castlewood\nhousehold. They knew Gumbo was a liar, perhaps not thinking the worse\nof him for this weakness; but they did not know how great a liar he\nwas, and believed him much more than they had any reason for doing, and\nbecause, I suppose, they liked to believe him.\n\nWhatever might be his feelings of wonder and envy on first viewing the\nsplendour and comforts of Castlewood, Mr. Gumbo kept his sentiments\nto himself, and examined the place, park, appointments, stables, very\ncoolly. The horses, he said, were very well, what there were of them;\nbut at Castlewood in Virginia they had six times as many, and let\nme see, fourteen eighteen grooms to look after them. Madam Esmond's\ncarriages were much finer than my lord's,--great deal more gold on the\npanels. As for her gardens, they covered acres, and they grew every kind\nof flower and fruit under the sun. Pineapples and peaches? Pineapples\nand peaches were so common, they were given to pigs in his country. They\nhad twenty forty gardeners, not white gardeners, all black gentlemen,\nlike hisself. In the house were twenty forty gentlemen in\nlivery, besides women-servants--never could remember how\nmany women-servants,--dere were so many: tink dere were fifty\nwomen-servants--all Madam Esmond's property, and worth ever so many\nhundred pieces of eight apiece. How much was a piece of eight? Bigger\nthan a guinea, a piece of eight was. Tink, Madam Esmond have twenty\nthirty thousand guineas a year,--have whole rooms full of gold and\nplate. Came to England in one of her ships; have ever so many ships,\nGumbo can't count how many ships; and estates, covered all over with\ntobacco and negroes, and reaching out for a week's journey. Was Master\nHarry heir to all this property? Of course, now Master George was killed\nand scalped by the Indians. Gumbo had killed ever so many Indians, and\ntried to save Master George, but he was Master Harry's boy,--and Master\nHarry was as rich,--oh, as rich as ever he like. He wore black now,\nbecause Master George was dead; but you should see his chests full of\ngold clothes, and lace, and jewels at Bristol. Of course, Master\nHarry was the richest man in all Virginia, and might have twenty sixty\nservants; only he liked travelling with one best, and that one, it need\nscarcely be said, was Gumbo.\n\nThis story was not invented at once, but gradually elicited from Mr.\nGumbo, who might have uttered some trifling contradictions during the\nprogress of the narrative, but by the time he had told his tale twice or\nthrice in the servants'-hall or the butler's private apartment, he\nwas pretty perfect and consistent in his part, and knew accurately the\nnumber of slaves Madam Esmond kept, and the amount of income which she\nenjoyed. The truth is, that as four or five blacks are required to do\nthe work of one white man, the domestics in American establishments\nare much more numerous than in ours; and, like the houses of most other\nVirginian landed proprietors, Madam Esmond's mansion and stables swarmed\nwith negroes.\n\nMr. Gumbo's account of his mistress's wealth and splendour was carried\nto my lord by his lordship's man, and to Madame de Bernstein and my\nladies by their respective waiting-women, and, we may be sure, lost\nnothing in the telling. A young gentleman in England is not the\nless liked because he is reputed to be the heir to vast wealth and\npossessions; when Lady Castlewood came to hear of Harry's prodigious\nexpectations, she repented of her first cool reception of him, and of\nhaving pinched her daughter's arm till it was black-and-blue for having\nbeen extended towards the youth in too friendly a manner. Was it too\nlate to have him back into those fair arms? Lady Fanny was welcome to\ntry, and resumed the dancing-lessons. The Countess would play the music\nwith all her heart. But, how provoking! that odious, sentimental Maria\nwould always insist upon being in the room; and, as sure as Fanny walked\nin the gardens or the park, so sure would her sister come trailing after\nher. As for Madame de Bernstein, she laughed, and was amused at the\nstories of the prodigious fortune of her Virginian relatives. She knew\nher half-sister's man of business in London, and very likely was aware\nof the real state of Madame Esmond's money matters; but she did not\ncontradict the rumours which Gumbo and his fellow-servants had set\nafloat; and was not a little diverted by the effect which these reports\nhad upon the behaviour of the Castlewood family towards their young\nkinsman.\n\n\"Hang him! Is he so rich, Molly?\" said my lord to his elder sister.\n\"Then good-bye to our chances with your aunt. The Baroness will be sure\nto leave him all her money to spite us, and because he doesn't want\nit. Nevertheless, the lad is a good lad enough, and it is not his fault\nbeing rich, you know.\"\n\n\"He is very simple and modest in his habits for one so wealthy,\" remarks\nMaria.\n\n\"Rich people often are so,\" says my lord. \"If I were rich, I often think\nI would be the greatest miser, and live in rags and on a crust. Depend\non it there is no pleasure so enduring as money-getting. It grows on\nyou, and increases with old age. But because I am as poor as Lazarus, I\ndress in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day.\"\n\nMaria went to the book-room and got the History of Virginia, by R. B.\nGent--and read therein what an admirable climate it was, and how all\nkinds of fruit and corn grew in that province, and what noble rivers\nwere those of Potomac and Rappahannoc, abounding in all sorts of fish.\nAnd she wondered whether the climate would agree with her, and whether\nher aunt would like her? And Harry was sure his mother would adore\nher, so would Mountain. And when he was asked about the number of his\nmother's servants, he said, they certainly had more servants than are\nseen in England--he did not know how many. But the negroes did not do\nnear as much work as English servants did hence the necessity of keeping\nso great a number. As for some others of Gumbo's details which were\nbrought to him, he laughed and said the boy was wonderful as a romancer,\nand in telling such stories he supposed was trying to speak out for the\nhonour of the family.\n\nSo Harry was modest as well as rich! His denials only served to confirm\nhis relatives' opinion regarding his splendid expectations. More and\nmore the Countess and the ladies were friendly and affectionate with\nhim. More and more Mr. Will betted with him, and wanted to sell him\nbargains. Harry's simple dress and equipage only served to confirm his\nfriends' idea of his wealth. To see a young man of his rank and means\nwith but one servant, and without horses or a carriage of his own--what\nmodesty! When he went to London he would cut a better figure? Of course\nhe would. Castlewood would introduce him to the best society in the\ncapital, and he would appear as he ought to appear at St. James's. No\nman could be more pleasant, wicked, lively, obsequious than the worthy\nchaplain, Mr. Sampson. How proud he would be if he could show his young\nfriend a little of London life!--if he could warn rogues off him, and\nkeep him out of the way of harm! Mr. Sampson was very kind: everybody\nwas very kind. Harry liked quite well the respect that was paid to him.\nAs Madam Esmond's son he thought perhaps it was his due: and took for\ngranted that he was the personage which his family imagined him to be.\nHow should he know better, who had never as yet seen any place but his\nown province, and why should he not respect his own condition when other\npeople respected it so? So all the little knot of people at Castlewood\nHouse, and from these the people in Castlewood village, and from thence\nthe people in the whole county, chose to imagine that Mr. Harry Esmond\nWarrington was the heir of immense wealth, and a gentleman of very\ngreat importance, because his negro valet told lies about him in the\nservants'-hall.\n\nHarry's aunt, Madame de Bernstein, after a week or two, began to tire of\nCastlewood and the inhabitants of that mansion, and the neighbours who\ncame to visit them. This clever woman tired of most things and people\nsooner or later. So she took to nodding and sleeping over the chaplain's\nstories, and to doze at her whist and over her dinner, and to be very\nsnappish and sarcastic in her conversation with her Esmond nephews and\nnieces, hitting out blows at my lord and his brother the jockey, and my\nladies, widowed and unmarried, who winced under her scornful remarks,\nand bore them as they best might. The cook, whom she had so praised on\nfirst coming, now gave her no satisfaction; the wine was corked; the\nhouse was damp, dreary, and full of draughts; the doors would not shut,\nand the chimneys were smoky. She began to think the Tunbridge waters\nwere very necessary for her, and ordered the doctor, who came to her\nfrom the neighbouring town of Hexton, to order those waters for her\nbenefit.\n\n\"I wish to heaven she would go!\" growled my lord, who was the most\nindependent member of his family. \"She may go to Tunbridge, or she may\ngo to Bath, or she may go to Jericho, for me.\"\n\n\"Shall Fanny and I come with you to Tunbridge, dear Baroness?\" asked\nLady Castlewood of her sister-in-law.\n\n\"Not for worlds, my dear! The doctor orders me absolute quiet, and if\nyou came I should have the knocker going all day, and Fanny's lovers\nwould never be out of the house,\" answered the Baroness, who was quite\nweary of Lady Castlewood's company.\n\n\"I wish I could be of any service to my aunt!\" said the sentimental Lady\nMaria, demurely.\n\n\"My good child, what can you do for me? You cannot play piquet so well\nas my maid, and I have heard all your songs till I am perfectly tired of\nthem! One of the gentlemen might go with me: at least make the journey,\nand see me safe from highwaymen.\"\n\n\"I'm sure, ma'am, I shall be glad to ride with you,\" said Mr. Will.\n\n\"Oh, not you! I don't want you, William,\" cried the young man's\naunt. \"Why do not you offer, and where are your American manners, you\nungracious Harry Warrington? Don't swear, Will, Harry is much better\ncompany than you are, and much better ton too, sir.\"\n\n\"Tong, indeed! Confound his tong,\" growled envious Will to himself.\n\n\"I dare say I shall be tired of him, as I am of other folks,\" continued\nthe Baroness. \"I have scarcely seen Harry at all in these last days. You\nshall ride with me to Tunbridge, Harry!\"\n\nAt this direct appeal, and to no one's wonder more than that of his\naunt, Mr. Harry Warrington blushed, and hemmed and ha'd and at length\nsaid, \"I have promised my cousin Castlewood to go over to Hexton Petty\nSessions with him to-morrow. He thinks I should see how the Courts here\nare conducted--and--and--the partridge-shooting will soon begin, and\nI have promised to be here for that, ma'am.\" Saying which words, Harry\nWarrington looked as red as a poppy, whilst Lady Maria held her meek\nface downwards, and nimbly plied her needle.\n\n\"You actually refuse to go with me to Tunbridge Wells?\" called out\nMadame Bernstein, her eyes lightening, and her face flushing up with\nanger, too.\n\n\"Not to ride with you, ma'am; that I will do with all my heart; but to\nstay there--I have promised...\"\n\n\"Enough, enough, sir! I can go alone, and don't want your escort,\" cried\nthe irate old lady, and rustled out of the room.\n\nThe Castlewood family looked at each other with wonder. Will whistled.\nLady Castlewood glanced at Fanny, as much as to say, His chance is over.\nLady Maria never lifted up her eyes from her tambour-frame.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. On the Scent\n\n\nYoung Harry Warrington's act of revolt came so suddenly upon Madame\nde Bernstein, that she had no other way of replying to it, than by the\nprompt outbreak of anger with which we left her in the last chapter. She\ndarted two fierce glances at Lady Fanny and her mother as she quitted\nthe room. Lady Maria over her tambour-frame escaped without the least\nnotice, and scarcely lifted up her head from her embroidery, to watch\nthe aunt retreating, or the looks which mamma-in-law and sister threw at\none another.\n\n\"So, in spite of all, you have, madam?\" the maternal looks seemed to\nsay.\n\n\"Have what?\" asked Lady Fanny's eyes. But what good in looking innocent?\nShe looked puzzled. She did not look one-tenth part as innocent as\nMaria. Had she been guilty, she would have looked not guilty much more\ncleverly; and would have taken care to study and compose a face so as to\nbe ready to suit the plea. Whatever was the expression of Fanny's eyes,\nmamma glared on her as if she would have liked to tear them out.\n\nBut Lady Castlewood could not operate upon the said eyes then and there,\nlike the barbarous monsters in the stage-direction in King Lear. When\nher ladyship was going to tear out her daughter's eyes, she would retire\nsmiling, with an arm round her dear child's waist, and then gouge her in\nprivate.\n\n\"So you don't fancy going with the old lady to Tunbridge Wells?\" was\nall she said to Cousin Warrington, wearing at the same time a perfectly\nwell-bred simper on her face.\n\n\"And small blame to our cousin!\" interposed my lord. (The face over the\ntambour-frame looked up for one instant.) \"A young fellow must not have\nit all idling and holiday. Let him mix up something useful with his\npleasures, and go to the fiddles and pump-rooms at Tunbridge or the Bath\nlater. Mr. Warrington has to conduct a great estate in America: let him\nsee how ours in England are carried on. Will hath shown him the kennel\nand the stables; and the games in vogue, which I think, cousin, you\nseem to play as well as your teachers. After harvest we will show him\na little English fowling and shooting: in winter we will take him\nout a-hunting. Though there has been a coolness between us and our\naunt-kinswoman in Virginia, yet we are of the same blood. Ere we\nsend our cousin back to his mother, let us show him what an English\ngentleman's life at home is. I should like to read with him as well as\nsport with him, and that is why I have been pressing him of late to stay\nand bear me company.\"\n\nMy lord spoke with such perfect frankness that his mother-in-law and\nhalf-brother and sister could not help wondering what his meaning\ncould be. The three last-named persons often held little conspiracies\ntogether, and caballed or grumbled against the head of the house. When\nhe adopted that frank tone, there was no fathoming his meaning: often it\nwould not be discovered until months had passed. He did not say, \"This\nis true,\" but, \"I mean that this statement should be accepted and\nbelieved in my family.\" It was then a thing convenue, that my Lord\nCastlewood had a laudable desire to cultivate the domestic affections,\nand to educate, amuse, and improve his young relative; and that he had\ntaken a great fancy to the lad, and wished that Harry should stay for\nsome time near his lordship.\n\n\"What is Castlewood's game now?\" asked William of his mother and sister\nas they disappeared into the corridors. \"Stop! By George, I have it!\"\n\n\"What, William?\"\n\n\"He intends to get him to play, and to win the Virginia estate back from\nhim. That's what it is!\"\n\n\"But the lad has not got the Virginia estate to pay, if he loses,\"\nremarks mamma.\n\n\"If my brother has not some scheme in view, may I be----.\"\n\n\"Hush! Of course he has a scheme in view. But what is it?\"\n\n\"He can't mean Maria--Maria is as old as Harry's mother,\" muses Mr.\nWilliam.\n\n\"Pooh! with her old face and sandy hair and freckled skin! Impossible!\"\ncries Lady Fanny, with somewhat of a sigh.\n\n\"Of course, your ladyship had a fancy for the Iroquois, too!\" cried\nmamma.\n\n\"I trust I know my station and duty better, madam! If I had liked him,\nthat is no reason why I should marry him. Your ladyship hath taught me\nas much as that.\"\n\n\"My Lady Fanny!\"\n\n\"I am sure you married our papa without liking him. You have told me so\na thousand times!\"\n\n\"And if you did not love our father before marriage, you certainly did\nnot fall in love with him afterwards,\" broke in Mr. William, with a\nlaugh. \"Fan and I remember how our honoured parents used to fight. Don't\nus, Fan? And our brother Esmond kept the peace.\"\n\n\"Don't recall those dreadful low scenes, William!\" cries mamma. \"When\nyour father took too much drink, he was like a madman; and his conduct\nshould be a warning to you, sir, who are fond of the same horrid\npractice.\"\n\n\"I am sure, madam, you were not much the happier for marrying the man\nyou did not like, and your ladyship's title hath brought very little\nalong with it,\" whimpered out Lady Fanny. \"What is the use of a coronet\nwith the jointure of a tradesman's wife?--how many of them are richer\nthan we are? There is come lately to live in our Square, at Kensington,\na grocer's widow from London Bridge, whose daughters have three gowns\nwhere I have one; and who, though they are waited on but by a man and a\ncouple of maids, I know eat and drink a thousand times better than we\ndo with our scraps of cold meat on our plate, and our great flaunting,\ntrapesing, impudent, lazy lacqueys!\"\n\n\"He! he! glad I dine at the palace, and not at home!\" said Mr. Will.\n(Mr. Will, through his aunt's interest with Count Puffendorff, Groom\nof the Royal {and Serene Electoral} Powder-Closet, had one of the many\nsmall places at Court, that of Deputy Powder.)\n\n\"Why should I not be happy without any title except my own?\" continued\nLady Frances. \"Many people are. I dare say they are even happy in\nAmerica.\"\n\n\"Yes!--with a mother-in-law who is a perfect Turk and Tartar, for all I\nhear--with Indian war-whoops howling all around you and with a danger\nof losing your scalp, or of being eat up by a wild beast every time you\nwent to church.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go to church,\" said Lady Fanny.\n\n\"You'd go with anybody who asked you, Fan!\" roared out Mr. Will: \"and\nso would old Maria, and so would any woman, that's the fact.\" And Will\nlaughed at his own wit.\n\n\"Pray, good folks, what is all your merriment about?\" here asked Madame\nBernstein, peeping in on her relatives from the tapestried door which\nled into the gallery where their conversation was held.\n\nWill told her that his mother and sister had been having a fight (which\nwas not a novelty, as Madame Bernstein knew), because Fanny wanted to\nmarry their cousin, the wild Indian, and my lady Countess would not let\nher. Fanny protested against this statement. Since the very first day\nwhen her mother had told her not to speak to the young gentleman, she\nhad scarcely exchanged two words with him. She knew her station better.\nShe did not want to be scalped by wild Indians, or eat up by bears.\n\nMadame de Bernstein looked puzzled. \"If he is not staying for you, for\nwhom is he staying?\" she asked. \"At the houses to which he has been\ncarried, you have taken care not to show him a woman that is not a\nfright or in the nursery; and I think the boy is too proud to fall in\nlove with a dairymaid, Will.\"\n\n\"Humph! That is a matter of taste, ma'am,\" says Mr. William, with a\nshrug of his shoulders.\n\n\"Of Mr. William Esmond's taste, as you say; but not of yonder boy's. The\nEsmonds of his grandfather's nurture, sir, would not go a-courting in\nthe kitchen.\"\n\n\"Well, ma'am, every man to his taste, I say again. A fellow might go\nfarther and fare worse than my brother's servants'-hall, and besides\nFan, there's only the maids or old Maria to choose from.\"\n\n\"Maria! Impossible!\" And yet, as she spoke the very words, a sudden\nthought crossed Madame Bernstein's mind, that this elderly Calypso might\nhave captivated her young Telemachus. She called to mind half a dozen\ninstances in her own experience of young men who had been infatuated by\nold women. She remembered how frequent Harry Warrington's absences\nhad been of late--absences which she attributed to his love for field\nsports. She remembered how often, when he was absent, Maria Esmond\nwas away too. Walks in cool avenues, whisperings in garden temples, or\nbehind clipt hedges, casual squeezes of the hand in twilight corridors,\nor sweet glances and ogles in meetings on the stairs,--a lively fancy,\nan intimate knowledge of the world, very likely a considerable personal\nexperience in early days, suggested all these possibilities and\nchances to Madame de Bernstein, just as she was saying that they were\nimpossible.\n\n\"Impossible, ma'am! I don't know,\" Will continued. \"My mother warned Fan\noff him.\"\n\n\"Oh, your mother did warn Fanny off?\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear Baroness!\"\n\n\"Didn't she? Didn't she pinch Fanny's arm black-and-blue? Didn't they\nfight about it?\"\n\n\"Nonsense, William! For shame, William!\" cry both the implicated ladies\nin a breath.\n\n\"And now, since we have heard how rich he is, perhaps it is sour grapes,\nthat is all. And now, since he is warned off the young bird, perhaps he\nis hunting the old one, that's all. Impossible why impossible? You know\nold Lady Suffolk, ma'am?\"\n\n\"William, how can you speak about Lady Suffolk to your aunt?\"\n\nA grin passed over the countenance of the young gentleman. \"Because\nLady Suffolk was a special favourite at Court? Well, other folks have\nsucceeded her.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" cries Madame de Bernstein, who may have had her reasons to take\noffence.\n\n\"So they have, I say; or who, pray, is my Lady Yarmouth now? And didn't\nold Lady Suffolk go and fall in love with George Berkeley, and marry him\nwhen she was ever so old? Nay, ma'am, if I remember right--and we hear\na deal of town-talk at our table--Harry Estridge went mad about your\nladyship when you were somewhat rising twenty; and would have changed\nyour name a third time if you would but have let him.\"\n\nThis allusion to an adventure of her own later days, which was, indeed,\npretty notorious to all the world, did not anger Madame de Bernstein,\nlike Will's former hint about his aunt having been a favourite at George\nthe Second's Court; but, on the contrary, set her in good-humour.\n\n\"Au fait,\" she said, musing, as she played a pretty little hand on the\ntable, and no doubt thinking about mad young Harry Estridge; 'tis not\nimpossible, William, that old folks, and young folks, too, should play\nthe fool.\"\n\n\"But I can't understand a young fellow being in love with Maria,\"\ncontinued Mr. William, \"however he might be with you, ma'am. That's oter\nshose, as our French tutor used to say. You remember the Count, ma'am;\nhe! he!--and so does Maria!\"\n\n\"William!\"\n\n\"And I dare say the Count remembers the bastinado Castlewood had given\nto him. A confounded French dancing-master calling himself a count, and\ndaring to fall in love in our family! Whenever I want to make myself\nuncommonly agreeable to old Maria, I just say a few words of parly voo\nto her. She knows what I mean.\"\n\n\"Have you abused her to your cousin, Harry Warrington?\" asked Madame de\nBernstein.\n\n\"Well--I know she is always abusing me--and I have said my mind about\nher,\" said Will.\n\n\"Oh, you idiot!\" cried the old lady. \"Who but a gaby ever spoke ill of a\nwoman to her sweetheart? He will tell her everything, and they both will\nhate you.\"\n\n\"The very thing, ma'am!\" cried Will, bursting into a great laugh. \"I\nhad a sort of a suspicion, you see, and two days ago, as we were riding\ntogether, I told Harry Warrington a bit of my mind about Maria;--why\nshouldn't I, I say? She is always abusing me, ain't she, Fan? And your\nfavourite turned as red as my plush waistcoat--wondered how a gentleman\ncould malign his own flesh and blood, and, trembling all over with rage,\nsaid I was no true Esmond.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you chastise him, sir, as my lord did the dancing-master?\"\ncried Lady Castlewood.\n\n\"Well, mother,--you see that at quarter-staff there's two sticks used,\"\nreplied Mr. William; \"and my opinion is, that Harry Warrington can guard\nhis own head uncommonly well. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why I\ndid not offer to treat my cousin to a caning. And now you say so, ma'am,\nI know he has told Maria. She has been looking battle, murder, and\nsudden death at me ever since. All which shows----\" and here he turned\nto his aunt.\n\n\"All which shows what?\"\n\n\"That I think we are on the right scent; and that we've found Maria--the\nold fox!\" And the ingenuous youth here clapped his hand to his mouth,\nand gave a loud halloo.\n\nHow far had this pretty intrigue gone? now was the question. Mr. Will\nsaid, that at her age, Maria would be for conducting matters as rapidly\nas possible, not having much time to lose. There was not a great deal of\nlove lost between Will and his half-sister.\n\n\"Who would sift the matter to the bottom? Scolding one party or the\nother was of no avail. Threats only serve to aggravate people in such\ncases. I never was in danger but once, young people,\" said Madame de\nBernstein, \"and I think that was because my poor mother contradicted me.\nIf this boy is like others of his family, the more we oppose him, the\nmore entete he will be; and we shall never get him out of his scrape.\"\n\n\"Faith, ma'am, suppose we leave him in it?\" grumbled Will. \"Old Maria\nand I don't love each other too much, I grant you; but an English earl's\ndaughter is good enough for an American tobacco-planter, when all is\nsaid and done.\"\n\nHere his mother and sister broke out. They would not hear of such a\nunion. To which Will answered, \"You are like the dog in the manger. You\ndon't want the man yourself, Fanny\"\n\n\"I want him, indeed!\" cries Lady Fanny, with a toss of her head.\n\n\"Then why grudge him to Maria? I think Castlewood wants her to have\nhim.\"\n\n\"Why grudge him to Maria, sir?\" cried Madame de Bernstein, with great\nenergy. \"Do you remember who the poor boy is, and what your house owes\nto his family? His grandfather was the best friend your father ever had,\nand gave up this estate, this title, this very castle, in which you\nare conspiring against the friendless Virginian lad, that you and yours\nmight profit by it. And the reward for all this kindness is, that you\nall but shut the door on the child when he knocks at it, and talk of\nmarrying him to a silly elderly creature who might be his mother! He\nshan't marry her.\"\n\n\"The very thing we were saying and thinking, my dear Baroness!\"\ninterposes Lady Castlewood. \"Our part of the family is not eager about\nthe match, though my lord and Maria may be.\"\n\n\"You would like him for yourself, now that you hear he is rich--and may\nbe richer, young people, mind you that,\" cried Madam Beatrix, turning\nupon the other women.\n\n\"Mr. Warrington may be ever so rich, madam, but there is no need why\nyour ladyship should perpetually remind us that we are poor,\" broke\nin Lady Castlewood, with some spirit. \"At least there is very little\ndisparity in Fanny's age and Mr. Harry's; and you surely will be the\nlast to say that a lady of our name and family is not good enough for\nany gentleman born in Virginia or elsewhere.\"\n\n\"Let Fanny take an English gentleman, Countess, not an American. With\nsuch a name and such a mother to help her, and with all her good looks\nand accomplishments, sure, she can't fail of finding a man worthy of\nher. But from what I know about the daughters of this house, and what I\nimagine about our young cousin, I am certain that no happy match could\nbe made between them.\"\n\n\"What does my aunt know about me?\" asked Lady Fanny, turning very red.\n\n\"Only your temper, my dear. You don't suppose that I believe all the\ntittle-tattle and scandal which one cannot help hearing in town? But\nthe temper and early education are sufficient. Only fancy one of you\ncondemned to leave St. James's and the Mall, and live in a plantation\nsurrounded by savages! You would die of ennui, or worry your husband's\nlife out with your ill-humour. You are born, ladies, to ornament\ncourts--not wigwams. Let this lad go back to his wilderness with a wife\nwho is suited to him.\"\n\nThe other two ladies declared in a breath that, for their parts, they\ndesired no better, and, after a few more words, went on their way, while\nMadame de Bernstein, lifting up her tapestried door, retired into her\nown chamber. She saw all the scheme now; she admired the ways of women,\ncalling a score of little circumstances back to mind. She wondered at\nher own blindness during the last few days, and that she should not have\nperceived the rise and progress of this queer little intrigue. How far\nhad it gone? was now the question. Was Harry's passion of the serious\nand tragical sort, or a mere fire of straw which a day or two would burn\nout? How deeply was he committed? She dreaded the strength of Harry's\npassion, and the weakness of Maria's. A woman of her age is so\ndesperate, Madame Bernstein may have thought, that she will make any\nefforts to secure a lover. Scandal, bah! She will retire and be a\nprincess in Virginia, and leave the folks in England to talk as much\nscandal as they choose.\n\nIs there always, then, one thing which women do not tell to one another,\nand about which they agree to deceive each other? Does the concealment\narise from deceit or modesty? A man, as soon as he feels an inclination\nfor one of the other sex, seeks for a friend of his own to whom he may\nimpart the delightful intelligence. A woman (with more or less skill)\nburies her secret away from her kind. For days and weeks past, had not\nthis old Maria made fools of the whole house,--Maria, the butt of the\nfamily?\n\nI forbear to go into too curious inquiries regarding the Lady Maria's\nantecedents. I have my own opinion about Madame Bernstein's. A hundred\nyears ago people of the great world were not so straitlaced as they\nare now, when everybody is good, pure, moral, modest; when there is no\nskeleton in anybody's closet; when there is no scheming; no slurring\nover old stories; when no girl tries to sell herself for wealth, and no\nmother abets her. Suppose my Lady Maria tries to make her little game,\nwherein is her ladyship's great eccentricity?\n\nOn these points no doubt the Baroness de Bernstein thought, as she\ncommuned with herself in her private apartment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. An Old Story\n\n\nAs my Lady Castlewood and her son and daughter passed through one\ndoor of the saloon where they had all been seated, my Lord Castlewood\ndeparted by another issue; and then the demure eyes looked up from the\ntambour-frame on which they had persisted hitherto in examining the\ninnocent violets and jonquils. The eyes looked up at Harry Warrington,\nwho stood at an ancestral portrait under the great fireplace. He had\ngathered a great heap of blushes (those flowers which bloom so rarely\nafter gentlefolks' springtime), and with them ornamented his honest\ncountenance, his cheeks, his forehead, nay, his youthful ears.\n\n\"Why did you refuse to go with our aunt, cousin?\" asked the lady of the\ntambour frame.\n\n\"Because your ladyship bade me stay,\" answered the lad.\n\n\"I bid you stay! La! child! What one says in fun, you take in earnest!\nAre all you Virginian gentlemen so obsequious as to fancy every idle\nword a lady says is a command? Virginia must be a pleasant country for\nour sex if it be so!\"\n\n\"You said--when--when we walked in the terrace two nights since,--O\nheaven!\" cried Harry, with a voice trembling with emotion.\n\n\"Ah, that sweet night, cousin!\" cries the Tambour-frame.\n\n\"Whe--whe--when you gave me this rose from your own neck,\"--roared\nout Harry, pulling suddenly a crumpled and decayed vegetable from his\nwaistcoat--\"which I will never part with--with, no, by heavens, whilst\nthis heart continues to beat! You said, 'Harry, if your aunt asks you\nto go away, you will go, and if you go, you will forget me.'--Didn't you\nsay so?\"\n\n\"All men forget!\" said the Virgin, with a sigh.\n\n\"In this cold selfish country they may, cousin, not in ours,\" continues\nHarry, yet in the same state of exaltation--\"I had rather have lost an\narm almost than refused the old lady. I tell you it went to my heart\nto say no to her, and she so kind to me, and who had been the means of\nintroducing me to--to--O heaven!\"\n\n(Here a kick to an intervening spaniel, which flies yelping from before\nthe fire, and a rapid advance on the tambour-frame.) \"Look here, cousin!\nIf you were to bid me jump out of yonder window, I should do it; or\nmurder, I should do it.\"\n\n\"La! but you need not squeeze one's hand so, you silly child!\" remarks\nMaria.\n\n\"I can't help it--we are so in the south. Where my heart is, I can't\nhelp speaking my mind out, cousin--and you know where that heart is!\nEver since that evening--that--O heaven! I tell you I have hardly slept\nsince--I want to do something--to distinguish myself--to be ever so\ngreat. I wish there was giants, Maria, as I have read of in--in books,\nthat I could go and fight 'em. I wish you was in distress, that I might\nhelp you, somehow. I wish you wanted my blood, that I might spend\nevery drop of it for you. And when you told me not to go with Madame\nBernstein...\"\n\n\"I tell thee, child? never.\"\n\n\"I thought you told me. You said you knew I preferred my aunt to my\ncousin, and I said then what I say now, 'Incomparable Maria! I prefer\nthee to all the women in the world and all the angels in Paradise--and\nI would go anywhere, were it to dungeons, if you ordered me!' And do you\nthink I would not stay anywhere, when you only desired that I should be\nnear you?\" he added, after a moment's pause.\n\n\"Men always talk in that way--that is,--that is, I have heard so,\" said\nthe spinster, correcting herself; \"for what should a country-bred woman\nknow about you creatures? When you are near us, they say you are all\nraptures and flames and promises and I don't know what; when you are\naway, you forget all about us.\"\n\n\"But I think I never want to go away as long as I live,\" groaned out\nthe young man. \"I have tired of many things; not books and that, I never\ncared for study much, but games and sports which I used to be fond\nof when I was a boy. Before I saw you, it was to be a soldier I most\ndesired; I tore my hair with rage when my poor dear brother went away\ninstead of me on that expedition in which we lost him. But now, I only\ncare for one thing in the world, and you know what that is.\"\n\n\"You silly child! don't you know I am almost old enough to be...?\"\n\n\"I know--I know! but what is that to me? Hasn't your br...--well, never\nmind who, some of 'em-told me stories against you, and didn't they show\nme the Family Bible, where all your names are down, and the dates of\nyour birth?\"\n\n\"The cowards! Who did that?\" cried out Lady Maria. \"Dear Harry, tell me\nwho did that? Was it my mother-in-law, the grasping, odious, abandoned,\nbrazen harpy? Do you know all about her? How she married my father in\nhis cups--the horrid hussey!--and...\"\n\n\"Indeed it wasn't Lady Castlewood,\" interposed the wondering Harry.\n\n\"Then it was my aunt,\" continued the infuriate lady. \"A pretty moralist,\nindeed! A bishop's widow, forsooth, and I should like to know whose\nwidow before and afterwards. Why, Harry, she intrigue: with the\nPretender, and with the Court of Hanover, and, I dare say, would with\nthe Court of Rome and the Sultan of Turkey if she had had the means. Do\nyou know who her second husband was? A creature who...\"\n\n\"But our aunt never spoke a word against you,\" broke in Harry, more and\nmore amazed at the nymph's vehemence.\n\nShe checked her anger. In the inquisitive countenance opposite to\nher she thought she read some alarm as to the temper which she was\nexhibiting.\n\n\"Well, well! I am a fool,\" she said. \"I want thee to think well of me,\nHarry!\"\n\nA hand is somehow put out and seized and, no doubt, kissed by the\nrapturous youth. \"Angel!\" he cries, looking into her face with his\neager, honest eyes.\n\nTwo fish-pools irradiated by a pair of stars would not kindle to greater\nwarmth than did those elderly orbs into which Harry poured his gaze.\nNevertheless, he plunged into their blue depths, and fancied he saw\nheaven in their calm brightness. So that silly dog (of whom Aesop or the\nSpelling-book used to tell us in youth) beheld a beef-bone in the pond,\nand snapped at it, and lost the beef-bone he was carrying. O absurd cur!\nHe saw the beefbone in his own mouth reflected in the treacherous pool,\nwhich dimpled, I dare say, with ever so many smiles, coolly sucked up\nthe meat, and returned to its usual placidity. Ah! what a heap of wreck\nlie beneath some of those quiet surfaces! What treasures we have dropped\ninto them! What chased golden dishes, what precious jewels of love, what\nbones after bones, and sweetest heart's flesh! Do not some very faithful\nand unlucky dogs jump in bodily, when they are swallowed up heads and\ntails entirely? When some women come to be dragged, it is a marvel what\nwill be found in the depths of them. Cavete, canes! Have a care how ye\nlap that water. What do they want with us, the mischievous siren sluts?\nA green-eyed Naiad never rests until she has inveigled a fellow under\nthe water; she sings after him, she dances after him; she winds round\nhim, glittering tortuously; she warbles and whispers dainty secrets at\nhis cheek, she kisses his feet, she leers at him from out of her rushes:\nall her beds sigh out, \"Come, sweet youth! Hither, hither, rosy Hylas!\"\nPop goes Hylas. (Surely the fable is renewed for ever and ever?) Has his\ncaptivator any pleasure? Doth she take any account of him? No more than\na fisherman landing at Brighton does of one out of a hundred thousand\nherrings.... The last time. Ulysses rowed by the Sirens' bank, he and\nhis men did not care though a whole shoal of them were singing and\ncombing their longest locks. Young Telemachus was for jumping overboard:\nbut the tough old crew held the silly, bawling lad. They were deaf, and\ncould not hear his bawling nor the sea-nymphs' singing. They were dim\nof sight, and did not see how lovely the witches were. The stale, old,\nleering witches! Away with ye! I dare say you have painted your cheeks\nby this time; your wretched old songs are as out of fashion as Mozart,\nand it is all false hair you are combing!\n\nIn the last sentence you see Lector Benevolus and Scriptor Doctissimus\nfigure as tough old Ulysses and his tough old Boatswain, who do not care\na quid of tobacco for any Siren at Sirens' Point; but Harry Warrington\nis green Telemachus, who, be sure, was very unlike the soft youth in the\ngood Bishop of Cambray's twaddling story. He does not see that the siren\npaints the lashes from under which she ogles him; will put by into a box\nwhen she has done the ringlets into which she would inveigle him; and\nif she eats him, as she proposes to do, will crunch his bones with a new\nset of grinders just from the dentist's, and warranted for mastication.\nThe song is not stale to Harry Warrington, nor the voice cracked or out\nof tune that sings it. But--but--oh, dear me, Brother Boatswain! Don't\nyou remember how pleasant the opera was when we first heard it? Cosi\nfan tutti was its name--Mozart's music. Now, I dare say, they have other\nwords, and other music, and other singers and fiddlers, and another\ngreat crowd in the pit. Well, well, Cosi fan tutti is still upon the\nbills, and they are going on singing it over and over and over.\n\nAny man or woman with a pennyworth of brains, or the like precious\namount of personal experience, or who has read a novel before, must,\nwhen Harry pulled out those faded vegetables just now, have gone off\ninto a digression of his own, as the writer confesses for himself he was\ndiverging whilst he has been writing the last brace of paragraphs. If he\nsees a pair of lovers whispering in a garden alley or the embrasure of\na window, or a pair of glances shot across the room from Jenny to the\nartless Jessamy, he falls to musing on former days when, etc. etc. These\nthings follow each other by a general law, which is not as old as the\nhills, to be sure, but as old as the people who walk up and down them.\nWhen, I say, a lad pulls a bunch of amputated and now decomposing greens\nfrom his breast and falls to kissing it, what is the use of saying much\nmore? As well tell the market-gardener's name from whom the slip-rose\nwas bought--the waterings, clippings, trimmings, manurings, the plant\nhas undergone--as tell how Harry Warrington came by it. Rose, elle a\nvecu la vie des roses, has been trimmed, has been watered, has been\npotted, has been sticked, has been cut, worn, given away, transferred\nto yonder boy's pocket-book and bosom, according to the laws and fate\nappertaining to roses.\n\nAnd how came Maria to give it to Harry? And how did he come to want it\nand to prize it so passionately when he got the bit of rubbish? Is not\none story as stale as the other? Are not they all alike? What is the\nuse, I say, of telling them over and over? Harry values that rose\nbecause Maria has ogled him in the old way; because she has happened to\nmeet him in the garden in the old way; because he has taken her hand in\nthe old way; because they have whispered to one another behind the old\ncurtain (the gaping old rag, as if everybody could not peep through\nit!); because, in this delicious weather, they have happened to be early\nrisers and go into the park; because dear Goody Jenkins in the village\nhappened to have a bad knee, and my lady Maria went to read to her, and\ngave her calves'-foot jelly, and because somebody, of course, must carry\nthe basket. Whole chapters might have been written to chronicle\nall these circumstances, but A quoi bon? The incidents of life, and\nlove-making especially, I believe to resemble each other so much, that\nI am surprised, gentlemen and ladies, you read novels any more. Psha! Of\ncourse that rose in young Harry's pocket-book had grown, and had budded,\nand had bloomed, and was now rotting, like other roses. I suppose you\nwill want me to say that the young fool kissed it next? Of course he\nkissed it. What were lips made for, pray, but for smiling and simpering,\nand (possibly) humbugging, and kissing, and opening to receive\nmutton-chops, cigars, and so forth? I cannot write this part of the\nstory of our Virginians, because Harry did not dare to write it himself\nto anybody at home, because, if he wrote any letters to Maria (which,\nof course, he did, as they were in the same house, and might meet each\nother as much as they liked), they were destroyed; because he afterwards\nchose to be very silent about the story, and we can't have it from her\nladyship, who never told the truth about anything. But cui bono? I say\nagain. What is the good of telling the story? My gentle reader, take\nyour story: take mine. To-morrow it shall be Miss Fanny's, who is just\nwalking away with her doll to the schoolroom and the governess (poor\nvictim! she has a version of it in her desk): and next day it shall be\nBaby's, who is bawling out on the stairs for his bottle.\n\nMaria might like to have and exercise power over the young Virginian;\nbut she did not want that Harry should quarrel with his aunt for her\nsake, or that Madame de Bernstein should be angry with her. Harry was\nnot the Lord of Virginia yet: he was only the Prince, and the Queen\nmight marry and have other Princes, and the laws of primogeniture might\nnot be established in Virginia, qu'en savait elle? My lord her brother\nand she had exchanged no words at all about the delicate business. But\nthey understood each other, and the Earl had a way of understanding\nthings without speaking. He knew his Maria perfectly well: in the course\nof a life of which not a little had been spent in her brother's company\nand under his roof, Maria's disposition, ways, tricks, faults, had come\nto be perfectly understood by the head of the family; and she would find\nher little schemes checked or aided by him, as to his lordship seemed\ngood, and without need of any words between them. Thus three days\nbefore, when she happened to be going to see that poor dear old Goody,\nwho was ill with the sore knee in the village (and when Harry Warrington\nhappened to be walking behind the elms on the green too), my lord with\nhis dogs about him, and his gardener walking after him, crossed the\ncourt, just as Lady Maria was tripping to the gate-house--and his\nlordship called his sister, and said: \"Molly, you are going to see Goody\nJenkins. You are a charitable soul, my dear. Give Gammer Jenkins this\nhalf-crown for me--unless our cousin, Warrington, has already given her\nmoney. A pleasant walk to you. Let her want for nothing.\" And at supper,\nmy lord asked Mr. Warrington many questions about the poor in Virginia,\nand the means of maintaining them, to which the young gentleman gave the\nbest answers he might. His lordship wished that in the old country there\nwere no more poor people than in the new: and recommended Harry to\nvisit the poor and people of every degree, indeed, high and low--in the\ncountry to look at the agriculture, in the city at the manufactures\nand municipal institutions--to which edifying advice Harry acceded with\nbecoming modesty and few words, and Madame Bernstein nodded approval\nover her piquet with the chaplain. Next day, Harry was in my lord's\njustice-room: the next day he was out ever so long with my lord on\nthe farm--and coming home, what does my lord do, but look in on a\nsick tenant? I think Lady Maria was out on that day, too; she had been\nreading good books to that poor dear Goody Jenkins, though I don't\nsuppose Madame Bernstein ever thought of asking about her niece.\n\n\n\"CASTLEWOOD, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND, August 5, 1757.\n\n\"MY DEAR MOUNTAIN--At first, as I wrote, I did not like Castlewood, nor\nmy cousins there, very much. Now, I am used to their ways, and we begin\nto understand each other much better. With my duty to my mother, tell\nher, I hope, that considering her ladyship's great kindness to me, Madam\nEsmond will be reconciled to her half-sister, the Baroness de Bernstein.\nThe Baroness, you know, was my Grandmamma's daughter by her first\nhusband, Lord Castlewood (only Grandpapa really was the real lord);\nhowever, that was not his, that is, the other Lord Castlewood's fault,\nyou know, and he was very kind to Grandpapa, who always spoke most\nkindly of him to us as you know.\n\n\"Madame the Baroness Bernstein first married a clergyman, Reverend\nMr. Tusher, who was so learned and good, and such a favourite of his\nMajesty, as was my aunt too, that he was made a Bishop. When he died,\nOur gracious King continued his friendship to my aunt; who married a\nHanoverian nobleman, who occupied a post at the Court--and, I believe,\nleft the Baroness very rich. My cousin, my Lord Castlewood, told me\nso much about her, and I am sure I have found from her the greatest\nkindness and affection.\n\n\"The (Dowiger) Countess Castlewood and my cousins Will and Lady Fanny\nhave been described per last, that went by the Falmouth packet on the\n20th ult. The ladies are not changed since then. Me and Cousin Will are\nvery good friends. We have rode out a good deal. We have had some famous\ncocking matches at Hampton and Winton. My cousin is a sharp blade, but I\nthink I have shown him that we in Virginia know a thing or two. Reverend\nMr. Sampson, chaplain of the famaly, most excellent preacher, without\nany biggatry.\n\n\"The kindness of my cousin the Earl improves every day, and by next\nyear's ship I hope my mother will send his lordship some of our best\nroll tobacco (for tennants) and hamms. He is most charatable to the\npoor. His sister, Lady Maria, equally so. She sits for hours reading\ngood books to the sick: she is most beloved in the village.\"\n\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said a lady to whom Harry submitted his precious manuscript.\n\"Why do you flatter me, cousin?\"\n\n\"You are beloved in the village and out of it,\" said Harry, with a\nknowing emphasis, \"and I have flattered you, as you call it, a little\nmore still, farther on.\"\n\n\n\"There is a sick old woman there, whom Madam Esmond would like, a most\nraligious, good, old lady.\n\n\"Lady Maria goes very often to read to her; which, she says, gives\nher comfort. But though her Ladyship hath the sweetest voice, both in\nspeaking and singeing (she plays the church organ, and singes there most\nbeautifully), I cannot think Gammer Jenkins can have any comfort from\nit, being very deaf, by reason of her great age. She has her memory\nperfectly, however, and remembers when my honoured Grandmother Rachel\nLady Castlewood lived here. She says, my Grandmother was the best woman\nin the whole world, gave her a cow when she was married, and cured her\nhusband, Gaffer Jenkins, of the collects, which he used to have very\nbad. I suppose it was with the Pills and Drops which my honoured Mother\nput up in my boxes, when I left dear Virginia. Having never been ill\nsince, have had no use for the pills. Gumbo hath, eating and drinking\na great deal too much in the Servants' Hall. The next angel to my\nGrandmother (N.B. I think I spelt angel wrong per last), Gammer Jenkins\nsays, is Lady Maria, who sends her duty to her Aunt in Virginia, and\nremembers her, and my Grandpapa and Grandmamma when they were in Europe,\nand she was a little girl. You know they have Grandpapa's picture here,\nand I live in the very rooms which he had, and which are to be called\nmine, my Lord Castlewood says.\n\n\"Having no more to say, at present, I close with best love and duty to\nmy honoured Mother, and with respects to Mr. Dempster, and a kiss for\nFanny, and kind remembrances to Old Gumbo, Nathan, Old and Young Dinah,\nand the pointer dog and Slut, and all friends, from their well-wisher                                               HENRY ESMOND WARRINGTON.\"\n\n\"Have wrote and sent my duty to my Uncle Warrington in Norfolk. No anser\nas yet.\"\n\n\n\"I hope the spelling is right, cousin?\" asked the author of the letter,\nfrom the critic to whom he showed it.\n\n\"'Tis quite well enough spelt for any person of fashion,\" answered\nLady Maria, who did not choose to be examined too closely regarding the\northography.\n\n\"One word 'Angel,' I know, I spelt wrong in writing to my mamma, but I\nhave learned a way of spelling it right, now.\"\n\n\"And how is that, sir?\"\n\n\"I think 'tis by looking at you, cousin;\" saying which words, Mr. Harry\nmade her ladyship a low bow, and accompanied the bow by one of his best\nblushes, as if he were offering her a bow and a bouquet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. Containing both Love and Luck\n\n\nAt the next meal, when the family party assembled, there was not a trace\nof displeasure in Madame de Bernstein's countenance, and her behaviour\nto all the company, Harry included, was perfectly kind and cordial. She\npraised the cook this time, declared the fricassee was excellent, and\nthat there were no eels anywhere like those in the Castlewood moats;\nwould not allow that the wine was corked, or hear of such extravagance\nas opening a fresh bottle for a useless old woman like her; gave Madam\nEsmond Warrington, of Virginia, as her toast, when the new wine was\nbrought, and hoped Harry had brought away his mamma's permission to take\nback an English wife with him. He did not remember his grandmother; her,\nMadame de Bernstein's, dear mother? The Baroness amused the company\nwith numerous stories of her mother, of her beauty and goodness, of her\nhappiness with her second husband, though the wife was so much older\nthan Colonel Esmond. To see them together was delightful, she had heard.\nTheir attachment was celebrated all through the country. To talk of\ndisparity in marriages was vain after that. My Lady Castlewood and her\ntwo children held their peace whilst Madame Bernstein prattled. Harry\nwas enraptured, and Maria surprised. Lord Castlewood was puzzled to know\nwhat sudden freak or scheme had occasioned this prodigious amiability\non the part of his aunt; but did not allow the slightest expression of\nsolicitude or doubt to appear on his countenance, which wore every mark\nof the most perfect satisfaction.\n\nThe Baroness's good-humour infected the whole family; not one person at\ntable escaped a gracious word from her. In reply to some compliment to\nMr. Will, when that artless youth uttered an expression of satisfaction\nand surprise at his aunt's behaviour, she frankly said: \"Complimentary,\nmy dear! Of course I am. I want to make up with you for having been\nexceedingly rude to everybody this morning. When I was a child, and my\nfather and mother were alive, and lived here, I remember I used to adopt\nexactly the same behaviour. If I had been naughty in the morning, I used\nto try and coax my parents at night. I remember in this very room, at\nthis very table--oh, ever so many hundred years ago!--so coaxing my\nfather, and mother, and your grandfather, Harry Warrington; and there\nwere eels for supper, as we have had them to-night, and it was that dish\nof collared eels which brought the circumstance back to my mind. I\nhad been just as wayward that day, when I was seven years old, as I\nam to-day, when I am seventy, and so I confess my sins, and ask to be\nforgiven, like a good girl.\"\n\n\"I absolve your ladyship!\" cried the chaplain, who made one of the\nparty.\n\n\"But your reverence does not know how cross and ill-tempered I was. I\nscolded my sister, Castlewood: I scolded her children, I boxed Harry\nWarrington's ears: and all because he would not go with me to Tunbridge\nWells.\"\n\n\"But I will go, madam; I will ride with you with all the pleasure in\nlife,\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"You see, Mr. Chaplain, what good, dutiful children they all are. 'Twas\nI alone who was cross and peevish. Oh, it was cruel of me to treat them\nso! Maria, I ask your pardon, my dear.\"\n\n\"Sure, madam, you have done me no wrong,\" says Maria to this humble\nsuppliant.\n\n\"Indeed, I have, a very great wrong, child! Because I was weary of\nmyself, I told you that your company would be wearisome to me. You\noffered to come with me to Tunbridge, and I rudely refused you.\"\n\n\"Nay, ma'am, if you were sick, and my presence annoyed you...\n\n\"But it will not annoy me! You were most kind to say that you would\ncome. I do, of all things, beg, pray, entreat, implore, command that you\nwill come.\"\n\nMy lord filled himself a glass, and sipped it. Most utterly unconscious\ndid his lordship look. This, then, was the meaning of the previous\ncomedy.\n\n\"Anything which can give my aunt pleasure, I am sure, will delight me,\"\nsaid Maria, trying to look as happy as possible.\n\n\"You must come and stay with me, my dear, and I promise to be good and\ngood-humoured. My dear lord, you will spare your sister to me?\"\n\n\"Lady Maria Esmond is quite of age to judge for herself about such a\nmatter,\" said his lordship, with a bow. \"If any of us can be of use\nto you, madam, you sure ought to command us.\" Which sentence, being\ninterpreted, no doubt meant, \"Plague take the old woman! She is taking\nMaria away in order to separate her from this young Virginian.\"\n\n\"Oh, Tunbridge will be delightful!\" sighed Lady Maria.\n\n\"Mr. Sampson will go and see Goody Jones for you,\" my lord continued.\n\nHarry drew pictures with his finger on the table. What delights had\nhe not been speculating on? What walks, what rides, what interminable\nconversations, what delicious shrubberies and sweet sequestered\nsummer-houses, what poring over music-books, what moonlight, what\nbilling and cooing, had he not imagined! Yes, the day was coming. They\nwere all departing--my Lady Castlewood to her friends, Madame\nBernstein to her waters--and he was to be left alone with his divine\ncharmer--alone with her and unutterable rapture! The thought of the\npleasure was maddening. That these people were all going away. That he\nwas to be left to enjoy that heaven--to sit at the feet of that angel\nand kiss the hem of that white robe. O Gods! 'twas too great bliss to\nbe real! \"I knew it couldn't be,\" thought poor Harry. \"I knew something\nwould happen to take her from me.\"\n\n\"But you will ride with us to Tunbridge, nephew Warrington, and keep us\nfrom the highwaymen?\" said Madame de Bernstein.\n\nHarry Warrington hoped the company did not see how red he grew. He tried\nto keep his voice calm and without tremor. Yes, he would ride with their\nladyships, and he was sure they need fear no danger. Danger! Harry\nfelt he would rather like danger than not. He would slay ten thousand\nhighwaymen if they approached his mistress's coach. At least, he would\nride by that coach, and now and again see her eyes at the window. He\nmight not speak to her, but he should be near her. He should press the\nblessed hand at the inn at night, and feel it reposing on his as he led\nher to the carriage at morning. They would be two whole days going\nto Tunbridge, and one day or two he might stay there. Is not the poor\nwretch who is left for execution at Newgate thankful for even two or\nthree days of respite?\n\nYou see, we have only indicated, we have not chosen to describe,\nat length, Mr. Harry Warrington's condition, or that utter depth of\nimbecility into which the poor young wretch was now plunged. Some boys\nhave the complaint of love favourably and gently. Others, when they get\nthe fever, are sick unto death with it; or, recovering, carry the marks\nof the malady down with them to the grave, or to remotest old age.\nI say, it is not fair to take down a young fellow's words when he is\nraging in that delirium. Suppose he is in love with a woman twice as old\nas himself; have we not all read of the young gentleman who committed\nsuicide in consequence of his fatal passion for Mademoiselle Ninon de\nl'Enclos who turned out to be his grandmother? Suppose thou art making\nan ass of thyself, young Harry Warrington, of Virginia! are there not\npeople in England who heehaw too? Kick and abuse him, you who have never\nbrayed; but bear with him, all honest fellow-cardophagi: long-eared\nmessmates, recognise a brother-donkey!\n\n\"You will stay with us for a day or two at the Wells,\" Madame Bernstein\ncontinued. \"You will see us put into our lodgings. Then you can return\nto Castlewood and the partridge-shooting, and all the fine things which\nyou and my lord are to study together.\"\n\nHarry bowed an acquiescence. A whole week of heaven! Life was not\naltogether a blank, then.\n\n\"And as there is sure to be plenty of company at the Wells, I shall be\nable to present you,\" the lady graciously added.\n\n\"Company! ah! I shan't need company,\" sighed out Harry. \"I mean that I\nshall be quite contented in the company of you two ladies,\" he added,\neagerly; and no doubt Mr. Will wondered at his cousin's taste.\n\nAs this was to be the last night of cousin Harry's present visit to\nCastlewood, cousin Will suggested that he, and his reverence, and\nWarrington should meet at the quarters of the latter and make up\naccounts, to which process, Harry, being a considerable winner in his\nplay transactions with the two gentlemen, had no objection. Accordingly,\nwhen the ladies retired for the night, and my lord withdrew--as his\ncustom was--to his own apartments, the three gentlemen all found\nthemselves assembled in Mr. Harry's little room before the punch-bowl,\nwhich was Will's usual midnight companion.\n\nBut Will's method of settling accounts was by producing a couple of\nfresh packs of cards, and offering to submit Harry's debt to the process\nof being doubled or acquitted. The poor chaplain had no more ready cash\nthan Lord Castlewood's younger brother. Harry Warrington wanted to win\nthe money of neither. Would he give pain to the brother of his adored\nMaria, or allow any one of her near kinsfolk to tax him with any want of\ngenerosity or forbearance? He was ready to give them their revenge, as\nthe gentlemen proposed. Up to midnight he would play with them for what\nstakes they chose to name. And so they set to work, and the dice-box was\nrattled and the cards shuffled and dealt.\n\nVery likely he did not think about the cards at all. Very likely he was\nthinking;--\"At this moment, my beloved one is sitting with her beauteous\ngolden locks outspread under the fingers of her maid. Happy maid! Now\nshe is on her knees, the sainted creature, addressing prayers to that\nHeaven which is the abode of angels like her. Now she has sunk to rest\nbehind her damask curtains. Oh, bless, bless her!\" \"You double us all\nround? I will take a card upon each of my two. Thank you, that will\ndo--a ten--now, upon the other, a queen,--two natural vingt-et-uns, and\nas you doubled us you owe me so-and-so.\"\n\nI imagine volleys of oaths from Mr. William, and brisk pattering of\nimprecations from his reverence, at the young Virginian's luck. He won\nbecause he did not want to win. Fortune, that notoriously coquettish\njade, came to him, because he was thinking of another nymph, who\npossibly was as fickle. Will and the chaplain may have played against\nhim, solicitous constantly to increase their stakes, and supposing that\nthe wealthy Virginian wished to let them recover all their losings. But\nthis was by no means Harry Warrington's notion. When he was at home he\nhad taken a part in scores of such games as these (whereby we may be led\nto suppose that he kept many little circumstances of his life mum from\nhis lady mother), and had learned to play and pay. And as he practised\nfair play towards his friends he expected it from them in return.\n\n\"The luck does seem to be with me, cousin,\" he said, in reply to some\nmore oaths and growls of Will, \"and I am sure I do not want to press it;\nbut you don't suppose I'm going to be such a fool as to fling it away\naltogether? I have quite a heap of your promises on paper by this time.\nIf we are to go on playing, let us have the dollars on the table, if you\nplease; or, if not the money, the worth of it.\"\n\n\"Always the way with you rich men,\" grumbled Will. \"Never lend except on\nsecurity--always win because you are rich.\"\n\n\"Faith, cousin, you have been of late for ever flinging my riches into\nmy face. I have enough for my wants and for my creditors.\"\n\n\"Oh, that we could all say as much!\" groaned the chaplain. \"How happy\nwe, and how happy the duns would be! What have we got to play against\nour conqueror? There is my new gown, Mr. Warrington. Will you set me\nfive pieces against it? I have but to preach in stuff if I lose. Stop! I\nhave a Chrysostom, a Foxe's Martyrs, a Baker's Chronicle, and a cow and\nher calf. What shall we set against these?\"\n\n\"I will bet one of cousin Will's notes for twenty pounds,\" cried Mr.\nWarrington, producing one of those documents.\n\n\"Or I have my brown mare, and will back her red against your honour's\nnotes of hand, but against ready money.\"\n\n\"I have my horse. I will back my horse against you for fifty,\" bawls out\nWill.\n\nHarry took the offers of both gentlemen. In the course of ten minutes\nthe horse and the bay mare had both changed owners. Cousin William swore\nmore fiercely than ever. The parson dashed his wig to the ground,\nand emulated his pupil in the loudness of his objurgations. Mr. Harry\nWarrington was quite calm, and not the least elated by his triumph.\nThey had asked him to play, and he had played. He knew he should win. O\nbeloved slumbering angel! he thought, am I not sure of victory when you\nare kind to me? He was looking out from his window towards the casement\non the opposite side of the court, which he knew to be hers. He had\nforgot about his victims and their groans, and ill-luck, ere they\ncrossed the court. Under yonder brilliant flickering star, behind yonder\ncasement where the lamp was burning faintly, was his joy, and heart, and\ntreasure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. Facilis Descensus\n\n\nWhilst the good old Bishop of Cambray, in his romance lately mentioned,\ndescribed the disconsolate condition of Calypso at the departure of\nUlysses, I forget whether he mentioned the grief of Calypso's lady's\nmaid on taking leave of Odysseus's own gentleman. The menials must have\nwept together in the kitchen precincts whilst the master and mistress\ntook a last wild embrace in the drawing-room; they must have hung round\neach other in the fore-cabin, whilst their principals broke their hearts\nin the grand saloon. When the bell rang for the last time, and Ulysses's\nmate bawled, \"Now! any one for shore!\" Calypso and her female attendant\nmust have both walked over the same plank, with beating hearts and\nstreaming eyes; both must have waved pocket-handkerchiefs (of far\ndifferent value and texture), as they stood on the quay, to their\nfriends on the departing vessel, whilst the people on the land, and the\ncrew crowding in the ship's bows, shouted hip, hip, huzzay (or whatever\nmay be the equivalent Greek for the salutation) to all engaged on that\nvoyage. But the point to be remembered is, that if Calypso ne pouvait\nse consoler, Calypso's maid ne pouvait se consoler non plus. They had to\nwalk the same plank of grief, and feel the same pang of separation; on\ntheir return home, they might not use pocket-handkerchiefs of the same\ntexture and value, but the tears, no doubt, were as salt and plentiful\nwhich one shed in her marble halls, and the other poured forth in the\nservants' ditto.\n\nNot only did Harry Warrington leave Castlewood a victim to love, but\nGumbo quitted the same premises a prey to the same delightful passion.\nHis wit, accomplishments, good-humour, his skill in dancing, cookery,\nand music, had endeared him to the whole female domestic circle. More\nthan one of the men might be jealous of him, but the ladies all were\nwith him. There was no such objection to the poor black men then in\nEngland as has obtained since among white-skinned people. Theirs was\na condition not perhaps of equality, but they had a sufferance and\na certain grotesque sympathy from all; and from women, no doubt, a\nkindness much more generous. When Ledyard and Parke, in Blackmansland,\nwere persecuted by the men, did they not find the black women pitiful\nand kind to them? Women are always kind towards our sex. What (mental)\nnegroes do they not cherish? what (moral) hunchbacks do they not adore?\nwhat lepers, what idiots, what dull drivellers, what misshapen monsters\n(I speak figuratively) do they not fondle and cuddle? Gumbo was treated\nby the women as kindly as many people no better than himself: it was\nonly the men in the servants'-hall who rejoiced at the Virginian lad's\ndeparture. I should like to see him taking leave. I should like to see\nMolly housemaid stealing to the terrace-gardens in the grey dawning to\ncull a wistful posy. I should like to see Betty kitchenmaid cutting off\na thick lock of her chestnut ringlets which she proposed to exchange for\na woolly token from young Gumbo's pate. Of course he said he was regum\nprogenies, a descendant of Ashantee kings. In Caffraria, Connaught and\nother places now inhabited by hereditary bondsmen, there must have been\nvast numbers of these potent sovereigns in former times, to judge from\ntheir descendants now extant.\n\nAt the morning announced for Madame de Bernstein's departure, all the\nnumerous domestics of Castlewood crowded about the doors and passages,\nsome to have a last glimpse of her ladyship's men and the fascinating\nGumbo, some to take leave of her ladyship's maid, all to waylay the\nBaroness and her nephew for parting fees, which it was the custom of\nthat day largely to distribute among household servants. One and the\nother gave liberal gratuities to the liveried society, to the gentlemen\nin black and ruffles, and to the swarm of female attendants. Castlewood\nwas the home of the Baroness's youth; and as for her honest Harry, who\nhad not only lived at free charges in the house, but had won horses and\nmoney--or promises of money--from his cousin and the unlucky chaplain,\nhe was naturally of a generous turn, and felt that at this moment he\nought not to stint his benevolent disposition. \"My mother, I know,\" he\nthought, \"will wish me to be liberal to all the retainers of the Esmond\nfamily.\" So he scattered about his gold pieces to right and left, and\nas if he had been as rich as Gumbo announced him to be. There was no one\nwho came near him but had a share in his bounty. From the major-domo to\nthe shoeblack, Mr. Harry had a peace-offering for them all. To the grim\nhousekeeper in her still-room, to the feeble old porter in his lodge,\nhe distributed some token of his remembrance. When a man is in love with\none woman in a family, it is astonishing how fond he becomes of every\nperson connected with it. He ingratiates himself with the maids; he is\nbland with the butler; he interests himself about the footman; he runs\non errands for the daughters; he gives advice and lends money to the\nyoung son at college; he pats little dogs which he would kick otherwise;\nhe smiles at old stories which would make him break out in yawns, were\nthey uttered by any one but papa; he drinks sweet port wine for which he\nwould curse the steward and the whole committee of a club; he bears even\nwith the cantankerous old maiden aunt; he beats time when darling little\nFanny performs her piece on the piano; and smiles when wicked, lively\nlittle Bobby upsets the coffee over his shirt.\n\nHarry Warrington, in his way, and according to the customs of that age,\nhad for a brief time past (by which I conclude that only for a brief\ntime had his love been declared and accepted) given to the Castlewood\nfamily all these artless testimonies of his affection for one of them.\nCousin Will should have won back his money and welcome, or have won\nas much of Harry's own as the lad could spare. Nevertheless, the lad,\nthough a lover, was shrewd, keen, and fond of sport and fair play, and a\njudge of a good horse when he saw one. Having played for and won all the\nmoney which Will had, besides a great number of Mr. Esmond's valuable\nautographs, Harry was very well pleased to win Will's brown horse--that\nvery quadruped which had nearly pushed him into the water on the\nfirst evening of his arrival at Castlewood. He had seen the horse's\nperformance often, and in the midst of all his passion and romance, was\nnot sorry to be possessed of such a sound, swift, well-bred hunter and\nroadster. When he had gazed at the stars sufficiently as they shone over\nhis mistress's window, and put her candle to bed, he repaired to his own\ndormitory, and there, no doubt, thought of his Maria and his horse with\nyouthful satisfaction, and how sweet it would be to have one pillioned\non the other, and to make the tour of all the island on such an\nanimal with such a pair of white arms round his waist. He fell asleep\nruminating on these things, and meditating a million of blessings on his\nMaria, in whose company he was to luxuriate at least for a week more.\n\nIn the early morning poor Chaplain Sampson sent over his little black\nmare by the hands of his groom, footman, and gardener, who wept and\nbestowed a great number of kisses on the beast's white nose as he\nhanded him over to Gumbo. Gumbo and his master were both affected by the\nfellow's sensibility; the negro servant showing his sympathy by weeping,\nand Harry by producing a couple of guineas, with which he astonished and\nspeedily comforted the chaplain's boy. Then Gumbo and the late groom led\nthe beast away to the stable, having commands to bring him round with\nMr. William's horse after breakfast, at the hour when Madam Bernstein's\ncarriages were ordered.\n\nSo courteous was he to his aunt, or so grateful for her departure, that\nthe master of the house even made his appearance at the morning meal,\nin order to take leave of his guests. The ladies and the chaplain were\npresent--the only member of the family absent was Will: who, however,\nleft a note for his cousin, in which Will stated, in exceedingly\nbad spelling, that he was obliged to go away to Salisbury Races that\nmorning, but that he had left the horse which his cousin won last night,\nand which Tom, Mr. Will's groom, would hand over to Mr. Warrington's\nservant. Will's absence did not prevent the rest of the party from\ndrinking a dish of tea amicably, and in due time the carriages rolled\ninto the courtyard, the servants packed them with the Baroness's\nmultiplied luggage, and the moment of departure arrived.\n\nA large open landau contained the stout Baroness and her niece; a\ncouple of men-servants mounting on the box before them with pistols and\nblunderbusses ready in event of a meeting with highwaymen. In another\ncarriage were their ladyships' maids, and another servant in guard\nof the trunks, which, vast and numerous as they were, were as nothing\ncompared to the enormous baggage-train accompanying a lady of the\npresent time. Mr. Warrington's modest valises were placed in this second\ncarriage under the maid's guardianship, and Mr. Gumbo proposed to ride\nby the window for the chief part of the journey.\n\nMy lord, with his stepmother and Lady Fanny, accompanied their kinswoman\nto the carriage steps, and bade her farewell with many dutiful embraces.\nHer Lady Maria followed in a riding-dress, which Harry Warrington\nthought the most becoming costume in the world. A host of servants stood\naround, and begged Heaven bless her ladyship. The Baroness's departure\nwas known in the village, and scores of the folks there stood waiting\nunder the trees outside the gates, and huzzayed and waved their hats as\nthe ponderous vehicles rolled away.\n\nGumbo was gone for Mr. Warrington's horses, as my lord, with his arm\nunder his young guest's, paced up and down the court. \"I hear you carry\naway some of our horses out of Castlewood?\" my lord said.\n\nHarry blushed. \"A gentleman cannot refuse a fair game at the cards,\" he\nsaid. \"I never wanted to play, nor would have played for money had not\nmy cousin William forced me. As for the chaplain, it went to my heart to\nwin from him, but he was as eager as my cousin.\"\n\n\"I know--I know! There is no blame to you, my boy. At Rome you can't\nhelp doing as Rome does; and I am very glad that you have been able to\ngive Will a lesson. He is mad about play--would gamble his coat off his\nback--and I and the family have had to pay his debts ever so many times.\nMay I ask how much you have won of him?\"\n\n\"Well, some eighteen pieces the first day or two, and his note for a\nhundred and twenty more, and the brown horse, sixty--that makes nigh\nupon two hundred. But, you know, cousin, all was fair, and it was even\nagainst my will that we played at all. Will ain't a match for me, my\nlord--that is the fact. Indeed he is not.\"\n\n\"He is a match for most people, though,\" said my lord. \"His brown horse,\nI think you said?\"\n\n\"Yes. His brown horse--Prince William, out of Constitution. You don't\nsuppose I would set him sixty against his bay, my lord?\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't know. I saw Will riding out this morning; most likely I\ndid not remark what horse he was on. And you won the black mare from the\nparson?\"\n\n\"For fourteen. He will mount Gumbo very well. Why does not the rascal\ncome round with the horses?\" Harry's mind was away to lovely Maria. He\nlonged to be trotting by her side.\n\n\"When you get to Tunbridge, cousin Harry, you must be on the look-out\nagainst sharper players than the chaplain and Will. There is all sorts\nof queer company at the Wells.\"\n\n\"A Virginian learns pretty well to take care of himself, my lord, says\nHarry, with a knowing nod.\n\n\"So it seems! I recommend my sister to thee, Harry. Although she is not\na baby in years, she is as innocent as one. Thou wilt see that she comes\nto no mischief?\"\n\n\"I will guard her with my life, my lord!\" cries Harry.\n\n\"Thou art a brave fellow. By the way, cousin, unless you are very fond\nof Castlewood, I would in your case not be in a great hurry to return to\nthis lonely, tumble-down old house. I want myself to go to another place\nI have, and shall scarce be back here till the partridge-shooting. Go\nyou and take charge of the women, of my sister and the Baroness, will\nyou?\"\n\n\"Indeed I will,\" said Harry, his heart beating with happiness at the\nthought.\n\n\"And I will write thee word when you shall bring my sister back to me.\nHere come the horses. Have you bid adieu to the Countess and Lady Fanny?\nThey are kissing their hands to you from the music-room balcony.\"\n\nHarry ran up to bid these ladies a farewell. He made that ceremony very\nbrief, for he was anxious to be off to the charmer of his heart; and\ncame downstairs to mount his newly-gotten steed, which Gumbo, himself\nastride on the parson's black mare, held by the rein.\n\nThere was Gumbo on the black mare, indeed, and holding another horse.\nBut it was a bay horse, not a brown--a bay horse with broken knees--an\naged, worn-out quadruped.\n\n\"What is this?\" cries Harry.\n\n\"Your honour's new horse,\" says the groom, touching his cap.\n\n\"This brute?\" exclaims the young gentleman, with one or more of those\nexpressions then in use in England and Virginia. \"Go and bring me round\nPrince William, Mr. William's horse, the brown horse.\"\n\n\"Mr. William have rode Prince William this morning away to Salisbury\nRaces. His last words was, 'Sam, saddle my bay horse, Cato, for Mr.\nWarrington this morning. He is Mr. Warrington's horse now. I sold him to\nhim last night.' And I know your honour is bountiful: you will consider\nthe groom.\"\n\nMy lord could not help breaking into a laugh at these words of Sam the\ngroom, whilst Harry, for his part, indulged in a number more of those\nremarks which politeness does not admit of our inserting here.\n\n\"Mr. William said he never could think of parting with the Prince under\na hundred and twenty,\" said the groom, looking at the young man.\n\nLord Castlewood only laughed the more. \"Will has been too much for thee,\nHarry Warrington.\"\n\n\"Too much for me, my lord! So may a fellow with loaded dice throw sixes,\nand be too much for me. I do not call this betting, I call it ch----\"\n\n\"Mr. Warrington! Spare me bad words about my brother, if you please.\nDepend on it, I will take care that you are righted. Farewell. Ride\nquickly, or your coaches will be at Farnham before you;\" and waving him\nan adieu, my lord entered into the house, whilst Harry and his companion\nrode out of the courtyard. The young Virginian was much too eager to\nrejoin the carriages and his charmer, to remark the unutterable love and\naffection which Gumbo shot from his fine eyes towards a young creature\nin the porter's lodge.\n\nWhen the youth was gone, the chaplain and my lord sate down to finish\ntheir breakfast in peace and comfort. The two ladies did not return to\nthis meal.\n\n\"That was one of Will's confounded rascally tricks,\" says my lord. \"If\nour cousin breaks Will's head I should not wonder.\"\n\n\"He is used to the operation, my lord, and yet,\" adds the chaplain, with\na grin, \"when we were playing last night, the colour of the horse was\nnot mentioned. I could not escape, having but one: and the black boy\nhas ridden off on him. The young Virginian plays like a man, to do him\njustice.\"\n\n\"He wins because he does not care about losing. I think there can be\nlittle doubt but that he is very well to do. His mother's law-agents are\nmy lawyers, and they write that the property is quite a principality,\nand grows richer every year.\"\n\n\"If it were a kingdom I know whom Mr. Warrington would make queen of\nit,\" said the obsequious chaplain.\n\n\"Who can account for taste, parson?\" asks his lordship, with a sneer.\n\"All men are so. The first woman I was in love with myself was forty;\nand as jealous as if she had been fifteen. It runs in the family.\nColonel Esmond (he in scarlet and the breastplate yonder) married my\ngrandmother, who was almost old enough to be his. If this lad chooses to\ntake out an elderly princess to Virginia, we must not balk him.\"\n\n\"'Twere a consummation devoutly to be wished!\" cries the chaplain. \"Had\nI not best go to Tunbridge Wells myself, my lord, and be on the spot,\nand ready to exercise my sacred function in behalf of the young couple?\"\n\n\"You shall have a pair of new nags, parson, if you do,\" said my lord.\nAnd with this we leave them peaceable over a pipe of tobacco after\nbreakfast.\n\nHarry was in such a haste to join the carriages that he almost forgot\nto take off his hat, and acknowledge the cheers of the Castlewood\nvillagers: they all liked the lad, whose frank cordial ways and honest\nface got him a welcome in most places. Legends were still extant in\nCastlewood, of his grandparents, and how his grandfather, Colonel\nEsmond, might have been Lord Castlewood, but would not. Old Lockwood at\nthe gate often told of the Colonel's gallantry in Queen Anne's wars.\nHis feats were exaggerated, the behaviour of the present family was\ncontrasted with that of the old lord and lady: who might not have been\nvery popular in their time, but were better folks than those now in\npossession. Lord Castlewood was a hard landlord: perhaps more disliked\nbecause he was known to be poor and embarrassed than because he was\nsevere. As for Mr. Will, nobody was fond of him. The young gentleman had\nhad many brawls and quarrels about the village, had received and given\nbroken heads, had bills in the neighbouring towns which he could not or\nwould not pay; had been arraigned before the magistrates for tampering\nwith village girls, and waylaid and cudgelled by injured husbands,\nfathers, sweethearts. A hundred years ago his character and actions\nmight have been described at length by the painter of manners; but the\nComic Muse, nowadays, does not lift up Molly Seagrim's curtain; she only\nindicates the presence of some one behind it, and passes on primly, with\nexpressions of horror, and a fan before her eyes. The village had\nheard how the young Virginian squire had beaten Mr. Will at riding, at\njumping, at shooting, and finally at card-playing, for everything is\nknown; and they respected Harry all the more for this superiority. Above\nall, they admired him on account of the reputation of enormous wealth\nwhich Gumbo had made for his master. This fame had travelled over the\nwhole county, and was preceding him at this moment on the boxes of\nMadame Bernstein's carriages, from which the valets, as they descended\nat the inns to bait, spread astounding reports of the young Virginian's\nrank and splendour. He was a prince in his own country. He had gold\nmines, diamond mines, furs, tobaccos, who knew what, or how much?\nNo wonder the honest Britons cheered him and respected him for his\nprosperity, as the noble-hearted fellows always do. I am surprised city\ncorporations did not address him, and offer gold boxes with the freedom\nof the city--he was so rich. Ah, a proud thing it is to be a Briton, and\nthink that there is no country where prosperity is so much respected as\nin ours; and where success receives such constant affecting testimonials\nof loyalty!\n\nSo, leaving the villagers bawling, and their hats tossing in the air,\nHarry spurred his sorry beast, and galloped, with Gumbo behind him,\nuntil he came up with the cloud of dust in the midst of which his\ncharmer's chariot was enveloped. Penetrating into this cloud, he found\nhimself at the window of the carriage. The Lady Maria had the back seat\nto herself; by keeping a little behind the wheels, he could have the\ndelight of seeing her divine eyes and smiles. She held a finger to her\nlip. Madame Bernstein was already dozing on her cushions. Harry did not\ncare to disturb the old lady. To look at his cousin was bliss enough for\nhim. The landscape around him might be beautiful, but what did he heed\nit? All the skies and trees of summer were as nothing compared to\nyonder face; the hedgerow birds sang no such sweet music as her sweet\nmonosyllables.\n\nThe Baroness's fat horses were accustomed to short journeys, easy paces,\nand plenty of feeding; so that, ill as Harry Warrington was mounted, he\ncould, without much difficulty, keep pace with his elderly kinswoman. At\ntwo o'clock they baited for a couple of hours for dinner. Mr. Warrington\npaid the landlord generously. What price could be too great for the\npleasure which he enjoyed in being near his adored Maria, and having the\nblissful chance of a conversation with her, scarce interrupted by the\nsoft breathing of Madame de Bernstein, who, after a comfortable meal,\nindulged in an agreeable half-hour's slumber? In voices soft and low,\nMaria and her young gentleman talked over and over again those delicious\nnonsenses which people in Harry's condition never tire of hearing and\nuttering.\n\nThey were going to a crowded watering-place, where all sorts of beauty\nand fashion would be assembled; timid Maria was certain that amongst the\nyoung beauties, Harry would discover some, whose charms were far more\nworthy to occupy his attention, than any her homely face and figure\ncould boast of. By all the gods, Harry vowed that Venus herself could\nnot tempt him from her side. It was he who for his part had occasion to\nfear. When the young men of fashion beheld his peerless Maria they would\ncrowd round her car; they would cause her to forget the rough and humble\nAmerican lad who knew nothing of fashion or wit, who had only a faithful\nheart at her service.\n\nMaria smiles, she casts her eyes to heaven, she vows that Harry knows\nnothing of the truth and fidelity of women; it is his sex, on the\ncontrary, which proverbially is faithless, and which delights to play\nwith poor female hearts. A scuffle ensues; a clatter is heard among the\nknives and forks of the dessert; a glass tumbles over and breaks. An\n\"Oh!\" escapes from the innocent lips of Maria, The disturbance has\nbeen caused by the broad cuff of Mr. Warrington's coat, which has been\nstretched across the table to seize Lady Maria's hand, and has upset the\nwine-glass in so doing. Surely nothing could be more natural, or indeed\nnecessary, than that Harry, upon hearing his sex's honour impeached,\nshould seize upon his fair accuser's hand, and vow eternal fidelity upon\nthose charming fingers?\n\nWhat a part they play, or used to play, in love-making, those hands! How\nquaintly they are squeezed at that period of life! How they are pushed\ninto conversation! what absurd vows and protests are palmed off by their\naid! What good can there be in pulling and pressing a thumb and four\nfingers? I fancy I see Alexis laugh, who is haply reading this page by\nthe side of Araminta. To talk about thumbs indeed!... Maria looks round,\nfor her part, to see if Madame Bernstein has been awakened by the crash\nof glass; but the old lady slumbers quite calmly in her arm-chair, so\nher niece thinks there can be no harm in yielding to Harry's gentle\npressure.\n\nThe horses are put to: Paradise is over--at least until the next\noccasion. When my landlord enters with the bill, Harry is standing quite\nat a distance from his cousin, looking from the window at the cavalcade\ngathering below. Madame Bernstein wakes up from her slumber, smiling and\nquite unconscious. With what profound care and reverential politeness\nMr. Warrington hands his aunt to her carriage! how demure and simple\nlooks Lady Maria as she follows! Away go the carriages, in the midst\nof a profoundly bowing landlord and waiters; of country-folks gathered\nround the blazing inn-sign; of shopmen gazing from their homely\nlittle doors; of boys and market-folks under the colonnade of the\nold town-hall; of loungers along the gabled street. \"It is the famous\nBaroness Bernstein. That is she, the old lady in the capuchin. It is\nthe rich young American who is just come from Virginia, and is worth\nmillions and millions. Well, sure, he might have a better horse.\" The\ncavalcade disappears, and the little town lapses into its usual quiet.\nThe landlord goes back to his friends at the club, to tell how the great\nfolks are going to sleep at The Bush, at Farnham, to-night.\n\nThe inn dinner had been plentiful, and all the three guests of the inn\nhad done justice to the good cheer. Harry had the appetite natural to\nhis period of life. Maria and her aunt were also not indifferent to\na good dinner: Madame Bernstein had had a comfortable nap after hers,\nwhich had no doubt helped her to bear all the good things of the\nmeal--the meat pies, and the fruit pies, and the strong ale, and the\nheady port wine. She reclined at ease on her seat of the landau, and\nlooked back affably, and smiled at Harry and exchanged a little talk\nwith him as he rode by the carriage side. But what ailed the beloved\nbeing who sate with her back to the horses? Her complexion, which was\nexceedingly fair, was further ornamented with a pair of red cheeks,\nwhich Harry took to be natural roses. (You see, madam, that your\nsurmises regarding the Lady Maria's conduct with her cousin are\nquite wrong and uncharitable, and that the timid lad had made no such\nexperiments as you suppose, in order to ascertain whether the roses were\nreal or artificial. A kiss, indeed! I blush to think you should imagine\nthat the present writer could indicate anything so shocking!) Maria's\nbright red cheeks, I say still, continued to blush as it seemed with\na strange metallic bloom: but the rest of her face, which had used to\nrival the lily in whiteness, became of a jonquil colour. Her eyes stared\nround with a ghastly expression. Harry was alarmed at the agony depicted\nin the charmer's countenance; which not only exhibited pain, but was\nexceedingly unbecoming. Madame Bernstein also at length remarked\nher niece's indisposition, and asked her if sitting backwards in the\ncarriage made her ill, which poor Maria confessed to be the fact. On\nthis, the elder lady was forced to make room for her niece on her own\nside, and, in the course of the drive to Farnham, uttered many gruff,\ndisagreeable, sarcastic remarks to her fellow-traveller, indicating her\ngreat displeasure that Maria should be so impertinent as to be ill on\nthe first day of a journey.\n\nWhen they reached the Bush Inn at Farnham, under which name a famous\ninn has stood in Farnham town for these three hundred years--the dear\ninvalid retired with her maid to her bedroom: scarcely glancing a\npiteous look at Harry as she retreated, and leaving the lad's mind in a\nstrange confusion of dismay and sympathy. Those yellow, yellow cheeks,\nthose livid wrinkled eyelids, that ghastly red--how ill his blessed\nMaria looked! And not only how ill, but how--away, horrible thought,\nunmanly suspicion! He tried to shut the idea out from his mind. He had\nlittle appetite for supper, though the jolly Baroness partook of that\nrepast as if she had had no dinner; and certainly as if she had no\nsympathy with her invalid niece.\n\nShe sent her major-domo to see if Lady Maria would have anything from\nthe table. The servant brought back word that her ladyship was still\nvery unwell, and declined any refreshment.\n\n\"I hope she intends to be well to-morrow morning,\" cried Madame\nBernstein, rapping her little hand on the table. \"I hate people to be\nill in an inn, or on a journey. Will you play piquet with me, Harry?\"\n\nHarry was happy to be able to play piquet with his aunt. \"That absurd\nMaria!\" says Madame Bernstein, drinking from a great glass of negus,\n\"she takes liberties with herself. She never had a good constitution.\nShe is forty-one years old. All her upper teeth are false, and she can't\neat with them. Thank Heaven, I have still got every tooth in my head.\nHow clumsily you deal, child!\"\n\nDeal clumsily indeed! Had a dentist been extracting Harry's own grinders\nat that moment, would he have been expected to mind his cards and deal\nthem neatly? When a man is laid on the rack at the Inquisition, is it\nnatural that he should smile and speak politely and coherently to the\ngrave, quiet Inquisitor? Beyond that little question regarding the\ncards, Harry's Inquisitor did not show the smallest disturbance. Her\nface indicated neither surprise, nor triumph, nor cruelty. Madame\nBernstein did not give one more stab to her niece that night: but she\nplayed at cards, and prattled with Harry, indulging in her favourite\ntalk about old times, and parting from him with great cordiality and\ngood-humour. Very likely he did not heed her stories. Very likely other\nthoughts occupied his mind. Maria is forty-one years old, Maria has\nfalse ----. Oh, horrible, horrible! Has she a false eye? Has she false\nhair? Has she a wooden leg? I envy not that boy's dreams that night.\n\nMadame Bernstein, in the morning, said she had slept as sound as a top.\nShe had no remorse, that was clear. (Some folks are happy and easy in\nmind when their victim is stabbed and done for.) Lady Maria made her\nappearance at the breakfast-table, too. Her ladyship's indisposition was\nfortunately over: her aunt congratulated her affectionately on her good\nlooks. She sate down to her breakfast. She looked appealingly in Harry's\nface. He remarked, with his usual brilliancy and originality, that he\nwas very glad her ladyship was better. Why, at the tone of his voice,\ndid she start, and again gaze at him with frightened eyes? There sate\nthe Chief Inquisitor, smiling, perfectly calm, eating ham and muffins.\nO poor writhing, rack-rent victim! O stony Inquisitor! O Baroness\nBernstein! It was cruel! cruel!\n\nRound about Farnham the hops were gloriously green in the sunshine, and\nthe carriages drove through the richest, most beautiful country. Maria\ninsisted upon taking her old seat. She thanked her dear aunt. It\nwould not in the least incommode her now. She gazed, as she had done\nyesterday, in the face of the young knight riding by the carriage side.\nShe looked for those answering signals which used to be lighted up in\nyonder two windows, and told that love was burning within. She smiled\ngently at him, to which token of regard he tried to answer with a sickly\ngrin of recognition. Miserable youth! Those were not false teeth he saw\nwhen she smiled. He thought they were, and they tore and lacerated him.\n\nAnd so the day sped on--sunshiny and brilliant overhead, but all over\nclouds for Harry and Maria. He saw nothing: he thought of Virginia: he\nremembered how he had been in love with Parson Broadbent's daughter at\nJamestown, and how quickly that business had ended. He longed vaguely to\nbe at home again. A plague on all these cold-hearted English relations!\nDid they not all mean to trick him? Were they not all scheming against\nhim? Had not that confounded Will cheated him about the horse?\n\nAt this very juncture, Maria gave a scream so loud and shrill that\nMadame Bernstein woke, that the coachman pulled his horses up, and the\nfootman beside him sprang down from his box in a panic.\n\n\"Let me out! let me out!\" screamed Maria. \"Let me go to him! let me go\nto him!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked the Baroness.\n\nIt was that Will's horse had come down on his knees and nose, had sent\nhis rider over his head, and Mr. Harry, who ought to have known better,\nwas lying on his own face quite motionless.\n\nGumbo, who had been dallying with the maids of the second carriage,\nclattered up, and mingled his howls with Lady Maria's lamentations.\nMadame Bernstein descended from her landau, and came slowly up,\ntrembling a good deal.\n\n\"He is dead--he is dead!\" sobbed Maria.\n\n\"Don't be a goose, Maria!\" her aunt said. \"Ring at that gate, some one!\"\n\nWill's horse had gathered himself up and stood perfectly quiet after his\nfeat: but his late rider gave not the slightest sign of life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. Samaritans\n\n\nLest any tender-hearted reader should be in alarm for Mr. Harry\nWarrington's safety, and fancy that his broken-kneed horse had carried\nhim altogether out of this life and history, let us set her mind easy at\nthe beginning of this chapter by assuring her that nothing very serious\nhas happened. How can we afford to kill off our heroes, when they are\nscarcely out of their teens, and we have not reached the age of manhood\nof the story? We are in mourning already for one of our Virginians, who\nhas come to grief in America; surely we cannot kill off the other in\nEngland? No, no. Heroes are not despatched with such hurry and violence\nunless there is a cogent reason for making away with them. Were a\ngentleman to perish every time a horse came down with him, not only the\nhero, but the author of this chronicle would have gone under ground,\nwhereas the former is but sprawling outside it, and will be brought to\nlife again as soon as he has been carried into the house where Madame de\nBernstein's servants have rung the bell.\n\nAnd to convince you that at least this youngest of the Virginians is\nstill alive, here is an authentic copy of a letter from the lady into\nwhose house he was taken after his fall from Mr. Will's brute of a\nbroken-kneed horse, and in whom he appears to have found a kind friend:\n\n\n \"TO MRS. ESMOND WARRINGTON, OF CASTLEWOOD\n\n \"At her House at Richmond, in Virginia\n\n\"If Mrs. Esmond Warrington of Virginia can call to mind twenty-three\nyears ago, when Miss Rachel Esmond was at Kensington Boarding School,\nshe may perhaps remember Miss Molly Benson, her class-mate, who has\nforgotten all the little quarrels which they used to have together (in\nwhich Miss Molly was very often in the wrong), and only remembers\nthe generous, high-spirited, sprightly, Miss Esmond, the Princess\nPocahontas, to whom so many of our school-fellows paid court.\n\n\"Dear madam! I cannot forget that you were dear Rachel once upon a time,\nas I was your dearest Molly. Though we parted not very good friends when\nyou went home to Virginia, yet you know how fond we once were. I\nstill, Rachel, have the gold etui your papa gave me when he came to our\nspeech-day at Kensington, and we two performed the quarrel of Brutus\nand Cassius out of Shakspeare; and 'twas only yesterday morning I was\ndreaming that we were both called up to say our lesson before the awful\nMiss Hardwood, and that I did not know it, and that as usual Miss Rachel\nEsmond went above me. How well remembered those old days are! How young\nwe grow as we think of them! I remember our walks and our exercises,\nour good King and Queen as they walked in Kensington Gardens, and their\ncourt following them, whilst we of Miss Hardwood's school curtseyed in\na row. I can tell still what we had for dinner on each day of the week,\nand point to the place where your garden was, which was always so much\nbetter kept than mine. So was Miss Esmond's chest of drawers a model of\nneatness, whilst mine were in a sad condition. Do you remember how we\nused to tell stories in the dormitory, and Madame Hibou, the French\ngoverness, would come out of bed and interrupt us with her hooting? Have\nyou forgot the poor dancing-master, who told us he had been waylaid by\nassassins, but who was beaten, it appears, by my lord your brother's\nfootmen? My dear, your cousin, the Lady Maria Esmond (her papa was, I\nthink, but Viscount Castlewood in those times), has just been on a visit\nto this house, where you may be sure I did not recall those sad times to\nher remembrance, about which I am now chattering to Mrs. Esmond.\n\n\"Her ladyship has been staying here, and another relative of yours, the\nBaroness of Bernstein, and the two ladies are both gone on to Tunbridge\nWells; but another and dearer relative still remains in my house, and\nis sound asleep, I trust, in the very next room, and the name of this\ngentleman is Mr. Henry Esmond Warrington. Now, do you understand how you\ncome to hear from an old friend? Do not be alarmed, dear madam! I know\nyou are thinking at this moment, 'My boy is ill. That is why Miss Molly\nBenson writes to me.' No, my dear; Mr. Warrington was ill yesterday, but\nto-day he is very comfortable; and our doctor, who is no less a person\nthan my dear husband, Colonel Lambert, has blooded him, has set his\nshoulder, which was dislocated, and pronounces that in two days more Mr.\nWarrington will be quite ready to take the road.\n\n\"I fear I and my girls are sorry that he is so soon to be well.\nYesterday evening, as we were at tea, there came a great ringing at our\ngate, which disturbed us all, as the bell very seldom sounds in this\nquiet place, unless a passing beggar pulls it for charity; and the\nservants, running out, returned with the news, that a young gentleman,\nwho had a fall from his horse, was lying lifeless on the road,\nsurrounded by the friends in whose company he was travelling. At this,\nmy Colonel (who is sure the most Samaritan of men!) hastens away, to see\nhow he can serve the fallen traveller, and presently, with the aid of\nthe servants, and followed by two ladies, brings into the house such\na pale, lifeless, beautiful, young man! Ah, my dear, how I rejoice to\nthink that your child has found shelter and succour under my roof! that\nmy husband has saved him from pain and fever, and has been the means of\nrestoring him to you and health! We shall be friends again now, shall we\nnot? I was very ill last year, and 'twas even thought I should die. Do\nyou know, that I often thought of you then, and how you had parted from\nme in anger so many years ago? I began then a foolish note to you, which\nI was too sick to finish, to tell you that if I went the way appointed\nfor us all, I should wish to leave the world in charity with every\nsingle being I had known in it.\n\n\"Your cousin, the Right Honourable Lady Maria Esmond, showed a great\ndeal of maternal tenderness and concern for her young kinsman after his\naccident. I am sure she hath a kind heart. The Baroness de Bernstein,\nwho is of an advanced age, could not be expected to feel so keenly as\nwe young people; but was, nevertheless, very much moved and interested\nuntil Mr. Warrington was restored to consciousness, when she said she\nwas anxious to get on towards Tunbridge, whither she was bound, and\nwas afraid of all things to lie in a place where there was no doctor at\nhand. My Aesculapius laughingly said, he would not offer to attend upon\na lady of quality, though he would answer for his young patient.\nIndeed, the Colonel, during his campaigns, has had plenty of practice in\naccidents of this nature, and I am certain, were we to call in all\nthe faculty for twenty miles round, Mr. Warrington could get no better\ntreatment. So, leaving the young gentleman to the care of me and my\ndaughters, the Baroness and her ladyship took their leave of us, the\nlatter very loth to go. When he is well enough, my Colonel will ride\nwith him as far as Westerham, but on his own horses, where an old\narmy-comrade of Mr. Lambert's resides. And, as this letter will not take\nthe post for Falmouth until, by God's blessing, your son is well and\nperfectly restored, you need be under no sort of alarm for him whilst\nunder the roof of, madam, your affectionate, humble servant, MARY\nLAMBERT.\n\n\"P.S. Thursday.\n\n\"I am glad to hear (Mr. Warrington's coloured gentleman hath informed\nour people of the gratifying circumstance) that Providence hath blessed\nMrs. Esmond with such vast wealth, and with an heir so likely to do\ncredit to it. Our present means are amply sufficient, but will be small\nwhen divided amongst our survivors. Ah, dear madam! I have heard of\nyour calamity of last year. Though the Colonel and I have reared many\nchildren (five), we have lost two, and a mother's heart can feel for\nyours! I own to you, mine yearned to your boy to-day, when (in a manner\ninexpressibly affecting to me and Mr. Lambert) he mentioned his dear\nbrother. 'Tis impossible to see your son, and not to love and regard\nhim. I am thankful that it has been our lot to succour him in his\ntrouble, and that in receiving the stranger within our gates we should\nbe giving hospitality to the son of an old friend.\"\n\n\nNature has written a letter of credit upon some men's faces, which is\nhonoured almost wherever presented. Harry Warrington's countenance was\nso stamped in his youth. His eyes were so bright, his cheek so red and\nhealthy, his look so frank and open, that almost all who beheld him,\nnay, even those who cheated him, trusted him. Nevertheless, as we have\nhinted, the lad was by no means the artless stripling he seemed to be.\nHe was knowing enough with all his blushing cheeks; perhaps more wily\nand wary than he grew to be in after-age. Sure, a shrewd and generous\nman (who has led an honest life and has no secret blushes for his\nconscience) grows simpler as he grows older; arrives at his sum of\nright by more rapid processes of calculation; learns to eliminate false\narguments more readily, and hits the mark of truth with less previous\ntrouble of aiming, and disturbance of mind. Or is it only a senile\ndelusion, that some of our vanities are cured with our growing years,\nand that we become more just in our perceptions of our own and our\nneighbour's shortcomings? ... I would humbly suggest that young people,\nthough they look prettier, have larger eyes, and not near so many\nwrinkles about their eyelids, are often as artful as some of their\nelders. What little monsters of cunning your frank schoolboys are!\nHow they cheat mamma! how they hoodwink papa! how they humbug the\nhousekeeper! how they cringe to the big boy for whom they fag at school!\nwhat a long lie and five years' hypocrisy and flattery is their conduct\ntowards Dr. Birch! And the little boys' sisters? Are they any better,\nand is it only after they come out in the world that the little darlings\nlearn a trick or two?\n\nYou may see, by the above letter of Mrs. Lambert, that she, like all\ngood women (and, indeed, almost all bad women), was a sentimental\nperson; and, as she looked at Harry Warrington laid in her best bed,\nafter the Colonel had bled him and clapped in his shoulder, as holding\nby her husband's hand she beheld the lad in a sweet slumber, murmuring a\nfaint inarticulate word or two in his sleep, a faint blush quivering on\nhis cheek, she owned he was a pretty lad indeed, and confessed with\na sort of compunction that neither of her two boys--Jack who was\nat Oxford, and Charles who was just gone back to school after the\nBartlemytide holidays--was half so handsome as the Virginian. What a\ngood figure the boy had! and when papa bled him, his arm was as white as\nany lady's!\n\n\"Yes, as you say, Jack might have been as handsome but for the\nsmall-pox: and as for Charley----\" \"Always took after his papa, my dear\nMolly,\" said the Colonel, looking at his own honest face in a little\nlooking-glass with a cut border and a japanned frame, by which the chief\nguests of the worthy gentleman and lady had surveyed their patches and\npowder, or shaved their hospitable beards.\n\n\"Did I say so, my love?\" whispered Mrs. Lambert, looking rather scared.\n\n\"No; but you thought so, Mrs. Lambert.\"\n\n\"How can you tell one's thoughts so, Martin?\" asks the lady.\n\n\"Because I am a conjurer, and because you tell them yourself, my dear,\"\nanswered her husband. \"Don't be frightened: he won't wake after that\ndraught I gave him. Because you never see a young fellow but you are\ncomparing him with your own. Because you never hear of one but you are\nthinking which of our girls he shall fall in love with and marry.\"\n\n\"Don't be foolish, sir,\" says the lady, putting a hand up to the\nColonel's lips. They have softly trodden out of their guest's bedchamber\nby this time, and are in the adjoining dressing-closet, a snug little\nwainscoted room looking over gardens, with India curtains, more Japan\nchests and cabinets, a treasure of china, and a most refreshing odour of\nfresh lavender.\n\n\"You can't deny it, Mrs. Lambert,\" the Colonel resumes; \"as you were\nlooking at the young gentleman just now, you were thinking to yourself\nwhich of my girls will he marry? Shall it be Theo, or shall it be\nHester? And then you thought of Lucy who was at boarding-school.\"\n\n\"There is no keeping anything from you, Martin Lambert,\" sighs the wife.\n\n\"There is no keeping it out of your eyes, my dear. What is this burning\ndesire all you women have for selling and marrying your daughters? We\nmen don't wish to part with 'em. I am sure, for my part, I should not\nlike yonder young fellow half as well if I thought he intended to carry\none of my darlings away with him.\"\n\n\"Sure, Martin, I have been so happy myself,\" says the fond wife and\nmother, looking at her husband with her very best eyes, \"that I must\nwish my girls to do as I have done, and be happy, too!\"\n\n\"Then you think good husbands are common, Mrs. Lambert, and that you may\nwalk any day into the road before the house and find one shot out at the\ngate like a sack of coals?\"\n\n\"Wasn't it providential, sir, that this young gentleman should be thrown\nover his horse's head at our very gate, and that he should turn out to\nbe the son of my old schoolfellow and friend?\" asked the wife. \"There\nis something more than accident in such cases, depend upon that, Mr.\nLambert!\"\n\n\"And this was the stranger you saw in the candle three nights running, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"And in the fire, too, sir; twice a coal jumped out close by Theo. You\nmay sneer, sir, but these things are not to be despised. Did I not see\nyou distinctly coming back from Minorca, and dream of you at the very\nday and hour when you were wounded in Scotland?\"\n\n\"How many times have you seen me wounded, when I had not a scratch, my\ndear? How many times have you seen me ill when I had no sort of hurt?\nYou are always prophesying, and 'twere very hard on you if you were not\nsometimes right. Come! Let us leave our guest asleep comfortably, and go\ndown and give the girls their French lesson.\"\n\nSo saying, the honest gentleman put his wife's arm under his, and they\ndescended together the broad oak staircase of the comfortable old\nhall, round which hung the effigies of many foregone Lamberts, worthy\nmagistrates, soldiers, country gentlemen, as was the Colonel whose\nacquaintance we have just made. The Colonel was a gentleman of pleasant,\nwaggish humour. The French lesson which he and his daughters conned\ntogether was a scene out of Monsieur Moliere's comedy of \"Tartuffe,\"\nand papa was pleased to be very facetious with Miss Theo, by calling\nher Madam, and by treating her with a great deal of mock respect and\nceremony. The girls read together with their father a scene or two of\nhis favourite author (nor were they less modest in those days, though\ntheir tongues were a little more free), and papa was particularly arch\nand funny as he read from Orgon's part in that celebrated play:\n\n\n  \"ORGON.\n  Or sus, nous voila bien. J'ai, Mariane, en vous\n  Reconnu de tout temps un esprit assez doux,\n  Et de tout temps aussi vous m'avez ete chere.\n\n  MARIANE.\n  Je suis fort redevable a cet amour de pere.\n\n  ORGON.\n  Fort bien. Que dites-vous de Tartuffe notre hote?\n\n  MARIANE.\n  Qui? Moi?\n\n  ORGON.\n  Vous. Voyez bien comme vous repondrez.\n\n  MARIANE.\n  Helas! J'en dirai, moi, tout ce que vous voudrez!\n\n(Mademoiselle Mariane laughs and blushes in spite of herself, whilst\nreading this line.)\n\n  ORGON.\n  C'est parler sagement. Dites-moi donc, ma fille,\n  Qu'en toute sa personne un haut merite brille,\n  Qu'il touche votre coeur, et qu'il vous seroit doux\n  De le voir par men choix devenir votre epoux!\"\n\n\n\"Have we not read the scene prettily, Elmire?\" says the Colonel,\nlaughing, and turning round to his wife.\n\nElmira prodigiously admired Orgon's reading, and so did his daughters,\nand almost everything besides which Mr. Lambert said or did. Canst thou,\nO friendly reader, count upon the fidelity of an artless and tender\nheart or two, and reckon among the blessings which Heaven hath bestowed\non thee the love of faithful women! Purify thine own heart, and try to\nmake it worthy theirs. On thy knees, on thy knees, give thanks for the\nblessing awarded thee! All the prizes of life are nothing compared to\nthat one. All the rewards of ambition, wealth, pleasure, only vanity and\ndisappointment--grasped at greedily and fought for fiercely, and, over\nand over again, found worthless by the weary winners. But love seems to\nsurvive life, and to reach beyond it. I think we take it with us past\nthe grave. Do we not still give it to those who have left us? May we not\nhope that they feel it for us, and that we shall leave it here in one or\ntwo fond bosoms, when we also are gone?\n\nAnd whence, or how, or why, pray, this sermon? You see I know more about\nthis Lambert family than you do to whom I am just presenting them:\nas how should you who never heard of them before! You may not like my\nfriends; very few people do like strangers to whom they are presented\nwith an outrageous flourish of praises on the part of the introducer.\nYou say (quite naturally), What? Is this all? Are these the people he\nis so fond of? Why, the girl's not a beauty--the mother is good-natured,\nand may have been good-looking once, but she has no trace of it\nnow--and, as for the father, he is quite an ordinary man. Granted but\ndon't you acknowledge that the sight of an honest man, with an honest,\nloving wife by his side, and surrounded by loving and obedient children,\npresents something very sweet and affecting to you? If you are made\nacquainted with such a person, and see the eager kindness of the fond\nfaces round about him, and that pleasant confidence and affection\nwhich beams from his own, do you mean to say you are not touched and\ngratified? If you happen to stay in such a man's house, and at morning\nor evening see him and his children and domestics gathered together in a\ncertain name, do you not join humbly in the petitions of those servants,\nand close them with a reverent Amen? That first night of his stay at\nOakhurst, Harry Warrington, who had had a sleeping potion, and was awake\nsometimes rather feverish, thought he heard the Evening Hymn, and that\nhis dearest brother George was singing it at home, in which delusion the\npatient went off again to sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. In Hospital\n\n\nSinking into a sweet slumber, and lulled by those harmonious sounds, our\nyoung patient passed a night of pleasant unconsciousness, and awoke in\nthe morning to find a summer sun streaming in at the window, and his\nkind host and hostess smiling at his bed-curtains. He was ravenously\nhungry, and his doctor permitted him straightway to partake of a mess of\nchicken, which the doctor's wife told him had been prepared by the hands\nof one of her daughters.\n\nOne of her daughters? A faint image of a young person--of two young\npersons--with red cheeks and black waving locks, smiling round his\ncouch, and suddenly departing thence, soon after he had come to\nhimself, arose in the young man's mind. Then, then, there returned the\nremembrance of a female--lovely, it is true, but more elderly--certainly\nconsiderably older--and with f----. Oh, horror and remorse! He writhed\nwith anguish, as a certain recollection crossed him. An immense gulf of\ntime gaped between him and the past. How long was it since he had heard\nthat those pearls were artificial,--that those golden locks were only\npinchbeck? A long, long time ago, when he was a boy, an innocent boy.\nNow he was a man,--quite an old man. He had been bled copiously; he had\na little fever; he had had nothing to eat for very many hours; he had a\nsleeping-draught, and a long, deep slumber after.\n\n\"What is it, my dear child?\" cries kind Mrs. Lambert, as he started.\n\n\"Nothing, madam; a twinge in my shoulder,\" said the lad. \"I speak to my\nhost and hostess? Sure you have been very kind to me.\"\n\n\"We are old friends, Mr. Warrington. My husband, Colonel Lambert,\nknew your father, and I and your mamma were schoolgirls together at\nKensington. You were no stranger to us when your aunt and cousin told us\nwho you were.\"\n\n\"Are they here?\" asked Harry, looking a little blank.\n\n\"They must have lain at Tunbridge Wells last night. They sent a horseman\nfrom Reigate yesterday for news of you.\"\n\n\"Ah! I remember,\" says Harry, looking at his bandaged arm.\n\n\"I have made a good cure of you, Mr. Warrington. And now Mrs. Lambert\nand the cook must take charge of you.\"\n\n\"Nay; Theo prepared the chicken and rice, Mr. Lambert,\" said the lady.\n\"Will Mr. Warrington get up after he has had his breakfast? We will send\nyour valet to you.\"\n\n\"If howling proves fidelity, your man must be a most fond, attached\ncreature,\" says Mr. Lambert.\n\n\"He let your baggage travel off after all in your aunt's carriage,\" said\nMrs. Lambert. \"You must wear my husband's linen, which, I dare say, is\nnot so fine as yours.\"\n\n\"Pish, my dear! my shirts are good shirts enough for any Christian,\"\ncries the Colonel.\n\n\"They are Theo's and Hester's work,\" says mamma. At which her husband\narches his eyebrows and looks at her. \"And Theo hath ripped and sewed\nyour sleeve to make it quite comfortable for your shoulder,\" the lady\nadded.\n\n\"What beautiful roses!\" cries Harry, looking at a fine China vase full\nof them that stood on the toilet-table, under the japan-framed glass.\n\n\"My daughter Theo cut them this morning. Well, Mr. Lambert? She did cut\nthem!\"\n\nI suppose the Colonel was thinking that his wife introduced Theo too\nmuch into the conversation, and trod on Mrs. Lambert's slipper, or\npulled her robe, or otherwise nudged her into a sense of propriety.\n\n\"And I fancied I heard some one singing the Evening Hymn very sweetly\nlast night--or was it only a dream?\" asked the young patient.\n\n\"Theo again, Mr. Warrington!\" said the Colonel, laughing. \"My servants\nsaid your negro man began to sing it in the kitchen as if he was a\nchurch organ.\"\n\n\"Our people sing it at home, sir. My grandpapa used to love it very\nmuch. His wife's father was a great friend of good Bishop Ken, who wrote\nit; and--and my dear brother used to love it too;\" said the boy, his\nvoice dropping.\n\nIt was then, I suppose, that Mrs. Lambert felt inclined to give the boy\na kiss. His little accident, illness and recovery, the kindness of\nthe people round about him, had softened Harry Warrington's heart, and\nopened it to better influences than those which had been brought to bear\non it for some six weeks past. He was breathing a purer air than that\ntainted atmosphere of selfishness, and worldliness, and corruption, into\nwhich he had been plunged since his arrival in England. Sometimes the\nyoung man's fate, or choice, or weakness, leads him into the fellowship\nof the giddy and vain; happy he, whose lot makes him acquainted with\nthe wiser company, whose lamps are trimmed, and whose pure hearts keep\nmodest watch.\n\nThe pleased matron left her young patient devouring Miss Theo's mess of\nrice and chicken, and the Colonel seated by the lad's bedside. Gratitude\nto his hospitable entertainers, and contentment after a comfortable\nmeal, caused in Mr. Warrington a very pleasant condition of mind and\nbody. He was ready to talk now more freely than usually was his custom;\nfor, unless excited by a strong interest or emotion, the young man was\ncommonly taciturn and cautious in his converse with his fellows, and was\nby no means of an imaginative turn. Of books our youth had been but a\nvery remiss student, nor were his remarks on such simple works as he\nhad read, very profound or valuable; but regarding dogs, horses, and\nthe ordinary business of life, he was a far better critic; and, with any\nperson interested in such subjects, conversed on them freely enough.\n\nHarry's host, who had considerable shrewdness, and experience of books,\nand cattle, and men, was pretty soon able to take the measure of his\nyoung guest in the talk which they now had together. It was now, for the\nfirst time, the Virginian learned that Mrs. Lambert had been an early\nfriend of his mother's, and that the Colonel's own father had served\nwith Harry's grandfather, Colonel Esmond, in the famous wars of Queen\nAnne. He found himself in a friend's country. He was soon at ease with\nhis honest host, whose manners were quite simple and cordial, and who\nlooked and seemed perfectly a gentleman, though he wore a plain fustian\ncoat, and a waistcoat without a particle of lace.\n\n\"My boys are both away,\" said Harry's host, \"or they would have shown\nyou the country when you got up, Mr. Warrington. Now you can only have\nthe company of my wife and her daughters. Mrs. Lambert hath told you\nalready about one of them, Theo, our eldest, who made your broth, who\ncut your roses, and who mended your coat. She is not such a wonder\nas her mother imagines her to be: but little Theo is a smart little\nhousekeeper, and a very good and cheerful lass, though her father says\nit.\"\n\n\"It is very kind of Miss Lambert to take so much care for me,\" says the\nyoung patient.\n\n\"She is no kinder to you than to any other mortal, and doth but her\nduty.\" Here the Colonel smiled. \"I laugh at their mother for praising\nour children,\" he said, \"and I think I am as foolish about them myself.\nThe truth is, God hath given us very good and dutiful children, and I\nsee no reason why I should disguise my thankfulness for such a blessing.\nYou have never a sister, I think?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I am alone now,\" Mr. Warrington said.\n\n\"Ay, truly, I ask your pardon for my thoughtlessness. Your man hath told\nour people what befell last year. I served with Braddock in Scotland;\nand hope he mended before he died. A wild fellow, sir, but there was\na fund of truth about the man, and no little kindness under his rough\nswaggering manner. Your black fellow talks very freely about his master\nand his affairs. I suppose you permit him these freedoms as he rescued\nyou----\"\n\n\"Rescued me?\" cries Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"From ever so many Indians on that very expedition. My Molly and I did\nnot know we were going to entertain so prodigiously wealthy a gentleman.\nHe saith that half Virginia belongs to you; but if the whole of North\nAmerica were yours, we could but give you our best.\"\n\n\"Those negro boys, sir, lie like the father of all lies. They think it\nis for our honour to represent us as ten times as rich as we are. My\nmother has what would be a vast estate in England, and is a very good\none at home. We are as well off as most of our neighbours, sir, but no\nbetter; and all our splendour is in Mr. Gumbo's foolish imagination. He\nnever rescued me from an Indian in his life, and would run away at the\nsight of one, as my poor brother's boy did on that fatal day when he\nfell.\"\n\n\"The bravest man will do so at unlucky times,\" said the Colonel. \"I\nmyself saw the best troops in the world run at Preston, before a ragged\nmob of Highland savages.\"\n\n\"That was because the Highlanders fought for a good cause, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you think,\" asks Harry's host, \"that the French Indians had the good\ncause in the fight of last year?\"\n\n\"The scoundrels! I would have the scalp of every murderous redskin among\n'em!\" cried Harry, clenching his fist. \"They were robbing and invading\nthe British territories, too. But the Highlanders were fighting for\ntheir king.\"\n\n\"We, on our side, were fighting for our king; and we ended by winning\nthe battle,\" said the Colonel, laughing.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Harry; \"if his Royal Highness the Prince had not turned back\nat Derby, your king and mine, now, would be his Majesty King James the\nThird!\"\n\n\"Who made such a Tory of you, Mr. Warrington?\" asked Lambert.\n\n\"Nay, sir, the Esmonds were always loyal!\" answered the youth. \"Had we\nlived at home, and twenty years sooner, brother and I often and often\nagreed that our heads would have been in danger. We certainly would have\nstaked them for the king's cause.\"\n\n\"Yours is better on your shoulders than on a pole at Temple Bar. I have\nseen them there, and they don't look very pleasant, Mr. Warrington.\"\n\n\"I shall take off my hat, and salute them, whenever I pass the gate,\"\ncried the young man, \"if the king and the whole court are standing by!\"\n\n\"I doubt whether your relative, my Lord Castlewood, is as staunch a\nsupporter of the king over the water,\" said Colonel Lambert, smiling:\n\"or your aunt, the Baroness of Bernstein, who left you in our charge.\nWhatever her old partialities may have been, she has repented of them;\nshe has rallied to our side, landed her nephews in the Household,\nand looks to find a suitable match for her nieces. If you have Tory\nopinions, Mr. Warrington, take an old soldier's advice, and keep them to\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Why, sir, I do not think that you will betray me!\" said the boy.\n\n\"Not I, but others might. You did not talk in this way at Castlewood? I\nmean the old Castlewood which you have just come from.\"\n\n\"I might be safe amongst my own kinsmen, surely, sir!\" cried Harry.\n\n\"Doubtless. I would not say no. But a man's own kinsmen can play him\nslippery tricks at times, and he finds himself none the better for\ntrusting them. I mean no offence to you or any of your family; but\nlacqueys have ears as well as their masters, and they carry about all\nsorts of stories. For instance, your black fellow is ready to tell all\nhe knows about you, and a great deal more besides, as it would appear.\"\n\n\"Hath he told about the broken-kneed horse?\" cried out Harry, turning\nvery red.\n\n\"To say truth, my groom seemed to know something of the story, and said\nit was a shame a gentleman should sell another such a brute; let alone\na cousin. I am not here to play the Mentor to you, or to carry about\nservants' tittle-tattle. When you have seen more of your cousins, you\nwill form your own opinion of them; meanwhile, take an old soldier's\nadvice, I say again, and be cautious with whom you deal, and what you\nsay.\"\n\nVery soon after this little colloquy, Mr. Lambert's guest rose, with the\nassistance of Gumbo, his valet, to whom he, for the hundredth time at\nleast, promised a sound caning if ever he should hear that Gumbo had\nventured to talk about his affairs again in the servants'-hall,--which\nprohibition Gumbo solemnly vowed and declared he would for ever obey;\nbut I dare say he was chattering the whole of the Castlewood secrets\nto his new friends of Colonel Lambert's kitchen; for Harry's hostess\ncertainly heard a number of stories concerning him which she could\nnot prevent her housekeeper from telling; though of course I would not\naccuse that worthy lady, or any of her sex or ours, of undue curiosity\nregarding their neighbours' affairs. But how can you prevent servants\ntalking, or listening when the faithful attached creatures talk to you?\n\nMr. Lambert's house stood on the outskirts of the little town of\nOakhurst, which, if he but travels in the right direction, the patient\nreader will find on the road between Farnham and Reigate,--and Madame\nBernstein's servants naturally pulled at the first bell at hand, when\nthe young Virginian met with his mishap. A few hundred yards farther,\nwas the long street of the little old town, where hospitality might have\nbeen found under the great swinging ensigns of a couple of tuns, and\nmedical relief was to be had, as a blazing gilt pestle and mortar\nindicated. But what surgeon could have ministered more cleverly to\na patient than Harry's host, who tended him without a fee, or what\nBoniface could make him more comfortably welcome?\n\nTwo tall gates, each surmounted by a couple of heraldic monsters, led\nfrom the highroad up to a neat, broad stone terrace, whereon stood\nOakhurst House; a square brick building, with windows faced with stone,\nand many high chimneys, and a tall roof surmounted by a fair balustrade.\nBehind the house stretched a large garden, where there was plenty of\nroom for cabbages as well as roses to grow; and before the mansion,\nseparated from it by the highroad, was a field of many acres, where the\nColonel's cows and horses were at grass. Over the centre window was a\ncarved shield supported by the same monsters who pranced or ramped upon\nthe entrance-gates; and a coronet over the shield. The fact is, that the\nhouse had been originally the jointure-house of Oakhurst Castle, which\nstood hard by,--its chimneys and turrets appearing over the surrounding\nwoods, now bronzed with the darkest foliage of summer. Mr. Lambert's\nwas the greatest house in Oakhurst town; but the Castle was of\nmore importance than all the town put together. The Castle and the\njointure-house had been friends of many years' date. Their fathers had\nfought side by side in Queen Anne's wars. There were two small pieces\nof ordnance on the terrace of the jointure-house, and six before the\nCastle, which had been taken out of the same privateer, which Mr.\nLambert and his kinsman and commander, Lord Wrotham, had brought into\nHarwich in one of their voyages home from Flanders with despatches from\nthe great Duke.\n\nHis toilet completed with Mr. Gumbo's aid, his fair hair neatly dressed\nby that artist, and his open ribboned sleeve and wounded shoulder\nsupported by a handkerchief which hung from his neck, Harry Warrington\nmade his way out of the sick-chamber, preceded by his kind host, who\nled him first down a broad oak stair, round which hung many pikes and\nmuskets of ancient shape, and so into a square marble-paved room, from\nwhich the living-rooms of the house branched off. There were more arms\nin this hall-pikes and halberts of ancient date, pistols and jack-boots\nof more than a century old, that had done service in Cromwell's wars,\na tattered French guidon which had been borne by a French gendarme at\nMalplaquet, and a pair of cumbrous Highland broadswords, which, having\nbeen carried as far as Derby, had been flung away on the fatal field of\nCulloden. Here were breastplates and black morions of Oliver's troopers,\nand portraits of stern warriors in buff jerkins and plain bands and\nshort hair. \"They fought against your grandfathers and King Charles, Mr.\nWarrington,\" said Harry's host. \"I don't hide that. They rode to join\nthe Prince of Orange at Exeter. We were Whigs, young gentleman, and\nsomething more. John Lambert, the Major-General, was a kinsman of our\nhouse, and we were all more or less partial to short hair and long\nsermons. You do not seem to like either?\" Indeed, Harry's face\nmanifested signs of anything but pleasure whilst he examined the\nportraits of the Parliamentary heroes. \"Be not alarmed, we are very\ngood Churchmen now. My eldest son will be in orders ere long. He is now\ntravelling as governor to my Lord Wrotham's son in Italy, and as for our\nwomen, they are all for the Church, and carry me with 'em. Every woman\nis a Tory at heart. Mr. Pope says a rake, but I think t'other is the\nmore charitable word. Come, let us go see them,\" and, flinging open\nthe dark oak door, Colonel Lambert led his young guest into the parlour\nwhere the ladies were assembled.\n\n\"Here is Miss Hester,\" said the Colonel, \"and this is Miss Theo, the\nsoup-maker, the tailoress, the harpsichord-player, and the songstress,\nwho set you to sleep last night. Make a curtsey to the gentleman, young\nladies! Oh, I forgot, and Theo is the mistress of the roses which you\nadmired a short while since in your bedroom. I think she has kept some\nof them in her cheeks.\"\n\nIn fact, Miss Theo was making a profound curtsey and blushing\nmost modestly as her papa spoke. I am not going to describe her\nperson,--though we shall see a great deal of her in the course of this\nhistory. She was not a particular beauty. Harry Warrington was not over\nhead and ears in love with her at an instant's warning, and faithless\nto--to that other individual with whom, as we have seen, the youth had\nlately been smitten. Miss Theo had kind eyes and a sweet voice; a ruddy\nfreckled cheek and a round white neck, on which, out of a little cap\nsuch as misses wore in those times, fell rich curling clusters of dark\nbrown hair. She was not a delicate or sentimental-looking person. Her\narms, which were worn bare from the elbow like other ladies' arms in\nthose days, were very jolly and red. Her feet were not so miraculously\nsmall but that you could see them without a telescope. There was nothing\nwaspish about her waist. This young person was sixteen years of age, and\nlooked older. I don't know what call she had to blush so when she made\nher curtsey to the stranger. It was such a deep ceremonial curtsey as\nyou never see at present. She and her sister both made these \"cheeses\"\nin compliment to the new comer, and with much stately agility.\n\nAs Miss Theo rose up out of this salute, her papa tapped her under the\nchin (which was of the double sort of chins), and laughingly hummed out\nthe line which he had read the day. \"Eh bien! que dites-vous, ma fille,\nde notre hote?\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Mr. Lambert!\" cries mamma.\n\n\"Nonsense is sometimes the best kind of sense in the world,\" said\nColonel Lambert. His guest looked puzzled.\n\n\"Are you fond of nonsense?\" the Colonel continued to Harry, seeing by\nthe boy's face that the latter had no great love or comprehension of his\nfavourite humour. \"We consume a vast deal of it in this house.\nRabelais is my favourite reading. My wife is all for Mr. Fielding and\nTheophrastus. I think Theo prefers Tom Brown, and Mrs. Hetty here loves\nDean Swift.\"\n\n\"Our papa is talking what he loves,\" says Miss Hetty.\n\n\"And what is that, miss?\" asks the father of his second daughter.\n\n\"Sure, sir, you said yourself it was nonsense,\" answers the young lady,\nwith a saucy toss of her head.\n\n\"Which of them do you like best, Mr. Warrington?\" asked the honest\nColonel.\n\n\"Which of whom, sir?\"\n\n\"The Curate of Meudon, or the Dean of St. Patrick's, or honest Tom, or\nMr. Fielding?\"\n\n\"And what were they, sir?\"\n\n\"They! Why, they wrote books.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir. I never heard of either one of 'em,\" said Harry, hanging\ndown his head. \"I fear my book-learning was neglected at home, sir. My\nbrother had read every book that ever was wrote, I think. He could have\ntalked to you about 'em for hours together.\"\n\nWith this little speech Mrs. Lambert's eyes turned to her daughter, and\nMiss Theo cast hers down and blushed.\n\n\"Never mind, honesty is better than books any day, Mr. Warrington!\"\ncried the jolly Colonel. \"You may go through the world very honourably\nwithout reading any of the books I have been talking of, and some of\nthem might give you more pleasure than profit.\"\n\n\"I know more about horses and dogs than Greek and Latin, sir. We most of\nus do in Virginia,\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"You are like the Persians; you can ride and speak the truth.\"\n\n\"Are the Prussians very good on horseback, sir? I hope I shall see their\nking and a campaign or two, either with 'em or against 'em,\" remarked\nColonel Lambert's guest. Why did Miss Theo look at her mother, and why\ndid that good woman's face assume a sad expression?\n\nWhy? Because young lasses are bred in humdrum country towns, do you\nsuppose they never indulge in romances? Because they are modest and have\nnever quitted mother's apron, do you suppose they have no thoughts of\ntheir own? What happens in spite of all those precautions which the\nKing and Queen take for their darling princess, those dragons, and\nthat impenetrable forest, and that castle of steel? The fairy prince\npenetrates the impenetrable forest, finds the weak point in the dragon's\nscale armour, and gets the better of all the ogres who guard the castle\nof steel. Away goes the princess to him. She knew him at once. Her\nbandboxes and portmanteaux are filled with her best clothes and all her\njewels. She has been ready ever so long.\n\nThat is in fairy tales, you understand--where the blessed hour and youth\nalways arrive, the ivory horn is blown at the castle gate; and far off\nin her beauteous bower the princess hears it, and starts up, and knows\nthat there is the right champion. He is always ready. Look! how the\ngiants' heads tumble off as, falchion in hand, he gallops over the\nbridge on his white charger! How should that virgin, locked up in that\ninaccessible fortress, where she has never seen any man that was not\neighty, or humpbacked, or her father, know that there were such beings\nin the world as young men? I suppose there's an instinct. I suppose\nthere's a season. I never spoke for my part to a fairy princess, or\nheard as much from any unenchanted or enchanting maiden. Ne'er a one\nof them has ever whispered her pretty little secrets to me, or perhaps\nconfessed them to herself, her mamma, or her nearest and dearest\nconfidante. But they will fall in love. Their little hearts are\nconstantly throbbing at the window of expectancy on the lookout for the\nchampion. They are always hearing his horn. They are for ever on the\ntower looking out for the hero. Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see him?\nSurely 'tis a knight with curling mustachios, a flashing scimitar, and a\nsuit of silver armour. Oh no! it is only a costermonger with his donkey\nand a pannier of cabbage! Sister Ann, Sister Ann, what is that cloud of\ndust? Oh, it is only a farmer's man driving a flock of pigs from market.\nSister Ann, Sister Ann, who is that splendid warrior advancing in\nscarlet and gold? He nears the castle, he clears the drawbridge, he\nlifts the ponderous hammer at the gate. Ah me, he knocks twice! 'Tis\nonly the postman with a double letter from Northamptonshire! So it is we\nmake false starts in life. I don't believe there is any such thing known\nas first love--not within man's or woman's memory. No male or female\nremembers his or her first inclination any more than his or her own\nchristening. What? You fancy that your sweet mistress, your spotless\nspinster, your blank maiden just out of the schoolroom, never cared\nfor any but you? And she tells you so? Oh, you idiot! When she was four\nyears old she had a tender feeling towards the Buttons who brought the\ncoals up to the nursery, or the little sweep at the crossing, or the\nmusic-master, or never mind whom. She had a secret longing towards\nher brother's schoolfellow, or the third charity boy at church, and\nif occasion had served, the comedy enacted with you had been performed\nalong with another. I do not mean to say that she confessed this amatory\nsentiment, but that she had it. Lay down this page, and think how\nmany and many and many a time you were in love before you selected the\npresent Mrs. Jones as the partner of your name and affections!\n\nSo, from the way in which Theo held her head down, and exchanged looks\nwith her mother, when poor unconscious Harry called the Persians the\nPrussians, and talked of serving a campaign with them, I make no doubt\nshe was feeling ashamed, and thinking within herself, \"Is this the hero\nwith whom my mamma and I have been in love for these twenty-four hours,\nand whom we have endowed with every perfection? How beautiful, pale, and\ngraceful he looked yesterday as he lay on the ground! How his curls fell\nover his face! How sad it was to see his poor white arm, and the blood\ntrickling from it when papa bled him! And now he is well and amongst us,\nhe is handsome certainly, but oh, is it possible he is--he is stupid?\"\nWhen she lighted the lamp and looked at him, did Psyche find Cupid out;\nand is that the meaning of the old allegory? The wings of love drop\noff at this discovery. The fancy can no more soar and disport in skyey\nregions, the beloved object ceases at once to be celestial, and remains\nplodding on earth, entirely unromantic and substantial.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. Holidays\n\n\nMrs. Lambert's little day-dream was over. Miss Theo and her mother were\nobliged to confess in their hearts that their hero was but an ordinary\nmortal. They uttered few words on the subject, but each knew the other's\nthoughts as people who love each other do; and mamma, by an extra\ntenderness and special caressing manner towards her daughter, sought to\nconsole her for her disappointment. \"Never mind, my dear\"--the maternal\nkiss whispered on the filial cheek--\"our hero has turned out to be but\nan ordinary mortal, and none such is good enough for my Theo. Thou shalt\nhave a real husband ere long, if there be one in England. Why, I was\nscarce fifteen when your father saw me at the Bury Assembly, and while I\nwas yet at school, I used to vow that I never would have any other\nman. If Heaven gave me such a husband--the best man in the whole\nkingdom--sure it will bless my child equally, who deserves a king if she\nfancies him!\" Indeed, I am not sure that Mrs. Lambert--who, of course,\nknew the age of the Prince of Wales, and was aware how handsome and good\na young prince he was--did not expect that he too would come riding by\nher gate, and perhaps tumble down from his horse there, and be taken\ninto the house, and be cured, and cause his royal grandpapa to give\nMartin Lambert a regiment, and fall in love with Theo.\n\nThe Colonel for his part, and his second daughter, Miss Hetty, were on\nthe laughing, scornful, unbelieving side. Mamma was always match-making.\nIndeed, Mrs. Lambert was much addicted to novels, and cried her eyes out\nover them with great assiduity. No coach ever passed the gate, but she\nexpected a husband for her girls would alight from it and ring the bell.\nAs for Miss Hetty, she allowed her tongue to wag in a more than\nusually saucy way: she made a hundred sly allusions to their guest. She\nintroduced Prussia and Persia into their conversation with abominable\npertness and frequency. She asked whether the present King of Prussia\nwas called the Shaw or the Sophy, and how far it was from Ispahan to\nSaxony, which his Majesty was at present invading, and about which war\npapa was so busy with his maps and his newspapers? She brought down the\nPersian Tales from her mamma's closet, and laid them slily on the table\nin the parlour where the family sate. She would not marry a Persian\nprince for her part; she would prefer a gentleman who might not have\nmore than one wife at a time. She called our young Virginian Theo's\ngentleman, Theo's prince. She asked her mamma if she wished her, Hetty,\nto take the other visitor, the black prince, for herself? Indeed, she\nrallied her sister and her mother unceasingly on their sentimentalities,\nand would never stop until she had made them angry, when she would begin\nto cry herself, and kiss them violently one after the other, and coax\nthem back into good-humour. Simple Harry Warrington, meanwhile, knew\nnothing of all the jokes, the tears, quarrels, reconciliations, hymeneal\nplans, and so forth, of which he was the innocent occasion. A hundred\nallusions to the Prussians and Persians were shot at him, and those\nParthian arrows did not penetrate his hide at all. A Shaw? A Sophy?\nVery likely he thought a Sophy was a lady, and would have deemed it the\nheight of absurdity that a man with a great black beard should have\nany such name. We fall into the midst of a quiet family: we drop like a\nstone, say, into a pool,--we are perfectly compact and cool, and little\nknow the flutter and excitement we make there, disturbing the fish,\nfrightening the ducks, and agitating the whole surface of the water.\nHow should Harry know the effect which his sudden appearance produced in\nthis little, quiet, sentimental family? He thought quite well enough of\nhimself on many points, but was diffident as yet regarding women, being\nof that age when young gentlemen require encouragement and to be brought\nforward, and having been brought up at home in very modest and primitive\nrelations towards the other sex. So Miss Hetty's jokes played round the\nlad, and he minded them no more than so many summer gnats. It was not\nthat he was stupid, as she certainly thought him: he was simple, too\nmuch occupied with himself and his own honest affairs to think of\nothers. Why, what tragedies, comedies, interludes, intrigues, farces,\nare going on under our noses in friends' drawing-rooms where we visit\nevery day, and we remain utterly ignorant, self-satisfied, and blind!\nAs these sisters sate and combed their flowing ringlets of nights, or\ntalked with each other in the great bed where, according to the fashion\nof the day, they lay together, how should Harry know that he had so\ngreat a share in their thoughts, jokes, conversation? Three days after\nhis arrival, his new and hospitable friends were walking with him in my\nLord Wrotham's fine park, where they were free to wander; and here, on a\npiece of water, they came to some swans, which the young ladies were\nin the habit of feeding with bread. As the birds approached the young\nwomen, Hetty said, with a queer look at her mother and sister, and\nthen a glance at her father, who stood by, honest, happy, in a red\nwaistcoat,--Hetty said: \"Mamma's swans are something like these, papa.\"\n\n\"What swans, my dear?\" says mamma.\n\n\"Something like, but not quite. They have shorter necks than these, and\nare, scores of them, on our common,\" continues Miss Hetty. \"I saw Betty\nplucking one in the kitchen this morning. We shall have it for dinner,\nwith apple-sauce and----\"\n\n\"Don't be a little goose!\" says Miss Theo.\n\n\"And sage and onions. Do you love swan, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"I shot three last winter on our river,\" said the Virginian gentleman.\n\"Ours are not such white birds as these--they eat very well, though.\"\nThe simple youth had not the slightest idea that he himself was an\nallegory at that very time, and that Miss Hetty was narrating a fable\nregarding him. In some exceedingly recondite Latin work I have read\nthat, long before Virginia was discovered, other folks were equally dull\nof comprehension.\n\nSo it was a premature sentiment on the part of Miss Theo--that little\ntender flutter of the bosom which we have acknowledged she felt on first\nbeholding the Virginian, so handsome, pale, and bleeding. This was not\nthe great passion which she knew her heart could feel. Like the birds,\nit had wakened and begun to sing at a false dawn. Hop back to thy perch,\nand cover thy head with thy wing, thou tremulous little fluttering\ncreature! It is not yet light, and roosting is as yet better than\nsinging. Anon will come morning, and the whole sky will redden, and you\nshall soar up into it and salute the sun with your music.\n\nOne little phrase, some three-and-thirty lines back, perhaps the fair\nand suspicious reader has remarked: \"Three days after his arrival, Harry\nwas walking with,\" etc. etc. If he could walk--which it appeared he\ncould do perfectly well--what business had he to be walking with anybody\nbut Lady Maria Esmond on the Pantiles, Tunbridge Wells? His shoulder\nwas set: his health was entirely restored: he had not even a change of\ncoats, as we have seen, and was obliged to the Colonel for his raiment.\nSurely a young man in such a condition had no right to be lingering\non at Oakhurst, and was bound by every tie of duty and convenience,\nby love, by relationship, by a gentle heart waiting for him, by the\nwasherwoman finally, to go to Tunbridge. Why did he stay behind, unless\nhe was in love with either of the young ladies (and we say he wasn't)?\nCould it be that he did not want to go? Hath the gracious reader\nunderstood the meaning of the mystic S with which the last chapter\ncommences, and in which the designer has feebly endeavoured to depict\nthe notorious Sinbad the Sailor, surmounted by that odious old man of\nthe sea? What if Harry Warrington should be that sailor, and his fate\nthat choking, deadening, inevitable old man? What if for two days past\nhe has felt those knees throttling him round the neck? if his fell\naunt's purpose is answered, and if his late love is killed as dead\nby her poisonous communications as fair Rosamond was by her royal and\nlegitimate rival? Is Hero then lighting the lamp up, and getting ready\nthe supper, whilst Leander is sitting comfortably with some other party,\nand never in the least thinking of taking to the water? Ever since\nthat coward's blow was struck in Lady Maria's back by her own relative,\nsurely kind hearts must pity her ladyship. I know she has faults--ay,\nand wears false hair and false never mind what. But a woman in distress,\nshall we not pity her--a lady of a certain age, are we going to laugh at\nher because of her years? Between her old aunt and her unhappy delusion,\nbe sure my Lady Maria Esmond is having no very pleasant time of it at\nTunbridge Wells. There is no one to protect her. Madam Beatrix has her\nall to herself. Lady Maria is poor, and hopes for money from her aunt.\nLady Maria has a secret or two which the old woman knows, and brandishes\nover her. I for one am quite melted and grow soft-hearted as I think\nof her. Imagine her alone, and a victim to that old woman! Paint to\nyourself that antique Andromeda (if you please we will allow that rich\nflowing head of hair to fall over her shoulders) chained to a rock\non Mount Ephraim, and given up to that dragon of a Baroness! Succour,\nPerseus! Come quickly with thy winged feet and flashing falchion!\nPerseus is not in the least hurry. The dragon has her will of Andromeda\nfor day after day.\n\nHarry Warrington, who would not have allowed his dislocated and mended\nshoulder to keep him from going out hunting, remained day after day\ncontentedly at Oakhurst, with each day finding the kindly folks who\nwelcomed him more to his liking. Perhaps he had never, since his\ngrandfather's death, been in such good company. His lot had lain amongst\nfox-hunting Virginian squires, with whose society he had put up very\ncontentedly, riding their horses, living their lives, and sharing their\npunch-bowls. The ladies of his own and mother's acquaintance were\nvery well bred, and decorous, and pious, no doubt, but somewhat\nnarrow-minded. It was but a little place, his home, with its pompous\nways, small etiquettes and punctilios, small flatteries, small\nconversations and scandals. Until he had left the place, some time\nafter, he did not know how narrow and confined his life had been there.\nHe was free enough personally. He had dogs and horses, and might shoot\nand hunt for scores of miles round about: but the little lady-mother\ndomineered at home, and when there he had to submit to her influence and\nbreathe her air.\n\nHere the lad found himself in the midst of a circle where everything\nabout him was incomparably gayer, brighter, and more free. He was living\nwith a man and woman who had seen the world, though they lived retired\nfrom it, who had both of them happened to enjoy from their earliest\ntimes the use not only of good books, but of good company--those live\nbooks, which are such pleasant and sometimes such profitable reading.\nSociety has this good at least: that it lessens our conceit, by teaching\nus our insignificance, and making us acquainted with our betters. If you\nare a young person who read this, depend upon it, sir or madam, there is\nnothing more wholesome for you than to acknowledge and to associate with\nyour superiors. If I could, I would not have my son Thomas first Greek\nand Latin prize boy, first oar, and cock of the school. Better for his\nsoul's and body's welfare that he should have a good place, not the\nfirst--a fair set of competitors round about him, and a good thrashing\nnow and then, with a hearty shake afterwards of the hand which\nadministered the beating. What honest man that can choose his lot would\nbe a prince, let us say, and have all society walking backwards before\nhim, only obsequious household-gentlemen to talk to, and all mankind mum\nexcept when your High Mightiness asks a question and gives permission\nto speak? One of the great benefits which Harry Warrington received from\nthis family, before whose gate Fate had shot him, was to begin to learn\nthat he was a profoundly ignorant young fellow, and that there were many\npeople in the world far better than he knew himself to be. Arrogant\na little with some folks, in the company of his superiors he was\nmagnanimously docile. We have seen how faithfully he admired his brother\nat home, and his friend, the gallant young Colonel of Mount Vernon: of\nthe gentlemen, his kinsmen at Castlewood, he had felt himself at least\nthe equal. In his new acquaintance at Oakhurst he found a man who had\nread far more books than Harry could pretend to judge of, who had seen\nthe world and come unwounded out of it, as he had out of the dangers\nand battles which he had confronted, and who had goodness and honesty\nwritten on his face and breathing from his lips, for which qualities our\nbrave lad had always an instinctive sympathy and predilection.\n\nAs for the women, they were the kindest, merriest, most agreeable he had\nas yet known. They were pleasanter than Parson Broadbent's black-eyed\ndaughter at home, whose laugh carried as far as a gun. They were quite\nas well-bred as the Castlewood ladies, with the exception of Madam\nBeatrix (who, indeed, was as grand as an empress on some occasions).\nBut somehow, after a talk with Madam Beatrix, and vast amusement and\ninterest in her stories, the lad would come away as with a bitter taste\nin his mouth, and fancy all the world wicked round about him. They were\nnot in the least squeamish; and laughed over pages of Mr. Fielding, and\ncried over volumes of Mr. Richardson, containing jokes and incidents\nwhich would make Mrs. Grundy's hair stand on end, yet their merry\nprattle left no bitterness behind it: their tales about this neighbour\nand that were droll, not malicious; the curtseys and salutations with\nwhich the folks of the little neighbouring town received them, how\nkindly and cheerful! their bounties how cordial! Of a truth it is good\nto be with good people. How good Harry Warrington did not know at the\ntime, perhaps, or until subsequent experience showed him contrasts, or\ncaused him to feel remorse. Here was a tranquil, sunshiny day of a life\nthat was to be agitated and stormy--a happy hour or two to remember.\nNot much happened during the happy hour or two. It was only sweet sleep,\npleasant waking, friendly welcome, serene pastime. The gates of the old\nhouse seemed to shut the wicked world out somehow, and the inhabitants\nwithin to be better, and purer, and kinder than other people. He was\nnot in love; oh no! not the least, either with saucy Hetty or generous\nTheodosia but when the time came for going away, he fastened on both\ntheir hands, and felt an immense regard for them. He thought he should\nlike to know their brothers, and that they must be fine fellows; and as\nfor Mrs. Lambert, I believe she was as sentimental at his departure as\nif he had been the last volume of Clarissa Harlowe.\n\n\"He is very kind and honest,\" said Theo, gravely, as, looking from the\nterrace, they saw him and their father and servants riding away on the\nroad to Westerham.\n\n\"I don't think him stupid at all now,\" said little Hetty; \"and, mamma, I\nthink, he is very like a swan indeed.\"\n\n\"It felt just like one of the boys going to school,\" said mamma.\n\n\"Just like it,\" said Theo, sadly.\n\n\"I am glad he has got papa to ride with him to Westerham,\" resumed Miss\nHetty, \"and that he bought Farmer Briggs's horse. I don't like his going\nto those Castlewood people. I am sure that Madame Bernstein is a wicked\nold woman. I expected to see her ride away on her crooked stick.\"\n\n\"Hush, Hetty!\"\n\n\"Do you think she would float if they tried her in the pond, as poor old\nmother Hely did at Elmhurst? The other old woman seemed fond of him--I\nmean the one with the fair tour. She looked very melancholy when she\nwent away; but Madame Bernstein whisked her off with her crutch, and she\nwas obliged to go. I don't care, Theo. I know she is a wicked woman.\nYou think everybody good, you do, because you never do anything wrong\nyourself.\"\n\n\"My Theo is a good girl,\" says the mother, looking fondly at both her\ndaughters.\n\n\"Then why do we call her a miserable sinner?\"\n\n\"We are all so, my love,\" said mamma.\n\n\"What, papa too? You know you don't think so,\" cries Miss Hester. And to\nallow this was almost more than Mrs. Lambert could afford.\n\n\"What was that you told John to give to Mr. Warrington's black man?\"\n\nMamma owned, with some shamefacedness, it was a bottle of her cordial\nwater and a cake which she had bid Betty make. \"I feel quite like a\nmother to him, my dears, I can't help owning it,--and you know both\nour boys still like one of our cakes to take to school or college with\nthem.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. From Oakhurst to Tunbridge\n\n\nHaving her lily handkerchief in token of adieu to the departing\ntravellers, Mrs. Lambert and her girls watched them pacing leisurely on\nthe first few hundred yards of their journey, and until such time as a\ntree-clumped corner of the road hid them from the ladies' view. Behind\nthat clump of limes the good matron had many a time watched those she\nloved best disappear. Husband departing to battle and danger, sons to\nschool, each after the other had gone on his way behind yonder green\ntrees, returning as it pleased Heaven's will at his good time, and\nbringing pleasure and love back to the happy little family. Besides\ntheir own instinctive nature (which to be sure aids wonderfully in the\nmatter), the leisure and contemplation attendant upon their home life\nserve to foster the tenderness and fidelity of our women. The men gone,\nthere is all day to think about them, and to-morrow and to-morrow--when\nthere certainly will be a letter--and so on. There is the vacant room\nto go look at, where the boy slept last night, and the impression of his\ncarpet bag is still on the bed. There is his whip hung up in the hall,\nand his fishing-rod and basket--mute memorials of the brief bygone\npleasures. At dinner there comes up that cherry-tart, half of which\nour darling ate at two o'clock in spite of his melancholy, and with a\nchoking little sister on each side of him. The evening prayer is said\nwithout that young scholar's voice to utter the due responses. Midnight\nand silence come, and the good mother lies wakeful, thinking how one of\nthe dear accustomed brood is away from the nest. Morn breaks, home and\nholidays have passed away, and toil and labour have begun for him. So\nthose rustling limes formed, as it were, a screen between the world and\nour ladies of the house at Oakhurst. Kind-hearted Mrs. Lambert always\nbecame silent and thoughtful, if by chance she and her girls walked up\nto the trees in the absence of the men of the family. She said she would\nlike to carve their names up on the grey silvered trunks, in the midst\nof true-lovers' knots, as was then the kindly fashion; and Miss Theo,\nwho had an exceeding elegant turn that way, made some verses regarding\nthe trees, which her delighted parent transmitted to a periodical of\nthose days.\n\n\"Now we are out of sight of the ladies,\" says Colonel Lambert, giving a\nparting salute with his hat, as the pair of gentlemen trotted past the\nlimes in question. \"I know my wife always watches at her window until we\nare round this corner. I hope we shall have you seeing the trees and the\nhouse again, Mr. Warrington; and the boys being at home, mayhap there\nwill be better sport for you.\"\n\n\"I never want to be happier, sir, than I have been,\" replied Mr.\nWarrington; \"and I hope you will let me say, that I feel as if I am\nleaving quite old friends behind me.\"\n\n\"The friend at whose house we shall sup to-night hath a son, who is\nan old friend of our family, too; and my wife, who is an inveterate\nmarriage-monger, would have made a match between him and one of my\ngirls, but that the Colonel hath chosen to fall in love with somebody\nelse.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" sighed Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Other folks have done the same thing. There were brave fellows before\nAgamemnon.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir. Is the gentleman's name--Aga----? I did not\nquite gather it,\" meekly inquired the young traveller.\n\n\"No, his name is James Wolfe,\" cried the Colonel, smiling. \"He is a\nyoung fellow still, or what we call so, being scarce thirty years old.\nHe is the youngest lieutenant-colonel in the army, unless, to be sure,\nwe except a few scores of our nobility, who take rank before us common\nfolk.\"\n\n\"Of course of course!\" says the Colonel's young companion with true\ncolonial notions of aristocratic precedence.\n\n\"And I have seen him commanding captains, and very brave captains, who\nwere thirty years his seniors, and who had neither his merit nor his\ngood fortune. But, lucky as he hath been, no one envies his superiority,\nfor, indeed, most of us acknowledge that he is our superior. He is\nbeloved by every man of our old regiment and knows every one of them. He\nis a good scholar as well as a consummate soldier, and a master of many\nlanguages.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir!\" said Harry Warrington, with a sigh of great humility; \"I feel\nthat I have neglected my own youth sadly; and am come to England but an\nignoramus. Had my dear brother been alive, he would have represented our\nname and our colony, too, better than I can do. George was a scholar;\nGeorge was a musician; George could talk with the most learned people\nin our country, and I make no doubt would have held his own here. Do you\nknow, sir, I am glad to have come home, and to you especially, if but to\nlearn how ignorant I am.\"\n\n\"If you know that well, 'tis a great gain already,\" said the Colonel,\nwith a smile.\n\n\"At home, especially of late, and since we lost my brother, I used to\nthink myself a mighty fine fellow, and have no doubt that the folks\nround about flattered me. I am wiser now,--that is, I hope I am,--though\nperhaps I am wrong, and only bragging again. But you see, sir, the\ngentry in our colony don't know very much, except about dogs and horses,\nand betting and games. I wish I knew more about books, and less about\nthem.\"\n\n\"Nay. Dogs and horses are very good books, too, in their way, and we may\nread a deal of truth out of 'em. Some men are not made to be scholars,\nand may be very worthy citizens and gentlemen in spite of their\nignorance. What call have all of us to be especially learned or wise, or\nto take a first place in the world? His Royal Highness is commander, and\nMartin Lambert is colonel, and Jack Hunt, who rides behind yonder, was a\nprivate soldier, and is now a very honest, worthy groom. So as we all\ndo our best in our station, it matters not much whether that be high\nor low. Nay, how do we know what is high and what is low? and whether\nJack's currycomb, or my epaulets, or his Royal Highness's baton, may\nnot turn out to be pretty equal? When I began life, et militavi non\nsine--never mind what--I dreamed of success and honour; now I think of\nduty, and yonder folks, from whom we parted a few hours ago. Let us trot\non, else we shall not reach Westerham before nightfall.\"\n\nAt Westerham the two friends were welcomed by their hosts, a stately\nmatron, an old soldier, whose recollections and services were of\nfive-and-forty years back, and the son of this gentleman and lady, the\nLieutenant-Colonel of Kingsley's regiment, that was then stationed at\nMaidstone, whence the Colonel had come over on a brief visit to his\nparents. Harry looked with some curiosity at this officer, who, young\nas he was, had seen so much service, and obtained a character so high.\nThere was little of the beautiful in his face. He was very lean and very\npale; his hair was red, his nose and cheek-bones were high; but he had\na fine courtesy towards his elders, a cordial greeting towards his\nfriends, and an animation in conversation which caused those who heard\nhim to forget, even to admire, his homely looks.\n\nMr. Warrington was going to Tunbridge? Their James would bear him\ncompany, the lady of the house said, and whispered something to Colonel\nLambert at supper, which occasioned smiles and a knowing wink or two\nfrom that officer. He called for wine, and toasted \"Miss Lowther.\" \"With\nall my heart,\" cried the enthusiastic Colonel James, and drained his\nglass to the very last drop. Mamma whispered her friend how James and\nthe lady were going to make a match, and how she came of the famous\nLowther family of the North.\n\n\"If she was the daughter of King Charlemagne,\" cries Lambert, \"she is\nnot too good for James Wolfe, or for his mother's son.\"\n\n\"Mr. Lambert would not say so if he knew her,\" the young Colonel\ndeclared.\n\n\"Oh, of course, she is the priceless pearl, and you are nothing,\" cries\nmamma. \"No. I am of Colonel Lambert's opinion; and, if she brought all\nCumberland to you for a jointure, I should say it was my James's due.\nThat is the way with 'em, Mr. Warrington. We tend our children through\nfevers, and measles, and whooping-cough, and small-pox; we send them to\nthe army and can't sleep at night for thinking; we break our hearts at\nparting with 'em, and have them at home only for a week or two in the\nyear, or maybe ten years, and, after all our care, there comes a lass\nwith a pair of bright eyes, and away goes our boy, and never cares a fig\nfor us afterwards.\"\n\n\"And pray, my dear, how did you come to marry James's papa?\" said\nthe elder Colonel Wolfe. \"And why didn't you stay at home with your\nparents?\"\n\n\"Because James's papa was gouty, and wanted somebody to take care of\nhim, I suppose; not because I liked him a bit,\" answers the lady: and so\nwith much easy talk and kindness the evening passed away.\n\nOn the morrow, and with many expressions of kindness and friendship for\nhis late guest, Colonel Lambert gave over the young Virginian to Mr.\nWolfe's charge, and turned his horse's head homewards, while the two\ngentlemen sped towards Tunbridge Wells. Wolfe was in a hurry to reach\nthe place, Harry Warrington was, perhaps, not quite so eager: nay, when\nLambert rode towards his own home, Harry's thoughts followed him with\na great deal of longing desire to the parlour at Oakhurst, where he\nhad spent three days in happy calm. Mr. Wolfe agreed in all Harry's\nenthusiastic praises of Mr. Lambert, and of his wife, and of his\ndaughters, and of all that excellent family. \"To have such a good name,\nand to live such a life as Colonel Lambert's,\" said Wolfe, \"seem to me\nnow the height of human ambition.\"\n\n\"And glory and honour?\" asked Warrington, \"are those nothing? and would\nyou give up the winning of them?\"\n\n\"They were my dreams once,\" answered the Colonel, who had now different\nideas of happiness, \"and now my desires are much more tranquil. I have\nfollowed arms ever since I was fourteen years of age. I have seen almost\nevery kind of duty connected with my calling. I know all the garrison\ntowns in this country, and have had the honour to serve wherever there\nhas been work to be done during the last ten years. I have done pretty\nnear the whole of a soldier's duty, except, indeed, the command of\nan army, which can hardly be hoped for by one of my years; and now,\nmethinks, I would like quiet, books to read, a wife to love me, and some\nchildren to dandle on my knee. I have imagined some such Elysium for\nmyself, Mr. Warrington. True love is better than glory; and a tranquil\nfireside, with the woman of your heart seated by it, the greatest good\nthe gods can send to us.\"\n\nHarry imagined to himself the picture which his comrade called up. He\nsaid \"Yes,\" in answer to the other's remark; but, no doubt, did not give\na very cheerful assent, for his companion observed upon the expression\nof his face.\n\n\"You say 'Yes' as if a fireside and a sweetheart were not particularly\nto your taste.\"\n\n\"Why, look you, Colonel, there are other things which a young fellow\nmight like to enjoy. You have had sixteen years of the world: and I am\nbut a few months away from my mother's apron-strings. When I have seen\na campaign or two, or six, as you have: when I have distinguished myself\nlike Mr. Wolfe, and made the world talk of me, I then may think of\nretiring from it.\"\n\nTo these remarks, Mr. Wolfe, whose heart was full of a very different\nmatter, replied by breaking out in a further encomium of the joys of\nmarriage; and a special rhapsody upon the beauties and merits of his\nmistress--a theme intensely interesting to himself, though not so,\npossibly, to his hearer, whose views regarding a married life, if\nhe permitted himself to entertain any, were somewhat melancholy and\ndespondent. A pleasant afternoon brought them to the end of their ride;\nnor did any accident or incident accompany it, save, perhaps, a mistake\nwhich Harry Warrington made at some few miles' distance from Tunbridge\nWells, where two horsemen stopped them, whom Harry was for charging,\npistol in hand, supposing them to be highwaymen. Colonel Wolfe,\nlaughing, bade Mr. Warrington reserve his fire, for these folks were\nonly innkeepers' agents, and not robbers (except in their calling).\nGumbo, whose horse ran away with him at this particular juncture, was\nbrought back after a great deal of bawling on his master's part, and the\ntwo gentlemen rode into the little town, alighted at their inn, and then\nseparated, each in quest of the ladies whom he had come to visit.\n\nMr. Warrington found his aunt installed in handsome lodgings, with a\nguard of London lacqueys in her anteroom, and to follow her chair when\nshe went abroad. She received him with the utmost kindness. His cousin,\nmy Lady Maria, was absent when he arrived: I don't know whether the\nyoung gentleman was unhappy at not seeing her: or whether he disguised\nhis feelings, or whether Madame de Bernstein took any note regarding\nthem.\n\nA beau in a rich figured suit, the first specimen of the kind Harry had\nseen, and two dowagers with voluminous hoops and plenty of rouge, were\non a visit to the Baroness when her nephew made his bow to her. She\nintroduced the young man to these personages as her nephew, the young\nCroesus out of Virginia, of whom they had heard. She talked about the\nimmensity of his estate, which was as large as Kent; and, as she had\nread, infinitely more fruitful. She mentioned how her half-sister, Madam\nEsmond, was called Princess Pocahontas in her own country. She never\ntired in her praises of mother and son, of their riches and their good\nqualities. The beau shook the young man by the hand, and was delighted\nto have the honour to make his acquaintance. The ladies praised him\nto his aunt so loudly that the modest youth was fain to blush at their\ncompliments. They went away to inform the Tunbridge society of the news\nof his arrival. The little place was soon buzzing with accounts of the\nwealth, the good breeding, and the good looks of the Virginian.\n\n\"You could not have come at a better moment, my dear,\" the Baroness said\nto her nephew, as her visitors departed with many curtseys and congees.\n\"Those three individuals have the most active tongues in the Wells. They\nwill trumpet your good qualities in every company where they go. I have\nintroduced you to a hundred people already, and, Heaven help me! have\ntold all sorts of fibs about the geography of Virginia in order to\ndescribe your estate. It is a prodigious large one, but I am afraid I\nhave magnified it. I have filled it with all sorts of wonderful animals,\ngold mines, spices; I am not sure I have not said diamonds. As for\nyour negroes, I have given your mother armies of them, and, in fact,\nrepresented her as a sovereign princess reigning over a magnificent\ndominion. So she has a magnificent dominion: I cannot tell to a few\nhundred thousand pounds how much her yearly income is, but I have no\ndoubt it is a very great one. And you must prepare, sir, to be treated\nhere as the heir-apparent of this royal lady. Do not let your head be\nturned. From this day forth you are going to be flattered as you have\nnever been flattered in your life.\"\n\n\"And to what end, ma'am?\" asked the young gentleman. \"I see no reason\nwhy I should be reputed so rich, or get so much flattery.\"\n\n\"In the first place, sir, you must not contradict your old aunt, who\nhas no desire to be made a fool of before her company. And as for your\nreputation, you must know we found it here almost ready-made on our\narrival. A London newspaper has somehow heard of you, and come out with\na story of the immense wealth of a young gentleman from Virginia lately\nlanded, and a nephew of my Lord Castlewood. Immensely wealthy you are,\nand can't help yourself. All the world is eager to see you. You shall\ngo to church to-morrow morning, and see how the whole congregation will\nturn away from its books and prayers, to worship the golden calf in your\nperson. You would not have had me undeceive them, would you, and speak\nill of my own flesh and blood?\"\n\n\"But how am I bettered by this reputation for money?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"You are making your entry into the world, and the gold key will open\nmost of its doors to you. To be thought rich is as good as to be rich.\nYou need not spend much money. People will say that you hoard it, and\nyour reputation for avarice will do you good rather than harm. You'll\nsee how the mothers will smile upon you, and the daughters will curtsey!\nDon't look surprised! When I was a young woman myself I did as all\nthe rest of the world did, and tried to better myself by more than one\ndesperate attempt at a good marriage. Your poor grandmother, who was a\nsaint upon earth to be sure, bating a little jealousy, used to scold me,\nand called me worldly. Worldly, my dear! So is the world worldly; and\nwe must serve it as it serves us; and give it nothing for nothing. Mr.\nHenry Esmond Warrington--I can't help loving the two first names, sir,\nold woman as I am, and that I tell you--on coming here or to London,\nwould have been nobody. Our protection would have helped him but little.\nOur family has little credit, and, entre nous, not much reputation. I\nsuppose you know that Castlewood was more than suspected in '45, and\nhath since ruined himself by play?\"\n\nHarry had never heard about Lord Castlewood or his reputation.\n\n\"He never had much to lose, but he has lost that and more: his wretched\nestate is eaten up with mortgages. He has been at all sorts of schemes\nto raise money:--my dear, he has been so desperate at times, that I did\nnot think my diamonds were safe with him; and have travelled to and from\nCastlewood without them. Terrible, isn't it, to speak so of one's own\nnephew? But you are my nephew, too, and not spoiled by the world yet,\nand I wish to warn you of its wickedness. I heard of your play-doings\nwith Will and the chaplain, but they could do you no harm,--nay, I am\ntold you had the better of them. Had you played with Castlewood, you\nwould have had no such luck: and you would have played, had not an old\naunt of yours warned my Lord Castlewood to keep his hands off you.\"\n\n\"What, ma'am, did you interfere to preserve me?\"\n\n\"I kept his clutches off from you: be thankful that you are come out of\nthat ogre's den with any flesh on your bones! My dear, it has been the\nrage and passion of all our family. My poor silly brother played; both\nhis wives played, especially the last one, who has little else to live\nupon now but her nightly assemblies in London, and the money for the\ncards. I would not trust her at Castlewood alone with you: the passion\nis too strong for them, and they would fall upon you, and fleece you;\nand then fall upon each other, and fight for the plunder. But for his\nplace about the Court my poor nephew hath nothing, and that is Will's\nfortune, too, sir, and Maria's and her sister's.\"\n\n\"And are they, too, fond of the cards?\"\n\n\"No; to do poor Molly justice, gaming is not her passion: but when she\nis amongst them in London, little Fanny will bet her eyes out of her\nhead. I know what the passion is, sir: do not look so astonished; I have\nhad it, as I had the measles when I was a child. I am not cured quite.\nFor a poor old woman there is nothing left but that. You will see some\nhigh play at my card-tables to-night. Hush! my dear. It was that I\nwanted, and without which I moped so at Castlewood! I could not win of\nmy nieces or their mother. They would not pay if they lost. 'Tis best to\nwarn you, my dear, in time, lest you should be shocked by the discovery.\nI can't live without the cards, there's the truth!\"\n\nA few days before, and while staying with his Castlewood relatives,\nHarry, who loved cards, and cock-fighting, and betting, and every\nconceivable sport himself, would have laughed very likely at this\nconfession. Amongst that family into whose society he had fallen, many\nthings were laughed at, over which some folks looked grave. Faith and\nhonour were laughed at; pure lives were disbelieved; selfishness was\nproclaimed as common practice; sacred duties were sneeringly spoken of,\nand vice flippantly condoned. These were no Pharisees: they professed no\nhypocrisy of virtue, they flung no stones at discovered sinners:--they\nsmiled, shrugged their shoulders, and passed on. The members of this\nfamily did not pretend to be a whit better than their neighbours, whom\nthey despised heartily; they lived quite familiarly with the folks about\nwhom and whose wives they told such wicked, funny stories; they took\ntheir share of what pleasure or plunder came to hand, and lived from day\nto day till their last day came for them. Of course there are no such\npeople now; and human nature is very much changed in the last hundred\nyears. At any rate, card-playing is greatly out of mode: about that\nthere can be no doubt: and very likely there are not six ladies of\nfashion in London who know the difference between Spadille and Manille.\n\n\"How dreadfully dull you must have found those humdrum people at that\nvillage where we left you--but the savages were very kind to you,\nchild!\" said Madame de Bernstein, patting the young man's cheek with her\npretty old hand.\n\n\"They were very kind; and it was not at all dull, ma'am, and I think\nthey are some of the best people in the world,\" said Harry, with his\nface flushing up. His aunt's tone jarred upon him. He could not bear\nthat any one should speak or think lightly of the new friends whom he\nhad found. He did not want them in such company.\n\nThe old lady, imperious and prompt to anger, was about to resent the\ncheck she had received, but a second thought made her pause. \"Those two\ngirls,\" she thought, \"a sick-bed--an interesting stranger--of course\nhe has been falling in love with one of them.\" Madame Bernstein looked\nround with a mischievous glance at Lady Maria, who entered the room at\nthis juncture.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. New Acquaintances\n\n\nCousin Maria made her appearance, attended by a couple of gardener's\nboys bearing baskets of flowers, with which it was proposed to decorate\nMadame de Bernstein's drawing-room against the arrival of her ladyship's\ncompany. Three footmen in livery, gorgeously laced with worsted, set out\ntwice as many card-tables. A major-domo in black and a bag, with fine\nlaced ruffles; and looking as if he ought to have a sword by his side,\nfollowed the lacqueys bearing fasces of wax candles, which he placed\na pair on each card-table, and in the silver sconces on the wainscoted\nwall that was now gilt with the slanting rays of the sun, as was the\nprospect of the green common beyond, with its rocks and clumps of trees\nand houses twinkling in the sunshine. Groups of many-coloured figures in\nhoops and powder and brocade sauntered over the green, and dappled the\nplain with their shadows. On the other side from the Baroness's windows\nyou saw the Pantiles, where a perpetual fair was held, and heard the\nclatter and buzzing of the company. A band of music was here performing\nfor the benefit of the visitors to the Wells. Madame Bernstein's chief\nsitting-room might not suit a recluse or a student, but for those who\nliked bustle, gaiety, a bright cross light, and a view of all that was\ngoing on in the cheery busy place, no lodging could be pleasanter. And\nwhen the windows were lighted up, the passengers walking below were\naware that her ladyship was at home and holding a card-assembly, to\nwhich an introduction was easy enough. By the way, in speaking of the\npast, I think the night-life of society a hundred years since was rather\na dark life. There was not one wax-candle for ten which we now see in a\nlady's drawing-room: let alone gas and the wondrous new illuminations\nof clubs. Horrible guttering tallow smoked and stunk in passages. The\ncandle-snuffer was a notorious officer in the theatre. See Hogarth's\npictures: how dark they are, and how his feasts are, as it were,\nbegrimed with tallow! In \"Marriage a la Mode,\" in Lord Viscount\nSquanderfield's grand saloons, where he and his wife are sitting yawning\nbefore the horror-stricken steward when their party is over--there are\nbut eight candles--one on each card-table, and half a dozen in a brass\nchandelier. If Jack Briefless convoked his friends to oysters and beer\nin his chambers, Pump Court, he would have twice as many. Let us comfort\nourselves by thinking that Louis Quatorze in all his glory held his\nrevels in the dark, and bless Mr. Price and other Luciferous benefactors\nof mankind, for banishing the abominable mutton of our youth.\n\nSo Maria with her flowers (herself the fairest flower), popped her\nroses, sweet-williams, and so forth, in vases here and there, and\nadorned the apartment to the best of her art. She lingered fondly over\nthis bowl and that dragon jar, casting but sly timid glances the while\nat young cousin Harry, whose own blush would have become any young\nwoman, and you might have thought that she possibly intended to outstay\nher aunt; but that Baroness, seated in her arm-chair, her crooked\ntortoiseshell stick in her hand, pointed the servants imperiously to\ntheir duty; rated one and the other soundly: Tom for having a darn in\nhis stocking; John for having greased his locks too profusely out of the\ncandle-box; and so forth--keeping a stern domination over them. Another\nremark concerning poor Jeames of a hundred years ago: Jeames slept two\nin a bed, four in a room, and that room a cellar very likely, and he\nwashed in a trough such as you would hardly see anywhere in London now\nout of the barracks of her Majesty's Foot Guards.\n\nIf Maria hoped a present interview, her fond heart was disappointed.\n\"Where are you going to dine, Harry?\" asks Madame de Bernstein. \"My\nniece Maria and I shall have a chicken in the little parlour--I think\nyou should go to the best ordinary. There is one at the White Horse\nat three, we shall hear his bell in a minute or two. And you will\nunderstand, sir, that you ought not to spare expense, but behave like\nPrincess Pocahontas's son. Your trunks have been taken over to the\nlodging I have engaged for you. It is not good for a lad to be always\nhanging about the aprons of two old women. Is it, Maria?\"\n\n\"No,\" says her ladyship, dropping her meek eyes; whilst the other lady's\nglared in triumph. I think Andromeda had been a good deal exposed to the\nDragon in the course of the last five or six days: and if Perseus\nhad cut the latter's cruel head off he would have committed not\nunjustifiable monstricide. But he did not bare sword or shield; he only\nlooked mechanically at the lacqueys in tawny and blue as they creaked\nabout the room.\n\n\"And there are good mercers and tailors from London always here to wait\non the company at the Wells. You had better see them, my dear, for your\nsuit is not of the very last fashion--a little lace----\"\n\n\"I can't go out of mourning, ma'am,\" said the young man, looking down at\nhis sables.\n\n\"Ho, sir,\" cried the lady, rustling up from her chair and rising on her\ncane, \"wear black for your brother till you are as old as Methuselah,\nif you like. I am sure I don't want to prevent you. I only want you to\ndress, and to do like other people, and make a figure worthy of your\nname.\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said Mr. Warrington with great state, \"I have not done anything\nto disgrace it that I know.\"\n\nWhy did the old Woman stop and give a little start as if she had been\nstruck? Let bygones be bygones. She and the boy had a score of little\npassages of this kind in which swords were crossed and thrusts rapidly\ndealt or parried. She liked Harry none the worse for his courage in\nfacing her. \"Sure a little finer linen than that shirt you wear will not\nbe a disgrace to you, sir,\" she said, with rather a forced laugh.\n\nHarry bowed and blushed. It was one of the homely gifts of his Oakhurst\nfriends. He felt pleased somehow to think he wore it; thought of the\nnew friends, so good, so pure, so simple, so kindly, with immense\ntenderness, and felt, while invested in this garment, as if evil could\nnot touch him. He said he would go to his lodging, and make a point of\nreturning arrayed in the best linen he had.\n\n\"Come back here, sir,\" said Madame Bernstein, \"and if our company has\nnot arrived, Maria and I will find some ruffles for you!\" And herewith,\nunder a footman's guidance, the young fellow walked off to his new\nlodgings.\n\nHarry found not only handsome and spacious apartments provided for him,\nbut a groom in attendance waiting to be engaged by his honour, and a\nsecond valet, if he was inclined to hire one to wait upon Mr. Gumbo. Ere\nhe had been many minutes in his rooms, emissaries from a London tailor\nand bootmaker waited him with the cards and compliments of their\nemployers, Messrs. Regnier and Tull; the best articles in his modest\nwardrobe were laid out by Gumbo, and the finest linen with which\nhis thrifty Virginian mother had provided him. Visions of the\nsnow-surrounded home in his own country, of the crackling logs and the\ntrim quiet ladies working by the fire, rose up before him. For the\nfirst time a little thought that the homely clothes were not quite smart\nenough, the home-worked linen not so fine as it might be, crossed the\nyoung man's mind. That he should be ashamed of anything belonging to him\nor to Castlewood! That was strange. The simple folks there were only too\nwell satisfied with all things that were done, or said, or produced\nat Castlewood; and Madam Esmond, when she sent her son forth on his\ntravels, thought no young nobleman need be better provided. The clothes\nmight have fitted better and been of a later fashion, to be sure--but\nstill the young fellow presented a comely figure enough when he issued\nfrom his apartments, his toilet over; and Gumbo calling a chair, marched\nbeside it, until they reached the ordinary where the young gentleman was\nto dine.\n\nHere he expected to find the beau whose acquaintance he had made a few\nhours before at his aunt's lodging, and who had indicated to Harry that\nthe White Horse was the most modish place for dining at the Wells, and\nhe mentioned his friend's name to the host: but the landlord and waiters\nleading him into the room with many smiles and bows assured his honour\nthat his honour did not need any other introduction than his own, helped\nhim to hang up his coat and sword on a peg, asked him whether he would\ndrink Burgundy, Pontac, or champagne to his dinner, and led him to a\ntable.\n\nThough the most fashionable ordinary in the village, the White Horse did\nnot happen to be crowded on this day. Monsieur Barbeau, the landlord,\ninformed Harry that there was a great entertainment at Summer Hill,\nwhich had taken away most of the company; indeed, when Harry entered\nthe room, there were but four other gentlemen in it. Two of these guests\nwere drinking wine, and had finished their dinner: the other two were\nyoung men in the midst of their meal, to whom the landlord, as he\npassed, must have whispered the name of the new-comer, for they looked\nat him with some appearance of interest, and made him a slight bow\nacross the table as the smiling host bustled away for Harry's dinner.\n\nMr. Warrington returned the salute of the two gentlemen, who bade him\nwelcome to Tunbridge, and hoped he would like the place upon better\nacquaintance. Then they smiled and exchanged waggish looks with each\nother, of which Harry did not understand the meaning, nor why they cast\nknowing glances at the two other guests over their wine.\n\nOne of these persons was in a somewhat tarnished velvet coat with a huge\nqueue and bag, and voluminous ruffles and embroidery. The other was a\nlittle beetle-browed, hook-nosed, high-shouldered gentleman, whom his\nopposite companion addressed as milor, or my lord, in a very high voice.\nMy lord, who was sipping the wine before him, barely glanced at the\nnew-comer, and then addressed himself to his own companion.\n\n\"And so you know the nephew of the old woman--the Croesus who comes to\narrive?\"\n\n\"You're thrown out there, Jack!\" says one young gentleman to the other.\n\n\"Never could manage the lingo,\" said Jack. The two elders had begun to\nspeak in the French language.\n\n\"But assuredly, my dear lord!\" says the gentleman with the long queue.\n\n\"You have shown energy, my dear Baron! He has been here but two hours.\nMy people told me of him only as I came to dinner.\"\n\n\"I knew him before!--I have met him often in London with the Baroness\nand my lord, his cousin,\" said the Baron.\n\nA smoking soup for Harry here came in, borne by the smiling host.\n\"Behold, sir! Behold a potage of my fashion!\" says my landlord, laying\ndown the dish and whispering to Harry the celebrated name of the\nnobleman opposite. Harry thanked Monsieur Barbeau in his own language,\nupon which the foreign gentleman, turning round, grinned most graciously\nat Harry, and said, \"Fous bossedez notre langue barfaidement, monsieur.\"\nMr. Warrington had never heard the French language pronounced in that\nmanner in Canada. He bowed in return to the foreign gentleman.\n\n\"Tell me more about the Croesus, my good Baron,\" continued his lordship,\nspeaking rather superciliously to his companion, and taking no notice of\nHarry, which perhaps somewhat nettled the young man.\n\n\"What will you, that I tell you, my dear lord? Croesus is a youth like\nother youths; he is tall, like other youths; he is awkward, like other\nyouths; he has black hair, as they all have who come from the Indies.\nLodgings have been taken for him at Mrs. Rose's toy-shop.\"\n\n\"I have lodgings there too,\" thought Mr. Warrington. \"Who is Croesus\nthey are talking of? How good the soup is!\"\n\n\"He travels with a large retinue,\" the Baron continued, \"four servants,\ntwo postchaises, and a pair of outriders. His chief attendant is a black\nman who saved his life from the savages in America, and who will\nnot hear, on any account, of being made free. He persists in wearing\nmourning for his elder brother from whom he inherits his principality.\"\n\n\"Could anything console you for the death of yours, Chevalier?\" cried\nout the elder gentleman.\n\n\"Milor! his property might,\" said the Chevalier, \"which you know is not\nsmall.\"\n\n\"Your brother lives on his patrimony--which you have told me is\nimmense--you by your industry, my dear Chevalier.\"\n\n\"Milor!\" cries the individual addressed as Chevalier.\n\n\"By your industry or your esprit,--how much more noble! Shall you be\nat the Baroness's to-night? She ought to be a little of your parents,\nChevalier?\"\n\n\"Again I fail to comprehend your lordship,\" said the other gentleman,\nrather sulkily.\n\n\"Why, she is a woman of great wit--she is of noble birth--she has\nundergone strange adventures--she has but little principle (there you\nhappily have the advantage of her). But what care we men of the world?\nYou intend to go and play with the young Creole, no doubt, and get as\nmuch money from him as you can. By the way, Baron, suppose he should\nbe a guet-apens, that young Creole? Suppose our excellent friend has\ninvented him up in London, and brings him down with his character for\nwealth to prey upon the innocent folks here?\"\n\n\"J'y ai souvent pense, milor,\" says the little Baron, placing his finger\nto his nose very knowingly, \"that Baroness is capable of anything.\"\n\n\"A Baron--a Baroness, que voulez-vous, my friend? I mean the late\nlamented husband. Do you know who he was?\"\n\n\"Intimately. A more notorious villain never dealt a card. At Venice, at\nBrussels, at Spa, at Vienna--the gaols of every one of which places he\nknew. I knew the man, my lord.\"\n\n\"I thought you would. I saw him at the Hague, where I first had the\nhonour of meeting you, and a more disreputable rogue never entered my\ndoors. A minister must open them to all sorts of people, Baron,--spies,\nsharpers, ruffians of every sort.\"\n\n\"Parbleu, milor, how you treat them!\" says my lord's companion.\n\n\"A man of my rank, my friend--of the rank I held then--of course, must\nsee all sorts of people--entre autres your acquaintance. What his wife\ncould want with such a name as his I can't conceive.\"\n\n\"Apparently, it was better than the lady's own.\"\n\n\"Effectively! So I have heard of my friend Paddy changing clothes with\nthe scarecrow. I don't know which name is the most distinguished, that\nof the English bishop or the German baron.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried the other gentleman, rising and laying his hand on\na large star on his coat, \"you forget that I, too, am a Baron and a\nChevalier of the Holy Roman----\"\n\n\"--Order of the Spur!--not in the least, my dear knight and baron!\nYou will have no more wine? We shall meet at Madame de Bernstein's\nto-night.\" The knight and baron quitted the table, felt in his\nembroidered pockets, as if for money to give the waiter, who brought him\nhis great laced hat, and waving that menial off with a hand surrounded\nby large ruffles and blazing rings, he stalked away from the room.\n\nIt was only when the person addressed as my lord had begun to speak of\nthe bishop's widow and the German baron's wife that Harry Warrington\nwas aware how his aunt and himself had been the subject of the two\ngentlemen's conversation. Ere the conviction had settled itself on his\nmind, one of the speakers had quitted the room, and the other, turning\nto a table at which two gentlemen sate, said, \"What a little sharper it\nis! Everything I said about Bernstein relates mutato nomine to him. I\nknew the fellow to be a spy and a rogue. He has changed his religion I\ndon't know how many times. I had him turned out of the Hague myself when\nI was ambassador, and I know he was caned in Vienna.\"\n\n\"I wonder my Lord Chesterfield associates with such a villain!\" called\nout Harry from his table. The other couple of diners looked at him. To\nhis surprise the nobleman so addressed went on talking.\n\n\"There cannot be a more fieffe coquin than this Poellnitz. Why, Heaven\nbe thanked, he has actually left me my snuff-box! You laugh?--the fellow\nis capable of taking it.\" And my lord thought it was his own satire at\nwhich the young men were laughing.\n\n\"You are quite right, sir,\" said one of the two diners, turning to Mr.\nWarrington, \"though, saving your presence, I don't know what business it\nis of yours. My lord will play with anybody who will set him. Don't be\nalarmed, he is as deaf as a post, and did not hear a word that you said;\nand that's why my lord will play with anybody who will put a pack of\ncards before him, and that is the reason why he consorts with this\nrogue.\"\n\n\"Faith, I know other noblemen who are not particular as to their\ncompany,\" says Mr. Jack.\n\n\"Do you mean because I associate with you? I know my company, my good\nfriend, and I defy most men to have the better of me.\"\n\nNot having paid the least attention to Mr. Warrington's angry\ninterruption, my lord opposite was talking in his favourite French with\nMonsieur Barbeau, the landlord, and graciously complimenting him on\nhis dinner. The host bowed again and again; was enchanted that his\nExcellency was satisfied: had not forgotten the art which he had learned\nwhen he was a young man in his Excellency's kingdom of Ireland. The\nsalmi was to my lord's liking? He had just served a dish to the young\nAmerican seigneur who sate opposite, the gentleman from Virginia.\n\n\"To whom?\" My lord's pale face became red for a moment, as he asked this\nquestion, and looked towards Harry Warrington, opposite to him.\n\n\"To the young gentleman from Virginia who has just arrived, and who\nperfectly possesses our beautiful language!\" says Mr. Barbeau, thinking\nto kill two birds, as it were, with this one stone of a compliment.\n\n\"And to whom your lordship will be answerable for language reflecting\nupon my family, and uttered in the presence of these gentlemen,\"\ncried out Mr. Warrington, at the top of his voice, determined that his\nopponent should hear.\n\n\"You must go and call into his ear, and then he may perchance hear you,\"\nsaid one of the younger guests.\n\n\"I will take care that his lordship shall understand my meaning, one way\nor other,\" Mr. Warrington said, with much dignity; \"and will not suffer\ncalumnies regarding my relatives to be uttered by him or any other man!\"\n\nWhilst Harry was speaking, the little nobleman opposite to him did\nnot hear him, but had time sufficient to arrange his own reply. He had\nrisen, passing his handkerchief once or twice across his mouth, and\nlaying his slim fingers on the table. \"Sir,\" said he, \"you will believe,\non the word of a gentleman, that I had no idea before whom I was\nspeaking, and it seems that my acquaintance, Monsieur de Poellnitz, knew\nyou no better than myself. Had I known you, believe me that I should\nhave been the last man in the world to utter a syllable that should give\nyou annoyance; and I tender you my regrets and apologies, before my Lord\nMarch and Mr. Morris here present.\"\n\nTo these words, Mr. Warrington could only make a bow, and mumble out a\nfew words of acknowledgment: which speech having made believe to hear,\nmy lord made Harry another very profound bow, and saying he should have\nthe honour of waiting upon Mr. Warrington at his lodgings, saluted the\ncompany, and went away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. In which we are at a very Great Distance from Oakhurst\n\n\nWithin the precinct of the White Horse Tavern, and coming up to the\nwindows of the eating-room, was a bowling-green, with a table or two,\nwhere guests might sit and partake of punch or tea. The three gentlemen\nhaving come to an end of their dinner about the same time, Mr. Morris\nproposed that they should adjourn to the Green, and there drink a cool\nbottle. \"Jack Morris would adjourn to the Dust Hole, as a pretext for\na fresh drink,\" said my lord. On which Jack said he supposed each\ngentleman had his own favourite way of going to the deuce. His weakness,\nhe owned, was a bottle.\n\n\"My Lord Chesterfield's deuce is deuce-ace,\" says my Lord March. \"His\nlordship can't keep away from the cards or dice.\"\n\n\"My Lord March has not one devil, but several devils. He loves gambling,\nhe loves horse-racing, he loves betting, he loves drinking, he loves\neating, he loves money, he loves women; and you have fallen into bad\ncompany, Mr. Warrington, when you lighted upon his lordship. He will\nplay you for every acre you have in Virginia.\"\n\n\"With the greatest pleasure in life, Mr. Warrington!\" interposes my\nlord.\n\n\"And for all your tobacco, and for all your spices, and for all your\nslaves, and for all your oxen and asses, and for everything that is\nyours.\"\n\n\"Shall we begin now? Jack, you are never without a dice-box or a\nbottle-screw. I will set Mr. Warrington for what he likes.\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, my lord, the tobacco, and the slaves, and the asses, and\nthe oxen, are not mine, as yet. I am just of age, and my mother, scarce\ntwenty years older, has quite as good chance of long life as I have.\"\n\n\"I will bet you that you survive her. I will pay you a sum now against\nfour times the sum to be paid at her death. I will set you a fair sum\nover this table against the reversion of your estate in Virginia at the\nold lady's departure. What do you call your place?\"\n\n\"Castlewood.\"\n\n\"A principality, I hear it is. I will bet that its value has been\nexaggerated ten times at least amongst the quidnuncs here. How came\nyou by the name of Castlewood?--you are related to my lord? Oh, stay: I\nknow,--my lady, your mother, descends from the real head of the house.\nHe took the losing side in '15. I have had the story a dozen times from\nmy old Duchess. She knew your grandfather. He was friend of Addison and\nSteele, and Pope and Milton, I dare say, and the bigwigs. It is a pity\nhe did not stay at home, and transport the other branch of the family to\nthe plantations.\"\n\n\"I have just been staying at Castlewood with my cousin there,\" remarked\nMr. Warrington.\n\n\"Hm! Did you play with him? He's fond of pasteboard and bones.\"\n\n\"Never, but for sixpences and a pool of commerce with the ladies.\"\n\n\"So much the better for both of you. But you played with Will Esmond if\nhe was at home? I will lay ten to one you played with Will Esmond.\"\n\nHarry blushed, and owned that of an evening his cousin and he had had a\nfew games at cards.\n\n\"And Tom Sampson, the chaplain,\" cried Jack Morris, \"was he of the\nparty? I wager that Tom made a third, and the Lord deliver you from Tom\nand Will Esmond together!\"\n\n\"Nay; the truth is, I won of both of them,\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"And they paid you? Well, miracles will never cease!\"\n\n\"I did not say anything about miracles,\" remarked Mr. Harry, smiling\nover his wine.\n\n\"And you don't tell tales out of school--the volto sciolto--hey, Mr.\nWarrington?\" says my lord.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said downright Harry, \"French is the only language\nbesides my own of which I know a little.\"\n\n\"My Lord March has learned Italian at the Opera, and a pretty penny\nhis lessons have cost him,\" remarked Jack Morris. \"We must show him the\nOpera--mustn't we, March?\"\n\n\"Must we, Morris?\" said my lord, as if he only half liked the other's\nfamiliarity.\n\nBoth of the two gentlemen were dressed alike, in small scratch-wigs\nwithout powder, in blue frocks with plate buttons, in buckskins and\nriding-boots, in little hats with a narrow cord of lace, and no outward\nmark of fashion.\n\n\"I don't care about the Opera much, my lord,\" says Harry, warming with\nhis wine; \"but I should like to go to Newmarket, and long to see a good\nEnglish hunting-field.\"\n\n\"We will show you Newmarket and the hunting-field, sir. Can you ride\npretty well?\"\n\n\"I think I can,\" Harry said; \"and I can shoot pretty well, and jump\nsome.\"\n\n\"What's your weight? I bet you we weigh even, or I weigh most. I bet you\nJack Morris beats you at birds or a mark, at five-and-twenty paces. I\nbet you I jump farther than you on flat ground, here on this green.\"\n\n\"I don't know Mr. Morris's shooting--I never saw either gentleman\nbefore--but I take your bets, my lord, at what you please,\" cries Harry,\nwho by this time was more than warm with Burgundy.\n\n\"Ponies on each!\" cried my lord.\n\n\"Done and done!\" cried my lord and Harry together. The young man thought\nit was for the honour of his country not to be ashamed of any bet made\nto him.\n\n\"We can try the last bet now, if your feet are pretty steady,\" said my\nlord, springing up, stretching his arms and limbs, and looking at the\ncrisp, dry grass. He drew his boots off, then his coat and waistcoat,\nbuckling his belt round his waist, and flinging his clothes down to the\nground.\n\nHarry had more respect for his garments. It was his best suit. He took\noff the velvet coat and waistcoat, folded them up daintily, and, as the\ntwo or three tables round were slopped with drink, went to place the\nclothes on a table in the eating-room, of which the windows were open.\n\nHere a new guest had entered; and this was no other than Mr. Wolfe,\nwho was soberly eating a chicken and salad, with a modest pint of wine.\nHarry was in high spirits. He told the Colonel he had a bet with my Lord\nMarch--would Colonel Wolfe stand him halves? The Colonel said he was too\npoor to bet. Would he come out and see fair play? That he would with\nall his heart. Colonel Wolfe set down his glass, and stalked through the\nopen window after his young friend.\n\n\"Who is that tallow-faced Put with the carroty hair?\" says Jack Morris,\non whom the Burgundy had had its due effect.\n\nMr. Warrington explained that this was Lieutenant-Colonel Wolfe, of the\n20th Regiment.\n\n\"Your humble servant, gentlemen!\" says the Colonel, making the company a\nrigid military bow.\n\n\"Never saw such a figure in my life!\" cries Jack Morris. \"Did\nyou--March?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, I think you said March?\" said the Colonel, looking\nvery much surprised.\n\n\"I am the Earl of March, sir, at Colonel Wolfe's service,\" said the\nnobleman, bowing. \"My friend, Mr. Morris, is so intimate with me, that,\nafter dinner, we are quite like brothers.\"\n\nWhy is not all Tunbridge Wells by to hear this? thought Morris. And he\nwas so delighted that he shouted out, \"Two to one on my lord!\"\n\n\"Done!\" calls out Mr. Warrington; and the enthusiastic Jack was obliged\nto cry \"Done!\" too.\n\n\"Take him, Colonel,\" Harry whispers to his friend.\n\nBut the Colonel said he could not afford to lose, and therefore could\nnot hope to win.\n\n\"I see you have won one of our bets already, Mr. Warrington,\" my Lord\nMarch remarked. \"I am taller than you by an inch or two, but you are\nbroader round the shoulders.\"\n\n\"Pooh, my dear Will! I bet you you weigh twice as much as he does!\"\ncries Jack Morris.\n\n\"Done, Jack!\" says my lord, laughing. \"The bets are all ponies. Will you\ntake him, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"No, my dear fellow--one's enough,\" says Jack.\n\n\"Very good, my dear fellow,\" says my lord; \"and now we will settle the\nother wager.\"\n\nHaving already arrayed himself in his best silk stockings, black\nsatin-net breeches, and neatest pumps, Harry did not care to take off\nhis shoes as his antagonist had done, whose heavy riding-boots and spurs\nwere, to be sure, little calculated for leaping. They had before them\na fine even green turf of some thirty yards in length, enough for a run\nand enough for a jump. A gravel walk ran around this green, beyond which\nwas a wall and gate-sign--a field azure, bearing the Hanoverian White\nHorse rampant between two skittles proper, and for motto the name of the\nlandlord and of the animal depicted.\n\nMy lord's friend laid a handkerchief on the ground as the mark whence\nthe leapers were to take their jump, and Mr. Wolfe stood at the other\nend of the grass-plat to note the spot where each came down. \"My lord\nwent first,\" writes Mr. Warrington, in a letter to Mrs. Mountain, at\nCastlewood, Virginia, still extant. \"He was for having me take the lead;\nbut, remembering the story about the Battel of Fontanoy which my dearest\nGeorge used to tell, I says, 'Monseigneur le Comte, tirez le premier,\ns'il vous play.' So he took his run in his stocken feet, and for the\nhonour of Old Virginia, I had the gratafacation of beating his lordship\nby more than two feet--viz., two feet nine inches--me jumping twenty-one\nfeet three inches, by the drawer's measured tape, and his lordship only\neighteen six. I had won from him about my weight before (which I knew\nthe moment I set my eye upon him). So he and Mr. Jack paid me these two\nbetts. And with my best duty to my mother--she will not be displeased\nwith me, for I bett for the honor of the Old Dominion, and my opponent\nwas a nobleman of the first quality, himself holding two Erldomes, and\nheir to a Duke. Betting is all the rage here, and the bloods and young\nfellows of fashion are betting away from morning till night.\n\n\"I told them--and that was my mischief perhaps--that there was a\ngentleman at home who could beat me by a good foot; and when they asked\nwho it was, and I said Col. G. Washington, of Mount Vernon--as you know\nhe can, and he's the only man in his county or mine that can do it--Mr.\nWolfe asked me ever so many questions about Col. G. W., and showed that\nhe had heard of him, and talked over last year's unhappy campane as\nif he knew every inch of the ground, and he knew the names of all our\nrivers, only he called the Potowmac Pottamac, at which we had a\ngood laugh at him. My Lord of March and Ruglen was not in the least\nill-humour about losing, and he and his friend handed me notes out of\ntheir pocket-books, which filled mine that was getting very empty, for\nthe vales to the servants at my cousin Castlewood's house and buying\na horse at Oakhurst have very nearly put me on the necessity of making\nanother draft upon my honoured mother or her London or Bristol agent.\"\n\nThese feats of activity over, the four gentlemen now strolled out of the\ntavern garden into the public walk, where, by this time, a great deal of\ncompany was assembled: upon whom Mr. Jack, who was of a frank and free\nnature, with a loud voice, chose to make remarks that were not always\nagreeable. And here, if my Lord March made a joke, of which his lordship\nwas not sparing, Jack roared, \"Oh, ho, ho! Oh, good Gad! Oh, my dear\nearl! Oh, my dear lord, you'll be the death of me!\" \"It seemed as if he\nwished everybody to know,\" writes Harry sagaciously to Mrs. Mountain,\n\"that his friend and companion was an Erl!\"\n\nThere was, indeed, a great variety of characters who passed. M.\nPoellnitz, no finer dressed than he had been at dinner, grinned, and\nsaluted with his great laced hat and tarnished feathers. Then came by\nmy Lord Chesterfield, in a pearl-coloured suit, with his blue ribbon and\nstar, and saluted the young men in his turn.\n\n\"I will back the old boy for taking his hat off against the whole\nkingdom, and France either,\" says my Lord March. \"He has never changed\nthe shape of that hat of his for twenty years. Look at it. There it goes\nagain! Do you see that great, big, awkward, pock-marked, snuff-coloured\nman, who hardly touches his clumsy beaver in reply. D---- his confounded\nimpudence--do you know who that is?\"\n\n\"No, curse him! Who is it, March?\" asks Jack, with an oath.\n\n\"It's one Johnson, a Dictionary-maker, about whom my Lord Chesterfield\nwrote some most capital papers, when his dixonary was coming out, to\npatronise the fellow. I know they were capital. I've heard Horry Walpole\nsay so, and he knows all about that kind of thing. Confound the impudent\nschoolmaster!\"\n\n\"Hang him, he ought to stand in the pillory!\" roars Jack.\n\n\"That fat man he's walking with is another of your writing fellows,--a\nprinter,--his name is Richardson; he wrote Clarissa, you know.\"\n\n\"Great heavens! my lord, is that the great Richardson? Is that the man\nwho wrote Clarissa?\" called out Colonel Wolfe and Mr. Warrington, in a\nbreath.\n\nHarry ran forward to look at the old gentleman toddling along the walk\nwith a train of admiring ladies surrounding him.\n\n\"Indeed, my very dear sir,\" one was saying, \"you are too great and good\nto live in such a world; but sure you were sent to teach it virtue!\"\n\n\"Ah, my Miss Mulso! Who shall teach the teacher?\" said the good, fat old\nman, raising a kind, round face skywards. \"Even he has his faults and\nerrors! Even his age and experience does not prevent him from stumbl---.\nHeaven bless my soul, Mr. Johnson! I ask your pardon if I have trodden\non your corn.\"\n\n\"You have done both, sir. You have trodden on the corn, and received the\npardon,\" said Mr. Johnson, and went on mumbling some verses, swaying to\nand fro, his eyes turned towards the ground, his hands behind him, and\noccasionally endangering with his great stick the honest, meek eyes of\nhis companion-author.\n\n\"They do not see very well, my dear Mulso,\" he says to the young lady,\n\"but such as they are, I would keep my lash from Mr. Johnson's cudgel.\nYour servant, sir.\" Here he made a low bow, and took off his hat to Mr.\nWarrington, who shrank back with many blushes, after saluting the great\nauthor. The great author was accustomed to be adored. A gentler wind\nnever puffed mortal vanity. Enraptured spinsters flung tea-leaves round\nhim, and incensed him with the coffee-pot. Matrons kissed the slippers\nthey had worked for him. There was a halo of virtue round his nightcap.\nAll Europe had thrilled, panted, admired, trembled, wept, over the pages\nof the immortal little, kind, honest man with the round paunch. Harry\ncame back quite glowing and proud at having a bow from him. \"Ah!\" says\nhe, \"my lord, I am glad to have seen him!\"\n\n\"Seen him! why, dammy, you may see him any day in his shop, I suppose?\"\nsays Jack, with a laugh.\n\n\"My brother declared that he, and Mr. Fielding, I think, was the name,\nwere the greatest geniuses in England; and often used to say, that when\nwe came to Europe, his first pilgrimage would be to Mr. Richardson,\"\ncried Harry, always impetuous, honest, and tender, when he spoke of the\ndearest friend.\n\n\"Your brother spoke like a man,\" cried Mr. Wolfe, too, his pale face\nlikewise flushing up. \"I would rather be a man of genius, than a peer of\nthe realm.\"\n\n\"Every man to his taste, Colonel,\" says my lord, much amused. \"Your\nenthusiasm--I don't mean anything personal--refreshes me, on my honour\nit does.\"\n\n\"So it does me--by gad--perfectly refreshes me,\" cries Jack\n\n\"So it does Jack--you see--it actually refreshes Jack! I say, Jack,\nwhich would you rather be?--a fat old printer,\" who has written a story\nabout a confounded girl and a fellow that ruins her,--or a peer of\nParliament with ten thousand a year?\"\n\n\"March--my Lord March, do you take me for a fool?\" says Jack, with a\ntearful voice. \"Have I done anything to deserve this language from you?\"\n\n\"I would rather win honour than honours: I would rather have genius than\nwealth. I would rather make my name than inherit it, though my father's,\nthank God, is an honest one,\" said the young Colonel. \"But pardon me,\ngentlemen,\" and here making, them a hasty salutation, he ran across the\nparade towards a young and elderly lady and a gentleman, who were now\nadvancing.\n\n\"It is the beautiful Miss Lowther. I remember now,\" says my lord. \"See!\nhe takes her arm! The report is, he is engaged to her.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say such a fellow is engaged to any of the Lowthers\nof the North?\" cries out Jack. \"Curse me, what is the world come to,\nwith your printers, and your half-pay ensigns, and your schoolmasters,\nand your infernal nonsense?\"\n\nThe Dictionary-maker, who had shown so little desire to bow to my Lord\nChesterfield, when that famous nobleman courteously saluted him, was\nhere seen to take off his beaver, and bow almost to the ground, before\na florid personage in a large round hat, with bands and a gown, who\nmade his appearance in the Walk. This was my Lord Bishop of Salisbury,\nwearing complacently the blue riband and badge of the Garter, of which\nNoble Order his lordship was prelate.\n\nMr. Johnson stood, hat in hand, during the whole time of his\nconversation with Dr. Gilbert; who made many flattering and benedictory\nremarks to Mr. Richardson, declaring that he was the supporter of\nvirtue, the preacher of sound morals, the mainstay of religion, of all\nwhich points the honest printer himself was perfectly convinced.\n\nDo not let any young lady trip to her grandpapa's bookcase in\nconsequence of this eulogium, and rashly take down Clarissa from the\nshelf. She would not care to read the volumes, over which her pretty\nancestresses wept and thrilled a hundred years ago; which were commended\nby divines from pulpits and belauded all Europe over. I wonder, are our\nwomen more virtuous than their grandmothers, or only more squeamish? If\nthe former, then Miss Smith of New York is certainly more modest than\nMiss Smith of London, who still does not scruple to say that tables,\npianos, and animals have legs. Oh, my faithful, good old Samuel\nRichardson! Hath the news yet reached thee in Hades that thy sublime\nnovels are huddled away in corners, and that our daughters may no more\nread Clarissa than Tom Jones? Go up, Samuel, and be reconciled with\nthy brother-scribe, whom in life thou didst hate so. I wonder whether\na century hence the novels of to-day will be hidden behind locks and\nwires, and make pretty little maidens blush?\n\n\"Who is yonder queer person in the high headdress of my grandmother's\ntime, who stops and speaks to Mr. Richardson?\" asked Harry, as a\nfantastically dressed lady came up, and performed a curtsey and a\ncompliment to the bowing printer.\n\nJack Morris nervously struck Harry a blow in the side with the butt end\nof his whip. Lord March laughed.\n\n\"Yonder queer person is my gracious kinswoman, Katharine, Duchess of\nDover and Queensberry, at your service, Mr. Warrington. She was a beauty\nprice! She is changed now, isn't she? What an old Gorgon it is! She is a\ngreat patroness of your book-men and when that old frump was young, they\nactually made verses about her.\"\n\nThe Earl quitted his friends for a moment to make his bow to the old\nDuchess, Jack Morris explaining to Mr. Warrington how, at the Duke's\ndeath, my Lord of March and Ruglen would succeed to his cousin's\ndukedoms.\n\n\"I suppose,\" says Harry, simply, \"his lordship is here in attendance\nupon the old lady?\"\n\nJack burst into a loud laugh.\n\n\"Oh yes! very much! exactly!\" says he. \"Why, my dear fellow, you don't\nmean to say you haven't heard about the little Opera-dancer?\"\n\n\"I am but lately arrived in England, Mr. Morris,\" said Harry, with a\nsmile, \"and in Virginia, I own, we have not heard much about the little\nOpera-dancer.\"\n\nLuckily for us, the secret about the little Opera-dancer never was\nrevealed, for the young men's conversation was interrupted by a lady in\na cardinal cape, and a hat by no means unlike those lovely headpieces\nwhich have returned into vogue a hundred years after the date of our\npresent history, who made a profound curtsey to the two gentlemen and\nreceived their salutation in return. She stopped opposite to Harry; she\nheld out her hand, rather to his wonderment:\n\n\"Have you so soon forgotten me, Mr. Warrington?\" she said.\n\nOff went Harry's hat in an instant. He started, blushed, stammered, and\ncalled out Good Heavens! as if there had been any celestial wonder in\nthe circumstance! It was Lady Maria come out for a walk. He had not been\nthinking about her. She was, to say truth, for the moment so utterly\nout of the young gentleman's mind, that her sudden re-entry there and\nappearance in the body startled Mr. Warrington's faculties, and caused\nthose guilty blushes to crowd into his cheeks.\n\nNo. He was not even thinking of her! A week ago--a year, a hundred years\nago it seemed--he would not have been surprised to meet her anywhere.\nAppearing from amidst darkling shrubberies, gliding over green garden\nterraces, loitering on stairs or corridors, hovering even in his dreams,\nall day or all night, bodily or spiritually, he had been accustomed to\nmeet her. A week ago his heart used to beat. A week ago, and at the very\ninstant when he jumped out of his sleep, there was her idea smiling on\nhim. And it was only last Tuesday that his love was stabbed and slain,\nand he not only had left off mourning for her, but had forgotten her!\n\n\"You will come and walk with me a little?\" she said. \"Or would you like\nthe music best? I dare say you will like the music best.\"\n\n\"You know,\" said Harry, \"I don't care about any music much, except\"--he\nwas thinking of the evening hymn--\"except of your playing.\" He turned\nvery red again as he spoke, he felt he was perjuring himself horribly.\n\nThe poor lady was agitated herself by the flutter and agitation which\nshe saw in her young companion. Gracious Heaven! Could that tremor\nand excitement mean that she was mistaken, and that the lad was still\nfaithful? \"Give me your arm, and let us take a little walk,\" she said,\nwaving round a curtsey to the other two gentlemen: \"my aunt is asleep\nafter her dinner.\" Harry could not but offer the arm, and press the hand\nthat lay against his heart. Maria made another fine curtsey to Harry's\nbowing companions, and walked off with her prize. In her griefs, in\nher rages, in the pains and anguish of wrong and desertion, how a woman\nremembers to smile, curtsey, caress, dissemble! How resolutely they\ndischarge the social proprieties; how they have a word, or a hand, or\na kind little speech or reply for the passing acquaintance who crosses\nunknowing the path of the tragedy, drops a light airy remark or two\n(happy self-satisfied rogue!) and passes on. He passes on, and thinks\nthat woman was rather pleased with what I said. \"That joke I made was\nrather neat. I do really think Lady Maria looks rather favourably at me,\nand she's a dev'lish fine woman, begad she is!\" O you wiseacre! Such was\nJack Morris's observation and case as he walked away leaning on the arm\nof his noble friend, and thinking the whole Society of the Wells was\nlooking at him. He had made some exquisite remarks about a particular\nrun of cards at Lady Flushington's the night before, and Lady Maria had\nreplied graciously and neatly, and so away went Jack perfectly happy.\n\nThe absurd creature! I declare we know nothing of anybody (but that for\nmy part I know better and better every day). You enter smiling to see\nyour new acquaintance, Mrs. A. and her charming family. You make your\nbow in the elegant drawing-room of Mr. and Mrs. B.? I tell you that in\nyour course through life you are for ever putting your great clumsy foot\nupon the mute invisible wounds of bleeding tragedies. Mrs. B.'s closets\nfor what you know are stuffed with skeletons. Look there under the\nsofa-cushion. Is that merely Missy's doll, or is it the limb of\na stifled Cupid peeping out? What do you suppose are those ashes\nsmouldering in the grate?--Very likely a suttee has been offered up\nthere just before you came in: a faithful heart has been burned out upon\na callous corpse, and you are looking on the cineri doloso. You see B.\nand his wife receiving their company before dinner. Gracious powers! Do\nyou know that that bouquet which she wears is a signal to Captain C.,\nand that he will find a note under the little bronze Shakespeare on\nthe mantelpiece in the study? And with all this you go up and say\nsome uncommonly neat thing (as you fancy) to Mrs. B. about the weather\n(clever dog!), or about Lady E.'s last party (fashionable buck!), or\nabout the dear children in the nursery (insinuating rogue!). Heaven and\nearth, my good sir, how can you tell that B. is not going to pitch all\nthe children out of the nursery window this very night, or that his lady\nhas not made an arrangement for leaving them, and running off with\nthe Captain? How do you know that those footmen are not disguised\nbailiffs?--that yonder large-looking butler (really a skeleton) is not\nthe pawnbroker's man? and that there are not skeleton rotis and entrees\nunder every one of the covers? Look at their feet peeping from under the\ntablecloth. Mind how you stretch out your own lovely little slippers,\nmadam, lest you knock over a rib or two. Remark the death's-head moths\nfluttering among the flowers. See, the pale winding-sheets gleaming in\nthe wax-candles! I know it is an old story, and especially that this\npreacher has yelled vanitas vanitatum five hundred times before. I can't\nhelp always falling upon it, and cry out with particular loudness and\nwailing, and become especially melancholy, when I see a dead love tied\nto a live love. Ha! I look up from my desk, across the street: and there\ncome in Mr. and Mrs. D. from their walk in Kensington Gardens. How she\nhangs on him! how jolly and happy he looks, as the children frisk round!\nMy poor dear benighted Mrs. D., there is a Regent's Park as well as\na Kensington Gardens in the world. Go in, fond wretch! Smilingly lay\nbefore him what you know he likes for dinner. Show him the children's\ncopies and the reports of their masters. Go with Missy to the piano, and\nplay your artless duet together; and fancy you are happy!\n\nThere go Harry and Maria taking their evening walk on the common, away\nfrom the village which is waking up from its after-dinner siesta, and\nwhere the people are beginning to stir and the music to play. With the\nmusic Maria knows Madame de Bernstein will waken: with the candles\nshe must be back to the tea-table and the cards. Never mind. Here is a\nminute. It may be my love is dead, but here is a minute to kneel over\nthe grave and pray by it. He certainly was not thinking about her: he\nwas startled and did not even know her. He was laughing and talking\nwith Jack Morris and my Lord March. He is twenty years younger than she.\nNever mind. To-day is to-day in which we are all equal. This moment is\nours. Come, let us walk a little way over the heath, Harry. She will go,\nthough she feels a deadly assurance that he will tell her all is over\nbetween them, and that he loves the dark-haired girl at Oakhurst.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. Plenus Opus Aleae\n\n\n\"Let me hear about those children, child, whom I saw running about at\nthe house where they took you in, poor dear boy, after your dreadful\nfall?\" says Maria, as they paced the common. \"Oh, that fall, Harry! I\nthought I should have died when I saw it! You needn't squeeze one's arm\nso. You know you don't care for me?\"\n\n\"The people are the very best, kindest, dearest people I have ever met\nin the world,\" cries Mr. Warrington. \"Mrs. Lambert was a friend of my\nmother when she was in Europe for her education. Colonel Lambert is a\nmost accomplished gentleman, and has seen service everywhere. He was in\nScotland with his Royal Highness, in Flanders, at Minorca. No natural\nparents could be kinder than they were to me. How can I show my\ngratitude to them? I want to make them a present: I must make them\na present,\" says Harry, clapping his hand into his pocket, which was\nfilled with the crisp spoils of Morris and March.\n\n\"We can go to the toy-shop, my dear, and buy a couple of dolls for the\nchildren,\" says Lady Maria. \"You would offend the parents by offering\nanything like payment for their kindness.\"\n\n\"Dolls for Hester and Theo! Why, do you think a woman is not woman\ntill she is forty, Maria?\" (The arm under Harry's here gave a wince\nperhaps,--ever so slight a wince.) \"I can tell you Miss Hester by no\nmeans considers herself a child, and Miss Theo is older than her sister.\nThey know ever so many languages. They have read books--oh! piles\nand piles of books! They play on the harpsichord and sing together\nadmirable; and Theo composes, and sings songs of her own.\"\n\n\"Indeed! I scarcely saw them. I thought they were children. They looked\nquite childish. I had no idea they had all these perfections, and were\nsuch wonders of the world.\"\n\n\"That's just the way with you women! At home, if me or George praised a\nwoman, Mrs. Esmond. and Mountain, too, would be sure to find fault with\nher!\" cries Harry.\n\n\"I am sure I would find fault with no one who is kind to you, Mr.\nWarrington,\" sighed Maria, \"though you are not angry with me for envying\nthem because they had to take care of you when you were wounded and\nill--whilst I--I had to leave you?\"\n\n\"You dear good Maria!\"\n\n\"No, Harry! I am not dear and good. There, sir, you needn't be so\npressing in your attentions. Look! There is your black man walking with\na score of other wretches in livery. The horrid creatures are going\nto fuddle at the tea-garden, and get tipsy like their masters. That\ndreadful Mr. Morris was perfectly tipsy when I came to you, and\nfrightened you so.\"\n\n\"I had just won great bets from both of them. What shall I buy for\nyou, my dear cousin?\" And Harry narrated the triumphs which he had just\nachieved. He was in high spirits: he laughed, he bragged a little. \"For\nthe honour of Virginia I was determined to show them what jumping was,\"\nhe said. \"With a little practice I think I could leap two foot farther.\"\n\nMaria was pleased with the victories of her young champion. \"But you\nmust beware about play, child,\" she said. \"You know it hath been the\nruin of our family. My brother Castlewood, Will, our poor father, our\naunt, Lady Castlewood herself, they have all been victims to it: as for\nmy Lord March, he is the most dreadful gambler and the most successful\nof all the nobility.\"\n\n\"I don't intend to be afraid of him, nor of his friend Mr. Jack Morris\nneither,\" says Harry, again fingering the delightful notes. \"What do you\nplay at Aunt Bernstein's? Cribbage, all-fours, brag, whist, commerce,\npiquet, quadrille? I'm ready at any of 'em. What o'clock is that\nstriking--sure 'tis seven!\"\n\n\"And you want to begin now,\" said the plaintive Maria. \"You don't care\nabout walking with your poor cousin. Not long ago you did.\"\n\n\"Hey! Youth is youth, cousin!\" cried Mr. Harry, tossing up his head,\n\"and a young fellow must have his fling!\" and he strutted by his\npartner's side, confident, happy, and eager for pleasure. Not long ago\nhe did like to walk with her. Only yesterday, he liked to be with Theo\nand Hester, and good Mrs. Lambert; but pleasure, life, gaiety, the\ndesire to shine and to conquer, had also their temptations for the lad,\nwho seized the cup like other lads, and did not care to calculate on\nthe headache in store for the morning. Whilst he and his cousin were\ntalking, the fiddles from the open orchestra on the Parade made a great\ntuning and squeaking, preparatory to their usual evening concert. Maria\nknew her aunt was awake again, and that she must go back to her slavery.\nHarry never asked about that slavery, though he must have known it, had\nhe taken the trouble to think. He never pitied his cousin. He was not\nthinking about her at all. Yet when his mishap befell him, she had been\nwounded far more cruelly than he was. He had scarce ever been out of her\nthoughts, which of course she had had to bury under smiling hypocrisies,\nas is the way with her sex. I know, my dear Mrs. Grundy, you think she\nwas an old fool? Ah! do you suppose fools' caps do not cover grey hair,\nas well as jet or auburn? Bear gently with our elderly fredaines, O you\nMinerva of a woman! Or perhaps you are so good and wise that you don't\nread novels at all. This I know, that there are late crops of wild oats,\nas well as early harvests of them; and (from observation of self and\nneighbour) I have an idea that the avena fatua grows up to the very last\ndays of the year.\n\nLike worldly parents anxious to get rid of a troublesome child, and go\nout to their evening party, Madame Bernstein and her attendants had put\nthe sun to bed, whilst it was as yet light, and had drawn the curtains\nover it, and were busy about their cards and their candles, and their\ntea and negus, and other refreshments. One chair after another landed\nladies at the Baroness's door, more or less painted, patched, brocaded.\nTo these came gentlemen in gala raiment. Mr. Poellnitz's star was the\nlargest, and his coat the most embroidered of all present. My Lord of\nMarch and Ruglen, when he made his appearance, was quite changed from\nthe individual with whom Harry had made acquaintance at the White Horse.\nHis tight brown scratch was exchanged for a neatly curled feather\ntop, with a bag and grey powder, his jockey-dress and leather breeches\nreplaced by a rich and elegant French suit. Mr. Jack Morris had just\nsuch another wig and a suit of stuff as closely as possible resembling\nhis lordship's. Mr. Wolfe came in attendance upon his beautiful\nmistress, Miss Lowther, and her aunt who loved cards, as all the world\ndid. When my Lady Maria Esmond made her appearance, 'tis certain that\nher looks belied Madame Bernstein's account of her. Her shape was very\nfine, and her dress showed a great deal of it. Her complexion was by\nnature exceeding fair, and a dark frilled ribbon, clasped by a jewel,\nround her neck, enhanced its. snowy whiteness. Her cheeks were not\nredder than those of other ladies present, and the roses were pretty\nopenly purchased by everybody at the perfumery-shops. An artful patch\nor two, it was supposed, added to the lustre of her charms. Her hoop was\nnot larger than the iron contrivances which ladies of the present day\nhang round their persons; and we may pronounce that the costume, if\nabsurd in some points, was pleasing altogether. Suppose our ladies took\nto wearing of bangles and nose-rings? I dare say we should laugh at the\nornaments, and not dislike them, and lovers would make no difficulty\nabout lifting up the ring to be able to approach the rosy lips\nunderneath.\n\nAs for the Baroness de Bernstein, when that lady took the pains of\nmaking a grand toilette, she appeared as an object, handsome still, and\nmagnificent, but melancholy, and even somewhat terrifying to behold.\nYou read the past in some old faces, while some others lapse into\nmere meekness and content. The fires go quite out of some eyes, as the\ncrow's-feet pucker round them; they flash no longer with scorn, or\nwith anger, or love; they gaze, and no one is melted by their sapphire\nglances; they look, and no one is dazzled. My fair young reader, if\nyou are not so perfect a beauty as the peerless Lindamira, Queen of the\nBall; if, at the end of it, as you retire to bed, you meekly own that\nyou have had but two or three partners, whilst Lindamira has had a crowd\nround her all night--console yourself with thinking that, at fifty, you\nwill look as kind and pleasant as you appear now at eighteen. You will\nnot have to lay down your coach-and-six of beauty and see another step\ninto it, and walk yourself through the rest of life. You will have\nto forgo no long-accustomed homage; you will not witness and own the\ndepreciation of your smiles. You will not see fashion forsake your\nquarter; and remain all dust, gloom, cobwebs within your once splendid\nsaloons, and placards in your sad windows, gaunt, lonely, and to let!\nYou may not have known any grandeur, but you won't feel any desertion.\nYou will not have enjoyed millions, but you will have escaped\nbankruptcy. \"Our hostess,\" said my Lord Chesterfield to his friend in a\nconfidential whisper, of which the utterer did not in the least know the\nloudness, \"puts me in mind of Covent Garden in my youth. Then it was\nthe court end of the town, and inhabited by the highest fashion. Now, a\nnobleman's house is a gaming-house, or you may go in with a friend and\ncall for a bottle.\"\n\n\"Hey! a bottle and a tavern are good things in their way,\" says my Lord\nMarch, with a shrug of his shoulders. \"I was not born before the\nGeorges came in, though I intend to live to a hundred. I never knew the\nBernstein but as an old woman; and if she ever had beauty, hang me if I\nknow how she spent it.\"\n\n\"No, hang me, how did she spend it?\" laughs out Jack Morris.\n\n\"Here's a table! Shall we sit down and have a game?--Don't let the\nFrenchman come in. He won't pay. Mr. Warrington, will you take a card?\"\nMr. Warrington and my Lord Chesterfield found themselves partners\nagainst Mr. Morris and the Earl of March. \"You have come too late,\nBaron,\" says the elder nobleman to the other nobleman who was advancing.\n\"We have made our game. What, have you forgotten Mr. Warrington of\nVirginia--the young gentleman whom you met in London?\"\n\n\"The young gentleman whom I met at Arthur's Chocolate House had black\nhair, a little cocked nose, and was by no means so fortunate in his\npersonal appearance as Mr. Warrington,\" said the Baron, with much\npresence of mind. \"Warrington, Dorrington, Harrington? We of the\ncontinent cannot retain your insular names. I certify that this\ngentleman is not the individual of whom I spoke at dinner.\" And,\nglancing kindly upon him, the old beau sidled away to a farther end\nof the room, where Mr. Wolfe and Miss Lowther were engaged in deep\nconversation in the embrasure of a window. Here the Baron thought fit to\nengage the Lieutenant-Colonel upon the Prussian manual exercise, which\nhad lately been introduced into King George II.'s army--a subject with\nwhich Mr. Wolfe was thoroughly familiar, and which no doubt would\nhave interested him at any other moment but that. Nevertheless the old\ngentleman uttered his criticisms and opinions, and thought he perfectly\ncharmed the two persons to whom he communicated them.\n\nAt the commencement of the evening the Baroness received her guests\npersonally, and as they arrived engaged them in talk and introductory\ncourtesies. But as the rooms and tables filled, and the parties were\nmade up, Madame de Bernstein became more and more restless, and finally\nretreated with three friends to her own corner, where a table specially\nreserved for her was occupied by her major-domo. And here the old lady\nsate down resolutely, never changing her place or quitting her game till\ncock-crow. The charge of receiving the company devolved now upon my Lady\nMaria, who did not care for cards, but dutifully did the honours of the\nhouse to her aunt's guests, and often rustled by the table where her\nyoung cousin was engaged with his three friends.\n\n\"Come and cut the cards for us,\" said my Lord March to her ladyship as\nshe passed on one of her wistful visits. \"Cut the cards and bring us\nluck, Lady Maria! We have had none to-night, and Mr. Warrington is\nwinning everything.\"\n\n\"I hope you are not playing high, Harry?\" said the lady, timidly.\n\n\"Oh no, only sixpences,\" cried my lord, dealing.\n\n\"Only sixpences,\" echoed Mr. Morris, who was Lord March's partner. But\nMr. Morris must have been very keenly alive to the value of sixpence, if\nthe loss of a few such coins could make his round face look so dismal.\nMy Lord Chesterfield sate opposite Mr. Warrington, sorting his cards. No\none could say, by inspecting that calm physiognomy, whether good or ill\nfortune was attending his lordship.\n\nSome word, not altogether indicative of delight, slipped out of Mr.\nMorris's lips, on which his partner cried out, \"Hang it, Morris, play\nyour cards, and hold your tongue!\" Considering they were only playing\nfor sixpences, his lordship, too, was strangely affected.\n\nMaria, still fondly lingering by Harry's chair, with her hand at the\nback of it, could see his cards, and that a whole covey of trumps was\nranged in one corner. She had not taken away his luck. She was pleased\nto think she had cut that pack which had dealt him all those pretty\ntrumps. As Lord March was dealing, he had said in a quiet voice to Mr.\nWarrington, \"The bet as before, Mr. Warrington, or shall we double it?\"\n\n\"Anything you like, my lord,\" said Mr. Warrington, very quietly.\n\n\"We will say, then,--shillings.\"\n\n\"Yes, shillings,\" says Mr. Warrington, and the game proceeded.\n\nThe end of the day's, and some succeeding days' sport may be gathered\nfrom the following letter, which was never delivered to the person to\nwhom it was addressed, but found its way to America in the papers of Mr.\nHenry Warrington:\n\n\n\"TUNBRIDGE WELLS, August 10, 1756.\n\n\"DEAR GEORGE--As White's two bottles of Burgundy and a pack of cards\nconstitute all the joys of your life, I take for granted that you are in\nLondon at this moment, preferring smoke and faro to fresh air and fresh\nhaystacks. This will be delivered to you by a young gentleman with whom\nI have lately made acquaintance, and whom you will be charmed to know.\nHe will play with you at any game for any stake, up to any hour of the\nnight, and drink any reasonable number of bottles during the play.\nMr. Warrington is no other than the Fortunate Youth about whom so many\nstories have been told in the Public Advertiser and other prints. He\nhas an estate in Virginia as big as Yorkshire, with the incumbrance of a\nmother, the reigning Sovereign; but, as the country is unwholesome, and\nfevers plentiful, let us hope that Mrs. Esmond will die soon, and\nleave this virtuous lad in undisturbed possession. She is aunt of that\npolisson of a Castlewood, who never pays his play-debts, unless he is\nmore honourable in his dealings with you than he has been with me. Mr.\nW. is de bonne race. We must have him of our society, if it be only that\nI may win my money back from him.\n\n\"He has had the devil's luck here, and has been winning everything,\nwhilst his old card-playing beldam of an aunt has been losing. A few\nnights ago, when I first had the ill-luck to make his acquaintance, he\nbeat me in jumping (having practised the art amongst the savages, and\nrunning away from bears in his native woods); he won bets off me and\nJack Morris about my weight; and at night, when we sat down to play, at\nold Bernstein's, he won from us all round. If you can settle our last\nEpsom account please hand over to Mr. Warrington 350 pounds, which I\nstill owe him, after pretty well emptying my pocket-book. Chesterfield\nhas dropped six hundred to him, too; but his lordship does not wish\nto have it known, having sworn to give up play and live cleanly. Jack\nMorris, who has not been hit as hard as either of us, and can afford it\nquite as well, for the fat chuff has no houses nor train to keep up, and\nall his misbegotten father's money in hand, roars like a bull of Bashan\nabout his losses. We had a second night's play, en petit comite, and\nBarbeau served us a fair dinner in a private room. Mr. Warrington\nholds his tongue like a gentleman, and none of us have talked about our\nlosses; but the whole place does, for us. Yesterday the Cattarina looked\nas sulky as thunder, because I would not give her a diamond necklace,\nand says I refuse her because I have lost five thousand to the\nVirginian. My old Duchess of Q. has the very same story, besides knowing\nto a fraction what Chesterfield and Jack have lost.\n\n\"Warrington treated the company to breakfast and music at the rooms; and\nyou should have seen how the women tore him to pieces. That fiend of\na Cattarina ogled him out of my vis-a-vis, and under my very nose,\nyesterday, as we were driving to Penshurst, and I have no doubt has sent\nhim a billet-doux ere this. He shot Jack Morris all to pieces at a mark:\nwe shall try him with partridges when the season comes.\n\n\"He is a fortunate fellow, certainly. He has youth (which is not\ndeboshed by evil courses in Virginia, as ours is in England); he has\ngood health, good looks, and good luck.\n\n\"In a word, Mr. Warrington has won our money in a very gentlemanlike\nmanner; and, as I like him, and wish to win some of it back again, I put\nhim under your worship's saintly guardianship. Adieu! I am going to the\nNorth, and shall be back for Doncaster.--Yours ever, dear George,                                                             M. et R.\"\n\n\"To George Augustus Selwyn, Esq., at White's Chocolate House, St.\nJames's Street.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. The Way of the World\n\n\nOur young Virginian found himself, after two or three days at Tunbridge\nWells, by far the most important personage in that merry little\nwatering-place. No nobleman in the place inspired so much curiosity. My\nLord Bishop of Salisbury himself was scarce treated with more respect.\nPeople turned round to look after Harry as he passed, and country-folks\nstared at him as they came into market. At the rooms, matrons encouraged\nhim to come round to them, and found means to leave him alone with their\ndaughters, most of whom smiled upon him. Everybody knew, to an acre and\na shilling, the extent of his Virginian property, and the amount of his\nincome. At every tea-table in the Wells, his winnings at play were told\nand calculated. Wonderful is the knowledge which our neighbours have\nof our affairs! So great was the interest and curiosity which Harry\ninspired, that people even smiled upon his servant, and took Gumbo aside\nand treated him with ale and cold meat, in order to get news of the\nyoung Virginian. Mr. Gumbo fattened under the diet, became a leading\nmember of the Society of Valets in the place, and lied more enormously\nthan ever. No party was complete unless Mr. Warrington attended it. The\nlad was not a little amused and astonished by this prosperity, and bore\nhis new honours pretty well. He had been bred at home to think too well\nof himself, and his present good fortune no doubt tended to confirm his\nself-satisfaction. But he was not too much elated. He did not brag about\nhis victories or give himself any particular airs. In engaging in play\nwith the gentlemen who challenged him, he had acted up to his queer code\nof honour. He felt as if he was bound to meet them when they summoned\nhim, and that if they invited him to a horse-race, or a drinking-bout,\nor a match at cards, for the sake of Old Virginia he must not draw back.\nMr. Harry found his new acquaintances ready to try him at all these\nsports and contests. He had a strong head, a skilful hand, a firm seat,\nan unflinching nerve. The representative of Old Virginia came off very\nwell in his friendly rivalry with the mother-country.\n\nMadame de Bernstein, who got her fill of cards every night, and, no\ndoubt, repaired the ill-fortune of which we heard in the last chapter,\nwas delighted with her nephew's victories and reputation. He had shot\nwith Jack Morris and beat him; he had ridden a match with Mr. Scamper\nand won it. He played tennis with Captain Batts, and, though the boy had\nnever tried the game before, in a few days he held his own uncommonly\nwell. He had engaged in play with those celebrated gamesters, my Lords\nof Chesterfield and March; and they both bore testimony to his coolness,\ngallantry, and good breeding. At his books Harry was not brilliant\ncertainly; but he could write as well as a great number of men of\nfashion; and the naivete of his ignorance amused the old lady. She had\nread books in her time, and could talk very well about them with bookish\npeople: she had a relish for humour and delighted in Moliere and Mr.\nFielding, but she loved the world far better than the library, and was\nnever so interested in any novel but that she would leave it for a\ngame of cards. She superintended with fond pleasure the improvements of\nHarry's toilette: rummaged out fine laces for his ruffles and shirt,\nand found a pretty diamond-brooch for his frill. He attained the post of\nprime favourite of all her nephews and kinsfolk. I fear Lady Maria was\nonly too well pleased at the lad's successes, and did not grudge him his\nsuperiority over her brothers; but those gentlemen must have quaked with\nfear and envy when they heard of Mr. Warrington's prodigious successes,\nand the advance which he had made in their wealthy aunt's favour.\n\nAfter a fortnight of Tunbridge, Mr. Harry had become quite a personage.\nHe knew all the good company in the place. Was it his fault if he became\nacquainted with the bad likewise? Was he very wrong in taking the world\nas he found it, and drinking from that sweet sparkling pleasure-cup,\nwhich was filled for him to the brim? The old aunt enjoyed his triumphs,\nand for her part only bade him pursue his enjoyments. She was not a\nrigorous old moralist, nor, perhaps, a very wholesome preceptress for\nyouth. If the Cattarina wrote him billets-doux, I fear Aunt Bernstein\nwould have bade him accept the invitations: but the lad had brought with\nhim from his colonial home a stock of modesty which he still wore\nalong with the honest homespun linen. Libertinism was rare in those\nthinly-peopled regions from which he came. The vices of great cities\nwere scarce known or practised in the rough towns of the American\ncontinent. Harry Warrington blushed like a girl at the daring talk of\nhis new European associates: even Aunt Bernstein's conversation and\njokes astounded the young Virginian, so that the worldly old woman would\ncall him Joseph, or simpleton.\n\nBut, however innocent he was, the world gave him credit for being as\nbad as other folks. How was he to know that he was not to associate with\nthat saucy Cattarina? He had seen my Lord March driving her about in his\nlordship's phaeton. Harry thought there was no harm in giving her his\narm, and parading openly with her in the public walks. She took a fancy\nto a trinket at the toy-shop; and, as his pockets were full of money,\nhe was delighted to make her a present of the locket, which she coveted.\nThe next day it was a piece of lace: again Harry gratified her. The\nnext day it was something else: there was no end to Madame Cattarina's\nfancies: but here the young gentleman stopped, turning off her request\nwith a joke and a laugh. He was shrewd enough, and not reckless or\nprodigal, though generous. He had no idea of purchasing diamond drops\nfor the petulant little lady's pretty ears.\n\nBut who was to give him credit for his Modesty? Old Bernstein insisted\nupon believing that her nephew was playing Don Juan's part, and\nsupplanting my Lord March. She insisted the more when poor Maria was\nby; loving to stab the tender heart of that spinster, and enjoying her\nniece's piteous silence and discomfiture.\n\n\"Why, my dear,\" says the Baroness, \"boys will be boys, and I don't want\nHarry to be the first milksop in his family!\" The bread which Maria\nate at her aunt's expense choked her sometimes. O me, how hard and\nindigestible some women know how to make it!\n\nMr. Wolfe was for ever coming over from Westerham to pay court to the\nlady of his love; and, knowing that the Colonel was entirely engaged\nin that pursuit, Mr. Warrington scarcely expected to see much of him,\nhowever much he liked that officer's conversation and society. It was\ndifferent from the talk of the ribald people round about Harry. Mr.\nWolfe never spoke of cards, or horses' pedigrees; or bragged of his\nperformances in the hunting-field; or boasted of the favours of women;\nor retailed any of the innumerable scandals of the time. It was not a\ngood time. That old world was more dissolute than ours. There was an old\nking with mistresses openly in his train, to whom the great folks of\nthe land did honour. There was a nobility, many of whom were mad and\nreckless in the pursuit of pleasure; there was a looseness of words\nand acts which we must note, as faithful historians, without going into\nparticulars, and needlessly shocking honest readers. Our young gentleman\nhad lighted upon some of the wildest of these wild people, and had found\nan old relative who lived in the very midst of the rout.\n\nHarry then did not remark how Colonel Wolfe avoided him, or when they\ncasually met, at first, notice the Colonel's cold and altered demeanour.\nHe did not know the stories that were told of him. Who does know the\nstories that are told of him? Who makes them? Who are the fathers of\nthose wondrous lies? Poor Harry did not know the reputation he was\ngetting; and that, whilst he was riding his horse and playing his game\nand taking his frolic, he was passing amongst many respectable persons\nfor being the most abandoned and profligate and godless of young men.\n\nAlas, and alas! to think that the lad whom we liked so, and who was so\ngentle and quiet when with us, so simple and so easily pleased, should\nbe a hardened profligate, a spendthrift, a confirmed gamester, a\nfrequenter of abandoned women! These stories came to honest Colonel\nLambert at Oakhurst: first one bad story, then another, then crowds of\nthem, till the good man's kind heart was quite filled with grief and\ncare, so that his family saw that something annoyed him. At first he\nwould not speak on the matter at all, and put aside the wife's fond\nqueries. Mrs. Lambert thought a great misfortune had happened; that\nher husband had been ruined; that he had been ordered on a dangerous\nservice; that one of the boys was ill, disgraced, dead; who can resist\nan anxious woman, or escape the cross-examination of the conjugal\npillow? Lambert was obliged to tell a part of what he knew about Harry\nWarrington. The wife was as much grieved and amazed as her husband had\nbeen. From papa's and mamma's bedroom the grief, after being stifled for\na while under the bed-pillows there, came downstairs. Theo and Hester\ntook the complaint after their parents, and had it very bad. O kind,\nlittle, wounded hearts! At first Hester turned red, flew into a great\npassion, clenched her little fists, and vowed she would not believe a\nword of the wicked stories; but she ended by believing them. Scandal\nalmost always does master people; especially good and innocent people.\nOh, the serpent they had nursed by their fire! Oh, the wretched,\nwretched boy! To think of his walking about with that horrible painted\nFrenchwoman, and giving her diamond necklaces, and parading his shame\nbefore all the society at the Wells! The three ladies having cried over\nthe story, and the father being deeply moved by it, took the parson\ninto their confidence. In vain he preached at church next Sunday his\nfavourite sermon about scandal, and inveighed against our propensity to\nthink evil. We repent we promise to do so no more; but when the next\nbad story comes about our neighbour we believe it. So did those kind,\nwretched Oakhurst folks believe what they heard about poor Harry\nWarrington.\n\nHarry Warrington meanwhile was a great deal too well pleased with\nhimself to know how ill his friends were thinking of him, and was\npursuing a very idle and pleasant, if unprofitable, life, without having\nthe least notion of the hubbub he was creating, and the dreadful repute\nin which he was held by many good men. Coming out from a match at tennis\nwith Mr. Batts, and pleased with his play and all the world, Harry\novertook Colonel Wolfe, who had been on one of his visits to the lady\nof his heart. Harry held out his hand, which the Colonel took, but\nthe latter's salutation was so cold, that the young man could not help\nremarking it, and especially noting how Mr. Wolfe, in return for a fine\nbow from Mr. Batts's hat, scarcely touched his own with his forefinger.\nThe tennis Captain walked away looking somewhat disconcerted, Harry\nremaining behind to talk with his friend of Westerham. Mr. Wolfe walked\nby him for a while, very erect, silent, and cold.\n\n\"I have not seen you these many days,\" says Harry.\n\n\"You have had other companions,\" remarks Mr. Wolfe, curtly.\n\n\"But I had rather be with you than any of them,\" cries the young man.\n\n\"Indeed I might be better company for you than some of them,\" says the\nother.\n\n\"Is it Captain Batts you mean?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"He is no favourite of mine, I own; he bore a rascally reputation when\nhe was in the army, and I doubt has not mended it since he was turned\nout. You certainly might find a better friend than Captain Batts. Pardon\nthe freedom which I take in saying so,\" says Mr. Wolfe, grimly.\n\n\"Friend! he is no friend: he only teaches me to play tennis: he is\nhand-in-glove with my lord, and all the people of fashion here who\nplay.\"\n\n\"I am not a man of fashion,\" says Mr. Wolfe.\n\n\"My dear Colonel, what is the matter? Have I angered you in any way? You\nspeak almost as if I had, and I am not conscious of having done anything\nto forfeit your regard,\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"I will be free with you, Mr. Warrington,\" said the Colonel, gravely,\n\"and tell you with frankness that I don't like some of your friends!\"\n\n\"Why, sure, they are men of the first rank and fashion in England,\"\ncries Harry, not choosing to be offended with his companion's bluntness.\n\n\"Exactly, they are men of too high rank and too great fashion for a\nhard-working poor soldier like me; and if you continue to live with\nsuch, believe me, you will find numbers of us humdrum people can't\nafford to keep such company. I am here, Mr. Warrington, paying my\naddresses to an honourable lady. I met you yesterday openly walking with\na French ballet-dancer, and you took off your hat. I must frankly tell\nyou, that I had rather you would not take off your hat when you go out\nin such company.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Mr. Warrington, growing very red, \"do you mean that I am to\nforgo the honour of Colonel Wolfe's acquaintance altogether?\"\n\n\"I certainly shall request you to do so when you are in company with\nthat person,\" said Colonel Wolfe, angrily; but he used a word not to be\nwritten at present, though Shakespeare puts it in the mouth of Othello.\n\n\"Great heavens! what a shame it is to speak so of any woman!\" cries\nMr. Warrington. \"How dare any man say that that poor creature is not\nhonest?\"\n\n\"You ought to know best, sir,\" says the other, looking at Harry with\nsome surprise, \"or the world belies you very much.\"\n\n\"What ought I to know best? I see a poor little French dancer who is\ncome hither with her mother, and is ordered by the doctors to drink the\nwaters. I know that a person of my rank in life does not ordinarily\nkeep company with people of hers; but really, Colonel Wolfe, are you so\nsqueamish? Have I not heard you say that you did not value birth, and\nthat all honest people ought to be equal? Why should I not give this\nlittle unprotected woman my arm? there are scarce half a dozen people\nhere who can speak a word of her language. I can talk a little French,\nand she is welcome to it; and if Colonel Wolfe does not choose to touch\nhis hat to me, when I am walking with her, by George he may leave it\nalone,\" cried Harry, flushing up.\n\n\"You don't mean to say,\" says Mr. Wolfe, eyeing him, \"that you don't\nknow the woman's character?\"\n\n\"Of course, sir, she is a dancer, and, I suppose, no better or worse\nthan her neighbours. But I mean to say that, had she been a duchess, or\nyour grandmother, I couldn't have respected her more.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say that you did not win her at dice, from Lord\nMarch?\"\n\n\"At what?\"\n\n\"At dice, from Lord March. Everybody knows the story. Not a person at\nthe Wells is ignorant of it. I heard it but now, in the company of that\ngood old Mr. Richardson, and the ladies were saying that you would be a\ncharacter for a colonial Lovelace.\"\n\n\"What on earth else have they said about me?\" asked Harry Warrington;\nand such stories as he knew the Colonel told. The most alarming accounts\nof his own wickedness and profligacy were laid before him. He was a\ncorrupter of virtue, an habitual drunkard and gamester, a notorious\nblasphemer and freethinker, a fitting companion for my Lord March,\nfinally, and the company into whose society he had fallen. \"I tell you\nthese things,\" said Mr. Wolfe, \"because it is fair that you should know\nwhat is said of you, and because I do heartily believe, from your manner\nof meeting the last charge brought against you, that you are innocent of\nmost of the other counts. I feel, Mr. Warrington, that I, for one, have\nbeen doing you a wrong; and sincerely ask you to pardon me.\"\n\nOf course, Harry was eager to accept his friend's apology, and they\nshook hands with sincere cordiality this time. In respect of most of the\ncharges brought against him, Harry rebutted them easily enough: as for\nthe play, he owned to it. He thought that a gentleman should not refuse\na fair challenge from other gentlemen, if his means allowed him: and he\nnever would play beyond his means. After winning considerably at first,\nhe could afford to play large stakes, for he was playing with other\npeople's money. Play, he thought, was fair,--it certainly was pleasant.\nWhy, did not all England, except the Methodists, play? Had he not seen\nthe best company at the Wells over the cards--his aunt amongst them?\n\nMr. Wolfe made no immediate comment upon Harry's opinion as to the\npersons who formed the best company at the Wells, but he frankly talked\nwith the young man, whose own frankness had won him, and warned him that\nthe life he was leading might be the pleasantest, but surely was not the\nmost profitable of lives. \"It can't be, sir,\" said the Colonel, \"that\na man is to pass his days at horse-racing and tennis, and his nights\ncarousing or at cards. Sure, every man was made to do some work: and a\ngentleman, if he has none, must make some. Do you know the laws of your\ncountry, Mr. Warrington? Being a great proprietor, you will doubtless\none day be a magistrate at home. Have you travelled over the country,\nand made yourself acquainted with its trades and manufactures? These\nare fit things for a gentleman to study, and may occupy him as well as\na cock-fight or a cricket-match. Do you know anything of our profession?\nThat, at least, you will allow, is a noble one; and, believe me, there\nis plenty in it to learn, and suited, I should think, to you. I speak of\nit rather than of books and the learned professions, because, as far as\nI can judge, your genius does not lie that way. But honour is the aim of\nlife,\" cried Mr. Wolfe, \"and every man can serve his country one way or\nthe other. Be sure, sir, that idle bread is the most dangerous of all\nthat is eaten; that cards and pleasure may be taken by way of pastime\nafter work, but not instead of work, and all day. And do you know, Mr.\nWarrington, instead of being the Fortunate Youth, as all the world calls\nyou, I think you are rather Warrington the Unlucky, for you are followed\nby daily idleness, daily flattery, daily temptation, and the Lord, I\nsay, send you a good, deliverance out of your good fortune.\"\n\nBut Harry did not like to tell his aunt that afternoon why it was he\nlooked so grave. He thought he would not drink, but there were some\njolly fellows at the ordinary who passed the bottle round; and he meant\nnot to play in the evening, but a fourth was wanted at his aunt's table,\nand how could he resist? He was the old lady's partner several times\nduring the night, and he had Somebody's own luck to be sure; and once\nmore he saw the dawn, and feasted on chickens and champagne at sunrise.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. In which Harry continues to enjoy Otium sine Dignitate\n\n\nWhilst there were card-players enough to meet her at her lodgings and\nthe assembly-rooms, Madame de Bernstein remained pretty contentedly at\nthe Wells, scolding her niece, and playing her rubber. At Harry's age\nalmost all places are pleasant, where you can have lively company,\nfresh air, and your share of sport and diversion. Even all pleasure is\npleasant at twenty. We go out to meet it with alacrity, speculate upon\nits coming, and when its visit is announced, count the days until it and\nwe shall come together. How very gently and coolly we regard it towards\nthe close of Life's long season! Madam, don't you recollect your first\nball; and does not your memory stray towards that happy past, sometimes,\nas you sit ornamenting the wall whilst your daughters are dancing? I,\nfor my part, can remember when I thought it was delightful to walk three\nmiles and back in the country to dine with old Captain Jones. Fancy\nliking to walk three miles, now, to dine with Jones and drink his\nhalf-pay port! No doubt it was bought from the little country-town\nwine-merchant, and cost but a small sum; but 'twas offered with a kindly\nwelcome, and youth gave it a flavour which no age of wine or man can\nimpart to it nowadays. Viximus nuper. I am not disposed to look so\nseverely upon young Harry's conduct and idleness, as his friend the\nstern Colonel of the Twentieth Regiment. O blessed idleness! Divine lazy\nnymph! Reach me a novel as I lie in my dressing-gown at three o'clock in\nthe afternoon; compound a sherry-cobbler for me, and bring me a cigar!\nDear slatternly, smiling Enchantress! They may assail thee with bad\nnames--swear thy character away, and call thee the Mother of Evil; but,\nfor all that, thou art the best company in the world!\n\nMy Lord of March went away to the North; and my Lord Chesterfield,\nfinding the Tunbridge waters did no good to his deafness, returned to\nhis solitude at Blackheath; but other gentlemen remained to sport and\ntake their pleasure, and Mr. Warrington had quite enough of companions\nat his ordinary at the White Horse. He soon learned to order a French\ndinner as well as the best man of fashion out of St. James's; could\ntalk to Monsieur Barbeau, in Monsieur B.'s native language, much more\nfluently than most other folks,--discovered a very elegant and decided\ntaste in wines, and could distinguish between Clos Vougeot and Romande\nwith remarkable skill. He was the young King of the Wells, of which\nthe general frequenters were easygoing men of the world, who were by no\nmeans shocked at that reputation for gallantry and extravagance which\nHarry had got, and which had so frightened Mr. Wolfe.\n\nThough our Virginian lived amongst the revellers, and swam and sported\nin the same waters with the loose fish, the boy had a natural shrewdness\nand honesty which kept him clear of the snares and baits which are\ncommonly set for the unwary. He made very few foolish bets with the\njolly idle fellows round about him, and the oldest hands found it\ndifficult to take him in. He engaged in games outdoors and in, because\nhe had a natural skill and aptitude for them, and was good to hold\nalmost any match with any fair competitor. He was scrupulous to play\nonly with those gentlemen whom he knew, and always to settle his own\ndebts on the spot. He would have made but a very poor figure at a\ncollege examination; though he possessed prudence and fidelity, keen,\nshrewd perception, great generosity, and dauntless personal courage.\n\nAnd he was not without occasions for showing of what stuff he was made.\nFor instance, when that unhappy little Cattarina, who had brought him\ninto so much trouble, carried her importunities beyond the mark at which\nHarry thought his generosity should stop, he withdrew from the advances\nof the Opera-House Siren with perfect coolness and skill, leaving her\nto exercise her blandishments upon some more easy victim. In vain the\nmermaid's hysterical mother waited upon Harry, and vowed that a cruel\nbailiff had seized all her daughter's goods for debt, and that her\nvenerable father was at present languishing in a London gaol. Harry\ndeclared that between himself and the bailiff there could be no\ndealings, and that because he had had the good fortune to become known\nto Mademoiselle Cattarina, and to gratify her caprices by presenting her\nwith various trinkets and knick-knacks for which she had a fancy, he was\nnot bound to pay the past debts of her family, and must decline being\nbail for her papa in London, or settling her outstanding accounts at\nTunbridge. The Cattarina's mother first called him a monster and an\ningrate, and then asked him, with a veteran smirk, why he did not take\npay for the services he had rendered to the young person? At first, Mr.\nWarrington could not understand what the nature of the payment might be:\nbut when that matter was explained by the old woman, the honest lad\nrose up in horror, to think that a woman should traffic in her child's\ndishonour, told her that he came from a country where the very savages\nwould recoil from such a bargain; and, having bowed the old lady\nceremoniously to the door, ordered Gumbo to mark her well, and never\nadmit her to his lodgings again. No doubt she retired breathing\nvengeance against the Iroquois: no Turk or Persian, she declared, would\ntreat a lady so: and she and her daughter retreated to London as soon\nas their anxious landlord would let them. Then Harry had his perils of\ngaming, as well as his perils of gallantry. A man who plays at bowls,\nas the phrase is, must expect to meet with rubbers. After dinner at the\nordinary, having declined to play piquet any further with Captain Batts,\nand being roughly asked his reason for refusing, Harry fairly told the\nCaptain that he only played with gentlemen who paid, like himself:\nbut expressed himself so ready to satisfy Mr. Batts, as soon as their\noutstanding little account was settled, that the Captain declared\nhimself satisfied d'avance, and straightway left the Wells without\npaying Harry or any other creditor. Also he had an occasion to show\nhis spirit by beating a chairman who was rude to old Miss Whiffler one\nevening as she was going to the assembly: and finding that the calumny\nregarding himself and that unlucky opera-dancer was repeated by Mr.\nHector Buckler, one of the fiercest frequenters of the Wells, Mr.\nWarrington stepped up to Mr. Buckler in the pump-room, where the latter\nwas regaling a number of water-drinkers with the very calumny, and\npublicly informed Mr. Buckler that the story was a falsehood, and that\nhe should hold any person accountable to himself who henceforth uttered\nit. So that though our friend, being at Rome, certainly did as Rome did,\nyet he showed himself to be a valorous and worthy Roman; and, hurlant\navec les loups, was acknowledged by Mr. Wolfe himself to be as brave as\nthe best of the wolves.\n\nIf that officer had told Colonel Lambert the stories which had given the\nlatter so much pain, we may be sure that when Mr. Wolfe found his young\nfriend was innocent, he took the first opportunity to withdraw the\nodious charges against him. And there was joy among the Lamberts,\nin consequence of the lad's acquittal--something, doubtless, of that\npleasure, which is felt by higher natures than ours, at the recovery of\nsinners. Never had the little family been so happy--no, not even when\nthey got the news of Brother Tom winning his scholarship--as when\nColonel Wolfe rode over with the account of the conversation which he\nhad with Harry Warrington. \"Hadst thou brought me a regiment, James,\nI think I should not have been better pleased,\" said Mr. Lambert. Mrs.\nLambert called to her daughters who were in the garden, and kissed\nthem both when they came in, and cried out the good news to them. Hetty\njumped for joy, and Theo performed some uncommonly brilliant operations\nupon the harpsichord that night; and when Dr. Boyle came in for his\nbackgammon, he could not, at first, account for the illumination in all\ntheir faces, until the three ladies, in a happy chorus, told him how\nright he had been in his sermon, and how dreadfully they had wronged\nthat poor dear, good young Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"What shall we do, my dear?\" says the Colonel to his wife. \"The hay is\nin, the corn won't be cut for a fortnight,--the horses have nothing to\ndo. Suppose we...\" And here he leans over the table and whispers in her\near.\n\n\"My dearest Martin! The very thing!\" cries Mrs. Lambert, taking her\nhusband's hand and pressing it.\n\n\"What's the very thing, mother?\" cries young Charley, who is home for\nhis Bartlemytide holidays.\n\n\"The very thing is to go to supper. Come, Doctor! We will have a bottle\nof wine to-night, and drink repentance to all who think evil.\"\n\n\"Amen,\" says the Doctor; \"with all my heart!\" And with this the worthy\nfamily went to their supper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. Contains a Letter to Virginia\n\n\nHaving repaired one day to his accustomed dinner at the White Horse\nordinary, Mr. Warrington was pleased to see amongst the faces round the\ntable the jolly, good-looking countenance of Parson Sampson, who was\nregaling the company when Harry entered, with stories and bons-mots,\nwhich kept them in roars of laughter. Though he had not been in London\nfor some months, the parson had the latest London news, or what passed\nfor such with the folks at the ordinary: what was doing in the King's\nhouse at Kensington; and what in the Duke's in Pall Mall: how Mr. Byng\nwas behaving in prison, and who came to him: what were the odds at\nNewmarket, and who was the last reigning toast in Covent Garden;--the\njolly chaplain could give the company news upon all these points,--news\nthat might not be very accurate indeed, but was as good as if it\nwere for the country gentlemen who heard it. For suppose that my Lord\nViscount Squanderfield was ruining himself for Mrs. Polly, and Sampson\ncalled her Mrs. Lucy? that it was Lady Jane who was in love with\nthe actor, and not Lady Mary? that it was Harry Hilton, of the Horse\nGrenadiers, who had the quarrel with Chevalier Solingen, at Marybone\nGarden, and not Tommy Ruffler, of the Foot Guards? The names and dates\ndid not matter much. Provided the stories were lively and wicked, their\ncorrectness was of no great importance; and Mr. Sampson laughed and\nchattered away amongst his country gentlemen, charmed them with his\nspirits and talk, and drank his share of one bottle after another, for\nwhich his delighted auditory persisted in calling. A hundred years ago,\nthe Abbe Parson, the clergyman who frequented the theatre, the tavern,\nthe racecourse, the world of fashion, was no uncommon character\nin English society: his voice might be heard the loudest in the\nhunting-field; he could sing the jolliest song at the Rose or the\nBedford Head, after the play was over at Covent Garden, and could call a\nmain as well as any at the gaming-table.\n\nIt may have been modesty, or it may have been claret, which caused his\nreverence's rosy face to redden deeper, but when he saw Mr. Warrington\nenter, he whispered \"Maxima debetur\" to the laughing country squire who\nsat next him in his drab coat and gold-laced red waistcoat, and rose up\nfrom his chair and ran, nay, stumbled forward, in his haste to greet the\nVirginian: \"My dear sir, my very dear sir, my conqueror of spades, and\nclubs, and hearts, too, I am delighted to see your honour looking so\nfresh and well,\" cries the chaplain.\n\nHarry returned the clergyman's greeting with great pleasure: he was glad\nto see Mr. Sampson; he could also justly compliment his reverence upon\nhis cheerful looks and rosy gills.\n\nThe squire in the drab coat knew Mr. Warrington; he made a place beside\nhimself; he called out to the parson to return to his seat on the other\nside, and to continue his story about Lord Ogle and the grocer's wife\nin------. Where he did not say, for his sentence was interrupted by a\nshout and an oath addressed to the parson for treading on his gouty toe.\n\nThe chaplain asked pardon, hurriedly turned round to Mr. Warrington,\nand informed him, and the rest of the company indeed, that my Lord\nCastlewood sent his affectionate remembrances to his cousin, and had\ngiven special orders to him (Mr. Sampson) to come to Tunbridge Wells and\nlook after the young gentleman's morals; that my Lady Viscountess and my\nLady Fanny were gone to Harrogate for the waters; that Mr. Will had won\nhis money at Newmarket, and was going on a visit to my Lord Duke;\nthat Molly the housemaid was crying her eyes out about Gumbo, Mr.\nWarrington's valet;--in fine, all the news of Castlewood and its\nneighbourhood. Mr. Warrington was beloved by all the country round,\nMr. Sampson told the company, managing to introduce the names of some\npersons of the very highest rank into his discourse. \"All Hampshire had\nheard of his successes at Tunbridge, successes of every kind,\" says\nMr. Sampson, looking particularly arch; my lord hoped, their ladyships\nhoped, Harry would not be spoilt for his quiet Hampshire home.\n\nThe guests dropped off one by one, leaving the young Virginian to his\nbottle of wine and the chaplain.\n\n\"Though I have had plenty,\" says the jolly chaplain, \"that is no reason\nwhy I should not have plenty more,\" and he drank toast after toast, and\nbumper after bumper, to the amusement of Harry, who always enjoyed his\nsociety.\n\nBy the time when Sampson had had his \"plenty more,\" Harry, too, was\nbecome specially generous, warm-hearted, and friendly. A lodging--why\nshould Mr. Sampson go to the expense of an inn, when there was a room\nat Harry's quarters? The chaplain's trunk was ordered thither, Gumbo was\nbidden to make Mr. Sampson comfortable--most comfortable; nothing would\nsatisfy Mr. Warrington but that Sampson should go down to his stables\nand see his horses; he had several horses now; and when at the stable\nSampson recognised his own horse which Harry had won from him; and the\nfond beast whinnied with pleasure, and rubbed his nose against his old\nmaster's coat; Harry rapped out a brisk energetic expression or two, and\nvowed by Jupiter that Sampson should have his old horse back again:\nhe would give him to Sampson, that he would; a gift which the chaplain\naccepted by seizing Harry's hand, and blessing him,--by flinging his\narms round the horse's neck, and weeping for joy there, weeping tears\nof Bordeaux and gratitude. Arm-in-arm the friends walked to Madame\nBernstein's from the stable, of which they brought the odours into her\nladyship's apartment. Their flushed cheeks and brightened eyes showed\nwhat their amusement had been. Many gentlemen's cheeks were in the habit\nof flushing in those days, and from the same cause.\n\nMadame Bernstein received her nephew's chaplain kindly enough. The old\nlady relished Sampson's broad jokes and rattling talk from time to time,\nas she liked a highly-spiced dish or a new entree composed by her cook,\nupon its two or three first appearances. The only amusement of which she\ndid not grow tired, she owned, was cards. \"The cards don't cheat,\" she\nused to say. \"A bad hand tells you the truth to your face: and there is\nnothing so flattering in the world as a good suite of trumps.\" And when\nshe was in a good humour, and sitting down to her favourite pastime, she\nwould laughingly bid her nephew's chaplain say grace before the meal.\nHonest Sampson did not at first care to take a hand at Tunbridge Wells.\nHer ladyship's play was too high for him, he would own, slapping his\npocket with a comical piteous look, and its contents had already been\nhanded over to the fortunate youth at Castlewood. Like most persons of\nher age, and indeed her sex, Madame Bernstein was not prodigal of money.\nI suppose it must have been from Harry Warrington, whose heart was\noverflowing with generosity as his purse with guineas, that the chaplain\nprocured a small stock of ready coin, with which he was presently\nenabled to appear at the card-table.\n\nOur young gentleman welcomed Mr. Sampson to his coin, as to all the rest\nof the good things which he had gathered about him. 'Twas surprising how\nquickly the young Virginian adapted himself to the habits of life of\nthe folks amongst whom he lived. His suits were still black, but of the\nfinest cut and quality. \"With a star and ribbon, and his stocking down,\nand his hair over his shoulder, he would make a pretty Hamlet,\" said the\ngay old Duchess Queensberry. \"And I make no doubt he has been the death\nof a dozen Ophelias already, here and amongst the Indians,\" she added,\nthinking not at all the worse of Harry for his supposed successes among\nthe fair. Harry's lace and linen were as fine as his aunt could desire.\nHe purchased fine shaving-plate of the toy-shop women, and a couple of\nmagnificent brocade bedgowns, in which his worship lolled at ease, and\nsipped his chocolate of a morning. He had swords and walking-canes, and\nFrench watches with painted backs and diamond settings, and snuff boxes\nenamelled by artists of the same cunning nation. He had a levee of\ngrooms, jockeys, tradesmen, daily waiting in his anteroom, and admitted\none by one to him and Parson Sampson, over his chocolate, by Gumbo, the\ngroom of the chambers. We have no account of the number of men whom Mr.\nGumbo now had under him. Certain it is that no single negro could have\ntaken care of all the fine things which Mr. Warrington now possessed,\nlet alone the horses and the postchaise which his honour had bought.\nAlso Harry instructed himself in the arts which became a gentleman in\nthose days. A French fencing-master, and a dancing-master of the same\nnation, resided at Tunbridge during that season when Harry made\nhis appearance: these men of science the young Virginian sedulously\nfrequented, and acquired considerable skill and grace in the peaceful\nand warlike accomplishments which they taught. Ere many weeks were over\nhe could handle the foils against his master or any frequenter of the\nfencing-school,--and, with a sigh, Lady Maria (who danced very elegantly\nherself) owned that there was no gentleman at court who could walk a\nminuet more gracefully than Mr. Warrington. As for riding, though Mr.\nWarrington took a few lessons on the great horse from a riding-master\nwho came to Tunbridge, he declared that their own Virginian manner was\nwell enough for him, and that he saw no one amongst the fine folks\nand the jockeys who could ride better than his friend Colonel George\nWashington of Mount Vernon.\n\nThe obsequious Sampson found himself in better quarters than he had\nenjoyed for ever so long a time. He knew a great deal of the world, and\ntold a great deal more, and Harry was delighted with his stories, real\nor fancied. The man of twenty looks up to the man of thirty, admires\nthe latter's old jokes, stale puns, and tarnished anecdotes, that are\nslopped with the wine of a hundred dinner-tables. Sampson's town and\ncollege pleasantries were all new and charming to the young Virginian. A\nhundred years ago,--no doubt there are no such people left in the world\nnow,--there used to be grown men in London who loved to consort with\nfashionable youths entering life; to tickle their young fancies with\nmerry stories; to act as Covent Garden Mentors and masters of ceremonies\nat the Round-house; to accompany lads to the gaming-table, and perhaps\nhave an understanding with the punters; to drink lemonade to Master\nHopeful's Burgundy, and to stagger into the streets with perfectly\ncool heads when my young lord reeled out to beat the watch. Of this, no\ndoubt, extinct race, Mr. Sampson was a specimen: and a great comfort it\nis to think (to those who choose to believe the statement) that in Queen\nVictoria's reign there are no flatterers left, such as existed in the\nreign of her royal great-grandfather, no parasites pandering to the\nfollies of young men; in fact, that all the toads have been eaten off\nthe face of the island (except one or two that are found in stones,\nwhere they have lain perdus these hundred years), and the toad-eaters\nhave perished for lack of nourishment.\n\nWith some sauces, as I read, the above-mentioned animals are said to\nbe exceedingly fragrant, wholesome, and savoury eating. Indeed, no man\ncould look more rosy and healthy, or flourish more cheerfully, than\nfriend Sampson upon the diet. He became our young friend's confidential\nleader, and, from the following letter, which is preserved in the\nWarrington correspondence, it will be seen that Mr. Harry not only\nhad dancing and fencing masters, but likewise a tutor, chaplain, and\nsecretary:--\n\n\nTO MRS. ESMOND WARRINGTON OF CASTLEWOOD AT HER HOUSE AT RICHMOND,\nVIRGINIA\n\nMrs. Bligh's Lodgings, Pantiles, Tunbridge Wells,\n\n\"August 25th, 1756.\n\n\"HONOURED MADAM--Your honoured letter of 20 June, per Mr. Trail of\nBristol, has been forwarded to me duly, and I have to thank your\ngoodness and kindness for the good advice which you are pleased to give\nme, as also for the remembrances of dear home, which I shall love never\nthe worse for having been to the home of our ancestors in England.\n\n\"I writ you a letter by the last monthly packet, informing my honoured\nmother of the little accident I had on the road hither, and of the\nkind friends who I found and whom took me in. Since then I have been\nprofiting of the fine weather and the good company here, and have made\nmany friends among our nobility, whose acquaintance I am sure you will\nnot be sorry that I should make. Among their lordships I may mention the\nfamous Earl of Chesterfield, late Ambassador to Holland, and Viceroy of\nthe Kingdom of Ireland; the Earl of March and Ruglen, who will be Duke\nof Queensberry at the death of his Grace; and her Grace the Duchess, a\ncelebrated beauty of the Queen's time, when she remembers my grandpapa\nat Court. These and many more persons of the first fashion attend my\naunt's assemblies, which are the most crowded at this crowded place.\nAlso on my way hither I stayed at Westerham, at the house of an officer,\nLieut.-Gen. Wolfe, who served with my grandfather and General Webb\nin the famous wars of the Duke of Marlborough. Mr. Wolfe has a son,\nLieut.-Col. James Wolfe, engaged to be married to a beautiful lady now\nin this place, Miss Lowther of the North--and though but 30 years old he\nis looked up to as much as any officer in the whole army, and has served\nwith honour under his Royal Highness the Duke wherever our arms have\nbeen employed.\n\n\"I thank my honoured mother for announcing to me that a quarter's\nallowance of 52l. 10s. will be paid me by Mr. Trail. I am in no present\nwant of cash, and by practising a rigid economy, which will be necessary\n(as I do not disguise) for the maintenance of horses, Gumbo, and the\nequipage and apparel requisite for a young gentleman of good family,\nhope to be able to maintain my credit without unduly trespassing upon\nyours. The linnen and clothes which I brought with me will with due care\nlast for some years--as you say. 'Tis not quite so fine as worn here by\npersons of fashion, and I may have to purchase a few very fine shirts\nfor great days: but those I have are excellent for daily wear.\n\n\"I am thankful that I have been quite without occasion to use your\nexcellent family pills. Gumbo hath taken them with great benefit, who\ngrows fat and saucy upon English beef, ale, and air. He sends his humble\nduty to his mistress, and prays Mrs. Mountain to remember him to all\nhis fellow-servants, especially Dinah and Lily, for whom he has bought\nposey-rings at Tunbridge Fair.\n\n\"Besides partaking of all the pleasures of the place, I hope my honoured\nmother will believe that I have not been unmindful of my education.\nI have had masters in fencing and dancing, and my Lord Castlewood's\nchaplain, the Reverend Mr. Sampson, having come hither to drink the\nwaters, has been so good as to take a vacant room at my lodging. Mr. S.\nbreakfasts with me, and we read together of a morning--he saying that I\nam not quite such a dunce as I used to appear at home. We have read\nin Mr. Rapin's History, Dr. Barrow's Sermons, and, for amusement,\nShakspeare, Mr. Pope's Homer, and (in French) the translation of an\nArabian Work of Tales, very diverting. Several men of learning have been\nstaying here besides the persons of fashion; and amongst the former was\nMr. Richardson, the author of the famous books which you and Mountain\nand my dearest brother used to love so. He was pleased when I told him\nthat his works were in your closet in Virginia, and begged me to convey\nhis respectful compliments to my lady-mother. Mr. R. is a short fat man,\nwith little of the fire of genius visible in his eye or person.\n\n\"My aunt and my cousin, the Lady Maria, desire their affectionate\ncompliments to you, and with best regards for Mountain, to whom I\nenclose a note, I am,--Honoured madam, your dutiful son, H. ESMOND\nWARRINGTON.\"\n\nNote in Madam Esmond's Handwriting,\n\n\"From my son. Received October 15 at Richmond. Sent 16 jars preserved\npeaches, 224 lbs. best tobacco, 24 finest hams, per Royal William of\nLiverpool, 8 jars peaches, 12 hams for my nephew, the Rt. Honourable\nthe Earl of Castlewood. 4 jars, 6 hams for the Baroness Bernstein, ditto\nditto for Mrs. Lambert of Oakhurst, Surrey, and 1/2 cwt. tobacco.\nPacket of Infallible Family Pills for Gumbo. My Papa's large silver-gilt\nshoe-buckles for H., and red silver-laced saddle-cloth.\"\n\n\nII. (enclosed in No. I.)\n\n\"For Mrs. Mountain.\n\n\"What do you mien, you silly old Mountain, by sending an order for your\npoor old divadends dew at Xmas? I'd have you to know I don't want your\n7l. 10, and have toar your order up into 1000 bitts. I've plenty of\nmoney. But I'm obleaged to you all same. A kiss to Fanny from--Your\nloving HARRY.\"\n\nNote in Madam Esmond's Handwriting\n\n\"This note, which I desired M. to show to me, proves that she hath a\ngood heart, and that she wished to show her gratitude to the family, by\ngiving up her half-yearly divd. (on L500 3 per ct.) to my boy. Hence\nI reprimanded her very slightly for daring to send money to Mr. E.\nWarrington, unknown to his mother. Note to Mountain not so well spelt as\nletter to me.\n\n\"Mem. to write to Revd. Mr. Sampson desire to know what theolog. books\nhe reads with H. Recommend Law, Baxter, Drelincourt.--Request H. to say\nhis catechism to Mr. S., which he has never quite been able to master.\nBy next ship peaches (3), tobacco 1/2 cwt. Hams for Mr. S.\"\n\n\nThe mother of the Virginians and her sons have long long since passed\naway. So how are we to account for the fact, that of a couple of letters\nsent under one enclosure and by one packet, one should be well spelt,\nand the other not entirely orthographical? Had Harry found some\nwonderful instructor, such as exists in the present lucky times, and\nwho would improve his writing in six lessons? My view of the case, after\ndeliberately examining the two notes, is this: No. 1, in which there\nappears a trifling grammatical slip (\"the kind, friends who I found and\nwhom took me in\"), must have been re-written from a rough copy which\nhad probably undergone the supervision of a tutor or friend. The more\nartless composition, No. 2, was not referred to the scholar who prepared\nNo. 1 for the maternal eye, and to whose corrections of \"who\" and \"whom\"\nMr. Warrington did not pay very close attention. Who knows how he\nmay have been disturbed? A pretty milliner may have attracted Harry's\nattention out of window--a dancing bear with pipe and tabor may have\npassed along the common--a jockey come under his windows to show off a\nhorse there? There are some days when any of us may be ungrammatical and\nspell ill. Finally, suppose Harry did not care to spell so elegantly for\nMrs. Mountain as for his lady-mother, what affair is that of the\npresent biographer, century, reader? And as for your objection that Mr.\nWarrington, in the above communication to his mother, showed some little\nhypocrisy and reticence in his dealings with that venerable person, I\ndare say, young folks, you in your time have written more than one prim\nletter to your papas and mammas in which not quite all the transactions\nof your lives were narrated, or if narrated, were exhibited in the most\nfavourable light for yourselves--I dare say, old folks! you, in your\ntime, were not altogether more candid. There must be a certain distance\nbetween me and my son Jacky. There must be a respectful, an amiable, a\nvirtuous hypocrisy between us. I do not in the least wish that he should\ntreat me as his equal, that he should contradict me, take my arm-chair,\nread the newspaper first at breakfast, ask unlimited friends to dine\nwhen I have a party of my own, and so forth. No; where there is not\nequality there must be hypocrisy. Continue to be blind to my faults; to\nhush still as mice when I fall asleep after dinner; to laugh at my old\njokes; to admire my sayings; to be astonished at the impudence of those\nunbelieving reviewers; to be dear filial humbugs, O my children! In my\ncastle I am king. Let all my royal household back before me. 'Tis not\ntheir natural way of walking, I know: but a decorous, becoming, and\nmodest behaviour highly agreeable to me. Away from me they may do, nay,\nthey do do, what they like. They may jump, skip, dance, trot, tumble\nover heads and heels, and kick about freely, when they are out of the\npresence of my majesty. Do not then, my dear young friends, be surprised\nat your mother and aunt when they cry out, \"Oh, it was highly immoral\nand improper of Mr. Warrington to be writing home humdrum demure letters\nto his dear mamma, when he was playing all sorts of merry pranks!\"--but\ndrop a curtsey, and say, \"Yes, dear grandmamma (or aunt, as may be),\nit was very wrong of him: and I suppose you never had your fun when you\nwere young.\" Of course, she didn't! And the sun never shone, and the\nblossoms never budded, and the blood never danced, and the fiddles never\nsang, in her spring-time. Eh, Babet! mon lait de poule et mon bonnet\nde nuit! Ho, Betty! my gruel and my slippers! And go, ye frisky, merry\nlittle souls! and dance, and have your merry little supper of cakes and\nale!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. The Bear and the Leader\n\n\nOur candid readers know the real state of the case regarding Harry\nWarrington and that luckless Cattarina; but a number of the old ladies\nat Tunbridge Wells supposed the Virginian to be as dissipated as any\nyoung English nobleman of the highest quality, and Madame de Bernstein\nwas especially incredulous about her nephew's innocence. It was the old\nlady's firm belief that Harry was leading not only a merry life, but a\nwicked one, and her wish was father to the thought that the lad might\nbe no better than his neighbours. An old Roman herself, she liked her\nnephew to do as Rome did. All the scandal regarding Mr. Warrington's\nLovelace adventures she eagerly and complacently accepted. We have seen\nhow, on one or two occasions, he gave tea and music to the company at\nthe Wells; and he was so gallant and amiable to the ladies (to ladies of\na much better figure and character than the unfortunate Cattarina), that\nMadame Bernstein ceased to be disquieted regarding the silly love affair\nwhich had had a commencement at Castlewood, and relaxed in her vigilance\nover Lady Maria. Some folks--many old folks--are too selfish to interest\nthemselves long about the affairs of their neighbours. The Baroness had\nher trumps to think of, her dinners, her twinges of rheumatism: and her\nsuspicions regarding Maria and Harry, lately so lively, now dozed, and\nkept a careless, unobservant watch. She may have thought that the danger\nwas over, or she may have ceased to care whether it existed or not, or\nthat artful Maria, by her conduct, may have quite cajoled, soothed, and\nmisguided the old Dragon, to whose charge she was given over. At Maria's\nage, nay, earlier indeed, maidens have learnt to be very sly, and at\nMadame Bernstein's time of life dragons are not so fierce and alert.\nThey cannot turn so readily, some of their old teeth have dropped out,\nand their eyes require more sleep than they needed in days when they\nwere more active, venomous, and dangerous. I, for my part, know a few\nfemale dragons, de par le monde, and, as I watch them and remember what\nthey were, admire the softening influence of years upon these whilom\ndestroyers of man- and woman-kind. Their scales are so soft that any\nknight with a moderate power of thrust can strike them: their claws,\nonce strong enough to tear out a thousand eyes, only fall with a feeble\npat that scarce raises the skin: their tongues, from their toothless old\ngums, dart a venom which is rather disagreeable than deadly. See them\ntrailing their languid tails, and crawling home to their caverns\nat roosting-time! How weak are their powers of doing injury! their\nmaleficence how feeble! How changed are they since the brisk days when\ntheir eyes shot wicked fire; their tongue spat poison; their breath\nblasted reputation; and they gobbled up a daily victim at least!\n\nIf the good folks at Oakhurst could not resist the testimony which\nwas brought to them regarding Harry's ill-doings, why should Madame\nBernstein, who in the course of her long days had had more experience of\nevil than all the Oakhurst family put together, be less credulous\nthan they? Of course every single old woman of her ladyship's society\nbelieved every story that was told about Mr. Harry Warrington's\ndissipated habits, and was ready to believe as much more ill of him as\nyou please. When the little dancer went back to London, as she did,\nit was because that heartless Harry deserted her. He deserted her for\nsomebody else, whose name was confidently given,--whose name?--whose\nhalf-dozen names the society at Tunbridge Wells would whisper about;\nwhere there congregated people of all ranks and degrees, women of\nfashion, women of reputation, of demi-reputation, of virtue, of no\nvirtue,--all mingling in the same rooms, dancing to the same fiddles,\ndrinking out of the same glasses at the Wells, and alike in search of\nhealth, or society, or pleasure. A century ago, and our ancestors, the\nmost free or the most straitlaced, met together at a score of such merry\nplaces as that where our present scene lies, and danced, and frisked,\nand gamed, and drank at Epsom, Bath, Tunbridge, Harrogate, as they do at\nHomburg and Baden now.\n\nHarry's bad reputation, then, comforted his old aunt exceedingly, and\neased her mind in respect to the boy's passion for Lady Maria. So easy\nwas she in her mind, that when the chaplain said he came to escort\nher ladyship home, Madame Bernstein did not even care to part from her\nniece. She preferred rather to keep her under her eye, to talk to her\nabout her wicked young cousin's wild extravagances, to whisper to her\nthat boys would be boys, to confide to Maria her intention of getting\na proper wife for Harry,--some one of a suitable age,--some one with a\nsuitable fortune,--all which pleasantries poor Maria had to bear with as\nmuch fortitude as she could muster.\n\nThere lived, during the last century, a certain French duke and marquis,\nwho distinguished himself in Europe, and America likewise, and has\nobliged posterity by leaving behind him a choice volume of memoirs,\nwhich the gentle reader is specially warned not to consult. Having\nperformed the part of Don Juan in his own country, in ours, and in\nother parts of Europe, he has kindly noted down the names of many\ncourt-beauties who fell victims to his powers of fascination; and very\npleasant reading no doubt it must be for the grandsons and descendants\nof the fashionable persons amongst whom our brilliant nobleman moved,\nto find the names of their ancestresses adorning M. le Duc's sprightly\npages, and their frailties recorded by the candid writer who caused\nthem.\n\nIn the course of the peregrinations of this nobleman, he visited North\nAmerica, and, as had been his custom in Europe, proceeded straightway to\nfall in love. And curious it is to contrast the elegant refinements of\nEuropean society, where, according to monseigneur, he had but to lay\nsiege to a woman in order to vanquish her, with the simple lives and\nhabits of the colonial folks, amongst whom this European enslaver of\nhearts did not, it appears, make a single conquest. Had he done so, he\nwould as certainly have narrated his victories in Pennsylvania and New\nEngland, as he described his successes in this and his own country.\nTravellers in America have cried out quite loudly enough against the\nrudeness and barbarism of transatlantic manners; let the present writer\ngive the humble testimony of his experience that the conversation of\nAmerican gentlemen is generally modest, and, to the best of his belief,\nthe lives of the women pure.\n\nWe have said that Mr. Harry Warrington brought his colonial modesty\nalong with him to the old country; and though he could not help hearing\nthe free talk of the persons amongst whom he lived, and who were men\nof pleasure and the world, he sat pretty silent himself in the midst of\ntheir rattle; never indulged in double entendre in his conversation\nwith women; had no victories over the sex to boast of; and was shy and\nawkward when he heard such narrated by others.\n\nThis youthful modesty Mr. Sampson had remarked during his intercourse\nwith the lad at Castlewood, where Mr. Warrington had more than once\nshown himself quite uneasy whilst cousin Will was telling some of his\nchoice stories; and my lord had curtly rebuked his brother, bidding\nhim keep his jokes for the usher's table at Kensington, and not give\nneedless offence to their kinsman. Hence the exclamation of \"Reverentia\npueris,\" which the chaplain had addressed to his neighbour at the\nordinary on Harry's first appearance there. Mr. Sampson, if he had not\nstrength sufficient to do right himself, at least had grace enough not\nto offend innocent young gentlemen by his cynicism.\n\nThe chaplain was touched by Harry's gift of the horse; and felt a\ngenuine friendliness towards the lad. \"You see, sir,\" says he, \"I am of\nthe world, and must do as the rest of the world does. I have led a rough\nlife, Mr. Warrington, and can't afford to be more particular than my\nneighbours. Video meliora, deteriora sequor, as we said at college. I\nhave got a little sister, who is at boarding-school, not very far from\nhere, and, as I keep a decent tongue in my head when I am talking with\nmy little Patty, and expect others to do as much, sure I may try and do\nas much by you.\"\n\nThe chaplain was loud in his praises of Harry to his aunt, the old\nBaroness. She liked to hear him praised. She was as fond of him as she\ncould be of anything; was pleased in his company, with his good looks,\nhis manly courageous bearing, his blushes, which came so readily, his\nbright eyes, his deep youthful voice. His shrewdness and simplicity\nconstantly amused her; she would have wearied of him long before, had he\nbeen clever, or learned, or witty, or other than he was. \"We must find\na good wife for him, Chaplain,\" she said to Mr. Sampson. \"I have one or\ntwo in my eye, who, I think, will suit him. We must set him up here;\nhe never will bear going back to his savages again, or to live with his\nlittle Methodist of a mother.\"\n\nNow about this point Mr. Sampson, too, was personally anxious, and\nhad also a wife in his eye for Harry. I suppose he must have had some\nconversations with his lord at Castlewood, whom we have heard expressing\nsome intention of complimenting his chaplain with a good living or other\nprovision, in event of his being able to carry out his lordship's wishes\nregarding a marriage for Lady Maria. If his good offices could help that\nanxious lady to a husband, Sampson was ready to employ them: and he now\nwaited to see in what most effectual manner he could bring his influence\nto bear.\n\nSampson's society was most agreeable, and he and his young friend were\nintimate in the course of a few hours. The parson rejoiced in\nhigh spirits, good appetite, good humour; pretended to no sort of\nsqueamishness, and indulged in no sanctified hypocritical conversation;\nnevertheless, he took care not to shock his young friend by any needless\noutbreaks of levity or immorality of talk, initiating his pupil, perhaps\nfrom policy, perhaps from compunction, only into the minor mysteries,\nas it were; and not telling him the secrets with which the unlucky adept\nhimself was only too familiar. With Harry, Sampson was only a brisk,\nlively, jolly companion, ready for any drinking bout, or any sport, a\ncock-fight, a shooting-match, a game at cards, or a gallop across the\ncommon; but his conversation was decent, and he tried much more to\namuse the young man, than to lead him astray. The chaplain was quite\nsuccessful: he had immense animal spirits as well as natural wit, and\naptitude as well as experience in that business of toad-eater which\nhad been his calling and livelihood from his very earliest years,--ever\nsince he first entered college as a servitor, and cast about to see by\nwhose means he could make his fortune in life. That was but satire just\nnow, when we said there were no toad-eaters left in the world. There are\nmany men of Sampson's profession now, doubtless; nay, little boys at our\npublic schools are sent thither at the earliest age, instructed by their\nparents, and put out apprentices to toad-eating. But the flattery is not\nso manifest as it used to be a hundred years since. Young men and old\nhave hangers-on, and led captains, but they assume an appearance of\nequality, borrow money, or swallow their toads in private, and walk\nabroad arm-in-arm with the great man, and call him by his name without\nhis title. In those good old times, when Harry Warrington first came\nto Europe, a gentleman's toad-eater pretended to no airs of equality at\nall; openly paid court to his patron, called him by that name to other\nfolks, went on his errands for him,--any sort of errands which the\npatron might devise,--called him sir in speaking to him, stood up in\nhis presence until bidden to sit down, and flattered him ex officio. Mr.\nSampson did not take the least shame in speaking of Harry as his young\npatron,--as a young Virginian nobleman recommended to him by his other\nnoble patron, the Earl of Castlewood. He was proud of appearing at\nHarry's side, and as his humble retainer, in public talked about him to\nthe company, gave orders to Harry's tradesmen, from whom, let us hope,\nhe received a percentage in return for his recommendations, performed\nall the functions of aide-de-camp--others, if our young gentleman\ndemanded them from the obsequious divine, who had gaily discharged the\nduties of ami du prince to ever so many young men of fashion, since\nhis own entrance into the world. It must be confessed that, since his\narrival in Europe, Mr. Warrington had not been uniformly lucky in the\nfriendships which he had made.\n\n\"What a reputation, sir, they have made for you in this place!\" cries\nMr. Sampson, coming back from the coffee-house to his patron. \"Monsieur\nde Richelieu was nothing to you!\"\n\n\"How do you mean, Monsieur de Richelieu?--Never was at Minorca in my\nlife,\" says downright Harry, who had not heard of those victories at\nhome, which made the French duke famous.\n\nMr. Sampson explained. The pretty widow Patcham who had just arrived\nwas certainly desperate about Mr. Warrington: her way of going on at\nthe rooms, the night before, proved that. As for Mrs. Hooper, that was a\nknown case, and the Alderman had fetched his wife back to London for no\nother reason. It was the talk of the whole Wells.\n\n\"Who says so?\" cries out Harry, indignantly. \"I should like to meet the\nman who dares say so, and confound the villain!\"\n\n\"I should not like to show him to you,\" says Mr. Sampson, laughing. \"It\nmight be the worse for him.\"\n\n\"It's a shame to speak with such levity about the character of ladies or\nof gentlemen either,\" continues Mr. Warrington, pacing up and down the\nroom in a fume.\n\n\"So I told them,\" says the chaplain, wagging his head and looking very\nmuch moved and very grave, though, if the truth were known, it had never\ncome into his mind at all to be angry at hearing charges of this nature\nagainst Harry.\n\n\"It's a shame, I say, to talk away the reputation of any man or woman as\npeople do here. Do you know, in our country, a fellow's ears would not\nbe safe; and a little before I left home, three brothers shot down a\nman, for having spoken ill of their sister.\"\n\n\"Serve the villain right!\" cries Sampson.\n\n\"Already they have had that calumny about me set a-going here,\nSampson,--about me and the poor little French dancing-girl.\"\n\n\"I have heard,\" says Mr. Sampson, shaking powder out of his wig.\n\n\"Wicked; wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Abominable.\"\n\n\"They said the very same thing about my Lord March. Isn't it shameful?\"\n\n\"Indeed it is,\" says Mr. Sampson, preserving a face of wonderful\ngravity.\n\n\"I don't know what I should do if these stories were to come to my\nmother's ears. It would break her heart, I do believe it would. Why,\nonly a few days before you came, a military friend of mine, Mr. Wolfe,\ntold me how the most horrible lies were circulated about me. Good\nheavens! What do they think a gentleman of my name and country can\nbe capable of--I a seducer of women? They might as well say I was a\nhorse-stealer or a housebreaker. I vow if I hear any man say so, I'll\nhave his ears!\"\n\n\"I have read, sir, that the Grand Seignior of Turkey has bushels of ears\nsometimes sent in to him,\" says Mr. Sampson, laughing. \"If you took all\nthose that had heard scandal against you or others, what basketsful you\nwould fill!\"\n\n\"And so I would, Sampson, as soon as look at 'em:--any fellow's who said\na word against a lady or a gentleman of honour!\" cries the Virginian.\n\n\"If you'll go down to the Well, you'll find a harvest of 'em. I just\ncame from there. It was the high tide of Scandal. Detraction was at its\nheight. And you may see the nymphas discentes and the aures satyrorum\nacutas,\" cries the chaplain, with a shrug of his shoulders.\n\n\"That may be as you say, Sampson,\" Mr. Warrington replies, \"but if ever\nI hear any man speak against my character I'll punish him. Mark that.\"\n\n\"I shall be very sorry for his sake, that I should; for you'll mark him\nin a way he won't like, sir; and I know you are a man of your word.\"\n\n\"You may be sure of that, Sampson. And now shall we go to dinner, and\nafterwards to my Lady Trumpington's tea?\"\n\n\"You know, sir, I can't resist a card or a bottle,\" says Mr. Sampson.\n\"Let us have the last first and then the first shall come last.\" And\nwith this the two gentlemen went off to their accustomed place of\nrefection.\n\nThat was an age in which wine-bibbing was more common than in our\npoliter time; and, especially since the arrival of General Braddock's\narmy in his native country, our young Virginian had acquired rather\na liking for the filling of bumpers and the calling of toasts; having\nheard that it was a point of honour among the officers never to decline\na toast or a challenge. So Harry and his chaplain drank their claret in\npeace and plenty, naming, as the simple custom was, some favourite lady\nwith each glass.\n\nThe chaplain had reasons of his own for desiring to know how far\nthe affair between Harry and my Lady Maria had gone; whether it was\nadvancing, or whether it was ended; and he and his young friend were\njust warm enough with the claret to be able to talk with that great\neloquence, that candour, that admirable friendliness, which good wine\ntaken in rather injudicious quantity inspires. O kindly harvests of\nthe Aquitanian grape! O sunny banks of Garonne! O friendly caves of\nGledstane and Morol, where the dusky flasks lie recondite! May we not\nsay a word of thanks for all the pleasure we owe you? Are the Temperance\nmen to be allowed to shout in the public places? are the Vegetarians to\nbellow \"Cabbage for ever?\" and may we modest Enophilists not sing the\npraises of our favourite plant? After the drinking of good Bordeaux\nwine, there is a point (I do not say a pint) at which men arrive, when\nall the generous faculties of the soul are awakened and in full vigour;\nwhen the wit brightens and breaks out in sudden flashes; when the\nintellects are keenest; when the pent-up words and confined thoughts get\na night-rule, and rush abroad and disport themselves; when the kindliest\naffection, come out and shake hands with mankind, and the timid Truth\njumps up naked out of his well and proclaims himself to all the world.\nHow, by the kind influence of the wine-cup, we succour the poor and\nhumble! How bravely we rush to the rescue of the oppressed! I say, in\nthe face of all the pumps which ever spouted, that there is a moment in\na bout of good wine at which, if a man could but remain, wit, wisdom,\ncourage, generosity, eloquence, happiness were his; but the moment\npasses, and that other glass somehow spoils the state of beatitude.\nThere is a headache in the morning; we are not going into Parliament\nfor our native town; we are not going to shoot those French officers\nwho have been speaking disrespectfully of our country; and poor Jeremy\nDiddler calls about eleven o'clock for another half-sovereign, and we\nare unwell in bed, and can't see him, and send him empty away.\n\nWell, then, as they sate over their generous cups, the company having\ndeparted, and the bottle of claret being brought in by Monsieur Barbeau,\nthe chaplain found himself in an eloquent state, with a strong desire\nfor inculcating sublime moral precepts whilst Harry was moved by an\nextreme longing to explain his whole private history, and to impart all\nhis present feelings to his new friend. Mark that fact. Why must a\nman say everything that comes uppermost in his noble mind, because,\nforsooth, he has swallowed a half-pint more wine than he ordinarily\ndrinks? Suppose I had committed a murder (of course I allow the sherry,\nand champagne at dinner), should I announce that homicide somewhere\nabout the third bottle (in a small party of men) of claret at dessert?\nOf course: and hence the fidelity to water-gruel announced a few pages\nback.\n\n\"I am glad to hear what your conduct has really been with regard to the\nCattarina, Mr. Warrington; I am glad from my soul,\" says the impetuous\nchaplain. \"The wine is with you. You have shown that you can bear down\ncalumny, and resist temptation. Ah! my dear sir, men are not all so\nfortunate. What famous good wine this is!\" and he sucks up a glass with\n\"A toast from you, my dear sir, if you please?\"\n\n\"I give you 'Miss Fanny Mountain, of Virginia,'\" says Mr. Warrington,\nfilling a bumper as his thoughts fly straightway, ever so many thousand\nmiles, to home.\n\n\"One of your American conquests, I suppose?\" says the chaplain.\n\n\"Nay, she is but ten years old, and I have never made any conquests at\nall in Virginia, Mr. Sampson,\" says the young gentleman.\n\n\"You are like a true gentleman, and don't kiss and tell, sir.\"\n\n\"I neither kiss nor tell. It isn't the custom of our country, Sampson,\nto ruin girls, or frequent the society of low women. We Virginian\ngentlemen honour women: we don't wish to bring them to shame,\" cries the\nyoung toper, looking very proud and handsome. \"The young lady whose\nname I mentioned hath lived in our family since her infancy, and I would\nshoot the man who did her a wrong;--by Heaven, I would!\"\n\n\"Your sentiments do you honour! Let me shake hands with you! I will\nshake hands with you, Mr. Warrington,\" cried the enthusiastic Sampson.\n\"And let me tell you 'tis the grasp of honest friendship offered you,\nand not merely the poor retainer paying court to the wealthy patron. No!\nwith such liquor as this, all men are equal;--faith, all men are rich,\nwhilst it lasts! and Tom Sampson is as wealthy with his bottle as your\nhonour with all the acres of your principality!\"\n\n\"Let us have another bottle of riches,\" says Harry, with a laugh.\n\"Encore du cachet jaune, mon bon Monsieur Barbeau!\" and exit Monsieur\nBarbeau to the caves below.\n\n\"Another bottle of riches! Capital, capital! How beautifully you speak\nFrench, Mr. Harry!\"\n\n\"I do speak it well,\" says Harry. \"At least, when I speak, Monsieur\nBarbeau understands me well enough.\"\n\n\"You do everything well, I think. You succeed in whatever you try. That\nis why they have fancied here you have won the hearts of so many women,\nsir.\"\n\n\"There you go again about the women! I tell you I don't like these\nstories about women. Confound me, Sampson, why is a gentleman's\ncharacter to be blackened so?\"\n\n\"Well, at any rate, there is one, unless my eyes deceive me very much\nindeed, sir!\" cries the chaplain.\n\n\"Whom do you mean?\" asked Harry, flushing very red.\n\n\"Nay, I name no names. It isn't for a poor chaplain to meddle with his\nbetters' doings, or to know their thoughts,\" says Mr. Sampson.\n\n\"Thoughts! what thoughts, Sampson?\"\n\n\"I fancied I saw, on the part of a certain lovely and respected lady at\nCastlewood, a preference exhibited. I fancied, on the side of a certain\ndistinguished young gentleman, a strong liking manifested itself: but I\nmay have been wrong, and ask pardon.\"\n\n\"Oh, Sampson, Sampson!\" broke out the young man. \"I tell you I am\nmiserable. I tell you I have been longing for some one to confide in,\nor ask advice of. You do know, then, that there has been something\ngoing on--something between me and--help Mr. Sampson, Monsieur\nBarbeau--and--and some one else?\"\n\n\"I have watched it this month past,\" says the chaplain.\n\n\"Confound me, sir, do you mean you have been a spy on me?\" says the\nother hotly.\n\n\"A spy! You made little disguise of the matter, Mr. Warrington, and\nher ladyship wasn't a much better hand at deceiving. You were always\ntogether. In the shrubberies, in the walks, in the village, in the\ngalleries of the house,--you always found a pretext for being together,\nand plenty of eyes besides mine watched you.\"\n\n\"Gracious powers! What did you see, Sampson?\" cries the lad.\n\n\"Nay, sir, 'tis forbidden to kiss and tell. I say so again,\" says the\nchaplain.\n\nThe young man turned very red. \"Oh, Sampson!\" he cried, \"can I--can I\nconfide in you?\"\n\n\"Dearest sir--dear generous youth--you know I would shed my heart's\nblood for you!\" exclaimed the chaplain, squeezing his patron's hand, and\nturning a brilliant pair of eyes ceilingwards.\n\n\"Oh, Sampson! I tell you I am miserable. With all this play and wine,\nwhilst I have been here, I tell you I have been trying to drive away\ncare. I own to you that when we were at Castlewood there were things\npassed between a certain lady and me.\"\n\nThe parson gave a slight whistle over his glass of Bordeaux.\n\n\"And they've made me wretched, those things have. I mean, you see, that\nif a gentleman has given his word, why, it's his word, and he must stand\nby it, you know. I mean that I thought I loved her,--and so I do very\nmuch, and she's a most dear, kind, darling, affectionate creature, and\nvery handsome, too,--quite beautiful; but then, you know, our ages,\nSampson! Think of our ages, Sampson! She's as old as my mother!\"\n\n\"Who would never forgive you.\"\n\n\"I don't intend to let anybody meddle in my affairs, not Madam Esmond\nnor anybody else,\" cries Harry: \"but you see, Sampson, she is old--and,\noh, hang it! Why did Aunt Bernstein tell me----?\"\n\n\"Tell you what?\"\n\n\"Something I can't divulge to anybody, something that tortures me!\"\n\n\"Not about the--the----\" the chaplain paused: he was going to say about\nher ladyship's little affair with the French dancing-master; about other\nlittle anecdotes affecting her character. But he had not drunk wine\nenough to be quite candid, or too much, and was past the real moment of\nvirtue.\n\n\"Yes, yes, every one of 'em false--every one of 'em!\" shrieks out Harry.\n\n\"Great powers, what do you mean?\" asks his friend.\n\n\"These, sir, these!\" says Harry, beating a tattoo on his own white\nteeth. \"I didn't know it when I asked her. I swear I didn't know it.\nOh, it's horrible--it's horrible! and it has caused me nights of agony,\nSampson. My dear old grandfather had a set a Frenchman at Charleston\nmade them for him, and we used to look at 'em grinning in a tumbler, and\nwhen they were out, his jaws used to fall in--I never thought she had\n'em.\"\n\n\"Had what, sir?\" again asked the chaplain.\n\n\"Confound it, sir, don't you see I mean teeth?\" says Harry, rapping the\ntable.\n\n\"Nay, only two.\"\n\n\"And how the devil do you know, sir?\" asks the young man, fiercely.\n\n\"I--I had it from her maid. She had two teeth knocked out by a stone\nwhich cut her lip a little, and they have been replaced.\"\n\n\"Oh, Sampson, do you mean to say they ain't all sham ones?\" cries the\nboy.\n\n\"But two, sir, at least so Peggy told me, and she would just as soon\nhave blabbed about the whole two-and-thirty--the rest are as sound as\nyours, which are beautiful.\"\n\n\"And her hair, Sampson, is that all right, too?\" asks the young\ngentleman.\n\n\"'Tis lovely--I have seen that. I can take my oath to that. Her ladyship\ncan sit upon it; and her figure is very fine; and her skin is as white\nas snow; and her heart is the kindest that ever was; and I know, that is\nI feel sure, it is very tender about you, Mr. Warrington.\"\n\n\"Oh, Sampson! Heaven, Heaven bless you! What a weight you've taken off\nmy mind with those--those--never mind them! Oh, Sam! How happy--that is,\nno, no--ob, how miserable I am! She's as old as Madam Esmond--by George\nshe is--she's as old as my mother. You wouldn't have a fellow marry\na woman as old as his mother? It's too bad: by George it is. It's too\nbad.\" And here, I am sorry to say, Harry Esmond Warrington, Esquire, of\nCastlewood, in Virginia, began to cry. The delectable point, you see,\nmust have been passed several glasses ago.\n\n\"You don't want to marry her, then?\" asks the chaplain.\n\n\"What's that to you, sir? I've promised her, and an Esmond--a Virginia\nEsmond mind that--Mr. What's-your-name--Sampson--has but his word!\"\nThe sentiment was noble, but delivered by Harry with rather a doubtful\narticulation.\n\n\"Mind you, I said a Virginia Esmond,\" continued poor Harry, lifting up\nhis finger. \"I don't mean the younger branch here. I don't mean Will,\nwho robbed me about the horse, and whose bones I'll break. I give you\nLady Maria--Heaven bless her, and Heaven bless you, Sampson, and you\ndeserve to be a bishop, old boy!\"\n\n\"There are letters between you, I suppose?\" says Sampson.\n\n\"Letters! Dammy, she's always writing me letters!--never lets me into a\nwindow but she sticks one in my cuff. Letters! that is a good idea! Look\nhere! Here's letters!\" And he threw down a pocket-book containing a heap\nof papers of the poor lady's composition.\n\n\"Those are letters, indeed. What a post-bag!\" says the chaplain.\n\n\"But any man who touches them--dies--dies on the spot!\" shrieks Harry,\nstarting from his seat, and reeling towards his sword; which he draws,\nand then stamps with his foot, and says, \"Ha! ha!\" and then lunges at\nM. Barbeau, who skips away from the lunge behind the chaplain, who looks\nrather alarmed. I know we could have had a much more exciting picture\nthan either of those we present of Harry this month, and the lad, with\nhis hair dishevelled, raging about the room flamberge au vent, and\npinking the affrighted innkeeper and chaplain, would have afforded a\ngood subject for the pencil. But oh, to think of him stumbling over a\nstool, and prostrated by an enemy who has stole away his brains! Come,\nGumbo! and help your master to bed!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. In which a Family Coach is ordered\n\n\nOur pleasing duty now is to divulge the secret which Mr. Lambert\nwhispered in his wife's ear at the close of the antepenultimate chapter,\nand the publication of which caused such great pleasure to the whole of\nthe Oakhurst family. As the hay was in, the corn not ready for cutting,\nand by consequence the farm horses disengaged, why, asked Colonel\nLambert, should they not be put into the coach, and should we not all\npay a visit to Tunbridge Wells, taking friend Wolfe at Westerham on our\nway?\n\nMamma embraced this proposal, and I dare say the honest gentleman who\nmade it. All the children jumped for joy. The girls went off straightway\nto get together their best calamancoes, paduasoys, falbalas, furbelows,\ncapes, cardinals, sacks, negligees, solitaires, caps, ribbons, mantuas,\nclocked stockings, and high-heeled shoes, and I know not what articles\nof toilet. Mamma's best robes were taken from the presses, whence they\nonly issued on rare, solemn occasions, retiring immediately afterwards\nto lavender and seclusion; the brave Colonel produced his laced hat and\nwaistcoat and silver-hilted hanger; Charley rejoiced in a rasee holiday\nsuit of his father's, in which the Colonel had been married, and which\nMrs. Lambert cut up, not without a pang. Ball and Dumpling had their\ntails and manes tied with ribbon, and Chump, the old white cart-horse,\nwent as unicorn leader, to help the carriage-horses up the first hilly\nfive miles of the road from Oakhurst to Westerham. The carriage was an\nancient vehicle, and was believed to have served in the procession which\nhad brought George I. from Greenwich to London, on his first arrival to\nassume the sovereignty of these realms. It had belonged to Mr. Lambert's\nfather, and the family had been in the habit of regarding it, ever since\nthey could remember anything, as one of the most splendid coaches in the\nthree kingdoms. Brian, coachman, and--must it also be owned?--ploughman,\nof the Oakhurst family, had a place on the box, with Mr. Charley by his\nside. The precious clothes were packed in imperials on the roof. The\nColonel's pistols were put in the pockets of the carriage, and the\nblunderbuss hung behind the box, in reach of Brian, who was an old\nsoldier. No highwayman, however, molested the convoy; not even an\ninnkeeper levied contributions on Colonel Lambert, who, with a slender\npurse and a large family, was not to be plundered by those or any other\ndepredators on the king's highway; and a reasonable cheap modest lodging\nhad been engaged for them by young Colonel Wolfe, at the house where he\nwas in the habit of putting up, and whither he himself accompanied them\non horseback.\n\nIt happened that these lodgings were opposite Madame Bernstein's; and as\nthe Oakhurst family reached their quarters on a Saturday evening, they\ncould see chair after chair discharging powdered beaux and patched and\nbrocaded beauties at the Baroness's door, who was holding one of her\nmany card-parties. The sun was not yet down (for our ancestors began\ntheir dissipations at early hours, and were at meat, drink, or cards,\nany time after three o'clock in the afternoon until any time in the\nnight or morning), and the young country ladies and their mother from\ntheir window could see the various personages as they passed into the\nBernstein rout. Colonel Wolfe told the ladies who most of the characters\nwere. 'Twas almost as delightful as going to the party themselves, Hetty\nand Theo thought, for they not only could see the guests arriving, but\nlook into the Baroness's open casements and watch many of them there. Of\na few of the personages we have before had a glimpse. When the Duchess\nof Queensberry passed, and Mr. Wolfe explained who she was, Martin\nLambert was ready with a score of lines about \"Kitty, beautiful and\nyoung,\" from his favourite Mat Prior.\n\n\"Think that that old lady was once like you, girls!\" cries the Colonel.\n\n\"Like us, papa? Well, certainly we never set up for being beauties!\"\nsays Miss Hetty, tossing up her little head.\n\n\"Yes, like you, you little baggage; like you at this moment, who want to\ngo to that drum yonder:--\n\n    'Inflamed with rage at sad restraint\n       Which wise mamma ordained,\n     And sorely vexed to play the saint\n       Whilst wit and beauty reigned.'\"\n\n\"We were never invited, papa; and I am sure if there's no beauty more\nworth seeing than that, the wit can't be much worth the hearing,\" again\nsays the satirist of the family.\n\n\"Oh, but he's a rare poet, Mat Prior!\" continues the Colonel; \"though,\nmind you, girls, you'll skip over all the poems I have marked with a\ncross. A rare poet! and to think you should see one of his heroines!\n'Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way' (she always will, Mrs. Lambert!)--\n\n    'Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,\n       Kitty at heart's desire\n     Obtained the chariot for a day,\n       And set the world on fire!'\"\n\n\"I am sure it must have been very inflammable,\" says mamma.\n\n\"So it was, my dear, twenty years ago, much more inflammable than it is\nnow,\" remarks the Colonel.\n\n\"Nonsense, Mr. Lambert,\" is mamma's answer.\n\n\"Look, look!\" cries Hetty, running forward and pointing to the little\nsquare, and the covered gallery, where was the door leading to Madame\nBernstein's apartments, and round which stood a crowd of street urchins,\nidlers, and yokels, watching the company.\n\n\"It's Harry Warrington!\" exclaims Theo, waving a handkerchief to the\nyoung Virginian: but Warrington did not see Miss Lambert. The Virginian\nwas walking arm-in-arm with a portly clergyman in a crisp rustling silk\ngown, and the two went into Madame de Bernstein's door.\n\n\"I heard him preach a most admirable sermon here last Sunday,\" says Mr.\nWolfe; \"a little theatrical, but most striking and eloquent.\"\n\n\"You seem to be here most Sundays, James,\" says Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"And Monday, and soon till Saturday,\" adds the Colonel. \"See, Harry has\nbeautified himself already, hath his hair in buckle, and I have no doubt\nis going to the drum too.\"\n\n\"I had rather sit quiet generally of a Saturday evening,\" says sober Mr.\nWolfe; \"at any rate, away from card-playing and scandal; but I own, dear\nMrs. Lambert, I am under orders. Shall I go across the way and send Mr.\nWarrington to you?\"\n\n\"No, let him have his sport. We shall see him to-morrow. He won't care\nto be disturbed amidst his fine folks by us country-people,\" said meek\nMrs. Lambert.\n\n\"I am glad he is with a clergyman who preaches so well,\" says Theo,\nsoftly; and her eyes seemed to say, You see, good people, he is not so\nbad as you thought him, and as I, for my part, never believed him to be.\n\"The clergyman has a very kind, handsome face.\"\n\n\"Here comes a greater clergyman,\" cries Mr. Wolfe. \"It is my Lord of\nSalisbury, with his blue ribbon, and a chaplain behind him.\"\n\n\"And whom a mercy's name have we here?\" breaks in Mrs. Lambert, as a\nsedan-chair, covered with gilding, topped with no less than five earl's\ncoronets, carried by bearers in richly laced clothes, and preceded by\nthree footmen in the same splendid livery, now came up to Madame de\nBernstein's door. The Bishop, who had been about to enter, stopped, and\nran back with the most respectful bows and curtseys to the sedan-chair,\ngiving his hand to the lady who stepped thence.\n\n\"Who on earth is this?\" asks Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"Sprechen sie Deutsch? Ja, meinherr. Nichts verstand,\" says the waggish\nColonel.\n\n\"Pooh, Martin.\"\n\n\"Well, if you can't understand High Dutch, my love, how can I help it?\nYour education was neglected at school. Can you understand heraldry?--I\nknow you can.\"\n\n\"I make.\" cries Charley, reciting the shield, \"three merions on a field\nor, with an earl's coronet.\"\n\n\"A countess's coronet, my son. The Countess of Yarmouth, my son.\"\n\n\"And pray who is she?\"\n\n\"It hath ever been the custom of our sovereigns to advance persons\nof distinction to honour,\" continues the Colonel, gravely, \"and this\neminent lady hath been so promoted by our gracious monarch, to the rank\nof Countess of this kingdom.\"\n\n\"But why, papa?\" asked the daughters together.\n\n\"Never mind, girls!\" said mamma.\n\nBut that incorrigible Colonel would go on.\n\n\"Y, my children, is one of the last and the most awkward letters of the\nwhole alphabet. When I tell you stories, you are always saying Why. Why\nshould my Lord Bishop be cringing to that lady? Look at him rubbing his\nfat hands together, and smiling into her face! It's not a handsome face\nany longer. It is all painted red and white like Scaramouch's in the\npantomime. See, there comes another blue-riband, as I live. My Lord\nBamborough. The descendant of the Hotspurs. The proudest man in England.\nHe stops, he bows, he smiles; he is hat in hand, too. See, she taps him\nwith her fan. Get away, you crowd of little blackguard boys, and don't\ntread on the robe of the lady whom the King delights to honour.\"\n\n\"But why does the King honour her?\" ask the girls once more.\n\n\"There goes that odious last letter but one! Did you ever hear of her\nGrace the Duchess of Kendal? No. Of the Duchess of Portsmouth? Non plus.\nOf the Duchess of La Valliore? Of Fair Rosamond, then?\"\n\n\"Hush, papa! There is no need to bring blushes on the cheeks of my\ndear ones, Martin Lambert!\" said the mother, putting her finger to her\nhusband's lips.\n\n\"'Tis not I; it is their sacred Majesties who are the cause of the\nshame,\" cries the son of the old republican. \"Think of the bishops of\nthe Church and the proudest nobility of the world cringing and bowing\nbefore that painted High Dutch Jezebel. Oh, it's a shame! a shame!\"\n\n\"Confusion!\" here broke out Colonel Wolfe, and making a dash at his hat,\nran from the room. He had seen the young lady whom he admired and her\nguardian walking across the Pantiles on foot to the Baroness's party,\nand they came up whilst the Countess of Yarmouth-Walmoden was engaged\nin conversation with the two lords spiritual and temporal, and these two\nmade the lowest reverences and bows to the Countess, and waited until\nshe had passed in at the door on the Bishop's arm.\n\nTheo turned away from the window with a sad, almost awestricken face.\nHetty still remained there, looking from it with indignation in her\neyes, and a little red spot on each cheek.\n\n\"A penny for little Hetty's thoughts,\" says mamma, coming to the window\nto lead the child away.\n\n\"I am thinking what I should do if I saw papa bowing to that woman,\"\nsays Hetty.\n\nTea and a hissing kettle here made their appearance, and the family sate\ndown to partake of their evening meal,--leaving, however, Miss Hetty,\nfrom her place, command of the window, which she begged her brother\nnot to close. That young gentleman had been down amongst the crowd to\ninspect the armorial bearings of the Countess's and other sedans, no\ndoubt, and also to invest sixpence in a cheese-cake, by mamma's order\nand his own desire, and he returned presently with this delicacy wrapped\nup in a paper.\n\n\"Look, mother,\" he comes back and says, \"do you see that big man in\nbrown beating all the pillars with a stick? That is the learned Mr.\nJohnson. He comes to the Friars sometimes to see our master. He was\nsitting with some friends just now at the tea-table before Mrs. Brown's\ntart-shop. They have tea there, twopence a cup; I heard Mr. Johnson say\nhe had had seventeen cups--that makes two-and-tenpence--what a sight of\nmoney for tea!\"\n\n\"What would you have, Charley?\" asks Theo.\n\n\"I think I would have cheese-cakes,\" says Charley, sighing, as his teeth\nclosed on a large slice, \"and the gentleman whom Mr. Johnson was with,\"\ncontinues Charley, with his mouth quite full, \"was Mr. Richardson who\nwrote----\"\n\n\"Clarissa!\" cry all the women in a breath, and run to the window to see\ntheir favourite writer. By this time the sun was sunk, the stars were\ntwinkling overhead, and the footman came and lighted the candles in the\nBaroness's room opposite our spies.\n\nTheo and her mother were standing together looking from their place of\nobservation. There was a small illumination at Mrs. Brown's tart-\nand tea-shop, by which our friends could see one lady getting Mr.\nRichardson's hat and stick, and another tying a shawl round his neck,\nafter which he walked home.\n\n\"Oh dear me! he does not look like Grandison!\" cries Theo.\n\n\"I rather think I wish we had not seen him, my dear,\" says mamma, who\nhas been described as a most sentimental woman and eager novel-reader;\nand here again they were interrupted by Miss Hetty, who cried:\n\n\"Never mind that little fat man, but look yonder, mamma.\"\n\nAnd they looked yonder. And they saw, in the first place, Mr. Warrington\nundergoing the honour of a presentation to the Countess of Yarmouth, who\nwas still followed by the obsequious peer and prelate with blue ribands.\nAnd now the Countess graciously sate down to a card-table, the Bishop\nand the Earl and a fourth person being her partners. And now Mr.\nWarrington came into the embrasure of the window with a lady whom they\nrecognised as the lady whom they had seen for a few minutes at Oakhurst.\n\n\"How much finer he is!\" remarks mamma.\n\n\"How he is improved in his looks! What has he done to himself?\" asks\nTheo.\n\n\"Look at his grand lace frills and rules! My dear, he has not got on our\nshirts any more,\" cries the matron.\n\n\"What are you talking about, girls?\" asks papa, reclining on his sofa,\nwhere, perhaps, he was dozing after the fashion of honest house-fathers.\n\nThe girls said how Harry Warrington was in the window, talking with his\ncousin Lady Maria Esmond.\n\n\"Come away!\" cries papa. \"You have no right to be spying the young\nfellow. Down with the curtains, I say!\"\n\nAnd down the curtains went, so that the girls saw no more of Madame\nBernstein's guests or doings for that night.\n\nI pray you be not angry at my remarking, if only by way of contrast\nbetween these two opposite houses, that while Madame Bernstein and her\nguests--bishop, dignitaries, noblemen, and what not--were gambling or\ntalking scandal, or devouring champagne and chickens (which I hold to be\nvenial sin), or doing honour to her ladyship the king's favourite, the\nCountess of Yarmouth-Walmoden, our country friends in their lodgings\nknelt round their table, whither Mr. Brian the coachman came as silently\nas his creaking shoes would let him, whilst Mr. Lambert, standing up,\nread in a low voice, a prayer that Heaven would lighten their darkness\nand defend them from the perils of that night, and a supplication that\nit would grant the request of those two or three gathered together.\n\nOur young folks were up betimes on Sunday morning, and arrayed\nthemselves in those smart new dresses which were to fascinate the\nTunbridge folks, and, with the escort of brother Charley, paced the\nlittle town, and the quaint Pantiles, and the pretty common, long ere\nthe company was at breakfast, or the bells had rung to church. It\nwas Hester who found out where Harry Warrington's lodging must be, by\nremarking Mr. Gumbo in an undress, with his lovely hair in curl-papers,\ndrawing a pair of red curtains aside, and opening a window-sash, whence\nhe thrust his head and inhaled the sweet morning breeze. Mr. Gumbo did\nnot happen to see the young people from Oakhurst, though they beheld him\nclearly enough. He leaned gracefully from the window; he waved a large\nfeather brush, with which he condescended to dust the furniture of\nthe apartment within; he affably engaged in conversation with a\ncherry-cheeked milkmaid, who was lingering under the casement, and\nkissed his lily hand to her. Gumbo's hand sparkled with rings, and his\nperson was decorated with a profusion of jewellery--gifts, no doubt, of\nthe fair who appreciated the young African. Once or twice more before\nbreakfast-time the girls passed near that window. It remained opened,\nbut the room behind it was blank. No face of Harry Warrington appeared\nthere. Neither spoke to the other of the subject on which both were\nbrooding. Hetty was a little provoked with Charley, who was clamorous\nabout breakfast, and told him he was always thinking of eating. In reply\nto her sarcastic inquiry, he artlessly owned he should like another\ncheese-cake, and good-natured Theo, laughing, said she had a sixpence,\nand if the cake-shop were open of a Sunday morning Charley should have\none. The cake-shop was open: and Theo took out her little purse, netted\nby her dearest friend at school, and containing her pocket-piece, her\ngrandmother's guinea, her slender little store of shillings--nay, some\ncopper money at one end; and she treated Charley to the meal which he\nloved.\n\nA great deal of fine company was at church. There was that funny old\nDuchess, and old Madame Bernstein, with Lady Maria at her side; and Mr.\nWolfe, of course, by the side of Miss Lowther, and singing with her out\nof the same psalm-book; and Mr. Richardson with a bevy of ladies. One\nof them is Miss Fielding, papa tells them after church, Harry Fielding's\nsister. \"Oh, girls, what good company he was! And his books are worth\na dozen of your milksop Pamelas and Clarissas, Mrs. Lambert: but what\nwoman ever loved true humour? And there was Mr. Johnson sitting amongst\nthe charity children. Did you see how he turned round to the altar\nat the Belief, and upset two or three of the scared little urchins in\nleather breeches? And what a famous sermon Harry's parson gave, didn't\nhe? A sermon about scandal. How, he touched up some of the old harridans\nwho were seated round! Why wasn't Mr. Warrington at church? It was a\nshame he wasn't at church.\"\n\n\"I really did not remark whether he was there or not,\" says Miss Hetty,\ntossing her head up.\n\nBut Theo, who was all truth, said, \"Yes, I thought of him, and was sorry\nhe was not there; and so did you think of him, Hetty.\"\n\n\"I did no such thing, miss,\" persists Hetty.\n\n\"Then why did you whisper to me it was Harry's clergyman who preached?\"\n\n\"To think of Mr. Warrington's clergyman is not to think of Mr.\nWarrington. It was a most excellent sermon, certainly, and the children\nsang most dreadfully out of tune. And there is Lady Maria at the window\nopposite, smelling at the roses; and that is Mr. Wolfe's step, I know\nhis great military tramp. Right left--right left! How do you do, Colonel\nWolfe?\"\n\n\"Why do you look so glum, James?\" asks Colonel Lambert, good-naturedly.\n\"Has the charmer been scolding thee, or is thy conscience pricked by the\nsermon. Mr. Sampson, isn't the parson's name? A famous preacher, on my\nword!\"\n\n\"A pretty preacher, and a pretty practitioner!\" says Mr. Wolfe, with a\nshrug of his shoulders.\n\n\"Why, I thought the discourse did not last ten minutes, and madam did\nnot sleep one single wink during the sermon, didst thou, Molly?\"\n\n\"Did you see when the fellow came into church?\" asked the indignant\nColonel Wolfe. \"He came in at the open door of the common, just in time,\nand as the psalm was over.\"\n\n\"Well, he had been reading the service probably to some sick person;\nthere are many here,\" remarks Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"Reading the service! Oh, my good Mrs. Lambert! Do you know where I\nfound him? I went to look for your young scapegrace of a Virginian.\"\n\n\"His own name is a very pretty name, I'm sure,\" cries out Hetty. \"It\nisn't Scapegrace! It is Henry Esmond Warrington, Esquire.\"\n\n\"Miss Hester, I found the parson in his cassock, and Henry Esmond\nWarrington, Esquire, in his bedgown, at a quarter before eleven o'clock\nin the morning, when all the Sunday bells were ringing, and they were\nplaying over a game of piquet they had had the night before!\"\n\n\"Well, numbers of good people play at cards of a Sunday. The King plays\nat cards of a Sunday.\"\n\n\"Hush, my dear!\"\n\n\"I know he does,\" says Hetty, \"with that painted person we saw\nyesterday--that Countess what-d'you-call-her?\"\n\n\"I think, my dear Miss Hester, a clergyman had best take to God's books\ninstead of the Devil's books on that day--and so I took the liberty of\ntelling your parson.\" Hetty looked as if she thought it was a liberty\nwhich Mr. Wolfe had taken. \"And I told our young friend that I thought\nhe had better have been on his way to church than there in his bedgown.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't have Harry go to church in a dressing-gown and nightcap,\nColonel Wolfe? That would be a pretty sight, indeed!\" again says Hetty,\nfiercely.\n\n\"I would have my little girl's tongue not wag quite so fast,\" remarks\npapa, patting the girl's flushed little cheek.\n\n\"Not speak when a friend is attacked, and nobody says a word in his\nfavour? No; nobody!\"\n\nHere the two lips of the little mouth closed on each other: the whole\nlittle frame shook: the child flung a parting look of defiance at Mr.\nWolfe, and went out of the room, just in time to close the door, and\nburst out crying on the stair.\n\nMr. Wolfe looked very much discomfited. \"I am sure, Aunt Lambert, I did\nnot intend to hurt Hester's feelings.\"\n\n\"No, James,\" she said, very kindly--the young officer used to call her\nAunt Lambert in quite early days--and she gave him her hand.\n\nMr. Lambert whistled his favourite tune of \"Over the hills and far\naway,\" with a drum accompaniment performed by his fingers on the window.\n\"I say, you mustn't whistle on Sunday, papa!\" cries the artless young\ngown-boy from Grey Friars; and then suggested that it was three hours\nfrom breakfast, and he should like to finish Theo's cheese-cake.\n\n\"Oh, you greedy child!\" cries Theo. But here, hearing a little\nexclamatory noise outside, she ran out of the room, closing the door\nbehind her. And we will not pursue her. The noise was that sob which\nbroke from Hester's panting, overloaded heart; and, though we cannot\nsee, I am sure the little maid flung herself on her sister's neck, and\nwept upon Theo's kind bosom.\n\nHetty did not walk out in the afternoon when the family took the air\non the common, but had a headache and lay on her bed, where her mother\nwatched her. Charley had discovered a comrade from Grey Friars: Mr.\nWolfe of course paired off with Miss Lowther: and Theo and her father,\ntaking their sober walk in the Sabbath sunshine, found Madame Bernstein\nbasking on a bench under a tree, her niece and nephew in attendance.\nHarry ran up to greet his dear friends: he was radiant with pleasure at\nbeholding them--the elder ladies were most gracious to the Colonel and\nhis wife, who had so kindly welcomed their Harry.\n\nHow noble and handsome he looked! Theo thought: she called him by his\nChristian name, as if he were really her brother. \"Why did we not see\nyou sooner to-day, Harry?\" she asked.\n\n\"I never thought you were here, Theo.\"\n\n\"But you might have seen us if you wished.\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"There, sir,\" she said, pointing to the church. And she held her hand\nup as if in reproof; but a sweet kindness beamed in her honest face.\nAh, friendly young reader, wandering on the world and struggling with\ntemptation, may you also have one or two pure hearts to love and pray\nfor you!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. Contains a Soliloquy by Hester\n\n\nMartin Lambert's first feeling, upon learning the little secret which\nhis younger daughter's emotion had revealed, was to be angry with the\nlad who had robbed his child's heart away from him and her family. \"A\nplague upon all scapegraces, English or Indian!\" cried the Colonel to\nhis wife. \"I wish this one had broke his nose against any doorpost but\nours.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we are to cure him of being a scapegrace, my dear,\" says Mrs.\nLambert, mildly interposing, \"and the fall at our door hath something\nprovidential in it. You laughed at me, Mr. Lambert, when I said so\nbefore; but if Heaven did not send the young gentleman to us, who did?\nAnd it may be for the blessing and happiness of us all that he came,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"It's hard, Molly!\" groaned the Colonel. \"We cherish and fondle and rear\n'em: we tend them through sickness and health: we toil and we scheme:\nwe hoard away money in the stocking, and patch our own old coats: if\nthey've a headache we can't sleep for thinking of their ailment; if\nthey have a wish or fancy, we work day and night to compass it, and 'tis\ndarling daddy and dearest pappy, and whose father is like ours? and so\nforth. On Tuesday morning I am king of my house and family. On Tuesday\nevening Prince Whippersnapper makes his appearance, and my reign is\nover. A whole life is forgotten and forsworn for a pair of blue eyes, a\npair of lean shanks, and a head of yellow hair.\"\n\n\"'Tis written that we women should leave all to follow our husband. I\nthink our courtship was not very long, dear Martin!\" said the matron,\nlaying her hand on her husband's arm.\n\n\"'Tis human nature, and what can you expect of the jade?\" sighed the\nColonel.\n\n\"And I think I did my duty to my husband, though I own I left my papa\nfor him,\" added Mrs. Lambert, softly.\n\n\"Excellent wench! Perdition catch my soul! but I do love thee, Molly!\"\nsays the good Colonel; \"but, then, mind you, your father never did me;\nand if ever I am to have sons-in-law----\"\n\n\"Ever, indeed! Of course my girls are to have husbands, Mr. Lambert!\"\ncries mamma.\n\n\"Well, when they come, I'll hate them, madam, as your father did me; and\nquite right too, for taking his treasure away from him.\"\n\n\"Don't be irreligious and unnatural, Martin Lambert! I say you are\nunnatural, sir!\" continues the matron.\n\n\"Nay, my dear, I have an old tooth in my left jaw, here; and 'tis\nnatural that the tooth should come out. But when the toothdrawer pulls\nit, 'tis natural that I should feel pain. Do you suppose, madam, that\nI don't love Hetty better than any tooth in my head?\" asks Mr. Lambert.\nBut no woman was ever averse to the idea of her daughter getting a\nhusband, however fathers revolt against the invasion of the son-in-law.\nAs for mothers and grandmothers, those good folks are married over again\nin the marriage of their young ones; and their souls attire themselves\nin the laces and muslins of twenty-forty years ago; the postillion's\nwhite ribbons bloom again, and they flutter into the postchaise, and\ndrive away. What woman, however old, has not the bridal favours and\nraiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of\nher heart?\n\n\"It will be a sad thing, parting with her,\" continued Mrs. Lambert, with\na sigh.\n\n\"You have settled that point already, Molly,\" laughs the Colonel. \"Had I\nnot best go out and order raisins and corinths for the wedding-cake?\"\n\n\"And then I shall have to leave the house in their charge when I go to\nher, you know, in Virginia. How many miles is it to Virginia, Martin? I\nshould think it must be thousands of miles.\"\n\n\"A hundred and seventy-three thousand three hundred and ninety-one and\nthree-quarters, my dear, by the near way,\" answers Lambert, gravely;\n\"that through Prester John's country. By the other route, through\nPersia----\"\n\n\"Oh, give me the one where there is the least of the sea, and your\nhorrid ships, which I can't bear!\" cries the Colonel's spouse. \"I hope\nRachel Esmond and I shall be better friends. She had a very high spirit\nwhen we were girls at school.\"\n\n\"Had we not best go about the baby-linen, Mrs. Martin Lambert?\" here\ninterposed her wondering husband. Now, Mrs. Lambert, I dare say, thought\nthere was no matter for wonderment at all, and had remarked some very\npretty lace caps and bibs in Mrs. Bobbinit's toy-shop. And on that\nSunday afternoon, when the discovery was made, and while little Hetty\nwas lying upon her pillow with feverish cheeks, closed eyes, and a\npiteous face, her mother looked at the child with the most perfect ease\nof mind, and seemed to be rather pleased than otherwise at Hetty's woe.\n\nThe girl was not only unhappy, but enraged with herself for having\npublished her secret. Perhaps she had not known it until the sudden\nemotion acquainted her with her own state of mind; and now the little\nmaid chose to be as much ashamed as if she had done a wrong, and been\ndiscovered in it. She was indignant with her own weakness, and broke\ninto transports of wrath against herself. She vowed she never would\nforgive herself for submitting to such a humiliation. So the young pard,\nwounded by the hunter's dart, chafes with rage in the forest, is angry\nwith the surprise of the rankling steel in her side, and snarls and\nbites at her sister-cubs, and the leopardess, her spotted mother.\n\nLittle Hetty tore and gnawed, and growled, so that I should not like to\nhave been her fraternal cub, or her spotted dam or sire. \"What business\nhas any young woman,\" she cried out, \"to indulge in any such nonsense?\nMamma, I ought to be whipped, and sent to bed. I know perfectly well\nthat Mr. Warrington does not care a fig about me. I dare say he likes\nFrench actresses and the commonest little milliner-girl in the toy-shop\nbetter than me. And so he ought, and so they are better than me. Why,\nwhat a fool I am to burst out crying like a ninny about nothing, and\nbecause Mr. Wolfe said Harry played cards of a Sunday! I know he is not\nclever, like papa. I believe he is stupid--I am certain he is stupid:\nbut he is not so stupid as I am. Why, of course, I can't marry him.\nHow am I to go to America, and leave you and Theo? Of course, he likes\nsomebody else, at America, or at Tunbridge, or at Jericho, or somewhere.\nHe is a prince in his own country, and can't think of marrying a poor\nhalf-pay officer's daughter, with twopence to her fortune. Used not you\nto tell me how, when I was a baby, I cried and wanted the moon? I am\na baby now, a most absurd, silly, little baby--don't talk to me, Mrs.\nLambert, I am. Only there is this to be said, he don't know anything\nabout it, and I would rather cut my tongue out than tell him.\"\n\nDire were the threats with which Hetty menaced Theo, in case her\nsister should betray her. As for the infantile Charley, his mind being\naltogether set on cheese-cakes, he had not remarked or been moved by\nMiss Hester's emotion; and the parents and the kind sister of course all\npromised not to reveal the little maid's secret.\n\n\"I begin to think it had been best for us to stay at home,\" sighed Mrs.\nLambert to her husband.\n\n\"Nay, my dear,\" replied the other. \"Human nature will be human nature;\nsurely Hetty's mother told me herself that she had the beginning of a\nliking for a certain young curate before she fell over head and ears in\nlove with a certain young officer of Kingsley's. And as for me, my\nheart was wounded in a dozen places ere Miss Molly Benson took entire\npossession of it. Our sons and daughters must follow in the way of their\nparents before them, I suppose. Why, but yesterday, you were scolding me\nfor grumbling at Miss Het's precocious fancies. To do the child justice,\nshe disguises her feelings entirely, and I defy Mr. Warrington to know\nfrom her behaviour how she is disposed towards him.\"\n\n\"A daughter of mine and yours, Martin,\" cries the mother, with great\ndignity, \"is not going to fling herself at a gentleman's head!\"\n\n\"Neither herself nor the teacup, my dear,\" answers the Colonel. Little\nMiss Het treats Mr. Warrington like a vixen. He never comes to us, but\nshe boxes his ears in one fashion or t'other. I protest she is barely\ncivil to him; but, knowing what is going on in the young hypocrite's\nmind, I am not going to be angry at her rudeness.\"\n\n\"She hath no need to be rude at all, Martin; and our girl is good\nenough for any gentleman in England or America. Why, if their ages suit,\nshouldn't they marry after all, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, if he wants her, shouldn't he ask her, my dear? I am sorry we\ncame. I am for putting the horses into the carriage, and turning their\nheads towards home again.\"\n\nBut mamma fondly said, \"Depend on it, my dear, that these matters are\nwisely ordained for us. Depend upon it, Martin, it was not for nothing\nthat Harry Warrington was brought to our gate in that way; and that he\nand our children are thus brought together again. If that marriage has\nbeen decreed in Heaven, a marriage it will be.\"\n\n\"At what age, Molly, I wonder, do women begin and leave off\nmatch-making? If our little chit falls in love and falls out again, she\nwill not be the first of her sex, Mrs. Lambert. I wish we were on our\nway home again, and, if I had my will, would trot off this very night.\"\n\n\"He has promised to drink his tea here to-night. You would not take away\nour child's pleasure, Martin?\" asked the mother, softly.\n\nIn his fashion, the father was not less good-natured. \"You know, my\ndear,\" says Lambert, \"that if either of 'em had a fancy to our ears, we\nwould cut them off and serve them in a fricassee.\"\n\nMary Lambert laughed at the idea of her pretty little delicate ears\nbeing so served. When her husband was most tender-hearted, his habit\nwas to be most grotesque. When he pulled the pretty little delicate ear,\nbehind which the matron's fine hair was combed back, wherein twinkled\na shining line or two of silver, I dare say he did not hurt her much. I\ndare say she was thinking of the soft, well-remembered times of her own\nmodest youth and sweet courtship. Hallowed remembrances of sacred times!\nIf the sight of youthful love is pleasant to behold, how much more\ncharming the aspect of the affection that has survived years, sorrows,\nfaded beauty perhaps, and life's doubts, differences, trouble!\n\nIn regard of her promise to disguise her feelings for Mr. Warrington in\nthat gentleman's presence, Miss Hester was better, or worse if you will,\nthan her word. Harry not only came to take tea with his friends, but\ninvited them for the next day to an entertainment at the Rooms, to be\ngiven in their special honour.\n\n\"A dance, and given for us!\" cries Theo. \"Oh, Harry, how delightful! I\nwish we could begin this very minute!\"\n\n\"Why, for a savage Virginian, I declare, Harry Warrington, thou art the\nmost civilised young man possible!\" says the Colonel. \"My dear, shall we\ndance a minuet together?\"\n\n\"We have done such a thing before, Martin Lambert!\" says the soldier's\nfond wife. Her husband hums a minuet tune; whips a plate from the\ntea-table, and makes a preparatory bow and flourish with it as if it\nwere a hat, whilst madam performs her best curtsey.\n\nOnly Hetty, of the party, persists in looking glum and displeased. \"Why,\nchild, have you not a word of thanks to throw to Mr. Warrington?\" asks\nTheo of her sister.\n\n\"I never did care for dancing much,\" says Hetty. \"What is the use of\nstanding up opposite a stupid man, and dancing down a room with him?\"\n\n\"Merci du compliment!\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"I don't say that you are stupid--that is--that is, I--I only meant\ncountry dances,\" says Hetty, biting her lips, as she caught her sister's\neye. She remembered she had said Harry was stupid, and Theo's droll\nhumorous glance was her only reminder.\n\nBut with this Miss Hetty chose to be as angry as if it had been quite a\ncruel rebuke. \"I hate dancing--there--I own it,\" she says, with a toss\nof her head.\n\n\"Nay, you used to like it well enough, child!!\" interposes her mother.\n\n\"That was when she was a child: don't you see she is grown up to be an\nold woman?\" remarks Hetty's father. \"Or perhaps Miss Hester has got the\ngout?\"\n\n\"Fiddle!\" says Hester, snappishly, drubbing with her little feet.\n\n\"What's a dance without a fiddle?\" says imperturbed papa.\n\nDarkness has come over Harry Warrington's face. \"I come to try my best,\nand give them pleasure and a dance,\" he thinks, \"and the little thing\ntells me she hates dancing. We don't practise kindness, or acknowledge\nhospitality so in our country. No--nor speak to our parents so,\nneither.\" I am afraid, in this particular usages have changed in the\nUnited States during the last hundred years, and that the young folks\nthere are considerably Hettified.\n\nNot content with this, Miss Hester must proceed to make such fun of\nall the company at the Wells, and especially of Harry's own immediate\npursuits and companions, that the honest lad was still further pained at\nher behaviour; and, when he saw Mrs. Lambert alone, asked how or in\nwhat he had again offended, that Hester was so angry with him? The kind\nmatron felt more than ever well disposed towards the boy, after her\ndaughter's conduct to him. She would have liked to tell the secret\nwhich Hester hid so fiercely. Theo, too, remonstrated with her sister in\nprivate; but Hester would not listen to the subject, and was as angry in\nher bedroom, when the girls were alone, as she had been in the parlour\nbefore her mother's company. \"Suppose he hates me?\" says she. \"I expect\nhe will. I hate myself, I do, and scorn myself for being such an idiot.\nHow ought he to do otherwise than hate me? Didn't I abuse him, call him\ngoose, all sorts of names? And know he is not clever all the time. I\nknow I have better wits than he has. It is only because he is tall, and\nhas blue eyes, and a pretty nose that I like him. What an absurd fool a\ngirl must be to like a man merely because he has a blue nose and hooked\neyes! So I am a fool, and I won't have you say a word to the contrary,\nTheo!\"\n\nNow Theo thought that her little sister, far from being a fool, was\na wonder of wonders, and that if any girl was worthy of any prince in\nChristendom, Hetty was that spinster. \"You are silly sometimes, Hetty,\"\nsays Theo, \"that is when you speak unkindly to people who mean you well,\nas you did to Mr. Warrington at tea to-night. When he proposed to us his\nparty at the Assembly Rooms, and nothing could be more gallant of him,\nwhy did you say you didn't care for music, or dancing, or tea? You know\nyou love them all!\"\n\n\"I said it merely to vex myself, Theo, and annoy myself, and whip\nmyself, as I deserve, child. And, besides, how can you expect such an\nidiot as I am to say anything but idiotic things? Do you know, it\nquite pleased me to see him angry. I thought, ah! now I have hurt his\nfeelings! Now he will say, Hetty Lambert is an odious little set-up,\nsour-tempered vixen. And that will teach him, and you, and mamma, and\npapa, at any rate, that I am not going to set my cap at Mr. Harry. No;\nour papa is ten times as good as he is. I will stay by our papa, and if\nhe asked me to go to Virginia with him to-morrow, I wouldn't, Theo. My\nsister is worth all the Virginians that ever were made since the world\nbegan.\"\n\nAnd here, I suppose, follow osculations between the sisters, and\nmother's knock comes to the door, who has overheard their talk through\nthe wainscot, and calls out, \"Children, 'tis time to go to sleep.\"\nTheo's eyes close speedily, and she is at rest; but ob, poor little\nHetty! Think of the hours tolling one after another, and the child's\neyes wide open, as she lies tossing and wakeful with the anguish of the\nnew wound!\n\n\"It is a judgment upon me,\" she says, \"for having thought and spoke\nscornfully of him. Only, why should there be a judgment upon me? I was\nonly in fun. I knew I liked him very much all the time: but I thought\nTheo liked him too, and I would give up anything for my darling Theo. If\nshe had, no tortures should ever have drawn a word from me--I would have\ngot a rope-ladder to help her to run away with Harry, that I would,\nor fetched the clergyman to marry them. And then I would have retired\nalone, and alone, and alone, and taken care of papa and mamma, and of\nthe poor in the village, and have read sermons, though I hate 'em, and\nwould have died without telling a word--not a word--and I shall die\nsoon, I know I shall.\" But when the dawn rises, the little maid is\nasleep, nestling by her sister, the stain of a tear or two upon her\nflushed downy cheek.\n\nMost of us play with edged tools at some period of our lives, and cut\nourselves accordingly. At first the cut hurts and stings, and down drops\nthe knife, and we cry out like wounded little babies as we are. Some\nvery very few and unlucky folks at the game cut their heads sheer off,\nor stab themselves mortally, and perish outright, and there is an end\nof them. But,--heaven help us!--many people have fingered those ardentes\nsagittas which Love sharpens on his whetstone, and are stabbed, scarred,\npricked, perforated, tattooed all over with the wounds, who recovered,\nand live to be quite lively. Wir auch have tasted das irdische Glueck;\nwe also have gelebt and--und so weiter. Warble your death-song, sweet\nThekla! Perish off the face of the earth, poor pulmonary victim, if so\nminded! Had you survived to a later period of life, my dear, you would\nhave thought of a sentimental disappointment without any reference to\nthe undertaker. Let us trust there is no present need of a sexton for\nMiss Hetty. But meanwhile, the very instant she wakes, there, tearing\nat her little heart, will that Care be, which has given her a few hours'\nrespite, melted, no doubt, by her youth and her tears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. In which Mr. Warrington treats the Company with Tea and a\nBall\n\n\nGenerous with his very easily gotten money, hospitable and cordial to\nall, our young Virginian, in his capacity of man of fashion, could\nnot do less than treat his country friends to an entertainment at the\nAssembly Rooms, whither, according to the custom of the day, he invited\nalmost all the remaining company at the Wells. Card-tables were set in\none apartment, for all those who could not spend an evening without the\npastime then common to all European society: a supper with champagne in\nsome profusion and bowls of negus was prepared in another chamber: the\nlarge assembly-room was set apart for the dance, of which enjoyment\nHarry Warrington's guests partook in our ancestors' homely fashion. I\ncannot fancy that the amusement was especially lively. First, minuets\nwere called, two or three of which were performed by as many couple. The\nspinsters of the highest rank in the assembly went out for the minuet,\nand my Lady Maria Esmond, being an earl's daughter, and the person of\nthe highest rank present (with the exception of Lady Augusta Crutchley,\nwho was lame), Mr. Warrington danced the first minuet with his cousin,\nacquitting himself to the satisfaction of the whole room, and performing\nmuch more elegantly than Mr. Wolfe, who stood up with Miss Lowther.\nHaving completed the dance with Lady Maria, Mr. Warrington begged Miss\nTheo to do him the honour of walking the next minuet, and accordingly\nMiss Theo, blushing and looking very happy, went through her exercise to\nthe great delight of her parents and the rage of Miss Humpleby, Sir John\nHumpleby's daughter, of Liphook, who expected, at least, to have stood\nup next after my Lady Maria. Then, after the minuets, came country\ndances, the music being performed by a harp, fiddle, and flageolet,\nperched in a little balcony, and thrumming through the evening rather\nfeeble and melancholy tunes. Take up an old book of music, and play a\nfew of those tunes now, and one wonders how people at any time could\nhave found the airs otherwise than melancholy. And yet they loved and\nfrisked and laughed and courted to that sad accompaniment. There is\nscarce one of the airs that has not an amari aliquid, a tang of sadness.\nPerhaps it is because they are old and defunct, and their plaintive\nechoes call out to us from the limbo of the past, whither they have been\nconsigned for this century. Perhaps they were gay when they were alive;\nand our descendants when they hear--well, never mind names--when they\nhear the works of certain maestri now popular, will say: Bon Dieu, is\nthis the music which amused our forefathers?\n\nMr. Warrington had the honour of a duchess's company at his\ntea-drinking--Colonel Lambert's and Mr. Prior's heroine, the Duchess\nof Queensberry. And though the duchess carefully turned her back upon a\ncountess who was present, laughed loudly, glanced at the latter over her\nshoulder, and pointed at her with her fan, yet almost all the company\npushed, and bowed, and cringed, and smiled, and backed before this\ncountess, scarcely taking any notice of her Grace of Queensberry and her\njokes, and her fan, and her airs. Now this countess was no other than\nthe Countess of Yarmouth-Walmoden, the lady whom his Majesty George the\nSecond, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the\nFaith, delighted to honour. She had met Harry Warrington in the walks\nthat morning, and had been mighty gracious to the young Virginian. She\nhad told him they would have a game at cards that night; and purblind\nold Colonel Blinkinsop, who fancied the invitation had been addressed to\nhim, had made the profoundest of bows. \"Pooh! pooh!\" said the Countess\nof England and Hanover, \"I don't mean you. I mean the young Firshinian!\"\nAnd everybody congratulated the youth on his good fortune. At night, all\nthe world, in order to show their loyalty, doubtless, thronged round\nmy Lady Yarmouth; my Lord Bamborough was eager to make her parti at\nquadrille. My Lady Blanche Pendragon, that model of virtue; Sir Lancelot\nQuintain, that pattern of knighthood and valour; Mr. Dean of Ealing,\nthat exemplary divine and preacher; numerous gentlemen, noblemen,\ngenerals, colonels, matrons, and spinsters of the highest rank, were\non the watch for a smile from her, or eager to jump up and join her\ncard-table. Lady Maria waited upon her with meek respect, and Madame\nde Bernstein treated the Hanoverian lady with profound gravity and\ncourtesy.\n\nHarry's bow had been no lower than hospitality required; but, such as it\nwas, Miss Hester chose to be indignant with it. She scarce spoke a word\nto her partner during their dance together; and when he took her to the\nsupper-room for refreshment she was little more communicative. To\nenter that room they had to pass by Madame Walmoden's card-table, who\ngood-naturedly called out to her host as he was passing, and asked him\nif his \"breddy liddle bardner liked tanzing?\"\n\n\"I thank your ladyship, I don't like tanzing, and I don't like cards,\"\nsays Miss Hester, tossing up her head; and, dropping a curtsey like a\n\"cheese,\" she strutted away from the Countess's table.\n\nMr. Warrington was very much offended. Sarcasm from the young to the old\npained him: flippant behaviour towards himself hurt him. Courteous in\nhis simple way to all persons whom he met, he expected a like politeness\nfrom them. Hetty perfectly well knew what offence she was giving; could\nmark the displeasure reddening on her partner's honest face, with a\nsidelong glance of her eye; nevertheless she tried to wear her most\ningenuous smile; and, as she came up to the sideboard where the\nrefreshments were set, artlessly said:\n\n\"What a horrid, vulgar old woman that is; don't you think so?\"\n\n\"What woman?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"That German woman--my Lady Yarmouth--to whom all the men are bowing and\ncringing.\"\n\n\"Her ladyship has been very kind to me,\" says Harry, grimly. \"Won't you\nhave some of this custard?\"\n\n\"And you have been bowing to her, too! You look as if your negus was not\nnice,\" harmlessly continues Miss Hetty.\n\n\"It is not very good negus,\" says Harry, with a gulp.\n\n\"And the custard is bad too! I declare 'tis made with bad eggs!\" cries\nMiss Lambert.\n\n\"I wish, Hester, that the entertainment and the company had been better\nto your liking,\" says poor Harry.\n\n\"'Tis very unfortunate; but I dare say you could not help it,\" cries the\nyoung woman, tossing her little curly head.\n\nMr. Warrington groaned in spirit, perhaps in body, and clenched his\nfists and his teeth. The little torturer artlessly continued, \"You seem\ndisturbed: shall we go to my mamma?\"\n\n\"Yes, let us go to your mamma,\" cries Mr. Warrington, with glaring eyes\nand a \"Curse you, why are you always standing in the way?\" to an unlucky\nwaiter.\n\n\"La! Is that the way you speak in Virginia?\" asks Miss Pertness.\n\n\"We are rough there sometimes, madam, and can't help being disturbed,\"\nhe says slowly, and with a quiver in his whole frame, looking down upon\nher with fire flashing out of his eyes. Hetty saw nothing distinctly\nafterwards, and until she came to her mother. Never had she seen Harry\nlook so handsome or so noble.\n\n\"You look pale, child!\" cries mamma, anxious, like all pavidae matres.\n\n\"'Tis the cold--no, I mean the heat. Thank you, Mr. Warrington.\" And\nshe makes him a faint curtsey, as Harry bows a tremendous bow, and\nwalks elsewhere amongst his guests. He hardly knows what is happening at\nfirst, so angry is he.\n\nHe is aroused by another altercation, between his aunt and the Duchess\nof Queensberry. When the royal favourite passed the Duchess, her Grace\ngave her Ladyship an awful stare out of eyes that were not so bright now\nas they had been in the young days when they \"set the world on fire;\"\nturned round with an affected laugh to her neighbour, and shot at\nthe jolly Hanoverian lady a ceaseless fire of giggles and sneers.\nThe Countess pursued her game at cards, not knowing, or not choosing,\nperhaps, to know how her enemy was gibing at her. There had been a feud\nof many years' date between their Graces of Queensberry and the family\non the throne.\n\n\"How you all bow down to the idol! Don't tell me! You are as bad as\nthe rest, my good Madame Bernstein!\" the Duchess says. \"Ah, what a true\nChristian country this is! and how your dear first husband, the Bishop,\nwould have liked to see such a sight!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, if I fail quite to understand your Grace.\"\n\n\"We are both of us growing old, my good Bernstein, or, perhaps, we won't\nunderstand when we don't choose to understand. That is the way with us\nwomen, my good young Iroquois.\"\n\n\"Your Grace remarked, that it was a Christian country,\" said Madame de\nBernstein, \"and I failed to perceive the point of the remark.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my good creature, there is very little point in it! I meant\nwe were such good Christians, because we were so forgiving. Don't\nyou remember reading, when you were young, or your husband the Bishop\nreading, when he was in the pulpit, how when a woman amongst the Jews\nwas caught doing wrong, the Pharisees were for stoning her out of hand?\nFar from stoning such a woman now, look, how fond we are of her! Any man\nin this room would go round it on his knees if yonder woman bade him.\nYes, Madame Walmoden, you may look up from your cards with your great\npainted face, and frown with your great painted eyebrows at me. You know\nI am talking about you; and intend to go on talking about you, too. I\nsay any man here would go round the room on his knees, if you bade him!\"\n\n\"I think, madam, I know two or three who wouldn't!\" says Mr. Warrington,\nwith some spirit.\n\n\"Quick, let me hug them to my heart of hearts!\" cries the old Duchess.\n\"Which are they? Bring 'em to me, my dear Iroquois! Let us have a game\nof four--of honest men and women; that is to say, if we can find a\ncouple more partners, Mr. Warrington!\"\n\n\"Here are we three,\" says the Baroness Bernstein, with a forced laugh;\n\"let us play a dummy.\"\n\n\"Pray, madam, where is the third?\" asks the old Duchess, looking round.\n\n\"Madam!\" cries out the other elderly lady, \"I leave your Grace to boast\nof your honesty, which I have no doubt is spotless: but I will thank you\nnot to doubt mine before my own relatives and children!\"\n\n\"See how she fires up at a word! I am sure, my dear creature, you are\nquite as honest as most of the company,\" says the Duchess.\n\n\"Which may not be good enough for her Grace the Duchess of Queensberry\nand Dover, who, to be sure, might have stayed away in such a case, but\nit is the best my nephew could get, madam, and his best he has given\nyou. You look astonished, Harry, my dear--and well you may. He is not\nused to our ways, madam.\"\n\n\"Madam, he has found an aunt who can teach him our ways, and a great\ndeal more!\" cries the Duchess, rapping her fan.\n\n\"She will teach him to try and make all his guests welcome, old or\nyoung, rich or poor. That is the Virginian way, isn't it, Harry? She\nwill tell him, when Catherine Hyde is angry with his old aunt, that they\nwere friends as girls, and ought not to quarrel now they are old women.\nAnd she will not be wrong, will she, Duchess?\" And herewith the\none dowager made a superb curtsey to the other, and the battle just\nimpending between them passed away.\n\n\"Egad, it was like Byng and Galissoniere!\" cried Chaplain Sampson, as\nHarry talked over the night's transactions with his tutor next morning.\n\"No power on earth, I thought, could have prevented those two from going\ninto action!\"\n\n\"Seventy-fours at least--both of 'em!\" laughs Harry.\n\n\"But the Baroness declined the battle, and sailed out of fire with\ninimitable skill.\"\n\n\"Why should she be afraid? I have heard you say my aunt is as witty as\nany woman alive, and need fear the tongue of no dowager in England.\"\n\n\"Hem! Perhaps she had good reasons for being peaceable!\" Sampson knew\nvery well what they were, and that poor Bernstein's reputation was so\nhopelessly flawed and cracked, that any sarcasms levelled at Madame\nWalmoden were equally applicable to her.\n\n\"Sir,\" cried Harry, in great amazement, \"you don't mean to say there is\nanything against the character of my aunt, the Baroness de Bernstein!\"\n\nThe chaplain looked at the young Virginian with such an air of utter\nwonderment, that the latter saw there must be some history against his\naunt, and some charge which Sampson did not choose to reveal. \"Good\nheavens!\" Harry groaned out, \"are there two then in the family, who\nare----?\"\n\n\"Which two?\" asked the chaplain.\n\nBut here Harry stopped, blushing very red. He remembered, and we shall\npresently have to state, whence he had got his information regarding the\nother family culprit, and bit his lip, and was silent.\n\n\"Bygones are always unpleasant things, Mr. Warrington,\" said the\nchaplain; \"and we had best hold our peace regarding them. No man or\nwoman can live long in this wicked world of ours without some scandal\nattaching to them, and I fear our excellent Baroness has been no more\nfortunate than her neighbours. We cannot escape calumny, my dear young\nfriend! You have had sad proof enough of that in your brief stay amongst\nus. But we can have clear consciences, and that is the main point!\" And\nherewith the chaplain threw his handsome eyes upward, and tried to look\nas if his conscience was as white as the ceiling.\n\n\"Has there been anything very wrong, then, about my Aunt Bernstein?\"\ncontinued Harry, remembering how at home his mother had never spoken of\nthe Baroness.\n\n\"O sancta simplicitas!\" the chaplain muttered to himself. \"Stories, my\ndear sir, much older than your time or mine. Stories such as were told\nabout everybody, de me, de te; you know with what degree of truth in\nyour own case.\"\n\n\"Confound the villain! I should like to hear any scoundrel say a word\nagainst the dear old lady,\" cries the young gentleman. \"Why, this world,\nparson, is full of lies and scandal!\"\n\n\"And you are just beginning to find it out, my dear sir,\" cries the\nclergyman, with his most beatified air. \"Whose character has not been\nattacked? My lord's, yours, mine,--every one's. We must bear as well as\nwe can, and pardon to the utmost of our power.\"\n\n\"You may. It's your cloth, you know; but, by George, I won't!\" cries Mr.\nWarrington, and again goes down the fist with a thump on the table. \"Let\nany fellow say a word in my hearing against that dear old creature, and\nI'll pull his nose, as sure as my name is Harry Esmond. How do you do,\nColonel Lambert? You find us late again, sir. Me and his reverence kept\nit up pretty late with some of the young fellows, after the ladies\nwent away. I hope the dear ladies are well, sir?\" and here Harry rose,\ngreeting his friend the Colonel very kindly, who had come to pay him\na morning visit, and had entered the room followed by Mr. Gumbo (the\nlatter preferred walking very leisurely about all the affairs of life),\njust as Harry--suiting the action to the word--was tweaking the nose of\nCalumny.\n\n\"The ladies are purely. Whose nose were you pulling when I came in, Mr.\nWarrington?\" says the Colonel, laughing.\n\n\"Isn't it a shame, sir? The parson, here, was telling me that there\nare villains here who attack the character of my aunt, the Baroness of\nBernstein!\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say so!\" cries Mr. Lambert.\n\n\"I tell Mr. Harry that everybody is calumniated!\" says the chaplain,\nwith a clerical intonation; but, at the same time, he looks at Colonel\nLambert and winks, as much as to say, \"He knows nothing--keep him in the\ndark.\"\n\nThe Colonel took the hint. \"Yes,\" says he, \"the jaws of slander are for\never wagging. Witness that story about the dancing-girl, that we all\nbelieved against you, Harry Warrington.\"\n\n\"What, all, sir?\"\n\n\"No, not all. One didn't--Hetty didn't. You should have heard her\nstanding up for you, Harry, t'other day, when somebody--a little\nbird--brought us another story about you; about a game at cards on\nSunday morning, when you and a friend of yours might have been better\nemployed.\" And here there was a look of mingled humour and reproof at\nthe clergyman.\n\n\"Faith, I own it, sir!\" says the chaplain. \"It was mea culpa, mea\nmaxima--no, mea minima culpa, only the rehearsal of an old game at\npiquet, which we had been talking over.\"\n\n\"And did Miss Hester stand up for me?\" says Harry.\n\n\"Miss Hester did. But why that wondering look?\" asks the Colonel.\n\n\"She scolded me last night like--like anything,\" says downright Harry.\n\"I never heard a young girl go on so. She made fun of everybody--hit\nabout at young and old--so that I couldn't help telling her, sir, that\nin our country, leastways in Virginia (they say the Yankees are very\npert), young people don't speak of their elders so. And, do you know,\nsir, we had a sort of a quarrel, and I'm very glad you've told me she\nspoke kindly of me,\" says Harry, shaking his friend's hand, a ready\nboyish emotion glowing in his cheeks and in his eyes.\n\n\"You won't come to much hurt if you find no worse enemy than Hester, Mr.\nWarrington,\" said the girl's father, gravely, looking not without a\ndeep thrill of interest at the flushed face and moist eyes of his young\nfriend. \"Is he fond of her?\" thought the Colonel. \"And how fond? 'Tis\nevident he knows nothing, and Miss Het has been performing some of\nher tricks. He is a fine, honest lad, and God bless him!\" And Colonel\nLambert looked towards Harry with that manly, friendly kindness which\nour lucky young Virginian was not unaccustomed to inspire, for he was\ncomely to look at, prone to blush, to kindle, nay, to melt, at a kind\nstory. His laughter was cheery to hear: his eyes shone confidently: his\nvoice spoke truth.\n\n\"And the young lady of the minuet? She distinguished herself to\nperfection: the whole room admired,\" asked the courtly chaplain. \"I\ntrust Miss--Miss----\"\n\n\"Miss Theodosia is perfectly well, and ready to dance at this minute\nwith your reverence,\" says her father. \"Or stay, Chaplain, perhaps you\nonly dance on Sunday?\" The Colonel then turned to Harry again. \"You\npaid your court very neatly to the great lady, Mr. Flatterer. My Lady\nYarmouth has been trumpeting your praises at the Pump Room. She says\nshe has got a leedel boy in Hannover dat is wery like you, and you are a\nsharming young mans.\"\n\n\"If her ladyship were a queen, people could scarcely be more respectful\nto her,\" says the chaplain.\n\n\"Let us call her a vice-queen, parson,\" says the Colonel, with a twinkle\nof his eye.\n\n\"Her Majesty pocketed forty of my guineas at quadrille,\" cries Mr.\nWarrington, with a laugh.\n\n\"She will play you on the same terms another day. The Countess is fond\nof play, and she wins from most people,\" said the Colonel, drily. \"Why\ndon't you bet her ladyship five thousand on a bishopric, parson? I have\nheard of a clergyman who made such a bet, and who lost it, and who paid\nit, and who got the bishopric.\n\n\"Ah! who will lend me the five thousand? Will you, sir? asked the\nchaplain.\n\n\"No, sir! I won't give her five thousand to be made Commander-in-Chief\nor Pope of Rome,\" says the Colonel, stoutly. \"I shall fling no stones\nat the woman; but I shall bow no knee to her, as I see a pack of rascals\ndo. No offence--I don't mean you. And I don't mean Harry Warrington,\nwho was quite right to be civil to her, and to lose his money with\ngood-humour. Harry, I am come to bid thee farewell, my boy. We have had\nour pleasuring--my money is run out, and we must jog back to Oakhurst.\nWill you ever come and see the old place again?\"\n\n\"Now, sir, now! I'll ride back with you!\" cries Harry, eagerly.\n\n\"Why--no--not now,\" says the Colonel, in a hurried manner. \"We haven't\ngot room--that is, we're--we're expecting some friends.\" [\"The Lord\nforgive me for the lie!\" he mutters.] \"But--but you'll come to us\nwhen--when Tom's at home--yes, when Tom's at home. That will be\nfamous fun--and I'd have you to know, sir, that my wife and I love you\nsincerely, sir--and so do the girls, however much they scold you. And if\nyou ever are in a scrape--and such things have happened, Mr. Chaplain!\nyou will please to count upon me. Mind that, sir!\"\n\nAnd the Colonel was for taking leave of Harry then and there, on the\nspot, but the young man followed him down the stairs, and insisted upon\nsaying good-bye to his dear ladies.\n\nInstead, however, of proceeding immediately to Mr. Lambert's lodging,\nthe two gentlemen took the direction of the common, where, looking\nfrom Harry's windows, Mr. Sampson saw the pair in earnest conversation.\nFirst, Lambert smiled and looked roguish. Then, presently, at a farther\nstage of the talk, he flung up both his hands and performed other\ngestures indicating surprise and agitation.\n\n\"The boy is telling him,\" thought the chaplain. When Mr. Warrington came\nback in an hour, he found his reverence deep in the composition of a\nsermon. Harry's face was grave and melancholy; he flung down his hat,\nburied himself in a great chair, and then came from his lips something\nlike an execration.\n\n\"The young ladies are going, and our heart is affected?\" said the\nchaplain, looking up from his manuscript.\n\n\"Heart!\" sneered Harry.\n\n\"Which of the young ladies is the conqueror, sir? I thought the\nyoungest's eyes followed you about at your ball.\"\n\n\"Confound the little termagant!\" broke out Harry. \"What does she mean by\nbeing so pert to me? She treats me as if I was a fool!\"\n\n\"And no man is, sir, with a woman!\" said the scribe of the sermon.\n\n\"Ain't they, Chaplain?\" And Harry growled out more naughty words\nexpressive of inward disquiet.\n\n\"By the way, have you heard anything of your lost property?\" asked the\nchaplain, presently looking up from his pages.\n\nHarry said \"No!\" with another word, which I would not print for the\nworld.\n\n\"I begin to suspect, sir, that there was more money than you like to own\nin that book. I wish I could find some.\"\n\n\"There were notes in it,\" said Harry, very gloomily, \"and--and papers\nthat I am very sorry to lose. What the deuce has come of it? I had it\nwhen we dined together.\"\n\n\"I saw you put it in your pocket,\" cried the chaplain. \"I saw you take\nit out and pay at the toy-shop a bill for a gold thimble and workbox for\none of your young ladies. Of course you have asked there, sir?\"\n\n\"Of course I have,\" says Mr. Warrington, plunged in melancholy.\n\n\"Gumbo put you to bed--at least, if I remember right. I was so cut\nmyself that I scarce remember anything. Can you trust those black\nfellows, sir?\"\n\n\"I can trust him with my head. With my head?\" groaned out Mr.\nWarrington, bitterly., \"I can't trust myself with it.\"\n\n\"'Oh, that a man should put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his\nbrains!'\"\n\n\"You may well call it an enemy, Chaplain. Hang it, I have a great mind\nto make a vow never to drink another drop! A fellow says anything when\nhe is in drink.\"\n\nThe chaplain laughed. \"You, sir,\" he said, \"are close enough!\" And the\ntruth was, that, for the last few days, no amount of wine would unseal\nMr. Warrington's lips, when the artless Sampson by chance touched on the\nsubject of his patron's loss.\n\n\"And so the little country nymphs are gone, or going, sir?\" asked the\nchaplain. \"They were nice, fresh little things; but I think the mother\nwas the finest woman of the three. I declare, a woman at five-and-thirty\nor so is at her prime. What do you say, sir?\"\n\nMr. Warrington looked, for a moment, askance at the clergyman. \"Confound\nall women, I say!\" muttered the young misogynist. For which sentiment\nevery well-conditioned person will surely rebuke him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. Entanglements\n\n\nOur good Colonel had, no doubt, taken counsel with his good wife, and\nthey had determined to remove their little Hetty as speedily as possible\nout of the reach of the charmer. In complaints such as that under which\nthe poor little maiden was supposed to be suffering, the remedy of\nabsence and distance often acts effectually with men; but I believe\nwomen are not so easily cured by the alibi treatment. Some of them will\ngo away ever so far, and forever so long, and the obstinate disease\nhangs by them, spite of distance or climate. You may whip, abuse,\ntorture, insult them, and still the little deluded creatures will\npersist in their fidelity. Nay, if I may speak, after profound and\nextensive study and observation, there are few better ways of securing\nthe faithfulness and admiration of the beautiful partners of our\nexistence than a little judicious ill-treatment, a brisk dose of\noccasional violence as an alterative, and, for general and wholesome\ndiet, a cooling but pretty constant neglect. At sparing intervals\nadminister small quantities of love and kindness; but not every day, or\ntoo often, as this medicine, much taken, loses its effect. Those dear\ncreatures who are the most indifferent to their husbands, are those who\nare cloyed by too much surfeiting of the sugar-plums and lollipops of\nLove. I have known a young being, with every wish gratified, yawn in her\nadoring husband's face, and prefer the conversation and petits soins\nof the merest booby and idiot; whilst, on the other hand, I have seen\nChloe,--at whom Strephon has flung his bootjack in the morning, or whom\nhe has cursed before the servants at dinner,--come creeping and fondling\nto his knee at tea-time, when he is comfortable after his little nap and\nhis good wine; and pat his head and play him his favourite tunes; and,\nwhen old John, the butler, or old Mary, the maid, comes in with the\nbed-candles, look round proudly, as much as to say, Now, John, look how\ngood my dearest Henry is! Make your game, gentlemen, then! There is the\ncoaxing, fondling, adoring line, when you are henpecked, and Louisa\nis indifferent, and bored out of her existence. There is the manly,\nselfish, effectual system, where she answers to the whistle and comes in\nat \"Down Charge;\" and knows her master; and frisks and fawns about him;\nand nuzzles at his knees; and \"licks the hand that's raised\"--that's\nraised to do her good, as (I quote from memory) Mr. Pope finely\nobserves. What used the late lamented O'Connell to say, over whom a\ngrateful country has raised such a magnificent testimonial? \"Hereditary\nbondsmen,\" he used to remark, \"know ye not, who would be free,\nthemselves must strike the blow?\" Of course you must, in political as in\ndomestic circles. So up with your cudgels, my enslaved, injured boys!\n\nWomen will be pleased with these remarks, because they have such a taste\nfor humour and understand irony; and I should not be surprised if young\nGrubstreet, who corresponds with three penny papers and describes the\npersons and conversation of gentlemen whom he meets at his \"clubs,\"\nwill say, \"I told you so! He advocates the thrashing of women! He has\nno nobility of soul! He has no heart!\" Nor have I, my eminent young\nGrubstreet! any more than you have ears. Dear ladies! I assure you I am\nonly joking in the above remarks,--I do not advocate the thrashing of\nyour sex at all,--and, as you can't understand the commonest bit of fun,\nbeg leave flatly to tell you, that I consider your sex a hundred times\nmore loving and faithful than ours.\n\nSo, what is the use of Hetty's parents taking her home, if the little\nmaid intends to be just as fond of Harry absent as of Harry present?\nWhy not let her see him before Ball and Dobbin are put to, and say,\n\"Good-bye, Harry! I was very wilful and fractious last night, and you\nwere very kind: but good-bye, Harry!\" She will show no special emotion:\nshe is so ashamed of her secret, that she will not betray it. Harry is\ntoo much preoccupied to discover it for himself. He does not know what\ngrief is lying behind Hetty's glances, or hidden under the artifice of\nher innocent young smiles. He has, perhaps, a care of his own. He will\npart from her calmly, and fancy she is happy to get back to her music\nand her poultry and her flower-garden.\n\nHe did not even ride part of the way homewards by the side of his\nfriend's carriage. He had some other party arranged for, that afternoon,\nand when he returned thence, the good Lamberts were gone from Tunbridge\nWells. There were their windows open, and the card in one of them\nsignifying that the apartments were once more to let. A little passing\nsorrow at the blank aspect of the rooms lately enlivened by countenances\nso frank and friendly, may have crossed the young gentleman's mind; but\nhe dines at the White Horse at four o'clock, and eats his dinner and\ncalls fiercely for his bottle. Poor little Hester will choke over her\ntea about the same hour when the Lamberts arrive to sleep at the house\nof their friends at Westerham. The young roses will be wan in her cheeks\nin the morning, and there will be black circles round her eyes. It was\nthe thunder: the night was hot: she could not sleep: she will be better\nwhen she gets home again the next day. And home they come. There is the\ngate where he fell. There is the bed he lay in, the chair in which he\nused to sit--what ages seem to have passed! What a gulf between to-day\nand yesterday! Who is that little child calling her chickens, or\nwatering her roses yonder? Are she and that girl the same Hester\nLambert? Why, she is ever so much older than Theo now--Theo, who has\nalways been so composed, and so clever, and so old for her age. But in\na night or two Hester has lived--oh, long, long years! So have many\nbesides: and poppy and mandragora will never medicine them to the sweet\nsleep they tasted yesterday.\n\nMaria Esmond saw the Lambert cavalcade drive away, and felt a grim\nrelief. She looks with hot eyes at Harry when he comes into his aunt's\ncard-tables, flushed with Barbeau's good wine. He laughs, rattles in\nreply to his aunt, who asks him which of the girls is his sweetheart? He\ngaily says he loves them both like sisters. He has never seen a better\ngentleman, nor better people, than the Lamberts. Why is Lambert not a\ngeneral? He has been a most distinguished officer: his Royal Highness\nthe Duke is very fond of him. Madame Bernstein says that Harry must make\ninterest with Lady Yarmouth for his protege.\n\n\"Elle ravvole de fous, cher bedid anche!\" says Madame Bernstein,\nmimicking the Countess's German accent. The Baroness is delighted with\nher boy's success. \"You carry off the hearts of all the old women,\ndoesn't he, Maria?\" she says, with a sneer at her niece, who quivers\nunder the stab.\n\n\"You were quite right, my dear, not to perceive that she cheated\nat cards, and you play like a grand seigneur,\" continues Madame de\nBernstein.\n\n\"Did she cheat?\" cries Harry, astonished. \"I am sure, ma'am, I saw no\nunfair play.\"\n\n\"No more did I, my dear, but I am sure she cheated. Bah! every woman\ncheats, I and Maria included, when we can get a chance. But when you\nplay with the Walmoden, you don't do wrong to lose in moderation; and\nmany men cheat in that way. Cultivate her. She has taken a fancy to your\nbeaux yeux. Why should your Excellency not be Governor of Virginia,\nsir? You must go and pay your respects to the Duke and his Majesty at\nKensington. The Countess of Yarmouth will be your best friend at court.\"\n\n\"Why should you not introduce me, aunt?\" asked Harry.\n\nThe old lady's rouged cheek grew a little redder. \"I am not in favour at\nKensington,\" she said. \"I may have been once; and there are no faces\nso unwelcome to kings as those they wish to forget. All of us want to\nforget something or somebody. I dare say our ingenu here would like to\nwipe a sum or two off the slate. Wouldst thou not, Harry?\"\n\nHarry turned red, too, and so did Maria, and his aunt laughed one of\nthose wicked laughs which are not altogether pleasant to hear. What\nmeant those guilty signals on the cheeks of her nephew and niece? What\naccount was scored upon the memory of either, which they were desirous\nto efface? I fear Madame Bernstein was right, and that most folks have\nsome ugly reckonings written up on their consciences, which we were glad\nto be quit of.\n\nHad Maria known one of the causes of Harry's disquiet, the middle-aged\nspinster would have been more unquiet still. For some days he had missed\na pocket-book. He had remembered it in his possession on that day when\nhe drank so much claret at the White Horse, and Gumbo carried him to\nbed. He sought for it in the morning, but none of his servants had seen\nit. He had inquired for it at the White Horse, but there were no traces\nof it. He could not cry the book, and could only make very cautious\ninquiries respecting it. He must not have it known that the book was\nlost. A pretty condition of mind Lady Maria Esmond would be in, if she\nknew that the outpourings of her heart were in the hands of the public!\nThe letters contained all sorts of disclosures: a hundred family secrets\nwere narrated by the artless correspondent: there were ever so much\nsatire and abuse of persons with whom she and Mr. Warrington came in\ncontact. There were expostulations about his attentions to other ladies.\nThere was scorn, scandal, jokes, appeals, protests of eternal fidelity;\nthe usual farrago, dear madam, which you may remember you wrote to your\nEdward, when you were engaged to him, and before you became Mrs.\nJones. Would you like those letters to be read by any one else? Do you\nrecollect what you said about the Miss Browns in two or three of those\nletters, and the unfavourable opinion you expressed of Mrs. Thompson's\ncharacter? Do you happen to recall the words which you used regarding\nJones himself, whom you subsequently married (for in consequence of\ndisputes about the settlements your engagement with Edward was broken\noff)? and would you like Mr. J. to see those remarks? You know you\nwouldn't. Then be pleased to withdraw that imputation which you have\nalready cast in your mind upon Lady Maria Esmond. No doubt her letters\nwere very foolish, as most love-letters are, but it does not follow that\nthere was anything wrong in them. They are foolish when written by young\nfolks to one another, and how much more foolish when written by an old\nman to a young lass, or by an old lass to a young lad! No wonder\nLady Maria should not like her letters to be read. Why, the very\nspelling--but that didn't matter so much in her ladyship's days, and\npeople are just as foolish now, though they spell better. No, it is not\nthe spelling which matters so much; it is the writing at all. I for one,\nand for the future, am determined never to speak or write my mind out\nregarding anything or anybody. I intend to say of every woman that she\nis chaste and handsome; of every man that he is handsome, clever, and\nrich; of every book that it is delightfully interesting; of Snobmore's\nmanners that they are gentlemanlike; of Screwby's dinners that they are\nluxurious; of Jawkins's conversation that it is lively and amusing; of\nXantippe, that she has a sweet temper; of Jezebel, that her colour is\nnatural; of Bluebeard, that he really was most indulgent to his wives,\nand that very likely they died of bronchitis. What? a word against the\nspotless Messalina? What an unfavourable view of human nature! What?\nKing Cheops was not a perfect monarch? Oh, you railer at royalty and\nslanderer of all that is noble and good! When this book is concluded, I\nshall change the jaundiced livery which my books have worn since I began\nto lisp in numbers, have rose-coloured coats for them with cherubs on\nthe cover, and all the characters within shall be perfect angels.\n\nMeanwhile we are in a society of men and women, from whose shoulders\nno sort of wings have sprouted as yet, and who, without any manner of\ndoubt, have their little failings. There is Madame Bernstein: she has\nfallen asleep after dinner, and eating and drinking too much,--those are\nher ladyship's little failings. Mr. Harry Warrington has gone to play\na match at billiards with Count Caramboli: I suspect idleness is his\nfailing. That is what Mr. Chaplain Sampson remarks to Lady Maria, as\nthey are talking together in a low tone, so as not to interrupt Aunt\nBernstein's doze in the neighbouring room.\n\n\"A gentleman of Mr. Warrington's means can afford to be idle,\" says Lady\nMaria. \"Why, sure you love cards and billiards yourself, my good Mr.\nSampson?\"\n\n\"I don't say, madam, my practice is good, only my doctrine is sound,\"\nsays Mr. Chaplain with a sigh. \"This young gentleman should have some\nemployment. He should appear at court, and enter the service of his\ncountry, as befits a man of his station. He should settle down, and\nchoose a woman of a suitable rank as his wife.\" Sampson looks in her\nladyship's face as he speaks.\n\n\"Indeed, my cousin is wasting his time,\" says Lady Maria, blushing\nslightly.\n\n\"Mr. Warrington might see his relatives of his father's family,\"\nsuggests Mr. Chaplain.\n\n\"Suffolk country boobies drinking beer and hallooing after foxes! I\ndon't see anything to be gained by his frequenting them, Mr. Sampson!\"\n\n\"They are of an ancient family, of which the chief has been knight of\nthe shire these hundred years,\" says the chaplain. \"I have heard Sir\nMiles hath a daughter of Mr. Harry's age--and beauty, too.\"\n\n\"I know nothing, sir, about Sir Miles Warrington, and his daughters, and\nhis beauties!\" cries Maria, in a fluster.\n\n\"The Baroness stirred--no--her ladyship is in a sweet sleep,\" says the\nchaplain, in a very soft voice. \"I fear, madam, for your ladyship's\ncousin, Mr. Warrington. I fear for his youth; for designing persons who\nmay get about him; for extravagances, follies, intrigues even into which\nhe will be led, and into which everybody will try to tempt him. His\nlordship, my kind patron, bade me to come and watch over him, and I am\nhere accordingly, as your ladyship knoweth. I know the follies of young\nmen. Perhaps I have practised them myself. I own it with a blush,\" adds\nMr. Sampson with much unction--not, however, bringing the promised blush\nforward to corroborate the asserted repentance.\n\n\"Between ourselves, I fear Mr. Warrington is in some trouble now,\nmadam,\" continues the chaplain, steadily looking at Lady Maria.\n\n\"What, again?\" shrieks the lady.\n\n\"Hush! Your ladyship's dear invalid!\" whispers the chaplain again\npointing towards Madame Bernstein. \"Do you think your cousin has any\npartiality for any--any member of Mr. Lambert's family? for example,\nMiss Lambert?\"\n\n\"There is nothing between him and Miss Lambert,\" says Lady Maria.\n\n\"Your ladyship is certain?\"\n\n\"Women are said to have good eyes in such matters, my good Sampson,\"\nsays my lady, with an easy air. \"I thought the little girl seemed to be\nfollowing him.\"\n\n\"Then I am at fault once more,\" the frank chaplain said. \"Mr. Warrington\nsaid of the young lady, that she ought to go back to her doll, and\ncalled her a pert, stuck-up little hussy.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" sighed Lady Maria, as if relieved by the news.\n\n\"Then, madam, there must be somebody else,\" said the chaplain. Has he\nconfided nothing to your ladyship?\"\n\n\"To me, Mr. Sampson? What? Where? How?\" exclaims Maria.\n\n\"Some six days ago, after we had been dining at the White Horse, and\ndrinking too freely, Mr. Warrington lost a pocket-book containing\nletters.\"\n\n\"Letters?\" gasps Lady Maria.\n\n\"And probably more money than he likes to own,\" continues Mr. Sampson,\nwith a grave nod of the head. \"He is very much disturbed about the\nbook. We have both made cautious inquiries about it. We have----Gracious\npowers, is your ladyship ill?\"\n\nHere my Lady Maria gave three remarkably shrill screams, and tumbled off\nher chair.\n\n\"I will see the Prince. I have a right to see him. What's this?--Where\nam I?--What's the matter?\" cries Madame Bernstein, waking up from her\nsleep. She had been dreaming of old days, no doubt. The old lady shook\nin all her limbs--her face was very much flushed. She stared about\nwildly a moment, and then tottered forward on her tortoiseshell cane.\n\"What--what's the matter?\" she asked again. \"Have you killed her, sir?\"\n\n\"Some sudden qualm must have come over her ladyship. Shall I cut her\nlaces, madam? or send for a doctor?\" cries the chaplain, with every look\nof innocence and alarm.\n\n\"What has passed between you, sir?\" asked the old lady, fiercely.\n\n\"I give you my honour, madam, I have done I don't know what. I but\nmentioned that Mr. Warrington had lost a pocket-book containing letters,\nand my lady swooned, as you see.\"\n\nMadame Bernstein dashed water on her niece's face. A feeble moan told\npresently that the lady was coming to herself.\n\nThe Baroness looked sternly after Mr. Sampson, as she sent him away on\nhis errand for the doctor. Her aunt's grim countenance was of little\ncomfort to poor Maria when she saw it on waking up from her swoon.\n\n\"What has happened?\" asked the younger lady, bewildered and gasping.\n\n\"H'm! You know best what has happened, madam, I suppose. What hath\nhappened before in our family?\" cried the old Baroness, glaring at her\nniece with savage eyes.\n\n\"Ah, yes! the letters have been lost--ach lieber Himmel!\" And Maria, as\nshe would sometimes do, when much moved, began to speak in the language\nof her mother.\n\n\"Yes! the seal has been broken, and the letters have been lost, 'tis the\nold story of the Esmonds,\" cried the elder, bitterly.\n\n\"Seal broken, letters lost? What do you mean,--aunt?\" asked Maria,\nfaintly.\n\n\"I mean that my mother was the only honest woman that ever entered the\nfamily!\" cried the Baroness, stamping her foot. \"And she was a parson's\ndaughter of no family in particular, or she would have gone wrong, too.\nGood heavens! is it decreed that we are all to be...?\"\n\n\"To be what, madam?\" cried Maria.\n\n\"To be what my Lady Queensberry said we were last night. To be what we\nare! You know the word for it!\" cried the indignant old woman. \"I say,\nwhat has come to the whole race? Your father's mother was an honest\nwoman, Maria. Why did I leave her? Why couldn't you remain so?\"\n\n\"Madam!\" exclaims Maria, \"I declare, before Heaven, I am as----\"\n\n\"Bah! Don't madam me! Don't call heaven to witness--there's nobody by!\nAnd if you swore to your innocence till the rest of your teeth dropped\nout of your mouth, my Lady Maria Esmond, I would not believe you!\"\n\n\"Ah! it was you told him!\" gasped Maria. She recognised an arrow out of\nher aunt's quiver.\n\n\"I saw some folly going on between you and the boy, and I told him that\nyou were as old as his mother. Yes, I did! Do you suppose I am going\nto let Henry Esmond's boy fling himself and his wealth away upon such\na battered old rock as you? The boy shan't be robbed and cheated in our\nfamily. Not a shilling of mine shall any of you have if he comes to any\nharm amongst you.\n\n\"Ah! you told him!\" cried Maria, with a sudden burst of rebellion.\n\"Well, then! I'd have you to know that I don't care a penny, madam,\nfor your paltry money! I have Mr. Harry Warrington's word--yes, and his\nletters--and I know he will die rather than break it.\"\n\n\"He will die if he keeps it!\" (Maria shrugged her shoulders.)\n\n\"But you don't care for that--you've no more heart----\"\n\n\"Than my father's sister, madam!\" cries Maria again. The younger woman,\nordinarily submissive, had turned upon here persecutor.\n\n\"Ah! Why did not I marry an honest man?\" said the of lady, shaking her\nhead sadly. \"Henry Esmond was noble and good, and perhaps might have\nmade me so. But no, no--we have all got the taint in us--all! You don't\nmean to sacrifice this boy, Maria?\"\n\n\"Madame ma tante, do you take me for a fool at my age?\" asks Maria.\n\n\"Set him free! I'll give you five thousand pounds--in my--in my will,\nMaria. I will, on my honour!\"\n\n\"When you were young, and you liked Colonel Esmond, you threw him aside\nfor an earl, and the earl for a duke?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Eh! Bon sang ne peut mentir! I have no money, I have no friends.\nMy father was a spendthrift, my brother is a beggar. I have Mr.\nWarrington's word, and I know, madam, he will keep it. And that's what I\ntell your ladyship!\" cries Lady Maria with a wave of her hand. \"Suppose\nmy letters are published to all the world to-morrow? Apres? I know they\ncontain things I would as lieve not tell. Things not about me alone.\nComment! Do you suppose there are no stories but mine in the family?\nIt is not my letters that I am afraid of, so long as I have his, madam.\nYes, his and his word, and I trust them both.\"\n\n\"I will send to my merchant, and give you the money now, Maria,\" pleaded\nthe old lady.\n\n\"No, I shall have my pretty Harry, and ten times five thousand pounds!\"\ncries Maria.\n\n\"Not till his mother's death, madam, who is just your age!\"\n\n\"We can afford to wait, aunt. At my age, as you say, I am not so eager\nas young chits for a husband.\"\n\n\"But to wait my sister's death, at least, is a drawback?\"\n\n\"Offer me ten thousand pounds, Madam Tusher, and then we will see!\"\ncries Maria.\n\n\"I have not so much money in the world, Maria,\" said the old lady.\n\n\"Then, madam, let me make what I can for myself!\" says Maria.\n\n\"Ah, if he heard you?\"\n\n\"Apres? I have his word. I know he will keep it. I can afford to wait,\nmadam,\" and she flung out of the room, just as the chaplain returned.\nIt was Madame Bernstein who wanted cordials now. She was immensely moved\nand shocked by the news which had been thus suddenly brought to her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. Which seems to mean Mischief\n\n\nThough she had clearly had the worst of the battle described in the last\nchapter, the Baroness Bernstein, when she next met her niece showed\nno rancour or anger. \"Of course, my Lady Maria,\" she said, \"you can't\nsuppose that I, as Harry Warrington's near relative, can be pleased at\nthe idea of his marrying a woman who is as old as his mother, and has\nnot a penny to her fortune; but if he chooses to do so silly a thing,\nthe affair is none of mine; and I doubt whether I should have been\nmuch inclined to be taken au serieux with regard to that offer of five\nthousand pounds which I made in the heat of our talk. So it was already\nat Castlewood that this pretty affair was arranged? Had I known how far\nit had gone, my dear, I should have spared some needless opposition.\nWhen a pitcher is broken, what railing can mend it?\"\n\n\"Madam!\" here interposed Maria.\n\n\"Pardon me--I mean nothing against your ladyship's honour or character,\nwhich, no doubt, are quite safe. Harry says so, and you say so--what\nmore can one ask?\"\n\n\"You have talked to Mr. Warrington, madam?\"\n\n\"And he has owned that he made you a promise at Castlewood: that you\nhave it in his writing.\"\n\n\"Certainly I have, madam!\" says Lady Maria.\n\n\"Ah!\" (the elder lady did not wince at this). \"And I own, too, that at\nfirst I put a wrong construction upon the tenor of your letters to him.\nThey implicate other members of the family----\"\n\n\"Who have spoken most wickedly of me, and endeavoured to prejudice me\nin every way in my dear Mr. Warrington's eyes. Yes, madam, I own I have\nwritten against them, to justify myself.\"\n\n\"But, of course, are pained to think that any wretch should get\npossession of stories to the disadvantage of our family, and make them\npublic scandal. Hence your disquiet just now.\"\n\n\"Exactly so,\" said Lady Maria. \"From Mr. Warrington I could have nothing\nconcealed henceforth, and spoke freely to him. But that is a very\ndifferent thing from wishing all the world to know the disputes of a\nnoble family.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Maria, I admire you, and have done you injustice.\nThese--these twenty years, let us say.\"\n\n\"I am very glad, madam, that you end by doing me justice at all,\" said\nthe niece.\n\n\"When I saw you last night, opening the ball with my nephew, can you\nguess what I thought of, my dear?\"\n\n\"I really have no idea what the Baroness de Bernstein thought of,\" said\nLady Maria, haughtily.\n\n\"I remembered that you had performed to that very tune with the\ndancing-master at Kensington, my dear!\"\n\n\"Madam, it was an infamous calumny.\"\n\n\"By which the poor dancing-master got a cudgelling for nothing!\"\n\n\"It is cruel and unkind, madam, to recall that calumny--and I shall\nbeg to decline living any longer with any one who utters it,\" continued\nMaria, with great spirit.\n\n\"You wish to go home? I can fancy you won't like Tunbridge. It will be\nvery hot for you if those letters are found.\"\n\n\"There was not a word against you in them, madam: about that I can make\nyour mind easy.\"\n\n\"So Harry said, and did your ladyship justice. Well, my dear, we are\ntired of one another, and shall be better apart for a while.\"\n\n\"That is precisely my own opinion,\" said Lady Maria, dropping a curtsey.\n\n\"Mr. Sampson can escort you to Castlewood. You and your maid can take a\npostchaise.\"\n\n\"We can take a postchaise, and Mr. Sampson can escort me,\" echoed the\nyounger lady. \"You see, madam, I act like a dutiful niece.\"\n\n\"Do you know, my dear, I have a notion that Sampson has got the\nletters?\" said the Baroness, frankly.\n\n\"I confess that such a notion has passed through my own mind.\"\n\n\"And you want to go home in the chaise, and coax the letters from him!\nDelilah! Well, they can be no good to me, and I trust you may get them.\nWhen will you go? The sooner the better, you say? We are women of the\nworld, Maria. We only call names when we are in a passion. We don't want\neach other's company; and we part on good terms. Shall we go to my Lady\nYarmouth's? 'Tis her night. There is nothing like a change of scene\nafter one of those little nervous attacks you have had, and cards drive\naway unpleasant thoughts better than any doctor.\"\n\nLady Maria agreed to go to Lady Yarmouth's cards, and was dressed and\nready first, awaiting her aunt in the drawing-room. Madame Bernstein, as\nshe came down, remarked Maria's door was left open. \"She has the\nletters upon her,\" thought the old lady. And the pair went off to their\nentertainment in their respective chairs, and exhibited towards each\nother that charming cordiality and respect which women can show after,\nand even during, the bitterest quarrels.\n\nThat night, on their return from the Countess's drum, Mrs. Brett, Madame\nBernstein's maid, presented herself to my Lady Maria's call, when that\nlady rang her hand-bell upon retiring to her room. Betty, Mrs. Brett was\nashamed to say, was not in a fit state to come before my lady. Betty had\nbeen a-junketing and merry-making with Mr. Warrington's black gentleman,\nwith my Lord Bamborough's valet, and several more ladies and gentlemen\nof that station, and the liquor--Mrs. Brett was shocked to own it--had\nproved too much for Mrs. Betty. Should Mrs. Brett undress my lady? My\nlady said she would undress without a maid, and gave Mrs. Brett leave to\nwithdraw. \"She has the letters in her stays,\" thought Madame Bernstein.\nThey had bidden each other an amicable good-night on the stairs.\n\nMrs. Betty had a scolding the next morning, when she came to wait on\nher mistress, from the closet adjoining Lady Maria's apartment, in which\nBetty lay. She owned, with contrition, her partiality for rum-punch,\nwhich Mr. Gumbo had the knack of brewing most delicate. She took her\nscolding with meekness, and, having performed her usual duties about her\nlady's person, retired.\n\nNow Betty was one of the Castlewood girls who had been so fascinated by\nGumbo, and was a very good-looking, blue-eyed lass, upon whom Mr.\nCase, Madame Bernstein's confidential man, had also cast the eyes\nof affection. Hence, between Messrs. Gumbo and Case, there had been\njealousies and even quarrels; which had caused Gumbo, who was of a\npeaceful disposition, to be rather shy of the Baroness's gentlemen, the\nchief of whom vowed he would break the bones, or have the life of Gumbo,\nif he persisted in his attentions to Mrs. Betty.\n\nBut on the night of the rum-punch, though Mr. Case found Gumbo and Mrs.\nBetty whispering in the doorway, in the cool breeze, and Gumbo would\nhave turned pale with fear had he been able so to do, no one could be\nmore gracious than Mr. Case. It was he who proposed the bowl of punch,\nwhich was brewed and drunk in Mrs. Betty's room, and which Gumbo\nconcocted with exquisite skill. He complimented Gumbo on his music.\nThough a sober man ordinarily, he insisted upon more and more drinking,\nuntil poor Mrs. Betty was reduced to the state which occasioned her\nladyship's just censure.\n\nAs for Mr. Case himself, who lay out of the house, he was so ill with\nthe punch, that he kept his bed the whole of the next day, and did\nnot get strength to make his appearance, and wait on his ladies, until\nsupper-time; when his mistress good-naturedly rebuked him, saying that\nit was not often he sinned in that way.\n\n\"Why, Case, I could have made oath it was you I saw on horseback this\nmorning galloping on the London road,\" said Mr. Warrington, who was\nsupping with his relatives.\n\n\"Me! law bless you, sir! I was a-bed, and I thought my head would come\noff with the aching. I ate a bit at six o'clock, and drunk a deal of\nsmall beer, and I am almost my own man again now. But that Gumbo, saving\nyour honour's presence, I won't taste none of his punch again.\" And the\nhonest major-domo went on with his duties among the bottles and glasses.\n\nAs they sate after their meal, Madame Bernstein was friendly enough. She\nprescribed strong fortifying drinks for Maria, against the recurrence of\nher fainting fits. The lady had such attacks not unfrequently. She urged\nher to consult her London physician, and to send up an account of her\ncase by Harry. By Harry! asked the lady. Yes. Harry was going for two\ndays on an errand for his aunt to London. \"I do not care to tell you, my\ndear, that it is on business which will do him good. I wish Mr. Draper\nto put him into my will, and as I am going travelling upon a round\nof visits when you and I part, I think, for security, I shall ask Mr.\nWarrington to take my trinket-box in his postchaise to London with him,\nfor there have been robberies of late, and I have no fancy for being\nstopped by highwaymen.\"\n\nMaria looked blank at the notion of the young gentleman's departure,\nbut hoped that she might have his escort back to Castlewood, whither her\nelder brother had now returned. \"Nay,\" says his aunt, \"the lad hath been\ntied to our apron-strings long enough. A day in London will do him no\nharm. He can perform my errand for me and be back with you by Saturday.\"\n\n\"I would offer to accompany Mr. Warrington, but I preach on Friday\nbefore her ladyship,\" says Mr. Sampson. He was anxious that my Lady\nYarmouth should judge of his powers as a preacher; and Madame Bernstein\nhad exerted her influence with the king's favourite to induce her to\nhear the chaplain.\n\nHarry relished the notion of a rattling journey to London, and a day or\ntwo of sport there. He promised that his pistols were good, and that\nhe would hand the diamonds over in safety to the banker's strong-room.\nWould he occupy his aunt's London house? No, that would be a dreary\nlodging with only a housemaid and a groom in charge of it. He would go\nto the Star and Garter in Pall Mall, or to an inn in Covent Garden.\n\"Ah! I have often talked over that journey,\" said Harry, his countenance\nsaddening.\n\n\"And with whom, sir?\" asked Lady Maria.\n\n\"With one who promised to make it with me,\" said the young man,\nthinking, as he always did, with an extreme tenderness of the lost\nbrother.\n\n\"He has more heart, my good Maria, than some of us!\" says Harry's\naunt, witnessing his emotion. Uncontrollable gusts of grief would,\nnot unfrequently, still pass over our young man. The parting from his\nbrother; the scene and circumstances of George's fall last year; the\nrecollection of his words, or of some excursion at home which they had\nplanned together; would recur to him and overcome him. \"I doubt, madam,\"\nwhispered the chaplain, demurely, to Madame Bernstein, after one of\nthese bursts of sorrow, \"whether some folks in England would suffer\nquite so much at the death of their elder brother.\"\n\nBut, of course, this sorrow was not to be perpetual; and we can fancy\nMr. Warrington setting out on his London journey eagerly enough, and\nvery gay and happy, if it must be owned, to be rid of his elderly\nattachment. Yes. There was no help for it. At Castlewood, on one unlucky\nevening, he had made an offer of his heart and himself to his mature\ncousin, and she had accepted the foolish lad's offer. But the marriage\nnow was out of the question. He must consult his mother. She was the\nmistress for life of the Virginian property. Of course she would refuse\nher consent to such a union. The thought of it was deferred to a late\nperiod. Meanwhile, it hung like a weight round the young man's neck, and\ncaused him no small remorse and disquiet.\n\nNo wonder that his spirits rose more gaily as he came near London, and\nthat he looked with delight from his postchaise windows upon the city\nas he advanced towards it. No highwayman stopped our traveller on\nBlackheath. Yonder are the gleaming domes of Greenwich, canopied with\nwoods. There is the famous Thames, with its countless shipping; there\nactually is the Tower of London. \"Look, Gumbo! There is the Tower!\"\n\"Yes, master,\" says Gumbo, who has never heard of the Tower; but Harry\nhas, and remembers how he has read about it in Howell's Medulla, and how\nhe and his brother used to play at the Tower, and he thinks with delight\nnow, how he is actually going to see the armour and the jewels and the\nlions. They pass through Southwark and over that famous London Bridge,\nwhich was all covered with houses like a street two years ago. Now there\nis only a single gate left, and that is coming down. Then the chaise\nrolls through the city; and, \"Look, Gumbo, that is Saint Paul's!\" \"Yes,\nmaster; Saint Paul's,\" says Gumbo, obsequiously, but little struck by\nthe beauties of the architecture. And so by the well-known course we\nreach the Temple, and Gumbo and his master look up with awe at the rebel\nheads on Temple Bar.\n\nThe chaise drives to Mr. Draper's chambers in Middle Temple Lane, where\nHarry handed the precious box over to Mr. Draper, and a letter from\nhis aunt, which the gentleman read with some interest seemingly, and\ncarefully put away. He then consigned the trinket-box to his strong\ncloset, went into the adjoining room, taking his clerk with him, and\nthen was at Mr. Warrington's service to take him to an hotel. An hotel\nin Covent Garden was fixed upon as the best place for his residence.\n\"I shall have to keep you for two or three days, Mr. Warrington,\" the\nlawyer said. \"I don't think the papers which the Baroness wants can be\nready until then. Meanwhile, I am at your service to see the town. I\nlive out of it myself, and have a little box at Camberwell, where I\nshall be proud to have the honour of entertaining Mr. Warrington; but a\nyoung man, I suppose, will like his inn and his liberty best, sir?\"\n\nHarry said yes, he thought the inn would be best; and the postchaise,\nand a clerk of Mr. Draper's inside, was despatched to the Bedford,\nwhither the two gentlemen agreed to walk on foot.\n\nMr. Draper and Mr. Warrington sat and talked for a while. The Drapers,\nfather and son, had been lawyers time out of mind to the Esmond family,\nand the attorney related to the young gentleman numerous stories\nregarding his ancestors of Castlewood. Of the present Earl Mr.\nDraper was no longer the agent: his father and his lordship had had\ndifferences, and his lordship's business had been taken elsewhere: but\nthe Baroness was still their honoured client, and very happy indeed was\nMr. Draper to think that her ladyship was so well disposed towards her\nnephew.\n\nAs they were taking their hats to go out, a young clerk of the house\nstopped his principal in the passage, and said: \"If you please, sir,\nthem papers of the Baroness was given to her ladyship's man, Mr. Case,\ntwo days ago.\"\n\n\"Just please to mind your own business, Mr. Brown,\" said the lawyer,\nrather sharply. \"This way, Mr. Warrington. Our Temple stairs are rather\ndark. Allow me to show you the way.\"\n\nHarry saw Mr. Draper darting a Parthian look of anger at Mr. Brown. \"So\nit was Case I saw on the London Road two days ago,\" he thought. \"What\nbusiness brought the old fox to London?\" Wherewith, not choosing to be\ninquisitive about other folks' affairs, he dismissed the subject from\nhis mind.\n\nWhither should they go first? First, Harry was for going to see the\nplace where his grandfather and Lord Castlewood had fought a duel\nfifty-six years ago, in Leicester Field. Mr. Draper knew the place well,\nand all about the story. They might take Covent Garden on their way to\nLeicester Field, and see that Mr. Warrington was comfortably lodged.\n\"And order dinner,\" says Mr. Warrington. No, Mr. Draper could not\nconsent to that. Mr. Warrington must be so obliging as to honour him on\nthat day. In fact, he had made so bold as to order a collation from the\nCock. Mr. Warrington could not decline an invitation so pressing, and\nwalked away gaily with his friend, passing under that arch where\nthe heads were, and taking off his hat to them, much to the lawyer's\nastonishment.\n\n\"They were gentlemen who died for their king, sir. My dear brother\nGeorge and I always said we would salute 'em when we saw 'em,\" Mr.\nWarrington said.\n\n\"You'll have a mob at your heels if you do, sir,\" said the alarmed\nlawyer.\n\n\"Confound the mob, sir,\" said Mr. Harry, loftily, but the passers-by,\nthinking about their own affairs, did not take any notice of Mr.\nWarrington's conduct; and he walked up the thronging Strand, gazing\nwith delight upon all he saw, remembering, I dare say, for all his\nlife after, the sights and impressions there presented to him, but\nmaintaining a discreet reserve; for he did not care to let the lawyer\nknow how much he was moved, or the public perceive that he was a\nstranger. He did not hear much of his companion's talk, though the\nlatter chattered ceaselessly on the way. Nor was Mr. Draper displeased\nby the young Virginian's silent and haughty demeanour. A hundred years\nago a gentleman was a gentleman, and his attorney his very humble\nservant.\n\nThe chamberlain at the Bedford showed Mr. Warrington to his rooms,\nbowing before him with delightful obsequiousness, for Gumbo had already\ntrumpeted his master's greatness, and Mr. Draper's clerk announced that\nthe new-comer was a \"high fellar.\" Then, the rooms surveyed, the two\ngentlemen went to Leicester Field, Mr. Gumbo strutting behind his\nmaster: and, having looked at the scene of his grandsire's wound, and\npoor Lord Castlewood's tragedy, they returned to the Temple to Mr.\nDraper's chambers.\n\nWho was that shabby-looking big man Mr. Warrington bowed to as they went\nout after dinner for a walk in the gardens? That was Mr. Johnson, an\nauthor, whom he had met at Tunbridge Wells. \"Take the advice of a man of\nthe world, sir,\" says Mr. Draper, eyeing the shabby man of letters very\nsuperciliously; \"the less you have to do with that kind of person, the\nbetter. The business we have into our office about them literary men is\nnot very pleasant, I can tell you.\" \"Indeed!\" says Mr. Warrington. He\ndid not like his new friend the more as the latter grew more familiar.\nThe theatres were shut. Should they go to Sadler's Wells? or Marybone\nGardens? or Ranelagh? or how? \"Not Ranelagh,\" says Mr. Draper, \"because\nthere's none of the nobility in town;\" but, seeing in the newspaper that\nat the entertainment at Sadler's Wells, Islington, there would be the\nmost singular kind of diversion on eight hand-bells by Mr. Franklyn, as\nwell as the surprising performances of Signora Catherina, Harry wisely\ndetermined that he would go to Marybone Gardens, where they had a\nconcert of music, a choice of tea, coffee, and all sorts of wines,\nand the benefit of Mr. Draper's ceaseless conversation. The lawyer's\nobsequiousness only ended at Harry's bedroom door, where, with haughty\ngrandeur, the young gentleman bade his talkative host good night.\n\nThe next morning Mr. Warrington, arrayed in his brocade bedgown, took\nhis breakfast, read the newspaper, and enjoyed his ease in his inn. He\nread in the paper news from his own country. And when he saw the words,\nWilliamsburg, Virginia, June 7th, his eyes grew dim somehow. He had\njust had letters by that packet of June 7th, but his mother did not\ntell how--\"A great number of the principal gentry of the colony have\nassociated themselves under the command of the Honourable Peyton\nRandolph, Esquire, to march to the relief of their distressed\nfellow-subjects, and revenge the cruelties of the French and their\nbarbarous allies. They are in a uniform: viz., a plain blue frock,\nnanquin or brown waistcoats and breeches, and plain hats. They are armed\neach with a light firelock, a brace of pistols, and a cutting sword.\"\n\n\"Ah, why ain't we there, Gumbo?\" cried out Harry.\n\n\"Why ain't we dar?\" shouted Gumbo.\n\n\"Why am I here, dangling at women's trains?\" continued the Virginian.\n\n\"Think dangling at women's trains very pleasant, Master Harry!\" says the\nmaterialistic Gumbo, who was also very little affected by some further\nhome news which his master read, viz., that The Lovely Sally, Virginia\nship, had been taken in sight of port by a French privateer.\n\nAnd now, reading that the finest mare in England, and a pair of very\ngenteel bay geldings, were to be sold at the Bull Inn, the lower end\nof Hatton Garden, Harry determined to go and look at the animals, and\ninquired his way to the place. He then and there bought the genteel bay\ngeldings, and paid for them with easy generosity. He never said what\nhe did on that day, being shy of appearing like a stranger; but it is\nbelieved that he took a coach and went to Westminster Abbey, from which\nhe bade the coachman drive him to the Tower, then to Mrs. Salmon's\nWaxwork, then to Hyde Park and Kensington Palace; then he had given\norders to go to the Royal Exchange, but catching a glimpse of Covent\nGarden, on his way to the Exchange, he bade Jehu take him to his\ninn, and cut short his enumeration of places to which he had been, by\nflinging the fellow a guinea.\n\nMr. Draper had called in his absence, and said he would come again; but\nMr. Warrington, having dined sumptuously by himself, went off nimbly to\nMarybone Gardens again, in the same noble company.\n\nAs he issued forth the next day, the bells of St. Paul's, Covent Garden,\nwere ringing for morning prayers, and reminded him that friend Sampson\nwas going to preach his sermon. Harry smiled. He had begun to have a\nshrewd and just opinion of the value of Mr. Sampson's sermons.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII. In which various Matches are fought\n\n\nReading in the London Advertiser, which was served to his worship with\nhis breakfast, an invitation to all lovers of manly British sport to\ncome and witness a trial of skill between the great champions Sutton and\nFigg, Mr. Warrington determined upon attending these performances, and\naccordingly proceeded to the Wooden House, in Marybone Fields, driving\nthither the pair of horses which he had purchased on the previous day.\nThe young charioteer did not know the road very well, and veered and\ntacked very much more than was needful upon his journey from Covent\nGarden, losing himself in the green lanes behind Mr. Whitfield's round\nTabernacle of Tottenham Road, and the fields in the midst of which\nMiddlesex Hospital stood. He reached his destination at length,\nhowever, and found no small company assembled to witness the valorous\nachievements of the two champions.\n\nA crowd of London blackguards was gathered round the doors of this\ntemple of British valour; together with the horses and equipages of a\nfew persons of fashion, who came, like Mr. Warrington, to patronise\nthe sport. A variety of beggars and cripples hustled round the young\ngentleman, and whined to him for charity. Shoeblack-boys tumbled\nover each other for the privilege of blacking his honour's boots;\nnosegay-women and flying fruiterers plied Mr. Gumbo with their wares;\npiemen, pads, tramps, strollers of every variety, hung round the\nbattle-ground. A flag was flying upon the building; and, on to the\nstage in front, accompanied by a drummer and a horn-blower, a manager\nrepeatedly issued to announce to the crowd that the noble English sports\nwere just about to begin.\n\nMr. Warrington paid his money, and was accommodated with a seat in a\ngallery commanding a perfect view of the platform whereon the sports\nwere performed; Mr. Gumbo took his seat in the amphitheatre below; or,\nwhen tired, issued forth into the outer world to drink a pot of beer,\nor play a game at cards with his brother-lacqueys, and the gentlemen's\ncoachmen on the boxes of the carriages waiting without. Lacqueys,\nliveries, footmen--the old society was encumbered with a prodigious\nquantity of these. Gentlemen or women could scarce move without one,\nsometimes two or three, vassals in attendance. Every theatre had its\nfootman's gallery: an army of the liveried race hustled around every\nchapel-door: they swarmed in anterooms: they sprawled in halls and on\nlandings: they guzzled, devoured, debauched, cheated, played cards,\nbullied visitors for vails:--that noble old race of footmen is well-nigh\ngone. A few thousand of them may still be left among us. Grand, tall,\nbeautiful, melancholy, we still behold them on levee days, with their\nnosegays and their buckles, their plush and their powder. So have I seen\nin America specimens, nay camps and villages, of Red Indians. But the\nrace is doomed. The fatal decree has gone forth, and Uncas with his\ntomahawk and eagle's plume, and Jeames with his cocked hat and long\ncane, are passing out of the world where they once walked in glory.\n\nBefore the principal combatants made their appearance, minor warriors\nand exercises were exhibited. A boxing-match came off, but neither of\nthe men were very game or severely punished, so that Mr. Warrington\nand the rest of the spectators had but little pleasure out of that\nencounter. Then ensued some cudgel-playing; but the heads broken were\nof so little note, and the wounds given so trifling and unsatisfactory,\nthat no wonder the company began to hiss, grumble, and show other signs\nof discontent. \"The masters, the masters!\" shouted the people, whereupon\nthose famous champions at length thought fit to appear.\n\nThe first who walked up the steps to the stage was the intrepid Sutton,\nsword in hand, who saluted the company with his warlike weapon, making\nan especial bow and salute to a private box or gallery in which sate a\nstout gentleman, who was seemingly a person of importance. Sutton was\nspeedily followed by the famous Figg, to whom the stout gentleman waved\na hand of approbation. Both men were in their shirts, their heads were\nshaven clean, but bore the cracks and scars of many former glorious\nbattles. On his burly sword-arm, each intrepid champion wore an\n\"armiger,\" or ribbon of his colour. And now the gladiators shook\nhands, and, as a contemporary poet says: \"The word it was bilboe.\"\n[The antiquarian reader knows the pleasant poem in the sixth volume of\nDodsley's Collection, in which the above combat is described.]\n\nAt the commencement of the combat the great Figg dealt a blow so\ntremendous at his opponent, that had it encountered the other's honest\nhead, that comely noddle would have been shorn off as clean as the\ncarving-knife chops the carrot. But Sutton received his adversary's\nblade on his own sword, whilst Figg's blow was delivered so mightily\nthat the weapon brake in his hands, less constant than the heart of\nhim who wielded it. Other sword were now delivered to the warriors. The\nfirst blood drawn spouted from the panting side of Figg amidst a yell\nof delight from Sutton's supporters; but the veteran appealing to his\naudience, and especially, as it seemed, to the stout individual in the\nprivate gallery, showed that his sword broken in the previous encounter\nhad caused the wound.\n\nWhilst the parley occasioned by this incident was going on, Mr.\nWarrington saw a gentleman in a riding-frock and plain scratch-wig enter\nthe box devoted to the stout personage, and recognised with pleasure his\nTunbridge Wells friend, my Lord of March and Ruglen. Lord March, who was\nby no means prodigal of politeness seemed to show singular deference to\nthe stout gentleman, and Harry remarked how his lordship received,\nwith a profound bow, some bank-bills which the other took out from a\npocket-book and handed to him. Whilst thus engaged, Lord March spied out\nour Virginian, and, his interview with the stout personage finished, my\nlord came over to Harry's gallery and warmly greeted his young friend.\nThey sat and beheld the combat waging with various success, but\nwith immense skill and valour on both sides. After the warriors had\nsufficiently fought with swords, they fell to with the quarter-staff,\nand the result of this long and delightful battle was, that victory\nremained with her ancient champion Figg.\n\nWhilst the warriors were at battle, a thunderstorm had broken over the\nbuilding, and Mr. Warrington gladly enough accepted a seat in my Lord\nMarch's chariot, leaving his own phaeton to be driven home by his groom.\nHarry was in great delectation with the noble sight he had witnessed:\nbe pronounced this indeed to be something like sport, and of the best\nhe had seen since his arrival in England: and, as usual, associating any\npleasure which he enjoyed with the desire that the dear companion of\nhis boyhood should share the amusement in common with him, he began by\nsighing out, \"I wish...\" then he stopped. \"No, I don't,\" says he.\n\n\"What do you wish and what don't you wish?\" asks Lord March.\n\n\"I was thinking, my lord, of my elder brother, and wished he had been\nwith me. We had promised to have our sport together at home, you see;\nand many's the time we talked of it. But he wouldn't have liked this\nrough sort of sport, and didn't care for fighting, though he was the\nbravest lad alive.\"\n\n\"Oh! he was the bravest lad alive, was he?\" asks my lord, lolling on his\ncushion, and eyeing his Virginian friend with some curiosity.\n\n\"You should have seen him in a quarrel with a very gallant officer,\nour friend--an absurd affair, but it was hard to keep George off him. I\nnever saw a fellow so cool, nor more savage and determined, God help me.\nAh! I wish for the honour of the country, you know, that he could have\ncome here instead of me, and shown you a real Virginian gentleman.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, you'll do very well. What is this I hear of Lady Yarmouth\ntaking you into favour?\" said the amused nobleman.\n\n\"I will do as well as another. I can ride, and, I think, I can shoot\nbetter than George; but then my brother had the head, sir, the head!\"\nsays Harry, tapping his own honest skull. \"Why, I give you my word, my\nlord, that he had read almost every book that was ever written; could\nplay both on the fiddle and harpsichord, could compose poetry and\nsermons most elegant. What can I do? I am only good to ride and play at\ncards, and drink Burgundy.\" And the penitent hung down his head. \"But\nthem I can do as well as most fellows, you see. In fact, my lord, I'll\nback myself,\" he resumed, to the other's great amusement.\n\nLord March relished the young man's naivete, as the jaded voluptuary\nstill to the end always can relish the juicy wholesome mutton-chop. \"By\nGad, Mr. Warrington,\" says he, \"you ought to be taken to Exeter 'Change,\nand put in a show.\"\n\n\"And for why?\"\n\n\"A gentleman from Virginia who has lost his elder brother and absolutely\nregrets him. The breed ain't known in this country. Upon my honour and\nconscience, I believe that you would like to have him back again.\"\n\n\"Believe!\" cries the Virginian, growing red in the face.\n\n\"That is, you believe you believe you would like him back again. But\ndepend on it you wouldn't. 'Tis not in human nature, sir; not as I read\nit, at least. Here are some fine houses we are coming to. That at the\ncorner is Sir Richard Littleton's, that great one was my Lord Bingley's.\n'Tis a pity they do nothing better with this great empty space of\nCavendish Square than fence it with these unsightly boards. By George!\nI don't know where the town's running. There's Montagu House made into\na confounded Don Saltero's museum, with books and stuffed birds and\nrhinoceroses. They have actually run a cursed cut--New Road they call\nit--at the back of Bedford House Gardens, and spoilt the Duke's comfort,\nthough, I guess, they will console him in the pocket. I don't know\nwhere the town will stop. Shall we go down Tyburn Road and the Park, or\nthrough Swallow Street, and into the habitable quarter of the town? We\ncan dine at Pall Mall, or, if you like, with you; and we can spend the\nevening as you like--with the Queen of Spades, or...\"\n\n\"With the Queen of Spades, if your lordship pleases,\" says Mr.\nWarrington, blushing. So the equipage drove to his hotel in Covent\nGarden, where the landlord came forward with his usual obsequiousness,\nand recognising my Lord of March and Ruglen, bowed his wig on to my\nlord's shoes in his humble welcomes to his lordship. A rich young\nEnglish peer in the reign of George the Second; a wealthy patrician\nin the reign of Augustus; which would you rather have been? There is a\nquestion for any young gentlemen's debating-clubs of the present day.\n\nThe best English dinner which could be produced, of course, was at the\nservice of the young Virginian and his noble friend. After dinner came\nwine in plenty, and of quality good enough even for the epicurean earl.\nOver the wine there was talk of going to see the fireworks at Vauxhall,\nor else of cards. Harry, who had never seen a firework beyond an\nexhibition of a dozen squibs at Williamsburg on the fifth of November\n(which he thought a sublime display), would have liked the Vauxhall, but\nyielded to his guest's preference for piquet; and they were very soon\nabsorbed in that game.\n\nHarry began by winning as usual; but, in the course of a half-hour, the\nluck turned and favoured my Lord March, who was at first very surly when\nMr. Draper, Mr. Warrington's man of business, came bowing into the room,\nwhere he accepted Harry's invitation to sit and drink. Mr. Warrington\nalways asked everybody to sit and drink, and partake of his best. Had he\na crust, he would divide it; had he a haunch, he would share it; had\nhe a jug of water, he would drink about with a kindly spirit; had he a\nbottle of Burgundy, it was gaily drunk with a thirsty friend. And don't\nfancy the virtue is common. You read of it in books, my dear sir, and\nfancy that you have it yourself because you give six dinners of twenty\npeople and pay your acquaintance all round; but the welcome, the\nfriendly spirit, the kindly heart? Believe me, these are rare qualities\nin our selfish world. We may bring them with us from the country when we\nare young, but they mostly wither after transplantation, and droop and\nperish in the stifling London air.\n\nDraper did not care for wine very much, but it delighted the lawyer to\nbe in the company of a great man. He protested that he liked nothing\nbetter than to see piquet played by two consummate players and men of\nfashion; and, taking a seat, undismayed by the sidelong scowls of his\nlordship, surveyed the game between the gentlemen. Harry was not near\na match for the experienced player of the London clubs. To-night, too,\nLord March held better cards to aid his skill.\n\nWhat their stakes were was no business of Mr. Draper's. The gentlemen\nsaid they would play for shillings, and afterwards counted up their\ngains and losses, with scarce any talking, and that in an undertone. A\nbow on both sides, a perfectly grave and polite manner on the part of\neach, and the game went on.\n\nBut it was destined to a second interruption, which brought an\nexecration from Lord March's lips. First was heard a scuffling\nwithout--then a whispering--then an outcry as of a woman in tears,\nand then, finally, a female rushed into the room, and produced that\nexplosion of naughty language from Lord March.\n\n\"I wish your women would take some other time for coming, confound 'em,\"\nsays my lord, laying his cards down in a pet.\n\n\"What, Mrs. Betty!\" cried Harry.\n\nIndeed it was no other than Mrs. Betty, Lady Maria's maid; and Gumbo\nstood behind her, his fine countenance beslobbered with tears.\n\n\"What has happened?\" asks Mr. Warrington, in no little perturbation of\nspirit. \"The Baroness is well?\"\n\n\"Help! help! sir, your honour!\" ejaculates Mrs. Betty, and proceeds to\nfall on her knees.\n\n\"Help whom?\"\n\nA howl ensues from Gumbo.\n\n\"Gumbo! you scoundrel! has anything happened between Mrs. Betty and\nyou?\" asks the black's master.\n\nMr. Gumbo steps back with great dignity, laying his hand on his heart,\nand saying, \"No, sir; nothing hab happened 'twix' this lady and me.\"\n\n\"It's my mistress, sir,\" cries Betty. \"Help! help! here's the letter she\nhave wrote, sir! They have gone and took her, sir!\"\n\n\"Is it only that old Molly Esmond? She's known to be over head and heels\nin debt! Dry your eyes in the next room, Mrs. Betty, and let me and Mr.\nWarrington go on with our game,\" says my lord, taking up his cards.\n\n\"Help! help her!\" cries Betty again. \"Oh, Mr. Harry! you won't be\na-going on with your cards, when my lady calls out to you to come and\nhelp her! Your honour used to come quick enough when my lady used to\nsend me to fetch you at Castlewood!\"\n\n\"Confound you! can't you hold your tongue?\" says my lord, with more\nchoice words and oaths.\n\nBut Betty would not cease weeping, and it was decreed that Lord March\nwas to cease winning for that night. Mr. Warrington rose from his seat,\nand made for the bell, saying:\n\n\"My dear lord, the game must be over for to-night. My relative writes to\nme in great distress, and I am bound to go to her.\"\n\n\"Curse her! Why couldn't she wait till to-morrow?\" cries my lord,\ntestily.\n\nMr. Warrington ordered a postchaise instantly. His own horses would take\nhim to Bromley.\n\n\"Bet you, you don't do it within the hour! bet you, you don't do it\nwithin five quarters of an hour! bet you four to one--or I'll take your\nbet, which you please--that you're not robbed on Blackheath! Bet you,\nyou are not at Tunbridge Wells before midnight!\" cries Lord March.\n\n\"Done!\" says Mr. Warrington. And my lord carefully notes down the terms\nof the four wagers in his pocket-book.\n\nLady Maria's letter ran as follows:--\n\n\n\"MY DEAR COUSIN--I am fell into a trapp, which I perceive the\nmachinations of villians. I am a prisner. Betty will tell you all. Ah,\nmy Henrico! come to the resque of your MOLLY.\"\n\n\nIn half an hour after the receipt of this missive, Mr. Warrington was\nin his postchaise and galloping over Westminster Bridge on the road to\nsuccour his kinswoman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII. Sampson and the Philistines\n\n\nMy happy chance in early life led me to become intimate with a\nrespectable person who was born in a certain island, which is pronounced\nto be the first gem of the ocean by, no doubt, impartial judges of\nmaritime jewellery. The stories which that person imparted to me\nregarding his relatives who inhabited the gem above-mentioned, were such\nas used to make my young blood curdle with horror to think there should\nbe so much wickedness in the world. Every crime which you can think of;\nthe entire Ten Commandments broken in a general smash; such rogueries\nand knaveries as no storyteller could invent; such murders and robberies\nas Thurtell or Turpin scarce ever perpetrated;--were by my informant\naccurately remembered, and freely related, respecting his nearest\nkindred, to any one who chose to hear him. It was a wonder how any of\nthe family still lived out of the hulks. Me brother Tim had brought\nhis fawther's gree hairs with sorrow to the greeve; me brother Mick had\nrobbed the par'sh church repaytedly; me sisther Annamaroia had jilted\nthe Captain and run off with the Ensign, forged her grandmother's will,\nand stole the spoons, which Larry the knife-boy was hanged for.\nThe family of Atreus was as nothing compared to the race of\nO'What-d'ye-call-'em, from which my friend sprung; but no power on earth\nwould, of course, induce me to name the country whence he came.\n\nHow great then used to be my naif astonishment to find these murderers,\nrogues, parricides, habitual forgers of bills of exchange, and so forth,\nevery now and then writing to each other as \"my dearest brother,\" \"my\ndearest sister,\" and for months at a time living on the most amicable\nterms! With hands reeking with the blood of his murdered parents, Tim\nwould mix a screeching tumbler, and give Maria a glass from it. With\nlips black with the perjuries he had sworn in court respecting his\ngrandmother's abstracted testament, or the murder of his poor brother\nThady's helpless orphans, Mick would kiss his sister Julia's bonny\ncheek, and they would have a jolly night, and cry as they talked about\nold times, and the dear old Castle What-d'ye-call-'em, where they were\nborn, and the fighting Onetyoneth being quarthered there, and the Major\nproposing for Cyaroloine, and the tomb of their seented mother (who had\nchayted them out of the propertee). Heaven bless her soul! They used to\nweep and kiss so profusely at meeting and parting, that it was touching\nto behold them. At the sight of their embraces one forgot those painful\nlittle stories, and those repeated previous assurances that, did they\ntell all, they could hang each other all round.\n\nWhat can there be finer than forgiveness? What more rational than, after\ncalling a man by every bad name under the sun, to apologise, regret\nhasty expressions, and so forth, withdraw the decanter (say) which you\nhave flung at your enemy's head, and be friends as before? Some folks\npossess this admirable, this angellike gift of forgiveness. It was\nbeautiful, for instance, to see our two ladies at Tunbridge Wells\nforgiving one another, smiling, joking, fondling almost in spite of\nthe hard words of yesterday--yes, and forgetting bygones, though they\ncouldn't help remembering them perfectly well. I wonder, can you and I\ndo as much? Let us strive, my friend, to acquire this pacable, Christian\nspirit. My belief is that you may learn to forgive bad language employed\nto you; but, then, you must have a deal of practice, and be accustomed\nto hear and use it. You embrace after a quarrel and mutual bad language.\nHeaven bless us! Bad words are nothing when one is accustomed to them,\nand scarce need ruffle the temper on either side.\n\nSo the aunt and niece played cards very amicably together, and drank to\neach other's health, and each took a wing of the chicken, and pulled\na bone of the merry-thought, and (in conversation) scratched their\nneighbours', not each other's, eyes out. Thus we have read how the\nPeninsular warriors, when the bugles sang truce, fraternised and\nexchanged tobacco-pouches and wine, ready to seize their firelocks and\nknock each other's heads off when the truce was over; and thus our old\nsoldiers, skilful in war, but knowing the charms of a quiet life, laid\ntheir weapons down for the nonce, and hob-and-nobbed gaily together. Of\ncourse, whilst drinking with Jack Frenchman, you have your piece handy\nto blow his brains out if he makes a hostile move: but, meanwhile, it is\nA votre sante, mon camarade! Here's to you, mounseer! and everything is\nas pleasant as possible. Regarding Aunt Bernstein's threatened gout? The\ntwinges had gone off. Maria was so glad! Maria's fainting fits? She had\nno return of them. A slight recurrence last night. The Baroness was so\nsorry! Her niece must see the best doctor, take everything to fortify\nher, continue to take the steel, even after she left Tunbridge. How kind\nof Aunt Bernstein to offer to send some of the bottled waters after her!\nSuppose Madame Bernstein says in confidence to her own woman, \"Fainting\nfits!--pooh!--epilepsy! inherited from that horrible scrofulous German\nmother!\" What means have we of knowing the private conversation of the\nold lady and her attendant? Suppose Lady Maria orders Mrs. Betty,\nher ladyship's maid, to taste every glass of medicinal water, first\ndeclaring that her aunt is capable of poisoning her? Very likely such\nconversations take place. These are but precautions--these are the\nfirelocks which our old soldiers have at their sides, loaded and cocked,\nbut at present lying quiet on the grass.\n\nHaving Harry's bond in her pocket, the veteran Maria did not choose to\npress for payment. She knew the world too well for that. He was bound\nto her, but she gave him plenty of day-rule, and leave of absence on\nparole. It was not her object needlessly to chafe and anger her young\nslave. She knew the difference of ages, and that Harry must have his\npleasures and diversions. \"Take your ease and amusement, cousin,\" says\nLady Maria. \"Frisk about, pretty little mousekin,\" says grey Grimalkin,\npurring in the corner, and keeping watch with her green eyes. About all\nthat Harry was to see and do on his first visit to London, his female\nrelatives had of course talked and joked. Both of the ladies knew\nperfectly what were a young gentleman's ordinary amusements in those\ndays, and spoke of them with the frankness which characterised those\neasy times.\n\nOur wily Calypso consoled herself, then, perfectly, in the absence of\nher young wanderer, and took any diversion which came to hand. Mr. Jack\nMorris, the gentleman whom we have mentioned as rejoicing in the company\nof Lord March and Mr. Warrington, was one of these diversions. To live\nwith titled personages was the delight of Jack Morris's life; and to\nlose money at cards to an earl's daughter was almost a pleasure to him.\nNow, the Lady Maria Esmond was an earl's daughter who was very glad to\nwin money. She obtained permission to take Mr. Morris to the Countess\nof Yarmouth's assembly, and played cards with him--and so everybody was\npleased.\n\nThus the first eight-and-forty hours after Mr. Warrington's departure\npassed pretty cheerily at Tunbridge Wells, and Friday arrived, when the\nsermon was to be delivered which we have seen Mr. Sampson preparing. The\ncompany at the Wells were ready enough to listen to it. Sampson had a\nreputation for being a most amusing and eloquent preacher; and if there\nwere no breakfast, conjurer, dancing bears, concert going on, the good\nWells folk would put up with a sermon. He knew Lady Yarmouth was coming,\nand what a power she had in the giving of livings and the dispensing of\nbishoprics, the Defender of the Faith of that day having a remarkable\nconfidence in her ladyship's opinion upon these matters;--and so we\nmay be sure that Mr. Sampson prepared his very best discourse for her\nhearing. When the Great Man is at home at the Castle, and walks over to\nthe little country church, in the park, bringing the Duke, the Marquis,\nand a couple of Cabinet Ministers with him, has it ever been your lot\nto sit among the congregation, and watch Mr. Trotter the curate and his\nsermon? He looks anxiously at the Great Pew; he falters as he gives out\nhis text, and thinks, \"Ah! perhaps his lordship may give me a living!\"\nMrs. Trotter and the girls look anxiously at the Great Pew too,\nand watch the effects of papa's discourse--the well-known favourite\ndiscourse--upon the big-wigs assembled. Papa's first nervousness is\nover: his noble voice clears, warms to his sermon: he kindles: he takes\nhis pocket-handkerchief out: he is coming to that exquisite passage\nwhich has made them all cry at the parsonage: he has begun it! Ah! What\nis that humming noise, which fills the edifice, and causes hob-nailed\nMelibaeus to grin at smock-frocked Tityrus? It is the Right Honourable\nLord Naseby snoring in the pew by the fire! And poor Trotter's visionary\nmitre disappears with the music.\n\nSampson was the domestic chaplain of Madame Bernstein's nephew. The two\nladies of the Esmond family patronised the preacher. On the day of the\nsermon, the Baroness had a little breakfast in his honour, at which\nSampson made his appearance, rosy and handsome, with a fresh-flowered\nwig, and a smart, rustling, new cassock, which he had on credit\nfrom some church-admiring mercer at the Wells. By the side of his\npatronesses, their ladyships' lacqueys walking behind them with their\ngreat gilt prayer-books, Mr. Sampson marched from breakfast to church.\nEvery one remarked how well the Baroness Bernstein looked; she laughed,\nand was particularly friendly with her niece; she had a bow and a\nstately smile for all, as she moved on, with her tortoiseshell cane. At\nthe door there was a dazzling conflux of rank and fashion--all the\nfine company of the Wells trooping in; and her ladyship of Yarmouth,\nconspicuous with vermilion cheeks, and a robe of flame-coloured taffeta.\nThere were shabby people present, besides the fine company, though these\nlatter were by far the most numerous. What an odd-looking pair, for\ninstance, were those in ragged coats, one of them with his carroty hair\nappearing under his scratch-wig, and who entered the church just as\nthe organ stopped! Nay, he could not have been a Protestant, for he\nmechanically crossed himself as he entered the place, saying to\nhis comrade, \"Bedad, Tim, I forgawt!\" by which I conclude that\nthe individual came from an island which has been mentioned at the\ncommencement of this chapter. Wherever they go a rich fragrance of\nwhisky spreads itself. A man may be a heretic, but possess genius: these\nCatholic gentlemen have come to pay homage to Mr. Sampson.\n\nNay, there are not only members of the old religion present, but\ndisciples of a creed still older. Who are those two individuals with\nhooked noses and sallow countenances, who worked into the church in\nspite of some little opposition on the part of the beadle? Seeing the\ngreasy appearance of these Hebrew strangers, Mr. Beadle was for\ndenying them admission. But one whispered into his ear, \"We wants to\nbe conwerted, gov'nor!\" another slips money into his hand,--Mr. Beadle\nlifts up the mace with which he was barring the doorway, and the Hebrew\ngentlemen enter. There goes the organ! the doors have closed. Shall we\ngo in, and listen to Mr. Sampson's sermon, or lie on the grass without?\n\nPreceded by that beadle in gold lace, Sampson walked up to the pulpit,\nas rosy and jolly a man as you could wish to see. Presently, when he\nsurged up out of his plump pulpit cushion, why did his Reverence turn as\npale as death? He looked to the western church-door--there, on each\nside of it, were those horrible Hebrew caryatides. He then looked to the\nvestry-door, which was hard by the rector's pew, in which Sampson\nhad been sitting during the service, alongside of their ladyships his\npatronesses. Suddenly a couple of perfumed Hibernian gentlemen slipped\nout of an adjacent seat, and placed themselves on a bench close by that\nvestry-door and rector's pew, and so sate till the conclusion of the\nsermon, with eyes meekly cast down to the ground. How can we describe\nthat sermon, if the preacher himself never knew how it came to an end?\n\nNevertheless, it was considered an excellent sermon. When it was over,\nthe fine ladies buzzed into one another's ears over their pews, and\nuttered their praise and comments. Madame Walmoden, who was in the next\npew to our friends, said it was bewdiful, and made her dremble all over.\nMadame Bernstein said it was excellent. Lady Maria was pleased to think\nthat the family chaplain should so distinguish himself. She looked up\nat him, and strove to catch his reverence's eye, as he still sate in his\npulpit; she greeted him with a little wave of the hand and flutter of\nher handkerchief. He scarcely seemed to note the compliment; his face\nwas pale, his eyes were looking yonder, towards the font, where those\nHebrews still remained. The stream of people passed by them--in a rush,\nwhen they were lost to sight,--in a throng--in a march of twos and\nthrees--in a dribble of one at a time. Everybody was gone. The two\nHebrews were still there by the door.\n\nThe Baroness de Bernstein and her niece still lingered in the rector's\npew, where the old lady was deep in conversation with that gentleman.\n\n\"Who are those horrible men at the door? and what a smell of spirits\nthere is!\" cries Lady Maria, to Mrs. Brett, her aunt's woman, who had\nattended the two ladies.\n\n\"Farewell, doctor; you have a darling little boy: is he to be a\nclergyman, too?\" asks Madame de Bernstein. \"Are you ready, my dear?\" And\nthe pew is thrown open, and Madame Bernstein, whose father was only\na viscount, insists that her niece, Lady Maria, who was an earl's\ndaughter, should go first out of the pew.\n\nAs she steps forward, those individuals whom her ladyship designated as\ntwo horrible men, advance. One of them pulls a long strip of paper out\nof his pocket, and her ladyship starts and turns pale. She makes for the\nvestry, in a vague hope that she can clear the door and close it behind\nher. The two whiskified gentlemen are up with her, however; one of them\nactually lays his hand on her shoulder, and says:\n\n\"At the shuit of Misthress Pincott, of Kinsington, mercer, I have the\nhonour of arresting your leedyship. Me neem is Costigan, madam, a poor\ngentleman of Oireland, binding to circumstances and forced to follow a\ndisagrayable profession. Will your leedyship walk, or shall me man go\nfetch a cheer?\"\n\nFor reply Lady Maria Esmond gives three shrieks, and falls swooning to\nthe ground. \"Keep the door, Mick!\" shouts Mr. Costigan. \"Best let in no\none else, madam,\" he says, very politely, to Madame de Bernstein. \"Her\nladyship has fallen in a feenting fit, and will recover here, at her\naise.\"\n\n\"Unlace her, Brett!\" cries the old lady, whose eyes twinkle oddly; and\nas soon as that operation is performed, Madame Bernstein seizes a little\nbag suspended by a hair chain, which Lady Maria wears round her neck,\nand snips the necklace in twain. \"Dash some cold water over her face, it\nalways recovers her!\" says the Baroness. \"You stay with her, Brett. How\nmuch is your suit gentlemen?\"\n\nMr. Costigan says, \"The deem we have against her leedyship for one\nhundred and thirty-two pounds, in which she is indebted to Misthress\nEliza Pincott\"\n\nMeanwhile, where is the Reverend Mr. Sampson? Like the fabled opossum we\nhave read of, who, when he spied the unerring gunner from his gum-tree,\nsaid: \"It's no use Major, I will come down,\" so Sampson gave himself up\nto his pursuers. \"At whose suit, Simons?\" he sadly asked. Sampson knew\nSimons: they had met many a time before.\n\n\"Buckleby Cordwainer,\" says Mr. Simons.\n\n\"Forty-eight pound and charges, I know,\" says Mr. Sampson, with a sigh.\n\"I haven't got the money. What officer is there here?\" Mr. Simons's\ncompanion, Mr. Lyons, here stepped forward, and said his house was most\nconvenient, and often used by gentlemen, and he should be most happy and\nproud to accommodate his reverence.\n\nTwo chairs happened to be in waiting outside the chapel. In those two\nchairs my Lady Maria Esmond and Mr. Sampson placed themselves, and went\nto Mr. Lyons's residence, escorted by the gentlemen to whom we have just\nbeen introduced.\n\nVery soon after the capture the Baroness Bernstein sent Mr. Case, her\nconfidential servant, with a note to her niece, full of expressions of\nthe most ardent affection: but regretting that her heavy losses at cards\nrendered the payment of such a sum as that in which Lady Maria stood\nindebted quite impossible. She had written off to Mrs. Pincott, by that\nvery post, however, to entreat her to grant time, and as soon as ever\nshe had an answer, would not fail to acquaint her dear unhappy niece.\n\nMrs. Betty came over to console her mistress: and the two poor women\ncast about for money enough to provide a horse and chaise for Mrs.\nBetty, who had very nearly come to misfortune, too. Both my Lady Maria\nand her maid had been unlucky at cards, and could not muster more than\neighteen shillings between them: so it was agreed that Betty should sell\na gold chain belonging to her lady, and with the money travel to London.\nNow, Betty took the chain to the very toy-shop man who had sold it to\nMr. Warrington, who had given it to his cousin; and the toy-shop man,\nsupposing that she had stolen the chain, was for bringing in a constable\nto Betty. Hence, she had to make explanations, and to say how her\nmistress was in durance; and, ere the night closed, all Tunbridge Wells\nknew that my Lady Maria Esmond was in the hands of bailiffs. Meanwhile,\nhowever, the money was found, and Mrs. Betty whisked up to London in\nsearch of the champion in whom the poor prisoner confided.\n\n\"Don't say anything about that paper being gone! Oh, the wretch, the\nwretch! She shall pay it me!\" I presume that Lady Maria meant her aunt\nby the word \"wretch.\" Mr. Sampson read a sermon to her ladyship, and\nthey passed the evening over revenge and backgammon; with well-grounded\nhopes that Harry Warrington would rush to their rescue as soon as ever\nhe heard of their mishap.\n\nThough, ere the evening was over, every soul at the Wells knew what had\nhappened to Lady Maria, and a great deal more; though they knew she was\ntaken in execution, the house where she lay, the amount--nay, ten times\nthe amount--for which she was captured, and that she was obliged to pawn\nher trinkets to get a little money to keep her in jail; though everybody\nsaid that old fiend of a Bernstein was at the bottom of the business,\nof course they were all civil and bland in society; and, at my Lady\nTrumpington's cards that night, where Madame Bernstein appeared, and\nas long as she was within hearing, not a word was said regarding the\nmorning's transactions. Lady Yarmouth asked the Baroness news of her\nbreddy nephew, and heard Mr. Warrington was in London. My Lady Maria\nwas not coming to Lady Trumpington's that evening? My Lady Maria was\nindisposed, had fainted at church that morning, and was obliged to keep\nher room. The cards were dealt, the fiddles sang, the wine went round,\nthe gentlefolks talked, laughed, yawned, chattered, the footmen waylaid\nthe supper, the chairmen drank and swore, the stars climbed the sky,\njust as though no Lady Maria was imprisoned, and no poor Sampson\narrested. 'Tis certain, dearly beloved brethren, that the little griefs,\nstings, annoyances, which you and I feel acutely in our own persons,\ndon't prevent our neighbours from sleeping; and that when we slip out of\nthe world the world does not miss us. Is this humiliating to our vanity?\nSo much the better. But, on the other hand, is it not a comfortable and\nconsoling truth? And mayn't we be thankful for our humble condition? If\nwe were not selfish--passez-moi le mot, s.v.p.--and if we had to care\nfor other people's griefs as much as our own, how intolerable human life\nwould be! If my neighbour's tight boot pinched my corn; if the calumny\nuttered against Jones set Brown into fury; if Mrs. A's death plunged\nMessrs. B, C, D, E, F, into distraction, would there be any bearing of\nthe world's burthen? Do not let us be in the least angry or surprised if\nall the company played on, and were happy, although Lady Maria had come\nto grief. Countess, the deal is with you! Are you going to Stubblefield\nto shoot as usual, Sir John? Captain, we shall have you running off to\nthe Bath after the widow! So the clatter goes on; the lights burns; the\nbeaux and the ladies flirt, laugh, ogle; the prisoner rages in his cell;\nthe sick man tosses on his bed.\n\nPerhaps Madame de Bernstein stayed at the assembly until the very last,\nnot willing to allow the company the chance of speaking of her as soon\nas her back should be turned. Ah, what a comfort it is, I say again,\nthat we have backs, and that our ears don't grow on them! He that has\nears to hear, let him stuff them with cotton. Madame Bernstein might\nhave heard folks say it was heartless of her to come abroad, and play\nat cards, and make merry when her niece was in trouble. As if she could\nhelp Maria by staying at home, indeed! At her age, it is dangerous to\ndisturb an old lady's tranquillity. \"Don't tell me!\" says Lady Yarmouth.\n\"The Bernstein would play at cards over her niece's coffin. Talk about\nher heart! who ever said she had one? That old spy lost it to the\nChevalier a thousand years ago, and has lived ever since perfectly well\nwithout one. For how much is the Maria put in prison? If it were only a\nsmall sum we would pay it, it would vex her aunt so. Find out, Fuchs, in\nthe morning, for how much Lady Maria Esmond is put in prison.\" And the\nfaithful Fuchs bowed, and promised to do her Excellency's will.\n\nMeanwhile, about midnight, Madame de Bernstein went home, and presently\nfell into a sound sleep, from which she did not wake up until a late\nhour of the morning, when she summoned her usual attendant, who arrived\nwith her ladyship's morning dish of tea. If I told you she took a dram\nwith it, you would be shocked. Some of our great-grandmothers used to\nhave cordials in their \"closets.\" Have you not read of the fine lady in\nWalpole, who said, \"If I drink more, I shall be 'muckibus!'?\" As surely\nas Mr. Gough is alive now, our ancestresses were accustomed to partake\npretty freely of strong waters.\n\nSo, having tipped off the cordial, Madame Bernstein rouses and asks Mrs.\nBrett the news.\n\n\"He can give it you,\" says the waiting-woman, sulkily.\n\n\"He? Who?\"\n\nMrs. Brett names Harry, and says Mr. Warrington arrived about midnight\nyesterday--and Betty, my Lady Maria's maid, was with him. \"And my Lady\nMaria sends your ladyship her love and duty, and hopes you slept well,\"\nsays Brett.\n\n\"Excellently, poor thing! Is Betty gone to her?\"\n\n\"No; she is here,\" says Mrs. Brett.\n\n\"Let me see her directly,\" cries the old lady.\n\n\"I'll tell her,\" replies the obsequious Brett, and goes away upon\nher mistress's errand, leaving the old lady placidly reposing on her\npillows. Presently, two pairs of high-heeled shoes are heard pattering\nover the deal floor of the bedchamber. Carpets were luxuries scarcely\nknown in bedrooms of those days.\n\n\"So, Mrs. Betty, you were in London yesterday?\" calls Bernstein from her\ncurtains.\n\n\"It is not Betty--it is I! Good morning, dear aunt! I hope you slept\nwell?\" cries a voice which made old Bernstein start on her pillow. It\nwas the voice of Lady Maria, who drew the curtains aside, and dropped\nher aunt a low curtsey. Lady Maria looked very pretty, rosy, and happy.\nAnd with the little surprise incident at her appearance through Madame\nBernstein's curtains, I think we may bring this chapter to a close.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX. Harry to the Rescue\n\n\n\"My dear Lord March\" (wrote Mr. Warrington from Tunbridge Wells, on\nSaturday morning, the 25th August, 1756): \"This is to inform you (with\nsatisfaction) that I have one all our three betts. I was at Bromley two\nminutes within the hour; my new horses kep a-going at a capital rate. I\ndrove them myself, having the postilion by me to show me the way, and\nmy black man inside with Mrs. Betty. Hope they found the drive very\npleasant. We were not stopped on Blackheath, though two fellows on\nhorseback rode up to us, but not liking the looks of our countenantses,\nrode off again; and we got into Tunbridge Wells (where I transacted my\nbusiness) at forty-five minutes after eleven. This makes me quitts with\nyour lordship after yesterday's piquet, which I shall be very happy to\ngive your revenge, and am--Your most obliged, faithful servant,                                                H. ESMOND WARRINGTON.\"\n\n\nAnd now, perhaps, the reader will understand by what means Lady Maria\nEsmond was enabled to surprise her dear aunt in her bed on Saturday\nmorning, and walk out of the house of captivity. Having despatched Mrs.\nBetty to London, she scarcely expected that her emissary would return\non the day of her departure; and she and the chaplain were playing their\ncards at midnight, after a small refection which the bailiff's wife\nhad provided for them, when the rapid whirling of wheels was heard\napproaching their house, and caused the lady to lay her trumps down,\nand her heart to beat with more than ordinary emotion. Whirr came the\nwheels--the carriage stopped at the very door: there was a parley at the\ngate: then appeared Mrs. Betty, with a face radiant with joy, though her\neyes were full of tears; and next, who is that tall young gentleman who\nenters? Can any of my readers guess? Will they be very angry if I say\nthat the chaplain slapped down his cards with a huzzay, whilst Lady\nMaria, turning as white as a sheet, rose up from her chair, tottered\nforward a step or two, and, with an hysterical shriek, flung herself in\nher cousin's arms? How many kisses did he give her? If they were mille,\ndeinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, and so on, I am\nnot going to cry out. He had come to rescue her. She knew he would; he\nwas her champion, her preserver from bondage and ignominy. She wept a\ngenuine flood of tears upon his shoulder, and as she reclines there,\ngiving way to a hearty emotion, I protest I think she looks handsomer\nthan she has looked during the whole course of this history. She did not\nfaint this time; she went home, leaning lovingly on her cousin's arm,\nand may have had one or two hysterical outbreaks in the night; but\nMadame Bernstein slept soundly, and did not hear her.\n\n\"You are both free to go home,\" were the first words Harry said. \"Get\nmy lady's hat and cardinal, Betty, and, Chaplain, we'll smoke a pipe\ntogether at our lodgings, it will refresh me after my ride.\" The\nchaplain, who, too, had a great deal of available sensibility, was very\nmuch overcome; he burst into tears as he seized Harry's hand, and\nkissed it, and prayed God to bless his dear, generous, young patron. Mr.\nWarrington felt a glow of pleasure thrill through his frame. It is good\nto be able to help the suffering and the poor; it is good to be able\nto turn sorrow into joy. Not a little proud and elated was our young\nchampion, as, with his hat cocked, he marched by the side of his rescued\nprincess. His feelings came out to meet him, as it were, and beautiful\nhappinesses with kind eyes and smiles danced before him, and clad him in\na robe of honour, and scattered flowers on his path, and blew trumpets\nand shawms of sweet gratulation, calling, \"Here comes the conqueror!\nMake way for the champion!\" And so they led him up to the king's house,\nand seated him in the hall of complacency, upon the cushions of comfort.\nAnd yet it was not much he had done. Only a kindness. He had but to put\nhis hand in his pocket, and with an easy talisman, drive off the dragon\nwhich kept the gate, and cause the tyrant to lay down his axe, who had\ngot Lady Maria in execution. Never mind if his vanity is puffed up; he\nis very good-natured; he has rescued two unfortunate people, and pumped\ntears of goodwill and happiness out of their eyes:--and if he brags a\nlittle to-night, and swaggers somewhat to the chaplain, and talks about\nLondon, and Lord March, and White's, and Almack's, with the air of a\nmacaroni, I don't think we need like him much the less.\n\nSampson continued to be prodigiously affected. This man had a nature\nmost easily worked upon, and extraordinarily quick to receive pain\nand pleasure, to tears, gratitude, laughter, hatred, liking. In his\npreaching profession he had educated and trained his sensibilities so\nthat they were of great use to him; he was for the moment what he acted.\nHe wept quite genuine tears, finding that he could produce them freely.\nHe loved you whilst he was with you; he had a real pang of grief as he\nmingled his sorrow with the widow or orphan; and, meeting Jack as he\ncame out of the door, went to the tavern opposite, and laughed and\nroared over the bottle. He gave money very readily, but never repaid\nwhen he borrowed. He was on this night in a rapture of gratitude and\nflattery towards Harry Warrington. In all London, perhaps, the unlucky\nFortunate Youth could not have found a more dangerous companion.\n\nTo-night he was in his grateful mood, and full of enthusiasm for the\nbenefactor who had released him from durance. With each bumper his\nadmiration grew stronger. He exalted Harry as the best and noblest of\nmen, and the complacent young simpleton, as we have said, was disposed\nto take these praises as very well deserved. \"The younger branch of our\nfamily,\" said Mr. Harry, with a superb air, \"have treated you scurvily;\nbut, by Jove, Sampson my boy, I'll stand by you!\" At a certain period of\nBurgundian excitement Mr. Warrington was always very eloquent respecting\nthe splendour of his family. \"I am very glad I was enabled to help you\nin your strait. Count on me whenever you want me, Sampson. Did you not\nsay you had a sister at boarding-school? You will want money for her,\nsir. Here is a little bill which may help to pay her schooling.\" And the\nliberal young fellow passed a bank-note across to the chaplain.\n\nAgain the man was affected to tears. Harry's generosity smote him.\n\n\"Mr. Warrington,\" he said, putting the bank-note a short distance from\nhim, \"I--I don't deserve your kindness--by George, I don't!\" and he\nswore an oath to corroborate his passionate assertion.\n\n\"Psha!\" says Harry. \"I have plenty more of 'em. There was no money in\nthat confounded pocket-book which I lost last week.\"\n\n\"No, sir. There was no money!\" says Mr. Sampson, dropping his head.\n\n\"Hallo! How do you know, Mr. Chaplain?\" asks the young gentleman.\n\n\"I know because I am a villain, sir. I am not worthy of your kindness.\nI told you so. I found the book, sir, that night, when you had too much\nwine at Barbeau's.\"\n\n\"And read the letters?\" asked Mr. Warrington, starting up and turning\nvery red.\n\n\"They told me nothing I did not know, sir,\" said the chaplain \"You have\nhad spies about you whom you little suspect--from whom you are much too\nyoung and simple to be able to keep your secret.\"\n\n\"Are those stories about Lady Fanny, and my cousin Will and his doings,\ntrue then?\" inquired Harry.\n\n\"Yes, they are true,\" sighed the chaplain. \"The house of Castlewood has\nnot been fortunate, sir, since your honour's branch, the elder branch,\nleft it.\"\n\n\"Sir, you don't dare for to breathe a word against my Lady Maria?\" Harry\ncried out.\n\n\"Oh, not for worlds!\" says Mr. Sampson, with a queer look at his young\nfriend. \"I may think she is too old for your honour, and that 'tis a\npity you should not have a wife better suited to your age, though\nI admit she looks very young for hers, and hath every virtue and\naccomplishment.\"\n\n\"She is too old, Sampson, I know she is,\" says Mr. Warrington, with much\nmajesty; \"but she has my word, and you see, sir, how fond she is of\nme. Go bring me the letters, sir, which you found, and let me try and\nforgive you for having seized upon them.\"\n\n\"My benefactor, let me try and forgive myself!\" cries Mr. Sampson, and\ndeparted towards his chamber, leaving his young patron alone over his\nwine.\n\nSampson returned presently, looking very pale. \"What has happened, sir?\"\nsays Harry, with an imperious air.\n\nThe chaplain held out a pocket-book. \"With your name in it, sir,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"My brother's name in it,\" says Harry; \"it was George who gave it to\nme.\"\n\n\"I kept it in a locked chest, sir, in which I left it this morning\nbefore I was taken by those people. Here is the book, sir, but the\nletters are gone. My trunk and valise have also been tampered with. And\nI am a miserable, guilty man, unable to make you the restitution which\nI owe you.\" Sampson looked the picture of woe as he uttered these\nsentiments. He clasped his hands together, and almost knelt before Harry\nin an attitude the most pathetic.\n\nWho had been in the rooms in Mr. Sampson's and Mr. Warrington's absence?\nThe landlady was ready to go on her knees, and declare that nobody\nhad come in: nor, indeed, was Mr. Warrington's chamber in the least\ndisturbed, nor anything abstracted from Mr. Sampson's scanty wardrobe\nand possessions, except those papers of which he deplored the absence.\n\nWhose interest was it to seize them? Lady Maria's? The poor woman\nhad been a prisoner all day, and during the time when the capture was\neffected.\n\nShe certainly was guiltless of the rape of the letters. The sudden\nseizure of the two--Case, the house-steward's secret journey to\nLondon,--Case, who knew the shoemaker at whose house Sampson lodged in\nLondon, and all the secret affairs of the Esmond family,--these points,\nconsidered together and separately, might make Mr. Sampson think that\nthe Baroness Bernstein was at the bottom of this mischief. But why\narrest Lady Maria? The chaplain knew nothing as yet about that letter\nwhich her ladyship had lost; for poor Maria had not thought it necessary\nto confide her secret to him.\n\nAs for the pocket-book and its contents, Mr. Harry was so swollen up\nwith self-satisfaction that evening, at winning his three bets, at\nrescuing his two friends, at the capital premature cold supper of\npartridges and ancient Burgundy which obsequious Monsieur Barbeau had\nsent over to the young gentleman's lodgings, that he accepted Sampson's\nvows of contrition, and solemn promises of future fidelity, and reached\nhis gracious hand to the chaplain, and condoned his offence. When the\nlatter swore his great gods, that henceforth he would be Harry's truest,\nhumblest friend and follower, and at any moment would be ready to die\nfor Mr. Warrington, Harry said, majestically, \"I think, Sampson, you\nwould; I hope you would. My family--the Esmond family--has always been\naccustomed to have faithful friends round about 'em--and to reward 'em\ntoo. The wine's with you, Chaplain. What toast do you call, sir?\"\n\n\"I call a blessing on the house of Esmond-Warrington!\" cries the\nchaplain, with real tears in his eyes.\n\n\"We are the elder branch, sir. My grandfather was the Marquis of\nEsmond,\" says Mr. Harry, in a voice noble but somewhat indistinct.\n\"Here's to you, Chaplain--and I forgive you, sir--and God bless you,\nsir--and if you had been took for three times as much, I'd have paid\nit. Why, what's that I see through the shutters? I am blest if the sun\nhasn't risen again! We have no need of candles to go to bed, ha, ha!\"\nAnd once more extending his blessing to his chaplain, the young fellow\nwent off to sleep.\n\nAbout noon Madame de Bernstein sent over a servant to say that she would\nbe glad if her nephew would come over and drink a dish of chocolate with\nher, whereupon our young friend rose and walked to his aunt's lodgings.\nShe remarked, not without pleasure, some alteration in his toilette: in\nhis brief sojourn in London he had visited a tailor or two, and had\nbeen introduced by my Lord March to some of his lordship's purveyors and\ntradesmen.\n\nAunt Bernstein called him \"my dearest child,\" and thanked him for his\nnoble, his generous behaviour to dear Maria. What a shock that seizure\nin church had been to her! A still greater shock that she had lost three\nhundred only on the Wednesday night to Lady Yarmouth, and was quite a\nsec. \"Why,\" said the Baroness, \"I had to send Case to London to my agent\nto get me money to pay--I could not leave Tunbridge in her debt.\"\n\n\"So Case did go to London?\" says Mr. Harry.\n\n\"Of course he did: the Baroness de Bernstein can't afford to say she is\ncourt d'argent. Canst thou lend me some, child?\"\n\n\"I can give your ladyship twenty-two pounds,\" said Harry, blushing very\nred: \"I have but forty-four left till I get my Virginian remittances. I\nhave bought horses and clothes, and been very extravagant, aunt.\"\n\n\"And rescued your poor relations in distress, you prodigal good boy.\nNo, child, I do not want thy money. I can give thee some. Here is a note\nupon my agent for fifty pounds, vaurien! Go and spend it, and be merry!\nI dare say thy mother will repay me, though she does not love me.\" And\nshe looked quite affectionate, and held out a pretty hand, which the\nyouth kissed.\n\n\"Your mother did not love me, but your mother's father did once. Mind,\nsir, you always come to me when you have need of me.\"\n\nWhen bent on exhibiting them, nothing could exceed Beatrix Bernstein's\ngrace or good-humour. \"I can't help loving you, child,\" she continued,\n\"and yet I am so angry with you that I have scarce the patience to speak\nto you. So you have actually engaged yourself to poor Maria, who is\nas old as your mother? What will Madam Esmond say? She may live three\nhundred years, and you will not have wherewithal to support yourselves.\"\n\n\"I have ten thousand pounds from my father, of my own, now my poor\nbrother is gone,\" said Harry, \"that will go some way.\"\n\n\"Why, the interest will not keep you in card-money.\"\n\n\"We must give up cards,\" says Harry.\n\n\"It is more than Maria is capable of. She will pawn the coat off your\nback to play. The rage for it runs in all my brother's family--in me\ntoo, I own it. I warned you. I prayed you not to play with them, and\nnow a lad of twenty to engage himself to a woman of forty-two!--to write\nletters on his knees and signed with his heart's blood (which he spells\nlike hartshorn), and say that he will marry no other woman than his\nadorable cousin, Lady Maria Esmond. Oh! it's cruel--cruel!\"\n\n\"Great heavens! madam, who showed you my letter?\" asked Harry, burning\nwith a blush again.\n\n\"An accident. She fainted when she was taken by those bailiffs. Brett\ncut her laces for her; and when she was carried off, poor thing, we\nfound a little sachet on the floor, which I opened, not knowing in the\nleast what it contained. And in it was Mr. Harry Warrington's precious\nletter. And here, sir, is the case.\"\n\nA pang shot through Harry's heart. \"Great heavens! why didn't she\ndestroy it?\" he thought.\n\n\"I--I will give it back to Maria,\" he said, stretching out his hand for\nthe little locket.\n\n\"My dear, I have burned the foolish letter,\" said the old lady.\n\n\"If you choose to betray me I must take the consequence. If you choose\nto write another, I cannot help thee. But, in that case, Harry Esmond,\nI had rather never see thee again. Will you keep my secret? Will you\nbelieve an old woman who loves you and knows the world better than you\ndo? I tell you, if you keep that foolish promise, misery and ruin are\nsurely in store for you. What is a lad like you in the hands of a wily\nwoman of the world, who makes a toy of you? She has entrapped you into a\npromise, and your old aunt has cut the strings and set you free. Go back\nagain! Betray me if you will, Harry.\"\n\n\"I am not angry with you, aunt--I wish I were,\" said Mr. Warrington,\nwith very great emotion. \"I--I shall not repeat what you told me.\"\n\n\"Maria never will, child--mark my words!\" cried the old lady, eagerly.\n\"She will never own that she has lost that paper. She will tell you that\nshe has it.\"\n\n\"But I am sure she--she is very fond of me; you should have seen her\nlast night,\" faltered Harry.\n\n\"Must I tell more stories against my own flesh and blood?\" sobs out the\nBaroness. \"Child, you do not know her past life!\"\n\n\"And I must not, and I will not!\" cries Harry, starting up. \"Written or\nsaid--it does not matter which! But my word is given; they may play with\nsuch things in England, but we gentlemen of Virginia don't break 'em.\nIf she holds me to my word, she shall have me. If we are miserable, as\nI dare say we shall be, I'll take a firelock, and go join the King of\nPrussia, or let a ball put an end to me.\"\n\n\"I--I have no more to say. Will you be pleased to ring that bell? I--I\nwish you a good morning, Mr. Warrington,\" and dropping a very stately\ncurtsey, the old lady rose on her tortoiseshell stick, and turned\ntowards the door. But, as she made her first step, she put her hand\nto her heart, sank on the sofa again, an shed the first tears that had\ndropped for long years from Beatrix Esmond's eyes.\n\nHarry was greatly moved, too. He knelt down by her. He seized her cold\nhand, and kissed it. He told her, in his artless way, how very keenly he\nhad felt her love for him, and how, with all his heart, he returned it.\n\"Ah, aunt!\" said he, \"you don't know what a villain I feel myself. When\nyou told me, just now how that paper was burned--oh! I was ashamed to\nthink how glad I was.\" He bowed his comely head over her hand. She felt\nhot drops from his eyes raining on it. She had loved this boy. For half\na century past--never, perhaps, in the course of her whole worldly\nlife, had she felt a sensation so tender and so pure. The hard heart was\nwounded now, softened, overcome. She put her two hands on his shoulders,\nand lightly kissed his forehead.\n\n\"You will not tell her what I have done, child?\" she said.\n\nHe declared never! never! And demure Mrs. Brett, entering at her\nmistress's summons, found the nephew and aunt in this sentimental\nattitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL. In which Harry pays off an Old Debt, and incurs some New\nOnes\n\n\nOur Tunbridge friends were now weary of the Wells, and eager to take\ntheir departure. When the autumn should arrive, Bath was Madame de\nBernstein's mark. There were more cards, company, life, there. She\nwould reach it after paying a few visits to her country friends. Harry\npromised, with rather a bad grace, to ride with Lady Maria and the\nchaplain to Castlewood. Again they passed by Oakhurst village, and the\nhospitable house where Harry had been so kindly entertained. Maria\nmade so many keen remarks about the young ladies of Oakhurst, and their\nsetting their caps at Harry, and the mother's evident desire to catch\nhim for one of them, that, somewhat in a pet, Mr. Warrington said he\nwould pass his friends' door, as her ladyship disliked and abused\nthem; and was very haughty and sulky that evening at the inn where they\nstopped, some few miles farther on the road. At supper, my Lady Maria's\nsmiles brought no corresponding good-humour to Harry's face; her tears\n(which her ladyship had at command) did not seem to create the least\nsympathy from Mr. Warrington; to her querulous remarks he growled a\nsurly reply; and my lady was obliged to go to bed at length without\ngetting a single tete-a-tete with her cousin,--that obstinate chaplain,\nas if by order, persisting in staying in the room. Had Harry given\nSampson orders to remain? She departed with a sigh. He bowed her to the\ndoor with an obstinate politeness, and consigned her to the care of the\nlandlady and her maid.\n\nWhat horse was that which galloped out of the inn-yard ten minutes after\nLady Maria had gone to her chamber? An hour after her departure\nfrom their supper-room, Mrs. Betty came in for her lady's bottle of\nsmelling-salts, and found Parson Sampson smoking a pipe alone.\nMr. Warrington was gone to bed--was gone to fetch a walk in the\nmoonlight--how should he know where Mr. Harry was? Sampson answered,\nin reply to the maid's interrogatories. Mr. Warrington was ready to set\nforward the next morning, and took his place by the side of Lady Maria's\ncarriage. But his brow was black--the dark spirit was still on him. He\nhardly spoke to her during the journey. \"Great heavens! she must have\ntold him that she stole it!\" thought Lady Maria within her own mind.\n\nThe fact is, that, as they were walking up that steep hill which lies\nabout three miles from Oakhurst, on the Westerham road, Lady Maria\nEsmond, leaning on her fond youth's arm, and indeed very much in love\nwith him, had warbled into his ear the most sentimental vows, protests,\nand expressions of affection. As she grew fonder, he grew colder. As she\nlooked up in his face, the sun shone down upon hers, which, fresh and\nwell-preserved as it was, yet showed some of the lines and wrinkles of\ntwoscore years; and poor Harry, with that arm leaning on his, felt it\nintolerably weighty, and by no means relished his walk up the hill. To\nthink that all his life, that drag was to be upon him! It was a dreary\nlook forward and he cursed the moonlight walk, and the hot evening, and\nthe hot wine which had made him give that silly pledge by which he was\nfatally bound.\n\nMaria's praises and raptures annoyed Harry beyond measure. The poor\nthing poured out scraps of the few plays which she knew that had\nreference to her case, and strove with her utmost power to charm her\nyoung companion. She called him, over and over again, her champion, her\nHenrico, her preserver, and vowed that his Molinda would be ever, ever\nfaithful to him. She clung to him. \"Ah, child! have I not thy precious\nimage, thy precious hair, thy precious writing here?\" she said, looking\nin his face. \"Shall it not go with me to the grave? It would, sir, were\nI to meet with unkindness from my Henrico!\" she sighed out.\n\nHere was a strange story! Madame Bernstein had given him the little\nsilken case--she had burned the hair and the note which the case\ncontained, and Maria had it still on her heart! It was then, at the\nstart which Harry gave, as she was leaning on his arm--at the sudden\nmovement as if he would drop hers--that Lady Maria felt her first pang\nof remorse that she had told a fib, or rather, that she was found out in\ntelling a fib, which is a far more cogent reason for repentance. Heaven\nhelp us! if some people were to do penance for telling lies, would they\never be out of sackcloth and ashes?\n\nArrived at Castlewood, Mr. Harry's good-humour was not increased. My\nlord was from home; the ladies also were away; the only member of\nthe family whom Harry found, was Mr. Will, who returned from\npartridge-shooting just as the chaise and cavalcade reached the gate,\nand who turned very pale when he saw his cousin, and received a sulky\nscowl of recognition from the young Virginian.\n\nNevertheless, he thought to put a good face on the matter, and they met\nat supper, where, before my Lady Maria, their conversation was at first\ncivil, but not lively. Mr. Will had been to some races? To several. He\nhad been pretty successful in his bets? Mr. Warrington hopes. Pretty\nwell. \"And you have brought back my horse sound?\" asked Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Your horse! what horse?\" asked Mr. Will.\n\n\"What horse? my horse!\" says Mr. Harry, curtly.\n\n\"Protest I don't understand you,\" says Will.\n\n\"The brown horse for which I played you, and which I won of you the\nnight before you rode away upon it,\" says Mr. Warrington, sternly. \"You\nremember the horse, Mr. Esmond.\"\n\n\"Mr. Warrington, I perfectly well remember playing you for a horse,\nwhich my servant handed over to you on the day of your departure.\"\n\n\"The chaplain was present at our play. Mr. Sampson, will you be umpire\nbetween us?\" Mr. Warrington said, with much gentleness.\n\n\"I am bound to decide that Mr. Warrington played for the brown horse,\"\nsays Mr. Sampson.\n\n\"Well, he got the other one,\" said sulky Mr. Will, with a grin.\n\n\"And sold it for thirty shillings!\" said Mr. Warrington, always\npreserving his calm tone.\n\nWill was waggish. \"Thirty shillings? and a devilish good price, too, for\nthe broken-kneed old rip. Ha, ha!\"\n\n\"Not a word more. 'Tis only a question about a bet, my dear Lady Maria.\nShall I serve you some more chicken?\" Nothing could be more studiously\ncourteous and gay than Mr. Warrington was, so long as the lady remained\nin the room. When she rose to go, Harry followed her to the door, and\nclosed it upon her with the most courtly bow of farewell. He stood at\nthe closed door for a moment, and then he bade the servants retire. When\nthose menials were gone, Mr. Warrington locked the heavy door before\nthem, and pocketed the key.\n\nAs it clicked in the lock, Mr. Will, who had been sitting over his\npunch, looking now and then askance at his cousin, asked, with one\nof the oaths which commonly garnished his conversation, what the--Mr.\nWarrington meant by that?\n\n\"I guess there's going to be a quarrel,\" said Mr. Warrington, blandly,\n\"and there is no use in having these fellows look on at rows between\ntheir betters.\"\n\n\"Who is going to quarrel here, I should like to know?\" asked Will,\nlooking very pale, and grasping a knife.\n\n\"Mr. Sampson, you were present when I played Mr. Will fifty guineas\nagainst his brown horse?\"\n\n\"Against his horse!\" bawls out Mr. Will.\n\n\"I am not such a something fool as you take me for,\" says Mr.\nWarrington, \"although I do come from Virginia!\" And he repeated his\nquestion: \"Mr. Sampson, you were here when I played the Honourable\nWilliam Esmond, Esquire, fifty guineas against his brown horse?\"\n\n\"I must own it, sir,\" says the chaplain, with a deprecatory look towards\nhis lord's brother.\n\n\"I don't own no such a thing,\" says Mr. Will, with rather a forced\nlaugh.\n\n\"No, sir: because it costs you no more pains to lie than to cheat,\" said\nMr. Warrington, walking up to his cousin. \"Hands off, Mr. Chaplain, and\nsee fair play! Because you are no better than a--ha!----\"\n\nNo better than a what we can't say, and shall never know, for as Harry\nuttered the exclamation, his dear cousin flung a wine bottle at Mr.\nWarrington's head, who bobbed just in time, so that the missile flew\nacross the room, and broke against the wainscot opposite, breaking\nthe face of a pictured ancestor of the Esmond family, and then itself\nagainst the wall, whence it spirted a pint of good port wine over the\nchaplain's face and flowered wig. \"Great heavens, gentlemen, I pray you\nto be quiet!\" cried the parson, dripping with gore.\n\nBut gentlemen are not inclined at some moments to remember the commands\nof the Church. The bottle having failed, Mr. Esmond seized the large\nsilver-handled knife and drove at his cousin. But Harry caught up\nthe other's right hand with his left, as he had seen the boxers do at\nMarybone; and delivered a rapid blow upon Mr. Esmond's nose, which sent\nhim reeling up against the oak panels, and I dare say caused him to see\nten thousand illuminations. He dropped his knife in his retreat against\nthe wall, which his rapid antagonist kicked under the table.\n\nNow Will, too, had been at Marybone and Hockley-in-the-Hole, and after\na gasp for breath and a glare over his bleeding nose at his enemy, he\ndashed forward his head as though it had been a battering-ram, intending\nto project it into Mr. Henry Warrington's stomach.\n\nThis manoeuvre Harry had seen, too, on his visit to Marybone, and\namongst the negroes upon the maternal estate, who would meet in combat\nlike two concutient cannon-balls, each harder than the other. But Harry\nhad seen and marked the civilised practice of the white man. He skipped\naside, and, saluting his advancing enemy with a tremendous blow on the\nright ear, felled him, so that he struck his head against the heavy oak\ntable and sank lifeless to the ground.\n\n\"Chaplain, you will bear witness that it has been a fair fight!\" said\nMr. Warrington, still quivering with the excitement of the combat, but\nstriving with all his might to restrain himself and look cool. And he\ndrew the key from his pocket and opened the door in the lobby, behind\nwhich three or four servants were gathered. A crash of broken glass, a\ncry, a shout, an oath or two, had told them that some violent scene was\noccurring within, and they entered, and behold two victims bedabbled\nwith red--the chaplain bleeding port wine, and the Honourable William\nEsmond, Esquire, stretched in his own gore.\n\n\"Mr. Sampson will bear witness that I struck fair, and that Mr.\nEsmond hit the first blow,\" said Mr. Warrington. \"Undo his neckcloth,\nsomebody--he may be dead; and get a fleam, Gumbo, and bleed him. Stop!\nHe is coming to himself! Lift him up, you, and tell a maid to wash the\nfloor.\"\n\nIndeed, in a minute, Mr. Will did come to himself. First his eyes rolled\nabout, or rather, I am ashamed to say, his eye, one having been closed\nby Mr. Warrington's first blow. First, then, his eye rolled about; then\nhe gasped and uttered an inarticulate moan or two, then he began to\nswear and curse very freely and articulately.\n\n\"He is getting well,\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Oh, praise be Mussy!\" sighs the sentimental Betty.\n\n\"Ask him, Gumbo, whether he would like any more?\" said Mr. Warrington,\nwith a stern humour.\n\n\"Massa Harry say, wool you like any maw?\" asked obedient Gumbo, bowing\nover the prostrate gentleman.\n\n\"No, curse you, you black devil!\" says Mr. Will, hitting up at the black\nobject before him. (\"So he nearly cut my tongue in to in my mouf!\" Gumbo\nexplained to the pitying Betty.) \"No, that is, yes! You infernal Mohock!\nWhy does not somebody kick him out of the place?\"\n\n\"Because nobody dares, Mr. Esmond,\" says Mr. Warrington, with great\nstate, arranging his ruffles--his ruffled ruffles.\n\n\"And nobody won't neither,\" growled the men. They had all grown to love\nHarry, whereas Mr. Will had nobody's good word.\n\n\"We know all's fair, sir. It ain't the first time Master William have\nbeen served so.\"\n\n\"And I hope it won't be the last,\" cries shrill Betty. \"To go for to\nstrike a poor black gentleman so!\"\n\nMr. Will had gathered himself up by this time, had wiped his bleeding\nface with a napkin, and was skulking off to bed.\n\n\"Surely it's manners to say good night to the company. Good night, Mr.\nEsmond,\" says Mr. Warrington, whose jokes, though few, were not very\nbrilliant; but the honest lad relished the brilliant sally and laughed\nat it inwardly.\n\n\"He's ad his zopper, and he goes to baid!\" says Betty, in her native\ndialect, at which everybody laughed outright, except Mr. William, who\nwent away leaving a black fume of curses, as it were, rolling out of\nthat funnel, his mouth.\n\nIt must be owned that Mr. Warrington continued to be witty the next\nmorning. He sent a note to Mr. Will begging to know whether he was for\na ride to town or anywheres else. If he was for London, that he would\nfriten the highwaymen on Hounslow Heath, and look a very genteel figar\nat the Chocolate House. Which letter, I fear, Mr. Will received with his\nusual violence, requesting the writer to go to some place--not Hounslow.\n\nAnd, besides the parley between Will and Harry, there comes a maiden\nsimpering to Mr. Warrington's door, and Gumbo advances, holding\nsomething white and triangular in his ebon fingers.\n\nHarry knew what it was well enough. \"Of course it's a letter,\" groans\nhe. Molinda greets her Enrico, etc. etc. etc. No sleep has she known\nthat night, and so forth, and so forth, and so forth. Has Enrico slept\nwell in the halls of his fathers? und so weiter, und so weiter. He must\nnever never quaril and be so cruel again. Kai ta loipa. And I protest I\nshan't quote any more of this letter. Ah, tablets, golden once,--are ye\nnow faded leaves? Where is the juggler who transmuted you, and why is\nthe glamour over?\n\nAfter the little scandal with cousin Will, Harry's dignity would not\nallow him to stay longer at Castlewood: he wrote a majestic letter\nto the lord of the mansion, explaining the circumstances which had\noccurred, and, as he called in Parson Sampson to supervise the document,\nno doubt it contained none of those eccentricities in spelling which\nfigured in his ordinary correspondence at this period. He represented to\npoor Maria, that after blackening the eye and damaging the nose of a son\nof the house, he should remain in it with a very bad grace; and she was\nforced to acquiesce in the opinion that, for the present, his absence\nwould best become him. Of course, she wept plentiful tears at parting\nwith him. He would go to London, and see younger beauties: he would find\nnone, none who would love him like his fond Maria. I fear Mr. Warrington\ndid not exhibit any profound emotion on leaving her: nay, he cheered\nup immediately after he crossed Castlewood Bridge, and made his horses\nwhisk over the road at ten miles an hour: he sang to them to go along:\nhe nodded to the pretty girls by the roadside: he chucked my landlady\nunder the chin: he certainly was not inconsolable. Truth is, he\nlonged to be back in London again, to make a figure at St. James's,\nat Newmarket, wherever the men of fashion congregated. All that petty\nTunbridge society of women and card-playing seemed child's-play to him\nnow he had tasted the delight of London life.\n\nBy the time he reached London again, almost all the four-and-forty\npounds which we have seen that he possessed at Tunbridge had slipped out\nof his pocket, and further supplies were necessary. Regarding these he\nmade himself presently easy. There were the two sums of 5000 pounds in\nhis own and his brother's name, of which he was the master. He would\ntake up a little money, and with a run or two of good luck at play he\ncould easily replace it. Meantime he must live in a manner becoming his\nstation, and it must be explained to Madam Esmond that a gentleman\nof his rank cannot keep fitting company, and appear as becomes him in\nsociety, upon a miserable pittance of two hundred a year.\n\nMr. Warrington sojourned at the Bedford Coffee-House as before, but only\nfor a short while. He sought out proper lodgings at the Court end of the\ntown, and fixed on some apartments in Bond Street, where he and\nGumbo installed themselves, his horses standing at a neighbouring\nlivery-stable. And now tailors, mercers, and shoemakers were put in\nrequisition. Not without a pang of remorse, he laid aside his mourning\nand figured in a laced hat and waistcoat. Gumbo was always dexterous in\nthe art of dressing hair, and with a little powder flung into his fair\nlocks Mr. Warrington's head was as modish as that of any gentleman in\nthe Mall. He figured in the Ring in his phaeton. Reports of his great\nwealth had long since preceded him to London, and not a little curiosity\nwas excited about the fortunate Virginian.\n\nUntil our young friend could be balloted for at the proper season,\nmy Lord March had written down his name for the club at White's\nChocolate-House, as a distinguished gentleman from America. There were\nas yet but few persons of fashion in London, but with a pocket full of\nmoney at one-and-twenty, a young fellow can make himself happy even out\nof the season; and Mr. Harry was determined to enjoy.\n\nHe ordered Mr. Draper, then, to sell five hundred pounds of his stock.\nWhat would his poor mother have said had she known that the young\nspendthrift was already beginning to dissipate his patrimony? He dined\nat the tavern, he supped at the club, where Jack Morris introduced him,\nwith immense eulogiums, to such gentlemen as were in town. Life and\nyouth and pleasure were before him, the wine was set a-running, and the\neager lad was greedy to drink. Do you see, far away in the west yonder,\nthe pious widow at her prayers for her son? Behind the trees at Oakhurst\na tender little heart, too, is beating for him, perhaps. When the\nProdigal Son was away carousing, were not love and forgiveness still on\nthe watch for him?\n\nAmongst the inedited letters of the late Lord Orford, there is one which\nthe present learned editor, Mr. Peter Cunningbam, has omitted from his\ncollection, doubting possibly the authenticity of the document. Nay,\nI myself have only seen a copy of it in the Warrington papers in Madam\nEsmond's prim handwriting, and noted \"Mr. H. Walpole's account of my son\nHenry at London, and of Baroness Tusher,--wrote to General Conway.\"\n\n\n\"ARLINGTON STREET, Friday Night.\n\n\"I have come away, child, for a day or two from my devotions to our Lady\nof Strawberry. Have I not been on my knees to her these three weeks,\nand aren't the poor old joints full of rheumatism? A fit took me that\nI would pay London a visit, that I would go to Vauxhall and Ranelagh.\nQuoi! May I not have my rattle as well as other elderly babies? Suppose,\nafter being so long virtuous, I take a fancy to cakes and ale, shall\nyour reverence say nay to me? George Selwyn and Tony Storer and\nyour humble servant took boat at Westminster t'other night. Was it\nTuesday?--no, Tuesday I was with their Graces of Norfolk, who are just\nfrom Tunbridge--it was Wednesday. How should I know? Wasn't I dead drunk\nwith a whole pint of lemonade I took at White's?\n\n\"The Norfolk folk had been entertaining me on Tuesday with the account\nof a young savage Iroquois, Choctaw, or Virginian, who has lately been\nmaking a little noise in our quarter of the globe. He is an offshoot of\nthat disreputable family of Esmond, Castlewood, of whom all the men are\ngamblers and spendthrifts, and all the women--well, I shan't say the\nword, lest Lady Ailesbury should be looking over your shoulder. Both the\nlate lords, my father told me, were in his pay, and the last one, a beau\nof Queen Anne's reign, from a viscount advanced to be an earl through\nthe merits and intercession of his notorious old sister Bernstein, late\nTusher, nee Esmond--a great beauty, too, of her day, a favourite of the\nold Pretender. She sold his secrets to my papa, who paid her for them;\nand being nowise particular in her love for the Stuarts, came over to\nthe august Hanoverian house at present reigning over us. 'Will Horace\nWalpole's tongue never stop scandal?' says your wife over your shoulder.\nI kiss your ladyship's hand. I am dumb. The Bernstein is a model of\nvirtue. She had no good reasons for marrying her father's chaplain.\nMany of the nobility omit the marriage altogether. She wasn't ashamed\nof being Mrs. Tusher, and didn't take a German Baroncino for a second\nhusband, whom nobody out of Hanover ever saw. The Yarmouth bears no\nmalice. Esther and Vashti are very good friends, and have been cheating\neach other at Tunbridge at cards all the summer.\n\n\"'And what has all this to do with the Iroquois?' says your ladyship.\nThe Iroquois has been at Tunbridge, too--not cheating, perhaps, but\nwinning vastly. They say he has bled Lord March of thousands--Lord\nMarch, by whom so much blood hath been shed, that he has quarrelled with\neverybody, fought with everybody, rode over everybody, been fallen in\nlove with by everybody's wife except Mr. Conway's, and not excepting her\npresent Majesty, the Countess of England, Scotland, France and Ireland,\nQueen of Walmoden and Yarmouth, whom Heaven preserve to us.\n\n\"You know an offensive little creature, de par le monde, one Jack\nMorris, who skips in and out of all the houses of London. When we were\nat Vauxhall, Mr. Jack gave us a nod under the shoulder of a pretty young\nfellow enough, on whose arm he was leaning, and who appeared hugely\ndelighted with the enchantments of the garden. Lord, how he stared\nat the fireworks! Gods, how he huzzayed at the singing of a horrible\npainted wench who shrieked the ears off my head! A twopenny string of\nglass beads and a strip of tawdry cloth are treasures in Iroquois-land,\nand our savage valued them accordingly.\n\n\"A buzz went about the place that this was the fortunate youth. He won\nthree hundred at White's last night very genteelly from Rockingham and\nmy precious nephew, and here he was bellowing and huzzaying over the\nmusic so as to do you good to hear. I do not love a puppet-show, but I\nlove to treat children to one, Miss Conway! I present your ladyship my\ncompliments, and hope we shall go and see the dolls together.\n\n\"When the singing woman came down from her throne, Jack Morris must\nintroduce my Virginian to her. I saw him blush up to the eyes, and make\nher, upon my word, a very fine bow, such as I had no idea was practised\nin wigwams. 'There is a certain jenny squaw about her, and that's why\nthe savage likes her,' George said--a joke certainly not as brilliant as\na firework. After which it seemed to me that the savage and the savages\nretired together.\n\n\"Having had a great deal too much to eat and drink three hours before,\nmy partners must have chicken and rack-punch at Vauxhall, where George\nfell asleep straightway, and for my sins I must tell Tony Storer what\nI knew about this Virginian's amiable family, especially some of the\nBernstein's antecedents, and the history of another elderly beauty of\nthe family, a certain Lady Maria, who was au mieux with the late Prince\nof Wales. What did I say? I protest not half of what I knew, and of\ncourse not a tenth part of what I was going to tell, for who should\nstart out upon us but my savage, this time quite red in the face; and in\nhis war paint. The wretch had been drinking fire-water in the next box!\n\n\"He cocked his hat, clapped his hand to his sword, asked which of the\ngentleman was it that was maligning his family? so that I was obliged to\nentreat him not to make such a noise, lest he should wake my friend, Mr.\nGeorge Selwyn. And I added, 'I assure you, sir, I had no idea that you\nwere near me, and most sincerely apologise for giving you pain.'\n\n\"The Huron took his hand off his tomahawk at this pacific rejoinder,\nmade a bow not ungraciously, said he could not, of course, ask more than\nan apology from a gentleman of my age (Merci, monsieur!), and, hearing\nthe name of Mr. Selwyn, made another bow to George, and said he had\na letter to him from Lord March, which he had had the ill-fortune to\nmislay. George has put him up for the club, it appears, in conjunction\nwith March, and no doubt these three lambs will fleece each other.\nMeanwhile, my pacified savage sate down with us, and buried the hatchet\nin another bowl of punch, for which these gentlemen must call. Heaven\nhelp us! 'Tis eleven o'clock, and here comes Bedson with my gruel! H. W.\n\n\"To the Honourable. H. S. Conway.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI. Rake's Progress\n\n\nPeople were still very busy in Harry Warrington's time (not that our\nyoung gentleman took much heed of the controversy) in determining\nthe relative literary merits of the ancients and the moderns; and the\nlearned, and the world with them, indeed, pretty generally pronounced in\nfavour of the former. The moderns of that day are the ancients of\nours, and we speculate upon them in the present year of grace, as our\ngrandchildren, a hundred years hence, will give their judgment about us.\nAs for your book-learning, O respectable ancestors (though, to be sure,\nyou have the mighty Gibbon with you), I think you will own that you\nare beaten, and could point to a couple of professors at Cambridge and\nGlasgow who know more Greek than was to be had in your time in all\nthe universities of Europe, including that of Athens, if such an one\nexisted. As for science, you were scarce more advanced than those\nheathen to whom in literature you owned yourselves inferior. And in\npublic and private morality? Which is the better, this actual year 1858,\nor its predecessor a century back? Gentlemen of Mr. Disraeli's House of\nCommons! has every one of you his price, as in Walpole's or Newcastle's\ntime,--or (and that is the delicate question) have you almost all of you\nhad it? Ladies, I do not say that you are a society of Vestals--but the\nchronicle of a hundred years since contains such an amount of scandal,\nthat you may be thankful you did not live in such dangerous times. No:\non my conscience, I believe that men and women are both better; not only\nthat the Susannas are more numerous, but that the Elders are not nearly\nso wicked. Did you ever hear of such books as Clarissa, Tom Jones,\nRoderick Random; paintings by contemporary artists, of the men and\nwomen, the life and society, of their day? Suppose we were to describe\nthe doings of such a person as Mr. Lovelace or my Lady Bellaston, or\nthat wonderful \"Lady of Quality\" who lent her memoirs to the author of\nPeregrine Pickle. How the pure and outraged Nineteenth Century would\nblush, scream, run out of the room, call away the young ladies, and\norder Mr. Mudie never to send one of that odious author's books again!\nYou are fifty-eight years old, madam, and it may be that you are too\nsqueamish, that you cry out before you are hurt, and when nobody had\nany intention of offending your ladyship. Also, it may be that the\nnovelist's art is injured by the restraints put upon him as many an\nhonest, harmless statue at St. Peter's and the Vatican is spoiled by the\ntin draperies in which ecclesiastical old women have swaddled the fair\nlimbs of the marble. But in your prudery there is reason. So there is in\nthe state censorship of the Press. The page may contain matter dangerous\nto bonos mores. Out with your scissors, censor, and clip off the\nprurient paragraph! We have nothing for it but to submit. Society, the\ndespot, has given his imperial decree. We may think the statue had been\nseen to greater advantage without the tin drapery; we may plead that the\nmoral were better might we recite the whole fable. Away with him--not a\nword! I never saw the pianofortes in the United States with the frilled\nmuslin trousers on their legs; but, depend on it, the muslin covered\nsome of the notes as well as the mahogany, muffled the music, and\nstopped the player.\n\nTo what does this prelude introduce us? I am thinking of Harry\nWarrington, Esquire, in his lodgings in Bond Street, London, and of the\nlife which he and many of the young bucks of fashion led in those times,\nand how I can no more take my faire young reader into them, than\nLady Squeams can take her daughter to Cremorne Gardens on an ordinary\nevening. My dear Miss Diana (psha! I know you are eight-and-thirty,\nalthough you are so wonderfully shy, and want to make us believe\nyou have just left off schoolroom dinners and a pinafore), when your\ngrandfather was a young man about town, and a member of one of the clubs\nat White's, and dined at Pontac's off the feasts provided by Braund and\nLebeck, and rode to Newmarket with March and Rockingham, and toasted\nthe best in England with Gilly Williams and George Selwyn (and didn't\nunderstand George's jokes, of which, indeed, the flavour has very much\nevaporated since the bottling)--the old gentleman led a life of which\nyour noble aunt (author of Legends of the Squeams's; or, Fair Fruits of\na Family Tree) has not given you the slightest idea.\n\nIt was before your grandmother adopted those serious views for which\nshe was distinguished during her last long residence at Bath, and after\nColonel Tibbalt married Miss Lye, the rich soap-boiler's heiress, that\nher ladyship's wild oats were sown. When she was young, she was as giddy\nas the rest of the genteel world. At her house in Hill Street, she had\nten card-tables on Wednesdays and Sunday evenings, except for a short\ntime when Ranelagh was open on Sundays. Every night of her life she\ngambled for eight, nine, ten hours. Everybody else in society did the\nlike. She lost; she won; she cheated; she pawned her jewels; who knows\nwhat else she was not ready to pawn, so as to find funds to supply her\nfury for play? What was that after-supper duel at the Shakspeare's Head\nin Covent Garden, between your grandfather and Colonel Tibbalt: where\nthey drew swords and engaged only in the presence of Sir John Screwby,\nwho was drunk under the table? They were interrupted by Mr. John\nFielding's people, and your grandfather was carried home to Hill Street\nwounded in a chair. I tell you those gentlemen in powder and ruffles,\nwho turned out the toes of their buckled pumps so delicately, were\nterrible fellows. Swords were perpetually being drawn; bottles\nafter bottles were drunk; oaths roared unceasingly in conversation;\ntavern-drawers and watchmen were pinked and maimed; chairmen belaboured;\ncitizens insulted by reeling pleasure-hunters. You have been to Cremorne\nwith proper \"vouchers\" of course? Do you remember our great theatres\nthirty years ago? You were too good to go to a play. Well, you have\nno idea what the playhouses were, or what the green boxes were, when\nGarrick and Mrs. Pritchard were playing before them! And I, for my\nchildren's sake, thank that good Actor in his retirement who was\nthe first to banish that shame from the theatre. No, madam, you are\nmistaken; I do not plume myself on my superior virtue. I do not say you\nare naturally better than your ancestress in her wild, rouged, gambling,\nflaring tearing days; or even than poor Polly Fogle, who is just taken\nup for shoplifting, and would have been hung for it a hundred years ago.\nOnly, I am heartily thankful that my temptations are less, having quite\nenough to do with those of the present century.\n\nSo, if Harry Warrington rides down to Newmarket to the October meeting,\nand loses or wins his money there; if he makes one of a party at the\nShakspeare or Bedford Head; if he dines at White's ordinary, and sits\ndown to macco and lansquenet afterwards; if he boxes the watch, and\nmakes his appearance at the Roundhouse; if he turns out for a short\nspace a wild dissipated, harum-scarum young Harry Warrington; I, knowing\nthe weakness of human nature, am not going to be surprised; and, quite\naware of my own shortcomings, don't intend to be very savage at my\nneighbour's. Mr. Sampson was: in his chapel in Long Acre he whipped Vice\ntremendously; gave Sin no quarter; out-cursed Blasphemy with superior\nAnathemas; knocked Drunkenness down, and trampled on the prostrate brute\nwallowing in the gutter; dragged out conjugal Infidelity, and pounded\nher with endless stones of rhetoric--and, after service, came to dinner\nat the Star and Garter, made a bowl of punch for Harry and his friends\nat the Bedford Head, or took a hand at whist at Mr. Warrington's\nlodgings or my Lord March's, or wherever there was a supper and good\ncompany for him.\n\nI often think, however, in respect of Mr. Warrington's doings at this\nperiod of his coming to London, that I may have taken my usual degrading\nand uncharitable views of him--for, you see, I have not uttered a single\nword of virtuous indignation against his conduct, and if it was not\nreprehensible, have certainly judged him most cruelly. O the Truthful,\nO the Beautiful, O Modesty, O Benevolence, O Pudor, O Mores, O Blushing\nShame, O Namby Pamby--each with your respective capital letters to your\nhonoured names! O Niminy, O Piminy! how shall I dare for to go for to\nsay that a young man ever was a young man?\n\nNo doubt, dear young lady, I am calumniating Mr. Warrington according to\nmy heartless custom. As a proof here is a letter out of the Warrington\ncollection, from Harry to his mother in which there is not a single word\nthat would lead you to suppose he was leading a wild life. And such a\nletter from an only son to a fond and exemplary parent, we know must be\ntrue:--\n\n\n\"BOND STREET, LONDON, October 25, 1756.\n\n\"HONORD MADAM--I take up my pen to acknowledge your honored favor of 10\nJuly per Lively Virginia packet, which has duly come to hand, forwarded\nby our Bristol agent, and rejoice to hear that the prospect of the crops\nis so good. 'Tis Tully who says that agriculture is the noblest pursuit;\nhow delightful when that pursuit is also prophetable!\n\n\"Since my last, dated from Tunbridge Wells, one or two insadence have\noccurred of which it is nessasery [This word has been much operated\nupon with the penknife, but is left sic, no doubt to the writer's\nsatisfaction.] I should advise my honored Mother. Our party there broke\nup end of August: the partridge-shooting commencing. Baroness Bernstein,\nwhose kindness to me has been most invariable, has been to Bath, her\nusual winter resort, and has made me a welcome present of a fifty-pound\nbill. I rode back with Rev. Mr. Sampson, whose instruction I find\nmost valluble, and my cousin, Lady Maria, to Castlewood. [Could Parson\nSampson have been dictating the above remarks to Mr. Warrington?] I paid\na flying visit on the way to my dear kind friends Col. and Mrs. Lambert,\nOakhurst House, who send my honored mother their most affectionate\nremembrances. The youngest Miss Lambert, I grieve to say, was dellicate;\nand her parents in some anxiety.\n\n\"At Castlewood I lament to state my stay was short, owing to a quarrel\nwith my cousin William. He is a young man of violent passions, and alas!\naddicted to liquor, when he has no controul over them. In a triffling\ndispute about a horse, high words arose between us, and he aymed a blow\nat me or its equivulent--which my Grandfathers my honored mothers child\ncould not brook. I rejoyned, and feld him to the ground, whents he was\ncarried almost sencelis to bed. I sent to enquire after his health in\nthe morning: but having no further news of him, came away to London\nwhere I have been ever since with brief intavles of absence.\n\n\"Knowing you would wish me to see my dear Grandfathers University of\nCambridge, I rode thither lately in company with some friends, passing\nthrough part of Harts, and lying at the famous bed of Ware. The October\nmeeting was just begun at Cambridge when I went. I saw the students in\ntheir gownds and capps, and rode over to the famous Newmarket Heath,\nwhere there happened to be some races--my friend Lord Marchs horse\nMarrowbones by Cleaver coming off winner of a large steak. It was an\namusing day--the jockeys, horses, etc., very different to our poor races\nat home--the betting awful--the richest noblemen here mix with the jox,\nand bett all round. Cambridge pleased me: especially King's College\nChapel, of a rich but elegant Gothick.\n\n\"I have been out into the world, and am made member of the Club\nat White's, where I meet gentlemen of the first fashion. My Lords\nRockingham, Carlisle, Orford, Bolingbroke, Coventry are of my friends,\nintroduced to me by my Lord March, of whom I have often wrote before.\nLady Coventry is a fine woman, but thinn. Every lady paints here, old\nand young; so, if you and Mountain and Fanny wish to be in fashion,\nI must send you out some roogepots: everybody plays--eight, ten,\ncard-tables at every house on every receiving-night. I am sorry to say\nall do not play fair, and some do not pay fair. I have been obliged\nto sit down, and do as Rome does, and have actually seen ladies whom I\ncould name take my counters from before my face!\n\n\"One day, his regiment the 20th being paraded in St. James's Park, a\nfriend of mine, Mr. Wolfe, did me the honour to present me to his\nRoyal Highness the Captain-General, who was most gracious; a fat, jolly\nPrince, if I may speak so without disrespect, reminding me in his manner\nof that unhappy General Braddock; whom we knew to our sorrow last year.\nWhen he heard my name, and how dearest George had served and fallen in\nBraddock's unfortunate campaign, he talked a great deal with me; asked\nwhy a young fellow like me did not serve too; why I did not go to the\nKing of Prussia, who was a great General, and see a campaign or two;\nand whether that would not be better than dawdling about at routs and\ncard-parties in London? I said, I would like to go with all my heart,\nbut was an only son now, on leave from my mother, and belonged to our\nestate in Virginia. His Royal Highness said, Mr. Braddock had wrote home\naccounts of Mrs. Esmond's loyalty, and that he would gladly serve me.\nMr. Wolfe and I have waited on him since, at his Royal Highness's house\nin Pall Mall. The latter, who is still quite a young man, made the Scots\ncampaign with his Highness, whom Mr. Dempster loves so much at home. To\nbe sure, he was too severe: if anything can be top severe against rebels\nin arms.\n\n\"Mr. Draper has had half the Stock, my late Papa's property, transferred\nto my name. Until there can be no doubt of that painful loss in our\nfamily which I would give my right hand to replace, the remaining stock\nmust remain in the trustees' name in behalf of him who inherited it.\nAh, dear mother! There is no day, scarce any hour, when I don't think of\nhim. I wish he were by me often. I feel like as if I was better when I\nam thinking of him, and would like, for the honour of my family, that he\nwas representing of it here instead of--Honored madam, your dutiful and\naffectionate son, HENRY ESMOND WARRINGTON.\"\n\n\"P.S.--I am like your sex, who always, they say, put their chief news in\na poscrip. I had something to tell you about a person to whom my heart\nis engaged. I shall write more about it, which there is no hurry. Safice\nshe is a nobleman's daughter, and her family as good as our own.\"\n\n\n\"CLARGIS STREET, LONDON, October 23, 1756.\n\n\"I think, my good sister, we have been all our lives a little more than\nkin and less than kind, to use the words of a poet whom your dear father\nloved dearly. When you were born in our Western Principallitie, my\nmother was not as old as Isaac's; but even then I was much more than old\nenough to be yours. And though she gave you all she could leave or give,\nincluding the little portion of love that ought to have been my share,\nyet, if we can have good will for one another, we may learn to do\nwithout affection: and some little kindness you owe me, for your son's\nsake; as well as your father's, whom I loved and admired more than any\nman I think ever I knew in this world: he was greater than almost all,\nthough he made no noyse in it. I have seen very many who have, and,\nbelieve me, have found but few with such good heads and good harts as\nMr. Esmond.\n\n\"Had we been better acquainted, I might have given you some advice\nregarding your young gentleman's introduction to Europe, which you would\nhave taken or not, as people do in this world. At least you would have\nsed afterwards, 'What she counselled me was right, and had Harry done as\nMadam Beatrix wisht, it had been better for him.' My good sister, it was\nnot for you to know, or for me to whom you never wrote to tell you,\nbut your boy in coming to England and Castlewood found but ill friends\nthere; except one, an old aunt, of whom all kind of evil hath been\nspoken and sed these fifty years past--and not without cawse too,\nperhaps.\n\n\"Now, I must tell Harry's mother what will doubtless scarce astonish\nher, that almost everybody who knows him loves him. He is prudent of\nhis tongue, generous of his money, as bold as a lyon, with an imperious\ndomineering way that sets well upon him; you know whether he is handsome\nor not: my dear, I like him none the less for not being over witty or\nwise, and never cared for your sett-the-Thames afire gentlemen, who are\nso much more clever than their neighbours. Your father's great friend,\nMr. Addison, seemed to me but a supercillious prig, and his follower,\nSir Dick Steele, was not pleasant in his cupps, nor out of 'em. And\n(revenons a luy) your Master Harry will certainly, pot burn the river\nup with his wits. Of book-learning he is as ignorant as any lord in\nEngland, and for this I hold him none the worse. If Heaven have not\ngiven him a turn that way, 'tis of no use trying to bend him.\n\n\"Considering the place he is to hold in his own colony when he returns,\nand the stock he comes from, let me tell you, that he hath not means\nenough allowed him to support his station, and is likely to make the\nmore depence from the narrowness of his income--from sheer despair\nbreaking out of all bounds, and becoming extravagant, which is not his\nturn. But he likes to live as well as the rest of his company, and,\nbetween ourselves, has fell into some of the finist and most rakish in\nEngland. He thinks 'tis for the honour of the family not to go back, and\nmany a time calls for ortolans and champaign when he would as leaf dine\nwith a stake and a mugg of beer. And in this kind of spirit I have no\ndoubt from what he hath told me in his talk (which is very naif, as the\nFrench say), that his mamma hath encouraged him in his high opinion of\nhimself. We women like our belongings to have it, however little we love\nto pay the cost. Will you have your ladd make a figar in London? Trebble\nhis allowance at the very least, and his Aunt Bernstein (with his\nhonored mamma's permission) will add a little more on to whatever summ\nyou give him. Otherwise he will be spending the little capital I learn\nhe has in this country, which, when a ladd once begins to manger, there\nis very soon an end to the loaf. Please God, I shall be able to leave\nHenry Esmond's grandson something at my death; but my savings are small,\nand the pension with which my gracious Sovereign hath endowed me dies\nwith me. As for feu M. de Bernstein, he left only debt at his decease:\nthe officers of his Majesty's Electoral Court of Hannover are but\nscantily paid.\n\n\"A lady who is at present very high in his Majesty's confidence hath\ntaken a great phancy to your ladd, and will take an early occasion to\nbring him to the Sovereign's favorable notice. His Royal Highness the\nDuke he hath seen. If live in America he must, why should not Mr. Esmond\nWarrington return as Governor of Virginia, and with a title to his name?\nThat is what I hope for him.\n\n\"Meanwhile, I must be candid with you, and tell you I fear he hath\nentangled himself here in a very silly engagement. Even to marry an\nold woman for money is scarce pardonable--the game ne valant gueres la\nchandelle--Mr. Bernstein, when alive, more than once assured me of this\nfact, and I believe him, poor gentleman! to engage yourself to an old\nwoman without money, and to marry her merely because you have promised\nher, this seems to me a follie which only very young lads fall into,\nand I fear Mr. Warrington is one. How, or for what consideration, I know\nnot, but my niece Maria Esmond hath escamote a promise from Harry. He\nknows nothing of her antecedens, which I do. She hath laid herself out\nfor twenty husbands these twenty years past. I care not how she hath\ngot the promise from him. 'Tis a sin and a shame that a woman more than\nforty years old should surprize the honour of a child like that, and\nhold him to his word. She is not the woman she pretends to be. A horse\njockey (he saith) cannot take him in--but a woman!\n\n\"I write this news to you advisedly, displeasant as it must be. Perhaps\n'twill bring you to England: but I would be very cautious, above all,\nvery gentle, for the bitt will instantly make his high spirit restive.\nI fear the property is entailed, so that threats of cutting him off from\nit will not move Maria. Otherwise I know her to be so mercenary that\n(though she really hath a great phancy for this handsome ladd) without\nmoney she would not hear of him. All I could, and more than I ought, I\nhave done to prevent the match. What and more I will not say in writing;\nbut that I am, for Henry Esmond's sake, his grandson's sincerest friend,\nand madam,--Your faithful sister and servant, BEATRIX BARONESS DE\nBERNSTEIN.\n\n\"To Mrs. Esmond Warrington of Castlewood, in Virginia.\"\n\n\nOn the back of this letter is written, in Madam Esmond's hand, \"My\nsister Bernstein's letter, received with Henry's December 24 on receipt\nof which it was determined my son should instantly go home.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII. Fortunatus Nimium\n\n\nThough Harry Warrington persisted in his determination to keep that\ndismal promise which his cousin had extracted from him, we trust no\nbenevolent reader will think so ill of him as to suppose that the\nengagement was to the young fellow's taste, and that he would not be\nheartily glad to be rid of it. Very likely the beating administered to\npoor Will was to this end; and Harry may have thought, \"A boxing-match\nbetween us is sure to bring on a quarrel with the family; in the quarrel\nwith the family, Maria may take her brother's side. I, of course,\nwill make no retraction or apology. Will, in that case, may call me to\naccount, when I know which is the better man. In the midst of the feud,\nthe agreement may come to an end, and I may be a free man once more.\"\n\nSo honest Harry laid his train, and fired it: but, the explosion over,\nno harm was found to be done, except that William Esmond's nose was\nswollen, and his eye black for a week. He did not send a challenge to\nhis cousin, Harry Warrington; and, in consequence, neither killed Harry,\nnor was killed by him. Will was knocked down, and he got up again. How\nmany men of sense would do the same, could they get their little account\nsettled in a private place, with nobody to tell how the score was paid!\nMaria by no means took her family's side in the quarrel, but declared\nfor her cousin, as did my lord, when advised of the disturbance. Will\nhad struck the first blow, Lord Castlewood said, by the chaplain's\nshowing. It was not the first or the tenth time he had been found\nquarrelling in his cups. Mr. Warrington only showed a proper spirit in\nresenting the injury, and it was for Will, not for Harry, to ask pardon.\n\nHarry said he would accept no apology as long as his horse was not\nreturned or his bet paid. The chronicler has not been able to find out,\nfrom any of the papers which have come under his view, how that affair\nof the bet was finally arranged; but 'tis certain the cousins presently\nmet in the houses of various friends, and without mauling each other.\n\nMaria's elder brother had been at first quite willing that his sister,\nwho had remained unmarried for so many years, and on the train of whose\nrobe, in her long course over the path of life, so many briars, so much\nmud, so many rents and stains had naturally gathered, should marry\nwith any bridegroom who presented himself, and if with a gentleman from\nVirginia, so much the better. She would retire to his wigwam in the\nforest, and there be disposed of. In the natural course of things, Harry\nwould survive his elderly bride, and might console himself or not, as he\npreferred, after her departure.\n\nBut, after an interview with Aunt Bernstein, which his lordship had on\nhis coming to London, he changed his opinion: and even went so far as\nto try and dissuade Maria from the match; and to profess a pity for the\nyoung fellow who was made to undergo a life of misery on account of a\nsilly promise given at one-and-twenty!\n\nMisery, indeed! Maria was at a loss to know why he was to be miserable.\nPity, forsooth! My lord at Castlewood had thought it was no pity at all.\nMaria knew what pity meant. Her brother had been with Aunt Bernstein:\nAunt Bernstein had offered money to break this match off. She understood\nwhat my lord meant, but Mr. Warrington was a man of honour, and she\ncould trust him. Away, upon this, walks my lord to White's, or to\nwhatever haunts he frequented. It is probable that his sister had\nguessed too accurately what the nature of his conversation wit Madame\nBernstein had been.\n\n\"And so,\" thinks he, \"the end of my virtue is likely to be that the\nMohock will fall a prey to others, and that there is no earthly use in\nmy sparing him. 'Quem deus vult'--what was that schoolmaster's adage? If\nI don't have him, somebody else will, that is clear. My brother has had\na slice; my dear sister wants to swallow the whole of him bodily.\nHere have I been at home respecting his youth and innocence forsooth,\ndeclining to play beyond the value of a sixpence, and acting guardian\nand Mentor to him. Why, I am but a fool to fatten a goose for other\npeople to feed off! Not many a good action have I done in this life,\nand here is this one, that serves to benefit whom?--other folks. Talk of\nremorse! By all the fires and furies, the remorse I have is for things I\nhaven't done and might have done! Why did I spare Lucretia? She hated me\never after, and her husband went the way for which he was predestined.\nWhy have I let this lad off?--that March and the rest, who don't want\nhim, may pluck him! And I have a bad repute; and I am the man people\npoint at, and call the wicked lord, and against whom women warn their\nsons! Pardi, I am not a penny worse, only a great deal more unlucky\nthan my neighbours, and 'tis only my cursed weakness that has been my\ngreatest enemy!\" Here, manifestly, in setting down a speech which a\ngentleman only thought, a chronicler overdraws his account with\nthe patient reader, who has a right not to accept this draft on his\ncredulity. But have not Livy, and Thucydides, and a score more of\nhistorians, made speeches for their heroes, which we know the latter\nnever thought of delivering? How much more may we then, knowing my Lord\nCastlewood's character so intimately as we do, declare what was passing\nin his mind, and transcribe his thoughts on this paper? What? a whole\npack of the wolves are on the hunt after this lamb, and will make a meal\nof him presently, and one hungry old hunter is to stand by, and not have\na single cutlet? Who has not admired that noble speech of my Lord Clive,\nwhen reproached on his return from India with making rather too free\nwith jaghires, lakhs, gold mohurs, diamonds, pearls, and what not? \"Upon\nmy life,\" said the hero of Plassy, \"when I think of my opportunities, I\nam surprised I took so little!\"\n\nTo tell disagreeable stories of a gentleman, until one is in a manner\nforced to impart them, is always painful to a feeling mind. Hence,\nthough I have known, before the very first page of this history was\nwritten, what sort of a person my Lord Castlewood was, and in what\nesteem he was held by his contemporaries, I have kept back much that was\nunpleasant about him, only allowing the candid reader to perceive that\nhe was a nobleman who ought not to be at all of our liking. It is true\nthat my Lord March, and other gentlemen of whom he complained, would\nhave thought no more of betting with Mr. Warrington for his last\nshilling, and taking their winnings, than they would scruple to pick the\nbones of a chicken; that they would take any advantage of the game, or\ntheir superior skill in it, of the race, and their private knowledge\nof the horses engaged; in so far, they followed the practice of all\ngentlemen: but when they played, they played fair; and when they lost,\nthey paid.\n\nNow Madame Bernstein was loth to tell her Virginian nephew all she knew\nto his family's discredit; she was even touched by my lord's forbearance\nin regard to Harry on his first arrival in Europe; and pleased with his\nlordship's compliance with her wishes in this particular. But in the\nconversation which she had with her nephew Castlewood regarding Maria's\ndesigns on Harry, he had spoken his mind out with his usual cynicism,\nvoted himself a fool for having spared a lad whom no sparing would\neventually keep from ruin; pointed out Mr. Harry's undeniable\nextravagances and spendthrift associates, his nights at faro and hazard,\nand his rides to Newmarket, and asked why he alone should keep his hands\nfrom the young fellow? In vain Madame Bernstein pleaded that Harry was\npoor. Bah! he was heir to a principality which ought to have been his,\nCastlewood's, and might have set up their ruined family. (Indeed Madame\nBernstein thought Mr. Warrington's Virginian property much greater than\nit was.) Were there not money-lenders in the town who would give him\nmoney on postobits in plenty? Castlewood knew as much to his cost: he\nhad applied to them in his father's lifetime, and the cursed crew\nhad eaten up two-thirds of his miserable income. He spoke with such\ndesperate candour and ill-humour, that Madame Bernstein began to be\nalarmed for her favourite, and determined to caution him at the first\nopportunity.\n\nThat evening she began to pen a billet to Mr. Warrington: but all her\nlife long she was slow with her pen, and disliked using it. \"I never\nknew any good come of writing more than bon jour or business,\" she used\nto say. \"What is the use of writing ill, when there are so many clever\npeople who can do it well? and even then it were best left alone.\" So\nshe sent one of her men to Mr. Harry's lodgings, bidding him come and\ndrink a dish of tea with her next day, when she proposed to warn him.\n\nBut the next morning she was indisposed, and could not receive Mr. Harry\nwhen he came: and she kept her chamber for a couple of days, and the\nnext day there was a great engagement, and the next day Mr. Harry was\noff on some expedition of his own. In the whirl of London life, what man\nsees his neighbour, what brother his sister, what schoolfellow his old\nfriend? Ever so many days passed before Mr. Warrington and his aunt had\nthat confidential conversation which the latter desired.\n\nShe began by scolding him mildly about his extravagance and madcap\nfrolics (though, in truth, she was charmed with him for both)--he\nreplied that young men will be young men, and that it was in dutifully\nwaiting in attendance on his aunt, he had made the acquaintance with\nwhom he mostly lived at present. She then with some prelude, began to\nwarn him regarding his cousin, Lord Castlewood; on which he broke into a\nbitter laugh, and said the good-natured world had told him plenty about\nLord Castlewood already. \"To say of a man of his lordship's rank, or\nof any gentleman, 'Don't play with him,' is more than I like to do,\"\ncontinued the lady; \"but...\"\n\n\"Oh, you may say on, aunt!\" said Harry, with something like an\nimprecation on his lips.\n\n\"And have you played with your cousin already?\" asked the young man's\nworldly old monitress.\n\n\"And lost and won, madam!\" answers Harry, gallantly. \"It don't become me\nto say which. If we have a bout with a neighbour in Virginia, a bottle,\nor a pack of cards, or a quarrel, we don't go home and tell our mothers.\nI mean no offence, aunt!\" And, blushing, the handsome young fellow went\nup and kissed the old lady. He looked very brave and brilliant, with his\nrich lace, his fair face and hair, his fine new suit of velvet and gold.\nOn taking leave of his aunt he gave his usual sumptuous benefaction to\nher servants, who crowded round him. It was a rainy wintry day, and my\ngentleman, to save his fine silk stockings, must come in a chair. \"To\nWhite's!\" he called out to the chairmen, and away they carried him to\nthe place where he passed a great deal of his time.\n\nOur Virginian's friends might have wished that he had been a less\nsedulous frequenter of that house of entertainment; but so much may be\nsaid in favour of Mr. Warrington that, having engaged in play, he fought\nhis battle like a hero. He was not flustered by good luck, and perfectly\ncalm when the chances went against him. If Fortune is proverbially\nfickle to men at play, how many men are fickle to Fortune, run away\nfrightened from her advances; and desert her, who, perhaps, had never\nthought of leaving them but for their cowardice. \"By George, Mr.\nWarrington,\" said Mr. Selwyn, waking up in a rare fit of enthusiasm,\n\"you deserve to win! You treat your luck as a gentleman should, and\nas long as she remains with you, behave to her with the most perfect\npoliteness. Si celeres quatit pennas--you know the rest--no? Well, you\nare not much the worse off--you will call her ladyship's coach, and make\nher a bow at the step. Look at Lord Castlewood yonder, passing the box.\nDid you ever hear a fellow curse and swear so at losing five or six\npieces? She must be a jade indeed, if she long give her favours to such\na niggardly canaille as that!\"\n\n\"We don't consider our family canaille, sir,\" says Mr. Warrington, \"and\nmy Lord Castlewood is one of them.\"\n\n\"I forgot. I forgot, and ask your pardon! And I make you my compliment\nupon my lord, and Mr. Will Esmond, his brother,\" says Harry's neighbour\nat the hazard-table. \"The box is with me. Five's the main! Deuce Ace! my\nusual luck. Virtute mea me involvo!\" and he sinks back in his chair.\n\nWhether it was upon this occasion of taking the box, that Mr. Harry\nthrew the fifteen mains mentioned in one of those other letters of Mr.\nWalpole's, which have not come into his present learned editor's hands,\nI know not; but certain it is, that on his first appearance at White's,\nHarry had five or six evenings of prodigious good luck, and seemed more\nthan ever the Fortunate Youth. The five hundred pounds withdrawn from\nhis patrimonial inheritance had multiplied into thousands. He bought\nfine clothes, purchased fine horses, gave grand entertainments, made\nhandsome presents, lived as if he had been as rich as Sir James Lowther,\nor his Grace of Bedford, and yet the five thousand pounds never seemed\nto diminish. No wonder that he gave where giving was so easy; no wonder\nthat he was generous with Fortunatus's purse in his pocket. I say no\nwonder that he gave, for such was his nature. Other Fortunati tie up the\nendless purse, drink small beer, and go to bed with a tallow candle.\n\nDuring this vein of his luck, what must Mr. Harry do, but find out from\nLady Maria what her ladyship's debts were, and pay them off to the\nlast shilling. Her stepmother and half-sister, who did not love her, he\ntreated to all sorts of magnificent presents. \"Had you not better get\nyourself arrested, Will?\" my lord sardonically said to his brother.\n\"Although you bit him in that affair of the horse, the Mohock will\ncertainly take you out of pawn.\" It was then that Mr. William felt a\ntrue remorse, although not of that humble kind which sent the repentant\nProdigal to his knees. \"Confound it,\" he groaned, \"to think that I have\nlet this fellow slip for such a little matter as forty pound! Why, he\nwas good for a thousand at least.\"\n\nAs for Maria, that generous creature accepted the good fortune sent\nher with a grateful heart; and was ready to accept as much more as you\npleased. Having paid off her debts to her various milliners, tradesmen,\nand purveyors, she forthwith proceeded to contract new ones. Mrs. Betty,\nher ladyship's maid, went round informing the tradespeople that her\nmistress was about to contract a matrimonial alliance with a young\ngentleman of immense fortune; so that they might give my lady credit\nto any amount. Having heard the same story twice or thrice before, the\ntradesfolk might not give it entire credit, but their bills were paid:\neven to Mrs. Pincott, of Kensington, my lady showed no rancour, and\naffably ordered fresh supplies from her: and when she drove about from\nthe mercer to the toy-shop, and from the toy-shop to the jeweller in\na coach, with her maid and Mr. Warrington inside, they thought her a\nfortunate woman indeed, to have secured the Fortunate Youth, though they\nmight wonder at the taste of this latter in having selected so elderly a\nbeauty. Mr. Sparks, of Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, took the liberty\nof waiting upon Mr. Warrington at his lodgings in Bond Street, with the\npearl necklace and the gold etwee which he had bought in Lady Maria's\ncompany the day before; and asking whether he, Sparks, should leave them\nat his honour's lodging, or send them to her ladyship with his honour's\ncompliments? Harry added a ring out of the stock which the jeweller\nhappened to bring with him, to the necklace and the etwee; and\nsumptuously bidding that individual to send him in the bill, took a\nmajestic leave of Mr. Sparks, who retired, bowing even to Gumbo, as he\nquitted his honour's presence.\n\nNor did his bounties end here. Ere many days the pleased young fellow\ndrove up in his phaeton to Mr. Sparks' shop, and took a couple of\ntrinkets for two young ladies, whose parents had been kind to him, and\nfor whom he entertained a sincere regard. \"Ah!\" thought he, \"how I wish\nI had my poor George's wit, and genius for poetry! I would send these\npresents with pretty verses to Hetty and Theo. I am sure, if goodwill\nand real regard could make a poet of me, I should have no difficulty in\nfinding rhymes.\" And so he called in Parson Sampson, and they concocted\na billet together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII. In which Harry flies High\n\n\nSo Mr. Harry Warrington, of Virginia, had his lodgings in Bond Street,\nLondon, England, and lived upon the fat of the land, and drank bumpers\nof the best wine thereof. His title of Fortunate Youth was pretty\ngenerally recognised. Being young, wealthy, good-looking, and fortunate,\nthe fashionable world took him by the hand and made him welcome.\nAnd don't, my dear brethren, let us cry out too loudly against the\nselfishness of the world for being kind to the young, handsome, and\nfortunate, and frowning upon you and me, who may be, for argument's\nsake, old, ugly, and the miserablest dogs under the sun. If I have a\nright to choose my acquaintance, and--at the club, let us say prefer the\ncompany of a lively, handsome, well-dressed, gentleman like young\nman, who amuses me, to that of a slouching, ill-washed, misanthropic\nH-murderer, a ceaselessly prating coxcomb, or what not; has not\nsociety--the aggregate you and I--a right to the same choice? Harry was\nliked because he was likeable; because he was rich, handsome, jovial,\nwell-born, well-bred, brave; because, with jolly topers, he liked a\njolly song and a bottle; because, with gentlemen sportsmen, he loved\nany game that was a-foot or a-horseback; because, with ladies, he had a\nmodest blushing timidity which rendered the lad interesting; because,\nto those humbler than himself in degree he was always magnificently\nliberal, and anxious to spare annoyance. Our Virginian was very\ngrand, and high and mighty, to be sure; but, in those times, when the\ndistinction of ranks yet obtained, to be high and distant with his\ninferiors, brought no unpopularity to a gentleman. Remember that, in\nthose days, the Secretary of State always knelt when he went to the king\nwith his despatches of a morning, and the Under-Secretary never dared to\nsit down in his chief's presence. If I were Secretary of State (and such\nthere have been amongst men of letters since Addison's days) I should\nnot like to kneel when I went in to my audience with my despatch-bog. If\nI were Under-Secretary, I should not like to have to stand, whilst the\nRight Honourable Benjamin or the Right Honourable Sir Edward looked over\nthe papers. But there is a modus in rebus: there are certain lines\nwhich must be drawn: and I am only half pleased for my part, when Bob\nBowstreet, whose connection with letters is through Policeman X and\nY, and Tom Garbage, who is an esteemed contributor to the Kennel\nMiscellany, propose to join fellowship as brother literary men, slap me\non the back, and call me old boy, or by my Christian name.\n\nAs much pleasure as the town could give in the winter season of 1756-57,\nMr. Warrington had for the asking. There were operas for him, in which\nhe took but moderate delight. (A prodigious deal of satire was brought\nto bear against these Italian Operas, and they were assailed for being\nfoolish, Popish, unmanly, unmeaning; but people went, nevertheless.)\nThere were the theatres, with Mr. Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard at one\nhouse, and Mrs. Clive at another. There were masquerades and ridottos\nfrequented by all the fine society; there were their lordships' and\nladyships' own private drums and assemblies, which began and ended with\ncards, and which Mr. Warrington did not like so well as White's, because\nthe play there was neither so high nor so fair as at the club-table.\n\nOne day his kinsman, Lord Castlewood, took him to court, and presented\nHarry to his Majesty, who was now come to town from Kensington. But that\ngracious sovereign either did not like Harry's introducer, or had other\nreasons for being sulky. His Majesty only said, \"Oh, heard of you from\nLady Yarmouth. The Earl of Castlewood\" (turning to his lordship, and\nspeaking in German) \"shall tell him that he plays too much!\" And so\nsaying, the Defender of the Faith turned his royal back.\n\nLord Castlewood shrank back quite frightened at this cold reception of\nhis august master.\n\n\"What does he say?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"His Majesty thinks they play too high at White's, and is displeased,\"\nwhispered the nobleman.\n\n\"If he does not want us, we had better not come again, that is all,\"\nsaid Harry, simply. \"I never, somehow, considered that German fellow a\nreal King of England.\"\n\n\"Hush! for Heaven's sake, hold your confounded colonial tongue!\" cries\nout my lord. \"Don't you see the walls here have ears!\"\n\n\"And what then?\" asks Mr. Warrington. \"Why, look at the people! Hang me,\nif it is not quite a curiosity! They were all shaking hands with me, and\nbowing to me, and flattering me just now; and at present they avoid me\nas if I were the plague!\"\n\n\"Shake hands, nephew,\" said a broad-faced, broad-shouldered gentleman,\nin a scarlet-laced waistcoat, and a great old-fashioned wig. \"I heard\nwhat you said. I have ears like the wall, look you. And, now, if other\npeople show you the cold shoulder, I'll give you my hand;\" and so\nsaying, the gentleman put out a great brown hand, with which he grasped\nHarry's. \"Something of my brother about your eyes and face. Though I\nsuppose in your island you grow more wiry and thin like. I am thine\nuncle, child. My name is Sir Miles Warrington. My lord knows me well\nenough.\"\n\nMy lord looked very frightened and yellow. \"Yes, my dear Harry. This is\nyour paternal uncle, Sir Miles Warrington.\"\n\n\"Might as well have come to see us in Norfolk, as dangle about playing\nthe fool at Tunbridge Wells, Mr. Warrington, or Mr. Esmond,--which do\nyou call yourself?\" said the Baronet. \"The old lady calls herself Madam\nEsmond, don't she?\"\n\n\"My mother is not ashamed of her father's name, nor am I, uncle,\" said\nMr. Harry, rather proudly.\n\n\"Well said, lad! Come home and eat a bit of mutton with Lady Warrington,\nat three, in Hill Street,--that is if you can do without your White's\nkickshaws. You need not look frightened, my Lord Castlewood! I shall\ntell no tales out of school.\"\n\n\"I--I am sure Sir Miles Warrington will act as a gentleman!\" says my\nlord, in much perturbation.\n\n\"Belike, he will,\" growled the Baronet, turning on his heel. \"And thou\nwilt come, young man, at three; and mind, good roast mutton waits for\nnobody. Thou hast a great look of thy father. Lord bless us, how we used\nto beat each other! He was smaller than me, and in course younger; but\nmany a time he had the best of it. Take it he was henpecked when he\nmarried, and Madam Esmond took the spirit out of him when she got him in\nher island. Virginia is an island. Ain't it an island?\"\n\nHarry laughed, and said \"No!\" And the jolly Baronet, going off, said,\n\"Well, island or not, thou must come and tell all about it to my lady.\nShe'll know whether 'tis an island or not.\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Warrington,\" said my lord, with an appealing look, \"I need\nnot tell you that, in this great city, every man has enemies, and that\nthere is a great, great deal of detraction and scandal. I never spoke\nto you about Sir Miles Warrington, precisely because I did know him,\nand because we have had differences together. Should he permit himself\nremarks to my disparagement, you will receive them cum grano, and\nremember that it is from an enemy they come.\" And the pair walked out\nof the King's apartments and into Saint James's Street. Harry found the\nnews of his cold reception at court had already preceded him to White's.\nThe King had turned his back upon him. The King was jealous of Harry's\nfavour with the favourite. Harry was au mieux with Lady Yarmouth. A\nscore of gentlemen wished him a compliment upon his conquest. Before\nnight it was a settled matter that this was amongst the other victories\nof the Fortunate Youth.\n\nSir Miles told his wife and Harry as much, when the young man appeared\nat the appointed hour at the Baronet's dinner-table, and he rallied\nHarry in his simple rustic fashion. The lady, at first a grand and\nstately personage, told Harry, on their further acquaintance, that the\nreputation which the world had made for him was so bad, that at first\nshe had given him but a frigid welcome. With the young ladies, Sir\nMiles's daughters, it was \"How d'ye do, cousin?\" and \"No, thank you,\ncousin,\" and a number of prim curtseys to the Virginian, as they greeted\nhim and took leave of him. The little boy, the heir of the house, dined\nat table, under the care of his governor; and, having his glass of port\nby papa after dinner, gave a loose to his innocent tongue, and asked\nmany questions of his cousin. At last the innocent youth said, after\nlooking hard in Harry's face, \"Are you wicked, cousin Harry? You don't\nlook very wicked!\"\n\n\"My dear Master Miles!\" expostulates the tutor, turning very red.\n\n\"But you know you said he was wicked!\" cried the child.\n\n\"We are all miserable sinners, Miley,\" explains papa. \"Haven't you heard\nthe clergyman say so every Sunday?\"\n\n\"Yes, but not so very wicked as cousin Harry. Is it true that you\ngamble, cousin, and drink all night with wicked men, and frequent the\ncompany of wicked women? You know you said so, Mr. Walker--and mamma\nsaid so, too, that Lady Yarmouth was a wicked woman.\"\n\n\"And you are a little pitcher,\" cries papa: \"and my wife, nephew Harry,\nis a staunch Jacobite--you won't like her the worse for that. Take Miles\nto his sisters, Mr. Walker, and Topsham shall give thee a ride in the\npark, child, on thy little horse.\" The idea of the little horse consoled\nMaster Miles; for, when his father ordered him away to his sisters, he\nhad begun to cry bitterly, bawling out that he would far rather stay\nwith his wicked cousin.\n\n\"They have made you a sad reputation among 'em, nephew!\" says the jolly\nBaronet. \"My wife, you must know, of late years, and since the death of\nmy poor eldest son, has taken to,--to, hum!--to Tottenham Court Road and\nMr. Whitfield's preaching: and we have had one Ward about the house, a\nfriend of Mr. Walker's yonder, who has recounted sad stories about you\nand your brother at home.\"\n\n\"About me, Sir Miles, as much as he pleases,\" cries Harry, warm with\nport: \"but I'll break any man's bones who dares say a word against my\nbrother! Why, sir, that fellow was not fit to buckle my dear George's\nshoe; and if I find him repeating at home what he dared to say in our\nhouse in Virginia, I promise him a second caning.\"\n\n\"You seem to stand up for your friends, nephew Harry,\" says the Baronet.\n\"Fill thy glass, lad, thou art not as bad as thou hast been painted.\nI always told my lady so. I drink Madam Esmond Warrington's health, of\nVirginia, and will have a full bumper for that toast.\"\n\nHarry, as in duty bound, emptied his glass, filled again, and drank Lady\nWarrington and Master Miles.\n\n\"Thou wouldst be heir to four thousand acres in Norfolk, did he die,\nthough,\" said the Baronet.\n\n\"God forbid, sir, and be praised that I have acres enough in Virginia\nof my own!\" says Mr. Warrington. He went up presently and took a dish of\ncoffee with Lady Warrington: he talked to the young ladies of the house.\nHe was quite easy, pleasant, and natural. There was one of them somewhat\nlike Fanny Mountain, and this young lady became his special favourite.\nWhen he went away, they all agreed their wicked cousin was not near so\nwicked as they had imagined him to be: at any rate, my lady had strong\nhopes of rescuing him from the pit. She sent him a good book that\nevening, whilst Mr. Harry was at White's; with a pretty note, praying\nthat Law's Call might be of service to him: and, this despatched, she\nand her daughters went off to a rout at the house of a minister's lady.\nBut Harry, before he went to White's, had driven to his friend Mr.\nSparks, in Tavistock Street, and purchased more trinkets for his female\ncousins--\"from their aunt in Virginia,\" he said. You see, he was full of\nkindness: he kindled and warmed with prosperity. There are men on whom\nwealth hath no such fortunate influence. It hardens base hearts: it\nmakes those who were mean and servile, mean and proud. If it should\nplease the gods to try me with ten thousand a year, I will, of course,\nmeekly submit myself to their decrees, but I will pray them to give me\nstrength enough to bear the trial. All the girls in Hill Street were\ndelighted at getting the presents from Aunt Warrington in Virginia and\naddressed a collective note, which must have astonished that good lady\nwhen she received it in spring-time, when she and Mountain and Fanny\nwere on a visit to grim deserted Castlewood, when the snows had cleared\naway and a thousand peach-trees flushed with blossoms. \"Poor boy!\" the\nmother thought \"This is some present he gave his cousins in my name,\nin the time of his prosperity--nay, of his extravagance and folly. How\nquickly his wealth has passed away! But he ever had a kind heart for the\npoor Mountain; and we must not forget him in his need. It behoves us to\nbe more than ever careful of our own expenses, my good people!\" And so,\nI dare say, they warmed themselves by one log, and ate of one dish, and\nworked by one candle. And the widow's servants, whom the good soul began\nto pinch more and more I fear, lied, stole, and cheated more and more:\nand what was saved in one way, was stole in another.\n\nOne afternoon, Mr. Harry sate in his Bond Street lodgings, arrayed in\nhis dressing-gown, sipping his chocolate, surrounded by luxury, encased\nin satin, and yet enveloped in care. A few weeks previously when the\nluck was with him, and he was scattering his benefactions to and fro,\nhe had royally told Parson Sampson to get together a list of his debts\nwhich he, Mr. Warrington, would pay. Accordingly Sampson had gone to\nwork, and had got together a list, not of all his debts--no man ever\ndoes set down all,--but such a catalogue as he thought sufficient to\nbring in to Mr. Warrington, at whose breakfast-table the divine had\nhumbly waited until his honour should choose to attend it.\n\nHarry appeared at length, very pale and languid, in curl-papers, and\nscarce any appetite for his breakfast; and the chaplain, fumbling with\nhis schedule in his pocket, humbly asked if his patron had had a bad\nnight? He had been brought home from White's by two chairmen at five\no'clock in the morning; had caught a confounded cold, for one of the\nwindows of the chair would not shut, and the rain and snow came in,\nfinally, was in such a bad humour, that all poor Sampson's quirks and\njokes could scarcely extort a smile from him.\n\nAt last, to be sure, Mr. Warrington burst into a loud laugh. It was when\nthe poor chaplain, after a sufficient discussion of muffins, eggs, tea,\nthe news, the theatres, and so forth, pulled a paper out of his pocket\nand in a piteous tone said, \"Here is that schedule of debts which your\nhonour asked for--two hundred and forty-three pounds--every shilling I\nowe in the world, thank Heaven!--that is--ahem!--every shilling of which\nthe payment will in the least inconvenience me--and I need not tell my\ndearest patron that I shall consider him my saviour and benefactor!\"\n\nIt was then that Harry, taking the paper and eyeing the chaplain with\nrather a wicked look, burst into a laugh, which was, however, anything\nbut jovial. Wicked execrations, moreover, accompanied this outbreak of\nhumour, and the luckless chaplain felt that his petition had come at the\nwrong moment.\n\n\"Confound it, why didn't you bring it on Monday?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Confound me, why did I not bring it on Monday?\" echoed the chaplain's\ntimid soul. \"It is my luck--my usual luck. Have the cards been against\nyou, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"Yes: a plague on them. Monday night, and last night, have both gone\nagainst me. Don't be frightened, chaplain, there's money enough in the\nlocker yet. But I must go into the City and get some.\"\n\n\"What, sell out, sir?\" asks his reverence, with a voice that was\nreassured, though it intended to be alarmed.\n\n\"Sell out, sir? Yes! I borrowed a hundred off Mackreth in counters last\nnight, and must pay him at dinner-time. I will do your business for you\nnevertheless, and never fear, my good Mr. Sampson. Come to breakfast\nto-morrow, and we will see and deliver your reverence from the\nPhilistines.\" But though he laughed in Sampson's presence, and strove\nto put a good face upon the matter, Harry's head sank down on his chest\nwhen the parson quitted him, and he sate over the fire, beating the\ncoals about with the poker, and giving utterance to many disjointed\nnaughty words, which showed, but did not relieve, the agitation of his\nspirit.\n\nIn this mood, the young fellow was interrupted by the appearance of a\nfriend, who, on any other day--even on that one when his conscience was\nso uneasy--was welcome to Mr. Warrington. This was no other than Mr.\nLambert, in his military dress, but with a cloak over him, who had come\nfrom the country, had been to the Captain-General's levee that morning,\nand had come thence to visit his young friend in Bond Street.\n\nHarry may have thought Lambert's greeting rather cold; but being\noccupied with his own affairs, he put away the notion. How were the\nladies of Oakhurst, and Miss Hetty, who was ailing when he passed\nthrough in the autumn? Purely? Mr. Warrington was very glad. They were\ncome to stay a while in London with their friend, Lord Wrotham? Mr.\nHarry was delighted--though it must be confessed his face did not\nexhibit any peculiar signs of pleasure when he heard the news.\n\n\"And so you live at White's, and with the great folks; and you fare\nsumptuously every day, and you pay your court at St. James's, and make\none at my Lady Yarmouth's routs, and at all the card-parties in the\nCourt end of the town?\" asks the Colonel.\n\n\"My dear Colonel, I do what other folks do,\" says Harry, with rather a\nhigh manner.\n\n\"Other folks are richer folks than some folks, my dear lad.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" says Mr. Warrington, \"I would thank you to believe that I owe\nnothing for which I cannot pay!\"\n\n\"I should never have spoken about your affairs,\" said the other, not\nnoticing the young man's haughty tone, \"but that you yourself confided\nthem to me. I hear all sorts of stories about the Fortunate Youth. Only\nat his Royal Highness's even today, they were saying how rich you were\nalready, and I did not undeceive them----\"\n\n\"Colonel Lambert, I cannot help the world gossiping about me!\" cries Mr.\nWarrington, more and more impatient.\n\n\"--And what prodigious sums you had won. Eighteen hundred one night--two\nthousand another--six or eight thousand in all! Oh! there were gentlemen\nfrom White's at the levee too, I can assure you, and the army can fling\na main as well as you civilians!\"\n\n\"I wish they would meddle with their own affairs,\" says Harry, scowling\nat his old friend.\n\n\"And I, too, you look as if you were going to say. Well, my boy, it is\nmy affair and you must let Theo's father and Hetty's father, and Harry\nWarrington's father's old friend say how it is my affair.\" Here the\nColonel drew a packet out of his pocket, whereof the lappets and the\ncoat-tails and the general pocket accommodations were much more ample\nthan in the scant military garments of present warriors. \"Look you,\nHarry. These trinkets which you sent with the kindest heart in the world\nto people who love you, and would cut off their little hands to spare\nyou needless pain, could never be bought by a young fellow with two or\nthree hundred a year. Why, a nobleman might buy these things, or a rich\nCity banker, and send them to his--to his daughters, let us say.\"\n\n\"Sir, as you say, I meant only kindness,\" says Harry, blushing\nburning-red.\n\n\"But you must not give them to my girls, my boy. Hester and Theodosia\nLambert must not be dressed up with the winnings off the gaming-table,\nsaving your presence. It goes to my heart to bring back the trinkets.\nMrs. Lambert will keep her present, which is of small value, and sends\nyou her love and a God bless you--and so say I, Harry Warrington, with\nall my heart.\" Here the good Colonel's voice was much moved, and his\nface grew very red, and he passed his hand over his eyes ere he held it\nout.\n\nBut the spirit of rebellion was strong in Mr. Warrington. He rose up\nfrom his seat, never offering to take the hand which his senior held out\nto him. \"Give me leave to tell Colonel Lambert,\" he said, \"that I have\nhad somewhat too much advice from him. You are for ever volunteering it,\nsir, and when I don't ask it. You make it your business to inquire about\nmy gains at play, and about the company I keep. What right have you to\ncontrol my amusements or my companions? I strive to show my sense\nof your former kindness by little presents to your family, and you\nfling--you bring them back.\"\n\n\"I can't do otherwise, Mr. Warrington,\" says the Colonel, with a very\nsad face.\n\n\"Such a slight may mean nothing here, sir, but in our country it means\nwar, sir!\" cries Mr. Warrington. \"God forbid I should talk of drawing a\nsword against the father of ladies who have been as mother and sister\nto me: but you have wounded my heart, Colonel Lambert--you have, I won't\nsay insulted, but humiliated me, and this is a treatment I will bear\nfrom no man alive! My servants will attend you to the door, sir!\" Saying\nwhich, and rustling in his brocade dressing-gown, Mr. Warrington, with\nmuch state, walked off to his bedroom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV. Contains what might, perhaps, have been expected\n\n\nOn the rejection of his peace-offerings, our warlike young American\nchief chose to be in great wrath not only against Colonel Lambert, but\nthe whole of that gentleman's family. \"He has humiliated me before\nthe girls!\" thought the young man. \"He and Mr. Wolfe, who were forever\npreaching morality to me, and giving themselves airs of superiority and\nprotection, have again been holding me up to the family as a scapegrace\nand prodigal. They are so virtuous that they won't shake me by the hand,\nforsooth; and when I want to show them a little common gratitude, they\nfling my presents in my face!\"\n\n\"Why, sir, the things must be worth a little fortune!\" says Parson\nSampson, casting an eye of covetousness on the two morocco boxes,\nin which, on their white satin cushions, reposed Mr. Sparks's golden\ngewgaws.\n\n\"They cost some money, Sampson,\" says the young man. \"Not that I would\ngrudge ten times the amount to people who have been kind to me.\"\n\n\"No, faith, sir, not if I know your honour!\" interjects Sampson, who\nnever lost a chance of praising his young patron to his face.\n\n\"The repeater, they told me, was a great bargain, and worth a hundred\npounds at Paris. Little Miss Hetty I remember saying that she longed to\nhave a repeating watch.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a love!\" cries the chaplain, \"with a little circle of pearls\non the back, and a diamond knob for the handle! Why, 'twould win any\nwoman's heart, Sir!\"\n\n\"There passes an apple-woman with a basket. I have a mind to fling the\nthing out to her!\" cries Mr. Warrington, fiercely.\n\nWhen Harry went out upon business, which took him to the City and the\nTemple, his parasite did not follow him very far into the Strand;\nbut turned away, owning that he had a terror of Chancery Lane, its\ninhabitants, and precincts. Mr. Warrington went then to his broker, and\nthey walked to the Bank together, where they did some little business,\nat the end of which, and after the signing of a trifling signature or\ntwo, Harry departed with a certain number of crisp bank-notes in his\npocket. The broker took Mr. Warrington to one of the great dining-houses\nfor which the City was famous then as now; and afterwards showed Mr.\nWarrington the Virginian walk upon 'Change, through which Harry passed\nrather shamefacedly. What would a certain lady in Virginia say, he\nthought, if she knew that he was carrying off in that bottomless\ngambler's pocket a great portion of his father's patrimony? Those are\nall Virginia merchants, thinks he, and they are all talking to one\nanother about me, and all saying, \"That is young Esmond, of Castlewood,\non the Potomac, Madam Esmond's son; and he has been losing his money at\nplay, and he has been selling out so much, and so much, and so much.\"\n\nHis spirits did not rise until he had passed under the traitors' heads\nof Temple Bar, and was fairly out of the City. From the Strand Mr. Harry\nwalked home, looking in at St. James's Street by the way; but there was\nnobody there as yet, the company not coming to the Chocolate-House till\na later hour.\n\nArrived at home, Mr. Harry pulls out his bundle of bank-notes; puts\nthree of them into a sheet of paper, which he seals carefully, having\npreviously written within the sheet the words, \"Much good may they\ndo you. H. E. W.\" And this packet he directs to the Reverend Mr.\nSampson,--leaving it on the chimney-glass, with directions to his\nservants to give it to that divine when he should come in.\n\nAnd now his honour's phaeton is brought to the door, and he steps in,\nthinking to drive round the park; but the rain coming on, or the east\nwind blowing, or some other reason arising, his honour turns his horses'\nheads down St. James's Street, and is back at White's at about three\no'clock. Scarce anybody has come in yet. It is the hour when folks are\nat dinner. There, however, is my cousin Castlewood, lounging over the\nPublic Advertiser, having just come off from his duty at Court hard by.\n\nLord Castlewood is yawning over the Public Advertiser. What shall they\ndo? Shall they have a little piquet? Harry has no objections to a little\npiquet. \"Just for an hour,\" says Lord Castlewood. \"I dine at Arlington\nStreet at four.\" \"Just for an hour,\" says Mr. Warrington; and they call\nfor cards.\n\n\"Or shall we have 'em in upstairs?\" says my lord. \"Out of the noise?\"\n\n\"Certainly, out of the noise,\" says Harry.\n\nAt five o'clock a half-dozen of gentlemen have come in after their\ndinner, and are at cards, or coffee, or talk. The folks from the\nordinary have not left the table yet. There the gentlemen of White's\nwill often sit till past midnight.\n\nOne toothpick points over the coffee-house blinds into the street.\n\"Whose phaeton?\" asks Toothpick 1 of Toothpick 2.\n\n\"The Fortunate Youth's,\" says No. 2.\n\n\"Not so fortunate the last three nights. Luck confoundedly against him.\nLost, last night, thirteen hundred to the table. Mr. Warrington been\nhere to-day, John?\"\n\n\"Mr. Warrington is in the house now, sir. In the little tea-room with\nLord Castlewood since three o'clock. They are playing at piquet,\" says\nJohn.\n\n\"What fun for Castlewood!\" says No. 1, with a shrug.\n\nThe second gentleman growls out an execration. \"Curse the fellow!\" he\nsays. \"He has no right to be in this club at all. He doesn't pay if he\nloses. Gentlemen ought not to play with him. Sir Miles Warrington told\nme at court the other day, that Castlewood has owed him money on a bet\nthese three years.\"\n\n\"Castlewood,\" says No. 1, \"don't lose if he plays alone. A large company\nflurries him, you see--that's why he doesn't come to the table.\" And the\nfacetious gentleman grins, and shows all his teeth, polished perfectly\nclean.\n\n\"Let's go up and stop 'em,\" growls No. 2.\n\n\"Why?\" asks the other. \"Much better look out a-window. Lamplighter going\nup the ladder--famous sport. Look at that old putt in the chair: did you\never see such an old quiz?\"\n\n\"Who is that just gone out of the house? As I live, it's Fortunatus! He\nseems to have forgotten that his phaeton has been here, waiting all the\ntime. I bet you two to one he has been losing to Castlewood.\"\n\n\"Jack, do you take me to be a fool?\" asks the one gentleman of the\nother. \"Pretty pair of horses the youth has got. How he is flogging\n'em!\" And they see Mr. Warrington galloping up the street, and scared\ncoachmen and chairmen clearing before him: presently my Lord Castlewood\nis seen to enter a chair, and go his way.\n\nHarry drives up to his own door. It was but a few yards, and those poor\nhorses have been beating the pavement all this while in the rain. Mr.\nGumbo is engaged at the door in conversation with a countrified-looking\nlass, who trips off with a curtsey. Mr. Gumbo is always engaged with\nsome pretty maid or other.\n\n\"Gumbo, has Mr. Sampson been here?\" asks Gumbo's master from his\ndriving-seat.\n\n\"No, sar. Mr. Sampson have not been here!\" answers Mr. Warrington's\ngentleman. Harry bids him to go upstairs and bring down a letter\naddressed to Mr. Sampson.\n\n\"Addressed to Mr. Sampson? Oh yes, sir,\" says Mr. Gumbo, who can't read.\n\n\"A sealed letter, stupid! on the mantelpiece, in the glass!\" says Harry;\nand Gumbo leisurely retires to fetch that document. As soon as Harry has\nit, he turns his horses' heads towards St. James's Street, and the\ntwo gentlemen, still yawning out of the window at White's, behold the\nFortunate Youth, in an instant, back again.\n\nAs they passed out of the little tea-room where he and Lord Castlewood\nhad had their piquet together, Mr. Warrington had seen that several\ngentlemen had entered the play-room, and that there was a bank there.\nSome were already steadily at work, and had their gaming jackets on:\nthey kept such coats at the club, which they put on when they had a mind\nto sit down to a regular night's play.\n\nMr. Warrington goes to the clerk's desk, pays his account of the\nprevious night, and, sitting down at the table, calls for fresh\ncounters. This has been decidedly an unlucky week with the Fortunate\nYouth, and to-night is no more fortunate than previous nights have been.\nHe calls for more counters, and more presently. He is a little pale and\nsilent, though very easy and polite when talked to. But he cannot win.\n\nAt last he gets up. \"Hang it! stay and mend your luck!\" says Lord March,\nwho is sitting by his side with a heap of counters before him, green and\nwhite. \"Take a hundred of mine, and go on!\"\n\n\"I have had enough for to-night, my lord,\" says Harry, and rises and\ngoes away, and eats a broiled bone in the coffee-room, and walks back to\nhis lodgings some time about midnight. A man after a great catastrophe\ncommonly sleeps pretty well. It is the waking in the morning which is\nsometimes queer and unpleasant. Last night you proposed to Miss Brown:\nyou quarrelled over your cups with Captain Jones, and valorously pulled\nhis nose: you played at cards with Colonel Robinson, and gave him--oh,\nhow many I O U's! These thoughts, with a fine headache, assail you\nin the morning watches. What a dreary, dreary gulf between to-day and\nyesterday! It seems as if you are years older. Can't you leap back over\nthat chasm again, and is it not possible that Yesterday is but a dream?\nThere you are, in bed. No daylight in at the windows yet. Pull your\nnightcap over your eyes, the blankets over your nose, and sleep away\nYesterday. Psha, man, it was but a dream! Oh no, no! The sleep won't\ncome. The watchman bawls some hour--what hour? Harry minds him that he\nhas got the repeating watch under his pillow which he had bought for\nHester. Ting, ting, ting! the repeating watch sings out six times in\nthe darkness, with a little supplementary performance indicating the\nhalf-hour. Poor dear little Hester!--so bright, so gay, so innocent! he\nwould have liked her to have that watch. What will Maria say? (Oh, that\nold Maria! what a bore she is beginning to be! he thinks.) What will\nMadam Esmond at home say when she hears that he has lost every shilling\nof his ready money--of his patrimony? All his winnings, and five\nthousand pounds besides, in three nights. Castlewood could not have\nplayed him false? No. My lord knows piquet better than Harry does, but\nhe would not deal unfairly with his own flesh and blood. No, no. Harry\nis glad his kinsman, who wanted the money, has got it. And for not one\nmore shilling than he possessed, would he play. It was when he counted\nup his losses at the gaming-table, and found they would cover all the\nremainder of his patrimony, that he passed the box and left the table.\nBut, O cursed bad company! O extravagance and folly! O humiliation and\nremorse! \"Will my mother at home forgive me?\" thinks the young prodigal.\n\"Oh, that I were there, and had never left it!\"\n\nThe dreary London dawn peeps at length through shutters and curtains.\nThe housemaid enters to light his honour's fire and admit the dun\nmorning into his windows. Her Mr. Gumbo presently follows, who warms his\nmaster's dressing-gown and sets out his shaving-plate and linen. Then\narrives the hairdresser to curl and powder his honour, whilst he reads\nhis morning's letters; and at breakfast-time comes that inevitable\nParson Sampson, with eager looks and servile smiles, to wait on his\npatron. The parson would have returned yesterday according to mutual\nagreement, but some jolly fellows kept him to dinner at the St. Alban's,\nand, faith, they made a night of it.\n\n\"Oh, Parson!\" groans Harry, \"'twas the worst night you ever made in your\nlife! Look here, sir!\"\n\n\"Here is a broken envelope with the words, 'Much good may it do you,'\nwritten within,\" says the chaplain, glancing at the paper.\n\n\"Look on the outside, sir!\" cries Mr. Warrington. \"The paper was\ndirected to you.\" The poor chaplain's countenance exhibited great alarm.\n\"Has some one broke it open, sir?\" he asks.\n\n\"Some one, yes. I broke it open, Sampson. Had you come here as you\nproposed yesterday afternoon, you would have found that envelope full of\nbank-notes. As it is, they were all dropped at the infernal macco-table\nlast night.\"\n\n\"What, all?\" says Sampson.\n\n\"Yes, all, with all the money I brought away from the city, and all the\nready money I have left in the world. In the afternoon I played piquet\nwith my cous--with a gentleman at White's--and he eased me of all the\nmoney I had about me. Remembering that there was still some money left\nhere, unless you had fetched it, I came home and carried it back and\nleft it at the macco-table, with every shilling besides that belongs to\nme--and--great heaven, Sampson, what's the matter, man?\"\n\n\"It's my luck, it's my usual luck,\" cries out the unfortunate chaplain,\nand fairly burst into tears.\n\n\"What! You are not whimpering like a baby at the loss of a loan of a\ncouple of hundred pounds?\" cries out Mr. Warrington, very fierce and\nangry. \"Leave the room, Gumbo! Confound you! why are you always poking\nyour woolly head in at that door!\"\n\n\"Some one below wants to see master with a little bill,\" says Mr. Gumbo.\n\n\"Tell him to go to Jericho!\" roars out Mr. Warrington. \"Let me see\nnobody! I am not at home, sir, at this hour of the morning!\"\n\nA murmur or two, a scuffle is heard on the landing-place, and silence\nfinally ensues. Mr. Warrington's scorn and anger are not diminished by\nthis altercation. He turns round savagely upon unhappy Sampson, who sits\nwith his head buried in his breast.\n\n\"Hadn't you better take a bumper of brandy to keep your spirits up, Mr.\nSampson?\" he asks. \"Hang it, man! don't be snivelling like a woman!\"\n\n\"Oh, it's not me!\" says Sampson, tossing his head. \"I am used to it,\nsir.\"\n\n\"Not you! Who, then? Are you crying because somebody else is hurt,\npray?\" asks Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Yes, sir!\" says the chaplain, with some spirit; \"because somebody else\nis hurt, and through my fault. I have lodged for many years in London\nwith a bootmaker, a very honest man: and, a few days since, having a\nperfect reliance upon--upon a friend who had promised to accommodate me\nwith a loan--I borrowed sixty pounds from my landlord which he was about\nto pay to his own. I can't get the money. My poor landlord's goods will\nbe seized for rent; his wife and dear young children will be turned into\nthe street; and this honest family will be ruined through my fault. But,\nas you say, Mr. Warrington, I ought not to snivel like a woman. I will\nremember that you helped me once, and will bid you farewell, sir.\"\n\nAnd, taking his broad-leafed hat, Mr. Chaplain walked out of the room.\n\nAn execration and a savage laugh, I am sorry to say, burst out of\nHarry's lips at this sudden movement of the chaplain's. He was in such\na passion with himself, with circumstances, with all people round about\nhim, that he scarce knew where to turn, or what he said. Sampson heard\nthe savage laughter, and then the voice of Harry calling from the\nstairs, \"Sampson, Sampson! hang you! come back! It's a mistake! I beg\nyour pardon!\" But the chaplain was cut to the soul, and walked on. Harry\nheard the door of the street as the parson slammed it. It thumped on his\nown breast. He entered his room, and sank back on his luxurious chair\nthere. He was Prodigal, amongst the swine--his foul remorses; they had\ntripped him up, and were wallowing over him. Gambling, extravagance,\ndebauchery, dissolute life, reckless companions, dangerous women--they\nwere all upon him in a herd, and were trampling upon the prostrate young\nsinner.\n\nProdigal was not, however, yet utterly overcome, and had some fight left\nin him. Dashing the filthy importunate brutes aside, and, as it were,\nkicking his ugly remembrances away from him, Mr. Warrington seized\na great glass of that fire-water which he had recommended to poor\nhumiliated Parson Sampson, and, flinging off his fine damask robe, rang\nfor the trembling Gumbo, and ordered his coat. \"Not that!\" roars he, as\nGumbo brings him a fine green coat with plated buttons and a gold cord.\n\"A plain suit--the plainer the better! The black clothes.\" And Gumbo\nbrings the mourning-coat which his master had discarded for some months\npast.\n\nMr. Harry then takes:--1, his fine new gold watch; 2, his repeater (that\nwhich he had bought for Hetty), which he puts into his other fob; 3,\nhis necklace, which he had purchased for Theo; 4, his rings, of which\nmy gentleman must have half a dozen at least (with the exception of\nhis grandfather's old seal ring, which he kisses and lays down on the\npincushion again); 5, his three gold snuff boxes: and 6, his purse,\nknitted by his mother, and containing three shillings and sixpence and a\npocket-piece brought from Virginia: and, putting on his hat, issues from\nhis door.\n\nAt the landing he is met by Mr. Ruff, his landlord, who bows and cringes\nand puts into his honour's hand a strip of paper a yard long. \"Much\nobliged if Mr. Warrington will settle. Mrs. Ruff has a large account\nto make up to-day.\" Mrs. Ruff is a milliner. Mr. Ruff is one of the\nhead-waiters and aides-de-camp of Mr. Mackreth, the proprietor of\nWhite's Club. The sight of the landlord does not add to the lodger's\ngood-humour.\n\n\"Perhaps his honour will have the kindness to settle the little\naccount?\" asks Mr. Ruff.\n\n\"Of course I will settle the account,\" says Harry, glumly looking down\nover Mr. Ruffs head from the stair above him.\n\n\"Perhaps Mr. Warrington will settle it now?\"\n\n\"No, Sir, I will not settle it now!\" says Mr. Warrington, bullying\nforward.\n\n\"I'm very--very much in want of money, sir,\" pleads the voice under him.\n\"Mrs. Ruff is----\"\n\n\"Hang you, sir, get out of the way!\" cries Mr. Warrington, ferociously,\nand driving Mr. Ruff backward to the wall, sending him almost\ntopsy-turvy down his own landing, he tramps down the stair, and walks\nforth into Bond Street.\n\nThe Guards were at exercise at the King's Mews at Charing Cross, as\nHarry passed, and he heard their drums and fifes, and looked in at the\ngate, and saw them at drill. \"I can shoulder a musket at any rate,\"\nthought he to himself gloomily, as he strode on. He crossed St. Martin's\nLane (where he transacted some business), and so made his way into Long\nAcre, and to the bootmaker's house where friend Sampson lodged. The\nwoman of the house said Mr. Sampson was not at home, but had promised to\nbe at home at one; and, as she knew Mr. Warrington, showed him up to the\nparson's apartments, where he sate down, and, for want of occupation,\ntried to read an unfinished sermon of the chaplain's. The subject was\nthe Prodigal Son. Mr. Harry did not take very accurate cognisance of the\nsermon.\n\nPresently he heard the landlady's shrill voice on the stair, pursuing\nsomebody who ascended, and Sampson rushed into the room, followed by the\nsobbing woman.\n\nAt seeing Harry, Sampson started, and the landlady stopped. Absorbed\nin her own domestic cares, she had doubtless forgot that a visitor was\nawaiting her lodger. \"There's only thirteen pound in the house, and he\nwill be here at one, I tell you!\" she was bawling out, as she pursued\nher victim.\n\n\"Hush, hush! my good creature!\" cries the gasping chaplain, pointing\nto Harry, who rose from the window-seat. \"Don't you see Mr. Warrington?\nI've business with him--most important business. It will be all right, I\ntell you!\" And he soothed and coaxed Mrs. Landlady out of the room, with\nthe crowd of anxious little ones hanging at her coats.\n\n\"Sampson, I have come to ask your pardon again,\" says Mr. Warrington,\nrising up. \"What I said to-day to you was very cruel and unjust, and\nunlike a gentleman.\"\n\n\"Not a word more, sir,\" says the other, coldly and sadly, bowing and\nscarcely pressing the hand which Harry offered him.\n\n\"I see you are still angry with me,\" Harry continues.\n\n\"Nay, sir, an apology is an apology. A man of my station can ask for no\nmore from one of yours. No doubt you did not mean to give me pain. And\nwhat if you did? And you are not the only one of the family who has,\" he\nsaid, as he looked piteously round the room. \"I wish I had never known\nthe name of Esmond or Castlewood,\" he continues, \"or that place yonder\nof which the picture hangs over my fireplace, and where I have buried\nmyself these long, long years. My lord, your cousin, took a fancy to me,\nsaid he would make my fortune, has kept me as his dependant till fortune\nhas passed by me, and now refuses me my due.\"\n\n\"How do you mean your due, Mr. Sampson?\" asks Harry.\n\n\"I mean three years' salary which he owes me as chaplain of Castlewood.\nSeeing you could give me no money, I went to his lordship this morning\nand asked him. I fell on my knees, and asked him, sir. But his lordship\nhad none. He gave me civil words, at least (saving your presence, Mr.\nWarrington), but no money--that is, five guineas, which he declared was\nall he had and which I took. But what are five guineas amongst so many\nOh, those poor little children! those poor little children!\"\n\n\"Lord Castlewood said he had no money?\" cries out Harry. \"He won eleven\nhundred pounds, yesterday, of me at piquet--which I paid him out of this\npocket-book.\"\n\n\"I dare say, sir, I dare say, sir. One can't believe a word his lordship\nsays, sir,\" says Mr. Sampson; \"but I am thinking of execution in this\nhouse, and ruin upon these poor folks to-morrow.\"\n\n\"That need not happen,\" says Mr. Warrington. \"Here are eighty guineas,\nSampson. As far as they go, God help you! 'Tis all I have to give you.\nI wish to my heart I could give more as I promised; but you did not come\nat the right time, and I am a poor devil now until I get my remittances\nfrom Virginia.\"\n\nThe chaplain gave a wild look of surprise, and turned quite white. He\nflung himself down on his knees and seized Harry's hand.\n\n\"Great powers, sir!\" says he, \"are you a guardian angel that Heaven hath\nsent me? You quarrelled with my tears this morning, Mr. Warrington. I\ncan't help them now. They burst, sir, from a grateful heart. A rock of\nstone would pour them forth, sir, before such goodness as yours! May\nHeaven eternally bless you, and give you prosperity! May my unworthy\nprayers be heard in your behalf, my friend, my best benefactor! May----\"\n\n\"Nay, nay! get up, friend--get up, Sampson!\" says Harry, whom the\nchaplain's adulation and fine phrases rather annoyed.\n\n\"I am glad to have been able to do you a service--sincerely glad.\nThere--there! Don't be on your knees to me!\"\n\n\"To Heaven who sent you to me, sir!\" cries the chaplain. Mrs. Weston!\nMrs. Weston!\"\n\n\"What is it, sir?\" says the landlady, instantly, who, indeed, had been\nat the door the whole time. \"We are saved, Mrs. Weston! We are saved!\"\ncries the chaplain. \"Kneel, kneel, woman, and thank our benefactor!\nRaise your innocent voices, children, and bless him!\" A universal\nwhimper arose round Harry, which the chaplain led off, whilst the\nyoung Virginian stood, simpering and well pleased, in the midst of this\ncongregation. They would worship, do what he might. One of the children,\nnot understanding the kneeling order, and standing up, the mother\nfetched her a slap on the ear, crying, \"Drat it, Jane, kneel down, and\nbless the gentleman, I tell 'ee!\"... We leave them performing this sweet\nbenedictory service. Mr. Harry walks off from Long Acre, forgetting\nalmost the griefs of the former four or five days, and tingling with the\nconsciousness of having done a good action.\n\n\nThe young woman with whom Gumbo had been conversing on that evening\nwhen Harry drove up from White's to his lodging, was Mrs. Molly, from\nOakhurst, the attendant of the ladies there. Wherever that fascinating\nGumbo went, he left friends and admirers in the servants'-hall. I think\nwe said it was on a Wednesday evening he and Mrs. Molly had fetched a\nwalk together, and they were performing the amiable courtesies incident\nupon parting, when Gumbo's master came up, and put an end to their\ntwilight whisperings and what not.\n\nFor many hours on Wednesday, on Thursday, on Friday, a pale little\nmaiden sate at a window in Lord Wrotham's house, in Hill Street, her\nmother and sister wistfully watching her. She would not go out. They\nknew whom she was expecting. He passed the door once, and she might\nhave thought he was coming, but he did not. He went into a neighbouring\nhouse. Papa had never told the girls of the presents which Harry had\nsent, and only whispered a word or two to their mother regarding his\nquarrel with the young Virginian.\n\nOn Saturday night there was an opera of Mr. Handel's, and papa brought\nhome tickets for the gallery. Hetty went this evening. The change would\ndo her good, Theo thought, and--and, perhaps there might be Somebody\namongst the fine company; but Somebody was not there; and Mr. Handel's\nfine music fell blank upon the poor child. It might have been Signor\nBononcini's, and she would have scarce known the difference.\n\nAs the children are undressing and taking off those smart new satin\nsacks in which they appeared at the Opera, looking so fresh and so\npretty amongst all the tawdry rouged folks, Theo remarks how very sad\nand woebegone Mrs. Molly their maid appears. Theo is always anxious when\nother people seem in trouble; not so Hetty, now, who is suffering, poor\nthing, one of the most selfish maladies which ever visits mortals. Have\nyou ever been amongst insane people, and remarked how they never, never\nthink of any but themselves?\n\n\"What is the matter, Molly?\" asks kind Theo: and indeed, Molly has been\nlonging to tell her young ladies. \"Oh, Miss Theo! Oh, Miss Hetty!\"\nshe says. \"How ever can I tell you? Mr. Gumbo have been here, Mr.\nWarrington's coloured gentleman, miss; and he says Mr. Warrington have\nbeen took by two bailiffs this evening, as he comes out of Sir Miles\nWarrington's house three doors off.\"\n\n\"Silence!\" cries Theo, quite sternly. Who is it that gives those three\nshrieks? It is Mrs. Molly, who chooses to scream, because Miss Hetty has\nfallen fainting from her chair.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV. In which Harry finds two Uncles\n\n\nWe have all of us, no doubt, had a fine experience of the world, and a\nvast variety of characters have passed under our eyes; but there is one\nsort of men not an uncommon object of satire in novels and plays--of\nwhom I confess to have met with scarce any specimens at all in my\nintercourse with this sinful mankind. I mean, mere religious hypocrites,\npreaching for ever, and not believing a word of their own sermons;\ninfidels in broad brims and sables, expounding, exhorting, comminating,\nblessing, without any faith in their own paradise, or fear about their\npandemonium. Look at those candid troops of hobnails clumping to church\non a Sunday evening; those rustling maid-servants in their ribbons whom\nthe young apprentices follow; those little regiments of schoolboys;\nthose trim young maidens and staid matrons, marching with their\nglistening prayer-books, as the chapel bell chinks yonder (passing\nEbenezer, very likely, where the congregation of umbrellas, great\nbonnets, and pattens, is by this time assembled under the flaring\ngas-lamps). Look at those! How many of them are hypocrites, think you?\nVery likely the maid-servant is thinking of her sweetheart: the grocer\nis casting about how he can buy that parcel of sugar, and whether the\nCounty Bank will take any more of his paper: the head-schoolboy is\nconning Latin verses for Monday's exercise: the young scapegrace\nremembers that after his service and sermon, there will be papa's\nexposition at home, but that there will be pie for supper: the clerk who\ncalls out the psalm has his daughter in trouble, and drones through his\nresponses scarcely aware of their meaning: the very moment the parson\nhides his face on his cushion, he may be thinking of that bill which is\ncoming due on Monday. These people are not heavenly-minded; they are of\nthe world, worldly, and have not yet got their feet off of it; but they\nare not hypocrites, look you. Folks have their religion in some handy\nmental lock-up, as it were--a valuable medicine, to be taken in\nill health; and a man administers his nostrum to his neighbour, and\nrecommends his private cure for the other's complaint. \"My dear madam,\nyou have spasms? You will find these drops infallible!\" \"You have been\ntaking too much wine, my good sir? By this pill you may defy any evil\nconsequences from too much wine, and take your bottle of port daily.\" Of\nspiritual and bodily physic, who are more fond and eager dispensers than\nwomen? And we know that, especially a hundred years ago, every lady\nin the country had her still-room, and her medicine chest, her pills,\npowders, potions, for all the village round.\n\nMy Lady Warrington took charge of the consciences and the digestions of\nher husband's tenants and family. She had the faith and health of the\nservants'-hall in keeping. Heaven can tell whether she knew how to\ndoctor them rightly: but, was it pill or doctrine, she administered one\nor the other with equal belief in her own authority, and her disciples\nswallowed both obediently. She believed herself to be one of the most\nvirtuous, self-denying, wise, learned women in the world; and, dinning\nthis opinion perpetually into the ears of all round about her, succeeded\nin bringing not few persons to join in her persuasion.\n\nAt Sir Miles's dinner there was so fine a sideboard of plate, and such\na number of men in livery, that it required some presenter: of mind\nto perceive that the beer was of the smallest which the butler brought\nround in the splendid tankard, and that there was but one joint of\nmutton on the grand silver dish. When Sir Miles called the King's\nhealth, and smacked his jolly lips over his wine, he eyed it and the\ncompany as if the liquor was ambrosia. He asked Harry Warrington whether\nthey had port like that in Virginia? He said that was nothing to the\nwine Harry should taste in Norfolk. He praised the wine so, that Harry\nalmost believed that it was good, and winked into his own glass, trying\nto see some of the merits which his uncle perceived in the ruby nectar.\n\nJust as we see in many a well-regulated family of this present century,\nthe Warringtons had their two paragons. Of the two grown daughters, the\none was the greatest beauty, the other the greatest genius and angel of\nany young lady then alive, as Lady Warrington told Harry. The eldest,\nthe Beauty, was engaged to dear Tom Claypool, the fond mother informed\nher cousin Harry in confidence. But the second daughter, the Genius and\nAngel, was for ever set upon our young friend to improve his wits and\nmorals. She sang to him at the harpsichord--rather out of tune for\nan angel, Harry thought; she was ready with advice, instruction,\nconversation--with almost too much instruction and advice, thought\nHarry, who would have far preferred the society of the little cousin\nwho reminded him of Fanny Mountain at home. But the last-mentioned young\nmaiden after dinner retired to her nursery commonly. Beauty went off\non her own avocations; mamma had to attend to her poor or write her\nvoluminous letters; papa dozed in his arm-chair; and the Genius remained\nto keep her young cousin company.\n\nThe calm of the house somehow pleased the young man, and he liked\nto take refuge there away from the riot and dissipation in which he\nordinarily lived. Certainly no welcome could be kinder than that which\nhe got. The doors were opened to him at all hours. If Flora was not at\nhome, Dora was ready to receive him. Ere many days' acquaintance, he and\nhis little cousin Miles had been to have a galloping-match in the Park,\nand Harry, who was kind and generous to every man alive who came near\nhim, had in view the purchase of a little horse for his cousin, far\nbetter than that which the boy rode, when the circumstances occurred\nwhich brought all our poor Harry's coaches and horses to a sudden\nbreakdown.\n\nThough Sir Miles Warrington had imagined Virginia to be an island, the\nladies were much better instructed in geography, and anxious to hear\nfrom Harry all about his home and his native country. He, on his part,\nwas not averse to talk about it. He described to them the length and\nbreadth of his estate; the rivers which it coasted; the produce which\nit bore. He had had with a friend a little practice of surveying in\nhis boyhood. He made a map of his county, with some fine towns here and\nthere, which, in truth, were but log-huts (but, for the honour of his\ncountry, he was desirous that they should wear as handsome a look as\npossible). Here was Potomac; here was James river; here were the wharves\nwhence his mother's ships and tobacco were brought to the sea. In truth,\nthe estate was as large as a county. He did not brag about the place\novermuch. To see the handsome young fellow, in a fine suit of velvet and\nsilver lace, making his draught, pointing out this hill and that forest\nor town, you might have imagined him a travelling prince describing the\nrealms of the queen his mother. He almost fancied himself to be so at\ntimes. He had miles where gentlemen in England had acres. Not only Dora\nlistened but the beauteous Flora bowed her fair head and heard him with\nattention. Why, what was young Tom Claypool, their brother baronet's son\nin Norfolk with his great boots, his great voice, and his heirdom to\na poor five thousand acres, compared to this young American prince and\ncharming stranger? Angel as she was, Dora began to lose her angelic\ntemper, and to twit Flora for a flirt. Claypool in his red waistcoat,\nwould sit dumb before the splendid Harry in his ruffles and laces,\ntalking of March and Chesterfield, Selwyn and Bolingbroke, and the whole\ncompany of macaronis. Mamma began to love Harry more and more as a son.\nShe was anxious about the spiritual welfare of those poor Indians, of\nthose poor negroes in Virginia. What could she do to help dear Madam\nEsmond (a precious woman, she knew!) in the good work? She had a serious\nbutler and housekeeper: they were delighted with the spiritual behaviour\nand sweet musical gifts of Gumbo.\n\n\"Ah! Harry, Harry! you have been a sad wild boy! Why did you not come\nsooner to us, sir, and not lose your time amongst the spendthrifts and\nthe vain world? But 'tis not yet too late. We must reclaim thee, dear\nHarry! Mustn't we, Sir Miles? Mustn't we Dora? Mustn't we, Flora?\"\n\nThe three ladies all look up to the ceiling. They will reclaim the dear\nprodigal. It is which shall reclaim him most. Dora sits by and watches\nFlora. As for mamma when the girls are away, she talks to him more and\nmore seriously, more and more tenderly. She will be a mother to him in\nthe absence of his own admirable parent. She gives him a hymn-book.\nShe kisses him on the forehead. She is actuated by the purest love,\ntenderness, religious regard, towards her dear, wayward, wild, amiable\nnephew.\n\nWhilst these sentimentalities were going on, it is to be presumed that\nMr. Warrington kept his own counsel about his affairs out-of-doors,\nwhich we have seen were in the very worst condition. He who had been\nfavoured by fortune for so many weeks was suddenly deserted by her, and\na few days had served to kick down all his heap of winnings. Do we say\nthat my Lord Castlewood, his own kinsman, had dealt unfairly by the\nyoung Virginian, and in the course of a couple of afternoons' closet\npractice had robbed him? We would insinuate nothing so disrespectful to\nhis lordship's character; but he had won from Harry every shilling which\nproperly belonged to him, and would have played him for his reversions,\nbut that the young man flung up his hands when he saw himself so\nfar beaten, and declared that he must continue the battle no more.\nRemembering that there still remained a spar out of the wreck, as\nit were--that portion which he had set aside for poor Sampson--Harry\nventured it at the gaming-table; but that last resource went down along\nwith the rest of Harry's possessions, and Fortune fluttered off in the\nstorm, leaving the luckless adventurer almost naked on the shore.\n\nWhen a man is young and generous and hearty the loss of money scarce\nafflicts him. Harry would sell his horses and carriages, and diminish\nhis train of life. If he wanted immediate supplies of money, would not\nhis Aunt Bernstein be his banker, or his kinsman who had won so much\nfrom him, or his kind Uncle Warrington and Lady Warrington who were\nalways talking virtue and benevolence, and declaring that they loved\nhim as a son? He would call upon these, or any one of them whom he might\nchoose to favour, at his leisure; meanwhile, Sampson's story of his\nlandlord's distress touched the young gentleman, and, in order to raise\na hasty supply for the clergyman, he carried off all his trinkets to a\ncertain pawnbroker's shop in St. Martin's Lane.\n\nNow this broker was a relative or partner of that very Mr. Sparks\nof Tavistock Street, from whom Harry had purchased--purchased did we\nsay?--no; taken the trinkets which he had intended to present to his\nOakhurst friends; and it chanced that Mr. Sparks came to visit his\nbrother-tradesman very soon after Mr. Warrington had disposed of his\ngoods. Recognising immediately the little enamelled diamond-handled\nrepeater which he had sold to the Fortunate Youth, the jeweller broke\nout into expressions regarding Harry which I will not mention here,\nbeing already accused of speaking much too plainly. A gentleman who\nis acquainted with a pawnbroker, we may be sure has a bailiff or two\namongst his acquaintances; and those bailiffs have followers who, at the\nbidding of the impartial Law, will touch with equal hand the fiercest\ncaptain's epaulet or the finest macaroni's shoulder. The very gentlemen\nwho had seized upon Lady Maria at Tunbridge were set upon her cousin in\nLondon. They easily learned from the garrulous Gumbo that his honour was\nat Sir Miles Warrington's house in Hill Street, and whilst the black was\ncourting Mrs. Lambert's maid at the adjoining mansion, Mr. Costigan and\nhis assistant lay in wait for poor Harry, who was enjoying the delights\nof intercourse with a virtuous family circle assembled round his\naunt's table. Never had Uncle Miles been more cordial, never had Aunt\nWarrington been more gracious, gentle, and affectionate; Flora looked\nunusually lovely, Dora had been more than ordinarily amiable. At\nparting, my lady gave him both her hands, and called benedictions from\nthe ceiling down upon him. Papa had said in his most jovial manner,\n\"Hang it, nephew! when I was thy age I should have kissed two such fine\ngirls as Do and Flo ere this, and my own flesh and blood too! Don't tell\nme! I should, my Lady Warrington! Odds-fish! 'tis the boy blushes, and\nnot the girls! I think--I suppose they are used to it. He, he!\"\n\n\"Papa!\" cry the virgins.\n\n\"Sir Miles!\" says the august mother at the same instant.\n\n\"There, there!\" says papa. \"A kiss won't do no harm, and won't tell no\ntales: will it, nephew Harry?\" I suppose, during the utterance of the\nabove three brief phrases, the harmless little osculatory operation has\ntaken place, and blushing cousin Harry has touched the damask cheek of\ncousin Flora and cousin Dora.\n\nAs he goes downstairs with his uncle, mamma makes a speech to the\ngirls, looking, as usual, up to the ceiling, and saying, \"What precious\nqualities your poor dear cousin has! What shrewdness mingled with his\nsimplicity, and what a fine genteel manner, though upon mere worldly\nelegance I set little store. What a dreadful pity to think that such a\nvessel should ever be lost! We must rescue him, my loves. We must\ntake him away from those wicked companions, and those horrible\nCastlewoods--not that I would speak ill of my neighbours. But I shall\nhope, I shall pray, that he may be rescued from his evil courses!\" And\nagain Lady Warrington eyes the cornice in a most determined manner, as\nthe girls wistfully look towards the door behind which their interesting\ncousin has just vanished.\n\nHis uncle will go downstairs with him. He calls \"God bless you, my boy!\"\nmost affectionately: he presses Harry's hand, and repeats his valuable\nbenediction at the door. As it closes, the light from the hall within\nhaving sufficiently illuminated Mr. Warrington's face and figure, two\ngentlemen, who have been standing on the opposite side of the way,\nadvance rapidly, and one of them takes a strip of paper out of his\npocket, and putting his hand upon Mr. Warrington's shoulder, declares\nhim his prisoner. A hackney-coach is in attendance, and poor Harry goes\nto sleep in Chancery Lane.\n\nOh, to think that a Virginian prince's back should be slapped by a\nragged bailiffs follower!--that Madam Esmond's son should be in a\nspunging-house in Cursitor Street! I do not envy our young prodigal his\nrest on that dismal night. Let us hit him now he is down, my beloved\nyoung friends. Let us imagine the stings of remorse keeping him wakeful\non his dingy pillow; the horrid jollifications of other hardened inmates\nof the place ringing in his ears from the room hard by, where they sit\nboozing; the rage and shame and discomfiture. No pity on him, I say,\nmy honest young gentlemen, for you, of course, have never indulged in\nextravagance or folly, or paid the reckoning of remorse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI. Chains and Slavery\n\n\nRemorse for past misdeeds and follies Harry sincerely felt, when he\nfound himself a prisoner in that dismal lock-up house, and wrath and\nannoyance at the idea of being subjected to the indignity of arrest; but\nthe present unpleasantry he felt sure could only be momentary. He had\ntwenty friends who would release him from his confinement: to which of\nthem should he apply, was the question. Mr. Draper, the man of business,\nwho had been so obsequious to him: his kind uncle the Baronet, who had\noffered to make his house Harry's home, who loved him as a son: his\ncousin Castlewood, who had won such large sums from him: his noble\nfriends at the Chocolate-House, his good Aunt Bernstein--any one of\nthese Harry felt sure would give him a help in his trouble, though some\nof the relatives, perhaps, might administer to him a little scolding for\nhis imprudence. The main point was, that the matter should be transacted\nquietly, for Mr. Warrington was anxious that as few as possible of the\npublic should know how a gentleman of his prodigious importance had been\nsubject to such a vulgar process as an arrest. As if the public does\nnot end by knowing everything it cares to know. As if the dinner I shall\nhave to-day, and the hole in the stocking which I wear at this present\nwriting, can be kept a secret from some enemy or other who has a mind\nto pry it out--though my boots are on, and my door was locked when I\ndressed myself! I mention that hole in the stocking for sake of example\nmerely. The world can pry out everything about us which it has a mind to\nknow. But then there is this consolation, which men will never accept\nin their own cases, that the world doesn't care. Consider the amount of\nscandal it has been forced to hear in its time, and how weary and blase\nit must be of that kind of intelligence. You are taken to prison,\nand fancy yourself indelibly disgraced? You are bankrupt under odd\ncircumstances? You drive a queer bargain with your friends and are found\nout, and imagine the world will punish you? Psha! Your shame is only\nvanity. Go and talk to the world as if nothing had happened, and nothing\nhas happened. Tumble down; brush the mud off your clothes; appear with\na smiling countenance, and nobody cares. Do you suppose Society is going\nto take out its pocket-handkerchief and be inconsolable when you die?\nWhy should it care very much, then, whether your worship graces yourself\nor disgraces yourself? Whatever happens it talks, meets, jokes, yawns,\nhas its dinner, pretty much as before. Therefore don't be so conceited\nabout yourself as to fancy your private affairs of so much importance,\nmi fili. Whereas Mr. Harry Warrington chafed and fumed as though all the\nworld was tingling with the touch of that hand which had been laid on\nhis sublime shoulder.\n\n\"A pretty sensation my arrest must have created at the club!\" thought\nHarry. \"I suppose that Mr. Selwyn will be cutting all sorts of jokes\nabout my misfortune, plague take him! Everybody round the table will\nhave heard of it. March will tremble about the bet I have with him;\nand, faith, 'twill be difficult to pay him when I lose. They will all\nbe setting up a whoop of congratulation at the Savage, as they call me,\nbeing taken prisoner. How shall I ever be able to appear in the world\nagain? Whom shall I ask to come to my help? No,\" thought he, with his\nmingled acuteness and simplicity, \"I will not send in the first instance\nto any of my relations or my noble friends at White's. I will have\nSampson's counsel. He has often been in a similar predicament, and\nwill know how to advise me.\" Accordingly, as soon as the light of dawn\nappeared, after an almost intolerable delay--for it seemed to Harry as\nif the sun had forgotten to visit Cursitor Street in his rounds that\nmorning--and as soon as the inmates of the house of bondage were\nstirring, Mr. Warrington despatched a messenger to his friend in Long\nAcre, acquainting the chaplain with the calamity just befallen him,\nand beseeching his reverence to give him the benefit of his advice and\nconsolation.\n\nMr. Warrington did not know, to be sure, that to send such a message to\nthe parson was as if he said, \"I am fallen amongst the lions. Come\ndown, my dear friend, into the pit with me.\" Harry very likely thought\nSampson's difficulties were over; or, more likely still, was so much\nengrossed with his own affairs and perplexities, as to bestow little\nthought upon his neighbour's. Having sent off his missive, the captive's\nmind was somewhat more at ease, and he condescended to call for\nbreakfast, which was brought to him presently. The attendant who served\nhim with his morning repast asked him whether he would order dinner, or\ntake his meal at Mrs. Bailiff's table with some other gentlemen? No.\nMr. Warrington would not order dinner. He should quit the place before\ndinner-time, he informed the chamberlain who waited on him in that grim\ntavern. The man went away, thinking no doubt that this was not the first\nyoung gentleman who had announced that he was going away ere two hours\nwere over. \"Well, if your honour does stay, there is good beef and\ncarrot at two o'clock,\" says the sceptic, and closes the door on Mr.\nHarry and his solitary meditations.\n\nHarry's messenger to Mr. Sampson brought back a message from that\ngentleman to say that he would be with his patron as soon as might be:\nbut ten o'clock came, eleven o'clock, noon, and no Sampson. No Sampson\narrived, but about twelve Gumbo with a portmanteau of his master's\nclothes, who flung himself, roaring with grief, at Harry's feet: and\nwith a thousand vows of fidelity, expressed himself ready to die, to\nsell himself into slavery over again, to do anything to rescue his\nbeloved Master Harry from this calamitous position. Harry was touched\nwith the lad's expressions of affection, and told him to get up from\nthe ground where he was grovelling on his knees, embracing his master's.\n\"All you have to do, sir, is to give me my clothes to dress, and to hold\nyour tongue about this business. Mind you, not a word, sir, about it to\nanybody!\" says Mr. Warrington, severely.\n\n\"Oh no, sir, never to nobody!\" says Gumbo, looking most solemnly, and\nproceeded to dress his master carefully, who had need of a change and a\ntoilette after his yesterday's sudden capture, and night's dismal rest.\nAccordingly Gumbo flung a dash of powder in Harry's hair, and arrayed\nhis master carefully and elegantly, so that he made Mr. Warrington look\nas fine and splendid as if he had been stepping into his chair to go to\nSt. James's.\n\nIndeed all that love and servility could do Mr. Gumbo faithfully did for\nhis master, for whom he had an extreme regard and attachment. But there\nwere certain things beyond Gumbo's power. He could not undo things which\nwere done already; and he could not help lying and excusing himself when\npressed upon points disagreeable to himself. The language of slaves is\nlies (I mean black slaves and white). The creature slinks away and hides\nwith subterfuges, as a hunted animal runs to his covert at the sight\nof man, the tyrant and pursuer. Strange relics of feudality, and\nconsequence of our ever-so-old social life! Our domestics (are they not\nmen, too, and brethren?) are all hypocrites before us. They never speak\nnaturally to us, or the whole truth. We should be indignant: we should\nsay, confound their impudence: we should turn them out of doors if they\ndid. But quo me rapis, O my unbridled hobby?\n\nWell, the truth is, that as for swearing not to say a word about his\nmaster's arrest--such an oath as that was impossible to keep for, with\na heart full of grief, indeed, but with a tongue that never could cease\nwagging, bragging, joking, and lying, Mr. Gumbo had announced the\nwoeful circumstance to a prodigious number of his acquaintances already,\nchiefly gentlemen of the shoulder-knot and worsted lace. We have\nseen how he carried the news to Colonel Lambert's and Lord Wrotham's\nservants: he had proclaimed it at the footman's club to which he\nbelonged, and which was frequented by the gentlemen of some of the first\nnobility. He had subsequently condescended to partake of a mug of ale\nin Sir Miles Warrington's butler's room, and there had repeated and\nembellished the story. Then he had gone off to Madame Bernstein's\npeople, with some of whom he was on terms of affectionate intercourse,\nand had informed that domestic circle of his grief and, his master being\ncaptured, and there being no earthly call for his personal services that\nevening, Gumbo had stepped up to Lord Castlewood's, and informed the\ngentry there of the incident which had just come to pass. So when,\nlaying his hand on his heart, and with gushing floods of tears, Gumbo\nsays, in reply to his master's injunction, \"Oh no, master! nebber to\nnobody!\" we are in a condition to judge of the degree of credibility\nwhich ought to be given to the lad's statement.\n\nThe black had long completed his master's toilet: the dreary breakfast\nwas over: slow as the hours went to the prisoner, still they were\npassing one after another, but no Sampson came in accordance with the\npromise sent in the morning. At length, some time after noon, there\narrived, not Sampson, but a billet from him, sealed with a moist wafer,\nand with the ink almost yet wet. The unlucky divine's letter ran as\nfollows:\n\n\n\"Oh, sir, dear sir, I have done all that a man can at the command and\nin the behalf of his patron! You did not know, sir, to what you were\nsubjecting me, did you? Else, if I was to go to prison, why did I not\nshare yours, and why am I in a lock-up house three doors off?\n\n\"Yes. Such is the fact. As I was hastening to you, knowing full well the\ndanger to which I was subject:--but what danger will I not affront at\nthe call of such a benefactor as Mr. Warrington hath been to me?--I was\nseized by two villains who had a writ against me, and who have lodged me\nat Naboth's, hard by, and so close to your honour, that we could almost\nhear each other across the garden walls of the respective houses where\nwe are confined.\n\n\"I had much and of importance to say, which I do not care to write down\non paper regarding your affairs. May they mend! May my cursed fortunes,\ntoo, better themselves, is the prayer of--\n\n\"Your honour's afflicted Chaplain-in-Ordinary, J. S.\"\n\n\nAnd now, as Mr. Sampson refuses to speak, it will be our duty to\nacquaint the reader with those matters whereof the poor chaplain did not\ncare to discourse on paper.\n\nGumbo's loquacity had not reached so far as Long Acre, and Mr. Sampson\nwas ignorant of the extent of his patron's calamity until he received\nHarry's letter and messenger from Chancery Lane. The divine was still\nardent with gratitude for the service Mr. Warrington had just conferred\non him, and eager to find some means to succour his distressed patron.\nHe knew what a large sum Lord Castlewood had won from his cousin, had\ndined in company with his lordship on the day before, and now ran to\nLord Castlewood's house, with a hope of arousing him to some pity for\nMr. Warrington. Sampson made a very eloquent and touching speech to\nLord Castlewood about his kinsman's misfortune, and spoke with a real\nkindness and sympathy, which, however, failed to touch the nobleman to\nwhom he addressed himself.\n\nMy lord peevishly and curtly put a stop to the chaplain's passionate\npleading. \"Did I not tell you, two days since, when you came for money,\nthat I was as poor as a beggar, Sampson,\" said his lordship, \"and has\nanybody left me a fortune since? The little sum I won from my cousin was\nswallowed up by others. I not only can't help Mr. Warrington, but, as I\npledge you my word, not being in the least aware of his calamity, I had\npositively written to him this morning to ask him to help me.\" And\na letter to this effect did actually reach Mr. Warrington from his\nlodgings, whither it had been despatched by the penny post.\n\n\"I must get him money, my lord. I know he had scarcely anything left in\nhis pocket after relieving me. Were I to pawn my cassock and bands, he\nmust have money,\" cried the chaplain.\n\n\"Amen. Go and pawn your bands, your cassock, anything you please. Your\nenthusiasm does you credit,\" said my lord; and resumed the reading of\nhis paper, whilst, in the deepest despondency, poor Sampson left him.\n\nMy Lady Maria meanwhile had heard that the chaplain was with her\nbrother, and conjectured what might be the subject on which they had\nbeen talking. She seized upon the parson as he issued from out his\nfruitless interview with my lord. She drew him into the dining-room: the\nstrongest marks of grief and sympathy were in her countenance. \"Tell me,\nwhat is this has happened to Mr. Warrington?\" she asked.\n\n\"Your ladyship, then, knows?\" asked the chaplain.\n\n\"Have I not been in mortal anxiety ever since his servant brought the\ndreadful news last night?\" asked my lady. \"We had it as we came from the\nopera--from my Lady Yarmouth's box--my lord, my Lady Castlewood, and I.\"\n\n\"His lordship, then, did know?\" continued Sampson.\n\n\"Benson told the news when we came from the playhouse to our tea,\"\nrepeats Lady Maria.\n\nThe chaplain lost all patience and temper at such duplicity. \"This\nis too bad,\" he said, with an oath; and he told Lady Maria of the\nconversation which he had just had with Lord Castlewood, and of the\nlatter's refusal to succour his cousin, after winning great sums of\nmoney from him, and with much eloquence and feeling, of Mr. Warrington's\nmost generous behaviour to himself.\n\nThen my Lady Maria broke out with a series of remarks regarding her own\nfamily, which were by no means complimentary to her own kith and kin.\nAlthough not accustomed to tell truth commonly, yet, when certain\nfamilies fall out, it is wonderful what a number of truths they will\ntell about one another. With tears, imprecations, I do not like to\nthink how much stronger language, Lady Maria burst into a furious and\nimpassioned tirade, in which she touched upon the history of almost all\nher noble family. She complimented the men and the ladies alike; she\nshrieked out interrogatories to Heaven, inquiring why it had made such\n(never mind what names she called her brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,\nparents); and, emboldened with wrath, she dashed at her brother's\nlibrary door, so shrill in her outcries, so furious in her demeanour,\nthat the alarmed chaplain, fearing the scene which might ensue, made for\nthe street.\n\nMy lord, looking up from the book or other occupation which engaged\nhim, regarded the furious woman with some surprise, and selected a good\nstrong oath to fling at her, as it were, and check her onset.\n\nBut, when roused, we have seen how courageous Maria could be. Afraid\nas she was ordinarily of her brother, she was not in a mood to be\nfrightened now by any language of abuse or sarcasm at his command.\n\n\"So, my lord!\" she called out, \"you sit down with him in private to\ncards, and pigeon him! You get the poor boy's last shilling, and you\nwon't give him a guinea out of his own winnings now he is penniless!\"\n\n\"So that infernal chaplain has been telling tales!\" says my lord.\n\n\"Dismiss him: do! Pay him his wages, and let him go,--he will be glad\nenough!\" cries Maria.\n\n\"I keep him to marry one of my sisters, in case he is wanted,\" says\nCastlewood, glaring at her.\n\n\"What can the women be in a family where there are such men?\" says the\nlady.\n\n\"Effectivement!\" says my lord, with a shrug of his shoulder.\n\n\"What can we be, when our fathers and brothers are what they are? We are\nbad enough, but what are you? I say, you neither have courage--no, nor\nhonour, nor common feeling. As your equals won't play with you, my\nLord Castlewood, you must take this poor lad out of Virginia, your own\nkinsman, and pigeon him! Oh, it's a shame--a shame!\"\n\n\"We are all playing our own game, I suppose. Haven't you played and won\none, Maria? Is it you that are squeamish of a sudden about the poor\nlad from Virginia? Has Mr. Harry cried off, or has your ladyship got\na better offer?\" cried my Lord. \"If you won't have him, one of the\nWarrington girls will, I promise you; and the old Methodist woman in\nHill Street will give him the choice of either. Are you a fool, Maria\nEsmond? A greater fool, I mean, than in common?\"\n\n\"I should be a fool if I thought that either of my brothers could act\nlike an honest man, Eugene!\" said Maria. \"I am a fool to expect that you\nwill be other than you are; that if you find any relative in distress\nyou will help him; that if you can meet with a victim you won't fleece\nhim.\"\n\n\"Fleece him! Psha! What folly are you talking! Have you not seen, from\nthe course which the lad has been running for months past, how he would\nend? If I had not won his money, some other would? I never grudged thee\nthy little plans regarding him. Why shouldst thou fly in a passion,\nbecause I have just put out my hand to take what he was offering to all\nthe world? I reason with you, I don't know why, Maria. You should be old\nenough to understand reason, at any rate. You think this money belonged\nof right to Lady Maria Warrington and her children? I tell you that in\nthree months more every shilling would have found its way to White's\nmacco-table, and that it is much better spent in paying my debts. So\nmuch for your ladyship's anger, and tears, and menaces, and naughty\nlanguage. See! I am a good brother, and repay them with reason and kind\nwords.\"\n\n\"My good brother might have given a little more than kind words to the\nlad from whom he has just taken hundreds,\" interposed the sister of this\naffectionate brother.\n\n\"Great heavens, Maria! Don't you see that even out of this affair,\nunpleasant as it seems, a clever woman may make her advantage,\" cries my\nlord. Maria said she failed to comprehend.\n\n\"As thus. I name no names; I meddle in no person's business, having\nquite enough to do to manage my own cursed affairs. But suppose I happen\nto know of a case in another family which may be applicable to ours. It\nis this. A green young lad of tolerable expectations, comes up from the\ncountry to his friends in town--never mind from what country: never\nmind to what town. An elderly female relative, who has been dragging her\nspinsterhood about these--how many years shall we say?--extort a promise\nof marriage from my young gentleman, never mind on what conditions.\"\n\n\"My lord, do you want to insult your sister as well as to injure your\ncousin?\" asks Maria.\n\n\"My good child, did I say a single word about fleecing or cheating, or\npigeoning, or did I fly into a passion when you insulted me? I know the\nallowance that must be made for your temper, and the natural folly of\nyour sex. I say I treated you with soft words--I go on with my story.\nThe elderly relative extracts a promise of marriage from the young lad,\nwhich my gentleman is quite unwilling to keep. No, he won't keep it.\nHe is utterly tired of his elderly relative: he will plead his mother's\nrefusal: he will do anything to get out of his promise.\"\n\n\"Yes; if he was one of us Esmonds, my Lord Castlewood. But this is a\nman of honour we are speaking of,\" cried Maria, who, I suppose, admired\ntruth in others, however little she saw it in her own family.\n\n\"I do not contradict either of my dear sister's remarks. One of us\nwould fling the promise to the winds, especially as it does not exist in\nwriting.\"\n\n\"My lord!\" gasps out Maria.\n\n\"Bah! I know all. That little coup of Tunbridge was played by the Aunt\nBernstein with excellent skill. The old woman is the best man of our\nfamily. While you were arrested, your boxes were searched for the\nMohock's letters to you. When you were let loose, the letters had\ndisappeared, and you said nothing, like a wise woman, as you are\nsometimes. You still hanker after your Cherokee. Soit. A woman of your\nmature experience knows the value of a husband. What is this little loss\nof two or three hundred pounds?\"\n\n\"Not more than three hundred, my lord?\" interposes Maria.\n\n\"Eh! never mind a hundred or two, more or less. What is this loss at\ncards? A mere bagatelle! You are playing for a principality. You want\nyour kingdom in Virginia; and if you listen to my opinion, the little\nmisfortune which has happened to your swain is a piece of great\ngood-fortune to you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you, my lord.\"\n\n\"C'est possible; but sit down, and I will explain what I mean in a\nmanner suited to your capacity.\" And so Maria Esmond, who had advanced\nto her brother like a raging lion, now sate down at his feet like a\ngentle lamb.\n\n\nMadame de Bernstein was not a little moved at the news of her nephew's\narrest, which Mr. Gumbo brought to Clarges Street on the night of the\ncalamity. She would have cross-examined the black, and had further\nparticulars respecting Harry's mishap; but Mr. Gumbo, anxious to carry\nhis intelligence to other quarters, had vanished when her ladyship sent\nfor him. Her temper was not improved by the news, or by the sleepless\nnight which she spent. I do not envy the dame de compagnie who played\ncards with her, or the servant who had to lie in her chamber. An arrest\nwas an everyday occurrence, as she knew very well as a woman of the\nworld. Into what difficulties had her scapegrace of a nephew fallen? How\nmuch money should she be called upon to pay to release him? And had\nhe run through all his own? Provided he had not committed himself\nvery deeply, she was quite disposed to aid him. She liked even his\nextravagances and follies. He was the only being in the world on whom,\nfor long, long years, that weary woman had been able to bestow a little\nnatural affection. So, on their different beds, she and Harry were lying\nwakeful together; and quite early in the morning the messengers which\neach sent forth on the same business may have crossed each other.\n\nMadame Bernstein's messenger was despatched to the chambers of her man\nof business, Mr. Draper, with an order that Mr. D. should ascertain for\nwhat sums Mr. Warrington had been arrested, and forthwith repair to the\nBaroness. Draper's emissaries speedily found out that Mr. Warrington was\nlocked up close beside them, and the amount of detainers against him\nso far. Were there other creditors, as no doubt there were, they\nwould certainly close upon him when they were made acquainted with his\nimprisonment.\n\nTo Mr. Sparks, the jeweller, for those unlucky presents, so much; to the\nlandlord in Bond Street, for board, fire, lodging, so much: these were\nat present the only claims against Mr. Warrington, Mr. Draper found. He\nwas ready, at a signal from her ladyship, to settle them at a moment.\nThe jeweller's account ought especially to be paid, for Mr. Harry had\nacted most imprudently in taking goods from Mr. Sparks on credit, and\npledging them with a pawnbroker. He must have been under some immediate\npressure for money; intended to redeem the goods immediately, meant\nnothing but what was honourable of course; but the affair would have an\nugly look, if made public, and had better be settled out of hand. \"There\ncannot be the least difficulty regarding a thousand pounds more or less,\nfor a gentleman of Mr. Warrington's rank and expectations,\" said Madame\nde Bernstein. Not the least: her ladyship knew very well that there\nwere funds belonging to Mr. Warrington, on which money could be at once\nraised with her ladyship's guarantee.\n\nShould he go that instant and settle the matter with Messrs. Amos? Mr.\nHarry might be back to dine with her at two, and to confound the people\nat the clubs, \"who are no doubt rejoicing over his misfortunes,\" said\nthe compassionate Mr. Draper.\n\nBut the Baroness had other views. \"I think, my good Mr. Draper,\" she\nsaid, \"that my young gentleman has sown wild oats enough; and when he\ncomes out of prison I should like him to come out clear, and without any\nliabilities at all. You are not aware of all his.\"\n\n\"No gentleman ever does tell all his debts, madam,\" says Mr. Draper; \"no\none I ever had to deal with.\"\n\n\"There is one which the silly boy has contracted, and from which he\nought to be released, Mr. Draper. You remember a little circumstance\nwhich occurred at Tunbridge Wells in the autumn? About which I sent up\nmy man Case to you?\"\n\n\"When your ladyship pleases to recall it, I remember it--not otherwise,\"\nsays Mr. Draper, with a bow. \"A lawyer should be like a Popish\nconfessor,--what is told him is a secret for ever, and for everybody.\"\nSo we must not whisper Madame Bernstein's secret to Mr. Draper; but the\nreader may perhaps guess it from the lawyer's conduct subsequently.\n\nThe lawyer felt pretty certain that ere long he would receive a summons\nfrom the poor young prisoner in Cursitor Street, and waited for that\ninvitation before he visited Mr. Warrington. Six-and-thirty hours passed\nere the invitation came, during which period Harry passed the dreariest\ntwo days which he ever remembered to have spent.\n\nThere was no want of company in the lock-up house, the bailiff's rooms\nwere nearly always full; but Harry preferred the dingy solitude of his\nown room to the society round his landlady's table, and it was only\non the second day of his arrest, and when his purse was emptied by the\nheavy charges of the place, that he made up his mind to apply to\nMr. Draper. He despatched a letter then to the lawyer at the Temple,\ninforming him of his plight, and desiring him, in an emphatic\npostscript, not to say one word about the matter to his aunt, Madame de\nBernstein.\n\nHe had made up his mind not to apply to the old lady except at the\nvery last extremity. She had treated him with so much kindness that he\nrevolted from the notion of trespassing on her bounty, and for a while\ntried to please himself with the idea that he might get out of durance\nwithout her even knowing that any misfortune at all had befallen him.\nThere seemed to him something humiliating in petitioning a woman for\nmoney. No! He would apply first to his male friends, all of whom might\nhelp him if they would. It had been his intention to send Sampson to one\nor other of them as a negotiator, had not the poor fellow been captured\non his way to succour his friend.\n\nSampson gone, Harry was obliged to have recourse to his own negro\nservant, who was kept on the trot all day between Temple Bar and the\nCourt end of the town with letters from his unlucky master. Firstly,\nthen, Harry sent off a most private and confidential letter to his\nkinsman, the Right Honourable the Earl of Castlewood, saying how he had\nbeen cast into prison, and begging Castlewood to lend him the amount\nof the debt. \"Please to keep my application, and the cause of it, a\nprofound secret from the dear ladies,\" wrote poor Harry.\n\n\"Was ever anything so unfortunate?\" wrote back Lord Castlewood, in\nreply. \"I suppose you have not got my note of yesterday? It must be\nlying at your lodgings, where--I hope in heaven!--you will soon be, too.\nMy dear Mr. Warrington, thinking you were as rich as Croesus--otherwise\nI never should have sate down to cards with you--I wrote to you\nyesterday, begging you to lend me some money to appease some hungry duns\nwhom I don't know how else to pacify. My poor fellow! every shilling\nof your money went to them, and but for my peer's privilege I might be\nhob-and-nob with you now in your dungeon. May you soon escape from it,\nis the prayer of your sincere CASTLEWOOD.\"\n\nThis was the result of application number one: and we may imagine that\nMr. Harry read the reply to his petition with rather a blank face. Never\nmind! There was kind, jolly Uncle Warrington. Only last night his aunt\nhad kissed him and loved him like a son. His uncle had called down\nblessings on his head, and professed quite a paternal regard for him.\nWith a feeling of shyness and modesty in presence of those virtuous\nparents and family. Harry had never said a word about his wild doings,\nor his horse-racings, or his gamblings, or his extravagances. It must\nall out now. He must confess himself a Prodigal and a Sinner, and ask\nfor their forgiveness and aid. So Prodigal sate down and composed a\npenitent letter to Uncle Warrington, and exposed his sad case, and\nbesought him to come to the rescue. Was not that a bitter nut to crack\nfor our haughty young Virginian? Hours of mortification and profound\nthought as to the pathos of the composition did Harry pass over that\nletter; sheet after sheet of Mr. Amos's sixpence-a-sheet letter-paper\ndid he tear up before the missive was complete, with which poor\nblubbering Gumbo (much vilified by the bailiff's followers and\nparasites, whom he was robbing, as they conceived, of their perquisites)\nwent his way.\n\nAt evening the faithful negro brought back a thick letter in his aunt's\nhandwriting. Harry opened the letter with a trembling hand. He thought\nit was full of bank-notes. Ah me! it contained a sermon (Daniel in the\nLions' Den) by Mr. Whitfield, and a letter from Lady Warrington saying\nthat, in Sir Miles's absence from London, she was in the habit of\nopening his letters, and hence, perforce, was become acquainted with a\nfact which she deplored from her inmost soul to learn, namely, that her\nnephew Warrington had been extravagant and was in debt. Of course, in\nthe absence of Sir Miles, she could not hope to have at command such\na sum as that for which Mr. Warrington wrote, but she sent him her\nheartfelt prayers, her deepest commiseration, and a discourse by dear\nMr. Whitfield, which would comfort him in his present (alas! she feared\nnot undeserved) calamity. She added profuse references to particular\nScriptural chapters which would do him good. If she might speak of\nthings worldly, she said, at such a moment, she would hint to Mr.\nWarrington that his epistolary orthography was anything but correct. She\nwould not fail for her part to comply with his express desire that his\ndear cousins should know nothing of this most painful circumstance,\nand with every wish for his welfare here and elsewhere, she subscribed\nherself his loving aunt, MARGARET WARRINGTON.\n\nPoor Harry hid his face between his hands, and sate for a while with\nelbows on the greasy table blankly staring into the candle before him.\nThe bailiff's servant, who was touched by his handsome face, suggested a\nmug of beer for his honour, but Harry could not drink, nor eat the meat\nthat was placed before him. Gumbo, however, could, whose grief did not\ndeprive him of appetite, and who, blubbering the while, finished all\nthe beer, and all the bread and the meat. Meanwhile, Harry had finished\nanother letter, with which Gumbo was commissioned to start again, and\naway the faithful creature ran upon his errand.\n\nGumbo ran as far as White's Club, to which house he was ordered in the\nfirst instance to carry the letter, and where he found the person\nto whom it was addressed. Even the prisoner, for whom time passed so\nslowly, was surprised at the celerity with which his negro had performed\nhis errand.\n\nAt least the letter which Harry expected had not taken long to write.\n\"My lord wrote it at the hall-porter's desk, while I stood there then\nwith Mr Mr. Morris,\" said Gumbo, and the letter was to this effect:--\n\n\n\"DEAR SIR--I am sorry I cannot comply with your wish, I'm short of\nmoney at present, having paid large sums to you as well as to other\ngentlemen.--Yours obediently, MARCH AND R.\n\n\"Henry Warrington, Esq.\"\n\n\n\"Did Lord March say anything?\" asked Mr. Warrington looking very pale.\n\n\"He say it was the coolest thing he ever knew. So did Mr. Morris. He\nshowed him your letter, Master Harry. Yes, Mr. Morris say, 'Dam his\nimperence!'\" added Gumbo.\n\nHarry burst into such a yell of laughter that his landlord thought he\nhad good news, and ran in in alarm lest he was about to lose his tenant.\nBut by this time poor Harry's laughter was over, and he was flung down\nin his chair gazing dismally in the fire.\n\n\"I--I should like to smoke a pipe of Virginia\" he groaned.\n\nGumbo burst into tears: he flung himself at Harry's knees. He kissed his\nknees and his hands. \"Oh, master, my dear master, what will they say at\nhome?\" he sobbed out.\n\nThe jailor was touched at the sight of the black's grief and fidelity,\nand at Harry's pale face as he sank back in his chair quite overcome and\nbeaten by his calamity.\n\n\"Your honour ain't eat anything these two days,\" the man said, in a\nvoice of rough pity. \"Pluck up a little, sir. You aren't the first\ngentleman who has been in and out of grief before this. Let me go down\nand get you a glass of punch and a little supper.\"\n\n\"My good friend,\" said Harry, a sickly smile playing over his white\nface, \"you pay ready money for everything in this house, don't you? I\nmust tell you that I haven't a shilling left to buy a dish of meat. All\nthe money I have I want for letter-paper.\"\n\n\"Oh, master, my master!\" roared out Gumbo. \"Look here, my dear Master\nHarry! Here's plenty of money--here's twenty-three five-guineas. Here's\ngold moidore from Virginia--here--no, not that--that's keepsakes the\ngirls gave me. Take everything--everything. I go sell myself to-morrow\nmorning; but here's plenty for to-night, master!\"\n\n\"God bless you, Gumbo!\" Harry said, laying his hand on the lad's woolly\nhead. \"You are free if I am not, and Heaven forbid I should not take the\noffered help of such a friend as you. Bring me some supper: but the pipe\ntoo, mind--the pipe too!\" And Harry ate his supper with a relish: and\neven the turnkeys and bailiff's followers, when Gumbo went out of the\nhouse that night, shook hands with him, and ever after treated him well.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII. Visitors in Trouble\n\n\nMr. Gumbo's generous and feeling conduct soothed and softened the angry\nheart of his master, and Harry's second night in the spunging-house was\npassed more pleasantly than the first. Somebody at least there was to\nhelp and compassionate with him. Still, though softened in that one\nparticular spot, Harry's heart was hard and proud towards almost all\nthe rest of the world. They were selfish and ungenerous, he thought.\nHis pious Aunt Warrington, his lordly friend March, his cynical cousin\nCastlewood,--all had been tried, and were found wanting. Not to avoid\ntwenty years of prison would he stoop to ask a favour of one of them\nagain. Fool that he had been, to believe in their promises, and confide\nin their friendship! There was no friendship in this cursed, cold,\nselfish country. He would leave it. He would trust no Englishman, great\nor small. He would go to Germany, and make a campaign with the king; or\nhe would go home to Virginia, bury himself in the woods there, and\nhunt all day; become his mother's factor and land-steward; marry Polly\nBroadbent, or Fanny Mountain; turn regular tobacco-grower and farmer; do\nanything, rather than remain amongst these English fine gentlemen. So he\narose with an outwardly cheerful countenance, but an angry spirit; and\nat an early hour in the morning the faithful Gumbo was in attendance\nin his master's chamber, having come from Bond Street, and brought Mr.\nHarry's letters thence. \"I wanted to bring some more clothes,\" honest\nGumbo said; \"but Mr. Ruff, the landlord, he wouldn't let me bring no\nmore.\"\n\nHarry did not care to look at the letters: he opened one, two, three;\nthey were all bills. He opened a fourth; it was from the landlord, to\nsay that he would allow no more of Mr. Warrington's things to go out of\nthe house,--that unless his bill was paid he should sell Mr. W.'s goods\nand pay himself: and that his black man must go and sleep elsewhere. He\nwould hardly let Gumbo take his own clothes and portmanteau away. The\nblack said he had found refuge elsewhere--with some friends at Lord\nWrotham's house. \"With Colonel Lambert's people,\" says Mr. Gumbo,\nlooking very hard at his master. \"And Miss Hetty she fall down in a\nfaint, when she hear you taken up; and Mr. Lambert, he very good man,\nand he say to me this morning, he say, 'Gumbo, you tell your master if\nhe want me he send to me, and I come to him.'\"\n\nHarry was touched when he heard that Hetty had been afflicted by his\nmisfortune. He did not believe Gumbo's story about her fainting; he\nwas accustomed to translate his black's language and to allow for\nexaggeration. But when Gumbo spoke of the Colonel the young Virginian's\nspirit was darkened again. \"I send to Lambert\" he thought, grinding his\nteeth, \"the man who insulted me, and flung my presents back in my face!\nIf I were starving I would not ask him for a crust!\" And presently,\nbeing dressed, Mr. Warrington called for his breakfast, and despatched\nGumbo with a brief note to Mr. Draper in the Temple, requiring that\ngentleman's attendance.\n\n\"The note was as haughty as if he was writing to one of his negroes, and\nnot to a freeborn English gentleman,\" Draper said; whom indeed Harry had\nalways treated with insufferable condescension. \"It's all very well\nfor a fine gentleman to give himself airs; but for a fellow in a\nspunging-house! Hang him!\" says Draper, \"I've a great mind not to\ngo!\" Nevertheless, Mr. Draper did go, and found Mr. Warrington in his\nmisfortune even more arrogant than he had ever been in the days of his\nutmost prosperity. Mr. W. sat on his bed, like a lord, in a splendid\ngown with his hair dressed. He motioned his black man to fetch him a\nchair.\n\n\"Excuse me, madam, but such haughtiness and airs I ain't accustomed to!\"\nsaid the outraged attorney.\n\n\"Take a chair and go on with your story, my good Mr. Draper!\" said\nMadame de Bernstein, smiling, to whom he went to report proceedings.\nShe was amused at the lawyer's anger. She liked her nephew for being\ninsolent in adversity.\n\nThe course which Draper was to pursue in his interview with Harry\nhad been arranged between the Baroness and her man of business on the\nprevious day. Draper was an able man, and likely in most cases to do a\nclient good service: he failed in the present instance because he was\npiqued and angry, or, more likely still, because he could not understand\nthe gentleman with whom he had to deal. I presume that he who casts his\neye on the present page is the most gentle of readers. Gentleman, as\nyou unquestionably are, then, my dear sir, have you not remarked in\nyour dealings with people who are no gentlemen, that you offend them not\nknowing the how or the why? So the man who is no gentleman offends you\nin a thousand ways of which the poor creature has no idea himself. He\ndoes or says something which provokes your scorn. He perceives that\nscorn (being always on the watch, and uneasy about himself, his manners\nand behaviour) and he rages. You speak to him naturally, and he fancies\nstill that you are sneering at him. You have indifference towards\nhim, but he hates you, and hates you the worse because you don't\ncare. \"Gumbo, a chair to Mr. Draper!\" says Mr. Warrington, folding his\nbrocaded dressing-gown round his legs as he sits on the dingy bed. \"Sit\ndown, if you please, and let us talk my business over. Much obliged to\nyou for coming so soon in reply to my message. Had you heard of this\npiece of ill-luck before?\"\n\nMr. Draper had heard of the circumstance. \"Bad news travel quick, Mr.\nWarrington,\" he said; \"and I was eager to offer my humble services as\nsoon as ever you should require them. Your friends, your family, will be\nmuch pained that a gentleman of your rank should be in such a position.\"\n\n\"I have been very imprudent, Mr. Draper. I have lived beyond my means.\"\n(Mr. Draper bowed.) \"I played in company with gentlemen who were much\nricher than myself, and a cursed run of ill-luck has carried away all my\nready money, leaving me with liabilities to the amount of five hundred\npounds, and more.\"\n\n\"Five hundred now in the office,\" says Mr. Draper.\n\n\"Well, this is such a trifle that I thought by sending to one or two\nfriends, yesterday, I could have paid my debt and gone home without\nfurther to do. I have been mistaken; and will thank you to have the\nkindness to put me in the way of raising the money as soon as may be.\"\n\nMr. Draper said \"Hm!\" and pulled a very grave and long face.\n\n\"Why, sir, it can be done!\" says Mr. Warrington, staring at the lawyer.\n\nIt not only could be done, but Mr. Draper had proposed to Madame\nBernstein on the day before instantly to pay the money, and release\nMr. Warrington. That lady had declared she intended to make the young\ngentleman her heir. In common with the rest of the world, Draper\nbelieved Harry's hereditary property in Virginia to be as great in\nmoney-value as in extent. He had notes in his pocket, and Madame\nBernstein's order to pay them under certain conditions: nevertheless,\nwhen Harry said, \"It can be done!\" Draper pulled his long face, and\nsaid, \"It can be done in time, sir; but it will require a considerable\ntime. To touch the property in England which is yours on Mr. George\nWarrington's death, we must have the event proved, the trustees\nreleased: and who is to do either? Lady Esmond Warrington in Virginia,\nof course, will not allow her son to remain in prison, but we must wait\nsix months before we hear from her. Has your Bristol agent any authority\nto honour your drafts?\"\n\n\"He is only authorised to pay me two hundred pounds a year,\" says Mr.\nWarrington. \"I suppose I have no resource, then, but to apply to my\naunt, Madame de Bernstein. She will be my security.\"\n\n\"Her ladyship will do anything for you, sir; she has said so to me,\noften and often,\" said the lawyer; \"and, if she gives the word at that\nmoment you can walk out of this place.\"\n\n\"Go to her, then, from me, Mr. Draper. I did not want to have troubled\nmy relations: but rather than continue in this horrible needless\nimprisonment, I must speak to her. Say where I am, and what has befallen\nme. Disguise nothing! And tell her, that I confide in her affection\nand kindness for me to release me from this--this disgrace,\" and Mr.\nWarrington's voice shook a little, and he passed his hand across his\neyes.\n\n\"Sir,\" says Mr. Draper, eyeing the young man, \"I was with her ladyship\nyesterday, when we talked over the whole of this here most unpleasant--I\nwon't say as you do, disgraceful business.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, sir? Does Madame de Bernstein know of my misfortune?\"\nasked Harry.\n\n\"Every circumstance, sir; the pawning the watches, and all.\"\n\nHarry turned burning red. \"It is an unfortunate business, the pawning\nthem watches and things which you had never paid for,\" continued the\nlawyer. The young man started up from the bed, looking so fierce that\nDraper felt a little alarmed.\n\n\"It may lead to litigation and unpleasant remarks being made, in court,\nsir. Them barristers respect nothing; and when they get a feller in the\nbox----\"\n\n\"Great Heaven, sir, you don't suppose a gentleman of my rank can't take\na watch upon credit without intending to cheat the tradesman?\" cried\nHarry, in the greatest agitation.\n\n\"Of course you meant everything that's honourable; only, you see, the\nlaw mayn't happen to think so,\" says Mr. Draper, winking his eye. (\"Hang\nthe supercilious beast; I touch him there!) Your aunt says it's the most\nimprudent thing ever she heard of--to call it by no worse name.\"\n\n\"You call it by no worse name yourself, Mr. Draper?\" says Harry,\nspeaking each word very slow, and evidently trying to keep a command of\nhimself.\n\nDraper did not like his looks. \"Heaven forbid that I should say anything\nas between gentleman and gentleman,--but between me and my client, it's\nmy duty to say, 'Sir, you are in a very unpleasant scrape,' just as a\ndoctor would have to tell his patient, 'Sir, you are very ill.'\"\n\n\"And you can't help me to pay this debt off,--and you have come only to\ntell me that I may be accused of roguery?\" says Harry.\n\n\"Of obtaining goods under false pretences? Most undoubtedly, yes. I\ncan't help it, sir. Don't look as if you would knock me down. (Curse\nhim, I am making him wince, though.) A young gentleman, who has only two\nhundred a year from his ma', orders diamonds and watches, and takes 'em\nto a pawnbroker. You ask me what people will think of such behaviour,\nand I tell you honestly. Don't be angry with me, Mr. Warrington.\"\n\n\"Go on, sir!\" says Harry, with a groan.\n\nThe lawyer thought the day was his own. \"But you ask if I can't help\nto pay this debt off? And I say Yes--and that here is the money in my\npocket to do it now, if you like--not mine, sir, my honoured client's,\nyour aunt, Lady Bernstein. But she has a right to impose her conditions,\nand I've brought 'em with me.\"\n\n\"Tell them, sir,\" says Mr. Harry.\n\n\"They are not hard. They are only for your own good: and if you say Yes,\nwe can call a hackney-coach, and go to Clarges Street together, which\nI have promised to go there, whether you will or no. Mr. Warrington, I\nname no names, but there was a question of marriage between you and a\ncertain party.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Harry; and his countenance looked more cheerful than it had\nyet done.\n\n\"To that marriage my noble client, the Baroness, is most averse--having\nother views for you, and thinking it will be your ruin to marry a\nparty,--of noble birth and title it is true; but, excuse me, not of\nfirst-rate character, and so much older than yourself. You had given an\nimprudent promise to that party.\"\n\n\"Yes; and she has it still,\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"It has been recovered. She dropped it by an accident at Tunbridge,\"\nsays Mr. Draper, \"so my client informed me; indeed her ladyship showed\nit me, for the matter of that. It was wrote in bl----\"\n\n\"Never mind, sir!\" cries Harry, turning almost as red as the ink which\nhe had used to write his absurd promise, of which the madness and folly\nhad smote him with shame a thousand times over.\n\n\"At the same time letters, wrote to you, and compromising a noble\nfamily, were recovered,\" continues the lawyer. \"You had lost 'em. It was\nno fault of yours. You were away when they were found again. You may\nsay that that noble family, that you yourself, have a friend such as few\nyoung men have. Well, sir, there's no earthly promise to bind you--only\nso many idle words said over a bottle, which very likely any gentleman\nmay forget. Say you won't go on with this marriage--give me and my noble\nfriend your word of honour. Cry off, I say, Mr. W.! Don't be such a\nd----fool, saving your presence, as to marry an old woman who has jilted\nscores of men in her time. Say the word, and I step downstairs, pay\nevery shilling against you in the office, and put you down in my coach,\neither at your aunt's or at White's Club, if you like, with a couple of\nhundred in your pocket. Say yes; and give us your hand! There's no use\nin sitting grinning behind these bars all day!\"\n\nSo far Mr. Draper had had the best of the talk. Harry only longed\nhimself to be rid of the engagement from which his aunt wanted to free\nhim. His foolish flame for Maria Esmond had died out long since. If she\nwould release him, how thankful would he be! \"Come! give us your hand,\nand say done!\" says the lawyer, with a knowing wink. \"Don't stand\nshilly-shallying, sir. Law bless you, Mr. W., if I had married everybody\nI promised, I should be like the Grand Turk, or Captain Macheath in the\nplay!\"\n\nThe lawyer's familiarity disgusted Harry, who shrank from Draper,\nscarcely knowing that he did so. He folded his dressing gown round him,\nand stepped back from the other's proffered hand. \"Give me a little time\nto think of the matter, if you please, Mr. Draper,\" he said, \"and have\nthe goodness to come to me again in an hour.\n\n\"Very good, sir, very good, sir!\" says the lawyer, biting his lips, and,\nas he seized up his hat, turning very red. \"Most parties would not want\nan hour to consider about such an offer as I make you: but I suppose my\ntime must be yours, and I'll come again, and see whether you are to\ngo or to stay. Good morning, sir, good morning:\" and he went his way,\ngrowling curses down the stairs. \"Won't take my hand, won't he? Will\ntell me in an hour's time! Hang his impudence! I'll show him what an\nhour is!\"\n\nMr. Draper went to his chambers in dudgeon then; bullied his clerks all\nround, sent off a messenger to the Baroness, to say that he had\nwaited on the young gentleman, who had demanded a little time for\nconsideration, which was for form's sake, as he had no doubt; the lawyer\nthen saw clients, transacted business, went out to his dinner in the\nmost leisurely manner; and then finally turned his steps towards the\nneighbouring Cursitor Street. \"He'll be at home when I call, the haughty\nbeast!\" says Draper, with a sneer. \"The Fortunate Youth in his room?\"\nthe lawyer asked of the sheriff's officer's aide-de-camp who came to\nopen the double doors.\n\n\"Mr. Warrington is in his apartment,\" said the gentleman, \"but----\" and\nhere the gentleman winked at Mr. Draper, and laid his hand on his nose.\n\n\"But what, Mr. Paddy from Cork?\" said the lawyer.\n\n\"My name is Costigan; me familee is noble, and me neetive place is the\nIrish methrawpolis, Mr. Six-and-eightpence!\" said the janitor, scowling\nat Draper. A rich odour of spirituous liquors filled the little space\nbetween the double doors where he held the attorney in conversation.\n\n\"Confound you, sir, let me pass!\" bawled out Mr. Draper.\n\n\"I can hear you perfectly well, Six-and-eightpence, except your h's,\nwhich you dthrop out of your conversation. I'll thank ye not to call\nneems, me good friend, or me fingers and your nose will have to make an\nintimate hic-quaintance. Walk in, sir! Be polite for the future to your\nshupariors in birth and manners, though they may be your infariors in\ntemporary station. Confound the kay! Walk in, sir, I say!--Madam, I have\nthe honour of saluting ye most respectfully!\"\n\nA lady with her face covered with a capuchin, and further hidden by her\nhandkerchief, uttered a little exclamation as of alarm as she came down\nthe stairs at this instant and hurried past the lawyer. He was pressing\nforward to look at her--for Mr. Draper was very cavalier in his manners\nto women--but the bailiff's follower thrust his leg between Draper and\nthe retreating lady, crying, \"Keep your own distance, if you plaise!\nThis way, madam! I at once recognised your ladysh----\" Here he closed\nthe door on Draper's nose, and left that attorney to find his own way to\nhis client upstairs.\n\nAt six o'clock that evening the old Baroness de Bernstein was pacing up\nand down her drawing-crutch, and for ever running to the window when the\nnoise of a coach was heard passing in Clarges Street. She had delayed\nher dinner from hour to hour: she who scolded so fiercely, on ordinary\noccasions, if her cook was five minutes after his time. She had ordered\ntwo covers to be laid, plate to be set out, and some extra dishes to be\nprepared as if for a little fete. Four--five o'clock passed, and at six\nshe looked from the window, and a coach actually stopped at her door.\n\n\"Mr. Draper\" was announced, and entered bowing profoundly.\n\nThe old lady trembled on her stick. \"Where is the boy?\" she said\nquickly. \"I told you to bring him, sir! How dare you come without him?\"\n\n\"It is not my fault, madam, that Mr. Warrington refuses to come.\" And\nDraper gave his version of the interview which had just taken place\nbetween himself and the young Virginian.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII. An Apparition\n\n\nGoing off in his wrath from his morning's conversation with Harry,\nMr. Draper thought he heard the young prisoner speak behind him; and,\nindeed, Harry had risen, and uttered a half-exclamation to call the\nlawyer back. But he was proud, and the other offended: Harry checked\nwords, and Draper did not choose to stop. It wound Harry's pride to be\nobliged to humble himself before the lawyer, and to have to yield from\nmere lack and desire of money. \"An hour hence will do as well,\" thought\nHarry, and lapsed sulkily on to the bed again. No, he did not care\nfor Maria Esmond! No: he was ashamed of the way in which he had been\nentrapped into that engagement. A wily and experienced woman, she had\ncheated his boyish ardour. She had taken unfair advantage of him, as her\nbrother had at play. They were his own flesh and blood, and they ought\nto have spared him. Instead, one and the other had made a prey of\nhim, and had used him for their selfish ends. He thought how they had\nbetrayed the rights of hospitality: how they had made a victim of the\nyoung kinsman who came confiding within their gates. His heart was sore\nwounded: his head sank back on his pillow: bitter tears wetted it.\n\"Had they come to Virginia,\" he thought, \"I had given them a different\nwelcome!\"\n\nHe was roused from this mood of despondency by Gumbo's grinning face at\nhis door, who said a lady was come to see Master Harry, and behind the\nlad came the lady in the capuchin, of whom we have just made mention.\nHarry sat up, pale and haggard, on his bed. The lady, with a sob, and\nalmost ere the servant-man withdrew, ran towards the young prisoner,\nput her arms round his neck with real emotion and a maternal tenderness,\nsobbed over his pale cheek and kissed it in the midst of plentiful\ntears, and cried out--\n\n\"Oh, my Harry! Did I ever, ever think to see thee here?\"\n\nHe started back, scared as it seemed at her presence, but she sank down\nat the bedside, and seized his feverish hand, and embraced his knees.\nShe had a real regard and tenderness for him. The wretched place in\nwhich she found him, his wretched look, filled her heart with a sincere\nlove and pity.\n\n\"I--I thought none of you would come!\" said poor Harry, with a groan.\n\nMore tears, more kisses of the hot young hand, more clasps and pressure\nwith hers, were the lady's reply for a moment or two.\n\n\"Oh, my dear! my dear! I cannot bear to think of thee in misery,\" she\nsobbed out.\n\nHardened though it might be, that heart was not all marble--that dreary\nlife not all desert. Harry's mother could not have been fonder, nor her\ntones more tender than those of his kinswoman now kneeling at his feet.\n\n\"Some of the debts, I fear, were owing to my extravagance!\" she said\n(and this was true). \"You bought trinkets and jewels in order to give me\npleasure. Oh, how I hate them now! I little thought I ever could! I have\nbrought them all with me, and more trinkets--here! and here! and all the\nmoney I have in the world!\"\n\nAnd she poured brooches, rings, a watch, and a score or so of guineas\ninto Harry's lap. The sight of which strangely agitated and immensely\ntouched the young man.\n\n\"Dearest, kindest cousin!\" he sobbed out.\n\nHis lips found no more words to utter, but yet, no doubt they served to\nexpress his gratitude, his affection, his emotion.\n\nHe became quite gay presently, and smiled as he put away some of the\ntrinkets, his presents to Maria, and told her into what danger he had\nfallen by selling other goods which he had purchased on credit; and how\na lawyer had insulted him just now upon this very point. He would\nnot have his dear Maria's money--he had enough, quite enough for the\npresent: but he valued her twenty guineas as much as if they had been\ntwenty thousand. He would never forget her love and kindness: no, by\nall that was sacred he would not! His mother should know of all her\ngoodness. It had had cheered him when he was just on the point of\nbreaking down under his disgrace and misery. Might Heaven bless her for\nit! There is no need to pursue beyond this, the cousins' conversation.\nThe dark day seemed brighter to Harry after Maria's visit: the\nimprisonment not so hard to bear. The world was not all selfish and\ncold. Here was a fond creature who really and truly loved him. Even\nCastlewood was not so bad as he had thought. He had expressed the\ndeepest grief at not being able to assist his kinsman. He was hopelessly\nin debt. Every shilling he had won from Harry he had lost on the next\nday to others. Anything that lay in his power he would do. He would come\nsoon and see Mr. Warrington: he was in waiting to-day, and as much\na prisoner as Harry himself. So the pair talked on cheerfully and\naffectionately until the darkness began to close in, when Maria, with a\nsigh, bade Harry farewell.\n\nThe door scarcely closed upon her, when it opened to admit Draper.\n\n\"Your humble servant, sir,\" says the attorney. His voice jarred upon\nHarry's ear, and his presence offended the young man.\n\n\"I had expected you some hours ago, sir,\" he curtly said.\n\n\"A lawyer's time is not always his own, sir,\" said Mr. Draper, who had\njust been in consultation with a bottle of port at the Grecian. \"Never\nmind, I'm at your orders now. Presume it's all right, Mr. Warrington.\nPacked your trunk? Why, now there you are in your bedgown still. Let me\ngo down and settle whilst you call in your black man and titivate a bit.\nI've a coach at the door, and we'll be off and dine with the old lady.\"\n\n\"Are you going to dine with the Baroness de Bernstein, pray?\"\n\n\"Not me--no such honour. Had my dinner already. It's you are a-going to\ndine with your aunt, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Mr. Draper, you suppose a great deal more than you know,\" says Mr.\nWarrington, looking very fierce and tall, as he folds his brocade\ndressing-gown round him.\n\n\"Great goodness, sir, what do you mean?\" asks Draper.\n\n\"I mean, sir, that I have considered, and, that having given my word to\na faithful and honourable lady, it does not become me to withdraw it.\"\n\n\"Confound it, sir!\" shrieks the lawyer, \"I tell you she has lost the\npaper. There's nothing to bind you--nothing. Why she's old enough to\nbe----\"\n\n\"Enough, sir,\" says Mr. Warrington, with a stamp of his foot. \"You\nseem to think you are talking to some other pettifogger. I take it, Mr.\nDraper, you are not accustomed to have dealings with men of honour.\"\n\n\"Pettifogger, indeed!\" cries Draper in a fury. \"Men of honour, indeed!\nI'd have you to know, Mr. Warrington, that I'm as good a man of honour\nas you. I don't know so many gamblers and horse-jockeys, perhaps. I\nhaven't gambled away my patrimony, and lived as if I was a nobleman\non two hundred a year. I haven't bought watches on credit, and\npawned--touch me if you dare, sir,\" and the lawyer sprang to the door.\n\n\"That is the way out, sir. You can't go through the window, because it\nis barred,\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"And the answer I take to my client is No, then!\" screamed out Draper.\n\nHarry stepped forward, with his two hands clenched. \"If you utter\nanother word,\" he said, \"I'll----\" The door was shut rapidly--the\nsentence was never finished, and Draper went away furious to Madame de\nBernstein, from whom, though he gave her the best version of his story,\nhe got still fiercer language than he had received from Mr. Warrington\nhimself.\n\n\"What? Shall she trust me, and I desert her?\" says Harry, stalking up\nand down his room in his flowing, rustling brocade. \"Dear, faithful,\ngenerous woman! If I lie in prison for years, I'll be true to her.\"\n\n\nHer lawyer dismissed after a stormy interview, the desolate old woman\nwas fain to sit down to the meal which she had hoped to share with\nher nephew. The chair was before her which he was to have filled, the\nglasses shining by the silver. One dish after another was laid before\nher by the silent major-domo, and tasted and pushed away. The man\npressed his mistress at last. \"It is eight o'clock,\" he said. \"You have\nhad nothing all day. It is good for you to eat.\" She could not eat. She\nwould have her coffee. Let Case go get her her coffee. The lacqueys bore\nthe dishes off the table, leaving their mistress sitting at it before\nthe vacant chair.\n\nPresently the old servant re-entered the room without his lady's coffee\nand with a strange scared face, and said, \"Mr. WARRINGTON!\"\n\nThe old woman uttered an exclamation, got up from her armchair, but sank\nback in it trembling very much. \"So you are come, sir, are you?\" she\nsaid, with a fond shaking voice. \"Bring back the----Ah!\" here she\nscreamed, \"Gracious God, who is it?\" Her eyes stared wildly: her white\nface looked ghastly through her rouge. She clung to the arms of her\nchair for support, as the visitor approached her.\n\nA gentleman whose face and figure exactly resembled Harry Warrington and\nwhose voice, when he spoke, had tones strangely similar, had followed\nthe servant into the room. He bowed towards the Baroness.\n\n\"You expected my brother, madam?\" he said \"I am but now arrived in\nLondon. I went to his house. I met his servant at your door, who was\nbearing this letter for you. I thought I would bring it to your ladyship\nbefore going to him,\"--and the stranger laid down a letter before Madam\nBernstein.\n\n\"Are you\"--gasped out the Baroness--\"are you my nephew, that we supposed\nwas----\"\n\n\"Was killed--and is alive! I am George Warrington, madam and I ask his\nkinsfolk what have you done with my brother?\"\n\n\"Look, George!\" said the bewildered old lady \"I expected him here\nto-night--that chair was set for him--I have been waiting for him, sir,\ntill now--till I am quite faint--I don't like--I don't like being alone.\nDo stay an sup with me!\"\n\n\"Pardon me, madam. Please God, my supper will be with Harry tonight!\"\n\n\"Bring him back. Bring him back here on any conditions! It is but five\nhundred pounds! Here is the money, sir, if you need it!\"\n\n\"I have no want, madam. I have money with me that can't be better\nemployed than in my brother's service.\"\n\n\"And you will bring him to me, sir! Say you will bring him to me!\"\n\nMr. Warrington made a very stately bow for answer, and quitted the room,\npassing by the amazed domestics, and calling with an air of authority to\nGumbo to follow him.\n\nHad Mr. Harry received no letters from home? Master Harry had not\nopened all his letters the last day or two. Had he received no letter\nannouncing his brother's escape from the French settlements and return\nto Virginia? Oh no! No such letter had come, else Master Harry certainly\ntell Gumbo. Quick, horses! Quick by Strand to Temple Bar! Here is the\nhouse of Captivity and the Deliverer come to the rescue!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX. Friends in Need\n\n\nQuick, hackneycoach steeds, and bear George Warrington through Strand\nand Fleet Street to his imprisoned brother's rescue! Any one who\nremembers Hogarth's picture of a London hackneycoach and a London street\nroad at that period, may fancy how weary the quick time was, and how\nlong seemed the journey:--scarce any lights, save those carried by\nlink-boys; badly hung coaches; bad pavements; great holes in the road,\nand vast quagmires of winter mud. That drive from Piccadilly to Fleet\nStreet seemed almost as long to our young man, as the journey from\nMarlborough to London which he had performed in the morning.\n\nHe had written to Harry, announcing his arrival at Bristol. He had\npreviously written to his brother, giving the great news of his\nexistence and his return from captivity. There was war between England\nand France at that time; the French privateers were for ever on the\nlook-out for British merchant-ships, and seized them often within sight\nof port. The letter bearing the intelligence of George's restoration\nmust have been on board one of the many American ships of which the\nFrench took possession. The letter telling of George's arrival in\nEngland was never opened by poor Harry; it was lying at the latter's\napartments, which it reached on the third morning after Harry's\ncaptivity, when the angry Mr. Ruff had refused to give up any single\nitem more of his lodger's property.\n\nTo these apartments George first went on his arrival in London,\nand asked for his brother. Scared at the likeness between them, the\nmaid-servant who opened the door screamed, and ran back to her mistress.\nThe mistress not liking to tell the truth, or to own that poor Harry was\nactually a prisoner at her husband's suit, said Mr. Warrington had left\nhis lodgings; she did not know where Mr. Warrington was. George knew\nthat Clarges Street was close to Bond Street. Often and often had he\nlooked over the London map. Aunt Bernstein would tell him where Harry\nwas. He might be with her at that very moment. George had read in\nHarry's letters to Virginia about Aunt Bernstein's kindness to Harry.\nEven Madam Esmond was softened by it (and especially touched by a letter\nwhich the Baroness wrote--the letter which caused George to pack off\npost-haste for Europe, indeed). She heartily hoped and trusted that\nMadam Beatrix had found occasion to repent of her former bad ways. It\nwas time, indeed, at her age; and Heaven knows that she had plenty\nto repent of! I have known a harmless, good old soul of eighty, still\nbepommelled and stoned by irreproachable ladies of the straitest sect of\nthe Pharisees, for a little slip which occurred long before the present\ncentury was born, or she herself was twenty years old. Rachel Esmond\nnever mentioned her eldest daughter: Madam Esmond Warrington never\nmentioned her sister. No. In spite of the order for remission of the\nsentence--in spite of the handwriting on the floor of the Temple--there\nis a crime which some folks never will pardon, and regarding which\nfemale virtue, especially, is inexorable.\n\nI suppose the Virginians' agent at Bristol had told George fearful\nstories of his brother's doings. Gumbo, whom he met at his aunt's door,\nas soon as the lad recovered from his terror at the sudden reappearance\nof the master whom he supposed dead, had leisure to stammer out a word\nor two respecting his young master's whereabouts, and present pitiable\ncondition; and hence Mr. George's sternness of demeanour when he\npresented himself to the old lady. It seemed to him a matter of course\nthat his brother in difficulty should be rescued by his relations. Oh,\nGeorge, how little you know about London and London ways! Whenever you\ntake your walks abroad how many poor you meet--if a philanthropist were\nfor rescuing all of them, not all the wealth of all the provinces of\nAmerica would suffice him!\n\nBut the feeling and agitation displayed by the old lady touched her\nnephew's heart when, jolting through the dark streets towards the\nhouse of his brother's captivity, George came to think of his aunt's\nbehaviour. \"She does feel my poor Harry's misfortune,\" he thought to\nhimself, \"I have been too hasty in judging her.\" Again and again, in the\ncourse of his life, Mr. George had to rebuke himself with the same crime\nof being too hasty. How many of us have not? And, alas, the mischief\ndone, there's no repentance will mend it. Quick, coachman! We are almost\nas slow as you are in getting from Clarges Street to the Temple. Poor\nGumbo knows the way to the bailiff's house well enough. Again the bell\nis set ringing. The first door is opened to George and his negro; then\nthat first door is locked warily upon them, and they find themselves\nin a little passage with a little Jewish janitor; then a second door is\nunlocked, and they enter into the house. The Jewish janitor stares, as\nby his flaring tallow-torch he sees a second Mr. Warrington before\nhim. Come to see that gentleman? Yes. But wait a moment. This is Mr.\nWarrington's brother from America. Gumbo must go and prepare his master\nfirst. Step into this room. There's a gentleman already there about\nMr. W.'s business (the porter says), and another upstairs with him now.\nThere's no end of people have been about him.\n\nThe room into which George was introduced was a small apartment which\nwent by the name of Mr. Amos's office, and where, by a guttering candle,\nand talking to the bailiff, sat a stout gentleman in a cloak and a laced\nhat. The young porter carried his candle, too, preceding Mr. George, so\nthere was a sufficiency of light in the apartment.\n\n\"We are not angry any more, Harry!\" says the stout gentleman, in a\ncheery voice, getting up and advancing with an outstretched hand to\nthe new-comer. \"Thank God, my boy! Mr. Amos here says, there will be\nno difficulty about James and me being your bail, and we will do your\nbusiness by breakfast-time in the morning. Why... Angels and ministers\nof grace! who are you?\" And he started back as the other had hold of his\nhand.\n\nBut the stranger grasped it only the more strongly. \"God bless you,\nsir!\" he said, \"I know who you are. You must be Colonel Lambert, of\nwhose kindness to him my poor Harry wrote. And I am the brother whom you\nhave heard of, sir; and who was left for dead in Mr. Braddock's action;\nand came to life again after eighteen months amongst the French;\nand live to thank God and thank you for your kindness to my Harry,\"\ncontinued the lad with a faltering voice.\n\n\"James! James! Here is news!\" cries Mr. Lambert to a gentleman in red,\nwho now entered the room. \"Here are the dead come alive! Here is Harry\nScapegrace's brother come back, and with his scalp on his head, too!\"\n(George had taken his hat off, and was standing by the light.) \"This is\nmy brother-bail, Mr. Warrington! This is Lieutenant-Colonel James\nWolfe, at your service. You must know there has been a little difference\nbetween Harry and me, Mr. George. He is pacified, is he, James?\"\n\n\"He is full of gratitude,\" says Mr. Wolfe, after making his bow to Mr.\nWarrington.\n\n\"Harry wrote home about Mr. Wolfe, too, sir,\" said the young man, \"and I\nhope my brother's friends will be so kind as to be mine.\"\n\n\"I wish he had none other but us, Mr. Warrington. Poor Harry's fine\nfolks have been too fine for him, and have ended by landing him here.\"\n\n\"Nay, your honours, I have done my best to make the young gentleman\ncomfortable; and, knowing your honour before, when you came to bail\nCaptain Watkins, and that your security is perfectly good,--if your\nhonour wishes, the young gentleman can go out this very night, and I\nwill make it all right with the lawyer in the morning,\" says Harry's\nlandlord, who knew the rank and respectability of the two gentlemen who\nhad come to offer bail for his young prisoner.\n\n\"The debt is five hundred and odd pounds, I think?\" said Mr. Warrington.\n\"With a hundred thanks to these gentlemen, I can pay the amount at this\nmoment into the officers' hands, taking the usual acknowledgment and\ncaution. But I can never forget, gentlemen, that you helped my brother\nat his need, and, for doing so, I say thank you, and God bless you, in\nmy mother's name and mine.\"\n\nGumbo had, meanwhile, gone upstairs to his master's apartment, where\nHarry would probably have scolded the negro for returning that night,\nbut that the young gentleman was very much soothed and touched by the\nconversation he had had with the friend who had just left him. He was\nsitting over his pipe of Virginia in a sad mood (for, somehow, even\nMaria's goodness and affection, as she had just exhibited them, had not\naltogether consoled him; and he had thought, with a little dismay, of\ncertain consequences to which that very kindness and fidelity bound\nhim), when Mr. Wolfe's homely features and eager outstretched hand came\nto cheer the prisoner, and he heard how Mr. Lambert was below, and\nthe errand upon which the two officers had come. In spite of himself,\nLambert would be kind to him. In spite of Harry's ill-temper, and\nneedless suspicion and anger, the good gentleman was determined to help\nhim if he might--to help him even against Mr. Wolfe's own advice, as the\nlatter frankly told Harry, \"For you were wrong, Mr. Warrington,\" said\nthe Colonel, \"and you wouldn't be set right; and you, a young man, used\nhard words and unkind behaviour to your senior, and what is more, one of\nthe best gentlemen who walks God's earth. You see, sir, what his answer\nhath been to your wayward temper. You will bear with a friend who speaks\nfrankly with you? Martin Lambert hath acted in this as he always doth,\nas the best Christian, the best friend, the most kind and generous of\nmen. Nay, if you want another proof of his goodness, here it is: He has\nconverted me, who, as I don't care to disguise, was angry with you for\nyour treatment of him, and has absolutely brought me down here to be\nyour bail. Let us both cry Peccavimus! Harry, and shake our friend by\nthe hand! He is sitting in the room below. He would not come here till\nhe knew how you would receive him.\"\n\n\"I think he is a good man!\" groaned out Harry. \"I was very angry and\nwild at the time when he and I met last, Colonel Wolfe. Nay, perhaps he\nwas right in sending back those trinkets, hurt as I was at his doing so.\nGo down to him, will you be so kind, sir? and tell him I am sorry, and\nask his pardon, and--and, God bless him for his generous behaviour.\"\nAnd here the young gentleman turned his head away, and rubbed his hand\nacross his eyes.\n\n\"Tell him all this thyself, Harry!\" cries the Colonel, taking the young\nfellow's hand. \"No deputy will ever say it half so well. Come with me\nnow.\"\n\n\"You go first, and I'll--I'll follow,--on my word I will. See! I am in\nmy morning-gown! I will but put on a coat and come to him. Give him my\nmessage first. Just--just prepare him for me!\" says poor Harry, who\nknew he must do it, but yet did not much like that process of eating of\nhumble-pie.\n\nWolfe went out smiling--understanding the lad's scruples well enough,\nperhaps. As he opened the door, Mr. Gumbo entered it; almost forgetting\nto bow to the gentleman, profusely courteous as he was on ordinary\noccasions,--his eyes glaring round, his great mouth grinning--himself in\na state of such high excitement and delight that his master remarked his\ncondition.\n\n\"What, Gum? What has happened to thee? Hast thou got a new sweetheart?\"\n\nNo, Gum had not got no new sweetheart, master.\n\n\"Give me my coat. What has brought thee back?\"\n\nGum grinned prodigiously. \"I have seen a ghost, mas'r!\" he said.\n\n\"A ghost! and whose, and where?\"\n\n\"Whar? Saw him at Madame Bernstein's house. Come with him here in\nthe coach! He downstairs now with Colonel Lambert!\" Whilst Gumbo is\nspeaking, as he is putting on his master's coat, his eyes are rolling,\nhis head is wagging, his hands are trembling, his lips are grinning.\n\n\"Ghost--what ghost?\" says Harry, in a strange agitation. Is\nanybody--is--my mother come?\"\n\n\"No, sir; no, Master Harry!\" Gumbo's head rolls nearly off its violent\nconvolutions, and his master, looking oddly at him, flings the door\nopen, and goes rapidly down the stair.\n\nHe is at the foot of it, just as a voice within the little office, of\nwhich the door is open, is saying, \"and for doing so, I say thank you,\nand God bless you, in my mother's name and mine.\"\n\n\"Whose voice is that?\" calls out Harry Warrington, with a strange cry in\nhis own voice.\n\n\"It's the ghost's, mas'r!\" says Gumbo, from behind; and Harry runs\nforward to the room,--where, if you please, we will pause a little\nminute before we enter. The two gentlemen who were there, turned their\nheads away. The lost was found again. The dead was alive. The\nprodigal was on his brother's heart,--his own full of love, gratitude,\nrepentance.\n\n\"Come away, James! I think we are not wanted any more here,\" says the\nColonel. \"Good-night, boys. Some ladies in Hill Street won't be able to\nsleep for this strange news. Or will you go home and sup with 'em, and\ntell them the story?\"\n\nNo, with many thanks, the boys would not go and sup to-night. They had\nstories of their own to tell. \"Quick, Gumbo, with the trunks! Good-bye,\nMr. Amos!\" Harry felt almost unhappy when he went away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L. Contains a Great deal of the Finest Morality\n\n\nWhen first we had the honour to be presented to Sir Miles Warrington at\nthe King's drawing-room, in St. James's Palace, I confess that I, for\none--looking at his jolly round face, his broad round waistcoat, his\nhearty country manner,--expected that I had lighted upon a most eligible\nand agreeable acquaintance at last, and was about to become intimate\nwith that noblest specimen of the human race, the bepraised of songs and\nmen, the good old English country gentleman. In fact, to be a good old\ncountry gentleman is to hold a position nearest the gods, and at the\nsummit of earthly felicity. To have a large unencumbered rent-roll, and\nthe rents regularly paid by adoring farmers, who bless their stars at\nhaving such a landlord as his honour; to have no tenant holding back\nwith his money, excepting just one, perhaps, who does so in order to\ngive occasion to Good Old Country Gentleman to show his sublime charity\nand universal benevolence of soul; to hunt three days a week, love the\nsport of all things, and have perfect good health and good appetite in\nconsequence; to have not only good appetite, but a good dinner; to sit\ndown at church in the midst of a chorus of blessings from the villagers,\nthe first man in the parish, the benefactor of the parish, with a\nconsciousness of consummate desert, saying, \"Have mercy upon us,\nmiserable sinners,\" to be sure, but only for form's sake, because the\nwords are written in the book, and to give other folks an example--a G.\nO. C. G. a miserable sinner! So healthy, so wealthy, so jolly, so much\nrespected by the vicar, so much honoured by the tenants, so much beloved\nand admired by his family, amongst whom his story of grouse in the\ngunroom causes laughter from generation to generation;--this perfect\nbeing a miserable sinner! Allons donc! Give any man good health and\ntemper, five thousand a year, the adoration of his parish, and the love\nand worship of his family, and I'll defy you to make him so heartily\ndissatisfied with his spiritual condition as to set himself down a\nmiserable anything. If you were a Royal Highness, and went to church\nin the most perfect health and comfort, the parson waiting to begin the\nservice until your R. H. came in, would you believe yourself to be a\nmiserable, etc.? You might when racked with gout, in solitude, the fear\nof death before your eyes, the doctor having cut off your bottle of\nclaret, and ordered arrowroot and a little sherry,--you might then be\nhumiliated, and acknowledge your own shortcomings, and the vanity of\nthings in general; but, in high health, sunshine, spirits, that word\nmiserable is only a form. You can't think in your heart that you are\nto be pitied much for the present. If you are to be miserable, what is\nColin Ploughman, with the ague, seven children, two pounds a year rent\nto pay for his cottage, and eight shillings a week? No: a healthy, rich,\njolly, country gentleman, if miserable, has a very supportable misery:\nif a sinner, has very few people to tell him so.\n\nIt may be he becomes somewhat selfish; but at least he is satisfied with\nhimself. Except my lord at the castle, there is nobody for miles and\nmiles round so good or so great. His admirable wife ministers to him,\nand to the whole parish, indeed: his children bow before him: the vicar\nof the parish reverences him: he is respected at quarter-sessions: he\ncauses poachers to tremble: off go all hats before him at market: and\nround about his great coach, in which his spotless daughters and sublime\nlady sit, all the country-town tradesmen cringe, bareheaded, and the\nfarmeers' women drop innumerable curtseys. From their cushions in the\ngreat coach the ladies look down beneficently, and smile on the poorer\nfolk. They buy a yard of ribbon with affability; they condescend to\npurchase an ounce of salts, or a packet of flower-seeds: they deign to\ncheapen a goose: their drive is like a royal progress; a happy people\nis supposed to press round them and bless them. Tradesmen bow, farmers'\nwives bob, town-boys, waving their ragged hats, cheer the red-faced\ncoachman as he drives the fat bays, and cry, \"Sir Miles for ever! Throw\nus a halfpenny, my lady!\"\n\nBut suppose the market-woman should hide her fat goose when Sir Miles's\ncoach comes, out of terror lest my lady, spying the bird, should insist\non purchasing it a bargain? Suppose no coppers ever were known to come\nout of the royal coach window? Suppose Sir Miles regaled his tenants\nwith notoriously small beer, and his poor with especially thin broth?\nThis may be our fine old English gentleman's way. There have been not a\nfew fine English gentlemen and ladies of this sort; who patronised the\npoor without ever relieving them, who called out \"Amen!\" at church\nas loud as the clerk; who went through all the forms of piety, and\ndischarged all the etiquette of old English gentlemanhood; who bought\nvirtue a bargain, as it were, and had no doubt they were honouring\nher by the purchase. Poor Harry in his distress asked help from his\nrelations: his aunt sent him a tract and her blessing; his uncle had\nbusiness out of town, and could not, of course, answer the poor boy's\npetition. How much of this behaviour goes on daily in respectable life,\nthink you? You can fancy Lord and Lady Macbeth concocting a murder,\nand coming together with some little awkwardness, perhaps, when the\ntransaction was done and over; but my Lord and Lady Skinflint, when they\nconsult in their bedroom about giving their luckless nephew a helping\nhand, and determine to refuse, and go down to family prayers, and meet\ntheir children and domestics, and discourse virtuously before them, and\nthen remain together, and talk nose to nose,--what can they think of one\nanother? and of the poor kinsman fallen among the thieves, and groaning\nfor help unheeded? How can they go on with those virtuous airs? How can\nthey dare look each other in the face?\n\nDare? Do you suppose they think they have done wrong? Do you suppose\nSkinflint is tortured with remorse at the idea of the distress which\ncalled to him in vain, and of the hunger which he sent empty away? Not\nhe. He is indignant with Prodigal for being a fool: he is not ashamed\nof himself for being a curmudgeon. What? a young man with such\nopportunities throw them away? A fortune spent amongst gamblers and\nspendthrifts? Horrible, horrible! Take warning, my child, by this\nunfortunate young man's behaviour, and see the consequences of\nextravagance. According to the great and always Established Church of\nthe Pharisees, here is an admirable opportunity for a moral discourse,\nand an assertion of virtue. \"And to think of his deceiving us so!\" cries\nout Lady Warrington.\n\n\"Very sad, very sad, my dear!\" says Sir Miles, wagging his head.\n\n\"To think of so much extravagance in one so young!\" cries Lady\nWarrington. \"Cards, bets, feasts at taverns of the most wicked\nprofusion, carriage and riding horses, the company of the wealthy and\nprofligate of his own sex, and, I fear, of the most iniquitous persons\nof ours.\"\n\n\"Hush, my Lady Warrington!\" cries her husband, glancing towards the\nspotless Dora and Flora, who held down their blushing heads, at the\nmention of the last naughty persons.\n\n\"No wonder my poor children hide their faces!\" mamma continues. \"My\ndears, I wish even the existence of such creatures could be kept from\nyou!\"\n\n\"They can't go to an opera, or the park, without seeing 'em, to be\nsure,\" says Sir Miles.\n\n\"To think we should have introduced such a young serpent into the\nbosom of our family! and have left him in the company of that guileless\ndarling!\" and she points to Master Miles.\n\n\"Who's a serpent, mamma?\" inquires that youth. \"First you said cousin\nHarry was bad: then he was good: now he is bad again. Which is he, Sir\nMiles?\"\n\n\"He has faults, like all of us, Miley, my dear. Your cousin has been\nwild, and you must take warning by him.\"\n\n\"Was not my elder brother, who died--my naughty brother--was not he wild\ntoo? He was not kind to me when I was quite a little boy. He never gave\nme money, nor toys, nor rode with me, nor--why do you cry, mamma? Sure I\nremember how Hugh and you were always fight----\"\n\n\"Silence, sir!\" cry out papa and the girls in a breath. \"Don't you know\nyou are never to mention that name?\"\n\n\"I know I love Harry, and I didn't love Hugh,\" says the sturdy little\nrebel. \"And if cousin Harry is in prison, I'll give him my half-guinea\nthat my godpapa gave me, and anything I have--yes, anything,\nexcept--except my little horse--and my silver waistcoat--and--and\nSnowball and Sweetlips at home--and--and, yes, my custard after dinner.\"\nThis was in reply to a hint of sister Dora. \"But I'd give him some of\nit,\" continues Miles, after a pause.\n\n\"Shut thy mouth with it, child, and then go about thy business,\" says\npapa, amused. Sir Miles Warrington had a considerable fund of easy\nhumour.\n\n\"Who would have thought he should ever be so wild?\" mamma goes on.\n\n\"Nay. Youth is the season for wild oats, my dear.\"\n\n\"That we should be so misled in him!\" sighed the girls.\n\n\"That he should kiss us both!\" cries papa.\n\n\"Sir Miles Warrington, I have no patience with that sort of vulgarity!\"\nsays the majestic matron.\n\n\"Which of you was the favourite yesterday, girls?\" continues the father.\n\n\"Favourite, indeed! I told him over and over again of my engagement\nto dear Tom--I did, Dora--why do you sneer, if you please?\" says the\nhandsome sister.\n\n\"Nay, to do her justice, so did Dora too,\" said papa.\n\n\"Because Flora seemed to wish to forget her engagement with dear Tom\nsometimes,\" remarks the sister.\n\n\"I never, never, never wished to break with Tom! It's wicked of you to\nsay so, Dora! It is you who were for ever sneering at him: it is you who\nare always envious because I happen--at least, because gentlemen imagine\nthat I am not ill-looking, and prefer me to some folks, in spite of\nall their learning and wit!\" cries Flora, tossing her head over her\nshoulder, and looking at the glass.\n\n\"Why are you always looking there, sister?\" says the artless Miles\njunior. \"Sure, you must know your face well enough!\"\n\n\"Some people look at it just as often, child, who haven't near such good\nreason,\" says papa, gallantly.\n\n\"If you mean me, Sir Miles, I thank you,\" cries Dora. \"My face is as\nHeaven made it, and my father and mother gave it me. 'Tis not my fault\nif I resemble my papa's family. If my head is homely, at least I have\ngot some brains in it. I envious of Flora, indeed, because she has found\nfavour in the sight of poor Tom Claypool! I should as soon be proud of\ncaptivating a ploughboy!\"\n\n\"Pray, miss, was your Mr. Harry, of Virginia, much wiser than Tom\nClaypool? You would have had him for the asking!\" exclaims Flora.\n\n\"And so would you, miss, and have dropped Tom Claypool into the sea!\"\ncries Dora.\n\n\"I wouldn't.\"\n\n\"You would.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't;\"--and da capo goes the conversation--the shuttlecock of\nwrath being briskly battled from one sister to another.\n\n\"Oh, my children! Is this the way you dwell together in unity?\" exclaims\ntheir excellent female parent, laying down her embroidery. \"What an\nexample you set to this Innocent!\"\n\n\"Like to see 'em fight, my lady!\" cries the Innocent, rubbing his hands.\n\n\"At her, Flora! Worry her, Dora! To it again, you little rogues!\" says\nfacetious papa. 'Tis good sport, ain't it, Miley?\"\n\n\"Oh, Sir Miles! Oh, my children! These disputes are unseemly. They tear\na fond mother's heart,\" says mamma, with majestic action, though bearing\nthe laceration of her bosom with much seeming equanimity. \"What cause\nfor thankfulness ought we to have that watchful parents have prevented\nany idle engagements between you and your misguided cousin. If we have\nbeen mistaken in him, is it not a mercy that we have found out our error\nin time? If either of you had any preference for him, your excellent\ngood sense, my loves, will teach you to overcome, to eradicate, the vain\nfeeling. That we cherished and were kind to him can never be a source of\nregret. 'Tis a proof of our good-nature. What we have to regret, I fear,\nis, that your cousin should have proved unworthy of our kindness, and,\ncoming away from the society of gamblers, play-actors, and the like,\nshould have brought contamination--pollution, I had almost said--into\nthis pure family!\"\n\n\"Oh, bother mamma's sermons!\" says Flora, as my lady pursues a harangue\nof which we only give the commencement here, but during which papa,\nwhistling, gently quits the room on tiptoe, whilst the artless Miles\njunior winds his top and pegs it under the robes of his sisters. It has\ndone humming, and staggered and tumbled over, and expired in its usual\ntipsy manner, long ere Lady Warrington has finished her sermon.\n\n\"Were you listening to me, my child?\" she asks, laying her hand on her\ndarling's head.\n\n\"Yes, mother,\" says he, with the whipcord in his mouth, and proceeding\nto wind up his sportive engine. \"You was a-saying that Harry was very\npoor now, and that we oughtn't to help him. That's what you was saying;\nwasn't it, madam?\"\n\n\"My poor child, thou wilt understand me better when thou art older!\"\nsays mamma, turning towards that ceiling to which her eyes always have\nrecourse.\n\n\"Get out, you little wretch!\" cries one of the sisters. The artless one\nhas pegged his top at Dora's toes, and laughs with the glee of merry\nboyhood at his sister's discomfiture.\n\nBut what is this? Who comes here? Why does Sir Miles return to the\ndrawing-room, and why does Tom Claypool, who strides after the Baronet,\nwear a countenance so disturbed?\n\n\"Here's a pretty business, my Lady Warrington!\" cries Sir Miles. \"Here's\na wonderful wonder of wonders, girls!\"\n\n\"For goodness' sake, gentlemen, what is your intelligence?\" asks the\nvirtuous matron.\n\n\"The whole town's talking about it, my lady!\" says Tom Claypool puffing\nfor breath.\n\n\"Tom has seen him,\" continued Sir Miles.\n\n\"Seen both of them, my Lady Warrington. They were at Ranelagh last\nnight, with a regular mob after 'em. And so like, that but for their\ndifferent ribbons you would hardly have told one from the other. One was\nin blue, the other in brown; but I'm certain he has worn both the suits\nhere.\"\n\n\"What suits?\"\n\n\"What one,--what other?\" call the girls.\n\n\"Why, your fortunate youth, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Our precious Virginian, and heir to the principality!\" says Sir Miles.\n\n\"Is my nephew, then, released from his incarceration?\" asks her\nladyship. \"And is he again plunged in the vortex of dissip----\"\n\n\"Confound him!\" roars out the Baronet, with an expression which I fear\nwas even stronger. \"What should you think, my Lady Warrington, if this\nprecious nephew of mine should turn out to be an impostor; by George! no\nbetter than an adventurer?\"\n\n\"An inward monitor whispered me as much!\" cried the lady; \"but I\ndashed from me the unworthy suspicion. Speak, Sir Miles, we burn with\nimpatience to listen to your intelligence.\"\n\n\"I'll--speak, my love, when you've done,\" says Sir Miles. \"Well, what do\nyou think of my gentleman, who comes into my house, dines at my table,\nis treated as one of this family, kisses my--\"\n\n\"What?\" asks Tom Claypool, firing as red as his waistcoat.\n\n\"--Hem! Kisses my wife's hand, and is treated in the fondest manner, by\nGeorge! What do you think of this fellow, who talks of his property and\nhis principality, by Jupiter!--turning out to be a beggarly SECOND SON!\nA beggar, my Lady Warrington, by----\"\n\n\"Sir Miles Warrington, no violence of language before these dear ones!\nI sink to the earth, confounded by this unutterable hypocrisy. And did\nI entrust thee to a pretender, my blessed boy? Did I leave thee with an\nimpostor, my innocent one?\" the matron cries, fondling her son.\n\n\"Who's an impostor, my lady?\" asks the child.\n\n\"That confounded young scamp of a Harry Warrington!\" bawls out papa; on\nwhich the little Miles, after wearing a puzzled look for a moment, and\nyielding to I know not what hidden emotion, bursts out crying.\n\nHis admirable mother proposes to clutch him to her heart, but he rejects\nthe pure caress, bawling only the louder, and kicking frantically about\nthe maternal gremium, as the butler announces \"Mr. George Warrington,\nMr. Henry Warrington!\" Miles is dropped from his mother's lap. Sir\nMiles's face emulates Mr. Claypool's waistcoat. The three ladies rise\nup, and make three most frigid curtseys, as our two young men enter the\nroom.\n\nLittle Miles runs towards them. He holds out a little hand. \"Oh, Harry!\nNo! which is Harry? You're my Harry,\" and he chooses rightly this time.\n\"Oh, you dear Harry! I'm so glad you are come! and they've been abusing\nyou so!\"\n\n\"I am come to pay my duty to my uncle,\" says the dark-haired Mr.\nWarrington; \"and to thank him for his hospitalities to my brother\nHenry.\"\n\n\"What, nephew George? My brother's face and eyes! Boys both, I am\ndelighted to see you!\" cries their uncle, grasping affectionately a hand\nof each, as his honest face radiates with pleasure.\n\n\"This indeed hath been a most mysterious and a most providential\nresuscitation,\" says Lady Warrington. \"Only I wonder that my nephew\nHenry concealed the circumstance until now,\" she adds, with a sidelong\nglance at both young gentlemen.\n\n\"He knew it no more than your ladyship,\" says Mr. Warrington. The young\nladies looked at each other with downcast eyes.\n\n\"Indeed, sir! a most singular circumstance,\" says mamma, with another\ncurtsey. \"We had heard of it, sir; and Mr. Claypool, our county\nneighbour, had just brought us the intelligence, and it even now formed\nthe subject of my conversation with my daughters.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" cries out a little voice, \"and do you know, Harry, father and\nmother said you was a--a imp----\"\n\n\"Silence, my child! Screwby, convey Master Warrington to his own\napartment! These, Mr. Warrington--or, I suppose I should say nephew\nGeorge--are your cousins.\" Two curtseys--two cheeses are made--two hands\nare held out. Mr. Esmond Warrington makes a profound low bow, which\nembraces (and it is the only embrace which the gentleman offers) all\nthree ladies. He lays his hat to his heart. He says, \"It is my duty,\nmadam, to pay my respects to my uncle and cousins, and to thank your\nladyship for such hospitality as you have been enabled to show to my\nbrother.\"\n\n\"It was not much, nephew, but it was our best. Ods bobs!\" cries the\nhearty Sir Miles, \"it was our best!\"\n\n\"And I appreciate it, sir,\" says Mr. Warrington, looking gravely round\nat the family.\n\n\"Give us thy hand. Not a word more,\" says Sir Miles \"What? do you think\nI'm a cannibal, and won't extend the hand of hospitality to my dear\nbrother's son? What say you, lads? Will you eat our mutton at three?\nThis is my neighbour, Tom Claypool, son to Sir Thomas Claypool, Baronet,\nand my very good friend. Hey, Tom! Thou wilt be of the party, Tom? Thou\nknowest our brew, hey, my boy?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know it, Sir Miles,\" replies Tom, with no peculiar expression of\nrapture on his face.\n\n\"And thou shalt taste it, my boy,\" thou shalt taste it! What is\nthere for dinner, my Lady Warrington? Our food is plain, but plenty,\nlads--plain, but plenty!\"\n\n\"We cannot partake of it to-day, sir. We dine with a friend who occupies\nmy Lord Wrotham's house, your neighbour. Colonel Lambert--Major-General\nLambert he has just been made.\"\n\n\"With two daughters, I think--countrified-looking girls--are they not?\"\nasks Flora.\n\n\"I think I have remarked two little rather dowdy things,\" says Dora.\n\n\"They are as good girls as any in England!\" breaks out Harry, to whom no\none had thought of saying a single word. His reign was over, you see. He\nwas nobody. What wonder, then, that he should not be visible?\n\n\"Oh, indeed, cousin!\" says Dora, with a glance at the young man, who\nsate with burning cheeks, chafing at the humiliation put upon him, but\nnot knowing how or whether he should notice it. \"Oh, indeed, cousin! You\nare very charitable--or very lucky, I'm sure! You see angels where we\nonly see ordinary little persons. I'm sure I could not imagine who were\nthose odd-looking people in Lord Wrotham's coach, with his handsome\nliveries. But if they were three angels, I have nothing to say.\"\n\n\"My brother is an enthusiast,\" interposes George. \"He is often mistaken\nabout women.\"\n\n\"Oh, really!\" says Dora, looking a little uneasy.\n\n\"I fear my nephew Henry has indeed met with some unfavourable specimens\nof our sex,\" the matron remarks, with a groan.\n\n\"We are so easily taken in, madam--we are both very young yet--we shall\ngrow older and learn better.\"\n\n\"Most sincerely, nephew George, I trust you may. You have my best\nwishes, my prayers, for your brother's welfare and your own. No efforts\nof ours have been wanting. At a painful moment, to which I will not\nfurther allude--\"\n\n\"And when my uncle Sir Miles was out of town,\" says George, looking\ntowards the Baronet, who smiles at him with affectionate approval.\n\n\"--I sent your brother a work which I thought might comfort him, and I\nknow might improve him. Nay, do not thank me; I claim no credit; I did\nbut my duty--a humble woman's duty--for what are this world's goods,\nnephew, compared to the welfare of a soul? If I did good, I am thankful;\nif I was useful, I rejoice. If, through my means, you have been brought,\nHarry, to consider----\"\n\n\"Oh! the sermon, is it?\" breaks in downright Harry. \"I hadn't time to\nread a single syllable of it, aunt--thank you. You see I don't care much\nabout that kind of thing--but thank you all the same.\"\n\n\"The intention is everything,\" says Mr. Warrington, \"and we are both\ngrateful. Our dear friend, General Lambert, intended to give bail for\nHarry; but, happily, I had funds of Harry's with me to meet any demands\nupon us. But the kindness is the same, and I am grateful to the friend\nwho hastened to my brother's rescue when he had most need of aid, and\nwhen his own relations happened--so unfortunately--to be out of town.\"\n\n\"Anything I could do, my dear boy, I'm sure--my brother's son--my own\nnephew--ods bobs! you know--that is, anything--anything, you know!\"\ncries Sir Miles, bringing his own hand into George's with a generous\nsmack. \"You can't stay and dine with us? Put off the Colonel--the\nGeneral--do, now! Or name a day. My Lady Warrington, make my nephew name\na day when he will sit under his grandfather's picture, and drink some\nof his wine!\"\n\n\"His intellectual faculties seem more developed than those of his\nunlucky younger brother,\" remarked my lady, when the young gentlemen had\ntaken their leave. \"The younger must be reckless and extravagant about\nmoney indeed, for did you remark, Sir Miles, the loss of his\nreversion in Virginia--the amount of which has, no doubt, been grossly\nexaggerated, but, nevertheless, must be something considerable--did\nyou, I say, remark that the ruin of Harry's prospects scarcely seemed to\naffect him?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't be at all surprised that the elder turns out to be as poor\nas the young one,\" says Dora, tossing her head.\n\n\"He! he! Did you see that cousin George had one of cousin Harry's suits\nof clothes on--the brown and gold--that one he wore when he went with\nyou to the oratorio, Flora?\"\n\n\"Did he take Flora to an oratorio?\" asks Mr. Claypool, fiercely.\n\n\"I was ill and couldn't go, and my cousin went with her,\" says Dora.\n\n\"Far be it from me to object to any innocent amusement, much less to the\nmusic of Mr. Handel, dear Mr. Claypool,\" says mamma. \"Music refines the\nsoul, elevates the understanding, is heard in our churches, and\n'tis well known was practised by King David. Your operas I shun as\ndeleterious; your ballets I would forbid to my children as most\nimmoral; but music, my dears! May we enjoy it, like everything else in\nreason--may we----\"\n\n\"There's the music of the dinner-bell,\" says papa, rubbing his hands.\n\"Come, girls. Screwby, go and fetch Master Miley. Tom take down my\nlady.\"\n\n\"Nay, dear Thomas, I walk but slowly. Go you with dearest Flora\ndownstairs,\" says Virtue.\n\nBut Dora took care to make the evening pleasant by talking of Handel and\noratorios constantly during dinner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI. Conticuere Omnes\n\n\nAcross the way, if the gracious reader will please to step over with\nus, he will find our young gentlemen at Lord Wrotham's house, which\nhis lordship has lent to his friend the General, and that little\nfamily party assembled, with which we made acquaintance at Oakhurst and\nTunbridge Wells. James Wolfe has promised to come to dinner; but James\nis dancing attendance upon Miss Lowther, and would rather have a glance\nfrom her eyes than the finest kickshaws dressed by Lord Wrotham's cook,\nor the dessert which is promised for the entertainment at which you\nare just going to sit down. You will make the sixth. You may take Mr.\nWolfe's place. You may be sure he won't come. As for me, I will stand at\nthe sideboard and report the conversation.\n\nNote first, how happy the women look! When Harry Warrington was taken\nby those bailiffs, I had intended to tell you how the good Mrs. Lambert,\nhearing of the boy's mishap, had flown to her husband, and had begged,\nimplored, insisted, that her Martin should help him. \"Never mind his\nrebeldom of the other day; never mind about his being angry that his\npresents were returned--of course anybody would be angry, much more such\na high-spirited lad as Harry! Never mind about our being so poor, and\nwanting all our spare money for the boys at college; there must be some\nway of getting him out of the scrape. Did you not get Charles Watkins\nout of the scrape two years ago; and did he not pay you back every\nhalfpenny? Yes; and you made a whole family happy, blessed be God! and\nMrs. Watkins prays for you and blesses you to this very day, and I think\neverything has prospered with us since. And I have no doubt it has made\nyou a major-general--no earthly doubt,\" says the fond wife.\n\nNow, as Martin Lambert requires very little persuasion to do a kind\naction, he in this instance lets himself be persuaded easily enough, and\nhaving made up his mind to seek for friend James Wolfe, and give bail\nfor Harry, he takes his leave and his hat, and squeezes Theo's hand, who\nseems to divine his errand (or perhaps that silly mamma has blabbed it),\nand kisses little Hetty's flushed cheek, and away he goes out of the\napartment where the girls and their mother are sitting, though he is\nfollowed out of the room by the latter.\n\nWhen she is alone with him, that enthusiastic matron cannot control\nher feelings any longer. She flings her arms round her husband's neck,\nkisses him a hundred and twenty-five times in an instant--calls God to\nbless him--cries plentifully on his shoulder; and in this sentimental\nattitude is discovered by old Mrs. Quiggett, my lord's housekeeper, who\nis bustling about the house, and, I suppose, is quite astounded at the\nconjugal phenomenon.\n\n\"We have had a tiff, and we are making it up! Don't tell tales out of\nschool, Mrs. Quiggett!\" says the gentleman, walking off.\n\n\"Well, I never!\" says Mrs. Quiggett, with a shrill, strident laugh, like\na venerable old cockatoo--which white, hook-nosed, long-lived bird Mrs.\nQuiggett strongly resembles. \"Well, I never!\" says Quiggett, laughing\nand shaking her old sides till all her keys, and, as one may fancy, her\nold ribs clatter and jingle.\n\n\"Oh, Quiggett!\" sobs out Mrs. Lambert, \"what a man that is!\"\n\n\"You've been a-quarrelling, have you, mum, and making it up? That's\nright.\"\n\n\"Quarrel with him? He never told a greater story. My General is an\nangel, Quiggett. I should like to worship him. I should like to fall\ndown at his boots and kiss 'em, I should! There never was a man so good\nas my General. What have I done to have such a man? How dare I have such\na good husband?\"\n\n\"My dear, I think there's a pair of you,\" says the old cockatoo; \"and\nwhat would you like for your supper?\"\n\nWhen Lambert comes back very late to that meal, and tells what has\nhappened, how Harry is free, and how his brother has come to life, and\nrescued him, you may fancy what a commotion the whole of those people\nare in! If Mrs. Lambert's General was an angel before, what is he now!\nIf she wanted to embrace his boots in the morning, pray what further\noffice of wallowing degradation would she prefer in the evening? Little\nHetty comes and nestles up to her father quite silent, and drinks\na little drop out of his glass. Theo's and mamma's faces beam with\nhappiness, like two moons of brightness.... After supper, those four at\na certain signal fall down on their knees--glad homage paying in awful\nmirth-rejoicing, and with such pure joy as angels do, we read, for the\nsinner that repents. There comes a great knocking at the door whilst\nthey are so gathered together. Who can be there? My lord is in the\ncountry miles off. It is past midnight now; so late have they been, so\nlong have they been talking! I think Mrs. Lambert guesses who is there.\n\n\"This is George,\" says a young gentleman, leading in another. \"We have\nbeen to Aunt Bernstein. We couldn't go to bed, Aunt Lambert, without\ncoming to thank you too. You dear, dear, good----\" There is no more\nspeech audible. Aunt Lambert is kissing Harry, Theo has snatched up\nHetty who is as pale as death, and is hugging her into life again.\nGeorge Warrington stands with his hat off, and then (when Harry's\ntransaction is concluded) goes up and kisses Mrs. Lambert's hand: the\nGeneral passes his across his eyes. I protest they are all in a very\ntender and happy state. Generous hearts sometimes feel it, when Wrong\nis forgiven, when Peace is restored, when Love returns that had been\nthought lost.\n\n\"We came from Aunt Bernstein's; we saw lights here, you see; we couldn't\ngo to sleep without saying good-night to you all,\" says Harry. \"Could\nwe, George?\"\n\n\"'Tis certainly a famous nightcap you have brought us, boys,\" says the\nGeneral. \"When are you to come and dine with us? To-morrow?\" No, they\nmust go to Madame Bernstein's to-morrow.\n\nThe next day, then? Yes, they would come the next day--and that is the\nvery day we are writing about: and this is the very dinner, at which, in\nthe room of Lieutenant-Colonel James Wolfe, absent on private affairs,\nmy gracious reader has just been invited to sit down.\n\nTo sit down, and why, if you please? Not to a mere Barmecide dinner--no,\nno--but to hear MR. GEORGE ESMOND WARRINGTON'S STATEMENT, which of\ncourse he is going to make. Here they all sit--not in my lord's grand\ndining-room, you know, but in the snug study or parlour in front. The\ncloth has been withdrawn, the General has given the King's health, the\nservants have left the room, the guests sit conticent, and so, after a\nlittle hemming and blushing, Mr. George proceeds:--\n\n\"I remember, at the table of our General, how the little Philadelphia\nagent, whose wit and shrewdness we had remarked at home, made the very\nobjections to the conduct of the campaign of which its disastrous issue\nshowed the justice. 'Of course,' says he, 'your Excellency's troops once\nbefore Fort Duquesne, such a weak little place will never be able to\nresist such a general, such an army, such artillery, as will there be\nfound attacking it. But do you calculate, sir, on the difficulty of\nreaching the place? Your Excellency's march will be through woods almost\nuntrodden, over roads which you will have to make yourself, and your\nline will be some four miles long. This slender line, having to make its\nway through the forest, will be subject to endless attacks in front, in\nrear, in flank, by enemies whom you will never see, and whose constant\npractice in war is the dexterous laying of ambuscades.'--'Psha, sir!'\nsays the General, 'the savages may frighten your raw American militia'\n(Thank your Excellency for the compliment, Mr. Washington seems to\nsay, who is sitting at the table), 'but the Indians will never make\nany impression on his Majesty's regular troops.'--'I heartily hope not,\nsir,' says Mr. Franklin, with a sigh; and of course the gentlemen of the\nGeneral's family sneered at the postmaster, as at a pert civilian who\nhad no call to be giving his opinion on matters entirely beyond his\ncomprehension.\n\n\"We despised the Indians on our own side, and our commander made light\nof them and their service. Our officers disgusted the chiefs who were\nwith us by outrageous behaviour to their women. There were not above\nseven or eight who remained with our force. Had we had a couple of\nhundred in our front on that fatal 9th of July, the event of the day\nmust have been very different. They would have flung off the attack of\nthe French Indians; they would have prevented the surprise and panic\nwhich ensued. 'Tis known now that the French had even got ready to give\nup their fort, never dreaming of the possibility of a defence, and\nthat the French Indians themselves remonstrated against the audacity of\nattacking such an overwhelming force as ours.\n\n\"I was with our General with the main body of the troops when the\nfiring began in front of us, and one aide-de-camp after another was sent\nforwards. At first the enemy's attack was answered briskly by our own\nadvanced people, and our men huzzaed and cheered with good heart. But\nvery soon our fire grew slacker, whilst from behind every tree and bush\nround about us came single shots, which laid man after man low. We were\nmarching in orderly line, the skirmishers in front, the colours and two\nof our small guns in the centre, the baggage well guarded bringing up\nthe rear, and were moving over a ground which was open and clear for a\nmile or two, and for some half mile in breadth, a thick tangled covert\nof brushwood and trees on either side of us. After the firing had\ncontinued for some brief time in front, it opened from both sides of the\nenvironing wood on our advancing column. The men dropped rapidly, the\nofficers in greater number than the men. At first, as I said, these\ncheered and answered the enemy's fire, our guns even opening on the\nwood, and seeming to silence the French in ambuscade there. But the\nhidden rifle-firing began again. Our men halted, huddled up together, in\nspite of the shouts and orders of the General and officers to advance,\nand fired wildly into the brushwood--of course making no impression.\nThose in advance came running back on the main body frightened, and many\nof them wounded. They reported there were five thousand Frenchmen and a\nlegion of yelling Indian devils in front, who were scalping our people\nas they fell. We could hear their cries from the wood around as our\nmen dropped under their rifles. There was no inducing the people to go\nforward now. One aide-de-camp after another was sent forward, and never\nreturned. At last it came to be my turn, and I was sent with a message\nto Captain Fraser of Halkett's in front, which he was never to receive\nnor I to deliver.\n\n\"I had not gone thirty yards in advance when a rifle-ball struck my\nleg, and I fell straightway to the ground. I recollect a rush forward\nof Indians and Frenchmen after that, the former crying their fiendish\nwar-cries, the latter as fierce as their savage allies. I was amazed and\nmortified to see how few of the whitecoats there were. Not above a score\npassed me; indeed there were not fifty in the accursed action in which\ntwo of the bravest regiments of the British army were put to rout.\n\n\"One of them, who was half Indian half Frenchman, with mocassins and\na white uniform coat and cockade, seeing me prostrate on the ground,\nturned back and ran towards me, his musket clubbed over his head to dash\nmy brains out and plunder me as I lay. I had my little fusil which\nmy Harry gave me when I went on the campaign; it had fallen by me and\nwithin my reach, luckily: I seized it, and down fell the Frenchman dead\nat six yards before me. I was saved for that time, but bleeding from my\nwound and very faint. I swooned almost in trying to load my piece,\nand it dropped from my hand, and the hand itself sank lifeless to the\nground.\n\n\"I was scarcely in my senses, the yells and shots ringing dimly in\nmy ears, when I saw an Indian before me, busied over the body of the\nFrenchman I had just shot, but glancing towards me as I lay on the\nground bleeding. He first rifled the Frenchman, tearing open his coat,\nand feeling in his pockets: he then scalped him, and with his bleeding\nknife in his mouth advanced towards me. I saw him coming as through a\nfilm, as in a dream--I was powerless to move, or to resist him.\n\n\"He put his knee upon my chest: with one bloody hand he seized my long\nhair and lifted my head from the ground, and as he lifted it, he enabled\nme to see a French officer rapidly advancing behind him.\n\n\"Good God! It was young Florac, who was my second in the duel at Quebec.\n'A moi, Florac!' I cried out. 'C'est Georges! aide moi!'\n\n\"He started; ran up to me at the cry, laid his hand on the Indian's\nshoulder, and called him to hold. But the savage did not understand\nFrench, or choose to understand it. He clutched my hair firmer, and\nwaving his dripping knife round it, motioned to the French lad to leave\nhim to his prey. I could only cry out again and piteously, 'A moi!'\n\n\"'Ah, canaille, tu veux du sang? Prends!' said Florac, with a curse; and\nthe next moment, and with an ugh, the Indian fell over my chest dead,\nwith Florac's sword through his body.\n\n\"My friend looked round him. 'Eh!' says he, 'la belle affaire! Where art\nthou wounded? in the leg?' He bound my leg tight round with his sash.\n'The others will kill thee if they find thee here. Ah, tiens! Put me on\nthis coat, and this hat with the white cockade. Call out in French if\nany of our people pass. They will take thee for one of us. Thou art\nBrunet of the Quebec Volunteers. God guard thee, Brunet! I must go\nforward. 'Tis a general debacle, and the whole of your redcoats are on\nthe run, my poor boy.' Ah, what a rout it was! What a day of disgrace\nfor England!\n\n\"Florac's rough application stopped the bleeding of my leg, and the kind\ncreature helped me to rest against a tree, and to load my fusil, which\nhe placed within reach of me, to protect me in case any other marauder\nshould have a mind to attack me. And he gave me the gourd of that\nunlucky French soldier, who had lost his own life in the deadly game\nwhich he had just played against me, and the drink the gourd contained\nserved greatly to refresh and invigorate me. Taking a mark of the tree\nagainst which I lay, and noting the various bearings of the country, so\nas to be able again to find me, the young lad hastened on to the front.\n'Thou seest how much I love thee, George,' he said, 'that I stay behind\nin a moment like this.' I forget whether I told thee Harry, that Florac\nwas under some obligation to me. I had won money of him at cards,\nat Quebec--only playing at his repeated entreaty--and there was a\ndifficulty about paying, and I remitted his debt to me, and lighted\nmy pipe with his note-of-hand. You see, sir, that you are not the only\ngambler in the family.\n\n\"At evening, when the dismal pursuit was over, the faithful fellow came\nback to me, with a couple of Indians, who had each reeking scalps at\ntheir belts, and whom he informed that I was a Frenchman, his brother,\nwho had been wounded early in the day, and must be carried back to the\nfort. They laid me in one of their blankets, and carried me, groaning,\nwith the trusty Florac by my side. Had he left me, they would assuredly\nhave laid me down, plundered me, and added my hair to that of the\nwretches whose bleeding spoils hung at their girdles. He promised them\nbrandy at the fort, if they brought me safely there: I have but a dim\nrecollection of the journey: the anguish of my wound was extreme: I\nfainted more than once. We came to the end of our march at last. I was\ntaken into the fort, and carried to the officer's log-house, and laid\nupon Florac's own bed.\n\n\"Happy for me was my insensibility. I had been brought into the fort\nas a wounded French soldier of the garrison. I heard afterwards, that\nduring my delirium the few prisoners who had been made on the day of our\ndisaster, had been brought under the walls of Duquesne by their savage\ncaptors, and there horribly burned, tortured, and butchered by the\nIndians, under the eyes of the garrison.\"\n\nAs George speaks, one may fancy a thrill of horror running through his\nsympathising audience. Theo takes Hetty's hand, and looks at George in\na very alarmed manner. Harry strikes his fist upon the table, and cries,\n\"The bloody, murderous, red-skinned villains! There will never be peace\nfor us until they are all hunted down!\"\n\n\"They were offering a hundred and thirty dollars apiece for Indian\nscalps in Pennsylvania, when I left home,\" says George, demurely, \"and\nfifty for women.\"\n\n\"Fifty for women, my love! Do you hear that, Mrs. Lambert?\" cries the\nColonel, lifting up his wife's hair.\n\n\"The murderous villains!\" says Harry, again. \"Hunt 'em down, sir! Hunt\n'em down!\"\n\n\"I know not how long I lay in my fever,\" George resumed. \"When I awoke\nto my senses, my dear Florac was gone. He and his company had been\ndespatched on an enterprise against an English fort on the Pennsylvanian\nterritory, which the French claimed, too. In Duquesne, when I came to\nbe able to ask and understand what was said to me, there were not above\nthirty Europeans left. The place might have been taken over and over\nagain, had any of our people had the courage to return after their\ndisaster.\n\n\"My old enemy the ague-fever set in again upon me as I lay here by the\nriver-side. 'Tis a wonder how I ever survived. But for the goodness of\na half-breed woman in the fort, who took pity on me, and tended me, I\nnever should have recovered, and my poor Harry would be what he fancied\nhimself yesterday, our grandfather's heir, our mother's only son.\n\n\"I remembered how, when Florac laid me in his bed, he put under my\npillow my money, my watch, and a trinket or two which I had. When I\nwoke to myself these were all gone; and a surly old sergeant, the only\nofficer left in the quarter, told me, with a curse, that I was lucky\nenough to be left with my life at all; that it was only my white cockade\nand coat had saved me from the fate which the other canaille of Rosbifs\nhad deservedly met with.\n\n\"At the time of my recovery the fort was almost emptied of the garrison.\nThe Indians had retired enriched with British plunder, and the chief\npart of the French regulars were gone upon expeditions northward. My\ngood Florac had left me upon his service, consigning me to the care of\nan invalided sergeant. Monsieur de Contrecoeur had accompanied one of\nthese expeditions, leaving an old lieutenant, Museau by name, in command\nat Duquesne.\n\n\"This man had long been out of France, and serving in the colonies. His\ncharacter, doubtless, had been indifferent at home; and he knew that,\naccording to the system pursued in France, where almost all promotion is\ngiven to the noblesse, he never would advance in rank. And he had made\nfree with my guineas, I suppose, as he had with my watch, for I saw it\none day on his chest when I was sitting with him in his quarter.\n\n\"Monsieur Museau and I managed to be pretty good friends. If I could be\nexchanged, or sent home, I told him that my mother would pay liberally\nfor my ransom; and I suppose this idea excited the cupidity of the\ncommandant, for a trapper coming in the winter, whilst I still lay very\nill with fever, Museau consented that I should write home to my mother,\nbut that the letter should be in French, that he should see it, and\nthat I should say I was in the hands of the Indians, and should not be\nransomed under ten thousand livres.\n\n\"In vain I said I was a prisoner to the troops of his Most Christian\nMajesty, that I expected the treatment of a gentleman and an officer.\nMuseau swore that letter should go, and no other; that if I hesitated,\nhe would fling me out of the fort, or hand me over to the tender mercies\nof his ruffian Indian allies. He would not let the trapper communicate\nwith me except in his presence. Life and liberty are sweet. I resisted\nfor a while, but I was pulled down with weakness, and shuddering with\nfever; I wrote such a letter as the rascal consented to let pass, and\nthe trapper went away with my missive, which he promised, in three\nweeks, to deliver to my mother in Virginia.\n\n\"Three weeks, six, twelve, passed. The messenger never returned. The\nwinter came and went, and all our little plantations round the fort,\nwhere the French soldiers had cleared corn-ground and planted gardens\nand peach- and apple-trees down to the Monongahela, were in full\nblossom. Heaven knows how I crept through the weary time! When I was\npretty well, I made drawings of the soldiers of the garrison, and of the\nhalf-breed and her child (Museau's child), and of Museau himself, whom,\nI am ashamed to say, I flattered outrageously; and there was an old\nguitar left in the fort, and I sang to it, and played on it some French\nairs which I knew, and ingratiated myself as best I could with my\ngaolers; and so the weary months passed, but the messenger never\nreturned.\n\n\"At last news arrived that he had been shot by some British Indians in\nMaryland: so there was an end of my hope of ransom for some months more.\nThis made Museau very savage and surly towards me; the more so as his\nsergeant inflamed his rage by telling him that the Indian woman was\npartial to me--as I believe, poor thing, she was. I was always gentle\nwith her, and grateful to her. My small accomplishments seemed wonders\nin her eyes; I was ill and unhappy, too, and these are always claims to\na woman's affection.\n\n\"A captive pulled down by malady, a ferocious gaoler, and a young woman\ntouched by the prisoner's misfortunes--sure you expect that, with these\nthree prime characters in a piece, some pathetic tragedy is going to be\nenacted? You, Miss Hetty, are about to guess that the woman saved me?\"\n\n\"Why, of course she did!\" cries mamma.\n\n\"What else is she good for?\" says Hetty.\n\n\"You, Miss Theo, have painted her already as a dark beauty--is it not\nso? A swift huntress--\"\n\n\"Diana with a baby,\" says the Colonel.\n\n\"--Who scours the plain with her nymphs, who brings down the game with\nher unerring bow, who is queen of the forest--and I see by your looks\nthat you think I am madly in love with her?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose she is an interesting creature, Mr. George?\" says Theo,\nwith a blush.\n\n\"What think you of a dark beauty, the colour of new mahogany with long\nstraight black hair, which was usually dressed with a hair-oil or\npomade by no means pleasant to approach, with little eyes, with high\ncheek-bones, with a flat nose, sometimes ornamented with a ring, with\nrows of glass beads round her tawny throat, her cheeks and forehead\ngracefully tattooed, a great love of finery, and inordinate passion\nfor--oh! must I own it?\"\n\n\"For coquetry. I know you are going to say that!\" says Miss Hetty.\n\n\"For whisky, my dear Miss Hester--in which appetite my gaoler partook;\nso that I have often sate by, on the nights when I was in favour with\nMonsieur Museau, and seen him and his poor companion hob-and-nobbing\ntogether until they could scarce hold the noggin out of which they\ndrank. In these evening entertainments, they would sing, they would\ndance, they would fondle, they would quarrel, and knock the cans and\nfurniture about; and, when I was in favour, I was admitted to share\ntheir society, for Museau, jealous of his dignity, or not willing that\nhis men should witness his behaviour, would allow none of them to be\nfamiliar with him.\n\n\"Whilst the result of the trapper's mission to my home was yet\nuncertain, and Museau and I myself expected the payment of my ransom, I\nwas treated kindly enough, allowed to crawl about the fort, and even to\ngo into the adjoining fields and gardens, always keeping my parole, and\nduly returning before gun-fire. And I exercised a piece of hypocrisy,\nfor which, I hope, you will hold me excused. When my leg was sound (the\nball came out in the winter, after some pain and inflammation, and the\nwound healed up presently), I yet chose to walk as if I was disabled\nand a cripple; I hobbled on two sticks, and cried Ah! and Oh! at every\nminute, hoping that a day might come when I might treat my limbs to a\nrun.\n\n\"Museau was very savage when he began to give up all hopes of the first\nmessenger. He fancied that the man might have got the ransom-money and\nfled with it himself. Of course he was prepared to disown any part in\nthe transaction, should my letter be discovered. His treatment of me\nvaried according to his hopes or fears, or even his mood for the time\nbeing. He would have me consigned to my quarters for several days at a\ntime; then invite me to his tipsy supper-table, quarrel with me there,\nand abuse my nation; or again break out into maudlin sentimentalities\nabout his native country of Normandy, where he longed to spend his old\nage, to buy a field or two, and to die happy.\n\n\"'Eh, Monsieur Museau!' says I, 'ten thousand livres of your money would\nbuy a pretty field or two in your native country? You can have it for\nthe ransom of me, if you will but let me go. In a few months you must\nbe superseded in your command here, and then adieu the crowns and\nthe fields in Normandy! You had better trust a gentleman and a man of\nhonour. Let me go home, and I give you my word the ten thousand livres\nshall be paid to any agent you may appoint in France or in Quebec.'\n\n\"'Ah, young traitor!' roars he, 'do you wish to tamper with my honour?\nDo you believe an officer of France will take a bribe? I have a mind to\nconsign thee to my black-hole, and to have thee shot in the morning.'\n\n\"'My poor body will never fetch ten thousand livres,' says I; 'and a\npretty field in Normandy with a cottage...'\n\n\"'And an orchard. Ah, sacre bleu!' says Museau, whimpering, 'and a dish\nof tripe a la mode du pays!...\"\n\n\"This talk happened between us again and again, and Museau would order\nme to my quarters, and then ask me to supper the next night, and return\nto the subject of Normandy, and cider, and trippes a la mode de Caen. My\nfriend is dead now--\"\n\n\"He was hung, I trust?\" breaks in Colonel Lambert.\n\n\"--And I need keep no secret about him. Ladies, I wish I had to offer\nyou the account of a dreadful and tragical escape; how I slew all the\nsentinels of the fort; filed through the prison windows, destroyed a\nscore or so of watchful dragons, overcame a million of dangers, and\nfinally effected my freedom. But, in regard of that matter, I have no\nheroic deeds to tell of, and own that, by bribery and no other means, I\nam where I am.\"\n\n\"But you would have fought, Georgy, if need were,\" says Harry; \"and you\ncouldn't conquer a whole garrison, you know!\" And herewith Mr. Harry\nblushed very much.\n\n\"See the women, how disappointed they are!\" says Lambert. \"Mrs. Lambert,\nyou bloodthirsty woman, own that you are balked of a battle; and look at\nHetty, quite angry because Mr. George did not shoot the commandant.\"\n\n\"You wished he was hung yourself, papa!\" cries Miss Hetty, \"and I am\nsure I wish anything my papa wishes.\"\n\n\"Nay, ladies,\" says George, turning a little red, \"to wink at a\nprisoner's escape was not a very monstrous crime; and to take money?\nSure other folks besides Frenchmen have condescended to a bribe before\nnow. Although Monsieur Museau set me free, I am inclined, for my part,\nto forgive him. Will it please you to hear how that business was done?\nYou see, Miss Hetty, I cannot help being alive to tell it.\"\n\n\"Oh, George!--that is, I mean, Mr. Warrington!--that is, I mean, I beg\nyour pardon!\" cries Hester.\n\n\"No pardon, my dear! I never was angry yet or surprised that any one\nshould like my Harry better than me. He deserves all the liking that\nany man or woman can give him. See, it is his turn to blush now,\" says\nGeorge.\n\n\"Go on, Georgy, and tell them about the escape out of Duquesne!\" cries\nHarry, and he said to Mrs. Lambert afterwards in confidence, \"You know\nhe is always going on saying that he ought never to have come to life\nagain, and declaring that I am better than he is. The idea of my being\nbetter than George, Mrs. Lambert! a poor, extravagant fellow like me!\nIt's absurd!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII. Intentique Ora tenebant\n\n\n\"We continued for months our weary life at the fort, and the commandant\nand I had our quarrels and reconciliations, our greasy games at cards,\nour dismal duets with his asthmatic flute and my cracked guitar. The\npoor Fawn took her beatings and her cans of liquor as her lord and\nmaster chose to administer them; and she nursed her papoose, or her\nmaster in the gout, or her prisoner in the ague; and so matters went on\nuntil the beginning of the fall of last year, when we were visited by a\nhunter who had important news to deliver to the commandant, and such as\nset the little garrison in no little excitement. The Marquis de Montcalm\nhad sent a considerable detachment to garrison the forts already in the\nFrench hands, and to take up further positions in the enemy's--that is,\nin the British--possessions. The troops had left Quebec and Montreal,\nand were coming up the St. Lawrence and the lakes in bateaux, with\nartillery and large provisions of warlike and other stores. Museau would\nbe superseded in his command by an officer of superior rank, who might\nexchange me, or who might give me up to the Indians in reprisal for\ncruelties practised by our own people on many and many an officer\nand soldier of the enemy. The men of the fort were eager for the\nreinforcements; they would advance into Pennsylvania and New York; they\nwould seize upon Albany and Philadelphia; they would drive the Rosbifs\ninto the sea, and all America should be theirs from the Mississippi to\nNewfoundland.\n\n\"This was all very triumphant: but yet, somehow, the prospect of the\nFrench conquest did not add to Mr. Museau's satisfaction.\n\n\"'Eh, commandant!' says I, ''tis fort bien, but meanwhile your farm in\nNormandy, the pot of cider, and the trippes a la mode de Caen, where are\nthey?'\n\n\"'Yes; 'tis all very well, my garcon,' says he. 'But where will you\nbe when poor old Museau is superseded? Other officers are not good\ncompanions like me. Very few men in the world have my humanity. When\nthere is a great garrison here, will my successors give thee the\nindulgences which honest Museau has granted thee? Thou wilt be kept in\na sty like a pig ready for killing. As sure as one of our officers falls\ninto the hands of your brigands of frontier-men, and evil comes to him,\nso surely wilt thou have to pay with thy skin for his. Thou wilt be\ngiven up to our red allies--to the brethren of La Biche yonder. Didst\nthou see, last year, what they did to thy countrymen whom we took in\nthe action with Braddock? Roasting was the very smallest punishment, ma\nfoi--was it not, La Biche?'\n\n\"And he entered into a variety of jocular descriptions of tortures\ninflicted, eyes burned out of their sockets, teeth and nails wrenched\nout, limbs and bodies gashed--You turn pale, dear Miss Theo! Well, I\nwill have pity, and will spare you the tortures which honest Museau\nrecounted in his pleasant way as likely to befall me.\n\n\"La Biche was by no means so affected as you seem to be, ladies, by the\nrecital of these horrors. She had witnessed them in her time. She came\nfrom the Senecas, whose villages lie near the great cataract between\nOntario and Erie; her people made war for the English, and against them:\nthey had fought with other tribes; and, in the battles between us\nand them, it is difficult to say whether whiteskin or redskin is most\nsavage.\n\n\"'They may chop me into cutlets and broil me, 'tis true, commandant,'\nsays I, coolly. 'But again, I say, you will never have the farm in\nNormandy.'\n\n\"'Go get the whisky-bottle, La Biche,' says Museau.\n\n\"'And it is not too late, even now. I will give the guide who takes me\nhome a large reward. And again I say, I promise, as a man of honour,\nten thousand livres to--whom shall I say? to one who shall bring me any\ntoken--who shall bring me, say, my watch and seal with my grandfather's\narms--which I have seen in a chest somewhere in this fort.'\n\n\"'Ah, scelerat!' roars out the commandant, with a hoarse yell of\nlaughter. 'Thou hast eyes, thou! All is good prize in war.'\n\n\"'Think of a house in your village, of a fine field hard by with a\nhalf-dozen of cows--of a fine orchard all covered with fruit.'\n\n\"'And Javotte at the door with her wheel, and a rascal of a child,\nor two, with cheeks as red as the apples! O my country! O my mother!\"\nwhimpers out the commandant. 'Quick, La Biche, the whisky!'\n\n\"All that night the commandant was deep in thought, and La Biche, too,\nsilent and melancholy. She sate away from us, nursing her child, and\nwhenever my eyes turned towards her I saw hers were fixed on me. The\npoor little infant began to cry, and was ordered away by Museau, with\nhis usual foul language, to the building which the luckless Biche\noccupied with her child. When she was gone, we both of us spoke our\nminds freely; and I put such reasons before monsieur as his cupidity\ncould not resist.\n\n\"'How do you know,' he asked, 'that this hunter will serve you?'\n\n\"'That is my secret,' says I. But here, if you like, as we are not on\nhonour, I may tell it. When they come into the settlements for their\nbargains, the hunters often stop a day or two for rest and drink and\ncompany, and our new friend loved all these. He played at cards with\nthe men: he set his furs against their liquor: he enjoyed himself at\nthe fort, singing, dancing, and gambling with them. I think I said they\nliked to listen to my songs, and for want of better things to do, I was\noften singing and guitar-scraping: and we would have many a concert,\nthe men joining in chorus, or dancing to my homely music, until it was\ninterrupted by the drums and the retraite.\n\n\"Our guest the hunter was present at one or two of these concerts, and I\nthought I would try if possibly he understood English. After we had had\nour little stock of French songs, I said, 'My lads, I will give you an\nEnglish song,' and to the tune of 'Over the hills and far away,' which\nmy good old grandfather used to hum as a favourite air in Marlborough's\ncamp, I made some doggerel words:--'This long, long year, a prisoner\ndrear; Ah, me! I'm tired of lingering here: I'll give a hundred guineas\ngay, To be over the hills and far away.'\n\n\"'What is it?' says the hunter. 'I don't understand.'\n\n\"''Tis a girl to her lover,' I answered; but I saw by the twinkle in the\nman's eye that he understood me.\n\n\"The next day, when there were no men within hearing, the trapper showed\nthat I was right in my conjecture, for as he passed me he hummed in a\nlow tone, but in perfectly good English, 'Over the hills and far away,'\nthe burden of my yesterday's doggerel.\n\n\"'If you are ready,' says he, 'I am ready. I know who your people are,\nand the way to them. Talk to the Fawn, and she will tell you what to\ndo. What! You will not play with me?' Here he pulled out some cards, and\nspoke in French as two soldiers came up. 'Milor est trop grand seigneur?\nBonjour, my lord!'\n\n\"And the man made me a mock bow, and walked away, shrugging up his\nshoulders, to offer to play and drink elsewhere.\n\n\"I knew now that the Biche was to be the agent in the affair, and that\nmy offer to Museau was accepted. The poor Fawn performed her part very\nfaithfully and dexterously. I had not need of a word more with Museau;\nthe matter was understood between us. The Fawn had long been allowed\nfree communication with me. She had tended me during my wound and in my\nillnesses, helped to do the work of my little chamber, my cooking, and\nso forth. She was free to go out of the fort, as I have said, and to\nthe river and the fields whence the corn and garden-stuff of the little\ngarrison were brought in.\n\n\"Having gambled away most of the money which he received for his\npeltries, the trapper now got together his store of flints, powder, and\nblankets, and took his leave. And, three days after his departure, the\nFawn gave me the signal that the time was come for me to make my little\ntrial for freedom.\n\n\"When first wounded, I had been taken by my kind Florac and placed on\nhis bed in the officers' room. When the fort was emptied of all officers\nexcept the old lieutenant left in command, I had been allowed to remain\nin my quarters, sometimes being left pretty free, sometimes being locked\nup and fed on prisoners' rations, sometimes invited to share his mess by\nmy tipsy gaoler.\n\n\"This officers' house, or room, was of logs like the half-dozen others\nwithin the fort, which mounted only four guns of small calibre, of which\none was on the bastion behind my cabin. Looking westward over this gun,\nyou could see a small island at the confluence of the two rivers Ohio\nand Monongahela whereon Duquesne is situated. On the shore opposite this\nisland were some trees.\n\n\"'You see those trees?' my poor Biche said to me the day before, in her\nFrench jargon. 'He wait for you behind those trees.'\n\n\"In the daytime the door of my quarters was open, and the Biche free to\ncome and go. On the day before she came in from the fields with a pick\nin her hand and a basketful of vegetables and potherbs for soup. She sat\ndown on a bench at my door, the pick resting against it, and the basket\nat her side. I stood talking to her for a while: but I believe I was so\nidiotic that I never should have thought of putting the pick to any use\nhad she actually pushed it into my open door, so that it fell into my\nroom. 'Hide it' she said; 'want it soon.' And that afternoon it was, she\npointed out the trees to me.\n\n\"On the next day, she comes, pretending to be very angry, and calls out,\n'My lord! my lord! why you not come to commandant's dinner? He very bad!\nEntendez-vows?' And she peeps into the room as she speaks, and flings a\ncoil of rope at me.\n\n\"'I am coming, La Biche,' says I, and hobbled after her on my crutch.\nAs I went in to the commandant's quarters she says, 'Pour ce soir.' And\nthen I knew the time was come.\n\n\"As for Museau, he knew nothing about the matter. Not he! He growled at\nme, and said the soup was cold. He looked me steadily in the face, and\ntalked of this and that; not only whilst his servant was present, but\nafterwards as we smoked our pipes and played our game at piquet; whilst\naccording to her wont, the poor Biche sate cowering in a corner.\n\n\"My friend's whisky-bottle was empty; and he said, with rather a knowing\nlook, he must have another glass--we must both have a glass that night.\nAnd rising from the table he stumped to the inner room where he kept his\nfire-water under lock and key, and away from the poor Biche, who could\nnot resist that temptation.\n\n\"As he turned his back the Biche raised herself; and he was no sooner\ngone but she was at my feet, kissing my hand, pressing it to her heart,\nand bursting into tears over my knees. I confess I was so troubled by\nthis testimony of the poor creature's silent attachment and fondness,\nthe extent of which I scarce had suspected before, that when Museau\nreturned, I had not recovered my equanimity, though the poor Fawn was\nback in her corner again and shrouded in her blanket.\n\n\"He did not appear to remark anything strange in the behaviour of\neither. We sate down to our game, though my thoughts were so preoccupied\nthat I scarcely knew what cards were before me.\n\n\"'I gain everything from you to-night, milor,' says he, grimly. 'We play\nupon parole.'\n\n\"'And you may count upon mine,' I replied.\n\n\"'Eh! 'tis all that you have!' says he.\n\n\"'Monsieur,' says I, 'my word is good for ten thousand livres;' and we\ncontinued our game.\n\n\"At last he said he had a headache, and would go to bed, and I\nunderstood the orders too, that I was to retire. 'I wish you a good\nnight, mon petit milor,' says he,--'stay, you will fall without your\ncrutch,'--and his eyes twinkled at me, and his face wore a sarcastic\ngrin. In the agitation of the moment I had quite forgotten that I was\nlame, and was walking away at a pace as good as a grenadier's.\n\n\"'What a vilain night!' says he, looking out. In fact there was a\ntempest abroad, and a great roaring, and wind. 'Bring a lanthorn, La\nTulipe, and lock my lord comfortably into his quarters!' He stood a\nmoment looking at me from his own door, and I saw a glimpse of the poor\nBiche behind him.\n\n\"The night was so rainy that the sentries preferred their boxes, and did\nnot disturb me in my work. The log-house was built with upright posts,\ndeeply fixed in the ground, and horizontal logs laid upon it. I had to\ndig under these, and work a hole sufficient to admit my body to pass. I\nbegan in the dark, soon after tattoo. It was some while after midnight\nbefore my work was done, when I lifted my hand up under the log and felt\nthe rain from without falling upon it. I had to work very cautiously for\ntwo hours after that, and then crept through to the parapet and silently\nflung my rope over the gun; not without a little tremor of heart, lest\nthe sentry should see me and send a charge of lead into my body.\n\n\"The wall was but twelve feet, and my fall into the ditch easy enough. I\nwaited a while there, looking steadily under the gun, and trying to see\nthe river and the island. I heard the sentry pacing up above and humming\na tune. The darkness became more clear to me ere long, and the moon\nrose, and I saw the river shining before me, and the dark rocks and\ntrees of the island rising in the waters.\n\n\"I made for this mark as swiftly as I could, and for the clump of trees\nto which I had been directed. Oh, what a relief I had when I heard a low\nvoice humming there, 'Over the hills and far away'!\"\n\nWhen Mr. George came to this part of his narrative, Miss Theo, who was\nseated by a harpsichord, turned round and dashed off the tune on the\ninstrument, whilst all the little company broke out into the merry\nchorus.\n\n\"Our way,\" the speaker went on, \"lay through a level tract of\nforest with which my guide was familiar, upon the right bank of the\nMonongahela. By daylight we came to a clearer country, and my trapper\nasked me--Silverheels was the name by which he went--had I ever seen\nthe spot before? It was the fatal field where Braddock had fallen, and\nwhence I had been wonderfully rescued in the summer of the previous\nyear. Now, the leaves were beginning to be tinted with the magnificent\nhues of our autumn.\"\n\n\"Ah, brother!\" cries Harry, seizing his brother's hand. \"I was gambling\nand making a fool of myself at the Wells and in London, when my\nGeorge was flying for his life in the wilderness! Oh, what a miserable\nspendthrift I have been!\"\n\n\"But I think thou art not unworthy to be called thy mother's son,\" said\nMrs. Lambert, very softly, and with moistened eyes. Indeed, if Harry\nhad erred, to mark his repentance, his love, his unselfish joy and\ngenerosity, was to feel that there was hope for the humbled and kind\nyoung sinner.\n\n\"We presently crossed the river\" George resumed, \"taking our course\nalong the base of the western slopes of the Alleghanies; and through a\ngrand forest region of oaks and maple, and enormous poplars that grow\na hundred feet high without a branch. It was the Indians whom we had\nto avoid, besides the outlying parties of French. Always of doubtful\nloyalty, the savages have been specially against us, since our\nill-treatment of them, and the French triumph over us two years ago.\n\n\"I was but weak still, and our journey through the wilderness lasted a\nfortnight or more. As we advanced, the woods became redder and redder.\nThe frost nipped sharply of nights. We lighted fires at our feet, and\nslept in our blankets as best we might. At this time of year the hunters\nwho live in the mountains get their sugar from the maples. We came upon\nmore than one such family, camping near their trees by the mountain\nstreams; and they welcomed us at their fires, and gave us of their\nvenison. So we passed over the two ranges of the Laurel Hills and the\nAlleghanies. The last day's march of my trusty guide and myself took us\ndown that wild, magnificent pass of Will's Creek, a valley lying between\ncliffs near a thousand feet high--bald, white, and broken into towers\nlike huge fortifications, with eagles wheeling round the summits of the\nrocks, and watching their nests among the crags.\n\n\"And hence we descended to Cumberland, whence we had marched in the year\nbefore, and where there was now a considerable garrison of our people.\nOh! you may think it was a welcome day when I saw English colours again\non the banks of our native Potomac!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII. Where we remain at the Court End of the Town\n\n\nGeorge Warrington had related the same story, which we have just heard,\nto Madame de Bernstein on the previous evening--a portion, that is, of\nthe history; for the old lady nodded off to sleep many times during\nthe narration, only waking up when George paused, saying it was most\ninteresting, and ordering him to continue. The young gentleman hem'd and\nha'd, and stuttered, and blushed, and went on, much against his will,\nand did not speak half so well as he did to his friendly little auditory\nin Hill Street, where Hetty's eyes of wonder and Theo's sympathising\nlooks, and mamma's kind face, and papa's funny looks, were applause\nsufficient to cheer any modest youth who required encouragement for his\neloquence. As for mamma's behaviour, the General said, 'twas as good as\nMr. Addison's trunk-maker, and she would make the fortune of any tragedy\nby simply being engaged to cry in the front boxes. That is why we chose\nmy Lord Wrotham's house as the theatre where George's first piece should\nbe performed, wishing that he should speak to advantage, and not as when\nhe was heard by that sleepy, cynical old lady, to whom he had to narrate\nhis adventures.\n\n\"Very good and most interesting, I am sure, my dear sir,\" says Madame\nBernstein, putting up three pretty little fingers covered with a lace\nmitten, to hide a convulsive movement of her mouth. \"And your mother\nmust have been delighted to see you.\"\n\nGeorge shrugged his shoulders ever so little, and made a low bow, as his\naunt looked up at him for a moment with her keen old eyes.\n\n\"Have been delighted to see you\" she continued drily, \"and killed the\nfatted calf, and--and that kind of thing. Though why I say calf, I don't\nknow, nephew George, for you never were the prodigal. I may say calf to\nthee, my poor Harry! Thou hast been amongst the swine sure enough. And\nevil companions have robbed the money out of thy pocket and the coat off\nthy back.\n\n\"He came to his family in England, madam,\" says George, with some heat,\n\"and his friends were your ladyship's.\"\n\n\"He could not have come to worse advisers, nephew Warrington, and so I\nshould have told my sister earlier, had she condescended to write to me\nby him, as she has done by you,\" said the old lady, tossing up her head.\n\"Hey! hey!\" she said, at night, as she arranged herself for the rout to\nwhich she was going, to her waiting-maid: \"this young gentleman's mother\nis half sorry that he has come to life again, I could see that in his\nface. She is half sorry, and I am perfectly furious! Why didn't he\nlie still when he dropped there under the tree, and why did that young\nFlorac carry him to the fort? I knew those Floracs when I was at Paris,\nin the time of Monsieur le Regent. They were of the Floracs of Ivry. No\ngreat house before Henri IV. His ancestor was the king's favourite.\nHis ancestor--he! he!--his ancestress! Brett! entendez-vous? Give me my\ncard-purse. I don't like the grand airs of this Monsieur George; and yet\nhe resembles, very much, his grandfather--the same look and sometimes\nthe same tones. You have heard of Colonel Esmond when I was young? This\nboy has his eyes. I suppose I liked the Colonel's because he loved me.\"\n\nBeing engaged, then, to a card-party,--an amusement which she never\nmissed, week-day or Sabbath, as long as she had strength to hold trumps\nor sit in a chair,--very soon after George had ended his narration the\nold lady dismissed her two nephews, giving to the elder a couple of\nfingers and a very stately curtsey; but to Harry two hands and a kindly\npat on the cheek.\n\n\"My poor child, now thou art disinherited, thou wilt see how differently\nthe world will use thee!\" she said. \"There is only, in all London, a\nwicked, heartless old woman who will treat thee as before. Here is a\npocket-book for you, child! Do not lose it at Ranelagh to-night. That\nsuit of yours does not become your brother half so well as it sat upon\nyou! You will present your brother to everybody, and walk up and down\nthe room for two hours at least, child. Were I you, I would then go to\nthe Chocolate-House, and play as if nothing had happened. Whilst you are\nthere, your brother may come back to me and eat a bit of chicken\nwith me. My Lady Flint gives wretched suppers, and I want to talk his\nmother's letter over with him. Au revoir, gentlemen!\" and she went away\nto her toilette. Her chairmen and flambeaux were already waiting at the\ndoor.\n\nThe gentlemen went to Ranelagh, where but a few of Mr. Harry's\nacquaintances chanced to be present. They paced the round, and met Mr.\nTom Claypool with some of his country friends; they heard the music;\nthey drank tea in a box; Harry was master of ceremonies, and introduced\nhis brother to the curiosities of the place; and George was even more\nexcited than his brother had been on his first introduction to this\npalace of delight. George loved music much more than Harry ever did;\nhe heard a full orchestra for the first time, and a piece of Mr. Handel\nsatisfactorily performed; and a not unpleasing instance of Harry's\nhumility and regard for his elder brother was, that he could even hold\nGeorge's love of music in respect at a time when fiddling was voted\neffeminate and unmanly in England, and Britons were, every day, called\nupon by the patriotic prints to sneer at the frivolous accomplishments\nof your Squallinis, Monsieurs, and the like. Nobody in Britain is proud\nof his ignorance now. There is no conceit left among us. There is no\nsuch thing as dulness. Arrogance is entirely unknown... Well, at any\nrate, Art has obtained her letters of naturalisation, and lives here on\nterms of almost equality. If Mrs. Thrale chose to marry a music-master\nnow, I don't think her friends would shudder at the mention of her name.\nIf she had a good fortune and kept a good cook, people would even go and\ndine with her in spite of the misalliance, and actually treat Mr. Piozzi\nwith civility.\n\nAfter Ranelagh, and pursuant to Madam Bernstein's advice, George\nreturned to her ladyship's house, whilst Harry showed himself at the\nclub, where gentlemen were accustomed to assemble at night to sup, and\nthen to gamble. No one, of course, alluded to Mr. Warrington's little\ntemporary absence, and Mr. Ruff, his ex-landlord, waited upon him with\nthe utmost gravity and civility, and as if there had never been any\ndifference between them. Mr. Warrington had caused his trunks and\nhabiliments to be conveyed away from Bond Street in the morning, and he\nand his brother were now established in apartments elsewhere.\n\nBut when the supper was done, and the gentlemen, as usual, were about to\nseek the macco-table upstairs, Harry said he was not going to play\nany more. He had burned his fingers already, and could afford no more\nextravagance.\n\n\"Why,\" says Mr. Morris, in a rather flippant manner, \"you must have won\nmore than you have lost, Mr. Warrington, after all is said and done.\"\n\n\"And of course I don't know my own business as well as you do, Mr.\nMorris,\" says Harry sternly, who had not forgotten the other's behaviour\non hearing of his arrest; \"but I have another reason. A few months\nor days ago, I was heir to a great estate, and could afford to lose\na little money. Now, thank God, I am heir to nothing.\" And he looked\nround, blushing not a little, to the knot of gentlemen, his gaming\nassociates, who were lounging at the tables or gathered round the fire.\n\n\"How do you mean, Mr. Warrington?\" cries my Lord March, \"Have you lost\nVirginia, too? Who has won it? I always had a fancy to play you myself\nfor that stake.\"\n\n\"And grow an improved breed of slaves in the colony,\" says another.\n\n\"The right owner has won it. You have heard me tell of my twin elder\nbrother?\"\n\n\"Who was killed in that affair of Braddock's two years ago! Yes.\nGracious goodness, my dear sir, I hope in heaven he has not come to life\nagain?\"\n\n\"He arrived in London two days since. He has been a prisoner in a French\nfort for eighteen months; he only escaped a few months ago, and left our\nhouse in Virginia very soon after his release.\"\n\n\"You haven't had time to order mourning, I suppose, Mr. Warrington?\"\nasks Mr. Selwyn very good-naturedly, and simple Harry hardly knew the\nmeaning of his joke until his brother interpreted it to him.\n\n\"Hang me, if I don't believe the fellow is absolutely glad of the\nreappearance of his confounded brother!\" cries my Lord March, as they\ncontinued to talk of the matter when the young Virginian had taken his\nleave.\n\n\"These savages practise the simple virtues of affection--they are barely\ncivilised in America yet,\" yawns Selwyn.\n\n\"They love their kindred, and they scalp their enemies,\" simpers Mr.\nWalpole. \"It's not Christian, but natural. Shouldn't you like to be\npresent at a scalping-match, George, and see a fellow skinned alive?\"\n\n\"A man's elder brother is his natural enemy,\" says Mr. Selwyn, placidly\nranging his money and counters before him.\n\n\"Torture is like broiled bones and pepper. You wouldn't relish simple\nhanging afterwards, George!\" continues Horry.\n\n\"I'm hanged if there's any man in England who would like to see his\nelder brother alive,\" says my lord.\n\n\"No, nor his father either, my lord!\" cries Jack Morris.\n\n\"First time I ever knew you had one, Jack. Give me counters for five\nhundred.\"\n\n\"I say, 'tis all mighty fine about dead brothers coming to life again,\"\ncontinues Jack. \"Who is to know that it wasn't a scheme arranged between\nthese two fellows? Here comes a young fellow who calls himself the\nFortunate Youth, who says he is a Virginian Prince and the deuce knows\nwhat, and who gets into our society----\"\n\nA great laugh ensues at Jack's phrase of \"our society.\"\n\n\"Who is to know that it wasn't a cross?\" Jack continues. \"The young one\nis to come first. He is to marry an heiress, and, when he has got her,\nup is to rise the elder brother! When did this elder brother show? Why,\nwhen the younger's scheme was blown, and all was up with him! Who shall\ntell me that the fellow hasn't been living in Seven Dials, or in a\ncellar dining off tripe and cow-heel until my younger gentleman was\ndisposed of? Dammy, as gentlemen, I think we ought to take notice of it:\nand that this Mr. Warrington has been taking a most outrageous liberty\nwith the whole club.\"\n\n\"Who put him up? It was March, I think, put him up?\" asks a bystander.\n\n\"Yes. But my lord thought he was putting up a very different person.\nDidn't you, March?\"\n\n\"Hold your confounded tongue, and mind your game!\" says the nobleman\naddressed: but Jack Morris's opinion found not a few supporters in the\nworld. Many persons agreed that it was most indecorous of Mr. Harry\nWarrington to have ever believed in his brother's death: that there\nwas something suspicious about the young man's first appearance and\nsubsequent actions, and, in fine, that regarding these foreigners,\nadventurers, and the like, we ought to be especially cautious.\n\nThough he was out of prison and difficulty; though he had his aunt's\nliberal donation of money in his pocket; though his dearest brother\nwas restored to him, whose return to life Harry never once thought of\ndeploring, as his friends at White's supposed he would do; though Maria\nhad shown herself in such a favourable light by her behaviour during\nhis misfortune: yet Harry, when alone, felt himself not particularly\ncheerful, and smoked his pipe of Virginia with a troubled mind. It was\nnot that he was deposed from his principality; the loss of it never once\nvexed him; he knew that his brother would share with him as he would\nhave done with his brother; but after all those struggles and doubts\nin his own mind, to find himself poor, and yet irrevocably bound to his\nelderly cousin! Yes, she was elderly, there was no doubt about it. When\nshe came to that horrible den in Cursitor Street and the tears washed\nher rouge off, why, she looked as old as his mother! her face was all\nwrinkled and yellow, and as he thought of her he felt just such a qualm\nas he had when she was taken ill that day in the coach on their road\nto Tunbridge. What would his mother say when he brought her home, and,\nLord, what battles there would be between them! He would go and live on\none of the plantations--the farther from home the better--and have a\nfew negroes, and farm as best he might, and hunt a good deal; but at\nCastlewood or in her own home, such as he could make it for her, what a\nlife for poor Maria, who had been used to go to court and to cards and\nballs and assemblies every night! If he could be but the overseer of the\nestates--oh, he would be an honest factor, and try and make up for his\nuseless life and extravagance in these past days! Five thousand pounds,\nall his patrimony and the accumulations of his long minority squandered\nin six months! He a beggar, except for dear George's kindness, with\nnothing in life left to him but an old wife,--a pretty beggar, dressed\nout in velvet and silver lace forsooth--the poor lad was arrayed in his\nbest clothes--a pretty figure he had made in Europe, and a nice end he\nwas come to! With all his fine friends at White's and Newmarket, with\nall his extravagance, had he been happy a single day since he had been\nin Europe? Yes, three days, four days, yesterday evening, when he had\nbeen with dear dear Mrs. Lambert, and those affectionate kind girls, and\nthat brave good Colonel. And the Colonel was right when he rebuked him\nfor his spendthrift follies, and he had been a brute to be angry as he\nhad been, and God bless them all for their generous exertions in his\nbehalf! Such were the thoughts which Harry put into his pipe, and he\nsmoked them whilst he waited his brother's return from Madame Bernstein.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV. During which Harry sits smoking his Pipe at Home\n\n\nThe maternal grandfather of our Virginians, the Colonel Esmond of whom\nfrequent mention has been made, and who had quitted England to reside in\nthe New World, had devoted some portion of his long American leisure\nto the composition of the memoirs of his early life. In these volumes,\nMadame de Bernstein (Mrs. Beatrice Esmond was her name as a\nspinster) played a very considerable part; and as George had read his\ngrandfather's manuscript many times over, he had learned to know his\nkinswoman long before he saw her,--to know, at least, the lady, young,\nbeautiful, and wilful, of half a century since, with whom he now became\nacquainted in the decline of her days. When cheeks are faded and eyes\nare dim, is it sad or pleasant, I wonder, for the woman who is a beauty\nno more, to recall the period of her bloom! When the heart is withered,\ndo the old love to remember how it once was fresh and beat with warm\nemotions? When the spirits are languid and weary, do we like to think\nhow bright they were in other days, the hope how buoyant, the sympathies\nhow ready, the enjoyment of life how keen and eager? So they fall--the\nbuds of prime, the roses of beauty, the florid harvests of summer,--fall\nand wither, and the naked branches shiver in the winter.\n\n\"And that was a beauty once!\" thinks George Warrington, as his aunt,\nin her rouge and diamonds, comes in from her rout, \"and that ruin was\na splendid palace. Crowds of lovers have sighed before those decrepit\nfeet, and been bewildered by the brightness of those eyes.\" He\nremembered a firework at home, at Williamsburg, on the King's birthday,\nand afterwards looking at the skeleton-wheel and the sockets of the\nexploded Roman candles. The dazzle and brilliancy of Aunt Beatrice's\nearly career passed before him, as he thought over his grandsire's\njournals. Honest Harry had seen them, too, but Harry was no bookman,\nand had not read the manuscript very carefully: nay, if he had, he would\nprobably not have reasoned about it as his brother did, being by no\nmeans so much inclined to moralising as his melancholy senior.\n\nMr. Warrington thought that there was no cause why he should tell his\naunt how intimate he was with her early history, and accordingly held\nhis peace upon that point. When their meal was over, she pointed with\nher cane to her escritoire, and bade her attendant bring the letter\nwhich lay under the inkstand there; and George, recognising the\nsuperscription, of course knew the letter to be that of which he had\nbeen the bearer from home.\n\n\"It would appear by this letter,\" said the old lady, looking hard at her\nnephew, \"that ever since your return, there have been some differences\nbetween you and my sister.\"\n\n\"Indeed? I did not know that Madam Esmond had alluded to them,\" George\nsaid.\n\nThe Baroness puts a great pair of glasses upon eyes which shot fire and\nkindled who knows how many passions in old days, and, after glancing\nover the letter, hands it to George, who reads as follows:--\n\n\n\"RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, December 26th, 1756.\n\n\"HONOURED MADAM! AND SISTER!--I have received, and thankfully\nacknowledge, your ladyship's favour, per Rose packet, of October 23\nult.; and straightway answer you at a season which should be one of\ngoodwill and peace to all men: but in which Heaven hath nevertheless\ndecreed we should still bear our portion of earthly sorrow and trouble.\nMy reply will be brought to you by my eldest son, Mr. Esmond Warrington,\nwho returned to us so miraculously out of the Valley of the Shadow of\nDeath (as our previous letters have informed my poor Henry), and who is\ndesirous, not without my consent to his wish, to visit Europe, though he\nhas been amongst us so short a while. I grieve to think that my dearest\nHarry should have appeared at home--I mean in England--under false\ncolours, as it were; and should have been presented to his Majesty, to\nour family, and his own, as his father's heir, whilst my dear son George\nwas still alive, though dead to us. Ah, madam! During the eighteen\nmonths of his captivity, what anguish have his mother's, his brother's,\nhearts undergone! My Harry's is the tenderest of any man's now alive. In\nthe joy of seeing Mr. Esmond Warrington returned to life, he will\nforget the worldly misfortune which befalls him. He will return to\n(comparative) poverty without a pang. The most generous, the most\nobedient of human beings, of sons, he will gladly give up to his elder\nbrother that inheritance which had been his own but for the accident of\nbirth, and for the providential return of my son George.\n\n\"Your beneficent intentions towards dearest Harry will be more than ever\nwelcome, now he is reduced to a younger brother's slender portion! Many\nyears since, an advantageous opportunity occurred of providing for him\nin this province, and he would by this time have been master of a noble\nestate and negroes, and have been enabled to make a figure with most\nhere, could his mother's wishes have been complied with, and his\nfather's small portion, now lying at small interest in the British\nfunds, have been invested in this most excellent purchase. But the forms\nof the law, and, I grieve to own, my elder son's scruples, prevailed,\nand this admirable opportunity was lost to me! Harry will find the\nsavings of his income have been carefully accumulated--long, long may\nhe live to enjoy them! May Heaven bless you, dear sister, for what your\nladyship may add to his little store! As I gather from your letter, that\nthe sum which has been allowed to him has not been sufficient for his\nexpenses in the fine company which he has kept (and the grandson of the\nMarquis of Esmond--one who had so nearly been his lordship's heir--may\nsure claim equality with any other nobleman in Great Britain), and\nhaving a sum by me which I had always intended for the poor child's\nestablishment, I entrust it to my eldest son, who, to do him justice,\nhath a most sincere regard for his brother, to lay it out for Harry's\nbest advantage.\"\n\n\n\"It took him out of prison yesterday, madam. I think that was the best\nuse to which we could put it,\" interposed George, at this stage of his\nmother's letter.\n\n\"Nay, sir, I don't know any such thing! Why not have kept it to buy\na pair of colours for him, or to help towards another estate and some\nnegroes, if he has a fancy for home?\" cried the old lady. \"Besides, I\nhad a fancy to pay that debt myself.\"\n\n\"I hope you will let his brother do that. I ask leave to be my brother's\nbanker in this matter, and consider I have borrowed so much from my\nmother, to be paid back to my dear Harry.\"\n\n\"Do you say so, sir? Give me a glass of wine! You are an extravagant\nfellow! Read on, and you will see your mother thinks so. I drink to your\nhealth, nephew George! 'Tis good Burgundy. Your grandfather never loved\nBurgundy. He loved claret, the little he drank.\"\n\nAnd George proceeded with the letter:\n\n\n\"This remittance will, I trust, amply cover any expenses which, owing to\nthe mistake respecting his position, dearest Harry may have incurred.\nI wish I could trust his elder brother's prudence as confidently as\nmy Harry's! But I fear that, even in his captivity, Mr. Esmond W. has\nlearned little of that humility which becomes all Christians, and which\nI have ever endeavoured to teach to my children. Should you by chance\nshow him these lines, when, by the blessing of Heaven on those who go\ndown to the sea in ships, the Great Ocean divides us! he will know that\na fond mother's blessing and prayers follow both her children, and\nthat there is no act I have ever done, no desire I have ever expressed\n(however little he may have been inclined to obey it!) but hath been\ndictated by the fondest wishes for my dearest boys' welfare.\"\n\n\n\"There is a scratch with a penknife, and a great blot upon the letter\nthere, as if water had fallen on it. Your mother writes well, George. I\nsuppose you and she had a difference?\" said George's aunt, not unkindly.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, many,\" answered the young man, sadly. \"The last was about\na question of money--of ransom which I promised to the old lieutenant of\nthe fort who aided me to make my escape. I told you he had a mistress, a\npoor Indian woman, who helped me, and was kind to me. Six weeks after my\narrival at home, the poor thing made her appearance at Richmond, having\nfound her way through the wood by pretty much the same track which I had\nfollowed, and bringing me the token which Museau had promised to send me\nwhen he connived to my flight. A commanding officer and a considerable\nreinforcement had arrived at Duquesne. Charges, I don't know of what\npeculation (for his messenger could not express herself very clearly),\nhad been brought against this Museau. He had been put under arrest, and\nhad tried to escape; but, less fortunate than myself, he had been\nshot on the rampart, and he sent the Indian woman to me, with my\ngrandfather's watch, and a line scrawled in his prison on his deathbed,\nbegging me to send ce que je scavais to a notary at Havre de Grace in\nFrance to be transmitted to his relatives at Caen in Normandy. My friend\nSilverheels, the hunter, had helped my poor Indian on her way. I don't\nknow how she would have escaped scalping else. But at home they received\nthe poor thing sternly. They hardly gave her a welcome. I won't say\nwhat suspicions they had regarding her and me. The poor wretch fell to\ndrinking whenever she could find means. I ordered that she should have\nfood and shelter, and she became the jest of our negroes, and formed the\nsubject of the scandal and tittle-tattle of the old fools in our little\ntown. Our Governor was, luckily, a man of sense, and I made interest\nwith him, and procured a pass to send her back to her people. Her very\ngrief at parting with me only served to confirm the suspicions against\nher. A fellow preached against me from the pulpit, I believe; I had\nto treat another with a cane. And I had a violent dispute with Madam\nEsmond--a difference which is not healed yet--because I insisted upon\npaying to the heirs Museau pointed out the money I had promised for\nmy deliverance. You see that scandal flourishes at the borders of the\nwilderness, and in the New World as well as the Old.\"\n\n\"I have suffered from it myself, my dear!\" said Madame Bernstein,\ndemurely. \"Fill thy glass, child! A little tass of cherry-brandy! 'Twill\ndo thee all the good in the world.\"\n\n\n\"As for my poor Harry's marriage,\" Madam Esmond's letter went on,\n\"though I know too well, from sad experience, the dangers to which youth\nis subject, and would keep my boy, at any price, from them, though I\nshould wish him to marry a person of rank, as becomes his birth, yet my\nLady Maria Esmond is out of the question. Her age is almost the same as\nmine; and I know my brother Castlewood left his daughters with the very\nsmallest portions. My Harry is so obedient that I know a desire from me\nwill be sufficient to cause him to give up this imprudent match. Some\nfoolish people once supposed that I myself once thought of a second\nunion, and with a person of rank very different from ours. No! I knew\nwhat was due to my children. As succeeding to this estate after me, Mr.\nEsmond W. is amply provided for. Let my task now be to save for his less\nfortunate younger brother: and, as I do not love to live quite alone,\nlet him return without delay to his fond and loving mother.\n\n\"The report which your ladyship hath given of my Harry fills my heart\nwith warmest gratitude. He is all indeed a mother may wish. A year in\nEurope will have given him a polish and refinement which he could\nnot acquire in our homely Virginia. Mr. Stack, one of our invaluable\nministers in Richmond, hath a letter from Mr. Ward--my darlings' tutor\nof early days--who knows my Lady Warrington and her excellent family,\nand saith that my Harry has lived much with his cousins of late. I am\ngrateful to think that my boy has the privilege of being with his good\naunt. May he follow her counsels, and listen to those around him who\nwill guide him on the way of his best welfare! Adieu, dear madam and\nsister! For your kindness to my boy accept the grateful thanks of a\nmother's heart. Though we have been divided hitherto, may these kindly\nties draw us nearer and nearer. I am thankful that you should speak of\nmy dearest father so. He was, indeed, one of the best of men! He, too,\nthanks you, I know, for the love you have borne to one of his children;\nand his daughter subscribes herself,--With sincere thanks, your\nladyship's most dutiful and grateful sister and servant, RACHEL ESMOND\nWN.\n\n\"P.S.--I have communicated with my Lady Maria; but there will no need to\ntell her and dear Harry that his mother or your ladyship hope to be able\nto increase his small fortune. The match is altogether unsuitable.\"\n\n\n\"As far as regards myself, madam,\" George said, laying down the paper,\n\"my mother's letter conveys no news to me. I always knew that Harry was\nthe favourite son with Madam Esmond, as he deserves indeed to be. He has\na hundred good qualities which I have not the good fortune to possess.\nHe has better looks----\"\n\n\"Nay, that is not your fault,\" said the old lady, slily looking at him;\n\"and, but that he is fair and you are brown, one might almost pass for\nthe other.\"\n\nMr. George bowed, and a faint blush tinged his pale cheek.\n\n\"His disposition is bright, and mine is dark,\" he continued; \"Harry\nis cheerful, and I am otherwise, perhaps. He knows how to make himself\nbeloved by every one, and it has been my lot to find but few friends.\"\n\n\"My sister and you have pretty little quarrels. There were such in old\ndays in our family,\" the Baroness said; \"and if Madam Esmond takes after\nour mother----\"\n\n\"My mother has always described hers as an angel upon earth,\" interposed\nGeorge.\n\n\"Eh! That is a common character for people when they are dead!\" cried\nthe Baroness; \"and Rachel Castlewood was an angel, if you like--at least\nyour grandfather thought so. But let me tell you, sir, that angels are\nsometimes not very commodes a vivre. It may be they are too good to live\nwith us sinners, and the air down below here don't agree with them. My\npoor mother was so perfect that she never could forgive me for being\notherwise. Ah, mon Dieu! how she used to oppress me with those angelical\nairs!\"\n\nGeorge cast down his eyes, and thought of his own melancholy youth.\nHe did not care to submit more of his family secrets to the cynical\ninquisition of this old worldling, who seemed, however, to understand\nhim in spite of his reticence.\n\n\"I quite comprehend you, sir, though you hold your tongue,\" the Baroness\ncontinued. \"A sermon in the morning: a sermon at night: and two or three\nof a Sunday. That is what people call being good. Every pleasure cried\nfie upon; all us worldly people excommunicated; a ball an abomination of\ndesolation; a play a forbidden pastime; and a game of cards perdition!\nWhat a life! Mon Dieu, what a life!\"\n\n\"We played at cards every night, if we were so inclined,\" said George,\nsmiling; \"and my grandfather loved Shakspeare so much, that my mother\nhad not a word to say against her father's favourite author.\"\n\n\"I remember. He could say whole pages by heart; though, for my part,\nI like Mr. Congreve a great deal better. And then, there was that\ndreadful, dreary Milton, whom he and Mr. Addison pretended to admire!\"\ncried the old lady, tapping her fan.\n\n\"If your ladyship does not like Shakspeare, you will not quarrel with\nmy mother for being indifferent to him, too,\" said George. \"And indeed I\nthink, and I am sure, that you don't do her justice. Wherever there are\nany poor she relieves them; wherever there are any sick she----\"\n\n\"She doses them with her horrible purges and boluses!\" cried the\nBaroness. \"Of course, just as my mother did!\"\n\n\"She does her best to cure them! She acts for the best, and performs her\nduty as far as she knows it.\"\n\n\"I don't blame you, sir, for doing yours, and keeping your own counsel\nabout Madam Esmond,\" said the old lady. \"But at least there is one\npoint upon which we all three agree--that this absurd marriage must be\nprevented. Do you know how old the woman is? I can tell you, though she\nhas torn the first leaf out of the family Bible at Castlewood.\"\n\n\"My mother has not forgotten her cousin's age, and is shocked at the\ndisparity between her and my poor brother. Indeed, a city-bred lady of\nher time of life, accustomed to London gaiety and luxury, would find but\na dismal home in our Virginian plantation. Besides, the house, such as\nit is, is not Harry's. He is welcome there, Heaven knows; more welcome,\nperhaps, than I, to whom the property comes in natural reversion; but,\nas I told him, I doubt how his wife would--would like our colony,\"\nGeorge said, with a blush, and a hesitation in his sentence.\n\nThe old lady laughed shrilly. \"He, he! nephew Warrington!\" she said,\n\"you need not scruple to speak your mind out. I shall tell no tales to\nyour mother: though 'tis no news to me that she has a high temper, and\nloves her own way. Harry has held his tongue, too; but it needed no\nconjurer to see who was the mistress at home, and what sort of a life\nmy sister led you. I love my niece, my Lady Molly, so well, that I could\nwish her two or three years of Virginia, with your mother reigning over\nher. You may well look alarmed, sir! Harry has said quite enough to show\nme who governs the family.\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said George, smiling, \"I may say as much as this, that I don't\nenvy any woman coming into our house against my mother's will: and my\npoor brother knows this perfectly well.\"\n\n\"What? You two have talked the matter over? No doubt you have. And the\nfoolish child considers himself bound in honour--of course he does, the\ngaby!\"\n\n\"He says Lady Maria has behaved most nobly to him. When he was sent to\nprison, she brought him her trinkets and jewels, and every guinea she\nhad in the world. This behaviour has touched him so, that he feels more\ndeeply than ever bound to her ladyship. But I own my brother seems bound\nby honour rather than love--such at least is his present feeling.\"\n\n\"My good creature,\" cries Madame Bernstein, \"don't you see that Maria\nbrings a few twopenny trinkets and a half-dozen guineas to Mr. Esmond,\nthe heir of the great estate in Virginia,--not to the second son, who is\na beggar, and has just squandered away every shilling of his fortune?\nI swear to you, on my credit as a gentlewoman, that, knowing Harry's\nobstinacy, and the misery he had in store for himself, I tried to bribe\nMaria to give up her engagement with him, and only failed because I\ncould not bribe high enough! When he was in prison, I sent my lawyer to\nhim, with orders to pay his debts immediately, if he would but part from\nher, but Maria had been beforehand with us, and Mr. Harry chose not to\ngo back from his stupid word. Let me tell you what has passed in the\nlast month!\" And here the old lady narrated at length the history which\nwe know already, but in that cynical language which was common in her\ntimes, when the finest folks and the most delicate ladies called things\nand people by names which we never utter in good company nowadays. And\nso much the better on the whole. We mayn't be more virtuous, but it\nis something to be more decent: perhaps we are not more pure, but of a\nsurety we are more cleanly.\n\nMadame Bernstein talked so much, so long, and so cleverly, that she was\nquite pleased with herself and her listener; and when she put herself\ninto the hands of Mrs. Brett to retire for the night, informed the\nwaiting-maid that she had changed her opinion about her eldest nephew,\nand that Mr. George was handsome, that he was certainly much wittier\nthan poor Harry (whom Heaven, it must be confessed, had not furnished\nwith a very great supply of brains), and that he had quite the bel\nair--a something melancholy--a noble and distinguished je ne scais\nquoy--which reminded her of the Colonel. Had she ever told Brett about\nthe Colonel? Scores of times, no doubt. And now she told Brett about the\nColonel once more. Meanwhile, perhaps, her new favourite was not quite\nso well pleased with her as she was with him. What a strange picture of\nlife and manners had the old lady unveiled to her nephew! How she railed\nat all the world round about her! How unconsciously did she paint her\nown family--her own self; how selfish, one and all; pursuing what\nmean ends; grasping and scrambling frantically for what petty prizes;\nambitious for what shabby recompenses; trampling--from life's beginning\nto its close--through what scenes of stale dissipations and faded\npleasures! \"Are these the inheritors of noble blood?\" thought George, as\nhe went home quite late from his aunt's house, passing by doors whence\nthe last guests of fashion were issuing, and where the chairmen were\nyawning over their expiring torches. \"Are these the proud possessors of\nancestral honours and ancient names, and were their forefathers, when in\nlife, no better? We have our pedigree at home with noble coats-of-arms\nemblazoned all over the branches, and titles dating back before the\nConquest and the Crusaders. When a knight of old found a friend in want,\ndid he turn his back upon him, or an unprotected damsel, did he delude\nher and leave her? When a nobleman of the early time received a young\nkinsman, did he get the better of him at dice, and did the ancient\nchivalry cheat in horseflesh? Can it be that this wily woman of the\nworld, as my aunt has represented, has inveigled my poor Harry into an\nengagement, that her tears are false, and that as soon as she finds him\npoor she will desert him? Had we not best pack the trunks and take a\ncabin in the next ship bound for home?\" George reached his own door\nrevolving these thoughts, and Gumbo came up yawning with a candle, and\nHarry was asleep before the extinguished fire, with the ashes of his\nemptied pipe on the table beside him.\n\nHe starts up; his eyes, for a moment dulled by sleep, lighten with\npleasure as he sees his dear George. He puts his arm round his brother\nwith a boyish laugh.\n\n\"There he is in flesh and blood, thank God!\" he says; \"I was dreaming of\nthee but now, George, and that Ward was hearing us our lesson! Dost\nthou remember the ruler, Georgy? Why, bless my soul, 'tis three o'clock!\nWhere have you been a-gadding, Mr. George? Hast thou supped? I supped at\nWhite's, but I'm hungry again. I did not play, sir,--no, no; no more of\nthat for younger brothers! And my Lord March paid me fifty he lost to\nme. I bet against his horse and on the Duke of Hamilton's! They both\nrode the match at Newmarket this morning, and he lost because he was\nunder weight. And he paid me, and he was as sulky as a bear. Let us have\none pipe, Georgy!--just one.\"\n\nAnd after the smoke the young men went to bed, where I, for one, wish\nthem a pleasant rest, for sure it is a good and pleasant thing to see\nbrethren who love one another.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV. Between Brothers\n\n\nOf course our young men had had their private talk about home, and all\nthe people and doings there, and each had imparted to the other full\nparticulars of his history since their last meeting. How were Harry's\ndogs, and little Dempster, and good old Nathan, and the rest of the\nhousehold? Was Mountain well, and Fanny grown to be a pretty girl? So\nParson Broadbent's daughter was engaged to marry Tom Barker of Savannah,\nand they were to go and live in Georgia! Harry owns that at one period\nhe was very sweet upon Parson Broadbent's daughter, and lost a\ngreat deal of pocket-money at cards, and drank a great quantity of\nstrong-waters with the father, in order to have a pretext for being near\nthe girl. But, Heaven help us! Madam Esmond would never have consented\nto his throwing himself away upon Polly Broadbent. So Colonel G.\nWashington's wife was a pretty woman, very good-natured and pleasant,\nand with a good fortune? He had brought her into Richmond, and paid a\nvisit of state to Madam Esmond. George described, with much humour, the\nawful ceremonials at the interview between these two personages, and the\nkilling politeness of his mother to Mr. Washington's young wife. \"Never\nmind, George, my dear!\" says Mrs. Mountain. \"The Colonel has taken\nanother wife, but I feel certain that at one time two young gentlemen I\nknow of ran a very near chance of having a tall stepfather six feet two\nin his boots.\" To be sure, Mountain was for ever match-making in her\nmind. Two people could not play a game at cards together, or sit down\nto a dish of tea, but she fancied their conjunction was for life. It was\nshe--the foolish tattler--who had set the report abroad regarding the\npoor Indian woman. As for Madam Esmond, she had repelled the insinuation\nwith scorn when Parson Stack brought it to her, and said, \"I should as\nsoon fancy Mr. Esmond stealing the spoons, or marrying a negro woman\nout of the kitchen.\" But, though she disdained to find the poor Biche\nguilty, and even thanked her for attending her son in his illness, she\ntreated her with such a chilling haughtiness of demeanour, that the\nIndian slunk away into the servants' quarters, and there tried to drown\nher disappointments with drink. It was not a cheerful picture that which\nGeorge gave of his two months at home. \"The birthright is mine, Harry,\"\nhe said, \"but thou art the favourite, and God help me! I think my mother\nalmost grudges it to me. Why should I have taken the pas, and preceded\nyour worship into the world? Had you been the eider, you would have had\nthe best cellar, and ridden the best nag, and been the most popular\nman in the country, whereas I have not a word to say for myself, and\nfrighten people by my glum face: I should have been second son, and set\nup as lawyer, or come to England and got my degrees, and turned parson,\nand said grace at your honour's table. The time is out of joint, sir. O\ncursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!\"\n\n\"Why, Georgy, you are talking verses, I protest you are!\" says Harry.\n\n\"I think, my dear, some one else talked those verses before me,\" says\nGeorge, with a smile.\n\n\"It's out of one of your books. You know every book that ever was wrote,\nthat I do believe!\" cries Harry, and then told his brother how he had\nseen the two authors at Tunbridge, and how he had taken off his hat to\nthem. \"Not that I cared much about their books, not being clever enough.\nBut I remembered how my dear old George used to speak of 'em,\" says\nHarry, with a choke in his voice, \"and that's why I liked to see them. I\nsay, dear, it's like a dream seeing you over again. Think of that bloody\nIndian with his knife at my George's head! I should like to give that\nMonsieur de Florac something for saving you--but I haven't got much now,\nonly my little gold knee-buckles, and they ain't worth two guineas.\"\n\n\"You have got the half of what I have, child, and we'll divide as soon\nas I have paid the Frenchman,\" George said.\n\nOn which Harry broke out not merely into blessings but actual\nimprecations, indicating his intense love and satisfaction; and he swore\nthat there never was such a brother in the world as his brother George.\nIndeed, for some days after his brother's arrival his eyes followed\nGeorge about: he would lay down his knife and fork, or his newspaper,\nwhen they were sitting together, and begin to laugh to himself. When he\nwalked with George on the Mall or in Hyde Park, he would gaze round at\nthe company, as much as to say, \"Look here, gentlemen! This is he.\nThis is my brother, that was dead and is alive again! Can any man in\nChristendom produce such a brother as this?\"\n\nOf course he was of opinion that George should pay to Museau's heirs\nthe sum which he had promised for his ransom. This question had been the\ncause of no small unhappiness to poor George at home. Museau dead, Madam\nEsmond argued with much eagerness, and not a little rancour, the bargain\nfell to the ground, and her son was free. The man was a rogue in the\nfirst instance. She would not pay the wages of iniquity. Mr. Esmond had\na small independence from his father, and might squander his patrimony\nif he chose. He was of age, and the money was in his power; but she\nwould be no party to such extravagance, as giving twelve thousand livres\nto a parcel of peasants in Normandy with whom we were at war, and who\nwould very likely give it all to the priests and the pope. She would not\nsubscribe to any such wickedness. If George wanted to squander away his\nfather's money (she must say that formerly he had not been so eager,\nand when Harry's benefit was in question had refused to touch a penny of\nit!)--if he wished to spend it now, why not give it to his own flesh and\nblood, to poor Harry, who was suddenly deprived of his inheritance, and\nnot to a set of priest-ridden peasants in France? This dispute had raged\nbetween mother and son during the whole of the latter's last days\nin Virginia. It had never been settled. On the morning of George's\ndeparture, Madam Esmond had come to his bedside after a sleepless night,\nand asked him whether he still persisted in his intention to fling away\nhis father's property?\n\nHe replied in a depth of grief and perplexity, that his word was passed,\nand he must do as his honour bade him. She answered that she would\ncontinue to pray that Heaven might soften his proud heart, and enable\nher to bear her heavy trials: and the last view George had of his\nmother's face was as she stood yet a moment by his bedside, pale and\nwith tearless eyes, before she turned away and slowly left his chamber.\n\n\"Where didst thou learn the art of winning over everybody to thy side,\nHarry?\" continued George; \"and how is it that you and all the world\nbegin by being friends? Teach me a few lessons in popularity, nay,\nI don't know that I will have them; and when I find and hear certain\npeople hate me, I think I am rather pleased than angry. At first, at\nRichmond, Mr. Esmond Warrington, the only prisoner who had escaped from\nBraddock's field--the victim of so much illness and hardship--was a\nfavourite with the town-folks, and received privately and publicly with\nno little kindness. The parson glorified my escape in a sermon; the\nneighbours came to visit the fugitive; the family coach was ordered out,\nand Madam Esmond and I paid our visits in return. I think some pretty\nlittle caps were set at me. But these our mother routed off, and\nfrightened with the prodigious haughtiness of her demeanour; and my\npopularity was already at the decrease before the event occurred which\nput the last finishing stroke to it. I was not jolly enough for the\nofficers, and didn't care for their drinking-bouts, dice-boxes, and\nswearing. I was too sarcastic for the ladies, and their tea and tattle\nstupefied me almost as much as the men's blustering and horse-talk. I\ncannot tell thee, Harry, how lonely I felt in that place, amidst the\nscandal and squabbles: I regretted my prison almost, and found myself\nmore than once wishing for the freedom of thought, and the silent ease\nof Duquesne. I am very shy, I suppose: I can speak unreservedly to very\nfew people. Before most, I sit utterly silent. When we two were at home,\nit was thou who used to talk at table, and get a smile now and then from\nour mother. When she and I were together we had no subject in common,\nand we scarce spoke at all until we began to dispute about law and\ndivinity.\n\n\"So the gentlemen had determined I was supercilious, and a dull\ncompanion (and, indeed, I think their opinion was right), and the ladies\nthought I was cold and sarcastic,--could never make out whether I was\nin earnest or no, and, I think, generally voted I was a disagreeable\nfellow, before my character was gone quite away; and that went with the\nappearance of the poor Biche. Oh, a nice character they made for me, my\ndear!\" cried George, in a transport of wrath, \"and a pretty life they\nled me after Museau's unlucky messenger had appeared amongst us! The\nboys hooted the poor woman if she appeared in the street; the ladies\ndropped me half-curtseys, and walked over to the other side. That\nprecious clergyman went from one tea-table to another preaching on the\nhorrors of seduction, and the lax principles which young men learned in\npopish countries and brought back thence. The poor Fawn's appearance\nat home a few weeks after my return home, was declared to be a scheme\nbetween her and me; and the best informed agreed that she had waited on\nthe other side of the river until I gave her the signal to come and\njoin me in Richmond. The officers bantered me at the coffee-house, and\ncracked their clumsy jokes about the woman I had selected. Oh, the world\nis a nice charitable world! I was so enraged that I thought of going to\nCastlewood and living alone there,--for our mother finds the place dull,\nand the greatest consolation in precious Mr. Stack's ministry,--when\nthe news arrived of your female perplexity, and I think we were all glad\nthat I should have a pretext for coming to Europe.\"\n\n\"I should like to see any of the infernal scoundrels who said word\nagainst you, and break their rascally bones,\" roars out Harry, striding\nup and down the room.\n\n\"I had to do something like it for Bob Clubber.\"\n\n\"What! that little sneaking, backbiting, toad-eating wretch, who is\nalways hanging about my lord at Greenway Court, and spunging on every\ngentleman in the country? If you whipped him, I hope you whipped him\nwell, George?\"\n\n\"We were bound over to keep the peace; and I offered to go into Maryland\nwith him and settle our difference there, and of course the good folk\nsaid, that having made free with the seventh commandment I was inclined\nto break the sixth. So, by this and by that--and being as innocent of\nthe crime imputed to me as you are--I left home, my dear Harry, with as\nawful a reputation as ever a young gentleman earned.\"\n\nAh, what an opportunity is there here to moralise! If the esteemed\nreader and his humble servant could but know--could but write down in\na book--could but publish, with illustrations, a collection of the\nlies which have been told regarding each of us since we came to man's\nestate,--what a harrowing and thrilling work of fiction that romance\nwould be! Not only is the world informed of everything about you, but\nof a great deal more. Not long since the kind postman brought a paper\ncontaining a valuable piece of criticism, which stated--\"This author\nstates he was born in such and such a year. It is a lie. He was born in\nthe year so and so.\" The critic knew better: of course he did. Another\n(and both came from the country which gave MULLIGAN birth) warned some\nfriend, saying, \"Don't speak of New South Wales to him. He has a brother\nthere, and the family never mention his name.\" But this subject is too\nvast and noble for a mere paragraph. I shall prepare a memoir, or let\nus have rather, par une societe de gens de lettres, a series of\nbiographies, of lives of gentlemen, as told by their dear friends whom\nthey don't know.\n\nGeorge having related his exploits as champion and martyr, of course\nHarry had to unbosom himself to his brother, and lay before his elder\nan account of his private affairs. He gave up all the family of\nCastlewood--my lord, not for getting the better of him at play; for\nHarry was a sporting man, and expected to pay when he lost, and receive\nwhen he won; but for refusing to aid the chaplain in his necessity, and\ndismissing him with such false and heartless pretexts. About Mr. Will he\nhad made up his mind, after the horse-dealing matter, and freely\nmarked his sense of the latter's conduct upon Mr. Will's eyes and nose.\nRespecting the Countess and Lady Fanny, Harry spoke in a manner more\nguarded, but not very favourable. He had heard all sorts of stories\nabout them. The Countess was a card-playing old cat; Lady Fanny was a\ndesperate flirt. Who told him? Well, he had heard the stories from a\nperson who knew them both very well indeed. In fact, in those days\nof confidence, of which we made mention in the last volume, Maria had\nfreely imparted to her cousin a number of anecdotes respecting her\nstepmother and her half-sister, which were by no means in favour of\nthose ladies.\n\nBut in respect to Lady Maria herself, the young man was staunch and\nhearty. \"It may be imprudent: I don't say no, George. I may be a fool:\nI think I am. I know there will be a dreadful piece of work at home, and\nthat Madam and she will fight. Well! we must live apart. Our estate is\nbig enough to live on without quarrelling, and I can go elsewhere than\nto Richmond or Castlewood. When you come to the property, you'll give me\na bit--at any rate, Madam will let me off at an easy rent--or I'll make\na famous farmer or factor. I can't and won't part from Maria. She has\nacted so nobly by me, that I should be a rascal to turn my back on her.\nThink of her bringing me every jewel she had in the world, dear\nbrave creature! and flinging them into my lap with her last\nguineas,--and--and--God bless her!\" Here Harry dashed his sleeve across\nhis eyes, with a stamp of his foot, and said, \"No, brother, I won't part\nwith her--not to be made Governor of Virginia tomorrow; and my dearest\nold George would never advise me to do so, I know that.\"\n\n\"I am sent here to advise you,\" George replied. \"I am sent to break the\nmarriage off, if I can: and a more unhappy one I can't imagine. But I\ncan't counsel you to break your word, my boy.\"\n\n\"I knew you couldn't! What's said is said, George. I have made my bed,\nand must lie on it,\" says Mr. Harry, gloomily.\n\nSuch had been the settlement between our two young worthies, when\nthey first talked over Mr. Harry's love affair. But after George's\nconversation with his aunt, and the further knowledge of his family,\nwhich he acquired through the information of that keen old woman of the\nworld, Mr. Warrington, who was naturally of a sceptical turn, began to\ndoubt about Lady Maria, as well as regarding her brothers and sister,\nand looked at Harry's engagement with increased distrust and alarm. Was\nit for his wealth that Maria wanted Harry? Was it his handsome young\nperson that she longed after? Were those stories true which Aunt\nBernstein had told of her? Certainly he could not advise Harry to\nbreak his word; but he might cast about in his mind for some scheme for\nputting Maria's affection to the trial; and his ensuing conduct, which\nappeared not very amiable, I suppose resulted from this deliberation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI. Ariadne\n\n\nMy Lord Castlewood had a house in Kensington Square spacious enough to\naccommodate the several members of his noble family, and convenient for\ntheir service at the palace hard by, when his Majesty dwelt there. Her\nladyship had her evenings, and gave her card-parties here for such as\nwould come; but Kensington was a long way from London a hundred years\nsince, and George Selwyn said he for one was afraid to go, for fear\nof being robbed of a night,--whether by footpads with crape over their\nfaces, or by ladies in rouge at the quadrille-table, we have no means of\nsaying. About noon on the day after Harry had made his reappearance at\nWhite's, it chanced that all his virtuous kinsfolks partook of breakfast\ntogether, even Mr. Will being present, who was to go into waiting in the\nafternoon.\n\nThe ladies came first to their chocolate: them Mr. Will joined in his\ncourt suit; finally, my lord appeared, languid, in his bedgown and\nnightcap, having not yet assumed his wig for the day. Here was news\nwhich Will had brought home from the Star and Garter last night, when he\nsupped in company with some men who had heard it at White's and seen it\nat Ranelagh!\n\n\"Heard what? seen what?\" asked the head of the house, taking up his\nDaily Advertiser.\n\n\"Ask Maria!\" says Lady Fanny. My lord turns to his elder sister, who\nwears a face of portentous sadness, and looks as pale as a tablecloth.\n\n\"'Tis one of Will's usual elegant and polite inventions,\" says Maria.\n\n\"No,\" swore Will, with several of his oaths; \"it was no invention of\nhis. Tom Claypool of Norfolk saw 'em both at Ranelagh; and Jack Morris\ncame out of White's, where he heard the story from Harry Warrington's\nown lips. Curse him, I'm glad of it!\" roars Will, slapping the table.\n\"What do you think of your Fortunate Youth, your Virginian, whom your\nlordship made so much of, turning out to be a second son?\"\n\n\"The elder brother not dead?\" says my lord.\n\n\"No more dead than you are. Never was. It's my belief that it was a\ncross between the two.\"\n\n\"Mr. Warrington is incapable of such duplicity!\" cries Maria.\n\n\"I never encouraged the fellow, I am sure you will do me justice there,\"\nsays my lady. \"Nor did Fanny: not we, indeed!\"\n\n\"Not we, indeed!\" echoes my Lady Fanny.\n\n\"The fellow is only a beggar, and, I dare say, has not paid for the\nclothes on his back,\" continues Will. \"I'm glad of it, for, hang him, I\nhate him!\"\n\n\"You don't regard him with favourable eyes; especially since he blacked\nyours, Will!\" grins my lord. \"So the poor fellow has found his brother,\nand lost his estate!\" And here he turned towards his sister Maria, who,\nalthough she looked the picture of woe, must have suggested something\nludicrous to the humourist near whom she sate; for his lordship, having\ngazed at her for a minute, burst into a shrill laugh, which caused the\npoor lady's face to flush, and presently her eyes to pour over with\ntears. \"It's a shame! it's a shame!\" she sobbed out, and hid her face\nin her handkerchief. Maria's stepmother and sister looked at each other.\n\"We never quite understand your lordship's humour,\" the former lady\nremarked, gravely.\n\n\"I don't see there is the least reason why you should,\" said my lord,\ncoolly. \"Maria, my dear, pray excuse me if I have said--that is, done\nanything, to hurt your feelings.\"\n\n\"Done anything! You pillaged the poor lad in his prosperity, and laugh\nat him in his ruin!\" says Maria, rising from table, and glaring round at\nall her family.\n\n\"Excuse me, my dear sister, I was not laughing at him,\" said my lord,\ngently.\n\n\"Oh, never mind at what or whom else, my lord! You have taken from him\nall he had to lose. All the world points at you as the man who feeds on\nhis own flesh and blood. And now you have his all, you make merry over\nhis misfortune!\" And away she rustled from the room, flinging looks of\ndefiance at all the party there assembled.\n\n\"Tell us what has happened, or what you have heard, Will, and my\nsister's grief will not interrupt us.\" And Will told, at great length,\nand with immense exultation at Harry's discomfiture, the story now\nbuzzed through all London, of George Warrington's sudden apparition.\nLord Castlewood was sorry for Harry: Harry was a good, brave lad, and\nhis kinsman liked him, as much as certain worldly folks like each other.\nTo be sure he played Harry at cards, and took the advantage of the\nmarket upon him; but why not? The peach which other men would certainly\npluck, he might as well devour. Eh! if that were all my conscience had\nto reproach me with, I need not be very uneasy! my lord thought. \"Where\ndoes Mr. Warrington live?\"\n\nWill expressed himself ready to enter upon a state of reprobation if he\nknew or cared.\n\n\"He shall be invited here, and treated with every respect,\" said my\nlord.\n\n\"Including piquet, I suppose!\" growls Will.\n\n\"Or will you take him to the stables, and sell him one of your bargains\nof horseflesh, Will?\" asks Lord Castlewood. \"You would have won of Harry\nWarrington fast enough, if you could; but you cheat so clumsily at your\ngame that you got paid with a cudgel. I desire, once more, that every\nattention may be paid to our cousin Warrington.\"\n\n\"And that you are not to be disturbed, when you sit down to play, of\ncourse, my lord!\" cries Lady Castlewood.\n\n\"Madam, I desire fair play, for Mr. Warrington, and for myself, and\nfor every member of this amiable family,\" retorted Lord Castlewood,\nfiercely.\n\n\"Heaven help the poor gentleman if your lordship is going to be kind to\nhim,\" said the stepmother, with a curtsey; and there is no knowing\nhow far this family dispute might have been carried, had not, at this\nmoment, a phaeton driven up to the house, in which were seated the two\nyoung Virginians.\n\nIt was the carriage which our young Prodigal had purchased in the days\nof his prosperity. He drove it still: George sate in it by his side;\ntheir negroes were behind them. Harry had been for meekly giving the\nwhip and reins to his brother, and ceding the whole property to him.\n\"What business has a poor devil like me with horses and carriages,\nGeorgy?\" Harry had humbly said. \"Beyond the coat on my back, and\nthe purse my aunt gave me, I have nothing in the world. You take\nthe driving-seat, brother; it will ease my mind if you will take the\ndriving-seat.\" George laughingly said he did not know the way, and Harry\ndid; and that, as for the carriage, he would claim only a half of it,\nas he had already done with his brother's wardrobe. \"But a bargain is\na bargain; if I share thy coats, thou must divide my breeches' pocket,\nHarry; that is but fair dealing!\" Again and again Harry swore there\nnever was such a brother on earth. How he rattled his horses over the\nroad! How pleased and proud he was to drive such a brother! They came\nto Kensington in famous high spirits; and Gumbo's thunder upon Lord\nCastlewood's door was worthy of the biggest footman in all St. James's.\n\nOnly my Lady Castlewood and her daughter Lady Fanny were in the room\ninto which our young gentlemen were ushered. Will had no particular\nfancy to face Harry, my lord was not dressed, Maria had her reasons\nfor being away, at least till her eyes were dried. When we drive up to\nfriends' houses nowadays in our coaches-and-six, when John carries up\nour noble names, when, finally, we enter the drawing-room with our\nbest hat and best Sunday smile foremost, does it ever happen that we\ninterrupt a family row! that we come simpering and smiling in, and\nstepping over the delusive ashes of a still burning domestic heat? that\nin the interval between the hall-door and the drawing-room, Mrs., Mr.,\nand the Misses Jones have grouped themselves in a family tableau;\nthis girl artlessly arranging flowers in a vase, let us say; that one\nreclining over an illuminated work of devotion; mamma on the sofa, with\nthe butcher's and grocer's book pushed under the cushion, some elegant\nwork in her hand, and a pretty little foot pushed out advantageously;\nwhile honest Jones, far from saying, \"Curse that Brown, he is always\ncalling here!\" holds out a kindly hand, shows a pleased face, and\nexclaims, \"What, Brown my boy, delighted to see you! Hope you've come\nto lunch!\" I say, does it ever happen to us to be made the victims of\ndomestic artifices, the spectators of domestic comedies got up for our\nspecial amusement? Oh, let us be thankful, not only for faces, but\nfor masks! not only for honest welcome, but for hypocrisy, which hides\nunwelcome things from us! Whilst I am talking, for instance, in this\neasy, chatty way, what right have you, my good sir, to know what is\nreally passing in my mind? It may be that I am racked with gout, or\nthat my eldest son has just sent me in a thousand pounds' worth of\ncollege-bills, or that I am writhing under an attack of the Stoke Pogis\nSentinel, which has just been sent me under cover, or that there is a\ndreadfully scrappy dinner, the evident remains of a party to which I\ndidn't invite you, and yet I conceal my agony, I wear a merry smile; I\nsay, \"What! come to take pot-luck with us, Brown my boy! Betsy! put a\nknife and fork for Mr. Brown. Eat! Welcome! Fall to! It's my best!\" I\nsay that humbug which I am performing is beautiful self-denial--that\nhypocrisy is true virtue. Oh, if every man spoke his mind what an\nintolerable society ours would be to live in!\n\nAs the young gentlemen are announced, Lady Castlewood advances towards\nthem with perfect ease and good-humour. \"We have heard, Harry,\" she\nsays, looking at the latter with a special friendliness, \"of this most\nextraordinary circumstance. My Lord Castlewood said at breakfast that he\nshould wait on you this very day, Mr. Warrington, and, cousin Harry, we\nintend not to love you any the less because you are poor.\"\n\n\"We shall be able to show now that it is not for your acres that we like\nyou, Harry!\" says Lady Fanny, following her mamma's lead.\n\n\"And I to whom the acres have fallen?\" says Mr. George, with a smile and\na bow.\n\n\"Oh, cousin, we shall like you for being like Harry!\" replies the arch\nLady Fanny.\n\nAh! who that has seen the world, has not admired that astonishing ease\nwith which fine ladies drop you and pick you up again? Both the ladies\nnow addressed themselves almost exclusively to the younger brother. They\nwere quite civil to Mr. George: but with Mr. Harry they were fond, they\nwere softly familiar, they were gently kind, they were affectionately\nreproachful. Why had Harry not been for days and days to see them?\n\n\"Better to have had a dish of tea and a game at piquet with them than\nwith some other folks,\" says Lady Castlewood. \"If we had won enough\nto buy a paper of pins from you we should have been content; but young\ngentlemen don't know what is for their own good,\" says mamma.\n\n\"Now you have no more money to play with, you can come and play with\nus, cousin!\" cries fond Lady Fanny, lifting up a finger, \"and so your\nmisfortune will be good fortune to us.\"\n\nGeorge was puzzled. This welcome of his brother was very different from\nthat to which he had looked. All these compliments and attentions paid\nto the younger brother, though he was without a guinea! Perhaps the\npeople were not so bad as they were painted? The Blackest of all Blacks\nis said not to be of quite so dark a complexion as some folks describe\nhim.\n\nThis affectionate conversation continued for some twenty minutes, at the\nend of which period my Lord Castlewood made his appearance, wig on head,\nand sword by side. He greeted both the young men with much politeness:\none not more than the other. \"If you were to come to us--and I, for one,\ncordially rejoice to see you--what a pity it is you did not come a few\nmonths earlier! A certain evening at piquet would then most likely never\nhave taken place. A younger son would have been more prudent.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Or a kinsman more compassionate. But I fear that love of play runs in\nthe blood of all of us. I have it from my father, and it has made me the\npoorest peer in England. Those fair ladies whom you see before you are\nnot exempt. My poor brother Will is a martyr to it; and what I, for my\npart, win on one day, I lose on the next. 'Tis shocking, positively, the\nrage for play in England. All my poor cousin's bank-notes parted company\nfrom me within twenty-four hours after I got them.\"\n\n\"I have played, like other gentlemen, but never to hurt myself, and\nnever indeed caring much for the sport,\" remarked Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"When we heard that my lord had played with Harry, we did so scold him,\"\ncried the ladies.\n\n\"But if it had not been I, thou knowest, cousin Warrington, some other\nperson would have had thy money. 'Tis a poor consolation, but as such\nHarry must please to take it, and be glad that friends won his money,\nwho wish him well, not strangers, who cared nothing for him, and fleeced\nhim.\"\n\n\"Eh! a tooth out is a tooth out, though it be your brother who pulls it,\nmy lord!\" said Mr. George, laughing. \"Harry must bear the penalty of his\nfaults, and pay his debts, like other men.\"\n\n\"I am sure I have never said or thought otherwise. 'Tis not like an\nEnglishman to be sulky because he is beaten,\" says Harry.\n\n\"Your hand, cousin! You speak like a man!\" cries my lord, with delight.\nThe ladies smiled to each other.\n\n\"My sister, in Virginia, has known how to bring up her sons as\ngentlemen!\" exclaims Lady Castlewood, enthusiastically.\n\n\"I protest you must not be growing so amiable now you are poor, cousin\nHarry!\" cries cousin Fanny. \"Why, mamma, we did not know half his good\nqualities when he was only Fortunate Youth and Prince of Virginia! You\nare exactly like him, cousin George, but I vow you can't be as amiable\nas your brother!\"\n\n\"I am the Prince of Virginia, but I fear I am not the Fortunate Youth,\"\nsaid George, gravely.\n\nHarry was beginning, \"By Jove, he is the best----\" when the noise of a\nharpsichord was heard from the upper room. The lad blushed: the ladies\nsmiled.\n\n\"'Tis Maria, above,\" said Lady Castlewood. \"Let some of us go up to\nher.\"\n\nThe ladies rose, and made way towards the door; and Harry followed\nthem, blushing very much. George was about to join the party, but Lord\nCastlewood checked him. \"Nay, if all the ladies follow your brother\"\nhis lordship said, \"let me at least have the benefit of your company and\nconversation. I long to hear the account of your captivity and rescue,\ncousin George!\"\n\n\"Oh, we must hear that too!\" cried one of the ladies, lingering.\n\n\"I am greedy, and should like it all by myself,\" said Lord Castlewood,\nlooking at her very sternly; and followed the women to the door, and\nclosed it upon them with a low bow.\n\n\"Your brother has no doubt acquainted you with the history of all\nthat has happened to him in this house, cousin George?\" asked George's\nkinsman.\n\n\"Yes, including the quarrel with Mr. Will and the engagement to my Lady\nMaria,\" replies George, with a bow. \"I may be pardoned for saying that\nhe hath met with but ill fortune here, my lord.\"\n\n\"Which no one can deplore more cordially than myself. My brother lives\nwith horse jockeys and trainers, and the wildest bloods of the town,\nand between us there is very little sympathy. We should not all live\ntogether, were we not so poor. This is the house which our grandmother\noccupied before she went to America and married Colonel Esmond. Much\nof the furniture belonged to her.\" George looked round the wainscoted\nparlour with some interest. \"Our house has not flourished in the last\ntwenty years; though we had a promotion of rank a score of years since,\nowing to some interest we had at court, then. But the malady of play has\nbeen the ruin of us all. I am a miserable victim to it: only too\nproud to sell myself and title to a roturiere, as many noblemen, less\nscrupulous, have done. Pride is my fault, my dear cousin. I remember how\nI was born!\" And his lordship laid his hand on his shirt-frill, turned\nout his toe, and looked his cousin nobly in the face.\n\nYoung George Warrington's natural disposition was to believe everything\nwhich everybody said to him. When once deceived, however, or undeceived\nabout the character of a person, he became utterly incredulous, and\nhe saluted this fine speech of my lord's with a sardonical, inward\nlaughter, preserving his gravity, however, and scarce allowing any of\nhis scorn to appear in his words.\n\n\"We have all our faults, my lord. That of play hath been condoned over\nand over again in gentlemen of our rank. Having heartily forgiven my\nbrother, surely I cannot presume to be your lordship's judge in the\nmatter; and instead of playing and losing, I wish sincerely that you had\nboth played and won!\"\n\n\"So do I, with all my heart!\" says my lord with a sigh. \"I augur\nwell for your goodness when you can speak in this way, and for your\nexperience and knowledge of the world, too, cousin, of which you seem to\npossess a greater share than most young men of your age. Your poor Harry\nhath the best heart in the world; but I doubt whether his head be very\nstrong.\"\n\n\"Not very strong, indeed. But he hath the art to make friends wherever\nhe goes, and in spite of all his imprudences most people love him.\"\n\n\"I do--we all do, I'm sure! as if he were our brother!\" cries my lord.\n\n\"He has often described in his letters his welcome at your lordship's\nhouse. My mother keeps them all, you may be sure. Harry's style is not\nvery learned, but his heart is so good, that to read him is better than\nwit.\"\n\n\"I may be mistaken, but I fancy his brother possesses a good heart and a\ngood wit, too!\" says my lord, obstinately gracious.\n\n\"I am as Heaven made me, cousin; and perhaps some more experience and\nsorrow than has fallen to the lot of most young men.\"\n\n\"This misfortune of your poor brother--I mean this piece of good\nfortune, your sudden reappearance--has not quite left Harry without\nresources?\" continued Lord Castlewood, very gently.\n\n\"With nothing but what his mother can leave him, or I, at her death,\ncan spare him. What is the usual portion here of a younger brother, my\nlord?\"\n\n\"Eh! a younger brother here is--you know--in fine, everybody knows what\na younger brother is,\" said my lord, and shrugged his shoulders and\nlooked his guest in the face.\n\nThe other went on: \"We are the best of friends, but we are flesh and\nblood: and I don't pretend to do more for him than is usually done for\nyounger brothers. Why give him money? That he should squander it at\ncards or horse-racing? My lord, we have cards and jockeys in Virginia,\ntoo; and my poor Harry hath distinguished himself in his own country\nalready, before he came to yours. He inherits the family failing for\ndissipation.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow, poor fellow, I pity him!\"\n\n\"Our estate, you see, is great, but our income is small. We have little\nmore money than that which we get from England for our tobacco--and very\nlittle of that too--for our tobacco comes back to us in the shape of\ngoods, clothes, leather, groceries, ironmongery, nay, wine and beer for\nour people and ourselves. Harry may come back and share all these:\nthere is a nag in the stable for him, a piece of venison on the table,\na little ready money to keep his pocket warm, and a coat or two every\nyear. This will go on whilst my mother lives, unless, which is far from\nimprobable, he gets into some quarrel with Madam Esmond. Then, whilst I\nlive he will have the run of the house and all it contains: then, if I\ndie leaving children, he will be less and less welcome. His future,\nmy lord, is a dismal one, unless some strange piece of luck turn up on\nwhich we were fools to speculate. Henceforth he is doomed to dependence,\nand I know no worse lot than to be dependent on a self-willed woman like\nour mother. The means he had to make himself respected at home he\nhath squandered away here. He has flung his patrimony to the dogs,\nand poverty and subserviency are now his only portion.\" Mr. Warrington\ndelivered this speech with considerable spirit and volubility, and his\ncousin heard him respectfully.\n\n\"You speak well, Mr. Warrington. Have you ever thought of public life?\"\nsaid my lord.\n\n\"Of course I have thought of public life like every man of my\nstation--every man, that is, who cares for something beyond a dice-box\nor a stable,\" replies George. \"I hope, my lord, to be able to take my\nown place, and my unlucky brother must content himself with his. This I\nsay advisedly, having heard from him of certain engagements which he has\nformed, and which it would be misery to all parties were he to attempt\nto execute now.\"\n\n\"Your logic is very strong,\" said my lord. \"Shall we go up and see the\nladies? There is a picture above-stairs which your grandfather is said\nto have executed. Before you go, my dear cousin, you will please to fix\na day when our family may have the honour of receiving you. Castlewood,\nyou know, is always your home when we are there. It is something like\nyour Virginian Castlewood, cousin, from your account. We have beef,\nand mutton, and ale, and wood, in plenty; but money is woefully scarce\namongst us.\"\n\nThey ascended to the drawing-room, where, however, they found only one\nof the ladies of the family. This was my Lady Maria, who came out of the\nembrasure of a window, where she and Harry Warrington had been engaged\nin talk.\n\nGeorge made his best bow, Maria her lowest curtsey. \"You are indeed\nwonderfully like your brother,\" she said, giving him her hand. \"And from\nwhat he says, cousin George, I think you are as good as he is.\"\n\nAt the sight of her swollen eyes and tearful face George felt a pang\nof remorse. \"Poor thing!\" he thought. \"Harry has been vaunting my\ngenerosity and virtue to her, and I have beer, playing the selfish elder\nbrother downstairs! How old she looks! How could he ever have a passion\nfor such a woman as that?\" How? Because he did not see with your eyes,\nMr. George. He saw rightly too now with his own, perhaps. I never know\nwhether to pity or congratulate a man on coming to his senses.\n\nAfter the introduction a little talk took place, which for a while Lady\nMaria managed to carry on in an easy manner: but though ladies in this\nmatter of social hypocrisy are, I think, far more consummate performers\nthan men, after a sentence or two the poor lady broke out into a sob,\nand, motioning Harry away with her hand, fairly fled from the room.\n\nHarry was rushing forward, but stopped--checked by that sign. My lord\nsaid his poor sister was subject to these fits of nerves, and had\nalready been ill that morning. After this event our young gentlemen\nthought it was needless to prolong their visit. Lord Castlewood followed\nthem downstairs, accompanied them to the door, admired their nags in the\nphaeton, and waved them a friendly farewell.\n\n\"And so we have been coaxing and cuddling in the window, and we part\ngood friends, Harry? Is it not so?\" says George to his charioteer.\n\n\"Oh, she is a good woman!\" cries Harry, lashing the horses. \"I know\nyou'll think so when you come to know her.\"\n\n\"When you take her home to Virginia? A pretty welcome our mother will\ngive her. She will never forgive me for not breaking the match off, nor\nyou for making it.\"\n\n\"I can't help it, George! Don't you be popping your ugly head so close\nto my ears, Gumbo! After what has passed between us, I am bound in\nhonour to stand by her. If she sees no objection, I must find none. I\ntold her all. I told her that Madam would be very rusty at first; but\nthat she was very fond of me, and must end by relenting. And when you\ncome to the property, I told her that I knew my dearest George so well,\nthat I might count upon sharing with him.\"\n\n\"The deuce you did! Let me tell you, my dear, that I have been telling\nmy Lord Castlewood quite a different story. That as an elder brother I\nintend to have all my rights--there, don't flog that near horse so--and\nthat you can but look forward to poverty and dependence.\"\n\n\"What! You won't help me?\" cries Harry, turning quite pale.\n\n\"George, I don't believe it, though I hear it out of your own mouth!\nThere was a minute's pause after this outbreak, during which Harry did\nnot even look at his brother, but sate, gazing blindly before him, the\npicture of grief and gloom. He was driving so near to a road-post that\nthe carriage might have been upset but for George's pulling the rein.\n\n\"You had better take the reins, sir,\" said Harry. \"I told you you had\nbetter take them.\"\n\n\"Did you ever know me fail you, Harry?\" George asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the other, \"not till now\"--the tears were rolling down his\ncheeks as he spoke.\n\n\"My dear, I think one day you will say I have done my duty.\"\n\n\"What have you done? asked Harry.\n\n\"I have said you were a younger brother--that you have spent all your\npatrimony, and that your portion at home must be very slender. Is it not\ntrue?\"\n\n\"Yes, but I would not have believed it, if ten thousand men had told\nme,\" said Harry. \"Whatever happened to me, I thought I could trust you,\nGeorge Warrington.\" And in this frame of mind Harry remained during the\nrest of the drive.\n\nTheir dinner was served soon after their return to their lodgings, of\nwhich Harry scarce ate any, though he drank freely of the wine before\nhim.\n\n\"That wine is a bad consoler in trouble, Harry,\" his brother remarked.\n\n\"I have no other, sir,\" said Harry, grimly; and having drunk glass after\nglass in silence, he presently seized his hat, and left the room.\n\nHe did not return for three hours. George, in much anxiety about his\nbrother, had not left home meanwhile, but read his book, and smoked the\npipe of patience. \"It was shabby to say I would not aid him, and,\nGod help me, it was not true. I won't leave him, though he marries a\nblackamoor,\" thought George \"have I not done him harm enough already, by\ncoming to life again? Where has he gone; has he gone to play?\"\n\n\"Good God! what has happened to thee?\" cried George Warrington,\npresently, when his brother came in, looking ghastly pale.\n\nHe came up and took his brother's hand. \"I can take it now, Georgy,\"\nhe said. \"Perhaps what you did was right, though. I for one will never\nbelieve that you would throw your brother off in distress. I'll tell you\nwhat. At dinner, I thought suddenly, I'll go back to her and speak to\nher. I'll say to her, 'Maria, poor as I am, your conduct to me has been\nso noble, that, by heaven! I am yours to take or to leave. If you will\nhave me, here I am: I will enlist: I will work: I will try and make a\nlivelihood for myself somehow, and my bro----my relations will relent,\nand give us enough to live on.' That's what I determined to tell her;\nand I did, George. I ran all the way to Kensington in the rain--look, I\nam splashed from head to foot,--and found them all at dinner, all except\nWill, that is. I spoke out that very moment to them all, sitting round\nthe table, over their wine. 'Maria,' says I, 'a poor fellow wants to\nredeem his promise which he made when he fancied he was rich. Will you\ntake him?' I found I had plenty of words, and didn't hem and stutter as\nI'm doing now. I spoke ever so long, and I ended by saying I would do my\nbest and my duty by her, so help me God!\n\n\"When I had done, she came up to me quite kind. She took my hand, and\nkissed it before the rest. 'My dearest, best Harry!' she said (those\nwere her words, I don't want otherwise to be praising myself), 'you are\na noble heart, and I thank you with all mine. But, my dear, I have long\nseen it was only duty, and a foolish promise made by a young man to an\nold woman, that has held you to your engagement. To keep it would make\nyou miserable, my dear. I absolve you from it, thanking you with all my\nheart for your fidelity, and blessing and loving my dear cousin always.'\nAnd she came up and kissed me before them all, and went out of the\nroom quite stately, and without a single tear. They were all crying,\nespecially my lord, who was sobbing quite loud. I didn't think he had so\nmuch feeling. And she, George? Oh, isn't she a noble creature?\"\n\n\"Here's her health!\" cries George, filling one of the glasses that still\nstood before him.\n\n\"Hip, hip, huzzay!\" says Harry. He was wild with delight at being free.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII. In which Mr. Harry's Nose continues to be put out of joint\n\n\nMadame de Bernstein was scarcely less pleased than her Virginian\nnephews at the result of Harry's final interview with Lady Maria. George\ninformed the Baroness of what had passed, in a billet which he sent\nto her the same evening; and shortly afterwards her nephew Castlewood,\nwhose visits to his aunt were very rare, came to pay his respects to\nher, and frankly spoke about the circumstances which had taken place;\nfor no man knew better than my Lord Castlewood how to be frank upon\noccasion, and now that the business between Maria and Harry was ended\nwhat need was there of reticence or hypocrisy? The game had been played,\nand was over: he had no objection now to speak of its various\nmoves, stratagems, finesses. \"She is my own sister,\" said my lord,\naffectionately; \"she won't have many more chances--many more such\nchances of marrying and establishing herself. I might not approve of the\nmatch in all respects, and I might pity your ladyship's young Virginian\nfavourite: but of course such a piece of good fortune was not to be\nthrown away, and I was bound to stand by my own flesh and blood.\"\n\n\"Your candour does your lordship honour,\" says Madame de Bernstein, \"and\nyour love for your sister is quite edifying!\"\n\n\"Nay, we have lost the game, and I am speaking sans rancune. It is not\nfor you, who have won, to bear malice,\" says my lord, with a bow.\n\nMadame de Bernstein protested she was never in her life in better\nhumour. \"Confess, now, Eugene, that visit of Maria to Harry at the\nspunging-house--that touching giving up of all his presents to her, was\na stroke of thy invention?\"\n\n\"Pity for the young man, and a sense of what was due from Maria to her\nfriend--her affianced lover--in misfortune, sure these were motives\nsufficient to make her act as she did,\" replies Lord Castlewood,\ndemurely.\n\n\"But 'twas you advised her, my good nephew?\"\n\nCastlewood, with a shrug of his shoulders, owned that he did advise his\nsister to see Mr. Henry Warrington. \"But we should have won, in spite\nof your ladyship,\" he continued, \"had not the elder brother made his\nappearance. And I have been trying to console my poor Maria by showing\nher what a piece of good fortune it is after all, that we lost.\"\n\n\"Suppose she had married Harry, and then cousin George had made his\nappearance?\" remarks the Baroness.\n\n\"Effectivement,\" cries Eugene, taking snuff. \"As the grave was to give\nup its dead, let us be thankful to the grave for disgorging in time! I\nam bound to say, that Mr. George Warrington seems to be a man of sense,\nand not more selfish than other elder sons and men of the world. My poor\nMolly fancied that he might be a--what shall I say?--a greenhorn perhaps\nis the term--like his younger brother. She fondly hoped that he might be\ninclined to go share and share alike with Twin junior; in which case, so\ninfatuated was she about the young fellow, that I believe she would have\ntaken him. 'Harry Warrington, with half a loaf, might do very well,'\nsays I, 'but Harry Warrington with no bread, my dear!'\"\n\n\"How no bread?\" asks the Baroness.\n\n\"Well, no bread except at his brother's side-table. The elder said as\nmuch.\"\n\n\"What a hard-hearted wretch!\" cries Madame de Bernstein.\n\n\"Ah, bah! I play with you, aunt, cartes sur table! Mr. George only did\nwhat everybody else would do; and we have no right to be angry with him,\nreally we haven't. Molly herself acknowledged as much, after her first\nburst of grief was over, and I brought her to listen to reason. The\nsilly old creature! to be so wild about a young lad at her time of\nlife!\"\n\n\"'Twas a real passion, I almost do believe,\" said Madame de Bernstein.\n\n\"You should have heard her take leave of him. C'etait touchant, ma\nparole d'honneur! I cried. Before George, I could not help myself. The\nyoung fellow with muddy stockings, and his hair about his eyes, flings\nhimself amongst us when we were at dinner; makes his offer to Molly in a\nvery frank and noble manner, and in good language too; and she replies.\nBegad, it put me in mind of Mrs. Woffington in the new Scotch play, that\nLord Bute's man has wrote--Douglas--what d'ye call it? She clings round\nthe lad: she bids him adieu in heartrending accents. She steps out of\nthe room in a stately despair--no more chocolate, thank you. If she had\nmade a mauvais pas no one could retire from it with more dignity. 'Twas\na masterly retreat after a defeat. We were starved out of our position,\nbut we retired with all the honours of war.\"\n\n\"Molly won't die of the disappointment!\" said my lord's aunt, sipping\nher cup.\n\nMy lord snarled a grin, and showed his yellow teeth. \"He, he!\" he\nsaid, \"she hath once or twice before had the malady very severely, and\nrecovered perfectly. It don't kill, as your ladyship knows, at Molly's\nage.\"\n\nHow should her ladyship know? She did not marry Doctor Tusher until she\nwas advanced in life. She did not become Madame de Bernstein until still\nlater. Old Dido, a poet remarks, was not ignorant of misfortune, and\nhence learned to have compassion on the wretched.\n\nPeople in the little world, as I have been told, quarrel and fight, and\ngo on abusing each other, and are not reconciled for ever so long. But\npeople in the great world are surely wiser in their generation. They\nhave differences; they cease seeing each other. They make it up and come\ntogether again, and no questions are asked. A stray prodigal, or a stray\npuppy-dog, is thus brought in under the benefit of an amnesty, though\nyou know he has been away in ugly company. For six months past, ever\nsince the Castlewoods and Madame de Bernstein had been battling for\npossession of poor Harry Warrington, these two branches of the Esmond\nfamily had remained apart. Now, the question being settled, they were\nfree to meet again, as though no difference ever had separated them: and\nMadame de Bernstein drove in her great coach to Lady Castlewood's rout,\nand the Esmond ladies appeared smiling at Madame de Bernstein's drums,\nand loved each other just as much as they previously had done.\n\n\"So, sir, I hear you have acted like a hard-hearted monster about your\npoor brother Harry!\" says the Baroness, delighted, and menacing George\nwith her stick.\n\n\"I acted but upon your ladyship's hint, and desired to see whether it\nwas for himself or his reputed money that his kinsfolk wanted to have\nhim,\" replies George, turning rather red.\n\n\"Nay, Maria could not marry a poor fellow who was utterly penniless, and\nwhose elder brother said he would give him nothing!\"\n\n\"I did it for the best, madam,\" says George, still blushing.\n\n\"And so thou didst, O thou hypocrite!\" cries the old lady.\n\n\"Hypocrite, madam! and why?\" asks Mr. Warrington, drawing himself up in\nmuch state.\n\n\"I know all, my infant!\" says the Baroness in French. \"Thou art very\nlike thy grandfather. Come, that I embrace thee! Harry has told me all,\nand that thou hast divided thy little patrimony with him!\"\n\n\"It was but natural, madam. We have had common hearts and purses since\nwe were born. I but feigned hard-heartedness in order to try those\npeople yonder,\" says George, with filling eyes.\n\n\"And thou wilt divide Virginia with him too?\" asks the Bernstein.\n\n\"I don't say so. It were not just,\" replied Mr. Warrington. \"The land\nmust go to the eldest born, and Harry would not have it otherwise: and\nit may be I shall die, or my mother outlive the pair of us. But half of\nwhat is mine is his: and he, it must be remembered, only was extravagant\nbecause he was mistaken as to his position.\"\n\n\"But it is a knight of old, it is a Bayard, it is the grandfather\ncome to life!\" cried Madame de Bernstein to her attendant, as she was\nretiring for the night. And that evening, when the lads left her, it was\nto poor Harry she gave the two fingers, and to George the rouged cheek,\nwho blushed, for his part, almost as deep as that often-dyed rose, at\nsuch a mark of his old kinswoman's favour.\n\nAlthough Harry Warrington was the least envious of men, and did honour\nto his brother as in all respects his chief, guide, and superior, yet no\nwonder a certain feeling of humiliation and disappointment oppressed the\nyoung man after his deposition from his eminence as Fortunate Youth and\nheir to boundless Virginian territories. Our friends at Kensington might\npromise and vow that they would love him all the better after his fall;\nHarry made a low bow and professed himself very thankful; but he\ncould not help perceiving, when he went with his brother to the state\nentertainment with which my Lord Castlewood regaled his new-found\nkinsman, that George was all in all to his cousins: had all the talk,\ncompliments, and petits soins for himself, whilst of Harry no one took\nany notice save poor Maria, who followed him with wistful looks, pursued\nhim with eyes conveying dismal reproaches, and, as it were, blamed him\nbecause she had left him. \"Ah!\" the eyes seemed to say, \"'tis mighty\nwell of you, Harry, to have accepted the freedom which I gave you; but I\nhad no intention, sir, that you should be so pleased at being let off.\"\nShe gave him up, but yet she did not quite forgive him for taking her\nat her word. She would not have him, and yet she would. Oh, my young\nfriends, how delightful is the beginning of a love-business, and how\nundignified, sometimes, the end! What a romantic vista is before young\nDamon and young Phillis (or middle-aged ditto ditto) when, their artless\nloves made known to each other, they twine their arms round each other's\nwaists and survey that charming pays du tendre which lies at their feet!\nInto that country, so linked together, they will wander from now until\nextreme old age. There may be rocks and roaring rivers, but will not\nDamon's strong true love enable him to carry Sweetheart over them? There\nmay be dragons and dangers in the path, but shall not his courageous\nsword cut them down? Then at eve, how they will rest cuddled together,\nlike two pretty babes in the wood, the moss their couch, the stars their\ncanopy, their arms their mutual pillows! This is the wise plan young\nfolks make when they set out on the love journey; and--O me!--they have\nnot got a mile when they come to a great wall and find they must walk\nback again. They are squabbling with the post-boy at Barnet (the first\nstage on the Gretna Road, I mean), and, behold, perhaps Strephon has not\ngot any money, or here is papa with a whacking horsewhip, who takes Miss\nback again, and locks her up crying in the schoolroom. The parting\nis heart-breaking; but, when she has married the banker and had eight\nchildren, and he has become, it may be, a prosperous barrister,--it may\nbe, a seedy raff who has gone twice or thrice into the Gazette; when,\nI say, in after years Strephon and Delia meet again, is not the meeting\nridiculous? Nevertheless, I hope no young man will fall in love, having\nany doubt in his mind as to the eternity of his passion. 'Tis when a\nman has had a second or third amorous attack that he begins to grow\ndoubtful; but some women are romantic to the end, and from eighteen to\neight-and-fifty (for what I know) are always expecting their hearts to\nbreak. In fine, when you have been in love and are so no more, when the\nKing of France, with twenty thousand men, with colours flying, music\nplaying, and all the pomp of war, having marched up the hill, then\nproceeds to march down again, he and you are in an absurd position.\n\nThis is what Harry Warrington, no doubt, felt when he went to Kensington\nand encountered the melancholy, reproachful eyes of his cousin. Yes! it\nis a foolish position to be in; but it is also melancholy to look into\na house you have once lived in, and see black casements and emptiness\nwhere once shone the fires of welcome. Melancholy? Yes; but, ha! how\nbitter, how melancholy, how absurd to look up as you pass sentimentally\nby No. 13, and see somebody else grinning out of window, and evidently\non the best terms with the landlady. I always feel hurt, even at an inn\nwhich I frequent, if I see other folks' trunks and boots at the doors\nof the rooms which were once mine. Have those boots lolled on the sofa\nwhich once I reclined on? I kick you from before me, you muddy, vulgar\nhighlows!\n\nSo considering that his period of occupation was over, and Maria's\nrooms, if not given up to a new tenant, were, at any rate, to let, Harry\ndid not feel very easy in his cousin's company, nor she possibly in his.\nHe found either that he had nothing to say to her, or that what she had\nto say to him was rather dull and commonplace, and that the red lip of\na white-necked pipe of Virginia was decidedly more agreeable to him now\nthan Maria's softest accents and most melancholy moue. When George went\nto Kensington, then, Harry did not care much about going, and pleaded\nother engagements.\n\nAt his uncle's house in Hill Street the poor lad was no better amused,\nand, indeed, was treated by the virtuous people there with scarce any\nattention at all. The ladies did not scruple to deny themselves when\nhe came; he could scarce have believed in such insincerity after their\ncaresses, their welcome, their repeated vows of affection; but happening\nto sit with the Lamberts for an hour after he had called upon his aunt,\nhe saw her ladyship's chairmen arrive with an empty chair, and his aunt\nstep out and enter the vehicle, and not even blush when he made her a\nbow from the opposite window. To be denied by his own relations--to have\nthat door which had opened to him so kindly, slammed in his face! He\nwould not have believed such a thing possible, poor simple Harry said.\nPerhaps he thought the door-knocker had a tender heart, and was not made\nof brass; not more changed than the head of that knocker was my Lady\nWarrington's virtuous face when she passed her nephew.\n\n\"My father's own brother's wife! What have I done to offend her? Oh,\nAunt Lambert, Aunt Lambert, did you ever see such cold-heartedness?\"\ncries out Harry, with his usual impetuosity.\n\n\"Do we make any difference to you, my dear Harry?\" says Aunt Lambert,\nwith a side look at her youngest daughter. \"The world may look coldly at\nyou, but we don't belong to it: so you may come to us in safety.\"\n\n\"In this house you are different from other people,\" replies Harry. \"I\ndon't know how, but I always feel quiet and happy somehow when I come to\nyou.\"\n\n    \"Quis me uno vivit felicior? aut magis hac est\n     Optandum vita dicere quis potuit?\"\n\ncalls out General Lambert. \"Do you know where I got these verses, Mr.\nGownsman?\" and he addresses his son from college, who is come to pass\nan Easter holiday with his parents. \"You got them out of Catullus, sir,\"\nsays the scholar.\n\n\"I got them out of no such thing, sir. I got them out of my favourite\nDemocritus Junior--out of old Burton, who has provided many indifferent\nscholars with learning;\" and who and Montaigne, were favourite authors\nwith the good General.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII. Where we do what Cats may do\n\n\nWe have said how our Virginians, with a wisdom not uncommon in\nyouth, had chosen to adopt strong Jacobite opinions, and to profess a\nprodigious affection for the exiled royal family. The banished prince\nhad recognised Madam Esmond's father as Marquis of Esmond, and she did\nnot choose to be very angry with an unfortunate race, that, after all,\nwas so willing to acknowledge the merits of her family. As for any\nlittle scandal about her sister, Madame de Bernstein, and the Old\nChevalier, she tossed away from her with scorn the recollection of that\nodious circumstance, asserting, with perfect truth, that the two first\nmonarchs of the House of Hanover were quite as bad as any Stuarts in\nregard to their domestic morality. But the king de facto was the king,\nas well as his Majesty de jure. De Facto had been solemnly crowned and\nanointed at church, and had likewise utterly discomfited De Jure, when\nthey came to battle for the kingdom together. Madam's clear opinion was,\nthen, that her sons owed it to themselves as well as the sovereign to\nappear at his royal court. And if his Majesty should have been minded\nto confer a lucrative post, or a blue or red ribbon upon either of them,\nshe, for her part, would not have been in the least surprised. She made\nno doubt but that the King knew the Virginian Esmonds as well as any\nother members of his nobility. The lads were specially commanded, then,\nto present themselves at court, and, I dare say, their mother would have\nbeen very angry had she known that George took Harry's laced coat on the\nday when he went to make his bow at Kensington.\n\nA hundred years ago the King's drawing-room was open almost every day\nto his nobility and gentry; and loyalty--especially since the war had\nbegun--could gratify itself a score of times in a month with the august\nsight of the sovereign. A wise avoidance of the enemy's ships of war, a\ngracious acknowledgment of the inestimable loss the British Isles would\nsuffer by the seizure of the royal person at sea, caused the monarch to\nforgo those visits to his native Hanover which were so dear to his\nroyal heart, and compelled him to remain, it must be owned, unwillingly\namongst his loving Britons. A Hanoverian lady, however, whose virtues\nhad endeared her to the prince, strove to console him for his enforced\nabsence from Herrenhausen. And from the lips of the Countess of Walmoden\n(on whom the imperial beneficence had gracefully conferred a high title\nof British honour) the revered Defender of the Faith could hear the\naccents of his native home.\n\nTo this beloved Sovereign, Mr. Warrington requested his uncle, an\nassiduous courtier, to present him; and as Mr. Lambert had to go\nto court likewise, and thank his Majesty for his promotion, the\ntwo gentlemen made the journey to Kensington together, engaging a\nhackney-coach for the purpose, as my Lord Wrotham's carriage was now\nwanted by its rightful owner, who had returned to his house in town.\nThey alighted at Kensington Palace Gate, where the sentries on duty knew\nand saluted the good General, and hence modestly made their way on foot\nto the summer residence of the sovereign. Walking under the portico\nof the Palace, they entered the gallery which leads to the great black\nmarble staircase (which hath been so richly decorated and painted by Mr.\nKent), and then passed through several rooms, richly hung with tapestry\nand adorned with pictures and bustos, until they came to the King's\ngreat drawing-room, where that famous \"Venus\" by Titian is, and, amongst\nother masterpieces, the picture of \"St. Francis adoring the infant\nSaviour,\" performed by Sir Peter Paul Rubens; and here, with the rest of\nthe visitors to the court, the gentlemen waited until his Majesty issued\nfrom his private apartments, where he was in conference with certain\npersonages who were called in the newspaper language of that day his\nM-j-ty's M-n-st-rs.\n\nGeorge Warrington, who had never been in a palace before, had leisure to\nadmire the place, and regard the people round him. He saw fine pictures\nfor the first time too, and I dare say delighted in that charming piece\nof Sir Athony Vandyck, representing King Charles the First, his Queen\nand Family, and the noble picture of \"Esther before Ahasuerus,\" painted\nby Tintoret, and in which all the figures are dressed in the magnificent\nVenetian habit. With the contemplation of these works he was so\nenraptured, that he scarce heard all the remarks of his good friend the\nGeneral, who was whispering into his young companion's almost heedless\near the names of some of the personages round about them.\n\n\"Yonder,\" says Mr. Lambert, \"are two of my Lords of the Admiralty, Mr.\nGilbert Elliot and Admiral Boscawen: your Boscawen, whose fleet fired\nthe first gun in your waters two years ago. That stout gentleman all\nbelated with gold is Mr. Fox, that was Minister, and is now content to\nbe Paymaster with a great salary.\n\n\"He carries the auri fames on his person. Why, his waistcoat is a\nperfect Potosi!\" says George.\n\n\"Aliena appetens--how goes the text? He loves to get money and to spend\nit,\" continues General Lambert. \"Yon is my Lord Chief Justice Willes,\ntalking to my Lord of Salisbury, Doctor Headley, who, if he serve\nhis God as he serves his King, will be translated to some very high\npromotion in Heaven. He belongs to your grandfather's time, and was\nloved by Dick Steele and hated by the Dean. With them is my Lord of\nLondon, the learned Doctor Sherlock. My lords of the lawn sleeves have\nlost half their honours now. I remember when I was a boy in my mother's\nhand, she made me go down on my knees to the Bishop of Rochester; him\nwho went over the water, and became Minister to somebody who shall be\nnameless--Perkin's Bishop. That handsome fair man is Admiral Smith. He\nwas president of poor Byng's court-martial, and strove in vain to get\nhim off his penalty; Tom of Ten Thousand they call him in the fleet. The\nFrench Ambassador had him broke, when he was a lieutenant, for making a\nFrench man-of-war lower topsails to him, and the King made Tom a\ncaptain the next day. That tall, haughty-looking man is my Lord George\nSackville, who, now I am a Major-General myself, will treat me somewhat\nbetter than a footman. I wish my stout old Blakeney were here; he is the\nsoldier's darling, and as kind and brave as yonder poker of a nobleman\nis brave and--I am your lordship's very humble servant. This is a young\ngentleman who is just from America, and was in Braddock's sad business\ntwo years ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed!\" says the poker of a nobleman. \"I have the honour of\nspeaking to Mr.----?\"\n\n\"To Major-General Lambert, at your lordship's service, and who was in\nhis Majesty's some time before you entered it. That, Mr. Warrington, is\nthe first commoner in England, Mr. Speaker Onslow. Where is your uncle?\nI shall have to present you myself to his Majesty if Sir Miles delays\nmuch longer.\" As he spoke, the worthy General addressed himself entirely\nto his young friend, making no sort of account of his colleague, who\nstalked away with a scared look as if amazed at the other's audacity. A\nhundred years ago, a nobleman was a nobleman, and expected to be admired\nas such.\n\nSir Miles's red waistcoat appeared in sight presently, and many cordial\ngreetings passed between him, his nephew, and General Lambert: for we\nhave described how Sir Miles was the most affectionate of men. So\nthe General had quitted my Lord Wrotham's house? It was time, as his\nlordship himself wished to occupy it? Very good; but consider what a\nloss for the neighbours!\n\n\"We miss you, we positively miss you, my dear General,\" cries Sir Miles.\n\"My daughters were in love with those lovely young ladies--upon my word,\nthey were; and my Lady Warrington and my girls were debating over\nand over again how they should find an opportunity of making the\nacquaintance of your charming family. We feel as if we were old friends\nalready; indeed we do, General, if you will permit me the liberty of\nsaying so; and we love you, if I may be allowed to speak frankly, on\naccount of your friendship and kindness to our dear nephews: though we\nwere a little jealous, I own a little jealous of them, because they went\nso often to see you. Often and often have I said to my Lady Warrington,\n'My dear, why don't we make acquaintance with the General? Why don't we\nask him and his ladies to come over in a family way and dine with some\nother plain country gentlefolks?' Carry my most sincere respects to\nMrs. Lambert, I pray, sir; and thank her for her goodness to these young\ngentlemen. My own flesh and blood, sir; my dear, dear brother's boys!\"\nHe passed his hand across his manly eyes: he was choking almost with\ngenerous and affectionate emotion.\n\nWhilst they were discoursing--George Warrington the while restraining\nhis laughter with admirable gravity--the door of the King's apartments\nopened, and the pages entered, preceding his Majesty. He was followed\nby his burly son, his Royal Highness the Duke, a very corpulent Prince,\nwith a coat and face of blazing scarlet: behind them came various\ngentlemen and officers of state; among whom George at once recognised\nthe famous Mr. Secretary Pitt, by his tall stature, his eagle eye and\nbeak, his grave and majestic presence. As I see that solemn figure\npassing, even a hundred years off, I protest I feel a present awe, and a\ndesire to take my hat off. I am not frightened at George the Second; nor\nare my eyes dazzled by the portentous appearance of his Royal Highness\nthe Duke of Culloden and Fontenoy; but the Great Commoner, the terrible\nCornet of Horse! His figure bestrides our narrow isle of a century\nback like a Colossus; and I hush as he passes in his gouty shoes, his\nthunderbolt hand wrapped in flannel. Perhaps as we see him now, issuing\nwith dark looks from the royal closet, angry scenes have been passing\nbetween him and his august master. He has been boring that old monarch\nfor hours with prodigious long speeches, full of eloquence, voluble\nwith the noblest phrases upon the commonest topics; but, it must be\nconfessed, utterly repulsive to the little shrewd old gentleman, \"at\nwhose feet he lays himself,\" as the phrase is, and who has the most\nthorough dislike for fine boedry and for fine brose too! The sublime\nMinister passes solemnly through the crowd; the company ranges itself\nrespectfully round the wall; and his Majesty walks round the circle, his\nroyal son lagging a little behind, and engaging select individuals in\nconversation for his own part.\n\nThe monarch is a little, keen, fresh-coloured old man, with very\nprotruding eyes, attired in plain, old-fashioned, snuff-coloured clothes\nand brown stockings, his only ornament the blue ribbon of his Order of\nthe Garter. He speaks in a German accent, but with ease, shrewdness, and\nsimplicity, addressing those individuals whom he has a mind to notice,\nor passing on with a bow. He knew Mr. Lambert well, who had served under\nhis Majesty at Dettingen, and with his royal son in Scotland, and he\ncongratulated him good-humouredly on his promotion.\n\n\"It is not always,\" his Majesty was pleased to say, \"that we can do\nas we like; but I was glad when, for once, I could give myself that\npleasure in your case, General; for my army contains no better officer\nas you.\"\n\nThe veteran blushed and bowed, deeply gratified at this speech.\nMeanwhile, the Best of Monarchs was looking at Sir Miles Warrington\n(whom his Majesty knew perfectly, as the eager recipient of all favours\nfrom all Ministers), and at the young gentleman by his side.\n\n\"Who is this?\" the Defender of the Faith condescended to ask, pointing\ntowards George Warrington, who stood before his sovereign in a\nrespectful attitude, clad in poor Harry's best embroidered suit.\n\nWith the deepest reverence Sir Miles informed his King, that the young\ngentleman was his nephew, Mr. George Warrington, of Virginia, who asked\nleave to pay his humble duty.\n\n\"This, then, is the other brother?\" the Venerated Prince deigned to\nobserve. \"He came in time, else the other brother would have spent all\nthe money. My Lord Bishop of Salisbury, why do you come out in this\nbitter weather? You had much better stay at home!\" and with this, the\nrevered wielder of Britannia's sceptre passed on to other lords and\ngentlemen of his court. Sir Miles Warrington was deeply affected at the\nroyal condescension. He clapped his nephew's hands. \"God bless you, my\nboy,\" he cried; \"I told you that you would see the greatest monarch and\nthe finest gentleman in the world. Is he not so, my Lord Bishop?\"\n\n\"That, that he is!\" cried his lordship, clasping his ruffled hands, and\nturning his fine eyes up to the sky, \"the best of princes and of men.\"\n\n\"That is Master Louis, my Lady Yarmouth's favourite nephew,\" says\nLambert, pointing to a young gentleman who stood with a crowd round him;\nand presently the stout Duke of Cumberland came up to our little group.\n\nHis Royal Highness held out his hand to his old companion-in-arms.\n\"Congratulate you on your promotion, Lambert,\" he said good-naturedly.\nSir Miles Warrington's eyes were ready to burst out of his head with\nrapture.\n\n\"I owe it, sir, to your Royal Highness's good offices,\" said the\ngrateful General.\n\n\"Not at all; not at all: ought to have had it a long time before. Always\nbeen a good officer; perhaps there'll be some employment for you soon.\nThis is the gentleman whom James Wolfe introduced to me?\"\n\n\"His brother, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh, the real Fortunate Youth! You were with poor Ned Braddock in\nAmerica--a prisoner, and lucky enough to escape. Come and see me, sir,\nin Pall Mall. Bring him to my levee, Lambert.\" And the broad back of the\nRoyal Prince was turned to our friends.\n\n\"It is raining! You came on foot, General Lambert? You and George must\ncome home in my coach. You must and shall come home with me, I say. By\nGeorge, you must! I'll have no denial,\" cried the enthusiastic Baronet;\nand he drove George and the General back to Hill Street, and presented\nthe latter to my Lady Warrington and his darlings, Flora and Dora, and\ninsisted upon their partaking of a collation, as they must be hungry\nafter their ride. \"What, there is only cold mutton? Well, an old soldier\ncan eat cold mutton. And a good glass of my Lady Warrington's own\ncordial, prepared with her own hands, will keep the cold wind out.\nDelicious cordial! Capital mutton! Our own, my dear General,\" says the\nhospitable Baronet, \"our own from the country, six years old if a day.\nWe keep a plain table; but all the Warringtons since the Conqueror have\nbeen remarkable for their love of mutton; and our meal may look a little\nscanty, and is, for we are plain people, and I am obliged to keep my\nrascals of servants on board-wages. Can't give them seven-year-old\nmutton, you know.\"\n\nSir Miles, in his nephew's presence and hearing, described to his wife\nand daughters George's reception at court in such flattering terms that\nGeorge hardly knew himself, or the scene at which he had been present,\nor how to look his uncle in the face, or how to contradict him before\nhis family in the midst of the astonishing narrative he was relating.\nLambert sat by for a while with open eyes. He, too, had been at\nKensington. He had seen none of the wonders which Sir Miles described.\n\n\"We are proud of you, dear George. We love you, my dear nephew--we all\nlove you, we are all proud of you--\"\n\n\"Yes; but I like Harry best,\" says a little voice.\n\n\"--not because you are wealthy! Screwby, take Master Miles to his\ngovernor. Go, dear child. Not because you are blest with great estates\nand an ancient name; but because, George, you have put to good use the\ntalents with which Heaven has adorned you; because you have fought and\nbled in your country's cause, in your monarch's cause, and as such are\nindeed worthy of the favour of the best of sovereigns. General Lambert,\nyou have kindly condescended to look in on a country family, and partake\nof our unpretending meal. I hope we may see you some day when our\nhospitality is a little less homely. Yes, by George, General, you must\nand shall name a day when you and Mrs. Lambert, and your dear girls,\nwill dine with us. I'll take no refusal now, by George I won't,\" bawls\nthe knight.\n\n\"You will accompany us, I trust, to my drawing-room?\" says my lady,\nrising.\n\nMr. Lambert pleaded to be excused; but the ladies on no account would\nlet dear George go away. No, positively, he should not go. They wanted\nto make acquaintance with their cousin. They must hear about that\ndreadful battle and escape from the Indians. Tom Claypool came in and\nheard some of the story. Flora was listening to it with her handkerchief\nto her eyes, and little Miles had just said--\n\n\"Why do you take your handkerchief, Flora? You're not crying a bit.\"\n\nBeing a man of great humour, Martin Lambert, when he went home, could\nnot help entertaining his wife with an account of the new family with\nwhich he had made acquaintance. A certain cant word called humbug had\nlately come into vogue. Will it be believed that the General used it to\ndesignate the family of this virtuous country gentleman? He described\nthe eager hospitalities of the father, the pompous flatteries of the\nmother, and the daughters' looks of admiration; the toughness and\nsecurity of the mutton, and the abominable taste and odour of the\ncordial; and we may be sure Mrs. Lambert contrasted Lady Warrington's\nrecent behaviour to poor Harry with her present conduct to George.\n\n\"Is this Miss Warrington really handsome?\" asks Mrs Lambent.\n\n\"Yes; she is very handsome indeed, and the most astounding flirt I have\never set eyes on,\" replies the General.\n\n\"The hypocrite! I have no patience with such people!\" cries the lady.\n\nTo which the General, strange to say, only replied by the monosyllable\n\"Bo!\"\n\n\"Why do you say 'Bo!' Martin?\" asks the lady.\n\n\"I say 'Bo!' to a goose, my dear,\" answers the General.\n\nAnd his wife vows she does not know what he means, or of what he is\nthinking, and the General says--\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX. In which we are treated to a Play\n\n\nThe real business of life, I fancy, can form but little portion of the\nnovelist's budget. When he is speaking of the profession of arms, in\nwhich men can show courage or the reverse, and in treating of which the\nwriter naturally has to deal with interesting circumstances, actions,\nand characters, introducing recitals of danger, devotedness, heroic\ndeaths, and the like, the novelist may perhaps venture to deal with\nactual affairs of life: but otherwise, they scarcely can enter into our\nstories. The main part of Ficulnus's life, for instance, is spent in\nselling sugar, spices and cheese; of Causidicus's in poring over musty\nvolumes of black-letter law; of Sartorius's in sitting, cross-legged,\non a board after measuring gentlemen for coats and breeches. What can a\nstory-teller say about the professional existence of these men? Would a\nreal rustical history of hobnails and eighteenpence a day be endurable?\nIn the days whereof we are writing, the poets of the time chose to\nrepresent a shepherd in pink breeches and a chintz waistcoat, dancing\nbefore his flocks, and playing a flageolet tied up with a blue satin\nribbon. I say, in reply to some objections which have been urged by\npotent and friendly critics, that of the actual affairs of life the\nnovelist cannot be expected to treat--with the almost single exception\nof war before named. But law, stockbroking, polemical theology,\nlinen-drapery, apothecary-business, and the like, how can writers manage\nfully to develop these in their stories? All authors can do, is to\ndepict men out of their business--in their passions, loves, laughters,\namusements, hatreds, and what not--and describe these as well as they\ncan, taking the business part for granted, and leaving it as it were for\nsubaudition.\n\nThus, in talking of the present or the past world, I know I am\nonly dangling about the theatre-lobbies, coffee-houses, ridottos,\npleasure-haunts, fair-booths, and feasting- and fiddling-rooms of life;\nthat, meanwhile, the great serious past or present world is plodding in\nits chambers, toiling at its humdrum looms, or jogging on its accustomed\nlabours, and we are only seeing our characters away from their work.\nCorydon has to cart the litter and thresh the barley, as well as to make\nlove to Phillis; Ancillula has to dress and wash the nursery, to wait at\nbreakfast and on her misses, to take the children out, etc., before\nshe can have her brief sweet interview through the area-railings with\nBoopis, the policeman. All day long have his heels to beat the stale\npavement before he has the opportunity to snatch the hasty kiss or the\nfurtive cold pie. It is only at moments, and away from these labours,\nthat we can light upon one character or the other; and hence, though\nmost of the persons of whom we are writing have doubtless their grave\nemployments and avocations, it is only when they are disengaged and\naway from their work, that we can bring them and the equally disengaged\nreader together.\n\nThe macaronis and fine gentlemen at White's and Arthur's continued to\nshow poor Harry Warrington such a very cold shoulder, that he sought\ntheir society less and less, and the Ring and the Mall and the\ngaming-table knew him no more. Madame de Bernstein was for her nephew's\nbraving the indifference of the world, and vowed that it would be\nconquered, if he would but have courage to face it; but the young man\nwas too honest to wear a smiling face when he was discontented; to\ndisguise mortification or anger; to parry slights by adroit flatteries\nor cunning impudence; as many gentlemen and gentlewomen must and do who\nwish to succeed in society.\n\n\"You pull a long face, Harry, and complain of the world's treatment of\nyou,\" the old lady said. \"Fiddlededee, sir! Everybody has to put up with\nimpertinences: and if you get a box on the ear now you are poor and cast\ndown, you must say nothing about it, bear it with a smile, and if\nyou can, revenge it ten years after. Moi qui vous parle, sir!--do you\nsuppose I have had no humble-pie to eat? All of us in our turn are\ncalled upon to swallow it: and, now you are no longer the Fortunate\nYouth, be the Clever Youth, and win back the place you have lost by your\nill luck. Go about more than ever. Go to all the routs and parties to\nwhich you are asked, and to more still. Be civil to everybody--to all\nwomen especially. Only of course take care to show your spirit, of\nwhich you have plenty. With economy, and by your brother's, I must say,\nadmirable generosity, you can still make a genteel figure. With your\nhandsome person, sir, you can't fail to get a rich heiress. Tenez! You\nshould go amongst the merchants in the City, and look out there. They\nwon't know that you are out of fashion at the Court end of the town.\nWith a little management, there is not the least reason, sir, why you\nshould not make a good position for yourself still. When did you go to\nsee my Lady Yarmouth, pray? Why did you not improve that connexion?\nShe took a great fancy to you. I desire you will be constant at her\nladyship's evenings, and lose no opportunity of paying court to her.\"\n\nThus the old woman who had loved Harry so on his first appearance in\nEngland, who had been so eager for his company, and pleased with his\nartless conversation, was taking the side of the world, and turning\nagainst him. Instead of the smiles and kisses with which the fickle old\ncreature used once to greet him, she received him with coldness; she\nbecame peevish and patronising; she cast gibes and scorn at him before\nher guests, making his honest face flush with humiliation, and awaking\nthe keenest pangs of grief and amazement in his gentle, manly heart.\nMadame de Bernstein's servants, who used to treat him with such\neager respect, scarcely paid him now any attention. My lady was often\nindisposed or engaged when he called on her; her people did not press\nhim to wait; did not volunteer to ask whether he would stay and dine, as\nthey used in the days when he was the Fortunate Youth and companion\nof the wealthy and great. Harry carried his woes to Mrs. Lambert. In a\npassion of sorrow he told her of his aunt's cruel behaviour to him. He\nwas stricken down and dismayed by the fickleness and heartlessness of\nthe world in its treatment of him. While the good lady and her daughters\nwould move to and fro, and busy themselves with the cares of the house,\nour poor lad would sit glum in a window-seat, heart-sick and silent.\n\n\"I know you are the best people alive,\" he would say to the ladies, \"and\nthe kindest, and that I must be the dullest company in the world--yes,\nthat I am.\"\n\n\"Well, you are not very lively, Harry,\" says Miss Hetty, who began to\ncommand him, and perhaps to ask herself, \"What? Is this the gentleman\nwhom I took to be such a hero?\"\n\n\"If he is unhappy, why should he be lively?\" asks Theo, gently. \"He has\na good heart, and is pained at his friends' desertion of him. Sure there\nis no harm in that?\"\n\n\"I would have too much spirit to show I was hurt, though,\" cries Hetty,\nclenching her little fists. \"And I would smile, though that horrible\nold painted woman boxed my ears. She is horrible, mamma. You think so\nyourself, Theo! Own, now, you think so yourself! You said so last\nnight, and acted her coming in on her crutch, and grinning round to the\ncompany.\"\n\n\"I mayn't like her,\" said Theo, turning very red. \"But there is no\nreason why I should call Harry's aunt names before Harry's face.\"\n\n\"You provoking thing; you are always right!\" cries Hetty, \"and that's\nwhat makes me so angry. Indeed, Harry, it was very wrong of me to make\nrude remarks about any of your relations.\"\n\n\"I don't care about the others, Hetty; but it seems hard that this one\nshould turn upon me. I had got to be very fond of her; and you see, it\nmakes me mad, somehow, when people I'm very fond of turn away from me,\nor act unkind to me.\"\n\n\"Suppose George were to do so?\" asks Hetty. You see, it was George and\nHetty, and Theo and Harry, amongst them now.\n\n\"You are very clever and very lively, and you may suppose a number of\nthings; but not that, Hetty, if you please,\" cried Harry, standing up\nand looking very resolute and angry. \"You don't know my brother as\nI know him--or you wouldn't take--such a--liberty as to suppose--my\nbrother George could do anything unkind or unworthy!\" Mr. Harry was\nquite in a flush as he spoke.\n\nHetty turned very white. Then she looked up at Harry, and then she did\nnot say a single word.\n\nThen Harry said, in his simple way, before taking leave, \"I'm very\nsorry, and I beg your pardon, Hetty, if I said anything rough, or that\nseemed unkind; but I always fight up if anybody says anything against\nGeorge.\"\n\nHetty did not answer a word out of her pale lips, but gave him her hand,\nand dropped a prim little curtsey.\n\nWhen she and Theo were together at night, making curl-paper confidences,\n\"Oh!\" said Hetty, \"I thought it would be so happy to see him every day,\nand was so glad when papa said we were to stay in London! And now I do\nsee him, you see, I go on offending him. I can't help offending him;\nand I know he is not clever, Theo. But oh! isn't he good, and kind, and\nbrave? Didn't he look handsome when he was angry?\"\n\n\"You silly little thing, you are always trying to make him look\nhandsome,\" Theo replied.\n\nIt was Theo and Hetty, and Harry and George, among these young people,\nthen; and I dare say the reason why General Lambert chose to apply the\nmonosyllable \"Bo\" to the mother of his daughters, was as a rebuke to\nthat good woman for the inveterate love of sentiment and propensity to\nmatch-making which belonged to her (and every other woman in the world\nwhose heart is worth a fig); and as a hint that Madam Lambert was a\ngoose if she fancied the two Virginian lads were going to fall in love\nwith the young women of the Lambert house. Little Het might have her\nfancy; little girls will; but they get it over: \"and you know, Molly\"\n(which dear, soft-hearted Mrs. Lambert could not deny), \"you fancied\nsomebody else before you fancied me,\" says the General; but Harry had\nevidently not been smitten by Hetty; and now he was superseded, as it\nwere, by having an elder brother over him, and could not even call the\ncoat upon his back his own, Master Harry was no great catch.\n\n\"Oh yes: now he is poor we will show him the door, as all the rest of\nthe world does, I suppose,\" says Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"That is what I always do, isn't it, Molly? turn my back on my friends\nin distress?\" asks the General.\n\n\"No, my dear! I am a goose, now, and that I own, Martin!\" says the wife,\nhaving recourse to the usual pocket-handkerchief.\n\n\"Let the poor boy come to us and welcome: ours is almost the only house\nin this selfish place where so much can be said for him. He is unhappy,\nand to be with us puts him at ease; in God's name let him be with us!\"\nsays the kind-hearted officer. Accordingly, whenever poor crestfallen\nHal wanted a dinner, or an evening's entertainment, Mr. Lambert's table\nhad a corner for him. So was George welcome, too. He went among the\nLamberts, not at first with the cordiality which Harry felt for these\npeople, and inspired among them: for George was colder in his manner,\nand more mistrustful of himself and others than his twin-brother: but\nthere was a goodness and friendliness about the family which touched\nalmost all people who came into frequent contact with them; and George\nsoon learned to love them for their own sake, as well as for their\nconstant regard and kindness to his brother. He could not but see\nand own how sad Harry was, and pity his brother's depression. In his\nsarcastic way, George would often take himself to task before his\nbrother for coming to life again, and say, \"Dear Harry, I am George the\nUnlucky, though you have ceased to be Harry the Fortunate. Florac would\nhave done much better not to pass his sword through that Indian's body,\nand to have left my scalp as an ornament for the fellow's belt. I say he\nwould, sir! At White's the people would have respected you. Our mother\nwould have wept over me, as a defunct angel, instead of being angry\nwith me for again supplanting her favourite--you are her favourite, you\ndeserve to be her favourite: everybody's favourite: only, if I had not\ncome back, your favourite, Maria, would have insisted on marrying you;\nand that is how the gods would have revenged themselves upon you for\nyour prosperity.\"\n\n\"I never know whether you are laughing at me or yourself, George\" says\nthe brother. I never know whether you are serious or jesting.\n\n\"Precisely my own case, Harry, my dear!\" says George.\n\n\"But this I know, that there never was a better brother in the world;\nand never better people than the Lamberts.\"\n\n\"Never was truer word said!\" cries George, taking his brother's hand.\n\n\"And if I'm unhappy, 'tis not your fault--nor their fault--nor perhaps\nmine, George,\" continues the younger. 'Tis fate, you see, 'tis the\nhaving nothing to do. I must work; and how, George? that is the\nquestion.\"\n\n\"We will see what our mother says. We must wait till we hear from her,\"\nsays George.\n\n\"I say, George! Do you know, I don't think I should much like going back\nto Virginia?\" says Harry, in a low, alarmed voice.\n\n\"What! in love with one of the lasses here?\"\n\n\"Love 'em like sisters--with all my heart, of course, dearest, best\ngirls! but, having come out of that business, thanks to you, I don't\nwant to go back, you know. No! no! It is not for that I fancy staying\nin Europe better than going home. But, you see, I don't fancy hunting,\nduck-shooting, tobacco-planting, whist-playing, and going to sermon,\nover and over and over again, for all my life, George. And what else is\nthere to do at home? What on earth is there for me to do at all, I say?\nThat's what makes me miserable. It would not matter for you to be a\nyounger son you are so clever you would make your way anywhere; but,\nfor a poor fellow like me, what chance is there? Until I do something,\nGeorge, I shall be miserable, that's what I shall!\"\n\n\"Have I not always said so? Art thou not coming round to my opinion?\"\n\n\"What opinion, George? You know pretty much whatever you think, I think,\nGeorge!\" says the dutiful junior.\n\n\"That Florac had best have left the Indian to take my scalp, my dear!\"\n\nAt which Harry bursts away with an angry exclamation; and they continue\nto puff their pipes in friendly union.\n\nThey lived together, each going his own gait; and not much intercourse,\nsave that of affection, was carried on between them. Harry never would\nventure to meddle with George's books, and would sit as dumb as a mouse\nat the lodgings whilst his brother was studying. They removed presently\nfrom the Court end of the town, Madame de Bernstein pishing and\npshaing at their change of residence. But George took a great fancy to\nfrequenting Sir Hans Sloane's new reading-room and museum, just set\nup in Montagu House, and he took cheerful lodgings in Southampton Row,\nBloomsbury, looking over the delightful fields towards Hampstead, at the\nback of the Duke of Bedford's gardens. And Lord Wrotham's family coming\nto Mayfair, and Mr. Lambert having business which detained him in\nLondon, had to change his house, too, and engaged furnished apartments\nin Soho, not very far off from the dwelling of our young men; and it\nwas, as we have said, with the Lamberts that Harry, night after night,\ntook refuge.\n\nGeorge was with them often, too; and, as the acquaintance ripened, he\nfrequented their house with increasing assiduity, finding their company\nmore to his taste than that of Aunt Bernstein's polite circle of\ngamblers, than Sir Miles Warrington's port and mutton, or the daily\nnoise and clatter of the coffee-houses. And as he and the Lambert ladies\nwere alike strangers in London, they partook of its pleasures together,\nand, no doubt, went to Vauxhall and Ranelagh, to Marybone Gardens, and\nthe play, and the Tower, and wherever else there was honest amusement to\nbe had in those days. Martin Lambert loved that his children should\nhave all the innocent pleasure which he could procure for them, and Mr.\nGeorge, who was of a most generous, open-handed disposition, liked to\ntreat his friends likewise, especially those who had been so admirably\nkind to his brother.\n\nWith all the passion of his heart Mr. Warrington loved a play. He had\nnever enjoyed this amusement in Virginia, and only once or twice at\nQuebec, when he visited Canada; and when he came to London, where the\ntwo houses were in their full glory, I believe he thought he never could\nhave enough of the delightful entertainment. Anything he liked himself,\nhe naturally wished to share amongst his companions. No wonder that he\nwas eager to take his friends to the theatre, and we may be sure our\nyoung countryfolks were not unwilling. Shall it be Drury Lane or Covent\nGarden, ladies? There was Garrick and Shakspeare at Drury Lane. Well,\nwill it be believed, the ladies wanted to hear the famous new author\nwhose piece was being played at Covent Garden?\n\nAt this time a star of genius had arisen, and was blazing with quite a\ndazzling brilliancy. The great Mr. John Home, of Scotland, had produced\na tragedy, than which, since the days of the ancients, there had been\nnothing more classic and elegant. What had Mr. Garrick meant by refusing\nsuch a masterpiece for his theatre? Say what you will about Shakspeare;\nin the works of that undoubted great poet (who had begun to grow vastly\nmore popular in England since Monsieur Voltaire attacked him) there were\nmany barbarisms that could not but shock a polite auditory; whereas,\nMr. Home, the modern author, knew how to be refined in the very midst of\ngrief and passion; to represent death, not merely as awful, but graceful\nand pathetic; and never condescended to degrade the majesty of the\nTragic Muse by the ludicrous apposition of buffoonery and familiar\npunning, such as the elder playwright certainly had resort to. Besides,\nMr. Home's performance had been admired in quarters so high, and by\npersonages whose taste was known to be as elevated as their rank, that\nall Britons could not but join in the plaudits for which august hands\nhad given the signal. Such, it was said, was the opinion of the very\nbest company, in the coffee-houses, and amongst the wits about town.\nWhy, the famous Mr. Gray, of Cambridge, said there had not been for a\nhundred years any dramatic dialogue of such a true style; and as for the\npoet's native capital of Edinburgh, where the piece was first brought\nout, it was even said that the triumphant Scots called out from the pit\n(in their dialect), \"Where's Wully Shakspeare noo?\"\n\n\"I should like to see the man who could beat Willy Shakspeare?\" says the\nGeneral, laughing.\n\n\"Mere national prejudice,\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Beat Shakspeare, indeed!\" cries Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"Pooh, pooh! you have cried more over Mr. Sam Richardson than ever you\ndid over Mr. Shakspeare, Molly!\" remarks the General. \"I think few women\nlove to read Shakspeare: they say they love it, but they don't.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" cry three ladies, throwing up three pair of hands.\n\n\"Well, then, why do you all three prefer Douglas? And you, boys, who are\nsuch Tories, will you go see a play which is wrote by a Whig Scotchman,\nwho was actually made prisoner at Falkirk?\"\n\n\"Relicta non bene parmula,\" says Mr. Jack the scholar.\n\n\"Nay; it was relicta bene parmula,\" cried the General. \"It was the\nHighlanders who flung their targes down, and made fierce work among us\nredcoats. If they had fought all their fields as well as that, and young\nPerkin had not turned back from Derby----\"\n\n\"I know which side would be rebels, and who would be called the Young\nPretender,\" interposed George.\n\n\"Hush! you must please to remember my cloth, Mr. Warrington,\" said the\nGeneral, with some gravity; \"and that the cockade I wear is a black, not\na white one! Well, if you will not love Mr. Home for his politics, there\nis, I think, another reason, George, why you should like him.\"\n\n\"I may have Tory fancies, Mr. Lambert, but I think I know how to love\nand honour a good Whig,\" said George, with a bow to the General: \"but\nwhy should I like this Mr. Home, sir?\"\n\n\"Because, being a Presbyterian clergyman, he has committed the heinous\ncrime of writing a play, and his brother-parsons have barked out an\nexcommunication at him. They took the poor fellow's means of livelihood\naway from him for his performance; and he would have starved, but that\nthe young Pretender on our side of the water has given him a pension.\"\n\n\"If he has been persecuted by the parsons, there is hope for him,\" said\nGeorge, smiling. \"And henceforth I declare myself ready to hear his\nsermons.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Woffington is divine in it, though not generally famous in\ntragedy. Barry is drawing tears from all eyes; and Garrick is wild\nat having refused the piece. Girls, you must bring each half a dozen\nhandkerchiefs! As for mamma, I cannot trust her; and she positively must\nbe left at home.\"\n\nBut mamma persisted she would go; and, if need were to weep, she would\nsit and cry her eyes out in a corner. They all went to Covent Garden,\nthen; the most of the party duly prepared to see one of the masterpieces\nof the age and drama. Could they not all speak long pages of Congreve;\nhad they not wept and kindled over Otway and Rowe? O ye past literary\nglories, that were to be eternal, how long have you been dead? Who knows\nmuch more now than where your graves are? Poor, neglected Muse of the\nbygone theatre! She pipes for us, and we will not dance; she tears her\nhair, and we will not weep. And the Immortals of our time, how soon\nshall they be dead and buried, think you? How many will survive? How\nlong shall it be ere Nox et Domus Plutonia shall overtake them?\n\nSo away went the pleased party to Covent Garden to see the tragedy of\nthe immortal John Home. The ladies and the General were conveyed in a\nglass coach, and found the young men in waiting to receive them at\nthe theatre door. Hence they elbowed their way through a crowd of\ntorch-boys, and a whole regiment of footmen. Little Hetty fell to\nHarry's arm in this expedition, and the blushing Miss Theo was handed\nto the box by Mr. George. Gumbo had kept the places until his masters\narrived, when he retired, with many bows, to take his own seat in the\nfootman's gallery. They had good places in a front box, and there was\nluckily a pillar behind which mamma could weep in comfort. And opposite\nthem they had the honour to see the august hope of the empire, his Royal\nHighness George Prince of Wales, with the Princess Dowager his mother,\nwhom the people greeted with loyal, but not very enthusiastic, plaudits.\nThat handsome man standing behind his Royal Highness was my Lord\nBute, the Prince's Groom of the Stole, the patron of the poet whose\nperformance they had come to see, and over whose work the Royal party\nhad already wept more than once.\n\nHow can we help it, if during the course of the performance, Mr. Lambert\nwould make his jokes and mar the solemnity of the scene? At first, as\nthe reader of the tragedy well knows, the characters are occupied in\nmaking a number of explanations. Lady Randolph explains how it is that\nshe is so melancholy. Married to Lord Randolph somewhat late in life,\nshe owns, and his lordship perceives, that a dead lover yet occupies\nall her heart; and her husband is fain to put up with this dismal,\nsecond-hand regard, which is all that my lady can bestow. Hence, an\ninvasion of Scotland by the Danes is rather a cause of excitement\nthan disgust to my lord, who rushes to meet the foe, and forgets the\ndreariness of his domestic circumstances. Welcome, Vikings and Norsemen!\nBlow, northern blasts, the invaders' keels to Scotland's shore! Randolph\nand other heroes will be on the beach to give the foemen a welcome! His\nlordship has no sooner disappeared behind the trees of the forest, but\nLady Randolph begins to explain to her confidante the circumstances of\nher early life. The fact was, she had made a private marriage, and what\nwould the confidante say, if, in early youth, she, Lady Randolph, had\nlost a husband? In the cold bosom of the earth was lodged the husband of\nher youth, and in some cavern of the ocean lies her child and his!\n\nUp to this the General behaved with as great gravity as any of his young\ncompanions to the play; but when Lady Randolph proceeded to say, \"Alas!\nHereditary evil was the cause of my misfortunes,\" he nudged George\nWarrington, and looked so droll, that the young man burst out laughing.\n\nThe magic of the scene was destroyed after that. These two gentlemen\nwent on cracking jokes during the whole of the subsequent performance,\nto their own amusement, but the indignation of their company, and\nperhaps of the people in the adjacent boxes. Young Douglas, in those\ndays, used to wear a white satin \"shape\" slashed at the legs and body,\nand when Mr. Barry appeared in this droll costume, the General vowed it\nwas the exact dress of the Highlanders in the late war. The Chevalier's\nGuard, he declared, had all white satin slashed breeches, and red\nboots--\"only they left them at home, my dear,\" adds this wag. Not one\npennyworth of sublimity would he or George allow henceforth to Mr.\nHome's performance. As for Harry, he sate in very deep meditation over\nthe scene; and when Mrs. Lambert offered him a penny for his thoughts,\nhe said, \"That he thought, Young Norval, Douglas, What-d'ye-call-'em,\nthe fellow in white satin--who looked as old as his mother--was very\nlucky to be able to distinguish himself so soon. I wish I could get\na chance, Aunt Lambert,\" says he, drumming on his hat; on which mamma\nsighed, and Theo, smiling, said, \"We must wait, and perhaps the Danes\nwill land.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\" asks simple Harry.\n\n\"Oh, the Danes always land, pour qui scait attendre!\" says kind Theo,\nwho had hold of her sister's little hand, and, I dare say, felt its\npressure.\n\nShe did not behave unkindly--that was not in Miss Theo's nature--but\nsomewhat coldly to Mr. George, on whom she turned her back, addressing\nremarks, from time to time, to Harry. In spite of the gentlemen's scorn,\nthe women chose to be affected. A mother and son, meeting in love and\nparting in tears, will always awaken emotion in female hearts.\n\n\"Look, papa! there is an answer to all your jokes!\" says Theo, pointing\ntowards the stage.\n\nAt a part of the dialogue between Lady Randolph and her son, one of the\ngrenadiers on guard on each side of the stage, as the custom of those\ndays was, could not restrain his tears, and was visibly weeping before\nthe side-box.\n\n\"You are right, my dear,\" says papa.\n\n\"Didn't I tell you she always is?\" interposes Hetty.\n\n\"Yonder sentry is a better critic than we are, and a touch of nature\nmasters us all.\"\n\n\"Tamen usque recurrit!\" cries the young student from college.\n\nGeorge felt abashed somehow, and interested too. He had been sneering,\nand Theo sympathising. Her kindness was better--nay, wiser--than his\nscepticism, perhaps. Nevertheless, when, at the beginning of the fifth\nact of the play, young Douglas, drawing his sword and looking up at the\ngallery, bawled out--\n\n    \"Ye glorious stars! high heaven's resplendent host!\n     To whom I oft have of my lot complained,\n     Hear and record my soul's unaltered wish\n     Living or dead, let me but be renowned!\n     May Heaven inspire some fierce gigantic Dane\n     To give a bold defiance to our host!\n     Before he speaks it out, I will accept,\n     Like Douglas conquer, or like Douglas die!\"--\n\nThe gods, to whom Mr. Barry appealed, saluted this heroic wish with\nimmense applause, and the General clapped his hands prodigiously. His\ndaughter was rather disconcerted.\n\n\"This Douglas is not only brave, but he is modest!\" says papa.\n\n\"I own I think he need not have asked for a gigantic Dane,\" says Theo,\nsmiling, as Lady Randolph entered in the midst of the gallery thunder.\n\nWhen the applause had subsided, Lady Randolph is made to say--\n\n    \"My son, I heard a voice!\"\n\n\"I think she did hear a voice!\" cries papa. \"Why, the fellow was\nbellowing like a bull of Bashan.\" And the General would scarcely behave\nhimself from thenceforth to the end of the performance. He said he\nwas heartily glad that the young gentleman was put to death behind\nthe scenes. When Lady Randolph's friend described how her mistress had\n\"flown like lightning up the hill, and plunged herself into the empty\nair,\" Mr. Lambert said he was delighted to be rid of her. \"And as for\nthat story of her early marriage,\" says he, \"I have my very strongest\ndoubts about it.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Martin! Look, children! their Royal Highnesses are moving.\"\n\nThe tragedy over, the Princess Dowager and the Prince were, in fact,\nretiring; though, I dare say, the latter, who was always fond of a\nfarce, would have been far better pleased with that which followed than\nhe had been with Mr. Home's dreary tragic masterpiece.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX. Which treats of Macbeth, a Supper, and a Pretty Kettle of\nFish\n\n\nWhen the performances were concluded, our friends took coach for Mr.\nWarrington's lodging, where the Virginians had provided an elegant\nsupper. Mr. Warrington was eager to treat them in the handsomest\nmanner, and the General and his wife accepted the invitation of the two\nbachelors, pleased to think that they could give their young friends\npleasure. General and Mrs. Lambert, their son from college, their two\nblooming daughters, and Mr. Spencer of the Temple, a new friend whom\nGeorge had met at the coffee-house, formed the party, and partook with\ncheerfulness of the landlady's fare. The order of their sitting I have\nnot been able exactly to ascertain; but, somehow, Miss Theo had a place\nnext to the chickens and Mr. George Warrington, whilst Miss Hetty and a\nham divided the attentions of Mr. Harry. Mrs. Lambert must have been on\nGeorge's right hand, so that we have but to settle the three places of\nthe General, his son, and the Templar.\n\nMr. Spencer had been at the other theatre, where, on a former day, he\nhad actually introduced George to the greenroom. The conversation about\nthe play was resumed, and some of the party persisted in being delighted\nwith it.\n\n\"As for what our gentlemen say, sir,\" cries Mrs. Lambert to Mr. Spencer,\n\"you must not believe a word of it. 'Tis a delightful piece, and my\nhusband and Mr. George behaved as ill as possible.\"\n\n\"We laughed in the wrong place, and when we ought to have cried,\" the\nGeneral owned, \"that's the truth.\"\n\n\"You caused all the people in the boxes about us to look round and cry\n'Hush!' You made the pit folks say, 'Silence in the boxes, yonder!' Such\nbehaviour I never knew, and quite blushed for you, Mr. Lambert!\"\n\n\"Mamma thought it was a tragedy, and we thought it was a piece of fun,\"\nsays the General. \"George and I behaved perfectly well, didn't we,\nTheo?\"\n\n\"Not when I was looking your way, papa!\" Theo replies. At which the\nGeneral asks, \"Was there ever such a saucy baggage seen?\"\n\n\"You know, sir, I didn't speak till I was bid,\" Theo continues,\nmodestly. \"I own I was very much moved by the play, and the beauty and\nacting of Mrs. Woffington. I was sorry that the poor mother should find\nher child, and lose him. I am sorry, too, papa, if I oughtn't to have\nbeen sorry!\" adds the young lady, with a smile.\n\n\"Women are not so clever as men, you know, Theo,\" cries Hetty from her\nend of the table, with a sly look at Harry. \"The next time we go to the\nplay, please, brother Jack, pinch us when we ought to cry, or give us a\nnudge when it is right to laugh.\"\n\n\"I wish we could have had the fight,\" said General Lambert, \"the fight\nbetween little Norval and the gigantic Norwegian--that would have been\nrare sport: and you should write, Jack, and suggest it to Mr. Rich, the\nmanager.\"\n\n\"I have not seen that: but I saw Slack and Broughton at Marybone\nGardens!\" says Harry, gravely; and wondered if he had said something\nwitty, as all the company laughed so? \"It would require no giant,\" he\nadded, \"to knock over yonder little fellow in the red boots. I, for one,\ncould throw him over my shoulder.\"\n\n\"Mr. Garrick is a little man. But there are times when he looks a\ngiant,\" says Mr. Spencer. \"How grand he was in Macbeth, Mr. Warrington!\nHow awful that dagger-scene was! You should have seen our host, ladies!\nI presented Mr. Warrington, in the greenroom, to Mr. Garrick and Mrs.\nPritchard, and Lady Macbeth did him the honour to take a pinch out of\nhis box.\"\n\n\"Did the wife of the Thane of Cawdor sneeze?\" asked the General, in an\nawful voice.\n\n\"She thanked Mr. Warrington, in tones so hollow and tragic, that he\nstarted back, and must have upset some of his rappee, for Macbeth\nsneezed thrice.\"\n\n\"Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!\" cries the General.\n\n\"And the great philosopher who was standing by Mr. Johnson, says, 'You\nmust mind, Davy, lest thy sneeze should awaken Duncan!' who, by the way,\nwas talking with the three witches as they sat against the wall.\"\n\n\"What! Have you been behind the scenes at the play? Oh, I would give\nworlds to go behind the scenes!\" cries Theo.\n\n\"And see the ropes pulled, and smell the tallow-candles, and look at the\npasteboard gold, and the tinsel jewels, and the painted old women, Theo?\nNo. Do not look too close,\" says the sceptical young host, demurely\ndrinking a glass of hock. \"You were angry with your papa and me.\"\n\n\"Nay, George!\" cries the girl.\n\n\"Nay? I say, yes! You were angry with us because we laughed when you\nwere disposed to be crying. If I may speak for you, sir, as well as\nmyself,\" says George (with a bow to his guest, General Lambert), \"I\nthink we were not inclined to weep, like the ladies, because we stood\nbehind the author's scenes of the play, as it were. Looking close up to\nthe young hero, we saw how much of him was rant and tinsel; and as for\nthe pale, tragical mother, that her pallor was white chalk, and her\ngrief her pocket-handkerchief. Own now, Theo, you thought me very\nunfeeling?\"\n\n\"If you find it out, sir, without my owning it,--what is the good of my\nconfessing?\" says Theo.\n\n\"Suppose I were to die?\" goes on George, \"and you saw Harry in grief,\nyou would be seeing a genuine affliction, a real tragedy; you would\ngrieve too. But you wouldn't be affected if you saw the undertaker in\nweepers and a black cloak!\"\n\n\"Indeed, but I should, sir!\" says Mrs. Lambert; \"and so, I promise you,\nwould any daughter of mine.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we might find weepers of our own, Mr. Warrington,\" says Theo,\n\"in such a case.\"\n\n\"Would you?\" cries George, and his cheeks and Theo's simultaneously\nflushed up with red; I suppose because they both saw Hetty's bright\nyoung eyes watching them.\n\n\"The elder writers understood but little of the pathetic,\" remarked Mr.\nSpencer, the Temple wit.\n\n\"What do you think of Sophocles and Antigone?\" calls out Mr. John\nLambert.\n\n\"Faith, our wits trouble themselves little about him, unless an Oxford\ngentleman comes to remind us of him! I did not mean to go back farther\nthan Mr. Shakspeare, who, as you will all agree, does not understand\nthe elegant and pathetic as well as the moderns. Has he ever approached\nBelvidera, or Monimia, or Jane Shore; or can you find in his comic\nfemale characters the elegance of Congreve?\" and the Templar offered\nsnuff to the right and left.\n\n\"I think Mr. Spencer himself must have tried his hand?\" asks some one.\n\n\"Many gentlemen of leisure have. Mr. Garrick, I own, has had a piece of\nmine and returned it.\"\n\n\"And I confess that I have four acts of a play in one of my boxes,\" says\nGeorge.\n\n\"I'll be bound to say it's as good as any of 'em,\" whispers Harry to his\nneighbour.\n\n\"Is it a tragedy or a comedy?\" asks Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"Oh, a tragedy, and two or three dreadful murders at least!\" George\nreplies.\n\n\"Let us play it, and let the audience look to their eyes! Yet my chief\nhumour is for a tyrant,\" says the General.\n\n\"The tragedy, the tragedy! Go and fetch the tragedy this moment,\nGumbo!\" calls Mrs. Lambert to the black. Gumbo makes a low bow and says,\n\"Tragedy? yes, madam.\"\n\n\"In the great cowskin trunk, Gumbo,\" George says, gravely.\n\nGumbo bows and says, \"Yes, sir,\" with still superior gravity.\n\n\"But my tragedy is at the bottom of I don't know how much linen,\npackages, books, and boots, Hetty.\"\n\n\"Never mind, let us have it, and fling the linen out of window!\" cries\nMiss Hetty.\n\n\"And the great cowskin trunk is at our agent's at Bristol: so Gumbo must\nget post-horses, and we can keep it up till he returns the day after\nto-morrow,\" says George.\n\nThe ladies groaned a comical \"Oh!\" and papa, perhaps more seriously,\nsaid, \"Let us be thankful for the escape. Let us be thinking of going\nhome too. Our young gentlemen have treated us nobly, and we will all\ndrink a parting bumper to Madam Esmond Warrington of Castlewood, in\nVirginia. Suppose, boys, you were to find a tall, handsome stepfather\nwhen you got home? Ladies as old as she have been known to marry before\nnow.\"\n\n\"To Madam Esmond Warrington, my old schoolfellow!\" cries Mrs. Lambert.\n\"I shall write and tell her what a pretty supper her sons have given us:\nand, Mr. George, I won't say how ill you behaved at the play!\" And,\nwith this last toast, the company took leave; the General's coach and\nservant, with a flambeau, being in waiting to carry his family home.\n\nAfter such an entertainment as that which Mr. Warrington had given, what\ncould be more natural or proper than a visit from him to his guests,\nto inquire how they had reached home and rested? Why, their coach might\nhave taken the open country behind Montague House, in the direction\nof Oxford Road, and been waylaid by footpads in the fields. The ladies\nmight have caught cold or slept ill after the excitement of the tragedy.\nIn a word, there was no reason why he should make any excuse at all to\nhimself or them for visiting his kind friends; and he shut his books\nearly at the Sloane Museum, and perhaps thought, as he walked away\nthence, that he remembered very little about what he had been reading.\n\nPray what is the meaning of this eagerness, this hesitation, this\npshaing and shilly-shallying, these doubts, this tremor as he knocks\nat the door of Mr. Lambert's lodgings in Dean Street, and survey the\nfootman who comes to his summons? Does any young man read? does any\nold one remember? does any wearied, worn, disappointed pulseless heart\nrecall the time of its full beat and early throbbing? It is ever so many\nhundred years since some of us were young; and we forget, but do not all\nforget. No, madam, we remember with advantages, as Shakspeare's Harry\npromised his soldiers they should do if they survived Agincourt and\nthat day of St. Crispin. Worn old chargers turned out to grass, if the\ntrumpet sounds over the hedge, may we not kick up our old heels, and\ngallop a minute or so about the paddock, till we are brought up roaring?\nI do not care for clown and pantaloon now, and think the fairy ugly, and\nher verses insufferable: but I like to see children at a pantomime. I\ndo not dance, or eat supper any more; but I like to watch Eugenio and\nFlirtilla twirling round in a pretty waltz, or Lucinda and Ardentio\npulling a cracker. Burn your little fingers, children! Blaze out little\nkindly flames from each other's eyes! And then draw close together and\nread the motto (that old namby-pamby motto, so stale and so new!)--I\nsay, let her lips read it, and his construe it; and so divide the\nsweetmeat, young people, and crunch it between you. I have no teeth.\nBitter almonds and sugar disagree with me, I tell you; but, for all\nthat, shall not bonbons melt in the mouth?\n\nWe follow John upstairs to the General's apartments, and enter with Mr.\nGeorge Esmond Warrington, who makes a prodigious fine bow. There is\nonly one lady in the room, seated near a window: there is not often much\nsunshine in Dean Street: the young lady in the window is no especial\nbeauty: but it is spring-time, and she is blooming vernally. A bunch\nof fresh roses is flushing in her honest cheek. I suppose her eyes are\nviolets. If we lived a hundred years ago, and wrote in the Gentleman's\nor the London Magazine, we should tell Mr. Sylvanus Urban that her neck\nwas the lily, and her shape the nymph's: we should write an acrostic\nabout her, and celebrate our Lambertella in an elegant poem, still to be\nread between a neat new engraved plan of the city of Prague and the King\nof Prussia's camp, and a map of Maryland and the Delaware counties.\n\nHere is Miss Theo blushing like a rose. What could mamma have meant an\nhour since by insisting that she was very pale and tired, and had best\nnot come out to-day with the rest of the party? They were gone to pay\ntheir compliments to my Lord Wrotham's ladies, and thank them for the\nhouse in their absence; and papa was at the Horse Guards. He is in great\nspirits. I believe he expects some command, though mamma is in a sad\ntremor lest he should again be ordered abroad.\n\n\"Your brother and mine are gone to see our little brother at his school\nat the Chartreux. My brothers are both to be clergymen, I think,\" Miss\nTheo continues. She is assiduously hemming at some article of boyish\nwearing apparel as she talks. A hundred years ago, young ladies were not\nafraid either to make shirts, or to name them. Mind, I don't say they\nwere the worse or the better for that plain stitching or plain speaking:\nand have not the least desire, my dear young lady, that you should make\npuddings or I should black boots.\n\nSo Harry has been with them? \"He often comes, almost every day,\" Theo\nsays, looking up in George's face. \"Poor fellow! He likes us better than\nthe fine folks, who don't care for him now--now he is no longer a fine\nfolk himself,\" adds the girl, smiling. \"Why have you not set up for the\nfashion, and frequented the chocolate-houses and the racecourses, Mr.\nWarrington?\"\n\n\"Has my brother got so much good out of his gay haunts or his grand\nfriends, that I should imitate him?\"\n\n\"You might at least go to Sir Miles Warrington; sure his arms are open\nto receive you. Her ladyship was here this morning in her chair, and\nto hear her praises of you! She declares you are in a certain way to\npreferment. She says his Royal Highness the Duke made much of you at\ncourt. When you are a great man will you forget us, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"Yes, when I am a great man I will, Miss Lambert.\"\n\n\"Well! Mr. George, then----\"\n\n\"--Mr. George!\"\n\n\"When papa and mamma are here, I suppose there need be no mistering,\"\nsays Theo, looking out of the window, ever so little frightened. \"And\nwhat have you been doing, sir? Reading books, or writing more of your\ntragedy? Is it going to be a tragedy to make us cry, as we like them, or\nonly to frighten us, as you like them?\"\n\n\"There is plenty of killing, but, I fear, not much crying. I have not\nmet many women. I have not been very intimate with those. I daresay what\nI have written is only taken out of books or parodied from poems which\nI have read and imitated like other young men. Women do not speak to me,\ngenerally; I am said to have a sarcastic way which displeases them.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you never cared to please them?\" inquires Miss Theo, with a\nblush.\n\n\"I displeased you last night; you know I did?\"\n\n\"Yes; only it can't be called displeasure, and afterwards thought I was\nwrong.\"\n\n\"Did you think about me at all when I was away, Theo?\"\n\n\"Yes, George--that is, Mr.--well, George! I thought you and papa were\nright about the play; and, as you said, that it was no real sorrow, only\naffectation, which was moving us. I wonder whether it is good or ill\nfortune to see so clearly? Hetty and I agreed that we would be very\ncareful, for the future, how we allowed ourselves to enjoy a tragedy.\nSo, be careful when yours comes! What is the name of it?\"\n\n\"He is not christened. Will you be the godmother? The name of the chief\ncharacter is----\" But at this very moment mamma and Miss Hetty arrived\nfrom their walk; and mamma straightway began protesting that she never\nexpected to see Mr. Warrington at all that day--that is, she thought he\nmight come--that is, it was very good of him to come, and the play and\nthe supper of yesterday were all charming, except that Theo had a little\nheadache this morning.\n\n\"I dare say it is better now, mamma,\" says Miss Hetty.\n\n\"Indeed, my dear, it never was of any consequence; and I told mamma so,\"\nsays Miss Theo, with a toss of her head.\n\nThen they fell to talking about Harry. He was very low. He must have\nsomething to do. He was always going to the Military Coffee-House, and\nperpetually poring over the King of Prussia's campaigns. It was not fair\nupon him, to bid him remain in London, after his deposition, as it were.\nHe said nothing, but you could see how he regretted his previous useless\nlife, and felt his present dependence, by the manner in which he avoided\nhis former haunts and associates. Passing by the guard at St. James's,\nwith John Lambert, he had said to brother Jack, \"Why mayn't I be\na soldier too? I am as tall as yonder fellow, and can kill with a\nfowling-piece as well as any man I know. But I can't earn so much as\nsixpence a day. I have squandered my own bread, and now I am eating half\nmy brother's. He is the best of brothers, but so much the more shame\nthat I should live upon him. Don't tell my brother, Jack Lambert.\" \"And\nmy boy promised he wouldn't tell,\" says Mrs. Lambert. No doubt. The\ngirls were both out of the room when their mother made this speech to\nGeorge Warrington. He, for his part, said he had written home to his\nmother--that half his little patrimony, the other half likewise, if\nwanted, were at Harry's disposal, for purchasing a commission, or for\nany other project which might bring him occupation or advancement.\n\n\"He has got a good brother, that is sure. Let us hope for good times for\nhim,\" sighs the lady.\n\n\"The Danes always come pour qui scait attendre,\" George said, in a low\nvoice.\n\n\"What, you heard that? Ah, George! my Theo is an----Ah! never mind what\nshe is, George Warrington,\" cried the pleased mother, with brimful eyes.\n\"Bah! I am going to make a gaby of myself, as I did at the tragedy.\"\n\nNow Mr. George had been revolving a fine private scheme, which\nhe thought might turn to his brother's advantage. After George's\npresentation to his Royal Highness at Kensington, more persons than\none, his friend General Lambert included, had told him that the Duke had\ninquired regarding him, and had asked why the young man did not come to\nhis levee. Importunity so august could not but be satisfied. A day was\nappointed between Mr. Lambert and his young friend, and they went to pay\ntheir duty to his Royal Highness at his house in Pall Mall.\n\nWhen it came to George's turn to make a bow, the Prince was especially\ngracious; he spoke to Mr. Warrington at some length about Braddock and\nthe war, and was apparently pleased with the modesty and intelligence\nof the young gentleman's answers. George ascribed the failure of the\nexpedition to the panic and surprise certainly, but more especially to\nthe delays occasioned by the rapacity, selfishness, and unfair dealing\nof the people of the colonies towards the King's troops who were come\nto defend them. \"Could we have moved, sir, a month sooner, the fort\nwas certainly ours, and the little army had never been defeated,\"\nMr. Warrington said; in which observation his Royal Highness entirely\nconcurred.\n\n\"I am told you saved yourself, sir, mainly by your knowledge of the\nFrench language,\" the Royal Duke then affably observed. Mr. Warrington\nmodestly mentioned how he had been in the French colonies in his youth,\nand had opportunities of acquiring that tongue.\n\nThe Prince (who had a great urbanity when well pleased, and the finest\nsense of humour) condescended to ask who had taught Mr. Warrington the\nlanguage; and to express his opinion, that, for the pronunciation, the\nFrench ladies were by far the best teachers.\n\nThe young Virginian gentleman made a low bow, and said it was not for\nhim to gainsay his Royal Highness; upon which the Duke was good enough\nto say (in a jocose manner) that Mr. Warrington was a sly dog.\n\nMr. W. remaining respectfully silent, the Prince continued, most kindly:\n\"I take the field immediately against the French, who, as you know, are\nthreatening his Majesty's Electoral dominions, If you have a mind to\nmake the campaign with me, your skill in the language may be useful,\nand I hope we shall be more fortunate than poor Braddock!\" Every eye\nwas fixed on a young man to whom so great a Prince offered so signal a\nfavour.\n\nAnd now it was that Mr. George thought he would make his very cleverest\nspeech. \"Sir,\" he said, \"your Royal Highness's most kind proposal does\nme infinite honour, but----\"\n\n\"But what, sir?\" says the Prince, staring at him.\n\n\"But I have entered myself of the Temple, to study our laws, and to fit\nmyself for my duties at home. If my having been wounded in the service\nof my country be any claim on your kindness, I would humbly ask that my\nbrother, who knows the French language as well as myself, and has far\nmore strength, courage, and military genius, might be allowed to serve\nyour Royal Highness; in the place of----\"\n\n\"Enough, enough, sir!\" cried out the justly irritated son of the\nmonarch. \"What? I offer you a favour, and you hand it over to your\nbrother? Wait, sir, till I offer you another!\" And with this the Prince\nturned his back upon Mr. Warrington, just as abruptly as he turned it on\nthe French a few months afterwards.\n\n\"Oh, George! oh, George! Here's a pretty kettle of fish!\" groaned\nGeneral Lambert, as he and his young friend walked home together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI. In which the Prince marches up the Hill and down again\n\n\nWe understand the respectful indignation of all loyal Britons when they\ncome to read of Mr. George Warrington's conduct towards a gallant\nand gracious Prince, the beloved son of the best of monarchs, and the\nCaptain-General of the British army. What an inestimable favour has not\nthe young man slighted! What a chance of promotion had he not thrown\naway! Will Esmond, whose language was always rich in blasphemies,\nemployed his very strongest curses in speaking of his cousin's\nbehaviour, and expressed his delight that the confounded young Mohock\nwas cutting his own throat. Cousin Castlewood said that a savage\ngentleman had a right to scalp himself if he liked; or perhaps, he added\ncharitably, our cousin Mr. Warrington heard enough of the war-whoop\nin Braddock's affair, and has no more stomach for fighting. Mr. Will\nrejoiced that the younger brother had gone to the deuce, and he rejoiced\nto think that the elder was following him. The first time he met the\nfellow, Will said, he should take care to let Mr. George know what he\nthought of him.\n\n\"If you intend to insult George, at least you had best take care that\nhis brother Harry is out of hearing!\" cried Lady Maria--on which we may\nfancy more curses uttered by Mr. Will, with regard to his twin kinsfolk.\n\n\"Ta, ta, ta!\" says my lord. \"No more of this squabbling! We can't be all\nwarriors in the family!\"\n\n\"I never heard your lordship laid claim to be one!\" says Maria.\n\n\"Never, my dear; quite the contrary! Will is our champion, and one is\nquite enough in the house. So I dare say with the two Mohocks;--George\nis the student, and Harry is the fighting man. When you intended\nto quarrel, Will, what a pity it was you had not George, instead of\nt'other, to your hand!\"\n\n\"Your lordship's hand is famous--at piquet,\" says Will's mother.\n\n\"It is a pretty one,\" says my lord, surveying his fingers, with a\nsimper. \"My Lord Hervey's glove and mine were of a size. Yes, my hand,\nas you say, is more fitted for cards than for war. Yours, my Lady\nCastlewood, is pretty dexterous, too. How I bless the day when you\nbestowed it on my lamented father!\" In this play of sarcasm, as in some\nother games of skill, his lordship was not sorry to engage, having a\ncool head, and being able to beat his family all round.\n\nMadame de Bernstein, when she heard of Mr. Warrington's bevue, was\nexceedingly angry, stormed, and scolded her immediate household; and\nwould have scolded George but she was growing old, and had not the\ncourage of her early days. Moreover, she was a little afraid of her\nnephew, and respectful in her behaviour to him. \"You will never make\nyour fortune at court, nephew!\" she groaned, when, soon after his\ndiscomfiture, the young gentleman went to wait upon her.\n\n\"It was never my wish, madam,\" said Mr. George, in a very stately\nmanner.\n\n\"Your wish was to help Harry? You might hereafter have been of service\nto your brother, had you accepted the Duke's offer. Princes do not\nlove to have their favours refused, and I don't wonder that his Royal\nHighness was offended.\"\n\n\"General Lambert said the same thing,\" George confessed, turning rather\nred; \"and I see now that I was wrong. But you must please remember that\nI had never seen a court before, and I suppose I am scarce likely to\nshine in one.\"\n\n\"I think possibly not, my good nephew,\" says the aunt, taking snuff.\n\n\"And what then?\" asked George. \"I never had ambition for that kind\nof glory, and can make myself quite easy without it. When his Royal\nHighness spoke to me--most kindly, as I own--my thought was, I shall\nmake a very bad soldier, and my brother would be a very good one. He has\na hundred good qualities for the profession, in which I am deficient;\nand would have served a Commanding Officer far better than I ever could.\nSay the Duke is in battle, and his horse is shot, as my poor chief's\nwas at home, would he not be better for a beast that had courage and\nstrength to bear him anywhere, than with one that could not carry his\nweight?\"\n\n\"Au fait. His Royal Highness's charger must be a strong one, my dear!\"\nsays the old lady.\n\n\"Expende Hannibalem,\" mutters George, with a shrug. \"Our Hannibal weighs\nno trifle.\"\n\n\"I don't quite follow you, sir, and your Hannibal,\" the Baroness\nremarks.\n\n\"When Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Lambert remonstrated with me as you have done,\nmadam,\" George rejoins, with a laugh, \"I made this same defence which I\nam making to you. I said I offered to the Prince the best soldier in the\nfamily, and the two gentlemen allowed that my blunder at least had\nsome excuse. Who knows but that they may set me right with his Royal\nHighness? The taste I have had of battles has shown me how little my\ngenius inclines that way. We saw the Scotch play which everybody is\ntalking about t'other night. And when the hero, young Norval, said how\nhe longed to follow to the field some warlike lord, I thought to myself,\n'how like my Harry is to him, except that he doth not brag.' Harry is\npining now for a red coat, and if we don't mind, will take the shilling.\nHe has the map of Germany for ever under his eyes, and follows the King\nof Prussia everywhere. He is not afraid of men or gods. As for me, I\nlove my books and quiet best, and to read about battles in Homer or\nLucan.\"\n\n\"Then what made a soldier of you at all, my dear? And why did you not\nsend Harry with Mr. Braddock, instead of going yourself?\" asked Madame\nde Bernstein.\n\n\"My mother loved her younger son the best,\" said George, darkly.\n\"Besides, with the enemy invading our country, it was my duty, as the\nhead of our family, to go on the campaign. Had I been a Scotchman twelve\nyears ago, I should have been a----\"\n\n\"Hush, sir! or I shall be more angry than ever!\" said the old lady, with\na perfectly pleased face.\n\nGeorge's explanation might thus appease Madame de Bernstein, an old\nwoman whose principles we fear were but loose: but to the loyal heart of\nSir Miles Warrington and his lady, the young man's conduct gave a severe\nblow indeed! \"I should have thought,\" her ladyship said, \"from my sister\nEsmond Warrington's letter, that my brother's widow was a woman of good\nsense and judgment, and that she had educated her sons in a becoming\nmanner. But what, Sir Miles, what, my dear Thomas Claypool, can we think\nof an education which has resulted so lamentably for both these young\nmen?\"\n\n\"The elder seems to know a power of Latin, though, and speaks the\nFrench and the German too. I heard him with the Hanover Envoy, at the\nBaroness's rout,\" says Mr. Claypool. \"The French he jabbered quite easy:\nand when he was at a loss for the High Dutch, he and the Envoy began in\nLatin, and talked away till all the room stared.\"\n\n\"It is not language, but principles, Thomas Claypool!\" exclaims the\nvirtuous matron. \"What must Mr. Warrington's principles be, when he\ncould reject an offer made him by his Prince? Can he speak the High\nDutch? So much the more ought he to have accepted his Royal Highness's\ncondescension, and made himself useful in the campaign! Look at our son,\nlook at Miles!\"\n\n\"Hold up thy head, Miley, my boy!\" says papa.\n\n\"I trust, Sir Miles, that, as a member of the House of Commons, as an\nEnglish gentleman, you will attend his Royal Highness's levee to-morrow,\nand say, if such an offer had been made to us for that child, we would\nhave taken it, though our boy is but ten years of age.\"\n\n\"Faith, Miley, thou wouldst make a good little drummer or fifer!\" says\npapa. \"Shouldst like to be a little soldier, Miley?\"\n\n\"Anything, sir, anything! a Warrington ought to be ready at any moment\nto have himself cut in pieces for his sovereign!\" cries the matron,\npointing to the boy; who, as soon as he comprehended his mother's\nproposal, protested against it by a loud roar, in the midst of which he\nwas removed by Screwby. In obedience to the conjugal orders, Sir Miles\nwent to his Royal Highness's levee the next day, and made a protest of\nhis love and duty, which the Prince deigned to accept, saying:\n\n\"Nobody ever supposed that Sir Miles Warrington would ever refuse any\nplace offered to him.\"\n\nA compliment gracious indeed, and repeated everywhere by Lady\nWarrington, as showing how implicitly the august family on the throne\ncould rely on the loyalty of the Warringtons.\n\nAccordingly, when this worthy couple saw George, they received him with\na ghastly commiseration, such as our dear relatives or friends will\nsometimes extend to us when we have done something fatal or clumsy in\nlife; when we have come badly out of our lawsuit; when we enter the room\njust as the company has been abusing us; when our banker has broke; or\nwe for our sad part have had to figure in the commercial columns of the\nLondon Gazette;--when, in a word, we are guilty of some notorious fault,\nor blunder, or misfortune. Who does not know that face of pity? Whose\ndear relations have not so deplored him, not dead, but living? Not\nyours? Then, sir, if you have never been in scrapes; if you have never\nsowed a handful of wild oats or two; if you have always been fortunate,\nand good, and careful, and butter has never melted in your mouth, and\nan imprudent word has never come out of it; if you have never sinned and\nrepented, and been a fool and been sorry--then, sir, you are a wiseacre\nwho won't waste your time over an idle novel, and it is not de te that\nthe fable is narrated at all.\n\nNot that it was just on Sir Miles's part to turn upon George, and be\nangry with his nephew for refusing the offer of promotion made by his\nRoyal Highness, for Sir Miles himself had agreed in George's view of\npursuing quite other than a military career, and it was in respect to\nthis plan of her son's that Madam Esmond had written from Virginia\nto Sir Miles Warrington. George had announced to her his intention of\nentering at the Temple, and qualifying himself for the magisterial\nand civil duties which, in the course of nature, he would be called to\nfulfil; nor could any one applaud his resolution more cordially than his\nuncle Sir Miles, who introduced George to a lawyer of reputation, under\nwhose guidance we may fancy the young gentleman reading leisurely.\nMadam Esmond from home signified her approval of her son's course, fully\nagreeing with Sir Miles (to whom and his lady she begged to send her\ngrateful remembrances) that the British Constitution was the envy of\nthe world, and the proper object of every English gentleman's admiring\nstudy. The chief point to which George's mother objected was the notion\nthat Mr. Warrington should have to sit down in the Temple dinner-ball,\nand cut at a shoulder of mutton, and drink small-beer out of tin\npannikins, by the side of rough students who wore gowns like the\nparish-clerk. George's loyal younger brother shared too this repugnance.\nAnything was good enough for him, Harry said; he was a younger son, and\nprepared to rough it; but George, in a gown, and dining in a mess with\nthree nobody's sons off dirty pewter platters! Harry never could relish\nthis condescension on his brother's part, or fancy George in his proper\nplace at any except the high table; and was sorry that a plan Madam\nEsmond hinted at in her letters was not feasible--viz., that an\napplication should be made to the Master of the Temple, who should be\ninformed that Mr. George Warrington was a gentleman of most noble birth,\nand of great property in America, and ought only to sit with the very\nbest company in the Hall. Rather to Harry's discomfiture, when he\ncommunicated his own and his mother's ideas to the gentlemen's new\ncoffee-house friend, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Spencer received the proposal with\nroars of laughter; and I cannot learn, from the Warrington papers, that\nany application was made to the Master of the Temple on this subject.\nBesides his literary and historical pursuits, which were those he\nmost especially loved, Mr. Warrington studied the laws of his country,\nattended the courts at Westminster, where he heard a Henley, a Pratt,\na Murray, and those other great famous schools of eloquence and\npatriotism, the two houses of parliament.\n\nGradually Mr. Warrington made acquaintance with some of the members of\nthe House and the Bar; who, when they came to know him, spoke of him\nas a young gentleman of good parts and good breeding, and in terms so\ngenerally complimentary, that his good uncle's heart relented towards\nhim, and Dora and Flora began once more to smile upon him. This\nreconciliation dated from the time when his Royal Highness the Duke,\nafter having been defeated by the French, in the affair of Hastenbeck,\nconcluded the famous capitulation with the French, which his Majesty\nGeorge II. refused to ratify. His Royal Highness, as 'tis well known,\nflung up his commissions after this disgrace, laid down his commander's\nbaton--which, it must be confessed, he had not wielded with much luck or\ndexterity--and never again appeared at the head of armies or in public\nlife. The stout warrior would not allow a word of complaint against his\nfather and sovereign to escape his lips; but, as he retired with his\nwounded honour, and as he would have no interest or authority more, nor\nany places to give, it may be supposed that Sir Miles Warrington's anger\nagainst his nephew diminished as his respect for his Royal Highness\ndiminished.\n\nAs our two gentlemen were walking in St. James's Park, one day, with\ntheir friend Mr. Lambert, they met his Royal Highness in plain clothes\nand without a star, and made profound bows to the Prince, who was\npleased to stop and speak to them.\n\nHe asked Mr. Lambert how he liked my Lord Ligonier, his new chief at\nthe Horse Guards, and the new duties there in which he was engaged? And,\nrecognising the young men, with that fidelity of memory for which his\nRoyal race hath ever been remarkable, he said to Mr. Warrington:\n\n\"You did well, sir, not to come with me when I asked you in the spring.\"\n\n\"I was sorry, then, sir,\" Mr. Warrington said, making a very low\nreverence, \"but I am more sorry now.\"\n\nOn which the Prince said, \"Thank you, sir,\" and, touching his hat,\nwalked away. And the circumstances of this interview, and the discourse\nwhich passed at it, being related to Mrs. Esmond Warrington in a letter\nfrom her younger son, created so deep an impression in that lady's mind,\nthat she narrated the anecdote many hundreds of times until all her\nfriends and acquaintances knew and, perhaps, were tired of it.\n\nOur gentlemen went through the Park, and so towards the Strand, where\nthey had business. And Mr. Lambert, pointing to the lion on the top of\nthe Earl of Northumberland's house at Charing Cross, says:\n\n\"Harry Warrington! your brother is like yonder lion.\"\n\n\"Because he is as brave as one,\" says Harry.\n\n\"Because I respect virgins!\" says George, laughing.\n\n\"Because you are a stupid lion. Because you turn your back on the East,\nand absolutely salute the setting sun. Why, child, what earthly good can\nyou get by being civil to a man in hopeless dudgeon and disgrace? Your\nuncle will be more angry with you than ever--and so am I, sir.\" But Mr.\nLambert was always laughing in his waggish way, and, indeed, he did not\nlook the least angry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII. Arma Virumque\n\n\nIndeed, if Harry Warrington had a passion for military pursuits and\nstudies, there was enough of war stirring in Europe, and enough talk in\nall societies which he frequented in London, to excite and inflame him.\nThough our own gracious Prince of the house of Hanover had been beaten,\nthe Protestant Hero, the King of Prussia, was filling the world with\nhis glory, and winning those astonishing victories in which I deem it\nfortunate on my own account that my poor Harry took no part; for\nthen his veracious biographer would have had to narrate battles the\ndescription whereof has been undertaken by another pen. I am glad, I\nsay, that Harry Warrington was not at Rossbach on that famous Gunpowder\nFete-day, on the 5th of November, in the year 1757; nor at that\ntremendous slaughtering-match of Leuthen, which the Prussian king played\na month afterwards; for these prodigious actions will presently be\nnarrated in other volumes, which I and all the world are eager to\nbehold. Would you have this history compete with yonder book? Could\nmy jaunty, yellow park-phaeton run counter to that grim chariot of\nthundering war? Could my meek little jog-trot Pegasus meet the shock of\nyon steed of foaming bit and flaming nostril? Dear, kind reader (with\nwhom I love to talk from time to time, stepping down from the stage\nwhere our figures are performing, attired in the habits and using the\nparlance of past ages),--my kind, patient reader! it is a mercy for both\nof us that Harry Warrington did not follow the King of the Borussians,\nas he was minded to do, for then I should have had to describe battles\nwhich Carlyle is going to paint; and I don't wish you should make odious\ncomparisons between me and that master.\n\nHarry Warrington not only did not join the King of the Borussians, but\nhe pined and chafed at not going. He led a sulky useless life, that is\nthe fact. He dangled about the military coffee-houses. He did not care\nfor reading anything save a newspaper. His turn was not literary. He\neven thought novels were stupid; and, as for the ladies crying their\neyes out over Mr. Richardson, he could not imagine how they could be\nmoved by any such nonsense. He used to laugh in a very hearty jolly\nway, but a little late, and some time after the joke was over. Pray, why\nshould all gentlemen have a literary turn? And do we like some of our\nfriends the worse because they never turned a couplet in their lives?\nRuined, perforce idle, dependent on his brother for supplies, if he read\na book falling asleep over it, with no fitting work for his great strong\nhands to do--how lucky it is that he did not get into more trouble! Why,\nin the case of Achilles himself, when he was sent by his mamma to the\ncourt of King What-d'ye-call-'em in order to be put out of harm's reach,\nwhat happened to him amongst a parcel of women with whom he was made to\nidle his life away? And how did Pyrrhus come into the world? A powerful\nmettlesome young Achilles ought not to be leading-stringed by women too\nmuch; is out of his place dawdling by distaffs or handing coffee-cups;\nand when he is not fighting, depend on it, is likely to fall into much\nworse mischief.\n\nThose soft-hearted women, the two elder ladies of the Lambert family,\nwith whom he mainly consorted, had an untiring pity and kindness for\nHarry, such as women only--and only a few of those--can give. If a man\nis in grief, who cheers him; in trouble, who consoles him; in wrath,\nwho soothes him; in joy, who makes him doubly happy; in prosperity, who\nrejoices; in disgrace, who backs him against the world, and dresses\nwith gentle unguents and warm poultices the rankling wounds made by the\nslings and arrows of outrageous Fortune? Who but woman, if you please?\nYou who are ill and sore from the buffets of Fate, have you one or two\nof these sweet physicians? Return thanks to the gods that they have\nleft you so much of consolation. What gentleman is not more or less a\nPrometheus? Who has not his rock (ai, ai), his chain (ea, ea), and his\nliver in a deuce of a condition? But the sea-nymphs come--the gentle,\nthe sympathising; they kiss our writhing feet; they moisten our parched\nlips with their tears; they do their blessed best to console us Titans;\nthey don't turn their backs upon us after our overthrow.\n\nNow Theo and her mother were full of pity for Harry; but Hetty's heart\nwas rather hard and seemingly savage towards him. She chafed that\nhis position was not more glorious; she was angry that he was still\ndependent and idle. The whole world was in arms, and could he not carry\na musket? It was harvest-time, and hundreds of thousands of reapers were\nout with their flashing sickles; could he not use his, and cut down his\nsheaf or two of glory?\n\n\"Why, how savage the little thing is with him!\" says papa, after a scene\nin which, according to her wont, Miss Hetty had been firing little\nshots into that quivering target which came and set itself up in Mrs.\nLambert's drawing-room every day.\n\n\"Her conduct is perfectly abominable!\" cries mamma; \"she deserves to be\nwhipped, and sent to bed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, mother, it is because she likes him better than any of us do,\"\nsays Theo, \"and it is for his sake that Hetty is angry. If I were fond\nof--of some one, I should like to be able to admire and respect him\nalways--to think everything he did right--and my gentleman better than\nall the gentlemen in the world.\"\n\n\"The truth is, my dear,\" answers Mrs. Lambert, \"that your father is so\nmuch better than all the world, he has spoiled us. Did you ever see any\none to compare with him?\"\n\n\"Very few, indeed,\" owns Theo, with a blush.\n\n\"Very few. Who is so good-tempered?\"\n\n\"I think nobody, mamma,\" Theo acknowledges.\n\n\"Or so brave?\"\n\n\"Why, I dare say Mr. Wolfe, or Harry, or Mr. George, are very brave.\"\n\n\"Or so learned and witty?\"\n\n\"I am sure Mr. George seems very learned, and witty too, in his way,\"\nsays Theo; \"and his manners are very fine--you own they are. Madame de\nBernstein says they are, and she hath seen the world. Indeed, Mr. George\nhas a lofty way with him, which I don't see in other people; and, in\nreading books, I find he chooses the fine noble things always, and loves\nthem in spite of all his satire. He certainly is of a satirical turn,\nbut then he is only bitter against mean things and people. No gentleman\nhath a more tender heart I am sure; and but yesterday, after he had been\ntalking so bitterly as you said, I happened to look out of window, and\nsaw him stop and treat a whole crowd of little children to apples at the\nstall at the corner. And the day before yesterday, when he was coming\nand brought me the Moliere, he stopped and gave money to a beggar, and\nhow charmingly, sure, he reads the French! I agree with him though about\nTartuffe, though 'tis so wonderfully clever and lively, that a mere\nvillain and hypocrite is a figure too mean to be made the chief of a\ngreat piece. Iago, Mr. George said, is near as great a villain; but then\nhe is not the first character of the tragedy, which is Othello, with\nhis noble weakness. But what fine ladies and gentlemen Moliere\nrepresents--so Mr. George thinks--and--but oh, I don't dare to repeat\nthe verses after him.\"\n\n\"But you know them by heart, my dear?\" asks Mrs. Lambert.\n\nAnd Theo replies, \"Oh yes, mamma! I know them by... Nonsense!\"\n\nI here fancy osculations, palpitations, and exit Miss Theo, blushing\nlike a rose. Why had she stopped in her sentence? Because mamma was\nlooking at her so oddly. And why was mamma looking at her so oddly? And\nwhy had she looked after Mr. George when he was going away, and looked\nfor him when he was coming? Ah, and why do cheeks blush, and why do\nroses bloom? Old Time is still a-flying. Old spring and bud time; old\nsummer and bloom time; old autumn and seed time; old winter time, when\nthe cracking, shivering old tree-tops are bald or covered with snow.\n\nA few minutes after George arrived, Theo would come downstairs with\na fluttering heart, may be, and a sweet nosegay in her cheeks, just\nculled, as it were, fresh in his honour; and I suppose she must have\nbeen constantly at that window which commanded the street, and whence\nshe could espy his generosity to the sweep, or his purchases from the\napple-woman. But if it was Harry who knocked, she remained in her own\napartment with her work or her books, sending her sister to receive\nthe young gentleman, or her brothers when the elder was at home from\ncollege, or Doctor Crusius from the Chartreux gave the younger leave\nto go home. And what good eyes Theo must have had--and often in the\nevening, too--to note the difference between Harry's yellow hair and\nGeorge's dark locks--and between their figures, though they were so like\nthat people continually were mistaking one for the other brother. Now it\nis certain that Theo never mistook one or t'other; and that Hetty, for\nher part, was not in the least excited, or rude, or pert, when she found\nthe black-haired gentleman in her mother's drawing-room.\n\nOur friends could come when they liked to Mr. Lambert's house, and stay\nas long as they chose; and, one day, he of the golden locks was sitting\non a couch there, in an attitude of more than ordinary idleness and\ndespondency, when who should come down to him but Miss Hetty? I say it\nwas a most curious thing (though the girls would have gone to the rack\nrather than own any collusion), that when Harry called, Hetty appeared;\nwhen George arrived, Theo somehow came; and so, according to the usual\ndispensation, it was Miss Lambert, junior, who now arrived to entertain\nthe younger Virginian.\n\nAfter usual ceremonies and compliments we may imagine that the lady says\nto the gentleman:\n\n\"And pray, sir, what makes your honour look so glum this morning?\"\n\n\"Ah, Hetty!\" says he, \"I have nothing else to do but to look glum. I\nremember when we were boys--and I a rare idle one, you may be sure--I\nwould always be asking my tutor for a holiday, which I would pass very\nlikely swinging on a gate, or making ducks and drakes over the pond, and\nthose do-nothing days were always the most melancholy. What have I got\nto do now from morning till night?\"\n\n\"Breakfast, walk--dinner, walk--tea, supper, I suppose; and a pipe of\nyour Virginia,\" says Miss Hetty, tossing her head.\n\n\"I tell you what, when I went back with Charley to the Chartreux,\nt'other night, I had a mind to say to the master, 'Teach me, sir. Here's\na boy knows a deal more Latin and Greek, at thirteen, than I do, who\nam ten years older. I have nothing to do from morning till night, and I\nmight as well go to my books again, and see if I can repair my idleness\nas a boy.' Why do you laugh, Hetty?\"\n\n\"I laugh to fancy you at the head of a class, and called up by the\nmaster!\" cries Hetty.\n\n\"I shouldn't be at the head of the class,\" Harry says, humbly. \"George\nmight be at the head of any class, but I am not a bookman, you see; and\nwhen I was young neglected myself, and was very idle. We would not let\nour tutors cane us much at home, but, if we had, it might have done me\ngood.\"\n\nHetty drubbed with her little foot, and looked at the young man sitting\nbefore her--strong, idle, melancholy.\n\n\"Upon my word, it might do you good now!\" she was minded to say. \"What\ndoes Tom say about the caning at school? Does his account of it set you\nlonging for it, pray?\" she asked.\n\n\"His account of his school,\" Harry answered simply, \"makes me see that I\nhave been idle when I ought to have worked, and that I have not a genius\nfor books, and for what am I good? Only to spend my patrimony when I\ncome abroad, or to lounge at coffee-houses or racecourses, or to gallop\nbehind dogs when I am at home. I am good for nothing, I am.\"\n\n\"What, such a great, brave, strong fellow as you good for nothing?\"\ncries Het. \"I would not confess as much to any woman, if I were twice as\ngood for nothing!\"\n\n\"What am I to do? I ask for leave to go into the army, and Madam Esmond\ndoes not answer me. 'Tis the only thing I am fit for. I have no money to\nbuy. Having spent all my own, and so much of my brother's, I cannot and\nwon't ask for more. If my mother would but send me to the army, you know\nI would jump to go.\"\n\n\"Eh! A gentleman of spirit does not want a woman to buckle his sword on\nfor him or to clean his firelock! What was that our papa told us of the\nyoung gentleman at court yesterday?--Sir John Armytage----\"\n\n\"Sir John Armytage? I used to know him when I frequented White's and\nthe club-houses--a fine, noble young gentleman, of a great estate in the\nNorth.\"\n\n\"And engaged to be married to a famous beauty, too--Miss Howe, my Lord\nHowe's sister--but that, I suppose, is not an obstacle to gentlemen?\"\n\n\"An obstacle to what?\" asks the gentleman.\n\n\"An obstacle to glory!\" says Miss Hetty. \"I think no woman of spirit\nwould say 'Stay!' though she adored her lover ever so much, when his\ncountry said 'Go!' Sir John had volunteered for the expedition which is\npreparing, and being at court yesterday his Majesty asked him when he\nwould be ready to go? 'Tomorrow, please your Majesty,' replies Sir John,\nand the king said, that was a soldier's answer. My father himself is\nlonging to go, though he has mamma and all us brats at home. Oh dear,\noh dear! Why wasn't I a man myself? Both my brothers are for the Church;\nbut, as for me, I know I should have made a famous little soldier!\" And,\nso speaking, this young person strode about the room, wearing a most\ncourageous military aspect, and looking as bold as Joan of Arc.\n\nHarry beheld her with a tender admiration. \"I think,\" says he, \"I would\nhardly like to see a musket on that little shoulder, nor a wound on that\npretty face, Hetty.\"\n\n\"Wounds! who fears wounds?\" cries the little maid. \"Muskets? If I could\ncarry one, I would use it. You men fancy that we women are good for\nnothing but to make puddings or stitch samplers. Why wasn't I a man, I\nsay? George was reading to us yesterday out of Tasso--look, here it is,\nand I thought the verses applied to me. See! Here is the book, with the\nmark in it where we left off.\"\n\n\"With the mark in it?\" says Harry dutifully.\n\n\"Yes! it is about a woman who is disappointed because--because her\nbrother does not go to war, and she says of herself--\n\n    \"'Alas! why did not Heaven these members frail\n      With lively force and vigour strengthen, so\n      That I this silken gown...'\"\n\n\"Silken gown?\" says downright Harry, with a look of inquiry.\n\n\"Well, sir, I know 'tis but Calimanco;--but so it is in the book--\n\n       \"'... this silken gown and slender veil\n     Might for a breastplate and a helm forgo;\n     Then should not heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor hail,\n     Nor storms that fall, nor blust'ring winds that blow,\n        Withhold me; but I would, both day and night,\n        In pitched field or private combat, fight--'\n\n\"Fight? Yes, that I would! Why are both my brothers to be parsons, I\nsay? One of my papa's children ought to be a soldier!\"\n\nHarry laughed, a very gentle, kind laugh, as he looked at her. He felt\nthat he would not like much to hit such a tender little warrior as that.\n\n\"Why,\" says he, holding a finger out, \"I think here is a finger nigh as\nbig as your arm. How would you stand up before a great, strong man? I\nshould like to see a man try and injure you, though; I should just like\nto see him! You little, delicate, tender creature! Do you suppose any\nscoundrel would dare to do anything unkind to you?\" And, excited by this\nflight of his imagination, Harry fell to walking up and down the room,\ntoo, chafing at the idea of any rogue of a Frenchman daring to be rude\nto Miss Hester Lambert.\n\nIt was a belief in this silent courage of his which subjugated Hetty,\nand this quality which she supposed him to possess, which caused her\nspecially to admire him. Miss Hetty was no more bold, in reality, than\nMadam Erminia, whose speech she had been reading out of the book, and\nabout whom Mr. Harry Warrington never heard one single word. He may have\nbeen in the room when brother George was reading his poetry out to the\nladies, but his thoughts were busy with his own affairs, and he was\nentirely bewildered with your Clotildas and Erminias, and giants, and\nenchanters, and nonsense. No, Miss Hetty, I say and believe, had nothing\nof the virago in her composition; else, no doubt, she would have taken\na fancy to a soft young fellow with a literary turn, or a genius for\nplaying the flute, according to the laws of contrast and nature provided\nin those cases; and who has not heard how great, strong men have an\naffinity for frail, tender little women; how tender little women are\nattracted by great, honest, strong men; and how your burly heroes and\nchampions of war are constantly henpecked? If Mr. Harry Warrington falls\nin love with a woman who is like Miss Lambert in disposition, and if he\nmarries her--without being conjurers, I think we may all see what the\nend will be.\n\nSo, whilst Hetty was firing her little sarcasms into Harry, he for a\nwhile scarcely felt that they were stinging him, and let her shoot on\nwithout so much as taking the trouble to shake the little arrows out of\nhis hide. Did she mean by her sneers and innuendoes to rouse him into\naction? He was too magnanimous to understand such small hints. Did she\nmean to shame him by saying that she, a weak woman, would don the casque\nand breastplate? The simple fellow either melted at the idea of her\nbeing in danger, or at the notion of her fighting fell a-laughing.\n\n\"Pray what is the use of having a strong hand if you only use it to hold\na skein of silk for my mother?\" cries Miss Hester; \"and what is the good\nof being ever so strong in a drawing-room? Nobody wants you to throw\nanybody out of window, Harry! A strong man, indeed! I suppose there's a\nstronger at Bartholomew Fair. James Wolfe is not a strong man. He seems\nquite weakly and ill. When he was here last he was coughing the whole\ntime, and as pale as if he had seen a ghost.\"\n\n\"I never could understand why a man should be frightened at a ghost,\"\nsays Harry.\n\n\"Pray, have you seen one, sir?\" asks the pert young lady.\n\n\"No. I thought I did once at home--when we were boys; but it was only\nNathan in his night-shirt; but I wasn't frightened when I thought he\nwas a ghost. I believe there's no such things. Our nurses tell a pack of\nlies about 'em,\" says Harry, gravely. \"George was a little frightened;\nbut then he's----\" Here he paused.\n\n\"Then George is what?\" asked Hetty.\n\n\"George is different from me, that's all. Our mother's a bold woman as\never you saw, but she screams at seeing a mouse--always does--can't help\nit. It's her nature. So, you see, perhaps my brother can't bear ghosts.\nI don't mind 'em.\"\n\n\"George always says you would have made a better soldier than he.\"\n\n\"So I think I should, if I had been allowed to try. But he can do a\nthousand things better than me, or anybody else in the world. Why didn't\nhe let me volunteer on Braddock's expedition? I might have got knocked\non the head, and then I should have been pretty much as useful as I\nam now, and then I shouldn't have ruined myself, and brought people to\npoint at me and say that I had disgraced the name of Warrington. Why\nmayn't I go on this expedition, and volunteer like Sir John Armytage?\nOh, Hetty! I'm a miserable fellow--that's what I am,\" and the miserable\nfellow paced the room at double quick time. \"I wish I had never come to\nEurope,\" he groaned out.\n\n\"What a compliment to us! Thank you, Harry!\" But presently, on an\nappealing look from the gentleman, she added, \"Are you--are you thinking\nof going home?\"\n\n\"And have all Virginia jeering at me! There's not a gentleman there\nthat wouldn't, except one, and him my mother doesn't like. I should\nbe ashamed to go home now, I think. You don't know my mother, Hetty. I\nain't afraid of most things; but, somehow, I am of her. What shall I say\nto her, when she says, 'Harry, where's your patrimony?' 'Spent, mother,'\nI shall have to say. 'What have you done with it?' 'Wasted it, mother,\nand went to prison after.' 'Who took you out of prison?' 'Brother\nGeorge, ma'am, he took me out of prison; and now I'm come back,\nhaving done no good for myself, with no profession, no prospects, no\nnothing--only to look after negroes, and be scolded at home; or to go to\nsleep at sermons; or to play at cards, and drink, and fight cocks at the\ntaverns about.' How can I look the gentlemen of the country in the face?\nI'm ashamed to go home in this way, I say. I must and will do something!\nWhat shall I do, Hetty? Ah! what shall I do?\"\n\n\"Do? What did Mr. Wolfe do at Louisbourg? Ill as he was, and in love as\nwe knew him to be, he didn't stop to be nursed by his mother, Harry, or\nto dawdle with his sweetheart. He went on the King's service, and hath\ncome back covered with honour. If there is to be another great campaign\nin America, papa says he is sure of a great command.\"\n\n\"I wish he would take me with him, and that a ball would knock me on the\nhead and finish me,\" groaned Harry. \"You speak to me, Hetty, as though\nit were my fault that I am not in the army, when you know I would\ngive--give, forsooth, what have I to give?--yes! my life to go on\nservice!\"\n\n\"Life indeed!\" says Miss Hetty, with a shrug of her shoulders.\n\n\"You don't seem to think that of much value, Hetty,\" remarked Harry,\nsadly. \"No more it is--to anybody. I'm a poor useless fellow. I'm not\neven free to throw it away as I would like, being under orders here and\nat home.\"\n\n\"Orders indeed! Why under orders?\" cries Miss Hetty. \"Aren't you tall\nenough, and old enough, to act for yourself, and must you have George\nfor a master here, and your mother for a schoolmistress at home? If\nI were a man, I would do something famous before I was two-and-twenty\nyears old, that I would! I would have the world speak of me. I wouldn't\ndawdle at apron-strings. I wouldn't curse my fortune--I'd make it. I vow\nand declare I would!\"\n\nNow, for the first time, Harry began to wince at the words of his young\nlecturer.\n\n\"No negro on our estate is more a slave than I am, Hetty,\" he said,\nturning very red as he addressed her; \"but then, Miss Lambert, we don't\nreproach the poor fellow for not being free. That isn't generous. At\nleast, that isn't the way I understand honour. Perhaps with women it's\ndifferent, or I may be wrong, and have no right to be hurt at a young\ngirl telling me what my faults are. Perhaps my faults are not my\nfaults--only my cursed luck. You have been talking ever so long about\nthis gentleman volunteering, and that man winning glory, and cracking up\ntheir courage as if I had none of my own. I suppose, for the matter of\nthat, I'm as well provided as other gentlemen. I don't brag but I'm not\nafraid of Mr. Wolfe, nor of Sir John Armytage, nor of anybody else that\never I saw. How can I buy a commission when I've spent my last shilling,\nor ask my brother for more who has already halved with me? A gentleman\nof my rank can't go a common soldier--else, by Jupiter, I would! And if\na ball finished me, I suppose Miss Hetty Lambert wouldn't be very sorry.\nIt isn't kind, Hetty--I didn't think it of you.\"\n\n\"What is it I have said?\" asks the young lady. \"I have only said Sir\nJohn Armytage has volunteered, and Mr. Wolfe has covered himself with\nhonour, and you begin to scold me! How can I help it if Mr. Wolfe is\nbrave and famous? Is that any reason you should be angry, pray?\"\n\n\"I didn't say angry,\" said Harry, gravely. \"I said I was hurt.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed! I thought such a little creature as I am couldn't hurt\nanybody! I'm sure 'tis mighty complimentary to me to say that a young\nlady whose arm is no bigger than your little finger can hurt such a\ngreat strong man as you!\"\n\n\"I scarce thought you would try, Hetty,\" the young man said. You see,\nI'm not used to this kind of welcome in this house.\"\n\n\"What is it, my poor boy?\" asks kind Mrs. Lambert, looking in at\nthe door at this juncture, and finding the youth with a very woeworn\ncountenance.\n\n\"Oh, we have heard the story before, mamma!\" says Hetty, hurriedly.\n\"Harry is making his old complaint of having nothing to do. And he is\nquite unhappy; and he is telling us so over and over again, that's all.\"\n\n\"So are you hungry over and over again, my dear! Is that a reason why\nyour papa and I should leave off giving you dinner?\" cries mamma, with\nsome emotion. \"Will you stay and have ours, Harry? 'Tis just three\no'clock!\" Harry agreed to stay, after a few faint negations. \"My husband\ndines abroad. We are but three women, so you will have a dull dinner,\"\nremarks Mrs. Lambert.\n\n\"We shall have a gentleman to enliven us, mamma, I dare say!\" says Madam\nPert, and then looked in mamma's face with that admirable gaze of\nblank innocence which Madam Pert knows how to assume when she has been\nspecially and successfully wicked.\n\nWhen the dinner appeared. Miss Hetty came downstairs, and was\nexceedingly chatty, lively, and entertaining. Theo did not know that any\nlittle difference had occurred (such, alas, my Christian friends,\nwill happen in the most charming families), did not know, I say, that\nanything had happened until Hetty's uncommon sprightliness and\ngaiety roused her suspicions. Hetty would start a dozen subjects of\nconversation--the King of Prussia, and the news from America; the last\nmasquerade, and the highwayman shot near Barnet; and when her sister,\nadmiring this volubility, inquired the reason of it, with her eyes,--\n\n\"Oh, my dear, you need not nod and wink at me!\" cries Hetty. \"Mamma\nasked Harry on purpose to enliven us, and I am talking until he begins,\njust like the fiddles at the playhouse, you know, Theo! First the\nfiddles. Then the play. Pray begin, Harry!\"\n\n\"Hester!\" cries mamma.\n\n\"I merely asked Harry to entertain us. You said yourself, mother, that\nwe were only three women, and the dinner would be dull for a gentleman;\nunless, indeed, he chose to be very lively.\"\n\n\"I'm not that on most days--and, Heaven knows, on this day less than\nmost,\" says poor Harry.\n\n\"Why on this day less than another? Tuesday is as good a day to be\nlively as Wednesday. The only day when we mustn't be lively is Sunday.\nWell, you know it is, ma'am! We mustn't sing, nor dance, nor do anything\non Sunday.\"\n\nAnd in this naughty way the young woman went on for the rest of the\nevening, and was complimented by her mother and sister when poor Harry\ntook his leave. He was not ready of wit, and could not fling back the\ntaunts which Hetty cast against him. Nay, had he been able to retort, he\nwould have been silent. He was too generous to engage in that small war,\nand chose to take all Hester's sarcasms without an attempt to parry\nor evade them. Very likely the young lady watched and admired that\nmagnanimity, while she tried it so cruelly. And after one of her fits of\nill-behaviour, her parents and friends had not the least need to scold\nher, as she candidly told them, because she suffered a great deal more\nthan they would ever have had her, and her conscience punished her a\ngreat deal more severely than her kind elders would have thought of\ndoing. I suppose she lies awake all that night, and tosses and tumbles\nin her bed. I suppose she wets her pillow with tears, and should not\nmind about her sobbing: unless it kept her sister awake; unless she was\nunwell the next day, and the doctor had to be fetched; unless the whole\nfamily is to be put to discomfort; mother to choke over her dinner in\nflurry and indignation; father to eat his roast-beef in silence and with\nbitter sauce; everybody to look at the door each time it opens, with a\nvague hope that Harry is coming in. If Harry does not come, why at least\ndoes not George come? thinks Miss Theo.\n\nSome time in the course of the evening comes a billet from George\nWarrington, with a large nosegay of lilacs, per Mr. Gumbo. \"'I send my\nbest duty and regards to Mrs. Lambert and the ladies,'\" George says,\n\"'and humbly beg to present to Miss Theo this nosegay of lilacs, which\nshe says she loves in the early spring. You must not thank me for them,\nplease, but the gardener of Bedford House, with whom I have made great\nfriends by presenting him with some dried specimens of a Virginian plant\nwhich some ladies don't think as fragrant as lilacs.\n\n\"'I have been in the garden almost all the day. It is alive with\nsunshine and spring; and I have been composing two scenes of you know\nwhat, and polishing the verses which the Page sings in the fourth act,\nunder Sybilla's window, which she cannot hear, poor thing, because she\nhas just had her head off.'\"\n\n\"Provoking! I wish he would not always sneer and laugh! The verses are\nbeautiful,\" says Theo.\n\n\"You really think so, my dear? How very odd!\" remarks papa.\n\nLittle Het looks up from her dismal corner with a faint smile of humour.\nTheo's secret is a secret for nobody in the house, it seems. Can any\nyoung people guess what it is? Our young lady continues to read:\n\n\"'Spencer has asked the famous Mr. Johnson to breakfast to-morrow,\nwho condescends to hear the play, and who won't, I hope, be too angry\nbecause my heroine undergoes the fate of his in Irene. I have heard he\ncame up to London himself as a young man with only his tragedy in his\nwallet. Shall I ever be able to get mine played? Can you fancy the\ncatcall music beginning, and the pit hissing at that perilous part of\nthe fourth act, where my executioner comes out from the closet with his\ngreat sword, at the awful moment when he is called upon to amputate?\nThey say Mr. Fielding, when the pit hissed at a part of one of his\npieces, about which Mr. Garrick had warned him, said, 'Hang them, they\nhave found it out, have they?' and finished his punch in tranquillity.\nI suppose his wife was not in the boxes. There are some women to whom I\nwould be very unwilling to give pain, and there are some to whom I would\ngive the best I have.'\"\n\n\"Whom can he mean? The letter is to you, my dear. I protest he is making\nlove to your mother before my face!\" cries papa to Hetty, who only gives\na little sigh, puts her hand in her father's hand, and then withdraws\nit.\n\n\"'To whom I would give the best I have. To-day it is only a bunch of\nlilacs. To-morrow it may be what?--a branch of rue--a sprig of bays,\nperhaps--anything, so it be my best and my all.\n\n\"'I have had a fine long day, and all to myself. What do you think of\nHarry playing truant?'\" (Here we may imagine, what they call in France,\nor what they used to call, when men dared to speak or citizens to hear,\nsensation dans l'auditoire.)\n\n\"'I suppose Carpezan wearied the poor fellow's existence out. Certain it\nis he has been miserable for weeks past; and a change of air and scene\nmay do him good. This morning, quite early, he came to my room, and told\nme he had taken a seat in the Portsmouth machine, and proposed to go to\nthe Isle of Wight, to the army there.'\"\n\nThe army! Hetty looks very pale at this announcement, and her mother\ncontinues:\n\n\"'And a little portion of it, namely, the thirty-second regiment, is\ncommanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Richmond Webb--the nephew of the famous\nold General under whom my grandfather Esmond served in the great wars of\nMarlborough. Mr. Webb met us at our uncle's, accosting us very politely,\nand giving us an invitation to visit him at his regiment. Let my poor\nbrother go and listen to his darling music of fife and drum! He bade me\ntell the ladies that they should hear from him. I kiss their hands, and\ngo to dress for dinner, at the Star and Garter, in Pall Mall. We are to\nhave Mr. Soame Jenyns, Mr. Cambridge, Mr. Walpole, possibly, if he is\nnot too fine to dine in a tavern; a young Irishman, a Mr. Bourke, who\nthey say is a wonder of eloquence and learning--in fine, all the wits of\nMr. Dodsley's shop. Quick, Gumbo, a coach, and my French grey suit! And\nif gentlemen ask me, 'Who gave you that sprig of lilac you wear on your\nheart-side?' I shall call a bumper, and give Lilac for a toast.'\"\n\nI fear there is no more rest for Hetty on this night than on the\nprevious one, when she had behaved so mutinously to poor Harry\nWarrington. Some secret resolution must have inspired that gentleman,\nfor, after leaving Mr. Lambert's table, he paced the streets for\na while, and appeared at a late hour in the evening at Madame de\nBernstein's house in Clarges Street. Her ladyship's health had been\nsomewhat ailing of late, so that even her favourite routs were denied\nher, and she was sitting over a quiet game of ecarte, with a divine of\nwhom our last news were from a lock-up house hard by that in which Harry\nWarrington had been himself confined. George, at Harry's request, had\npaid the little debt under which Mr. Sampson had suffered temporarily.\nHe had been at his living for a year. He may have paid and contracted\never so many debts, have been in and out of jail many times since we saw\nhim. For some time past he had been back in London stout and hearty\nas usual, and ready for any invitation to cards or claret. Madame de\nBernstein did not care to have her game interrupted by her nephew, whose\nconversation had little interest now for the fickle old woman. Next to\nthe very young, I suppose the very old are the most selfish. Alas, the\nheart hardens as the blood ceases to run. The cold snow strikes down\nfrom the head, and checks the glow of feeling. Who wants to survive\ninto old age after abdicating all his faculties one by one, and be sans\nteeth, sans eyes, sans memory, sans hope, sans sympathy? How fared it\nwith those patriarchs of old who lived for their nine centuries, and\nwhen were life's conditions so changed that, after threescore years and\nten, it became but a vexation and a burden?\n\nGetting no reply but Yes and No to his brief speeches, poor Harry sat a\nwhile on a couch opposite his aunt, who shrugged her shoulders, had her\nback to her nephew, and continued her game with the chaplain. Sampson\nsat opposite Mr. Warrington, and could see that something disturbed him.\nHis face was very pale, and his countenance disturbed and full of gloom.\n\"Something has happened to him, ma'am,\" he whispered to the Baroness.\n\n\"Bah!\" She shrugged her shoulders again, and continued to deal her\ncards. \"What is the matter with you, sir,\" she at last said, at a pause\nin the game, \"that you have such a dismal countenance? Chaplain, that\nlast game makes us even, I think!\"\n\nHarry got up from his place. \"I am going on a journey: I am come to bid\nyou good-bye, aunt,\" he said, in a very tragical voice.\n\n\"On a journey! Are you going home to America? I mark the king, Chaplain,\nand play him.\"\n\nNo, Harry said: he was not going to America yet going to the Isle of\nWight for the present.\n\n\"Indeed!--a lovely spot!\" says the Baroness. \"Bon jour, mon ami, et bon\nvoyage!\" And she kissed a hand to her nephew.\n\n\"I mayn't come back for some time, aunt,\" he groaned out.\n\n\"Indeed! We shall be inconsolable without you! Unless you have a spade,\nMr. Sampson, the game is mine. Good-bye, my child! No more about your\njourney at present: tell us about it when you come back!\" And she gaily\nbade him farewell. He looked for a moment piteously at her, and was\ngone.\n\n\"Something grave has happened, madam,\" says the chaplain.\n\n\"Oh! The boy is always getting into scrapes! I suppose he has been\nfalling in love with one of those country girls--what are their names,\nLamberts?--with whom he is ever dawdling about. He has been doing no\ngood here for some time. I am disappointed in him, really quite grieved\nabout him--I will take two cards, if you please--again?--quite grieved.\nWhat do you think they say of his cousin--the Miss Warrington who made\neyes at him when she thought he was a prize--they say the King has\nremarked her, and the Yarmouth is creving with rage. He, be!--those\nmethodistical Warringtons! They are not a bit less worldly than\ntheir neighbours; and, old as he is, if the Grand Seignior throws his\npocket-handkerchief, they will jump to catch it!\"\n\n\"Ah, madam; how your ladyship knows the world!\" sighs the chaplain. \"I\npropose, if you please!\"\n\n\"I have lived long enough in it, Mr. Sampson, to know something of\nit. 'Tis sadly selfish, my dear sir, sadly selfish; and everybody is\nstruggling to pass his neighbour! No, I can't give you any more cards.\nYou haven't the king? I play queen, knave, and a ten,--a sadly selfish\nworld, indeed. And here comes my chocolate!\"\n\nThe more immediate interest of the cards entirely absorbs the old woman.\nThe door shuts out her nephew and his cares. Under his hat, he bears\nthem into the street, and paces the dark town for a while.\n\n\"Good God!\" he thinks, \"what a miserable fellow I am, and what a\nspendthrift of my life I have been! I sit silent with George and his\nfriends. I am not clever and witty as he is. I am only a burthen to\nhim; and, if I would help him ever so much, don't know how. My dear Aunt\nLambert's kindness never tires, but I begin to be ashamed of trying it.\nWhy, even Hetty can't help turning on me; and when she tells me I am\nidle and should be doing something, ought I to be angry? The rest have\nleft me. There's my cousins and uncle and my lady my aunt, they have\nshown me the cold shoulder this long time. They didn't even ask me to\nNorfolk when they went down to the country, and offer me so much as\na day's partridge-shooting. I can't go to Castlewood--after what has\nhappened; I should break that scoundrel William's bones; and, faith, am\nwell out of the place altogether.\"\n\nHe laughs a fierce laugh as he recalls his adventures since he has been\nin Europe. Money, friends, pleasure, all have passed away, and he feels\nthe past like a dream. He strolls into White's Chocolate-House, where\nthe waiters have scarce seen him for a year. The parliament is up.\nGentlemen are away; there is not even any play going on:--not that he\nwould join it, if there were.\n\nHe has but a few pieces in his pocket; George's drawer is open, and he\nmay take what money he likes thence; but very, very sparingly will he\navail himself of his brother's repeated invitation. He sits and drinks\nhis glass in moody silence. Two or three officers of the Guards enter\nfrom St. James's. He knew them in former days, and the young men, who\nhave been already dining and drinking on guard, insist on more drink at\nthe club. The other battalion of their regiment is at Winchester: it is\ngoing on this great expedition, no one knows whither, which everybody\nis talking about. Cursed fate that they do not belong to the other\nbattalion; and must stay and do duty in London and at Kensington! There\nis Webb, who was of their regiment: he did well to exchange his company\nin the Coldstreams for the lieutenant-colonelcy of the thirty-second.\nHe will be of the expedition. Why, everybody is going; and the young\ngentlemen mention a score of names of men of the first birth and fashion\nwho have volunteered. \"It ain't Hanoverians this time, commanded by the\nbig Prince,\" says one young gentleman (whose relatives may have been\nTories forty years ago)--\"it's Englishmen, with the Guards at the head\nof 'em, and a Marlborough for a leader! Will the Frenchmen ever stand\nagainst them? No, by George, they are irresistible.\" And a fresh bowl is\ncalled, and loud toasts are drunk to the success of the expedition.\n\nMr. Warrington, who is a cup too low, the young Guardsmen say, walks\naway when they are not steady enough to be able to follow him, thinks\nover the matter on his way to his lodgings, and lies thinking of it all\nthrough the night.\n\n\"What is it, my boy?\" asks George Warrington of his brother, when the\nlatter enters his chamber very early on a blushing May morning.\n\n\"I want a little money out of the drawer,\" says Harry, looking at his\nbrother. \"I am sick and tired of London.\"\n\n\"Good heavens! Can anybody be tired of London?\" George asks, who has\nreasons for thinking it the most delightful place in the world.\n\n\"I am for one. I am sick and ill,\" says Harry.\n\n\"You and Hetty have been quarrelling?\"\n\n\"She don't care a penny-piece about me, nor I for her neither,\" says\nHarry, nodding his head. \"But I am ill, and a little country air will\ndo me good,\" and he mentions how he thinks of going to visit Mr. Webb in\nthe Isle of Wight, and how a Portsmouth coach starts from Holborn.\n\n\"There's the till, Harry,\" says George, pointing from his bed. \"Put your\nhand in, and take what you will. What a lovely morning, and how fresh\nthe Bedford House garden looks!\"\n\n\"God bless you, brother!\" Harry says.\n\n\"Have a good time, Harry!\" and down goes George's head on the pillow\nagain, and he takes his pencil and notebook from under his bolster,\nand falls to polishing his verses, as Harry, with his cloak over his\nshoulder and a little valise in his hand, walks to the inn in Holborn\nwhence the Portsmouth machine starts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII. Melpomene\n\n\nGeorge Warrington by no means allowed his legal studies to obstruct\nhis comfort and pleasures, or interfere with his precious health. Madam\nEsmond had pointed out to him in her letters that though he wore\na student's gown, and sate down with a crowd of nameless people to\nhall-commons, he had himself a name, and a very ancient one, to support,\nand could take rank with the first persons at home or in his own\ncountry; and desired that he would study as a gentleman, not a mere\nprofessional drudge. With this injunction the young man complied\nobediently enough: so that he may be said not to have belonged to the\nrank and file of the law, but may be considered to have been a volunteer\nin her service, like some young gentlemen of whom we have just heard.\nThough not so exacting as she since has become--though she allowed her\ndisciples much more leisure, much more pleasure, much more punch, much\nmore frequenting of coffee-houses and holiday-making, than she admits\nnowadays, when she scarce gives her votaries time for amusement,\nrecreation, instruction, sleep, or dinner--the law a hundred years ago\nwas still a jealous mistress, and demanded a pretty exclusive attention.\nMurray, we are told, might have been an Ovid, but he preferred to be\nLord Chief Justice, and to wear ermine instead of bays. Perhaps Mr.\nWarrington might have risen to a peerage and the woolsack, had he\nstudied very long and assiduously,--had he been a dexterous courtier,\nand a favourite of attorneys: had he been other than he was, in a word.\nHe behaved to Themis with a very decent respect and attention; but he\nloved letters more than law always; and the black-letter of Chaucer was\ninfinitely more agreeable to him than the Gothic pages of Hale and Coke.\n\nLetters were loved indeed in those quaint times, and authors were\nactually authorities. Gentlemen appealed to Virgil or Lucan in the\nCourts or the House of Commons. What said Statius, Juvenal--let alone\nTully or Tacitus--on such and such a point? Their reign is over now, the\ngood old Heathens: the worship of Jupiter and Juno is not more out\nof mode than the cultivation of Pagan poetry or ethics. The age of\neconomists and calculators has succeeded, and Tooke's Pantheon is\ndeserted and ridiculous. Now and then, perhaps, a Stanley kills a kid,\na Gladstone bangs up a wreath, a Lytton burns incense, in honour of\nthe Olympians. But what do they care at Lambeth, Birmingham, the Tower\nHamlets, for the ancient rites, divinities, worship? Who the plague are\nthe Muses, and what is the use of all that Greek and Latin rubbish? What\nis Elicon, and who cares? Who was Thalia, pray, and what is the length\nof her i? Is Melpomene's name in three syllables or four? And do you\nknow from whose design I stole that figure of Tragedy which adorns the\ninitial G of this chapter?\n\nNow, it has been said how Mr. George in his youth, and in the long\nleisure which he enjoyed at home, and during his imprisonment in the\nFrench fort on the banks of Monongahela, had whiled away his idleness by\npaying court to Melpomene; and the result of their union was a tragedy,\nwhich has been omitted in Bell's Theatre, though I dare say it is no\nworse than some of the pieces printed there. Most young men pay their\nrespects to the Tragic Muse first, as they fall in love with women who\nare a great deal older than themselves. Let the candid reader own, if\never he had a literary turn, that his ambition was of the very\nhighest, and that however, in his riper age, he might come down in his\npretensions, and think that to translate an ode of Horace, or to turn a\nsong of Waller or Prior into decent alcaics or sapphics, was about the\nutmost of his capability, tragedy and epic only did his green unknowing\nyouth engage, and no prize but the highest was fit for him.\n\nGeorge Warrington, then, on coming to London, attended the theatrical\nperformances at both houses, frequented the theatrical coffee-houses,\nand heard the opinions of the critics, and might be seen at the Bedford\nbetween the plays, or supping at the Cecil along with the wits and\nactors when the performances were over. Here he gradually became\nacquainted with the players and such of the writers and poets as were\nknown to the public. The tough old Macklin, the frolicsome Foote,\nthe vivacious Hippisley, the sprightly Mr. Garrick himself, might\noccasionally be seen at these houses of entertainment; and our\ngentleman, by his wit and modesty, as well, perhaps, as for the high\ncharacter for wealth which he possessed, came to be very much liked in\nthe coffee-house circles, and found that the actors would drink a\nbowl of punch with him, and the critics sup at his expense with great\naffability. To be on terms of intimacy with an author or an actor has\nbeen an object of delight to many a young man; actually to hob and nob\nwith Bobadil or Henry the Fifth or Alexander the Great, to accept a\npinch out of Aristarchus's own box, to put Juliet into her coach, or\nhand Monimia to her chair, are privileges which would delight most young\nmen of a poetic turn; and no wonder George Warrington loved the theatre.\nThen he had the satisfaction of thinking that his mother only half\napproved of plays and playhouses, and of feasting on fruit forbidden at\nhome. He gave more than one elegant entertainment to the players, and it\nwas even said that one or two distinguished geniuses had condescended to\nborrow money of him.\n\nAnd as he polished and added new beauties to his masterpiece, we may be\nsure that he took advice of certain friends of his, and that they gave\nhim applause and counsel. Mr. Spencer, his new acquaintance, of the\nTemple, gave a breakfast at his chambers in Fig Tree Court, when Mr.\nWarrington read part of his play, and the gentlemen present pronounced\nthat it had uncommon merit. Even the learned Mr. Johnson, who was\ninvited, was good enough to say that the piece had showed talent. It\nwarred against the unities, to be sure; but these had been violated\nby other authors, and Mr. Warrington might sacrifice them as well as\nanother. There was in Mr. W.'s tragedy a something which reminded him\nboth of Coriolanus and Othello. \"And two very good things too, sir!\" the\nauthor pleaded. \"Well, well, there was no doubt on that point; and 'tis\ncertain your catastrophe is terrible, just, and being in part true, is\nnot the less awful,\" remarks Mr. Spencer.\n\nNow the plot of Mr. Warrington's tragedy was quite full indeed of battle\nand murder. A favourite book of his grandfather had been the life of old\nGeorge Frundsberg of Mindelheim, a colonel of foot-folk in the Imperial\nservice at Pavia fight, and during the wars of the Constable Bourbon:\nand one of Frundsberg's military companions was a certain Carpzow, or\nCarpezan, whom our friend selected as his tragedy hero. His first\nact, as it at present stands in Sir George Warrington's manuscript,\nis supposed to take place before a convent on the Rhine, which the\nLutherans, under Carpezan, are besieging. A godless gang these Lutherans\nare. They have pulled the beards of Roman friars, and torn the veils of\nhundreds of religious women. A score of these are trembling within the\nwalls of the convent yonder, of which the garrison, unless the expected\nsuccours arrive before midday, has promised to surrender. Meanwhile\nthere is armistice, and the sentries within look on with hungry eyes, as\nthe soldiers and camp people gamble on the grass before the gate. Twelve\no'clock, ding, ding, dong! it sounds upon the convent bell. No succours\nhave arrived. Open gates, warder! and give admission to the famous\nProtestant hero, the terror of Turks on the Danube, and Papists in the\nLombard plains--Colonel Carpezan! See, here he comes, clad in complete\nsteel, his hammer of battle over his shoulder, with which he has\nbattered so many infidel sconces, his flags displayed, his trumpets\nblowing. \"No rudeness, my men,\" says Carpezan; \"the wine is yours,\nand the convent larder and cellar are good: the church plate shall\nbe melted: any of the garrison who choose to take service with Gaspar\nCarpezan are welcome, and shall have good pay. No insult to the\nreligious ladies! I have promised them a safe-conduct, and he who lays a\nfinger on them, hangs! Mind that Provost Marshal!\" The Provost Marshal,\na huge fellow in a red doublet, nods his head.\n\n\"We shall see more of that Provost Marshal, or executioner,\" Mr. Spencer\nexplains to his guests.\n\n\"A very agreeable acquaintance, I am sure,--shall be delighted to meet\nthe gentleman again!\" says Mr. Johnson, wagging his head over his tea.\n\"This scene of the mercenaries, the camp followers, and their wild\nsports, is novel and stirring, Mr. Warrington, and I make you my\ncompliments on it. The Colonel has gone into the convent, I think? Now\nlet us hear what he is going to do there.\"\n\nThe Abbess, and one or two of her oldest ladies, make their appearance\nbefore the conqueror. Conqueror as he is, they heard him in their\nsacred halls. They have heard of his violent behaviour in conventual\nestablishments before. That hammer, which he always carries in action,\nhas smashed many sacred images in religious houses. Pounds and pounds of\nconvent plate is he known to have melted, the sacrilegious plunderer! No\nwonder the Abbess-Princess of St. Mary's, a lady of violent prejudices,\nfree language, and noble birth, has a dislike to the lowborn heretic who\nlords it in her convent, and tells Carpezan a bit of her mind, as the\nphrase is. This scene, in which the lady gets somewhat better of the\nColonel, was liked not a little by Mr. Warrington's audience at the\nTemple. Terrible as he might be in war, Carpezan was shaken at first by\nthe Abbess's brisk opening charge of words; and, conqueror as he was,\nseemed at first to be conquered by his actual prisoner. But such an old\nsoldier was not to be beaten ultimately by any woman. \"Pray, madam,\"\nsays he, \"how many ladies are there in your convent, for whom my people\nshall provide conveyance?\" The Abbess, with a look of much trouble and\nanger, says that, \"besides herself, the noble sisters of Saint Mary's\nHouse are twenty--twenty-three.\" She was going to say twenty-four, and\nnow says twenty-three? \"Ha! why this hesitation?\" asks Captain Ulric,\none of Carpezan's gayest officers.\n\nThe dark chief pulls a letter from his pocket. \"I require from you,\nmadam,\" he says sternly to the Lady Abbess, \"the body of the noble lady\nSybilla of Hoya. Her brother was my favourite captain, slain by my side,\nin the Milanese. By his death, she becomes heiress of his lands. 'Tis\nsaid a greedy uncle brought her hither; and fast immured the lady\nagainst her will. The damsel shall herself pronounce her fate--to stay a\ncloistered sister of Saint Mary's, or to return to home and liberty, as\nLady Sybil, Baroness of ------.\" Ha! The Abbess was greatly disturbed\nby this question. She says, haughtily: \"There is no Lady Sybil in this\nhouse: of which every inmate is under your protection, and sworn to go\nfree. The Sister Agnes was a nun professed, and what was her land and\nwealth revert to this Order.\"\n\n\"Give me straightway the body of the Lady Sybil of Hoya!\" roars\nCarpezan, in great wrath. \"If not, I make a signal to my Reiters, and\ngive you and your convent up to war.\"\n\n\"Faith, if I lead the storm, and have my right, 'tis not my Lady Abbess\nthat I'll choose,\" says Captain Ulric, \"but rather some plump, smiling,\nred-lipped maid like--like----\" Here, as he, the sly fellow, is looking\nunder the veils of the two attendant nuns, the stern Abbess cries,\n\"Silence, fellow, with thy ribald talk! The lady, warrior, whom you ask\nof me is passed away from sin, temptation, vanity, and three days since\nour Sister Agnes--died.\"\n\nAt this announcement Carpezan is immensely agitated. The Abbess calls\nupon the chaplain to confirm her statement. Ghastly and pale, the old\nman has to own that three days since the wretched Sister Agnes was\nburied.\n\nThis is too much! In the pocket of his coat of mail Carpezan has a\nletter from Sister Agnes herself, in which she announces that she is\ngoing to be buried indeed, but in an oubliette of the convent, where\nshe may either be kept on water and bread, or die starved outright. He\nseizes the unflinching Abbess by the arm, whilst Captain Ulric lays hold\nof the chaplain by the throat. The Colonel blows a blast upon his horn:\nin rush his furious Lanzknechts from without. Crash, bang! They knock\nthe convent walls about. And in the midst of flames, screams, and\nslaughter, who is presently brought in by Carpezan himself, and fainting\non his shoulder, but Sybilla herself? A little sister nun (that gay one\nwith the red lips) had pointed out to the Colonel and Ulric the way to\nSister Agnes's dungeon, and, indeed, had been the means of making her\nsituation known to the Lutheran chief.\n\n\"The convent is suppressed with a vengeance,\" says Mr. Warrington. \"We\nend our first act with the burning of the place, the roars of triumph\nof the soldiery, and the outcries of the nuns. They had best go change\ntheir dresses immediately, for they will have to be court ladies in the\nnext act--as you will see.\" Here the gentlemen talked the matter over.\nIf the piece were to be done at Drury Lane, Mrs. Pritchard would hardly\nlike to be Lady Abbess, as she doth but appear in the first act. Miss\nPritchard might make a pretty Sybilla, and Miss Gates the attendant\nnun. Mr. Garrick was scarce tall enough for Carpezan--though, when he\nis excited, nobody ever thinks of him but as big as a grenadier. Mr.\nJohnson owns Woodward will be a good Ulric, as he plays the Mercutio\nparts very gaily; and so, by one and t'other, the audience fancies the\nplay already on the boards, and casts the characters.\n\nIn act the second, Carpezan has married Sybilla. He has enriched himself\nin the wars, has been ennobled by the Emperor, and lives at his castle\non the Danube in state and splendour.\n\nBut, truth to say, though married, rich, and ennobled, the Lord Carpezan\nwas not happy. It may be that in his wild life, as leader of condottieri\non both sides, he had committed crimes which agitated his mind with\nremorse. It may be that his rough soldier-manners consorted ill with his\nimperious highborn bride. She led him such a life--I am narrating as\nit were the Warrington manuscript, which is too long to print in\nentire--taunting him with his low birth, his vulgar companions, whom the\nold soldier loved to see about him, and so forth--that there were\ntimes when he rather wished that he had never rescued this lovely,\nquarrelsome, wayward vixen from the oubliette out of which he fished\nher. After the bustle of the first act this is a quiet one, and passed\nchiefly in quarrelling between the Baron and Baroness Carpezan, until\nhorns blow, and it is announced that the young King of Bohemia and\nHungary is coming bunting that way.\n\nAct III. is passed at Prague, whither his Majesty has invited Lord\nCarpezan and his wife, with noble offers of preferment to the latter.\nFrom Baron he shall be promoted to be Count, from Colonel he shall be\nGeneral-in-Chief. His wife is the most brilliant and fascinating of all\nthe ladies of the court--and as for Carpzoff----\n\n\"Oh, stay--I have it--I know your story, sir, now,\" says Mr. Johnson.\n\"'Tis in 'Meteranus,' in the Theatrum Universum. I read it in Oxford as\na boy--Carpezanus or Carpzoff----\"\n\n\"That is the fourth act,\" says Mr. Warrington. In the fourth act the\nyoung King's attentions towards Sybilla grow more and more marked; but\nher husband, battling against his jealousy, long refuses to yield to it,\nuntil his wife's criminality is put beyond a doubt--and here he read\nthe act, which closes with the terrible tragedy which actually happened.\nBeing convinced of his wife's guilt, Carpezan caused the executioner who\nfollowed his regiment to slay her in her own palace. And the curtain of\nthe act falls just after the dreadful deed is done, in a side-chamber\nilluminated by the moon shining through a great oriel window, under\nwhich the King comes with his lute, and plays the song which was to be\nthe signal between him and his guilty victim.\n\nThis song (writ in the ancient style, and repeated in the piece, being\nsung in the third act previously at a great festival given by the King\nand Queen) was pronounced by Mr. Johnson to be a happy imitation of Mr.\nWaller's manner, and its gay repetition at the moment of guilt, murder,\nand horror, very much deepened the tragic gloom of the scene.\n\n\"But whatever came afterwards?\" he asked. \"I remember in the Theatrum,\nCarpezan is said to have been taken into favour again by Count\nMansfield, and doubtless to have murdered other folks on the reformed\nside.\"\n\nHere our poet has departed from historic truth. In the fifth act\nof Carpezan King Louis of Hungary and Bohemia (sufficiently\nterror-stricken, no doubt, by the sanguinary termination of his\nintrigue) has received word that the Emperor Solyman is invading his\nHungarian dominions. Enter two noblemen who relate how, in the\ncouncil which the King held upon the news, the injured Carpezan rushed\ninfuriated into the royal presence, broke his sword, and flung it at the\nKing's feet--along with a glove which he dared him to wear, and which he\nswore he would one day claim. After that wild challenge the rebel fled\nfrom Prague, and had not since been heard of; but it was reported that\nhe had joined the Turkish invader, assumed the turban, and was now\nin the camp of the Sultan, whose white tents glance across the river\nyonder, and against whom the King was now on his march. Then the King\ncomes to his tent with his generals, prepares his order of battle; and\ndismisses them to their posts, keeping by his side an aged and faithful\nknight, his master of the horse, to whom he expresses his repentance\nfor his past crimes, his esteem for his good and injured Queen, and his\ndetermination to meet the day's battle like a man.\n\n\"What is this field called?\"\n\n\"Mohacz, my liege!\" says the old warrior, adding the remark that \"Ere\nset of sun, Mohacz will see a battle bravely won.\"\n\nTrumpets and alarms now sound; they are the cymbals and barbaric music\nof the Janissaries: we are in the Turkish camp, and yonder, surrounded\nby turbaned chiefs, walks the Sultan Solyman's friend, the conqueror of\nRhodes, the redoubted Grand Vizier.\n\nWho is that warrior in an Eastern habit, but with a glove in his cap?\n'Tis Carpezan. Even Solyman knew his courage and ferocity as a soldier.\nHe knows; the ordnance of the Hungarian host; in what arms King Louis\nis weakest: how his cavalry, of which the shock is tremendous, should\nbe received, and inveigled into yonder morass, where certain death may\nawait them--he prays for a command in the front, and as near as possible\nto the place where the traitor King Louis will engage. \"'Tis well,\" says\nthe grim Vizier, \"our invincible Emperor surveys the battle from yonder\ntower. At the end of the day, he will know how to reward your valour.\"\nThe signal-guns fire--the trumpets blow--the Turkish captains retire,\nvowing death to the infidel, and eternal fidelity to the Sultan.\n\nAnd now the battle begins in earnest, and with those various incidents\nwhich the lover of the theatre knoweth. Christian knights and Turkish\nwarriors clash and skirmish over the stage. Continued alarms are\nsounded. Troops on both sides advance and retreat. Carpezan, with his\nglove in his cap, and his dreadful hammer smashing all before him, rages\nabout the field, calling for King Louis. The renegade is about to slay\na warrior who faces him, but recognising young Ulric, his ex-captain, he\ndrops the uplifted hammer, and bids him fly, and think of Carpezan. He\nis softened at seeing his young friend, and thinking of former times\nwhen they fought and conquered together in the cause of Protestantism.\nUlric bids him to return, but of course that is now out of the question.\nThey fight. Ulric will have it, and down he goes under the hammer. The\nrenegade melts in sight of his wounded comrade, when who appears but\nKing Louis, his plumes torn, his sword hacked, his shield dented with\na thousand blows which he has received and delivered during the day's\nbattle. Ha! who is this? The guilty monarch would turn away (perhaps\nMacbeth may have done so before), but Carpezan is on him. All his\nsoftness is gone. He rages like a fury. \"An equal fight!\" he roars. \"A\ntraitor against a traitor! Stand, King Louis! False King, false knight,\nfalse friend--by this glove in my helmet, I challenge you!\" And he tears\nthe guilty token out of his cap, and flings it at the King.\n\nOf course they set to, and the monarch falls under the terrible arm of\nthe man whom he has injured. He dies, uttering a few incoherent words\nof repentance, and Carpezan, leaning upon his murderous mace, utters a\nheartbroken soliloquy over the royal corpse. The Turkish warriors have\ngathered meanwhile: the dreadful day is their own. Yonder stands the\ndark Vizier, surrounded by his Janissaries, whose bows and swords are\ntired of drinking death. He surveys the renegade standing over the\ncorpse of the King.\n\n\"Christian renegade!\" he says, \"Allah has given us a great victory. The\narms of the Sublime Emperor are everywhere triumphant. The Christian\nKing is slain by you.\"\n\n\"Peace to his soul! He died like a good knight,\" gasps Ulric, himself\ndying on the field.\n\n\"In this day's battle,\" the grim Vizier continues, \"no man hath\ncomported himself more bravely than you. You are made Bassa of\nTransylvania! Advance bowmen--Fire!\"\n\nAn arrow quivers in the breast of Carpezan.\n\n\"Bassa of Transylvania, you were a traitor to your King, who lies\nmurdered by your hand!\" continues grim Vizier. \"You contributed more\nthan any soldier to this day's great victory. 'Tis thus my sublime\nEmperor meetly rewards you. Sound trumpets! We march for Vienna\nto-night!\"\n\nAnd the curtain drops as Carpezan, crawling towards his dying comrade,\nkisses his hands, and gasps--\n\n\"Forgive me, Ulric!\"\n\n\nWhen Mr. Warrington has finished reading his tragedy, he turns round to\nMr. Johnson, modestly, and asks,--\n\n\"What say you, sir? Is there any chance for me?\"\n\nBut the opinion of this most eminent critic is scarce to be given, for\nMr. Johnson had been asleep for some time, and frankly owned that he had\nlost the latter part of the play.\n\nThe little auditory begins to hum and stir as the noise of the speaker\nceased. George may have been very nervous when he first commenced to\nread; but everybody allows that he read the last two acts uncommonly\nwell, and makes him a compliment upon his matter and manner. Perhaps\neverybody is in good-humour because the piece has come to an end. Mr.\nSpencer's servant hands about refreshing drinks. The Templars speak out\ntheir various opinions whilst they sip the negus. They are a choice band\nof critics, familiar with the pit of the theatre, and they treat Mr.\nWarrington's play with the gravity which such a subject demands.\n\nMr. Fountain suggests that the Vizier should not say \"Fire!\" when he\nbids the archers kill Carpezan, as you certainly don't fire with a bow\nand arrows. A note is taken of the objection.\n\nMr. Figtree, who is of a sentimental turn, regrets that Ulric could not\nbe saved, and married to the comic heroine.\n\n\"Nay, sir, there was an utter annihilation of the Hungarian army at\nMohacz,\" says Mr. Johnson, \"and Ulric must take his knock on the head\nwith the rest. He could only be saved by flight, and you wouldn't have\na hero run away! Pronounce sentence of death against Captain Ulric, but\nkill him with honours of war.\"\n\nMessrs. Essex and Tanfield wonder to one another who is this\nqueer-looking pert whom Spencer has invited, and who contradicts\neverybody; and suggest a boat up the river and a little fresh air after\nthe fatigues of the tragedy.\n\nThe general opinion is decidedly favourable to Mr. Warrington's\nperformance; and Mr. Johnson's opinion, on which he sets a special\nvalue, is the most favourable of all. Perhaps Mr. Johnson is not sorry\nto compliment a young gentleman of fashion and figure like Mr. W. \"Up to\nthe death of the heroine,\" he says, \"I am frankly with you, sir. And I\nmay speak, as a playwright who have killed my own heroine, and had my\nshare of the plausus in the atro. To hear your own lines nobly delivered\nto an applauding house, is indeed a noble excitement. I like to see a\nyoung man of good name and lineage who condescends to think that the\nTragic Muse is not below his advances. It was to a sordid roof that\nI invited her, and I asked her to rescue me from poverty and squalor.\nHappy you, sir, who can meet her upon equal terms, and can afford to\nmarry her without a portion!\"\n\n\"I doubt whether the greatest genius is not debased who has to make a\nbargain with Poetry,\" remarks Mr. Spencer.\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" Mr. Johnson answered, \"I doubt if many a great genius would\nwork at all without bribes and necessities; and so a man had better\nmarry a poor Muse for good and all, for better or worse, than dally with\na rich one. I make you my compliment to your play, Mr. Warrington, and\nif you want an introduction to the stage, shall be very happy if I can\ninduce my friend Mr. Garrick to present you.\"\n\n\"Mr. Garrick shall be his sponsor,\" cried the florid Mr. Figtree.\n\"Melpomene shall be his godmother, and he shall have the witches'\ncaldron in Macbeth for a christening font.\"\n\n\"Sir, I neither said font nor godmother!\"--remarks the man of letters.\n\"I would have no play contrary to morals or religion nor, as I conceive,\nis Mr. Warrington's piece otherwise than friendly to them. Vice is\nchastised, as it should be, even in kings, though perhaps we judge of\ntheir temptations too lightly. Revenge is punished--as not to be lightly\nexercised by our limited notion of justice. It may have been Carpezan's\nwife who perverted the King, and not the King who led the woman astray.\nAt any rate, Louis is rightly humiliated for his crime, and the Renegade\nmost justly executed for his. I wish you a good afternoon, gentlemen!\"\nAnd with these remarks, the great author took his leave of the company.\n\nTowards the close of the reading, General Lambert had made his\nappearance at Mr. Spencer's chambers, and had listened to the latter\npart of the tragedy. The performance over, he and George took their way\nto the latter's lodgings in the first place, and subsequently to the\nGeneral's own house, where the young author was expected, in order to\nrecount the reception which his play had met from his Temple critics.\n\nAt Mr. Warrington's apartments in Southampton Row, they found a letter\nawaiting George, which the latter placed in his pocket unread, so that\nhe might proceed immediately with his companion to Soho. We may be sure\nthe ladies there were eager to know about the Carpezan's fate in the\nmorning's small rehearsal.\n\nHetty said George was so shy, that perhaps it would be better for all\nparties if some other person had read the play. Theo, on the contrary,\ncried out:\n\n\"Read it, indeed! Who can read a poem better than the author who feels\nit in his heart? And George had his whole heart in the piece!\"\n\nMr. Lambert very likely thought that somebody else's whole heart was in\nthe piece too, but did not utter this opinion to Miss Theo.\n\n\"I think Harry would look very well in your figure of a Prince,\"\nsays the General. \"That scene where he takes leave of his wife before\ndeparting for the wars reminds me of your brother's manner not a\nlittle.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa! surely Mr. Warrington himself would act the Prince's part\nbest!\" cries Miss Theo.\n\n\"And be deservedly slain in battle at the end?\" asks the father of the\nhouse.\n\n\"I did not say that,--only that Mr. George would make a very good\nPrince, papa!\" cries Miss Theo.\n\n\"In which case he would find a suitable Princess, I have no doubt. What\nnews of your brother Harry?\"\n\nGeorge, who had been thinking about theatrical triumphs; about\nmonumentum aere perennius; about lilacs; about love whispered and\ntenderly accepted, remembers that he has a letter from Harry in his\npocket, and gaily produces it.\n\n\"Let us hear what Mr. Truant says for himself, Aunt Lambert!\" cries\nGeorge, breaking the seal.\n\nWhy is he so disturbed, as he reads the contents of his letter? Why do\nthe women look at him with alarmed eyes? And why, above all, is Hetty so\npale?\n\n\"Here is the letter,\" says George, and begins to read it:\n\n\n\"RYDE, June 1, 1758.\n\n\"I did not tell my dearest George what I hoped and intended, when I left\nhome on Wednesday. 'Twas to see Mr. Webb at Portsmouth or the Isle of\nWight, wherever his Regiment was, and if need was to go down on my\nknees to him to take me as volunteer on the Expedition. I took boat from\nPortsmouth, where I learned that he was with our regiment incampt at\nthe village of Ryde. Was received by him most kindly, and my petition\ngranted out of hand. That is why I say our regiment. We are eight\ngentlemen volunteers with Mr. Webb, all men of birth, and good fortunes\nexcept poor me, who don't deserve one. We are to mess with the officers;\nwe take the right of the collumn, and have always the right to be\nin front, and in an hour we embark on board his Majesty's Ship the\nRochester of 60 guns, while our Commodore's, Mr. Howe's, is the Essex,\n70. His squadron is about 20 ships, and I should think 100 transports at\nleast. Though 'tis a secret expedition, we make no doubt France is our\ndestination--where I hope to see my friends the Monsieurs once more,\nand win my colours, a la point de mon epee, as we used to say in Canada.\nPerhaps my service as interpreter may be useful; I speaking the language\nnot so well as some one I know, but better than most here.\n\n\"I scarce venture to write to our mother to tell her of this step. Will\nyou, who have a coxing tongue will wheadle any one, write to her as soon\nas you have finisht the famous tradgedy? Will you give my affectionate\nrespects to dear General Lambert and ladies? and if any accident should\nhappen, I know you will take care of poor Gumbo as belonging to my\ndearest best George's most affectionate brother, HENRY E. WARRINGTON.\n\n\"P.S.--Love to all at home when you write, including Dempster, Mountain,\nand Fanny M. and all the people, and duty to my honoured mother, wishing\nI had pleased her better. And if I said anything unkind to dear Miss\nHester Lambert, I know she will forgive me, and pray God bless all.--H.\nE. W.\"\n\n\"To G. Esmond Warrington, Esq., at Mr. Scrace's House in Southampton\nRow, Opposite Bedford House Gardens, London.\"\n\n\nHe has not read the last words with a very steady voice. Mr. Lambert\nsits silent, though not a little moved. Theo and her mother look at one\nanother; but Hetty remains with a cold face and a stricken heart. She\nthinks, \"He is gone to danger, perhaps to death, and it was I sent him!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV. In which Harry lives to fight another Day\n\n\nThe trusty Gumbo could not console himself for the departure of his\nbeloved master: at least, to judge from his tears and howls on first\nhearing the news of Mr. Harry's enlistment, you would have thought\nthe negro's heart must break at the separation. No wonder he went for\nsympathy to the maid-servants at Mr. Lambert's lodgings. Wherever that\ndusky youth was, he sought comfort in the society of females. Their fair\nand tender bosoms knew how to feel pity for the poor African, and\nthe darkness of Gumbo's complexion was no more repulsive to them than\nOthello's to Desdemona. I believe Europe has never been so squeamish\nin regard to Africa, as a certain other respected Quarter. Nay, some\nAfricans--witness the Chevalier de St. Georges, for instance--have been\nnotorious favourites with the fair sex.\n\nSo, in his humbler walk, was Mr. Gumbo. The Lambert servants wept freely\nin his company; the maids kindly considered him not only as Mr. Harry's\nman, but their brother. Hetty could not help laughing when she found\nGumbo roaring because his master had gone a volumteer, as he called it,\nand had not taken him. He was ready to save Master Harry's life any day,\nand would have done it and had himself cut in twenty thousand hundred\npieces for Master Harry, that he would! Meanwhile, Nature must be\nsupported, and he condescended to fortify her by large supplies of beer\nand cold meat in the kitchen. That he was greedy, idle, and told lies,\nis certain; but yet Hetty gave him half a crown, and was especially kind\nto him. Her tongue, that was wont to wag so pertly, was so gentle now,\nthat you might fancy it had never made a joke. She moved about the house\nmum and meek. She was humble to mamma; thankful to John and Betty when\nthey waited at dinner; patient to Polly when the latter pulled her hair\nin combing it; long-suffering when Charley from school trod on her\ntoes, or deranged her workbox; silent in papa's company,--oh, such a\ntransmogrified little Hetty! If papa had ordered her to roast the leg of\nmutton, or walk to church arm-in-arm with Gumbo, she would have made a\ncurtsey, and said, \"Yes, if you please, dear papa!\" Leg of mutton! What\nsort of meal were some poor volunteers having, with the cannon-balls\nflying about their heads? Church! When it comes to the prayer in time of\nwar, oh, how her knees smite together as she kneels, and hides her head\nin the pew! She holds down her head when the parson reads out, \"Thou\nshalt do no murder,\" from the communion-rail, and fancies he must be\nlooking at her. How she thinks of all travellers by land or by water!\nHow she sickens as she runs to the paper to read if there is news of the\nExpedition! How she watches papa when he comes home from his Ordnance\nOffice, and looks in his face to see if there is good news or bad! Is\nhe well? Is he made a General yet? Is he wounded and made a prisoner?\nah me! or, perhaps, are both his legs taken off by one shot, like that\npensioner they saw in Chelsea Garden t'other day? She would go on wooden\nlegs all her life, if his can but bring him safe home; at least, she\nought never to get up off her knees until he is returned. \"Haven't you\nheard of people, Theo,\" says she, \"whose hair has grown grey in a single\nnight? I shouldn't wonder if mine did,--shouldn't wonder in the least.\"\nAnd she looks in the glass to ascertain that phenomenon.\n\n\"Hetty dear, you used not to be so nervous when papa was away in\nMinorca,\" remarks Theo.\n\n\"Ah, Theo! one may very well see that George is not with the army, but\nsafe at home,\" rejoins Hetty; whereat the elder sister blushes, and\nlooks very pensive. Au fait, if Mr. George had been in the army, that,\nyou see, would have been another pair of boots. Meanwhile, we don't\nintend to harrow anybody's kind feelings any longer, but may as well\nstate that Harry is, for the present, as safe as any officer of the Life\nGuards at Regent's Park Barracks.\n\nThe first expedition in which our gallant volunteer was engaged may be\ncalled successful, but certainly was not glorious. The British Lion,\nor any other lion, cannot always have a worthy enemy to combat, or a\nbattle-royal to deliver. Suppose he goes forth in quest of a tiger who\nwon't come, and lays his paws on a goose, and gobbles him up? Lions, we\nknow, must live like any other animals. But suppose, advancing into the\nforest in search of the tiger aforesaid, and bellowing his challenge\nof war, he espies not one but six tigers coming towards him? This\nmanifestly is not his game at all. He puts his tail between his royal\nlegs, and retreats into his own snug den as quickly as he may. Were he\nto attempt to go and fight six tigers, you might write that Lion down an\nAss.\n\nNow, Harry Warrington's first feat of war was in this wise. He and about\n13,000 other fighting men embarked in various ships and transports on\nthe 1st of June, from the Isle of Wight, and at daybreak on the 5th the\nfleet stood in to the Bay of Cancale in Brittany. For a while he and the\ngentlemen volunteers had the pleasure of examining the French coast\nfrom their ships, whilst the Commander-in-Chief and the Commodore\nreconnoitred the bay in a cutter. Cattle were seen, and some dragoons,\nwho trotted off into the distance; and a little fort with a couple\nof guns had the audacity to fire at his Grace of Marlborough and the\nCommodore in the cutter. By two o'clock the whole British fleet was at\nanchor, and signal was made for all the grenadier companies of eleven\nregiments to embark on board flat-bottomed boats and assemble round the\nCommodore's ship, the Essex. Meanwhile, Mr. Howe, hoisting his broad\npennant on board the Success frigate, went in as near as possible to\nshore, followed by the other frigates, to protect the landing of\nthe troops; and, now, with Lord George Sackville and General Dury in\ncommand, the gentlemen volunteers, the grenadier companies, and three\nbattalions of guards pulled to shore.\n\nThe gentlemen volunteers could not do any heroic deed upon this\noccasion, because the French, who should have stayed to fight them, ran\naway, and the frigates having silenced the fire of the little fort which\nhad disturbed the reconnaissance of the Commander-in-Chief, the army\npresently assaulted it, taking the whole garrison prisoner, and shooting\nhim in the leg. Indeed, he was but one old gentleman, who gallantly had\nfired his two guns, and who told his conquerors, \"If every Frenchman had\nacted like me, you would not have landed at Cancale at all.\"\n\nThe advanced detachment of invaders took possession of the village of\nCancale, where they lay upon their arms all night; and our volunteer was\njoked by his comrades about his eagerness to go out upon the war-path,\nand bring in two or three scalps of Frenchmen. None such, however,\nfell under his tomahawk; the only person slain on the whole day being a\nFrench gentleman, who was riding with his servant, and was surprised\nby volunteer Lord Downe, marching in the front with a company of\nKingsley's. My Lord Downe offered the gentleman quarter, which he\nfoolishly refused, whereupon he, his servant, and the two horses, were\nstraightway shot.\n\nNext day the whole force was landed, and advanced from Cancale to St.\nMalo. All the villages were emptied through which the troops passed, and\nthe roads were so narrow in many places that the men had to march single\nfile, and might have been shot down from behind the tall leafy hedges\nhad there been any enemy to disturb them.\n\nAt nightfall the army arrived before St. Malo, and were saluted by\na fire of artillery from that town, which did little damage in the\ndarkness. Under cover of this, the British set fire to the ships, wooden\nbuildings, pitch and tar magazines in the harbour, and made a prodigious\nconflagration that lasted the whole night.\n\nThis feat was achieved without any attempt on the part of the French to\nmolest the British force: but, as it was confidently asserted that there\nwas a considerable French force in the town of St. Malo, though they\nwouldn't come out, his Grace the Duke of Marlborough and my Lord George\nSackville determined not to disturb the garrison, marched back to\nCancale again, and--and so got on board their ships.\n\nIf this were not a veracious history, don't you see that it would have\nbeen easy to send our Virginian on a more glorious campaign? Exactly\nfour weeks after his departure from England, Mr. Warrington found\nhimself at Portsmouth again, and addressed a letter to his brother\nGeorge, with which the latter ran off to Dean Street so soon as ever he\nreceived it.\n\n\"Glorious news, ladies!\" cries he, finding the Lambert family all at\nbreakfast. \"Our champion has come back. He has undergone all sorts of\ndangers, but has survived them all. He has seen dragons--upon my word,\nhe says so.\"\n\n\"Dragons! What do you mean, Mr. Warrington?\"\n\n\"But not killed any--he says so, as you shall hear. He writes:\n\n\"'DEAREST BROTHER--I think you will be glad to hear that I am returned,\nwithout any commission as yet; without any wounds or glory; but,--at any\nrate, alive and harty. On board our ship, we were almost as crowded as\npoor Mr. Holwell and his friends in their Black Hole at Calicutta. We\nhad rough weather, and some of the gentlemen volunteers, who prefer\nsmooth water, grumbled not a little. My gentlemen's stomachs are dainty;\nand after Braund's cookery and White's kick-shaws, they don't like plain\nsailor's rum and bisket. But I, who have been at sea before, took my\nrations and can of flip very contentedly: being determined to put a good\nface on everything before our fine English macaronis, and show that a\nVirginia gentleman is as good as the best of 'em. I wish, for the honour\nof old Virginia, that I had more to brag about. But all I can say in\ntruth is, that we have been to France and come back again. Why, I don't\nthink even your tragick pen could make anything of such a campaign as\nours has been. We landed on the 6 at Cancalle Bay, we saw a few dragons\non a hill...'\n\n\"There! Did I not tell you there were dragons?\" asks George, laughing.\n\n\"Mercy! What can he mean by dragons?\" cries Hetty.\n\n\"Immense, long-tailed monsters, with steel scales on their backs, who\nvomit fire, and gobble up a virgin a day. Haven't you read about them in\nThe Seven Champions?\" says papa. \"Seeing St. George's flag, I suppose,\nthey slunk off.\"\n\n\"I have read of 'em,\" says the little boy from Chartreux, solemnly.\n\"They like to eat women. One was going to eat Andromeda, you know, papa;\nand Jason killed another, who was guarding the apple-tree.\"\n\n\"... A few dragons on a hill,\" George resumes, \"who rode away from us\nwithout engaging. We slept under canvass. We marched to St. Malo, and\nburned ever so many privateers there. And we went on board shipp again,\nwithout ever crossing swords with an enemy or meeting any except a\nfew poor devils whom the troops plundered. Better luck next time! This\nhasn't been very much nor particular glorious: but I have liked it for\nmy part. I have smelt powder, besides a good deal of rosn and pitch we\nburned. I've seen the enemy; have sleppt under canvass, and been dredful\ncrowdid and sick at sea. I like it. My best compliments to dear Aunt\nLambert, and tell Miss Hetty I wasn't very much fritened when I saw the\nFrench horse.--Your most affectionate brother, H. E. WARRINGTON.\"\n\nWe hope Miss Hetty's qualms of conscience were allayed by Harry's\nannouncement that his expedition was over, and that he had so far taken\nno hurt. Far otherwise. Mr. Lambert, in the course of his official\nduties, had occasion to visit the troops at Portsmouth and the Isle of\nWight, and George Warrington bore him company. They found Harry vastly\nimproved in spirits and health from the excitement produced by the\nlittle campaign, quite eager and pleased to learn his new military\nduties, active, cheerful, and healthy, and altogether a different person\nfrom the listless moping lad who had dawdled in London coffee-houses and\nMrs. Lambert's drawing-room. The troops were under canvas; the weather\nwas glorious, and George found his brother a ready pupil in a fine\nbrisk open-air school of war. Not a little amused, the elder brother,\narm-in-arm with the young volunteer, paced the streets of the warlike\ncity, recalled his own brief military experiences of two years back,\nand saw here a much greater army than that ill-fated one of which he\nhad shared the disasters. The expedition, such as we have seen it, was\ncertainly not glorious, and yet the troops and the nation were in high\nspirits with it. We were said to have humiliated the proud Gaul. We\nshould have vanquished as well as humbled him had he dared to appear.\nWhat valour, after all, is like British valour? I dare say some such\nexpressions have been heard in later times. Not that I would hint that\nour people brag much more than any other, or more now than formerly.\nHave not these eyes beheld the battle-grounds of Leipzig, Jena, Dresden,\nWaterloo, Blenheim, Bunker's Hill, New Orleans? What heroic nation has\nnot fought, has not conquered, has not run away, has not bragged in its\nturn? Well, the British nation was much excited by the glorious victory\nof St. Malo. Captured treasures were sent home and exhibited in London.\nThe people were so excited, that more laurels and more victories were\ndemanded, and the enthusiastic army went forth to seek some.\n\nWith this new expedition went a volunteer so distinguished, that we must\ngive him precedence of all other amateur soldiers or sailors. This was\nour sailor Prince, H.R.H. Prince Edward, who was conveyed on board the\nEssex in the ship's twelve-oared barge, the standard of England flying\nin the bow of the boat, the Admiral with his flag and boat following the\nPrince's, and all the captains following in seniority.\n\nAway sails the fleet, Harry, in high health and spirits, waving his hat\nto his friends as they cheer from the shore. He must and will have his\ncommission before long. There can be no difficulty about that, George\nthinks. There is plenty of money in his little store to buy his\nbrother's ensigncy; but if he can win it without purchase by gallantry\nand good conduct, that were best. The colonel of the regiment reports\nhighly of his recruit; men and officers like him. It is easy to see that\nhe is a young fellow of good promise and spirit.\n\nHip, hip, huzzay! What famous news are these which arrive ten days after\nthe expedition has sailed? On the 7th and 8th of August his Majesty's\ntroops had effected a landing in the Bay des Marais, two leagues\nwestward of Cherbourg, in the face of a large body of the enemy. Awed\nby the appearance of British valour, that large body of the enemy has\ndisappeared. Cherbourg has surrendered at discretion; and the English\ncolours are hoisted on the three outlying forts. Seven-and-twenty ships\nhave been burned in the harbours, and a prodigious number of fine brass\ncannon taken. As for your common iron guns, we have destroyed 'em,\nlikewise the basin (about which the mounseers bragged so), and the two\npiers at the entrance to the harbour.\n\nThere is no end of jubilation in London; just as Mr. Howe's guns arrive\nfrom Cherbourg, come Mr. Wolfe's colours captured at Louisbourg. The\ncolours are taken from Kensington to St Paul's, escorted by fourscore\nlife-guards and fourscore horse-grenadiers with officers in proportion,\ntheir standards, kettle-drums, and trumpets. At St. Paul's they\nare received by the Dean and Chapter at the West Gate, and at that\nminute--bang, bong, bung--the Tower and Park guns salute them! Next day\nis the turn of the Cherbourg cannon and mortars. These are the guns\nwe took. Look at them with their carving and flaunting emblems--their\nlilies, and crowns, and mottoes! Here they are, the Teneraire, the\nMalfaisant, the Vainqueur (the Vainqueur, indeed! a pretty vainqueur of\nBritons!), and ever so many more. How the people shout as the pieces\nare trailed through the streets in procession! As for Hetty and Mrs.\nLambert, I believe they are of opinion that Harry took every one of the\nguns himself, dragging them out of the batteries, and destroying the\nartillerymen. He has immensely risen in the general estimation in the\nlast few days. Madame de Bernstein has asked about him. Lady Maria has\nbegged her dear cousin George to see her, and, if possible, give her\nnews of his brother. George, who was quite the head of the family\na couple of months since, finds himself deposed, and of scarce any\naccount, in Miss Hetty's eyes at least. Your wit, and your learning, and\nyour tragedies, may be all very well; but what are these in comparison\nto victories and brass cannon? George takes his deposition very meekly.\nThey are fifteen thousand Britons. Why should they not march and take\nParis itself? Nothing more probable, think some of the ladies. They\nembrace; they congratulate each other; they are in a high state of\nexcitement. For once, they long that Sir Miles and Lady Warrington were\nin town, so that they might pay her ladyship a visit, and ask, \"What\ndo you say to your nephew now, pray? Has he not taken twenty-one finest\nbrass cannon; flung a hundred and twenty iron guns into the water,\nseized twenty-seven ships in the harbour, and destroyed the basin\nand the two piers at the entrance?\" As the whole town rejoices and\nilluminates, so these worthy folks display brilliant red hangings in\ntheir cheeks, and light up candles of joy in their eyes, in honour of\ntheir champion and conqueror.\n\nBut now, I grieve to say, comes a cloudy day after the fair weather. The\nappetite of our commanders, growing by what it fed on, led them to think\nthey had not feasted enough on the plunder of St. Malo; and thither,\nafter staying a brief time at Portsmouth and the Wight, the conquerors\nof Cherbourg returned. They were landed in the Bay of St. Lunar, at\na distance of a few miles from the place, and marched towards it,\nintending to destroy it this time. Meanwhile the harbour of St. Lunar\nwas found insecure, and the fleet moved up to St. Cas, keeping up its\ncommunication with the invading army.\n\nNow the British Lion found that the town of St. Malo--which he had\nproposed to swallow at a single mouthful--was guarded by an army of\nFrench, which the Governor of Brittany had brought to the succour of\nhis good town, and the meditated coup-de-main being thus impossible,\nour leaders marched for their ships again, which lay duly awaiting our\nwarriors in the Bay of St. Cas.\n\nHide, blushing glory, hide St. Cas's day! As our troops were marching\ndown to their ships they became aware of an army following them, which\nthe French governor of the province had sent from Brest. Two-thirds\nof the troops, and all the artillery, were already embarked, when the\nFrenchmen came down upon the remainder. Four companies of the first\nregiment of guards and the grenadier companies of the army, faced\nabout on the beach to await the enemy, whilst the remaining troops were\ncarried off in the boats. As the French descended from the heights round\nthe bay, these guards and grenadiers marched out to attack them, leaving\nan excellent position which they had occupied--a great dyke raised on\nthe shore, and behind which they might have resisted to advantage. And\nnow, eleven hundred men were engaged with six--nay, ten times their\nnumber; and, after a while, broke and made for the boats with a sauve\nqui peut! Seven hundred out of the eleven were killed, drowned, or\ntaken prisoners--the General himself was killed--and, ah! where were the\nvolunteers?\n\nA man of peace myself, and little intelligent of the practice or the\ndetails of war, I own I think less of the engaged troops than of the\npeople they leave behind. Jack the Guardsman and La Tulipe of the Royal\nBretagne are face to face, and striving to knock each other's brains\nout. Bon! It is their nature to--like the bears and lions--and we will\nnot say Heaven, but some power or other has made them so to do. But the\ngirl of Tower Hill, who hung on Jack's neck before he departed; and the\nlass at Quimper, who gave the Frenchman his brule-gueule and tobacco-box\nbefore he departed on the noir trajet? What have you done, poor little\ntender hearts, that you should grieve so? My business is not with the\narmy, but with the people left behind. What a fine state Miss Hetty\nLambert must be in, when she hears of the disaster to the troops and the\nslaughter of the grenadier companies! What grief and doubt are in George\nWarrington's breast; what commiseration in Martin Lambert's, as he looks\ninto his little girl's face and reads her piteous story there! Howe, the\nbrave Commodore, rowing in his barge under the enemy's fire, has rescued\nwith his boats scores and scores of our flying people. More are drowned;\nhundreds are prisoners, or shot on the beach. Among these, where is our\nVirginian?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXV. Soldier's Return\n\n\nGreat Powers! will the vainglory of men, especially of Frenchmen, never\ncease? Will it be believed, that after the action of St. Cas--a mere\naffair of cutting off a rearguard, as you are aware--they were so\nunfeeling as to fire away I don't know how much powder at the Invalides\nat Paris, and brag and bluster over our misfortune? Is there any\nmagnanimity in hallooing and huzzaying because five or six hundred brave\nfellows have been caught by ten thousand on a seashore, and that fate\nhas overtaken them which is said to befall the hindmost? I had a mind\nto design an authentic picture of the rejoicings at London upon our\nglorious success at St. Malo. I fancied the polished guns dragged in\nprocession by our gallant tars; the stout horse-grenadiers prancing by;\nthe mob waving hats, roaring cheers, picking pockets, and our friends in\na balcony in Fleet Street looking on and blessing this scene of British\ntriumph. But now that the French Invalides have been so vulgar as to\nimitate the Tower, and set up their St. Cas against our St. Malo, I\nscorn to allude to the stale subject. I say Nolo, not Malo: content, for\nmy part, if Harry has returned from one expedition and t'other with a\nwhole skin. And have I ever said he was so much as bruised? Have I not,\nfor fear of exciting my fair young reader, said that he was as well as\never he had been in his life? The sea air had browned his cheek, and\nthe ball whistling by his side-curl had spared it. The ocean had wet his\ngaiters and other garments, without swallowing up his body. He had, it\nis true, shown the lapels of his coat to the enemy; but for as short a\ntime as possible, withdrawing out of their sight as quick as might be.\nAnd what, pray, are lapels but reverses? Coats have them, as well as\nmen; and our duty is to wear them with courage and good-humour.\n\n\"I can tell you,\" said Harry, \"we all had to run for it; and when our\nline broke, it was he who could get to the boats who was most lucky. The\nFrench horse and foot pursued us down to the sea, and were mingled\namong us, cutting our men down, and bayoneting them on the ground. Poor\nArmytage was shot in advance of me, and fell; and I took him up and\nstaggered through the surf to a boat. It was lucky that the sailors in\nour boat weren't afraid; for the shot were whistling about their ears,\nbreaking the blades of their oars, and riddling their flag with shot;\nbut the officer in command was as cool as if he had been drinking a bowl\nof punch at Portsmouth, which we had one on landing, I can promise you.\nPoor Sir John was less lucky than me. He never lived to reach the ship,\nand the service has lost a fine soldier, and Miss Howe a true gentleman\nto her husband. There must be these casualties, you see; and his brother\ngets the promotion--the baronetcy.\"\n\n\"It is of the poor lady I am thinking,\" says Miss Hetty (to whom haply\nour volunteer is telling his story); \"and the King. Why did the King\nencourage Sir John Armytage to go? A gentleman could not refuse a\ncommand from such a quarter. And now the poor gentleman is dead! Oh,\nwhat a state his Majesty must be in!\"\n\n\"I have no doubt his Majesty will be in a deep state of grief,\" says\npapa, wagging his head.\n\n\"Now you are laughing! Do you mean, sir, that when a gentleman dies\nin his service, almost at his feet, the King of England won't feel\nfor him?\" Hetty asks. \"If I thought that, I vow I would be for the\nPretender!\"\n\n\"The sauce-box would make a pretty little head for Temple Bar,\" says the\nGeneral, who could see Miss Hetty's meaning behind her words, and was\naware in what a tumult of remorse, of consternation, of gratitude that\nthe danger was over, the little heart was beating. \"No,\" says he, \"my\ndear. Were kings to weep for every soldier, what a life you would make\nfor them! I think better of his Majesty than to suppose him so weak;\nand, if Miss Hester Lambert got her Pretender, I doubt whether she would\nbe any the happier. That family was never famous for too much feeling.\"\n\n\"But if the King sent Harry--I mean Sir John Armytage--actually to\nthe war in which he lost his life, oughtn't his Majesty to repent very\nmuch?\" asks the young lady.\n\n\"If Harry had fallen, no doubt the court would have gone into mourning:\nas it is, gentlemen and ladies were in coloured clothes yesterday,\"\nremarks the General.\n\n\"Why should we not make bonfires for a defeat, and put on sackcloth and\nashes after a victory?\" asks George. \"I protest I don't want to thank\nHeaven for helping us to burn the ships at Cherbourg.\"\n\n\"Yes you do, George! Not that I have a right to speak, and you ain't\never so much cleverer. But when your country wins you're glad--I know\nI am. When I run away before Frenchmen I'm ashamed--I can't help it,\nthough I done it,\" says Harry. \"It don't seem to me right somehow that\nEnglishmen should have to do it,\" he added, gravely. And George smiled;\nbut did not choose to ask his brother what, on the other hand, was the\nFrenchman's opinion.\n\n\"'Tis a bad business,\" continued Harry, gravely; \"but 'tis lucky 'twas\nno worse. The story about the French is, that their Governor, the Duke\nof Aiguillon, was rather what you call a moistened chicken. Our whole\nretreat might have been cut off, only, to be sure, we ourselves were in\na mighty hurry to move. The French local militia behaved famous, I am\nhappy to say; and there was ever so many gentlemen volunteers with 'em,\nwho showed, as they ought to do, in the front. They say the Chevalier\nof Tour d'Auvergne engaged in spite of the Duke of Aiguillon's orders.\nOfficers told us, who came off with a list of our prisoners and wounded\nto General Bligh and Lord Howe. He is a lord now, since the news came of\nhis brother's death to home, George. He is a brave fellow, whether lord\nor commoner.\"\n\n\"And his sister, who was to have married poor Sir John Armytage, think\nwhat her state must be!\" sighs Miss Hetty, who has grown of late so\nsentimental.\n\n\"And his mother!\" cries Mrs. Lambert. \"Have you seen her ladyship's\naddress in the papers to the electors of Nottingham? 'Lord Howe being\nnow absent upon the publick service, and Lieutenant-Colonel Howe with\nhis regiment at Louisbourg, it rests upon me to beg the favour of your\nvotes and interests that Lieutenant-Colonel Howe may supply the place\nof his late brother as your representative in Parliament.' Isn't this a\ngallant woman?\"\n\n\"A Laconic woman,\" says George.\n\n\"How can sons help being brave who have been nursed by such a mother as\nthat?\" asks the General.\n\nOur two young men looked at each other.\n\n\"If one of us were to fall in defence of his country, we have a mother\nin Sparta who would think and write so too,\" says George.\n\n\"If Sparta is anywhere Virginia way, I reckon we have,\" remarks Mr.\nHarry. \"And to think that we should both of us have met the enemy, and\nboth of us been whipped by him, brother!\" he adds pensively.\n\nHetty looks at him, and thinks of him only as he was the other day,\ntottering through the water towards the boats, his comrade bleeding on\nhis shoulder, the enemy in pursuit, the shot flying round. And it was\nshe who drove him into the danger! Her words provoked him. He never\nrebukes her now he is returned. Except when asked, he scarcely speaks\nabout his adventures at all. He is very grave and courteous with Hetty;\nwith the rest of the family especially frank and tender. But those\ntaunts of hers wounded him. \"Little hand!\" his looks and demeanour seem\nto say, \"thou shouldst not have been lifted against me! It is ill to\nscorn any one, much more one who has been so devoted to you and all\nyours. I may not be over quick of wit, but in as far as the heart goes,\nI am the equal of the best, and the best of my heart your family has\nhad.\"\n\nHarry's wrong, and his magnanimous endurance of it, served him to regain\nin Miss Hetty's esteem that place which he had lost during the previous\nmonths' inglorious idleness. The respect which the fair pay to the brave\nshe gave him. She was no longer pert in her answers, or sarcastic in her\nobservations regarding his conduct. In a word, she was a humiliated, an\naltered, an improved Miss Hetty.\n\nAnd all the world seemed to change towards Harry, as he towards the\nworld. He was no longer sulky and indolent: he no more desponded about\nhimself, or defied his neighbours. The colonel of his regiment\nreported his behaviour as exemplary, and recommended him for one of the\ncommissions vacated by the casualties during the expedition. Unlucky\nas its termination was, it at least was fortunate to him. His\nbrother-volunteers, when they came back to St. James's Street, reported\nhighly of his behaviour. These volunteers and their actions were the\ntheme of everybody's praise. Had he been a general commanding, and slain\nin the moment of victory, Sir John Armytage could scarce have had more\nsympathy than that which the nation showed him. The papers teemed with\nletters about him, and men of wit and sensibility vied with each other\nin composing epitaphs in his honour. The fate of his affianced bride was\nbewailed. She was, as we have said, the sister of the brave Commodore\nwho had just returned from this unfortunate expedition, and succeeded\nto the title of his elder brother, an officer as gallant as himself, who\nhad just fallen in America.\n\nMy Lord Howe was heard to speak in special praise of Mr. Warrington, and\nso he had a handsome share of the fashion and favour which the town\nnow bestowed on the volunteers. Doubtless there were thousands of\nmen employed who were as good as they but the English ever love their\ngentlemen, and love that they should distinguish themselves; and these\nvolunteers were voted Paladins and heroes by common accord. As our young\nnoblemen will, they accepted their popularity very affably. White's and\nAlmack's illuminated when they returned, and St. James's embraced its\nyoung knights. Harry was restored to full favour amongst them.\nTheir hands were held out eagerly to him again. Even his relations\ncongratulated him; and there came a letter from Castlewood, whither Aunt\nBernstein had by this time betaken herself, containing praises of his\nvalour, and a pretty little bank-bill, as a token of his affectionate\naunt's approbation. This was under my Lord Castlewood's frank, who sent\nhis regards to both his kinsmen, and an offer of the hospitality of his\ncountry-house, if they were minded to come to him. And besides this,\nthere came to him a private letter through the post--not very well\nspelt, but in a handwriting which Harry smiled to see again, in which\nhis affeetionate cousin, Maria Esmond, told him she always loved to hear\nhis praises (which were in everybody's mouth now), and sympathised in\nhis good or evil fortune; and that, whatever occurred to him, she begged\nto keep a little place in his heart. Parson Sampson, she wrote, had\npreached a beautiful sermon about the horrors of war, and the noble\nactions of men who volunteered to face battle and danger in the service\nof their country. Indeed, the chaplain wrote himself, presently, a\nletter full of enthusiasm, in which he saluted Mr. Harry as his friend,\nhis benefactor, his glorious hero. Even Sir Miles Warrington despatched\na basket of game from Norfolk: and one bird (shot sitting), with love\nto my cousin, had a string and paper round the leg, and was sent as the\nfirst victim of young Miles's fowling-piece.\n\nAnd presently, with joy beaming in his countenance, Mr. Lambert came\nto visit his young friends at their lodgings in Southampton Row, and\nannounced to them that Mr. Henry Warrington was forthwith to be gazetted\nas Ensign in the Second Battalion of Kingsley's, the 20th Regiment,\nwhich had been engaged in the campaign, and which now at this time was\nformed into a separate regiment, the 67th. Its colonel was not with his\nregiment during its expedition to Brittany. He was away at Cape Breton,\nand was engaged in capturing those guns at Louisbourg, of which the\narrival in England had caused such exultation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVI. In which we go a-courting\n\n\nSome of my amiable readers no doubt are in the custom of visiting that\nfamous garden in the Regent's Park, in which so many of our finned,\nfeathered, four-footed fellow-creatures are accommodated with board and\nlodging, in return for which they exhibit themselves for our instruction\nand amusement: and there, as a man's business and private thoughts\nfollow him everywhere, and mix themselves with all life and nature round\nabout him, I found myself, whilst looking at some fish in the aquarium,\nstill actually thinking of our friends the Virginians.\n\nOne of the most beautiful motion-masters I ever beheld, sweeping through\nhis green bath in harmonious curves, now turning his black glistening\nback to me, now exhibiting his fair white chest, in every movement\nactive and graceful, turned out to be our old homely friend the\nflounder, whom we have all gobbled up out of his bath of water souchy at\nGreenwich, without having the slightest idea that he was a beauty.\n\nAs is the race of man, so is the race of flounders. If you can but see\nthe latter in his right element, you may view him agile, healthy, and\ncomely: put him out of his place, and behold his beauty is gone, his\nmotions are disgraceful: he flaps the unfeeling ground ridiculously\nwith his tail, and will presently gasp his feeble life out. Take him\nup tenderly, ere it be too late, and cast him into his native Thames\nagain----But stop: I believe there is a certain proverb about fish out\nof water, and that other profound naturalists have remarked on them\nbefore me. Now Harry Warrington had been floundering for ever so long\na time past, and out of his proper element. As soon as he found it,\nhealth, strength, spirits, energy, returned to him, and with the tap of\nthe epaulet on his shoulder he sprang up an altered being. He delighted\nin his new profession; he engaged in all its details, and mastered them\nwith eager quickness. Had I the skill of my friend Lorrequer, I would\nfollow the other Harry into camp, and see him on the march, at the\nmess, on the parade-ground; I would have many a carouse with him and his\ncompanions; I would cheerfully live with him under the tents; I would\nknowingly explain all the manoeuvres of war, and all the details of the\nlife military. As it is, the reader must please, out of his experience\nand imagination, to fill in the colours of the picture of which I can\ngive but meagre hints and outlines, and, above all, fancy Mr. Harry\nWarrington in his new red coat and yellow facings, very happy to bear\nthe King's colours, and pleased to learn and perform all the duties of\nhis new profession.\n\nAs each young man delighted in the excellence of the other, and\ncordially recognised his brother's superior qualities, George, we may be\nsure, was proud of Harry's success, and rejoiced in his returning good\nfortune. He wrote an affectionate letter to his mother in Virginia,\nrecounting all the praises which he had heard of Harry, and which his\nbrother's modesty, George knew, would never allow him to repeat. He\ndescribed how Harry had won his own first step in the army, and how\nhe, George, would ask his mother leave to share with her the expense of\npurchasing a higher rank for him.\n\nNothing, said George, would give him a greater delight, than to be able\nto help his brother, and the more so, as, by his sudden return into\nlife, as it were, he had deprived Harry of an inheritance which he had\nlegitimately considered as his own. Labouring under that misconception,\nHarry had indulged in greater expenses than he ever would have thought\nof incurring as a younger brother; and George thought it was but fair,\nand as it were, as a thank-offering for his own deliverance, that he\nshould contribute liberally to any scheme for his brother's advantage.\n\nAnd now, having concluded his statement respecting Harry's affairs,\nGeorge took occasion to speak of his own, and addressed his honoured\nmother on a point which very deeply concerned himself. She was aware\nthat the best friends he and his brother had found in England were the\ngood Mr. and Mrs. Lambert, the latter Madam Esmond's schoolfellow of\nearlier years. Where their own blood relations had been worldly and\nunfeeling, these true friends had ever been generous and kind. The\nGeneral was respected by the whole army, and beloved by all who knew\nhim. No mother's affection could have been more touching than Mrs.\nLambert's for both Madam Esmond's children; and now, wrote Mr. George,\nhe himself had formed an attachment for the elder Miss Lambert, on which\nhe thought the happiness of his life depended, and which he besought his\nhonoured mother to approve. He had made no precise offers to the young\nlady or her parents; but he was bound to say that he had made little\ndisguise of his sentiments, and that the young lady, as well as her\nparents, seemed favourable to him. She had been so admirable and\nexemplary a daughter to her own mother, that he felt sure she would do\nher duty by his. In a word, Mr. Warrington described the young lady as a\nmodel of perfection, and expressed his firm belief that the happiness\nor misery of his own future life depended upon possessing or losing her.\nWhy do you not produce this letter? haply asks some sentimental reader,\nof the present Editor, who has said how he has the whole Warrington\ncorrespondence in his hands. Why not? Because 'tis cruel to babble the\nsecrets of a young man's love; to overhear his incoherent vows and\nwild raptures, and to note, in cold blood, the secrets--it may be,\nthe follies--of his passion. Shall we play eavesdropper at twilight\nembrasures, count sighs and hand-shakes, bottle hot tears: lay our\nstethoscope on delicate young breasts, and feel their heart-throbs? I\nprotest, for one, love is sacred. Wherever I see it (as one sometimes\nmay in this world) shooting suddenly out of two pair of eyes; or\nglancing sadly even from one pair; or looking down from the mother to\nthe baby in her lap; or from papa at his girl's happiness as she is\nwhirling round the room with the captain; or from John Anderson, as his\nold wife comes into the room--the bonne vieille, the ever peerless among\nwomen; wherever we see that signal, I say, let us salute it. It is not\nonly wrong to kiss and tell, but to tell about kisses. Everybody who\nhas been admitted to the mystery,--hush about it. Down with him qui Deae\nsacrum vulgarit arcanae. Beware how you dine with him, he will print\nyour private talk: as sure as you sail with him, he will throw you over.\n\nWhilst Harry's love of battle has led him to smell powder--to rush upon\nreluctantes dracones, and to carry wounded comrades out of fire, George\nhas been pursuing an amusement much more peaceful and delightful to\nhim; penning sonnets to his mistress's eyebrow, mayhap; pacing in the\ndarkness under her window, and watching the little lamp which shone upon\nher in her chamber; finding all sorts of pretexts for sending little\nnotes which don't seem to require little answers, but get them; culling\nbits out of his favourite poets, and flowers out of Covent Garden\nfor somebody's special adornment and pleasure; walking to St. James's\nChurch, singing very likely out of the same Prayer-book, and never\nhearing one word of the sermon, so much do other thoughts engross him;\nbeing prodigiously affectionate to all Miss Theo's relations--to her\nlittle brother and sister at school; to the elder at college; to Miss\nHetty, with whom he engages in gay passages of wit; and to mamma, who is\nhalf in love with him herself, Martin Lambert says; for if fathers are\nsometimes sulky at the appearance of the destined son-in-law, is it not\na fact that mothers become sentimental and, as it were, love their own\nloves over again?\n\nGumbo and Sady are for ever on the trot between Southampton Row and\nDean Street. In the summer months all sorts of junketings and\npleasure-parties are devised; and there are countless proposals to go\nto Ranelagh, to Hampstead, to Vauxhall, to Marylebone Gardens, and what\nnot. George wants the famous tragedy copied out fair for the stage, and\nwho can write such a beautiful Italian hand as Miss Theo? As the sheets\npass to and fro they are accompanied by little notes of thanks, of\ninterrogation, of admiration, always. See, here is the packet, marked\nin Warrington's neat hand, \"T's letters, 1758-9.\" Shall we open them and\nreveal their tender secrets to the public gaze? Those virgin words were\nwhispered for one ear alone. Years after they were written, the\nhusband read, no doubt, with sweet pangs of remembrance, the fond lines\naddressed to the lover. It were a sacrilege to show the pair to public\neyes: only let kind readers be pleased to take our word that the young\nlady's letters are modest and pure, the gentleman's most respectful and\ntender. In fine, you see, we have said very little about it; but, in\nthese few last months, Mr. George Warrington has made up his mind that\nhe has found the woman of women. She mayn't be the most beautiful. Why,\nthere is Cousin Flora, there is Coelia, and Ardelia, and a hundred\nmore, who are ever so much more handsome: but her sweet face pleases him\nbetter than any other in the world. She mayn't be the most clever, but\nher voice is the dearest and pleasantest to hear; and in her company he\nis so clever himself; he has such fine thoughts; he uses such eloquent\nwords; he is so generous, noble, witty, that no wonder he delights in\nit. And, in regard to the young lady,--as thank Heaven I never thought\nso ill of women as to suppose them to be just, we may be sure that there\nis no amount of wit, of wisdom, of beauty, of valour, of virtue with\nwhich she does not endow her young hero.\n\nWhen George's letter reached home, we may fancy that it created no small\nexcitement in the little circle round Madam Esmond's fireside. So he was\nin love, and wished to marry! It was but natural, and would keep him\nout of harm's way. If he proposed to unite himself with a well-bred\nChristian young woman, Madam saw no harm.\n\n\"I knew they would be setting their caps at him,\" says Mountain. \"They\nfancy that his wealth is as great as his estate. He does not say whether\nthe young lady has money. I fear otherwise.\"\n\n\"People would set their caps at him here, I dare say,\" says Madam\nEsmond, grimly looking at her dependant, \"and try and catch Mr. Esmond\nWarrington for their own daughters, who are no richer than Miss Lambert\nmay be.\"\n\n\"I suppose your ladyship means me!\" says Mountain. \"My Fanny is poor, as\nyou say; and 'tis kind of you to remind me of her poverty!\"\n\n\"I said people would set their caps at him. If the cap fits you, tant\npis! as my papa used to say.\"\n\n\"You think, madam, I am scheming to keep George for my daughter? I thank\nyou, on my word! A good opinion you seem to have of us after the years\nwe have lived together!\"\n\n\"My dear Mountain, I know you much better than to suppose you could ever\nfancy your daughter would be a suitable match for a gentleman of Mr.\nEsmond's rank and station,\" says Madam, with much dignity.\n\n\"Fanny Parker was as good as Molly Benson at school, and Mr. Mountain's\ndaughter is as good as Mr. Lambert's!\" Mrs. Mountain cries out.\n\n\"Then you did think of marrying her to my son! I shall write to\nMr. Esmond Warrington, and say how sorry I am that you should be\ndisappointed!\" says the mistress of Castlewood. And we, for our parts,\nmay suppose that Mrs. Mountain was disappointed, and had some ambitious\nviews respecting her daughter--else, why should she have been so angry\nat the notion of Mr. Warrington's marriage?\n\nIn reply to her son, Madam Esmond wrote back that she was pleased with\nthe fraternal love George exhibited; that it was indeed but right in\nsome measure to compensate Harry, whose expectations had led him to\nadopt a more costly mode of life than he would have entered on had he\nknown he was only a younger son. And with respect to purchasing his\npromotion, she would gladly halve the expense with Harry's elder\nbrother, being thankful to think his own gallantry had won him his first\nstep. This bestowal of George's money, Madam Esmond added, was at least\nmuch more satisfactory than some other extravagances to which she would\nnot advert.\n\nThe other extravagance to which Madam alluded was the payment of the\nransom to the French captain's family, to which tax George's mother\nnever would choose to submit. She had a determined spirit of her own,\nwhich her son inherited. His persistence she called pride and obstinacy.\nWhat she thought of her own pertinacity, her biographer, who lives so\nfar from her time, does not pretend to say. Only I dare say people\na hundred years ago pretty much resembled their grandchildren of the\npresent date, and loved to have their own way, and to make others follow\nit.\n\nNow, after paying his own ransom, his brother's debts, and half the\nprice for his promotion, George calculated that no inconsiderable\nportion of his private patrimony would be swallowed up: nevertheless\nhe made the sacrifice with a perfect good heart. His good mother always\nenjoined him in her letters to remember who his grandfather was, and\nto support the dignity of his family accordingly. She gave him various\ncommissions to purchase goods in England, and though she as yet had sent\nhim very trifling remittances, she alluded so constantly to the exalted\nrank of the Esmonds, to her desire that he should do nothing unworthy of\nthat illustrious family; she advised him so peremptorily and frequently\nto appear in the first society of the country, to frequent the court\nwhere his ancestors had been accustomed to move, and to appear always in\nthe world in a manner worthy of his name, that George made no doubt\nhis mother's money would be forthcoming when his own ran short, and\ngenerously obeyed her injunctions as to his style of life. I find in the\nEsmond papers of this period, bills for genteel entertainments, tailors'\nbills for court suits supplied, and liveries for his honour's negro\nservants and chairmen, horse-dealers' receipts, and so forth; and am\nthus led to believe that the elder of our Virginians was also after a\nwhile living at a considerable expense.\n\nHe was not wild or extravagant like his brother. There was no talk of\ngambling or racehorses against Mr. George; his table was liberal, his\nequipages handsome, his purse always full, the estate to which he was\nheir was known to be immense. I mention these circumstances because they\nmay probably have influenced the conduct both of George and his friends\nin that very matter concerning which, as I have said, he and his mother\nhad been just corresponding. The young heir of Virginia was travelling\nfor his pleasure and improvement in foreign kingdoms. The queen, his\nmother, was in daily correspondence with his Highness, and constantly\nenjoined him to act as became his lofty station. There could be no\ndoubt from her letters that she desired he should live liberally and\nmagnificently. He was perpetually making purchases at his parent's\norder. She had not settled as yet; on the contrary, she had wrote out by\nthe last mail for twelve new sets of waggon harness, and an organ\nthat should play fourteen specified psalm-tunes: which articles George\ndutifully ordered. She had not paid as yet, and might not to-day or\nto-morrow, but eventually, of course, she would: and Mr. Warrington\nnever thought of troubling his friends about these calculations, or\ndiscussing with them his mother's domestic affairs. They, on their side,\ntook for granted that he was in a state of competence and ease, and,\nwithout being mercenary folks, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert were no doubt\npleased to see an attachment growing up between their daughter and\na young gentleman of such good principles, talents, family, and\nexpectations. There was honesty in all Mr. Esmond Warrington's words\nand actions, and in his behaviour to the world a certain grandeur and\nsimplicity, which showed him to be a true gentleman. Somewhat cold and\nhaughty in his demeanour to strangers, especially towards the great, he\nwas not in the least supercilious: he was perfectly courteous towards\nwomen, and with those people whom he loved, especially kind, amiable,\nlively, and tender.\n\nNo wonder that one young woman we know of got to think him the best man\nin all the world--alas! not even excepting papa. A great love felt by\na man towards a woman makes him better, as regards her, than all other\nmen. We have said that George used to wonder himself when he found how\nwitty, how eloquent, how wise he was, when he talked with the fair young\ncreature whose heart had become all his.... I say we will not again\nlisten to their love whispers. Those soft words do not bear being\nwritten down. If you please--good sir, or madam, who are sentimentally\ninclined--lay down the book and think over certain things for yourself.\nYou may be ever so old now; but you remember. It may be all dead and\nburied; but in a moment, up it springs out of its grave, and looks, and\nsmiles, and whispers as of yore when it clung to your arm, and dropped\nfresh tears on your heart. It is here, and alive, did I say? O far, far\naway! O lonely hearth and cold ashes! Here is the vase, but the roses\nare gone; here is the shore, and yonder the ship was moored; but the\nanchors are up, and it has sailed away for ever.\n\nEt cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This, however, is mere sentimentality;\nand as regards George and Theo, is neither here nor there. What I mean\nto say is, that the young lady's family were perfectly satisfied with\nthe state of affairs between her and Mr. Warrington; and though he had\nnot as yet asked the decisive question, everybody else knew what the\nanswer would be when it came.\n\nMamma perhaps thought the question was a long time coming.\n\n\"Psha! my dear!\" says the General. \"There is time enough in all\nconscience. Theo is not much more than seventeen; George, if I mistake\nnot, is under forty; and, besides, he must have time to write to\nVirginia, and ask mamma.\"\n\n\"But suppose she refuses?\"\n\n\"That will be a bad day for old and young,\" says the General, \"Let us\nrather say, suppose she consents, my love?--I can't fancy anybody in the\nworld refusing Theo anything she has set her heart on,\" adds the father:\n\"and I am sure 'tis bent upon this match.\"\n\nSo they all waited with the utmost anxiety until an answer from Madam\nEsmond should arrive; and trembled lest the French privateers should\ntake the packet-ship by which the precious letter was conveyed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVII. In which a Tragedy is acted, and two more are begun\n\n\nJames Wolfe, Harry's new Colonel, came back from America a few weeks\nafter our Virginian had joined his regiment. Wolfe had previously been\nLieutenant-Colonel of Kingsley's, and a second battalion of the regiment\nhad been formed and given to him in reward for his distinguished\ngallantry and services at Cape Breton. Harry went with quite unfeigned\nrespect and cordiality to pay his duty to his new commander, on whom the\neyes of the world began to be turned now,--the common opinion being that\nhe was likely to become a great general. In the late affairs in France,\nseveral officers of great previous repute had been tried and found\nlamentably wanting. The Duke of Marlborough had shown himself no worthy\ndescendant of his great ancestor. About my Lord George Sackville's\nmilitary genius there were doubts, even before his unhappy behaviour at\nMinden prevented a great victory. The nation was longing for military\nglory, and the Minister was anxious to find a general who might gratify\nthe eager desire of the people. Mr. Wolfe's and Mr. Lambert's business\nkeeping them both in London, the friendly intercourse between those\nofficers was renewed, no one being more delighted than Lambert at his\nyounger friend's good fortune.\n\nHarry, when he was away from his duty, was never tired of hearing Mr.\nWolfe's details of the military operations of the last year, about which\nWolfe talked very freely and openly. Whatever thought was in his\nmind, he appears to have spoken it out generously. He had that heroic\nsimplicity which distinguished Nelson afterwards: he talked frankly of\nhis actions. Some of the fine gentlemen at St. James's might wonder and\nsneer at him; but amongst our little circle of friends we may be sure he\nfound admiring listeners. The young General had the romance of a boy on\nmany matters. He delighted in music and poetry. On the last day of his\nlife he said he would rather have written Gray's Elegy than have won a\nbattle. We may be sure that with a gentleman of such literary tastes our\nfriend George would become familiar; and as they were both in love, and\nboth accepted lovers, and both eager for happiness, no doubt they must\nhave had many sentimental conversations together which would be very\ninteresting to report could we only have accurate accounts of them. In\none of his later letters, Warrington writes:\n\n\"I had the honour of knowing the famous General Wolfe, and seeing much\nof him during his last stay in London. We had a subject of conversation\nthen which was of unfailing interest to both of us, and I could not but\nadmire Mr. Wolfe's simplicity, his frankness, and a sort of glorious\nbravery which characterised him. He was much in love, and he wanted\nheaps and heaps of laurels to take to his mistress. 'If it be a sin to\ncovet honour,' he used to say with Harry the Fifth (he was passionately\nfond of plays and poetry), 'I am the most offending soul alive.' Surely\non his last day he had a feast which was enough to satisfy the greediest\nappetite for glory. He hungered after it. He seemed to me not merely\nlike a soldier going resolutely to do his duty, but rather like a knight\nin quest of dragons and giants. My own country has furnished of late a\nchief of a very different order, and quite an opposite genius. I scarce\nknow which to admire most. The Briton's chivalrous ardour, or the more\nthan Roman constancy of our great Virginian.\"\n\nAs Mr. Lambert's official duties detained him in London, his family\nremained contentedly with him, and I suppose Mr. Warrington was so\nsatisfied with the rural quiet of Southampton Row and the beautiful\nflowers and trees of Bedford Gardens, that he did not care to quit\nLondon for any long period. He made his pilgrimage to Castlewood, and\npassed a few days there, occupying the chamber of which he had often\nheard his grandfather talk, and which Colonel Esmond had occupied as a\nboy and he was received kindly enough by such members of the family as\nhappened to be at home. But no doubt he loved better to be in London by\nthe side of a young person in whose society he found greater pleasure\nthan any which my Lord Castlewood's circle could afford him, though all\nthe ladies were civil, and Lady Maria especially gracious, and enchanted\nwith the tragedy which George and Parson Sampson read out to the ladies.\nThe chaplain was enthusiastic in its praises, and indeed it was\nthrough his interest and not through Mr. Johnson's after all, that Mr.\nWarrington's piece ever came on the stage. Mr. Johnson, it is true,\npressed the play on his friend Mr. Garrick for Drury Lane, but Garrick\nhad just made an arrangement with the famous Mr. Home for a tragedy from\nthe pen of the author of Douglas. Accordingly, Carpezan was carried to\nMr. Rich at Covent Garden, and accepted by that manager.\n\nOn the night of the production of the piece, Mr. Warrington gave an\nelegant entertainment to his friends at the Bedford Head, in Covent\nGarden, whence they adjourned in a body to the theatre; leaving only one\nor two with our young author, who remained at the coffee-house,\nwhere friends from time to time came to him with an account of the\nperformance. The part of Carpezan was filled by Barry, Shuter was the\nold nobleman, Reddish, I need scarcely say, made an excellent Ulric, and\nthe King of Bohemia was by a young actor from Dublin, Mr. Geoghegan, or\nHagan as he was called on the stage, and who looked and performed the\npart to admiration. Mrs. Woffington looked too old in the first act as\nthe heroine, but her murder in the fourth act, about which great doubts\nwere expressed, went off to the terror and delight of the audience. Miss\nWayn sang the ballad which is supposed to be sung by the king's page,\njust at the moment of the unhappy wife's execution, and all agreed that\nBarry was very terrible and pathetic as Carpezan, especially in the\nexecution scene. The grace and elegance of the young actor, Hagan, won\ngeneral applause. The piece was put very elegantly on the stage by Mr.\nRich, though there was some doubt whether, in the march of Janissaries\nin the last, the manager was correct in introducing a favourite\nelephant, which had figured in various pantomimes, and by which one of\nMr. Warrington's black servants marched in a Turkish habit. The other\nsate in the footman's gallery, and uproariously wept and applauded at\nthe proper intervals.\n\nThe execution of Sybilla was the turning-point of the piece. Her head\noff, George's friends breathed freely, and one messenger after another\ncame to him at the coffee-house, to announce the complete success of\nthe tragedy. Mr. Barry, amidst general applause, announced the play for\nrepetition, and that it was the work of a young gentleman of Virginia,\nhis first attempt in the dramatic style.\n\nWe should like to have been in the box where all our friends were seated\nduring the performance, to have watched Theo's flutter and anxiety\nwhilst the success of the play seemed dubious, and have beheld the\nblushes and the sparkles in her eyes, when the victory was assured.\nHarry, during the little trouble in the fourth act, was deadly\npale--whiter, Mrs. Lambert said, than Barry, with all his chalk. But\nif Briareus could have clapped hands, he could scarcely have made more\nnoise than Harry at the end of the piece. Mr. Wolfe and General Lambert\nhuzzayed enthusiastically. Mrs. Lambert, of course, cried: and though\nHetty said, \"Why do you cry, mamma? I you don't want any of them alive\nagain; you know it serves them all right\"--the girl was really as much\ndelighted as any person present, including little Charley from the\nChartreux, who had leave from Dr. Crusius for that evening, and Miss\nLucy, who had been brought from boarding-school on purpose to be present\non the great occasion. My Lord Castlewood and his sister, Lady Maria,\nwere present; and his lordship went from his box and complimented\nMr. Barry and the other actors on the stage; and Parson Sampson was\ninvaluable in the pit, where he led the applause, having, I believe,\ngiven previous instructions to Gumbo to keep an eye upon him from the\ngallery, and do as he did.\n\nBe sure there was a very jolly supper of Mr. Warrington's friends that\nnight--much more jolly than Mr. Garrick's, for example, who made but a\nvery poor success with his Agis and its dreary choruses, and who must\nhave again felt that he had missed a good chance, in preferring Mr.\nHome's tragedy to our young author's. A jolly supper, did we say?--Many\njolly suppers. Mr. Gumbo gave an entertainment to several gentlemen\nof the shoulder-knot, who had concurred in supporting his master's\nmasterpiece: Mr. Henry Warrington gave a supper at the Star and Garter,\nin Pall Mall, to ten officers of his new regiment, who had come up for\nthe express purpose of backing Carpezan; and finally, Mr. Warrington\nreceived the three principal actors of the tragedy, our family party\nfrom the side box, Mr. Johnson and his ingenious friend, Mr. Reynolds\nthe painter, my Lord Castlewood and his sister, and one or two more. My\nLady Maria happened to sit next to the young actor who had performed the\npart of the King. Mr. Warrington somehow had Miss Theo for a neighbour,\nand no doubt passed a pleasant evening beside her. The greatest\nanimation and cordiality prevailed, and when toasts were called, Lady\nMaria gaily gave \"The King of Hungary\" for hers. That gentleman, who had\nplenty of eloquence and fire, and excellent manners, on as well as off\nthe stage, protested that he had already suffered death in the course of\nthe evening, hoped that he should die a hundred times more on the same\nfield; but, dead or living, vowed he knew whose humble servant he ever\nshould be. Ah, if he had but a real crown in place of his diadem of\npasteboard and tinsel, with what joy would he lay it at her ladyship's\nfeet! Neither my lord nor Mr. Esmond were over well pleased with the\ngentleman's exceeding gallantry--a part of which they attributed, no\ndoubt justly, to the wine and punch, of which he had been partaking very\nfreely. Theo and her sister, who were quite new to the world, were a\nlittle frightened by the exceeding energy of Mr. Hagan's manner--but\nLady Maria, much more experienced, took it in perfectly good part. At\na late hour coaches were called, to which the gentlemen attended the\nladies, after whose departure some of them returned to the supper-room,\nand the end was that Carpezan had to be carried away in a chair, and\nthat the King of Hungary had a severe headache; and that the Poet,\nthough he remembered making a great number of speeches, was quite\nastounded when half a dozen of his guests appeared at his house the next\nday, whom he had invited overnight to come and sup with him once more.\n\nAs he put Mrs. Lambert and her daughters into their coach on the night\nprevious, all the ladies were flurried, delighted, excited; and you may\nbe sure our gentleman was with them the next day, to talk of the play\nand the audience, and the actors, and the beauties of the piece, over\nand over again. Mrs. Lambert had heard that the ladies of the theatre\nwere dangerous company for young men. She hoped George would have a\ncare, and not frequent the greenroom too much.\n\nGeorge smiled, and said he had a preventive against all greenroom\ntemptations, of which he was not in the least afraid; and as he spoke he\nlooked in Theo's face, as if in those eyes lay the amulet which was to\npreserve him from all danger.\n\n\"Why should he be afraid, mamma?\" asks the maiden simply. She had no\nidea of danger or of guile.\n\n\"No, my darling, I don't think he need be afraid,\" says the mother,\nkissing her.\n\n\"You don't suppose Mr. George would fall in love with that painted old\ncreature who performed the chief part?\" asks Miss Hetty, with a toss of\nher head. \"She must be old enough to be his mother.\"\n\n\"Pray, do you suppose that at our age nobody can care for us, or that we\nhave no hearts left?\" asks mamma, very tartly. \"I believe, or I may\nsay, I hope and trust, your father thinks otherwise. He is, I imagine,\nperfectly satisfied, miss. He does not sneer at age, whatever little\ngirls out of the schoolroom may do. And they had much better be back\nthere, and they had much better remember what the fifth commandment\nis--that they had, Hetty!\"\n\n\"I didn't think I was breaking it by saying that an actress was as old\nas George's mother,\" pleaded Hetty.\n\n\"George's mother is as old as I am, miss!--at least she was when we were\nat school. And Fanny Parker--Mrs. Mountain who now is--was seven months\nolder, and we were in the French class together; and I have no idea\nthat our age is to be made the subject of remarks and ridicule by\nour children, and I will thank you to spare it, if you please! Do you\nconsider your mother too old, George?\"\n\n\"I am glad my mother is of your age, Aunt Lambert,\" says George, in the\nmost sentimental manner.\n\nStrange infatuation of passion--singular perversity of reason! At some\nperiod before his marriage, it not unfrequently happens that a man\nactually is fond of his mother-in-law! At this time our good General\nvowed, and with some reason, that he was jealous. Mrs. Lambert made much\nmore of George than of any other person in the family. She dressed up\nTheo to the utmost advantage in order to meet him; she was for ever\ncaressing her, and appealing to her when he spoke. It was, \"Don't\nyou think he looks well?\"--\"Don't you think he looks pale, Theo,\nto-day?\"--\"Don't you think he has been sitting up over his books too\nmuch at night?\" and so forth. If he had a cold, she would have liked to\nmake gruel for him and see his feet in hot water. She sent him recipes\nof her own for his health. When he was away, she never ceased talking\nabout him to her daughter. I dare say Miss Theo liked the subject well\nenough. When he came, she was sure to be wanted in some other part of\nthe house, and would bid Theo take care of him till she returned. Why,\nbefore she returned to the room, could you hear her talking outside the\ndoor to her youngest innocent children, to her servants in the upper\nregions, and so forth? When she reappeared, was not Mr. George always\nstanding or sitting at a considerable distance from Miss Theo--except,\nto be sure, on that one day when she had just happened to drop her\nscissors, and he had naturally stooped down to pick them up? Why was she\nblushing? Were not youthful cheeks made to blush, and roses to bloom in\nthe spring? Not that mamma ever noted the blushes, but began quite an\nartless conversation about this or that, as she sate down brimful of\nhappiness to her worktable.\n\nAnd at last there came a letter from Virginia in Madam Esmond's neat,\nwell-known hand, and over which George trembled and blushed before he\nbroke the seal. It was in answer to the letter which he had sent home,\nrespecting his brother's commission and his own attachment to Miss\nLambert. Of his intentions respecting Harry, Madam Esmond fully\napproved. As for his marriage, she was not against early marriages. She\nwould take his picture of Miss Lambert with the allowance that was to be\nmade for lovers' portraits, and hope, for his sake, that the young lady\nwas all he described her to be. With money, as Madam Esmond gathered\nfrom her son's letter, she did not appear to be provided at all, which\nwas a pity, as, though wealthy in land, their family had but little\nready-money. However, by Heaven's blessing, there was plenty at home for\nchildren and children's children, and the wives of her sons should share\nall she had. When she heard more at length from Mr. and Mrs. Lambert,\nshe would reply for her part more fully. She did not pretend to say that\nshe had not greater hopes for her son, as a gentleman of his name and\nprospects might pretend to the hand of the first lady of the land; but\nas Heaven had willed that her son's choice should fall upon her old\nfriend's daughter, she acquiesced, and would welcome George's wife as\nher own child. This letter was brought by Mr. Van den Bosch of Albany,\nwho had lately bought a very large estate in Virginia, and who was bound\nfor England to put his granddaughter to a boarding-school. She, Madam\nEsmond, was not mercenary, nor was it because this young lady was\nheiress of a very great fortune that she desired her sons to pay Mr. Van\nd. B. every attention. Their properties lay close together, and could\nHarry find in the young lady those qualities of person and mind suitable\nfor a companion for life, at least she would have the satisfaction of\nseeing both her children near her in her declining years. Madam Esmond\nconcluded by sending her affectionate compliments to Mrs. Lambert, from\nwhom she begged to hear further, and her blessing to the young lady who\nwas to be her daughter-in-law.\n\nThe letter was not cordial, and the writer evidently but half satisfied;\nbut, such as it was, her consent was here formally announced. How\neagerly George ran away to Soho with the long-desired news in his\npocket! I suppose our worthy friends there must have read his news in\nhis countenance--else why should Mrs. Lambert take her daughter's hand\nand kiss her with such uncommon warmth, when George announced that\nhe had received letters from home? Then, with a break in his voice, a\npallid face, and a considerable tremor, turning to Mr. Lambert, he said:\n\"Madam Esmond's letter, sir, is in reply to one of mine, in which I\nacquainted her that I had formed an attachment in England, for which I\nasked my mother's approval. She gives her consent, I am grateful to say,\nand I have to pray my dear friends to be equally kind to me.\"\n\n\"God bless thee, my dear boy!\" says the good General, laying a hand on\nthe young man's head. \"I am glad to have thee for a son, George. There,\nthere, don't go down on your knees, young folks! George may, to be sure,\nand thank God for giving him the best little wife in all England. Yes,\nmy dear, except when you were ill, you never caused me a heartache--and\nhappy is the man, I say, who wins thee!\"\n\nI have no doubt the young people knelt before their parents, as was the\nfashion in those days; and am perfectly certain that Mrs. Lambert kissed\nboth of them, and likewise bedewed her pocket-handkerchief in the most\nplentiful manner. Hetty was not present at this sentimental scene, and\nwhen she heard of it, spoke with considerable asperity, and a laugh that\nwas by no means pleasant, saying: \"Is this all the news you have to give\nme? Why, I have known it these months past. Do you think I have no eyes\nto see, and no ears to hear, indeed?\" But in private she was much\nmore gentle. She flung herself on her sister's neck, embracing her\npassionately, and vowing that never, never would Theo find any one to\nlove her like her sister. With Theo she became entirely mild and humble.\nShe could not abstain from her jokes and satire with George, but he was\ntoo happy to heed her much, and too generous not to see the cause of her\njealousy.\n\nWhen all parties concerned came to read Madam Esmond's letter, that\ndocument, it is true, appeared rather vague. It contained only a promise\nthat she would receive the young people at her house, and no sort\nof proposal for a settlement. The General shook his head over the\nletter--he did not think of examining it until some days after the\nengagement had been made between George and his daughter: but now he\nread Madam Esmond's words, they gave him but small encouragement.\n\n\"Bah!\" says George. \"I shall have three hundred pounds for my tragedy. I\ncan easily write a play a year; and if the worst comes to the worst, we\ncan live on that.\"\n\n\"On that and your patrimony,\" says Theo's father.\n\nGeorge now had to explain, with some hesitation, that what with paying\nbills for his mother, and Harry's commission and debts, and his own\nransom--George's patrimony proper was well-nigh spent.\n\nMr. Lambert's countenance looked graver still at this announcement, but\nhe saw his girl's eyes turned towards him with an alarm so tender, that\nhe took her in his arms and vowed that, let the worst come to the worst,\nhis darling should not be balked of her wish.\n\nAbout the going back to Virginia, George frankly owned that he little\nliked the notion of returning to be entirely dependent on his mother.\nHe gave General Lambert an idea of his life at home, and explained how\nlittle to his taste that slavery was. No. Why should he not stay in\nEngland, write more tragedies, study for the bar, get a place, perhaps?\nWhy, indeed? He straightway began to form a plan for another tragedy.\nHe brought portions of his work, from time to time, to Miss Theo and her\nsister: Hetty yawned over the work, but Theo pronounced it to be still\nmore beautiful and admirable than the last, which was perfect.\n\nThe engagement of our young friends was made known to the members of\ntheir respective families, and announced to Sir Miles Warrington, in\na ceremonious letter from his nephew. For a while Sir Miles saw no\nparticular objection to the marriage; though, to be sure, considering\nhis name and prospects, Mr. Warrington might have looked higher. The\ntruth was, that Sir Miles imagined that Madam Esmond had made some\nconsiderable settlement on her son, and that his circumstances were more\nthan easy. But when he heard that George was entirely dependent on his\nmother, and that his own small patrimony was dissipated, as Harry's had\nbeen before, Sir Miles's indignation at his nephew's imprudence knew no\nbounds; he could not find words to express his horror and anger at the\nwant of principle exhibited by both these unhappy young men: he thought\nit his duty to speak his mind about them, and wrote his opinion to his\nsister Esmond in Virginia. As for General and Mrs. Lambert, who passed\nfor respectable persons, was it to be borne that such people should\ninveigle a penniless young man into a marriage with their penniless\ndaughter? Regarding them, and George's behaviour, Sir Miles fully\nexplained his views to Madam Esmond, gave half a finger to George\nwhenever his nephew called on him in town, and did not even invite him\nto partake of the famous family small-beer. Towards Harry his uncle\nsomewhat unbent; Harry had done his duty in the campaign, and was\nmentioned with praise in high quarters. He had sown his wild oats,--he\nat least was endeavouring to amend; but George was a young prodigal,\nfast careering to ruin, and his name was only mentioned in the family\nwith a groan. Are there any poor fellows nowadays, I wonder, whose\npolite families fall on them and persecute them; groan over them\nand stone them, and hand stones to their neighbours that they may do\nlikewise? All the patrimony spent! Gracious heavens! Sir Miles turned\npale when he saw his nephew coming. Lady Warrington prayed for him as a\ndangerous reprobate; and, in the meantime, George was walking the town,\nquite unconscious that he was occasioning so much wrath and so much\ndevotion. He took little Miley to the play and brought him back again.\nHe sent tickets to his aunt and cousins which they could not refuse, you\nknow; it would look too marked were they to break altogether. So they\nnot only took the tickets, but whenever country constituents came to\ntown they asked for more, taking care to give the very worst motives\nto George's intimacy with the theatre, and to suppose that he and the\nactresses were on terms of the most disgraceful intimacy. An august\npersonage having been to the theatre, and expressed his approbation\nof Mr. Warrington's drama to Sir Miles, when he attended his R-y-l\nH-ghn-ss's levee at Saville House, Sir Miles, to be sure, modified his\nopinion regarding the piece, and spoke henceforth more respectfully of\nit. Meanwhile, as we have said, George was passing his life entirely\ncareless of the opinion of all the uncles, aunts, and cousins in the\nworld.\n\nMost of the Esmond cousins were at least more polite and cordial than\nGeorge's kinsfolk of the Warrington side. In spite of his behaviour over\nthe cards, Lord Castlewood, George always maintained, had a liking for\nour Virginians, and George was pleased enough to be in his company. He\nwas a far abler man than many who succeeded in life. He had a good name,\nand somehow only stained it; a considerable wit, and nobody trusted it;\nand a very shrewd experience and knowledge of mankind, which made him\nmistrust them, and himself most of all, and which perhaps was the bar\nto his own advancement. My Lady Castlewood, a woman of the world, wore\nalways a bland mask, and received Mr. George with perfect civility,\nand welcomed him to lose as many guineas as he liked at her ladyship's\ncard-tables. Between Mr. William and the Virginian brothers there never\nwas any love lost; but, as for Lady Maria, though her love affair was\nover, she had no rancour; she professed for her cousins a very\ngreat regard and affection, a part of which the young gentlemen very\ngratefully returned. She was charmed to hear of Harry's valour in the\ncampaign; she was delighted with George's success at the theatre; she\nwas for ever going to the play, and had all the favourite passages of\nCarpezan by heart. One day, as Mr. George and Miss Theo were taking a\nsentimental walk in Kensington Gardens, whom should they light upon\nbut their cousin Maria in company with a gentleman in a smart suit and\nhandsome laced hat, and who should the gentleman be but his Majesty\nKing Louis of Hungary, Mr. Hagan? He saluted the party, and left them\npresently. Lady Maria had only just happened to meet him. Mr. Hagan came\nsometimes, he said, for quiet, to study his parts in Kensington Gardens,\nand George and the two ladies walked together to Lord Castlewood's door\nin Kensington Square, Lady Maria uttering a thousand compliments to Theo\nupon her good looks, upon her virtue, upon her future happiness, upon\nher papa and mamma, upon her destined husband, upon her paduasoy cloak\nand dear little feet and shoe-buckles.\n\nHarry happened to come to London that evening, and slept at his\naccustomed quarters. When George appeared at breakfast, the Captain\nwas already in the room (the custom of that day was to call all army\ngentlemen Captains), and looking at the letters on the breakfast-table.\n\n\"Why, George,\" he cries, \"there is a letter from Maria!\"\n\n\"Little boy bring it from Common Garden last night--Master George\nasleep,\" says Gumbo.\n\n\"What can it be about?\" asks Harry, as George peruses his letter with a\nqueer expression of face.\n\n\"About my play, to be sure,\" George answers, tearing up the paper, and\nstill wearing his queer look.\n\n\"What, she is not writing love-letters to you, is she, Georgy?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not to me,\" replies the other. But he spoke no word more\nabout the letter; and when at dinner in Dean Street Mrs. Lambert said,\n\"So you met somebody walking with the King of Hungary yesterday in\nKensington Gardens?\"\n\n\"What little tell-tale told you? A mere casual rencontre--the King goes\nthere to study his parts, and Lady Maria happened to be crossing the\ngarden to visit some of the other King's servants at Kensington Palace.\"\nAnd so there was an end to that matter for the time being.\n\nOther events were at hand fraught with interest to our Virginians. One\nevening after Christmas, the two gentlemen, with a few more friends,\nwere met round General Lambert's supper-table; and among the company was\nHarry's new Colonel of the 67th, Major-General Wolfe. The young General\nwas more than ordinarily grave. The conversation all related to the war.\nEvents of great importance were pending. The great minister now in power\nwas determined to carry on the war on a much more extended scale than\nhad been attempted hitherto: an army was ordered to Germany to help\nPrince Ferdinand, another great expedition was preparing for America,\nand here, says Mr. Lambert, \"I will give you the health of the\nCommander--a glorious campaign, and a happy return to him!\"\n\n\"Why do you not drink the toast, General James!\" asked the hostess of\nher guest.\n\n\"He must not drink his own toast,\" says General Lambert; \"it is we must\ndo that!\"\n\nWhat? was James appointed?--All the ladies must drink such a toast as\nthat, and they mingled their kind voices with the applause of the rest\nof the company.\n\nWhy did he look so melancholy? the ladies asked of one another when they\nwithdrew. In after days they remembered his pale face.\n\n\"Perhaps he has been parting from his sweetheart,\" suggests\ntender-hearted Mrs. Lambert. And at this sentimental notion, no doubt\nall the ladies looked sad.\n\nThe gentlemen, meanwhile, continued their talk about the war and its\nchances. Mr. Wolfe did not contradict the speakers when they said that\nthe expedition was to be directed against Canada.\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" says Harry, \"I wish your regiment was going with you, and\nthat I might pay another visit to my old friends at Quebec.\"\n\nWhat, had Harry been there? Yes. He described his visit to the place\nfive years before, and knew the city, and the neighbourhood, well. He\nlays a number of bits of biscuit on the table before him, and makes\na couple of rivulets of punch on each side. \"This fork is the Isle\nd'Orleans,\" says he, \"with the north and south branches of St. Lawrence\non each side. Here's the Low Town, with a battery--how many guns was\nmounted there in our time, brother?--but at long shots from the St.\nJoseph shore you might play the same game. Here's what they call the\nlittle river, the St. Charles, and a bridge of boats with a tete du pont\nover to the place of arms. Here's the citadel, and here's convents--ever\nso many convents--and the cathedral; and here, outside the lines to the\nwest and south, is what they call the Plains of Abraham--where a certain\nlittle affair took place, do you remember, brother? He and a young\nofficer of the Rousillon regiment ca ca'd at each other for twenty\nminutes, and George pinked him, and then they jure'd each other an\namitie eternelle. Well it was for George: for his second saved his life\non that awful day of Braddock's defeat. He was a fine little fellow, and\nI give his toast: Je bois a la sante du Chevalier de Florac!\"\n\n\"What, can you speak French, too, Harry?\" asks Mr. Wolfe. The young man\nlooked at the General with eager eyes.\n\n\"Yes,\" says he, \"I can speak, but not so well as George.\"\n\n\"But he remembers the city, and can place the batteries, you see, and\nknows the ground a thousand times better than I do!\" cries the elder\nbrother.\n\nThe two elder officers exchanged looks with one another; Mr. Lambert\nsmiled and nodded, as if in reply to the mute queries of his comrade: on\nwhich the other spoke. \"Mr. Harry,\" he said, \"if you have had enough of\nfine folks, and White's, and horse-racing----\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" says the young man, turning very red.\n\n\"And if you have a mind to a sea voyage at a short notice, come and see\nme at my lodgings to-morrow.\"\n\nWhat was that sudden uproar of cheers which the ladies heard in their\ndrawing-room? It was the hurrah which Harry Warrington gave when he\nleaped up at hearing the General's invitation.\n\nThe women saw no more of the gentlemen that night. General Lambert had\nto be away upon his business early next morning, before seeing any\nof his family; nor had he mentioned a word of Harry's outbreak on the\nprevious evening. But when he rejoined his folks at dinner, a look at\nMiss Hetty's face informed the worthy gentleman that she knew what had\npassed on the night previous, and what was about to happen to the young\nVirginian. After dinner Mrs. Lambert sat demurely at her work, Miss\nTheo took her book of Italian Poetry. Neither of the General's customary\nguests happened to be present that evening.\n\nHe took little Hetty's hand in his, and began to talk with her. He\ndid not allude to the subject which he knew was uppermost in her mind,\nexcept that by a more than ordinary gentleness and kindness he perhaps\ncaused her to understand that her thoughts were known to him.\n\n\"I have breakfasted,\" says he, \"with James Wolfe this morning, and our\nfriend Harry was of the party. When he and the other guests were gone, I\nremained and talked with James about the great expedition on which he is\ngoing to sail. Would that his brave father had lived a few months longer\nto see him come back covered with honours from Louisbourg, and knowing\nthat all England was looking to him to achieve still greater glory!\nJames is dreadfully ill in body--so ill that I am frightened for\nhim--and not a little depressed in mind at having to part from the young\nlady whom he has loved so long. A little rest, he thinks, might have set\nhis shattered frame up; and to call her his has been the object of his\nlife. But, great as his love is (and he is as romantic as one of you\nyoung folks of seventeen), honour and duty are greater, and he leaves\nhome, and wife, and ease, and health, at their bidding. Every man of\nhonour would do the like; every woman who loves him truly would buckle\non his armour for him. James goes to take leave of his mother to-night;\nand though she loves him devotedly, and is one of the tenderest women\nin the world, I am sure she will show no sign of weakness at his going\naway.\"\n\n\"When does he sail, papa?\" the girl asked.\n\n\"He will be on board in five days.\" And Hetty knew quite well who sailed\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVIII. In which Harry goes westward\n\n\nOur tender hearts are averse to all ideas and descriptions of parting;\nand I shall therefore say nothing of Harry Warrington's feelings at\ntaking leave of his brother and friends. Were not thousands of men in\nthe same plight? Had not Mr. Wolfe his mother to kiss (his brave father\nhad quitted life during his son's absence on the glorious Louisbourg\ncampaign), and his sweetheart to clasp in a farewell embrace? Had not\nstout Admiral Holmes, before sailing westward with his squadron, The\nSomerset, The Terrible, The Northumberland, The Royal William, The\nTrident, The Diana, The Seahorse--his own flag being hoisted on board\nThe Dublin--to take leave of Mrs. and the Misses Holmes? Was Admiral\nSaunders, who sailed the day after him, exempt from human feeling?\nAway go William and his crew of jovial sailors, ploughing through the\ntumbling waves, and poor Black-eyed Susan on shore watches the ship as\nit dwindles in the sunset.\n\nIt dwindles in the West. The night falls darkling over the ocean. They\nare gone: but their hearts are at home yet a while. In silence, with a\nheart inexpressibly soft and tender, how each man thinks of those he has\nleft! What a chorus of pitiful prayer rises up to the Father, at sea and\non shore, on that parting night at home by the vacant bedside, where\nthe wife kneels in tears; round the fire, where the mother and children\ntogether pour out their supplications: or on deck, where the seafarer\nlooks up to the stars of heaven, as the ship cleaves through the roaring\nmidnight waters! To-morrow the sun rises upon our common life again, and\nwe commence our daily task of toil and duty.\n\nGeorge accompanies his brother, and stays a while with him at Portsmouth\nwhilst they are waiting for a wind. He shakes Mr. Wolfe's hand, looks\nat his pale face for the last time, and sees the vessels depart amid the\nclangour of bells, and the thunder of cannon from the shore. Next day he\nis back at his home, and at that business which is sure one of the most\nselfish and absorbing of the world's occupations, to which almost every\nman who is thirty years old has served ere this his apprenticeship. He\nhas a pang of sadness, as he looks in at the lodgings to the little room\nwhich Harry used to occupy, and sees his half-burned papers still in\nthe grate. In a few minutes he is on his way to Dean Street again,\nand whispering by the fitful firelight in the ear of the clinging\nsweetheart. She is very happy--oh, so happy! at his return. She is\nashamed of being so. Is it not heartless to be so, when poor Hetty is so\nmelancholy? Poor little Hetty! Indeed, it is selfish to be glad when she\nis in such a sad way. It makes one quite wretched to see her. \"Don't,\nsir! Well, I ought to be wretched, and it's very, very wicked of me if\nI'm not,\" says Theo; and one can understand her soft-hearted repentance.\nWhat she means by \"Don't\" who can tell? I have said the room was dark,\nand the fire burned fitfully--and \"Don't\" is no doubt uttered in one\nof the dark fits. Enter servants with supper and lights. The family\narrives; the conversation becomes general. The destination of the fleet\nis known everywhere now. The force on board is sufficient to beat all\nthe French in Canada; and, under such an officer as Wolfe, to repair the\nblunders and disasters of previous campaigns. He looked dreadfully ill,\nindeed. But he has a great soul in a feeble body. The ministers, the\ncountry hope the utmost from him. After supper, according to custom, Mr.\nLambert assembles his modest household, of whom George Warrington may\nbe said quite to form a part; and as he prays for all travellers by land\nand water, Theo and her sister are kneeling together. And so, as the\nship speeds farther and farther into the West, the fond thoughts pursue\nit; and the night passes, and the sun rises.\n\nA day or two more, and everybody is at his books or his usual work. As\nfor George Warrington, that celebrated dramatist is busy about another\ncomposition. When the tragedy of Carpezan had run some thirty or\ntwoscore nights, other persons of genius took possession of the theatre.\n\nThere may have been persons who wondered how the town could be so fickle\nas ever to tire of such a masterpiece as the Tragedy--who could not bear\nto see the actors dressed in other habits, reciting other men's verses;\nbut George, of a sceptical turn of mind, took the fate of his Tragedy\nvery philosophically, and pocketed the proceeds with much quiet\nsatisfaction. From Mr. Dodsley, the bookseller, he had the usual\ncomplement of a hundred pounds; from the manager of the theatre two\nhundred or more; and such praises from the critics and his friends, that\nhe set to work to prepare another piece, with which he hoped to achieve\neven greater successes than by his first performance.\n\nOver these studies, and the other charming business which occupies him,\nmonths pass away. Happy business! Happiest time of youth and life,\nwhen love is first spoken and returned; when the dearest eyes are daily\nshining welcome, and the fondest lips never tire of whispering their\nsweet secrets; when the parting look that accompanies \"Good night!\"\ngives delightful warning of to-morrow; when the heart is so overflowing\nwith love and happiness, that it has to spare for all the world; when\nthe day closes with glad prayers, and opens with joyful hopes; when\ndoubt seems cowardice, misfortune impossible, poverty only a sweet trial\nof constancy! Theo's elders, thankfully remembering their own prime,\nsit softly by and witness this pretty comedy performed by their young\npeople. And in one of his later letters, dutifully written to his wife\nduring a temporary absence from home, George Warrington records how he\nhad been to look up at the windows of the dear old house in Dean Street,\nand wondered who was sitting in the chamber where he and Theo had been\nso happy.\n\nMeanwhile we can learn how the time passes, and our friends are engaged,\nby some extracts from George's letters to his brother.\n\n\n\"From the old window opposite Bedford Gardens, this 20th August 1759.\n\n\"Why are you gone back to rugged rocks, bleak shores, burning summers,\nnipping winters, at home, when you might have been cropping ever so many\nlaurels in Germany? Kingsley's are coming back as covered with 'em as\nJack-a-Green on May-day. Our six regiments did wonders; and our horse\nwould have done if my Lord George Sackville only had let them. But when\nPrince Ferdinand said 'Charge!' his lordship could not hear, or could\nnot translate the German word for 'Forward;' and so we only beat the\nFrench, without utterly annihilating them, as we might, had Lord Granby\nor Mr. Warrington had the command. My lord is come back to town, and\nis shouting for a Court-Martial. He held his head high enough in\nprosperity: in misfortune he shows such a constancy of arrogance that\none almost admires him. He looks as if he rather envied poor Mr. Byng,\nand the not shooting him were a manque d'egards towards him.\n\n\"The Duke has had notice to get himself in readiness for departing\nfrom this world of grandeurs and victories, and downfalls and\ndisappointments. An attack of palsy has visited his Royal Highness; and\npallida mors has just peeped in at his door, as it were, and said,\n'I will call again.' Tyrant as he was, this prince has been noble in\ndisgrace; and no king has ever had a truer servant than ours has found\nin his son. Why do I like the losing side always, and am I disposed to\nrevolt against the winners? Your famous Mr. P----, your chief's patron\nand discoverer, I have been to hear in the House of Commons twice or\nthrice. I revolt against his magniloquence. I wish some little David\nwould topple over that swelling giant. His thoughts and his language are\nalways attitudinising. I like Barry's manner best, though the other is\nthe more awful actor.\n\n\"Pocahontas gets on apace. Barry likes his part of Captain Smith; and,\nthough he will have him wear a red coat and blue facings and an epaulet,\nI have a fancy to dress him exactly like one of the pictures of Queen\nElizabeth's gentlemen at Hampton Court: with a ruff and a square beard\nand square shoes. 'And Pocahontas--would you like her to be tattooed?'\nasks Uncle Lambert. Hagan's part as the warrior who is in love with\nher, and, seeing her partiality for the captain, nobly rescues him from\ndeath, I trust will prove a hit. A strange fish is this Hagan: his mouth\nfull of stage-plays and rant, but good, honest, and brave, if I don't\nerr. He is angry at having been cast lately for Sir O'Brallaghan, in Mr.\nMacklin's new farce of Love A-la-mode. He says that he does not keer to\ndisgreece his tongue with imiteetions of that rascal brogue. As if there\nwas any call for imiteetions, when he has such an admirable twang of his\nown!\n\n\"Shall I tell you? Shall I hide the circumstance? Shall I hurt your\nfeelings? Shall I set you in a rage of jealousy, and cause you to ask\nfor leave to return to Europe? Know, then, that though Carpezan is\nlong since dead, cousin Maria is for ever coming to the playhouse. Tom\nSpencer has spied her out night after night in the gallery, and\nshe comes on the nights when Hagan performs. Quick, Burroughs, Mr.\nWarrington's boots and portmanteau! Order a chaise and four for\nPortsmouth immediately! The letter which I burned one morning when we\nwere at breakfast (I may let the cat out of the bag, now puss has such a\nprodigious way to run) was from cousin M., hinting that she wished me\nto tell no tales about her: but I can't help just whispering to you\nthat Maria at this moment is busy consoling herself as fast as possible.\nShall I spoil sport? Shall I tell her brother? Is the affair any\nbusiness of mine? What have the Esmonds done for you and me but win\nour money at cards? Yet I like our noble cousin. It seems to me that he\nwould be good if he could--or rather, he would have been once. He has\nbeen set on a wrong way of life, from which 'tis now probably too late\nto rescue him. O beati agricolae! Our Virginia was dull, but let us\nthank Heaven we were bred there. We were made little slaves, but not\nslaves to wickedness, gambling, bad male and female company. It was not\nuntil my poor Harry left home that he fell among thieves. I mean thieves\nen grand, such as waylaid him and stripped him on English highroads. I\nconsider you none the worse because you were the unlucky one, and had\nto deliver your purse up. And now you are going to retrieve, and make\na good name for yourself; and kill more 'French dragons,' and become a\ngreat commander. And our mother will talk of her son the Captain, the\nColonel, the General, and have his picture painted with all his stars\nand epaulets, when poor I shall be but a dawdling poetaster, or, if we\nmay hope for the best, a snug placeman, with a little box at Richmond\nor Kew, and a half-score of little picaninnies, that will come and bob\ncurtseys at the garden-gate when their uncle the General rides up on his\ngreat charger, with his aide-de-camp's pockets filled with gingerbread\nfor the nephews and nieces. 'Tis for you to brandish the sword of Mars.\nAs for me, I look forward to a quiet life: a quiet little home, a quiet\nlittle library full of books, and a little Some one dulce ridentem,\ndulce loquentem, on t'other side of the fire, as I scribble away at my\npapers. I am so pleased with this prospect, so utterly contented and\nhappy, that I feel afraid as I think of it, lest it should escape me;\nand, even to my dearest Hal, am shy of speaking of my happiness. What is\nambition to me, with this certainty? What do I care for wars, with this\nbeatific peace smiling near?\n\n\"Our mother's friend, Mynheer Van den Bosch, has been away on a tour to\ndiscover his family in Holland, and, strange to say, has found one. Miss\n(who was intended by maternal solicitude to be a wife for your worship)\nhas had six months at Kensington School, and is coming out with a\nhundred pretty accomplishments, which are to complete her a perfect\nfine lady. Her papa brought her to make a curtsey in Dean Street, and\na mighty elegant curtsey she made. Though she is scarce seventeen,\nno dowager of sixty can be more at her ease. She conversed with Aunt\nLambert on an equal footing; she treated the girls as chits--to Hetty's\nwrath and Theo's amusement. She talked politics with the General, and\nthe last routs, dresses, operas, fashions, scandal, with such perfect\nease that, but for a blunder or two, you might have fancied Miss Lydia\nwas born in Mayfair. At the Court end of the town she will live, she\nsays; and has no patience with her father, who has a lodging in Monument\nYard. For those who love a brown beauty, a prettier little mignonne\ncreature cannot be seen. But my taste, you know, dearest brother,\nand...\"\n\n\nHere follows a page of raptures and quotations of verse, which, out of\na regard for the reader, and the writer's memory, the editor of the\npresent pages declines to reprint. Gentlemen and ladies of a certain age\nmay remember the time when they indulged in these rapturous follies\non their own accounts; when the praises of the charmer were for ever\nwarbling from their lips or trickling from their pens; when the flowers\nof life were in full bloom, and all the birds of spring were singing.\nThe twigs are now bare, perhaps, and the leaves have fallen; but, for\nall that, shall we not,--remember the vernal time? As for you, young\npeople, whose May (or April, is it?) has not commenced yet, you need not\nbe detained over other folks' love-rhapsodies; depend on it, when your\nspring-season arrives, kindly Nature will warm all your flowers into\nbloom, and rouse your glad bosoms to pour out their full song.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIX. A Little Innocent\n\n\nGeorge Warrington has mentioned in the letter just quoted, that in spite\nof my Lord Castlewood's previous play transactions with Harry, my lord\nand George remained friends, and met on terms of good kinsmanship. Did\nGeorge want franks, or an introduction at court, or a place in the House\nof Lords to hear a debate, his cousin was always ready to serve him,\nwas a pleasant and witty companion, and would do anything which might\npromote his relative's interests, provided his own were not prejudiced.\n\nNow he even went so far as to promise that he would do his best with the\npeople in power to provide a place for Mr. George Warrington, who daily\nshowed a greater disinclination to return to his native country, and\nplace himself once more under the maternal servitude. George had not\nmerely a sentimental motive for remaining in England: the pursuits and\nsociety of London pleased him infinitely better than any which he could\nhave at home. A planter's life of idleness might have suited him, could\nhe have enjoyed independence with it. But in Virginia he was only the\nfirst, and, as he thought, the worst treated, of his mother's subjects.\nHe dreaded to think of returning with his young bride to his home, and\nof the life which she would be destined to lead there. Better freedom\nand poverty in England, with congenial society, and a hope perchance of\nfuture distinction, than the wearisome routine of home life, the tedious\nsubordination, the frequent bickerings, the certain jealousies and\ndifferences of opinion, to which he must subject his wife so soon as\nthey turned their faces homeward.\n\nSo Lord Castlewood's promise to provide for George was very eagerly\naccepted by the Virginian. My lord had not provided very well for\nhis own brother to be sure, and his own position, peer as he was, was\nanything but enviable; but we believe what we wish to believe, and\nGeorge Warrington chose to put great stress upon his kinsman's offer\nof patronage. Unlike the Warrington family, Lord Castlewood was quite\ngracious when he was made acquainted with George's engagement to Miss\nLambert; came to wait upon her parents; praised George to them and the\nyoung lady to George, and made himself so prodigiously agreeable in\ntheir company that these charitable folk forgot his bad reputation, and\nthought it must be a very wicked and scandalous world which maligned\nhim. He said, indeed, that he was improved in their society, as every\nman must be who came into it. Among them he was witty, lively, good for\nthe time being. He left his wickedness and worldliness with his cloak\nin the hall, and only put them on again when he stepped into his chair.\nWhat worldling on life's voyage does not know of some such harbour of\nrest and calm, some haven where he puts in out of the storm? Very likely\nLord Castlewood was actually better whilst he stayed with those good\npeople, and for the time being at least no hypocrite.\n\nAnd, I dare say, the Lambert elders thought no worse of his lordship for\nopenly proclaiming his admiration for Miss Theo. It was quite genuine,\nand he did not profess it was very deep.\n\n\"It don't affect my sleep, and I am not going to break my heart because\nMiss Lambert prefers somebody else,\" he remarked. Only I wish when I was\na young man, madam, I had had the good fortune to meet with somebody so\ninnocent and good as your daughter. I might have been kept out of a deal\nof harm's way: but innocent and good young women did not fall into mine,\nor they would have made me better than I am.\"\n\n\"Sure, my lord, it is not too late!\" says Mrs. Lambert, very softly.\n\nCastlewood started back, misunderstanding her.\n\n\"Not too late, madam?\" he inquired.\n\nShe blushed. \"It is too late to court my dear daughter, my lord, but not\ntoo late to repent. We read, 'tis never too late to do that. If others\nhave been received at the eleventh hour, is there any reason why you\nshould give up hope?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I know my own heart better than you,\" he says in a plaintive\ntone. \"I can speak French and German very well, and why? because I was\ntaught both in the nursery. A man who learns them late can never get the\npractice of them on his tongue. And so 'tis the case with goodness, I\ncan't learn it at my age. I can only see others practise it, and admire\nthem. When I am on--on the side opposite to Lazarus, will Miss Theo give\nme a drop of water? Don't frown! I know I shall be there, Mrs. Lambert.\nSome folks are doomed so; and I think some of our family are amongst\nthese. Some people are vacillating, and one hardly knows which way\nthe scale will turn. Whereas some are predestined angels, and fly\nHeavenwards naturally, and do what they will.\"\n\n\"Oh, my lord, and why should you not be of the predestined? Whilst there\nis a day left--whilst there is an hour--there is hope!\" says the fond\nmatron.\n\n\"I know what is passing in your mind, my dear madam--nay, I read your\nprayers in your looks; but how can they avail?\" Lord Castlewood asked\nsadly. \"You don't know all, my good lady. You don't know what a life\nours is of the world; how early it began; how selfish Nature, and then\nnecessity and education, have made us. It is Fate holds the reins of\nthe chariot, and we can't escape our doom. I know better: I see better\npeople: I go my own way. My own? No, not mine--Fate's: and it is not\naltogether without pity for us, since it allows us, from time to time,\nto see such people as you.\" And he took her hand and looked her full\nin the face, and bowed with a melancholy grace. Every word he said\nwas true. No greater error than to suppose that weak and bad men are\nstrangers to good feelings, or deficient of sensibility. Only the\ngood feeling does not last--nay, the tears are a kind of debauch of\nsentiment, as old libertines are said to find that the tears and grief\nof their victims add a zest to their pleasure. But Mrs. Lambert knew\nlittle of what was passing in this man's mind (how should she?), and\nso prayed for him with the fond persistence of woman. He was much\nbetter--yes, much better than he was supposed to be. He was a most\ninteresting man. There were hopes, why should there not be the most\nprecious hopes for him still?\n\nIt remains to be seen which of the two speakers formed the correct\nestimate of my lord's character. Meanwhile, if the gentleman was\nright, the lady was mollified, and her kind wishes and prayers for\nthis experienced sinner's repentance, if they were of no avail for his\namendment, at least could do him no harm. Kind-souled doctors (and what\ngood woman is not of the faculty?) look after a reprobate as physicians\nafter a perilous case. When the patient is converted to health their\ninterest ceases in him, and they drive to feel pulses and prescribe\nmedicines elsewhere.\n\nBut, while the malady was under treatment, our kind lady could not see\ntoo much of her sick man. Quite an intimacy sprung up between my Lord\nCastlewood and the Lamberts. I am not sure that some worldly views might\nnot suit even with good Mrs. Lambert's spiritual plans (for who\nknows into what pure Eden, though guarded by flaming-sworded angels,\nworldliness will not creep?). Her son was about to take orders. My Lord\nCastlewood feared very much that his present chaplain's, Mr. Sampson's,\ncareless life and heterodox conversations might lead him to give up his\nchaplaincy: in which case, my lord hinted the little modest cure would\nbe vacant, and at the service of some young divine of good principles\nand good manners, who would be content with a small stipend, and a small\nbut friendly congregation.\n\nThus an acquaintance was established between the two families, and the\nladies of Castlewood, always on their good behaviour, came more than\nonce to make their curtseys in Mrs. Lambert's drawing-room. They were\ncivil to the parents and the young ladies. My Lady Castlewood's card\nassemblies were open to Mrs. Lambert and her family. There was play,\ncertainly--all the world played--his Majesty, the Bishops, every Peer\nand Peeress in the land. But nobody need play who did not like; and\nsurely nobody need have scruples regarding the practice, when such\naugust and venerable personages were daily found to abet it. More than\nonce Mrs. Lambert made her appearance at her ladyship's routs, and\nwas grateful for the welcome which she received, and pleased with the\nadmiration which her daughters excited.\n\nMention has been made, in a foregoing page and letter, of an American\nfamily of Dutch extraction, who had come to England very strongly\nrecommended by Madam Esmond, their Virginian neighbour, to her sons in\nEurope. The views expressed in Madam Esmond's letter were so clear, that\nthat arch match-maker, Mrs. Lambert, could not but understand them. As\nfor George, he was engaged already; as for poor Hetty's flame, Harry, he\nwas gone on service, for which circumstance Hetty's mother was not very\nsorry perhaps. She laughingly told George that he ought to obey his\nmamma's injunctions, break off his engagement with Theo, and make up to\nMiss Lydia, who was ten times--ten times! a hundred times as rich as\nher poor girl, and certainly much handsomer. \"Yes, indeed,\" says George,\n\"that I own: she is handsomer, and she is richer, and perhaps even\ncleverer.\" (All which praises Mrs. Lambert but half liked.) \"But say\nshe is all these? So is Mr. Johnson much cleverer than I am: so is, whom\nshall we say?--so is Mr. Hagan the actor much taller and handsomer: so\nis Sir James Lowther much richer: yet pray, ma'am, do you suppose I am\ngoing to be jealous of any one of these three, or think my Theo would\njilt me for their sakes? Why should I not allow that Miss Lydia is\nhandsomer, then? and richer, and clever, too, and lively, and well bred,\nif you insist on it, and an angel if you will have it so? Theo is not\nafraid: art thou, child?\"\n\n\"No, George,\" says Theo, with such an honest look of the eyes as would\nconvince any scepticism, or shame any jealousy. And if, after this pair\nof speeches, mamma takes occasion to leave the room for a minute to\nfetch her scissors, or her thimble, or a bootjack and slippers, or the\ncross and ball on the top of St. Paul's, or her pocket-handkerchief\nwhich she has forgotten in the parlour--if, I say, Mrs. Lambert quits\nthe room on any errand or pretext, natural or preposterous, I shall not\nbe in the least surprised, if, at her return in a couple of minutes, she\nfinds George in near proximity to Theo, who has a heightened colour, and\nwhose hand George is just dropping--I shall not have the least idea of\nwhat they have been doing. Have you, madam? Have you any remembrance of\nwhat used to happen when Mr. Grundy came a-courting? Are you, who, after\nall, were not in the room with our young people, going to cry out fie\nand for shame? Then fie and for shame upon you, Mrs. Grundy!\n\nWell, Harry being away, and Theo and George irrevocably engaged, so\nthat there was no possibility of bringing Madam Esmond's little plans to\nbear, why should not Mrs. Lambert have plans of her own; and if a rich,\nhandsome, beautiful little wife should fall in his way, why should\nnot Jack Lambert from Oxford have her? So thinks mamma, who was always\nthinking of marrying and giving in marriage, and so she prattles to\nGeneral Lambert, who, as usual, calls her a goose for her pains. At any\nrate, Mrs. Lambert says beauty and riches are no objection; at any rate,\nMadam Esmond desired that this family should be hospitably entertained,\nand it was not her fault that Harry was gone away to Canada. Would\nthe General wish him to come back; leave the army and his reputation,\nperhaps; yes, and come to England and marry this American, and break\npoor Hetty's heart--would her father wish that? Let us spare further\narguments, and not be so rude as to hint that Mr. Lambert was in the\nright in calling a fond wife by the name of that absurd splay-footed\nbird, annually sacrificed at the Feast of St. Michael.\n\nIn those early days, there were vast distinctions of rank drawn between\nthe court and city people: and Mr. Van den Bosch, when he first came\nto London, scarcely associated with any but the latter sort. He had a\nlodging near his agent's in the city. When his pretty girl came from\nschool for a holiday, he took her an airing to Islington or Highgate, or\nan occasional promenade in the Artillery Ground in Bunhill Fields. They\nwent to that Baptist meeting-house in Finsbury Fields, and on the sly\nto see Mr. Garrick once or twice, or that funny rogue Mr. Foote, at\nthe Little Theatre. To go to a Lord Mayor's feast was a treat to the\ngentleman of the highest order: and to dance with a young mercer at\nHampstead Assembly. gave the utmost delight to the young lady. When\nGeorge first went to wait upon his mother's friends, he found our old\nacquaintance, Mr. Draper, of the Temple, sedulous in his attentions to\nher; and the lawyer, who was married, told Mr. Warrington to look out,\nas the young lady had a plumb to her fortune. Mr. Drabshaw, a young\nQuaker gentleman, and nephew of Mr. Trail, Madam Esmond's Bristol agent,\nwas also in constant attendance upon the young lady, and in dreadful\nalarm and suspicion when Mr. Warrington first made his appearance.\nWishing to do honour to his mother's neighbours, Mr. Warrington invited\nthem to an entertainment at his own apartments; and who should so\nnaturally meet them as his friends from Soho? Not one of them but was\nforced to own little Miss Lydia's beauty. She had the foot of a fairy:\nthe arms, neck, flashing eyes of a little brown huntress of Diana. She\nhad brought a little plaintive accent from home with her--of which I,\nmoi qui vous parle, have heard a hundred gross Cockney imitations, and\nwatched as many absurd disguises, and which I say (in moderation)\nis charming in the mouth of a charming woman. Who sets up to say No,\nforsooth? You dear Miss Whittington, with whose h's fate has dealt so\nunkindly?--you lovely Miss Nicol Jarvie, with your northern burr?--you\nbeautiful Miss Molony, with your Dame Street warble? All accents are\npretty from pretty lips, and who shall set the standard up? Shall it be\na rose, or a thistle, or a shamrock, or a star and stripe? As for Miss\nLydia's accent, I have no doubt it was not odious even from the first\nday when she set foot on these polite shores, otherwise Mr. Warrington,\nas a man of taste, had certainly disapproved of her manner of talking,\nand her schoolmistress at Kensington had not done her duty by her pupil.\n\nAfter the six months were over, during which, according to her father's\ncalculation, she was to learn all the accomplishments procurable at the\nKensington Academy, Miss Lydia returned nothing loth to her grandfather,\nand took her place in the world. A narrow world at first it was to her;\nbut she was a resolute little person, and resolved to enlarge her\nsphere in society; and whither she chose to lead the way, the obedient\ngrandfather followed her. He had been thwarted himself in early life, he\nsaid, and little good came of the severity he underwent. He had thwarted\nhis own son, who had turned out but ill. As for little Lyddy, he was\ndetermined she should have as pleasant a life as was possible. Did not\nMr. George think he was right? 'Twas said in Virginia--he did not\nknow with what reason--that the young gentlemen of Castlewood had been\nhappier if Madam Esmond had allowed them a little of their own way.\nGeorge could not gainsay this public rumour, or think of inducing\nthe benevolent old gentleman to alter his plans respecting his\ngranddaughter. As for the Lambert family, how could they do otherwise\nthan welcome the kind old man, the parent so tender and liberal, Madam\nEsmond's good friend?\n\nWhen Miss came from school, grandpapa removed from Monument Yard to\nan elegant house in Bloomsbury; whither they were followed at first by\ntheir city friends. There were merchants from Virginia Walk; there were\nworthy tradesmen, with whom the worthy old merchant had dealings; there\nwere their ladies and daughters and sons, who were all highly gracious\nto Miss Lyddy. It would be a long task to describe how these disappeared\none by one--how there were no more junketings at Belsize, or trips\nto Highgate, or Saturday jaunts to Deputy Higgs' villa, Highbury, or\ncountry-dances at honest Mr. Lutestring's house at Hackney. Even the\nSunday practice was changed; and, oh, abomination of abominations! Mr.\nVan den Bosch left Bethesda Chapel in Bunhill Row, and actually took a\npew in Queen Square Church!\n\nQueen Square Church, and Mr. George Warrington lived hard by in\nSouthampton Row! 'Twas easy to see at whom Miss Lyddy was setting her\ncap, and Mr. Draper, who had been full of her and her grandfather's\npraises before, now took occasion to warn Mr. George, and gave him very\ndifferent reports regarding Mr. Van den Bosch to those which had\nfirst been current. Mr. Van d. B., for all he bragged so of his Dutch\nparentage, came from Albany, and was nobody's son at all. He had made\nhis money by land speculation, or by privateering (which was uncommonly\nlike piracy), and by the Guinea trade. His son had married--if marriage\nit could be called, which was very doubtful--an assigned servant, and\nhad been cut off by his father, and had taken to bad courses, and had\ndied, luckily for himself, in his own bed.\n\n\"Mr. Draper has told you bad tales about me,\" said the placid old\ngentleman to George. \"Very likely we are all sinners, and some evil may\nbe truly said of all of us, with a great deal more that is untrue. Did\nhe tell you that my son was unhappy with me? I told you so too. Did he\nbring you wicked stories about my family? He liked it so well that he\nwanted to marry my Lyddy to his brother. Heaven bless her! I have had a\nmany offers for her. And you are the young gentleman I should have chose\nfor her, and I like you none the worse because you prefer somebody else;\nthough what you can see in your Miss, as compared to my Lyddy, begging\nyour honour's pardon, I am at a loss to understand.\"\n\n\"There is no accounting for tastes, my good sir,\" said Mr. George, with\nhis most superb air.\n\n\"No, sir; 'tis a wonder of nature, and daily happens. When I kept store\nto Albany, there was one of your tiptop gentry there that might have\nmarried my dear daughter that was alive then, and with a pretty piece\nof money, whereby--for her father and I had quarrelled--Miss Lyddy would\nhave been a pauper, you see: and in place of my beautiful Bella, my\ngentleman chooses a little homely creature, no prettier than your Miss,\nand without a dollar to her fortune. The more fool he, saving your\npresence, Mr. George.\"\n\n\"Pray don't save my presence, my good sir,\" says George, laughing. \"I\nsuppose the gentleman's word was given to the other lady, and he had\nseen her first, and hence was indifferent to your charming daughter.\"\n\n\"I suppose when a young fellow gives his word to perform a cursed piece\nof folly, he always sticks to it, my dear sir, begging your pardon. But\nLord, Lord, what am I speaking of? I am aspeaking of twenty year ago. I\nwas well-to-do then, but I may say Heaven has blessed my store, and I am\nthree times as well off now. Ask my agents how much they will give for\nJoseph Van den Bosch's bill at six months on New York--or at sight may\nbe for forty thousand pound? I warrant they will discount the paper.\"\n\n\"Happy he who has the bill, sir!\" says George, with a bow, not a little\namused with the candour of the old gentleman.\n\n\"Lord, Lord, how mercenary you young men are!\" cries the elder, simply.\n\"Always thinking about money nowadays! Happy he who has the girl, I\nshould say--the money ain't the question, my dear sir, when it goes\nalong with such a lovely young thing as that--though I humbly say it,\nwho oughtn't, and who am her fond silly old grandfather. We were talking\nabout you, Lyddy darling--come, give me a kiss, my blessing! We were\ntalking about you, and Mr. George said he wouldn't take you with all the\nmoney your poor old grandfather can give you.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" says George.\n\n\"Well, you are right to say nay, for I didn't say all, that's the truth.\nMy Blessing will have a deal more than that trifle I spoke of, when it\nshall please Heaven to remove me out of this world to a better--when\npoor old Gappy is gone, Lyddy will be a rich little Lyddy, that she\nwill. But she don't wish me to go yet, does she?\"\n\n\"Oh, you darling dear grandpapa!\" says Lyddy.\n\n\"This young gentleman won't have you.\" (Lyddy looks an arch \"Thank you,\nsir,\" from her brown eyes.) \"But at any rate he is honest, and that\nis more than we can say of some folks in this wicked London. Oh, Lord,\nLord, how mercenary they are! Do you know that yonder, in Monument Yard,\nthey were all at my poor little Blessing for her money? There was\nTom Lutestring; there was Mr. Draper, your precious lawyer; there was\nactually Mr. Tubbs, of Bethesda Chapel; and they must all come buzzing\nlike flies round the honey-pot. That is why we came out of the quarter\nwhere my brother-tradesmen live.\"\n\n\"To avoid the flies,--to be sure!\" says Miss Lydia, tossing up her\nlittle head.\n\n\"Where my brother-tradesmen live,\" continues the old gentleman. \"Else\nwho am I to think of consorting with your grandees and fine folk? I\ndon't care for the fashions, Mr. George; I don't care for plays and\npoetry, begging your honour's pardon; I never went to a play in my life,\nbut to please this little minx.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, 'twas lovely! and I cried so, didn't I, grandpapa?\" says the\nchild.\n\n\"At what, my dear?\"\n\n\"At--at Mr. Warrington's play, grandpapa.\"\n\n\"Did you, my dear? I dare say; I dare say! It was mail day: and my\nletters had come in: and my ship the Lovely Lyddy had just come into\nFalmouth; and Captain Joyce reported how he had mercifully escaped a\nFrench privateer; and my head was so full of thanks for that escape,\nwhich saved me a deal of money, Mr. George--for the rate at which ships\nis underwrote this war-time is so scandalous that I often prefer to\nventure than to insure--that I confess I didn't listen much to the play,\nsir, and only went to please this little Lyddy.\"\n\n\"And you did please me, dearest Gappy!\" cries the young lady.\n\n\"Bless you! then it's all I want. What does a man want more here below\nthan to please his children, Mr. George? especially me, who knew what\nwas to be unhappy when I was young, and to repent of having treated this\ndarling's father too hard.\"\n\n\"Oh, grandpapa!\" cries the child, with more caresses.\n\n\"Yes, I was too hard with him, dear; and that's why I spoil my little\nLydkin so!\"\n\nMore kisses ensue between Lyddy and Gappy. The little creature flings\nthe pretty polished arms round the old man's neck, presses the dark red\nlips on his withered cheek, surrounds the venerable head with a halo of\npowder beaten out of his wig by her caresses; and eyes Mr. George the\nwhile, as much as to say, There, sir! should you not like me to do as\nmuch for you?\n\nWe confess;--but do we confess all? George certainly told the story of\nhis interview with Lyddy and Gappy, and the old man's news regarding his\ngranddaughter's wealth; but I don't think he told everything; else Theo\nwould scarce have been so much interested, or so entirely amused and\ngood-humoured with Lyddy when next the two young ladies met.\n\nThey met now pretty frequently, especially after the old American\ngentleman took up his residence in Bloomsbury. Mr. Van den Bosch was\nin the city for the most part of the day, attending to his affairs, and\nappearing at his place upon 'Change. During his absence Lyddy had the\ncommand of the house, and received her guests there like a lady, or rode\nabroad in a fine coach, which she ordered her grandpapa to keep for her,\nand into which he could very seldom be induced to set his foot. Before\nlong Miss Lyddy was as easy in the coach as if she had ridden in one\nall her life. She ordered the domestics here and there; she drove to the\nmercer's and the jeweller's, and she called upon her friends with the\nutmost stateliness, or rode abroad with them to take the air. Theo and\nHetty were both greatly diverted with her: but would the elder have been\nquite as well pleased had she known all Miss Lyddy's doings? Not that\nTheo was of a jealous disposition,--far otherwise; but there are cases\nwhen a lady has a right to a little jealousy, as I maintain, whatever my\nfair readers may say to the contrary.\n\nIt was because she knew he was engaged, very likely, that Miss Lyddy\npermitted herself to speak so frankly in Mr. George's praise. When they\nwere alone--and this blessed chance occurred pretty often at Mr. Van den\nBosch's house, for we have said he was constantly absent on one errand\nor the other--it was wonderful how artlessly the little creature would\nshow her enthusiasm, asking him all sorts of simple questions about\nhimself, his genius, his way of life at home and in London, his projects\nof marriage, and so forth.\n\n\"I am glad you are going to be married, oh, so glad!\" she would say,\nheaving the most piteous sigh the while; \"for I can talk to you frankly,\nquite frankly as a brother, and not be afraid of that odious politeness\nabout which they were always scolding me at boarding-school. I may speak\nto you frankly; and if I like you, I may say so, mayn't I, Mr. George?\"\n\n\"Pray, say so,\" says George, with a bow and a smile. \"That is a kind of\ntalk which most men delight to hear, especially from such pretty lips as\nMiss Lydia's.\"\n\n\"What do you know about my lips?\" says the girl, with a pout and an\ninnocent look into his face.\n\n\"What, indeed?\" asks George. \"Perhaps I should like to know a great deal\nmore.\"\n\n\"They don't tell nothin' but truth, anyhow!\" says the girl; \"that's why\nsome people don't like them! If I have anything on my mind, it must\ncome out. I am a country-bred girl, I am--with my heart in my mouth--all\nhonesty and simplicity; not like your English girls, who have learned I\ndon't know what at their boarding-schools, and from the men afterwards.\"\n\n\"Our girls are monstrous little hypocrites, indeed!\" cries George.\n\n\"You are thinking of Miss Lamberts? and I might have thought of them;\nbut I declare I did not then. They have been at boarding-school; they\nhave been in the world a great deal--so much the greater pity for them,\nfor be certain they learned no good there. And now I have said so, of\ncourse you will go and tell Miss Theo, won't you, sir?\"\n\n\"That she has learned no good in the world? She has scarce spoken to men\nat all, except her father, her brother, and me. Which of us would teach\nher any wrong, think you?\"\n\n\"Oh, not you! Though I can understand its being very dangerous to be\nwith you!\" says the girl, with a sigh.\n\n\"Indeed there is no danger, and I don't bite!\" says George, laughing.\n\n\"I didn't say bite,\" says the girl, softly. \"There's other things\ndangerous besides biting, I should think. Aren't you very witty? Yes,\nand sarcastic, and clever, and always laughing at people? Haven't you\na coaxing tongue? If you was to look at me in that kind of way, I don't\nknow what would come to me. Was your brother like you, as I was to have\nmarried? Was he as clever and witty as you? I have heard he was like\nyou: but he hadn't your coaxing tongue. Heigho! 'Tis well you are\nengaged, Master George, that is all. Do you think if you had seen me\nfirst, you would have liked Miss Theo best?\"\n\n\"They say marriages were made in Heaven, my dear, and let us trust that\nmine has been arranged there,\" says George.\n\n\"I suppose there was no such thing never known, as a man having two\nsweethearts?\" asks the artless little maiden. \"Guess it's a pity. O me!\nWhat nonsense I'm a-talking; there now! I'm like the little girl who\ncried for the moon; and I can't have it. 'Tis too high for me--too\nhigh and splendid and shining: can't reach up to it nohow. Well, what\na foolish, wayward, little spoilt thing I am now! But one thing you\npromise.-on your word and your honour, now, Mr. George?\"\n\n\"And what is that?\"\n\n\"That you won't tell Miss Theo, else she'll hate me.\"\n\n\"Why should she hate you?\"\n\n\"Because I hate her, and wish she was dead!\" breaks out the young lady.\nAnd the eyes that were looking so gentle and lachrymose but now, flame\nwith sudden wrath, and her cheeks flush up. \"For shame!\" she adds, after\na pause. \"I'm a little fool to speak! But whatever is in my heart must\ncome out. I am a girl of the woods, I am. I was bred where the sun is\nhotter than in this foggy climate. And I am not like your cold English\ngirls; who, before they speak, or think, or feel, must wait for mamma to\ngive leave. There, there! I may be a little fool for saying what I have.\nI know you'll go and tell Miss Lambert. Well, do!\"\n\nBut, as we have said, George didn't tell Miss Lambert. Even from the\nbeloved person there must be some things kept secret; even to himself,\nperhaps, he did not quite acknowledge what was the meaning of the little\ngirl's confession; or, if he acknowledged it, did not act on it; except\nin so far as this, perhaps, that my gentleman, in Miss Lydia's presence,\nwas particularly courteous and tender; and in her absence thought of her\nvery kindly, and always with a certain pleasure. It were hard, indeed,\nif a man might not repay by a little kindness and gratitude the artless\naffection of such a warm young heart.\n\nWhat was that story meanwhile which came round to our friends, of young\nMr. Lutestring and young Mr. Drabshaw the Quaker having a boxing-match\nat a tavern in the city, and all about this young lady? They fell\nout over their cups, and fought probably. Why did Mr. Draper, who had\npraised her so at first, tell such stories now against her grandfather?\n\"I suspect,\" says Madame de Bernstein, \"that he wants the girl for some\nclient or relation of his own; and that he tells these tales in order to\nfrighten all suitors from her. When she and her grandfather came to me,\nshe behaved perfectly well; and I confess, sir, I thought it was a great\npity that you should prefer yonder red-cheeked countrified little chit,\nwithout a halfpenny, to this pretty, wild, artless girl, with such a\nfortune as I hear she has.\"\n\n\"Oh, she has been with you, has she, aunt?\" asks George of his relative.\n\n\"Of course she has been with me,\" the other replies, curtly. \"Unless\nyour brother has been so silly as to fall in love with that other little\nLambert girl----\"\n\n\"Indeed, ma'am, I think I can say he has not,\" George remarks.\n\n\"Why, then, when he comes back with Mr. Wolfe, should he not take\na fancy to this little person, as his mamma wishes--only, to do us\njustice, we Esmonds care very little for what our mammas wish--and marry\nher, and set up beside you in Virginia? She is to have a great fortune,\nwhich you won't touch. Pray, why should it go out of the family?\"\n\nGeorge now learned that Mr. Van den Bosch and his granddaughter had been\noften at Madame de Bernstein's house. Taking his favourite walk with his\nfavourite companion to Kensington Gardens, he saw Mr. Van den Bosch's\nchariot turning into Kensington Square. The Americans were going to\nvisit Lady Castlewood, then? He found, on some little inquiry, that they\nhad been more than once with her ladyship. It was, perhaps, strange\nthat they should have said nothing of their visits to George; but, being\nlittle curious of other people's affairs, and having no intrigues or\nmysteries of his own, George was quite slow to imagine them in\nother people. What mattered to him how often Kensington entertained\nBloomsbury, or Bloomsbury made its bow at Kensington?\n\nA number of things were happening at both places, of which our Virginian\nhad not the slightest idea. Indeed, do not things happen under our eyes,\nand we not see them? Are not comedies and tragedies daily performed\nbefore us of which we understand neither the fun nor the pathos? Very\nlikely George goes home thinking to himself, \"I have made an impression\non the heart of this young creature. She has almost confessed as much.\nPoor artless little maiden! I wonder what there is in me that she should\nlike me?\" Can he be angry with her for this unlucky preference? Was ever\na man angry at such a reason? He would not have been so well pleased,\nperhaps, had he known all; and that he was only one of the performers\nin the comedy, not the principal character by any means; Rosencrantz and\nGuildenstern in the Tragedy, the part of Hamlet by a gentleman unknown.\nHow often are our little vanities shocked in this way, and subjected to\nwholesome humiliation! Have you not fancied that Lucinda's eyes beamed\non you with a special tenderness, and presently become aware that she\nogles your neighbour with the very same killing glances? Have you not\nexchanged exquisite whispers with Lalage at the dinner-table (sweet\nmurmurs heard through the hum of the guests, and clatter of the\nbanquet!) and then overheard her whispering the very same delicious\nphrases to old Surdus in the drawing-room? The sun shines for everybody;\nthe flowers smell sweet for all noses; and the nightingale and Lalage\nwarble for all ears--not your long ones only, good Brother!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXX. In which Cupid plays a Considerable Part\n\n\nWe must now, however, and before we proceed with the history of Miss\nLydia and her doings, perform the duty of explaining that sentence\nin Mr. Warrington's letter to his brother which refers to Lady Maria\nEsmond, and which, to some simple readers, may be still mysterious.\nFor how, indeed, could well-regulated persons divine such a secret?\nHow could innocent and respectable young people suppose that a woman of\nnoble birth, of ancient family, of mature experience,--a woman whom we\nhave seen exceedingly in love only a score of months ago,--should so\nfar forget herself as (oh, my very finger-tips blush as I write the\nsentence!)--as not only to fall in love with a person of low origin, and\nvery many years her junior, but actually to marry him in the face of\nthe world? That is, not exactly in the face, but behind the back of the\nworld, so to speak; for Parson Sampson privily tied the indissoluble\nknot for the pair at his chapel in Mayfair.\n\nNow stop before you condemn her utterly. Because Lady Maria had had, and\novercome, a foolish partiality for her young cousin, was that any reason\nwhy she should never fall in love with anybody else? Are men to have\nthe sole privilege of change, and are women to be rebuked for availing\nthemselves now and again of their little chance of consolation? No\ninvectives can be more rude, gross, and unphilosophical than, for\ninstance, Hamlet's to his mother about her second marriage. The truth,\nvery likely, is, that that tender, parasitic creature wanted a something\nto cling to, and, Hamlet senior out of the way, twined herself round\nClaudius. Nay, we have known females so bent on attaching themselves,\nthat they can twine round two gentlemen at once. Why, forsooth, shall\nthere not be marriage-tables after funeral baked-meats? If you said\ngrace for your feast yesterday, is that any reason why you shall not be\nhungry to-day? Your natural fine appetite and relish for this evening's\nfeast, shows that to-morrow evening at eight o'clock you will most\nprobably be in want of your dinner. I, for my part, when Flirtilla or\nJiltissa were partial to me (the kind reader will please to fancy that\nI am alluding here to persons of the most ravishing beauty and lofty\nrank), always used to bear in mind that a time would come when they\nwould be fond of somebody else. We are served a la Russe, and gobbled up\na dish at a time, like the folks in Polyphemus's cave. 'Tis hodie mihi,\ncras tibi: there are some Anthropophagi who devour dozens of us, the\nold, the young, the tender, the tough, the plump, the lean, the ugly,\nthe beautiful: there's no escape, and one after another, as our fate is,\nwe disappear down their omnivorous maws. Look at Lady Ogresham! We all\nremember, last year, how she served poor Tom Kydd: seized upon him,\ndevoured him, picked his bones, and flung them away. Now it is Ned\nSuckling she has got into her den. He lies under her great eyes,\nquivering and fascinated. Look at the poor little trepid creature,\npanting and helpless under the great eyes! She trails towards him nearer\nand nearer; he draws to her, closer and closer. Presently there will\nbe one or two feeble squeaks for pity, and--hobblegobble--he will\ndisappear! Ah me! it is pity, too. I knew, for instance, that Maria\nEsmond had lost her heart ever so many times before Harry Warrington\nfound it; but I like to fancy that he was going to keep it; that,\nbewailing mischance and times out of joint, she would yet have preserved\nher love, and fondled it in decorous celibacy. If, in some paroxysm of\nsenile folly, I should fall in love to-morrow, I shall still try and\nthink I have acquired the fee-simple of my charmer's heart;--not that\nI am only a tenant, on a short lease, of an old battered furnished\napartment, where the dingy old wine-glasses have been clouded by scores\nof pairs of lips, and the tumbled old sofas are muddy with the last\nlodger's boots. Dear, dear nymph! Being beloved and beautiful! Suppose I\nhad a little passing passion for Glycera (and her complexion really\nwas as pure as splendent Parian marble); suppose you had a fancy for\nTelephus, and his low collars and absurd neck;--those follies are all\nover now, aren't they? We love each other for good now, don't we? Yes,\nfor ever; and Glycera may go to Bath, and Telephus take his cervicem\nroseam to Jack Ketch, n'est-ce pas?\n\nNo. We never think of changing, my dear. However winds blow, or time\nflies, or spoons stir, our potage, which is now so piping hot, will\nnever get cold. Passing fancies we may have allowed ourselves in former\ndays; and really your infatuation for Telephus (don't frown so, my\ndarling creature! and make the wrinkles in your forehead worse)--I\nsay, really it was the talk of the whole town; and as for Glycera, she\nbehaved confoundedly ill to me. Well, well, now that we understand each\nother, it is for ever that our hearts are united, and we can look at Sir\nCresswell Cresswell, and snap our fingers at his wig. But this Maria of\nthe last century was a woman of an ill-regulated mind. You, my love, who\nknow the world, know that in the course of this lady's career a great\ndeal must have passed that would not bear the light, or edify in the\ntelling. You know (not, my dear creature, that I mean you have any\nexperience; but you have heard people say--you have heard your mother\nsay) that an old flirt, when she has done playing the fool with\none passion, will play the fool with another; that flirting is like\ndrinking; and the brandy being drunk up, you--no, not you--Glycera--the\nbrandy being drunk up, Glycera, who has taken to drinking, will fall\nupon the gin. So, if Maria Esmond has found a successor for Harry\nWarrington, and set up a new sultan in the precious empire of her heart,\nwhat, after all, could you expect from her? That territory was like\nthe Low Countries, accustomed to being conquered, and for ever open to\ninvasion.\n\nAnd Maria's present enslaver was no other than Mr. Geoghegan or Hagan,\nthe young actor who had performed in George's tragedy. His tones were so\nthrilling, his eye so bright, his mien so noble, he looked so beautiful\nin his gilt leather armour and large buckled periwig, giving utterance\nto the poet's glowing verses, that the lady's heart was yielded up to\nhim, even as Ariadne's to Bacchus when her affair with Theseus was over.\nThe young Irishman was not a little touched and elated by the highborn\ndamsel's partiality for him. He might have preferred a Lady Maria\nHagan more tender in years, but one more tender in disposition it were\ndifficult to discover. She clung to him closely, indeed. She retired to\nhis humble lodgings in Westminster with him, when it became necessary to\ndisclose their marriage, and when her furious relatives disowned her.\n\nGeneral Lambert brought the news home from his office in Whitehall one\nday, and made merry over it with his family. In those homely times a\njoke was none the worse for being a little broad; and a fine lady would\nlaugh at a jolly page of Fielding, and weep over a letter of Clarissa,\nwhich would make your present ladyship's eyes start out of your head\nwith horror. He uttered all sorts of waggeries, did the merry General,\nupon the subject of this marriage; upon George's share in bringing it\nabout; upon Barry's jealousy when he should hear of it, He vowed it was\ncruel that cousin Hagan had not selected George as groomsman; that the\nfirst child should be called Carpezan or Sybilla, after the tragedy, and\nso forth. They would not quite be able to keep a coach, but they might\nget a chariot and pasteboard dragons from Mr. Rich's theatre. The baby\nmight be christened in Macbeth's caldron; and Harry and harlequin ought\ncertainly to be godfathers.\n\n\"Why shouldn't she marry him if she likes him?\" asked little Hetty. \"Why\nshould he not love her because she is a little old? Mamma is a little\nold, and you love her none the worse. When you married my mamma, sir, I\nhave heard you say you were very poor; and yet you were very happy, and\nnobody laughed at you!\" Thus this impudent little person spoke by reason\nof her tender age, not being aware of Lady Maria Esmond's previous\nfollies.\n\nSo her family has deserted her? George described what wrath they were\nin; how Lady Castlewood had gone into mourning; how Mr. Will swore he\nwould have the rascal's ears; how furious Madame de Bernstein was, the\nmost angry of all. \"It is an insult to the family,\" says haughty little\nMiss Hett; \"and I can fancy how ladies of that rank must be indignant at\ntheir relative's marriage with a person of Mr. Hagan's condition; but to\ndesert her is a very different matter.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my dear child,\" cries mamma, \"you are talking of what you don't\nunderstand. After my Lady Maria's conduct, no respectable person can go\nto see her.\"\n\n\"What conduct, mamma?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" cries mamma. \"Little girls can't be expected to know, and\nought not to be too curious to inquire, what Lady Maria's conduct has\nbeen! Suffice it, miss, that I am shocked her ladyship should ever have\nbeen here; and I say again, no honest person should associate with her!\"\n\n\"Then, Aunt Lambert, I must be whipped and sent to bed,\" says George,\nwith mock gravity. \"I own to you (though I did not confess sooner,\nseeing that the affair was not mine) that I have been to see my cousin\nthe player, and her ladyship his wife. I found them in very dirty\nlodgings in Westminster, where the wretch has the shabbiness to keep not\nonly his wife, but his old mother, and a little brother, whom he puts\nto school. I found Mr. Hagan, and came away with a liking, and almost a\nrespect for him, although I own he has made a very improvident marriage.\nBut how improvident some folks are about marriage, aren't they, Theo?\"\n\n\"Improvident, if they marry such spendthrifts as you,\" says the General.\n\"Master George found his relations, and I'll be bound to say he left his\npurse behind him.\"\n\n\"No, not the purse, sir,\" says George, smiling very tenderly. \"Theo made\nthat. But I am bound to own it came empty away. Mr. Rich is in great\ndudgeon. He says he hardly dares have Hagan on his stage, and is afraid\nof a riot, such as Mr. Garrick had about the foreign dancers. This is to\nbe a fine gentleman's riot. The macaronis are furious, and vow they will\npelt Mr. Hagan, and have him cudgelled afterwards. My cousin Will, at\nArthur's, has taken his oath he will have the actor's ears. Meanwhile,\nas the poor man does not play, they have cut off his salary; and without\nhis salary, this luckless pair of lovers have no means to buy bread and\ncheese.\"\n\n\"And you took it to them, sir? It was like you, George!\" says Theo,\nworshipping him with her eyes.\n\n\"It was your purse took it, dear Theo!\" replies George.\n\n\"Mamma, I hope you will go and see them to-morrow!\" prays Theo.\n\n\"If she doesn't, I shall get a divorce, my dear!\" cries papa. \"Come and\nkiss me, you little wench--that is, avec la bonne permission de monsieur\nmon beau-fils.\"\n\n\"Monsieur mon beau fiddlestick, papa!\" says Miss Lambert, and I have\nno doubt complies with the paternal orders. And this was the first time\nGeorge Esmond Warrington, Esquire, was ever called a fiddlestick.\n\nAny man, even in our time, who makes an imprudent marriage, knows how he\nhas to run the gauntlet of the family, and undergo the abuse, the scorn,\nthe wrath, the pity of his relations. If your respectable family cry out\nbecause you marry the curate's daughter, one in ten, let us say, of his\ncharming children; or because you engage yourself to the young barrister\nwhose only present pecuniary resources come from the court which he\nreports, and who will have to pay his Oxford bills out of your slender\nlittle fortune;--if your friends cry out for making such engagements as\nthese, fancy the feelings of Lady Maria Hagan's friends, and even those\nof Mr. Hagan's, on the announcement of this marriage.\n\nThere is old Mrs. Hagan, in the first instance. Her son has kept her\ndutifully and in tolerable comfort, ever since he left Trinity College\nat his father's death, and appeared as Romeo at Crow Street Theatre. His\nsalary has sufficed of late years to keep the brother at school, to help\nthe sister who has gone out as companion, and to provide fire, clothing,\ntea, dinner, and comfort for the old clergyman's widow. And now,\nforsooth, a fine lady, with all sorts of extravagant habits, must come\nand take possession of the humble home, and share the scanty loaf and\nmutton! Were Hagan not a high-spirited fellow, and the old mother very\nmuch afraid of him, I doubt whether my lady's life at the Westminster\nlodgings would be very comfortable. It was very selfish perhaps to take\na place at that small table, and in poor Hagan's narrow bed. But Love in\nsome passionate and romantic dispositions never regards consequences, or\nmeasures accommodation. Who has not experienced that frame of mind; what\nthrifty wife has not seen and lamented her husband in that condition;\nwhen, with rather a heightened colour and a deuce-may-care smile on his\nface, he comes home and announces that he has asked twenty people to\ndinner next Saturday? He doesn't know whom exactly; and he does know\nthe dining-room will only hold sixteen. Never mind! Two of the prettiest\ngirls can sit upon young gentlemen's knees: others won't come: there's\nsure to be plenty! In the intoxication of love people venture upon this\ndangerous sort of housekeeping; they don't calculate the resources of\ntheir dining-table, or those inevitable butchers' and fishmongers' bills\nwhich will be brought to the ghastly housekeeper at the beginning of the\nmonth.\n\nYes: it was rather selfish of my Lady Maria to seat herself at Hagan's\ntable and take the cream off the milk, and the wings of the chickens,\nand the best half of everything where there was only enough before; and\nno wonder the poor old mamma-in-law was disposed to grumble. But what\nwas her outcry compared to the clamour at Kensington among Lady Maria's\nnoble family? Think of the talk and scandal all over the town! Think of\nthe titters and whispers of the ladies in attendance at the Princess's\ncourt, where Lady Fanny had a place; of the jokes of Mr. Will's\nbrother-officers at the usher's table; of the waggeries in the daily\nprints and magazines; of the comments of outraged prudes; of the\nlaughter of the clubs and the sneers of the ungodly! At the receipt of\nthe news Madame Bernstein had fits and ran off to the solitude of her\ndear rocks at Tunbridge Wells, where she did not see above forty people\nof a night at cards. My lord refused to see his sister; and the Countess\nin mourning, as we have said, waited upon one of her patronesses, a\ngracious Princess, who was pleased to condole with her upon the disgrace\nand calamity which had befallen her house. For one, two, three whole\ndays the town was excited and amused by the scandal; then there came\nother news--a victory in Germany; doubtful accounts from America; a\ngeneral officer coming home to take his trial; an exquisite new soprano\nsinger from Italy; and the public forgot Lady Maria in her garret,\neating the hard-earned meal of the actor's family.\n\nThis is an extract from Mr. George Warrington's letter to his brother,\nin which he describes other personal matters, as well as a visit he had\npaid to the newly married pair:--\n\n\n\"My dearest little Theo,\" he writes, \"was eager to accompany her mamma\nupon this errand of charity; but I thought Aunt Lambert's visit would be\nbest under the circumstances, and without the attendance of her little\nspinster aide-de-camp. Cousin Hagan was out when we called; we found\nher ladyship in a loose undress, and with her hair in not the neatest\npapers, playing at cribbage with a neighbour from the second floor,\nwhile good Mrs. Hagan sate on the other side of the fire with a glass of\npunch, and the Whole Duty of Man.\n\n\"Maria, your Maria once, cried a little when she saw us; and Aunt\nLambert, you may be sure, was ready with her sympathy. While she\nbestowed it on Lady Maria, I paid the best compliments I could invent to\nthe old lady. When the conversation between Aunt L. and the bride began\nto flag, I turned to the latter, and between us we did our best to make\na dreary interview pleasant. Our talk was about you, about Wolfe, about\nwar; you must be engaged face to face with the Frenchmen by this time,\nand God send my dearest brother safe and victorious out of the battle!\nBe sure we follow your steps anxiously--we fancy you at Cape Breton.\nWe have plans of Quebec, and charts of the St. Lawrence. Shall I ever\nforget your face of joy that day when you saw me return safe and sound\nfrom the little combat with the little Frenchman? So will my Harry, I\nknow, return from his battle. I feel quite assured of it; elated somehow\nwith the prospect of your certain success and safety. And I have made\nall here share my cheerfulness. We talk of the campaign as over, and\nCaptain Warrington's promotion as secure. Pray Heaven, all our hopes may\nbe fulfilled one day ere long.\n\n\"How strange it is that you who are the mettlesome fellow (you know you\nare) should escape quarrels hitherto, and I, who am a peaceful youth,\nwishing no harm to anybody, should have battles thrust upon me! What do\nyou think actually of my having had another affair upon my wicked hands,\nand with whom, think you? With no less a personage than your old enemy,\nour kinsman, Mr. Will.\n\n\"What or who set him to quarrel with me, I cannot think. Spencer\n(who acted as second for me, for matters actually have gone this\nlength;--don't be frightened; it is all over, and nobody is a scratch\nthe worse) thinks some one set Will on me, but who, I say? His conduct\nhas been most singular; his behaviour quite unbearable. We have met\npretty frequently lately at the house of good Mr. Van den Bosch, whose\npretty granddaughter was consigned to both of us by our good mother. Oh,\ndear mother! did you know that the little thing was to be such a\ncausa belli, and to cause swords to be drawn, and precious lives to\nbe menaced? But so it has been. To show his own spirit, I suppose, or\nhaving some reasonable doubt about mine, whenever Will and I have met\nat Mynheer's house--and he is for ever going there--he has shown such\ndownright rudeness to me, that I have required more than ordinary\npatience to keep my temper. He has contradicted me once, twice, thrice\nin the presence of the family, and out of sheer spite and rage, as\nit appeared to me. Is he paying his addresses to Miss Lydia, and her\nfather's ships, negroes, and forty thousand pounds? I should guess so.\nThe old gentleman is for ever talking about his money, and adores his\ngranddaughter, and as she is a beautiful little creature, numbers of\nfolk here are ready to adore her too. Was Will rascal enough to fancy\nthat I would give up my Theo for a million of guineas, and negroes, and\nVenus to boot? Could the thought of such baseness enter into the man's\nmind? I don't know that he has accused me of stealing Van den Bosch's\nspoons and tankards when we dine there, or of robbing on the highway.\nBut for one reason or the other he has chosen to be jealous of me,\nand as I have parried his impertinences with little sarcastic speeches\n(though perfectly civil before company), perhaps I have once or twice\nmade him angry. Our little Miss Lydia has unwittingly added fuel to the\nfire on more than one occasion, especially yesterday, when there was\ntalk about your worship.\n\n\"'Ah!' says the heedless little thing, as we sat over our dessert, ''tis\nlucky for you, Mr. Esmond, that Captain Harry is not here.'\n\n\"'Why, miss?' asks he, with one of his usual conversational ornaments.\nHe must have offended some fairy in his youth, who has caused him to\ndrop curses for ever out of his mouth, as she did the girl to spit out\ntoads and serpents. (I know some one from whose gentle lips there only\nfall pure pearls and diamonds.) 'Why?' says Will, with a cannonade of\noaths.\n\n\"'O fie!' says she, putting up the prettiest little fingers to the\nprettiest little rosy ears in the world. 'O fie, sir! to use such\nnaughty words. 'Tis lucky the Captain is not here, because he might\nquarrel with you; and Mr. George is so peaceable and quiet, that he\nwon't. Have you heard from the Captain, Mr. George?'\n\n\"'From Cape Breton,' says I. 'He is very well, thank you; that is----'\nI couldn't finish the sentence, for I was in such a rage that I scarce\ncould contain myself.\n\n\"'From the Captain, as you call him, Miss Lyddy,' says Will. 'He'll\ndistinguish himself as he did at Saint Cas! Ho, ho!'\n\n\"'So I apprehend he did, sir,' says Will's brother.\n\n\"'Did he?' says our dear cousin; 'always thought he ran away; took to\nhis legs; got a ducking, and ran away as if a bailiff was after him.'\n\n\"'La!' says Miss, 'did the Captain ever have a bailiff after him?'\n\n\"'Didn't he? Ho, ho!' laughs Mr. Will.\n\n\"I suppose I must have looked very savage, for Spencer, who was dining\nwith us, trod on my foot under the table. 'Don't laugh so loud, cousin,'\nI said, very gently; 'you may wake good old Mr. Van den Bosch.' The good\nold gentleman was asleep in his arm-chair, to which he commonly retires\nfor a nap after dinner.\n\n\"'Oh, indeed, cousin,' says Will, and he turns and winks at a friend of\nhis, Captain Deuceace, whose own and whose wife's reputation I dare say\nyou heard of when you frequented the clubs, and whom Will has introduced\ninto this simple family as a man of the highest fashion. 'Don't be\nafraid, miss,' says Mr. Will, 'nor my cousin needn't be.'\n\n\"'Oh, what a comfort!' cries Miss Lyddy. 'Keep quite quiet, gentlemen,\nand don't quarrel, and come up to me when I send to say the tea is\nready.' And with this she makes a sweet little curtsey, and disappears.\n\n\"'Hang it, Jack, pass the bottle, and don't wake the old gentleman!'\ncontinues Mr. Will. 'Won't you help yourself, cousin?' he continues;\nbeing particularly facetious in the tone of that word cousin.\n\n\"'I am going to help myself,' I said; 'but I am not going to drink the\nglass; and I'll tell you what I am going to do with it, if you will be\nquite quiet, cousin.' (Desperate kicks from Spencer all this time.)\n\n\"'And what the deuce do I care what you are going to do with it?' asks\nWill, looking rather white.\n\n\"'I am going to fling it into your face, cousin,' says I, very rapidly\nperforming that feat.\n\n\"'By Jove, and no mistake!' cries Mr. Deuceace; and as he and William\nroared out an oath together, good old Van den Bosch woke up, and, taking\nthe pocket-handkerchief off his face, asked what was the matter.\n\n\"I remarked it was only a glass of wine gone the wrong way and the\nold man said; 'Well, well, there is more where that came from! Let the\nbutler bring you what you please, young gentlemen!' and he sank back in\nhis great chair, and began to sleep again.\n\n\"'From the back of Montagu House Gardens there is a beautiful view of\nHampstead at six o'clock in the morning; and the statue of the King on\nSt. George's Church is reckoned elegant, cousin!' says I, resuming the\nconversation.\n\n\"'D---- the statue!' begins Will; but I said, 'Don't, cousin! or you\nwill wake up the old gentleman. Had we not best go upstairs to Miss\nLyddy's tea-table?'\n\n\"We arranged a little meeting for the next morning; and a coroner\nmight have been sitting upon one or other, or both, of our bodies this\nafternoon; but, would you believe it? just as our engagement was about\nto take place, we were interrupted by three of Sir John Fielding's men,\nand carried to Bow Street, and ignominiously bound over to keep the\npeace.\n\n\"Who gave the information? Not I, or Spencer, I can vow. Though I own\nI was pleased when the constables came running to us; bludgeon in hand:\nfor I had no wish to take Will's blood, or sacrifice my own to such a\nrascal. Now, sir, have you such a battle as this to describe to me?--a\nbattle of powder and no shot?--a battle of swords as bloody as any on\nthe stage? I have filled my paper, without finishing the story of Maria\nand her Hagan. You must have it by the next ship. You see, the quarrel\nwith Will took place yesterday, very soon after I had written the first\nsentence or two of my letter. I had been dawdling till dinner-time (I\nlooked at the paper last night, when I was grimly making certain little\naccounts up, and wondered shall I ever finish this letter?), and now\nthe quarrel has been so much more interesting to me than poor Molly's\nlove-adventures, that behold my paper is full to the brim! Wherever my\ndearest Harry reads it, I know that there will be a heart full of love\nfor--His loving brother,                                                         G. E. W.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXI. White Favours\n\n\nThe little quarrel between George and his cousin caused the former to\ndiscontinue his visits to Bloomsbury in a great measure; for Mr. Will\nwas more than ever assiduous in his attentions; and, now that both were\nbound over to peace, so outrageous in his behaviour, that George found\nthe greatest difficulty in keeping his hands from his cousin. The\nartless little Lydia had certainly a queer way of receiving her friends.\nBut six weeks before madly jealous of George's preference for another,\nshe now took occasion repeatedly to compliment Theo in her conversation.\nMiss Theo was such a quiet, gentle creature, Lyddy was sure George was\njust the husband for her. How fortunate that horrible quarrel had been\nprevented! The constables had come up just in time; and it was quite\nridiculous to hear Mr. Esmond cursing and swearing, and the rage he was\nin at being disappointed of his duel! \"But the arrival of the constables\nsaved your valuable life, dear Mr. George, and I am sure Miss Theo ought\nto bless them forever,\" says Lyddy, with a soft smile. \"You won't\nstop and meet Mr. Esmond at dinner to-day? You don't like being in his\ncompany? He can't do you any harm; and I am sure you will do him none.\"\nKind speeches like these addressed by a little girl to a gentleman, and\nspoken by a strange inadvertency in company, and when other gentlemen\nand ladies were present, were not likely to render Mr. Warrington very\neager for the society of the young American lady.\n\nGeorge's meeting with Mr. Will was not known for some days in Dean\nStreet, for he did not wish to disturb those kind folks with his\nquarrel; but when the ladies were made aware of it, you may be sure\nthere was a great flurry and to-do. \"You were actually going to take a\nfellow-creature's life, and you came to see us, and said not a word! Oh,\nGeorge, it was shocking!\" said Theo.\n\n\"My dear, he had insulted me and my brother,\" pleaded George. \"Could I\nlet him call us both cowards, and sit by and say, Thank you?\"\n\nThe General sate by and looked very grave.\n\n\"You know you think, papa, it is a wicked and un-Christian practice; and\nhave often said you wished gentlemen would have the courage to refuse!\"\n\n\"To refuse? Yes,\" says Mr. Lambert, still very glum.\n\n\"It must require a prodigious strength of mind to refuse,\" says Jack\nLambert, looking as gloomy as his father; \"and I think if any man were\nto call me a coward, I should be apt to forget my orders.\"\n\n\"You see brother Jack is with me!\" cries George.\n\n\"I must not be against you, Mr. Warrington,\" says Jack Lambert.\n\n\"Mr. Warrington!\" cries George, turning very red.\n\n\"Would you, a clergyman, have George break the Commandments, and commit\nmurder, John?\" asks Theo, aghast.\n\n\"I am a soldier's son, sister,\" says the young divine, drily. \"Besides,\nMr. Warrington has committed no murder at all. We must soon be hearing\nfrom Canada, father. The great question of the supremacy of the two\nraces must be tried there ere long!\" He turned his back on George as he\nspoke, and the latter eyed him with wonder.\n\nHetty, looking rather pale at this original remark of brother Jack,\nis called out of the room by some artful pretext of her sister. George\nstarted up and followed the retreating girls to the door.\n\n\"Great powers, gentlemen!\" says he, coming back, \"I believe, on my\nhonour, you are giving me the credit of shirking this affair with Mr.\nEsmond!\" The clergyman and his father looked at one another.\n\n\"A man's nearest and dearest are always the first to insult him,\" says\nGeorge, flashing out.\n\n\"You mean to say, 'Not guilty?' God bless thee, my boy!\" cries the\nGeneral. \"I told thee so, Jack.\" And he rubbed his hand across his eyes,\nand blushed, and wrung George's hand with all his might.\n\n\"Not guilty of what, in heaven's name?\" asks Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Nay,\" said the General, \"Mr. Jack, here, brought the story. Let him\ntell it. I believe 'tis a ------ lie, with all my heart.\" And uttering\nthis wicked expression, the General fairly walked out of the room.\n\nThe Rev. J. Lambert looked uncommonly foolish.\n\n\"And what is this--this d----d lie, sir, that somebody has been telling\nof me?\" asked George, grinning at the young clergyman.\n\n\"To question the courage of any man is always an offence to him,\" says\nMr. Lambert, \"and I rejoice that yours has been belied.\"\n\n\"Who told the falsehood, sir, which you repeated?\" bawls out Mr.\nWarrington. \"I insist on the man's name!\"\n\n\"You forget you are bound over to keep the peace,\" says Jack.\n\n\"Curse the peace, sir! We can go and fight in Holland. Tell me the man's\nname, I say!\"\n\n\"Fair and softly, Mr. Warrington!\" cries the young parson; \"my hearing\nis perfectly good. It was not a man who told me the story which, I\nconfess, I imparted to my father.\"\n\n\"What?\" asks George, the truth suddenly occurring. \"Was it that artful,\nwicked little vixen in Bloomsbury Square?\"\n\n\"Vixen is not the word to apply to any young lady, George Warrington!\"\nexclaims Lambert, \"much less to the charming Miss Lydia. She artful--the\nmost innocent of Heaven's creatures! She wicked--that angel! With\nunfeigned delight that the quarrel should be over--with devout gratitude\nto think that blood consanguineous should not be shed--she spoke in\nterms of the highest praise of you for declining this quarrel, and of\nthe deepest sympathy with you for taking the painful but only method of\naverting it.\"\n\n\"What method?\" demands George, stamping his foot.\n\n\"Why, of laying an information, to be sure!\" says Mr. Jack; on which\nGeorge burst forth into language much too violent for us to repeat here,\nand highly uncomplimentary to Miss Lydia.\n\n\"Don't utter such words, sir!\" cried the parson, who, as it seemed,\nnow took his turn to be angry. \"Do not insult, in my hearing, the most\ncharming, the most innocent of her sex! If she has been mistaken in her\ninformation regarding you, and doubted your willingness to commit what,\nafter all, is a crime--for a crime homicide is, and of the most awful\ndescription--you, sir, have no right to blacken that angel's character\nwith foul words: and, innocent yourself, should respect the most\ninnocent as she is the most lovely of women! Oh, George, are you to be\nmy brother?\"\n\n\"I hope to have that honour,\" answered George, smiling. He began to\nperceive the other's drift.\n\n\"What, then, what--though 'tis too much bliss to be hoped for by sinful\nman--what, if she should one day be your sister? Who could see her\ncharms without being subjugated by them? I own that I am a slave. I own\nthat those Latin Sapphics in the September number of the Gentleman's\nMagazine, beginning Lydicae quondam cecinit venustae (with an English\nversion by my friend Hickson of Corpus), were mine. I have told my\nmother what hath passed between us, and Mrs. Lambert also thinks that\nthe most lovely of her sex has deigned to look favourably on me. I have\ncomposed a letter--she another. She proposes to wait on Miss Lydia's\ngrandpapa this very day, and to bring me the answer, which shall make\nme the happiest or the most wretched of men! It was in the unrestrained\nintercourse of family conversation that I chanced to impart to my\nfather the sentiments which my dear girl had uttered. Perhaps I spoke\nslightingly of your courage, which I don't doubt--by Heaven, I don't\ndoubt: it may be, she has erred, too, regarding you. It may be that\nthe fiend jealousy has been gnawing at my bosom, and--horrible\nsuspicion!--that I thought my sister's lover found too much favour with\nher I would have all my own. Ah, dear George, who knows his faults? I am\nas one distracted with passion. Confound it, sir! What right have you to\nlaugh at me? I would have you to know that risu inepto\"\n\n\"What, have you two boys made it up?\" cries the General, entering at\nthis moment, in the midst of a roar of laughter from George.\n\n\"I was giving my opinion to Mr. Warrington upon laughter, and upon his\nlaughter in particular,\" says Jack Lambert, in a fume.\n\n\"George is bound over to keep the peace, Jack! Thou canst not fight him\nfor two years; and between now and then, let us trust you will have made\nup your quarrel. Here is dinner, boys! We will drink absent friends, and\nan end to the war, and no fighting out of the profession!\"\n\nGeorge pleaded an engagement, as a reason for running away early from\nhis dinner; and Jack must have speedily followed him, for when the\nformer, after transacting some brief business at his own lodgings, came\nto Mr. Van den Bosch's door, in Bloomsbury Square, he found the young\nparson already in parley with a servant there. \"His master and mistress\nhad left town yesterday,\" the servant said.\n\n\"Poor Jack! And you had the decisive letter in your pocket?\" George\nasked of his future brother-in-law.\n\n\"Well, yes,\"--Jack owned he had the document--\"and my mother has ordered\na chair, and was coming to wait on Miss Lyddy,\" he whispered piteously,\nas the young men lingered on the steps.\n\nGeorge had a note, too, in his pocket for the young lady, which he had\nnot cared to mention to Jack. In truth, his business at home had been to\nwrite a smart note to Miss Lyddy, with a message for the gentleman who\nhad brought her that funny story of his giving information regarding the\nduel! The family being absent, George, too, did not choose to leave his\nnote. \"If cousin Will has been the slander-bearer, I will go and make\nhim recant,\" thought George. \"Will the family soon be back?\" he blandly\nasked.\n\n\"They are gone to visit the quality,\" the servant replied. \"Here is the\naddress on this paper;\" and George read, in Miss Lydia's hand, \"The box\nfrom Madam Hocquet's to be sent by the Farnham Flying Coach; addressed\nto Miss Van den Bosch, at the Right Honourable the Earl of Castlewood's,\nCastlewood, Hants.\"\n\n\"Where?\" cried poor Jack, aghast.\n\n\"His lordship and their ladyships have been here often,\" the servant\nsaid, with much importance. \"The families is quite intimate.\"\n\nThis was very strange; for, in the course of their conversation, Lyddy\nhad owned but to one single visit from Lady Castlewood.\n\n\"And they must be a-going to stay there some time, for Miss have took\na power of boxes and gowns with her!\" the man added. And the young men\nwalked away, each crumpling his letter in his pocket.\n\n\"What was that remark you made?\" asks George of Jack, at some\nexclamation of the latter. \"I think you said----\"\n\n\"Distraction! I am beside myself, George! I--I scarce know what I am\nsaying,\" groans the clergyman. \"She is gone to Hampshire, and Mr. Esmond\nis gone with her!\"\n\n\"Othello could not have spoken better! and she has a pretty scoundrel\nin her company!\" says Mr. George. \"Ha! here is your mother's chair!\"\nIndeed, at this moment poor Aunt Lambert came swinging down Great\nRussell Street, preceded by her footman. \"'Tis no use going farther,\nAunt Lambert!\" cries George. \"Our little bird has flown.\"\n\n\"What little bird?\"\n\n\"The bird Jack wished to pair with:--the Lyddy bird, aunt. Why, Jack, I\nprotest you are swearing again! This morning 'twas the Sixth Commandment\nyou wanted to break; and now----\"\n\n\"Confound it! leave me alone, Mr. Warrington, do you hear?\" growls Jack,\nlooking very savage; and away he strides far out of the reach of his\nmother's bearers.\n\n\"What is the matter, George?\" asks the lady.\n\nGeorge, who has not been very well pleased with brother Jack's behaviour\nall day, says: \"Brother Jack has not a fine temper, Aunt Lambert. He\ninforms you all that I am a coward, and remonstrates with me for being\nangry. He finds his mistress gone to the country, and he bawls, and\nstamps, and swears. O fie! Oh, Aunt Lambert, beware of jealousy! Did the\nGeneral ever make you jealous?\"\n\n\"You will make me very angry if you speak to me in this way,\" says poor\nAunt Lambert from her chair.\n\n\"I am respectfully dumb. I make my bow. I withdraw,\" says George, with\na low bow, and turns towards Holborn. His soul was wrath within him.\nHe was bent on quarrelling with somebody. Had he met cousin Will that\nnight, it had gone ill with his sureties.\n\nHe sought Will at all his haunts, at Arthur's, at his own house. There\nLady Castlewood's servants informed him that they believed Mr. Esmond\nhad gone to join the family in Hants. He wrote a letter to his cousin:\n\n\"My dear, kind cousin William,\" he said, \"you know I am bound over, and\nwould not quarrel with any one, much less with a dear, truth-telling,\naffectionate kinsman, whom my brother insulted by caning. But if you can\nfind any one who says that I prevented a meeting the other day by giving\ninformation, will you tell your informant that I think it is not I but\nsomebody else is the coward? And I write to Mr. Van den Bosch by the\nsame post, to inform him and Miss Lyddy that I find some rascal has been\ntelling them lies to my discredit, and to beg them to have a care of\nsuch persons.\" And, these neat letters being despatched, Mr. Warrington\ndressed himself, showed himself at the play, and took supper cheerfully\nat the Bedford.\n\nIn a few days George found a letter on his breakfast-table franked\n\"Castlewood,\" and, indeed, written by that nobleman.\n\n\"Dear Cousin,\" my lord wrote, \"there has been so much annoyance in our\nfamily of late, that I am sure 'tis time our quarrels should cease. Two\ndays since my brother William brought me a very angry letter, signed G.\nWarrington, and at the same time, to my great grief and pain, acquainted\nme with a quarrel that had taken place between you, in which, to say\nthe least, your conduct was violent. 'Tis an ill use to put good wine\nto--that to which you applied good Mr. Van den Bosch's. Sure, before an\nold man, young ones should be more respectful. I do not deny that Wm.'s\nlanguage and behaviour are often irritating. I know he has often tried\nmy temper, and that within the 24 hours.\n\n\"Ah! why should we not all live happily together? You know, cousin,\nI have ever professed a sincere regard for you--that I am a sincere\nadmirer of the admirable young lady to whom you are engaged, and to whom\nI offer my most cordial compliments and remembrances. I would live in\nharmony with all my family where 'tis possible--the more because I hope\nto introduce to it a Countess of Castlewood.\n\n\"At my mature age, 'tis not uncommon for a man to choose a young wife.\nMy Lydia (you will divine that I am happy in being able to call mine the\nelegant Miss Van den Bosch) will naturally survive me. After soothing\nmy declining years, I shall not be jealous if at their close she\nshould select some happy man to succeed me; though I shall envy him the\npossession of so much perfection and beauty. Though of a noble Dutch\nfamily, her rank, the dear girl declares, is not equal to mine, which\nshe confesses that she is pleased to share. I, on the other hand, shall\nnot be sorry to see descendants to my house, and to have it, through my\nLady Castlewood's means, restored to something of the splendour which it\nknew before two or three improvident predecessors impaired it. My Lydia,\nwho is by my side, sends you and the charming Lambert family her warmest\nremembrances.\n\n\"The marriage will take place very speedily here. May I hope to see you\nat church? My brother will not be present to quarrel with you. When\nI and dear Lydia announced the match to him yesterday, he took the\nintelligence in bad part, uttered language that I know he will one day\nregret, and is at present on a visit to some neighbours. The Dowager\nLady Castlewood retains the house at Kensington; we having our own\nestablishment, where you will ever be welcomed, dear cousin, by your\naffectionate humble servant, CASTLEWOOD.\"\n\n\nFrom the London Magazine of November 1759:\n\n\"Saturday, October 13th, married, at his seat, Castlewood, Hants, the\nRight Honourable Eugene, Earl of Castlewood, to the beautiful Miss Van\nden Bosch, of Virginia. 70,000 pounds.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXII. (From the Warrington MS.) In which My Lady is on the Top\nof the Ladder\n\n\nLooking across the fire, towards her accustomed chair, who has been the\nbeloved partner of my hearth during the last half of my life, I often\nask (for middle aged gentlemen have the privilege of repeating their\njokes, their questions, their stories) whether two young people ever\nwere more foolish and imprudent than we were when we married, as we\ndid, in the year of the old King's death? My son, who has taken some\nprodigious leaps in the heat of his fox-hunting, says he surveys the\ngaps and rivers which he crossed so safely over with terror afterwards,\nand astonishment at his own foolhardiness in making such desperate\nventures; and yet there is no more eager sportsman in the two counties\nthan Miles. He loves his amusement so much that he cares for no other.\nHe has broken his collar-bone, and had a hundred tumbles (to his\nmother's terror); but so has his father (thinking, perhaps, of a copy\nof verse, or his speech at Quarter Sessions) been thrown over his old\nmare's head, who has slipped on a stone as they were both dreaming along\na park road at four miles an hour; and Miles's reckless sport has been\nthe delight of his life, as my marriage has been the blessing of mine;\nand I never think of it but to thank Heaven. Mind, I don't set up my\nworship as an example. I don't say to all young folks, \"Go and marry\nupon twopence a year;\" or people would look very black at me at our\nvestry-meetings; but my wife is known to be a desperate match-maker; and\nwhen Hodge and Susan appear in my justice-room with a talk of allowance,\nwe urge them to spend their half-crown a week at home, add a little\ncontribution of our own, and send for the vicar.\n\nNow, when I ask a question of my dear oracle, I know what the answer\nwill be; and hence, no doubt, the reason why I so often consult her. I\nhave but to wear a particular expression of face and my Diana takes her\nreflection from it. Suppose I say, \"My dear, don't you think the moon\nwas made of cream cheese to-night?\" She will say, \"Well, papa, it did\nlook very like cream cheese, indeed--there's nobody like you for droll\nsimiles.\" Or, suppose I say, \"My love, Mr. Pitt's speech was very fine,\nbut I don't think he is equal to what I remember his father.\" \"Nobody\nwas equal to my Lord Chatham,\" says my wife. And then one of the\ngirls cries, \"Why, I have often heard our papa say Lord Chatham was a\ncharlatan!\" On which mamma says, \"How like she is to her Aunt Hetty!\"\n\nAs for Miles, Tros Tyriusve is all one to him. He only reads the\nsporting announcements in the Norwich paper. So long as there is good\nscent, he does not care about the state of the country. I believe the\nrascal has never read my poems, much more my tragedies (for I mentioned\nPocahontas to him the other day, and the dunce thought she was a river\nin Virginia); and with respect to my Latin verses, how can he understand\nthem when I know he can't construe Corderius? Why, this notebook lies\npublicly on the little table at my corner of the fireside, and any one\nmay read in it who will take the trouble of lifting my spectacles off\nthe cover: but Miles never hath. I insert in the loose pages caricatures\nof Miles: jokes against him: but he never knows nor heeds them. Only\nonce, in place of a neat drawing of mine, in China-ink, representing\nMiles asleep after dinner, and which my friend Bunbury would not disown,\nI found a rude picture of myself going over my mare Sultana's head, and\nentitled \"The Squire on Horseback, or Fish out of Water.\" And the fellow\nto roar with laughter, and all the girls to titter, when I came upon the\npage! My wife said she never was in such a fright as when I went to my\nbook: but I can bear a joke against myself, and have heard many, though\n(strange to say, for one who has lived among some of the chief wits of\nthe age) I never heard a good one in my life. Never mind, Miles, though\nthou art not a wit, I love thee none the worse (there never was any love\nlost between two wits in a family); though thou hast no great beauty,\nthy mother thinks thee as handsome as Apollo, or his Royal Highness the\nPrince of Wales, who was born in the very same year with thee. Indeed,\nshe always think Coates's picture of the Prince is very like her eldest\nboy, and has the print in her dressing-room to this very day.\n\n\n[Note, in a female hand: \"My son is not a spendthrift, nor a breaker of\nwomen's hearts, as some gentlemen are; but that he was exceeding like\nH.R.H. when they were both babies, is most certain, the Duchess of\nAneaster having herself remarked him in St. James's Park, where Gumbo\nand my poor Molly used often to take him for an airing. Th. W.\"]\n\n\nIn that same year, with what different prospects! my Lord Esmond, Lord\nCastlewood's son, likewise appeared to adorn the world. My Lord C. and\nhis humble servant had already come to a coolness at that time, and,\nheaven knows! my honest Miles's godmother, at his entrance into life,\nbrought no gold pap-boats to his christening! Matters have mended since,\nlaus Deo--laus Deo, indeed! for I suspect neither Miles nor his father\nwould ever have been able to do much for themselves, and by their own\nwits.\n\nCastlewood House has quite a different face now from that venerable\none which it wore in the days of my youth, when it was covered with the\nwrinkles of time, the scars of old wars, the cracks and blemishes which\nyears had marked on its hoary features. I love best to remember it in\nits old shape, as I saw it when young Mr. George Warrington went down\nat the owner's invitation, to be present at his lordship's marriage with\nMiss Lydia Van den Bosch--\"an American lady of noble family of Holland,\"\nas the county paper announced her ladyship to be. Then the towers stood\nas Warrington's grandfather the Colonel (the Marquis, as Madam Esmond\nwould like to call her father) had seen them. The woods (thinned not\na little to be sure) stood, nay, some of the self-same rooks may have\ncawed over them, which the Colonel had seen threescore years back. His\npicture hung in the hall which might have been his, had he not preferred\nlove and gratitude to wealth and worldly honour; and Mr. George Esmond\nWarrington (that is, Egomet Ipse who write this page down), as he\nwalked the old place, pacing the long corridors, the smooth dew-spangled\nterraces and cool darkling avenues, felt a while as if he was one of Mr.\nWalpole's cavaliers with ruff, rapier, buff-coat, and gorget, and as if\nan Old Pretender, or a Jesuit emissary in disguise, might appear from\nbehind any tall tree-trunk round about the mansion, or antique carved\ncupboard within it. I had the strangest, saddest, pleasantest, old-world\nfancies as I walked the place; I imagined tragedies, intrigues,\nserenades, escaladoes, Oliver's Roundheads battering the towers, or\nbluff Hal's Beefeaters pricking over the plain before the castle. I was\nthen courting a certain young lady (madam, your ladyship's eyes had no\nneed of spectacles then, and on the brow above them there was never a\nwrinkle or a silver hair), and I remember I wrote a ream of romantic\ndescription, under my Lord Castlewood's franks, to the lady who never\ntired of reading my letters then. She says I only send her three lines\nnow, when I am away in London or elsewhere. 'Tis that I may not fatigue\nyour old eyes, my dear!\n\nMr. Warrington thought himself authorised to order a genteel new suit of\nclothes for my lord's marriage, and with Mons. Gumbo in attendance,\nmade his appearance at Castlewood a few days before the ceremony. I may\nmention that it had been found expedient to send my faithful Sady home\non board a Virginia ship. A great inflammation attacking the throat and\nlungs, and proving fatal in very many cases, in that year of Wolfe's\nexpedition, had seized and well-nigh killed my poor lad, for whom\nhis native air was pronounced to be the best cure. We parted with an\nabundance of tears, and Gumbo shed as many when his master went to\nQuebec: but he had attractions in this country and none for the military\nlife, so he remained attached to my service. We found Castlewood House\nfull of friends, relations, and visitors. Lady Fanny was there upon\ncompulsion, a sulky bridesmaid. Some of the virgins of the neighbourhood\nalso attended the young Countess. A bishop's widow herself, the Baroness\nBeatrix brought a holy brother-in-law of the bench from London to tie\nthe holy knot of matrimony between Eugene Earl of Castlewood and Lydia\nVan den Bosch, spinster; and for some time before and after the nuptials\nthe old house in Hampshire wore an appearance of gaiety to which it had\nlong been unaccustomed. The country families came gladly to pay their\ncompliments to the newly married couple. The lady's wealth was the\nsubject of everybody's talk, and no doubt did not decrease in the\ntelling. Those naughty stories which were rife in town, and spread by\nher disappointed suitors there, took some little time to travel into\nHampshire; and when they reached the country found it disposed to treat\nLord Castlewood's wife with civility, and not inclined to be too curious\nabout her behaviour in town. Suppose she had jilted this man, and\nlaughed at the other? It was her money they were anxious about, and she\nwas no more mercenary than they. The Hampshire folks were determined\nthat it was a great benefit to the country to have Castlewood House once\nmore open, with beer in the cellars, horses in the stables, and spits\nturning before the kitchen fires. The new lady took her place with great\ndignity, and 'twas certain she had uncommon accomplishments and wit.\nWas it not written, in the marriage advertisements, that her ladyship\nbrought her noble husband seventy thousand pounds? On a beaucoup\nd'esprit with seventy thousand pounds. The Hampshire people said this\nwas only a small portion of her wealth. When the grandfather should\nfall, ever so many plums would be found on that old tree.\n\nThat quiet old man, and keen reckoner, began quickly to put the\ndilapidated Castlewood accounts in order, of which long neglect,\npoverty, and improvidence had hastened the ruin. The business of the\nold gentleman's life now, and for some time henceforth, was to\nadvance, improve, mend my lord's finances; to screw the rents up where\npracticable, to pare the expenses of the establishment down. He could,\nsomehow, look to every yard of worsted lace on the footmen's coats, and\nevery pound of beef that went to their dinner. A watchful old eye noted\nevery flagon of beer which was fetched from the buttery, and marked\nthat no waste occurred in the larder. The people were fewer, but more\nregularly paid; the liveries were not so ragged, and yet the tailor had\nno need to dun for his money; the gardeners and grooms grumbled, though\ntheir wages were no longer overdue: but the horses fattened on less\ncorn, and the fruit and vegetables were ever so much more plentiful--so\nkeenly did my lady's old grandfather keep a watch over the household\naffairs, from his lonely little chamber in the turret.\n\nThese improvements, though here told in a paragraph or two, were the\naffairs of months and years at Castlewood; where, with thrift, order,\nand judicious outlay of money (however, upon some pressing occasions,\nmy lord might say he had none), the estate and household increased in\nprosperity. That it was a flourishing and economical household no one\ncould deny: not even the dowager lady and her two children, who now\nseldom entered within Castlewood gates, my lady considering them in the\nlight of enemies--for who, indeed, would like a stepmother-in-law? The\nlittle reigning Countess gave the dowager battle, and routed her utterly\nand speedily. Though educated in the colonies, and ignorant of polite\nlife during her early years, the Countess Lydia had a power of language\nand a strength of will that all had to acknowledge who quarrelled with\nher. The dowager and my Lady Fanny were no match for the young American:\nthey fled from before her to their jointure house in Kensington, and no\nwonder their absence was not regretted by my lord, who was in the habit\nof regretting no one whose back was turned. Could cousin Warrington,\nwhose hand his lordship pressed so affectionately on coming and parting,\nwith whom cousin Eugene was so gay and frank and pleasant when they\nwere together, expect or hope that his lordship would grieve at his\ndeparture, at his death, at any misfortune which could happen to him,\nor any souls alive? Cousin Warrington knew better. Always of a sceptical\nturn, Mr. W. took a grim delight in watching the peculiarities of his\nneighbours, and could like this one even though he had no courage and no\nheart. Courage? Heart? What are these to you and me in the world? A man\nmay have private virtues as he may have half a million in the funds.\nWhat we du monde expect is, that he should be lively, agreeable, keep a\ndecent figure, and pay his way. Colonel Esmond Warrington's grandfather\n(in whose history and dwelling-place Mr. W. took an extraordinary\ninterest), might once have been owner of this house of Castlewood,\nand of the titles which belonged to its possessor. The gentleman often\nlooked at the Colonel's grave picture as it still hung in the saloon,\na copy or replica of which piece Mr. Warrington fondly remembered in\nVirginia.\n\n\"He must have been a little touched here,\" my lord said, tapping his own\ntall, placid forehead.\n\nThere are certain actions, simple and common with some men, which others\ncannot understand, and deny as utter lies, or deride as acts of madness.\n\n\"I do you the justice to think, cousin,\" says Mr. Warrington to his\nlordship, \"that you would not give up any advantage for any friend in\nthe world.\"\n\n\"Eh! I am selfish: but am I more selfish than the rest of the world?\"\nasks my lord, with a French shrug of his shoulders, and a pinch out of\nhis box. Once, in their walks in the fields, his lordship happening\nto wear a fine scarlet coat, a cow ran towards him; and the ordinarily\nlanguid nobleman sprang over a stile with the agility of a schoolboy. He\ndid not conceal his tremor, or his natural want of courage. \"I dare say\nyou respect me no more than I respect myself, George,\" he would say, in\nhis candid way, and begin a very pleasant sardonical discourse upon the\nfall of man, and his faults, and shortcomings; and wonder why Heaven\nhad not made us all brave and tall, and handsome and rich? As for Mr.\nWarrington, who very likely loved to be king of his company (as some\npeople do), he could not help liking this kinsman of his, so witty,\ngraceful, polished, high-placed in the world--so utterly his inferior.\nLike the animal in Mr. Sterne's famous book, \"Do not beat me,\" his\nlordship's look seemed to say, \"but, if you will, you may.\" No man, save\na bully and coward himself, deals hardly with a creature so spiritless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIII. We keep Christmas at Castlewood. 1759\n\n\nWe know, my dear children, from our favourite fairy story-books, how at\nall christenings and marriages some one is invariably disappointed,\nand vows vengeance; and so need not wonder that good cousin Will should\ncurse and rage energetically at the news of his brother's engagement\nwith the colonial heiress. At first, Will fled the house, in his wrath,\nswearing he would never return. But nobody, including the swearer,\nbelieved much in Master Will's oaths; and this unrepentant prodigal,\nafter a day or two, came back to the paternal house. The fumes of the\nmarriage-feast allured him: he could not afford to resign his knife and\nfork at Castlewood table. He returned, and drank and ate there in token\nof revenge. He pledged the young bride in a bumper, and drank perdition\nto her under his breath. He made responses of smothered maledictions\nas her father gave her away in the chapel, and my lord vowed to love,\nhonour and cherish her. He was not the only grumbler respecting that\nmarriage, as Mr. Warrington knew: he heard, then and afterwards, no\nend of abuse of my lady and her grandfather. The old gentleman's City\nfriends, his legal adviser, the Dissenting clergyman at whose chapel\nthey attended on their first arrival in England, and poor Jack Lambert,\nthe orthodox young divine, whose eloquence he had fondly hoped had\nbeen exerted over her in private, were bitter against the little lady's\ntreachery, and each had a story to tell of his having been enslaved,\nencouraged, jilted, by the young American. The lawyer, who had had such\nan accurate list of all her properties, estates, moneys, slaves, ships,\nexpectations, was ready to vow and swear that he believed the whole\naccount was false; that there was no such place as New York or Virginia;\nor at any rate, that Mr. Van den Bosch had no land there; that there was\nno such thing as a Guinea trade, and that the negroes were so many\nblack falsehoods invented by the wily old planter. The Dissenting pastor\nmoaned over his stray lambling--if such a little, wily, mischievous\nmonster could be called a lamb at all. Poor Jack Lambert ruefully\nacknowledged to his mamma the possession of a lock of black hair, which\nhe bedewed with tears and apostrophised in quite unclerical language:\nand, as for Mr. William Esmond, he, with the shrieks and curses in which\nhe always freely indulged, even at Castlewood, under his sister-in-law's\nown pretty little nose, when under any strong emotion, called Acheron\nto witness, that out of that region there did not exist such an artful\nyoung devil as Miss Lydia. He swore that she was an infernal female\nCerberus, and called down all the wrath of this world and the next upon\nhis swindling rascal of a brother, who had cajoled him with fair words,\nand filched his prize from him.\n\n\"Why,\" says Mr. Warrington (when Will expatiated on these matters with\nhim), \"if the girl is such a she-devil as you describe her, you are all\nthe better for losing her. If she intends to deceive her husband, and\nto give him a dose of poison, as you say, how lucky for you, you are not\nthe man! You ought to thank the gods, Will, instead of cursing them, for\nrobbing you of such a fury, and can't be better revenged on Castlewood\nthan by allowing him her sole possession.\"\n\n\"All this was very well,\" Will Esmond said; but--not unjustly,\nperhaps,--remarked that his brother was not the less a scoundrel for\nhaving cheated him out of the fortune which he expected to get, and\nwhich he had risked his life to win, too.\n\nGeorge Warrington was at a loss to know how his cousin had been made\nso to risk his precious existence (for which, perhaps, a rope's end\nhad been a fitting termination), on which Will Esmond, with the utmost\ncandour, told his kinsman how the little Cerbera had actually caused\nthe meeting between them, which was interrupted somehow by Sir John\nFielding's men; how she was always saying that George Warrington was a\ncoward for ever sneering at Mr. Will, and the latter doubly a poltroon\nfor not taking notice of his kinsman's taunts; how George had run away\nand nearly died of fright in Braddock's expedition; and \"Deuce take me,\"\nsays Will, \"I never was more surprised, cousin, than when you stood to\nyour ground so coolly in Tottenham Court Fields yonder, for me and my\nsecond offered to wager that you would never come!\"\n\nMr. Warrington laughed, and thanked Mr. Will for this opinion of him.\n\n\"Though,\" says he, \"cousin, 'twas lucky for me the constables came up,\nor you would have whipped your sword through my body in another minute.\nDidn't you see how clumsy I was as I stood before you? And you actually\nturned white and shook with anger!\"\n\n\"Yes, curse me,\" says Mr. Will (who turned very red this time), \"that's\nmy way of showing my rage; and I was confoundedly angry with you,\ncousin! But now 'tis my brother I hate, and that little devil of a\nCountess--a countess! a pretty countess, indeed!\" And with another\nrumbling cannonade of oaths, Will saluted the reigning member of his\nfamily.\n\n\"Well, cousin,\" says George, looking him queerly in the face, \"you let\nme off easily, and I dare say I owe my life to you, or at any rate a\nwhole waistcoat, and I admire your forbearance and spirit. What a pity\nthat a courage like yours should be wasted as a mere court usher! You\nare a loss to his Majesty's army. You positively are!\"\n\n\"I never know whether you are joking or serious, Mr. Warrington,\" growls\nWill.\n\n\"I should think very few gentlemen would dare to joke with you, cousin,\nif they had a regard for their own lives or ears! cries Mr. Warrington,\nwho loved this grave way of dealing with his noble kinsman, and used to\nwatch, with a droll interest, the other choking his curses, grinding his\nteeth because afraid to bite, and smothering his cowardly anger.\n\n\"And you should moderate your expressions, cousin, regarding the dear\nCountess and my lord your brother,\" Mr. Warrington resumed. \"Of you they\nalways speak most tenderly. Her ladyship has told me everything.\"\n\n\"What everything?\" cries Will, aghast.\n\n\"As much as women ever do tell, cousin. She owned that she thought you\nhad been a little epris with her. What woman can help liking a man who\nhas admired her?\"\n\n\"Why, she hates you, and says you were wild about her, Mr. Warrington!\"\nsays Mr. Esmond.\n\n\"Spretae injuria formae, cousin!\"\n\n\"For me--what's for me?\" asks the other.\n\n\"I never did care for her, and hence, perhaps, she does not love me.\nDon't you remember that case of the wife of the Captain of the Guard?\"\n\n\"Which Guard?\" asks Will.\n\n\"My Lord Potiphar,\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Lord Who? My Lord Falmouth is Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard,\nand my Lord Berkeley of the Pensioners. My Lord Hobart had 'em before.\nSuppose you haven't been long enough in England to know who's who,\ncousin!\" remarks Mr. William.\n\nBut Mr. Warrington explained that he was speaking of a Captain of the\nGuard of the King of Egypt, whose wife had persecuted one Joseph for not\nreturning her affection for him. On which Will said that, as for\nEgypt, he believed it was a confounded long way off; and that if Lord\nWhat-d'ye-call's wife told lies about him, it was like her sex, who he\nsupposed were the same everywhere.\n\nNow the truth is, that when he paid his marriage-visit to Castlewood,\nMr. Warrington had heard from the little Countess her version of the\nstory of differences between Will Esmond and herself. And this tale\ndiffered, in some respects, though he is far from saying it is more\nauthentic than the ingenuous narrative of Mr. Will. The lady was grieved\nto think how she had been deceived in her brother-in-law. She feared\nthat his life about the court and town had injured those high principles\nwhich all the Esmonds are known to be born with; that Mr. Will's words\nwere not altogether to be trusted; that a loose life and pecuniary\ndifficulties had made him mercenary, blunted his honour, perhaps even\nimpaired the high chivalrous courage \"which we Esmonds, cousin,\" the\nlittle lady said, tossing her head, \"which we Esmonds must always\npossess--leastways, you and me, and my lord, and my cousin Harry have\nit, I know!\" says the Countess. \"Oh, cousin George! and must I confess\nthat I was led to doubt of yours, without which a man of ancient and\nnoble family like ours isn't worthy to be called a man! I shall try,\nGeorge, as a Christian lady, and the head of one of the first families\nin this kingdom and the whole world, to forgive my brother William for\nhaving spoke ill of a member of our family, though a younger branch and\nby the female side, and made me for a moment doubt of you. He did so.\nPerhaps he told me ever so many bad things you had said of me.\"\n\n\"I, my dear lady!\" cries Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Which he said you said of me, cousin, and I hope you didn't, and\nheartily pray you didn't; and I can afford to despise 'em. And he paid\nme his court, that's a fact; and so have others, and that I'm used to;\nand he might have prospered better than he did perhaps (for I did not\nknow my dear lord, nor come to vally his great and eminent qualities, as\nI do out of the fulness of this grateful heart now!), but, oh! I found\nWilliam was deficient in courage, and no man as wants that can ever have\nthe esteem of Lydia, Countess of Castlewood, no more he can! He said\n'twas you that wanted for spirit, cousin, and angered me by telling me\nthat you was always abusing of me. But I forgive you, George, that I\ndo! And when I tell you that it was he was afraid--the mean skunk!--and\nactually sent for them constables to prevent the match between you and\nhe, you won't wonder I wouldn't vally a feller like that--no, not that\nmuch!\" and her ladyship snapped her little fingers. \"I say, noblesse\noblige, and a man of our family who hasn't got courage, I don't care not\nthis pinch of snuff for him--there, now, I don't! Look at our ancestors,\nGeorge, round these walls! Haven't the Esmonds always fought for their\ncountry and king? Is there one of us that, when the moment arrives,\nain't ready to show that he's an Esmond and a nobleman? If my eldest son\nwas to show the white feather, 'My Lord Esmond!' I would say to him (for\nthat's the second title in our family), 'I disown your lordship!'\" And\nso saying, the intrepid little woman looked round at her ancestors,\nwhose effigies, depicted by Lely and Kneller, figured round the walls of\nher drawing-room at Castlewood.\n\nOver that apartment, and the whole house, domain, and village, the\nnew Countess speedily began to rule with an unlimited sway. It was\nsurprising how quickly she learned the ways of command; and, if she\ndid not adopt those methods of precedence usual in England among great\nladies, invented regulations for herself, and promulgated them, and made\nothers submit. Having been bred a Dissenter, and not being over-familiar\nwith the Established Church service, Mr. Warrington remarked that she\nmade a blunder or two during the office (not knowing, for example,\nwhen she was to turn her face towards the east, a custom not adopted, I\nbelieve, in other Reforming churches besides the English); but between\nWarrington's first bridal visit to Castlewood and his second, my lady\nhad got to be quite perfect in that part of her duty, and sailed into\nchapel on her cousin's arm, her two footmen bearing her ladyship's great\nPrayer-book behind her, as demurely as that delightful old devotee with\nher lackey, in Mr. Hogarth's famous picture of \"Morning,\" and as if\nmy Lady Lydia had been accustomed to have a chaplain all her life. She\nseemed to patronise not only the new chaplain, but the service and the\nchurch itself, as if she had never in her own country heard a Ranter in\na barn. She made the oldest established families in the country--grave\nbaronets and their wives--worthy squires of twenty descents, who rode\nover to Castlewood to pay the bride and bridegroom honour--know their\ndistance, as the phrase is, and give her the pas. She got an old\nheraldry book; and a surprising old maiden lady from Winton, learned in\npoliteness and genealogies, from whom she learned the court etiquette\n(as the old Winton lady had known it in Queen Anne's time); and ere long\nshe jabbered gules and sables, bends and saltires, not with correctness\nalways, but with a wonderful volubility and perseverance. She made\nlittle progresses to the neighbouring towns in her gilt coach-and-six,\nor to the village in her chair, and asserted a quasi-regal right of\nhomage from her tenants and other clodpoles. She lectured the parson\non his divinity; the bailiff on his farming; instructed the astonished\nhousekeeper how to preserve and pickle; would have taught the great\nLondon footmen to jump behind the carriage, only it was too high for her\nlittle ladyship to mount; gave the village gossips instructions how to\nnurse and take care of their children long before she had one herself;\nand as for physic, Madam Esmond in Virginia was not more resolute about\nher pills and draughts than Miss Lydia, the earl's new bride. Do you\nremember the story of the Fisherman and the Genie, in the Arabian\nNights? So one wondered with regard to this lady, how such a prodigious\ngenius could have been corked down into such a little bottle as her\nbody. When Mr. Warrington returned to London after his first nuptial\nvisit, she brought him a little present for her young friends in Dean\nStreet, as she called them (Theo being older, and Hetty scarce younger\nthan herself), and sent a trinket to one and a book to the other--G.\nWarrington always vowing that Theo's present was a doll, while Hetty's\nshare was a nursery-book with words of one syllable. As for Mr. Will,\nher younger brother-in-law, she treated him with a maternal gravity\nand tenderness, and was in the habit of speaking of and to him with a\nprotecting air, which was infinitely diverting to Warrington, although\nWill's usual curses and blasphemies were sorely increased by her\nbehaviour.\n\nAs for old age, my Lady Lydia had little respect for that accident in\nthe life of some gentlemen and gentlewomen; and, once the settlements\nwere made in her behalf, treated the ancient Van den Bosch and his large\nperiwig with no more ceremony than Dinah her black attendant, whose\ngreat ears she would pinch, and whose woolly pate she would pull without\nscruple, upon offence given--so at least Dinah told Gumbo, who told\nhis master. All the household trembled before my lady the Countess: the\nhousekeeper, of whom even my lord and the dowager had been in awe; the\npampered London footmen, who used to quarrel if they were disturbed at\ntheir cards, and grumbled as they swilled the endless beer, now stepped\nnimbly about their business when they heard her ladyship's call; even\nold Lockwood, who had been gate-porter for half a century or more, tried\nto rally his poor old wandering wits when she came into his lodge to\nopen his window, inspect his wood-closet, and turn his old dogs out of\ndoors. Lockwood bared his old bald head before his new mistress, turned\nan appealing look towards his niece, and vaguely trembled before her\nlittle ladyship's authority. Gumbo, dressing his master for dinner,\ntalked about Elisha (of whom he had heard the chaplain read in the\nmorning), \"and his bald head and de boys who call um names, and de bars\neat em up, and serve um right,\" says Gumbo. But as for my lady, when\ndiscoursing with her cousin about the old porter, \"Pooh, pooh! Stupid\nold man!\" says she; \"past his work, he and his dirty old dogs! They are\nas old and ugly as those old fish in the pond!\" (Here she pointed to two\nold monsters of carp that had been in a pond in Castlewood gardens for\ncenturies, according to tradition, and had their backs all covered with\na hideous grey mould.) \"Lockwood must pack off; the workhouse is the\nplace for him; and I shall have a smart, good-looking, tall fellow in\nthe lodge that will do credit to our livery.\"\n\n\"He was my grandfather's man, and served him in the wars of Queen Anne,\"\ninterposed Mr. Warrington. On which my lady cried, petulantly, \"O Lord!\nQueen Anne's dead, I suppose, and we ain't a-going into mourning for\nher.\"\n\nThis matter of Lockwood was discussed at the family dinner, when her\nladyship announced her intention of getting rid of the old man.\n\n\"I am told,\" demurely remarks Mr. Van den Bosch, \"that, by the laws,\npoor servants and poor folks of all kinds are admirably provided in\ntheir old age here in England. I am sure I wish we had such an asylum\nfor our folks at home, and that we were eased of the expense of keeping\nour old hands.\"\n\n\"If a man can't work he ought to go!\" cries her ladyship.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and that's a fact!\" says grandpapa.\n\n\"What! an old servant?\" asks my lord.\n\n\"Mr. Van den Bosch possibly was independent of servants when he was\nyoung,\" remarks Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Greased my own boots, opened my own shutters, sanded and watered my\nown----\"\n\n\"Sugar, sir?\" says my lord.\n\n\"No; floor, son-in-law!\" says the old man, with a laugh; \"though there\nis such tricks, in grocery stores, saving your ladyship's presence.\"\n\n\"La, pa! what should I know about stores and groceries?\" cries her\nladyship.\n\n\"He! Remember stealing the sugar, and what came on it, my dear\nladyship?\" says grandpapa.\n\n\"At any rate, a handsome, well-grown man in our livery will look better\nthan that shrivelled old porter creature!\" cries my lady.\n\n\"No livery is so becoming as old age, madam, and no lace as handsome\nas silver hairs,\" says Mr. Warrington. \"What will the county say if you\nbanish old Lockwood?\"\n\n\"Oh! if you plead for him, sir, I suppose he must stay. Hadn't I better\norder a couch for him out of my drawing-room, and send him some of the\nbest wine from the cellar?\"\n\n\"Indeed your ladyship couldn't do better,\" Mr. Warrington remarked, very\ngravely.\n\nAnd my lord said, yawning, \"Cousin George is perfectly right, my dear.\nTo turn away such an old servant as Lockwood would have an ill look.\"\n\n\"You see those mouldy old carps are, after all, a curiosity, and attract\nvisitors,\" continues Mr. Warrington, gravely. \"Your ladyship must allow\nthis old wretch to remain. It won't be for long. And you may then engage\nthe tall porter. It is very hard on us, Mr. Van den Bosch, that we are\nobliged to keep our old negroes when they are past work. I shall sell\nthat rascal Gumbo in eight or ten years.\"\n\n\"Don't tink you will, master!\" says Gumbo, grinning.\n\n\"Hold your tongue, sir! He doesn't know English ways, you see, and\nperhaps thinks an old servant has a claim on his master's kindness,\"\nsays Mr. Warrington.\n\nThe next day, to Warrington's surprise, my lady absolutely did send a\nbasket of good wine to Lockwood, and a cushion for his armchair.\n\n\"I thought of what you said, yesterday, at night when I went to bed; and\nguess you know the world better than I do, cousin; and that it's best to\nkeep the old man, as you say.\"\n\nAnd so this affair of the porter's lodge ended, Mr. Warrington wondering\nwithin himself at this strange little character out of the West, with\nher naivete and simplicities, and a heartlessness would have done credit\nto the most battered old dowager who ever turned trumps in St. James's.\n\n\"You tell me to respect old people. Why? I don't see nothin' to respect\nin the old people, I know,\" she said to Warrington. \"They ain't so\nfunny, and I'm sure they ain't so handsome. Look at grandfather; look\nat Aunt Bernstein. They say she was a beauty once! That picture painted\nfrom her! I don't believe it, nohow. No one shall tell me that I shall\never be as bad as that! When they come to that, people oughtn't to live.\nNo, that they oughtn't.\"\n\nNow, at Christmas, Aunt Bernstein came to pay her nephew and niece a\nvisit, in company with Mr. Warrington. They travelled at their leisure\nin the Baroness's own landau; the old lady being in particular good\nhealth and spirits, the weather delightfully fresh and not too cold;\nand, as they approached her paternal home, Aunt Beatrice told her\ncompanion a hundred stories regarding it and old days. Though often\nlethargic, and not seldom, it must be confessed, out of temper, the old\nlady would light up at times, when her conversation became wonderfully\nlively, her wit and malice were brilliant, and her memory supplied her\nwith a hundred anecdotes of a bygone age and society. Sure, 'tis hard\nwith respect to Beauty, that its possessor should not have even a\nlife-enjoyment of it, but be compelled to resign it after, at the most,\nsome forty years' lease. As the old woman prattled of her former lovers\nand admirers (her auditor having much more information regarding her\npast career than her ladyship knew of), I would look in her face, and,\nout of the ruins, try to build up in my fancy a notion of her beauty in\nits prime. What a homily I read there! How the courts were grown\nwith grass, the towers broken, the doors ajar, the fine gilt saloons\ntarnished, and the tapestries cobwebbed and torn! Yonder dilapidated\npalace was all alive once with splendour and music, and those dim\nwindows were dazzling and blazing with light! What balls and feasts were\nonce here, what splendour and laughter! I could see lovers in waiting,\ncrowds in admiration, rivals furious. I could imagine twilight\nassignations, and detect intrigues, though the curtains were close and\ndrawn. I was often minded to say to the old woman as she talked, \"Madam,\nI know the story was not as you tell it, but so and so\"--(I had read at\nhome the history of her life, as my dear old grandfather had wrote it):\nand my fancy wandered about in her, amused and solitary, as I had walked\nabout our father's house at Castlewood, meditating on departed glories,\nand imagining ancient times.\n\nWhen Aunt Bernstein came to Castlewood, her relatives there, more, I\nthink, on account of her own force of character, imperiousness, and\nsarcastic wit, than from their desire to possess her money, were\naccustomed to pay her a great deal of respect and deference, which\nshe accepted as her due. She expected the same treatment from the new\nCountess, whom she was prepared to greet with special good-humour. The\nmatch had been of her making. \"As you, you silly creature, would not\nhave the heiress,\" she said, \"I was determined she should not go out of\nthe family,\" and she laughingly told of many little schemes for bringing\nthe marriage about. She had given the girl a coronet and her nephew\na hundred thousand pounds. Of course she should be welcome to both of\nthem. She was delighted with the little Countess's courage and spirit\nin routing the Dowager and Lady Fanny. Almost always pleased with pretty\npeople on her first introduction to them, Madame Bernstein raffled of\nher niece Lydia's bright eyes and lovely little figure. The marriage was\naltogether desirable. The old man was an obstacle, to be sure, and his\ntalk and appearance somewhat too homely. But he will be got rid of.\nHe is old and in delicate health. \"He will want to go to America, or\nperhaps farther,\" says the Baroness, with a shrug. \"As for the child,\nshe had great fire and liveliness, and a Cherokee manner which is not\nwithout its charm,\" said the pleased old Baroness. \"Your brother had\nit--so have you, Master George! Nous la formerons, cette petite. Eugene\nwants character and vigour, but he is a finished gentleman, and between\nus we shall make the little savage perfectly presentable.\" In this\nway we discoursed on the second afternoon as we journeyed towards\nCastlewood. We lay at the King's Arms at Bagshot the first night, where\nthe Baroness was always received with profound respect, and thence\ndrove post to Hexton, where she had written to have my lord's horses in\nwaiting for her; but these were not forthcoming at the inn, and after\na couple of hours we were obliged to proceed with our Bagshot horses to\nCastlewood.\n\nDuring this last stage of the journey, I am bound to say the old aunt's\ntesty humour returned, and she scarce spoke a single word for three\nhours. As for her companion; being prodigiously in love at the time,\nno doubt he did not press his aunt for conversation, but thought\nunceasingly about his Dulcinea, until the coach actually reached\nCastlewood Common, and rolled over the bridge before the house.\n\nThe housekeeper was ready to conduct her ladyship to her apartments. My\nlord and lady were both absent. She did not know what had kept them, the\nhousekeeper said, heading the way.\n\n\"Not that door, my lady!\" cries the woman, as Madame de Bernstein\nput her hand upon the door of the room which she had always occupied.\n\"That's her ladyship's room now. This way,\" and our aunt followed, by\nno means in increased good-humour. I do not envy her maids when their\nmistress was displeased. But she had cleared her brow before she joined\nthe family, and appeared in the drawing-room before supper-time with a\ncountenance of tolerable serenity.\n\n\"How d'ye do, aunt?\" was the Countess's salutation. \"I declare now, I\nwas taking a nap when your ladyship arrived! Hope you found your room\nfixed to your liking!\"\n\nHaving addressed three brief sentences to the astonished old lady, the\nCountess now turned to her other guests, and directed her conversation\nto them. Mr. Warrington was not a little diverted by her behaviour,\nand by the appearance of surprise and wrath which began to gather over\nMadame Bernstein's face. \"La petite,\" whom the Baroness proposed to\n\"form,\" was rather a rebellious subject, apparently, and proposed to\ntake a form of her own. Looking once or twice rather anxiously towards\nhis wife, my lord tried to atone for her pertness towards his aunt by\nprofuse civility on his own part; indeed, when he so wished, no man\ncould be more courteous or pleasing. He found a score of agreeable\nthings to say to Madame Bernstein. He warmly congratulated Mr.\nWarrington on the glorious news which had come from America, and on his\nbrother's safety. He drank a toast at supper to Captain Warrington. \"Our\nfamily is distinguishing itself, cousin,\" he said; and added, looking\nwith fond significance towards his Countess, \"I hope the happiest days\nare in store for us all.\"\n\n\"Yes, George!\" says the little lady. \"You'll write and tell Harry that\nwe are all very much pleased with him. This action at Quebec is a most\nglorious action; and now we have turned the French king out of the\ncountry, shouldn't be at all surprised if we set up for ourselves in\nAmerica.\"\n\n\"My love, you are talking treason!\" cries Lord Castlewood.\n\n\"I am talking reason, anyhow, my lord. I've no notion of folks being\nkept down, and treated as children for ever!\"\n\nGeorge! Harry! I protest I was almost as much astonished as amused.\n\"When my brother hears that your ladyship is satisfied with his conduct,\nhis happiness will be complete,\" I said gravely.\n\nNext day, when talking beside her sofa, where she chose to lie in state,\nthe little Countess no longer called her cousin \"George,\" but \"Mr.\nGeorge,\" as before; on which Mr. George laughingly said she had changed\nher language since the previous day.\n\n\"Guess I did it to tease old Madam Buzwig,\" says her ladyship. She wants\nto treat me as a child, and do the grandmother over me. I don't want no\ngrandmothers, I don't. I'm the head of this house, and I intend to let\nher know it. And I've brought her all the way from London in order to\ntell it her, too! La! how she did look when I called you George! I might\nhave called you George--only you had seen that little Theo first, and\nliked her best, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes, I suppose I like her best,\" says Mr. George.\n\n\"Well, I like you because you tell the truth. Because you was the only\none of 'em in London who didn't seem to care for my money, though I was\ndownright mad and angry with you once, and with myself too, and with\nthat little sweetheart of yours, who ain't to be compared to me, I know\nshe ain't.\"\n\n\"Don't let us make the comparison, then!\" I said, laughing.\n\n\"I suppose people must lie on their beds as they make 'em,\" says she,\nwith a little sigh. \"Dare say Miss Theo is very good, and you'll marry\nher and go to Virginia, and be as dull as we are here. We were talking\nof Miss Lambert, my lord, and I was wishing my cousin joy. How is old\nGoody to-day? What a supper she did eat last night, and drink!--drink\nlike a dragoon! No wonder she has got a headache, and keeps her room.\nGuess it takes her ever so long to dress herself.\"\n\n\"You, too, may be feeble when you are old, and require rest and wine to\nwarm you!\" says Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"Hope I shan't be like her when I'm old, anyhow!\" says the lady. \"Can't\nsee why I am to respect an old woman, because she hobbles on a stick,\nand has shaky hands, and false teeth!\" And the little heathen sank back\non her couch, and showed twenty-four pearls of her own.\n\n\"Law!\" she adds, after gazing at both her hearers through the curled\nlashes of her brilliant dark eyes. \"How frightened you both look! My\nlord has already given me ever so many sermons about old Goody. You are\nboth afraid of her: and I ain't, that's all. Don't look so scared at one\nanother! I ain't a-going to bite her head off. We shall have a battle,\nand I intend to win. How did I serve the Dowager, if you please, and my\nLady Fanny, with their high and mighty airs, when they tried to put\ndown the Countess of Castlewood in her own house, and laugh at the poor\nAmerican girl? We had a fight, and which got the best of it, pray? Me\nand Goody will have another, and when it is over, you will see that we\nshall both be perfect friends!\"\n\nWhen at this point of our conversation the door opened, and Madame\nBeatrix, elaborately dressed according to her wont, actually made her\nappearance, I, for my part, am not ashamed to own that I felt as great a\npanic as ever coward experienced. My lord, with his profoundest bows and\nblandest courtesies, greeted his aunt and led her to the fire, by which\nmy lady (who was already hoping for an heir to Castlewood) lay reclining\non her sofa. She did not attempt to rise, but smiled a greeting to her\nvenerable guest. And then, after a brief talk, in which she showed a\nperfect self-possession, while the two gentlemen blundered and hesitated\nwith the most dastardly tremor, my lord said:\n\n\"If we are to look for those pheasants, cousin, we had better go now.\"\n\n\"And I and aunt will have a cosy afternoon. And you will tell me about\nCastlewood in the old times, won't you, Baroness?\" says the new mistress\nof the mansion.\n\nO les laches que les hommes! I was so frightened, that I scarce saw\nanything, but vaguely felt that Lady Castlewood's dark eyes were\nfollowing me. My lord gripped my arm in the corridor, we quickened our\npaces till our retreat became a disgraceful run. We did not breathe\nfreely till we were in the open air in the courtyard, where the keepers\nand the dogs were waiting.\n\nAnd what happened? I protest, children, I don't know. But this is\ncertain: if your mother had been a woman of the least spirit, or had\nknown how to scold for five minutes during as many consecutive days of\nher early married life, there would have been no more humble, henpecked\nwretch in Christendom than your father. When Parson Blake comes to\ndinner, don't you see how at a glance from his little wife he puts his\nglass down and says, \"No, thank you, Mr. Gumbo,\" when old Gum brings\nhim wine? Blake wore a red coat before he took to black, and walked up\nBreeds Hill with a thousand bullets whistling round his ears, before\never he saw our Bunker Hill in Suffolk. And the fire-eater of the 43rd\nnow dare not face a glass of old port wine! 'Tis his wife has subdued\nhis courage. The women can master us, and did they know their own\nstrength, were invincible.\n\nWell, then, what happened I know not on that disgraceful day of panic\nwhen your father fled the field, nor dared to see the heroines engage;\nbut when we returned from our shooting, the battle was over. America had\nrevolted, and conquered the mother country.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIV. News from Canada\n\n\nOur Castlewood relatives kept us with them till the commencement of the\nnew year, and after a fortnight's absence (which seemed like an age\nto the absurd and infatuated young man) he returned to the side of his\ncharmer. Madame de Bernstein was not sorry to leave the home of her\nfather. She began to talk more freely as we got away from the place.\nWhat passed during that interview in which the battle-royal between her\nand her niece occurred, she never revealed. But the old lady talked\nno more of forming cette petite, and, indeed, when she alluded to her,\nspoke in a nervous, laughing way, but without any hostility towards the\nyoung Countess. Her nephew Eugene, she said, was doomed to be henpecked\nfor the rest of his days that she saw clearly. A little order brought\ninto the house would do it all the good possible. The little old\nvulgar American gentleman seemed to be a shrewd person, and would act\nadvantageously as a steward. The Countess's mother was a convict, she\nhad heard, sent out from England, where no doubt she had beaten hemp in\nmost of the gaols; but this news need not be carried to the town-crier;\nand, after all, in respect to certain kind of people, what mattered what\ntheir birth was? The young woman would be honest for her own sake now:\nwas shrewd enough, and would learn English presently; and the name to\nwhich she had a right was great enough to get her into any society. A\ngrocer, a smuggler, a slave-dealer, what mattered Mr. Van den Bosch's\npursuit or previous profession? The Countess of Castlewood could afford\nto be anybody's daughter, and as soon as my nephew produced her, says\nthe old lady, it is our duty to stand by her.\n\nThe ties of relationship binding Madame de Bernstein strongly to her\nnephew, Mr. Warrington hoped that she would be disposed to be equally\naffectionate to her niece; and spoke of his visit to Mr. Hagan and his\nwife, for whom he entreated her aunt's favour. But the old lady was\nobdurate regarding Lady Maria; begged that her name might never be\nmentioned, and immediately went on for two hours talking about no one\nelse. She related a series of anecdotes regarding her niece, which, as\nthis book lies open virginibus puerisque, to all the young people of the\nfamily, I shall not choose to record. But this I will say of the kind\ncreature, that if she sinned, she was not the only sinner of the family,\nand if she repented, that others will do well to follow her example.\nHagan, 'tis known, after he left the stage, led an exemplary life,\nand was remarkable for elegance and eloquence in the pulpit. His lady\nadopted extreme views, but was greatly respected in the sect which she\njoined; and when I saw her last, talked to me of possessing a peculiar\nspiritual illumination, which I strongly suspected at the time to be\noccasioned by the too free use of liquor: but I remember when she and\nher husband were good to me and mine, at a period when sympathy was\nneedful, and many a Pharisee turned away.\n\nI have told how easy it was to rise and fall in my fickle aunt's favour,\nand how each of us brothers, by turns, was embraced and neglected. My\nturn of glory had been after the success of my play. I was introduced\nto the town-wits; held my place in their company tolerably well;\nwas pronounced to be pretty well bred by the macaronis and people of\nfashion, and might have run a career amongst them had my purse been long\nenough; had I chose to follow that life; had I not loved at that time\na pair of kind eyes better than the brightest orbs of the Gunnings or\nChudleighs, or all the painted beauties of the Ranelagh ring. Because I\nwas fond of your mother, will it be believed, children, that my tastes\nwere said to be low, and deplored by my genteel family? So it was, and I\nknow that my godly Lady Warrington and my worldly Madame Bernstein both\nlaid their elderly heads together and lamented my way of life. \"Why,\nwith his name, he might marry anybody,\" says meek Religion, who had ever\none eye on Heaven and one on the main chance. \"I meddle with no man's\naffairs, and admire genius,\" says uncle, \"but it is a pity you consort\nwith those poets and authors, and that sort of people, and that, when\nyou might have had a lovely creature, with a hundred thousand pounds,\nyou let her slip and make up to a country girl without a penny-piece.\"\n\n\"But if I had promised her, uncle?\" says I.\n\n\"Promise, promise! these things are matters of arrangement and prudence,\nand demand a careful look-out. When you first committed yourself with\nlittle Miss Lambert, you had not seen the lovely American lady whom your\nmother wished you to marry, as a good mother naturally would. And your\nduty to your mother, nephew,--your duty to the Fifth Commandment, would\nhave warranted your breaking with Miss L., and fulfilling your excellent\nmother's intentions regarding Miss--What was the Countess's Dutch name?\nNever mind. A name is nothing; but a plumb, Master George, is something\nto look at! Why, I have my dear little Miley at a dancing-school with\nMiss Barwell, Nabob Barwell's daughter, and I don't disguise my wish\nthat the children may contract an attachment which may endure through\ntheir lives! I tell the Nabob so. We went from the House of Commons\none dancing-day and saw them. 'Twas beautiful to see the young things\nwalking a minuet together! It brought tears into my eyes, for I have a\nfeeling heart, George, and I love my boy!\"\n\n\"But if I prefer Miss Lambert, uncle, with twopence to her fortune, to\nthe Countess, with her hundred thousand pounds?\"\n\n\"Why then, sir, you have a singular taste, that's all,\" says the old\ngentleman, turning on his heel and leaving me. And I could perfectly\nunderstand his vexation at my not being able to see the world as he\nviewed it.\n\nNor did my Aunt Bernstein much like the engagement which I had made,\nor the family with which I passed so much of my time. Their simple ways\nwearied, and perhaps annoyed, the old woman of the world, and she no\nmore relished their company than a certain person (who is not so black\nas he is painted) likes holy water. The old lady chafed at my for ever\ndangling at my sweetheart's lap. Having risen mightily in her favour,\nI began to fall again: and once more Harry was the favourite, and his\nbrother, Heaven knows, not jealous.\n\nHe was now our family hero. He wrote us brief letters from the seat of\nwar where he was engaged; Madame Bernstein caring little at first\nabout the letters or the writer, for they were simple, and the facts he\nnarrated not over interesting. We had early learned in London the news\nof the action on the glorious first of August at Minden, where Wolfe's\nold regiment was one of the British six which helped to achieve the\nvictory on that famous day. At the same hour, the young General lay in\nhis bed, in sight of Quebec, stricken down by fever, and perhaps rage\nand disappointment at the check which his troops had just received.\n\nArriving in the St. Lawrence in June, the fleet which brought Wolfe and\nhis army had landed them on the last day of the month on the Island of\nOrleans, opposite which rises the great cliff of Quebec. After the great\naction in which his General fell, the dear brother who accompanied the\nchief, wrote home to me one of his simple letters, describing his modest\nshare in that glorious day, but added nothing to the many descriptions\nalready wrote of the action of the 13th of September, save only I\nremember he wrote, from the testimony of a brother aide-de-camp who was\nby his side, that the General never spoke at all after receiving his\ndeath-wound, so that the phrase which has been put into the mouth of\nthe dying hero may be considered as no more authentic than an oration of\nLivy or Thucydides.\n\nFrom his position on the island, which lies in the great channel of the\nriver to the north of the town, the General was ever hungrily on the\nlook-out for a chance to meet and attack his enemy. Above the city and\nbelow it he landed,--now here and now there; he was bent upon attacking\nwherever he saw an opening. 'Twas surely a prodigious fault on the\npart of the Marquis of Montcalm, to accept a battle from Wolfe on equal\nterms, for the British General had no artillery, and when we had made\nour famous scalade of the heights, and were on the Plains of Abraham,\nwe were a little nearer the city, certainly, but as far off as ever from\nbeing within it.\n\nThe game that was played between the brave chiefs of those two gallant\nlittle armies, and which lasted from July until Mr. Wolfe won the\ncrowning hazard in September, must have been as interesting a match as\never eager players engaged in. On the very first night after the landing\n(as my brother has narrated it) the sport began. At midnight the French\nsent a flaming squadron of fireships down upon the British ships which\nwere discharging their stores at Orleans. Our seamen thought it was good\nsport to tow the fireships clear of the fleet, and ground them on the\nshore, where they burned out.\n\nAs soon as the French commander heard that our ships had entered the\nriver, he marched to Beauport in advance of the city and there took up\na strong position. When our stores and hospitals were established, our\nGeneral crossed over from his island to the left shore, and drew nearer\nto his enemy. He had the ships in the river behind him, but the whole\ncountry in face of him was in arms. The Indians in the forest seized\nour advanced parties as they strove to clear it, and murdered them with\nhorrible tortures. The French were as savage as their Indian friends.\nThe Montmorenci River rushed between Wolfe and the enemy. He could\nneither attack these nor the city behind them.\n\nBent on seeing whether there was no other point at which his foe might\nbe assailable, the General passed round the town of Quebec and skirted\nthe left shore beyond. Everywhere it was guarded, as well as in his\nimmediate front, and having run the gauntlet of the batteries up and\ndown the river, he returned to his post at Montmorenci. On the right of\nthe French position, across the Montmorenci River, which was fordable\nat low tide, was a redoubt of the enemy. He would have that. Perhaps,\nto defend it the French chief would be forced out from his lines, and\na battle be brought on. Wolfe determined to play these odds. He would\nfetch over the body of his army from the Island of Orleans, and attack\nfrom the St. Lawrence. He would time his attack, so that, at\nshallow water, his lieutenants, Murray and Townsend, might cross the\nMontmorenci, and, at the last day of July, he played this desperate\ngame.\n\nHe first, and General Monckton, his second in command (setting out from\nPoint Levi, which he occupied), crossed over the St. Lawrence from their\nrespective stations, being received with a storm of shot and artillery\nas they rowed to the shore. No sooner were the troops landed than they\nrushed at the French redoubt without order, were shot down before it in\ngreat numbers, and were obliged to fall back. At the preconcerted signal\nthe troops on the other side of the Montmorenci avanced across the river\nin perfect order. The enemy even evacuated the redoubt and fell back to\ntheir lines; but from these the assailants were received with so severe\na fire that an impression on them was hopeless, and the General had to\nretreat.\n\nThe battle of Montmorenci (which my brother Harry and I have fought\nagain many a time over our wine) formed the dismal burthen of the first\ndespatch from Mr. Wolfe which reached England and plunged us all in\ngloom. What more might one expect of a commander so rash? What disasters\nmight one not foretell? Was ever scheme so wild as to bring three great\nbodies of men, across broad rivers, in the face of murderous batteries,\nmerely on the chance of inducing an enemy, strongly entrenched and\nguarded, to leave his position and come out and engage us? 'Twas\nthe talk of the town. No wonder grave people shook their heads, and\nprophesied fresh disaster. The General, who took to his bed after this\nfailure, shuddering with fever, was to live barely six weeks longer,\nand die immortal! How is it, and by what, and whom, that Greatness is\nachieved? Is Merit--is Madness the patron? Is it Frolic or Fortune? Is\nit Fate that awards successes and defeats? Is it the Just Cause that\never wins? How did the French gain Canada from the savage, and we from\nthe French, and after which of the conquests was the right time to\nsing Te Deum? We are always for implicating Heaven in our quarrels, and\ncausing the gods to intervene whatever the nodus may be. Does Broughton,\nafter pummelling and beating Slack, lift up a black eye to Jove and\nthank him for the victory? And if ten thousand boxers are to be so\nheard, why not one? And if Broughton is to be grateful, what is Slack to\nbe?\n\n\n\"By the list of disabled officers (many of whom are of rank) you may\nperceive, sir, that the army is much weakened. By the nature of this\nriver the most formidable part of the armament is deprived of the power\nof acting, yet we have almost the whole force of Canada to oppose. In\nthis situation there is such a choice of difficulties, that I own\nmyself at a loss how to determine. The affairs of Great Britain, I know,\nrequire the most vigorous measures; but then the courage of a handful\nof brave men should be exerted only where there is some hope of a\nfavourable event. The admiral and I have examined the town with a view\nto a general assault: and he would readily join in this or any\nother measure for the public service; but I cannot propose to him\nan undertaking of so dangerous a nature, and promising so little\nsuccess.... I found myself so ill, and am still so weak, that I begged\nthe general officers to consult together for the public utility. They\nare of opinion that they should try by conveying up a corps of 4000\nor 5000 men (which is nearly the whole strength of the army, after the\npoints of Levi and Orleans are put in a proper state of defence) to draw\nthe enemy from their present position, and bring them to an action. I\nhave acquiesced in their proposal, and we are preparing to put it into\nexecution.\"\n\n\nSo wrote the General (of whose noble letters it is clear our dear scribe\nwas not the author or secretary) from his headquarters at Montmorenci\nFalls on 2nd day of September; and on the 14th of October following,\nthe Rodney cutter arrived with the sad news in England. The attack had\nfailed, the chief was sick, the army dwindling, the menaced city so\nstrong that assault was almost impossible; \"the only chance was to fight\nthe Marquis of Montcalm upon terms of less disadvantage than attacking\nhis entrenchments, and, if possible, to draw him from his present\nposition.\" Would the French chief, whose great military genius was known\nin Europe, fall into such a snare? No wonder there were pale looks in\nthe City at the news, and doubt and gloom wheresoever it was known.\n\nThree days after this first melancholy intelligence, came the famous\nletters announcing that wonderful consummation of fortune with which Mr.\nWolfe's wonderful career ended. If no man is to be styled happy till his\ndeath, what shall we say of this one? His end was so glorious, that I\nprotest not even his mother nor his mistress ought to have deplored it,\nor at any rate have wished him alive again. I know it is a hero we speak\nof; and yet I vow I scarce know whether in the last act of his life I\nadmire the result of genius, invention, and daring, or the boldness of\na gambler winning surprising odds. Suppose his ascent discovered a\nhalf-hour sooner, and his people, as they would have been assuredly,\nbeaten back? Suppose the Marquis of Montcalm not to quit his entrenched\nlines to accept that strange challenge? Suppose these points--and none\nof them depend upon Mr. Wolfe at all--and what becomes of the glory\nof the young hero, of the great minister who discovered him, of the\nintoxicated nation which rose up frantic with self-gratulation at\nthe victory? I say, what fate is it that shapes our ends, or those of\nnations? In the many hazardous games which my Lord Chatham played,\nhe won this prodigious one. And as the greedy British hand seized the\nCanadas, it let fall the United States out of its grasp.\n\nTo be sure this wisdom d'apres coup is easy. We wonder at this man's\nrashness now the deed is done, and marvel at the other's fault. What\ngenerals some of us are upon paper! what repartees come to our mind when\nthe talk is finished! and, the game over, how well we see how it should\nhave been played! Writing of an event at a distance of thirty years,\n'tis not difficult now to criticise and find fault. But at the time when\nwe first heard of Wolfe's glorious deeds upon the Plains of Abraham--of\nthat army marshalled in darkness and carried silently up the midnight\nriver--of those rocks scaled by the intrepid leader and his troops--of\nthat miraculous security of the enemy, of his present acceptance of our\nchallenge to battle, and of his defeat on the open plain by the sheer\nvalour of his conqueror--we were all intoxicated in England by the\nnews. The whole nation rose up and felt itself the stronger for Wolfe's\nvictory. Not merely all men engaged in the battle, but those at home who\nhad condemned its rashness, felt themselves heroes. Our spirit rose as\nthat of our enemy faltered. Friends embraced each other when they met.\nCoffee-houses and public places were thronged with people eager to talk\nthe news. Courtiers rushed to the King and the great Minister by whose\nwisdom the campaign had been decreed. When he showed himself, the people\nfollowed him with shouts and blessings. People did not deplore the dead\nwarrior, but admired his euthanasia. Should James Wolfe's friends weep\nand wear mourning, because a chariot had come from the skies to fetch\nhim away? Let them watch with wonder, and see him departing, radiant;\nrising above us superior. To have a friend who had been near or about\nhim was to be distinguished. Every soldier who fought with him was a\nhero. In our fond little circle I know 'twas a distinction to be\nHarry's brother. We should not in the least wonder but that he, from his\nprevious knowledge of the place, had found the way up the heights which\nthe British army took, and pointed it out to his General. His promotion\nwould follow as a matter of course. Why, even our Uncle Warrington wrote\nletters to bless Heaven and congratulate me and himself upon the share\nHarry had had in the glorious achievement. Our Aunt Beatrix opened her\nhouse and received company upon the strength of the victory. I became a\nhero from my likeness to my brother. As for Parson Sampson, he preached\nsuch a sermon that his auditors (some of whom had been warned by his\nreverence of the coming discourse) were with difficulty restrained from\nhuzzaing the orator, and were mobbed as they left the chapel. \"Don't\ntalk to me, madam, about grief,\" says General Lambert to his wife,\nwho, dear soul, was for allowing herself some small indulgence of her\nfavourite sorrow on the day when Wolfe's remains were gloriously buried\nat Greenwich. \"If our boys could come by such deaths as James's, you\nknow you wouldn't prevent them from being shot, but would scale the\nAbraham heights to see the thing done! Wouldst thou mind dying in\nthe arms of victory, Charley?\" he asks of the little hero from the\nChartreux. \"That I wouldn't,\" says the little man; \"and the doctor gave\nus a holiday, too.\"\n\nOur Harry's promotion was insured after his share in the famous battle,\nand our aunt announced her intention of purchasing a company for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXV. The Course of True Love\n\n\nHad your father, young folks, possessed the commonest share of prudence,\nnot only would this chapter of his history never have been written, but\nyou yourselves would never have appeared in the world to plague him in\na hundred ways to shout and laugh in the passages when he wants to be\nquiet at his books; to wake him when he is dozing after dinner, as a\nhealthy country gentleman should: to mislay his spectacles for him,\nand steal away his newspaper when he wants to read it; to ruin him with\ntailors' bills, mantua-makers' bills, tutors' bills, as you all of you\ndo: to break his rest of nights when you have the impudence to fall\nill, and when he would sleep undisturbed but that your silly mother will\nnever be quiet for half an hour; and when Joan can't sleep, what use,\npray, is there in Darby putting on his nightcap? Every trifling ailment\nthat any one of you has had, has scared her so that I protest I have\nnever been tranquil; and, were I not the most long-suffering creature in\nthe world, would have liked to be rid of the whole pack of you. And\nnow, forsooth, that you have grown out of childhood, long petticoats,\nchicken-pox, small-pox, whooping-cough, scarlet fever, and the other\ndelectable accidents of puerile life, what must that unconscionable\nwoman propose but to arrange the south rooms as a nursery for possible\ngrandchildren, and set up the Captain with a wife, and make him marry\nearly because we did! He is too fond, she says, of Brookes's and\nGoosetree's when he is in London. She has the perversity to hint that,\nthough an entree to Carlton House may be very pleasant, 'tis very\ndangerous for a young gentleman: and she would have Miles live away from\ntemptation, and sow his wild oats, and marry, as we did. Marry! my dear\ncreature, we had no business to marry at all! By the laws of common\nprudence and duty, I ought to have backed out of my little engagement\nwith Miss Theo (who would have married somebody else), and taken a rich\nwife. Your Uncle John was a parson and couldn't fight, poor Charley was\na boy at school, and your grandfather was too old a man to call me to\naccount with sword and pistol. I repeat there never was a more foolish\nmatch in the world than ours, and our relations were perfectly right\nin being angry with us. What are relations made for, indeed, but to be\nangry and find fault? When Hester marries, do you mind, Master George,\nto quarrel with her if she does not take a husband of your selecting.\nWhen George has got his living, after being senior wrangler and fellow\nof his college, Miss Hester, do you toss up your little nose at the\nyoung lady he shall fancy. As for you, my little Theo, I can't part with\nyour. You must not quit your old father; for he likes you to play Haydn\nto him, and peel his walnuts after dinner.\n\n\n[On the blank leaf opposite this paragraph is written, in a large,\ngirlish hand:\n\n\"I never intend to go.--THEODOSIA.\"\n\n\"Nor I.--HESTER.\"\n\nThey both married, as I see by the note in the family Bible--Miss\nTheodosia Warrington to Joseph Clinton, son of the Rev. Joseph Blake,\nand himself subsequently Master of Rodwell Regis Grammar School; and\nMiss Hester Mary, in 1804, to Captain F. Handyman, R.N.--ED.]\n\n\nWhilst they had the blessing (forsooth!) of meeting, and billing and\ncooing every day, the two young people, your parents, went on in a\nfool's paradise, little heeding the world round about them, and all its\ntattling and meddling. Rinaldo was as brave a warrior as ever slew Turk,\nbut you know he loved dangling in Armida's garden. Pray, my Lady Armida,\nwhat did you mean by flinging your spells over me in youth, so that not\nglory, not fashion, not gaming-tables, not the society of men of wit in\nwhose way I fell, could keep me long from your apron-strings, or out of\nreach of your dear simple prattle? Pray, my dear, what used we to say to\neach other during those endless hours of meeting? I never went to sleep\nafter dinner then. Which of us was so witty? Was it I or you? And how\ncame it our conversations were so delightful? I remember that year I did\nnot even care to go and see my Lord Ferrers tried and hung, when all the\nworld was running after his lordship. The King of Prussia's capital\nwas taken; had the Austrians and Russians been encamped round the Tower\nthere could scarce have been more stir in London: yet Miss Theo and her\nyoung gentleman felt no inordinate emotion of pity or indignation. What\nto us was the fate of Leipzig or Berlin? The truth is, that dear old\nhouse in Dean Street was an enchanted garden of delights. I have been as\nidle since, but never as happy. Shall we order the postchaise, my dear,\nleave the children to keep house; and drive up to London and see if the\nold lodgings are still to be let? And you shall sit at your old place in\nthe window, and wave a little handkerchief as I walk up the street. Say\nwhat we did was imprudent. Would we not do it over again? My good folks,\nif Venus had walked into the room and challenged the apple, I was so\ninfatuated, I would have given it your mother. And had she had the\nchoice, she would have preferred her humble servant in a threadbare coat\nto my Lord Clive with all his diamonds.\n\nOnce, to be sure, and for a brief time in that year, I had a notion of\ngoing on the highway in order to be caught and hung as my Lord Ferrers:\nor of joining the King of Prussia, and requesting some of his Majesty's\nenemies to knock my brains out; or of enlisting for the India service,\nand performing some desperate exploit which should end in my bodily\ndestruction. Ah me! that was indeed a dreadful time! Your mother scarce\ndares speak of it now, save in a whisper of terror; or think of it--it\nwas such cruel pain. She was unhappy years after on the anniversary of\nthe day, until one of you was born on it. Suppose we had been parted:\nwhat had come to us? What had my lot been without her? As I think of\nthat possibility, the whole world is a blank. I do not say were we\nparted now. It has pleased God to give us thirty years of union. We have\nreached the autumn season. Our successors are appointed and ready; and\nthat one of us who is first called away, knows the survivor will follow\nere long. But we were actually parted in our youth; and I tremble\nto think what might have been, had not a dearest friend brought us\ntogether.\n\nUnknown to myself, and very likely meaning only my advantage, my\nrelatives in England had chosen to write to Madam Esmond in Virginia,\nand represent what they were pleased to call the folly of the engagement\nI had contracted. Every one of them sang the same song: and I saw the\nletters, and burned the whole cursed pack of them years afterwards when\nmy mother showed them to me at home in Virginia. Aunt Bernstein was\nforward with her advice. A young person, with no wonderful good looks,\nof no family, with no money;--was ever such an imprudent connexion, and\nought it not for dear George's sake to be broken off? She had several\neligible matches in view for me. With my name and prospects, 'twas a\nshame I should throw myself away on this young lady; her sister ought to\ninterpose--and so forth.\n\nMy Lady Warrington must write, too, and in her peculiar manner. Her\nladyship's letter was garnished with scripture texts.\n\nShe dressed her worldliness out in phylacteries. She pointed out how I\nwas living in an unworthy society of player-folks, and the like people,\nwho she could not say were absolutely without religion (Heaven forbid!),\nbut who were deplorably worldly. She would not say an artful woman had\ninveigled me for her daughter, having in vain tried to captivate my\nyounger brother. She was far from saying any harm of the young woman I\nhad selected; but at least this was certain, Miss L. had no fortune or\nexpectations, and her parents might naturally be anxious to compromise\nme. She had taken counsel, etc. etc. She had sought for guidance where\nit was, etc. Feeling what her duty was, she had determined to speak. Sir\nMiles, a man of excellent judgment in the affairs of this world (though\nhe knew and sought a better), fully agreed with her in opinion, nay,\ndesired her to write, and entreat her sister to interfere, that the\nill-advised match should not take place.\n\nAnd who besides must put a little finger into the pie but the new\nCountess of Castlewood? She wrote a majestic letter to Madam Esmond, and\nstated, that having been placed by Providence at the head of the Esmond\nfamily, it was her duty to communicate with her kinswoman and warn her\nto break off this marriage. I believe the three women laid their heads\ntogether previously; and, packet after packet, sent off their warnings\nto the Virginian lady.\n\nOne raw April morning, as Corydon goes to pay his usual duty to Phillis,\nhe finds, not his charmer with her dear smile as usual ready to welcome\nhim, but Mrs. Lambert, with very red eyes, and the General as pale as\ndeath. \"Read this, George Warrington!\" says he, as his wife's head drops\nbetween her hands; and he puts a letter before me, of which I recognised\nthe handwriting. I can hear now the sobs of the good Aunt Lambert, and\nto this day the noise of fire-irons stirring a fire in a room overhead\ngives me a tremor. I heard such a noise that day in the girls' room\nwhere the sisters were together. Poor, gentle child! Poor Theo!\n\n\"What can I do after this, George, my poor boy?\" asks the General,\npacing the room with desperation in his face.\n\nI did not quite read the whole of Madam Esmond's letter, for a kind of\nsickness and faintness came over me; but I fear I could say some of it\nnow by heart. Its style was good, and its actual words temperate enough,\nthough they only implied that Mr. and Mrs. Lambert had inveigled me into\nthe marriage; that they knew such an union was unworthy of me; that (as\nMadam E. understood) they had desired a similar union for her younger\nson, which project, not unluckily for him, perhaps, was given up when\nit was found that Mr. Henry Warrington was not the inheritor of the\nVirginian property. If Mr. Lambert was a man of spirit and honour, as\nhe was represented to be, Madam Esmond scarcely supposed that, after her\nrepresentations, he would persist in desiring this match. She would not\nlay commands upon her son, whose temper she knew; but for the sake\nof Miss Lambert's own reputation and comfort, she urged that the\ndissolution of the engagement should come from her family, and not from\nthe just unwillingness of Rachel Esmond Warrington of Virginia.\n\n\"God help us, George!\" the General said, \"and give us all strength to\nbear this grief, and these charges which it has pleased your mother\nto bring! They are hard, but they don't matter now. What is of most\nimportance, is to spare as much sorrow as we can to my poor girl. I know\nyou love her so well, that you will help me and her mother to make the\nblow as tolerable as we may to that poor gentle heart. Since she was\nborn she has never given pain to a soul alive, and 'tis cruel that she\nshould be made to suffer.\" And as he spoke he passed his hand across his\ndry eyes.\n\n\"It was my fault, Martin! It was my fault!\" weeps the poor mother.\n\n\"Your mother spoke us fair, and gave her promise,\" said the father.\n\n\"And do you think I will withdraw mine?\" cried I; and protested, with\na thousand frantic vows, what they knew full well, that I was bound to\nTheo before Heaven, and that nothing should part me from her.\"\n\n\"She herself will demand the parting. She is a good girl, God help me!\nand a dutiful. She will not have her father and mother called schemers,\nand treated with scorn. Your mother knew not, very likely, what she was\ndoing, but 'tis done. You may see the child, and she will tell you as\nmuch. Is Theo dressed, Molly? I brought the letter home from my office\nlast evening after you were gone. The women have had a bad night. She\nknew at once by my face that there was bad news from America. She read\nthe letter quite firmly. She said she would like to see you and say\ngood-bye. Of course, George, you will give me your word of honour not to\ntry and see her afterwards. As soon as my business will let me we will\nget away from this, but mother and I think we are best all together.\n'Tis you, perhaps, had best go. But give me your word, at any rate, that\nyou will not try and see her. We must spare her pain, sir! We must spare\nher pain!\" And the good man sate down in such deep anguish himself that\nI, who was not yet under the full pressure of my own grief, actually\nfelt his, and pitied it. It could not be that the dear lips I had kissed\nyesterday were to speak to me only once more. We were all here together;\nloving each other, sitting in the room where we met every day; my\ndrawing on the table by her little workbox; she was in the chamber\nupstairs; she must come down presently.\n\nWho is this opens the door? I see her sweet face. It was like our little\nMary's when we thought she would die of the fever. There was even\na smile upon her lips. She comes up and kisses me. \"Good-bye, dear\nGeorge!\" she says. Great Heaven! An old man sitting in this room,--with\nmy wife's workbox opposite, and she but five minutes away, my eyes\ngrow so dim and full that I can't see the book before me. I am\nthree-and-twenty years old again. I go through every stage of that\nagony. I once had it sitting in my own postchaise, with my wife actually\nby my side. Who dared to sully her sweet love with suspicion? Who had a\nright to stab such a soft bosom? Don't you see my ladies getting their\nknives ready, and the poor child baring it? My wife comes in. She has\nbeen serving out tea or tobacco to some of her pensioners. \"What is it\nmakes you look so angry, papa?\" she says. \"My love!\" I say, \"it is the\nthirteenth of April.\" A pang of pain shoots across her face, followed by\na tender smile. She has undergone the martyrdom, and in the midst of the\npang comes a halo of forgiveness. I can't forgive; not until my days\nof dotage come, and I cease remembering anything. \"Hal will be home\nfor Easter; he will bring two or three of his friends with him from\nCambridge,\" she says. And straightway she falls to devising schemes for\namusing the boys. When is she ever occupied, but with plans for making\nothers happy?\n\nA gentleman sitting in spectacles before an old ledger, and writing down\npitiful remembrances of his own condition, is a quaint and ridiculous\nobject. My corns hurt me, I know, but I suspect my neighbour's shoes\npinch him too. I am not going to howl much over my own grief, or enlarge\nat any great length on this one. Many another man, I dare say, has had\nthe light of his day suddenly put out, the joy of his life extinguished,\nand has been left to darkness and vague torture. I have a book I tried\nto read at this time of grief--Howel's Letters--and when I come to the\npart about Prince Charles in Spain, up starts the whole tragedy alive\nagain. I went to Brighthelmstone, and there, at the inn, had a room\nfacing the east, and saw the sun get up ever so many mornings, after\nblank nights of wakefulness, and smoked my pipe of Virginia in his face.\nWhen I am in that place by chance, and see the sun rising now, I shake\nmy fist at him, thinking, O orient Phoebus, what horrible grief and\nsavage wrath have you not seen me suffer! Though my wife is mine ever so\nlong, I say I am angry just the same. Who dared, I want to know, to\nmake us suffer so? I was forbidden to see her. I kept my promise, and\nremained away from the house: that is, after that horrible meeting and\nparting. But at night I would go and look at her window, and watch the\nlamp burning there; I would go to the Chartreux (where I knew\nanother boy), and call for her brother, and gorge him with cakes and\nhalf-crowns. I would meanly have her elder brother to dine, and almost\nkiss him when he went away. I used to breakfast at a coffee-house in\nWhitehall, in order to see Lambert go to his office; and we would salute\neach other sadly, and pass on without speaking. Why did not the women\ncome out? They never did. They were practising on her, and persuading\nher to try and forget me. Oh, the weary, weary days! Oh, the maddening\ntime! At last a doctor's chariot used to draw up before the General's\nhouse every day. Was she ill? I fear I was rather glad she was ill. My\nown suffering was so infernal, that I greedily wanted her to share\nmy pain. And would she not? What grief of mine has it not felt, that\ngentlest and most compassionate of hearts? What pain would it not suffer\nto spare mine a pang?\n\nI sought that doctor out. I had an interview with him. I told my story,\nand laid bare my heart to him, with an outburst of passionate sincerity,\nwhich won his sympathy. My confession enabled him to understand his\nyoung patient's malady; for which his drugs had no remedy or anodyne. I\nhad promised not to see her, or to go to her: I had kept my promise. I\nhad promised to leave London: I had gone away. Twice, thrice I went back\nand told my sufferings to him. He would take my fee now and again, and\nalways receive me kindly, and let me speak. Ah, how I clung to him! I\nsuspect he must have been unhappy once in his own life, he knew so well\nand gently how to succour the miserable.\n\nHe did not tell me how dangerously, though he did not disguise from\nme how gravely and seriously, my dearest girl had been ill. I told him\neverything--that I would marry her and brave every chance and danger;\nthat, without her, I was a man utterly wrecked and ruined, and cared not\nwhat became of me. My mother had once consented, and had now chosen to\nwithdraw her consent, when the tie between us had been, as I held, drawn\nso closely together, as to be paramount to all filial duty.\n\n\"I think, sir, if your mother heard you, and saw Miss Lambert, she would\nrelent,\" said the doctor. Who was my mother to hold me in bondage; to\nclaim a right of misery over me; and to take this angel out of my arms?\n\n\"He could not,\" he said, \"be a message-carrier between young ladies who\nwere pining and young lovers on whom the sweethearts' gates were shut:\nbut so much he would venture to say, that he had seen me, and was\nprescribing for me, too.\" Yes, he must have been unhappy once, himself.\nI saw him, you may be sure, on the very day when he had kept his promise\nto me. He said she seemed to be comforted by hearing news of me.\n\n\"She bears her suffering with an angelical sweetness. I prescribe\nJesuit's bark, which she takes; but I am not sure the hearing of you has\nnot done more good than the medicine.\" The women owned afterwards that\nthey had never told the General of the doctor's new patient.\n\nI know not what wild expressions of gratitude I poured out to the good\ndoctor for the comfort he brought me. His treatment was curing two\nunhappy sick persons. 'Twas but a drop of water, to be sure; but then\na drop of water to a man raging in torment. I loved the ground he trod\nupon, blessed the hand that took mine, and had felt her pulse. I had a\nring with a pretty cameo head of a Hercules on it. 'Twas too small for\nhis finger, nor did the good old man wear such ornaments. I made\nhim hang it to his watch-chain, in hopes that she might see it, and\nrecognise that the token came from me. How I fastened upon Spencer\nat this time (my friend of the Temple who also had an unfortunate\nlove-match), and walked with him from my apartments to the Temple, and\nhe back with me to Bedford Gardens, and our talk was for ever about our\nwomen! I dare say I told everybody my grief. My good landlady and Betty\nthe housemaid pitied me. My son Miles, who, for a wonder, has been\nreading in my MS., says, \"By Jove, sir, I didn't know you and my mother\nwere took in this kind of way. The year I joined, I was hit very bad\nmyself. An infernal little jilt that threw me over for Sir Craven Oaks\nof our regiment. I thought I should have gone crazy.\" And he gives a\nmelancholy whistle, and walks away.\n\nThe General had to leave London presently on one of his military\ninspections, as the doctor casually told me; but, having given my\nword that I would not seek to present myself at his house, I kept it,\navailing myself, however, as you may be sure, of the good physician's\nleave to visit him, and have news of his dear patient. His accounts of\nher were, far from encouraging. \"She does not rally,\" he said. \"We must\nget her back to Kent again, or to the sea.\" I did not know then that the\npoor child had begged and prayed so piteously not to be moved, that\nher parents, divining, perhaps, the reason of her desire to linger in\nLondon, and feeling that it might be dangerous not to humour her, had\nyielded to her entreaty, and consented to remain in town.\n\nAt last one morning I came, pretty much as usual, and took my place in\nmy doctor's front parlour, whence his patients were called in their turn\nto his consulting-room. Here I remained, looking heedlessly over the\nbooks on the table and taking no notice of any person in the room, which\nspeedily emptied itself of all, save me and one lady who sate with her\nveil down. I used to stay till the last, for Osborn, the doctor's man,\nknew my business, and that it was not my own illness I came for.\n\nWhen the room was empty of all save me and the lady, she puts out two\nlittle hands, cries in a voice which made me start \"Don't you know me,\nGeorge?\" And the next minute I have my arms round her, and kissed her\nas heartily as ever I kissed in my life, and gave way to a passionate\noutgush of emotion the most refreshing, for my parched soul had been in\nrage and torture for six weeks past, and this was a glimpse of Heaven.\n\nWho was it, children? You think it was your mother whom the doctor had\nbrought to me? No. It was Hetty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVI. Informs us how Mr. Warrington jumped into a Landau\n\n\nThe emotion at the first surprise and greeting over, the little maiden\nbegan at once.\n\n\"So you are come at last to ask after Theo, and you feel sorry that your\nneglect has made her so ill? For six weeks she has been unwell, and you\nhave never asked a word about her! Very kind of you, Mr. George, I'm\nsure!\"\n\n\"Kind!\" gasps out Mr. Warrington.\n\n\"I suppose you call it kind to be with her every day and all day for a\nyear, and then to leave her without a word?\"\n\n\"My dear, you know my promise to your father?\" I reply.\n\n\"Promise!\" says Miss Hetty, shrugging her shoulders. \"A very fine\npromise, indeed, to make my darling ill, and then suddenly, one fine\nday, to say, 'Good-bye, Theo,' and walk away for ever. I suppose\ngentlemen make these promises, because they wish to keep 'em. I wouldn't\ntrifle with a poor child's heart, and leave her afterwards, if I were a\nman. What has she ever done to you, but be a fool and too fond of you?\nPray, sir, by what right do you take her away from all of us, and then\ndesert her, because an old woman in America don't approve of her? She\nwas happy with us before you came. She loved her sister--there never was\nsuch a sister--until she saw you. And now, because your mamma thinks her\nyoung gentleman might do better, you must leave her forsooth!\"\n\n\"Great powers, child!\" I cried, exasperated at this wrongheadedness.\n\"Was it I that drew back? Is it not I that am forbidden your house? and\ndid not your father require, on my honour, that I should not see her?\"\n\n\"Honour! And you are the men who pretend to be our superiors; and it is\nwe who are to respect you and admire you! I declare, George Warrington,\nyou ought to go back to your schoolroom in Virginia again; have your\nblack nurse to tuck you up in bed, and ask leave from your mamma when\nyou might walk out. Oh, George! I little thought that my sister was\ngiving her heart away to a man who hadn't the spirit to stand by her;\nbut, at the first difficulty, left her! When Doctor Heberden said he was\nattending you, I determined to come and see you, and you do look very\nill, that I am glad to see; and I suppose it's your mother you are\nfrightened of. But I shan't tell Theo that you are unwell. She hasn't\nleft off caring for you. She can't walk out of a room, break her solemn\nengagements, and go into the world the next day as if nothing had\nhappened! That is left for men, our superiors in courage and wisdom; and\nto desert an angel--yes, an angel ten thousand times too good for you;\nan angel who used to love me till she saw you, and who was the blessing\nof life and of all of us--is what you call honour? Don't tell me, sir!\nI despise you all! You are our betters, are you? We are to worship and\nwait on you, I suppose? I don't care about your wit, and your tragedies,\nand your verses; and I think they are often very stupid. I won't set\nup of nights copying your manuscripts, nor watch hour after hour at a\nwindow wasting my time and neglecting everybody because I want to see\nyour worship walk down the street with your hat cocked! If you are\ngoing away, and welcome, give me back my sister, I say! Give me back my\ndarling of old days, who loved every one of us, till she saw you. And\nyou leave her because your mamma thinks she can find somebody richer\nfor you! Oh, you brave gentleman! Go and marry the person your mother\nchooses, and let my dear die here deserted!\"\n\n\"Great heavens, Hetty!\" I cry, amazed at the logic of the little woman.\n\"Is it I who wish to leave your sister? Did I not offer to keep my\npromise, and was it not your father who refused me, and made me promise\nnever to try and see her again? What have I but my word, and my honour?\"\n\n\"Honour, indeed! You keep your word to him, and you break it to her!\nPretty honour! If I were a man, I would soon let you know what I thought\nof your honour! Only I forgot--you are bound to keep the peace and\nmustn't... Oh, George, George! Don't you see the grief I am in? I am\ndistracted, and scarce know what I say. You must not leave my darling.\nThey don't know it at home. They don't think so but I know her best of\nall, and she will die if you leave her. Say you won't! Have pity upon\nme, Mr. Warrington, and give me my dearest back!\" Thus the warm-hearted,\ndistracted creature ran from anger to entreaty, from scorn to tears. Was\nmy little doctor right in thus speaking of the case of her dear patient?\nWas there no other remedy than that which Hetty cried for? Have not\nothers felt the same cruel pain of amputation, undergone the same\nexhaustion and fever afterwards, lain hopeless of anything save death,\nand yet recovered after all, and limped through life subsequently? Why,\nbut that love is selfish, and does not heed other people's griefs and\npassions, or that ours was so intense and special that we deemed no\nother lovers could suffer like ourselves;--here in the passionate young\npleader for her sister, we might have shown an instance that a fond\nheart could be stricken with the love malady and silently suffer it,\nlive under it, recover from it. What had happened in Hetty's own case?\nHer sister and I, in our easy triumph and fond confidential prattle, had\nmany a time talked over that matter, and, egotists as we were, perhaps\ndrawn a secret zest and security out of her less fortunate attachment.\n'Twas like sitting by the fireside and hearing the winter howling\nwithout; 'twas like walking by the maxi magno, and seeing the ship\ntossing at sea. We clung to each other only the more closely, and,\nwrapped in our own happiness, viewed others' misfortunes with complacent\npity. Be the truth as it may. Grant that we might have been sundered,\nand after a while survived the separation, so much my sceptical old age\nmay be disposed to admit. Yet, at that time, I was eager enough to share\nmy ardent little Hetty's terrors and apprehensions, and willingly chose\nto believe that the life dearest to me in the world would be sacrificed\nif separated from mine. Was I wrong? I would not say as much now. I may\ndoubt about myself (or not doubt, I know), but of her, never; and Hetty\nfound in her quite a willing sharer in her alarms and terrors. I was for\nimparting some of these to our doctor; but the good gentleman shut my\nmouth. \"Hush,\" says he, with a comical look of fright. \"I must hear none\nof this. If two people who happen to know each other chance to meet and\ntalk in my patients' room, I cannot help myself; but as for match-making\nand love-making, I am your humble servant! What will the General do when\nhe comes back to town? He will have me behind Montagu House as sure as I\nam a live doctor, and alive I wish to remain, my good sir!\" and he skips\ninto his carriage, and leaves me there meditating. \"And you and Miss\nHetty must have no meetings here again, mind you that,\" he had said\npreviously.\n\nOh no! Of course we would have none! We are gentlemen of honour, and so\nforth, and our word is our word. Besides, to have seen Hetty, was not\nthat an inestimable boon, and would we not be for ever grateful? I am\nso refreshed with that drop of water I have had, that I think I can hold\nout for ever so long a time now. I walk away with Hetty to Soho, and\nnever once thought of arranging a new meeting with her. But the little\nemissary was more thoughtful, and she asks me whether I go to the\nMuseum now to read? And I say, \"Oh yes, sometimes, my dear; but I am too\nwretched for reading now; I cannot see what is on the paper. I do not\ncare about my books. Even Pocahontas is wearisome to me. I...\" I\nmight have continued ever so much further, when, \"Nonsense!\" she says,\nstamping her little foot. \"Why, I declare, George, you are more stupid\nthan Harry!\"\n\n\"How do you mean, my dear child?\" I asked.\n\n\"When do you go? You go away at three o'clock. You strike across on the\nroad to Tottenham Court. You walk through the village, and return by the\nGreen Lane that leads back towards the new hospital. You know you do! If\nyou walk for a week there, it can't do you any harm. Good morning, sir!\nYou'll please not follow me any farther.\" And she drops me a curtsey,\nand walks away with a veil over her face.\n\nThat Green Lane, which lay to the north of the new hospital, is built\nall over with houses now. In my time, when good old George II. was yet\nking, 'twas a shabby rural outlet of London; so dangerous, that the City\nfolks who went to their villas and junketing houses at Hampstead and the\noutlying villages, would return in parties of nights, and escorted by\nwaiters with lanthorns, to defend them from the footpads who prowled\nabout the town outskirts. Hampstead and Highgate churches, each crowning\nits hill, filled up the background of the view which you saw as\nyou turned your back to London; and one, two, three days Mr. George\nWarrington had the pleasure of looking upon this landscape, and walking\nback in the direction of the new hospital.\n\nAlong the lane were sundry small houses of entertainment; and I remember\nat one place, where they sold cakes and beer, at the sign of the\nProtestant Hero, a decent woman smiling at me on the third or fourth\nday, and curtseying in her clean apron, as she says, \"It appears the\nlady don't come, sir! Your honour had best step in, and take a can of my\ncool beer.\"\n\nAt length, as I am coming back through Tottenham Road, on the 25th of\nMay--O day to be marked with the whitest stone!--a little way beyond Mr.\nWhitefield's Tabernacle, I see a landau before me, and on the box-seat\nby the driver is my young friend Charley, who waves his hat to me and\ncalls out, \"George! George!\" I ran up to the carriage, my knees knocking\ntogether so that I thought I should fall by the wheel; and inside I see\nHetty, and by her my dearest Theo, propped with a pillow. How thin the\nlittle hand had become since last it was laid in mine! The cheeks were\nflushed and wasted, the eyes strangely bright, and the thrill of the\nvoice when she spoke a word or two, smote me with a pang, I know not of\ngrief or joy was it, so intimately were they blended.\n\n\"I am taking her an airing to Hampstead,\" says Hetty, demurely. \"The\ndoctor says the air will do her good.\"\n\n\"I have been ill, but I am better now, George,\" says Theo. There came a\ngreat burst of music from the people in the chapel hard by, as she was\nspeaking. I held her hand in mine. Her eyes were looking into mine once\nmore. It seemed as if we had never been parted.\n\nI can never forget the tune of that psalm. I have heard it all through\nmy life. My wife has touched it on her harpsichord, and her little ones\nhave warbled it. Now, do you understand, young people, why I love it so?\nBecause 'twas the music played at our amoris redintegratio. Because it\nsang hope to me, at the period of my existence the most miserable. Yes,\nthe most miserable: for that dreary confinement of Duquesne had its\ntendernesses and kindly associations connected with it; and many a time\nin after days I have thought with fondness of the poor Biche and my\ntipsy jailor, and the reveille of the forest birds and the military\nmusic of my prison.\n\nMaster Charley looks down from his box-seat upon his sister and me\nengaged in beatific contemplation, and Hetty listening too, to the\nmusic. \"I think I should like to go and hear it. And that famous Mr.\nWhitfield, perhaps he is going to preach this very day! Come in with me,\nCharley--and George can drive for half an hour with dear Theo towards\nHampstead and back.\"\n\nCharley did not seem to have any very strong desire for witnessing the\ndevotional exercises of good Mr. Whitfield and his congregation, and\nproposed that George Warrington should take Hetty in; but Het was not\nto be denied. \"I will never help you in another exercise as long as you\nlive, sir,\" cries Miss Hetty, \"if you don't come on,\"--while the youth\nclambered down from his box-seat, and they entered the temple together.\n\nCan any moralist, bearing my previous promises in mind, excuse me for\njumping into the carriage and sitting down once more by my dearest Theo?\nSuppose I did break 'em? Will he blame me much? Reverend sir, you are\nwelcome. I broke my promise; and if you would not do as much, good\nfriend, you are welcome to your virtue. Not that I for a moment suspect\nmy own children will ever be so bold as to think of having hearts of\ntheir own, and bestowing them according to their liking. No, my young\npeople, you will let papa choose for you; be hungry when he tells\nyou; be thirsty when he orders; and settle your children's marriages\nafterwards.\n\nAnd now of course you are anxious to hear what took place when papa\njumped into the landau by the side of poor little mamma, propped up by\nher pillows. \"I am come to your part of the story, my dear,\" says I,\nlooking over to my wife as she is plying her needles.\n\n\"To what, pray?\" says my lady. \"You should skip all that part, and come\nto the grand battles, and your heroic defence of----\"\n\n\"Of Fort Fiddlededee in the year 1778, when I pulled off Mr.\nWashington's epaulet, gouged General Gates's eye, cut off Charles Lee's\nhead, and pasted it on again!\"\n\n\"Let us hear all about the fighting,\" say the boys. Even the Captain\ncondescends to own he will listen to any military details, though only\nfrom a militia officer.\n\n\"Fair and softly, young people! Everything in its turn. I am not yet\narrived at the war. I am only a young gentleman, just stepping into\na landau, by the side of a young lady whom I promised to avoid. I am\ntaking her hand, which, after a little ado, she leaves in mine. Do you\nremember how hot it was, the little thing, how it trembled, and how it\nthrobbed and jumped a hundred and twenty in a minute? And as we trot on\ntowards Hampstead, I address Miss Lambert in the following terms----\"\n\n\"Ah, ah, ah!\" say the girls in a chorus with mademoiselle, their French\ngoverness, who cries, \"Nous ecoutons maintenant. La parole est a vous,\nMonsieur le Chevalier!\"\n\nHere we have them all in a circle: mamma is at her side of the fire,\npapa at his; Mademoiselle Eleonore, at whom the Captain looks rather\nsweetly (eyes off, Captain!); the two girls, listening like--like\nnymphas discentes to Apollo, let us say; and John and Tummas (with\nobtuse ears), who are bringing in the tea-trays and urns.\n\n\"Very good,\" says the Squire, pulling out the MS., and waving it before\nhim. \"We are going to tell your mother's secrets and mine.\"\n\n\"I am sure you may, papa,\" cries the house matron. \"There's nothing to\nbe ashamed of.\" And a blush rises over her kind face.\n\n\"But before I begin, young folks, permit me two or three questions.\"\n\n\"Allons, toujours des questions!\" says mademoiselle, with a shrug of her\npretty shoulders. (Florac has recommended her to us, and I suspect the\nlittle Chevalier has himself an eye upon this pretty Mademoiselle de\nBlois.)\n\nTo the questions, then.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVII. And how everybody got out again\n\n\nYou, Captain Miles Warrington, have the honour of winning the good\ngraces of a lady--of ever so many ladies--of the Duchess of Devonshire,\nlet us say, of Mrs. Crew, of Mrs. Fitzherbert, of the Queen of Prussia,\nof the Goddess Venus, of Mademoiselle Hillisberg of the Opera--never\nmind of whom, in fine. If you win a lady's good graces, do you always go\nto the mess and tell what happened?\"\n\n\"Not such a fool, Squire!\" says the Captain, surveying his side curl in\nthe glass.\n\n\"Have you, Miss Theo, told your mother every word you said to Mr. Joe\nBlake, junior, in the shrubbery this morning?\"\n\n\"Joe Blake, indeed!\" cries Theo junior.\n\n\"And you, mademoiselle? That scented billet which came to you under Sir\nThomas's frank, have you told us all the letter contains? Look how she\nblushes! As red as the curtain, on my word! No, mademoiselle, we all\nhave our secrets\" (says the Squire, here making his best French bow).\n\"No, Theo, there was nothing in the shrubbery--only nuts, my child!\nNo, Miles, my son, we don't tell all, even to the most indulgent of\nfathers--and if I tell what happened in a landau on the Hampstead Road,\non the 25th of May, 1760, may the Chevalier Ruspini pull out every tooth\nin my head!\"\n\n\"Pray tell, papa!\" cries mamma: \"or, as Jobson, who drove us, is in your\nservice now, perhaps you will have him in from the stables! I insist\nupon your telling!\"\n\n\"What is, then, this mystery?\" asks mademoiselle, in her pretty French\naccent, of my wife.\n\n\"Eh, ma fille!\" whispers the lady. \"Thou wouldst ask me what I said? I\nsaid 'Yes!'--behold all I said.\" And so 'tis my wife has peached, and\nnot I; and this was the sum of our conversation, as the carriage, all\ntoo swiftly as I thought, galloped towards Hampstead, and flew\nback again. Theo had not agreed to fly in the face of her honoured\nparents--no such thing. But we would marry no other person; no, not if\nwe lived to be as old as Methuselah; no, not the Prince of Wales\nhimself would she take. Her heart she had given away with her papa's\nconsent--nay, order--it was not hers to resume. So kind a father must\nrelent one of these days; and, if George would keep his promise--were it\nnow, or were it in twenty years, or were it in another world, she knew\nshe should never break hers.\n\nHetty's face beamed with delight when, my little interview over, she\nsaw Theo's countenance wearing a sweet tranquillity. All the doctor's\nmedicine has not done her so much good, the fond sister said. The girls\nwent home after their act of disobedience. I gave up the place which I\nhad held during a brief period of happiness by my dear invalid's side.\nHetty skipped back into her seat, and Charley on to his box. He told me\nin after days, that it was a very dull, stupid sermon he had heard. The\nlittle chap was too orthodox to love dissenting preachers' sermons.\n\nHetty was not the only one of the family who remarked her sister's\naltered countenance and improved spirits. I am told that on the girls'\nreturn home their mother embraced both of them, especially the invalid,\nwith more than common ardour of affection. \"There was nothing like a\ncountry ride,\" Aunt Lambert said, \"for doing her dear Theo good. She\nhad been on the road to Hampstead, had she? She must have another ride\nto-morrow. Heaven be blessed, my Lord Wrotham's horses were at their\norders three or four times a week, and the sweet child might have the\nadvantage of them!\" As for the idea that Mr. Warrington might have\nhappened to meet the children on their drive, Aunt Lambert never once\nentertained it,--at least spoke of it. I leave anybody who is interested\nin the matter to guess whether Mrs. Lambert could by any possibility\nhave supposed that her daughter and her sweetheart could ever have come\ntogether again. Do women help each other in love perplexities? Do women\nscheme, intrigue, make little plans, tell little fibs, provide little\namorous opportunities, hang up the rope-ladder, coax, wheedle, mystify\nthe guardian or Abigail, and turn their attention away while Strephon\nand Chloe are billing and cooing in the twilight, or whisking off in the\npostchaise to Gretna Green? My dear young folks, some people there are\nof this nature; and some kind souls who have loved tenderly and truly in\ntheir own time, continue ever after to be kindly and tenderly disposed\ntowards their young successors, when they begin to play the same pretty\ngame.\n\nMiss Prim doesn't. If she hears of two young persons attached to each\nother, it is to snarl at them for fools, or to imagine of them all\nconceivable evil. Because she has a hump-back herself, she is for biting\neverybody else's. I believe if she saw a pair of turtles cooing in a\nwood, she would turn her eyes down, or fling a stone to frighten them;\nbut I am speaking, you see, young ladies, of your grandmother, Aunt\nLambert, who was one great syllabub of human kindness; and, besides,\nabout the affair at present under discussion, how am I ever to tell\nwhether she knew anything regarding it or not?\n\nSo, all she says to Theo on her return home is, \"My child, the country\nair has done you all the good in the world, and I hope you will take\nanother drive to-morrow, and another, and another, and so on.\"\n\n\"Don't you think, papa, the ride has done the child most wonderful good,\nand must not she be made to go out in the air?\" Aunt Lambert asks of the\nGeneral, when he comes in for supper.\n\n\"Yes, sure, if a coach-and-six will do his little Theo good, she shall\nhave it,\" Lambert says, \"or he will drag the landau up Hampstead Hill\nhimself, if there are no horses;\" and so the good man would have spent,\nfreely, his guineas, or his breath, or his blood, to give his child\npleasure. He was charmed at his girl's altered countenance; she picked\na bit of chicken with appetite: she drank a little negus, which he made\nfor her: indeed it did seem to be better than the kind doctor's best\nmedicine, which hitherto, God wot, had been of little benefit. Mamma was\ngracious and happy. Hetty was radiant and rident. It was quite like an\nevening at home at Oakhurst. Never for months past, never since that\nfatal, cruel day, that no one spoke of, had they spent an evening so\ndelightful.\n\nBut, if the other women chose to coax and cajole the good, simple\nfather, Theo herself was too honest to continue for long even that sweet\nand fond delusion. When, for the third or fourth time, he comes back to\nthe delightful theme of his daughter's improved health, and asks, \"What\nhas done it? Is it the country air? is it the Jesuit's bark? is it the\nnew medicine?\"\n\n\"Can't you think, dear, what it is?\" she says, laying a hand upon her\nfather's, with a tremor in her voice, perhaps, but eyes that are quite\nopen and bright.\n\n\"And what is it, my child?\" asks the General.\n\n\"It is because I have seen him again, papa!\" she says.\n\nThe other two women turned pale, and Theo's heart too begins to\npalpitate, and her cheek to whiten, as she continues to look in her\nfather's scared face.\n\n\"It was not wrong to see him,\" she continues, more quickly; \"it would\nhave been wrong not to tell you.\"\n\n\"Great God!\" groans the father, drawing his hand back, and with such\na dreadful grief in his countenance, that Hetty runs to her almost\nswooning sister, clasps her to her heart, and cries out, rapidly, \"Theo\nknew nothing of it, sir! It was my doing--it was all my doing!\"\n\nTheo lies on her sister's neck, and kisses it twenty, fifty times.\n\n\"Women, women! are you playing with my honour?\" cries the father,\nbursting out with a fierce exclamation.\n\nAunt Lambert sobs, wildly, \"Martin! Martin! Don't say a word to her!\"\nagain calls out Hetty, and falls back herself staggering towards the\nwall, for Theo has fainted on her shoulder.\n\nI was taking my breakfast next morning, with what appetite I might, when\nmy door opens, and my faithful black announces, \"General Lambert.\" At\nonce I saw, by the General's face, that the yesterday's transaction was\nknown to him. \"Your accomplices did not confess,\" the General said,\nas soon as my servant had left us, \"but sided with you against their\nfather--a proof how desirable clandestine meetings are. It was from Theo\nherself I heard that she had seen you.\"\n\n\"Accomplices, sir!\" I said (perhaps not unwilling to turn the\nconversation from the real point at issue). \"You know how fondly and\ndutifully your young people regard their father. If they side against\nyou in this instance, it must be because justice is against you. A man\nlike you is not going to set up sic volo sic jubeo as the sole law in\nhis family!\"\n\n\"Psha, George!\" cries the General. \"For though we are parted, God forbid\nI should desire that we should cease to love each other. I had your\npromise that you would not seek to see her.\"\n\n\"Nor did I go to her, sir,\" I said, turning red, no doubt; for though\nthis was truth, I own it was untrue.\n\n\"You mean she was brought to you?\" says Theo's father, in great\nagitation. \"Is it behind Hester's petticoat that you will shelter\nyourself? What a fine defence for a gentleman!\"\n\n\"Well, I won't screen myself behind the poor child,\" I replied.\n\"To speak as I did was to make an attempt at evasion, and I am\nill-accustomed to dissemble. I did not infringe the letter of my\nagreement, but I acted against the spirit of it. From this moment I\nannul it altogether.\"\n\n\"You break your word given to me!\" cries Mr. Lambert.\n\n\"I recall a hasty promise made on a sudden at a moment of extreme\nexcitement and perturbation. No man can be for ever bound by words\nuttered at such a time; and, what is more, no man of honour or humanity,\nMr. Lambert, would try to bind him.\"\n\n\"Dishonour to me! sir,\" exclaims the General.\n\n\"Yes, if the phrase is to be shuttlecocked between us!\" I answered,\nhotly. \"There can be no question about love, or mutual regard,\nor difference of age, when that word is used: and were you my own\nfather--and I love you better than a father, Uncle Lambert,--I would not\nbear it! What have I done? I have seen the woman whom I consider my wife\nbefore God and man, and if she calls me I will see her again. If she\ncomes to me, here is my home for her, and the half of the little I have.\n'Tis you, who have no right, having made me the gift, to resume it.\nBecause my mother taunts you unjustly, are you to visit Mrs. Esmond's\nwrong upon this tender, innocent creature? You profess to love your\ndaughter, and you can't bear a little wounded pride for her sake. Better\nshe should perish away in misery, than an old woman in Virginia should\nsay that Mr. Lambert had schemed to marry one of his daughters. Say\nthat to satisfy what you call honour and I call selfishness, we part,\nwe break our hearts well nigh, we rally, we try to forget each other, we\nmarry elsewhere? Can any man be to my dear as I have been? God forbid!\nCan any woman be to me what she is? You shall marry her to the Prince of\nWales to-morrow, and it is a cowardice and treason. How can we, how can\nyou, undo the promises we have made to each other before Heaven? You may\npart us: and she will die as surely as if she were Jephthah's daughter.\nHave you made any vow to Heaven to compass her murder? Kill her if you\nconceive your promise so binds you: but this I swear, that I am glad\nyou have come, so that I may here formally recall a hasty pledge which I\ngave, and that, call me when she will, I will come to her!\"\n\nNo doubt this speech was made with the flurry and agitation belonging\nto Mr. Warrington's youth, and with the firm conviction that death would\ninfallibly carry off one or both of the parties, in case their worldly\nseparation was inevitably decreed. Who does not believe his first\npassion eternal? Having watched the world since, and seen the rise,\nprogress, and--alas, that I must say it!--decay of other amours, I may\nsmile now as I think of my own youthful errors and ardours; but, if it\nbe a superstition, I had rather hold it; I had rather think that\nneither of us could have lived with any other mate, and that, of all its\ninnumerable creatures, Heaven decreed these special two should be joined\ntogether.\n\n\"We must come, then, to what I had fain have spared myself,\" says the\nGeneral, in reply to my outbreak; \"to an unfriendly separation. When\nI meet you, Mr. Warrington, I must know you no more. I must order--and\nthey will not do other than obey me--my family and children not to\nrecognise you when they see you, since you will not recognise in\nyour intercourse with me the respect due to my age, the courtesy of\ngentlemen. I had hoped so far from your sense of honour, and the idea\nI had formed of you, that, in my present great grief and perplexity,\nI should have found you willing to soothe and help me as far as you\nmight--for, God knows, I have need of everybody's sympathy. But, instead\nof help, you fling obstacles in my way. Instead of a friend--a gracious\nHeaven pardon me!--I find in you an enemy! An enemy to the peace of my\nhome and the honour of my children, sir! And as such I shall treat you,\nand know how to deal with you, when you molest me!\"\n\nAnd, waving his hand to me, and putting on his hat, Mr. Lambert hastily\nquitted my apartment.\n\nI was confounded, and believed, indeed, there was war between us. The\nbrief happiness of yesterday was clouded over and gone, and I thought\nthat never since the day of the first separation had I felt so\nexquisitely unhappy as now, when the bitterness of quarrel was added to\nthe pangs of parting, and I stood not only alone but friendless. In the\ncourse of one year's constant intimacy I had come to regard Lambert with\na reverence and affection which I had never before felt for any mortal\nman except my dearest Harry. That his face should be turned from me\nin anger was as if the sun had gone out of my sphere, and all was dark\naround me. And yet I felt sure that in withdrawing the hasty promise I\nhad made not to see Theo, I was acting rightly--that my fidelity to her,\nas hers now to me, was paramount to all other ties of duty or obedience,\nand that, ceremony or none, I was hers, first and before all. Promises\nwere passed between us, from which no parent could absolve either; and\nall the priests in Christendom could no more than attest and confirm the\nsacred contract which had tacitly been ratified between us.\n\nI saw Jack Lambert by chance that day, as I went mechanically to my not\nunusual haunt, the library of the new Museum; and with the impetuousness\nof youth, and eager to impart my sorrow to some one, I took him out of\nthe room and led him about the gardens, and poured out my grief to him.\nI did not much care for Jack (who in truth was somewhat of a prig, and\nnot a little pompous and wearisome with his Latin quotations) except in\nthe time of my own sorrow, when I would fasten upon him or any one; and\nhaving suffered himself in his affair with the little American,\nbeing haud ignarus mali (as I knew he would say), I found the college\ngentleman ready to compassionate another's misery. I told him, what has\nhere been represented at greater length, of my yesterday's meeting\nwith his sister; of my interview with his father in the morning; of my\ndetermination at all hazards never to part with Theo. When I found from\nthe various quotations from the Greek and Latin authors which he uttered\nthat he leaned to my side in the dispute, I thought him a man of great\nsense, clung eagerly to his elbow, and bestowed upon him much more\naffection than he was accustomed at other times to have from me. I\nwalked with him up to his father's lodgings in Dean Street; saw him\nenter at the dear door; surveyed the house from without with a sickening\ndesire to know from its exterior appearance how my beloved fared within;\nand called for a bottle at the coffee-house where I waited Jack's\nreturn. I called him Brother when I sent him away. I fondled him as the\ncondemned wretch at Newgate hangs about the jailor or the parson, or any\none who is kind to him in his misery. I drank a whole bottle of wine at\nthe coffee-house--by the way, Jack's Coffee-House was its name--called\nanother. I thought Jack would never come back.\n\nHe appeared at length with rather a scared face; and, coming to my box,\npoured out for himself two or three bumpers from my second bottle,\nand then fell to his story, which, to me at least, was not a little\ninteresting. My poor Theo was keeping her room, it appeared, being much\nagitated by the occurrences of yesterday; and Jack had come home in time\nto find dinner on table; after which his good father held forth upon the\noccurrences of the morning, being anxious and able to speak more freely,\nhe said, because his eldest son was present and Theodosia was not in the\nroom. The General stated what had happened at my lodgings between me and\nhim. He bade Hester be silent, who indeed was as dumb as a mouse, poor\nthing! he told Aunt Lambert (who was indulging in that madefaction of\npocket-handkerchiefs which I have before described), and with something\nlike an imprecation, that the women were all against him, and pimps (he\ncalled them) for one another; and frantically turning round to Jack,\nasked what was his view in the matter?\n\nTo his father's surprise and his mother's and sister's delight,\nJack made a speech on my side. He ruled with me (citing what ancient\nauthorities I don't know), that the matter had gone out of the hands of\nthe parents on either side; that having given their consent, some months\npreviously, the elders had put themselves out of court. Though he did\nnot hold with a great, a respectable, he might say a host of divines,\nthose sacramental views of the marriage-ceremony--for which there was a\ngreat deal to be said--yet he held it, if possible, even more sacredly\nthan they; conceiving that though marriages were made before the civil\nmagistrate, and without the priest, yet they were, before Heaven,\nbinding and indissoluble.\n\n\"It is not merely, sir,\" says Jack, turning to his father, \"those whom\nI, John Lambert, Priest, have joined, let no man put asunder; it is\nthose whom God has joined let no man separate.\" (Here he took off his\nhat, as he told the story to me.) \"My views are clear upon the point,\nand surely these young people were joined, or permitted to plight\nthemselves to each other by the consent of you, the priest of your own\nfamily. My views, I say, are clear, and I will lay them down at length\nin a series of two or three discourses which, no doubt, will satisfy\nyou. Upon which,\" says Jack, \"my father said, 'I am satisfied already,\nmy dear boy,' and my lively little Het (who has much archness) whispers\nto me, 'Jack, mother and I will make you a dozen shirts, as sure as eggs\nis eggs.'\"\n\n\"Whilst we were talking,\" Mr. Lambert resumed, \"my sister Theodosia\nmade her appearance, I must say very much agitated and pale, kissed our\nfather, and sate down at his side, and took a sippet of toast--(my dear\nGeorge, this port is excellent, and I drink your health)--and took a\nsippet of toast and dipped it in his negus.\n\n\"'You should have been here to hear Jack's sermon!' says Hester. 'He has\nbeen preaching most beautifully.'\n\n\"'Has he?' asks Theodosia, who is too languid and weak, poor thing, much\nto care for the exercises of eloquence, or the display of authorities,\nsuch as I must own,\" says Jack, \"it was given to me this afternoon to\nbring forward.\n\n\"'He has talked for three quarters of an hour by Shrewsbury clock,' says\nmy father, though I certainly had not talked so long or half so long\nby my own watch. 'And his discourse has been you, my dear,' says papa,\nplaying with Theodosia's hand.\n\n\"'Me, papa?'\n\n\"'You and--and Mr. Warrington--and--and George, my love,' says papa.\nUpon which\" (says Mr. Jack). \"my sister came closer to the General, and\nlaid her head upon him, and wept upon his shoulder.\n\n\"'This is different, sir,' says I, 'to a passage I remember in\nPausanias.'\n\n\"'In Pausanias? Indeed!' said the General. 'And pray who was he?'\n\n\"I smiled at my father's simplicity in exposing his ignorance before his\nchildren. 'When Ulysses was taking away Penelope from her father,\nthe king hastened after his daughter and bridegroom, and besought his\ndarling to return. Whereupon, it is related, Ulysses offered her her\nchoice,--whether she would return, or go on with him? Upon which the\ndaughter of Icarius covered her face with her veil. For want of a veil\nmy sister has taken refuge in your waistcoat, sir,' I said, and we all\nlaughed; though my mother vowed that if such a proposal had been made\nto her, or Penelope had been a girl of spirit, she would have gone home\nwith her father that instant.\n\n\"'But I am not a girl of any spirit, dear mother!' says Theodosia, still\nin gremio patris. I do not remember that this habit of caressing\nwas frequent in my own youth,\" continues Jack. \"But after some more\ndiscourse, Brother Warrington! bethought me of you, and left my parents\ninsisting upon Theodosia returning to bed. The late transactions have,\nit appears, weakened and agitated her much. I myself have experienced,\nin my own case, how full of solliciti timoris is a certain passion; how\nit racks the spirits; and I make no doubt, if carried far enough, or\nindulged to the extent to which women who have little philosophy will\npermit it to go--I make no doubt, I say, is ultimately injurious to the\nhealth. My service to you, brother!\"\n\nFrom grief to hope, how rapid the change was! What a flood of happiness\npoured into my soul, and glowed in my whole being! Landlord, more port!\nWould honest Jack have drunk a binful I would have treated him; and,\nto say truth, Jack's sympathy was large in this case, and it had been\ngenerous all day. I decline to score the bottles of port: and place\nto the fabulous computations of interested waiters, the amount scored\nagainst me in the reckoning. Jack was my dearest, best of brothers.\nMy friendship for him I swore should be eternal. If I could do him any\nservice, were it a bishopric, by George! he should have it. He says I\nwas interrupted by the watchman rhapsodising verses beneath the loved\none's window. I know not. I know I awoke joyfully and rapturously, in\nspite of a racking headache the next morning.\n\nNor did I know the extent of my happiness quite, or the entire\nconversion of my dear noble enemy of the previous morning. It must\nhave been galling to the pride of an elder man to have to yield to\nrepresentations and objections couched in language so little dutiful as\nthat I had used towards Mr. Lambert. But the true Christian gentleman,\nretiring from his talk with me, mortified and wounded by my asperity of\nremonstrance, as well as by the pain which he saw his beloved daughter\nsuffer, went thoughtfully and sadly to his business, as he subsequently\ntold me, and in the afternoon (as his custom not unfrequently was) into\na church which was open for prayers. And it was here, on his knees,\nsubmitting his case in the quarter whither he frequently, though\nprivately, came for guidance and comfort, that it seemed to him that his\nchild was right in her persistent fidelity to me, and himself wrong in\ndemanding her utter submission. Hence Jack's cause was won almost before\nhe began to plead it; and the brave, gentle heart, which could bear no\nrancour, which bled at inflicting pain on those it loved, which even\nshrank from asserting authority or demanding submission, was only too\nglad to return to its natural pulses of love and affection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVIII. Pyramus and Thisbe\n\n\nIn examining the old papers at home, years afterwards, I found, docketed\nand labelled with my mother's well-known neat handwriting, \"From London,\nApril, 1760. My son's dreadful letter.\" When it came to be mine I\nburnt the document, not choosing that that story of domestic grief and\ndisunion should remain amongst our family annals for future Warringtons\nto gaze on, mayhap, and disobedient sons to hold up as examples of\nforegone domestic rebellions. For similar reasons, I have destroyed the\npaper which my mother despatched to me at this time of tyranny, revolt,\nannoyance, and irritation.\n\nMaddened by the pangs of separation from my mistress, and not unrightly\nconsidering that Mrs. Esmond was the prime cause of the greatest grief\nand misery which had ever befallen me in the world, I wrote home to\nVirginia a letter, which might have been more temperate, it is true, but\nin which I endeavoured to maintain the extremest respect and reticence.\nI said I did not know by what motives she had been influenced, but that\nI held her answerable for the misery of my future life, which she\nhad chosen wilfully to mar and render wretched. She had occasioned a\nseparation between me and a virtuous and innocent young creature,\nwhose own hopes, health, and happiness were cast down for ever by Mrs.\nEsmond's interference. The deed was done, as I feared, and I would offer\nno comment upon the conduct of the perpetrator, who was answerable to\nGod alone; but I did not disguise from my mother that the injury which\nshe had done me was so dreadful and mortal, that her life or mine could\nnever repair it; that the tie of my allegiance was broken towards her,\nand that I never could be, as heretofore, her dutiful and respectful\nson.\n\nMadam Esmond replied to me in a letter of very great dignity (her style\nand correspondence were extraordinarily elegant and fine). She uttered\nnot a single reproach or hard word, but coldly gave me to understand\nthat it was before that awful tribunal of God she had referred the case\nbetween us, and asked for counsel; that, in respect of her own conduct,\nas a mother, she was ready, in all humility, to face it. Might I, as a\nson, be equally able to answer for myself, and to show, when the Great\nJudge demanded the question of me, whether I had done my own duty, and\nhonoured my father and mother! O popoi! My grandfather has quoted in his\nmemoir a line of Homer, showing how in our troubles and griefs the\ngods are always called in question. When our pride, our avarice, our\ninterest, our desire to domineer, are worked upon, are we not for\never pestering Heaven to decide in their favour? In our great American\nquarrel, did we not on both sides appeal to the skies as to the\njustice of our causes, sing Te Deum for victory, and boldly express our\nconfidence that the right should prevail? Was America right because\nshe was victorious? Then I suppose Poland was wrong because she was\ndefeated?--How am I wandering into this digression about Poland,\nAmerica, and what not, and all the while thinking of a little woman now\nno more, who appealed to Heaven and confronted it with a thousand texts\nout of its own book, because her son wanted to make a marriage not of\nher liking? We appeal, we imprecate, we go down on our knees, we demand\nblessings, we shriek out for sentence according to law; the great course\nof the great world moves on; we pant, and strive, and struggle; we hate;\nwe rage; we weep passionate tears; we reconcile; we race and win; we\nrace and lose; we pass away, and other little strugglers succeed; our\ndays are spent; our night comes, and another morning rises, which shines\non us no more.\n\nMy letter to Madam Esmond, announcing my revolt and disobedience\n(perhaps I myself was a little proud of the composition of that\ndocument), I showed in duplicate to Mr. Lambert, because I wished him\nto understand what my relations to my mother were, and how I was\ndetermined, whatever of threats or quarrels the future might bring,\nnever for my own part to consider my separation from Theo as other than\na forced one. Whenever I could see her again I would. My word given\nto her was in secula seculorum, or binding at least as long as my life\nshould endure. I implied that the girl was similarly bound to me, and\nher poor father knew indeed as much. He might separate us; as he might\ngive her a dose of poison, and the gentle, obedient creature would take\nit and die; but the death or separation would be his doing: let him\nanswer them. Now he was tender about his children to weakness, and could\nnot have the heart to submit any one of them--this one especially--to\ntorture. We had tried to part: we could not. He had endeavoured to\nseparate us: it was more than was in his power. The bars were up, but\nthe young couple--the maid within and the knight without--were loving\neach other all the same. The wall was built, but Pyramus and Thisbe were\nwhispering on either side. In the midst of all his grief and perplexity,\nUncle Lambert had plenty of humour, and could not but see that his role\nwas rather a sorry one. Light was beginning to show through that lime\nand rough plaster of the wall: the lovers were getting their hands\nthrough, then their heads through--indeed, it was wall's best business\nto retire.\n\nI forget what happened stage by stage and day by day; nor, for the\ninstruction of future ages, does it much matter. When my descendants\nhave love scrapes of their own, they will find their own means of\ngetting out of them. I believe I did not go back to Dean Street, but\nthat practice of driving in the open air was considered most healthful\nfor Miss Lambert. I got a fine horse, and rode by the side of her\ncarriage. The old woman at Tottenham Court came to know both of us quite\nwell, and nod and wink in the most friendly manner when we passed by.\nI fancy the old goody was not unaccustomed to interest herself in young\ncouples, and has dispensed the hospitality of her roadside cottage to\nmore than one pair.\n\nThe doctor and the country air effected a prodigious cure upon Miss\nLambert. Hetty always attended as duenna, and sometimes of his holiday,\nMaster Charley rode my horse when I got into the carriage. What a deal\nof love-making Miss Hetty heard!--with what exemplary patience she\nlistened to it! I do not say she went to hear the Methodist sermons any\nmore, but 'tis certain that when we had a closed carriage she would very\nkindly and considerately look out of the window. Then, what heaps of\nletters there were!--what running to and fro! Gumbo's bandy legs were\nfor ever on the trot from my quarters to Dean Street; and, on my account\nor her own, Mrs. Molly, the girl's maid, was for ever bringing back\nanswers to Bloomsbury. By the time when the autumn leaves began to turn\npale, Miss Theo's roses were in full bloom again, and my good Doctor\nHeberden's cure was pronounced to be complete. What else happened during\nthis blessed period? Mr. Warrington completed his great tragedy of\nPocahontas, which was not only accepted by Mr. Garrick this time (his\nfriend Dr. Johnson having spoken not unfavourably of the work), but my\nfriend and cousin, Hagan, was engaged by the manager to perform the part\nof the hero, Captain Smith. Hagan's engagement was not made before it\nwas wanted. I had helped him and his family with means disproportioned,\nperhaps, to my power, especially considering my feud with Madam Esmond,\nwhose answer to my angry missive of April came to me towards autumn,\nand who wrote back from Virginia with war for war, controlment for\ncontrolment. These menaces, however, frightened me little: my poor\nmother's thunder could not reach me; and my conscience, or casuistry,\nsupplied me with other interpretations for her texts of Scripture, so\nthat her oracles had not the least weight with me in frightening me from\nmy purpose. How my new loves speeded I neither informed her, nor any\nother members of my maternal or paternal family, who, on both sides, had\nbeen bitter against my marriage. Of what use wrangling with them? It was\nbetter to carpere diem and its sweet loves and pleasures, and to leave\nthe railers to grumble, or the seniors to advise, at their ease.\n\nBesides Madam Esmond I had, it must be owned, in the frantic rage of my\ntemporary separation, addressed notes of wondrous sarcasm to my Uncle\nWarrington, to my Aunt Madame de Bernstein, and to my Lord or Lady\nof Castlewood (I forget to which individually), thanking them for the\ntrouble which they had taken in preventing the dearest happiness of my\nlife, and promising them a corresponding gratitude from their obliged\nrelative. Business brought the jovial Baronet and his family to London\nsomewhat earlier than usual, and Madame de Bernstein was never sorry\nto get back to Clarges Street and her cards. I saw them. They found me\nperfectly well. They concluded the match was broken off, and I did not\nchoose to undeceive them. The Baroness took heart at seeing how cheerful\nI was, and made many sly jokes about my philosophy, and my prudent\nbehaviour as a man of the world. She was, as ever, bent upon finding a\nrich match for me: and I fear I paid many compliments at her house to\na rich young soap-boiler's daughter from Mile End, whom the worthy\nBaroness wished to place in my arms.\n\n\"You court her with infinite wit and esprit, my dear,\" says my pleased\nkinswoman, \"but she does not understand half you say, and the other\nhalf, I think, frightens her. This ton de persiflage is very well in our\nsociety, but you must be sparing of it, my dear nephew, amongst these\nroturiers.\"\n\nMiss Badge married a young gentleman of royal dignity, though shattered\nfortunes, from a neighbouring island; and I trust Mrs. Mackshane has\nere this pardoned my levity. There was another person besides Miss at my\naunt's house, who did not understand my persiflage much better than Miss\nherself; and that was a lady who had seen James the Second's reign, and\nwho was alive and as worldly as ever in King George's. I loved to be\nwith her: but that my little folks have access to this volume, I could\nput down a hundred stories of the great old folks whom she had known in\nthe great old days--of George the First and his ladies, of St. John and\nMarlborough, of his reigning Majesty and the late Prince of Wales, and\nthe causes of the quarrel between them--but my modest muse pipes for\nboys and virgins. Son Miles does not care about court stories, or if he\ndoth, has a fresh budget from Carlton House, quite as bad as the worst\nof our old Baroness. No, my dear wife, thou hast no need to shake thy\npowdered locks at me! Papa is not going to scandalise his nursery with\nold-world gossip, nor bring a blush over our chaste bread-and-butter.\n\nBut this piece of scandal I cannot help. My aunt used to tell it with\ninfinite gusto; for, to do her justice, she hated your would-be good\npeople, and sniggered over the faults of the self-styled righteous with\nuncommon satisfaction. In her later days she had no hypocrisy, at least;\nand in so far was better than some whitewashed... Well, to the story.\nMy Lady Warrington, one of the tallest and the most virtuous of her sex,\nwho had goodness for ever on her lips and \"Heaven in her eye,\" like the\nwoman in Mr. Addison's tedious tragedy (which has kept the stage, from\nwhich some others, which shall be nameless, have disappeared), had the\nworld in her other eye, and an exceedingly shrewd desire of pushing\nherself in it. What does she do, when my marriage with your ladyship\nyonder was supposed to be broken off, but attempt to play off on me\nthose arts which she had tried on my poor Harry with such signal ill\nsuccess, and which failed with me likewise! It was not the Beauty--Miss\nFlora was for my master--(and what a master! I protest I take off my hat\nat the idea of such an illustrious connexion!)--it was Dora, the Muse,\nwas set upon me to languish at me and to pity me, and to read even my\ngodless tragedy, and applaud me and console me. Meanwhile, how was the\nBeauty occupied? Will it be believed that my severe aunt gave a great\nentertainment to my Lady Yarmouth, presented her boy to her, and placed\npoor little Miles under her ladyship's august protection? That, so\nfar, is certain; but can it be that she sent her daughter to stay at my\nlady's house, which our gracious lord and master daily visited, and with\nthe views which old Aunt Bernstein attributed to her? \"But for that\nfit of apoplexy, my dear,\" Bernstein said, \"that aunt of yours intended\nthere should have been a Countess in her own right in the Warrington\nfamily!\" [Compare Walpole's letters in Mr. Cunningham's excellent new\nedition. See the story of the supper at N. House, to show what great\nnoblemen would do for a king's mistress, and the pleasant account of\nthe waiting for the Prince of Wales before Holland House.-EDITOR.] My\nneighbour and kinswoman, my Lady Claypole, is dead and buried. Grow\nwhite, ye daisies, upon Flora's tomb! I can see my pretty Miles, in a\ngay little uniform of the Norfolk Militia, led up by his parent to the\nlady whom the King delighted to honour, and the good-natured old Jezebel\nlaying her hand upon the boy's curly pate. I am accused of being but a\nlukewarm royalist; but sure I can contrast those times with ours, and\nacknowledge the difference between the late sovereign and the present,\nwho, born a Briton, has given to every family in the empire an example\nof decorum and virtuous life. [The Warrington MS. is dated 1793.-ED.]\n\nThus my life sped in the pleasantest of all occupation; and, being so\nhappy myself, I could afford to be reconciled to those who, after all,\nhad done me no injury, but rather added to the zest of my happiness by\nthe brief obstacle which they had placed in my way. No specific plans\nwere formed, but Theo and I knew that a day would come when we need\nsay Farewell no more. Should the day befall a year hence--ten years\nhence--we were ready to wait. Day after day we discussed our little\nplans, with Hetty for our confidante. On our drives we spied out pretty\ncottages that we thought might suit young people of small means; we\ndevised all sorts of delightful schemes and childish economies. We were\nStrephon and Chloe to be sure. A cot and a brown loaf should content us!\nGumbo and Molly should wait upon us (as indeed they have done from that\nday until this). At twenty, who is afraid of being poor? Our trials\nwould only confirm our attachment. The \"sweet sorrow\" of every day's\nparting but made the morrow's meeting more delightful; and when we\nseparated we ran home and wrote each other those precious letters which\nwe and other young gentlemen and ladies write under such circumstances;\nbut though my wife has them all in a great tin sugar-box in the closet\nin her bedroom, and, I own, I myself have looked at them once, and even\nthought some of them pretty,--I hereby desire my heirs and executors\nto burn them all, unread, at our demise; specially desiring my son the\nCaptain (to whom I know the perusal of MSS. is not pleasant) to perform\nthis duty. Those secrets whispered to the penny-post, or delivered\nbetween Molly and Gumbo, were intended for us alone, and no ears of our\ndescendants shall overhear them.\n\nWe heard in successive brief letters how our dear Harry continued with\nthe army, as Mr. General Amherst's aide-de-camp, after the death of his\nown glorious general. By the middle of October there came news of the\nCapitulation of Montreal and the whole of Canada, and a brief postscript\nin which Hal said he would ask for leave now, and must go and see the\nold lady at home, who wrote as sulky as a bare, Captain Warrington\nremarked. I could guess why, though the claws could not reach me. I had\nwritten pretty fully to my brother how affairs were standing with me in\nEngland.\n\nThen, on the 25th October, comes the news that his Majesty has fallen\ndown dead at Kensington, and that George III. reigned over us. I fear we\ngrieved but little. What do those care for the Atridae whose hearts are\nstrung only to erota mounon? A modest, handsome, brave new Prince, we\ngladly accept the common report that he is endowed with every virtue;\nand we cry huzzay with the loyal crowd that hails his accession:\nit could make little difference to us, as we thought, simple young\nsweethearts, whispering our little love-stories in our corner.\n\nBut who can say how great events affect him? Did not our little Charley,\nat the Chartreux, wish impiously for a new king immediately, because on\nhis gracious Majesty's accession Doctor Crusius gave his boys a holiday?\nHe and I, and Hetty, and Theo (Miss Theo was strong enough to walk\nmany a delightful mile now), heard the Heralds proclaim his new Majesty\nbefore Savile House in Leicester Fields, and a pickpocket got the watch\nand chain of a gentleman hard by us, and was caught and carried to\nBridewell, all on account of his Majesty's accession. Had the king not\ndied, the gentleman would not have been in the crowd; the chain would\nnot have been seized; the thief would not have been caught and soundly\nwhipped: in this way many of us, more or less remotely, were implicated\nin the great change which ensued, and even we humble folks were affected\nby it presently.\n\nAs thus. My Lord Wrotham was a great friend of the august family of\nSavile House, who knew and esteemed his many virtues. Now, of all\nliving men, my Lord Wrotham knew and loved best his neighbour and old\nfellow-soldier, Martin Lambert, declaring that the world contained few\nbetter gentlemen. And my Lord Bute, being all potent, at first, with his\nMajesty, and a nobleman, as I believe, very eager at the commencement of\nhis brief and luckless tenure of power, to patronise merit wherever he\ncould find it, was strongly prejudiced in Mr. Lambert's favour by the\nlatter's old and constant friend.\n\nMy (and Harry's) old friend Parson Sampson, who had been in and out\nof gaol I don't know how many times of late years, and retained an\never-enduring hatred for the Esmonds of Castlewood, and as lasting a\nregard for me and my brother, was occupying poor Hal's vacant bed at\nmy lodgings at this time (being, in truth, hunted out of his own by\nthe bailiffs). I liked to have Sampson near me, for a more amusing\nJack-friar never walked in cassock; and, besides, he entered into all my\nrhapsodies about Miss Theo; was never tired (so he vowed) of hearing\nme talk of her; admired Pocahontas and Carpezan with, I do believe, an\nhonest enthusiasm; and could repeat whole passages of those tragedies\nwith an emphasis and effect that Barry or cousin Hagan himself could not\nsurpass. Sampson was the go-between between Lady Maria and such of her\nrelations as had not disowned her; and, always in debt himself, was\nnever more happy than in drinking a pot, or mingling his tears with his\nfriends in similar poverty. His acquaintance with pawnbrokers' shops was\nprodigious. He could procure more money, he boasted, on an article than\nany gentleman of his cloth. He never paid his own debts, to be sure,\nbut he was ready to forgive his debtors. Poor as he was, he always found\nmeans to love and help his needy little sister, and a more prodigal,\nkindly, amiable rogue never probably grinned behind bars. They say that\nI love to have parasites about me. I own to have had a great liking for\nSampson, and to have esteemed him much better than probably much better\nmen.\n\nWhen he heard how my Lord Bute was admitted into the cabinet, Sampson\nvowed and declared that his lordship--a great lover of the drama, who\nhad been to see Carpezan, who had admired it, and who would act the part\nof the king very finely in it--he vowed, by George! that my lord must\ngive me a place worthy of my birth and merits. He insisted upon it that\nI should attend his lordship's levee. I wouldn't? The Esmonds were all\nas proud as Lucifer; and, to be sure, my birth was as good as that of\nany man in Europe. Demmy! Where was my lord himself when the Esmonds\nwere lords of great counties, warriors, and Crusaders? Where were they?\nBeggarly Scotchmen, without a rag to their backs--by George! tearing\nraw fish in their islands. But now the times were changed. The Scotchmen\nwere in luck. Mum's the word! \"I don't envy him,\" says Sampson, \"but he\nshall provide for you and my dearest, noblest, heroic captain! He SHALL,\nby George!\" would my worthy parson roar out. And when, in the month\nafter his accession, his Majesty ordered the play of Richard III. at\nDrury Lane, my chaplain cursed, vowed, swore, but he would have him to\nCovent Garden to see Carpezan too. And now, one morning, he bursts into\nmy apartment, where I happened to lie rather late, waving the newspaper\nin his hand, and singing \"Huzza!\" with all his might.\n\n\"What is it, Sampson?\" says I. \"Has my brother got his promotion?\"\n\n\"No, in truth: but some one else has. Huzzay! huzzay! His Majesty\nhas appointed Major-General Martin Lambert to be Governor and\nCommander-in-Chief of the Island of Jamaica.\"\n\nI started up. Here was news, indeed! Mr. Lambert would go to his\ngovernment: and who would go with him? I had been supping with some\ngenteel young fellows at the Cocoa-Tree. The rascal Gumbo had a note for\nme from my dear mistress on the night previous, conveying the same news\nto me, and had delayed to deliver it. Theo begged me to see her at the\nold place at midday the next day without fail. [In the Warrington\nMS. there is not a word to say what the \"old place\" was. Perhaps some\nobliging reader of Notes and Queries will be able to inform me, and who\nMrs. Goodison was.-ED.]\n\nThere was no little trepidation in our little council when we reached\nour place of meeting. Papa had announced his acceptance of the\nappointment, and his speedy departure. He would have a frigate given\nhim, and take his family with him. Merciful powers! and were we to be\nparted? My Theo's old deathly paleness returned to her. Aunt Lambert\nthought she would have swooned; one of Mrs. Goodison's girls had a\nbottle of salts, and ran up with it from the workroom. \"Going away?\nGoing away in a frigate, Aunt Lambert? Going to tear her away from me?\nGreat God! Aunt Lambert, I shall die!\" She was better when mamma came\nup from the workroom with the young lady's bottle of salts. You see the\nwomen used to meet me: knowing dear Theo's delicate state, how could\nthey refrain from compassionating her! But the General was so busy\nwith his levees and his waiting on Ministers, and his outfit, and the\nsettlement of his affairs at home, that they never happened to tell him\nabout our little walks and meetings; and even when orders for the outfit\nof the ladies were given, Mrs. Goodison, who had known and worked\nfor Miss Molly Benson as a schoolgirl (she remembered Miss Esmond of\nVirginia perfectly, the worthy lady told me, and a dress she made for\nthe young lady to be presented at her Majesty's Ball)--\"even when the\noutfit was ordered for the three ladies,\" says Mrs. Goodison, demurely,\n\"why, I thought I could do no harm in completing the order.\"\n\nNow I need not say in what perturbation of mind Mr. Warrington went home\nin the evening to his lodgings, after the discussion with the ladies of\nthe above news. No, or at least a very few, more walks; no more rides to\ndear, dear Hampstead or beloved Islington; no more fetching and carrying\nof letters for Gumbo and Molly! The former blubbered so, that Mr.\nWarrington was quite touched by his fidelity, and gave him a crown-piece\nto go to supper with the poor girl, who turned out to be his sweetheart.\nWhat, you too unhappy, Gumbo, and torn from the maid you love? I was\nready to mingle with him tear for tear.\n\nWhat a solemn conference I had with Sampson that evening! He knew my\naffairs, my expectations, my mother's anger. Psha! that was far off, and\nhe knew some excellent liberal people (of the order of Melchizedek)\nwho would discount the other. The General would not give his consent?\nSampson shrugged his broad shoulders and swore a great roaring oath. My\nmother would not relent? What then? A man was a man, and to make his\nown way in the world? he supposed. He is only a churl who won't play for\nsuch a stake as that, and lose or win, by George! shouts the chaplain,\nover a bottle of Burgundy at the Bedford Head, where he dined. I need\nnot put down our conversation. We were two of us, and I think there was\nonly one mind between us. Our talk was of a Saturday night....\n\nI did not tell Theo, nor any relative of hers, what was being done.\nBut when the dear child faltered and talked, trembling, of the\ncoming departure, I bade her bear up, and vowed all would be well, so\nconfidently, that she, who ever has taken her alarms and joys from my\nface (I wish, my dear, it were sometimes not so gloomy), could not but\nfeel confidence; and placed (with many fond words that need not here be\nrepeated) her entire trust in me--murmuring those sweet words of Ruth\nthat must have comforted myriads of tender hearts in my dearest maiden's\nplight; that whither I would go she would go, and that my people should\nbe hers. At last, one day, the General's preparations being made, the\ntrunks encumbering the passages of the dear old Dean Street lodging,\nwhich I shall love as long as I shall remember at all--one day, almost\nthe last of his stay, when the good man (his Excellency we called him\nnow) came home to his dinner--a comfortless meal enough it was in the\npresent condition of the family--he looked round the table at the place\nwhere I had used to sit in happy old days, and sighed out: \"I wish,\nMolly, George was here.\"\n\n\"Do you, Martin?\" says Aunt Lambert, flinging into his arms.\n\n\"Yes, I do; but I don't wish you to choke me, Molly,\" he says. \"I love\nhim dearly. I may go away and never see him again, and take his foolish\nlittle sweetheart along with me. I suppose you will write to each other,\nchildren? I can't prevent that, you know; and until he changes his mind,\nI suppose Miss Theo won't obey papa's orders, and get him out of her\nfoolish little head. Wilt thou, Theo?\"\n\n\"No, dearest, dearest, best papa!\"\n\n\"What! more embraces and kisses! What does all this mean?\"\n\n\"It means that--that George is in the drawing-room,\" says mamma.\n\n\"Is he! My dearest boy!\" cries the General. \"Come to me--come in!\" And\nwhen I entered he held me to his heart, and kissed me.\n\nI confess at this I was so overcome that I fell down on my knees before\nthe dear, good man, and sobbed on his own.\n\n\"God bless you, my dearest boy!\" he mutters hurriedly. \"Always loved you\nas a son--haven't I, Molly? Broke my heart nearly when I quarrelled with\nyou about this little--What!--odds marrowbones!--all down on your knees!\nMrs. Lambert, pray what is the meaning of all this?\"\n\n\"Dearest, dearest papa! I will go with you all the same!\" whimpers one\nof the kneeling party. \"And I will wait--oh!--as long as ever my dearest\nfather wants me!\"\n\n\"In Heaven's name!\" roars the General, \"tell me what has happened?\"\n\nWhat had happened was, that George Esmond Warrington and Theodosia\nLambert had been married in Southwark that morning, their banns having\nbeen duly called in the church of a certain friend of the Reverend Mr.\nSampson.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIX. Containing both Comedy and Tragedy\n\n\nWe, who had been active in the guilty scene of the morning, felt trebly\nguilty when we saw the effect which our conduct had produced upon him,\nwho, of all others, we loved and respected. The shock to the good man\nwas strange, and pitiful to us to witness who had administered it. The\nchild of his heart had deceived and disobeyed him--I declare I think, my\ndear, now, we would not or could not do it over again; his whole family\nhad entered into a league against him. Dear, kind friend and father!\nWe know thou hast pardoned our wrong--in the Heaven where thou dwellest\namongst purified spirits who learned on earth how to love and pardon! To\nlove and forgive were easy duties with that man. Beneficence was natural\nto him, and a sweet, smiling humility; and to wound either was to be\nsavage and brutal, as to torture a child, or strike blows at a nursing\nwoman. The deed done, all we guilty ones grovelled in the earth, before\nthe man we had injured. I pass over the scenes of forgiveness, of\nreconciliation, of common worship together, of final separation when the\ngood man departed to his government, and the ship sailed away before us,\nleaving me and Theo on the shore. We stood there hand in hand, horribly\nabashed, silent, and guilty. My wife did not come to me till her father\nwent: in the interval between the ceremony of our marriage and his\ndeparture, she had remained at home, occupying her old place by her\nfather, and bed by her sister's side: he as kind as ever, but the women\nalmost speechless among themselves; Aunt Lambert, for once, unkind\nand fretful in her temper; and little Hetty feverish and strange, and\nsaying, \"I wish we were gone. I wish we were gone.\" Though admitted to\nthe house, and forgiven, I slunk away during those last days, and only\nsaw my wife for a minute or two in the street, or with her family. She\nwas not mine till they were gone. We went to Winchester and Hampton\nfor what may be called our wedding. It was but a dismal business. For a\nwhile we felt utterly lonely: and of our dear father as if we had buried\nhim, or drove him to the grave by our undutifulness.\n\nI made Sampson announce our marriage in the papers. (My wife used to\nhang down her head before the poor fellow afterwards.) I took Mrs.\nWarrington back to my old lodgings in Bloomsbury, where there was plenty\nof room for us, and our modest married life began. I wrote home a letter\nto my mother in Virginia, informing her of no particulars, but only\nthat Mr. Lambert being about to depart for his government, I considered\nmyself bound in honour to fulfil my promise towards his dearest\ndaughter; and stated that I intended to carry out my intention of\ncompleting my studies for the Bar, and qualifying myself for employment\nat home, or in our own or any other colony. My good Mrs. Mountain\nanswered this letter, by desire of Madam Esmond, she said, who thought\nthat for the sake of peace my communications had best be conducted\nthat way. I found my relatives in a fury which was perfectly amusing\nto witness. The butler's face, as he said, \"Not at home,\" at my uncle's\nhouse in Hill Street, was a blank tragedy that might have been studied\nby Garrick when he sees Banque. My poor little wife was on my arm, and\nwe were tripping away, laughing at the fellow's accueil, when we came\nupon my lady in a street stoppage in her chair. I took off my hat and\nmade her the lowest possible bow. I affectionately asked after my dear\ncousins. \"I--I wonder you dare look me in the face!\" Lady Warrington\ngasped out. \"Nay, don't deprive me of that precious privilege!\" says I.\n\"Move on, Peter,\" she screams to her chairman. \"Your ladyship would not\nimpale your own husband's flesh and blood!\" says I. She rattles up\nthe glass of her chair in a fury. I kiss my hand, take off my hat, and\nperform another of my very finest bows.\n\nWalking shortly afterwards in Hyde Park with my dearest companion, I\nmet my little cousin exercising on horseback with a groom behind him. As\nsoon as he sees us, he gallops up to us, the groom powdering afterwards\nand bawling out, \"Stop, Master Miles, stop!\"\n\n\"I am not to speak to my cousin,\" says Miles, \"but telling you to send\nmy love to Harry is not speaking to you, is it? Is that my new\ncousin? I'm not told not to speak to her. I'm Miles, cousin, Sir Miles\nWarrington Baronet's son, and you are very pretty!\" \"Now, duee now,\nMaster Miles,\" says the groom, touching his hat to us; and the boy\ntrots away laughing and looking at us over his shoulder. \"You see how\nmy relations have determined to treat me,\" I say to my partner. \"As if\nI married you for your relations!\" says Theo, her eyes beaming joy\nand love into mine. Ah, how happy we were! how brisk and pleasant the\nwinter! How snug the kettle by the fire (where the abashed Sampson\nsometimes came and made the punch); how delightful the night at the\ntheatre, for which our friends brought us tickets of admission, and\nwhere we daily expected our new play of Pocahontas would rival the\nsuccesses of all former tragedies.\n\nThe fickle old aunt of Clarges Street, who received me, on my first\ncoming to London with my wife, with a burst of scorn, mollified\npresently, and as soon as she came to know Theo (who she had pronounced\nto be an insignificant little country-faced chit), fell utterly in love\nwith her, and would have her to tea and supper every day when there was\nno other company. \"As for company, my dears,\" she would say, \"I don't\nask you. You are no longer du monde. Your marriage has put that entirely\nout of the question.\" So she would have had us come to amuse her, and go\nin and out by the back-stairs. My wife was fine lady enough to feel only\namused at this reception; and, I must do the Baroness's domestics the\njustice to say that, had we been duke and duchess, we could not have\nbeen received with more respect. Madame de Bernstein was very much\ntickled and amused with my story of Lady Warrington and the chair. I\nacted it for her, and gave her anecdotes of the pious Baronet's lady and\nher daughters, which pleased the mischievous, lively old woman.\n\nThe Dowager Countess of Castlewood, now established in her house at\nKensington, gave us that kind of welcome which genteel ladies extend to\ntheir poorer relatives. We went once or twice to her ladyship's drums at\nKensington; but, losing more money at cards, and spending more money\nin coach-hire than I liked to afford, we speedily gave up those\nentertainments, and, I dare say, were no more missed or regretted than\nother people in the fashionable world, who are carried by death, debt,\nor other accident out of the polite sphere. My Theo did not in the\nleast regret this exclusion. She had made her appearance at one of these\ndrums, attired in some little ornaments which her mother left behind\nher, and by which the good lady set some store; but I thought her own\nwhite neck was a great deal prettier than these poor twinkling stones;\nand there were dowagers, whose wrinkled old bones blazed with rubies\nand diamonds, which, I am sure, they would gladly have exchanged for her\nmodest parure of beauty and freshness. Not a soul spoke to her--except,\nto be sure, Beau Lothair, a friend of Mr. Will's, who prowled about\nBloomsbury afterwards, and even sent my wife a billet. I met him in\nCovent Garden shortly after, and promised to break his ugly face if\never I saw it in the neighbourhood of my lodgings, and Madam Theo was\nmolested no further.\n\nThe only one of our relatives who came to see us (Madame de Bernstein\nnever came; she sent her coach for us sometimes, or made inquiries\nregarding us by her woman or her major-domo) was our poor Maria, who,\nwith her husband, Mr. Hagan, often took a share of our homely dinner.\nThen we had friend Spencer from the Temple, who admired our Arcadian\nfelicity, and gently asked our sympathy for his less fortunate loves;\nand twice or thrice the famous Doctor Johnson came in for a dish of\nTheo's tea. A dish? a pailful! \"And a pail the best thing to feed him,\nsar!\" says Mr. Gumbo, indignantly: for the Doctor's appearance was not\npleasant, nor his linen particularly white. He snorted, he grew red,\nand sputtered in feeding; he flung his meat about, and bawled out in\ncontradicting people: and annoyed my Theo, whom he professed to admire\ngreatly, by saying, every time he saw her, \"Madam, you do not love me;\nI see by your manner you do not love me; though I admire you, and come\nhere for your sake. Here is my friend Mr. Reynolds that shall paint\nyou: he has no ceruse in his paint-box that is as brilliant as\nyour complexion.\" And so Mr. Reynolds, a most perfect and agreeable\ngentleman, would have painted my wife; but I knew what his price was,\nand did not choose to incur that expense. I wish I had now, for the\nsake of the children, that they might see what yonder face was like some\nfive-and-thirty years ago. To me, madam, 'tis the same now as ever; and\nyour ladyship is always young!\n\nWhat annoyed Mrs. Warrington with Dr. Johnson more than his\ncontradictions, his sputterings, and his dirty nails, was, I think,\nan unfavourable opinion which he formed of my new tragedy. Hagan once\nproposed that he should read some scenes from it after tea.\n\n\"Nay, sir, conversation is better,\" says the Doctor. \"I can read for\nmyself, or hear you at the theatre. I had rather hear Mrs. Warrington's\nartless prattle than your declamation of Mr. Warrington's decasyllables.\nTell us about your household affairs, madam, and whether his Excellency\nyour father is well, and whether you made the pudden and the butter\nsauce. The butter sauce was delicious!\" (He loved it so well that he had\nkept a large quantity in the bosom of a very dingy shirt.) \"You made it\nas though you loved me. You helped me as though you loved me, though you\ndon't.\"\n\n\"Faith, sir, you are taking some of the present away with you in your\nwaistcoat,\" says Hagan, with much spirit.\n\n\"Sir, you are rude!\" bawls the Doctor. \"You are unacquainted with the\nfirst principles of politeness, which is courtesy before ladies. Having\nreceived an university education, I am surprised that you have not\nlearned the rudiments of politeness. I respect Mrs. Warrington. I should\nnever think of making personal remarks about her guests before her!\"\n\n\"Then, sir,\" says Hagan, fiercely, \"why did you speak of my theatre?\"\n\n\"Sir, you are saucy!\" roars the Doctor.\n\n\"De te fabula,\" says the actor. \"I think it is your waistcoat that is\nsaucy. Madam, shall I make some punch in the way we make it in Ireland?\"\n\nThe Doctor, puffing, and purple in the face, was wiping the dingy shirt\nwith a still more dubious pocket-handkerchief, which he then applied to\nhis forehead. After this exercise, he blew a hyperborean whistle, as\nif to blow his wrath away. \"It is de me, sir--though, as a young man,\nperhaps you need not have told me so.\"\n\n\"I drop my point, sir! If you have been wrong, I am sure I am bound to\nask your pardon for setting you so!\" says Mr. Hagan, with a fine bow.\n\n\"Doesn't he look like a god?\" says Maria, clutching my wife's hand: and\nindeed Mr. Hagan did look like a handsome young gentleman. His colour\nhad risen; he had put his hand to his breast with a noble air: Chamont\nor Castalio could not present himself better.\n\n\"Let me make you some lemonade, sir; my papa has sent us a box of fresh\nlimes. May we send you some to the Temple?\"\n\n\"Madam, if they stay in your house, they will lose their quality and\nturn sweet,\" says the Doctor. \"Mr. Hagan, you are a young sauce-box,\nthat's what you are! Ho! ho! It is I have been wrong.\"\n\n\"Oh, my lord, my Polidore!\" bleats Lady Maria, when she was alone in my\nwife's drawing-room:\n\n    \"'Oh, I could hear thee talk for ever thus,\n      Eternally admiring,--fix and gaze\n      On those dear eyes, for every glance they send\n      Darts through my soul, and fills my heart with rapture!'\n\n\"Thou knowest not, my Theo, what a pearl and paragon of a man my\nCastalio is; my Chamont, my--oh, dear me, child, what a pity it is that\nin your husband's tragedy he should have to take the horrid name of\nCaptain Smith!\"\n\nUpon this tragedy not only my literary hopes, but much of my financial\nprospects were founded. My brother's debts discharged, my mother's\ndrafts from home duly honoured, my own expenses paid, which, though\nmoderate, were not inconsiderable,--pretty nearly the whole of my\npatrimony had been spent, and this auspicious moment I must choose\nfor my marriage! I could raise money on my inheritance: that was not\nimpossible, though certainly costly. My mother could not leave her\neldest son without a maintenance, whatever our quarrels might be. I had\nhealth, strength, good wits, some friends, and reputation--above all, my\nfamous tragedy, which the manager had promised to perform, and upon the\nproceeds of this I counted for my present support. What becomes of the\narithmetic of youth? How do we then calculate that a hundred pounds is\na maintenance, and a thousand a fortune? How did I dare play against\nFortune with such odds? I succeeded, I remember, in convincing my dear\nGeneral, and he left home convinced that his son-in-law had for the\npresent necessity at least a score of hundred pounds at his command. He\nand his dear Molly had begun life with less, and the ravens had somehow\nalways fed them. As for the women, the question of poverty was one of\npleasure to those sentimental souls, and Aunt Lambert, for her part,\ndeclared it would be wicked and irreligious to doubt of a provision\nbeing made for her children. Was the righteous ever forsaken? Did the\njust man ever have to beg his bread? She knew better than that! \"No, no,\nmy dears! I am not going to be afraid on that account, I warrant you!\nLook at me and my General!\"\n\nTheo believed all I said and wished to believe myself. So we actually\nbegan life upon a capital of Five Acts, and about three hundred pounds\nof ready money in hand!\n\nWell, the time of the appearance of the famous tragedy drew near, and my\nfriends canvassed the town to get a body of supporters for the opening\nnight. I am ill at asking favours from the great; but when my Lord\nWrotham came to London, I went, with Theo in my hand, to wait on his\nlordship, who received us kindly, out of regard for his old friend,\nher father--though he good-naturedly shook a finger at me (at which my\nlittle wife hung down her head), for having stole a march on the good\nGeneral. However, he would do his best for her father's daughter; hoped\nfor a success; said he had heard great things of the piece; and engaged\na number of places for himself and his friends. But this patron secured,\nI had no other. \"Mon cher, at my age,\" says the Baroness, \"I should\nbore myself to death at a tragedy: but I will do my best; and I will\ncertainly send my people to the boxes. Yes! Case in his best black looks\nlike a nobleman; and Brett in one of my gowns has a faux air de moi\nwhich is quite distinguished. Put down my name for two in the front\nboxes. Good-bye, my dear. Bonne chance!\" The Dowager Countess presented\ncompliments (on the back of the nine of clubs), had a card-party that\nnight, and was quite sorry she and Fanny could not go to my tragedy. As\nfor my uncle and Lady Warrington, they were out of the question. After\nthe affair of the sedan-chair I might as well have asked Queen\nElizabeth to go to Drury Lane. These were all my friends--that host of\naristocratic connexions about whom poor Sampson had bragged; and on\nthe strength of whom, the manager, as he said, had given Mr. Hagan his\nengagement! \"Where was my Lord Bute? Had I not promised his lordship\nshould come?\" he asks, snappishly, taking snuff (how different from\nthe brisk, and engaging, and obsequious little manager of six months\nago!)--\"I promised Lord Bute should come?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Mr. Garrick, \"and her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales,\nand his Majesty too.\"\n\nPoor Sampson owned that he, buoyed up by vain hopes, had promised the\nappearance of these august personages.\n\nThe next day, at rehearsal, matters were worse still, and the manager in\na fury.\n\n\"Great heavens, sir!\" says he, \"into what a pretty guet-a-pens have you\nled me! Look at that letter, sir!--read that letter!\" And he hands me\none:\n\n\n\"MY DEAR SIR\" (said the letter)--\"I have seen his lordship, and conveyed\nto him Mr. Warrington's request that he would honour the tragedy of\nPocahontas by his presence. His lordship is a patron of the drama, and\na magnificent friend of all the liberal arts; but he desires me to\nsay that he cannot think of attending himself, much less of asking his\nGracious Master to witness the performance of a play, a principal part\nin which is given to an actor who has made a clandestine marriage with\na daughter of one of his Majesty's nobility.--Your well-wisher, SAUNDERS\nMCDUFF.\"\n\n\"Mr. D. Garrick, at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.\"\n\n\nMy poor Theo had a nice dinner waiting for me after the rehearsal. I\npleaded fatigue as the reason for looking so pale: I did not dare to\nconvey to her this dreadful news.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXX. Pocahontas\n\n\nThe English public not being so well acquainted with the history of\nPocahontas as we of Virginia, who still love the memory of that simple\nand kindly creature, Mr. Warrington, at the suggestion of his friends,\nmade a little ballad about this Indian princess, which was printed in\nthe magazines a few days before the appearance of the tragedy. This\nproceeding Sampson and I considered to be very artful and ingenious. \"It\nis like ground-bait, sir,\" says the enthusiastic parson, \"and you will\nsee the fish rise in multitudes, on the great day!\" He and Spencer\ndeclared that the poem was discussed and admired at several\ncoffee-houses in their hearing, and that it had been attributed to Mr.\nMason, Mr. Cowper of the Temple, and even to the famous Mr. Gray.\nI believe poor Sam had himself set abroad these reports; and, if\nShakspeare had been named as the author of the tragedy, would have\ndeclared Pocahontas to be one of the poet's best performances. I made\nacquaintance with brave Captain Smith, as a boy in my grandfather's\nlibrary at home, where I remember how I would sit at the good old man's\nknees, with my favourite volume on my own, spelling out the exploits\nof our Virginian hero. I loved to read of Smith's travels, sufferings,\ncaptivities, escapes, not only in America but Europe. I become a child\nagain almost as I take from the shelf before me in England the familiar\nvolume, and all sorts of recollections of my early home come crowding\nover my mind. The old grandfather would make pictures for me of Smith\ndoing battle with the Turks on the Danube, or led out by our Indian\nsavages to death. Ah, what a terrific fight was that in which he was\nengaged with the three Turkish champions, and how I used to delight over\nthe story of his combat with Bonny Molgro, the last and most dreadful\nof the three! What a name Bonny Molgro was, and with what a prodigious\nturban, scimitar, and whiskers we represented him! Having slain and\ntaken off the heads of his first two enemies, Smith and Bonny Molgro\nmet, falling to (says my favourite old book) \"with their battle-axes,\nwhose piercing bills made sometimes the one, sometimes the other,\nto have scarce sense to keep their saddles: especially the Christian\nreceived such a wound that he lost his battle-axe, whereat the supposed\nconquering Turke had a great shout from the rampires. Yet, by the\nreadinesse of his horse, and his great judgment and dexteritie, he\nnot only avoided the Turke's blows, but, having drawn his falchion, so\npierced the Turke under the cutlets, through back and body, that though\nhee alighted from his horse, he stood not long ere hee lost his head as\nthe rest had done. In reward for which deed, Duke Segismundus gave him\n3 Turke's head in a shield for armes and 300 Duckats yeerely for a\npension.\" Disdaining time and place (with that daring which is the\nprivilege of poets) in my tragedy, Smith is made to perform\nsimilar exploits on the banks of our Potomac and James's river. Our\n\"ground-bait\" verses, ran thus:--\n\n             \"POCAHONTAS\n\n    \"Wearied arm and broken sword\n       Wage in vain the desperate fight\n     Round him press the countless horde,\n       He is but a single knight.\n     Hark! a cry of triumph shrill\n       Through the wilderness resounds,\n       As, with twenty bleeding wounds,\n     Sinks the warrior, fighting still.\n\n    \"Now they heap the fatal pyre,\n       And the torch of death they light\n     Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!\n       Who will shield the captive knight?\n     Round the stake with fiendish cry\n       Wheel and dance the savage crowd,\n       Cold the victim's mien and proud,\n     And his breast is bared to die.\n\n    \"Who will shield the fearless heart?\n       Who avert the murderous blade?\n     From the throng, with sudden start,\n       See, there springs an Indian maid.\n     Quick she stands before the knight,\n      'Loose the chain, unbind the ring,\n       I am daughter of the king,\n     And I claim the Indian right!'\n\n    \"Dauntlessly aside she flings\n       Lifted axe and thirsty knife;\n     Fondly to his heart she clings,\n       And her bosom guards his life!\n     In the woods of Powhattan,\n       Still 'tis told, by Indian fires,\n       How a daughter of their sires\n     Saved the captive Englishman.\"\n\nI need not describe at length the plot of my tragedy, as my children can\ntake it down from the shelves any day and peruse it for themselves. Nor\nshall I, let me add, be in a hurry to offer to read it again to my young\nfolks, since Captain Miles and the parson both chose to fall asleep last\nChristmas, when, at mamma's request, I read aloud a couple of acts.\nBut any person having a moderate acquaintance with plays and novels\ncan soon, out of the above sketch, fill out a picture to his liking.\nAn Indian king; a loving princess, and her attendant, in love with the\nBritish captain's servant; a traitor in the English fort; a brave Indian\nwarrior, himself entertaining an unhappy passion for Pocahontas; a\nmedicine-man and priest of the Indians (very well played by Palmer),\ncapable of every treason, stratagem, and crime, and bent upon the\ntorture and death of the English prisoner;--these, with the accidents\nof the wilderness, the war-dances and cries (which Gumbo had learned to\nmimic very accurately from the red people at home), and the arrival\nof the English fleet, with allusions to the late glorious victories in\nCanada, and the determination of Britons ever to rule and conquer in\nAmerica, some of us not unnaturally thought might contribute to the\nsuccess of our tragedy.\n\nBut I have mentioned the ill omens which preceded the day: the\ndifficulties which a peevish, and jealous, and timid management threw in\nthe way of the piece, and the violent prejudice which was felt against\nit in certain high quarters. What wonder then, I ask, that Pocahontas\nshould have turned out not to be a victory? I laugh to scorn the\nmalignity of the critics who found fault with the performance. Pretty\ncritics, forsooth, who said that Carpezan was a masterpiece, whilst\na far superior and more elaborate work received only their sneers! I\ninsist on it that Hagan acted his part so admirably that a certain actor\nand manager of the theatre might well be jealous of him; and that, but\nfor the cabal made outside, the piece would have succeeded. The order\nhad been given that the play should not succeed; so at least Sampson\ndeclared to me. \"The house swarmed with Macs, by George, and they should\nhave the galleries washed with brimstone,\" the honest fellow swore,\nand always vowed that Mr. Garrick himself would not have had the piece\nsucceed for the world; and was never in such a rage as during that grand\nscene in the second act, where Smith (poor Hagan) being bound to the\nstake, Pocahontas comes and saves him, and when the whole house was\nthrilling with applause and sympathy.\n\nAnybody who has curiosity sufficient, may refer to the published tragedy\n(in the octavo form, or in the subsequent splendid quarto edition of my\nCollected Works, and Poems Original and Translated), and say whether the\nscene is without merit, whether the verses are not elegant, the language\nrich and noble? One of the causes of the failure was my actual fidelity\nto history. I had copied myself at the Museum, and tinted neatly, a\nfigure of Sir Walter Raleigh in a frill and beard; and (my dear Theo\ngiving some of her mother's best lace for the ruff) we dressed Hagan\naccurately after this drawing, and no man could look better. Miss\nPritchard as Pocahontas, I dressed too as a Red Indian, having seen\nenough of that costume in my own experience at home. Will it be believed\nthe house tittered when she first appeared? They got used to her,\nhowever, but just at the moment when she rushes into the prisoner's\narms, and a number of people were actually in tears, a fellow in the pit\nbawls out, \"Bedad! here's the Belle Savage kissing the Saracen's Head;\"\non which an impertinent roar of laughter sprang up in the pit, breaking\nout with fitful explosions during the remainder of the performance.\nAs the wag in Mr. Sheridan's amusing Critic admirably says about the\nmorning guns, the playwrights were not content with one of them, but\nmust fire two or three; so with this wretched pothouse joke of the Belle\nSavage (the ignorant people not knowing that Pocahontas herself was the\nvery Belle Sauvage from whom the tavern took its name!). My friend of\nthe pit repeated it ad nauseam during the performance, and as each\nnew character appeared, saluted him by the name of some tavern--for\ninstance, the English governor (with a long beard) he called the Goat\nand Boots; his lieutenant (Barker), whose face certainly was broad, the\nBull and Mouth, and so on! And the curtain descended amidst a shrill\nstorm of whistles and hisses, which especially assailed poor Hagan every\ntime he opened his lips. Sampson saw Master Will in the green boxes,\nwith some pretty acquaintances of his, and has no doubt that the\ntreacherous scoundrel was one of the ringleaders in the conspiracy. \"I\nwould have flung him over into the pit,\" the faithful fellow said (and\nSampson was man enough to execute his threat), \"but I saw a couple of\nMr. Nadab's followers prowling about the lobby, and was obliged to sheer\noff.\" And so the eggs we had counted on selling at market were broken,\nand our poor hopes lay shattered before us!\n\nI looked in at the house from the stage before the curtain was lifted,\nand saw it pretty well filled, especially remarking Mr. Johnson in the\nfront boxes, in a laced waistcoat, having his friend Mr. Reynolds by his\nside; the latter could not hear, and the former could not see, and so\nthey came good-naturedly A deux to form an opinion of my poor tragedy.\nI could see Lady Maria (I knew the hood she wore) in the lower gallery,\nwhere she once more had the opportunity of sitting and looking at her\nbeloved actor performing a principal character in a piece. As for Theo,\nshe fairly owned that, unless I ordered her, she had rather not be\npresent, nor had I any such command to give, for, if things went wrong,\nI knew that to see her suffer would be intolerable pain to myself, and\nso acquiesced in her desire to keep away.\n\nBeing of a pretty equanimous disposition, and, as I flatter myself, able\nto bear good or evil fortune without disturbance, I myself, after taking\na light dinner at the Bedford, went to the theatre a short while before\nthe commencement of the play, and proposed to remain there, until the\ndefeat or victory was decided. I own now, I could not help seeing which\nway the fate of the day was likely to turn. There was something\ngloomy and disastrous in the general aspect of all things around. Miss\nPritchard had the headache: the barber who brought home Hagan's wig\nhad powdered it like a wretch: amongst the gentlemen and ladies in\nthe greenroom, I saw none but doubtful faces: and the manager (a very\nflippant, not to say impertinent gentleman, in my opinion, and who\nhimself on that night looked as dismal as a mute at a funeral) had the\ninsolence to say to me, \"For Heaven's sake, Mr. Warrington, go and get\na glass of punch at the Bedford, and don't frighten us all here by your\ndismal countenance!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" says I, \"I have a right, for five shillings, to comment upon your\nface, but I never gave you any authority to make remarks upon mine.\"\n\"Sir,\" says he in a pet, \"I most heartily wish I had never seen your\nface at all!\" \"Yours, sir!\" said I, \"has often amused me greatly; and\nwhen painted for Abel Drugger is exceedingly comic\"--and indeed I\nhave always done Mr. G. the justice to think that in low comedy he was\nunrivalled. I made him a bow, and walked off to the coffee-house,\nand for five years after never spoke a word to the gentleman, when he\napologised to me, at a nobleman's house where we chanced to meet. I said\nI had utterly forgotten the circumstance to which he alluded, and that,\non the first night of a play, no doubt author and manager were flurried\nalike. And added, \"After all, there is no shame in not being made for\nthe theatre. Mr. Garrick--you were.\" A compliment with which he appeared\nto be as well pleased as I intended he should.\n\nFidus Achates ran over to me at the end of the first act to say that all\nthings were going pretty well; though he confessed to the titter in the\nhouse upon Miss Pritchard's first appearance, dressed exactly like an\nIndian princess.\n\n\"I cannot help it, Sampson,\" said I (filling him a bumper of good\npunch), \"if Indians are dressed so.\"\n\n\"Why,\" says he, \"would you have had Caractacus painted blue like an\nancient Briton, or Bonduca with nothing but a cow-skin?\" And indeed it\nmay be that the fidelity to history was the cause of the ridicule cast\non my tragedy, in which case I, for one, am not ashamed of its defeat.\n\nAfter the second act, my aide-de-camp came from the field with dismal\nnews indeed. I don't know how it is that, nervous before action,\nin disaster I become pretty cool and cheerful. [The writer seems to\ncontradict himself here, having just boasted of possessing a pretty\nequanimous disposition. He was probably mistaken in his own estimate of\nhimself, as other folks have been besides.-ED.] \"Are things going ill?\"\nsays I. I call for my reckoning, put on my hat, and march to the theatre\nas calmly as if I was going to dine at the Temple; fidus Achates walking\nby my side, pressing my elbow, kicking the link-boys out of the way, and\ncrying, \"By George, Mr. Warrington, you are a man of spirit--a Trojan,\nsir!\" So, there were men of spirit in Troy; but alas! fate was too\nstrong for them.\n\nAt any rate, no man can say that I did not bear my misfortune with\ncalmness: I could no more help the clamour and noise of the audience\nthan a captain can help the howling and hissing of the storm in which\nhis ship goes down. But I was determined that the rushing waves and\nbroken masts should impavidum ferient, and flatter myself that I bore my\ncalamity without flinching. \"Not Regulus, my dear madam, could step into\nhis barrel more coolly,\" Sampson said to my wife. 'Tis unjust to say\nof men of the parasitic nature that they are unfaithful in misfortune.\nWhether I was prosperous or poor, the wild parson was equally true and\nfriendly, and shared our crust as eagerly as ever he had partaken of our\nbetter fortune.\n\nI took my place on the stage, whence I could see the actors of my poor\npiece, and a portion of the audience who condemned me. I suppose the\nperformers gave me a wide berth out of pity for me. I must say that I\nthink I was as little moved as any spectator; and that no one would have\njudged from my mien that I was the unlucky hero of the night.\n\nBut my dearest Theo, when I went home, looked so pale and white, that\nI saw from the dear creature's countenance that the knowledge of my\ndisaster had preceded my return. Spencer, Sampson, cousin Hagan, and\nLady Maria were to come after the play, and congratulate the author, God\nwot! (Poor Miss Pritchard was engaged to us likewise, but sent word\nthat I must understand that she was a great deal too unwell to sup that\nnight.) My friend the gardener of Bedford House had given my wife his\nbest flowers to decorate her little table. There they were; the poor\nlittle painted standards--and the battle lost! I had borne the defeat\nwell enough, but as I looked at the sweet pale face of the wife across\nthe table, and those artless trophies of welcome which she had set up\nfor her hero, I confess my courage gave way, and my heart felt a pang\nalmost as keen as any that ever has smitten it.\n\nOur meal, it may be imagined, was dismal enough, nor was it rendered\nmuch gayer by the talk we strove to carry on. Old Mrs. Hagan was,\nluckily, very ill at this time; and her disease, and the incidents\nconnected with it, a great blessing to us. Then we had his Majesty's\napproaching marriage, about which there was a talk. (How well I remember\nthe most futile incidents of the day down to a tune which a carpenter\nwas whistling by my side at the playhouse, just before the dreary\ncurtain fell!) Then we talked about the death of good Mr. Richardson,\nthe author of Pamela and Clarissa, whose works we all admired\nexceedingly. And as we talked about Clarissa, my wife took on herself to\nwipe her eyes once or twice, and say, faintly, \"You know, my love,\nmamma and I could never help crying over that dear book. Oh, my dearest,\ndearest mother\" (she adds), \"how I wish she could be with me now!\" This\nwas an occasion for more open tears, for of course a young lady may\nnaturally weep for her absent mother. And then we mixed a gloomy bowl\nwith Jamaica limes, and drank to the health of his Excellency the\nGovernor: and then, for a second toast, I filled a bumper, and, with a\nsmiling face, drank to \"our better fortune!\"\n\nThis was too much. The two women flung themselves into each other's\narms, and irrigated each other's neck-handkerchiefs with tears. \"Oh,\nMaria! Is not--is not my George good and kind?\" sobs Theo. \"Look at my\nHagan--how great, how godlike he was in his part!\" gasps Maria. \"It was\na beastly cabal which threw him over--and I could plunge this knife into\nMr. Garrick's black heart--the odious little wretch!\" and she grasps\na weapon at her side. But throwing it presently down, the enthusiastic\ncreature rushes up to her lord and master, flings her arms round him,\nand embraces him in the presence of the little company.\n\nI am not sure whether some one else did not do likewise. We were all\nin a state of extreme excitement and enthusiasm. In the midst of grief,\nLove the consoler appears amongst us, and soothes us with such fond\nblandishments and tender caresses, that one scarce wishes the calamity\naway. Two or three days afterwards, on our birthday, a letter was\nbrought me in my study, which contained the following lines:--\n\n\n          \"FROM POCAHONTAS\n\n    \"Returning from the cruel fight\n     How pale and faint appears my knight!\n     He sees me anxious at his side;\n     'Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide?\n     Or deem your English girl afraid\n     To emulate the Indian maid?'\n\n    \"Be mine my husband's grief to cheer,\n     In peril to be ever near;\n     Whate'er of ill or woe betide,\n     To bear it clinging at his side;\n     The poisoned stroke of fate to ward,\n     His bosom with my own to guard;\n     Ah! could it spare a pang to his,\n     It could not know a purer bliss!\n     'Twould gladden as it felt the smart,\n     And thank the hand that flung the dart!\"\n\nI do not say the verses are very good, but that I like them as well as\nif they were--and that the face of the writer (whose sweet young voice I\nfancy I can hear as I hum the lines), when I went into her drawing-room\nafter getting the letter, and when I saw her blushing and blessing\nme--seemed to me more beautiful than any I can fancy out of Heaven.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXI. Res Angusta Domi\n\n\nI have already described my present feelings as an elderly gentleman,\nregarding that rash jump into matrimony, which I persuaded my dear\npartner to take with me when we were both scarce out of our teens. As a\nman and a father--with a due sense of the necessity of mutton chops, and\nthe importance of paying the baker--with a pack of rash children round\nabout us who might be running off to Scotland to-morrow, and pleading\npapa's and mamma's example for their impertinence,--I know that I ought\nto be very cautious in narrating this early part of the married life\nof George Warrington, Esquire, and Theodosia his wife--to call out\nmea culpa, and put on a demure air, and, sitting in my comfortable\neasy-chair here, profess to be in a white sheet and on the stool of\nrepentance, offering myself up as a warning to imprudent and hot-headed\nyouth.\n\nBut, truth to say, that married life, regarding which my dear relatives\nprophesied so gloomily, has disappointed all those prudent and\nrespectable people. It has had its trials; but I can remember them\nwithout bitterness--its passionate griefs, of which time, by God's kind\nordinance, has been the benign consoler--its days of poverty, which\nwe bore, who endured it, to the wonder of our sympathising relatives\nlooking on--its precious rewards and blessings, so great that I scarce\ndare to whisper them to this page; to speak of them, save with awful\nrespect and to One Ear, to which are offered up the prayers and thanks\nof all men. To marry without a competence is wrong and dangerous,\nno doubt, and a crime against our social codes; but do not scores of\nthousands of our fellow-beings commit the crime every year with no\nother trust but in, Heaven, health, and their labour? Are young people\nentering into the married life not to take hope into account, nor dare\nto begin their housekeeping until the cottage is completely furnished,\nthe cellar and larder stocked, the cupboard full of plate, and the\nstrong-box of money? The increase and multiplication of the world would\nstop, were the laws which regulate the genteel part of it to be made\nuniversal. Our gentlefolks tremble at the brink in their silk stockings\nand pumps, and wait for whole years, until they find a bridge or a gilt\nbarge to carry them across; our poor do not fear to wet their bare feet,\nplant them in the brook, and trust to fate and strength to bear them\nover. Who would like to consign his daughter to poverty? Who would\ncounsel his son to undergo the countless risks of poor married life, to\nremove the beloved girl from comfort and competence, and subject her\nto debt, misery, privation, friendlessness, sickness, and the hundred\ngloomy consequences of the res angusta domi? I look at my own wife and\nask her pardon for having imposed a task so fraught with pain and danger\nupon one so gentle. I think of the trials she endured, and am thankful\nfor them and for that unfailing love and constancy with which God\nblessed her and strengthened her to bear them all. On this question of\nmarriage, I am not a fair judge: my own was so imprudent--and has been\nso happy, that I must not dare to give young people counsel. I have\nendured poverty, but scarcely ever found it otherwise than tolerable:\nhad I not undergone it, I never could have known the kindness of\nfriends, the delight of gratitude, the surprising joys and consolations\nwhich sometimes accompany the scanty meal and narrow fire, and cheer the\nlong day's labour. This at least is certain, in respect of the lot of\nthe decent poor, that a great deal of superfluous pity is often thrown\naway upon it. Good-natured fine folks, who sometimes stepped out of the\nsunshine of their riches into a narrow obscurity, were blinded as it\nwere, whilst we could see quite cheerfully and clearly: they stumbled\nover obstacles which were none to us: they were surprised at the\nresignation with which we drank small beer, and that we could heartily\nsay grace over such very cold mutton.\n\nThe good General, my father-in-law, had married his Molly, when he was a\nsubaltern of a foot regiment, and had a purse scarce better filled than\nmy own. They had had their ups and downs of fortune. I think (though my\nwife will never confess to this point) they had married, as people could\ndo in their young time, without previously asking papa's and mamma's\nleave. [The Editor has looked through Burn's Registers of Fleet\nMarriages without finding the names of Martin Lambert and Mary Benson.]\nAt all events, they were so well pleased with their own good luck in\nmatrimony, that they did not grudge their children's, and were by no\nmeans frightened at the idea of any little hardships which we in the\ncourse of our married life might be called upon to undergo. And I\nsuppose when I made my own pecuniary statements to Mr. Lambert, I was\nanxious to deceive both of us. Believing me to be master of a couple\nof thousand pounds, he went to Jamaica quite easy in his mind as to his\ndarling daughter's comfort and maintenance, at least for some years to\ncome. After paying the expenses of his family's outfit, the worthy man\nwent away not much richer than his son-in-law; and a few trinkets, and\nsome lace of Aunt Lambert's, with twenty new guineas in a purse which\nher mother and sisters made for her, were my Theo's marriage portion.\nBut in valuing my stock, I chose to count as a good debt a sum which my\nhonoured mother never could be got to acknowledge up to the day when the\nresolute old lady was called to pay the last debt of all. The sums I\nhad disbursed for her, she argued, were spent for the improvement and\nmaintenance of the estate which was to be mine at her decease. What\nmoney she could spare was to be for my poor brother, who had nothing,\nwho would never have spent his own means had he not imagined himself to\nbe sole heir of the Virginian property, as he would have been--the good\nlady took care to emphasise this point in many of her letters--but for a\nhalf-hour's accident of birth. He was now distinguishing himself in\nthe service of his king and country. To purchase his promotion was his\nmother's, she should suppose his brother's duty! When I had finished my\nbar-studies and my dramatic amusements, Madam Esmond informed me that I\nwas welcome to return home and take that place in our colony to which my\nbirth entitled me. This statement she communicated to me more than once\nthrough Mountain, and before the news of my marriage had reached her.\n\nThere is no need to recall her expressions of maternal indignation when\nshe was informed of the step I had taken. On the pacification of Canada,\nmy dear Harry asked for leave of absence, and dutifully paid a visit to\nVirginia. He wrote, describing his reception at home, and the splendid\nentertainments which my mother made in honour of her son. Castlewood,\nwhich she had not inhabited since our departure for Europe, was thrown\nopen again to our friends of the colony; and the friend of Wolfe, and\nthe soldier of Quebec, was received by all our acquaintance with every\nbecoming honour. Some dismal quarrels, to be sure, ensued, because my\nbrother persisted in maintaining his friendship with Colonel Washington,\nof Mount Vernon, whose praises Harry never was tired of singing.\nIndeed I allow the gentleman every virtue; and in the struggles which\nterminated so fatally for England a few years since, I can admire as\nwell as his warmest friends, General Washington's glorious constancy and\nsuccess.\n\nIf these battles between Harry and our mother were frequent, as, in his\nletters, he described them to be, I wondered, for my part, why he should\ncontinue at home? One reason naturally suggested itself to my mind,\nwhich I scarcely liked to communicate to Mrs. Warrington; for we had\nboth talked over our dear little Hetty's romantic attachment for my\nbrother, and wondered that he had never discovered it. I need not say, I\nsuppose, that my gentleman had found some young lady at home more to his\ntaste than our dear Hester, and hence accounted for his prolonged stay\nin Virginia.\n\nPresently there came, in a letter from him, not a full confession but an\nadmission of this interesting fact. A person was described, not named--a\nBeing all beauty and perfection, like other young ladies under similar\ncircumstances. My wife asked to see the letter: I could not help showing\nit, and handed it to her, with a very sad face. To my surprise she read\nit, without exhibiting any corresponding sorrow of her own.\n\n\"I have thought of this before, my love,\" I said. \"I feel with you for\nyour disappointment regarding poor Hetty.\"\n\n\"Ah! poor Hetty,\" says Theo, looking down at the carpet.\n\n\"It would never have done,\" says I.\n\n\"No--they would not have been happy,\" sighs Theo.\n\n\"How strange he never should have found out her secret!\" I continued.\n\nShe looked me full in the face with an odd expression. \"Pray, what does\nthat look mean?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nothing, my dear--nothing! only I am not surprised!\" says Theo,\nblushing.\n\n\"What,\" I ask, \"can there be another?\"\n\n\"I am sure I never said so, George,\" says the lady, hurriedly. \"But if\nHetty has overcome her childish folly, ought we not all to be glad? Do\nyou gentlemen suppose that you only are to fall in love and grow tired,\nindeed?\"\n\n\"What!\" I say, with a strange commotion of my mind. \"Do you mean to tell\nme, Theo, that you ever cared for any one but me?\"\n\n\"Oh, George,\" she whimpers, \"when I was at school, there was--there was\none of the boys of Doctor Backhouse's school, who sate in the loft next\nto us; and I thought he had lovely eyes, and I was so shocked when I\nrecognised him behind the counter at Mr. Grigg's the mercer's, when I\nwent to buy a cloak for baby, and I wanted to tell you, my dear, and I\ndidn't know how!\"\n\nI went to see this creature with the lovely eyes, having made my wife\ndescribe the fellow's dress to me, and I saw a little bandy-legged\nwretch in a blue camlet coat, with his red hair tied with a dirty\nribbon, about whom I forbore generously even to reproach my wife; nor\nwill she ever know that I have looked at the fellow, until she reads the\nconfession in this page. If our wives saw us as we are, I thought, would\nthey love us as they do? Are we as much mistaken in them, as they in us?\nI look into one candid face at least, and think it never has deceived\nme.\n\nLest I should encourage my young people to an imitation of my own\nimprudence, I will not tell them with how small a capital Mrs. Theo and\nI commenced life. The unfortunate tragedy brought us nothing; though the\nreviewers, since its publication of late, have spoken not unfavourably\nas to its merits, and Mr. Kemble himself has done me the honour to\ncommend it. Our kind friend Lord Wrotham was for having the piece\npublished by subscription, and sent me a bank-note, with a request that\nI would let him have a hundred copies for his friends; but I was always\naverse to that method of levying money, and, preferring my poverty sine\ndote, locked up my manuscript, with my poor girl's verses inserted at\nthe first page. I know not why the piece should have given such offence\nat court, except for the fact that an actor who had run off with an\nearl's daughter, performed a principal part in the play; but I was told\nthat sentiments which I had put into the mouths of some of the Indian\ncharacters (who were made to declaim against ambition, the British\ndesire of rule, and so forth), were pronounced dangerous and\nunconstitutional; so that the little hope of royal favour, which I might\nhave had, was quite taken away from me.\n\nWhat was to be done? A few months after the failure of the tragedy, as\nI counted up the remains of my fortune (the calculation was not long or\ndifficult), I came to the conclusion that I must beat a retreat out\nof my pretty apartments in Bloomsbury, and so gave warning to our good\nlandlady, informing her that my wife's health required that we should\nhave lodgings in the country. But we went no farther than Lambeth, our\nfaithful Gumbo and Molly following us; and here, though as poor as might\nbe, we were waited on by a maid and a lackey in livery, like any folks\nof condition. You may be sure kind relatives cried out against our\nextravagance; indeed, are they not the people who find our faults out\nfor us, and proclaim them to the rest of the world?\n\nReturning home from London one day, whither I had been on a visit to\nsome booksellers, I recognised the family arms and livery on a grand\ngilt chariot which stood before a public-house near to our lodgings. A\nfew loitering inhabitants were gathered round the splendid vehicle, and\nlooking with awe at the footmen, resplendent in the sun, and quaffing\nblazing pots of beer. I found my Lady Castlewood seated opposite to\nmy wife in our little apartment (whence we had a very bright, pleasant\nprospect of the river, covered with barges and wherries, and the ancient\ntowers and trees of the Archbishop's palace and gardens), and Mrs. Theo,\nwho has a very droll way of describing persons and scenes, narrated to\nme all the particulars of her ladyship's conversation, when she took her\nleave.\n\n\"I have been here this ever-so-long,\" says the Countess, \"gossiping with\ncousin Theo, while you have been away at the coffee-house, I dare say,\nmaking merry with your friends, and drinking your punch and coffee.\nGuess she must find it rather lonely here, with nothing to do but work\nthem little caps and hem them frocks. Never mind, dear; reckon you'll\nsoon have a companion who will amuse you when cousin George is away at\nhis coffee-house! What a nice lodging you have got here, I do declare!\nOur new house which we have took is twenty times as big, and covered\nwith gold from top to bottom; but I like this quite as well. Bless you\nbeing rich is no better than being poor. When we lived to Albany, and\nI did most all the work myself, scoured the rooms, biled the kettle,\nhelped the wash, and all, I was just as happy as I am now. We only\nhad one old negro to keep the store. Why don't you sell Gumbo, cousin\nGeorge? He ain't no use here idling and dawdling about, and making love\nto the servant-girl. Fogh! guess they ain't particular, these English\npeople!\" So she talked, rattling on with perfect good-humour, until her\nhour for departure came; when she produced a fine repeating watch, and\nsaid it was time for her to pay a call upon her Majesty at Buckingham\nHouse. \"And mind you come to us, George,\" says her ladyship, waving a\nlittle parting hand out of the gilt coach. \"Theo and I have settled all\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Here, at least,\" said I, when the laced footmen had clambered up behind\nthe carriage, and our magnificent little patroness had left us;--\"here\nis one who is not afraid of our poverty, nor ashamed to remember her\nown.\"\n\n\"Ashamed!\" said Theo, resuming her lilliputian needlework. \"To do her\njustice, she would make herself at home in any kitchen or palace in the\nworld. She has given me and Molly twenty lessons in housekeeping. She\nsays, when she was at home to Albany, she roasted, baked, swept the\nhouse, and milked the cow.\" (Madam Theo pronounced the word cow\narchly in our American way, and imitated her ladyship's accent very\ndivertingly.)\n\n\"And she has no pride,\" I added. \"It was good-natured of her to ask us\nto dine with her and my lord. When will Uncle Warrington ever think of\noffering us a crust again, or a glass of his famous beer?\"\n\n\"Yes, it was not ill-natured to invite us,\" says Theo, slily. \"But,\nmy dear, you don't know all the conditions!\" And then my wife, still\nimitating the Countess's manner, laughingly informed me what these\nconditions were. \"She took out her pocket-book, and told me,\" says Theo,\n\"what days she was engaged abroad and at home. On Monday she received a\nDuke and a Duchess, with several other members of my lord's house,\nand their ladies. On Tuesday came more earls, two bishops, and an\nambassador. 'Of course you won't come on them days?' says the Countess.\n'Now you are so poor, you know, that fine company ain't no good for you.\nLord bless you! father never dines on our company days! he don't\nlike it; he takes a bit of cold meat anyways.' On which,\" says Theo,\nlaughing, \"I told her that Mr. Warrington did not care for any but the\nbest of company, and proposed that she should ask us on some day when\nthe Archbishop of Canterbury dined with her, and his Grace must give\nus a lift home in his coach to Lambeth. And she is an economical little\nperson, too,\" continues Theo. \"'I thought of bringing with me some of\nmy baby's caps and things, which his lordship has outgrown 'em, but they\nmay be wanted again, you know, my dear.' And so we lose that addition\nto our wardrobe,\" says Theo, smiling, \"and Molly and I must do our best\nwithout her ladyship's charity. 'When people are poor, they are poor,'\nthe Countess said, with her usual outspokenness, 'and must get on the\nbest they can. What we shall do for that poor Maria, goodness only\nknows! we can't ask her to see us as we can you, though you are so\npoor: but an earl's daughter to marry a play-actor! La, my dear, it's\ndreadful: his Majesty and the Princess have both spoken of it! Every\nother noble family in this kingdom as has ever heard of it pities us;\nthough I have a plan for helping those poor unhappy people, and have\nsent down Simons, my groom of the chambers, to tell them on it.' This\nplan was, that Hagan, who had kept almost all his terms at Dublin\nCollege, should return thither and take his degree, and enter into holy\norders, 'when we will provide him with a chaplaincy at home, you know,'\nLady Castlewood added.\" And I may mention here, that this benevolent\nplan was executed a score of months later; when I was enabled myself to\nbe of service to Mr. Hagan, who was one of the kindest and best of\nour friends during our own time of want and distress. Castlewood\nthen executed his promise loyally enough, got orders and a colonial\nappointment for Hagan, who distinguished himself both as soldier and\npreacher, as we shall presently hear; but not a guinea did his lordship\nspare to aid either his sister or his kinsman in their trouble. I never\nasked him, thank Heaven, to assist me in my own; though, to do him\njustice, no man could express himself more amiably, and with a joy which\nI believe was quite genuine, when my days of poverty were ended.\n\nAs for my Uncle Warrington, and his virtuous wife and daughters, let\nme do them justice likewise, and declare that throughout my period of\ntrial, their sorrow at my poverty was consistent and unvarying. I still\nhad a few acquaintances who saw them, and of course (as friends will)\nbrought me a report of their opinions and conversation; and I never\ncould hear that my relatives had uttered one single good word about me\nor my wife. They spoke even of my tragedy as a crime--I was accustomed\nto hear that sufficiently maligned--of the author as a miserable\nreprobate, for ever reeling about Grub Street, in rags and squalor. They\nheld me out no hand of help. My poor wife might cry in her pain,\nbut they had no twopence to bestow upon her. They went to church a\nhalf-dozen times in the week. They subscribed to many public charities.\nTheir tribe was known eighteen hundred years ago, and will flourish as\nlong as men endure. They will still thank Heaven that they are not as\nother folks are; and leave the wounded and miserable to other succour.\n\nI don't care to recall the dreadful doubts and anxieties which began to\nbeset me; the plan after plan which I tried, and in which I failed, for\nprocuring work and adding to our dwindling stock of money. I bethought\nme of my friend Mr. Johnson, and when I think of the eager kindness with\nwhich he received me, am ashamed of some pert speeches which I own\nto have made regarding his manners and behaviour. I told my story and\ndifficulties to him, the circumstance of my marriage, and the prospects\nbefore me. He would not for a moment admit they were gloomy, or, si male\nnunc, that they would continue to be so. I had before me the chances,\ncertainly very slender, of a place in England; the inheritance which\nmust be mine in the course of nature, or at any rate would fall to the\nheir I was expecting. I had a small stock of money for present actual\nnecessity--a possibility, \"though, to be free with you, sir\" (says\nhe), \"after the performance of your tragedy, I doubt whether nature\nhas endowed you with those peculiar qualities which are necessary for\nachieving a remarkable literary success\"--and finally a submission to\nthe maternal rule, and a return to Virginia, where plenty and a home\nwere always ready for me. \"Why, sir!\" he cried, \"such a sum as you\nmention would have been a fortune to me when I began the world, and my\nfriend Mr. Goldsmith would set up a coach-and-six on it. With youth,\nhope, to-day, and a couple of hundred pounds in cash--no young fellow\nneed despair. Think, sir, you have a year at least before you, and who\nknows what may chance between now and then. Why, sir, your relatives\nhere may provide for you, or you may succeed to your Virginian property,\nor you may come into a fortune!\" I did not in the course of that year,\nbut he did. My Lord Bute gave Mr. Johnson a pension, which set all Grub\nStreet in a fury against the recipient, who, to be sure, had published\nhis own not very flattering opinion upon pensions and pensioners.\n\nNevertheless, he did not altogether discourage my literary projects,\npromised to procure me work from the booksellers, and faithfully\nperformed that kind promise. \"But,\" says he, \"sir, you must not appear\namongst them in forma pauperis.--Have you never a friend's coach, in\nwhich we can ride to see them? You must put on your best laced hat and\nwaistcoat; and we must appear, sir, as if we were doing them a favour.\"\nThis stratagem answered, and procured me respect enough at the first\nvisit or two; but when the booksellers knew that I wanted to be paid for\nmy work, their backs refused to bend any more, and they treated me with\na familiarity which I could ill stomach. I overheard one of them, who\nhad been a footman, say, \"Oh, it's Pocahontas, is it? let him wait.\" And\nhe told his boy to say as much to me. \"Wait, sir?\" says I, fuming\nwith rage and putting my head into his parlour, \"I'm not accustomed to\nwaiting, but I have heard you are.\" And I strode out of the shop into\nPall Mall in a mighty fluster.\n\nAnd yet Mr. D. was in the right. I came to him, if not to ask a favour,\nat any rate to propose a bargain, and surely it was my business to wait\nhis time and convenience. In more fortunate days I asked the gentleman's\npardon, and the kind author of the Muse in Livery was instantly\nappeased.\n\nI was more prudent, or Mr. Johnson more fortunate, in an application\nelsewhere, and Mr. Johnson procured me a little work from the\nbooksellers in translating from foreign languages, of which I happen to\nknow two or three. By a hard day's labour I could earn a few shillings;\nso few that a week's work would hardly bring me a guinea: and that was\nflung to me with insolent patronage by the low hucksters who employed\nme. I can put my finger upon two or three magazine articles written at\nthis period, and paid for with a few wretched shillings, which papers as\nI read them awaken in me the keenest pangs of bitter remembrance.\n[Mr. George Warrington, of the Upper Temple, says he remembers a book,\ncontaining his grandfather's book-plate, in which were pasted various\nextracts from reviews and newspapers in an old type, and lettered\noutside Les Chains de l'Esclavage. These were no doubt the contributions\nabove mentioned; but the volume has not been found, either in the\ntown-house or in the library at Warrington Manor. The Editor, by\nthe way, is not answerable for a certain inconsistency, which may be\nremarked in the narrative. The writer says earlier, that he speaks\nwithout bitterness of past times, and presently falls into a fury with\nthem. The same manner of forgiving our enemies is not uncommon in the\npresent century.] I recall the doubts and fears which agitated me,\nsee the dear wife nursing her infant and looking up into my face with\nhypocritical smiles that vainly try to mask her alarm: the struggles of\npride are fought over again: the wounds under which I smarted re-open.\nThere are some acts of injustice committed against me which I don't know\nhow to forgive; and which, whenever I think of them, awaken in me the\nsame feelings of revolt and indignation. The gloom and darkness gather\nover me--till they are relieved by a reminiscence of that love and\ntenderness which through all gloom and darkness have been my light and\nconsolation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXII. Miles's Moidore\n\n\nLittle Miles made his appearance in this world within a few days of the\ngracious Prince who commands his regiment. Illuminations and cannonading\nsaluted the Royal George's birth, multitudes were admitted to see him\nas he lay behind a gilt railing at the Palace with noble nurses watching\nover him. Few nurses guarded the cradle of our little Prince; no\ncourtiers, no faithful retainers saluted it, except our trusty Gumbo\nand kind Molly, who to be sure loved and admired the little heir of my\npoverty as loyally as our hearts could desire. Why was our boy not named\nGeorge like the other paragon just mentioned, and like his father? I\ngave him the name of a little scapegrace of my family, a name which\nmany generations of Warringtons had borne likewise; but my poor little\nMiles's love and kindness touched me at a time when kindness and love\nwere rare from those of my own blood, and Theo and I agreed that our\nchild should be called after that single little friend of my paternal\nrace.\n\nWe wrote to acquaint our royal parents with the auspicious event, and\nbravely inserted the child's birth in the Daily Advertiser, and the\nplace, Church Street, Lambeth, where he was born. \"My dear,\" says Aunt\nBernstein, writing to me in reply to my announcement, \"how could you\npoint out to all the world that you live in such a trou as that in\nwhich you have buried yourself? I kiss the little mamma, and send a\nremembrance for the child.\" This remembrance was a fine silk coverlid,\nwith a lace edging fit for a prince. It was not very useful: the price\nof the lace would have served us much better, but Theo and Molly were\ndelighted with the present, and my eldest son's cradle had a cover as\nfine as any nobleman's.\n\nGood Dr. Heberden came over several times to visit my wife, and see that\nall things went well. He knew and recommended to us a surgeon in the\nvicinage, who took charge of her; luckily, my dear patient needed little\ncare, beyond that which our landlady and her own trusty attendant could\nreadily afford her. Again our humble precinct was adorned with the\ngilded apparition of Lady Castlewood's chariot wheels; she brought a pot\nof jelly, which she thought Theo might like, and which, no doubt, had\nbeen served at one of her ladyship's banquets on a previous day. And\nshe told us of all the ceremonies at court, and of the splendour and\nfestivities attending the birth of the august heir to the crown; Our\ngood Mr. Johnson happened to pay me a visit on one of those days when\nmy lady countess's carriage flamed up to our little gate. He was not a\nlittle struck by her magnificence, and made her some bows, which were\nmore respectful than graceful. She called me cousin very affably, and\nhelped to transfer the present of jelly from her silver dish into our\ncrockery pan with much benignity. The Doctor tasted the sweetmeat, and\npronounced it to be excellent. \"The great, sir,\" says he, \"are fortunate\nin every way. They can engage the most skilful practitioners of the\nculinary art, as they can assemble the most amiable wits round their\ntable. If, as you think, sir, and, from the appearance of the dish,\nyour suggestion at least is plausible, this sweetmeat may have appeared\nalready at his lordship's table, it has been there in good company. It\nhas quivered under the eyes of celebrated beauties, it has been tasted\nby ruby lips, it has divided the attention of the distinguished company,\nwith fruits, tarts, and creams, which I make no doubt were like itself\ndelicious.\" And so saying, the good Doctor absorbed a considerable\nportion of Lady Castlewood's benefaction; though as regards the epithet\ndelicious I am bound to say, that my poor wife, after tasting the jelly,\nput it away from her as not to her liking; and Molly, flinging up her\nhead, declared it was mouldy.\n\nMy boy enjoyed at least the privilege of having an earl's daughter for\nhis godmother; for this office was performed by his cousin, our poor\nLady Maria, whose kindness and attention to the mother and the infant\nwere beyond all praise; and who, having lost her own solitary chance\nfor maternal happiness, yearned over our child in a manner not a little\ntouching to behold. Captain Miles is a mighty fine gentleman, and his\nuniforms of the Prince's Hussars as splendid as any that ever bedizened\na soldier of fashion; but he hath too good a heart, and is too true a\ngentleman, let us trust, not to be thankful when he remembers that his\nown infant limbs were dressed in some of the little garments which had\nbeen prepared for the poor player's child. Sampson christened him in\nthat very chapel in Southwark, where our marriage ceremony had been\nperformed. Never were the words of the Prayer-book more beautifully and\nimpressively read than by the celebrant of the service; except at\nits end, when his voice failed him, and he and the rest of the little\ncongregation were fain to wipe their eyes. \"Mr. Garrick himself, sir,\"\nsays Hagan, \"could not have read those words so nobly. I am sure little\ninnocent never entered the world accompanied by wishes and benedictions\nmore tender and sincere.\"\n\nAnd now I have not told how it chanced that the Captain came by his name\nof Miles. A couple of days before his christening, when as yet I believe\nit was intended that our firstborn should bear his father's name, a\nlittle patter of horse's hoofs comes galloping up to our gate; and\nwho should pull at the bell but young Miles, our cousin? I fear he had\ndisobeyed his parents when he galloped away on that undutiful journey.\n\n\"You know,\" says he, \"cousin Harry gave me my little horse; and I can't\nhelp liking you, because you are so like Harry, and because they're\nalways saying things of you at home, and it's a shame; and I have\nbrought my whistle and coral that my godmamma Lady Suckling gave me, for\nyour little boy; and if you're so poor, cousin George, here's my gold\nmoidore, and it's worth ever so much, and it's no use to me, because I\nmayn't spend it, you know.\"\n\nWe took the boy up to Theo in her room (he mounted the stair in his\nlittle tramping boots, of which he was very proud); and Theo kissed him,\nand thanked him; and his moidore has been in her purse from that day.\n\nMy mother, writing through her ambassador as usual, informed me of\nher royal surprise and displeasure on learning that my son had been\nchristened Miles--a name not known, at least in the Esmond family. I\ndid not care to tell the reason at the time; but when, in after years,\nI told Madam Esmond how my boy came by his name, I saw a tear roll down\nher wrinkled cheek, and I heard afterwards that she had asked Gumbo\nmany questions about the boy who gave his name to our Miles--our Miles\nGloriosus of Pall Mall, Valenciennes, Almack's, Brighton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIII. Troubles and Consolations\n\n\nIn our early days at home, when Harry and I used to be so undutiful to\nour tutor, who would have thought that Mr. Esmond Warrington of Virginia\nwould turn Bearleader himself? My mother (when we came together again)\nnever could be got to speak directly of this period of my life; but\nwould allude to it as \"that terrible time, my love, which I can't bear\nto think of,\" \"those dreadful years when there was difference between\nus,\" and so forth; and though my pupil, a worthy and grateful man, sent\nme out to Jamestown several barrels of that liquor by which his great\nfortune was made, Madam Esmond spoke of him as \"your friend in England,\"\n\"your wealthy Lambeth friend,\" etc., but never by his name; nor did she\never taste a drop of his beer. We brew our own too at Warrington Manor,\nbut our good Mr. Foker never fails to ship to Ipswich every year a\ncouple of butts of his entire. His son is a young sprig of fashion, and\nhas married an earl's daughter; the father is a very worthy and kind\ngentleman, and it is to the luck of making his acquaintance that I owe\nthe receipt of some of the most welcome guineas that ever I received in\nmy life.\n\nIt was not so much the sum, as the occupation and hope given me by the\noffice of Governor, which I took on myself, which were then so precious\nto me. Mr. F.'s Brewery (the site has since been changed) then stood\nnear to Pedlar's Acre in Lambeth and the surgeon who attended my wife in\nher confinement, likewise took care of the wealthy brewer's family.\nHe was a Bavarian, originally named Voelker. Mr. Lance, the surgeon, I\nsuppose, made him acquainted with my name and history. The worthy doctor\nwould smoke many a pipe of Virginia in my garden, and had conceived an\nattachment for me and my family. He brought his patron to my house; and\nwhen Mr. F. found that I had a smattering of his language, and could\nsing \"Prinz Eugen the noble Ritter\" (a song that my grandfather had\nbrought home from the Marlborough wars), the German conceived a great\nfriendship for me: his lady put her chair and her chariot at Mrs.\nWarrington's service: his little daughter took a prodigious fancy to our\nbaby (and to do him justice, the Captain, who is as ugly a fellow now\nas ever wore a queue, was beautiful as an infant) [The very image of the\nSquire at 30, everybody says so. M. W. (Note in the MS.)]: and his son\nand heir, Master Foker, being much maltreated at Westminster School\nbecause of his father's profession of brewer, the parents asked if\nI would take charge of him; and paid me a not insufficient sum for\nsuperintending his education.\n\nMr. F. was a shrewd man of business, and as he and his family really\ninterested themselves in me and mine, I laid all my pecuniary affairs\npretty unreservedly before him; and my statement, he was pleased to say,\naugmented the respect and regard which he felt for me. He laughed at\nour stories of the aid which my noble relatives had given me--my\naunt's coverlid, my Lady Castlewood's mouldy jelly, Lady Warrington's\ncontemptuous treatment of us. But he wept many tears over the story of\nlittle Miles's moidore; and as for Sampson and Hagan, \"I wow,\" says he,\n\"dey shall have so much beer als ever dey can drink.\" He sent his wife\nto call upon Lady Maria, and treated her with the utmost respect and\nobsequiousness, whenever she came to visit him. It was with Mr. Foker\nthat Lady Maria stayed when Hagan went to Dublin to complete his college\nterms; and the good brewer's purse also ministered to our friend's wants\nand supplied his outfit.\n\nWhen Mr. Foker came fully to know my own affairs and position, he was\npleased to speak of me with terms of enthusiasm, and as if my conduct\nshowed some extraordinary virtue. I have said how my mother saved money\nfor Harry, and how the two were in my debt. But when Harry spent money,\nhe spent it fancying it to be his; Madam Esmond never could be made to\nunderstand she was dealing hardly with me--the money was paid and gone,\nand there was an end of it. Now, at the end of '62, I remember Harry\nsent over a considerable remittance for the purchase of his promotion,\nbegging me at the same time to remember that he was in my debt, and to\ndraw on his agents if I had any need. He did not know how great the need\nwas, or how my little capital had been swallowed.\n\nWell, to take my brother's money would delay his promotion, and I\nnaturally did not draw on him, though I own I was tempted; nor, knowing\nmy dear General Lambert's small means, did I care to impoverish him by\nasking for supplies. These simple acts of forbearance my worthy brewer\nmust choose to consider as instances of exalted virtue. And what does\nmy gentleman do but write privately to my brother in America, lauding me\nand my wife as the most admirable of human beings, and call upon\nMadame de Bernstein, who never told me of his visit indeed, but who,\nI perceived, about this time treated us with singular respect and\ngentleness, that surprised me in one whom I could not but consider as\nselfish and worldly. In after days I remember asking him how he had\ngained admission to the Baroness? He laughed: \"De Baroness!\" says he.\n\"I knew de Baron when he was a walet at Munich, and I was a\nbrewer-apprentice.\" I think our family had best not be too curious about\nour uncle the Baron.\n\nThus, the part of my life which ought to have been most melancholy was\nin truth made pleasant by many friends, happy circumstances, and strokes\nof lucky fortune. The bear I led was a docile little cub, and danced\nto my piping very readily. Better to lead him about, than to hang round\nbooksellers' doors, or wait the pleasure or caprice of managers! My wife\nand I, during our exile, as we may call it, spent very many pleasant\nevenings with these kind friends and benefactors. Nor were we without\nintellectual enjoyments; Mrs. Foker and Mrs. Warrington sang finely\ntogether; and sometimes when I was in the mood, I read my own play of\nPocahontas, to this friendly audience, in a manner better than Hagan's\nown, Mr. Foker was pleased to say.\n\nAfter that little escapade of Miles Warrington, junior, I saw nothing\nof him, and heard of my paternal relatives but rarely. Sir Miles was\nassiduous at court (as I believe he would have been at Nero's), and\nI laughed one day when Mr. Foker told me that he had heard on 'Change\n\"that they were going to make my uncle a Beer.\"--\"A Beer?\" says I in\nwonder. \"Can't you understand de vort, ven I say it?\" says the testy\nold gentleman. \"Vell, veil, a Lort!\" Sir, Miles indeed was the obedient\nhumble servant of the Minister, whoever he might be. I am surprised he\ndid not speak English with a Scotch accent during the first favourite's\nbrief reign. I saw him and his wife coming from court, when Mrs.\nClaypool was presented to her Majesty on her marriage. I had my little\nboy on my shoulder. My uncle and aunt stared resolutely at me from their\ngilt coach window. The footmen looked blank over their nosegays. Had I\nworn the Fairy's cap and been invisible, my father's brother could not\nhave passed me with less notice.\n\nWe did not avail ourselves much, or often, of that queer invitation\nof Lady Castlewood, to go and drink tea and sup with her ladyship\nwhen there was no other company. Old Van den Bosch, however shrewd his\nintellect, and great his skill in making a fortune, was not amusing\nin conversation, except to his daughter, who talked household and City\nmatters, bulling and bearing, raising and selling farming-stock, and\nso forth, quite as keenly and shrewdly as her father. Nor was my Lord\nCastlewood often at home, or much missed by his wife when absent, or\nvery much at ease in the old father's company. The Countess told all\nthis to my wife in her simple way. \"Guess,\" says she, \"my lord and\nfather don't pull well together nohow. Guess my lord is always wanting\nmoney, and father keeps the key of the box and quite right, too. If he\ncould have the fingering of all our money, my lord would soon make\naway with it, and then what's to become of our noble family? We pay\neverything, my dear (except play-debts, and them we won't have nohow).\nWe pay cooks, horses, wine-merchants, tailors, and everybody--and lucky\nfor them too--reckon my lord wouldn't pay 'em! And we always take care\nthat he has a guinea in his pocket, and goes out like a real nobleman.\nWhat that man do owe to us: what he did before we come--gracious\ngoodness only knows! Me and father does our best to make him\nrespectable: but it's no easy job, my dear. Law! he'd melt the plate,\nonly father keeps the key of the strong-room; and when we go to\nCastlewood, my father travels with me, and papa is armed too, as well as\nthe people.\"\n\n\"Gracious heavens!\" cries my wife, \"your ladyship does not mean to say\nyou suspect your own husband of a desire to----\"\n\n\"To what?--Oh no, nothing, of course! And I would trust our brother Will\nwith untold money, wouldn't I? As much as I'd trust the cat with the\ncream-pan! I tell you, my dear, it's not all pleasure being a woman of\nrank and fashion: and if I have bought a countess's coronet, I have paid\na good price for it--that I have!\"\n\nAnd so had my Lord Castlewood paid a large price for having his estate\nfreed from incumbrances, his houses and stables furnished, and his\ndebts discharged. He was the slave of the little wife and her father.\nNo wonder the old man's society was not pleasant to the poor victim, and\nthat he gladly slunk away from his own fine house, to feast at the club\nwhen he had money, or at least to any society save that which he found\nat home. To lead a bear, as I did, was no very pleasant business, to\nbe sure: to wait in a bookseller's anteroom until it should please his\nhonour to finish his dinner and give me audience, was sometimes a hard\ntask for a man of my name and with my pride; but would I have exchanged\nmy poverty against Castlewood's ignominy, or preferred his miserable\ndependence to my own? At least I earned my wage, such as it was; and no\nman can say that I ever flattered my patrons, or was servile to them; or\nindeed, in my dealings with them, was otherwise than sulky, overbearing,\nand, in a word, intolerable.\n\nNow there was a certain person with whom Fate had thrown me into a\nlife-partnership, who bore her poverty with such a smiling sweetness\nand easy grace, that niggard Fortune relented before her, and, like\nsome savage Ogre in the fairy tales, melted at the constant goodness and\ncheerfulness of that uncomplaining, artless, innocent creature. However\npoor she was, all who knew her saw that here was a fine lady; and the\nlittle tradesmen and humble folks round about us treated her with as\nmuch respect as the richest of our neighbours. \"I think, my dear,\" says\ngood-natured Mrs. Foker, when they rode out in the latter's chariot,\n\"you look like the mistress of the carriage, and I only as your maid.\"\nOur landladies adored her; the tradesfolk executed her little orders\nas eagerly as if a duchess gave them, or they were to make a fortune\nby waiting on her. I have thought often of the lady in Comus, and how,\nthrough all the rout and rabble, she moves, entirely serene and pure.\n\nSeveral times, as often as we chose indeed, the good-natured parents of\nmy young bear lent us their chariot to drive abroad or to call on the\nfew friends we had. If I must tell the truth, we drove once to the\nProtestant Hero and had a syllabub in the garden there: and the\nhostess would insist upon calling my wife her ladyship during the whole\nafternoon. We also visited Mr. Johnson, and took tea with him (the\ningenious Mr. Goldsmith was of the company); the Doctor waited upon my\nwife to her coach. But our most frequent visits were to Aunt Bernstein,\nand I promise you I was not at all jealous because my aunt presently\nprofessed to have a wonderful liking for Theo.\n\nThis liking grew so that she would have her most days in the week, or to\nstay altogether with her, and thought that Theo's child and husband\nwere only plagues to be sure, and hated us in the most amusing way\nfor keeping her favourite from her. Not that my wife was unworthy\nof anybody's favour; but her many forced absences, and the constant\ndifficulty of intercourse with her, raised my aunt's liking for a while\nto a sort of passion. She poured in notes like love-letters; and her\npeople were ever about our kitchen. If my wife did not go to her, she\nwrote heartrending appeals, and scolded me severely when I saw her; and,\nthe child being ill once (it hath pleased Fate to spare our Captain to\nbe a prodigious trouble to us, and a wholesome trial for our tempers),\nMadame Bernstein came three days running to Lambeth; vowed there was\nnothing the matter with the baby;--nothing at all;--and that we only\npretended his illness, in order to vex her.\n\nThe reigning Countess of Castlewood was just as easy and affable with\nher old aunt, as with other folks great and small. \"What air you all\nabout, scraping and bowing to that old woman, I can't tell, noways!\" her\nladyship would say. \"She a fine lady! Nonsense! She ain't no more fine\nthan any other lady: and I guess I'm as good as any of 'em with their\nhigh heels and their grand airs! She a beauty once! Take away her wig,\nand her rouge, and her teeth; and what becomes of your beauty, I'd like\nto know? Guess you'd put it all in a bandbox, and there would be nothing\nleft but a shrivelled old woman!\" And indeed the little homilist only\nspoke too truly. All beauty must at last come to this complexion; and\ndecay, either underground or on the tree. Here was old age, I fear,\nwithout reverence. Here were grey hairs, that were hidden or painted.\nThe world was still here, and she tottering on it, and clinging to it\nwith her crutch. For fourscore years she had moved on it, and eaten\nof the tree, forbidden and permitted. She had had beauty, pleasure,\nflattery: but what secret rages, disappointments, defeats, humiliations!\nwhat thorns under the roses! what stinging bees in the fruit! \"You are\nnot a beauty, my dear,\" she would say to my wife: \"and may thank your\nstars that you are not.\" (If she contradicted herself in her talk, I\nsuppose the rest of us occasionally do the like.) \"Don't tell me that\nyour husband is pleased with your face, and you want no one else's\nadmiration! We all do. Every woman would rather be beautiful than be\nanything else in the world--ever so rich, or ever so good, or have all\nthe gifts of the fairies! Look at that picture, though I know 'tis but a\nbad one, and that stupid vapouring Kneller could not paint my eyes, nor\nmy hair, nor my complexion. What a shape I had then--and look at me now,\nand this wrinkled old neck! Why have we such a short time of our beauty?\nI remember Mademoiselle de l'Enclos at a much greater age than mine,\nquite fresh and well-conserved. We can't hide our ages. They are wrote\nin Mr. Collins's books for us. I was born in the last year of King\nJames's reign. I am not old yet. I am but seventy-six. But what a wreck,\nmy dear: and isn't it cruel that our time should be so short?\"\n\nHere my wife has to state the incontrovertible proposition, that the\ntime of all of us is short here below.\n\n\"Ha!\" cries the Baroness. \"Did not Adam live near a thousand years, and\nwas not Eve beautiful all the time? I used to perplex Mr. Tusher with\nthat--poor creature! What have we done since, that our lives are so much\nlessened, I say?\"\n\n\"Has your life been so happy that you would prolong it ever so much\nmore?\" asks the Baroness's auditor. \"Have you, who love wit, never read\nDean Swift's famous description of the deathless people in Gulliver? My\npapa and my husband say 'tis one of the finest and most awful sermons\never wrote. It were better not to live at all, than to live without\nlove; and I'm sure,\" says my wife, putting her handkerchief to her eyes,\n\"should anything happen to my dearest George, I would wish to go to\nHeaven that moment.\"\n\n\"Who loves me in Heaven? I am quite alone, child--that is why I had\nrather stay here,\" says the Baroness, in a frightened and rather piteous\ntone. \"You are kind to me, God bless your sweet face! Though I scold,\nand have a frightful temper, my servants will do anything to make me\ncomfortable, and get up at any hour of the night, and never say a cross\nword in answer. I like my cards still. Indeed, life would be a blank\nwithout 'em. Almost everything is gone except that. I can't eat my\ndinner now, since I lost those last two teeth. Everything goes away from\nus in old age. But I still have my cards--thank Heaven, I still have my\ncards!\" And here she would begin to doze: waking up, however, if my wife\nstirred or rose, and imagining that Theo was about to leave her. \"Don't\ngo away, I can't bear to be alone. I don't want you to talk. But I like\nto see your face, my dear! It is much pleasanter than that horrid old\nBrett's, that I have had scowling about my bedroom these ever so long\nyears.\"\n\n\"Well, Baroness! still at your cribbage?\" (We may fancy a noble Countess\ninterrupting a game at cards between Theo and Aunt Bernstein.) \"Me and\nmy Lord Esmond have come to see you! Go and shake hands with grandaunt,\nEsmond! and tell her ladyship that your lordship's a good boy!\"\n\n\"My lordship's a good boy,\" says the child. (Madam Theo used to act\nthese scenes for me in a very lively way.)\n\n\"And if he is, I guess he don't take after his father,\" shrieks out Lady\nCastlewood. She chose to fancy that Aunt Bernstein was deaf, and always\nbawled at the old lady.\n\n\"Your ladyship chose my nephew for better or for worse,\" says Aunt\nBernstein, who was now always very much flurried in the presence of the\nyoung Countess.\n\n\"But he is a precious deal worse than ever I thought he was. I am\nspeaking of your Pa, Ezzy. If it wasn't for your mother, my son, Lord\nknows what would become of you! We are a-going to see his little Royal\nHighness. Sorry to see your ladyship not looking quite so well to-day.\nWe can't always remain young and law! how we do change as we grow old!\nGo up and kiss that lady, Ezzy. She has got a little boy, too. Why,\nbless us! have you got the child downstairs?\" Indeed, Master Miles was\ndown below, for special reasons accompanying his mother on her visits to\nAunt Bernstein sometimes; and our aunt desired the mother's company so\nmuch, that she was actually fain to put up with the child. \"So you have\ngot the child here? Oh, you slyboots!\" says the Countess. \"Guess\nyou come after the old lady's money! Law bless you! Don't look so\nfrightened. She can't hear a single word I say. Come, Ezzy. Good-bye,\naunt!\" And my lady Countess rustles out of the room.\n\nDid Aunt Bernstein hear her or not? Where was the wit for which the old\nlady had been long famous? and was that fire put out, as well as the\nbrilliancy of her eyes? With other people--she was still ready enough,\nand unsparing of her sarcasms. When the Dowager of Castlewood and Lady\nFanny visited her (these exalted ladies treated my wife with perfect\nindifference and charming good breeding),--the Baroness, in their\nsociety, was stately, easy, and even commanding. She would mischievously\ncaress Mrs. Warrington before them; in her absence, vaunt my wife's good\nbreeding; say that her nephew had made a foolish match, perhaps, but\nthat I certainly had taken a charming wife. \"In a word, I praise you so\nto them, my dear,\" says she, \"that I think they would like to tear your\neyes out.\" But, before the little American, 'tis certain that she was\nuneasy and trembled. She was so afraid, that she actually did not dare\nto deny her door; and, the Countess's back turned, did not even abuse\nher. However much they might dislike her, my ladies did not tear out\nTheo's eyes. Once--they drove to our cottage at Lambeth, where my wife\nhappened to be sitting at the open window, holding her child on her\nknee, and in full view of her visitors. A gigantic footman strutted\nthrough our little garden, and delivered their ladyships' visiting\ntickets at our door. Their hatred hurt us no more than their visit\npleased us. When next we had the loan of our friend the Brewer's\ncarriage Mrs. Warrington drove to Kensington, and Gumbo handed over to\nthe giant our cards in return for those which his noble mistresses had\nbestowed on us.\n\nThe Baroness had a coach, but seldom thought of giving it to us: and\nwould let Theo and her maid and baby start from Clarges Street in the\nrain, with a faint excuse that she was afraid to ask her coachman\nto take his horses out. But, twice on her return home, my wife was\nfrightened by rude fellows on the other side of Westminster Bridge; and\nI fairly told my aunt that I should forbid Mrs. Warrington to go to her,\nunless she could be brought home in safety; so grumbling Jehu had to\ndrive his horses through the darkness. He grumbled at my shillings: he\ndid not know how few I had. Our poverty wore a pretty decent face. My\nrelatives never thought of relieving it, nor I of complaining before\nthem. I don't know how Sampson got a windfall of guineas; but, I\nremember, he brought me six once; and they were more welcome than any\nmoney I ever had in my life. He had been looking into Mr. Miles's crib,\nas the child lay asleep; and, when the parson went away, I found the\nmoney in the baby's little rosy hand. Yes, Love is best of all. I\nhave many such benefactions registered in my heart--precious welcome\nfountains springing up in desert places, kind, friendly lights cheering\nour despondency and gloom.\n\nThis worthy divine was willing enough to give as much of his company as\nshe chose to Madame de Bernstein, whether for cards or theology. Having\nknown her ladyship for many years now, Sampson could see, and averred\nto us, that she was breaking fast; and as he spoke of her evidently\nincreasing infirmities, and of the probability of their fatal\ntermination, Mr. S. would discourse to us in a very feeling manner of\nthe necessity for preparing for a future world; of the vanities of\nthis, and of the hope that in another there might be happiness for all\nrepentant sinners.\n\n\"I have been a sinner for one,\" says the chaplain, bowing his head. \"God\nknoweth, and I pray Him to pardon me. I fear, sir, your aunt, the Lady\nBaroness, is not in such a state of mind as will fit her very well\nfor the change which is imminent. I am but a poor weak wretch, and no\nprisoner in Newgate could confess that more humbly and heartily. Once or\ntwice of late, I have sought to speak on this matter with her ladyship,\nbut she has received me very roughly. 'Parson,' says she, 'if you come\nfor cards, 'tis mighty well, but I will thank you to spare me your\nsermons.' What can I do, sir? I have called more than once of late, and\nMr. Case hath told me his lady was unable to see me.\" In fact Madame\nBernstein told my wife, whom she never refused, as I said, that the poor\nchaplain's ton was unendurable, and as for his theology, \"Haven't I been\na Bishop's wife?\" says she, \"and do I want this creature to teach me?\"\n\nThe old lady was as impatient of doctors as of divines; pretending that\nmy wife was ailing, and that it was more convenient for our good Doctor\nHeberden to visit her in Clarges Street than to travel all the way to\nour Lambeth lodgings, we got Dr. H. to see Theo at our aunt's house, and\nprayed him if possible to offer his advice to the Baroness: we made Mrs.\nBrett, her woman, describe her ailments, and the doctor confirmed our\nopinion that they were most serious, and might speedily end. She would\nrally briskly enough of some evenings, and entertain a little company;\nbut of late she scarcely went abroad at all. A somnolence, which we had\nremarked in her, was attributable in part to opiates which she was in\nthe habit of taking; and she used these narcotics to smother habitual\npain. One night, as we two sat with her (Mr. Miles was weaned by this\ntime, and his mother could leave him to the charge of our faithful\nMolly), she fell asleep over her cards. We hushed the servants who came\nto lay out the supper-table (she would always have this luxurious, nor\ncould any injunction of ours or the Doctor's teach her abstinence), and\nwe sat a while as we had often done before, waiting in silence till she\nshould arouse from her doze.\n\nWhen she awoke, she looked fixedly at me for a while, fumbled with the\ncards, and dropt them again in her lap, and said, \"Henry, have I been\nlong asleep?\" I thought at first that it was for my brother she mistook\nme; but she went on quickly, and with eyes fixed as upon some very far\ndistant object, and said, \"My dear, 'tis of no use, I am not good enough\nfor you. I love cards, and play, and court; and oh, Harry, you don't\nknow all!\" Here her voice changed, and she flung her head up. \"His\nfather married Anne Hyde, and sure the Esmond blood is as good as any\nthat's not royal. Mamma, you must please to treat me with more respect.\nVos sermons me fatiguent; entendez-vous?--faites place a mon Altesse\nroyale: mesdames, me connaissez-vous? je suis la----\" Here she broke out\ninto frightful hysterical shrieks and laughter, and as we ran up to her,\nalarmed, \"Oui, Henri,\" she says, \"il a jure de m'epouser et les princes\ntiennent parole--n'est-ce pas? O oui! ils tiennent parole; si non, tu le\ntueras, cousin; tu le--ah! que je suis folle!\" And the pitiful shrieks\nand laughter recommenced. Ere her frightened people had come up to her\nsummons, the poor thing had passed out of this mood into another; but\nalways labouring under the same delusion--that I was the Henry of past\ntimes, who had loved her and had been forsaken by her, whose bones were\nlying far away by the banks of the Potomac.\n\nMy wife and the women put the poor lady to bed as I ran myself for\nmedical aid. She rambled, still talking wildly, through the night, with\nher nurses and the surgeon sitting by her. Then she fell into a sleep,\nbrought on by more opiate. When she awoke, her mind did not actually\nwander; but her speech was changed, and one arm and side were paralysed.\n\n'Tis needless to relate the progress and termination of her malady, or\nwatch that expiring flame of life as it gasps and flickers. Her senses\nwould remain with her for a while (and then she was never satisfied\nunless Theo was by her bedside), or again her mind would wander, and the\npoor decrepit creature, lying upon her bed, would imagine herself young\nagain, and speak incoherently of the scenes and incidents of her early\ndays. Then she would address me as Henry again, and call upon me to\nrevenge some insult or slight, of which (whatever my suspicions might\nbe) the only record lay in her insane memory. \"They have always been\nso,\" she would murmur: \"they never loved man or woman but they forsook\nthem. Je me vengerai, O oui, je me vengerai! I know them all: I know\nthem all: and I will go to my Lord Stair with the list. Don't tell\nme! His religion can't be the right one. I will go back to my mother's\nthough she does not love me. She never did. Why don't you, mother? Is\nit because I am too wicked? Ah! Pitie, pitie. O mon pere! I will make\nmy confession\"--and here the unhappy paralysed lady made as if she would\nmove in her bed.\n\nLet us draw the curtain round it. I think with awe still, of those rapid\nwords, uttered in the shadow of the canopy, as my pallid wife sits by\nher, her Prayer-book on her knee; as the attendants move to and fro\nnoiselessly; as the clock ticks without, and strikes the fleeting hours;\nas the sun falls upon the Kneller picture of Beatrix in her beauty, with\nthe blushing cheeks, the smiling lips, the waving auburn tresses, and\nthe eyes which seem to look towards the dim figure moaning in the bed.\nI could not for a while understand why our aunt's attendants were so\nanxious that we should quit it. But towards evening, a servant stole\nin, and whispered her woman; and then Brett, looking rather disturbed,\nbegged us to go downstairs, as the--as the Doctor was come to visit the\nBaroness. I did not tell my wife, at the time, who \"the Doctor\" was; but\nas the gentleman slid by us, and passed upstairs, I saw at once that he\nwas a Catholic ecclesiastic. When Theo next saw our poor lady, she\nwas speechless; she never recognised any one about her, and so passed\nunconsciously out of life. During her illness her relatives had called\nassiduously enough, though she would see none of them save us. But when\nshe was gone, and we descended to the lower rooms after all was over, we\nfound Castlewood with his white face, and my lady from Kensington, and\nMr. Will already assembled in the parlour. They looked greedily at us as\nwe appeared. They were hungry for the prey.\n\nWhen our aunt's will was opened, we found it dated five years back, and\neverything she had was left to her dear nephew, Henry Esmond Warrington,\nof Castlewood, in Virginia, \"in affectionate love and remembrance of the\nname which he bore.\" The property was not great. Her revenue had been\nderived from pensions from the Crown as it appeared (for what services\nI cannot say), but the pension of course died with her, and there were\nonly a few hundred pounds, besides jewels, trinkets, and the furniture\nof the house in Clarges Street, of which all London came to the sale.\nMr. Walpole bid for her portrait, but I made free with Harry's money so\nfar as to buy the picture in: and it now hangs over the mantelpiece of\nthe chamber in which I write. What with jewels, laces, trinkets, and old\nchina which she had gathered--Harry became possessed of more than four\nthousand pounds by his aunt's legacy. I made so free as to lay my hand\nupon a hundred, which came, just as my stock was reduced to twenty\npounds; and I procured bills for the remainder, which I forwarded to\nCaptain Henry Esmond in Virginia. Nor should I have scrupled to take\nmore (for my brother was indebted to me in a much greater sum), but he\nwrote me there was another wonderful opportunity for buying an estate\nand negroes in our neighbourhood at home; and Theo and I were only\ntoo glad to forgo our little claim, so as to establish our brother's\nfortune. As to mine, poor Harry at this time did not know the state of\nit. My mother had never informed him that she had ceased remitting to\nme. She helped him with a considerable sum, the result of her savings,\nfor the purchase of his new estate; and Theo and I were most heartily\nthankful at his prosperity.\n\nAnd how strange ours was! By what curious good fortune, as our purse\nwas emptied, was it filled again! I had actually come to the end of our\nstock, when poor Sampson brought me his six pieces--and with these I was\nenabled to carry on, until my half-year's salary, as young Mr. Foker's\nGovernor, was due: then Harry's hundred, on which I laid main basse,\nhelped us over three months (we were behindhand with our rent, or the\nmoney would have lasted six good weeks longer): and when this was pretty\nnear expended, what should arrive but a bill of exchange for a couple of\nhundred pounds from Jamaica, with ten thousand blessings, from the dear\nfriends there, and fond scolding from the General that we had not\nsooner told him of our necessity--of which he had only heard through our\nfriend, Mr. Foker, who spoke in such terms of Theo and myself as to make\nour parents more than ever proud of their children. Was my quarrel with\nmy mother irreparable? Let me go to Jamaica. There was plenty there for\nall, and employment which his Excellency as Governor would immediately\nprocure for me. \"Come to us!\" writes Hetty. \"Come to us!\" writes Aunt\nLambert. \"Have my children been suffering poverty, and we rolling in\nour Excellency's coach, with guards to turn out whenever we pass? Has\nCharley been home to you for ever so many holidays, from the Chartreux,\nand had ever so many of my poor George's half-crowns in his pocket,\nI dare say?\" (this was indeed the truth, for where was he to go for\nholidays but to his sister? and was there any use in telling the child\nhow scarce half-crowns were with us?). \"And you always treating him with\nsuch goodness, as his letters tell me, which are brimful of love for\nGeorge and little Miles! Oh, how we long to see Miles!\" wrote Hetty and\nher mother; \"and as for his godfather\" (writes Het), \"who has been good\nto my dearest and her child, I promise him a kiss whenever I see him!\"\n\nOur young benefactor was never to hear of our family's love and\ngratitude to him. That glimpse of his bright face over the railings\nbefore our house at Lambeth, as he rode away on his little horse, was\nthe last we ever were to have of him. At Christmas a basket comes to us,\ncontaining a great turkey, and three brace of partridges, with a\ncard, and \"shot by M. W.\" wrote on one of them. And on receipt of this\npresent, we wrote to thank the child and gave him our sister's message.\n\nTo this letter, there came a reply from Lady Warrington, who said she\nwas bound to inform me, that in visiting me her child had been guilty\nof disobedience, and that she learned his visit to me now for the\nfirst time. Knowing my views regarding duty to my parents (which I had\nexemplified in my marriage), she could not wish her son to adopt them.\nAnd fervently hoping that I might be brought to see the errors of\nmy present course, she took leave of this most unpleasant subject,\nsubscribing herself, etc. etc. And we got this pretty missive as sauce\nfor poor Miles's turkey, which was our family feast for New Year's Day.\nMy Lady Warrington's letter choked our meal, though Sampson and Charley\nrejoiced over it.\n\nAh me! Ere the month was over, our little friend was gone from amongst\nus. Going out shooting, and dragging his gun through a hedge after him,\nthe trigger caught in a bush, and the poor little man was brought home\nto his father's house, only to live a few days and expire in pain and\ntorture. Under the yew-trees yonder, I can see the vault which covers\nhim, and where my bones one day no doubt will be laid. And over our pew\nat church, my children have often wistfully spelt the touching epitaph\nin which Miles's heartbroken father has inscribed his grief and love for\nhis only son.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIV. In which Harry submits to the Common Lot\n\n\nHard times were now over with me, and I had to battle with poverty no\nmore. My little kinsman's death made a vast difference in my worldly\nprospects. I became next heir to a good estate. My uncle and his\nwife were not likely to have more children. \"The woman is capable of\ncommitting any crime to disappoint you,\" Sampson vowed; but, in truth,\nmy Lady Warrington was guilty of no such treachery. Cruelly smitten\nby the stroke which fell upon them, Lady Warrington was taught by her\nreligious advisers to consider it as a chastisement of Heaven, and\nsubmit to the Divine Will. \"Whilst your son lived, your heart was turned\naway from the better world\" (her clergyman told her), \"and your ladyship\nthought too much of this. For your son's advantage you desired rank and\ntitle. You asked and might have obtained an earthly coronet. Of what\navail is it now, to one who has but a few years to pass upon earth--of\nwhat importance compared to the heavenly crown, for which you are an\nassured candidate?\" The accident caused no little sensation. In the\nchapels of that enthusiastic sect, towards which, after her son's death,\nshe now more than ever inclined, many sermons were preached bearing\nreference to the event. Far be it from me to question the course which\nthe bereaved mother pursued, or to regard with other than respect and\nsympathy any unhappy soul seeking that refuge whither sin and grief\nand disappointment fly for consolation. Lady Warrington even tried a\nreconciliation with myself. A year after her loss, being in London, she\nsignified that she would see me, and I waited on her; and she gave me,\nin her usual didactic way, a homily upon my position and her own.\nShe marvelled at the decree of Heaven, which had permitted, and\nhow dreadfully punished! her poor child's disobedience to her--a\ndisobedience by which I was to profit. (It appeared my poor little man\nhad disobeyed orders, and gone out with his gun, unknown to his mother.)\nShe hoped that, should I ever succeed to the property, though the\nWarringtons were, thank Heaven, a long-lived family, except in my own\nfather's case, whose life had been curtailed by the excesses of a very\nill-regulated youth,--but should I ever succeed to the family estate and\nhonours, she hoped, she prayed, that my present course of life might be\naltered; that I should part from my unworthy associates; that I should\ndiscontinue all connexion with the horrid theatre and its licentious\nfrequenters; that I should turn to that quarter where only peace was\nto be had; and to those sacred duties which she feared--she very much\nfeared that I had neglected. She filled her exhortation with Scripture\nlanguage, which I do not care to imitate. When I took my leave she gave\nme a packet of sermons for Mrs. Warrington, and a little book of hymns\nby Miss Dora, who has been eminent in that society of which she and\nher mother became avowed professors subsequently, and who, after the\ndowager's death, at Bath, three years since, married young Mr. Juffles,\na celebrated preacher. The poor lady forgave me then, but she could not\nbear the sight of our boy. We lost our second child, and then my aunt\nand her daughter came eagerly enough to the poor suffering mother, and\neven invited us hither. But my uncle was now almost every day in our\nhouse. He would sit for hours looking at our boy. He brought him endless\ntoys and sweetmeats. He begged that the child might call him Godpapa.\nWhen we felt our own grief (which at times still, and after the lapse of\nfive-and-twenty years, strikes me as keenly as on the day when we\nfirst lost our little one)--when I felt my own grief, I knew how to\ncommiserate his. But my wife could pity him before she knew what it\nwas to lose a child of her own. The mother's anxious heart had already\ndivined the pang which was felt by the sorrow-stricken father;\nmine, more selfish, has only learned pity from experience, and I was\nreconciled to my uncle by my little baby's coffin.\n\nThe poor man sent his coach to follow the humble funeral, and afterwards\ntook out little Miles, who prattled to him unceasingly, and forgot any\ngrief he might have felt in the delights of his new black clothes, and\nthe pleasures of the airing. How the innocent talk of the child stabbed\nthe mother's heart! Would we ever wish that it should heal of that\nwound? I know her face so well that, to this day, I can tell when,\nsometimes, she is thinking of the loss of that little one. It is not a\ngrief for a parting so long ago; it is a communion with a soul we love\nin Heaven.\n\nWe came back to our bright lodgings in Bloomsbury soon afterwards,\nand my young bear, whom I could no longer lead, and who had taken a\nprodigious friendship for Charley, went to the Chartreux School, where\nhis friend took care that he had no more beating than was good for him,\nand where (in consequence of the excellence of his private tutor, no\ndoubt) he took and kept a good place. And he liked the school so much,\nthat he says, if ever he has a son, he shall be sent to that seminary.\n\nNow, I could no longer lead my bear, for this reason, that I had other\nbusiness to follow. Being fully reconciled to us, I do believe, for\nMr. Miles's sake, my uncle (who was such an obsequious supporter of\nGovernment, that I wonder the Minister ever gave him anything, being\nperfectly sure of his vote) used his influence in behalf of his nephew\nand heir; and I had the honour to be gazetted as one of his Majesty's\nCommissioners for licensing hackney-coaches, a post I filled, I trust,\nwith credit, until a quarrel with the Minister (to be mentioned in its\nproper place) deprived me of that one. I took my degree also at the\nTemple, and appeared in Westminster Hall in my gown and wig. And, this\nyear, my good friend, Mr. Foker, having business at Paris, I had the\npleasure of accompanying him thither, where I was received a bras\nouverts by my dear American preserver, Monsieur de Florac, who\nintroduced me to his noble family, and to even more of the polite\nsociety of the capital than I had leisure to frequent; for I had too\nmuch spirit to desert my kind patron Foker, whose acquaintance lay\nchiefly amongst the bourgeoisie, especially with Monsieur Santerre, a\ngreat brewer of Paris, a scoundrel who hath since distinguished himself\nin blood and not beer. Mr. F. had need of my services as interpreter,\nand I was too glad that he should command them, and to be able to pay\nback some of the kindness which he had rendered to me. Our ladies,\nmeanwhile, were residing at Mr. Foker's new villa at Wimbledon, and were\npleased to say that they were amused with the \"Parisian letters\" which\nI sent to them, through my distinguished friend Mr. Hume, then of the\nEmbassy, and which subsequently have been published in a neat volume.\n\nWhilst I was tranquilly discharging my small official duties in London,\nthose troubles were commencing which were to end in the great separation\nbetween our colonies and the mother country. When Mr. Grenville proposed\nhis stamp-duties, I said to my wife that the bill would create a mighty\ndiscontent at home, for we were ever anxious to get as much as we could\nfrom England, and pay back as little; but assuredly I never anticipated\nthe prodigious anger which the scheme created. It was with us as with\nfamilies or individuals. A pretext is given for a quarrel: the real\ncause lies in long bickerings and previous animosities. Many foolish\nexactions and petty tyrannies, the habitual insolence of Englishmen\ntowards all foreigners, all colonists, all folk who dare to think their\nrivers as good as our Abana and Pharpar, the natural spirit of men\noutraged by our imperious domineering spirit, set Britain and her\ncolonies to quarrel; and the astonishing blunders of the system adopted\nin England brought the quarrel to an issue, which I, for one, am not\ngoing to deplore. Had I been in Virginia instead of London, 'tis\nvery possible I should have taken the provincial side, if out of mere\nopposition to that resolute mistress of Castlewood, who might have\ndriven me into revolt, as England did the colonies. Was the Stamp Act\nthe cause of the revolution?--a tax no greater than that cheerfully\npaid in England. Ten years earlier, when the French were within our\nterritory, and we were imploring succour from home, would the colonies\nhave rebelled at the payment of this tax? Do not most people consider\nthe tax-gatherer the natural enemy? Against the British in America there\nwere arrayed thousands and thousands of the high-spirited and brave, but\nthere were thousands more who found their profit in the quarrel, or had\ntheir private reasons for engaging in it. I protest I don't know now\nwhether mine were selfish or patriotic, or which side was in the right,\nor whether both were not. I am sure we in England had nothing to do but\nto fight the battle out; and, having lost the game, I do vow and believe\nthat, after the first natural soreness, the loser felt no rancour.\n\nWhat made brother Hal write home from Virginia, which he seemed\nexceedingly loth to quit, such flaming patriotic letters? My kind, best\nbrother was always led by somebody; by me when we were together (he had\nsuch an idea of my wit and wisdom, that if I said the day was fine, he\nwould ponder over the observation as though it was one of the sayings of\nthe Seven Sages), by some other wiseacre when I was away. Who inspired\nthese flaming letters, this boisterous patriotism, which he sent to us\nin London? \"He is rebelling against Madam Esmond,\" said I. \"He is led by\nsome colonial person--by that lady, perhaps,\" hinted my wife. Who \"that\nlady\" was Hal never had told us; and, indeed, besought me never to\nallude to the delicate subject in my letters to him; \"for Madam wishes\nto see 'em all, and I wish to say nothing about you know what until the\nproper moment,\" he wrote. No affection could be greater than that\nwhich his letters showed. When he heard (from the informant whom I have\nmentioned) that in the midst of my own extreme straits I had retained\nno more than a hundred pounds out of his aunt's legacy, he was for\nmortgaging the estate which he had just bought; and had more than one\nquarrel with his mother in my behalf, and spoke his mind with a great\ndeal more frankness than I should ever have ventured to show. Until\nher angry recriminations (when she charged him with ingratitude, after\nhaving toiled and saved so much and so long for him), the poor fellow\ndid not know that our mother had cut off my supplies to advance his\ninterests; and by the time this news came to him his bargains were made,\nand I was fortunately quite out of want.\n\nEvery scrap of paper which we ever wrote, our thrifty parent at\nCastlewood taped and docketed and put away. We boys were more careless\nabout our letters to one another: I especially, who perhaps chose rather\nto look down upon my younger brother's literary performances; but my\nwife is not so supercilious, and hath kept no small number of Harry's\nletters, as well as those of the angelic being whom we were presently to\ncall sister.\n\n\"To think whom he has chosen, and whom he might have had! Oh, 'tis\ncruel!\" cries my wife, when we got that notable letter in which Harry\nfirst made us acquainted with the name of his charmer.\n\n\"She was a very pretty little maid when I left home, she may be a\nperfect beauty now,\" I remarked, as I read over the longest letter Harry\never wrote on private affairs.\n\n\"But is she to compare to my Hetty?\" says Mrs. Warrington.\n\n\"We agreed that Hetty and Harry were not to be happy together, my love,\"\nsay I.\n\nTheo gives her husband a kiss. \"My dear, I wish they had tried,\" she\nsays with a sigh. \"I was afraid lest--lest Hetty should have led him,\nyou see; and I think she hath the better head. But, from reading this,\nit appears that the new lady has taken command of poor Harry,\" and she\nhands me the letter:--\n\n\n\"My dearest George hath been prepared by previous letters to understand\nhow a certain lady has made a conquest of my heart, which I have given\naway in exchange for something infinitely more valuable, namely, her\nown. She is at my side as I write this letter, and if there is no bad\nspelling, such as you often used to laugh at, 'tis because I have my\npretty dictionary at hand, which makes no faults in the longest word,\nnor in anything else I know of: being of opinion that she is perfection.\n\n\"As Madam Esmond saw all your letters, I writ you not to give any hint\nof a certain delicate matter--but now 'tis no secret, and is known to\nall the country. Mr. George is not the only one of our family who has\nmade a secret marriage, and been scolded by his mother. As a dutiful\nyounger brother I have followed his example; and now I may tell you how\nthis mighty event came about.\n\n\"I had not been at home long before I saw my fate was accomplisht. I\nwill not tell you how beautiful Miss Fanny Mountain had grown since I\nhad been away in Europe. She saith, 'You never will think so,' and I\nam glad, as she is the only thing in life I would grudge to my dearest\nbrother.\n\n\"That neither Madam Esmond nor my other mother (as Mountain is now)\nshould have seen our mutual attachment, is a wonder--only to be\naccounted for by supposing that love makes other folks blind. Mine for\nmy Fanny was increased by seeing what the treatment was she had from\nMadam Esmond, who indeed was very rough and haughty with her, which my\nlove bore with a sweetness perfectly angelic (this I will say, though\nshe will order me not to write any such nonsense). She was scarce better\ntreated than a servant of the house--indeed our negroes can talk much\nmore free before Madam Esmond than ever my Fanny could.\n\n\"And yet my Fanny says she doth not regret Madam's unkindness, as\nwithout it I possibly never should have been what I am to her. Oh, dear\nbrother! when I remember how great your goodness hath been, how, in my\nown want, you paid my debts, and rescued me out of prison; how you have\nbeen living in poverty which never need have occurred but for my fault;\nhow you might have paid yourself back my just debt to you and would not,\npreferring my advantage to your own comfort, indeed I am lost at the\nthought of such goodness; and ought I not to be thankful to Heaven that\nhath given me such a wife and such a brother?\n\n\"When I writ to you requesting you to send me my aunt's legacy money,\nfor which indeed I had the most profitable and urgent occasion, I had no\nidea that you were yourself suffering poverty. That you, the head of our\nfamily, should condescend to be governor to a brewer's son!--that you\nshould have to write for booksellers (except in so far as your own\ngenius might prompt you), never once entered my mind, until Mr. Foker's\nletter came to us, and this would never have been shown--for Madam kept\nit secret--had it not been for the difference which sprang up between\nus.\n\n\"Poor Tom Diggle's estate and negroes being for sale, owing to\nTom's losses and extravagance at play, and his father's debts before\nhim--Madam Esmond saw here was a great opportunity of making a provision\nfor me, and that with six thousand pounds for the farm and stock, I\nshould be put in possession of as pretty a property as falls to most\nyounger sons in this country. It lies handy enough to Richmond, between\nKent and Hanover Court House--the mansion nothing for elegance\ncompared to ours at Castlewood, but the land excellent and the people\nextraordinary healthy.\n\n\"Here was a second opportunity, Madam Esmond said, such as never might\nagain befall. By the sale of my commissions and her own savings I might\npay more than half of the price of the property, and get the rest of\nthe money on mortgage; though here, where money is scarce to procure,\nit would have been difficult and dear. At this juncture, with our new\nrelative, Mr. Van den Bosch, bidding against us (his agent is wild that\nwe should have bought the property over him), my aunt's legacy most\nopportunely fell in. And now I am owner of a good house and negroes in\nmy native country, shall be called, no doubt, to our House of Burgesses,\nand hope to see my dearest brother and family under my own roof-tree.\nTo sit at my own fireside, to ride my own horses to my own hounds,\nis better than going a-soldiering, now war is over, and there are no\nFrench. to fight. Indeed, Madam Esmond made a condition that I should\nleave the army, and live at home, when she brought me her 1750 pounds of\nsavings. She had lost one son, she said, who chose to write play-books,\nand live in England--let the other stay with her at home.\n\n\"But, after the purchase of the estate was made, and my papers for\nselling out were sent home, my mother would have had me marry a person\nof her choosing, but by no means of mine. You remember Miss Betsy Pitts\nat Williamsburgh? She is in no wise improved by having had her face\ndreadfully scarred with small-pock, and though Madam Esmond saith the\nyoung lady hath every virtue, I own her virtues did not suit me. Her\neyes do not look straight; she hath one leg shorter than another; and\noh, brother! didst thou never remark Fanny's ankles when we were boys?\nNeater I never saw at the Opera.\n\n\"Now, when 'twas agreed that I should leave the army, a certain dear\ngirl (canst thou guess her name?) one day, when we were private, burst\ninto tears of such happiness, that I could not but feel immensely\ntouched by her sympathy.\n\n\"'Ah!' says she, 'do you think, sir, that the idea of the son of my\nrevered benefactress going to battle doth not inspire me with terror?\nAh, Mr. Henry! do you imagine I have no heart? When Mr. George was with\nBraddock, do you fancy we did not pray for him? And when you were with\nMr. Wolfe--oh!'\n\n\"Here the dear creature hid her eyes in her handkerchief, and had hard\nwork to prevent her mama, who came in, from seeing that she was crying.\nBut my dear Mountain declares that, though she might have fancied, might\nhave prayed in secret for such a thing (she owns to that now), she\nnever imagined it for one moment. Nor, indeed, did my good mother, who\nsupposed that Sam Lintot, the apothecary's lad at Richmond, was Fanny's\nflame--an absurd fellow that I near kicked into James River.\n\n\"But when the commission was sold, and the estate bought, what does\nFanny do but fall into a deep melancholy? I found her crying one day, in\nher mother's room, where the two ladies had been at work trimming hats\nfor my negroes.\n\n\"'What! crying, miss?' says I. 'Has my mother been scolding you?'\n\n\"'No,' says the dear creature. 'Madam Esmond has been kind to-day.'\n\n\"And her tears drop down on a cockade which she is sewing on to a hat\nfor Sady, who is to be head-groom.\n\n\"'Then, why, miss, are those dear eyes so red?' say I.\n\n\"'Because I have the toothache,' she says, 'or because--because I am a\nfool.' Here she fairly bursts out. 'Oh, Mr. Harry! oh, Mr. Warrington!\nYou are going to leave us, and 'tis as well. You will take your place\nin your country, as becomes you. You will leave us poor women in our\nsolitude and dependence. You will come to visit us from time to time.\nAnd when you are happy and honoured, and among your gay companions, you\nwill remember your----'\n\n\"Here she could say no more, and hid her face with one hand as I, I\nconfess, seized the other.\n\n\"'Dearest, sweetest Miss Mountain!' says I. 'Oh, could I think that the\nparting from me has brought tears to those lovely eyes! Indeed, I fear,\nI should be almost happy! Let them look upon your----'\n\n\"'Oh, sir!' cries my charmer. 'Oh, Mr. Warrington! consider who I am,\nsir, and who you are! Remember the difference between us! Release my\nhand, sir! What would Madam Esmond say if--if----'\n\n\"If what, I don't know, for here our mother was in the room.\n\n\"'What would Madam Esmond say?' she cries out. 'She would say that you\nare an ungrateful, artful, false, little----'\n\n\"'Madam!' says I.\n\n\"'Yes, an ungrateful, artful, false, little wretch!' cries out my\nmother. 'For shame, miss! What would Mr. Lintot say if he saw you making\neyes at the Captain? And for you, Harry, I will have you bring none of\nyour garrison manners hither. This is a Christian family, sir, and you\nwill please to know that my house is not intended for captains and their\nmisses!'\n\n\"'Misses, mother!' says I. 'Gracious powers, do you ever venture for\nto call Miss Mountain by such a name? Miss Mountain, the purest of her\nsex!'\n\n\"'The purest of her sex! Can I trust my own ears?' asks Madam, turning\nvery pale.\n\n\"'I mean that if a man would question her honour, I would fling him out\nof window,' says I.\n\n\"'You mean that you--your mother's son--are actually paying honourable\nattention to this young person?'\n\n\"'He would never dare to offer any other,' cries my Fanny; 'nor any\nwoman but you, madam, to think so!'\n\n\"'Oh, I didn't know, miss!' says mother, dropping her a fine curtsey, 'I\ndidn't know the honour you were doing our family! You propose to marry\nwith us, do you? Do I understand Captain Warrington aright, that he\nintends to offer me Miss Mountain as a daughter-in-law?'\n\n\"''Tis to be seen, madam, that I have no protector, or you would not\ninsult me so!' cries my poor victim.\n\n\"'I should think the apothecary protection sufficient!' says our mother.\n\n\"'I don't, mother!' I bawl out, for I was very angry; 'and if Lintot\noffers her any liberty, I'll brain him with his own pestle!'\n\n\"'Oh! if Lintot has withdrawn, sir, I suppose I must be silent. But I\ndid not know of the circumstance. He came hither, as I supposed, to pay\ncourt to Miss: and we all thought the match equal, and I encouraged it.'\n\n\"'He came because I had the toothache!' cries my darling (and indeed she\nhad a dreadful bad tooth. And he took it out for her, and there is no\nend to the suspicions and calumnies of women).\n\n\"'What more natural than that he should marry my housekeeper's\ndaughter--'twas a very suitable match!' continues Madam, taking snuff.\n'But I confess,' she adds, going on, 'I was not aware that you intended\nto jilt the apothecary for my son!'\n\n\"'Peace, for Heaven's sake, peace, Mr. Warrington!' cries my angel.\n\n\"'Pray, sir, before you fully make up your mind, had you not better look\nround the rest of my family?' says Madam. 'Dinah is a fine tall girl,\nand not very black; Cleopatra is promised to Ajax the blacksmith, to\nbe sure; but then we could break the marriage, you know. If with an\napothecary, why not with a blacksmith? Martha's husband has run away,\nand----'\n\n\"Here, dear brother, I own I broke out a-swearing. I can't help it; but\nat times, when a man is angry, it do relieve him immensely. I'm blest,\nbut I should have gone wild, if it hadn't been for them oaths.\n\n\"'Curses, blasphemy, ingratitude, disobedience,' says mother, leaning\nnow on her tortoiseshell stick, and then waving it--something like a\nqueen in a play. 'These are my rewards!' says she. 'O Heaven, what have\nI done, that I should merit this awful punishment? and does it please\nyou to visit the sins of my fathers upon me? Where do my children\ninherit their pride? When I was young, had I any? When my papa bade me\nmarry, did I refuse? Did I ever think of disobeying? No, sir. My fault\nhath been, and I own it, that my love was centred upon you, perhaps to\nthe neglect of your elder brother.' (Indeed, brother, there was some\ntruth in what Madam said.) 'I turned from Esau, and I clung to Jacob.\nAnd now I have my reward, I have my reward! I fixed my vain thoughts on\nthis world, and its distinctions. To see my son advanced in worldly rank\nwas my ambition. I toiled, and spared, that I might bring him worldly\nwealth. I took unjustly from my eldest son's portion, that my younger\nmight profit. And oh! that I should see him seducing the daughter of my\nown housekeeper under my own roof, and replying to my just anger with\noaths and blasphemies!'\n\n\"'I try to seduce no one, madam,' I cried out. 'If I utter oaths and\nblasphemies, I beg your pardon; but you are enough to provoke a saint to\nspeak 'em. I won't have this young lady's character assailed--no, not by\nown mother nor any mortal alive. No, dear Miss Mountain! If Madam Esmond\nchooses to say that my designs on you are dishonourable,--let this\nundeceive her!' And, as I spoke, I went down on my knees, seizing my\nadorable Fanny's hand. 'And if you will accept this heart and hand,\nmiss,' says I, 'they are yours for ever.'\n\n\"'You, at least, I knew, sir,' says Fanny, with a noble curtsey, 'never\nsaid a word that was disrespectful to me, or entertained any doubt of my\nhonour. And I trust it is only Madam Esmond, in the world, who can have\nsuch an opinion of me. After what your ladyship hath said of me, of\ncourse I can stay no longer in your house.'\n\n\"'Of course, madam, I never intended you should; and the sooner you\nleave it the better,' cries our mother.\n\n\"'If you are driven from my mother's house, mine, miss, is at your\nservice,' says I, making her a low bow. 'It is nearly ready now. If you\nwill take it and stay in it for ever, it is yours! And as Madam Esmond\ninsulted your honour, at least let me do all in my power to make a\nreparation!' I don't know what more I exactly said, for you may fancy I\nwas not a little flustered and excited by the scene. But here Mountain\ncame in, and my dearest Fanny, flinging herself into her mother's arms,\nwept upon her shoulder; whilst Madam Esmond, sitting down in her chair,\nlooked at us as pale as a stone. Whilst I was telling my story to\nMountain (who, poor thing, had not the least idea, not she, that Miss\nFanny and I had the slightest inclination for one another), I could hear\nour mother once or twice still saying, 'I am punished for my crime!'\n\n\"Now, what our mother meant by her crime I did not know at first, or\nindeed take much heed of what she said; for you know her way, and\nhow, when she is angry, she always talks sermons. But Mountain told me\nafterwards, when we had some talk together, as we did at the tavern,\nwhither the ladies presently removed with their bag and baggage--for not\nonly would they not stay at Madam's house after the language she used,\nbut my mother determined to go away likewise. She called her servants\ntogether, and announced her intention of going home instantly to\nCastlewood; and I own to you 'twas with a horrible pain I saw the family\ncoach roll by, with six horses, and ever so many of the servants on\nmules and on horseback, as I and Fanny looked through the blinds of the\nTavern.\n\n\"After the words Madam used to my spotless Fanny, 'twas impossible that\nthe poor child or her mother should remain in our house: and indeed\nM. said that she would go back to her relations in England: and a ship\nbound homewards lying in James River, she went and bargained with the\ncaptain about a passage, so bent was she upon quitting the country, and\nso little did she think of making a match between me and my angel. But\nthe cabin was mercifully engaged by a North Carolina gentleman and his\nfamily, and before the next ship sailed (which bears this letter to my\ndearest George) they have agreed to stop with me. Almost all the ladies\nin this neighbourhood have waited on them. When the marriage takes\nplace, I hope Madam Esmond will be reconciled. My Fanny's father was a\nBritish officer; and sure, ours was no more. Some day, please Heaven,\nwe shall visit Europe, and the places where my wild oats were sown,\nand where I committed so many extravagances from which my dear brother\nrescued me.\n\n\"The ladies send you their affection and duty, and to my sister. We hear\nhis Excellency General Lambert is much beloved in Jamaica: and I shall\nwrite to our dear friends there announcing my happiness. My dearest\nbrother will participate in it, and I am ever his grateful and\naffectionate H. E. W.\n\n\"P.S.--Till Mountain told me, I had no more notion than the ded that\nMadam E. had actially stopt your allowances; besides making you pay\nfor ever so much--near upon 1000 pounds Mountain says--for goods, etc.,\nprovided for the Virginian proparty. Then there was all the charges of\nme out of prison, which I. O. U. with all my hart. Draw upon me, please,\ndearest brother--to any amount--adressing me to care of Messrs. Horn and\nSandon, Williamsburg, privit; who remitt by present occasion a bill\nfor 225 pounds, payable by their London agents on demand. Please don't\nacknolledge this in answering; as there's no good in bothering women\nwith accounts--and with the extra 5 pounds by a capp or what she likes\nfor my dear sister, and a toy for my nephew from Uncle Hal.\"\n\n\nThe conclusion to which we came on the perusal of this document was,\nthat the ladies had superintended the style and spelling of my poor\nHal's letter, but that the postscript was added without their knowledge.\nAnd I am afraid we argued that the Virginian Squire was under female\ndomination--as Hercules, Samson, and fortes multi had been before him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXV. Inveni Portum\n\n\nWhen my mother heard of my acceptance of a place at home, I think she\nwas scarcely well pleased. She may have withdrawn her supplies, in order\nto starve me into a surrender, and force me to return with my family to\nVirginia, and to dependence under her. We never, up to her dying day,\nhad any explanation on the pecuniary dispute between us. She cut off my\nallowances: I uttered not a word; but managed to live without her aid.\nI never heard that she repented of her injustice, or acknowledged it,\nexcept from Harry's private communication to me. In after days, when we\nmet, by a great gentleness in her behaviour, and an uncommon respect\nand affection shown to my wife, Madam Esmond may have intended I should\nunderstand her tacit admission that she had been wrong; but she made no\napology, nor did I ask one. Harry being provided for (whose welfare I\ncould not grudge), all my mother's savings and economical schemes went\nto my advantage, who was her heir. Time was when a few guineas would\nhave been more useful to me than hundreds which might come to me when\nI had no need; but when Madam Esmond and I met, the period of necessity\nwas long passed away; I had no need to scheme ignoble savings, or to\ngrudge the doctor his fee: I had plenty, and she could but bring me\nmore. No doubt she suffered in her own mind to think that my children\nhad been hungry, and she had offered them no food; and that strangers\nhad relieved the necessity from which her proud heart had caused her to\nturn aside. Proud? Was she prouder than I? A soft word of explanation\nbetween us might have brought about a reconciliation years before it\ncame but I would never speak, nor did she. When I commit a wrong, and\nknow it subsequently, I love to ask pardon; but 'tis as a satisfaction\nto my own pride, and to myself I am apologising for having been wanting\nto myself. And hence, I think (out of regard to that personage of ego),\nI scarce ever could degrade myself to do a meanness. How do men feel\nwhose whole lives (and many men's lives are) are lies, schemes, and\nsubterfuges? What sort of company do they keep when they are alone?\nDaily in life I watch men whose every smile is an artifice, and every\nwink is an hypocrisy. Doth such a fellow wear a mask in his own privacy,\nand to his own conscience? If I choose to pass over an injury, I fear\n'tis not from a Christian and forgiving spirit: 'tis because I can\nafford to remit the debt, and disdain to ask a settlement of it. One\nor two sweet souls I have known in my life (and perhaps tried) to whom\nforgiveness is no trouble--a plant that grows naturally, as it were, in\nthe soil. I know how to remit, I say, not forgive. I wonder are we proud\nmen proud of being proud?\n\nSo I showed not the least sign of submission towards my parent in\nVirginia yonder, and we continued for years to live in estrangement,\nwith occasionally a brief word or two (such as the announcement of the\nbirth of a child, or what not) passing between my wife and her. After\nour first troubles in America about the Stamp Act, troubles fell on me\nin London likewise. Though I have been on the Tory side in our quarrel\n(as indeed upon the losing side in most controversies), having no doubt\nthat the Imperial Government had a full right to levy taxes in the\ncolonies, yet at the time of the dispute I must publish a pert letter to\na member of the House of Burgesses in Virginia, in which the question\nof the habitual insolence of the mother country to the colonies was so\nfreely handled, and sentiments were uttered so disagreeable to persons\nin power, that I was deprived of my place as hackney-coach licenser, to\nthe terror and horror of my uncle, who never could be brought to love\npeople in disgrace. He had grown to have an extreme affection for\nmy wife as well as my little boy; but towards myself, personally,\nentertained a kind of pitying contempt which always infinitely amused\nme. He had a natural scorn and dislike for poverty, and a corresponding\nlove for success and good fortune. Any opinion departing at all from the\nregular track shocked and frightened him, and all truth-telling made him\nturn pale. He must have had originally some warmth of heart and genuine\nlove of kindred: for, spite of the dreadful shocks I gave him, he\ncontinued to see Theo and the child (and me too, giving me a\nmournful recognition when we met); and though broken-hearted by my\nfree-spokenness, he did not refuse to speak to me as he had done at the\ntime of our first differences, but looked upon me as a melancholy lost\ncreature, who was past all worldly help or hope. Never mind, I must cast\nabout for some new scheme of life; and the repayment of Harry's debt to\nme at this juncture enabled me to live at least for some months even, or\nyears to come. O strange fatuity of youth! I often say. How was it that\nwe dared to be so poor and so little cast down?\n\nAt this time his Majesty's royal uncle of Cumberland fell down\nand perished in a fit; and, strange to say, his death occasioned a\nremarkable change in my fortune. My poor Sir Miles Warrington never\nmissed any court ceremony to which he could introduce himself. He was\nat all the drawing-rooms, christenings, balls, funerals of the court.\nIf ever a prince or princess was ailing, his coach was at their door:\nLeicester Fields, Carlton House, Gunnersbury, were all the same to him,\nand nothing must satisfy him now but going to the stout duke's funeral.\nHe caught a great cold and an inflammation of the throat from standing\nbareheaded at this funeral in the rain; and one morning, before almost\nI had heard of his illness, a lawyer waits upon me at my lodgings in\nBloomsbury, and salutes me by the name of Sir George Warrington.\n\nParty and fear of the future were over now. We laid the poor gentleman\nby the side of his little son, in the family churchyard where so many\nof his race repose. Little Miles and I were the chief mourners. An\nobsequious tenantry bowed and curtseyed before us, and did their utmost\nto conciliate my honour and my worship. The dowager and her daughter\nwithdrew to Bath presently; and I and my family took possession of the\nhouse, of which I have been master for thirty years. Be not too eager,\nO my son! Have but a little patience, and I too shall sleep under yonder\nyew-trees, and the people will be tossing up their caps for Sir Miles.\n\nThe records of a prosperous country life are easily and briefly told.\nThe steward's books show what rents were paid and forgiven, what crops\nwere raised, and in what rotation. What visitors came to us, and\nhow long they stayed: what pensioners my wife had, and how they were\ndoctored and relieved, and how they died: what year I was sheriff, and\nhow often the hounds met near us; all these are narrated in our house\njournals, which any of my heirs may read who choose to take the\ntrouble. We could not afford the fine mansion in Hill Street, which\nmy predecessor had occupied; but we took a smaller house, in which,\nhowever, we spent more money. We made not half the show (with liveries,\nequipages, and plate) for which my uncle had been famous; but our beer\nwas stronger, and my wife's charities were perhaps more costly than\nthose of the Dowager Lady Warrington. No doubt she thought there was no\nharm in spoiling the Philistines; for she made us pay unconscionably for\nthe goods she left behind her in our country-house, and I submitted to\nmost of her extortions with unutterable good-humour. What a value she\nimagined the potted plants in her greenhouses bore! What a price she\nset upon that horrible old spinet she left in her drawing-room! and the\nframed pieces of worsted-work, performed by the accomplished Dora and\nthe lovely Flora, had they been masterpieces of Titian or Vandyck, to\nbe sure my lady dowager could hardly have valued them at a higher price.\nBut though we paid so generously, though we were, I may say without\nboast, far kinder to our poor than ever she had been, for a while we had\nthe very worst reputation in the county, where all sorts of stories\nhad been told to my discredit. I thought I might perhaps succeed to my\nuncle's seat in Parliament, as well as to his landed property; but I\nfound, I knew not how, that I was voted to be a person of very dangerous\nopinions. I would not bribe: I would not coerce my own tenants to vote\nfor me in the election of '68. A gentleman came down from Whitehall\nwith a pocket-book full of bank-notes; and I found that I had no chance\nagainst my competitor.\n\nBon Dieu! Now that we were at ease in respect of worldly means,--now\nthat obedient tenants bowed and curtseyed as we went to church; that we\ndrove to visit our friends, or to the neighbouring towns, in the great\nfamily coach with the four fat horses; did we not often regret poverty,\nand the dear little cottage at Lambeth, where Want was ever prowling\nat the door? Did I not long to be bear-leading again, and vow that\ntranslating for booksellers was not such very hard drudgery? When we\nwent to London, we made sentimental pilgrimages to all our old haunts.\nI dare say my wife embraced all her landladies. You may be sure we asked\nall the friends of those old times to share the comforts of our new home\nwith us. The Reverend Mr. Hagan and his lady visited us more than once.\nHis appearance in the pulpit at B------(where he preached very finely,\nas we thought) caused an awful scandal there. Sampson came too, another\nunlucky Levite, and was welcome as long as he would stay among us. Mr.\nJohnson talked of coming, but he put us off once or twice. I suppose our\nhouse was dull. I know that I myself would be silent for days, and fear\nthat my moodiness must often have tried the sweetest-tempered woman\nin the world who lived with me. I did not care for field sports. The\nkilling one partridge was so like killing another, that I wondered how\nmen could pass days after days in the pursuit of that kind of slaughter.\nTheir fox-hunting stories would begin at four o'clock, when the\ntablecloth was removed, and last till supper-time. I sate silent, and\nlistened: day after day I fell asleep: no wonder I was not popular with\nmy company.\n\nWhat admission is this I am making? Here was the storm over, the rocks\navoided, the ship in port and the sailor not overcontented? Was Susan\nI had been sighing for during the voyage, not the beauty I expected to\nfind her? In the first place, Susan and all the family can look in her\nWilliam's logbook, and so, madam, I am not going to put my secrets\ndown there. No, Susan, I never had secrets from thee. I never cared for\nanother woman. I have seen more beautiful, but none that suited me as\nwell as your ladyship. I have met Mrs. Carter and Miss Mulso, and Mrs.\nThrale and Madam Kaufmann, and the angelical Gunnings, and her Grace of\nDevonshire, and a host of beauties who were not angelic, by any means:\nand I was not dazzled by them. Nay, young folks, I may have led your\nmother a weary life, and been a very Bluebeard over her, but then I\nhad no other heads in the closet. Only, the first pleasure of taking\npossession of our kingdom over, I own I began to be quickly tired of the\ncrown. When the captain wears it his Majesty will be a very different\nPrince. He can ride a-hunting five days in the week, and find the sport\namusing. I believe he would hear the same sermon at church fifty times,\nand not yawn more than I do at the first delivery. But sweet Joan,\nbeloved Baucis! being thy faithful husband and true lover always,\nthy Darby is rather ashamed of having been testy so often! and, being\narrived at the consummation of happiness, Philemon asks pardon for\nfalling asleep so frequently after dinner. There came a period of my\nlife, when having reached the summit of felicity I was quite tired of\nthe prospect I had there: I yawned in Eden, and said, \"Is this all?\nWhat, no lions to bite? no rain to fall? no thorns to prick you in the\nrose-bush when you sit down?--only Eve, for ever sweet and tender, and\nfigs for breakfast, dinner, supper, from week's end to week's end!\"\nShall I make my confessions? Hearken! Well, then, if I must make a clean\nbreast of it.\n\n          *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nHere three pages are torn out of Sir George Warrington's MS. book, for\nwhich the editor is sincerely sorry.\n\n\nI know the theory and practice of the Roman Church; but, being bred of\nanother persuasion (and sceptical and heterodox regarding that), I can't\nhelp doubting the other, too, and wondering whether Catholics, in\ntheir confessions, confess all? Do we Protestants ever do so; and has\neducation rendered those other fellow-men so different from us? At\nleast, amongst us, we are not accustomed to suppose Catholic priests or\nlaymen more frank and open than ourselves. Which brings me back to my\nquestion,--does any man confess all? Does yonder dear creature know all\nmy life, who has been the partner of it for thirty years; who, whenever\nI have told her a sorrow, has been ready with the best of her gentle\npower to soothe it; who has watched when I did not speak, and when I was\nsilent has been silent herself, or with the charming hypocrisy of woman\nhas worn smiles and an easy appearance so as to make me imagine she\nfelt no care, or would not even ask to disturb her lord's secret when he\nseemed to indicate a desire to keep it private? Oh, the dear hypocrite!\nHave I not watched her hiding the boys' peccadilloes from papa's anger?\nHave I not known her cheat out of her housekeeping to pay off their\nlittle extravagances; and talk to me with an artless face, as if she did\nnot know that our revered captain had had dealings with the gentlemen\nof Duke's Place, and our learned collegian, at the end of his terms, had\nvery pressing reasons for sporting his oak (as the phrase is) against\nsome of the University tradesmen? Why, from the very earliest days, thou\nwise woman, thou wert for ever concealing something from me,--this\none stealing jam from the cupboard; that one getting into disgrace at\nschool; that naughty rebel (put on the caps, young folks, according to\nthe fit) flinging an inkstand at mamma in a rage, whilst I was told\nthe gown and the carpet were spoiled by accident. We all hide from one\nanother. We have all secrets. We are all alone. We sin by ourselves,\nand, let us trust, repent too. Yonder dear woman would give her foot to\nspare mine a twinge of the gout; but, when I have the fit, the pain is\nin my slipper. At the end of the novel or the play, the hero and heroine\nmarry or die, and so there is an end of them as far as the poet is\nconcerned, who huzzas for his young couple till the postchaise turns the\ncorner; or fetches the hearse and plumes, and shovels them underground.\nBut when Mr. Random and Mr. Thomas Jones are married, is all over? Are\nthere no quarrels at home? Are there no Lady Bellastons abroad? are\nthere no constables to be outrun? no temptations to conquer us, or be\nconquered by us? The Sirens sang after Ulysses long after his marriage,\nand the suitors whispered in Penelope's ear, and he and she had many a\nweary day of doubt and care, and so have we all. As regards money I was\nput out of trouble by the inheritance I made: but does not Atra Cura\nsit behind baronets as well as equites? My friends in London used to\ncongratulate me on my happiness. Who would not like to be master of a\ngood house and a good estate? But can Gumbo shut the hall-door upon blue\ndevils, or lay them always in a red sea of claret? Does a man sleep\nthe better who has four-and-twenty hours to doze in? Do his intellects\nbrighten after a sermon from the dull old vicar; a ten minutes' cackle\nand flattery from the village apothecary; or the conversation of Sir\nJohn and Sir Thomas with their ladies, who come ten moonlight muddy\nmiles to eat a haunch, and play a rubber? 'Tis all very well to\nhave tradesmen bowing to your carriage-door, room made for you at\nquarter-sessions, and my lady wife taken down the second or the third to\ndinner: but these pleasures fade--nay, have their inconveniences. In our\npart of the country, for seven years after we came to Warrington Manor,\nour two what they called best neighbours were my Lord Tutbury and Sir\nJohn Mudbrook. We are of an older date than the Mudbrooks; consequently,\nmy Lady Tutbury always fell to my lot, when we dined together, who\nwas deaf and fell asleep after dinner; or if I had Lady Mudbrook, she\nchattered with a folly so incessant and intense, that even my wife could\nhardly keep her complacency (consummate hypocrite as her ladyship is),\nknowing the rage with which I was fuming at the other's clatter. I come\nto London. I show my tongue to Dr. Heberden. I pour out my catalogue of\ncomplaints. \"Psha, my dear Sir George!\" says the unfeeling physician.\n\"Headaches, languor, bad sleep, bad temper--\" (\"Not bad temper: Sir\nGeorge has the sweetest temper in the world, only he is sometimes a\nlittle melancholy,\" says my wife.) \"--Bad sleep, bad temper,\" continues\nthe implacable doctor. \"My dear lady, his inheritance has been his ruin,\nand a little poverty and a great deal of occupation would do him all the\ngood in life.\"\n\nNo, my brother Harry ought to have been the squire, with remainder to\nmy son Miles, of course. Harry's letters were full of gaiety and good\nspirits. His estate prospered: his negroes multiplied; his crops were\nlarge; he was a member of our House of Burgesses; he adored his wife;\ncould he but have a child his happiness would be complete. Had Hal\nbeen master of Warrington Manor-house, in my place, he would have been\nbeloved through the whole country; he would have been steward at all the\nraces, the gayest of all the jolly huntsmen, the bien venu at all the\nmansions round about, where people scarce cared to perform the ceremony\nof welcome at sight of my glum face. As for my wife, all the world liked\nher, and agreed in pitying her. I don't know how the report got abroad,\nbut 'twas generally agreed that I treated her with awful cruelty, and\nthat for jealousy I was a perfect Bluebeard. Ah me! And so it is true\nthat I have had many dark hours; that I pass days in long silence; that\nthe conversation of fools and whipper-snappers makes me rebellious and\npeevish, and that, when I feel contempt, I sometimes don't know how to\nconceal it, or I should say did not. I hope as I grow older I grow more\ncharitable. Because I do not love bawling and galloping after a fox,\nlike the captain yonder, I am not his superior; but, in this respect,\nhumbly own that he is mine. He has perceptions which are denied me;\nenjoyments which I cannot understand. Because I am blind the world is\nnot dark. I try now and listen with respect when Squire Codgers talks\nof the day's run. I do my best to laugh when Captain Rattleton tells his\ngarrison stories. I step up to the harpsichord with old Miss Humby (our\nneighbour from Beccles) and try and listen as she warbles her ancient\nditties. I play whist laboriously. Am I not trying to do the duties of\nlife? and I have a right to be garrulous and egotistical, because I have\nbeen reading Montaigne all the morning.\n\nI was not surprised, knowing by what influences my brother was led, to\nfind his name in the list of Virginia burgesses who declared that the\nsole right of imposing taxes on the inhabitants of this colony is now,\nand ever hath been, legally and constitutionally vested in the House\nof Burgesses, and called upon the other colonies to pray for the Royal\ninterposition in favour of the violated rights of America. And it was\nnow, after we had been some three years settled in our English home,\nthat a correspondence between us and Madam Esmond began to take place.\nIt was my wife who (upon some pretext such as women always know how to\nfind) re-established the relations between us. Mr. Miles must need have\nthe small-pox, from which he miraculously recovered without losing\nany portion of his beauty; and on his recovery the mother writes her\nprettiest little wheedling letter to the grandmother of the fortunate\nbabe. She coaxes her with all sorts of modest phrases and humble\nofferings of respect and goodwill. She narrates anecdotes of the\nprecocious genius of the lad (what hath subsequently happened, I wonder,\nto stop the growth of that gallant young officer's brains?), and she\nmust have sent over to his grandmother a lock of the darling boy's hair,\nfor the old lady, in her reply, acknowledged the receipt of some such\npresent. I wonder, as it came from England, they allowed it to pass our\ncustom-house at Williamsburg. In return for these peace-offerings and\nsmuggled tokens of submission, comes a tolerably gracious letter from my\nLady of Castlewood. She inveighs against the dangerous spirit pervading\nthe colony: she laments to think that her unhappy son is consorting with\npeople who, she fears, will be no better than rebels and traitors. She\ndoes not wonder, considering who his friends and advisers are. How can\na wife taken from an almost menial situation be expected to sympathise\nwith persons of rank and dignity who have the honour of the Crown at\nheart? If evil times were coming for the monarchy (for the folks in\nAmerica appeared to be disinclined to pay taxes, and required that\neverything should be done for them without cost), she remembered how\nto monarchs in misfortune, the Esmonds--her father the Marquis\nespecially--had ever been faithful. She knew not what opinions (though\nshe might judge from my newfangled Lord Chatham) were in fashion in\nEngland. She prayed, at least, she might hear that one of her sons was\nnot on the side of rebellion. When we came, in after days, to look over\nold family papers in Virginia, we found \"Letters from my daughter Lady\nWarrington,\" neatly tied up with a ribbon. My Lady Theo insisted I\nshould not open them; and the truth, I believe, is, that they were so\nfull of praises of her husband that she thought my vanity would suffer\nfrom reading them.\n\nWhen Madam began to write, she gave us brief notices of Harry and his\nwife. \"The two women,\" she wrote, \"still govern everything with my poor\nboy at Fannystown (as he chooses to call his house). They must save\nmoney there, for I hear but a shabby account of their manner of\nentertaining. The Mount Vernon gentleman continues to be his great\nfriend, and he votes in the House of Burgesses very much as his\nguide advises him. Why he should be so sparing of his money I cannot\nunderstand: I heard, of five negroes who went with his equipages to my\nLord Bottetourt's, only two had shoes to their feet. I had reasons to\nsave, having sons for whom I wished to provide, but he hath no children,\nwherein he certainly is spared from much grief, though, no doubt, Heaven\nin its wisdom means our good by the trials which, through our children,\nit causes us to endure. His mother-in-law,\" she added in one of her\nletters, \"has been ailing. Ever since his marriage, my poor Henry has\nbeen the creature of these two artful women, and they rule him entirely.\nNothing, my dear daughter, is more contrary to common sense and to\nHoly Scripture than this. Are we not told, Wives, be obedient to your\nhusbands? Had Mr. Warrington lived, I should have endeavoured to follow\nup that sacred precept, holding that nothing so becomes a woman as\nhumility and obedience.\"\n\nPresently we had a letter sealed with black, and announcing the death\nof our dear good Mountain, for whom I had a hearty regret and affection,\nremembering her sincere love for us as children. Harry deplored the\nevent in his honest way, and with tears which actually blotted his\npaper. And Madam Esmond, alluding to the circumstance, said: \"My late\nhousekeeper, Mrs. Mountain, as soon as she found her illness was fatal,\nsent to me requesting a last interview on her deathbed, intending,\ndoubtless, to pray my forgiveness for her treachery towards me. I sent\nher word that I could forgive her as a Christian, and heartily hope\n(though I confess I doubt it) that she had a due sense of her crime\ntowards me. But our meeting, I considered, was of no use, and could\nonly occasion unpleasantness between us. If she repented, though at the\neleventh hour, it was not too late, and I sincerely trusted that she\nwas now doing so. And, would you believe her lamentable and hardened\ncondition? she sent me word through Dinah, my woman, whom I dispatched\nto her with medicines for her soul's and her body's health, that she\nhad nothing to repent of as far as regarded her conduct to me, and\nshe wanted to be left alone! Poor Dinah distributed the medicine to my\nnegroes, and our people took it eagerly--whilst Mrs. Mountain, left to\nherself, succumbed to the fever. Oh, the perversity of human kind! This\npoor creature was too proud to take my remedies, and is now beyond the\nreach of cure and physicians. You tell me your little Miles is subject\nto fits of cholic. My remedy, and I will beg you to let me know if\neffectual, is,\" etc. etc.--and here followed the prescription, which\nthou didst not take, O my son, my heir, and my pride! because thy fond\nmother had her mother's favourite powder, on which in his infantine\ntroubles our firstborn was dutifully nurtured. Did words not exactly\nconsonant with truth pass between the ladies in their correspondence? I\nfear my Lady Theo was not altogether candid: else how to account for a\nphrase in one of Madam Esmond's letters, who said: \"I am glad to hear\nthe powders have done the dear child good. They are, if not on a first,\non a second or third application, almost infallible, and have been\nthe blessed means of relieving many persons round me, both infants and\nadults, white and coloured. I send my grandson an Indian bow and arrows.\nShall these old eyes never behold him at Castlewood, I wonder, and is\nSir George so busy with his books and his politics that he can't afford\na few months to his mother in Virginia? I am much alone now. My son's\nchamber is just as he left it: the same books are in the presses: his\nlittle hanger and fowling-piece over the bed, and my father's picture\nover the mantelpiece. I never allow anything to be altered in his room\nor his brother's. I fancy the children playing near me sometimes, and\nthat I can see my dear father's head as he dozes in his chair. Mine is\ngrowing almost as white as my father's. Am I never to behold my children\nere I go hence? The Lord's will be done.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVI. At Home\n\n\nSuch an appeal as this of our mother would have softened hearts much\nless obdurate than ours; and we talked of a speedy visit to Virginia,\nand of hiring all the Young Rachel's cabin accommodation. But our child\nmust fall ill, for whom the voyage would be dangerous, and from whom the\nmother of course could not part; and the Young Rachel made her voyage\nwithout us that year. Another year there was another difficulty, in my\nworship's first attack of the gout (which occupied me a good deal, and\nafterwards certainly cleared my wits and enlivened my spirits); and now\ncame another much sadder cause for delay in the sad news we received\nfrom Jamaica. Some two years after our establishment at the Manor,\nour dear General returned from his government, a little richer in the\nworld's goods than when he went away, but having undergone a loss for\nwhich no wealth could console him, and after which, indeed, he did\nnot care to remain in the West Indies. My Theo's poor mother--the most\ntender and affectionate friend (save one) I have ever had--died abroad\nof the fever. Her last regret was that she should not be allowed to live\nto see our children and ourselves in prosperity.\n\n\"She sees us, though we do not see her; and she thanks you, George, for\nhaving been good to her children,\" her husband said.\n\nHe, we thought, would not be long ere he joined her. His love for her\nhad been the happiness and business of his whole life. To be away from\nher seemed living no more. It was pitiable to watch the good man as\nhe sate with us. My wife, in her air and in many tones and gestures,\nconstantly recalled her mother to the bereaved widower's heart. What\ncheer we could give him in his calamity we offered; but, especially,\nlittle Hetty was now, under Heaven, his chief support and consolation.\nShe had refused more than one advantageous match in the Island, the\nGeneral told us; and on her return to England, my Lord Wrotham's heir\nlaid himself at her feet. But she loved best to stay with her father,\nHetty said. As long as he was not tired of her she cared for no husband.\n\n\"Nay,\" said we, when this last great match was proposed, \"let the\nGeneral stay six months with us at the Manor here, and you can have him\nat Oakhurst for the other six.\"\n\nBut Hetty declared her father never could bear Oakhurst again now that\nher mother was gone; and she would marry no man for his coronet and\nmoney--not she! The General, when we talked this matter over, said\ngravely that the child had no desire for marrying, owing possibly to\nsome disappointment in early life, of which she never spoke; and we,\nrespecting her feelings, were for our parts equally silent. My brother\nLambert had by this time a college living near to Winchester, and a wife\nof course to adorn his parsonage. We professed but a moderate degree of\nliking for this lady, though we made her welcome when she came to us.\nHer idea regarding our poor Hetty's determined celibacy was different\nto that which I had. This Mrs. Jack was a chatterbox of a woman, in\nthe habit of speaking her mind very freely, and of priding herself\nexcessively on her skill in giving pain to her friends.\n\n\"My dear Sir George,\" she was pleased to say, \"I have often and often\ntold our dear Theo that I wouldn't have a pretty sister in my house to\nmake tea for Jack when I was upstairs, and always to be at hand when I\nwas wanted in the kitchen or nursery, and always to be dressed neat and\nin her best when I was very likely making pies or puddings or looking to\nthe children. I have every confidence in Jack, of course. I should like\nto see him look at another woman, indeed! And so I have in Jemima but\nthey don't come together in my house when I'm upstairs--that I promise\nyou! And so I told my sister Warrington.\"\n\n\"Am I to understand,\" says the General, \"that you have done my Lady\nWarrington the favour to warn her against her sister, my daughter Miss\nHester?\"\n\n\"Yes, pa, of course I have. A duty is a duty, and a woman is a woman,\nand a man's a man, as I know very well. Don't tell me! He is a man.\nEvery man is a man, with all his sanctified airs!\"\n\n\"You yourself have a married sister, with whom you were staying when my\nson Jack first had the happiness of making your acquaintance?\" remarks\nthe General.\n\n\"Yes, of course I have a married sister; every one knows that and I have\nbeen as good as a mother to her children, that I have!\"\n\n\"And am I to gather from your conversation that your attractions proved\na powerful temptation for your sister's husband?\"\n\n\"Law, General! I don't know how you can go for to say I ever said any\nsuch a thing!\" cries Mrs. Jack, red and voluble.\n\n\"Don't you perceive, my dear madam, that it is you who have insinuated\nas much, not only regarding yourself, but regarding my own two\ndaughters?\"\n\n\"Never, never, never, as I'm a Christian woman! And it's most cruel of\nyou to say so, sir. And I do say a sister is best out of the house, that\nI do! And as Theo's time is coming, I warn her, that's all.\"\n\n\"Have you discovered, my good madam, whether my poor Hetty has stolen\nany of the spoons? When I came to breakfast this morning, my daughter\nwas alone, and there must have been a score of pieces of silver on the\ntable.\"\n\n\"Law, sir! who ever said a word about spoons? Did I ever accuse the poor\ndear? If I did, may I drop down dead at this moment on this hearth-rug!\nAnd I ain't used to be spoke to in this way. And me and Jack have both\nremarked it; and I've done my duty, that I have.\" And here Mrs. Jack\nflounces out of the room, in tears.\n\n\"And has the woman had the impudence to tell you this, my child?\"\nasks the General, when Theo (who is a little delicate) comes to the\ntea-table.\n\n\"She has told me every day since she has been here. She comes into my\ndressing-room to tell me. She comes to my nursery, and says, 'Ah, I\nwouldn't have a sister prowling about my nursery, that I wouldn't.' Ah,\nhow pleasant it is to have amiable and well-bred relatives, say I.\"\n\n\"Thy poor mother has been spared this woman,\" groans the General.\n\n\"Our mother would have made her better, papa,\" says Theo, kissing him.\n\n\"Yes, dear.\" And I see that both of them are at their prayers.\n\nBut this must be owned, that to love one's relatives is not always an\neasy task; to live with one's neighbours is sometimes not amusing. From\nJack Lambert's demeanour next day, I could see that his wife had given\nhim her version of the conversation. Jack was sulky, but not dignified.\nHe was angry, but his anger did not prevent his appetite. He preached a\nsermon for us which was entirely stupid. And little Miles, once more in\nsables, sate at his grandfather's side, his little hand placed in that\nof the kind old man.\n\nWould he stay and keep house for us during our Virginian trip? The\nhousekeeper should be put under the full domination of Hetty. The\nbutler's keys should be handed over to him; for Gumbo, not I thought\nwith an over good grace, was to come with us to Virginia: having,\nit must be premised, united himself with Mrs. Molly in the bonds of\nmatrimony, and peopled a cottage in my park with sundry tawny Gumbos.\nUnder the care of our good General and his daughter we left our house,\nthen; we travelled to London, and thence to Bristol, and our obsequious\nagent there had the opportunity of declaring that he should offer up\nprayers for our prosperity, and of vowing that children so beautiful as\nours (we had an infant by this time to accompany Miles) were never seen\non any ship before. We made a voyage without accident. How strange the\nfeeling was as we landed from our boat at Richmond! A coach and a host\nof negroes were there in waiting to receive us; and hard by a gentleman\non horseback, with negroes in our livery, too, who sprang from his horse\nand rushed up to embrace us. Not a little charmed were both of us to see\nour dearest Hal. He rode with us to our mother's door. Yonder she stood\non the steps to welcome us; and Theo knelt down to ask her blessing.\n\nHarry rode in the coach with us as far as our mother's house; but would\nnot, as he said, spoil sport by entering with us. \"She sees me,\" he\nowned, \"and we are pretty good friends; but Fanny and she are best\napart; and there is no love lost between 'em, I can promise you. Come\nover to me at the Tavern, George, when thou art free. And to-morrow I\nshall have the honour to present her sister to Theo. 'Twas only from\nhappening to be in town yesterday that I heard the ship was signalled,\nand waited to see you. I have sent a negro boy home to my wife, and\nshe'll be here to pay her respects to my Lady Warrington.\" And Harry,\nafter this brief greeting, jumped out of the carriage, and left us to\nmeet our mother alone.\n\nSince I parted from her I had seen a great deal of fine company, and\nTheo and I had paid our respects to the King and Queen at St. James's;\nbut we had seen no more stately person than this who welcomed us, and\nraising my wife from her knee, embraced her and led her into the house.\n'Twas a plain, wood-built place, with a gallery round, as our Virginian\nhouses are; but if it had been a palace, with a little empress inside,\nour reception could not have been more courteous. There was old Nathan,\nstill the major-domo, a score of kind black faces of blacks, grinning\nwelcome. Some whose names I remembered as children were grown out of\nremembrance, to be sure, to be buxom lads and lasses; and some I had\nleft with black pates were grizzling now with snowy polls: and some who\nwere born since my time were peering at doorways with their great eyes\nand little naked feet. It was, \"I'm little Sip, Master George!\" and \"I'm\nDinah, Sir George!\" and \"I'm Master Miles's boy!\" says a little chap in\na new livery and boots of nature's blacking. Ere the day was over the\nwhole household had found a pretext for passing before us, and grinning\nand bowing and making us welcome. I don't know how many repasts were\nserved to us. In the evening my Lady Warrington had to receive all\nthe gentry of the little town, which she did with perfect grace and\ngood-humour, and I had to shake hands with a few old acquaintances--old\nenemies I was going to say; but I had come into a fortune and was no\nlonger a naughty prodigal. Why, a drove of fatted calves was killed\nin my honour! My poor Hal was of the entertainment, but gloomy and\ncrestfallen. His mother spoke to him, but it was as a queen to a\nrebellious prince, her son who was not yet forgiven. We two slipped away\nfrom the company, and went up to the rooms assigned to me: but there, as\nwe began a free conversation, our mother, taper in hand, appeared with\nher pale face. Did I want anything? Was everything quite as I wished\nit? She had peeped in at the dearest children, who were sleeping like\ncherubs. How she did caress them, and delight over them! How she was\ncharmed with Miles's dominating airs, and the little Theo's smiles and\ndimples! \"Supper is just coming on the table, Sir George. If you like\nour cookery better than the tavern, Henry, I beg you to stay.\" What a\ndifferent welcome there was in the words and tone addressed to each of\nus! Hal hung down his head, and followed to the lower room. A clergyman\nbegged a blessing on the meal. He touched with not a little art and\neloquence upon our arrival at home, upon our safe passage across the\nstormy waters, upon the love and forgiveness which awaited us in the\nmansions of the Heavenly Parent when the storms of life were over.\n\nHere was a new clergyman, quite unlike some whom I remembered about us\nin earlier days, and I praised him, but Madam Esmond shook her head. She\nwas afraid his principles were very dangerous: she was afraid others had\nadopted those dangerous principles. Had I not seen the paper signed by\nthe burgesses and merchants at Williamsburg the year before--the Lees,\nRandolphs, Bassets, Washingtons, and the like, and oh, my dear, that\nI should have to say it, our name, that is, your brother's (by what\ninfluence I do not like to say), and this unhappy Mr. Belman's who\nbegged a blessing last night?\n\nIf there had been quarrels in our little colonial society when I left\nhome, what were these to the feuds I found raging on my return? We had\nsent the Stamp Act to America, and been forced to repeal it. Then we\nmust try a new set of duties on glass, paper, and what not, and repeal\nthat Act too, with the exception of a duty on tea. From Boston to\nCharleston the tea was confiscated. Even my mother, loyal as she was,\ngave up her favourite drink; and my poor wife would have had to forgo\nhers, but we had brought a quantity for our private drinking on board\nship, which had paid four times as much duty at home. Not that I for my\npart would have hesitated about paying duty. The home Government must\nhave some means of revenue, or its pretensions to authority were idle.\nThey say the colonies were tried and tyrannised over; I say the home\nGovernment was tried and tyrannised over. ('Tis but an affair of\nargument and history, now; we tried the question, and were beat; and\nthe matter is settled as completely as the conquest of Britain by the\nNormans.) And all along, from conviction I trust, I own to have\ntaken the British side of the quarrel. In that brief and unfortunate\nexperience of war which I had had in my early life, the universal cry of\nthe army and well-affected persons was, that Mr. Braddock's expedition\nhad failed, and defeat and disaster had fallen upon us in consequence\nof the remissness, the selfishness, and the rapacity of many of the very\npeople for whose defence against the French arms had been taken up. The\ncolonists were for having all done for them, and for doing nothing, They\nmade extortionate bargains with the champions who came to defend them;\nthey failed in contracts; they furnished niggardly supplies; they\nmultiplied delays until the hour for beneficial action was past, and\nuntil the catastrophe came which never need have occurred but for their\nill-will. What shouts of joy were there, and what ovations for the great\nBritish Minister who had devised and effected the conquest of Canada!\nMonsieur de Vaudreuil said justly that that conquest was the signal for\nthe defection of the North American colonies from their allegiance to\nGreat Britain; and my Lord Chatham, having done his best to achieve\nthe first part of the scheme, contributed more than any man in England\ntowards the completion of it. The colonies were insurgent, and he\napplauded their rebellion. What scores of thousands of waverers must he\nhave encouraged into resistance! It was a general who says to an army\nin revolt, \"God save the king! My men, you have a right to mutiny!\" No\nwonder they set up his statue in this town, and his picture in t'other;\nwhilst here and there they hanged Ministers and Governors in effigy.\nTo our Virginian town of Williamsburg, some wiseacres must subscribe\nto bring over a portrait of my lord, in the habit of a Roman orator\nspeaking in the Forum, to be sure, and pointing to the palace of\nWhitehall, and the special window out of which Charles I. was beheaded!\nHere was a neat allegory, and a pretty compliment to a British\nstatesman! I hear, however, that my lord's head was painted from a bust,\nand so was taken off without his knowledge.\n\nNow my country is England, not America or Virginia; and I take, or\nrather took, the English side of the dispute. My sympathies had always\nbeen with home, where I was now a squire and a citizen: but had my lot\nbeen to plant tobacco, and live on the banks of James River or Potomac,\nno doubt my opinions had been altered. When, for instance, I visited\nmy brother at his new house and plantation, I found him and his wife as\nstaunch Americans as we were British. We had some words upon the matter\nin dispute,--who had not in those troublesome times?--but our argument\nwas carried on without rancour; even my new sister could not bring us to\nthat, though she did her best when we were together, and in the curtain\nlectures which I have no doubt she inflicted on her spouse, like a\nnotable housewife as she was. But we trusted in each other so entirely\nthat even Harry's duty towards his wife would not make him quarrel with\nhis brother. He loved me from old times, when my word was law with him;\nhe still protested that he and every Virginian gentleman of his side\nwas loyal to the Crown. War was not declared as yet, and gentlemen of\ndifferent opinions were courteous enough to one another. Nay, at\nour public dinners and festivals, the health of the King was still\nostentatiously drunk; and the assembly of every colony, though preparing\nfor Congress, though resisting all attempts at taxation on the part of\nthe home authorities, was loud in its expressions of regard for the King\nour Father, and pathetic in its appeals to that paternal sovereign\nto put away evil counsellors from him, and listen to the voice of\nmoderation and reason. Up to the last, our Virginian gentry were a\ngrave, orderly, aristocratic folk, with the strongest sense of their own\ndignity and station. In later days, and nearer home, we have heard of\nfraternisation and equality. Amongst the great folks of our Old World I\nhave never seen a gentleman standing more on his dignity and maintaining\nit better than Mr. Washington: no--not the King against whom he took\narms. In the eyes of all the gentry of the French court, who gaily\njoined in the crusade against us, and so took their revenge for Canada,\nthe great American chief always appeared as anax andron, and they\nallowed that his better could not be seen in Versailles itself. Though\nthey were quarrelling with the Governor, the gentlemen of the House of\nBurgesses still maintained amicable relations with him, and exchanged\ndignified courtesies. When my Lord Bottetourt arrived, and held his\ncourt at Williamsburg in no small splendour and state, all the gentry\nwaited upon him, Madam Esmond included. And at his death, Lord Dunmore,\nwho succeeded him, and brought a fine family with him, was treated with\nthe utmost respect by our gentry privately, though publicly the House of\nAssembly and the Governor were at war.\n\nTheir quarrels are a matter of history, and concern me personally only\nso far as this, that our burgesses being convened for the 1st of March\nin the year after my arrival in Virginia, it was agreed that we should\nall pay a visit to our capital, and our duty to the Governor. Since\nHarry's unfortunate marriage Madam Esmond had not performed this duty,\nthough always previously accustomed to pay it; but now that her eldest\nson was arrived in the colony, my mother opined that we must certainly\nwait upon his Excellency the Governor, nor were we sorry, perhaps,\nto get away from our little Richmond to enjoy the gaieties of the\nprovincial capital. Madam engaged, and at a great price, the best house\nto be had at Richmond for herself and her family. Now I was rich, her\ngenerosity was curious. I had more than once to interpose (her old\nservants likewise wondering at her new way of life), and beg her not to\nbe so lavish. But she gently said, in former days she had occasion to\nsave, which now existed no more. Harry had enough, sure, with such a\nwife as he had taken out of the housekeeper's room. If she chose to be a\nlittle extravagant now, why should she hesitate? She had not her dearest\ndaughter and grandchildren with her every day (she fell in love with all\nthree of them, and spoiled them as much as they were capable of being\nspoiled). Besides, in former days I could not accuse her of too much\nextravagance, and this I think was almost the only allusion she made to\nthe pecuniary differences between us. So she had her people dressed in\ntheir best, and her best wines, plate, and furniture from Castlewood by\nsea at no small charge, and her dress in which she had been married in\nGeorge II.'s reign, and we all flattered ourselves that our coach made\nthe greatest figure of any except his Excellency's, and we engaged\nSignor Formicalo, his Excellency's major-domo, to superintend the series\nof feasts that were given in my honour; and more fleshpots were set\na-stewing in our kitchens in one month, our servants said, than had been\nknown in the family since the young gentlemen went away. So great was\nTheo's influence over my mother, that she actually persuaded her, that\nyear, to receive our sister Fanny, Hal's wife, who would have stayed\nupon the plantation rather than face Madam Esmond. But, trusting to\nTheo's promise of amnesty, Fanny (to whose house we had paid more than\none visit) came up to town, and made her curtsey to Madam Esmond, and\nwas forgiven. And rather than be forgiven in that way, I own, for my\npart, that I would prefer perdition or utter persecution.\n\n\"You know these, my dear?\" says Madam Esmond, pointing to her fine\nsilver sconces. \"Fanny hath often cleaned them when she was with me\nat Castlewood. And this dress, too, Fanny knows, I dare say? Her poor\nmother had the care of it. I always had the greatest confidence in her.\"\n\nHere there is wrath flashing from Fanny's eyes, which our mother, who\nhas forgiven her, does not perceive--not she!\n\n\"Oh, she was a treasure to me!\" Madam resumes. \"I never should have\nnursed my boys through their illnesses but for your mother's admirable\ncare of them. Colonel Lee, permit me to present you to my daughter,\nmy Lady Warrington. Her ladyship is a neighbour of your relatives the\nBunburys at home. Here comes his Excellency. Welcome, my lord!\"\n\nAnd our princess performs before his lordship one of those curtseys of\nwhich she was not a little proud; and I fancy I see some of the company\nventuring to smile.\n\n\"By George! madam,\" says Mr. Lee, \"since Count Borulawski, I have not\nseen a bow so elegant as your ladyship's.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, who was Count Borulawski?\" asks Madam.\n\n\"He was a nobleman high in favour with his Polish Majesty,\" replies Mr.\nLee. \"May I ask you, madam, to present me to your distinguished son?\"\n\n\"This is Sir George Warrington,\" says my mother, pointing to me.\n\n\"Pardon me, madam. I meant Captain Warrington, who was by Mr. Wolfe's\nside when he died. I had been contented to share his fate, so I had been\nnear him.\"\n\nAnd the ardent Lee swaggers up to Harry, and takes his hand with\nrespect, and pays him a compliment or two, which makes me, at least,\npardon him for his late impertinence; for my dearest Hal walks gloomily\nthrough his mother's rooms in his old uniform of the famous corps which\nhe has quitted.\n\nWe had had many meetings, which the stern mother could not interrupt,\nand in which that instinctive love which bound us to one another, and\nwhich nothing could destroy, had opportunity to speak. Entirely unlike\neach other in our pursuits, our tastes, our opinions--his life being one\nof eager exercise, active sport, and all the amusements of the field,\nwhile mine is to dawdle over books and spend my time in languid\nself-contemplation--we have, nevertheless, had such a sympathy as almost\npasses the love of women. My poor Hal confessed as much to me, for\nhis part, in his artless manner, when we went away without wives or\nwomankind, except a few negroes left in the place, and passed a week at\nCastlewood together.\n\nThe ladies did not love each other. I know enough of my Lady Theo,\nto see after a very few glances whether or not she takes a liking to\nanother of her amiable sex. All my powers of persuasion or command fail\nto change the stubborn creature's opinion. Had she ever said a word\nagainst Mrs. This or Miss That? Not she! Has she been otherwise than\ncivil? No, assuredly! My Lady Theo is polite to a beggar-woman, treats\nher kitchenmaids like duchesses, and murmurs a compliment to the dentist\nfor his elegant manner of pulling her tooth out. She would black my\nboots, or clean the grate, if I ordained it (always looking like a\nduchess the while); but as soon as I say to her, \"My dear creature, be\nfond of this lady, or t'other!\" all obedience ceases; she executes the\nmost refined curtseys; smiles and kisses even to order; but performs\nthat mysterious undefinable freemasonic signal, which passes between\nwomen, by which each knows that the other hates her. So, with regard\nto Fanny, we had met at her house, and at others. I remembered her\naffectionately from old days, I fully credited poor Hal's violent\nprotests and tearful oaths, that, by George, it was our mother's\npersecution which made him marry her. He couldn't stand by and see a\npoor thing tortured as she was, without coming to her rescue; no,\nby heavens, he couldn't! I say I believed all this; and had for my\nsister-in-law a genuine compassion, as well as an early regard; and yet\nI had no love to give her; and, in reply to Hal's passionate outbreaks\nin praise of her beauty and worth, and eager queries to me whether I\ndid not think her a perfect paragon? I could only answer with faint\ncompliments or vague approval, feeling all the while that I was\ndisappointing my poor ardent fellow, and cursing inwardly that revolt\nagainst flattery and falsehood into which I sometimes frantically rush.\nWhy should I not say, \"Yes dear Hal, thy wife is a paragon; her singing\nis delightful, her hair and shape are beautiful;\" as I might have said\nby a little common stretch of politeness? Why could I not cajole this\nor that stupid neighbour or relative, as I have heard Theo do a thousand\ntimes, finding all sorts of lively prattle to amuse them, whilst I sit\nbefore them dumb and gloomy? I say it was a sin not to have more words\nto say in praise of Fanny. We ought to have praised her, we ought to\nhave liked her. My Lady Warrington certainly ought to have liked her,\nfor she can play the hypocrite, and I cannot. And there was this young\ncreature--pretty, graceful, shaped like a nymph, with beautiful black\neyes--and we cared for them no more than for two gooseberries!\nAt Warrington my wife and I, when we pretended to compare notes,\nelaborately complimented each other on our new sister's beauty. What\nlovely eyes!--Oh yes! What a sweet little dimple on her chin!--Ah oui!\nWhat wonderful little feet!--Perfectly Chinese! where should we in\nLondon get slippers small enough for her? And, these compliments\nexhausted, we knew that we did not like Fanny the value of one\npenny-piece; we knew that we disliked her; we knew that we ha... Well,\nwhat hypocrites women are! We heard from many quarters how eagerly my\nbrother had taken up the new anti-English opinion, and what a champion\nhe was of so-called American rights and freedom. \"It is her doing, my\ndear,\" says I to my wife. \"If I had said so much, I am sure you\nwould have scolded me,\" says my Lady Warrington, laughing: and I did\nstraightway begin to scold her, and say it was most cruel of her to\nsuspect our new sister; and what earthly right had we to do so? But\nI say again, I know Madam Theo so well, that when once she has got a\nprejudice against a person in her little head, not all the king's horses\nnor all the king's men will get it out again. I vow nothing would induce\nher to believe that Harry was not henpecked--nothing.\n\nWell, we went to Castlewood together without the women, and stayed at\nthe dreary, dear old place, where we had been so happy, and I, at least,\nso gloomy. It was winter, and duck-time, and Harry went away to the\nriver, and shot dozens and scores and bushels of canvasbacks, whilst I\nremained in my grandfather's library amongst the old mouldering books\nwhich I loved in my childhood--which I see in a dim vision still resting\non a little boy's lap, as he sits by an old white-headed gentleman's\nknee. I read my books; I slept in my own bed and room--religiously kept,\nas my mother told me, and left as on the day when I went to Europe.\nHal's cheery voice would wake me, as of old. Like all men who love to\ngo a-field, he was an early riser: he would come and wake me, and sit\non the foot of the bed and perfume the air with his morning pipe, as\nthe house negroes laid great logs on the fire. It was a happy time! Old\nNathan had told me of cunning crypts where ancestral rum and claret\nwere deposited. We had had cares, struggles, battles, bitter griefs, and\ndisappointments; we were boys again as we sat there together. I am a boy\nnow even as I think of the time.\n\nThat unlucky tea-tax, which alone of the taxes lately imposed upon the\ncolonies, the home Government was determined to retain, was met with\ndefiance throughout America. 'Tis true we paid a shilling in the pound\nat home, and asked only threepence from Boston or Charleston; but as a\nquestion of principle, the impost was refused by the provinces, which\nindeed ever showed a most spirited determination to pay as little as\nthey could help. In Charleston the tea-ships were unloaded, and the\ncargoes stored in cellars. From New York and Philadelphia, the vessels\nwere turned back to London. In Boston (where there was an armed force,\nwhom the inhabitants were perpetually mobbing), certain patriots,\npainted and disguised as Indians, boarded the ships, and flung the\nobnoxious cargoes into the water. The wrath of our white Father was\nkindled against this city of Mohocks in masquerade. The notable Boston\nPort Bill was brought forward in the British House of Commons; the port\nwas closed, and the Custom House removed to Salem. The Massachusetts\nCharter was annulled; and,--in just apprehension that riots might ensue,\nin dealing with the perpetrators of which the colonial courts might be\nled to act partially,--Parliament decreed that persons indicted for\nacts of violence and armed resistance, might be sent home, or to\nanother colony, for trial. If such acts set all America in a flame, they\ncertainly drove all wellwisbers of our country into a fury. I might have\nsentenced Master Miles Warrington, at five years old, to a whipping, and\nhe would have cried, taken down his little small-clothes and submitted:\nbut suppose I offered (and he richly deserving it) to chastise Captain\nMiles of the Prince's Dragoons? He would whirl my paternal cane out of\nmy hand, box my hair-powder out of my ears. Lord a-mercy! I tremble at\nthe very idea of the controversy? He would assert his independence in\na word; and if, I say, I think the home Parliament had a right to levy\ntaxes in the colonies, I own that we took means most captious, most\ninsolent, most irritating, and, above all, most impotent, to assert our\nclaim.\n\nMy Lord Dunmore, our Governor of Virginia, upon Lord Bottetourt's death,\nreceived me into some intimacy soon after my arrival in the colony,\nbeing willing to live on good terms with all our gentry. My mother's\nsevere loyalty was no secret to him; indeed, she waved the king's banner\nin all companies, and talked so loudly and resolutely, that Randolph and\nPatrick Henry himself were struck dumb before her. It was Madam Esmond's\ncelebrated reputation for loyalty (his Excellency laughingly told me)\nwhich induced him to receive her eldest son to grace.\n\n\"I have had the worst character of you from home,\" his lordship said.\n\"Little birds whisper to me, Sir George, that you are a man of the\nmost dangerous principles. You are a friend of Mr. Wilkes and Alderman\nBeckford. I am not sure you have not been at Medmenham Abbey. You have\nlived with players, poets, and all sorts of wild people. I have been\nwarned against you, sir, and I find you----\"\n\n\"Not so black as I have been painted,\" I interrupted his lordship, with\na smile.\n\n\"Faith,\" says my lord, \"if I tell Sir George Warrington that he seems to\nme a very harmless, quiet gentleman, and that 'tis a great relief to me\nto talk to him amidst these loud politicians; these lawyers with their\nperpetual noise about Greece and Rome; these Virginian squires who are\nfor ever professing their loyalty and respect, whilst they are shaking\ntheir fists in my face--I hope nobody overhears us,\" says my lord, with\nan arch smile, \"and nobody will carry my opinions home.\"\n\nHis lordship's ill opinion having been removed by a better knowledge of\nme, our acquaintance daily grew more intimate; and, especially between\nthe ladies of his family and my own, a close friendship arose--between\nthem and my wife at least. Hal's wife, received kindly at the little\nprovincial court, as all ladies were, made herself by no means popular\nthere by the hot and eager political tone which she adopted. She\nassailed all the Government measures with indiscriminating acrimony.\nWere they lenient? She said the perfidious British Government was only\npreparing a snare, and biding its time until it could forge heavier\nchains for unhappy America. Were they angry? Why did not every American\ncitizen rise, assert his rights as a freeman, and serve every British\ngovernor, officer, soldier, as they had treated the East India Company's\ntea? My mother, on the other hand, was pleased to express her opinions\nwith equal frankness, and, indeed, to press her advice upon his\nExcellency with a volubility which may have fatigued that representative\nof the Sovereign. Call out the militia; send for fresh troops from New\nYork, from home, from anywhere; lock up the Capitol! (this advice\nwas followed, it must be owned) and send every one of the ringleaders\namongst those wicked burgesses to prison! was Madam Esmond's daily\ncounsel to the Governor by word and letter. And if not only the\nburgesses, but the burgesses' wives could have been led off to\npunishment and captivity, I think this Brutus of a woman would scarce\nhave appealed against the sentence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVII. The Last of God Save the King\n\n\nWhat perverse law of Fate is it that ever places me in a minority?\nShould a law be proposed to hand over this realm to the Pretender of\nRome, or the Grand Turk, and submit it to the new sovereign's religion,\nit might pass, as I should certainly be voting against it. At home in\nVirginia, I found myself disagreeing with everybody as usual. By the\nPatriots I was voted (as indeed I professed myself to be) a Tory; by the\nTories I was presently declared to be a dangerous Republican. The time\nwas utterly out of joint. O cursed spite! Ere I had been a year in\nVirginia, how I wished myself back by the banks of the Waveney! But the\naspect of affairs was so troublous, that I could not leave my mother,\na lone lady, to face possible war and disaster, nor would she quit the\ncountry at such a juncture, nor should a man of spirit leave it. At his\nExcellency's table, and over his Excellency's plentiful claret, that\npoint was agreed on by numbers of the well-affected, that vow was vowed\nover countless brimming bumpers. No: it was statue signum, signifer!\nWe Cavaliers would all rally round it; and at these times, our Governor\ntalked like the bravest of the brave.\n\nNow, I will say, of all my Virginian acquaintance, Madam Esmond was the\nmost consistent. Our gentlefolks had come in numbers to Williamsburg;\nand a great number of them proposed to treat her Excellency, the\nGovernor's lady, to a ball, when the news reached us of the Boston Port\nBill. Straightway the House of Burgesses adopts an indignant protest\nagainst this measure of the British Parliament, and decrees a solemn day\nof fast and humiliation throughout the country, and of solemn prayer to\nHeaven to avert the calamity of Civil War. Meanwhile, the invitation to\nmy Lady Dunmore having been already given and accepted, the gentlemen\nagreed that their ball should take place on the appointed evening, and\nthen sackcloth and ashes should be assumed some days afterwards.\n\n\"A ball!\" says Madam Esmond. \"I go to a ball which is given by a set of\nrebels who are going publicly to insult his Majesty a week afterwards!\nI will die sooner!\" And she wrote to the gentlemen who were stewards for\nthe occasion to say, that viewing the dangerous state of the country,\nshe, for her part, could not think of attending a ball.\n\nWhat was her surprise then, the next time she went abroad in her chair,\nto be cheered by a hundred persons, white and black, and shouts of\n\"Huzzah, Madam!\" \"Heaven bless your ladyship!\" They evidently thought\nher patriotism had caused her determination not to go to the ball.\n\nMadam, that there should be no mistake, puts her head out of the chair,\nand cries out \"God save the King\" as loud as she can. The people cried\n\"God save the King,\" too. Everybody cried \"God save the King\" in those\ndays. On the night of that entertainment, my poor Harry, as a Burgess\nof the House, and one of the givers of the feast, donned his uniform red\ncoat of Wolfe's (which he so soon was to exchange for another colour),\nand went off with Madam Fanny to the ball. My Lady Warrington and her\nhumble servant, as being strangers in the country, and English people as\nit were, were permitted by Madam to attend the assembly from which she\nof course absented herself. I had the honour to dance a country-dance\nwith the lady of Mount Vernon, whom I found a most lively, pretty, and\namiable partner; but am bound to say that my wife's praises of her were\nreceived with a very grim acceptance by my mother, when Lady Warrington\ncame to recount the events of the evening. Could not Sir George\nWarrington have danced with my Lady Dunmore or her daughters, or with\nanybody but Mrs. Washington; to be sure the Colonel thought so well of\nhimself and his wife, that no doubt he considered her the grandest lady\nin the room; and she who remembered him a road-surveyor at a guinea a\nday! Well, indeed! there was no measuring the pride of these provincial\nupstarts, and as for this gentleman, my Lord Dunmore's partiality for\nhim had evidently turned his head. I do not know about Mr. Washington's\npride, I know that my good mother never could be got to love him or\nanything that was his.\n\nShe was no better pleased with him for going to the ball, than with his\nconduct three days afterwards, when the day of fast and humiliation\nwas appointed, and when he attended the service which our new clergyman\nperformed. She invited Mr. Belman to dinner that day, and sundry\ncolonial authorities. The clergyman excused himself. Madam Esmond tossed\nup her head, and said he might do as he liked. She made a parade of a\ndinner; she lighted her house up at night, when all the rest of the city\nwas in darkness and gloom; she begged Mr. Hardy, one of his Excellency's\naides-de-camp, to sing \"God save the King,\" to which the people in\nthe street outside listened, thinking that it might be a part of some\nreligious service which Madam was celebrating; but then she called\nfor \"Britons, strike home!\" which the simple young gentleman just from\nEurope began to perform, when a great yell arose in the street, and\na large stone, flung from some rebellious hand, plumped into the\npunch-bowl before me, and scattered it and its contents about our\ndining-room.\n\nMy mother went to the window nothing daunted. I can see her rigid little\nfigure now, as she stands with a tossed-up head, outstretched frilled\narms, and the twinkling stars for a background, and sings in chorus,\n\"Britons, strike home! strike home!\" The crowd in front of the palings\nshout and roar, \"Silence! for shame! go back!\" but she will not go back,\nnot she. \"Fling more stones, if you dare!\" says the brave little lady;\nand more might have come, but some gentlemen issuing out of the Raley\nTavern interpose with the crowd. \"You mustn't insult a lady,\" says a\nvoice I think I know. \"Huzza, Colonel! Hurrah, Captain! God bless\nyour honour!\" say the people in the street. And thus the enemies are\npacified.\n\nMy mother, protesting that the whole disturbance was over, would have\nhad Mr. Hardy sing another song, but he gave a sickly grin, and said,\n\"he really did not like to sing to such accompaniments,\" and the\nconcert for that evening was ended; though I am bound to say that some\nscoundrels returned at night, frightened my poor wife almost out of\nwits, and broke every single window in the front of our tenement.\n\"Britons, strike home!\" was a little too much; Madam should have\ncontented herself with \"God save the King.\" Militia was drilled,\nbullets were cast, supplies of ammunition got ready, cunning plans for\ndisappointing the royal ordinances devised and carried out; but, to be\nsure, \"God save the King\" was the cry everywhere, and in reply to my\nobjections to the gentlemen-patriots, \"Why, you are scheming for a\nseparation; you are bringing down upon you the inevitable wrath of the\ngreatest power in the world!\"--the answer to me always was, \"We mean no\nseparation at all; we yield to no men in loyalty; we glory in the name\nof Britons,\" and so forth, and so forth. The powder-barrels were heaped\nin the cellar, the train was laid, but Mr. Fawkes was persistent in his\ndutiful petitions to King and Parliament and meant no harm, not he!\n'Tis true when I spoke of the power of our country, I imagined she\nwould exert it; that she would not expect to overcome three millions\nof fellow-Britons on their own soil with a few battalions, a half-dozen\ngenerals from Bond Street, and a few thousand bravos hired out of\nGermany. As if we wanted to insult the thirteen colonies as well as to\nsubdue them, we must set upon them these hordes of Hessians, and the\nmurderers out of the Indian wigwams. Was our great quarrel not to be\nfought without tali auxilio and istis defensoribus? Ah! 'tis easy, now\nwe are worsted, to look over the map of the great empire wrested from\nus, and show how we ought not to have lost it. Long Island ought to\nhave exterminated Washington's army; he ought never to have come out of\nValley Forge except as a prisoner. The South was ours after the battle\nof Camden, but for the inconceivable meddling of the Commander-in-Chief\nat New York, who paralysed the exertions of the only capable British\nGeneral who appeared during the war, and sent him into that miserable\ncul-de-sac at York Town, whence he could only issue defeated and a\nprisoner. Oh, for a week more! a day more, an hour more of darkness\nor light! In reading over our American campaigns from their unhappy\ncommencement to their inglorious end, now that we are able to see the\nenemy's movements and conditions as well as our own, I fancy we can see\nhow an advance, a march, might have put enemies into our power who had\nno means to withstand it, and changed the entire issue of the struggle.\nBut it was ordained by Heaven, and for the good, as we can now have no\ndoubt, of both empires, that the great Western Republic should separate\nfrom us: and the gallant soldiers who fought on her side, their\nindomitable and heroic Chief above all, had the glory of facing and\novercoming, not only veteran soldiers amply provided and inured to war,\nbut wretchedness, cold, hunger, dissensions, treason within their own\ncamp, where all must have gone to rack, but for the pure unquenchable\nflame of patriotism that was for ever burning in the bosom of the\nheroic leader. What a constancy, what a magnanimity, what a surprising\npersistence against fortune! Washington before the enemy was no better\nnor braver than hundreds that fought with him or against him (who has\nnot heard the repeated sneers against \"Fabius\" in which his factious\ncaptains were accustomed to indulge?), but Washington the Chief of a\nnation in arms, doing battle with distracted parties; calm in the midst\nof conspiracy; serene against the open foe before him and the darker\nenemies at his back; Washington inspiring order and spirit into troops\nhungry and in rags; stung by ingratitude, but betraying no anger, and\never ready to forgive; in defeat invincible, magnanimous in conquest,\nand never so sublime as on that day when he laid down his victorious\nsword and sought his noble retirement:--here indeed is a character to\nadmire and revere; a life without a stain, a fame without a flaw. Quando\ninvenies parem? In that more extensive work, which I have planned and\npartly written on the subject of this great war, I hope I have done\njustice to the character of its greatest leader. [And I trust that in\nthe opinions I have recorded regarding him, I have shown that I also\ncan be just and magnanimous towards those who view me personally with\nno favour. For my brother Hal being at Mount Vernon, and always eager to\nbring me and his beloved Chief on good terms, showed his Excellency some\nof the early sheets of my History. General Washington (who read but\nfew books, and had not the slightest pretensions to literary taste)\nremarked, \"If you will have my opinion, my dear General, I think Sir\nGeorge's projected work, from the specimen I have of it, is certain\nto offend both parties.\"--G. E. W.]. And this from the sheer force\nof respect which his eminent virtues extorted. With the young Mr.\nWashington of my own early days I had not the honour to enjoy much\nsympathy: though my brother, whose character is much more frank and\naffectionate than mine, was always his fast friend in early times, when\nthey were equals, as in latter days when the General, as I do own and\nthink, was all mankind's superior.\n\nI have mentioned that contrariety in my disposition, and, perhaps, in my\nbrother's, which somehow placed us on wrong sides in the quarrel which\nensued, and which from this time forth raged for five years, until the\nmother country was fain to acknowledge her defeat. Harry should have\nbeen the Tory, and I the Whig. Theoretically my opinions were very\nmuch more liberal than those of my brother, who, especially after\nhis marriage, became what our Indian nabobs call a Bahadoor--a person\nceremonious, stately, and exacting respect. When my Lord Dunmore, for\ninstance, talked about liberating the negroes, so as to induce them to\njoin the King's standard, Hal was for hanging the Governor and the Black\nGuards (as he called them) whom his Excellency had crimped. \"If you,\ngentlemen are fighting for freedom,\" says I, \"sure the negroes may\nfight, too.\" On which Harry roars out, shaking his fist, \"Infernal\nvillains, if I meet any of 'em, they shall die by this hand!\" And\nmy mother agreed that this idea of a negro insurrection was the most\nabominable and parricidal notion which had ever sprung up in her unhappy\ncountry. She at least was more consistent than brother Hal. She would\nhave black and white obedient to the powers that be: whereas Hal only\ncould admit that freedom was the right of the latter colour.\n\nAs a proof of her argument, Madam Esmond and Harry too would point to\nan instance in our own family in the person of Mr. Gumbo. Having got his\nfreedom from me, as a reward for his admirable love and fidelity to me\nwhen times were hard, Gumbo, on his return to Virginia, was scarce a\nwelcome guest in his old quarters, amongst my mother's servants. He was\nfree, and they were not: he was, as it were, a centre of insurrection.\nHe gave himself no small airs of protection and consequence amongst\nthem; bragging of his friends in Europe (\"at home,\" as he called it),\nand his doings there; and for a while bringing the household round about\nhim to listen to him and admire him, like the monkey who had seen the\nworld. Now, Sady, Hal's boy, who went to America of his own desire,\nwas not free. Hence jealousies between him and Mr. Gum; and battles,\nin which they both practised the noble art of boxing and butting, which\nthey had learned at Marybone Gardens and Hockley-in-the-Hole. Nor was\nSady the only jealous person: almost all my mother's servants hated\nSignor Gumbo for the airs which he gave himself; and I am sorry to\nsay, that our faithful Molly, his wife, was as jealous as his old\nfellow-servants. The blacks could not pardon her for having demeaned\nherself so far as to marry one of their kind. She met with no respect,\ncould exercise no authority, came to her mistress with ceaseless\ncomplaints of the idleness, knavery, lies, stealing of the black people;\nand finally with a story of jealousy against a certain Dinah, or Diana,\nwho, I heartily trust, was as innocent as her namesake the moonlight\nvisitant of Endymion. Now, on the article of morality Madam Esmond was\na very Draconess; and a person accused was a person guilty. She made\ncharges against Mr. Gumbo to which he replied with asperity. Forgetting\nthat he was a free gentleman, my mother now ordered Gumbo to be whipped,\non which Molly flew at her ladyship, all her wrath at her husband's\ninfidelity vanishing at the idea of the indignity put upon him; there\nwas a rebellion in our house at Castlewood. A quarrel took place between\nme and my mother, as I took my man's side. Hal and Fanny sided with her,\non the contrary; and in so far the difference did good, as it brought\nabout some little intimacy between Madam and her younger children.\nThis little difference was speedily healed; but it was clear that\nthe Standard of Insurrection must be removed out of our house; and we\ndetermined that Mr. Gumbo and his lady should return to Europe.\n\nMy wife and I would willingly have gone with them, God wot, for our\nboy sickened and lost his strength, and caught the fever in our swampy\ncountry; but at this time she was expecting to lie in (of our son\nHenry), and she knew, too, that I had promised to stay in Virginia. It\nwas agreed that we should send the two back; but when I offered Theo to\ngo, she said her place was with her husband;--her father and Hetty at\nhome would take care of our children; and she scarce would allow me to\nsee a tear in her eyes whilst she was making her preparations for the\ndeparture of her little ones. Dost thou remember the time, madam, and\nthe silence round the worktables, as the piles of little shirts are made\nready for the voyage? and the stealthy visits to the children's chambers\nwhilst they are asleep and yet with you? and the terrible time of\nparting, as our barge with the servants and children rows to the ship,\nand you stand on the shore? Had the Prince of Wales been going on that\nvoyage, he could not have been better provided. Where, sirrah, is the\nTompion watch your grandmother gave you? and how did you survive the\nboxes of cakes which the good lady stowed away in your cabin?\n\nThe ship which took out my poor Theo's children, returned with the\nReverend Mr. Hagan and my Lady Maria on board, who meekly chose to\nresign her rank, and was known in the colony (which was not to be a\ncolony very long) only as Mrs. Hagan. At the time when I was in favour\nwith my Lord Dunmore, a living falling vacant in Westmoreland county, he\ngave it to our kinsman, who arrived in Virginia time enough to christen\nour boy Henry, and to preach some sermons on the then gloomy state of\naffairs, which Madam Esmond pronounced to be prodigious fine. I think my\nLady Maria won Madam's heart by insisting on going out of the room after\nher. \"My father, your brother, was an earl, 'tis true,\" says she, \"but\nyou know your ladyship is a marquis's daughter, and I never can think of\ntaking precedence of you!\" So fond did Madam become of her niece, that\nshe even allowed Hagan to read plays--my own humble compositions amongst\nothers--and was fairly forced to own that there was merit in the tragedy\nof Pocahontas, which our parson delivered with uncommon energy and fire.\n\nHal and his wife came but rarely to Castlewood and Richmond when the\nchaplain and his lady were with us. Fanny was very curt and rude with\nMaria, used to giggle and laugh strangely in her company, and repeatedly\nremind her of her age, to our mother's astonishment, who would\noften ask, was there any cause of quarrel between her niece and her\ndaughter-in-law? I kept my own counsel on these occasions, and was often\nnot a little touched by the meekness with which the elder lady bore her\npersecutions. Fanny loved to torture her in her husband's presence\n(who, poor fellow, was also in happy ignorance about his wife's early\nhistory), and the other bore her agony, wincing as little as might be. I\nsometimes would remonstrate with Madam Harry, and ask her was she a Red\nIndian, that she tortured her victims so? \"Have not I had torture\nenough in my time?\" says the young lady, and looked as though she was\ndetermined to pay back the injuries inflicted on her.\n\n\"Nay,\" says I, \"you were bred in our wigwam, and I don't remember\nanything but kindness!\"\n\n\"Kindness!\" cries she. \"No slave was ever treated as I was. The blows\nwhich wound most, often are those which never are aimed. The people who\nhate us are not those we have injured.\"\n\nI thought of little Fanny in our early days, silent, smiling, willing to\nrun and do all our biddings for us, and I grieved for my poor brother,\nwho had taken this sly creature into his bosom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVIII. Yankee Doodle comes to Town\n\n\nOne of the uses to which we put America in the days of our British\ndominion was to make it a refuge for our sinners. Besides convicts and\nassigned servants whom we transported to our colonies, we discharged\non their shores scapegraces and younger sons, for whom dissipation,\ndespair, and bailiffs made the old country uninhabitable. And as Mr.\nCook, in his voyages, made his newly discovered islanders presents of\nEnglish animals (and other specimens of European civilisation), we used\nto take care to send samples of our black sheep over to the colonies,\nthere to browse as best they might, and propagate their precious breed.\nI myself was perhaps a little guilty in this matter, in busying\nmyself to find a living in America for the worthy Hagan, husband of my\nkinswoman,--at least was guilty in so far as this, that as we could get\nhim no employment in England, we were glad to ship him to Virginia, and\ngive him a colonial pulpit-cushion to thump. He demeaned himself there\nas a brave honest gentleman, to be sure; he did his duty thoroughly by\nhis congregation, and his king too; and in so far did credit to my\nsmall patronage. Madam Theo used to urge this when I confided to her my\nscruples of conscience on this subject, and show, as her custom was and\nis, that my conduct in this, as in all other matters, was dictated by\nthe highest principle of morality and honour. But would I have given\nHagan our living at home, and selected him and his wife to minister\nto our parish? I fear not. I never had a doubt of our cousin's sincere\nrepentance; but I think I was secretly glad when she went to work it out\nin the wilderness. And I say this, acknowledging my pride and my error.\nTwice, when I wanted them most, this kind Maria aided me with her\nsympathy and friendship. She bore her own distresses courageously, and\nsoothed those of others with admirable affection and devotion. And yet\nI, and some of mine (not Theo), would look down upon her. Oh, for shame,\nfor shame on our pride!\n\nMy poor Lady Maria was not the only one of our family who was to be\nsent out of the way to American wildernesses. Having borrowed, stolen,\ncheated at home, until he could cheat, borrow, and steal no more, the\nHonourable William Esmond, Esquire, was accommodated with a place at New\nYork; and his noble brother and royal master heartily desired that they\nmight see him no more. When the troubles began, we heard of the fellow\nand his doings in his new habitation. Lies and mischief were his\navant-couriers wherever he travelled. My Lord Dunmore informed me that\nMr. Will declared publicly, that our estate of Castlewood was only ours\nduring his brother's pleasure; that his father, out of consideration for\nMadam Esmond, his lordship's half-sister, had given her the place for\nlife, and that he, William, was in negotiation with his brother, the\npresent Lord Castlewood, for the purchase of the reversion of the\nestate! We had the deed of gift in our strongroom at Castlewood, and it\nwas furthermore registered in due form at Williamsburg; so that we were\neasy on that score. But the intention was everything; and Hal and\nI promised, as soon as ever we met Mr. William, to get from him a\nconfirmation of this pretty story. What Madam Esmond's feelings and\nexpressions were when she heard it, I need scarcely here particularise.\n\"What! my father, the Marquis of Esmond, was a liar, and I am a cheat,\nam I?\" cries my mother. \"He will take my son's property at my death,\nwill he?\" And she was for writing, not only to Lord Castlewood in\nEngland, but to his Majesty himself at St. James's, and was only\nprevented by my assurance that Mr. Will's lies were notorious amongst\nall his acquaintance, and that we could not expect, in our own case,\nthat he should be so inconsistent as to tell the truth. We heard of him\npresently as one of the loudest amongst the Loyalists in New York, as\nCaptain, and presently Major of a corps of volunteers who were sending\ntheir addresses to the well-disposed in all the other colonies, and\nannouncing their perfect readiness to die for the mother country.\n\nWe could not lie in a house without a whole window, and closing the\nshutters of that unlucky mansion we had hired at Williamsburg, Madam\nEsmond left our little capital, and my family returned to Richmond,\nwhich also was deserted by the members of the (dissolved) Assembly.\nCaptain Hal and his wife returned pretty early to their plantation; and\nI, not a little annoyed at the course which events were taking, divided\nmy time pretty much between my own family and that of our Governor, who\nprofessed himself very eager to have my advice and company. There were\nthe strongest political differences, but as yet no actual personal\nquarrel. Even after the dissolution of our House of Assembly (the\nmembers of which adjourned to a tavern, and there held that famous\nmeeting where, I believe, the idea of a congress of all the colonies was\nfirst proposed), the gentlemen who were strongest in opposition remained\ngood friends with his Excellency, partook of his hospitality, and joined\nhim in excursions of pleasure. The session over, the gentry went home\nand had meetings in their respective counties; and the Assemblies in\nmost of the other provinces having been also abruptly dissolved, it was\nagreed everywhere that a general congress should be held. Philadelphia,\nas the largest and most important city on our continent, was selected as\nthe place of meeting; and those celebrated conferences began, which were\nbut the angry preface of war. We were still at God save the King; we\nwere still presenting our humble petitions to the throne; but when I\nwent to visit my brother Harry at Fanny's Mount (his new plantation\nlay not far from ours, but with Rappahannock between us, and towards\nMattaponey River), he rode out on business one morning, and I in the\nafternoon happened to ride too, and was told by one of the grooms that\nmaster was gone towards Willis's Ordinary; in which direction, thinking\nno harm, I followed. And upon a clear place not far from Willis's, as I\nadvance out of the wood, I come on Captain Hal on horseback, with three-\nor four-and-thirty countrymen round about him, armed with every sort of\nweapon, pike, scythe, fowling-piece, and musket; and the Captain, with\ntwo or three likely young fellows as officers under him, putting the men\nthrough their exercise. As I rode up a queer expression comes over Hal's\nface. \"Present arms!\" says he (and the army tries to perform the salute\nas well they could). \"Captain Cade, this is my brother, Sir George\nWarrington.\"\n\n\"As a relation of yours, Colonel,\" says the individual addressed\nas captain, \"the gentleman is welcome,\" and he holds out a hand\naccordingly.\n\n\"And--and a true friend to Virginia,\" says Hal, with a reddening face.\n\n\"Yes, please God! gentlemen,\" say I, on which the regiment gives a\nhearty huzzay for the Colonel and his brother. The drill over, the\nofficers, and the men too, were for adjourning to Willis's and taking\nsome refreshment, but Colonel Hal said he could not drink with them that\nafternoon, and we trotted homewards together.\n\n\"So, Hal, the cat's out of the bag!\" I said.\n\nHe gave me a hard look. \"I guess there's wilder cats in it. It must come\nto this, George. I say, you mustn't tell Madam,\" he adds.\n\n\"Good God!\" I cried, \"do you mean that with fellows such as those I\nsaw yonder, you and your friends are going to make fight against the\ngreatest nation and the best army in the world?\"\n\n\"I guess we shall get an awful whipping,\" says Hal, \"and that's the\nfact. But then, George,\" he added, with his sweet kind smile, \"we are\nyoung, and a whipping or two may do us good. Won't it do us good, Dolly,\nyou old slut?\" and he gives a playful touch with his whip to an old dog\nof all trades, that was running by him.\n\nI did not try to urge upon him (I had done so in vain many times\npreviously) our British side of the question, the side which appears to\nme to be the best. He was accustomed to put off my reasons by saying,\n\"All mighty well, brother, you speak as an Englishman, and have cast in\nyour lot with your country, as I have with mine.\" To this argument I own\nthere is no answer, and all that remains for the disputants is to fight\nthe matter out, when the strongest is in the right. Which had the right\nin the wars of the last century? The king or the parliament? The side\nthat was uppermost was the right, and on the whole much more humane\nin their victory than the Cavaliers would have been had they won. Nay,\nsuppose we Tories had won the day in America; how frightful and bloody\nthat triumph would have been! What ropes and scaffolds one imagines,\nwhat noble heads laid low! A strange feeling this, I own; I was on the\nLoyalist side, and yet wanted the Whigs to win. My brother Hal, on the\nother hand, who distinguished himself greatly with his regiment, never\nallowed a word of disrespect against the enemy whom he opposed. \"The\nofficers of the British army,\" he used to say, \"are gentlemen: at least,\nI have not heard that they are very much changed since my time. There\nmay be scoundrels and ruffians amongst the enemy's troops; I dare say\nwe could find some such amongst our own. Our business is to beat his\nMajesty's forces, not call them names;--any rascal can do that.\"\nAnd from a name which Mr. Lee gave my brother, and many of his rough\nhorsemen did not understand, Harry was often called \"Chevaleer Baird\" in\nthe Continental army. He was a knight, indeed, without fear and without\nreproach.\n\nAs for the argument, \"What could such people as those you were drilling\ndo against the British army?\" Hal had as confident answer.\n\n\"They can beat them,\" says he, \"Mr. George, that's what they can do.\"\n\n\"Great heavens!\" I cry, \"do you mean with your company of Wolfe's you\nwould hesitate to attack five hundred such?\"\n\n\"With my company of the 67th, I would go anywhere. And, agreed with you,\nthat at this present moment I know more of soldiering than they;--but\nplace me on that open ground where you found us, armed as you please,\nand half a dozen of my friends, with rifles, in the woods round\nabout me; which would get the better? You know best, Mr. Braddock's\naide-de-camp!\"\n\nThere was no arguing with such a determination as this. \"Thou knowest my\nway of thinking, Hal,\" I said; \"and having surprised you at your work, I\nmust tell my lord what I have seen.\"\n\n\"Tell him, of course. You have seen our county militia exercising. You\nwill see as much in every colony from here to the Saint Lawrence or\nGeorgia. As I am an old soldier, they have elected me colonel. What more\nnatural? Come, brother, let us trot on; dinner will be ready, and Mrs.\nFan does not like me to keep it waiting.\" And so we made for his house,\nwhich was open like all the houses of our Virginian gentlemen, and where\nnot only every friend and neighbour, but every stranger and traveller,\nwas sure to find a welcome.\n\n\"So, Mrs. Fan,\" I said, \"I have found out what game my brother has been\nplaying.\"\n\n\"I trust the Colonel will have plenty of sport ere long,\" says she, with\na toss of her head.\n\nMy wife thought Harry had been hunting, and I did not care to undeceive\nher, though what I had seen and he had told me, made me naturally very\nanxious.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIX. A Colonel without a Regiment\n\n\nWhen my visit to my brother was concluded, and my wife and young child\nhad returned to our maternal house at Richmond, I made it my business to\ngo over to our Governor, then at his country house, near Williamsburg,\nand confer with him regarding these open preparations for war, which\nwere being made not only in our own province, but in every one of the\ncolonies as far as we could learn. Gentlemen, with whose names history\nhas since made all the world familiar, were appointed from Virginia as\nDelegates to the General Congress about to be held in Philadelphia. In\nMassachusetts the people and the Royal troops were facing each other\nalmost in open hostility: in Maryland and Pennsylvania we flattered\nourselves that a much more loyal spirit was prevalent: in the Carolinas\nand Georgia the mother country could reckon upon staunch adherents, and\na great majority of the inhabitants: and it never was to be supposed\nthat our own Virginia would forgo its ancient loyalty. We had but few\ntroops in the province, but its gentry were proud of their descent from\nthe Cavaliers of the old times: and round about our Governor were swarms\nof loud and confident Loyalists who were only eager for the moment when\nthey might draw the sword, and scatter the rascally rebels before them.\nOf course, in these meetings I was forced to hear many a hard word\nagainst my poor Harry. His wife, all agreed (and not without good\nreason, perhaps), had led him to adopt these extreme anti-British\nopinions which he had of late declared; and he was infatuated by his\nattachment to the gentleman of Mount Vernon, it was farther said, whose\nopinions my brother always followed, and who, day by day, was committing\nhimself farther in the dreadful and desperate course of resistance.\n\"This is your friend,\" the people about his Excellency said, \"this is\nthe man you favoured, who has had your special confidence, and who has\nrepeatedly shared your hospitality!\" It could not but be owned much of\nthis was true: though what some of our eager Loyalists called treachery\nwas indeed rather a proof of the longing desire Mr. Washington and other\ngentlemen had, not to withdraw from their allegiance to the Crown, but\nto remain faithful, and exhaust the very last chance of reconciliation,\nbefore they risked the other terrible alternative of revolt and\nseparation. Let traitors arm, and villains draw the parricidal sword! We\nat least would remain faithful; the unconquerable power of England would\nbe exerted, and the misguided and ungrateful provinces punished and\nbrought back to their obedience. With what cheers we drank his Majesty's\nhealth after our banquets! We would die in defence of his rights; we\nwould have a Prince of his Royal house to come and govern his ancient\ndominions! In consideration of my own and my excellent mother's loyalty,\nmy brother's benighted conduct should be forgiven. Was it yet too late\nto secure him by offering him a good command? Would I not intercede\nwith him, who, it was known, had a great influence over him? In our\nWilliamsburg councils we were alternately in every state of exaltation\nand triumph, of hope, of fury against the rebels, of anxious expectancy\nof home succour, of doubt, distrust, and gloom.\n\nI promised to intercede with my brother; and wrote to him, I own, with\nbut little hope of success, repeating, and trying to strengthen the\narguments which I had many a time used in our conversations. My mother,\ntoo, used her authority; but from this, I own, I expected little\nadvantage. She assailed him, as her habit was, with such texts of\nScripture as she thought bore out her own opinion, and threatened\npunishment to him. She menaced him with the penalties which must fall\nupon those who were disobedient to the powers that be. She pointed to\nhis elder brother's example; and hinted, I fear, at his subjection to\nhis wife, the very worst argument she could use in such a controversy.\nShe did not show me her own letter to him; possibly she knew I might\nfind fault with the energy of some of the expressions she thought proper\nto employ; but she showed me his answer, from which I gathered what the\nstyle and tenor of her argument had been. And if Madam Esmond brought\nScripture to her aid, Mr. Hal, to my surprise, brought scores of texts\nto bear upon her in reply, and addressed her in a very neat, temperate,\nand even elegant composition, which I thought his wife herself was\nscarcely capable of penning. Indeed, I found he had enlisted the\nservices of Mr. Belman, the New Richmond clergyman, who had taken up\nstrong opinions on the Whig side, and who preached and printed sermons\nagainst Hagan (who, as I have said, was of our faction), in which I fear\nBelman had the best of the dispute.\n\nMy exhortations to Hal had no more success than our mother's. He did\nnot answer my letters. Being still farther pressed by the friends of the\nGovernment, I wrote over most imprudently to say I would visit him at\nthe end of the week at Fanny's Mount; but on arriving, I only found my\nsister, who received me with perfect cordiality, but informed me that\nHal was gone into the country, ever so far towards the Blue Mountains\nto look at some horses, and was to be away--she did not know how long he\nwas to be away!\n\nI knew then there was no hope. \"My dear,\" I said, \"as far as I can judge\nfrom the signs of the times, the train that has been laid these years\nmust have a match put to it before long. Harry is riding away. God knows\nto what end.\"\n\n\"The Lord prosper the righteous cause, Sir George,\" says she.\n\n\"Amen, with all my heart. You and he speak as Americans; I as an\nEnglishman. Tell him from me, that when anything in the course of nature\nshall happen to our mother, I have enough for me and mine in England,\nand shall resign all our land here in Virginia to him.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that, George?\" she cries, with brightening eyes. \"Well,\nto be sure, it is but right and fair,\" she presently added. \"Why should\nyou, who are the eldest but by an hour, have everything? a palace and\nlands in England--the plantation here--the title--and children--and\nmy poor Harry none? But 'tis generous of you all the same--leastways\nhandsome and proper, and I didn't expect it of you; and you don't take\nafter your mother in this, Sir George, that you don't, nohow. Give my\nlove to sister Theo!\" And she offers me a cheek to kiss, ere I ride away\nfrom her door. With such a woman as Fanny to guide him, how could I hope\nto make a convert of my brother?\n\nHaving met with this poor success in my enterprise, I rode back to our\nGovernor, with whom I agreed that it was time to arm in earnest, and\nprepare ourselves against the shock that certainly was at hand. He and\nhis whole Court of Officials were not a little agitated and excited;\nneedlessly savage, I thought, in their abuse of the wicked Whigs, and\nloud in their shouts of Old England for ever; but they were all eager\nfor the day when the contending parties could meet hand to hand, and\nthey could have an opportunity of riding those wicked Whigs down. And I\nleft my lord, having received the thanks of his Excellency in Council,\nand engaged to do my best endeavours to raise a body of men in defence\nof the Crown. Hence the corps, called afterwards the Westmoreland\nDefenders, had its rise, of which I had the honour to be appointed\nColonel, and which I was to command when it appeared in the field. And\nthat fortunate event must straightway take place, so soon as the county\nknew that a gentleman of my station and name would take the command of\nthe force. The announcement was duly made in the Government Gazette, and\nwe filled in our officers readily enough; but the recruits, it must\nbe owned, were slow to come in, and quick to disappear. Nevertheless,\nfriend Hagan eagerly came forward to offer himself as chaplain. Madam\nEsmond gave us our colours, and progressed about the country engaging\nvolunteers; but the most eager recruiter of all was my good old tutor,\nlittle Mr. Dempster, who had been out as a boy on the Jacobite side in\nScotland, and who went specially into the Carolinas, among the children\nof his banished old comrades, who had worn the white cockade of Prince\nCharles, and who most of all showed themselves in this contest still\nloyal to the Crown.\n\nHal's expedition in search of horses led him not only so far as the Blue\nMountains in our colony, but thence on a long journey to Annapolis\nand Baltimore; and from Baltimore to Philadelphia, to be sure; where\na second General Congress was now sitting, attended by our Virginian\ngentlemen of the last year. Meanwhile, all the almanacs tell what had\nhappened. Lexington had happened, and the first shots were fired in the\nwar which was to end in the independence of our native country. We still\nprotested of our loyalty to his Majesty; but we stated our determination\nto die or be free; and some twenty thousand of our loyal petitioners\nassembled round about Boston with arms in their hands and cannon, to\nwhich they had helped themselves out of the Government stores. Mr.\nArnold had begun that career which was to end so brilliantly, by the\ndaring and burglarious capture of two forts, of which he forced the\ndoors. Three generals from Bond Street, with a large reinforcement,\nwere on their way to help Mr. Gage out of his ugly position at Boston.\nPresently the armies were actually engaged; and our British generals\ncommenced their career of conquest and pacification in the colonies by\nthe glorious blunder of Breed's Hill. Here they fortified themselves,\nfeeling themselves not strong enough for the moment to win any more\nglorious victories over the rebels; and the two armies lay watching\neach other whilst Congress was deliberating at Philadelphia who should\ncommand the forces of the confederated colonies.\n\nWe all know on whom the most fortunate choice of the nation fell. Of the\nVirginian regiment which marched to join the new General-in-Chief, one\nwas commanded by Henry Esmond Warrington, Esq., late a Captain in\nhis Majesty's service; and by his side rode his little wife, of whose\nbravery we often subsequently heard. I was glad, for one, that she had\nquitted Virginia; for, had she remained after her husband's departure,\nour mother would infallibly have gone over to give her battle; and I was\nthankful, at least, that that terrific incident of civil war was spared\nto our family and history.\n\nThe rush of our farmers and country-folk was almost all directed towards\nthe new northern army; and our people were not a little flattered at\nthe selection of a Virginian gentleman for the principal command. With\na thrill of wrath and fury the provinces heard of the blood drawn\nat Lexington; and men yelled denunciations against the cruelty and\nwantonness of the bloody British invader. The invader was but doing his\nduty, and was met and resisted by men in arms, who wished to prevent him\nfrom helping himself to his own; but people do not stay to weigh their\nwords when they mean to be angry; the colonists had taken their side;\nand, with what I own to be a natural spirit and ardour, were determined\nto have a trial of strength with the braggart domineering mother\ncountry. Breed's Hill became a mountain, as it were, which all men of\nthe American Continent might behold, with Liberty, Victory, Glory, on\nits flaming summit. These dreaded troops could be withstood, then, by\nfarmers and ploughmen. These famous officers could be outgeneralled by\ndoctors, lawyers, and civilians! Granted that Britons could conquer\nall the world;--here were their children who could match and conquer\nBritons! Indeed, I don't know which of the two deserves the palm, either\nfor bravery or vainglory. We are in the habit of laughing at our French\nneighbours for boasting, gasconading, and so forth; but for a steady\nself-esteem and indomitable confidence in our own courage, greatness,\nmagnanimity;--who can compare with Britons, except their children across\nthe Atlantic?\n\nThe people round about us took the people's side for the most part\nin the struggle, and, truth to say, Sir George Warrington found his\nregiment of Westmoreland Defenders but very thinly manned at the\ncommencement, and woefully diminished in numbers presently, not only\nafter the news of battle from the north, but in consequence of the\nbehaviour of my Lord our Governor, whose conduct enraged no one more\nthan his own immediate partisans, and the loyal adherents of the Crown\nthroughout the colony. That he would plant the King's standard, and\nsummon all loyal gentlemen to rally round it, had been a measure agreed\nin countless meetings, and applauded over thousands of bumpers. I have a\npretty good memory, and could mention the name of many a gentleman, now\na smug officer of the United States Government, whom I have heard hiccup\nout a prayer that he might be allowed to perish under the folds of his\ncountry's flag; or roar a challenge to the bloody traitors absent with\nthe rebel army. But let bygones be bygones. This, however, is matter of\npublic history, that his lordship, our Governor, a peer of Scotland, the\nSovereign's representative in his Old Dominion, who so loudly invited\nall the lieges to join the King's standard, was the first to put it in\nhis pocket, and fly to his ships out of reach of danger. He would not\nleave them, save as a pirate at midnight to burn and destroy. Meanwhile,\nwe loyal gentry remained on shore, committed to our cause, and only\nsubject to greater danger in consequence of the weakness and cruelty of\nhim who ought to have been our leader. It was the beginning of June, our\norchards and gardens were all blooming with plenty and summer; a week\nbefore I had been over at Williamsburg, exchanging compliments with his\nExcellency, devising plans for future movements by which we should be\nable to make good head against rebellion, shaking hands heartily at\nparting, and vincere aut mori the very last words upon all our lips. Our\nlittle family was gathered at Richmond, talking over, as we did daily,\nthe prospect of affairs in the north, the quarrels between our own\nAssembly and his Excellency, by whom they had been afresh convened, when\nour ghostly Hagan rushes into our parlour, and asks, \"Have we heard the\nnews of the Governor?\"\n\n\"Has he dissolved the Assembly again, and put that scoundrel Patrick\nHenry in irons?\" asks Madam Esmond.\n\n\"No such thing! His lordship with his lady and family have left their\npalace privately at night. They are on board a man-of-war off York,\nwhence my lord has sent a despatch to the Assembly, begging them to\ncontinue their sitting, and announcing that he himself had only quitted\nhis Government House out of fear of the fury of the people.\"\n\nWhat was to become of the sheep, now the shepherd had run away? No\nentreaties could be more pathetic than those of the gentlemen of the\nHouse of Assembly, who guaranteed their Governor security if he would\nbut land, and implored him to appear amongst them, if but to pass bills\nand transact the necessary business. No: the man-of-war was his seat of\ngovernment, and my lord desired his House of Commons to wait upon him\nthere. This was erecting the King's standard with a vengeance. Our\nGovernor had left us; our Assembly perforce ruled in his stead; a rabble\nof people followed the fugitive Viceroy on board his ships. A mob of\nnegroes deserted out of the plantations to join this other deserter. He\nand his black allies landed here and there in darkness, and emulated the\nmost lawless of our opponents in their alacrity at seizing and burning.\nHe not only invited runaway negroes, but he sent an ambassador to\nIndians with entreaties to join his standard. When he came on shore it\nwas to burn and destroy: when the people resisted, as at Norfolk and\nHampton, he retreated and betook himself to his ships again.\n\nEven my mother, after that miserable flight of our chief, was scared\nat the aspect of affairs, and doubted of the speedy putting down of\nthe rebellion. The arming of the negroes was, in her opinion, the most\ncowardly blow of all. The loyal gentry were ruined, and robbed, many of\nthem, of their only property. A score of our worst hands deserted from\nRichmond and Castlewood, and fled to our courageous Governor's fleet;\nnot all of them, though some of them, were slain, and a couple hung by\nthe enemy for plunder and robbery perpetrated whilst with his lordship's\nprecious army. Because her property was wantonly injured, and his\nMajesty's chief officer an imbecile, would Madam Esmond desert the\ncause of Royalty and Honour? My good mother was never so prodigiously\ndignified, and loudly and enthusiastically loyal, as after she heard of\nour Governor's lamentable defection. The people round about her, though\nmost of them of quite a different way of thinking, listened to her\nspeeches without unkindness. Her oddities were known far and wide\nthrough our province; where, I am afraid, many of the wags amongst our\nyoung men were accustomed to smoke her, as the phrase then was, and draw\nout her stories about the Marquis her father, about the splendour of\nher family, and so forth. But along with her oddities, her charities and\nkindness were remembered, and many a rebel, as she called them, had a\nsneaking regard for the pompous little Tory lady.\n\nAs for the Colonel of the Westmoreland Defenders, though that\ngentleman's command dwindled utterly away after the outrageous conduct\nof his chief, yet I escaped from some very serious danger which might\nhave befallen me and mine in consequence of some disputes which I was\nknown to have had with my Lord Dunmore. Going on board his ship after\nhe had burned the stores at Hampton, and issued the proclamation calling\nthe negroes to his standard, I made so free as to remonstrate with him\nin regard to both measures; I implored him to return to Williamsburg,\nwhere hundreds of us, thousands, I hoped, would be ready to defend him\nto the last extremity; and in my remonstrance used terms so free, or\nrather, as I suspect, indicated my contempt for his conduct so clearly\nby my behaviour, that his lordship flew into a rage, said I was a rebel\nlike all the rest of them, and ordered me under arrest there on board\nhis own ship. In my quality of militia officer (since the breaking out\nof the troubles I commonly used a red coat, to show that I wore the\nKing's colour) I begged for a court-martial immediately; and turning\nround to two officers who had been present during our altercation,\ndesired them to remember all that had passed between his lordship\nand me. These gentlemen were no doubt of my way of thinking as to\nthe chief's behaviour, and our interview ended in my going ashore\nunaccompanied by a guard. The story got wind amongst the Whig gentry,\nand was improved in the telling. I had spoken out my mind manfully to\nthe Governor; no Whig could have uttered sentiments more liberal. When\nriots took place in Richmond, and of the Loyalists remaining there, many\nwere in peril of life and betook themselves to the ships, my mother's\nproperty and house were never endangered, nor her family insulted.\nWe were still at the stage when a reconciliation was fondly thought\npossible. \"Ah! if all the Tories were like you,\" a distinguished Whig\nhas said to me, \"we and the people at home should soon come together\nagain.\" This, of course, was before the famous Fourth of July, and that\nDeclaration which rendered reconcilement impossible. Afterwards, when\nparties grew more rancorous, motives much less creditable were assigned\nfor my conduct, and it was said I chose to be a Liberal Tory because\nI was a cunning fox, and wished to keep my estate whatever way things\nwent. And this, I am bound to say, is the opinion regarding my humble\nself which has obtained in very high quarters at home, where a profound\nregard for my own interest has been supposed not uncommonly to have\noccasioned my conduct during the late unhappy troubles.\n\nThere were two or three persons in the world (for I had not told my\nmother how I was resolved to cede to my brother all my life-interest\nin our American property) who knew that I had no mercenary motives in\nregard to the conduct I pursued. It was not worth while to undeceive\nothers; what were life worth, if a man were forced to feel himself a la\npiste of all the calumnies uttered against him? And I do not quite know\nto this present day, how it happened that my mother, that notorious\nLoyalist, was left for several years quite undisturbed in her house at\nCastlewood, a stray troop or company of Continentals being occasionally\nquartered upon her. I do not know for certain, I say, how this piece of\ngood fortune happened, though I can give a pretty shrewd guess as to the\ncause of it. Madam Fanny, after a campaign before Boston, came back to\nFanny's Mount, leaving her Colonel. My modest Hal, until the conclusion\nof the war, would accept no higher rank, believing that in command of\na regiment he could be more useful than in charge of a division. Madam\nFanny, I say, came back, and it was remarkable after her return how\nher old asperity towards my mother seemed to be removed, and what an\naffection she showed for her and all the property. She was great friends\nwith the Governor and some of the most influential gentlemen of the new\nAssembly:--Madam Esmond was harmless, and for her son's sake, who\nwas bravely battling for his country, her errors should be lightly\nvisited:--I know not how it was, but for years she remained unharmed,\nexcept in respect of heavy Government requisitions, which of course she\nhad to pay, and it was not until the redcoats appeared about our house,\nthat much serious evil came to it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XC\n\nIn which we both fight and run away\n\n\nWhat was the use of a Colonel without a regiment? The Governor and\nCouncil who had made such a parade of thanks in endowing me with mine,\nwere away out of sight, skulking on board ships, with an occasional\npiracy and arson on shore. My Lord Dunmore's black allies frightened\naway those of his own blood; and besides these negroes whom he had\nsummoned round him in arms, we heard that he had sent an envoy among\nthe Indians of the South, and that they were to come down in numbers\nand tomahawk our people into good behaviour. \"And these are to be our\nallies!\" I say to my mother, exchanging ominous looks with her, and\nremembering, with a ghastly distinctness, that savage whose face glared\nover mine, and whose knife was at my throat when Florac struck him down\non Braddock's Field. We put our house of Castlewood into as good a state\nof defence as we could devise; but, in truth, it was more of the red men\nand the blacks than of the rebels we were afraid. I never saw my mother\nlose courage but once, and then when she was recounting to us the\nparticulars of our father's death in a foray of Indians more than forty\nyears ago. Seeing some figures one night moving in front of our house,\nnothing could persuade the good lady but that they were savages, and\nshe sank on her knees crying out, \"The Lord have mercy upon us! The\nIndians--the Indians!\"\n\nMy lord's negro allies vanished on board his ships, or where they could\nfind pay and plunder; but the painted heroes from the South never made\ntheir appearance, though I own to have looked at my mother's grey head,\nmy wife's brown hair, and our little one's golden ringlets, with a\nhorrible pang of doubt lest these should fall the victims of ruffian\nwar. And it was we who fought with such weapons, and enlisted these\nallies! But that I dare not (so to speak) be setting myself up as\ninterpreter of Providence, and pointing out the special finger of Heaven\n(as many people are wont to do), I would say our employment of these\nIndians, and of the German mercenaries, brought their own retribution\nwith them in this war. In the field, where the mercenaries were attacked\nby the Provincials, they yielded, and it was triumphing over them that\nso raised the spirit of the Continental army; and the murder of one\nwoman (Miss McCrea) by a half-dozen drunken Indians, did more harm\nto the Royal cause than the loss of a battle or the destruction of\nregiments.\n\nNow, the Indian panic over, Madam Esmond's courage returned: and she\nbegan to be seriously and not unjustly uneasy at the danger which I ran\nmyself, and which I brought upon others, by remaining in Virginia.\n\n\"What harm can they do me,\" says she, \"a poor woman? If I have one son\na colonel without a regiment, I have another with a couple of hundred\nContinentals behind him in Mr. Washington's camp. If the Royalists come,\nthey will let me off for your sake; if the rebels appear, I shall have\nHarry's passport. I don't wish, sir, I don't like that your delicate\nwife and this dear little baby should be here, and only increase the\nrisk of all of us! We must have them away to Boston or New York. Don't\ntalk about defending me! Who will think of hurting a poor, harmless,\nold woman? If the rebels come, I shall shelter behind Mrs. Fanny's\npetticoats, and shall be much safer without you in the house than in\nit.\" This she said in part, perhaps, because 'twas reasonable; more so\nbecause she would have me and my family out of the danger; and danger\nor not, for her part felt that she was determined to remain in the land\nwhere her father was buried, and she was born. She was living backwards,\nso to speak. She had seen the new generation, and blessed them, and bade\nthem farewell. She belonged to the past, and old days and memories.\n\nWhile we were debating about the Boston scheme, comes the news that\nthe British have evacuated that luckless city altogether, never having\nventured to attack Mr. Washington in his camp at Cambridge (though he\nlay there for many months without powder at our mercy); but waiting\nuntil he procured ammunition, and seized and fortified Dorchester\nheights, which commanded the town, out of which the whole British army\nand colony was obliged to beat a retreat. That the King's troops won the\nbattle at Bunker's Hill, there is no more doubt than that they beat the\nFrench at Blenheim; but through the war their chiefs seem constantly to\nhave been afraid of assaulting entrenched Continentals afterwards; else\nwhy, from July to March, hesitate to strike an almost defenceless enemy?\nWhy the hesitation at Long Island, when the Continental army was in our\nhand? Why that astonishing timorousness--of Howe before Valley Forge,\nwhere the relics of a force starving, sickening, and in rags, could\nscarcely man the lines, which they held before a great, victorious, and\nperfectly appointed army?\n\nAs the hopes and fears of the contending parties rose and fell, it was\ncurious to mark the altered tone of the partisans of either. When the\nnews came to us in the country of the evacuation of Boston, every little\nWhig in the neighbourhood made his bow to Madam, and advised her to\na speedy submission. She did not carry her loyalty quite so openly as\nheretofore, and flaunt her flag in the faces of the public, but she\nnever swerved. Every night and morning in private poor Hagan prayed for\nthe Royal Family in our own household, and on Sundays any neighbours\nwere welcome to attend the service, where my mother acted as a very\nemphatic clerk, and the prayer for the High Court of Parliament under\nour most religious and gracious King was very stoutly delivered. The\nbrave Hagan was a parson without a living, as I was a Militia Colonel\nwithout a regiment. Hagan had continued to pray stoutly for King George\nin Williamsburg, long after his Excellency our Governor had run away:\nbut on coming to church one Sunday to perform his duty, he found a\ncorporal's guard at the church-door, who told him that the Committee of\nSafety had put another divine in his place, and he was requested to keep\na quiet tongue in his head. He told the men to \"lead him before\ntheir chiefs\" (our honest friend always loved tall words and tragic\nattitudes); and accordingly was marched through the streets to the\nCapitol, with a chorus of white and coloured blackguards at the skirts\nof his gown; and had an interview with Messrs. Henry and the new State\nofficers, and confronted the robbers, as he said, in their den. Of\ncourse he was for making an heroic speech before these gentlemen (and\nwas one of many men who perhaps would have no objection to be made\nmartyrs, so that they might be roasted coram populo, or tortured in a\nfull house), but Mr. Henry was determined to give him no such chance.\nAfter keeping Hagan three or four hours waiting in an anteroom in\nthe company of negroes, when the worthy divine entered the new chief\nmagistrate's room with an undaunted mien, and began a prepared speech\nwith--\"Sir, by what authority am I, a minister of the----\" \"Mr. Hagan,\"\nsays the other, interrupting him, \"I am too busy to listen to speeches.\nAnd as for King George, he has henceforth no more authority in this\ncountry than King Nebuchadnezzar. Mind you that, and hold your tongue,\nif you please! Stick to King John, sir, and King Macbeth; and if you\nwill send round your benefit-tickets, all the Assembly shall come and\nhear you. Did you ever see Mr. Hagan on the boards, when you was\nin London, General?\" And, so saying, Henry turns round upon Mr.\nWashington's second in command, General Lee, who was now come into\nVirginia upon State affairs, and our shamefaced good Hagan was bustled\nout of the room, reddening, and almost crying with shame. After this\nevent we thought that Hagan's ministrations were best confined to us in\nthe country, and removed the worthy pastor from his restive lambs in the\ncity.\n\nThe selection of Virginians to the very highest civil and military\nappointments of the new government bribed and flattered many of our\nleading people, who, otherwise, and but for the outrageous conduct of\nour government, might have remained faithful to the Crown, and made\ngood head against the rising rebellion. But, although we Loyalists were\ngagged and muzzled, though the Capitol was in the hands of the Whigs,\nand our vaunted levies of loyal recruits so many Falstaff's regiments\nfor the most part, the faithful still kept intelligences with one\nanother in the colony, and with our neighbours; and though we did\nnot rise, and though we ran away, and though, in examination before\ncommittees, justices, and so forth, some of our frightened people gave\nthemselves Republican airs, and vowed perdition to kings and nobles; yet\nwe knew each other pretty well, and--according as the chances were more\nor less favourable to us, the master more or less hard--we concealed\nour colours, showed our colours, half showed our colours, or downright\napostatised for the nonce, and cried, \"Down with King George!\" Our\nnegroes bore about, from house to house, all sorts of messages and\ntokens. Endless underhand plots and schemes were engaged in by those who\ncould not afford the light. The battle over, the neutrals come and join\nthe winning side, and shout as loudly as the patriots. The runaways\nare not counted. Will any man tell me that the signers and ardent\nwell-wishers of the Declaration of Independence were not in a minority\nof the nation, and that the minority did not win? We knew that apart\nof the defeated army of Massachusetts was about to make an important\nexpedition southward, upon the success of which the very greatest hopes\nwere founded; and I, for one, being anxious to make a movement as soon\nas there was any chance of activity, had put myself in communication\nwith the ex-Governor Martin, of North Carolina, whom I proposed to join,\nwith three or four of our Virginian gentlemen, officers of that notable\ncorps of which we only wanted privates. We made no particular mystery\nabout our departure from Castlewood; the affairs of Congress were\nnot going so well yet that the new government could afford to lay any\nparticular stress or tyranny upon persons of a doubtful way of thinking.\nGentlemen's houses were still open; and in our southern fashion we would\nvisit our friends for months at a time. My wife and I, with our infant\nand a fitting suite of servants, took leave of Madam Esmond on a visit\nto a neighbouring plantation. We went thence to another friend's house,\nand then to another, till finally we reached Wilmington, in North\nCarolina, which was the point at which we expected to stretch a hand to\nthe succours which were coming to meet us.\n\nEre our arrival, our brother Carolinian Royalists had shown themselves\nin some force. Their encounters with the Whigs had been unlucky. The\npoor Highlanders had been no more fortunate in their present contest in\nfavour of King George, than when they had drawn their swords against him\nin their own country. We did not reach Wilmington until the end of May,\nby which time we found Admiral Parker's squadron there, with General\nClinton and five British regiments on board, whose object was a descent\nupon Charleston.\n\nThe General, to whom I immediately made myself known, seeing that my\nregiment consisted of Lady Warrington, our infant, whom she was nursing,\nand three negro servants, received us at first with a very grim welcome.\nBut Captain Horner of the Sphinx frigate, who had been on the Jamaica\nstation, and received, like all the rest of the world, many kindnesses\nfrom our dear Governor there, when he heard that my wife was General\nLambert's daughter, eagerly received her on board, and gave up his\nbest cabin to our service; and so we were refugees, too, like my Lord\nDunmore, having waved our flag, to be sure, and pocketed it, and\nslipped out at the back door. From Wilmington we bore away quickly to\nCharleston, and in the course of the voyage and our delay in the river,\nprevious to our assault on the place, I made some acquaintance with\nMr. Clinton, which increased to a further intimacy. It was the King's\nbirthday when we appeared in the river: we determined it was a glorious\nday for the commencement of the expedition.\n\nIt did not take place for some days after, and I leave out, purposely,\nall descriptions of my Penelope parting from her Hector, going forth on\nthis expedition. In the first place, Hector is perfectly well (though\na little gouty), nor has any rascal of a Pyrrhus made a prize of his\nwidow: and in times of war and commotion, are not such scenes of woe and\nterror, and parting, occurring every hour? I can see the gentle face yet\nover the bulwark, as we descend the ship's side into the boats, and the\nsmile of the infant on her arm. What old stories, to be sure! Captain\nMiles, having no natural taste for poetry, you have forgot the verses,\nno doubt, in Mr. Pope's Homer, in which you are described as parting\nwith your heroic father; but your mother often read them to you as\na boy, and keeps the gorget I wore on that day somewhere amongst her\ndressing-boxes now.\n\nMy second venture at fighting was no more lucky than my first. We came\nback to our ships that evening thoroughly beaten. The madcap Lee, whom\nClinton had faced at Boston, now met him at Charleston. Lee, and the\ngallant garrison there, made a brilliant and most successful resistance.\nThe fort on Sullivan's Island, which we attacked, was a nut we could not\ncrack. The fire of all our frigates was not strong enough to pound its\nshell; the passage by which we moved up to the assault of the place was\nnot fordable, as those officers found--Sir Henry at the head of them,\nwho was always the first to charge--who attempted to wade it. Death by\nshot, by drowning, by catching my death of cold, I had braved before I\nreturned to my wife; and our frigate being aground for a time and got\noff with difficulty, was agreeably cannonaded by the enemy until she got\noff her bank.\n\nA small incident in the midst of this unlucky struggle was the occasion\nof a subsequent intimacy which arose between me and Sir Harry Clinton,\nand bound me to that most gallant officer during the Period in which\nit was my fortune to follow the war. Of his qualifications as a leader\nthere may be many opinions: I fear to say, regarding a man I heartily\nrespect and admire, there ought only to be one. Of his personal bearing\nand his courage there can be no doubt; he was always eager to show it;\nand whether at the final charge on Breed's Hill, when at the head of\nthe rallied troops he carried the Continental lines, or here before\nSullivan's Fort, or a year later at Fort Washington, when, standard in\nhand, he swept up the height, and entered the fort at the head of the\nstorming column, Clinton was always foremost in the race of battle, and\nthe King's service knew no more admirable soldier.\n\nWe were taking to the water from our boats, with the intention of\nforcing a column to the fort, through a way which our own guns had\nrendered practicable, when a shot struck a boat alongside of us, so\nwell aimed, as actually to put three-fourths of the boat's crew hors de\ncombat, and knock down the officer steering, and the flag behind him.\nI could not help crying out, \"Bravo! well aimed!\" for no ninepins ever\nwent down more helplessly than these poor fellows before the round shot.\nThen the General, turning round to me, says, rather grimly, \"Sir, the\nbehaviour of the enemy seems to please you!\" \"I am pleased, sir,\" says\nI, \"that my countrymen, yonder, should fight as becomes our nation.\"\nWe floundered on towards the fort in the midst of the same amiable\nattentions from small arms and great, until we found the water was up\nto our breasts and deepening at every step, when we were fain to take\nto our boats again and pull out of harm's way. Sir Henry waited upon my\nLady Warrington on board the Sphinx after this, and was very gracious to\nher, and mighty facetious regarding the character of the humble writer\nof the present memoir, whom his Excellency always described as a rebel\nat heart. I pray my children may live to see or engage in no great\nrevolutions,--such as that, for instance, raging in the country of our\nmiserable French neighbours. Save a very, very few indeed, the actors in\nthose great tragedies do not bear to be scanned too closely; the chiefs\nare often no better than ranting quacks; the heroes ignoble puppets; the\nheroines anything but pure. The prize is not always to the brave. In our\nrevolution it certainly did fall, for once and for a wonder, to the\nmost deserving: but who knows his enemies now? His great and surprising\ntriumphs were not in those rare engagements with the enemy where he\nobtained a trifling mastery; but over Congress; over hunger and disease;\nover lukewarm friends, or smiling foes in his own camp, whom his great\nspirit had to meet and master. When the struggle was over, and our\nimportant chiefs who had conducted it began to squabble and accuse\neach other in their own defence before the nation--what charges and\ncounter-charges were brought; what pretexts of delay were urged; what\npiteous excuses were put forward that this fleet arrived too late; that\nthat regiment mistook its orders; that these cannon-balls would not fit\nthose guns; and so to the end of the chapter! Here was a general who\nbeat us with no shot at times, and no powder, and no money; and he never\nthought of a convention; his courage never capitulated! Through all the\ndoubt and darkness, the danger and long tempest of the war, I think it\nwas only the American leader's indomitable soul that remained entirely\nsteady.\n\nOf course our Charleston expedition was made the most of, and pronounced\na prodigious victory by the enemy, who had learnt (from their parents,\nperhaps) to cry victory if a corporal's guard were surprised, as loud\nas if we had won a pitched battle. Mr. Lee rushed back to New York, the\nconqueror of conquerors, trumpeting his glory, and by no man received\nwith more eager delight than by the Commander-in-Chief of the American\nArmy. It was my dear Lee and my dear General between them, then; and it\nhath always touched me in the history of our early Revolution to note\nthat simple confidence and admiration with which the General-in-Chief\nwas wont to regard officers under him, who had happened previously to\nserve with the King's army. So the Mexicans of old looked and wondered\nwhen they first saw an armed Spanish horseman! And this mad, flashy\nbraggart (and another Continental general, whose name and whose luck\nafterwards were sufficiently notorious) you may be sure took advantage\nof the modesty of the Commander-in-Chief, and advised, and blustered,\nand sneered, and disobeyed orders; daily presenting fresh obstacles\n(as if he had not enough otherwise!) in the path over which only Mr.\nWashington's astonishing endurance could have enabled him to march.\n\nWhilst we were away on our South Carolina expedition, the famous Fourth\nof July had taken place, and we and the thirteen United States were\nparted for ever. My own native state of Virginia had also distinguished\nitself by announcing that all men are equally free; that all power is\nvested in the people, who have an inalienable right to alter, reform,\nor abolish their form of government at pleasure, and that the idea of\nan hereditary first magistrate is unnatural and absurd! Our General\npresented me with this document fresh from Williamsburg, as we were\nsailing northward by the Virginia capes, and, amidst not a little\namusement and laughter, pointed out to me the faith to which, from the\nFourth inst. inclusive, I was bound. There was no help for it; I was a\nVirginian--my godfathers had promised and vowed, in my name, that all\nmen were equally free (including, of course, the race of poor Gumbo),\nthat the idea of a monarchy is absurd, and that I had the right to alter\nmy form of government at pleasure. I thought of Madam Esmond at home,\nand how she would look when these articles of faith were brought her to\nsubscribe; how would Hagan receive them? He demolished them in a sermon,\nin which all the logic was on his side, but the U.S. Government has not,\nsomehow, been affected by the discourse; and when he came to touch upon\nthe point that all men being free, therefore Gumbo and Sady, and Nathan,\nhad assuredly a right to go to Congress: \"Tut, tut! my good Mr. Hagan,\"\nsays my mother, \"let us hear no more of this nonsense; but leave such\nwickedness and folly to the rebels!\"\n\nBy the middle of August we were before New York, whither Mr. Howe had\nbrought his army that had betaken itself to Halifax after its inglorious\nexpulsion from Boston. The American Commander-in-Chief was at New\nYork, and a great battle inevitable; and I looked forward to it with\nan inexpressible feeling of doubt and anxiety, knowing that my dearest\nbrother and his regiment formed part of the troops whom we must attack,\nand could not but overpower. Almost the whole of the American army came\nover to fight on a small island, where every officer on both sides knew\nthat they were to be beaten, and whence they had not a chance of escape.\nTwo frigates, out of a hundred we had placed so as to command the\nenemy's entrenched camp and point of retreat across East River to New\nYork, would have destroyed every bark in which he sought to fly, and\ncompelled him to lay down his arms on shore. He fought: his hasty levies\nwere utterly overthrown; some of his generals, his best troops, his\nartillery taken; the remnant huddled into their entrenched camp after\ntheir rout, the pursuers entering it with them. The victors were called\nback; the enemy was then pent up in a corner of the island, and could\nnot escape. \"They are at our mercy, and are ours to-morrow,\" says the\ngentle General. Not a ship was set to watch the American force; not\na sentinel of ours could see a movement in their camp. A whole army\ncrossed under our eyes in one single night to the mainland without the\nloss of a single man; and General Howe was suffered to remain in command\nafter this feat, and to complete his glories of Long Island and Breed's\nHill, at Philadelphia! A friend, to be sure, crossed in the night to say\nthe enemy's army was being ferried over, but he fell upon a picket of\nGermans: they could not understand him: their commander was boozing or\nasleep. In the morning, when the spy was brought to some one who could\ncomprehend the American language, the whole Continental force had\ncrossed the East River, and the empire over thirteen colonies had\nslipped away.\n\nThe opinions I had about our chief were by no means uncommon in the\narmy; though, perhaps, wisely kept secret by gentlemen under Mr. Howe's\nimmediate command. Am I more unlucky than other folks, I wonder? or why\nare my imprudent sayings carried about more than my neighbours'? My rage\nthat such a use was made of such a victory was no greater than that of\nscores of gentlemen with the army. Why must my name forsooth be given up\nto the Commander-in-Chief as that of the most guilty of the\ngrumblers? Personally, General Howe was perfectly brave, amiable, and\ngood-humoured.\n\n\"So, Sir George,\" says he, \"you find fault with me, as a military\nman, because there was a fog after the battle on Long Island, and your\nfriends, the Continentals, gave me the slip! Surely we took and killed\nenough of them; but there is no satisfying you gentlemen amateurs!\" and\nhe turned his back on me, and shrugged his shoulders, and talked to some\none else. Amateur I might be, and he the most amiable of men; but if\nKing George had said to him, \"Never more be officer of mine,\" yonder\nagreeable and pleasant Cassio would most certainly have had his desert.\n\nI soon found how our Chief had come in possession of his information\nregarding myself. My admirable cousin, Mr. William Esmond--who of course\nhad forsaken New York and his post, when all the Royal authorities fled\nout of the place, and Washington occupied it,--returned along with our\ntroops and fleets; and, being a gentleman of good birth and name, and\nwell acquainted with the city, made himself agreeable to the newcomers\nof the Royal army, the young bloods, merry fellows, and macaronis, by\nintroducing them to play-tables, taverns, and yet worse places, with\nwhich the worthy gentleman continued to be familiar in the New World\nas in the Old. Coelum non animum. However Will had changed his air, or\nwhithersoever he transported his carcase, he carried a rascal in his\nskin.\n\nI had heard a dozen stories of his sayings regarding my family, and was\ndetermined neither to avoid him nor seek him; but to call him to account\nwhensoever we met; and, chancing one day to be at a coffee-house in a\nfriend's company, my worthy kinsman swaggered in with a couple of young\nlads of the army, whom he found it was his pleasure and profit now\nto lead into every kind of dissipation. I happened to know one of Mr.\nWill's young companions, an aide-de-camp of General Clinton's, who had\nbeen in my close company both at Charleston, before Sullivan's Island,\nand in the action of Brooklyn, where our General gloriously led the\nright wing of the English army. They took a box without noticing us\nat first, though I heard my name three or four times mentioned by\nmy brawling kinsman, who ended some drunken speech he was making by\nslapping his fist on the table, and swearing, \"By----, I will do for\nhim, and the bloody rebel, his brother!\"\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Esmond,\" says I, coming forward with my hat on. (He looked a\nlittle pale behind his punch-bowl.) \"I have long wanted to see you, to\nset some little matters right about which there has been a difference\nbetween us.\"\n\n\"And what may those be, sir?\" says he, with a volley of oaths.\n\n\"You have chosen to cast a doubt upon my courage, and say that I shirked\na meeting with you when we were young men. Our relationship and our age\nought to prevent us from having recourse to such murderous follies\" (Mr.\nWill started up, looking fierce and relieved), \"but I give you notice,\nthat though I can afford to overlook lies against myself, if I hear from\nyou a word in disparagement of my brother, Colonel Warrington, of the\nContinental Army, I will hold you accountable.\"\n\n\"Indeed, gentlemen! Mighty fine, indeed! You take notice of Sir George\nWarrington's words!\" cries Mr. Will over his punch-bowl.\n\n\"You have been pleased to say,\" I continued, growing angry as I spoke,\nand being a fool therefore for my pains, \"that the very estates we hold\nin this country are not ours, but of right revert to your family!\"\n\n\"So they are ours! By George, they're ours! I've heard my brother\nCastlewood say so a score of times!\" swears Mr. Will.\n\n\"In that case, sir,\" says I, hotly, \"your brother, my Lord Castlewood,\ntells no more truth than yourself. We have the titles at hone in\nVirginia. They are registered in the courts there; and if ever I hear\none word more of this impertinence, I shall call you to account where no\nconstables will be at hand to interfere!\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" cries Will, in a choking voice, \"that I don't cut him into\ntwenty thousand pieces as he stands there before me with his confounded\nyellow face. It was my brother Castlewood won his money--no, it was his\nbrother; d---- you, which are you, the rebel or the other? I hate the\nugly faces of both of you, and, hic!--if you are for the King, show you\nare for the King, and drink his health!\" and he sank down into his box\nwith a hiccup and a wild laugh, which he repeated a dozen times, with\na hundred more oaths and vociferous outcries that I should drink the\nKing's health.\n\nTo reason with a creature in this condition, or ask explanations or\napologies from him, was absurd. I left Mr. Will to reel to his lodgings\nunder the care of his young friends--who were surprised to find an old\ntoper so suddenly affected and so utterly prostrated by liquor--and\nlimped home to my wife, whom I found happy in possession of a brief\nletter from Hal, which a countryman had brought in; and who said not a\nword about the affairs of the Continentals with whom he was engaged,\nbut wrote a couple of pages of rapturous eulogiums upon his brother's\nbehaviour in the field, which my dear Hal was pleased to admire, as he\nadmired everything I said and did.\n\nI rather looked for a messenger from my amiable kinsman in consequence\nof the speeches which had passed between us the night before, and did\nnot know but that I might be called by Will to make my words good; and\nwhen accordingly Mr. Lacy (our companion of the previous evening) made\nhis appearance at an early hour of the forenoon, I was beckoning my Lady\nWarrington to leave us, when, with a laugh and a cry of \"Oh dear, no!\"\nMr. Lacy begged her ladyship not to disturb herself.\n\n\"I have seen,\" says he, \"a gentleman who begs to send you his apologies\nif he uttered a word last night which could offend you.\"\n\n\"What apologies? what words?\" asks the anxious wife.\n\nI explained that roaring Will Esmond had met me in a coffee-house on the\nprevious evening, and quarrelled with me, as he had done with hundreds\nbefore. \"It appears the fellow is constantly abusive, and invariably\npleads drunkenness, and apologises the next morning, unless he is caned\nover-night,\" remarked Captain Lacy. And my lady, I dare say, makes a\nlittle sermon, and asks why we gentlemen will go to idle coffee-houses\nand run the risk of meeting roaring, roystering Will Esmonds?\n\nOur sojourn in New York was enlivened by a project for burning the city\nwhich some ardent patriots entertained and partially executed. Several\nsuch schemes were laid in the course of the war, and each one of the\nprincipal cities was doomed to fire; though, in the interests of peace\nand goodwill, I hope it will be remembered that these plans never\noriginated with the cruel government of a tyrant king, but were always\nproposed by gentlemen on the Continental side, who vowed that, rather\nthan remain under the ignominious despotism of the ruffian of Brunswick,\nthe fairest towns of America should burn. I presume that the sages who\nwere for burning down Boston were not actual proprietors in that\nplace, and the New York burners might come from other parts of the\ncountry--from Philadelphia, or what not. Howbeit, the British spared\nyou, gentlemen, and we pray you give us credit for this act of\nmoderation.\n\nI had not the fortune to be present in the action on the White Plains,\nbeing detained by the hurt which I had received at Long Island, and\nwhich broke out again and again, and took some time in the healing. The\ntenderest of nurses watched me through my tedious malady, and was eager\nfor the day when I should doff my militia coat and return to the quiet\nEnglish home where Hetty and our good General were tending our children.\nIndeed I don't know that I have yet forgiven myself for the pains and\nterrors that I must have caused my poor wife, by keeping her separate\nfrom her young ones, and away from her home, because, forsooth, I wished\nto see a little more of the war then going on. Our grand tour in Europe\nhad been all very well. We had beheld St. Peter's at Rome, and the\nBishop thereof; the Dauphiness of France (alas, to think that glorious\nhead should ever have been brought so low!) at Paris; and the rightful\nKing of England at Florence. I had dipped my gout in a half-dozen baths\nand spas, and played cards in a hundred courts, as my Travels in Europe\n(which I propose to publish after my completion of the History of the\nAmerican War) will testify. [Neither of these two projected works of Sir\nGeorge Warrington were brought, as it appears, to a completion.] And,\nduring our peregrinations, my hypochondria diminished (which plagued me\nwoefully at home); and my health and spirits visibly improved. Perhaps\nit was because she saw the evident benefit I had from excitement and\nchange, that my wife was reconciled to my continuing to enjoy them; and\nthough secretly suffering pangs at being away from her nursery and her\neldest boy (for whom she ever has had an absurd infatuation), the\ndear hypocrite scarce allowed a look of anxiety to appear on her face;\nencouraged me with smiles; professed herself eager to follow me; asked\nwhy it should be a sin in me to covet honour? and, in a word, was ready\nto stay, to go, to smile, to be sad; to scale mountains, or to go down\nto the sea in ships; to say that cold was pleasant, heat tolerable,\nhunger good sport, dirty lodgings delightful; though she is wretched\nsailor, very delicate about the little she eats, and an extreme sufferer\nboth of cold and heat. Hence, as I willed to stay on yet a while on my\nnative continent, she was certain nothing was so good for me; and when\nI was minded to return home--oh, how she brightened, and kissed her\ninfant, and told him how he should see the beautiful gardens at home,\nand Aunt Theo, and grandpapa, and his sister, and Miles. \"Miles!\" cries\nthe little parrot, mocking its mother--and crowing; as if there was any\nmighty privilege in seeing Mr. Miles, forsooth, who was under Doctor\nSumner's care at Harrow-on-the-Hill, where, to do the gentleman justice,\nhe showed that he could eat more tarts than any boy in the school, and\ntook most creditable prizes at football and hare-and-hounds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCI. Satis Pugnae\n\n\nIt has always seemed to me (I speak under the correction of military\ngentlemen) that the entrenchments of Breed's Hill served the Continental\narmy throughout the whole of our American war. The slaughter inflicted\nupon us from behind those lines was so severe, and the behaviour of the\nenemy so resolute, that the British chiefs respected the barricades\nof the Americans hereafter; and were they firing from behind a row of\nblankets, certain of our generals rather hesitated to force them. In the\naffair of the White Plains, when, for a second time, Mr. Washington's\narmy was quite at the mercy of the victors, we subsequently heard\nthat our conquering troops were held back before a barricade actually\ncomposed of cornstalks and straw. Another opportunity was given us, and\nlasted during a whole winter, during which the dwindling and dismayed\ntroops of Congress lay starving and unarmed under our grasp, and the\nmagnanimous Mr. Howe left the famous camp of Valley Forge untouched,\nwhilst his great, brave, and perfectly appointed army fiddled and\ngambled and feasted in Philadelphia. And, by Byng's countrymen,\ntriumphal arches were erected, tournaments were held in pleasant mockery\nof the middle ages, and wreaths and garlands offered by beautiful ladies\nto this clement chief, with fantastical mottoes and posies announcing\nthat his laurels should be immortal! Why have my ungrateful countrymen\nin America never erected statues to this general? They had not in all\ntheir army an officer who fought their battles better; who enabled them\nto retrieve their errors with such adroitness; who took care that their\ndefeats should be so little hurtful to themselves; and when, in the\ncourse of events, the stronger force naturally got the uppermost, who\nshowed such an untiring tenderness, patience, and complacency in helping\nthe poor disabled opponent on to his legs again. Ah! think of eighteen\nyears before and the fiery young warrior whom England had sent out to\nfight her adversary on the American continent. Fancy him for ever pacing\nround the defences behind which the foe lies sheltered; by night and by\nday alike sleepless and eager; consuming away in his fierce wrath and\nlonging, and never closing his eye, so intent is it in watching; winding\nthe track with untiring scent that pants and hungers for blood and\nbattle; prowling through midnight forests, or climbing silent over\nprecipices before dawn; and watching till his great heart is almost worn\nout, until the foe shows himself at last, when he springs on him and\ngrapples with him, and, dying, slays him! Think of Wolfe at Quebec,\nand hearken to Howe's fiddles as he sits smiling amongst the dancers at\nPhiladelphia!\n\nA favourite scheme with our ministers at home and some of our generals\nin America, was to establish a communication between Canada and New\nYork, by which means it was hoped New England might be cut off from\nthe neighbouring colonies, overpowered in detail, and forced into\nsubmission. Burgoyne was entrusted with the conduct of the plan, and he\nset forth from Quebec, confidently promising to bring it to a\nsuccessful issue. His march began in military state: the trumpets of\nhis proclamations blew before him; he bade the colonists to remember the\nimmense power of England; and summoned the misguided rebels to lay down\ntheir arms. He brought with him a formidable English force, an army of\nGerman veterans not less powerful, a dreadful band of Indian warriors,\nand a brilliant train of artillery. It was supposed that the people\nround his march would rally to the Royal cause and standards. The\nContinental force in front of him was small at first, and Washington's\narmy was weakened by the withdrawal of troops who were hurried forward\nto meet this Canadian invasion. A British detachment from New York was\nto force its way up the Hudson, sweeping away the enemy on the route,\nand make a junction with Burgoyne at Albany. Then was the time when\nWashington's weakened army should have been struck too; but a greater\nPower willed otherwise: nor am I, for one, even going to regret the\ntermination of the war. As we look over the game now, how clear seem the\nblunders which were made by the losing side! From the beginning to the\nend we were for ever arriving too late. Our supplies and reinforcements\nfrom home were too late. Our troops were in difficulty, and our succours\nreached them too late. Our fleet appeared off York Town just too\nlate, after Cornwallis had surrendered. A way of escape was opened\nto Burgoyne, but he resolved upon retreat too late. I have heard\ndiscomfited officers in after days prove infallibly how a different wind\nwould have saved America to us; how we must have destroyed the French\nfleet but for a tempest or two; how once, twice, thrice, but for\nnightfall, Mr. Washington and his army were in our power. Who has not\nspeculated, in the course of his reading of history, upon the \"Has been\"\nand the \"Might have been\" in the world? I take my tattered old map-book\nfrom the shelf, and see the board on which the great contest was played;\nI wonder at the curious chances which lost it: and, putting aside any\nidle talk about the respective bravery of the two nations, can't but see\nthat we had the best cards, and that we lost the game.\n\nI own the sport had a considerable fascination for me, and stirred up\nmy languid blood. My brother Hal, when settled on his plantation in\nVirginia, was perfectly satisfied with the sports and occupations he\nfound there. The company of the country neighbours sufficed him; he\nnever tired of looking after his crops and people, taking his fish,\nshooting his ducks, hunting in his woods, or enjoying his rubber and\nhis supper. Happy Hal, in his great barn of a house, under his roomy\nporches, his dogs lying round his feet; his friends, the Virginian Will\nWimbles, at free quarters in his mansion; his negroes fat, lazy, and\nragged: his shrewd little wife ruling over them and her husband, who\nalways obeyed her implicitly when living, and who was pretty speedily\nconsoled when she died! I say happy, though his lot would have been\nintolerable to me: wife, and friends, and plantation, and town life at\nRichmond (Richmond succeeded to the honour of being the capital when our\nProvince became a State). How happy he whose foot fits the shoe which\nfortune gives him! My income was five times as great, my house in\nEngland as large, and built of bricks and faced with freestone; my\nwife--would I have changed her for any other wife in the world? My\nchildren--well, I am contented with my Lady Warrington's opinion about\nthem. But with all these plums and peaches and rich fruits out of\nPlenty's horn poured into my lap, I fear I have been but an ingrate;\nand Hodge, my gatekeeper, who shares his bread and scrap of bacon with\na family as large as his master's, seems to me to enjoy his meal as much\nas I do, though Mrs. Molly prepares her best dishes and sweetmeats, and\nMr. Gumbo uncorks the choicest bottle from the cellar. Ah me! sweetmeats\nhave lost their savour for me, however they may rejoice my young ones\nfrom the nursery, and the perfume of claret palls upon old noses!\nOur parson has poured out his sermons many and many a time to me, and\nperhaps I did not care for them much when he first broached them. Dost\nthou remember, honest friend? (sure he does, for he has repeated the\nstory over the bottle as many times as his sermons almost, and my Lady\nWarrington pretends as if she had never heard it)--I say, Joe Blake,\nthou rememberest full well, and with advantages, that October evening\nwhen we scrambled up an embrasure at Fort Clinton and a clubbed musket\nwould have dashed these valuable brains out, had not Joe's sword whipped\nmy rebellious countryman through the gizzard. Joe wore a red coat in\nthose days (the uniform of the brave Sixty-third, whose leader, the bold\nSill, fell pierced with many wounds beside him). He exchanged his red\nfor black and my pulpit. His doctrines are sound, and his sermons short.\nWe read the papers together over our wine. Not two months ago we read\nour old friend Howe's glorious deed of the first of June. We were told\nhow the noble Rawdon, who fought with us at Fort Clinton, had joined the\nDuke of York: and to-day his Royal Highness is in full retreat before\nPichegru: and he and my son Miles have taken Valenciennes for nothing!\nAh, parson! would you not like to put on your old Sixty-third coat?\n(though I doubt Mrs. Blake could never make the buttons and button-holes\nmeet again over your big body). The boys were acting a play with my\nmilitia sword. Oh, that I were young again, Mr. Blake! that I had not\nthe gout in my toe; and I would saddle Rosinante and ride back into\nthe world, and feel the pulses beat again, and play a little of life's\nglorious game!\n\nThe last \"hit\" which I saw played, was gallantly won by our side; though\n'tis true that even in this parti the Americans won the rubber--our\npeople gaining only the ground they stood on, and the guns, stores, and\nships which they captured and destroyed, whilst our efforts at rescue\nwere too late to prevent the catastrophe impending over Burgoyne's\nunfortunate army. After one of those delays which always were happening\nto retard our plans and weaken the blows which our chiefs intended to\ndeliver, an expedition was got under weigh from New York at the close\nof the month of September, '77; that, could it have but advanced a\nfortnight earlier, might have saved the doomed force of Burgoyne. Sed\nDis aliter visum. The delay here was not Sir Henry Clinton's fault, who\ncould not leave his city unprotected; but the winds and weather which\ndelayed the arrival of reinforcements which we had long awaited from\nEngland. The fleet which brought them brought us long and fond letters\nfrom home, with the very last news of the children under the care of\ntheir good Aunt Hetty and their grandfather. The mother's heart yearned\ntowards the absent young ones. She made me no reproaches: but I could\nread her importunities in her anxious eyes, her terrors for me, and her\nlonging for her children. \"Why stay longer?\" she seemed to say. \"You\nwho have no calling to this war, or to draw the sword against your\ncountrymen--why continue to imperil your life and my happiness?\" I\nunderstood her appeal. We were to enter upon no immediate service of\ndanger; I told her Sir Henry was only going to accompany the expedition\nfor a part of the way. I would return with him, the reconnaissance over,\nand Christmas, please Heaven, should see our family once more united in\nEngland.\n\nA force of three thousand men, including a couple of slender regiments\nof American Loyalists and New York Militia (with which latter my\ndistinguished relative, Mr. Will Esmond, went as captain), was embarked\nat New York, and our armament sailed up the noble Hudson River, that\npresents finer aspects than the Rhine in Europe to my mind: nor was\nany fire opened upon us from those beetling cliffs and precipitous\n\"palisades,\" as they are called, by which we sailed; the enemy, strange\nto say, being for once unaware of the movement we contemplated. Our\nfirst landing was on the Eastern bank, at a place called Verplancks\nPoint, whence the Congress troops withdrew after a slight resistance,\ntheir leader, the tough old Putnam (so famous during the war) supposing\nthat our march was to be directed towards the Eastern Highlands, by\nwhich we intended to penetrate to Burgoyne. Putnam fell back to occupy\nthese passes, a small detachment of ours being sent forward as if in\npursuit, which he imagined was to be followed by the rest of our force.\nMeanwhile, before daylight, two thousand men without artillery, were\ncarried over to Stoney Point on the Western shore, opposite Verplancks,\nand under a great hill called the Dunderberg by the old Dutch lords of\nthe stream, and which hangs precipitously over it. A little stream\nat the northern base of this mountain intersects it from the opposite\nheight on which Fort Clinton stood, named not after our general, but\nafter one of the two gentlemen of the same name, who were amongst the\noldest and most respected of the provincial gentry of New York, and who\nwere at this moment actually in command against Sir Henry. On the next\nheight to Clinton is Fort Montgomery; and behind them rises a hill\ncalled Bear Hill; whilst at the opposite side of the magnificent stream\nstands \"Saint Antony's Nose,\" a prodigious peak indeed, which the Dutch\nhad quaintly christened.\n\nThe attacks on the two forts were almost simultaneous. Half our men were\ndetached for the assault on Fort Montgomery, under the brave Campbell,\nwho fell before the rampart. Sir Henry, who would never be out of danger\nwhere he could find it, personally led the remainder, and hoped, he\nsaid, that we should have better luck than before the Sullivan Island. A\npath led up to the Dunderberg, so narrow as scarcely to admit three men\nabreast, and in utter silence our whole force scaled it, wondering at\nevery rugged step to meet with no opposition. The enemy had not even\nkept a watch on it; nor were we descried until we were descending the\nheight, at the base of which we easily dispersed a small force sent\nhurriedly to oppose us. The firing which here took place rendered all\nidea of a surprise impossible. The fort was before us. With such arms\nas the troops had in their hands, they had to assault; and silently\nand swiftly, in the face of the artillery playing upon them, the troops\nascended the hill. The men had orders on no account to fire. Taking the\ncolours of the Sixty-third, and bearing them aloft, Sir Henry mounted\nwith the stormers. The place was so steep that the men pushed each\nother over the wall and through the embrasures; and it was there that\nLieutenant Joseph Blake, the father of a certain Joseph Clinton Blake,\nwho looks with the eyes of affection on a certain young lady, presented\nhimself to the living of Warrington by saving the life of the unworthy\npatron thereof.\n\nAbout a fourth part of the garrison, as we were told, escaped out of\nthe fort, the rest being killed or wounded, or remaining our prisoners\nwithin the works. Fort Montgomery was, in like manner, stormed and taken\nby our people; and, at night, as we looked down from the heights where\nthe king's standard had been just planted, we were treated to a splendid\nillumination in the river below. Under Fort Montgomery, and stretching\nover to that lofty prominence, called Saint Antony's Nose, a boom and\nchain had been laid with a vast cost and labour, behind which several\nAmerican frigates and galleys were anchored. The fort being taken, these\nships attempted to get up the river in the darkness, out of the reach of\nguns which they knew must destroy them in the morning. But the wind was\nunfavourable, and escape was found to be impossible. The crews therefore\ntook to the boats, and so landed, having previously set the ships on\nfire with all their sails set; and we beheld these magnificent pyramids\nof flame burning up to the heavens and reflected in the waters below,\nuntil, in the midst of prodigious explosions, they sank and disappeared.\n\nOn the next day a parlementaire came in from the enemy, to inquire as to\nthe state of his troops left wounded or prisoners in our hands, and the\nContinental officer brought me a note, which gave me a strange shock,\nfor it showed that in the struggle of the previous evening my brother\nhad been engaged. It was dated October 7, from Major-General George\nClinton's divisional headquarters, and it stated briefly that \"Colonel\nH. Warrington, of the Virginia line, hopes that Sir George Warrington\nescaped unhurt in the assault of last evening, from which the Colonel\nhimself was so fortunate as to retire without the least injury.\" Never\ndid I say my prayers more heartily and gratefully than on that night,\ndevoutly thanking Heaven that my dearest brother was spared, and making\na vow at the same time to withdraw out of the fratricidal contest, into\nwhich I only had entered because Honour and Duty seemed imperatively to\ncall me.\n\nI own I felt an inexpressible relief when I had come to the resolution\nto retire and betake myself to the peaceful shade of my own vines and\nfig-trees at home. I longed, however, to see my brother ere I returned,\nand asked, and easily obtained an errand to the camp of the American\nGeneral Clinton from our own chief. The headquarters of his division\nwere now some miles up the river, and a boat and a flag of truce quickly\nbrought me to the point where his out-pickets received me on the shore.\nMy brother was very soon with me. He had only lately joined General\nClinton's division with letters from headquarters at Philadelphia, and\nhe chanced to hear, after the attack on Fort Clinton, that I had been\npresent during the affair. We passed a brief delightful night together:\nMr. Sady, who always followed Hal to the war, cooking a feast in honour\nof both his masters. There was but one bed of straw in the hut where we\nhad quarters, and Hal and I slept on it, side by side, as we had done\nwhen we were boys. We had a hundred things to say regarding past times\nand present. His kind heart gladdened when I told him of my resolve to\nretire to my acres and to take off the red coat which I wore: he flung\nhis arms round it. \"Praised be God!\" said he. \"Oh, heavens, George!\nthink what might have happened had we met in the affair two nights ago!\"\nAnd he turned quite pale at the thought. He eased my mind with respect\nto our mother. She was a bitter Tory, to be sure, but the Chief had\ngiven special injunctions regarding her safety. \"And Fanny\" (Hal's\nwife) \"watches over her, and she is as good as a company!\" cried the\nenthusiastic husband. \"Isn't she clever? Isn't she handsome? Isn't\nshe good?\" cries Hal, never, fortunately, waiting for a reply to these\nardent queries. \"And to think that I was nearly marrying Maria once! Oh,\nmercy, what an escape I had!\" he added. \"Hagan prays for the King, every\nmorning and night, at Castlewood, but they bolt the doors, and nobody\nhears. Gracious powers! his wife is sixty if she is a day; and oh,\nGeorge! the quantity she drinks is...\" But why tell the failings of our\ngood cousin? I am pleased to think she lived to drink the health of King\nGeorge long after his Old Dominion had passed for ever from his sceptre.\n\nThe morning came when my brief mission to the camp was ended, and the\ntruest of friends and fondest of brothers accompanied me to my boat,\nwhich lay waiting at the riverside. We exchanged an embrace at parting,\nand his hand held mine yet for a moment ere I stepped into the barge\nwhich bore me rapidly down the stream. \"Shall I see thee once more,\ndearest and best companion of my youth?\" I thought. \"Amongst our cold\nEnglishmen, can I ever hope to meet with a friend like thee? When hadst\nthou ever a thought that was not kindly and generous? When a wish, or\na possession, but for me you would sacrifice it? How brave are you,\nand how modest; how gentle, and how strong; how simple, unselfish, and\nhumble; how eager to see others' merit; how diffident of your own!\" He\nstood on the shore till his figure grew dim before, me. There was that\nin my eyes which prevented me from seeing him longer.\n\n\nBrilliant as Sir Henry's success had been, it was achieved, as usual,\ntoo late: and served but as a small set-off against the disaster of\nBurgoyne which ensued immediately, and which our advance was utterly\ninadequate to relieve. More than one secret messenger was despatched to\nhim who never reached him, and of whom we never learned the fate. Of\none wretch who offered to carry intelligence to him, and whom Sir\nHenry despatched with a letter of his own, we heard the miserable\ndoom. Falling in with some of the troops of General George Clinton, who\nhappened to be in red uniform (part of the prize of a British ship's\ncargo, doubtless, which had been taken by American privateers), the spy\nthought he was in the English army, and advanced towards the sentries.\nHe found his mistake too late. His letter was discovered upon him, and\nhe had to die for bearing it. In ten days after the success at the Forts\noccurred the great disaster at Saratoga, of which we carried the dismal\nparticulars in the fleet which bore us home. I am afraid my wife was\nunable to mourn for it. She had her children, her father, her sister to\nrevisit, and daily and nightly thanks to pay to Heaven that had brought\nher husband safe out of danger.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCII. Under Vine and Fig-Tree\n\n\nNeed I describe, young folks, the delights of the meeting at home,\nand the mother's happiness with all her brood once more under her fond\nwings? It was wrote in her face, and acknowledged on her knees. Our\nhouse was large enough for all, but Aunt Hetty would not stay in it. She\nsaid, fairly, that to resign her motherhood over the elder children, who\nhad been hers for nearly three years, cost her too great a pang; and she\ncould not bear for yet a while to be with them, and to submit to take\nonly the second place. So she and her father went away to a house at\nBury St. Edmunds, not far from us, where they lived, and where she\nspoiled her eldest nephew and niece in private. It was the year after we\ncame home that Mr. B, the Jamaica planter, died, who left her the half\nof his fortune; and then I heard, for the first time, how the worthy\ngentleman had been greatly enamoured of her in Jamaica, and, though she\nhad refused him, had thus shown his constancy to her. Heaven knows how\nmuch property of Aunt Hetty's Monsieur Miles hath already devoured!\nthe price of his commission and outfit; his gorgeous uniforms; his\nplay-debts and little transactions in the Minories;--do you think,\nsirrah, I do not know what human nature is; what is the cost of\nPall Mall taverns, petits soupers, play even in moderation--at the\nCocoa-Tree; and that a gentleman cannot purchase all these enjoyments\nwith the five hundred a year which I allow him? Aunt Hetty declares she\nhas made up her mind to be an old maid. \"I made a vow never to marry\nuntil I could find a man as good as my dear father,\" she said; \"and I\nnever did, Sir George. No, my dearest Theo, not half as good; and Sir\nGeorge may put that in his pipe and smoke it.\"\n\nAnd yet when the good General died (calm, and full of years, and glad to\ndepart), I think it was my wife who shed the most tears. \"I weep because\nI think I did not love him enough,\" said the tender creature: whereas\nHetty scarce departed from her calm, at least outwardly and before any\nof us; talks of him constantly still, as though he were alive; recalls\nhis merry sayings, his gentle, kind ways with his children (when she\nbrightens up and looks herself quite a girl again), and sits cheerfully\nlooking up to the slab in church which records his name and some of his\nvirtues, and for once tells no lies.\n\nI had fancied, sometimes, that my brother Hal, for whom Hetty had a\njuvenile passion, always retained a hold of her heart; and when he came\nto see us, ten years ago, I told him of this childish romance of Het's,\nwith the hope, I own, that he would ask her to replace Mrs. Fanny, who\nhad been gathered to her fathers, and regarding whom my wife (with\nher usual propensity to consider herself a miserable sinner) always\nreproached herself, because, forsooth, she did not regret Fanny enough.\nHal, when he came to us, was plunged in grief about her loss; and vowed\nthat the world did not contain such another woman. Our dear old General,\nwho was still in life then, took him in and housed him, as he had done\nin the happy early days. The women played him the very same tunes which\nhe had heard when a boy at Oakhurst. Everybody's heart was very soft\nwith old recollections, and Harry never tired of pouring out his griefs\nand his recitals of his wife's virtues to Het, and anon of talking\nfondly about his dear Aunt Lambert, whom he loved with all his heart,\nand whose praises, you may be sure, were welcome to the faithful old\nhusband, out of whose thoughts his wife's memory was never, I believe,\nabsent for any three waking minutes of the day.\n\nGeneral Hal went to Paris as an American General Officer in his blue and\nyellow (which Mr. Fox and other gentlemen had brought into fashion here\nlikewise), and was made much of at Versailles, although he was presented\nby Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette to the Most Christian King and\nQueen, who did not love Monsieur le Marquis. And I believe a Marquise\ntook a fancy to the Virginian General, and would have married him out of\nhand, had he not resisted, and fled back to England and Warrington and\nBury again, especially to the latter place, where the folks would listen\nto him as he talked about his late wife, with an endless patience and\nsympathy. As for us, who had known the poor paragon, we were civil, but\nnot quite so enthusiastic regarding her, and rather puzzled sometimes to\nanswer our children's questions about Uncle Hal's angel wife.\n\nThe two Generals and myself, and Captain Miles, and Parson Blake (who\nwas knocked over at Monmouth, the year after I left America, and came\nhome to change his coat, and take my living), used to fight the battles\nof the Revolution over our bottle; and the parson used to cry, \"By\nJupiter, General\" (he compounded for Jupiter, when he laid down his\nmilitary habit), \"you are the Tory, and Sir George is the Whig! He is\nalways finding fault with our leaders, and you are for ever standing\nup for them; and when I prayed for the King last Sunday, I heard you\nfollowing me quite loud.\"\n\n\"And so I do, Blake, with all my heart; I can't forget I wore his coat,\"\nsays Hal.\n\n\"Ah, if Wolfe had been alive for twenty years more!\" says Lambert.\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" cries Hal, \"you should hear the General talk about him!\"\n\n\"What General?\" says I (to vex him).\n\n\"My General,\" says Hal, standing up, and filling a bumper. \"His\nExcellency General George Washington!\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" cry I, but the parson looks as if he did not like\nthe toast or the claret.\n\nHal never tired in speaking of his General; and it was on some such\nevening of friendly converse, that he told us how he had actually been\nin disgrace with this General whom he loved so fondly. Their difference\nseems to have been about Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette before\nmentioned, who played such a fine part in history of late, and who hath\nso suddenly disappeared out of it. His previous rank in our own service,\nand his acknowledged gallantry during the war, ought to have secured\nColonel Warrington's promotion in the Continental army, where a\nwhipper-snapper like M. de Lafayette had but to arrive and straightway\nto be complimented by Congress with the rank of Major-General. Hal,\nwith the freedom of an old soldier, had expressed himself somewhat\ncontemptuously regarding some of the appointments made by Congress, with\nwhom all sorts of miserable intrigues and cabals were set to work by\nunscrupulous officers who were greedy of promotion. Mr. Warrington,\nimitating perhaps in this the example of his now illustrious friend of\nMount Vernon, affected to make the war en gentilhomme took his pay, to\nbe sure, but spent it upon comforts and clothing for his men, and as for\nrank, declared it was a matter of no earthly concern to him, and that he\nwould as soon serve as colonel as in any higher grade. No doubt he added\ncontemptuous remarks regarding certain General Officers of Congress\narmy, their origin, and the causes of their advancement: notably he\nwas very angry about the sudden promotion of the young French lad just\nnamed--the Marquis, as they loved to call him--in the Republican army,\nand who, by the way, was a prodigious favourite of the Chief himself.\nThere were not three officers in the whole Continental force (after\npoor madcap Lee was taken prisoner and disgraced) who could speak the\nMarquis's language, so that Hal could judge the young Major-General\nmore closely and familiarly than other gentlemen, including the\nCommander-in-Chief himself. Mr. Washington good-naturedly rated friend\nHal for being jealous of the beardless commander of Auvergne; was\nhimself not a little pleased by the filial regard and profound\nveneration which the enthusiastic young nobleman always showed for\nhim; and had, moreover, the very best politic reasons for treating the\nMarquis with friendship and favour.\n\nMeanwhile, as it afterwards turned out, the Commander-in-Chief was most\nurgently pressing Colonel Warrington's promotion upon Congress; and, as\nif his difficulties before the enemy were not enough, he being at this\nhard time of winter entrenched at Valley Forge, commanding five or\nsix thousand men at the most, almost without fire, blankets, food, or\nammunition, in the face of Sir William Howe's army, which was perfectly\nappointed, and three times as numerous as his own; as if, I say, this\ndifficulty was not enough to try him, he had further to encounter\nthe cowardly distrust of Congress, and insubordination and conspiracy\namongst the officers in his own camp. During the awful winter of '77,\nwhen one blow struck by the sluggard at the head of the British forces\nmight have ended the war, and all was doubt, confusion, despair in the\nopposite camp (save in one indomitable breast alone), my brother had an\ninterview with the Chief, which he has subsequently described to me,\nand of which Hal could never speak without giving way to the deepest\nemotion. Mr. Washington had won no such triumph as that which the\ndare-devil courage of Arnold and the elegant imbecility of Burgoyne\nhad procured for Gates and the northern army. Save in one or two minor\nencounters, which proved how daring his bravery was, and how unceasing\nhis watchfulness, General Washington had met with defeat after defeat\nfrom an enemy in all points his superior. The Congress mistrusted\nhim. Many an officer in his own camp hated him. Those who had been\ndisappointed in ambition, those who had been detected in peculation,\nthose whose selfishness or incapacity his honest eyes had spied\nout,--were all more, or less in league against him. Gates was the chief\ntowards whom the malcontents turned. Mr. Gates was the only genius fit\nto conduct the war; and with a vaingloriousness, which he afterwards\ngenerously owned, he did not refuse the homage which was paid him.\n\nTo show how dreadful were the troubles and anxieties with which General\nWashington had to contend, I may mention what at this time was called\nthe \"Conway Cabal.\" A certain Irishman--a Chevalier of St. Louis, and an\nofficer in the French service--arrived in America early in the year '77\nin quest of military employment. He was speedily appointed to the rank\nof brigadier, and could not be contented, forsooth, without an immediate\npromotion to be major-general.\n\nMr. C. had friends at Congress, who, as the General-in-Chief was\ninformed, had promised him his speedy promotion. General Washington\nremonstrated, representing the injustice of promoting to the highest\nrank the youngest brigadier in the service; and whilst the matter was\npending, was put in possession of a letter from Conway to General Gates,\nwhom he complimented, saying, that \"Heaven had been determined to save\nAmerica, or a weak general and bad councillors would have ruined it.\"\nThe General enclosed the note to Mr. Conway, without a word of comment;\nand Conway offered his resignation, which was refused by Congress,\nwho appointed him Inspector-General of the army, with the rank of\nMajor-General.\n\n\"And it was at this time,\" says Harry (with many passionate exclamations\nindicating his rage with himself and his admiration of his leader),\n\"when, by heavens, the glorious Chief was oppressed by troubles enough\nto drive ten thousand men mad--that I must interfere with my jealousies\nabout the Frenchman! I had not said much, only some nonsense to Greene\nand Cadwalader about getting some frogs against the Frenchman came to\ndine with us, and having a bagful of Marquises over from Paris, as we\nwere not able to command ourselves;--but I should have known the Chief's\ntroubles, and that he had a better head than mine, and might have had\nthe grace to hold my tongue.\n\n\"For a while the General said nothing, but I could remark, by the\ncoldness of his demeanour, that something had occurred to create a\nschism between him and me. Mrs. Washington, who had come to camp, also\nsaw that something was wrong. Women have artful ways of soothing men and\nfinding their secrets out. I am not sure that I should have ever tried\nto learn the cause of the General's displeasure, for I am as proud as\nhe is, and besides\" (says Hal), \"when the Chief is angry, it was not\npleasant coming near him, I can promise you.\" My brother was indeed\nsubjugated by his old friend, and obeyed him and bowed before him as a\nboy before a schoolmaster.\n\n\"At last,\" Hal resumed, \"Mrs. Washington found out the mystery.\n'Speak to me after dinner, Colonel Hal,' says she. 'Come out to the\nparade-ground, before the dining-house, and I will tell you all.' I\nleft a half-score of general officers and brigadiers drinking round the\nGeneral's table, and found Mrs. Washington waiting for me. She then told\nme it was the speech I had made about the box of Marquises, with which\nthe General was offended. 'I should not have heeded it in another,'\nhe had said, 'but I never thought Harry Warrington would have joined\nagainst me.'\n\n\"I had to wait on him for the word that night, and found him alone at\nhis table. 'Can your Excellency give me five minutes' time?' I said,\nwith my heart in my mouth. 'Yes, surely, sir,' says he, pointing to the\nother chair. 'Will you please to be seated?'\n\n\"'It used not always to be Sir and Colonel Warrington, between me and\nyour Excellency,' I said.\n\n\"He said, calmly, 'The times are altered.'\n\n\"'Et nos mutamur in illis,' says I. 'Times and people are both changed.'\n\n\"'You had some business with me?' he asked.\n\n\"'Am I speaking to the Commander-in-Chief or to my old friend?' I asked.\n\n\"He looked at me gravely. 'Well,--to both, sir,' he said. 'Pray sit,\nHarry.'\n\n\"'If to General Washington, I tell his Excellency that I, and many\nofficers of this army, are not well pleased to see a boy of twenty made\na major-general over us, because he is a Marquis, and because he can't\nspeak the English language. If I speak to my old friend, I have to say\nthat he has shown me very little of trust or friendship for the last\nfew weeks; and that I have no desire to sit at your table, and have\nimpertinent remarks made by others there, of the way in which his\nExcellency turns his back on me.'\n\n\"'Which charge shall I take first, Harry?' he asked, turning his chair\naway from the table, and crossing his legs as if ready for a talk. 'You\nare jealous, as I gather, about the Marquis?'\n\n\"'Jealous, sir!' says I. 'An aide-de-camp of Mr. Wolfe is not jealous of\na Jack-a-dandy who, five years ago, was being whipped at school!'\n\n\"'You yourself declined higher rank than that which you hold,' says the\nChief, turning a little red.\n\n\"'But I never bargained to have a macaroni Marquis to command me!' I\ncried. 'I will not, for one, carry the young gentleman's orders; and\nsince Congress and your Excellency chooses to take your generals out\nof the nursery, I shall humbly ask leave to resign, and retire to my\nplantation.'\n\n\"'Do, Harry; that is true friendship!' says the Chief, with a gentleness\nthat surprised me. 'Now that your old friend is in a difficulty, 'tis\nsurely the best time to leave him.'\n\n\"'Sir!' says I.\n\n\"'Do as so many of the rest are doing, Mr. Warrington. Et tu, Brute,\nas the play says. Well, well, Harry! I did not think it of you; but, at\nleast, you are in the fashion.'\n\n\"'You asked which charge you should take first?' I said.\n\n\"'Ch, the promotion of the Marquis? I recommended the appointment to\nCongress, no doubt; and you and other gentlemen disapprove it.'\n\n\"'I have spoken for myself, sir,' says I.\n\n\"'If you take me in that tone, Colonel Warrington, I have nothing to\nanswer!' says the Chief, rising up very fiercely; 'and presume that\nI can recommend officers for promotion without asking your previous\nsanction.'\n\n\"'Being on that tone, sir,' says I, 'let me respectfully offer my\nresignation to your Excellency, founding my desire to resign upon the\nfact, that Congress, at your Excellency's recommendation, offers its\nhighest commands to boys of twenty, who are scarcely even acquainted\nwith our language.' And I rise up and make his Excellency a bow.\n\n\"'Great heavens, Harry!' he cries--(about this Marquis's appointment he\nwas beaten, that was the fact, and he could not reply to me), 'can't you\nbelieve that in this critical time of our affairs, there are reasons why\nspecial favours should be shown to the first Frenchman of distinction\nwho comes amongst us?'\n\n\"'No doubt, sir. If your Excellency acknowledges that Monsieur de\nLafayette's merits have nothing to do with the question.'\n\n\"'I acknowledge or deny nothing, sir!' says the General, with a stamp of\nhis foot, and looking as though he could be terribly angry if he would.\n'Am I here to be catechised by you? Stay. Hark, Harry! I speak to you as\na man of the world--nay, as an old friend. This appointment humiliates\nyou and others, you say? Be it so! Must we not bear humiliation, along\nwith the other burthens and griefs, for the sake of our country? It is\nno more just perhaps that the Marquis should be set over you gentlemen,\nthan that your Prince Ferdinand or your Prince of Wales at home should\nhave a command over veterans. But if in appointing this young nobleman\nwe please a whole nation, and bring ourselves twenty millions of allies,\nwill you and other gentlemen sulk because we do him honour? 'Tis easy to\nsneer at him (though, believe me, the Marquis has many more merits\nthan you allow him); to my mind it were more generous, as well as more\npolite, of Harry Warrington to welcome this stranger for the sake of the\nprodigious benefit our country may draw from him--not to laugh at his\npeculiarities, but to aid him and help his ignorance by your experience\nas an old soldier: that is what I would do--that is the part I expected\nof thee--for it is the generous and manly one, Harry: but you choose\nto join my enemies, and when I am in trouble you say you will leave me.\nThat is why I have been hurt: that is why I have been cold. I thought\nI might count on your friendship--and--and you can tell whether I was\nright or no. I relied on you as on a brother, and you come and tell me\nyou will resign. Be it so! Being embarked in this contest, by God's will\nI will see it to an end. You are not the first, Mr. Warrington, has left\nme on the way.'\n\n\"He spoke with so much tenderness, and as he spoke his face wore such a\nlook of unhappiness, that an extreme remorse and pity seized me, and I\ncalled out I know not what incoherent expressions regarding old times,\nand vowed that if he would say the word, I never would leave him. You\nnever loved him, George,\" says my brother, turning to me, \"but I did\nbeyond all mortal men; and, though I am not clever like you, I think my\ninstinct was in the right. He has a greatness not approached by other\nmen\"\n\n\"I don't say no, brother,\" said I, \"now.\"\n\n\"Greatness, pooh!\" says the parson, growling over his wine.\n\n\"We walked into Mrs. Washington's tea-room arm-in-arm,\" Hal resumed;\n\"she looked up quite kind, and saw we were friends. 'Is it all over,\nColonel Harry?' she whispered. 'I know he has applied ever so often\nabout your promotion----'\n\n\"'I never will take it,' says I. And that is how I came to do penance,\"\nsays Harry, telling me the story, \"with Lafayette the next winter.\" (Hal\ncould imitate the Frenchman very well.) \"'I will go weez heem,' says I.\n'I know the way to Quebec, and when we are not in action with Sir Guy, I\ncan hear his Excellency the Major-General say his lesson.' There was no\nfight, you know we could get no army to act in Canada, and returned to\nheadquarters; and what do you think disturbed the Frenchman most? The\nidea that people would laugh at him, because his command had come to\nnothing. And so they did laugh at him, and almost to his face too, and\nwho could help it? If our Chief had any weak point it was this Marquis.\n\n\"After our little difference we became as great friends as before--if\na man may be said to be friends with a Sovereign Prince, for as such I\nsomehow could not help regarding the General: and one night, when we\nhad sate the company out, we talked of old times, and the jolly days of\nsport we had together both before and after Braddock's; and that pretty\nduel you were near having when we were boys. He laughed about it, and\nsaid he never saw a man look more wicked and more bent on killing than\nyou did: 'And to do Sir George justice, I think he has hated me ever\nsince,' says the Chief. 'Ah!' he added, 'an open enemy I can face\nreadily enough. 'Tis the secret foe who causes the doubt and anguish! We\nhave sat with more than one at my table to-day, to whom I am obliged to\nshow a face of civility, whose hands I must take when they are offered,\nthough I know they are stabbing my reputation, and are eager to pull me\ndown from my place. You spoke but lately of being humiliated because a\njunior was set over you in command. What humiliation is yours compared\nto mine, who have to play the farce of welcome to these traitors; who\nhave to bear the neglect of Congress, and see men who have insulted me\npromoted in my own army? If I consulted my own feelings as a man, would\nI continue in this command? You know whether my temper is naturally warm\nor not, and whether as a private gentleman I should be likely to\nsuffer such slights and outrages as are put upon me daily; but in the\nadvancement of the sacred cause in which we are engaged, we have to\nendure not only hardship and danger, but calumny and wrong, and may God\ngive us strength to do our duty!' And then the General showed me\nthe papers regarding the affair of that fellow Conway, whom Congress\npromoted in spite of the intrigue, and down whose black throat John\nCadwalader sent the best ball he ever fired in his life.\n\n\"And it was here,\" said Hal, concluding his story, \"as I looked at the\nChief talking at night in the silence of the camp, and remembered how\nlonely he was, what an awful responsibility he carried, how spies and\ntraitors were eating out of his dish, and an enemy lay in front of him\nwho might at any time overpower him, that I thought, 'Sure, this is the\ngreatest man now in the world; and what a wretch I am to think of my\njealousies and annoyances, whilst he is walking serenely under his\nimmense cares!'\"\n\n\"We talked but now of Wolfe,\" said I. \"Here, indeed, is a greater than\nWolfe. To endure is greater than to dare; to tire out hostile fortune;\nto be daunted by no difficulty; to keep heart when all have lost it; to\ngo through intrigue spotless; and to forgo even ambition when the end is\ngained--who can say this is not greatness, or show the other Englishman\nwho has achieved so much?\"\n\n\"I wonder, Sir George, you did not take Mr. Washington's side, and wear\nthe blue and buff yourself,\" grumbles Parson Blake.\n\n\"You and I thought scarlet most becoming to our complexion, Joe Blake!\"\nsays Sir George. \"And my wife thinks there would not have been room for\ntwo such great men on one side.\"\n\n\"Well, at any rate, you were better than that odious, swearing, crazy\nGeneral Lee, who was second in command!\" cries Lady Warrington. \"And I\nam certain Mr. Washington never could write poetry and tragedies as you\ncan! What did the General say about George's tragedies, Harry?\"\n\nHarry burst into a roar of laughter (in which, of course, Mr. Miles must\njoin his uncle).\n\n\"Well!\" says he, \"it's a fact that Hagan read one at my house to the\nGeneral and Mrs. Washington and several more, and they all fell sound\nasleep!\"\n\n\"He never liked my husband, that is the truth!\" says Theo, tossing up\nher head, \"and 'tis all the more magnanimous of Sir George to speak so\nwell of him.\"\n\nAnd then Hal told how, his battles over, his country freed, his great\nwork of liberation complete, the General laid down his victorious sword,\nand met his comrades of the army in a last adieu. The last\nBritish soldier had quitted the shore of the Republic, and the\nCommander-in-Chief proposed to leave New York for Annapolis, where\nCongress was sitting, and there resign his commission. About noon, on\nthe 4th December, a barge was in waiting at Whitehall Ferry to convey\nhim across the Hudson. The chiefs of the army assembled at a tavern near\nthe ferry, and there the General joined them. Seldom as he showed his\nemotion, outwardly, on this day he could not disguise it. He filled a\nglass of wine, and said, 'I bid you farewell with a heart full of love\nand gratitude, and wish your latter days may be as prosperous and happy\nas those past have been glorious and honourable.' Then he drank to them.\n'I cannot come to each of you to take my leave,' he said, 'but shall be\nobliged if you will each come and shake me by the hand.'\n\nGeneral Knox, who was nearest, came forward, and the Chief, with tears\nin his eyes, embraced him. The others came, one by one, to him, and\ntook their leave without a word. A line of infantry was formed from the\ntavern to the ferry, and the General, with his officers following him,\nwalked silently to the water. He stood up in the barge, taking off his\nhat, and waving a farewell. And his comrades remained bareheaded on the\nshore till their leader's boat was out of view.\n\nAs Harry speaks very low, in the grey of evening, with sometimes a break\nin his voice, we all sit touched and silent. Hetty goes up and kisses\nher father.\n\n\"You tell us of others, General Harry,\" she says, passing a handkerchief\nacross her eyes, \"of Marion and Sumpter, of Greene and Wayne, and Rawdon\nand Cornwallis, too, but you never mention Colonel Warrington!\"\n\n\"My dear, he will tell you his story in private!\" whispers my wife,\nclinging to her sister, \"and you can write it for him.\"\n\nBut it was not to be. My Lady Theo, and her husband too, I own, catching\nthe infection from her, never would let Harry rest, until we had coaxed,\nwheedled, and ordered him to ask Hetty in marriage. He obeyed, and it\nwas she who now declined. \"She had always,\" she said, \"the truest regard\nfor him from the dear old times when they had met as almost children\ntogether. But she would never leave her father. When it pleased God to\ntake him, she hoped she would be too old to think of bearing any other\nname but her own. Harry should have her love always as the best of\nbrothers; and as George and Theo have such a nurseryful of children,\"\nadds Hester, \"we must show our love to them, by saving for the young\nones.\" She sent him her answer in writing, leaving home on a visit to\nfriends at a distance, as though she would have him to understand that\nher decision was final. As such Hal received it. He did not break his\nheart. Cupid's arrows, ladies, don't bite very deep into the tough skins\nof gentlemen of our age; though, to be sure, at the time of which I\nwrite, my brother was still a young man, being little more than fifty.\nAunt Het is now a staid little lady with a voice of which years have\ntouched the sweet chords, and a head which Time has powdered over with\nsilver. There are days when she looks surprisingly young and blooming.\nAh me, my dear, it seems but a little while since the hair was golden\nbrown, and the cheeks as fresh as roses! And then came the bitter blast\nof love unrequited which withered them; and that long loneliness of\nheart which, they say, follows. Why should Theo and I have been so\nhappy, and thou so lonely? Why should my meal be garnished with love,\nand spread with plenty, while yon solitary outcast shivers at my gate? I\nbow my head humbly before the Dispenser of pain and poverty, wealth and\nhealth; I feel sometimes as if, for the prizes which have fallen to the\nlot of me unworthy, I did not dare to be grateful. But I hear the voices\nof my children in their garden, or look up at their mother from my book,\nor perhaps my sick-bed, and my heart fills with instinctive gratitude\ntowards the bountiful Heaven that has so blest me.\n\n\nSince my accession to my uncle's title and estate my intercourse with\nmy good cousin Lord Castlewood had been very rare. I had always supposed\nhim to be a follower of the winning side in politics, and was not a\nlittle astonished to hear of his sudden appearance in opposition. A\ndisappointment in respect to a place at court, of which he pretended to\nhave had some promise, was partly the occasion of his rupture with the\nMinistry. It is said that the most August Person in the realm had flatly\nrefused to receive into the R-y-l Household a nobleman whose character\nwas so notoriously bad, and whose example (so the August Objector was\npleased to say) would ruin and corrupt any respectable family. I heard\nof the Castlewoods during our travels in Europe, and that the mania for\nplay had again seized upon his lordship. His impaired fortunes having\nbeen retrieved by the prudence of his wife and father-in-law, he had\nagain begun to dissipate his income at hombre and lansquenet. There\nwere tales of malpractices in which he had been discovered, and even of\nchastisement inflicted upon him by the victims of his unscrupulous\narts. His wife's beauty and freshness faded early; we met but once at\nAix-la-Chapelle, where Lady Castlewood besought my wife to go and\nsee her, and afflicted Lady Warrington's kind heart by stories of the\nneglect and outrage of which her unfortunate husband was guilty. We were\nwilling to receive these as some excuse and palliation for the unhappy\nlady's own conduct. A notorious adventurer, gambler, and spadassin,\ncalling himself the Chevalier de Barry, and said to be a relative of\nthe mistress of the French King, but afterwards turning out to be an\nIrishman of low extraction, was in constant attendance upon the Earl and\nCountess at this time, and conspicuous for the audacity of his lies, the\nextravagance of his play, and somewhat mercenary gallantry towards the\nother sex, and a ferocious bravo courage, which, however, failed him\non one or two awkward occasions, if common report said true. He\nsubsequently married, and rendered miserable a lady of title and fortune\nin England. The poor little American lady's interested union with Lord\nCastlewood was scarcely more happy.\n\nI remember our little Miles's infantile envy being excited by learning\nthat Lord Castlewood's second son, a child a few months younger than\nhimself, was already an ensign on the Irish establishment, whose pay the\nfond parents regularly drew. This piece of preferment my lord must have\ngot for his cadet whilst he was on good terms with the Minister, during\nwhich period of favour Will Esmond was also shifted off to New York.\nWhilst I was in America myself, we read in an English journal that\nCaptain Charles Esmond had resigned his commission in his Majesty's\nservice, as not wishing to take up arms against the countrymen of his\nmother, the Countess of Castlewood. \"It is the doing of the old fox, Van\nden Bosch,\" Madam Esmond said; \"he wishes to keep his Virginian property\nsafe, whatever side should win!\" I may mention, with respect to this\nold worthy, that he continued to reside in England for a while after the\nDeclaration of Independence, not at all denying his sympathy with the\nAmerican cause, but keeping a pretty quiet tongue, and alleging that\nsuch a very old man as himself was past the age of action or mischief,\nin which opinion the Government concurred, no doubt, as he was left\nquite unmolested. But of a sudden a warrant was out after him, when it\nwas surprising with what agility he stirred himself, and skipped off to\nFrance, whence he presently embarked upon his return to Virginia.\n\nThe old man bore the worst reputation amongst the Loyalists of our\ncolony; and was nicknamed \"Jack the Painter\" amongst them, much to\nhis indignation, after a certain miscreant who was hung in England\nfor burning naval stores in our ports there. He professed to have\nlost prodigious sums at home by the persecution of the Government,\ndistinguished himself by the loudest patriotism and the most violent\nreligious outcries in Virginia; where, nevertheless, he was not much\nmore liked by the Whigs than by the party who still remained faithful\nto the Crown. He wondered that such an old Tory as Madam Esmond of\nCastlewood was suffered to go at large, and was for ever crying out\nagainst her amongst the gentlemen of the new Assembly, the Governor, and\nofficers of the State. He and Fanny had high words in Richmond one\nday, when she told him he was an old swindler and traitor, and that the\nmother of Colonel Henry Warrington, the bosom friend of his Excellency\nthe Commander-in-Chief, was not to be insulted by such a little\nsmuggling slave-driver as him! I think it was in the year 1780 an\naccident happened, when the old Register Office at Williamsburg was\nburned down, in which there was a copy of the formal assignment of the\nVirginia property from Francis Lord Castlewood to my grandfather Henry\nEsmond, Esquire. \"Oh,\" says Fanny, \"of course this is the work of Jack\nthe Painter!\" And Mr. Van den Bosch was for prosecuting her for libel,\nbut that Fanny took to her bed at this juncture, and died.\n\nVan den Bosch made contracts with the new Government, and sold them\nbargains, as the phrase is. He supplied horses, meat, forage, all of bad\nquality; but when Arnold came into Virginia (in the King's service) and\nburned right and left, Van den Bosch's stores and tobacco-houses somehow\nwere spared. Some secret Whigs now took their revenge on the old rascal.\nA couple of his ships in James River, his stores, and a quantity of his\ncattle in their stalls were roasted amidst a hideous bellowing; and\nhe got a note, as he was in Arnold's company, saying that friends\nhad served him as he served others; and containing \"Tom the Glazier's\ncompliments to brother Jack the Painter.\" Nobody pitied the old man,\nthough he went well-nigh mad at his loss. In Arnold's suite came\nthe Honourable Captain William Esmond, of the New York Loyalists, as\naide-de-camp to the General. When Howe occupied Philadelphia, Will was\nsaid to have made some money keeping a gambling-house with an officer\nof the dragoons of Anspach. I know not how he lost it. He could not have\nhad much when he consented to become an aide-de-camp of Arnold.\n\nNow, the King's officers having reappeared in the province, Madam Esmond\nthought fit to open her house at Castlewood and invite them thither--and\nactually received Mr. Arnold and his suite. \"It is not for me,\" she\nsaid, \"to refuse my welcome to a man whom my Sovereign has admitted to\ngrace.\" And she threw her house open to him, and treated him with great\nthough frigid respect whilst he remained in the district. The General\ngone, and, his precious aide-de-camp with him, some of the rascals who\nfollowed in their suite remained behind in the house where they had\nreceived so much hospitality, insulted the old lady in her hall,\ninsulted her people, and finally set fire to the old mansion in a frolic\nof drunken fury. Our house at Richmond was not burned, luckily, though\nMr. Arnold had fired the town; and thither the undaunted old lady\nproceeded, surrounded by her people, and never swerving in her loyalty,\nin spite of her ill-usage. \"The Esmonds,\" she said, \"were accustomed to\nRoyal ingratitude.\"\n\nAnd now Mr. Van den Bosch, in the name of his grandson and my Lord\nCastlewood, in England, set up a claim to our property in Virginia.\nHe said it was not my lord's intention to disturb Madam Esmond in her\nenjoyment of the estate during her life, but that his father, it had\nalways been understood, had given his kinsman a life-interest in the\nplace, and only continued it to his daughter out of generosity. Now my\nlord proposed that his second son should inhabit Virginia, for which\nthe young gentleman had always shown the warmest sympathy. The outcry\nagainst Van den Bosch was so great that he would have been tarred and\nfeathered, had he remained in Virginia. He betook himself to Congress,\nrepresented himself as a martyr ruined in the cause of liberty, and\nprayed for compensation for himself and justice for his grandson.\n\nMy mother lived long in dreadful apprehension, having in truth a secret,\nwhich she did not like to disclose to any one. Her titles were burned!\nthe deed of assignment in her own house, the copy in the Registry at\nRichmond, had alike been destroyed--by chance? by villainy? who could\nsay? She did not like to confide this trouble in writing to me.\nShe opened herself to Hal, after the surrender of York Town, and he\nacquainted me with the fact in a letter by a British officer returning\nhome on his parole. Then I remembered the unlucky words I had let slip\nbefore Will Esmond at the coffee-house at New York; and a part of this\niniquitous scheme broke upon me.\n\nAs for Mr. Will: there is a tablet in Castlewood Church, in Hampshire,\ninscribed, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, and announcing that\n\"This marble is placed by a mourning brother, to the memory of the\nHonourable William Esmond, Esquire, who died in North America, in the\nservice of his King.\" But how? When, towards the end of 1781, a revolt\ntook place in the Philadelphia Line of the Congress Army, and Sir Henry\nClinton sent out agents to the mutineers, what became of them? The men\ntook the spies prisoners, and proceeded to judge them, and my brother\n(whom they knew and loved, and had often followed under fire), who had\nbeen sent from camp to make terms with the troops, recognised one of the\nspies, just as execution was about to be done upon him--and the wretch,\nwith horrid outcries, grovelling and kneeling at Colonel Warrington's\nfeet, besought him for mercy, and promised to confess all to him. To\nconfess what? Harry turned away sick at heart. Will's mother and sister\nnever knew the truth. They always fancied it was in action he was\nkilled.\n\nAs for my lord earl, whose noble son has been the intendant of an\nillustrious Prince, and who has enriched himself at play with his R---l\nmaster: I went to see his lordship when I heard of this astounding\ndesign against our property, and remonstrated with him on the matter.\nFor myself, as I showed him, I was not concerned, as I had determined\nto cede my right to my brother. He received me with perfect courtesy;\nsmiled when I spoke of my disinterestedness; said he was sure of my\naffectionate feelings towards my brother, but what must be his towards\nhis son? He had always heard from his father: he would take his Bible\noath of that: that, at my mother's death, the property would return to\nthe head of the family. At the story of the title which Colonel Esmond\nhad ceded, he shrugged his shoulders, and treated it as a fable. \"On\nne fait pas de ces folies la!\" says he, offering me snuff, \"and your\ngrandfather was a man of esprit! My little grandmother was eprise of\nhim: and my father, the most good-natured soul alive, lent them the\nVirginian property to get them out of the way! C'etoit un scandale, mon\ncher, un joli petit scandale!\" Oh, if my mother had but heard him! I\nmight have been disposed to take a high tone: but he said, with the\nutmost good-nature, \"My dear Knight, are you going to fight about the\ncharacter of our grandmother? Allons donc! Come, I will be fair with\nyou! We will compromise, if you like, about this Virginian property!\"\nand his lordship named a sum greater than the actual value of the\nestate.\n\nAmazed at the coolness of this worthy, I walked away to my coffee-house,\nwhere, as it happened, an old friend was to dine with me, for whom I\nhave a sincere regard. I had felt a pang at not being able to give this\ngentleman my living of Warrington--on-Waveney, but I could not, as he\nhimself confessed honestly. His life had been too loose, and his example\nin my village could never have been edifying: besides, he would have\ndied of ennui there, after being accustomed to a town life; and he had\na prospect finally, he told me, of settling himself most comfortably in\nLondon and the church. [He was the second Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's\nChapel, Mayfair, and married Elizabeth, relict of Hermann Voelcker,\nEsq., the eminent brewer.] My guest, I need not say, was my old friend\nSampson, who never failed to dine with me when I came to town, and I\ntold him of my interview with his old patron.\n\nI could not have lighted upon a better confidant. \"Gracious powers!\"\nsays Sampson, \"the man's roguery beats all belief! When I was secretary\nand factotum at Castlewood, I can take my oath I saw more than once a\ncopy of the deed of assignment by the late lord to your grandfather:\n'In consideration of the love I bear to my kinsman Henry Esmond,\nEsq., husband of my dear mother Rachel, Lady Viscountess Dowager of\nCastlewood, I, etc.'--so it ran. I know the place where 'tis kept--let\nus go thither as fast as horses will carry us to-morrow. There is\nsomebody there--never mind whom, Sir George--who has an old regard for\nme. The papers may be there to this very day, and O Lord, O Lord, but I\nshall be thankful if I can in any way show my gratitude to you and your\nglorious brother!\" His eyes filled with tears. He was an altered man.\nAt a certain period of the port wine Sampson always alluded with\ncompunction to his past life, and the change which had taken place in\nhis conduct since the awful death of his friend Doctor Dodd.\n\nQuick as we were, we did not arrive at Castlewood too soon. I was\nlooking at the fountain in the court, and listening to that sweet sad\nmusic of its plashing, which my grandfather tells of in his memoires,\nand peopling the place with bygone figures, with Beatrix in her beauty;\nwith my Lord Francis in scarlet, calling to his dogs and mounting\nhis grey horse; with the young page of old who won the castle and the\nheiress--when Sampson comes running down to me with an old volume in\nrough calf-bound in his hand, containing drafts of letters, copies\nof agreements, and various writings, some by a secretary of my Lord\nFrancis, some in the slim handwriting of his wife my grandmother, some\nbearing the signature of the last lord; and here was a copy of the\nassignment sure enough, as it had been sent to my grandfather in\nVirginia. \"Victoria, Victoria!\" cries Sampson, shaking my hand,\nembracing everybody. \"Here is a guinea for thee, Betty. We'll have a\nbowl of punch at the Three Castles to-night!\" As we were talking, the\nwheels of postchaises were heard, and a couple of carriages drove into\nthe court containing my lord and a friend, and their servants in the\nnext vehicle. His lordship looked only a little paler than usual at\nseeing me.\n\n\"What procures me the honour of Sir George Warrington's visit, and\npray, Mr. Sampson, what do you do here?\" says my lord. I think he had\nforgotten the existence of this book, or had never seen it; and when he\noffered to take his Bible oath of what he had heard from his father, had\nsimply volunteered a perjury.\n\nI was shaking hands with his companion, a nobleman with whom I had had\nthe honour to serve in America. \"I came,\" I said, \"to convince myself of\na fact, about which you were mistaken yesterday; and I find the proof\nin your lordship's own house. Your lordship was pleased to take your\nlordship's Bible oath, that there was no agreement between your father\nand his mother, relative to some property which I hold. When Mr. Sampson\nwas your lordship's secretary, he perfectly remembered having seen a\ncopy of such an assignment, and here it is.\"\n\n\"And do you mean, Sir George Warrington, that unknown to me you have\nbeen visiting my papers?\" cries my lord.\n\n\"I doubted the correctness of your statement, though backed by your\nlordship's Bible oath,\" I said with a bow.\n\n\"This, sir, is robbery! Give the papers back!\" bawled my lord.\n\n\"Robbery is a rough word, my lord. Shall I tell the whole story to Lord\nRawdon?\"\n\n\"What, is it about the Marquisate? Connu, connu, my dear Sir George! We\nalways called you the Marquis in New York. I don't know who brought the\nstory from Virginia.\"\n\nI never had heard this absurd nickname before, and did not care\nto notice it. \"My Lord Castlewood,\" I said, \"not only doubted, but\nyesterday laid a claim to my property, taking his Bible oath that----\"\n\nCastlewood gave a kind of gasp, and then said, \"Great heaven! Do you\nmean, Sir George, that there actually is an agreement extant? Yes. Here\nit is--my father's handwriting, sure enough! Then the question is clear.\nUpon my o----well, upon my honour as a gentleman! I never knew of such\nan agreement, and must have been mistaken in what my father said. This\npaper clearly shows the property is yours: and not being mine--why, I\nwish you joy of it!\" and he held out his hand with the blandest smile.\n\n\"And how thankful you will be to me, my lord, for having enabled him to\nestablish the right,\" says Sampson, with a leer on his face.\n\n\"Thankful? No, confound you. Not in the least!\" says my lord. \"I am a\nplain man; I don't disguise from my cousin that I would rather have\nhad the property than he. Sir George, you will stay and dine with us.\nA large party is coming down here shooting; we ought to have you one of\nus!\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said I, buttoning the book under my coat, \"I will go and get\nthis document copied, and then return it to your lordship. As my mother\nin Virginia has had her papers burned, she will be put out of much\nanxiety by having this assignment safely lodged.\"\n\n\"What, have Madam Esmond's papers been burned? When the deuce was that?\"\nasks my lord.\n\n\"My lord, I wish you a very good afternoon. Come, Sampson, you and I\nwill go and dine at the Three Castles.\" And I turned on my heel, making\na bow to Lord R------, and from that day to this I have never set my\nfoot within the halls of my ancestors.\n\nShall I ever see the old mother again, I wonder? She lives in Richmond,\nnever having rebuilt her house in the country. When Hal was in England,\nwe sent her pictures of both her sons, painted by the admirable Sir\nJoshua Reynolds. We sate to him, the last year Mr. Johnson was alive, I\nremember. And the Doctor, peering about the studio, and seeing the image\nof Hal in his uniform (the appearance of it caused no little excitement\nin those days), asked who was this? and was informed that it was the\nfamous American General--General Warrington, Sir George's brother.\n\"General Who?\" cries the Doctor, \"General Where? Pooh! I don't know such\na service!\" and he turned his back and walked out of the premises. My\nworship is painted in scarlet, and we have replicas of both performances\nat home. But the picture which Captain Miles and the girls declare to be\nmost like is a family sketch by my ingenious neighbour, Mr. Bunbury, who\nhas drawn me and my lady with Monsieur Gumbo following us, and written\nunder the piece, \"SIR GEORGE, MY LADY, AND THEIR MASTER.\"\n\nHere my master comes; he has poked out all the house-fires, has looked\nto all the bolts, has ordered the whole male and female crew to their\nchambers; and begins to blow my candles out, and says, \"Time, Sir\nGeorge, to go to bed! Twelve o'clock!\"\n\n\"Bless me! So indeed it is.\" And I close my book, and go to my rest,\nwith a blessing on those now around me asleep.\n\n\nTHE END"