icular
star", far above his earth) with endless delight and wonder. She had been
a coquette from the earliest times almost, trying her freaks and
jealousies, her wayward frolics and winning caresses, upon all that came
within her reach; she set her women quarrelling in the nursery, and
practised her eyes on the groom as she rode behind him on the pillion.

She was the darling and torment of father and mother. She intrigued with
each secretly; and bestowed her fondness and withdrew it, plied them with
tears, smiles, kisses, cajolements;--when the mother was angry, as happened
often, flew to the father, and sheltering behind him, pursued her victim;
when both were displeased, transferred her caresses to the domestics, or
watched until she could win back her parents' good graces, either by
surprising them into laughter and good humour, or appeasing them by
submission and artful humility. She was _saevo laeta negotio_, like that
fickle goddess Horace describes, and of whose "malicious joy" a great poet
of our own has written so nobly--who, famous and heroic as he was, was not
strong enough to resist the torture of women.

It was but three years before, that the child, then but ten years old, had
nearly managed to make a quarrel between Harry Esmond and his comrade,
good-natured, phlegmatic Thomas Tusher, who never of his own seeking
quarrelled with anybody: by quoting to the latter some silly joke which
Harry had made regarding him--(it was the merest, idlest jest, though it
near drove two old friends to blows, and I think such a battle would have
pleased her)--and from that day Tom kept at a distance from her; and she
respected him, and coaxed him sedulously whenever they met. But Harry was
much more easily appeased, because he was fonder of the child: and when
she made mischief, used cutting speeches, or caused her friends pain, she
excused herself for her fault, not by admitting and deploring it, but by
pleading not guilty, and asserting innocence so constantly, and with such
seeming artlessness, that it was impossible to question her plea. In her
childhood, they were but mischiefs then which she did; but her power
became more fatal as she grew older--as a kitten first plays with a ball,
and then pounces on a bird and kills it. 'Tis not to be imagined that
Harry Esmond had all this experience at this early stage of his life,
whereof he is now writing the history--many things here noted were but
known to him in later days