Tales and Novels — Volume 05 / Tales of a Fashionable Life

CHAPTER IX.

“Led by Simplicity divine, She pleased, and never tried to shine; She gave to chance each unschool’d feature, And left her cause to sense and nature.”—MORE.

Arrived at Walsingham Park, they met Miss Walsingham walking at some distance from the house.

“Is Captain Walsingham come?” was the first question asked. “No, but expected every hour.”

That he had not actually arrived was a comfortable reprieve to Mrs. Beaumont. Breathing more freely, and in refreshed spirits, she prepared to alight from her carriage, to walk to the house with Miss Walsingham, as Mr. Palmer proposed. Miss Hunter, who was dressed with uncommon elegance, remonstrated in favour of her delicate slippers: not that she named the real object of her solicitude—no; she had not spent so much time with Mrs. Beaumont, that great mistress of the art of apologizing, without learning at least the inferior practices of the trade. Of course she had all the little common arts of excuse ever ready: and instead of saying that she did not like to walk because she was afraid to spoil her shoes, she protested she was afraid of the heat, and could not walk so far. But Mr. Beaumont had jumped out of the carriage, and Mrs. Beaumont did not wish that he should walk home tête-à-tête with Miss Walsingham; therefore Miss Hunter’s remonstrances were of no avail.

“My love, you, will not be heated, for our walk is through this charming shady grove; and if you are tired, here’s my son will give you his arm.”

Satisfied with this arrangement, the young lady, thus supported, found it possible to walk. Mr. Palmer walked his own pace, looking round at the beauties of the place, and desiring that nobody might mind him. This was his way, and Mrs. Beaumont never teased him with talking to him, when he did not seem to be in the humour for it. She, who made something of every thing, began to manage the conversation with her other companions during the walk, so as to favour her views upon the several parties. Pursuing her principle, that love is in men’s minds generally independent of esteem, and believing that her son might be rendered afraid of the superiority of Miss Walsingham’s understanding, Mrs. Beaumont took treacherous pains to draw her out. Starting from chance seemingly, as she well knew how, a subject of debate, she went from talking of the late marriage of some neighbouring couple, to discuss a question on which she believed that Miss Walsingham’s opinion would differ from that of her son. The point was, whether a wife should or should not have pin-money. Miss Walsingham thought that a wife’s accepting it would tend to establish a separate interest between married people. Mr. Beaumont, on the contrary, was of opinion, that a wife’s having a separate allowance would prevent disputes. So Miss Hunter thought, of course, for she had been prepared to be precisely of Mr. Beaumont’s opinion; but reasons she had none in its support. Indeed, she said with a pretty simper, she thought that women had nothing to do with reason or reasoning; that she thought a woman who really loved any body was always of that person’s opinion; and especially in a wife she did not see of what use reasoning and all that could be, except to make a woman contradict, and be odd, and fond of ruling: that for her part she had no pretensions to any understanding, and if she had ever so much, she should be glad, she declared upon her honour, to get rid of it if she could; for what use could it possibly be of to her, when it must be the husband’s understanding that must always judge and rule, and a wife ought only to obey, and be always of the opinion of the man of her choice?—Having thus made her profession of folly in broken sentences, with pretty confusion and all-becoming graces, she leaned upon Mr. Beaumont’s arm with a bewitching air of languid delicacy, that solicited support. Mrs. Beaumont, suppressing a sigh, which, however, she took care that her son should hear, turned to Miss Walsingham, and, in a whisper, owned that she could not help loving abilities, and spirit too, even in her own sex. Then she observed aloud, that much might be urged on her side of the question with regard to pin-money; for not only, as Miss Walsingham justly said, it might tend to make a separate interest between husband and wife, but the wife would probably be kept in total ignorance of her husband’s affairs; and that in some cases might be very disadvantageous, as some women are more capable, from their superior understanding, of managing every thing than most men, indeed, than any man she could name.

Even under favour of this pretty compliment, which was plainly directed by a glance of Mrs. Beaumont’s eye, Miss Walsingham would not accept of this painful pre-eminence. She explained and made it clear, that she had not any ambition to rule or manage.

“That I can readily believe,” said Mr. Beaumont; “for I have observed, that it is not always the women who are the most able to decide who are the most ambitious to govern.”

This observation either was not heard or was not understood by Miss Hunter, whose whole soul was occupied in settling some fold of her drapery: but Mr. Beaumont’s speech had its full effect on Mrs. Beaumont, who bit her lip, and looked reproachfully at her son, as if she thought this an infringement of his promised truce. A moment afterwards she felt the imprudence of her own reproachful look, and was sensible that she would have done better not to have fixed the opinion or feeling in her son’s mind by noticing it thus with displeasure. Recovering, herself, for she never was disconcerted for more than half a minute, she passed on with easy grace to discuss the merits of the heroine of some new novel—an historic novel, which gave her opportunity of appealing to Miss Walsingham on some disputed points of history. She dexterously attempted to draw her well-informed young friend into a display of literature which might alarm Mr. Beaumont. His education had in some respects been shamefully neglected; for his mother had calculated that ignorance would ensure dependence. He had endeavoured to supply, at a late period of his education, the defects of its commencement; but he was sensible that he had not supplied all his deficiencies, and he was apt to feel, with painful impatient sensibility, his inferiority, whenever literary subjects were introduced. Miss Walsingham, however, was so perfectly free from all the affectation and vanity of a bel-esprit, that she did not alarm even those who were inferior to her in knowledge; their self-complacency, instead of being depressed by the comparison of their attainments with hers, was insensibly raised, by the perception that notwithstanding these, she could take pleasure in their conversation, could appreciate their good sense or originality of thought, without recurring to the authority of books, or of great names. In fact, her mind had never been overwhelmed by a wasteful torrent of learning. That the stream of literature had passed over, it was apparent only from its fertility. Mrs. Beaumont repented of having drawn her into conversation. Indeed, our heroine had trusted too much to some expressions, which had at times dropped from her son, about learned ladies, and certain conversaziones. She had concluded that he would never endure literature in a wife; but she now perceived her mistake. She discerned it too late; and at this moment she was doubly vexed, for she saw Miss Hunter produce herself in most disadvantageous contrast to her rival. In conformity to instructions, which Mrs. Beaumont had secretly given her, not to show too much sense or learning, because gentlemen in general, and in particular Mr. Beaumont, disliked it; this young lady now professed absolute ignorance and incapacity upon all subjects; and meaning to have an air of pretty childish innocence or timidity, really made herself appear quite like a simpleton. At the same time a tinge of ineffectual malice and envy appeared through her ill-feigned humility. She could give no opinion of any book—oh, she would not give any judgment for the whole world! She did not think herself qualified to speak, even if she had read the book, which indeed she had not, for, really, she never read—she was not a reading lady.

As Miss Hunter had no portion of Mrs. Beaumont’s quick penetration, she did not see the unfavourable impression these words made: certain that she was following exactly her secret instructions, she was confident of being in the right line; so on she went, whilst Mrs. Beaumont sighed in vain; and Miss Walsingham, who now saw and understood her whole play, almost smiled at the comic of the scene.

“O dear, Mrs. Beaumont,” continued Miss Hunter, “how can you ever appeal to me about books and those sorts of things, when you know I know nothing about the matter? For mercy’s sake, never do so any more, for you know I’ve no taste for those sorts of things. And besides, I own, even if I could, I should so hate to be thought a blue-stocking—I would not have the least bit of blue in my stockings for the whole world—I’d rather have any other colour, black, white, red, green, yellow, any other colour. So I own I’m not sorry I’m not what they call a genius; for though genius to be sure’s a very fascinating sort of thing in gentlemen, yet in women it is not so becoming, I think, especially in ladies: it does very well on the stage, and for artists, and so on; but really now, in company, I think it’s an awkward thing, and would make one look so odd! Now, Mr. Beaumont, I must tell you an anecdote—”

“Stop, my dear Miss Hunter, your ear-ring is coming out. Stay! let me clasp it, love!” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, determined to stop her in the career of nonsense, by giving her sensations, since she could not give her ideas, a new turn.

“Oh, ma’am! ma’am! Oh! my ear! you are killing me, dearest Mrs. Beaumont! pinching me to death, ma’am!”

“Did I pinch, my dear? It was the hinge of the ear-ring, I suppose.”

“I don’t know what it was; but here’s blood, I declare!”

“My love, I beg you a thousand pardons. How could I be so awkward! But why could not you for one moment hold your little head still?”

Miss Walsingham applied a patch to the wound.

“Such a pretty ear as it is,” continued Mrs. Beaumont; “I am sure it was a pity to hurt it.”

“You really did hurt it,” said Mr. Beaumont, in a tone of compassion.

“Oh, horridly!” cried Miss Hunter—“and I, that always faint at the sight of blood!”

Afraid that the young lady would again spoil her part in the acting, and lose all the advantages which might result from the combined effect of the pretty ear and of compassion, Mrs. Beaumont endeavoured to take off her attention from the wound, by attacking her ear-rings.

“My love,” said she, “don’t wear these ear-rings any more, for I assure you there is no possibility of shutting or opening them, without hurting you.”

This expedient, however, nearly proved fatal in its consequences. Miss Hunter entered most warmly into the defence of her ear-rings; and appealed to Mr. Beaumont to confirm her decision, that they were the prettiest and best ear-rings in the world. Unluckily, they did not particularly suit his fancy, and the young lady, who had, but half an hour before, professed that she could never be of a different opinion in any thing from that of the man she loved, now pettishly declared that she could not and would not give up her taste. Incensed still more by a bow of submission, but not of conviction, from Mr. Beaumont, she went on regardless of her dearest Mrs. Beaumont’s frowns, and vehemently maintained her judgment, quoting, with triumphant volubility, innumerable precedents of ladies, “who had just bought the very same ear-rings, and whose taste she believed nobody would dispute.”

Mr. Beaumont had seen enough, now and upon many other occasions, to be convinced that it is not on matters of consequence that ladies are apt to grow most angry; and he stood confirmed in his belief that those who in theory professed to have such a humble opinion of their own abilities that they cannot do or understand any thing useful, are often, in practice, the most prone to insist upon the infallibility of their taste and judgment. Mrs. Beaumont, who saw with one glance of her quick eye what passed at this moment in her son’s mind, sighed, and said to herself—“How impossible to manage a fool, who ravels, as fast as one weaves, the web of her fortune!”

Yet though Mrs. Beaumont perceived and acknowledged the impracticability of managing a fool for a single hour, it was one of the favourite objects of her manoeuvres to obtain this very fool for a daughter-in-law, with the hope of governing her for life. So inconsistent are cunning people, even of the best abilities; so ill do they calculate the value of their ultimate objects, however ingeniously they devise their means, or adapt them to their ends.

During this walk Mr. Palmer had taken no part in the conversation; he had seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, or occupied with observing the beauties of the place. Tired with her walk—for Mrs. Beaumont always complained of being fatigued when she was vexed, thus at once concealing her vexation, and throwing the faults of her mind upon her body—she stretched herself upon a sofa as soon as she reached the house, nor did she recover from her exhausted state till she cast her eyes upon a tamborine, which she knew would afford means of showing Miss Hunter’s figure and graces to advantage. Slight as this resource may seem, Mrs. Beaumont well knew that slighter still have often produced great effects. Soon afterward she observed her son smile repeatedly as he read a passage in some book that lay upon the table, and she had the curiosity to take up the book when he turned away. She found that it was Cumberland’s Memoirs, and saw the following little poem marked with reiterated lines of approbation:

Mrs. Beaumont, the moment she had read these lines, perceived why her son had smiled. The portrait seemed really to have been drawn from Miss Hunter, and the lines were so à propos to the scene which had just passed during the walk, that it was impossible to avoid the application. Mrs. Beaumont shut the book hastily as her dear Albina approached, for she was afraid that the young lady would have known her own picture. So few people, however, even of those much wiser than Miss Hunter, know themselves, that she need not have been alarmed. But she had no longer leisure to devote her thoughts to this subject, for Mr. Walsingham, who had been out riding, had by this time returned; and the moment he entered the room, Mrs. Beaumont’s attention was directed to him and to Mr. Palmer. She introduced them to each other, with many expressions of regret that they should not sooner have met.

Characters that are free from artifice immediately coalesce, as metals that are perfectly pure can be readily cemented together. Mr. Palmer and Mr. Walsingham were intimate in half an hour. There was an air of openness and sincerity about Mr. Walsingham; a freedom and directness in his conversation, which delighted Mr. Palmer.

“I am heartily glad we have met at last, my good cousin Walsingham,” said he: “very sorry should I have been to have left the country without becoming acquainted with you: and now I wish your gallant captain was arrived. I am to set off the day after to-morrow, and I am sadly afraid I shall miss seeing him.”

Mr. Walsingham said, that as they expected him every hour, he hoped Mr. Palmer would persuade Mrs. Beaumont to spend the day at Walsingham House.

Mrs. Beaumont dared not object. On the contrary, it was now her policy to pretend the fondest friendship for all the Walsingham family: yet, all the time, pursuing her plan of preventing Mr. Palmer from discerning their real characters and superior merit, she managed with great dexterity to keep the conversation as much as possible upon general topics, and tried to prevent Mr. Palmer from being much alone with Mr. Walsingham, for she dreaded their growing intimacy. After dinner, however, when the ladies retired, the gentlemen drew their chairs close together, and had a great deal of conversation on interesting subjects. The most interesting was Captain Walsingham: Mr. Palmer earnestly desired to hear the particulars of his history.

“And from whom,” said young Beaumont, turning to Mr. Walsingham, “can he hear them better than from Captain Walsingham’s guardian and friend?”

CHAPTER X.

“Friends are not always the best biographers,” said Mr. Walsingham; “but I will try to be impartial. My ward’s first desire to be a sailor was excited, as he has often since told me, by reading Robinson Crusoe. When he was scarcely thirteen he went out in the Resolute, a frigate, under the command of Captain Campbell. Campbell was an excellent officer, and very strict in all that related to order and discipline. It was his principle and his practice never to forgive a first offence; by which the number of second faults was considerably diminished. My ward was not much pleased at first with his captain; but he was afterwards convinced that this strictness was what made a man of him. He was buffeted about, and shown the rough of life; made to work hard, and submit to authority. To reason he was always ready to yield; and by degrees he learned that his first duty as a sailor was implicit obedience. In due time he was made lieutenant: in this situation, his mixed duties of command and obedience were difficult, because his first-lieutenant, the captain’s son, was jealous of him.

“Walsingham found it a more difficult task to win the confidence of the son than it had been to earn the friendship of the father. His punctuality in obeying orders, and his respectful manner to the lieutenant, availed but little; for young Campbell still viewed him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, imagining that he only wanted to show himself the better officer.

“Of the falsehood of these suspicions Walsingham had at last an opportunity of giving unquestionable proof. It happened one day that Lieutenant Campbell, impatient at seeing a sailor doing some work awkwardly on the outside of the vessel, snatched the rope from his hand, and swore he would do it himself. In his hurry, Campbell missed his footing, and fell overboard:—he could not swim. Walsingham had the presence of mind to order the ship to be put about, and plunged instantly into the water to save his rival. With much exertion he reached Campbell, supported him till the boat was lowered down, and got him safe aboard again.”

“Just like himself!” cried young Beaumont; “all he ever wanted was opportunity to show his soul.”

“The first-lieutenant’s jealousy was now changed into gratitude,” continued Mr. Walsingham; “and from this time forward, instead of suffering from that petty rivalship by which he used to be obstructed, Walsingham enjoyed the entire confidence of young Campbell. This good understanding between him and his brother officer not only made their every day lives pleasant, but in times of difficulty secured success. For three years that they lived together after this period, and during which time they were ordered to every quarter of the globe, they never had the slightest dispute, either in the busiest or the idlest times. At length, in some engagement with a Dutch ship, the particulars of which I forget, Lieutenant Campbell was mortally wounded: his last words were—‘Walsingham, comfort my father.’ That was no easy task. Stern as Captain Campbell seemed, the loss of his son was irreparable. He never shed a tear when he was told it was all over, but said, ‘God’s will be done;’ and turning into his cabin, desired to be left alone. Half an hour afterwards he sent for Walsingham, who found him quite calm. ‘We must see and do our duty together to the last,’ said he.

“He exerted himself strenuously, and to all outward appearance was, as the sailors said, the same man as ever; but Walsingham, who knew him better, saw that his heart was broken, and that he wished for nothing but an honourable death. One morning as he was on deck looking through his glass, he called to Walsingham; ‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ said he; ‘look here, and tell me, do you see yonder sail—she’s French? Le Magnanime frigate, if I’m not mistaken. ‘Yes,’ said Walsingham, ‘I know her by the patch in her main sail.’—‘We’ll give her something to do,’ said Campbell, ‘though she’s so much our superior. Please God, before the sun’s over our heads, you shall have her in tow, Walsingham.’ ‘We shall, I trust,’ said Walsingham.—‘Perhaps not we; for I own I wish to fall,’ said Campbell. ‘You are first-lieutenant now; I can’t leave my men under better command, and I hope the Admiralty will give you the ship, if you give it to his Majesty.’—Then turning to the sailors, Captain Campbell addressed them with a countenance unusually cheerful; and, after a few words of encouragement, gave orders to clear decks for action. ‘Walsingham, you’ll see to every thing whilst I step down to write.’ He wrote, as it was afterwards found, two letters, both concerning Walsingham’s interests. The frigate with which they had to engage was indeed far superior to them in force; but Campbell trusted to the good order and steadiness as well as to the courage of his men. The action was long and obstinate. Twice the English attempted to board the enemy, and twice were repulsed. The third time, just as Captain Campbell had seized hold of the French colours, which hung in rags over the side of the enemy’s ship, he received a wound in his breast, fell back into Walsingham’s arms, and almost instantly expired. The event of this day was different from what Campbell had expected, for Le Succès of fifty guns appeared in sight; and, after a desperate engagement with her, in which Walsingham was severely wounded, and every other officer on board killed or wounded, Walsingham saw that nothing was left but to make a wanton sacrifice of the remainder of his crew, or to strike.

“After a contest of six hours, he struck to Le Succès. Perfect silence on his deck; a loud and insulting shout from the enemy!

“No sooner had Walsingham struck, than La Force, the captain of Le Succès hailed him, and ordered him to come in his own boat, and to deliver his sword. Walsingham replied, that ‘his sword, so demanded, should never be delivered but with his life.‘2 The Frenchman did not think proper to persist; but soon after sent his lieutenant on board the Resolute, where the men were found at their quarters with lighted matches in their hands, ready to be as good as their word. La Force, the captain of Le Succès, was a sailor of fortune, who had risen by chance, not merit.”

“Ay, ay,” interrupted Mr. Palmer, “so I thought; and there was no great merit, or glory either, in a French fifty gun taking an English frigate, after standing a six hours’ contest with another ship. Well, my dear sir, what became of poor Walsingham? How did this rascally Frenchman treat his prisoners?”

“Scandalously!” cried Beaumont; “and yet Walsingham is so generous that he will never let me damn the nation, for what he says was only the fault of an individual, who disgraced it.”

“Well, let me hear and judge for myself,” said Mr. Palmer.

“La Force carried the Resolute in triumph into a French port,” continued Mr. Walsingham. “Vain of displaying his prisoners, he marched them up the country, under pretence that they would not be safe in a sea-port. Cambray was the town in which they were confined. Walsingham found the officers of the garrison very civil to him at first; but when they saw that he was not fond of high play, and that he declined being of their parties at billiards and vingt-un, they grew tired of him; for without these resources they declared they should perish with ennui in a country town. Even under the penalty of losing all society, Walsingham resisted every temptation to game, and submitted to live with the strictest economy rather than to run in debt.”

“But did you never send him any money? Or did not he get your remittances?” said Mr. Palmer.

“My dear sir, by some delays of letters, we did not hear for two months where he was imprisoned.”

“And he was reduced to the greatest distress,” pursued Beaumont; “for he had shared all he had, to the utmost farthing, with his poor fellow-prisoners.”

“Like a true British sailor!” said Mr. Palmer. “Well, sir, I hope he contrived to make his escape?”

“No, for he would not break his parole,” said Beaumont,

“His parole! I did not know he was on his parole,” said Mr. Palmer. “Then certainly he could not break it.”

“He had two tempting opportunities, I can assure you,” said Beaumont; “one offered by the commandant’s lady, who was not insensible to his merit; the other, by the gratitude of some poor servant, whom he had obliged—Mr. Walsingham can tell you all the particulars.”

“No, I need not detail the circumstances; it is enough to tell you, sir, that he withstood the temptations, would not break his parole, and remained four months a prisoner in Cambray. Like the officers of the garrison, he should have drunk or gamed, or else he must have died of vexation, he says, if he had not fortunately had a taste for reading, and luckily procured books from a good old priest’s library. At the end of four months the garrison of Cambray was changed; and instead of a set of dissipated officers, there came a well-conducted regiment, under the command of M. de Villars, an elderly officer of sense and discretion.”

“An excellent man!” cried Beaumont: “I love him with all my soul, though I never saw him. But I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr. Walsingham.”

“A prattling hairdresser at Cambray first prepossessed M. de Villars in Walsingham’s favour, by relating a number of anecdotes intended to throw abuse and ridicule upon the English captain, to convict him of misanthropy and economy; of having had his hair dressed but twice since he came to Cambray; of never having frequented the society of Madame la Marquise de Marsillac, the late commandant’s lady, for more than a fortnight after his arrival, and of having actually been detected in working with his own hand with smiths’ and carpenters’ tools. Upon the strength of the hairdresser’s information, M. de Villars paid the English captain a visit; was pleased by his conversation, and by all that he observed of his conduct and character.

“As M. de Villars was going down stairs, after having spent an evening with Walsingham, a boy of twelve years old, the son of the master of the lodging-house, equipped in a military uniform, stood across the landing-place, as if determined to, stop him. ‘Mon petit militaire,’ said the commandant, ‘do you mean to dispute my passage?’ ‘Non, mon général,’ said the boy; ‘I know my duty too well. But I post myself here to demand an audience, for I have a secret of importance to communicate.’ M. de Villars, smiling at the boy’s air of consequence, yet pleased with the steady earnestness of his manner, took him by the hand into an antechamber, and said that he was ready to listen to whatever he had to impart. The boy then told him that he had accidentally overheard a proposal which had been made to facilitate the English captain’s escape, and that the captain refused to comply with it, because it was not honourable to break his parole. The boy, who had been struck by the circumstance, and who, besides, was grateful to Walsingham for some little instances of kindness, spoke with much enthusiasm in his favour; and, as M. de Villars afterwards repeated, finished his speech by exclaiming, ‘I would give every thing I have in the world, except my sword and my honour, to procure this English captain his liberty.’

“M. de Villars was pleased with the boy’s manner, and with the fact which he related; so much so, that he promised, that if Walsingham’s liberty could be obtained he would procure it. ‘And you, my good little friend, shall, if I succeed,’ added he, ‘have the pleasure of being the first to tell him the good news.’

“Some days afterwards, the boy burst into Walsingham’s room, exclaiming, ‘Liberty! liberty! you are at liberty!’—He danced and capered with such wild joy, that it was some time before Walsingham could obtain any explanation, or could prevail on him to let him look at a letter which he held in his hand, flourishing it about in triumph. At last he showed that it was an order from M. de Villars, for the release of Captain Walsingham, and of all the English prisoners, belonging to the Resolute, for whom exchanges had been effected. No favour could be granted in a manner more honourable to all the parties concerned. Walsingham arrived in England without any farther difficulties.”

“Thank God!” said Mr. Palmer. “Well, now he has touched English ground again, I have some hopes for him. What next?”

“The first thing he did, of course, was to announce his return to the Admiralty. A court-martial was held at Portsmouth; and, fortunately for him, was composed of officers of the highest distinction, so that the first men in his profession became thoroughly acquainted with the circumstances of his conduct. The enthusiasm with which his men bore testimony in his favour was gratifying to his feelings, and the minutes of the evidence were most honourable to him. The court pronounced, that Lieutenant Walsingham had done all that could be effected by the most gallant and judicious officer in the defence of His Majesty’s ship Resolute. The ministry who had employed Captain Campbell were no longer in place, and one of the Lords of the Admiralty at this time happened to have had some personal quarrel with him. A few days after the trial, Walsingham was at a public dinner, at which Campbell’s character became the subject of conversation. Walsingham was warned, in a whisper, that the first Lord of the Admiralty’s private secretary was present, and was advised to be prudent; but Walsingham’s prudence was not of that sort which can coolly hear a worthy man’s memory damned with faint praise; his prudence was not of that sort which can tamely sit by and see a friend’s reputation in danger. With all the warmth and eloquence of friendship, he spoke in Captain Campbell’s defence, and paid a just and energetic tribute of praise to his memory. He spoke, and not a word more was said against Campbell. The politicians looked down upon their plates; and there was a pause of that sort, which sometimes in a company of interested men of the world results from surprise at the imprudent honesty of a good-natured novice. Walsingham, as the company soon afterwards broke up, heard one gentleman say of him to another, as they went away, ‘There’s a fellow now, who has ruined himself without knowing it, and all for a dead man.’ It was not without knowing it: Walsingham was well aware what he hazarded, but he was then, and ever, ready to sacrifice his own interests in the defence of truth and of a friend. For two long years afterwards, Walsingham was, in the technical and elegant phrase, left on the shelf, and the door of promotion was shut against him.”

“Yes, and there he might have remained till now,” said Beaumont, “if it had not been for that good Mr. Gaspar, a clerk in one of their offices; a man who, though used to live among courtiers and people hackneyed in the political ways of the world, was a plain, warm-hearted friend, a man of an upright character, who prized integrity and generosity the more because he met with them so seldom. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Walsingham; will you go on and tell Mr. Palmer how and why Gaspar served our friend?”

“One day Walsingham had occasion to go to Mr. Gaspar’s office to search for some papers relative to certain charts which he had drawn, and intended to present to the Admiralty. In talking of the soundings of some bay he had taken whilst out with Captain Campbell, he mentioned him, as he always did, with terms of affection and respect. Mr. Gaspar immediately asked, ‘Are you, sir, that Lieutenant Walsingham, of the Resolute, who at a public dinner about two years ago made such a disinterested defence of your captain? If it is in my power to serve you, depend upon it I will. Leave your charts with me; I think I may have an opportunity of turning them to your advantage, and that of the service.’ Gaspar, who was thoroughly in earnest, took a happy moment to present Walsingham’s charts before the Admiralty, just at a time when they were wanted. The Admiralty were glad to employ an officer who had some local information, and they sent him out in the Dreadnought, a thirty-six gun frigate, with Captain Jemmison, to the West Indies.”

“And what sort of a man was his new captain?” said Mr. Palmer.

“As unlike his old one as possible,” said Beaumont.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Walsingham; “in every point, except courage, Captain Jemmison was as complete a contrast as could be imagined to Captain Campbell. Whatever else he might be, Jemmison was certainly a man of undaunted courage.”

“That’s of course, if he was a captain in the British navy,” said Mr. Palmer.

“From his appearance, however, you would never have taken him for a gallant sailor,” said Mr. Walsingham: “abhorring the rough, brutal, swearing, grog-drinking, tobacco-chewing, race of sea-officers, the Bens and the Mirvans of former times, Captain Jemmison, resolving, I suppose, to avoid their faults, went into the contrary extreme of refinement and effeminacy. A superlative coxcomb, and an epicure more from fashion than taste, he gloried in descanting, with technical precision, on the merits of dishes and of cooks. His table, even on shipboard, was to be equalled in elegance only by his toilet.”

“The puppy!” exclaimed Mr. Palmer. “And how could Captain Walsingham go on with such a coxcomb?”

“Very ill, you may be sure,” said Beaumont; “for Walsingham, I’ll answer for it, never could conceal or control his feelings of contempt or indignation.”

“Yet, as Captain Jemmison’s lieutenant, he always behaved with perfect propriety,” said Mr. Walsingham, “and bore with his foppery and impertinence with the patience becoming a subordinate officer to his superior. Jemmison could not endure a lieutenant whose character and manners were a continual contrast and reproach to his own, and he disliked him the more because he could never provoke him to any disrespect. Jemmison often replied even to Walsingham’s silent contempt; as a French pamphleteer once published a book entitled, Réponse au Silence de M. de la Motte. On some points, where duty and principle were concerned, Walsingham, however, could not be silent. There was a lad of the name of Birch on board the Dreadnought, whom Walsingham had taken under his immediate care, and whom he was endeavouring to train up in every good habit. Jemmison, to torment Walsingham, made it his pleasure to counteract him in these endeavours, and continually did all he could to spoil Birch by foolish indulgence. Walsingham’s indignation was upon these occasions vehement, and his captain and he came to frequent quarrels. Young Birch, who had sense enough to know which was his true friend, one day threw himself on his knees to beseech his lieutenant not to hazard so much on his account, and solemnly swore that he would never be guilty of the slightest excess or negligence during the remainder of the voyage. The young man was steady to his promise, and by his resolution and temper prevented Walsingham and his captain from coming to a serious rupture. When they arrived at their place of destination, Jamaica, Captain Jemmison went on shore to divert himself, and spent his time in great dissipation at Spanish Town, eating, dressing, dancing, gallanting, and glorying in its being observed by all the ladies that he had nothing of a sea-captain about him. The other officers, encouraged by his precept and example, left the ship; but Walsingham stayed on board, and had severe duty to perform, for he could not allow the crew to go on shore, because they got into riots with the townspeople. Soon after their arrival, and even during the course of their voyage, he had observed among the sailors something like a disposition to mutiny, encouraged probably by the negligence and apparent effeminacy of their captain. Though they knew him to be a man of intrepidity, yet they ridiculed and despised his coxcombry, and his relaxation of discipline gave them hopes of succeeding in their mutinous schemes. Walsingham strongly and repeatedly represented to Captain Jemmison the danger, and remonstrated with him and the other officers upon the imprudence of leaving the ship at this juncture; but Jemmison, in a prettily rounded period, protested he saw no penumbra of danger, and that till he was called upon by Mars, he owned he preferred the charms of Venus.

“This was vastly elegant; but, nevertheless, it happened one night, when the captain, after having eaten an admirable supper, was paying his court to a Creole lady of Spanish Town, news was brought him, that the crew of the Dreadnought had mutinied, and that Lieutenant Walsingham was killed. One half of the report was true, and the other nearly so. At midnight, after having been exhausted during the preceding week by his vigilance, Walsingham had just thrown himself into his cot, when he was roused by Birch at his cabin-door, crying, ‘A mutiny! a mutiny on deck!’—Walsingham seized his drawn cutlass, and ran up the ladder, determined to cut down the ringleader; but just as he reached the top, the sailors shut down the hatchway, which struck his head with such violence, that he fell, stunned, and, to all appearance, dead. Birch contrived, in the midst of the bustle, before he was himself seized by the mutineers, to convey, by signals to shore, news of what had happened. But Captain Jemmison could now be of no use. Before he could take any measures to prevent them, the mutineers weighed anchor, and the Dreadnought, under a brisk breeze, was out of the bay; all the other vessels in the harbour taking it for granted that her captain was on board, and that she was sailing under orders. In the mean time, whilst Walsingham was senseless, the sailors stowed him into his cabin, and set a guard over him. The ringleader, Jefferies, a revengeful villain, who bore malice against him for some just punishment, wanted to murder him, but the rest would not consent. Some would not dip their hands in blood; others pleaded for him, and said that he was never cruel. One man urged, that the lieutenant had been kind to him when he was sick. Another suggested, that it would be well to keep him alive to manage the ship for them, in case of difficulties. Conscious of their ignorance, they acceded to this advice; Jefferies’ proposal to murder him was overruled: and it was agreed to keep Walsingham close prisoner till they should need his assistance. He had his timekeeper and log-book locked up with him, which were totally forgotten by these miscreants. Never seaman prayed more fervently for fair weather than Walsingham now did for a storm. At last, one night he heard (and he says it was one of the pleasantest sounds he ever heard in his life) the wind rising. Soon it blew a storm. He heard one of the sailors say—‘A stiff gale, Jack!’ and another—‘An ugly night!’ Presently, great noise on deck, and the pumps at work. Every moment he now expected a deputation from the mutineers. The first person he saw was the carpenter, who came in to knock in the dead lights in the cabin windows. The man was surly, and would give no answer to any questions; but Walsingham knew, by the hurry of his work, that the fellow thought there was no time to be lost. Twice, before he could finish what he was about, messages came from Captain Jefferies, to order him to something else. Then a violent crash above from the fall of a mast; and then he heard one cry—‘I’ll be cursed if I should care, if we did but know where-abouts we are.’ Then all was in such uproar, that no voices could be distinguished. At last his cabin-door unlocked, and many voices called upon him at once to come upon deck that instant and save the ship. Walsingham absolutely refused to do any thing for them till they returned to their duty, delivered up to him their arms, and their ringleader, Jefferies. At this answer they stood aghast. Some tried entreaties, some threats: all in vain. Walsingham coolly said, he would go to the bottom along with the ship rather than say a word to save them, till they submitted. The storm blew stronger—the danger every moment increasing. One of the mutineers came with a drawn cutlass, another levelled a blunderbuss at Walsingham, swearing to despatch him that instant, if he would not tell them where they were. ‘Murder me, and you will be hanged; persist in your mutiny, you’ll be drowned,’ said Walsingham. ‘You’ll never make me swerve from my duty—and you know it—you have my answer.’ The enraged sailors seized him in their arms, and carried him by force upon deck, where the sight of the danger, and the cries of ‘Throw him overboard!—over with him!’ only seemed to fortify his resolution. Not a word, not a sign could they get from him. The rudder was now unshipped! At this the sailors’ fury turned suddenly upon Jefferies, who between terror and ignorance was utterly incapacitated. They seized, bound, gave him up to Walsingham, returned to their duty; and then, and not till then, Walsingham resumed his command. Walsingham’s voice, once more heard, inspired confidence, and with the hopes revived the exertions of the sailors. I am not seaman enough to tell you how the ship was saved; but that it was saved, and saved by Walsingham, is certain. I remember only, that he made the ship manageable by some contrivance, which he substituted in the place of the rudder that had been unshipped. The storm abating, he made for the first port, to repair the ship’s damages, intending to return to Jamaica, to deliver her up to her captain; but, from a vessel they spoke at sea, he learned that Jemmison was gone to England in a merchantman. To England then Walsingham prepared to follow.”

“And with this rebel crew!” cried Beaumont; “think, Mr. Palmer, what a situation he was in, knowing, as he did, that every rascal of them would sooner go to the devil than go home, where they knew they must be tried for their mutiny.”

“Well, sir, well!” said Mr. Palmer. “Did they run away with the ship a second time? or how did he manage?”

He called them all one morning together on deck; and pointing to the place where the gunpowder was kept, he said—‘I have means of blowing up the ship. If ever you attempt to mutiny again, the first finger you lay upon me, I blow her up instantly.’ They had found him to be a man of resolution. They kept to their duty. Not a symptom of disobedience during the rest of the voyage. In their passage they fell in with an enemy’s ship, far superior to them in force. ‘There, my lads!’ said Walsingham, ‘if you have a mind to earn your pardons, there’s your best chance. Take her home with you to your captain and your king.’ A loud cheer was their answer. They fought like devils to redeem themselves. Walsingham—but without stopping to make his panegyric, I need only tell you, that Walsingham’s conduct and intrepidity were this time crowned with success. He took the enemy’s ship, and carried it in triumph into Portsmouth. Jemmison was on the platform when they came in; and what a mortifying sight it was to him, and what a proud hour to Walsingham, you may imagine! Having delivered the Dreadnought and her prize over to his captain, the next thing to be thought of was the trial of the mutineers. All except Jefferies obtained a pardon, in consideration of their return to duty, and their subsequent services. Jefferies was hanged at the yard-arm. The trial of the mutineers brought on, as Jemmison foresaw it must, many animadversions on his own conduct. Powerful connexions, and his friends in place, silenced, as much as possible, the public voice. Jemmison gave excellent dinners, and endeavoured to drown the whole affair in his choice Champagne and London particular Madeira; so his health, and success to the British navy, was drunk in bumper toasts.

“Ay, ay, they think to do every thing now in England by dinners, and bumper toasts, and three times three,” said Mr. Palmer.

“But it did not do in this instance,” said Beaumont, in a tone of exultation: “it did not do.”

“No,” continued Mr. Walsingham; “though Jemmison’s dinners went down vastly well with a party, they did not satisfy the public. The opposition papers grew clamorous, and the business was taken up so strongly, and it raised such a cry against the ministry, that they were obliged to bring Jemmison to a court-martial.”

“The puppy! I’m glad of it, with all my soul. And how did he look then?” said Mr. Palmer.

“Vastly like a gentleman; that was all that even his friends could say for him. The person he was most afraid of on the trial was Walsingham. In this apprehension he was confirmed by certain of his friends, who had attempted to sound Walsingham as to the nature of the evidence he intended to give. They all reported, that they could draw nothing out of him, and that he was an impracticable fellow; for his constant answer was, that his evidence should be given in court, and nowhere else.”

“Even to his most intimate friends,” interrupted Mr. Beaumont, “even to me, who was in the house with him all the time the trial was going on, he did not tell what his evidence would be.”

“When the day of trial came,” pursued Mr. Walsingham——

“Don’t forget Admiral Dashleigh,” said Mr. Beaumont.

“No; who can forget him that knows him?” said Walsingham: “a warm, generous friend, open-hearted as he is brave—he came to Captain Walsingham the day before the court-martial was to sit. ‘I know, Walsingham, you don’t like my cousin Jemmison (said he), nor do I much, for he is a puppy, and I never could like a puppy, related to me or not; be that as it may, you’ll do him justice, I’m sure; for though he is a puppy he is a brave fellow—and here, for party purposes, they have raised a cry of his being a coward, and want to shoot him pour encourager les autres. What you say will damn or save him; and I have too good an opinion of you to think that any old grudge, though you might have cause for it, would stand in his way.’ Walsingham answered as usual, that his opinion and his evidence would be known on the day of trial. Dashleigh went away very ill-satisfied, and persuaded that Walsingham harboured revenge against his relation. At last, when he was called upon in court, Walsingham’s conduct was both just and generous; for though his answers spoke the exact truth, yet he brought forward nothing to the disadvantage of Jemmison, but what truth compelled him to state, and in his captain’s favour; on the contrary, he spoke so strongly of his intrepidity, and of the gallant actions which in former instances he had performed in the service, as quite to efface the recollection of his foppery and epicurism, and, as much as possible, to excuse his negligence. Walsingham’s evidence absolutely confuted the unjust charge or suspicion of cowardice that had been raised against Jemmison; and made such an impression in his favour, that, instead of being dismissed the service, or even having his ship taken from him, as was expected, Jemmison got off with a reprimand.”

“Which I am sure he well deserved,” said Mr. Palmer.

“But certainly Walsingham was right not to let him be run down by a popular cry, especially as he had used him ill,” said Mr. Beaumont.

“Well, well!—I don’t care about the puppy,” cried Mr. Palmer; “only go on.”

“No sooner was the trial over, and the sentence of the court made known, than Admiral Dashleigh, full of joy, admiration, and gratitude, pushed his way towards Walsingham, and stretching out his hand, exclaimed—‘Shake hands, Walsingham, and forgive me, or I can’t forgive myself. I suspected you yesterday morning of bearing malice against that coxcomb, who deserved to be laughed at, but not to be shot. By Jove, Walsingham, you’re an honest fellow, I find.’ ‘And have you but just found that out, admiral?’ said Walsingham, with a proud smile. ‘Harkee, my lad,’ said Dashleigh, calling after him, ‘remember, I’m your friend, at all events.—Take it as you will, I’ll make you mine yet, before I’ve done with you.’ Walsingham knew that at this time Admiral Dashleigh’s friends were in power, and that Dashleigh himself had great influence with the Admiralty; and he probably treated the admiral thus haughtily, to show that he had no interested views or hopes. Dashleigh understood this, for he now comprehended Walsingham’s character perfectly. Immediately after the trial, Walsingham was made commander, in consequence of his having saved the Dreadnought, and his having taken l’Ambuscade. With this appointment Dashleigh had nothing to do. But he never ceased exerting himself, employing all the interest of his high connexions, and all the personal influence of his great abilities, to have Walsingham made post, and to get him a ship. He succeeded at last; but he never gave the least hint that it was done by his interest; for, he said, he knew that Walsingham had such nice notions, and was such a proud principled fellow, that he would not enjoy his promotion, if he thought he owed it to any thing upon earth but his own merit. So a handsome letter was written by the secretary of the Admiralty to Captain Walsingham, by their lordships’ desire, informing him, ‘that in consideration of his services and merit, his majesty had been pleased to make him post-captain, and to appoint him to the command of l’Ambuscade (the prize he took), which would be sent out on the first occasion.’ The secretary ‘begged leave to add expressions of his private satisfaction on an appointment so likely to be advantageous to the public,’ &c. In short, it was all done so properly and so plausibly, that even Walsingham never suspected any secret influence, nor did he find out the part Dashleigh had taken in the business till several months afterwards, when a discreet friend mentioned it by accident.”

“I was that discreet friend,” said Mr. Beaumont.

“Well, all this is very good, but there’s no love in this Story,” said Mr. Palmer. “I hope your hero is not too proud to fall in love?”

“Too proud!—We are told, you know, that the greatest hero, in the intervals of war, resigned