nd ever man had. He went back to the house,
where the servant still stood at the open door, ran up the stairs, and
found his mistress where he had left her in the embrasure of the window,
looking over the fields towards Chelsey. She laughed, wiping away at the
same time the tears which were in her kind eyes; he flung himself down
on his knees, and buried his head in her lap. She had in her hand the
stalk of one of the flowers, a pink, that he had torn to pieces. "Oh,
pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kindest," he said; "I am in hell,
and you are the angel that brings me a drop of water."

"I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you always," she said,
holding her hands over him: and he went away comforted and humbled in
mind, as he thought of that amazing and constant love and tenderness
with which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FAMOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON.

The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the Guard a very
splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of which ordinaries
Esmond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked the Guard-table better than
his own at the gentlemen ushers', where there was less wine and more
ceremony; and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of his
friend, and a hundred times at least saw Dick into his chair. If there
is verity in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable-natured
character Dick's must have been! In proportion as he took in wine he
overflowed with kindness. His talk was not witty so much as charming.
He never said a word that could anger anybody, and only became the more
benevolent the more tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided the poor
fellow in his cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire: but there
was a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy, that seemed to
Esmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the brightest wits,
with their elaborate repartees and affected severities. I think
Steele shone rather than sparkled. Those famous beaux-esprits of the
coffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, for instance, when his gout and
his grandeur permitted him to come among us) would make many brilliant
hits--half a dozen in a night sometimes--but, like sharp-shooters, when
they had fired their shot, they were obliged to retire under cover till
their pieces were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance at
their enemy; whereas Dick never thought that his bottle companion was a
butt