Produced by Les Bowler
CATHERINE: A STORY
by William Makepeace Thackeray
[Catherine, A Story by Ikey Solomons, Esq., Junior.]
Contents
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1. Introducing to the reader the chief personages of this narrative.
2. In which are depicted the pleasures of a sentimental attachment.
3. In which a narcotic is administered, and a great deal of genteel
society depicted.
4. In which Mrs. Catherine becomes an honest woman again.
5. Contains Mr. Brock's autobiography, and other matter.
6. The adventures of the ambassador, Mr. MacShane.
7. Which embraces a period of seven years.
8. Enumerates the accomplishments of Master Thomas Billings--introduces
Brock as Doctor Wood--and announces the execution of Ensign MacShane.
9. Interview between Count Galgenstein and Master Thomas Billings, when
he informs the Count of his parentage.
10. Showing how Galgenstein and Mrs. Cat recognise each other in
Marylebone Gardens--and how the Count drives her home in his carrige.
11. Of some domestic quarrels, and the consequence thereof.
12. Treats of love, and prepares for death.
13. Being a preparation for the end.
Chapter the Last.
Another Last Chapter.
ADVERTISEMENT
The story of “Catherine,” which appeared in Fraser's Magazine in
1839-40, was written by Mr. Thackeray, under the name of Ikey Solomons,
Jun., to counteract the injurious influence of some popular fictions of
that day, which made heroes of highwaymen and burglars, and created a
false sympathy for the vicious and criminal.
With this purpose, the author chose for the subject of his story a
woman named Catherine Hayes, who was burned at Tyburn, in 1726, for the
deliberate murder of her husband, under very revolting circumstances.
Mr. Thackeray's aim obviously was to describe the career of this
wretched woman and her associates with such fidelity to truth as to
exhibit the danger and folly of investing such persons with heroic and
romantic qualities.
CHAPTER I. Introducing to the reader the chief personages of this
narrative.
At that famous period of history, when the seventeenth century (after
a deal of quarrelling, king-killing, reforming, republicanising,
restoring, re-restoring, play-writing, sermon-writing,
Oliver-Cromwellising, Stuartising, and Orangising, to be sure) had sunk
into its grave, giving place to the lusty eighteenth; when Mr. Isaac
Newton was a tutor of Trinity, and Mr. Joseph Addison Commissioner of
Appeals; when the presiding genius that watched over the destinies of
the French nation had played out all the best cards in his hand, and his
adversaries began to pour in their trumps; when there were two kings in
Spain employed perpetually in running away from one another; when there
was a queen in England, with such rogues for Ministers as have never
been seen, no, not in our own day; and a General, of whom it may be
severely argued, whether he was the meanest miser or the greatest hero
in the world; when Mrs. Masham had not yet put Madam Marlborough's nose
out of joint; when people had their ears cut off for writing very
meek political pamphlets; and very large full-bottomed wigs were just
beginning to be worn with powder; and the face of Louis the Great, as
his was handed in to him behind the bed-curtains, was, when issuing
thence, observed to look longer, older, and more dismal daily....
About the year One thousand seven hundred and five, that is, in the
glorious reign of Queen Anne, there existed certain characters, and
befell a series of adventures, which, since they are strictly in
accordance with the present fashionable style and taste; since they have
been already partly described in the “Newgate Calendar;” since they are
(as shall be seen anon) agreeably low, delightfully disgusting, and at
the same time eminently pleasing and pathetic, may properly be set down
here.
And though it may be said, with some considerable show of reason, that
agreeably low and delightfully disgusting characters have already been
treated, both copiously and ably, by some eminent writers of the present
(and, indeed, of future) ages; though to tread in the footsteps of
the immortal FAGIN requires a genius of inordinate stride, and to go
a-robbing after the late though deathless TURPIN, the renowned
JACK SHEPPARD, or the embryo DUVAL, may be impossible, and not an
infringement, but a wasteful indication of ill-will towards the eighth
commandment; though it may, on the one hand, be asserted that only vain
coxcombs would dare to write on subjects already described by men really
and deservedly eminent; on the other hand, that these subjects have been
described so fully, that nothing more can be said about them; on the
third hand (allowing, for the sake of argument, three hands to one
figure of speech), that the public has heard so much of them, as to
be quite tired of rogues, thieves, cutthroats, and Newgate
altogether;--though all these objections may be urged, and each is
excellent, yet we intend to take a few more pages from the “Old Bailey
Calendar,” to bless the public with one more draught from the Stone
Jug:[*]--yet awhile to listen, hurdle-mounted, and riding down the
Oxford Road, to the bland conversation of Jack Ketch, and to hang with
him round the neck of his patient, at the end of our and his history.
We give the reader fair notice, that we shall tickle him with a few such
scenes of villainy, throat-cutting, and bodily suffering in general, as
are not to be found, no, not in--; never mind comparisons, for such are
odious.
* This, as your Ladyship is aware, is the polite name for
Her Majesty's Prison of Newgate.
In the year 1705, then, whether it was that the Queen of England did
feel seriously alarmed at the notion that a French prince should occupy
the Spanish throne; or whether she was tenderly attached to the Emperor
of Germany; or whether she was obliged to fight out the quarrel of
William of Orange, who made us pay and fight for his Dutch provinces;
or whether poor old Louis Quatorze did really frighten her; or whether
Sarah Jennings and her husband wanted to make a fight, knowing how much
they should gain by it;--whatever the reason was, it was evident that
the war was to continue, and there was almost as much soldiering
and recruiting, parading, pike and gun-exercising, flag-flying,
drum-beating, powder-blazing, and military enthusiasm, as we can all
remember in the year 1801, what time the Corsican upstart menaced our
shores. A recruiting-party and captain of Cutts's regiment (which had
been so mangled at Blenheim the year before) were now in Warwickshire;
and having their depot at Warwick, the captain and his attendant, the
corporal, were used to travel through the country, seeking for heroes to
fill up the gaps in Cutts's corps,--and for adventures to pass away the
weary time of a country life.
Our Captain Plume and Sergeant Kite (it was at this time, by the way,
that those famous recruiting-officers were playing their pranks in
Shrewsbury) were occupied very much in the same manner with Farquhar's
heroes. They roamed from Warwick to Stratford, and from Stratford to
Birmingham, persuading the swains of Warwickshire to leave the plough
for the Pike, and despatching, from time to time, small detachments
of recruits to extend Marlborough's lines, and to act as food for the
hungry cannon at Ramillies and Malplaquet.
Of those two gentlemen who are about to act a very important part in our
history, one only was probably a native of Britain,--we say probably,
because the individual in question was himself quite uncertain, and, it
must be added, entirely indifferent about his birthplace; but speaking
the English language, and having been during the course of his life
pretty generally engaged in the British service, he had a tolerably
fair claim to the majestic title of Briton. His name was Peter Brock,
otherwise Corporal Brock, of Lord Cutts's regiment of dragoons; he was
of age about fifty-seven (even that point has never been ascertained);
in height about five feet six inches; in weight, nearly thirteen stone;
with a chest that the celebrated Leitch himself might envy; an arm
that was like an opera-dancer's leg; a stomach so elastic that it would
accommodate itself to any given or stolen quantity of food; a great
aptitude for strong liquors; a considerable skill in singing chansons de
table of not the most delicate kind; he was a lover of jokes, of which
he made many, and passably bad; when pleased, simply coarse, boisterous,
and jovial; when angry, a perfect demon: bullying, cursing, storming,
fighting, as is sometimes the wont with gentlemen of his cloth and
education.
Mr. Brock was strictly, what the Marquis of Rodil styled himself in a
proclamation to his soldiers after running away, a hijo de la guerra--a
child of war. Not seven cities, but one or two regiments, might contend
for the honour of giving him birth; for his mother, whose name he took,
had acted as camp-follower to a Royalist regiment; had then obeyed the
Parliamentarians; died in Scotland when Monk was commanding in that
country; and the first appearance of Mr. Brock in a public capacity
displayed him as a fifer in the General's own regiment of Coldstreamers,
when they marched from Scotland to London, and from a republic at once
into a monarchy. Since that period, Brock had been always with the army,
he had had, too, some promotion, for he spake of having a command at the
battle of the Boyne; though probably (as he never mentioned the fact)
upon the losing side. The very year before this narrative commences,
he had been one of Mordaunt's forlorn hope at Schellenberg, for which
service he was promised a pair of colours; he lost them, however, and
was almost shot (but fate did not ordain that his career should close
in that way) for drunkenness and insubordination immediately after the
battle; but having in some measure reinstated himself by a display
of much gallantry at Blenheim, it was found advisable to send him to
England for the purposes of recruiting, and remove him altogether from
the regiment where his gallantry only rendered the example of his riot
more dangerous.
Mr. Brock's commander was a slim young gentleman of twenty-six, about
whom there was likewise a history, if one would take the trouble to
inquire. He was a Bavarian by birth (his mother being an English lady),
and enjoyed along with a dozen other brothers the title of count: eleven
of these, of course, were penniless; one or two were priests, one a
monk, six or seven in various military services, and the elder at home
at Schloss Galgenstein breeding horses, hunting wild boars, swindling
tenants, living in a great house with small means; obliged to be sordid
at home all the year, to be splendid for a month at the capital, as
is the way with many other noblemen. Our young count, Count Gustavus
Adolphus Maximilian von Galgenstein, had been in the service of the
French as page to a nobleman; then of His Majesty's gardes du corps;
then a lieutenant and captain in the Bavarian service; and when, after
the battle of Blenheim, two regiments of Germans came over to the
winning side, Gustavus Adolphus Maximilian found himself among them; and
at the epoch when this story commences, had enjoyed English pay for a
year or more. It is unnecessary to say how he exchanged into his present
regiment; how it appeared that, before her marriage, handsome John
Churchill had known the young gentleman's mother, when they were both
penniless hangers-on at Charles the Second's court;--it is, we say,
quite useless to repeat all the scandal of which we are perfectly
masters, and to trace step by step the events of his history. Here,
however, was Gustavus Adolphus, in a small inn, in a small village of
Warwickshire, on an autumn evening in the year 1705; and at the very
moment when this history begins, he and Mr. Brock, his corporal and
friend, were seated at a round table before the kitchen-fire while a
small groom of the establishment was leading up and down on the
village green, before the inn door, two black, glossy, long-tailed,
barrel-bellied, thick-flanked, arch-necked, Roman-nosed Flanders horses,
which were the property of the two gentlemen now taking their ease at
the “Bugle Inn.” The two gentlemen were seated at their ease at the inn
table, drinking mountain-wine; and if the reader fancies from the sketch
which we have given of their lives, or from his own blindness and belief
in the perfectibility of human nature, that the sun of that autumn
evening shone upon any two men in county or city, at desk or harvest, at
Court or at Newgate, drunk or sober, who were greater rascals than
Count Gustavus Galgenstein and Corporal Peter Brock, he is egregiously
mistaken, and his knowledge of human nature is not worth a fig. If they
had not been two prominent scoundrels, what earthly business should we
have in detailing their histories? What would the public care for
them? Who would meddle with dull virtue, humdrum sentiment, or stupid
innocence, when vice, agreeable vice, is the only thing which the
readers of romances care to hear?
The little horse-boy, who was leading the two black Flanders horses up
and down the green, might have put them in the stable for any good that
the horses got by the gentle exercise which they were now taking in the
cool evening air, as their owners had not ridden very far or very hard,
and there was not a hair turned of their sleek shining coats; but the
lad had been especially ordered so to walk the horses about until he
received further commands from the gentlemen reposing in the “Bugle”
kitchen; and the idlers of the village seemed so pleased with the
beasts, and their smart saddles and shining bridles, that it would have
been a pity to deprive them of the pleasure of contemplating such an
innocent spectacle. Over the Count's horse was thrown a fine red cloth,
richly embroidered in yellow worsted, a very large count's coronet and a
cipher at the four corners of the covering; and under this might be
seen a pair of gorgeous silver stirrups, and above it, a couple of
silver-mounted pistols reposing in bearskin holsters; the bit was silver
too, and the horse's head was decorated with many smart ribbons. Of the
Corporal's steed, suffice it to say, that the ornaments were in brass,
as bright, though not perhaps so valuable, as those which decorated the
Captain's animal. The boys, who had been at play on the green, first
paused and entered into conversation with the horse-boy; then the
village matrons followed; and afterwards, sauntering by ones and twos,
came the village maidens, who love soldiers as flies love treacle;
presently the males began to arrive, and lo! the parson of the parish,
taking his evening walk with Mrs. Dobbs, and the four children his
offspring, at length joined himself to his flock.
To this audience the little ostler explained that the animals belonged
to two gentlemen now reposing at the “Bugle:” one young with gold
hair, the other old with grizzled locks; both in red coats; both in
jack-boots; putting the house into a bustle, and calling for the best.
He then discoursed to some of his own companions regarding the merits of
the horses; and the parson, a learned man, explained to the villagers,
that one of the travellers must be a count, or at least had a count's
horsecloth; pronounced that the stirrups were of real silver, and
checked the impetuosity of his son, William Nassau Dobbs, who was for
mounting the animals, and who expressed a longing to fire off one of the
pistols in the holsters.
As this family discussion was taking place, the gentlemen whose
appearance had created so much attention came to the door of the inn,
and the elder and stouter was seen to smile at his companion; after
which he strolled leisurely over the green, and seemed to examine
with much benevolent satisfaction the assemblage of villagers who were
staring at him and the quadrupeds.
Mr. Brock, when he saw the parson's band and cassock, took off his
beaver reverently, and saluted the divine: “I hope your reverence won't
baulk the little fellow,” said he; “I think I heard him calling out for
a ride, and whether he should like my horse, or his Lordship's horse, I
am sure it is all one. Don't be afraid, sir! the horses are not tired;
we have only come seventy mile to-day, and Prince Eugene once rode a
matter of fifty-two leagues (a hundred and fifty miles), sir, upon that
horse, between sunrise and sunset.”
“Gracious powers! on which horse?” said Doctor Dobbs, very solemnly.
“On THIS, sir,--on mine, Corporal Brock of Cutts's black gelding,
'William of Nassau.' The Prince, sir, gave it me after Blenheim fight,
for I had my own legs carried away by a cannon-ball, just as I cut down
two of Sauerkrauter's regiment, who had made the Prince prisoner.”
“Your own legs, sir!” said the Doctor. “Gracious goodness! this is more
and more astonishing!”
“No, no, not my own legs, my horse's I mean, sir; and the Prince gave me
'William of Nassau' that very day.”
To this no direct reply was made; but the Doctor looked at Mrs. Dobbs,
and Mrs. Dobbs and the rest of the children at her eldest son, who
grinned and said, “Isn't it wonderful?” The Corporal to this answered
nothing, but, resuming his account, pointed to the other horse and said,
“THAT horse, sir--good as mine is--that horse, with the silver stirrups,
is his Excellency's horse, Captain Count Maximilian Gustavus Adolphus
von Galgenstein, captain of horse and of the Holy Roman Empire” (he
lifted here his hat with much gravity, and all the crowd, even to
the parson, did likewise). “We call him 'George of Denmark,' sir, in
compliment to Her Majesty's husband: he is Blenheim too, sir; Marshal
Tallard rode him on that day, and you know how HE was taken prisoner by
the Count.”
“George of Denmark, Marshal Tallard, William of Nassau! this is strange
indeed, most wonderful! Why, sir, little are you aware that there are
before you, AT THIS MOMENT, two other living beings who bear these
venerated names! My boys, stand forward! Look here, sir: these children
have been respectively named after our late sovereign and the husband of
our present Queen.”
“And very good names too, sir; ay, and very noble little fellows too;
and I propose that, with your reverence and your ladyship's leave,
William Nassau here shall ride on George of Denmark, and George of
Denmark shall ride on William of Nassau.”
When this speech of the Corporal's was made, the whole crowd set up a
loyal hurrah; and, with much gravity, the two little boys were lifted up
into the saddles; and the Corporal leading one, entrusted the other to
the horse-boy, and so together marched stately up and down the green.
The popularity which Mr. Brock gained by this manoeuvre was very great;
but with regard to the names of the horses and children, which coincided
so extraordinarily, it is but fair to state, that the christening of the
quadrupeds had only taken place about two minutes before the dragoon's
appearance on the green. For if the fact must be confessed, he, while
seated near the inn window, had kept a pretty wistful eye upon all going
on without; and the horses marching thus to and fro for the wonderment
of the village, were only placards or advertisements for the riders.
There was, besides the boy now occupied with the horses, and the
landlord and landlady of the “Bugle Inn,” another person connected with
that establishment--a very smart, handsome, vain, giggling servant-girl,
about the age of sixteen, who went by the familiar name of Cat, and
attended upon the gentlemen in the parlour, while the landlady was
employed in cooking their supper in the kitchen. This young person had
been educated in the village poor-house, and having been pronounced
by Doctor Dobbs and the schoolmaster the idlest, dirtiest, and most
passionate little minx with whom either had ever had to do, she was,
after receiving a very small portion of literary instruction (indeed
it must be stated that the young lady did not know her letters), bound
apprentice at the age of nine years to Mrs. Score, her relative, and
landlady of the “Bugle Inn.”
If Miss Cat, or Catherine Hall, was a slattern and a minx, Mrs. Score
was a far superior shrew; and for the seven years of her apprenticeship
the girl was completely at her mistress's mercy. Yet though wondrously
stingy, jealous, and violent, while her maid was idle and extravagant,
and her husband seemed to abet the girl, Mrs. Score put up with the
wench's airs, idleness, and caprices, without ever wishing to dismiss
her from the “Bugle.” The fact is, that Miss Catherine was a great
beauty, and for about two years, since her fame had begun to spread,
the custom of the inn had also increased vastly. When there was a debate
whether the farmers, on their way from market, would take t'other pot,
Catherine, by appearing with it, would straightway cause the liquor to
be swallowed and paid for; and when the traveller who proposed riding
that night and sleeping at Coventry or Birmingham, was asked by Miss
Catherine whether he would like a fire in his bedroom, he generally was
induced to occupy it, although he might before have vowed to Mrs. Score
that he would not for a thousand guineas be absent from home that night.
The girl had, too, half-a-dozen lovers in the village; and these were
bound in honour to spend their pence at the alehouse she inhabited. O
woman, lovely woman! what strong resolves canst thou twist round thy
little finger! what gunpowder passions canst thou kindle with a single
sparkle of thine eye! what lies and fribble nonsense canst thou make us
listen to, as they were gospel truth or splendid wit! above all what bad
liquor canst thou make us swallow when thou puttest a kiss within the
cup--and we are content to call the poison wine!
The mountain-wine at the “Bugle” was, in fact, execrable; but Mrs. Cat,
who served it to the two soldiers, made it so agreeable to them, that
they found it a passable, even a pleasant task, to swallow the contents
of a second bottle. The miracle had been wrought instantaneously on her
appearance: for whereas at that very moment the Count was employed in
cursing the wine, the landlady, the wine-grower, and the English nation
generally, when the young woman entered and (choosing so to
interpret the oaths) said, “Coming, your honour; I think your honour
called”--Gustavus Adolphus whistled, stared at her very hard, and
seeming quite dumb-stricken by her appearance, contented himself by
swallowing a whole glass of mountain by way of reply.
Mr. Brock was, however, by no means so confounded as his captain: he was
thirty years older than the latter, and in the course of fifty years of
military life had learned to look on the most dangerous enemy, or the
most beautiful woman, with the like daring, devil-may-care determination
to conquer.
“My dear Mary,” then said that gentleman, “his honour is a lord; as good
as a lord, that is; for all he allows such humble fellows as I am to
drink with him.”
Catherine dropped a low curtsey, and said, “Well, I don't know if you
are joking a poor country girl, as all you soldier gentlemen do; but his
honour LOOKS like a lord: though I never see one, to be sure.”
“Then,” said the Captain, gathering courage, “how do you know I look
like one, pretty Mary?”
“Pretty Catherine: I mean Catherine, if you please, sir.”
Here Mr. Brock burst into a roar of laughter, and shouting with many
oaths that she was right at first, invited her to give him what he
called a buss.
Pretty Catherine turned away from him at this request, and muttered
something about “Keep your distance, low fellow! buss indeed; poor
country girl,” etc. etc., placing herself, as if for protection, on the
side of the Captain. That gentleman looked also very angry; but whether
at the sight of innocence so outraged, or the insolence of the Corporal
for daring to help himself first, we cannot say. “Hark ye, Mr. Brock,”
he cried very fiercely, “I will suffer no such liberties in my presence:
remember, it is only my condescension which permits you to share my
bottle in this way; take care I don't give you instead a taste of my
cane.” So saying, he, in a protecting manner, placed one hand round
Mrs. Catherine's waist, holding the other clenched very near to the
Corporal's nose.
Mrs. Catherine, for HER share of this action of the Count's, dropped
another curtsey and said, “Thank you, my Lord.” But Galgenstein's threat
did not appear to make any impression on Mr. Brock, as indeed there was
no reason that it should; for the Corporal, at a combat of fisticuffs,
could have pounded his commander into a jelly in ten minutes; so he
contented himself by saying, “Well, noble Captain, there's no harm done;
it IS an honour for poor old Peter Brock to be at table with you, and I
AM sorry, sure enough.”
“In truth, Peter, I believe thou art; thou hast good reason, eh, Peter?
But never fear, man; had I struck thee, I never would have hurt thee.”
“I KNOW you would not,” replied Brock, laying his hand on his heart
with much gravity; and so peace was made, and healths were drunk. Miss
Catherine condescended to put her lips to the Captain's glass; who swore
that the wine was thus converted into nectar; and although the girl had
not previously heard of that liquor, she received the compliment as a
compliment, and smiled and simpered in return.
The poor thing had never before seen anybody so handsome, or so finely
dressed as the Count; and, in the simplicity of her coquetry, allowed
her satisfaction to be quite visible. Nothing could be more clumsy than
the gentleman's mode of complimenting her; but for this, perhaps, his
speeches were more effective than others more delicate would have been;
and though she said to each, “Oh, now, my Lord,” and “La, Captain, how
can you flatter one so?” and “Your honour's laughing at me,” and made
such polite speeches as are used on these occasions, it was manifest
from the flutter and blush, and the grin of satisfaction which lighted
up the buxom features of the little country beauty, that the Count's
first operations had been highly successful. When following up his
attack, he produced from his neck a small locket (which had been given
him by a Dutch lady at the Brill), and begged Miss Catherine to wear it
for his sake, and chucked her under the chin and called her his little
rosebud, it was pretty clear how things would go: anybody who could see
the expression of Mr. Brock's countenance at this event might judge of
the progress of the irresistible High-Dutch conqueror.
Being of a very vain communicative turn, our fair barmaid gave her two
companions, not only a pretty long account of herself, but of many other
persons in the village, whom she could perceive from the window opposite
to which she stood. “Yes, your honour,” said she--“my Lord, I mean;
sixteen last March, though there's a many girl in the village that at
my age is quite chits. There's Polly Randall now, that red-haired girl
along with Thomas Curtis: she's seventeen if she's a day, though he is
the very first sweetheart she has had. Well, as I am saying, I was bred
up here in the village--father and mother died very young, and I was
left a poor orphan--well, bless us! if Thomas haven't kissed her!--to
the care of Mrs. Score, my aunt, who has been a mother to me--a
stepmother, you know;--and I've been to Stratford fair, and to Warwick
many a time; and there's two people who have offered to marry me, and
ever so many who want to, and I won't have none--only a gentleman,
as I've always said; not a poor clodpole, like Tom there with the red
waistcoat (he was one that asked me), nor a drunken fellow like Sam
Blacksmith yonder, him whose wife has got the black eye, but a real
gentleman, like--”
“Like whom, my dear?” said the Captain, encouraged.
“La, sir, how can you? Why, like our squire, Sir John, who rides in
such a mortal fine gold coach; or, at least, like the parson, Doctor
Dobbs--that's he, in the black gown, walking with Madam Dobbs in red.”
“And are those his children?”
“Yes: two girls and two boys; and only think, he calls one William
Nassau, and one George Denmark--isn't it odd?” And from the parson, Mrs.
Catherine went on to speak of several humble personages of the village
community, who, as they are not necessary to our story, need not be
described at full length. It was when, from the window, Corporal Brock
saw the altercation between the worthy divine and his son, respecting
the latter's ride, that he judged it a fitting time to step out on the
green, and to bestow on the two horses those famous historical names
which we have just heard applied to them.
Mr. Brock's diplomacy was, as we have stated, quite successful; for,
when the parson's boys had ridden and retired along with their mamma and
papa, other young gentlemen of humbler rank in the village were placed
upon “George of Denmark” and “William of Nassau;” the Corporal joking
and laughing with all the grown-up people. The women, in spite of Mr.
Brock's age, his red nose, and a certain squint of his eye, vowed the
Corporal was a jewel of a man; and among the men his popularity was
equally great.
“How much dost thee get, Thomas Clodpole?” said Mr. Brock to a
countryman (he was the man whom Mrs. Catherine had described as her
suitor), who had laughed loudest at some of his jokes: “how much dost
thee get for a week's work, now?”
Mr. Clodpole, whose name was really Bullock, stated that his wages
amounted to “three shillings and a puddn.”
“Three shillings and a puddn!--monstrous!--and for this you toil like a
galley-slave, as I have seen them in Turkey and America,--ay, gentlemen,
and in the country of Prester John! You shiver out of bed on icy winter
mornings, to break the ice for Ball and Dapple to drink.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the person addressed, who seemed astounded at the
extent of the Corporal's information.
“Or you clean pigsty, and take dung down to meadow; or you act watchdog
and tend sheep; or you sweep a scythe over a great field of grass; and
when the sun has scorched the eyes out of your head, and sweated the
flesh off your bones, and well-nigh fried the soul out of your body,
you go home, to what?--three shillings a week and a puddn! Do you get
pudding every day?”
“No; only Sundays.”
“Do you get money enough?”
“No, sure.”
“Do you get beer enough?”
“Oh no, NEVER!” said Mr. Bullock quite resolutely.
“Worthy Clodpole, give us thy hand: it shall have beer enough this day,
or my name's not Corporal Brock. Here's the money, boy! there are twenty
pieces in this purse: and how do you think I got 'em? and how do you
think I shall get others when these are gone?--by serving Her Sacred
Majesty, to be sure: long life to her, and down with the French King!”
Bullock, a few of the men, and two or three of the boys, piped out
an hurrah, in compliment to this speech of the Corporal's: but it
was remarked that the greater part of the crowd drew back--the women
whispering ominously to them and looking at the Corporal.
“I see, ladies, what it is,” said he. “You are frightened, and think I
am a crimp come to steal your sweethearts away. What! call Peter Brock a
double-dealer? I tell you what, boys, Jack Churchill himself has shaken
this hand, and drunk a pot with me: do you think he'd shake hands with
a rogue? Here's Tummas Clodpole has never had beer enough, and here am
I will stand treat to him and any other gentleman: am I good enough
company for him? I have money, look you, and like to spend it: what
should _I_ be doing dirty actions for--hay, Tummas?”
A satisfactory reply to this query was not, of course, expected by the
Corporal nor uttered by Mr. Bullock; and the end of the dispute was,
that he and three or four of the rustic bystanders were quite convinced
of the good intentions of their new friend, and accompanied him back
to the “Bugle,” to regale upon the promised beer. Among the Corporal's
guests was one young fellow whose dress would show that he was somewhat
better to do in the world than Clodpole and the rest of the sunburnt
ragged troop, who were marching towards the alehouse. This man was the
only one of his hearers who, perhaps, was sceptical as to the truth of
his stories; but as soon as Bullock accepted the invitation to drink,
John Hayes, the carpenter (for such was his name and profession), said,
“Well, Thomas, if thou goest, I will go too.”
“I know thee wilt,” said Thomas: “thou'lt goo anywhere Catty Hall is,
provided thou canst goo for nothing.”
“Nay, I have a penny to spend as good as the Corporal here.”
“A penny to KEEP, you mean: for all your love for the lass at the
'Bugle,' did thee ever spend a shilling in the house? Thee wouldn't go
now, but that I am going too, and the Captain here stands treat.”
“Come, come, gentlemen, no quarrelling,” said Mr. Brock. “If this pretty
fellow will join us, amen say I: there's lots of liquor, and plenty
of money to pay the score. Comrade Tummas, give us thy arm. Mr. Hayes,
you're a hearty cock, I make no doubt, and all such are welcome. Come
along, my gentleman farmers, Mr. Brock shall have the honour to pay for
you all.” And with this, Corporal Brock, accompanied by Messrs. Hayes,
Bullock, Blacksmith, Baker's-boy, Butcher, and one or two others,
adjourned to the inn; the horses being, at the same time, conducted to
the stable.
Although we have, in this quiet way, and without any flourishing of
trumpets, or beginning of chapters, introduced Mr. Hayes to the public;
and although, at first sight, a sneaking carpenter's boy may seem hardly
worthy of the notice of an intelligent reader, who looks for a good
cut-throat or highwayman for a hero, or a pickpocket at the very least:
this gentleman's words and actions should be carefully studied by the
public, as he is destined to appear before them under very polite and
curious circumstances during the course of this history. The speech of
the rustic Juvenal, Mr. Clodpole, had seemed to infer that Hayes was at
once careful of his money and a warm admirer of Mrs. Catherine of the
“Bugle:” and both the charges were perfectly true. Hayes's father
was reported to be a man of some substance; and young John, who was
performing his apprenticeship in the village, did not fail to talk very
big of his pretensions to fortune--of his entering, at the close of his
indentures, into partnership with his father--and of the comfortable
farm and house over which Mrs. John Hayes, whoever she might be, would
one day preside. Thus, next to the barber and butcher, and above even
his own master, Mr. Hayes took rank in the village: and it must not be
concealed that his representation of wealth had made some impression
upon Mrs. Hall toward whom the young gentleman had cast the eyes of
affection. If he had been tolerably well-looking, and not pale, rickety,
and feeble as he was; if even he had been ugly, but withal a man of
spirit, it is probable the girl's kindness for him would have been
much more decided. But he was a poor weak creature, not to compare
with honest Thomas Bullock, by at least nine inches; and so notoriously
timid, selfish, and stingy, that there was a kind of shame in receiving
his addresses openly; and what encouragement Mrs. Catherine gave him
could only be in secret.
But no mortal is wise at all times: and the fact was, that Hayes, who
cared for himself intensely, had set his heart upon winning Catherine;
and loved her with a desperate greedy eagerness and desire of
possession, which makes passions for women often so fierce and
unreasonable among very cold and selfish men. His parents (whose
frugality he had inherited) had tried in vain to wean him from this
passion, and had made many fruitless attempts to engage him with women
who possessed money and desired husbands; but Hayes was, for a wonder,
quite proof against their attractions; and, though quite ready
to acknowledge the absurdity of his love for a penniless alehouse
servant-girl, nevertheless persisted in it doggedly. “I know I'm a
fool,” said he; “and what's more, the girl does not care for me; but
marry her I must, or I think I shall just die: and marry her I will.”
For very much to the credit of Miss Catherine's modesty, she had
declared that marriage was with her a sine qua non, and had dismissed,
with the loudest scorn and indignation, all propositions of a less
proper nature.
Poor Thomas Bullock was another of her admirers, and had offered to
marry her; but three shillings a week and a puddn was not to the girl's
taste, and Thomas had been scornfully rejected. Hayes had also made her
a direct proposal. Catherine did not say no: she was too prudent: but
she was young and could wait; she did not care for Mr. Hayes yet enough
to marry him--(it did not seem, indeed, in the young woman's nature to
care for anybody)--and she gave her adorer flatteringly to understand
that, if nobody better appeared in the course of a few years, she might
be induced to become Mrs. Hayes. It was a dismal prospect for the
poor fellow to live upon the hope of being one day Mrs. Catherine's
pis-aller.
In the meantime she considered herself free as the wind, and permitted
herself all the innocent gaieties which that “chartered libertine,” a
coquette, can take. She flirted with all the bachelors, widowers, and
married men, in a manner which did extraordinary credit to her years:
and let not the reader fancy such pastimes unnatural at her early age.
The ladies--Heaven bless them!--are, as a general rule, coquettes from
babyhood upwards. Little SHE'S of three years old play little airs and
graces upon small heroes of five; simpering misses of nine make attacks
upon young gentlemen of twelve; and at sixteen, a well-grown girl, under
encouraging circumstances--say, she is pretty, in a family of ugly elder
sisters, or an only child and heiress, or a humble wench at a country
inn, like our fair Catherine--is at the very pink and prime of her
coquetry: they will jilt you at that age with an ease and arch infantine
simplicity that never can be surpassed in maturer years.
Miss Catherine, then, was a franche coquette, and Mr. John Hayes was
miserable. His life was passed in a storm of mean passions and bitter
jealousies, and desperate attacks upon the indifference-rock of Mrs.
Catherine's heart, which not all his tempest of love could beat down. O
cruel cruel pangs of love unrequited! Mean rogues feel them as well as
great heroes. Lives there the man in Europe who has not felt them many
times?--who has not knelt, and fawned, and supplicated, and wept, and
cursed, and raved, all in vain; and passed long wakeful nights with
ghosts of dead hopes for company; shadows of buried remembrances that
glide out of their graves of nights, and whisper, “We are dead now,
but we WERE once; and we made you happy, and we come now to mock
you:--despair, O lover, despair, and die”?--O cruel pangs!--dismal
nights!--Now a sly demon creeps under your nightcap, and drops into
your ear those soft hope-breathing sweet words, uttered on the
well-remembered evening: there, in the drawer of your dressing-table
(along with the razors, and Macassar oil), lies the dead flower that
Lady Amelia Wilhelmina wore in her bosom on the night of a certain
ball--the corpse of a glorious hope that seemed once as if it would live
for ever, so strong was it, so full of joy and sunshine: there, in
your writing-desk, among a crowd of unpaid bills, is the dirty scrap of
paper, thimble-sealed, which came in company with a pair of muffetees of
her knitting (she was a butcher's daughter, and did all she could, poor
thing!), begging “you would ware them at collidge, and think of her
who”--married a public-house three weeks afterwards, and cares for you
no more now than she does for the pot-boy. But why multiply instances,
or seek to depict the agony of poor mean-spirited John Hayes? No mistake
can be greater than that of fancying such great emotions of love are
only felt by virtuous or exalted men: depend upon it, Love, like Death,
plays havoc among the pauperum tabernas, and sports with rich and poor,
wicked and virtuous, alike. I have often fancied, for instance, on
seeing the haggard pale young old-clothesman, who wakes the echoes of
our street with his nasal cry of “Clo'!”--I have often, I said, fancied
that, besides the load of exuvial coats and breeches under which
he staggers, there is another weight on him--an atrior cura at his
tail--and while his unshorn lips and nose together are performing that
mocking, boisterous, Jack-indifferent cry of “Clo', clo'!” who knows
what woeful utterances are crying from the heart within? There he is,
chaffering with the footman at No. 7 about an old dressing-gown: you
think his whole soul is bent only on the contest about the garment.
Psha! there is, perhaps, some faithless girl in Holywell Street who
fills up his heart; and that desultory Jew-boy is a peripatetic hell!
Take another instance:--take the man in the beef-shop in Saint Martin's
Court. There he is, to all appearances quite calm: before the same round
of beef--from morning till sundown--for hundreds of years very likely.
Perhaps when the shutters are closed, and all the world tired and
silent, there is HE silent, but untired--cutting, cutting, cutting. You
enter, you get your meat to your liking, you depart; and, quite unmoved,
on, on he goes, reaping ceaselessly the Great Harvest of Beef. You would
fancy that if Passion ever failed to conquer, it had in vain assailed
the calm bosom of THAT MAN. I doubt it, and would give much to know his
history.
Who knows what furious Aetna-flames are raging underneath the surface of
that calm flesh-mountain--who can tell me that that calmness itself is
not DESPAIR?
*****
The reader, if he does not now understand why it was that Mr. Hayes
agreed to drink the Corporal's proffered beer, had better just read the
foregoing remarks over again, and if he does not understand THEN, why,
small praise to his brains. Hayes could not bear that Mr. Bullock should
have a chance of seeing, and perhaps making love to Mrs. Catherine in
his absence; and though the young woman never diminished her coquetries,
but, on the contrary, rather increased them in his presence, it was
still a kind of dismal satisfaction to be miserable in her company.
On this occasion, the disconsolate lover could be wretched to his
heart's content; for Catherine had not a word or a look for him, but
bestowed all her smiles upon the handsome stranger who owned the black
horse. As for poor Tummas Bullock, his passion was never violent; and
he was content in the present instance to sigh and drink beer. He sighed
and drank, sighed and drank, and drank again, until he had swallowed so
much of the Corporal's liquor, as to be induced to accept a guinea from
his purse also; and found himself, on returning to reason and sobriety,
a soldier of Queen Anne's.
But oh! fancy the agonies of Mr. Hayes when, seated with the Corporal's
friends at one end of the kitchen, he saw the Captain at the place of
honour, and the smiles which the fair maid bestowed upon him; when, as
she lightly whisked past him with the Captain's supper, she, pointing
to the locket that once reposed on the breast of the Dutch lady at the
Brill, looked archly on Hayes and said, “See, John, what his Lordship
has given me;” and when John's face became green and purple with
rage and jealousy, Mrs. Catherine laughed ten times louder, and cried
“Coming, my Lord,” in a voice of shrill triumph, that bored through the
soul of Mr. John Hayes and left him gasping for breath.
On Catherine's other lover, Mr. Thomas, this coquetry had no effect: he,
and two comrades of his, had by this time quite fallen under the spell
of the Corporal; and hope, glory, strong beer, Prince Eugene, pair of
colours, more strong beer, her blessed Majesty, plenty more strong beer,
and such subjects, martial and bacchic, whirled through their dizzy
brains at a railroad pace.
And now, if there had been a couple of experienced reporters present at
the “Bugle Inn,” they might have taken down a conversation on love
and war--the two themes discussed by the two parties occupying the
kitchen--which, as the parts were sung together, duetwise, formed
together some very curious harmonies. Thus, while the Captain was
whispering the softest nothings, the Corporal was shouting the fiercest
combats of the war; and, like the gentleman at Penelope's table, on it
exiguo pinxit praelia tota bero. For example:
CAPTAIN. What do you say to a silver trimming, pretty Catherine? Don't
you think a scarlet riding-cloak, handsomely laced, would become you
wonderfully well?--and a grey hat with a blue feather--and a pretty nag
to ride on--and all the soldiers to present arms as you pass, and say,
“There goes the Captain's lady”? What do you think of a side-box at
Lincoln's Inn playhouse, or of standing up to a minuet with my Lord
Marquis at--?
CORPORAL. The ball, sir, ran right up his elbow, and was found the next
day by Surgeon Splinter of ours,--where do you think, sir?--upon my
honour as a gentleman it came out of the nape of his--
CAPTAIN. Necklace--and a sweet pair of diamond earrings, mayhap--and a
little shower of patches, which ornament a lady's face wondrously--and
a leetle rouge--though, egad! such peach-cheeks as yours don't want
it;--fie! Mrs. Catherine, I should think the birds must come and peck at
them as if they were fruit--
CORPORAL. Over the wall; and three-and-twenty of our fellows jumped
after me. By the Pope of Rome, friend Tummas, that was a day!--Had you
seen how the Mounseers looked when four-and-twenty rampaging he-devils,
sword and pistol, cut and thrust, pell-mell came tumbling into the
redoubt! Why, sir, we left in three minutes as many artillerymen's heads
as there were cannon-balls. It was, “Ah sacre!” “D----- you, take that!”
“O mon Dieu!” “Run him through!” “Ventrebleu!” and it WAS ventrebleu
with him, I warrant you; for bleu, in the French language, means
“through;” and ventre--why, you see, ventre means--
CAPTAIN. Waists, which are worn now excessive long; and for the hoops,
if you COULD but see them--stap my vitals, my dear, but there was a lady
at Warwick's Assembly (she came in one of my Lord's coaches) who had a
hoop as big as a tent: you might have dined under it comfortably;--ha!
ha! 'pon my faith, now--
CORPORAL. And there we found the Duke of Marlborough seated along with
Marshal Tallard, who was endeavouring to drown his sorrow over a cup of
Johannisberger wine; and a good drink too, my lads, only not to compare
to Warwick beer. “Who was the man who has done this?” said our noble
General. I stepped up. “How many heads was it,” says he, “that you cut
off?” “Nineteen,” says I, “besides wounding several.” When he heard it
(Mr. Hayes, you don't drink) I'm blest if he didn't burst into tears!
“Noble noble fellow,” says he. “Marshal, you must excuse me if I am
pleased to hear of the destruction of your countrymen. Noble noble
fellow!--here's a hundred guineas for you.” Which sum he placed in my
hand. “Nay,” says the Marshal “the man has done his duty:” and, pulling
out a magnificent gold diamond-hilted snuff-box, he gave me--
MR. BULLOCK. What, a goold snuff-box? Wauns, but thee WAST in luck,
Corporal!
CORPORAL. No, not the snuff-box, but--A PINCH OF SNUFF,--ha! ha!--run me
through the body if he didn't. Could you but have seen the smile on
Jack Churchill's grave face at this piece of generosity! So, beckoning
Colonel Cadogan up to him, he pinched his Ear and whispered--
CAPTAIN. “May I have the honour to dance a minuet with your Ladyship?”
The whole room was in titters at Jack's blunder; for, as you know very
well, poor Lady Susan HAS A WOODEN LEG. Ha! ha! fancy a minuet and a
wooden leg, hey, my dear?--
MRS. CATHERINE. Giggle--giggle--giggle: he! he! he! Oh, Captain, you
rogue, you--
SECOND TABLE. Haw! haw! haw! Well you be a foony mon, Sergeant, zure
enoff.
*****
This little specimen of the conversation must be sufficient. It will
show pretty clearly that EACH of the two military commanders was
conducting his operations with perfect success. Three of the detachment
of five attacked by the Corporal surrendered to him: Mr. Bullock,
namely, who gave in at a very early stage of the evening, and
ignominiously laid down his arms under the table, after standing not
more than a dozen volleys of beer; Mr. Blacksmith's boy, and a labourer
whose name we have not been able to learn. Mr. Butcher himself was on
the point of yielding, when he was rescued by the furious charge of a
detachment that marched to his relief: his wife namely, who, with two
squalling children, rushed into the “Bugle,” boxed Butcher's ears, and
kept up such a tremendous fire of oaths and screams upon the Corporal,
that he was obliged to retreat. Fixing then her claws into Mr. Butcher's
hair, she proceeded to drag him out of the premises; and thus Mr. Brock
was overcome. His attack upon John Hayes was a still greater failure;
for that young man seemed to be invincible by drink, if not by love:
and at the end of the drinking-bout was a great deal more cool than
the Corporal himself; to whom he wished a very polite good-evening, as
calmly he took his hat to depart. He turned to look at Catherine, to be
sure, and then he was not quite so calm: but Catherine did not give any
reply to his good-night. She was seated at the Captain's table playing
at cribbage with him; and though Count Gustavus Maximilian lost every
game, he won more than he lost,--sly fellow!--and Mrs. Catherine was no
match for him.
It is to be presumed that Hayes gave some information to Mrs. Score,
the landlady: for, on leaving the kitchen, he was seen to linger for a
moment in the bar; and very soon after Mrs. Catherine was called away
from her attendance on the Count, who, when he asked for a sack and
toast, was furnished with those articles by the landlady herself: and,
during the half-hour in which he was employed in consuming this drink,
Monsieur de Galgenstein looked very much disturbed and out of humour,
and cast his eyes to the door perpetually; but no Catherine came. At
last, very sulkily, he desired to be shown to bed, and walked as well as
he could (for, to say truth, the noble Count was by this time somewhat
unsteady on his legs) to his chamber. It was Mrs. Score who showed
him to it, and closed the curtains, and pointed triumphantly to the
whiteness of the sheets.
“It's a very comfortable room,” said she, “though not the best in the
house; which belong of right to your Lordship's worship; but our
best room has two beds, and Mr. Corporal is in that, locked and
double-locked, with his three tipsy recruits. But your honour will find
this here bed comfortable and well-aired; I've slept in it myself this
eighteen years.”
“What, my good woman, you are going to sit up, eh? It's cruel hard on
you, madam.”
“Sit up, my Lord? bless you, no! I shall have half of our Cat's bed; as
I always do when there's company.” And with this Mrs. Score curtseyed
and retired.
Very early the next morning the active landlady and her bustling
attendant had prepared the ale and bacon for the Corporal and his three
converts, and had set a nice white cloth for the Captain's breakfast.
The young blacksmith did not eat with much satisfaction; but Mr. Bullock
and his friend betrayed no sign of discontent, except such as may be
consequent upon an evening's carouse. They walked very contentedly to be
registered before Doctor Dobbs, who was also justice of the peace, and
went in search of their slender bundles, and took leave of their few
acquaintances without much regret: for the gentlemen had been bred in
the workhouse, and had not, therefore, a large circle of friends.
It wanted only an hour of noon, and the noble Count had not descended.
The men were waiting for him, and spent much of the Queen's money
(earned by the sale of their bodies overnight) while thus expecting him.
Perhaps Mrs. Catherine expected him too, for she had offered many times
to run up--with my Lord's boots--with the hot water--to show Mr. Brock
the way; who sometimes condescended to officiate as barber. But on all
these occasions Mrs. Score had prevented her; not scolding, but with
much gentleness and smiling. At last, more gentle and smiling than ever,
she came downstairs and said, “Catherine darling, his honour the Count
is mighty hungry this morning, and vows he could pick the wing of a
fowl. Run down, child, to Farmer Brigg's and get one: pluck it
before you bring it, you know, and we will make his Lordship a pretty
breakfast.”
Catherine took up her basket, and away she went by the back-yard,
through the stables. There she heard the little horse-boy whistling and
hissing after the manner of horseboys; and there she learned that Mrs.
Score had been inventing an ingenious story to have her out of the way.
The ostler said he was just going to lead the two horses round to the
door. The Corporal had been, and they were about to start on the instant
for Stratford.
The fact was that Count Gustavus Adolphus, far from wishing to pick the
wing of a fowl, had risen with a horror and loathing for everything in
the shape of food, and for any liquor stronger than small beer. Of this
he had drunk a cup, and said he should ride immediately to Stratford;
and when, on ordering his horses, he had asked politely of the landlady
“why the d---- SHE always came up, and why she did not send the girl,”
Mrs. Score informed the Count that her Catherine was gone out for a walk
along with the young man to whom she was to be married, and would not
be visible that day. On hearing this the Captain ordered his horses
that moment, and abused the wine, the bed, the house, the landlady, and
everything connected with the “Bugle Inn.”
Out the horses came: the little boys of the village gathered round; the
recruits, with bunches of ribands in their beavers, appeared presently;
Corporal Brock came swaggering out, and, slapping the pleased blacksmith
on the back, bade him mount his horse; while the boys hurrah'd. Then the
Captain came out, gloomy and majestic; to him Mr. Brock made a military
salute, which clumsily, and with much grinning, the recruits imitated.
“I shall walk on with these brave fellows, your honour, and meet you at
Stratford,” said the Corporal. “Good,” said the Captain, as he
mounted. The landlady curtseyed; the children hurrah'd more; the little
horse-boy, who held the bridle with one hand and the stirrup with the
other, and expected a crown-piece from such a noble gentleman, got only
a kick and a curse, as Count von Galgenstein shouted, “D----- you all,
get out of the way!” and galloped off; and John Hayes, who had been
sneaking about the inn all the morning, felt a weight off his heart when
he saw the Captain ride off alone.
O foolish Mrs. Score! O dolt of a John Hayes! If the landlady had
allowed the Captain and the maid to have their way, and meet but for a
minute before recruits, sergeant, and all, it is probable that no
harm would have been done, and that this history would never have been
written.
When Count von Galgenstein had ridden half a mile on the Stratford road,
looking as black and dismal as Napoleon galloping from the romantic
village of Waterloo, he espied, a few score yards onwards, at the
turn of the road, a certain object which caused him to check his horse
suddenly, brought a tingling red into his cheeks, and made his heart to
go thump--thump! against his side. A young lass was sauntering slowly
along the footpath, with a basket swinging from one hand, and a bunch of
hedge-flowers in the other. She stopped once or twice to add a fresh one
to her nosegay, and might have seen him, the Captain thought; but
no, she never looked directly towards him, and still walked on. Sweet
innocent! she was singing as if none were near; her voice went soaring
up to the clear sky, and the Captain put his horse on the grass, that
the sound of the hoofs might not disturb the music.
“When the kine had given a pailful,
And the sheep came bleating home,
Poll, who knew it would be healthful,
Went a-walking out with Tom.
Hand in hand, sir, on the land, sir,
As they walked to and fro,
Tom made jolly love to Polly,
But was answered no, no, no.”
The Captain had put his horse on the grass, that the sound of his hoofs
might not disturb the music; and now he pushed its head on to the bank,
where straightway “George of Denmark” began chewing of such a salad
as grew there. And now the Captain slid off stealthily; and smiling
comically, and hitching up his great jack-boots, and moving forward with
a jerking tiptoe step, he, just as she was trilling the last o-o-o
of the last no in the above poem of Tom D'Urfey, came up to her, and
touching her lightly on the waist, said,
“My dear, your very humble servant.”
Mrs. Catherine (you know you have found her out long ago!) gave a scream
and a start, and would have turned pale if she could. As it was, she
only shook all over, and said,
“Oh, sir, how you DID frighten me!”
“Frighten you, my rosebud! why, run me through, I'd die rather than
frighten you. Gad, child, tell me now, am I so VERY frightful?”
“Oh no, your honour, I didn't mean that; only I wasn't thinking to meet
you here, or that you would ride so early at all: for, if you please,
sir, I was going to fetch a chicken for your Lordship's breakfast, as
my mistress said you would like one; and I thought, instead of going to
Farmer Brigg's, down Birmingham way, as she told me, I'd go to Farmer
Bird's, where the chickens is better, sir,--my Lord, I mean.”
“Said I'd like a chicken for breakfast, the old cat! why, I told her
I would not eat a morsel to save me--I was so dru--I mean I ate such a
good supper last night--and I bade her to send me a pot of small beer,
and to tell you to bring it; and the wretch said you were gone out with
your sweetheart--”
“What! John Hayes, the creature? Oh, what a naughty story-telling
woman!”
“--You had walked out with your sweetheart, and I was not to see you
any more; and I was mad with rage, and ready to kill myself; I was, my
dear.”
“Oh, sir! pray, PRAY don't.”
“For your sake, my sweet angel?”
“Yes, for my sake, if such a poor girl as me can persuade noble
gentlemen.”
“Well, then, for YOUR sake, I won't; no, I'll live; but why live? Hell
and fury, if I do live I'm miserable without you; I am,--you know I
am,--you adorable, beautiful, cruel, wicked Catherine!”
Catherine's reply to this was “La, bless me! I do believe your horse is
running away.” And so he was! for having finished his meal in the hedge,
he first looked towards his master and paused, as it were, irresolutely;
then, by a sudden impulse, flinging up his tail and his hind legs, he
scampered down the road.
Mrs. Hall ran lightly after the horse, and the Captain after Mrs. Hall;
and the horse ran quicker and quicker every moment, and might have led
them a long chase,--when lo! debouching from a twist in the road, came
the detachment of cavalry and infantry under Mr. Brock. The moment
he was out of sight of the village, that gentleman had desired the
blacksmith to dismount, and had himself jumped into the saddle,
maintaining the subordination of his army by drawing a pistol and
swearing that he would blow out the brains of any person who attempted
to run. When the Captain's horse came near the detachment he paused, and
suffered himself to be caught by Tummas Bullock, who held him until the
owner and Mrs. Catherine came up.
Mr. Bullock looked comically grave when he saw the pair; but the
Corporal graciously saluted Mrs. Catherine, and said it was a fine day
for walking.
“La, sir, and so it is,” said she, panting in a very pretty and
distressing way, “but not for RUNNING. I do protest--ha!--and vow that
I really can scarcely stand. I'm so tired of running after that naughty
naughty horse!”
“How do, Cattern?” said Thomas. “Zee, I be going a zouldiering because
thee wouldn't have me.” And here Mr. Bullock grinned. Mrs. Catherine
made no sort of reply, but protested once more she should die of
running. If the truth were told, she was somewhat vexed at the arrival
of the Corporal's detachment, and had had very serious thoughts of
finding herself quite tired just as he came in sight.
A sudden thought brought a smile of bright satisfaction in the Captain's
eyes. He mounted the horse which Tummas still held. “TIRED, Mrs
Catherine,” said he, “and for my sake? By heavens! you shan't walk a
step farther. No, you shall ride back with a guard of honour! Back to
the village, gentlemen!--rightabout face! Show those fellows, Corporal,
how to rightabout face. Now, my dear, mount behind me on Snowball; he's
easy as a sedan. Put your dear little foot on the toe of my boot. There
now,--up!--jump! hurrah!”
“THAT'S not the way, Captain,” shouted out Thomas, still holding on to
the rein as the horse began to move. “Thee woan't goo with him, will
thee, Catty?”
But Mrs. Catherine, though she turned away her head, never let go her
hold round the Captain's waist; and he, swearing a dreadful oath at
Thomas, struck him across the face and hands with his riding whip. The
poor fellow, who at the first cut still held on to the rein, dropped it
at the second, and as the pair galloped off, sat down on the roadside
and fairly began to weep.
“MARCH, you dog!” shouted out the Corporal a minute after. And so he
did: and when next he saw Mrs. Catherine she WAS the Captain's lady sure
enough, and wore a grey hat, with a blue feather, and red riding-coat
trimmed with silverlace. But Thomas was then on a bare-backed horse,
which Corporal Brock was flanking round a ring, and he was so occupied
looking between his horse's ears that he had no time to cry then, and at
length got the better of his attachment.
*****
This being a good opportunity for closing Chapter I, we ought, perhaps,
to make some apologies to the public for introducing them to characters
that are so utterly worthless; as we confess all our heroes, with the
exception of Mr. Bullock, to be. In this we have consulted nature and
history, rather than the prevailing taste and the general manner of
authors. The amusing novel of “Ernest Maltravers,” for instance, opens
with a seduction; but then it is performed by people of the strictest
virtue on both sides: and there is so much religion and philosophy in
the heart of the seducer, so much tender innocence in the soul of the
seduced, that--bless the little dears!--their very peccadilloes make
one interested in them; and their naughtiness becomes quite sacred, so
deliciously is it described. Now, if we ARE to be interested by rascally
actions, let us have them with plain faces, and let them be performed,
not by virtuous philosophers, but by rascals. Another clever class of
novelists adopt the contrary system, and create interest by making their
rascals perform virtuous actions. Against these popular plans we here
solemnly appeal. We say, let your rogues in novels act like rogues,
and your honest men like honest men; don't let us have any juggling
and thimble-rigging with virtue and vice, so that, at the end of three
volumes, the bewildered reader shall not know which is which; don't let
us find ourselves kindling at the generous qualities of thieves, and
sympathising with the rascalities of noble hearts. For our own part, we
know what the public likes, and have chosen rogues for our characters,
and have taken a story from the “Newgate Calendar,” which we hope to
follow out to edification. Among the rogues, at least, we will have
nothing that shall be mistaken for virtues. And if the British public
(after calling for three or four editions) shall give up, not only our
rascals, but the rascals of all other authors, we shall be content:--we
shall apply to Government for a pension, and think that our duty is
done.