The History of Henry Esmond

well as yours, Master Papist,” and then added, with something of a smile upon his countenance, and a queer look at Harry⁠—“And yet, my little catechiser, I have sometimes thought about those miracles, that there was not much good in them, since the victim’s head always finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, and the cauldron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in our times, the Church has lost that questionable advantage of respites. There never was a shower to put out Ridley’s fire, nor an angel to turn the edge of Campion’s axe. The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and Sympson the Protestant alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die willingly enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut’s History of the Turks, of thousands of Muhammad’s followers rushing upon death in battle as upon certain Paradise; and in the great Mogul’s dominions people fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols annually, and the widows burn themselves on their husbands’ bodies, as ’tis well known. ’Tis not the dying for a faith that’s so hard, Master Harry⁠—every man of every nation has done that⁠—’tis the living up to it that is difficult, as I know to my cost,” he added with a sigh. “And ah!” he added, “my poor lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee by my life⁠—though to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys⁠—but I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford; I wish Joe Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly could⁠—for I think he’s a match for the whole College of Jesuits; and what’s more, in his life too. In that very sermon of Dr. Cudworth’s which your priest was quoting from, and which suffered martydom in the brazier,”⁠—Dick added with a smile, “I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but was ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one); I have often thought of Joe Addison⁠—Dr. Cudworth says, ‘A good conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven’⁠—and there’s serenity in my friend’s face which always reflects it⁠—I wish you could see him, Harry.”

“Did he do you a great deal of good?” asked the lad, simply.

“He might have done,” said the other⁠—“at least he taught me to see and approve better things. ’Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi.”

“You seem very good,” the boy said.

“I’m not what I seem, alas!” answered the trooper⁠—and indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth⁠—for that very night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their repasts, and passed most part of their days dicing and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale⁠—Harry Esmond found Dick the Scholar in a woeful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through the body who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was hanging on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it, saying to Harry, who ran forward to help him, “Ah, little Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was here!”

Though the troopers of the King’s Lifeguards were all gentlemen, yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and vulgar boors to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind to the lad. They remained for some weeks or months encamped in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of her confinement there. ’Tis known that King William was disposed to deal very leniently with the gentry who remained faithful to the old King’s cause; and no prince usurping a crown, as his enemies said he did, (righteously taking it, as I think now,) ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler’s garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution, like Mary Queen of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her painted old head off, or any desire to do aught but keep her person in security.

And it appeared she found that some were friends in her misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord’s cousin and her ladyship’s, who had married the Dean of Winchester’s daughter, and, since King James’s departure out of England, had lived not very far away from Hexton town, hearing of his kinswoman’s strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, commanding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church dignitaries there, came to visit her ladyship in prison, offering to his uncle’s daughter any friendly services which lay in his power. And he brought his lady and little daughter to see the prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty and many winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little liking, although between her ladyship and the child’s mother there was little more love than formerly. There are some injuries which women never forgive one another; and Madam Francis Esmond, in marrying her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was now humiliated, and in misfortune, Madam Francis could allow a truce to her enmity, and could be kind for a while, at least, to her husband’s discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her daughter, was permitted often to go and visit the imprisoned Viscountess, who, in so far as the child and its father were concerned, got to abate in her anger towards that branch of the Castlewood family. And the letters of Colonel Esmond coming