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

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

"He might have done," said the other--"at least he taught me to see and
approve better things. 'Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi."

"You seem very good," the boy said.

"I'm not what I seem, alas!" answered the trooper--and indeed, as it
turned out, poor Dick told the truth--for that very night, at supper
in the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their repasts,
and passed most part of their days dicing and smoking of tobacco, and
singing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale--Harry Esmond found Dick
the Scholar in a woful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon
and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which Dick,
swearing he would run the scoundrel through the body who insulted h