s the
First's time, always took her side; and so did old Mistress Crookshank,
Bishop Crookshank's daughter, of Hexton, who, with some more of their
like, pronounced my lady an angel: but the pretty women were not of this
mind; and the opinion of the country was that my lord was tied to his
wife's apron-strings, and that she ruled over him.

The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at fourteen years of age,
with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's son, of Bramblebrook, who,
advancing this opinion, that my lady was jealous and henpecked my lord,
put Harry in such a fury, that Harry fell on him and with such rage,
that the other boy, who was two years older and by far bigger than he,
had by far the worst of the assault, until it was interrupted by Doctor
Tusher walking out of the dinner-room.

Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, indeed, been
surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of the
assault upon him.

"You little bastard beggar!" he said, "I'll murder you for this!"

And indeed he was big enough.

"Bastard or not," said the other, grinding his teeth, "I have a
couple of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, on the terrace
to-night--"

And here the Doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young champions
ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue a
fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES EVIL.

Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the custom of
inoculation from Turkey (a perilous practice many deem it, and only a
useless rushing into the jaws of danger), I think the severity of the
small-pox, that dreadful scourge of the world, has somewhat been abated
in our part of it; and remember in my time hundreds of the young and
beautiful who have been carried to the grave, or have only risen from
their pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many
a sweet face hath left its roses on the bed on which this dreadful and
withering blight has laid them. In my early days, this pestilence would
enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants: at its approach, it
may well be imagined, not only the beautiful but the strongest were
alarmed, and those fled who could. One day in the year 1694 (I have good
reason to remember it), Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a
face of consternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance at
the blacksmith