to talk on condition that he might have his own turn as a listener.  Hence arose an intimacy between them, though to all the rest of their friends they must have been insufferable.  Esmond’s verses to “Gloriana at the Harpsichord,” to “Gloriana’s Nosegay,” to “Gloriana at Court,” appeared this year in the Observator.—­Have you never read them?  They were thought pretty poems, and attributed by some to Mr. Prior.

This passion did not escape—­how should it?—­the clear eyes of Esmond’s mistress:  he told her all; what will a man not do when frantic with love?  To what baseness will he not demean himself?  What pangs will he not make others suffer, so that he may ease his selfish heart of a part of its own pain?  Day after day he would seek his dear mistress, pour insane hopes, supplications, rhapsodies, raptures, into her ear.  She listened, smiled, consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness.  Esmond was the eldest of her children, so she was pleased to say; and as for her kindness, who ever had or would look for aught else from one who was an angel of goodness and pity?  After what has been said, ’tis needless almost to add that poor Esmond’s suit was unsuccessful.  What was a nameless, penniless lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the land were in the field?  Esmond never so much as thought of asking permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew this prize was and passed his foolish, useless life in mere abject sighs and impotent longing.  What nights of rage, what days of torment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy can he recall!  Beatrix thought no more of him than of the lackey that followed her chair.  His complaints did not touch her in the least; his raptures rather fatigued her; she cared for his verses no more than for Dan Chaucer’s, who’s dead these ever so many hundred years; she did not hate him; she rather despised him, and just suffered him.

One day, after talking to Beatrix’s mother, his dear, fond, constant mistress—­for hours—­for all day long—­pouring out his flame and his passion, his despair and rage, returning again and again to the theme, pacing the room, tearing up the flowers on the table, twisting and breaking into bits the wax out of the stand-dish, and performing a hundred mad freaks of passionate folly; seeing his mistress at last quite pale and tired out with sheer weariness of compassion, and watching over his fever for the hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat, and took his leave.  As he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came over him for the wearisome pain he had been inflicting upon the dearest and kindest friend 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.”