had embraced the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on
Castlewood tower, being engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman.
This resolute old loyalist, who was with the king whilst his house was
thus being battered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to
return and take a part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field Eustace
Esmond was killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more into exile, and
henceforward, and after the Restoration, never was away from the Court of
the monarch (for whose return we offer thanks in the Prayer-book) who sold
his country and who took bribes of the French king.

What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in exile? Who is
more worthy of respect than a brave man in misfortune? Mr. Addison has
painted such a figure in his noble piece of _Cato_. But suppose fugitive
Cato fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen
faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for
his bill; and the dignity of misfortune is straightway lost. The
Historical Muse turns away shamefaced from the vulgar scene, and closes
the door--on which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up--upon him and his
pots and his pipes, and the tavern-chorus which he and his friends are
singing. Such a man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to
paint him. Your Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and impossible
allegories: and it hath always seemed to me blasphemy to claim Olympus for
such a wine-drabbled divinity as that.

About the king's follower the Viscount Castlewood--orphan of his son,
ruined by his fidelity, bearing many wounds and marks of bravery, old and
in exile, his kinsmen I suppose should be silent; nor if this patriarch
fell down in his cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by to laugh at
his red face and white hairs. What! does a stream rush out of a mountain
free and pure, to roll through fair pastures, to feed and throw out bright
tributaries, and to end in a village gutter? Lives that have noble
commencements have often no better endings; it is not without a kind of
awe and reverence that an observer should speculate upon such careers as
he traces the course of them. I have seen too much of success in life to
take off my hat and huzza to it as it passes in its gilt coach: and would
do my little part with my neighbours on foot, that they should not gape
with too much wonder, nor applaud too loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going