The History of Henry Esmond | Page 6

James II
VI. The Issue of the Plots.--The Death of Thomas, Third Viscount of Castlewood; and the Imprisonment of his Viscountess
VII. I am left at Castlewood an Orphan, and find most kind Protectors there
VIII. After Good Fortune comes Evil
IX. I have the Small-pox, and prepare to leave Castlewood
X. I go to Cambridge, and do but little Good there
XI. I come home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and find a Skeleton in the House
XII. My Lord Mohun comes among us for no Good
XIII. My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him
XIV. We ride after him to London
BOOK II.
CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY.
I. I am in Prison, and Visited, but not Consoled there
II. I come to the End of my Captivity, but not of my Trouble
III. I take the Queen's Pay in Quin's Regiment
IV. Recapitulations
V. I go on the Vigo Bay Expedition, taste Salt Water and smell Powder
VI. The 29th December
VII. I am made Welcome at Walcote
VIII. Family Talk
IX. I make the Campaign of 1704
X. An Old Story about a Fool and a Woman
XI. The famous Mr. Joseph Addison
XII. I get a Company in the Campaign of 1706
XIII. I meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and find my Mother's Grave and my own Cradle there
XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708
XV. General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael
BOOK III.
CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND.
I. I come to an End of my Battles and Bruises
II. I go Home, and harp on the Old String
III. A Paper out of the "Spectator"
IV. Beatrix's New Suitor
V. Mohun appears for the Last Time in this History
VI. Poor Beatrix
VII. I visit Castlewood once more
VIII. I travel to France and bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud
IX. The Original of the Portrait comes to England
X. We entertain a very Distinguished Guest at Kensington
XI. Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough
XII. A great Scheme, and who Balked it
XIII. August 1st, 1714

THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND.
BOOK I
THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE.
The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics to a tune, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a great head-dress. 'Twas thought the dignity of the Tragic Muse required these appurtenances, and that she was not to move except to a measure and cadence. So Queen Medea slew her children to a slow music: and King Agamemnon perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's words): the Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and rhythmically and decorously bewailing the fates of those great crowned persons. The Muse of History hath encumbered herself with ceremony as well as her Sister of the Theatre. She too wears the mask and the cothurnus, and speaks to measure. She too, in our age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings; waiting on them obsequiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the affairs of the common people. I have seen in his very old age and decrepitude the old French King Lewis the Fourteenth, the type and model of kinghood--who never moved but to measure, who lived and died according to the laws of his Court-marshal, persisting in enacting through life the part of Hero; and, divested of poetry, this was but a little wrinkled old man, pock-marked, and with a great periwig and red heels to make him look tall--a hero for a book if you like, or for a brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon? I wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden? Shall we see something of France and England besides Versailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driving her one-horse chaise--a hot, red-faced woman, not in the least resembling that statue of her which turns its stone back upon St. Paul's, and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill. She was neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter or a wash-hand basin. Why shall History go on kneeling to the end of time? I am for having her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture: not to be for ever performing cringes and congees like a court-chamberlain, and shuffling backwards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. In a word, I would have History familiar rather than heroic: and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Fielding will give our children a much better idea