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Addison. "My Lord Halifax sent me the burgundy. " And he
set a bottle and glasses before his friends, and ate his simple.
dinner in a very few minutes; after which the three fell to, and
began to drink.
"You see," says Mr. Addison, pointing to his writing-table,
whereon was a map of the action at Hochstedt, and several
other gazettes and pamphlets relating to the battle, "that I too
am busy about your affairs, captain. I am engaged as a poeti-
cal gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a poem on the cam-
paign. ”
So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he knew
about the famous battle, drew the river on the table aliquo
mero, and with the aid of some bits of tobacco pipe showed the
advance of the left wing, where he had been engaged.
A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside
our bottles and glasses; and Dick, having plentifully refreshed
himself from the latter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ
out with scarce a blot or correction, in the author's slim, neat
handwriting, and began to read therefrom with great emphasis
and volubility. At pauses of the verse, the enthusiastic reader
stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause.
-


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. «You
are like the German burghers," says he, "and the princes on the
Mozelle: when our army came to a halt, they always sent a dep-
utation to compliment the chief, and fired a salute with all their
artillery from their walls. "
"And drunk the great chief's health afterward, did not they? "
says Captain Steele, gayly filling up a bumper: he never was
tardy at that sort of acknowledgment of a friend's merit.
"And the duke, since you will have me act his Grace's
part," says Mr. Addison, with a smile and something of a blush,
"pledged his friends in return. Most Serene Elector of Covent
Garden, I drink to your Highness's health," and he filled him-
self a glass. Joseph required scarce more pressing than Dick to
that sort of amusement: but the wine never seemed at all to
fluster Mr. Addison's brains, it only unloosed his tongue: whereas
Captain Steele's head and speech were quite overcome by a single
bottle.
No matter what the verses were (and to say truth, Mr. Esmond
found some of them more than indifferent), Dick's enthusiasm
for his chief never faltered; and in every line from Addison's
pen, Steele found a master-stroke. By the time Dick had come to
that part of the poem wherein the bard describes, as blandly as
though he were recording a dance at the opera, or a harmless
bout of bucolic cudgeling at a village fair, that bloody and ruth-
less part of our campaign with the remembrance whereof every
soldier who bore a part in it must sicken with shame,- when we
were ordered to ravage and lay waste the Elector's country; and
with fire and murder, slaughter and crime, a great part of his
dominions was overrun;- when Dick came to the lines,—
"In vengeance roused, the soldier fills his hand
With sword and fire, and ravages the land;
In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn,
A thousand villages to ashes burn.
To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,
And mixed with bellowing herds confusèd bleat;
Their trembling lords the common shade partake,
And cries of infants sound in every brake.
The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands,
Loath to obey his leader's just commands.
The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed,
To see his just commands so well obeyed,”.


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
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by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a
perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccoughed out the last line with
a tenderness that set one of his auditors a-laughing.
. "I admire the license of your poets," says Esmond to Mr.
Addison. (Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to go off,
insisting on kissing his two dear friends before his departure,
and reeling away with his periwig over his eyes. ) "I admire
your art: the murder of the campaign is done to military music,
like a battle at the opera; and the virgins shriek in harmony
as our victorious grenadiers march into their villages. Do you
know what a scene it was? "-by this time, perhaps, the wine
had warmed Mr. Esmond's head too-"what a triumph you are
celebrating? what scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over
which the commander's genius presided, as calm as though he
didn't belong to our sphere? You talk of the 'listening soldier
fixed in sorrow,' the 'leader's grief swayed by generous pity':
to my belief the leader cared no more for bleating flocks than
he did for infants' cries, and many of our ruffians butchered one
or the other with equal alacrity. I was ashamed of my trade
when I saw those horrors perpetrated, which came under every
man's eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a stately image
of smiling Victory: I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage
idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. The rites performed before
it are shocking to think of. You great poets should show it as
it is, ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had
you made the campaign, believe me, you never would have sung
it so. "
—
During this little outbreak Mr. Addison was listening, smoking
out of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly. "What would
you have? " says he. "In our polished days, and according to the
rules of art, 'tis impossible that the Muse should depict tortures
or begrime her hands with the horrors of war. These are indi-
cated rather than described; as in the Greek tragedies, that I
daresay you have read (and sure there can be no more elegant
specimens of composition), Agamemnon is slain, or Medea's child-
ren destroyed, away from the scene,-the chorus occupying the
stage and singing of the action to pathetic music. Something of
this I attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way: 'tis a panegyric
I mean to write, and not a satire. Were I to sing as you would
have me, the town would tear the poet in pieces, and burn his
book by the hands of the common hangman. - Do you not use


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
•
tobacco? Of all the weeds grown on earth, sure the nicotian is
the most soothing and salutary. -We must paint our great duke,"
Mr. Addison went on, "not as a man which no doubt he is,
with weaknesses like the rest of us-but as a hero. "Tis in a
triumph, not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his sleek
Pegasus. We college poets trot, you know, on very easy nags;
it hath been, time out of mind, part of the poet's profession to
celebrate the actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds
which you men of war perform. I must follow the rules of my
art; and the composition of such a strain as this must be harmo-
nious and majestic,-not familiar, or too near the vulgar truth.
Si parva licet: if Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a hum-
bler poet from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a victory and
a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Briton
has a share, and whose glory and genius contribute to every citi
zen's individual honor. When hath there been, since our Henrys'
and Edwards' days, such a great feat of arms as that from which
you yourself have brought away marks of distinction? If 'tis in
my power to sing that song worthily, I will do so, and be thankful
to my Muse. If I fail as a poet, as a Briton at least I will show
my loyalty, and fling up my cap and huzza for the conqueror:-
-
"Rheni pacator et Istri
Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
Ordinibus; lætatur eques, plauditque senator,
Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori. '»
―――
"There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. Esmond
(who never could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough,
nor to forget those stories which he used to hear in his youth
regarding that great chief's selfishness and treachery) - "there
were men at Blenheim as good as the leader, whom neither
knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeian nor patrician
favored, and who lie there forgotten under the clods. What poet
is there to sing them? "
"To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades! " says
Mr. Addison with a smile. "Would you celebrate them all? If
I may venture to question anything in such an admirable work,
the catalogue of the ships in Homer hath always appeared to me
as somewhat wearisome: what had the poem been, supposing the
writer had chronicled the names of captains, lieutenants, rank and
file? One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is success:


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
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'tis the result of all the others; 'tis a latent power in him which
compels the favor of the gods and subjugates fortune. Of all his
gifts I admire that one in the great Marlborough. To be brave?
every man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy
there is something divine. In presence of the occasion, the great
soul of the leader shines out, and the god is confessed. Death
itself respects him, and passes by him to lay others low. War
and carnage flee before him to ravage other parts of the field,
as Hector from before the divine Achilles. You say he hath no
pity: no more have the gods, who are above it, and superhuman.
The fainting battle gathers strength at his aspect; and wherever
he rides, victory charges with him. "
BEATRIX ESMOND AND THE DUKE OF HAMILTON
From The History of Henry Esmond'
« Is
PER
ERHAPS Beatrix was a little offended at his gayety.
this the way, sir, that you receive the announcement of your
misfortune," says she; "and do you come smiling before me
as if you were glad to be rid of me? "
Esmond would not be put off from his good-humor, but told
her the story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. "I have been
hankering after the grapes on the wall," says he, "and lost my
temper because they were beyond my reach: was there any
wonder? They're gone now, and another has them, a taller
man than your humble servant has won them. " And the colonel
made his cousin a low bow.
-
"A taller man, Cousin Esmond! " says she. "A man of spirit
would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them! A man of
courage would have fought for 'em, not gaped for 'em. "
"A duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth," says
Esmond, with another low bow.
"Yes, sir," says she, "a duke is a taller man than you. And
why should I not be grateful to one such as his Grace, who gives
me his heart and his great name? It is a great gift he honors
me with; I know 'tis a bargain between us, and I accept it and
will do my utmost to perform my part of it. 'Tis no question of
sighing and philandering, between a nobleman of his Grace's age
and a girl who hath little of that softness in her nature. Why


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
should I not own that I am ambitious, Harry Esmond; and if it
be no sin in a man to covet honor, why should a woman too not
desire it? Shall I be frank with you, Harry, and say that if you
had not been down on your knees and so humble, you might
have fared better with me? A woman of my spirit, cousin, is to
be won by gallantry, and not by sighs and rueful faces. All the
time you are worshiping and singing hymns to me, I know very
well I am no goddess, and grow weary of the incense. So would
you have been weary of the goddess too, when she was called
Mrs. Esmond and out of humor because she had not pin
money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. Eh!
cousin, a goddess in a mob cap that has to make her husband's
gruel ceases to be divine-I am sure of it. I should have been
sulky and scolded; and of all the proud wretches in the world.
Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell him that. You never
fall into a passion; but you never forgive, I think.
Had you
been a great man you might have been good-humored; but being
nobody, sir, you are too great a man for me: and I'm afraid of
you, cousin there! and I won't worship you, and you'll never
be happy except with a woman who will. Why, after I belonged
to you, and after one of my tantrums, you would have put the
pillow over my head some night and smothered me, as the black
man does the woman in the play that you're so fond of. What's
the creature's name? Desdemona. You would, you little black-
eyed Othello. "
"I think I should,
--
-
Beatrix," says the colonel.
"And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a
hundred, and to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to play
cards every night of my life till the year eighteen hundred. And
I like to be the first of my company, sir; and I like flattery and
compliments, and you give me none: and I like to be made to
laugh, sir, and who's to laugh at your dismal face, I should like
to know? and I like a coach-and-six or a coach-and-eight; and
I like diamonds and a new gown every week, and people to say,
'That's the duchess-how well her Grace looks- make way
for Madame l'Ambassadrice d'Angleterre - call her Excellency's
people' that's what I like. And as for you, you want a woman
to bring your slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet and cry
'Oh, caro! oh, bravo! ' while you read your Shakespeares and
Miltons and stuff. Mamma would have been the wife for you
had you been a little older, though you look ten years older than


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14687
she does-you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded little old man!
You might have sat like Darby and Joan and flattered each
other, and billed and cooed like a pair of old pigeons on a perch.
I want my wings and to use them, sir. " And she spread out
her beautiful arms, as if indeed she could fly off like the pretty
"Gawrie " whom the man in the story was enamored of.
"And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight? " says
Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more than when
she rebelled and laughed at him.
"A duchess knows her place," says she with a laugh. "Why,
I have a son already made for me and thirty years old (my Lord
Arran), and four daughters. How they will scold, and what a
rage they will be in, when I come to take the head of the table!
But I give them only a month to be angry: at the end of that
time they shall love me every one, and so shall Lord Arran, and
so shall all his Grace's Scots vassals and followers in the High-
lands. I'm bent on it; and when I take a thing in my head 'tis.
done. His Grace is the greatest gentleman in Europe, and I'll
try and make him happy: and when the King comes back you
may count on my protection, Cousin Esmond-for come back
the King will and shall; and I'll bring him back from Versailles.
if he comes under my hoop. "
"I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix," says
Esmond with a sigh. "You'll be Beatrix till you are my lady
duchess will you not? I shall then make your Grace my very
lowest bow. "
"None of these sighs and this satire, cousin," she says: “I
take his Grace's great bounty thankfully-yes, thankfully, and
will wear his honors becomingly. I do not say he hath touched
my heart, but he has my gratitude, obedience, admiration; I
have told him that and no more, and with that his noble heart
is content. have told him all - even the story of that poor
creature that I was engaged to, and that I could not love, and I
gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get
. back my own. I am twenty-five years old. "
"Twenty-six, my dear," says Esmond.
"Twenty-five, sir I choose to be twenty-five; and in eight
years no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes you did
once for a little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, and
engaging with that murderer Mohun, and saving Frank's life. I
thought I could like you; and mamma begged me hard on her


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
knees, and I did - for a day. But the old chill came over me,
Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was
glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburn-
ham that I might hear no more of you- that's the truth. You
are too good for me, somehow. I could not make you happy,
and should break my heart in trying and not being able to love
you. But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword,
you might have had me, sir; and we both should have been mis-
erable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night just
to vex you and mamma; and I succeeded, didn't I? How frankly
we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand years ago; and
though we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall
between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can
like you now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are
brave, and very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all
- for all your little mishap at your birth," says she, wagging her
arch head. "And now, sir," says she with a courtesy, «< we must
have no more talk except when mamma is by, as his Grace is
with us; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is jealous as
the black man in your favorite play. "
Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond
with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound
by any look of his (as Beatrix indeed afterward owned to him);
but said with a perfect command of himself, and an easy smile,
"The interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have had my
last word. Stay, here comes your mother! " (Indeed she came in
here with her sweet anxious face; and Esmond, going up, kissed
her hand respectfully. ) "My dear lady may hear too the last
words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction
accompanying a present for your marriage from an old gentle-
man your guardian; for I feel as if I was the guardian of all
the family, and an old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of
you all; and in this character let me make my lady duchess her
wedding present. They are the diamonds my father's widow
left me.
I had thought Beatrix might have had them a year.
ago; but they are good enough for a duchess, though not bright
enough for the handsomest woman in the world. " And he took
the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and pre-
sented them to his cousin.
She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very
handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the necklace.


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14689
was where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem,
and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly shaped neck in
all England.
The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was. so great
that, after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect
they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Bea-
trix was running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps
for paying her cousin with a price that he would have liked no
doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers; but at
this moment the door opened, and his Grace the bridegroom elect
was announced.
He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made
a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his
most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the
palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and the
Thistle.
"Look, my lord duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to
him and showing the diamonds on her breast.
"Diamonds," says his Grace. "Hm! they seem pretty. "
"They are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix.
"From her Majesty? " asks the duke. "The Queen is very
good. "
"From my Cousin Henry- from our Cousin Henry," cry both
the ladies in a breath.
"I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. I thought
that my Lord Castlewood had no brother; and that on your
Ladyship's side there were no nephews. "
"From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," says
Beatrix, taking the colonel's hand very bravely,
« who was left
guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown.
his love and friendship for our family. "
"The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from
her husband, madam," says the duke: "may I pray you to
restore these to Mr. Esmond? >>
"Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and
benefactor, my Lord Duke," says Lady Castlewood with an air
of great dignity. "She is my daughter yet; and if her mother
sanctions the gift, no one else has the right to question it. "
"Kinsman and benefactor! " says the duke. "I know of no
kinsman; and I do not choose that my wife should have for bene-
factor a- »
XXV-919


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"My lord! " says Colonel Esmond.
"I am not here to bandy words," says his Grace: "frankly
I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that
I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from gentle-
men that bear a name they have no right to. "
"My lord! " breaks out Lady Castlewood, "Mr. Esmond hath
the best right to that name of any man in the world; and 'tis as
old and as honorable as your Grace's. "
My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was
mad, that was so talking to him.
"If I called him benefactor," said my mistress, "it is because
he has been so to us- yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest,
the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband's
life from Mohun's sword. He did save my boy's, and defended
him from that villain. Are these no benefits? "
"I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his Grace, if possible
more haughty than before. "I would say not a word that should
give him offense, and thank him for his kindness to your Lady-
ship's family. My Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know,
by marriage-though neither by blood nor friendship; but I
must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no presents
from Colonel Esmond. "
"My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our
House; my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her
father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend, and be grate-
ful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe him," cries
Lady Esmond. "What is a string of diamond stones compared
to that affection he hath given us-our dearest preserver and
benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, but our all — yes,
our all," says my mistress, with a heightened color and a trem-
bling voice. "The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. "Tis
we who have no right to our name: not he that's too great for
it. He sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside — sacri-
ficed it to my orphan children; gave up rank and honor because
he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount of Castlewood and
Marquis of Esmond before him; and he is his father's lawful
son and true heir, and we are the recipients of his bounty, and
he the chief of a house that's as old as your own. And if he
is content to forego his name that my child may bear it, we
love him and honor him and bless him under whatever name he
bears" and here the fond and affectionate creature would have


## p. 14691 (#265) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14691
knelt to Esmond again but that he prevented her; and Beatrix,
running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced
her and said, "Mother, what is this? "
"Tis a family secret, my lord duke," says Colonel Esmond:
"poor Beatrix knew nothing of it, nor did my lady till a year
ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as your
Grace's mother to abdicate hers to you. "
"I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,"
said my mistress, "had his Grace applied to me for my daugh-
ter's hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you
this very day in private, my lord, had not your words brought
about this sudden explanation; and now 'tis fit Beatrix should
hear it, and know, as I would have all the world know, what we
owe to our kinsman and patron. "
And then in her touching way, and having hold of her
daughter's hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord.
duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know already
-lauding up to the skies her kinsman's behavior. On his side
Mr. Esmond explained the reasons, that seemed quite sufficiently
cogent with him, why the succession in the family, as at present
it stood, should not be disturbed; and he should remain as he
was, Colonel Esmond.
"And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his Grace, with a
low bow; "permit me to ask your Lordship's pardon for words
that were uttered in ignorance, and to beg for the favor of your
friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor under
whatever name you are known" (so his Grace was pleased to
say); "and in return for the splendid present you make my wife,
your kinswoman, I hope you will be pleased to command any
service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy
until I repay you a part of my obligations at least; and ere very
long, and with the mission her Majesty hath given me," says the
duke, "that may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as
a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. ”
"And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is wel-
come," says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and as Esmond kissed
her, she whispered, "Oh, why didn't I know you before? "
My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said
never a word; Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two
ladies quitted the room together.


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14692
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO
From Vanity Fair'
THE
HERE never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant
train of camp-followers as hung round the train of the
Duke of Wellington's army in the Low Countries, in 1815;
and led it dancing and feasting, as it were, up to the very brink
of battle. A certain ball which a noble duchess gave at Brus-
sels on the 15th of June in the above-named year is historical.
All Brussels had been in a state of excitement about it; and I
have heard from ladies who were in that town at the period,
that the talk and interest of persons of their own sex regarding
the ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy in
their front. The struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets
were such as only English ladies will employ, in order to gain
admission to the society of the great of their own nation.
Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove
in vain to procure tickets; but others of our friends were more
lucky. For instance, through the interest of my Lord Bareacres,
and as a set-off for the dinner at the restaurateur's, George got
a card for Captain and Mrs. Osborne; which circumstance greatly
elated him. Dobbin, who was a friend of the general command-
ing the division in which their regiment was, came laughing
one day to Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a similar invitation; which
made Jos envious, and George wonder how the deuce he should
be getting into society. Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally, were of
course invited, as became the friends of a general commanding
a cavalry brigade.
On the appointed night, George, having commanded new
dresses and ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the
famous ball, where his wife did not know a single soul. After
looking about for Lady Bareacres,-who cut him, thinking the
card was quite enough,- and after placing Amelia on a bench, he
left her to her own cogitations there; thinking on his own part
that he had behaved very handsomely in getting her new clothes,
and bringing her to the ball, where she was free to amuse her-
self as she liked. Her thoughts were not of the pleasantest, and
nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.
Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband
felt with a sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's début was, on


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14693
the contrary, very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her face
was radiant; her dress perfection. In the midst of the great
persons assembled, and the eye-glasses directed to her, Rebecca
seemed to be as cool and collected as when she used to marshal
Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church. Numbers of the men she
knew already, and the dandies thronged round her. As for the
ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had run away
with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation of
the Montmorency family. She spoke French so perfectly that
there might be some truth in this report, and it was agreed that
her manners were fine, and her air distingué. Fifty would-be
partners thronged round her at once, and pressed to have the
honor to dance with her. But she said she was engaged, and
only going to dance very little; and made her way at once to
the place where Emmy sate quite unnoticed, and dismally un-
happy. And so, to finish the poor child at once Mrs. Rawdon
ran and greeted affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began
forthwith to patronize her. She found fault with her friend's
dress, and her hair-dresser, and wondered how she could be so
chaussée, and vowed that she must send her corsetière the next
morning. She vowed that it was a delightful ball; that there
was everybody that every one knew, and only a very few nobodies
in the whole room. It is a fact that in a fortnight, and after
three dinners in general society, this young woman had got up
the genteel jargon so well that a native could not speak it bet-
ter; and it was only from her French being so good, that you
could know that she was not a born woman of fashion.
George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering the
ball-room, very soon found his way back when Rebecca was
by her dear friend's side. Becky was just lecturing Mrs. Osborne
upon the follies which her husband was committing. 'For God's
sake, stop him from gambling, my dear," she said, "or he will
ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing at cards every night;
and you know he is very poor, and Rawdon will win every
shilling from him if he does not take care. Why don't you pre-
vent him, you little careless creature? Why don't you come to
us of an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain
Dobbin? I dare say he is très aimable; but how could one love a
man with feet of such size? Your husband's feet are darlings —
here he comes. Where have you been, wretch? Here is Emmy
crying her eyes out for you. Are you coming to fetch me for


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
the quadrille? " And she left her bouquet and shawl by Amelia's
side, and tripped off with George to dance. Women only know
how to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their little
shafts which stings a thousand times more than a man's blunter
weapon. Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered
all her life, was powerless in the hands of her remorseless little
enemy.
George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice- how many times
Amelia scarcely knew. She sate quite unnoticed in her corner,
except when Rawdon came up with some words of clumsy con-
versation; and later in the evening, when Captain Dobbin made
so bold as to bring her refreshments and sit beside her. He
did not like to ask her why she was so sad; but as a pretext for
the tears which were filling in her eyes, she told him that Mrs.
Crawley had alarmed her by telling her that George would go
on playing.
"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy
rogues he will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin said; and
Emmy said, "Indeed. " She was thinking of something else. It
was not the loss of the money that grieved her.
At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers.
She was going away. She did not even condescend to come
back and say good-by to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband
come and go without saying a word, and her head fell on her
breast. Dobbin had been called away, and was whispering deep
in conversation with the general of the division, his friend, and
had not seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a note,
coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye caught
it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She
put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she should find there. Her
husband hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts,
seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but
trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual
quick knowing glances, and made a curtsy and walked away.
George bowed over the hand; said nothing in reply to a remark
of Crawley's,-did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14695
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to
get her her scarf and flowers,—it was no more than he had
done twenty times before in the course of the last few days; but
now it was too much for her. "William," she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, "you've always been very
kind to me: I'm-I'm not well. Take me home. " She did not
know she called him by his Christian name, as George was accus-
tomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings
were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-
room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife
up on his return from the parties which he frequented, so she
went straight to bed now; but although she did not sleep, and
although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen was
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other
disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play
table and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Every-
thing succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his luck at play
even did not cure him of his restlessness; and he started up after
a while, pocketing his winnings, and went off to a buffet, where
he drank off many bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been
to the card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as
pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine
is famous. Give me
some more, you sir;" and he held out a
trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink. "
"Drink there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up
your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you. "
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass,
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his friend's
arm. "The enemy has passed the Sambre," William said, "and
our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours. "


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What
were love and intrigue now? He thought about a thousand
things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters: his past life
and future chances- the fate which might be before him- the
wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about
to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
-
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and
reckless he had been! Should any mischance befall him, what
was then left for her? How unworthy he was of her! Why had
he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him?
Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his
heart. He sate down and wrote to his father, remembering what
he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell letter.
He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how
he had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kind-
nesses which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she
lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that
she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the ball, he
had found his regimental servant already making preparations for
his departure: the man had understood his signal to be still, and
these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should
he go in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went in to
look at her once again
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon
after herself, too,- this timid little heart had felt more at ease;
and turning towards him as he stept softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her
again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could
see her sweet, pale face: the purple eyelids were fringed and


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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14697
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside the
coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender,
and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with
crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he- who was
he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her!
He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft
hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped
down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit
to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She
was awake, poor soul-and to what? At that moment a bugle
from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and 'midst the drums of the infantry, and
the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the
great field.
All day long, whilst the women were praying ten
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse-
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plowing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing
in. Towards evening the attack of the French, repeated and
resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other foes
besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final on-
set. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day;
and spite of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which
hurled death from the English line, the dark rolling column.
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi-
nence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still
facing the shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them,
and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels-the pursuit rolled
miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face,
dead, with a bullet through his heart.


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14698
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BECKY ADMIRES HER HUSBAND
From Vanity Fair'
RA
AWDON [just let out of the debtors' prison] walked home
rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the
streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length
came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back
and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The
drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball
dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went
silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-
head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within- laughter
and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the
night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava!