Chapter II. I Go Home, And Harp On The Old String
After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a packet atOstend, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman Castlewood atBruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof Frank besought him to be thebearer to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety.
The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being anxious tosow his "wild otes", as he wrote, had married Mademoiselle de Wertheim,daughter of Count de Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having apost in the Household of the Governor of the Netherlands.
PS. (the young gentleman wrote): Clotilda is _older than me_, which perhaps may be objected to her: but I am so _old a raik_ that the age makes no difference, and I am _determined_ to reform. We were married at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart and soul for the _good cause_. And here the cry is _Vif-le-Roy_, which my mother will _join in_, and Trix _too_. Break this news to 'em gently: and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the people for their rents, and send me the _ryno_ anyhow. Clotilda sings, and plays on the Spinet _beautifully_. She is a fair beauty. And if it's a son, you shall stand _Godfather_. I'm going to leave the army, having had _enuf of soldering_; and my lord duke _recommends_ me. I shall pass the winter here: and stop at least until Clo's lying-in. I call her _old Clo_, but nobody else shall. She is the cleverest woman in all Bruxelles: understanding painting, music, poetry, and perfect at _cookery and puddens_. I borded with the count, that's how I came to know her. There are four counts her brothers. One an abbey--three with the prince's army. They have a lawsuit for _an immense fortune_: but are now in a _pore way_. Break this to mother, who'll take anything from _you_. And write, and bid Finch write _amediately_. Hostel de 'l'Aigle Noire, Bruxelles, Flanders.
So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was expected, andMr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his mistress at London. 'Twasa difficult embassy; and the colonel felt not a little tremor as he nearedthe capital.
He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to announcehis arrival and visit the next morning. The messenger brought back newsthat the Court was at Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged inher duties there. Only Esmond's mistress remained in her house atKensington. She appeared in Court but once in the year; Beatrix was quitethe mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the companythither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure. Whilsther mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and elder sister,pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded.
As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been awake long before thetown), he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so early that he methis dear mistress coming home from morning prayers. She carried herPrayer-book, never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else did:and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupation had been.He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out as she looked towardshim. She wore her hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when she sawhim. To feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed to give himstrength. They soon were at the door of her ladyship's house--and withinit.
With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.
"How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry," she said.
'Tis certain the colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts do notlook very happy, 'tis said. Esmond always felt so on returning to herafter absence, indeed whenever he looked in her sweet kind face.
"I am come back to be nursed by my family," says he. "If Frank had nottaken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gonealtogether."
"Poor Frank, good Frank!" says his mother. "You'll always be kind to him,my lord," she went on. "The poor child never knew he was doing you awrong."
"My lord!" cries out Colonel Esmond. "What do you mean, dear lady?"
"I am no lady," says she; "I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond's widow, mylord. I cannot bear that title. Would we never had taken it from him whohas it now. But we did all in our power, Henry: we did all in our power;and my lord and I--that is----"
"Who told you this tale, dearest lady?" asked the colonel.
"Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at Mons directly Iheard it," says Lady Esmond.
"And from whom?" again asked Colonel Esmond--and his mistress then told himthat on her death-bed the dowager countess, sending for her, had presentedher with this dismal secret as a legacy. "'Twas very malicious of thedowager," Lady Esmond said, "to have had it so long, and to have kept thetruth from me. 'Cousin Rachel,' she said," and Esmond's mistress could notforbear smiling as she told the story, " 'cousin Rachel,' cries thedowager, 'I have sent for you, as the doctors say I may go off any day inthis dysentery; and to ease my conscience of a great load that has been onit. You always have been a poor creature and unfit for great honour, andwhat I have to say won't, therefore, affect you so much. You must know,cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, plate, and furniture, threethousand pounds in money, and my diamonds that my late revered saint andsovereign, King James, presented me with, to my Lord Viscount Castlewood.'
" 'To my Frank?' " says Lady Castlewood: " 'I was in hopes----
" 'To Viscount Castlewood, my dear, Viscount Castlewood, and Baron Esmondof Shandon in the kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of Esmond underpatent of his Majesty King James the Second, conferred upon my husband thelate marquis--for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and man.'
" 'And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear marchioness?' " asks LadyCastlewood (she hath told me the story completely since with her quietarch way; the most charming any woman ever had: and I set down thenarrative here at length so as to have done with it). " 'And have you leftpoor Harry nothing?' " asks my dear lady: "for you know, Henry," she sayswith her sweet smile, "I used always to pity Esau--and I think I am on hisside--though papa tried very hard to convince me the other way.
" 'Poor Harry!' says the old lady. 'So you want something left to poorHarry: he, he! (reach me the drops, cousin). Well then, my dear, since youwant poor Harry to have a fortune: you must understand that ever since theyear 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where the Prince ofOrange defeated his royal sovereign and father, for which crime he is nowsuffering in flames (ugh, ugh), Henry Esmond hath been Marquis of Esmondand Earl of Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and Baron and ViscountCastlewood of Shandon in Ireland, and a baronet--and his eldest son willbe, by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood--he! he! What do you think ofthat, my dear?'
" 'Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?' " cries the other lady(thinking perhaps that the old marchioness was wandering in her wits).
" 'My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch,' " the sicksinner continued. " 'When he was in the Low Countries he seduced aweaver's daughter; and added to his wickedness by marrying her. And thenhe came to this country and married me--a poor girl--a poor innocent youngthing--I say,' though she was past forty, you know, Harry, when shemarried: and as for being innocent--'Well,' she went on, 'I knew nothing ofmy lord's wickedness for three years after our marriage, and after theburial of our poor little boy I had it done over again, my dear. I hadmyself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon as ever Iheard the creature was dead--and having a great illness then, arising fromanother sad disappointment I had, the priest came and told me that my lordhad a son before our marriage, and that the child was at nurse in England;and I consented to let the brat be brought home, and a queer littlemelancholy child it was when it came.
" 'Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he was bred for this,until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman. And I had again hopesof giving an heir to my lord, when he was called away upon the king'sbusiness, and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne Water.
" 'Should I be disappointed--I owed your husband no love, my dear, for hehad jilted me in the most scandalous way; and I thought there wo
uld betime to declare the little weaver's son for the true heir. But I wascarried off to prison, where your husband was so kind to me--urging all hisfriends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favour--that Irelented towards him, especially as my director counselled me to besilent; and that it was for the good of the king's service that the titleof our family should continue with your husband the late viscount, wherebyhis fidelity would be always secured to the king. And a proof of this is,that a year before your husband's death, when he thought of taking a placeunder the Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what thestate of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large sum for hisMajesty: and engaged him in the true cause so heartily, that we were sureof his support on any day when it should be considered advisable to attackthe usurper. Then his sudden death came; and there was a thought ofdeclaring the truth. But 'twas determined to be best for the king'sservice to let the title still go with the younger branch; and there's nosacrifice a Castlewood wouldn't make for that cause, my dear.
" 'As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already' (and then, Harry," mymistress said, "she told me of what had happened at my dear husband'sdeath-bed). 'He doth not intend to take the title, though it belongs tohim. But it eases my conscience that you should know the truth, my dear.And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood so long as his cousin dothnot claim the rank.' "
This was the substance of the dowager's revelation. Dean Atterbury hadknowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well knows how:that divine being the clergyman for whom the late lord had sent on hisdeath-bed: and when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written to herson, and conveyed the truth to him, the dean's advice was that a lettershould be writ to Colonel Esmond rather; that the matter should besubmitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of the family werebound to abide.
"And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?" says the colonel.
"It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house."
"It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's bedside," saysColonel Esmond. "The children must know nothing of this. Frank and hisheirs after him must bear our name. 'Tis his rightfully; I have not even aproof of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor lord, onhis death-bed, told me that Father Holt had brought such a proof toCastlewood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and looked at mypoor mother's grave in her convent. What matter to her now? No court oflaw on earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my lord viscount and set meup. I am the head of the house, dear lady; but Frank is Viscount ofCastlewood still. And rather than disturb him, I would turn monk, ordisappear in America."
As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would have beenwilling to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice any day, the fondcreature flung herself down on her knees before him, and kissed both hishands in an outbreak of passionate love and gratitude, such as could notbut melt his heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that God hadgiven him the power to show his love for her, and to prove it by somelittle sacrifice on his own part. To be able to bestow benefits orhappiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred upona man--and what wealth or name, or gratification of ambition or vanity,could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being able to confersome kindness upon his best and dearest friends?
"Dearest saint," says he--"purest soul, that has had so much to suffer,that has blest the poor lonely orphan with such a treasure of love. 'Tisfor me to kneel, not for you: 'tis for me to be thankful that I can makeyou happy. Hath my life any other aim? Blessed be God that I can serveyou! What pleasure, think you, could all the world give me compared tothat?"
"Don't raise me," she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who would havelifted her. "Let me kneel--let me kneel, and--and--worship you."
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Before such a partial judge, as Esmond's dear mistress owned herself tobe, any cause which he might plead was sure to be given in his favour; andaccordingly he found little difficulty in reconciling her to the newswhereof he was bearer, of her son's marriage to a foreign lady, Papistthough she was. Lady Castlewood never could be brought to think so ill ofthat religion as other people in England thought of it: she held that ourswas undoubtedly a branch of the Church Catholic, but that the Roman wasone of the main stems on which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted(she was, for a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this controversy,having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late dean, andwritten many of his sermons, under his dictation); and if Frank had chosento marry a lady of the Church of South Europe, as she would call the Romancommunion, that was no need why she should not welcome her as adaughter-in-law: and accordingly she writ to her new daughter a verypretty, touching letter (as Esmond thought, who had cognizance of itbefore it went), in which the only hint of reproof was a gentleremonstrance that her son had not written to herself, to ask a fondmother's blessing for that step which he was about taking. "Castlewoodknew very well," so she wrote to her son, "that she never denied himanything in her power to give, much less would she think of opposing amarriage that was to make his happiness, as she trusted, and keep him outof wild courses, which had alarmed her a good deal: and she besought himto come quickly to England, to settle down in his family house ofCastlewood ('It is his family house,' says she, to Colonel Esmond, 'thoughonly his own house by your forbearance'), and to receive the accompt ofher stewardship during his ten years' minority." By care and frugality,she had got the estate into a better condition than ever it had been sincethe Parliamentary wars; and my lord was now master of a pretty, smallincome, not encumbered of debts, as it had been, during his father'sruinous time. "But in saving my son's fortune," says she, "I fear I havelost a great part of my hold on him." And, indeed, this was the case; herladyship's daughter complaining that their mother did all for Frank, andnothing for her; and Frank himself being dissatisfied at the narrow,simple way of his mother's living at Walcote, where he had been brought upmore like a poor parson's son, than a young nobleman that was to make afigure in the world. 'Twas this mistake in his early training, verylikely, that set him so eager upon pleasure when he had it in his power;nor is he the first lad that has been spoiled by the over-careful fondnessof women. No training is so useful for children, great or small, as thecompany of their betters in rank or natural parts; in whose society theylose the overweening sense of their own importance, which stay-at-homepeople very commonly learn.
But, as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts to hisfriends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the rogue keeps backsome immense swingeing bill, that he doesn't dare to own; so the poorFrank had a very heavy piece of news to break to his mother, and which hehadn't the courage to introduce into his first confession. Some misgivingsEsmond might have, upon receiving Frank's letter, and knowing into whathands the boy had fallen; but whatever these misgivings were, he kept themto himself, not caring to trouble his mistress with any fears that mightbe groundless.
However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after Frank had receivedhis mother's letter there, brought back a joint composition from himselfand his wife, who could spell no better than her young scapegrace of ahusband, full of expressions of thanks, love, and duty to the dowagerviscountess, as my poor lady now was styled; and along with this letter(which was read in a family council, namely, the viscountess, MistressBeatrix, and the writer of this memoir, and which was pronounced to bevulgar by the maid of honour, and felt to be so by the other two), therecame a private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank, with anotherdismal commission for the colonel to execute, at his best opportunity; andthis was to announce that Frank had seen fit, "by the exhortation of Mr.Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and the blessing of Heaven and thesaints," says my lord, demurely, "to change his religion, and be receivedinto the bosom of that Church of which his sovereign, many of his family,and the greater part of the civilized world, were members." And hislordship added a p
ostscript, of which Esmond knew the inspiring geniusvery well, for it had the genuine twang of the seminary, and was quiteunlike poor Frank's ordinary style of writing and thinking; in which hereminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, by birth, of that Church; andthat his mother and sister should have his lordship's prayers to thesaints (an inestimable benefit, truly!) for their conversion.
If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret he could not; for a day or twoafter receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles appeared in the_Post-Boy_, and other prints, announcing that "a young Irish lord, theViscount C-stle-w--d, just come to his majority, and who had served thelast campaigns with great credit, as aide de camp to his grace the Duke ofMarlborough, had declared for the Popish religion at Bruxelles, and hadwalked in a procession barefoot, with a wax taper in his hand." Thenotorious Mr. Holt, who had been employed as a Jacobite agent during thelast reign, and many times pardoned by King William, had been, the_Post-Boy_ said, the agent of this conversion.
The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss Beatrix wasindignant at it. "So," says she, "Castlewood is no longer a home for us,mother. Frank's foreign wife will bring her confessor, and there will befrogs for dinner; and all Tusher's and my grandfather's sermons are flungaway upon my brother. I used to tell you that you killed him with theCatechism, and that he would turn wicked as soon as he broke from hismammy's leading-strings. Oh, mother, you would not believe that the youngscapegrace was playing you tricks, and that sneak of a Tusher was not afit guide for him. Oh, those parsons! I hate 'em all," says MistressBeatrix, clapping her hands together; "yes, whether they wear cassocks andbuckles, or beards and bare feet. There's a horrid Irish wretch who nevermisses a Sunday at Court, and who pays me compliments there, the horribleman; and if you want to know what parsons are, you should see hisbehaviour, and hear him talk of his own cloth. They're all the same,whether they're bishops or bonzes, or Indian fakirs. They try to domineer,and they frighten us with kingdom come; and they wear a sanctified air inpublic, and expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing; andthey intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and they slander worsethan the worst courtier or the wickedest old woman. I heard this Mr. Swiftsneering at my Lord Duke of Marlborough's courage the other day. He! thatTeague from Dublin! because his grace is not in favour, dares to say thisof him; and he says this that it may get to her Majesty's ear, and to coaxand wheedle Mrs. Masham. They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen ofmistresses in his Court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king overus, I wager that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, willcoax and wheedle them. Oh, those priests and their grave airs! I'm sick oftheir square toes and their rustling cassocks. I should like to go to acountry where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of 'em; and Iwould, only the dress is not becoming, and I've much too pretty a figureto hide it. Haven't I, cousin?" and here she glanced at her person and thelooking-glass, which told her rightly that a more beautiful shape and facenever were seen.
"I made that onslaught on the priests," says Miss Beatrix, afterwards, "inorder to divert my poor dear mother's anguish about Frank. Frank is asvain as a girl, cousin. Talk of us girls being vain, what are _we_ to you?It was easy to see that the first woman who chose would make a fool ofhim, or the first robe--I count a priest and a woman all the same. We arealways caballing; we are not answerable for the fibs we tell; we arealways cajoling and coaxing, or threatening; and we are always makingmischief, Colonel Esmond--mark my word for that, who know the the world,sir, and have to make my way in it. I see as well as possible how Frank'smarriage hath been managed. The count, our papa-in-law, is always away atthe coffee-house. The countess, our mother, is always in the kitchenlooking after the dinner. The countess, our sister, is at the spinet. Whenmy lord comes to say he is going on the campaign, the lovely Clotildabursts into tears, and faints so; he catches her in his arms--no, sir, keepyour distance, cousin, if you please--she cries on his shoulder, and hesays, 'Oh, my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry topart with me?' 'Oh, my Francisco,' says she, 'oh, my lord!' and at thisvery instant mamma and a couple of young brothers, with moustachios andlong rapiers, come in from the kitchen, where they have been eating breadand onions. Mark my word, you will have all this woman's relations atCastlewood three months after she has arrived there. The old count andcountess, and the young counts and all the little countesses her sisters.Counts! every one of these wretches says he is a count. Guiscard, thatstabbed Mr. Harvy, said he was a count; and I believe he was a barber. AllFrenchmen are barbers--Fiddle-dee! don't contradict me--or elsedancing-masters, or else priests;" and so she rattled on.
"Who was it taught _you_ to dance, cousin Beatrix?" says the colonel.
She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsy, coming up tothe recover with the prettiest little foot in the world pointed out. Hermother came in as she was in this attitude; my lady had been in hercloset, having taken poor Frank's conversion in a very serious way; themadcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms round her waist, kissedher, tried to make her dance, and said: "Don't be silly, you kind littlemamma, and cry about Frank turning Papist. What a figure he must be, witha white sheet and a candle walking in a procession barefoot!" And shekicked off her little slippers (the wonderfullest little shoes withwonderful tall red heels, Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close besidehim), and she put on the drollest little _moue_, and marched up and downthe room holding Esmond's cane by way of taper. Serious as her mood was,Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing; and as for Esmond helooked on with that delight with which the sight of this fair creaturealways inspired him: never had he seen any woman so arch, so brilliant,and so beautiful.
Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper. Thecolonel knelt down: "If you will be Pope I will turn Papist," says he; andher holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged footbefore he put the slipper on.
Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and Beatrix,whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of impatience. Sheran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry of, "Oh, you sillylittle mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as mine," says she: "they are,cousin, though she hides 'em; but the shoemaker will tell you that hemakes for both off the same last."
"You are taller than I am, dearest," says her mother, blushing over herwhole sweet face--"and--and it is your hand, my dear, and not your foot hewants you to give him," and she said it with a hysteric laugh, that hadmore of tears than laughter in it; laying her head on her daughter's fairshoulder, and hiding it there. They made a very pretty picture together,and looked like a pair of sisters--the sweet simple matron seeming youngerthan her years, and her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from acommanding manner and grace which she possessed above most women, hermother's superior and protectress.
"But, oh!" cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, andreturning to her usual sad tone, "'tis a shame that we should laugh and bemaking merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees and askingpardon."
"Asking pardon for what?" says saucy Mrs. Beatrix,--"because Frank takes itinto his head to fast on Fridays, and worship images? You know if you hadbeen born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end ofyour days. 'Tis the religion of the king and of some of the best quality.For my part, I'm no enemy to it, and think Queen Bess was not a pennybetter than Queen Mary."
"Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of whatparentage you come," cries my lady. Beatrix was ordering her ribbons, andadjusting her tucker, and performing a dozen provoking pretty ceremonies,before the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never at thattime could be brought to think but of the world and her beauty; and seemedto have no more sense of devotion than some people have of music, thatcannot distinguish one air from another. Esmond saw this fault in her, ashe saw many others--a bad wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he thought, forany man under the degree of a prince. She was born to shi
ne in greatassemblies, and to adorn palaces, and to command everywhere--to conduct anintrigue of politics, or to glitter in a queen's train. But to sit at ahomely table, and mend the stockings of a poor man's children! that was nofitting duty for her, or at least one that she wouldn't have broke herheart in trying to do. She was a princess, though she had scarce ashilling to her fortune; and one of her subjects--the most abject anddevoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled at a woman's knees--was thisunlucky gentleman; who bound his good sense, and reason, and independence,hand and foot; and submitted them to her.
And who does not know how ruthlessly women will tyrannize when they arelet to domineer? and who does not know how useless advice is? I could givegood counsel to my descendants, but I know they'll follow their own way,for all their grandfather's sermon. A man gets his own experience aboutwomen, and will take nobody's hearsay; nor, indeed, is the young fellowworth a fig that would. 'Tis I that am in love with my mistress, not myold grandmother that counsels me; 'tis I that have fixed the value of thething I would have, and know the price I would pay for it. It may beworthless to you, but 'tis all my life to me. Had Esmond possessed theGreat Mogul's crown and all his diamonds, or all the Duke of Marlborough'smoney, or all the ingots sunk at Vigo, he would have given them all forthis woman. A fool he was, if you will; but so is a sovereign a fool, thatwill give half a principality for a little crystal as big as a pigeon'segg, and called a diamond: so is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will facedanger or death, and spend half his life, and all his tranquillity,caballing for a blue ribbon: so is a Dutch merchant a fool, that hath beenknown to pay ten thousand crowns for a tulip. There's some particularprize we all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture hislife for. With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation for learning;with that, to be a man of fashion, and the admiration of the town; withanother, to consummate a great work of art or poetry, and go toimmortality that way; and with another, for a certain time of his life,the sole object and aim is a woman.
Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, he remembers manya talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally our Knight of theRueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he made no disguise, toBeatrix; and it was with replies such as the above he met his friends'satire. "Granted, I am a fool," says he, "and no better than you; but youare no better than I. You have your folly you labour for; give me thecharity of mine. What flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper inthe ears of a queen's favourite? What nights of labour doth not thelaziest man in the world endure, forgoing his bottle, and his booncompanions, forgoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning, thathe may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupidcountry gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccuping cheers ofthe October Club! What days will you spend in your jolting chariot!" (Mr.Esmond often rode to Windsor, and especially, of later days, with thesecretary.) "What hours will you pass on your gouty feet--and how humblywill you kneel down to present a dispatch--you, the proudest man in theworld, that has not knelt to God since you were a boy, and in that posturewhisper, flatter, adore almost, a stupid woman, that's often boozy withtoo much meat and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience! If mypursuit is vanity, sure yours is too." And then the secretary would flyout in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this pen cannot pretend torecall; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing the great good he woulddo for his country when he was the undisputed chief of it; backing hisopinion with a score of pat sentences from Greek and Roman authorities (ofwhich kind of learning he made rather an ostentatious display), andscornfully vaunting the very arts and meannesses by which fools were to bemade to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubtersconverted, and enemies overawed.
"I am Diogenes," says Esmond, laughing, "that is taken up for a ride inAlexander's chariot. I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to tameBucephalus. I do not want what you want, a great name or a high place: tohave them would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation is taste, notvirtue; and I know that what I do want, is as vain as that which you longafter. Do not grudge me my vanity, if I allow yours; or rather, let uslaugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and at each other."
"If your charmer holds out," says St. John, "at this rate, she may keepyou twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you are seventy,and she is old enough to be a grandmother. I do not say the pursuit of aparticular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any other kind ofhunting," he added; "only, for my part, I find the game won't run longenough. They knock under too soon--that's the fault I find with 'em."
"The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and used tobeing pulled down," says Mr. Esmond.
"But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?" says the other. "Well, honestHarry, go and attack windmills--perhaps thou art not more mad than otherpeople," St. John added, with a sigh.