sire to see a few campaigns, and
accordingly he pressed his new patroness to get him a pair of colours; and
one day had the honour of finding himself appointed an ensign in Colonel
Quin's regiment of Fusiliers on the Irish establishment.

Mr. Esmond's commission was scarce three weeks old when that accident
befell King William which ended the life of the greatest, the wisest, the
bravest, and most clement sovereign whom England ever knew. 'Twas the
fashion of the hostile party to assail this great prince's reputation
during his life; but the joy which they and all his enemies in Europe
showed at his death, is a proof of the terror in which they held him.
Young as Esmond was, he was wise enough (and generous enough too, let it
be said) to scorn that indecency of gratulation which broke out amongst
the followers of King James in London, upon the death of this illustrious
prince, this invincible warrior, this wise and moderate statesman. Loyalty
to the exiled king's family was traditional, as has been said, in that
house to which Mr. Esmond belonged. His father's widow had all her hopes,
sympathies, recollections, prejudices, engaged on King James's side; and
was certainly as noisy a conspirator as ever asserted the king's rights,
or abused his opponent's, over a quadrille table or a dish of bohea. Her
ladyship's house swarmed with ecclesiastics, in disguise and out; with
tale-bearers from St. Germains; and quidnuncs that knew the last news from
Versailles; nay, the exact force and number of the next expedition which
the French king was to send from Dunkirk, and which was to swallow up the
Prince of Orange, his army, and his Court. She had received the Duke of
Berwick when he landed here in '96. She kept the glass he drank from,
vowing she never would use it till she drank King James the Third's health
in it on his Majesty's return; she had tokens from the queen, and relics
of the saint who, if the story was true, had not always been a saint as
far as she and many others were concerned. She believed in the miracles
wrought at his tomb, and had a hundred authentic stories of wondrous cures
effected by the blessed king's rosaries, the medals which he wore, the
locks of his hair, or what not. Esmond remembered a score of marvellous
tales which the credulous old woman told him. There was the Bishop of
Autun, that was healed of a malady he had for forty years, and which left
him after he said mass for the repose of the king's sou