The reader, doubtless, doth now partly understand what dark acts of
conspiracy are beginning to gather around Mr. Hayes; and possibly hath
comprehended--
1. That if the rumour was universally credited which declared that Mrs.
Catherine was only Hayes's mistress, and not his wife,
She might, if she so inclined, marry another person; and thereby
not injure her fame and excite wonderment, but actually add to her
reputation.
2. That if all the world did steadfastly believe that Mr. Hayes intended
to desert this woman, after having cruelly maltreated her,
The direction which his journey might take would be of no consequence;
and he might go to Highgate, to Edinburgh, to Constantinople, nay, down
a well, and no soul would care to ask whither he had gone.
These points Mr. Hayes had not considered duly. The latter case had been
put to him, and annoyed him, as we have seen; the former had actually
been pressed upon him by Mrs. Hayes herself; who, in almost the only
communication she had had with him since their last quarrel, had asked
him, angrily, in the presence of Wood and her son, whether he had dared
to utter such lies, and how it came to pass that the neighbours looked
scornfully at her, and avoided her?
To this charge Mr. Hayes pleaded, very meekly, that he was not guilty;
and young Billings, taking him by the collar, and clinching his fist in
his face, swore a dreadful oath that he would have the life of him if
he dared abuse his mother. Mrs. Hayes then spoke of the general report
abroad, that he was going to desert her; which, if he attempted to do,
Mr. Billings vowed that he would follow him to Jerusalem and have his
blood. These threats, and the insolent language of young Billings,
rather calmed Hayes than agitated him: he longed to be on his journey;
but he began to hope that no obstacle would be placed in the way of
it. For the first time since many days, he began to enjoy a feeling
something akin to security, and could look with tolerable confidence
towards a comfortable completion of his own schemes of treason.
These points being duly settled, we are now arrived, O public, at a
point for which the author's soul hath been yearning ever since this
history commenced. We are now come, O critic, to a stage of the work
when this tale begins to assume an appearance so interestingly horrific,
that you must have a heart of stone if you are not interested by it.
O candid and discerning reader, who art sick of the hideous scenes of
brutal bloodshed which have of late come forth from pens of certain
eminent wits,[*] if you turn away disgusted from the book, remember that
this passage hath not been written for you, or such as you, who have
taste to know and hate the style in which it hath been composed; but
for the public, which hath no such taste:--for the public, which can
patronise four different representations of Jack Sheppard,--for the
public whom its literary providers have gorged with blood and foul
Newgate garbage,--and to whom we poor creatures, humbly following at
the tail of our great high-priests and prophets of the press, may, as in
duty bound, offer some small gift of our own: a little mite truly,
but given with good-will. Come up, then, fair Catherine and brave
Count;--appear, gallant Brock, and faultless Billings;--hasten hither,
honest John Hayes: the former chapters are but flowers in which we have
been decking you for the sacrifice. Ascend to the altar, ye innocent
lambs, and prepare for the final act: lo! the knife is sharpened, and
the sacrificer ready! Stretch your throats, sweet ones,--for the public
is thirsty, and must have blood!
* This was written in 1840.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
That Mr. Hayes had some notion of the attachment of Monsieur de
Galgenstein for his wife is very certain: the man could not but perceive
that she was more gaily dressed, and more frequently absent than usual;
and must have been quite aware that from the day of the quarrel until
the present period, Catherine had never asked him for a shilling for the
house expenses. He had not the heart to offer, however; nor, in truth,
did she seem to remember that money was due.
She received, in fact, many sums from the tender Count. Tom was likewise
liberally provided by the same personage; who was, moreover, continually
sending presents of various kinds to the person on whom his affections
were centred.
One of these gifts was a hamper of choice mountain-wine, which had been
some weeks in the house, and excited the longing of Mr. Hayes, who loved
wine very much. This liquor was generally drunk by Wood and Billings,
who applauded it greatly; and many times, in passing through the
back-parlour,--which he had to traverse in order to reach the stair,
Hayes had cast a tender eye towards the drink; of which, had he dared,
he would have partaken.
On the 1st of March, in the year 1726, Mr. Hayes had gathered together
almost the whole sum with which he intended to decamp; and having on
that very day recovered the amount of a bill which he thought almost
hopeless, he returned home in tolerable good-humour; and feeling, so
near was his period of departure, something like security. Nobody had
attempted the least violence on him: besides, he was armed with pistols,
had his money in bills in a belt about his person, and really reasoned
with himself that there was no danger for him to apprehend.
He entered the house about dusk, at five o'clock. Mrs. Hayes was absent
with Mr. Billings; only Mr. Wood was smoking, according to his wont,
in the little back-parlour; and as Mr. Hayes passed, the old gentleman
addressed him in a friendly voice, and, wondering that he had been such
a stranger, invited him to sit and take a glass of wine. There was a
light and a foreman in the shop; Mr. Hayes gave his injunctions to that
person, and saw no objection to Mr. Wood's invitation.
The conversation, at first a little stiff between the two gentlemen,
began speedily to grow more easy and confidential: and so particularly
bland and good-humoured was Mr., or Doctor Wood, that his companion
was quite caught, and softened by the charm of his manner; and the pair
became as good friends as in the former days of their intercourse.
“I wish you would come down sometimes of evenings,” quoth Doctor Wood;
“for, though no book-learned man, Mr. Hayes, look you, you are a man
of the world, and I can't abide the society of boys. There's Tom, now,
since this tiff with Mrs. Cat, the scoundrel plays the Grank Turk here!
The pair of 'em, betwixt them, have completely gotten the upper hand of
you. Confess that you are beaten, Master Hayes, and don't like the boy?”
“No more I do,” said Hayes; “and that's the truth on't. A man doth not
like to have his wife's sins flung in his face, nor to be perpetually
bullied in his own house by such a fiery sprig as that.”
“Mischief, sir,--mischief only,” said Wood: “'tis the fun of youth, sir,
and will go off as age comes to the lad. Bad as you may think him--and
he is as skittish and fierce, sure enough, as a young colt---there is
good stuff in him; and though he hath, or fancies he hath, the right to
abuse every one, by the Lord he will let none others do so! Last week,
now, didn't he tell Mrs. Cat that you served her right in the last
beating matter? and weren't they coming to knives, just as in your case?
By my faith, they were. Ay, and at the “Braund's Head,” when some fellow
said that you were a bloody Bluebeard, and would murder your wife,
stab me if Tom wasn't up in an instant and knocked the fellow down for
abusing of you!”
The first of these stories was quite true; the second was only a
charitable invention of Mr. Wood, and employed, doubtless, for the
amiable purpose of bringing the old and young men together. The scheme
partially succeeded; for, though Hayes was not so far mollified towards
Tom as to entertain any affection for a young man whom he had cordially
detested ever since he knew him, yet he felt more at ease and cheerful
regarding himself: and surely not without reason. While indulging in
these benevolent sentiments, Mrs. Catherine and her son arrived,
and found, somewhat to their astonishment, Mr. Hayes seated in the
back-parlour, as in former times; and they were invited by Mr. Wood to
sit down and drink.
We have said that certain bottles of mountain-wine were presented by the
Count to Mrs. Catherine: these were, at Mr. Wood's suggestion, produced;
and Hayes, who had long been coveting them, was charmed to have an
opportunity to drink his fill. He forthwith began bragging of his
great powers as a drinker, and vowed that he could manage eight bottles
without becoming intoxicated.
Mr. Wood grinned strangely, and looked in a peculiar way at Tom
Billings, who grinned too. Mrs. Cat's eyes were turned towards the
ground: but her face was deadly pale.
The party began drinking. Hayes kept up his reputation as a toper, and
swallowed one, two, three bottles without wincing. He grew talkative and
merry, and began to sing songs and to cut jokes; at which Wood laughed
hugely, and Billings after him. Mrs. Cat could not laugh; but sat
silent.
What ailed her? Was she thinking of the Count? She had been with Max
that day, and had promised him, for the next night at ten, an interview
near his lodgings at Whitehall. It was the first time that she would
see him alone. They were to meet (not a very cheerful place for a
love-tryst) at St. Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster Abbey. Of
this, no doubt, Cat was thinking; but what could she mean by whispering
to Wood, “No, no! for God's sake, not tonight!”
“She means we are to have no more liquor,” said Wood to Mr. Hayes; who
heard this sentence, and seemed rather alarmed.
“That's it,--no more liquor,” said Catherine eagerly; “you have had
enough to-night. Go to bed, and lock your door, and sleep, Mr. Hayes.”
“But I say I've NOT had enough drink!” screamed Hayes; “I'm good for
five bottles more, and wager I will drink them too.”
“Done, for a guinea!” said Wood.
“Done, and done!” said Billings.
“Be YOU quiet!” growled Hayes, scowling at the lad. “I will drink what
I please, and ask no counsel of yours.” And he muttered some more curses
against young Billings, which showed what his feelings were towards his
wife's son; and which the latter, for a wonder, only received with a
scornful smile, and a knowing look at Wood.
Well! the five extra bottles were brought, and drunk by Mr. Hayes;
and seasoned by many songs from the recueil of Mr. Thomas d'Urfey and
others. The chief part of the talk and merriment was on Hayes's part;
as, indeed, was natural,--for, while he drank bottle after bottle of
wine, the other two gentlemen confined themselves to small beer,--both
pleading illness as an excuse for their sobriety.
And now might we depict, with much accuracy, the course of Mr. Hayes's
intoxication, as it rose from the merriment of the three-bottle point
to the madness of the four--from the uproarious quarrelsomeness of the
sixth bottle to the sickly stupidity of the seventh; but we are
desirous of bringing this tale to a conclusion, and must pretermit
all consideration of a subject so curious, so instructive, and so
delightful. Suffice it to say, as a matter of history, that Mr. Hayes
did actually drink seven bottles of mountain-wine; and that Mr. Thomas
Billings went to the “Braund's Head,” in Bond Street, and purchased
another, which Hayes likewise drank.
“That'll do,” said Mr. Wood to young Billings; and they led Hayes up to
bed, whither, in truth, he was unable to walk himself.
*****
Mrs. Springatt, the lodger, came down to ask what the noise was. “'Tis
only Tom Billings making merry with some friends from the country,”
answered Mrs. Hayes; whereupon Springatt retired, and the house was
quiet.
*****
Some scuffling and stamping was heard about eleven o'clock.
*****
After they had seen Mr. Hayes to bed, Billings remembered that he had a
parcel to carry to some person in the neighbourhood of the Strand;
and, as the night was remarkably fine, he and Mr. Wood agreed to walk
together, and set forth accordingly.
(Here follows a description of the THAMES AT MIDNIGHT, in a fine
historical style; with an account of Lambeth, Westminster, the Savoy,
Baynard's Castle, Arundel House, the Temple; of Old London Bridge,
with its twenty arches, “on which be houses builded, so that it seemeth
rather a continuall street than a bridge;”--of Bankside, and the “Globe”
and the “Fortune” Theatres; of the ferries across the river, and of the
pirates who infest the same--namely, tinklermen, petermen, hebbermen,
trawlermen; of the fleet of barges that lay at the Savoy steps; and of
the long lines of slim wherries sleeping on the river banks and basking
and shining in the moonbeams. A combat on the river is described,
that takes place between the crews of a tinklerman's boat and the
water-bailiffs. Shouting his war-cry, “St. Mary Overy a la rescousse!”
the water-bailiff sprung at the throat of the tinklerman captain. The
crews of both vessels, as if aware that the struggle of their chiefs
would decide the contest, ceased hostilities, and awaited on their
respective poops the issue of the death-shock. It was not long
coming. “Yield, dog!” said the water-bailiff. The tinklerman could not
answer--for his throat was grasped too tight in the iron clench of the
city champion; but drawing his snickersnee, he plunged it seven times in
the bailiff's chest: still the latter fell not. The death-rattle gurgled
in the throat of his opponent; his arms fell heavily to his side.
Foot to foot, each standing at the side of his boat, stood the brave
men--THEY WERE BOTH DEAD! “In the name of St. Clement Danes,” said the
master, “give way, my men!” and, thrusting forward his halberd (seven
feet long, richly decorated with velvet and brass nails, and having
the city arms, argent, a cross gules, and in the first quarter a dagger
displayed of the second), he thrust the tinklerman's boat away from his
own; and at once the bodies of the captains plunged down, down, down,
down in the unfathomable waters.
After this follows another episode. Two masked ladies quarrel at the
door of a tavern overlooking the Thames: they turn out to be Stella and
Vanessa, who have followed Swift thither; who is in the act of reading
“Gulliver's Travels” to Gay, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke, and Pope. Two
fellows are sitting shuddering under a doorway; to one of them Tom
Billings flung a sixpence. He little knew that the names of those two
young men were--Samuel Johnson and Richard Savage.)
ANOTHER LAST CHAPTER.
Mr. Hayes did not join the family the next day; and it appears that
the previous night's reconciliation was not very durable; for when Mrs.
Springatt asked Wood for Hayes, Mr. Wood stated that Hayes had gone away
without saying whither he was bound, or how long he might be absent.
He only said, in rather a sulky tone, that he should probably pass the
night at a friend's house. “For my part, I know of no friend he hath,”
added Mr. Wood; “and pray Heaven that he may not think of deserting his
poor wife, whom he hath beaten and ill-used so already!” In this prayer
Mrs. Springatt joined; and so these two worthy people parted.
What business Billings was about cannot be said; but he was this night
bound towards Marylebone Fields, as he was the night before for the
Strand and Westminster; and, although the night was very stormy and
rainy, as the previous evening had been fine, old Wood good-naturedly
resolved upon accompanying him; and forth they sallied together.
Mrs. Catherine, too, had HER business, as we have seen; but this was of
a very delicate nature. At nine o'clock, she had an appointment with
the Count; and faithfully, by that hour, had found her way to Saint
Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster Abbey, where she awaited
Monsieur de Galgenstein.
The spot was convenient, being very lonely, and at the same time close
to the Count's lodgings at Whitehall. His Excellency came, but somewhat
after the hour; for, to say the truth, being a freethinker, he had
the most firm belief in ghosts and demons, and did not care to pace
a churchyard alone. He was comforted, therefore, when he saw a woman
muffled in a cloak, who held out her hand to him at the gate, and said,
“Is that you?” He took her hand,--it was very clammy and cold; and at
her desire he bade his confidential footman, who had attended him with a
torch, to retire, and leave him to himself.
The torch-bearer retired, and left them quite in darkness; and the pair
entered the little cemetery, cautiously threading their way among the
tombs. They sat down on one, underneath a tree it seemed to be; the wind
was very cold, and its piteous howling was the only noise that broke
the silence of the place. Catherine's teeth were chattering, for all her
wraps; and when Max drew her close to him, and encircled her waist with
one arm, and pressed her hand, she did not repulse him, but rather
came close to him, and with her own damp fingers feebly returned his
pressure.
The poor thing was very wretched and weeping. She confided to Max the
cause of her grief. She was alone in the world,--alone and penniless.
Her husband had left her; she had that very day received a letter from
him which confirmed all that she had suspected so long. He had left her,
carried away all his property, and would not return!
If we say that a selfish joy filled the breast of Monsieur de
Galgenstein, the reader will not be astonished. A heartless libertine,
he felt glad at the prospect of Catherine's ruin; for he hoped that
necessity would make her his own. He clasped the poor thing to his
heart, and vowed that he would replace the husband she had lost, and
that his fortune should be hers.
“Will you replace him?” said she.
“Yes, truly, in everything but the name, dear Catherine; and when he
dies, I swear you shall be Countess of Galgenstein.”
“Will you swear?” she cried, eagerly.
“By everything that is most sacred: were you free now, I would” (and
here he swore a terrific oath) “at once make you mine.”
We have seen before that it cost Monsieur de Galgenstein nothing to
make these vows. Hayes was likely, too, to live as long as Catherine--as
long, at least, as the Count's connection with her; but he was caught in
his own snare.
She took his hand and kissed it repeatedly, and bathed it in her tears,
and pressed it to her bosom. “Max,” she said, “I AM FREE! Be mine, and I
will love you as I have done for years and years.”
Max started back. “What, is he dead?” he said.
“No, no, not dead: but he never was my husband.”
He let go her hand, and, interrupting her, said sharply, “Indeed, madam,
if this carpenter never was your husband, I see no cause why _I_
should be. If a lady, who hath been for twenty years the mistress of a
miserable country boor, cannot find it in her heart to put up with the
protection of a nobleman--a sovereign's representative--she may seek a
husband elsewhere!”
“I was no man's mistress except yours,” sobbed Catherine, wringing her
hands and sobbing wildly; “but, O Heaven! I deserved this. Because I was
a child, and you saw, and ruined, and left me--because, in my sorrow and
repentance, I wished to repair my crime, and was touched by that man's
love, and married him--because he too deceives and leaves me--because,
after loving you--madly loving you for twenty years--I will not now
forfeit your respect, and degrade myself by yielding to your will, you
too must scorn me! It is too much--too much--O Heaven!” And the wretched
woman fell back almost fainting.
Max was almost frightened by this burst of sorrow on her part, and was
coming forward to support her; but she motioned him away, and, taking
from her bosom a letter, said, “If it were light, you could see, Max,
how cruelly I have been betrayed by that man who called himself my
husband. Long before he married me, he was married to another. This
woman is still living, he says; and he says he leaves me for ever.”
At this moment the moon, which had been hidden behind Westminster Abbey,
rose above the vast black mass of that edifice, and poured a flood of
silver light upon the little church of St. Margaret's, and the spot
where the lovers stood. Max was at a little distance from Catherine,
pacing gloomily up and down the flags. She remained at her old position
at the tombstone under the tree, or pillar, as it seemed to be, as the
moon got up. She was leaning against the pillar, and holding out to Max,
with an arm beautifully white and rounded, the letter she had received
from her husband: “Read it, Max,” she said: “I asked for light, and here
is Heaven's own, by which you may read.”
But Max did not come forward to receive it. On a sudden his face assumed
a look of the most dreadful surprise and agony. He stood still, and
stared with wild eyes starting from their sockets; he stared upwards,
at a point seemingly above Catherine's head. At last he raised up his
finger slowly and said, “Look, Cat--THE HEAD--THE HEAD!” Then uttering a
horrible laugh, he fell down grovelling among the stones, gibbering and
writhing in a fit of epilepsy.
Catherine started forward and looked up. She had been standing against a
post, not a tree--the moon was shining full on it now; and on the summit
strangely distinct, and smiling ghastly, was a livid human head.
The wretched woman fled--she dared look no more. And some hours
afterwards, when, alarmed by the Count's continued absence, his
confidential servant came back to seek for him in the churchyard, he was
found sitting on the flags, staring full at the head, and laughing,
and talking to it wildly, and nodding at it. He was taken up a hopeless
idiot, and so lived for years and years; clanking the chain, and moaning
under the lash, and howling through long nights when the moon peered
through the bars of his solitary cell, and he buried his face in the
straw.
*****
There--the murder is out! And having indulged himself in a chapter of
the very finest writing, the author begs the attention of the British
public towards it; humbly conceiving that it possesses some of those
peculiar merits which have rendered the fine writing in other chapters
of the works of other authors so famous.
Without bragging at all, let us just point out the chief claims of the
above pleasing piece of composition. In the first place, it is perfectly
stilted and unnatural; the dialogue and the sentiments being artfully
arranged, so as to be as strong and majestic as possible. Our dear Cat
is but a poor illiterate country wench, who has come from cutting her
husband's throat; and yet, see! she talks and looks like a tragedy
princess, who is suffering in the most virtuous blank verse. This is the
proper end of fiction, and one of the greatest triumphs that a novelist
can achieve: for to make people sympathise with virtue is a vulgar trick
that any common fellow can do; but it is not everybody who can take a
scoundrel, and cause us to weep and whimper over him as though he were
a very saint. Give a young lady of five years old a skein of silk and
a brace of netting-needles, and she will in a short time turn you out
a decent silk purse--anybody can; but try her with a sow's ear, and see
whether she can make a silk purse out of THAT. That is the work for your
real great artist; and pleasant it is to see how many have succeeded in
these latter days.
The subject is strictly historical, as anyone may see by referring to
the Daily Post of March 3, 1726, which contains the following paragraph:
“Yesterday morning, early, a man's head, that by the freshness of it
seemed to have been newly cut off from the body, having its own hair
on, was found by the river's side, near Millbank, Westminster, and was
afterwards exposed to public view in St. Margaret's churchyard, where
thousands of people have seen it; but none could tell who the unhappy
person was, much less who committed such a horrid and barbarous action.
There are various conjectures relating to the deceased; but there being
nothing certain, we omit them. The head was much hacked and mangled in
the cutting off.”
The head which caused such an impression upon Monsieur de Galgenstein
was, indeed, once on the shoulders of Mr. John Hayes, who lost it under
the following circumstances. We have seen how Mr. Hayes was induced
to drink. Mr. Hayes having been encouraged in drinking the wine, and
growing very merry therewith, he sang and danced about the room; but his
wife, fearing the quantity he had drunk would not have the wished-for
effect on him, she sent away for another bottle, of which he drank
also. This effectually answered their expectations; and Mr. Hayes became
thereby intoxicated, and deprived of his understanding.
He, however, made shift to get into the other room, and, throwing
himself upon the bed, fell asleep; upon which Mrs. Hayes reminded them
of the affair in hand, and told them that was the most proper juncture
to finish the business. [*]
*****
* The description of the murder and the execution of the
culprits, which here follows in the original, was taken from
the newspapers of the day. Coming from such a source they
have, as may be imagined, no literary merit whatever. The
details of the crime are simply horrible, without one touch
of even that sort of romance which sometimes gives a little
dignity to murder. As such they precisely suited Mr.
Thackeray's purpose at the time--which was to show the real
manners and customs of the Sheppards and Turpins who were
then the popular heroes of fiction. But nowadays there is
no such purpose to serve, and therefore these too literal
details are omitted.
*****
Ring, ding, ding! the gloomy green curtain drops, the dramatis personae
are duly disposed of, the nimble candle snuffers put out the lights, and
the audience goeth pondering home. If the critic take the pains to ask
why the author, who hath been so diffuse in describing the early and
fabulous acts of Mrs. Catherine's existence, should so hurry off the
catastrophe where a deal of the very finest writing might have been
employed, Solomons replies that the “ordinary” narrative is far
more emphatic than any composition of his own could be, with all the
rhetorical graces which he might employ. Mr. Aram's trial, as taken by
the penny-a-liners of those days, had always interested him more than
the lengthened and poetical report which an eminent novelist has given
of the same. Mr. Turpin's adventures are more instructive and agreeable
to him in the account of the Newgate Plutarch, than in the learned
Ainsworth's Biographical Dictionary. And as he believes that the
professional gentlemen who are employed to invest such heroes with the
rewards that their great actions merit, will go through the ceremony of
the grand cordon with much more accuracy and despatch than can be shown
by the most distinguished amateur; in like manner he thinks that the
history of such investitures should be written by people directly
concerned, and not by admiring persons without, who must be ignorant of
many of the secrets of Ketchcraft. We very much doubt if Milton himself
could make a description of an execution half so horrible as the simple
lines in the Daily Post of a hundred and ten years since, that now lies
before us--“herrlich wie am ersten Tag,”--as bright and clean as on
the day of publication. Think of it! it has been read by Belinda at her
toilet, scanned at “Button's” and “Will's,” sneered at by wits, talked
of in palaces and cottages, by a busy race in wigs, red heels, hoops,
patches, and rags of all variety--a busy race that hath long since
plunged and vanished in the unfathomable gulf towards which we march so
briskly.
Where are they? “Afflavit Deus”--and they are gone! Hark! is not the
same wind roaring still that shall sweep us down? and yonder stands the
compositor at his types who shall put up a pretty paragraph some day to
say how, “Yesterday, at his house in Grosvenor Square,” or “At Botany
Bay, universally regretted,” died So-and-So. Into what profound
moralities is the paragraph concerning Mrs. Catherine's burning leading
us!
Ay, truly, and to that very point have we wished to come; for, having
finished our delectable meal, it behoves us to say a word or two by way
of grace at its conclusion, and be heartily thankful that it is over. It
has been the writer's object carefully to exclude from his drama (except
in two very insignificant instances--mere walking-gentlemen parts), any
characters but those of scoundrels of the very highest degree. That he
has not altogether failed in the object he had in view, is evident from
some newspaper critiques which he has had the good fortune to see; and
which abuse the tale of “Catherine” as one of the dullest, most vulgar,
and immoral works extant. It is highly gratifying to the author to find
that such opinions are abroad, as they convince him that the taste for
Newgate literature is on the wane, and that when the public critic has
right down undisguised immorality set before him, the honest creature is
shocked at it, as he should be, and can declare his indignation in good
round terms of abuse. The characters of the tale ARE immoral, and no
doubt of it; but the writer humbly hopes the end is not so. The public
was, in our notion, dosed and poisoned by the prevailing style of
literary practice, and it was necessary to administer some medicine
that would produce a wholesome nausea, and afterwards bring about a more
healthy habit.
And, thank Heaven, this effect HAS been produced in very many instances,
and that the “Catherine” cathartic has acted most efficaciously. The
author has been pleased at the disgust which his work has excited, and
has watched with benevolent carefulness the wry faces that have been
made by many of the patients who have swallowed the dose. Solomons
remembers, at the establishment in Birchin Lane where he had the honour
of receiving his education, there used to be administered to the boys a
certain cough-medicine, which was so excessively agreeable that all the
lads longed to have colds in order to partake of the remedy. Some of our
popular novelists have compounded their drugs in a similar way, and
made them so palatable that a public, once healthy and honest, has been
well-nigh poisoned by their wares. Solomons defies anyone to say the
like of himself--that his doses have been as pleasant as champagne, and
his pills as sweet as barley-sugar;--it has been his attempt to make
vice to appear entirely vicious; and in those instances where he hath
occasionally introduced something like virtue, to make the sham as
evident as possible, and not allow the meanest capacity a single chance
to mistake it.
And what has been the consequence? That wholesome nausea which it has
been his good fortune to create wherever he has been allowed to practise
in his humble circle.
Has anyone thrown away a halfpennyworth of sympathy upon any person
mentioned in this history? Surely no. But abler and more famous men than
Solomons have taken a different plan; and it becomes every man in his
vocation to cry out against such, and expose their errors as best he
may.
Labouring under such ideas, Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, produced the
romance of Mrs. Cat, and confesses himself completely happy to have
brought it to a conclusion. His poem may be dull--ay, and probably
is. The great Blackmore, the great Dennis, the great Sprat, the great
Pomfret, not to mention great men of our own time--have they not also
been dull, and had pretty reputations too? Be it granted Solomons IS
dull; but don't attack his morality; he humbly submits that, in his
poem, no man shall mistake virtue for vice, no man shall allow a single
sentiment of pity or admiration to enter his bosom for any character of
the piece: it being, from beginning to end, a scene of unmixed rascality
performed by persons who never deviate into good feeling. And although
he doth not pretend to equal the great modern authors, whom he hath
mentioned, in wit or descriptive power; yet, in the point of moral, he
meekly believes that he has been their superior; feeling the greatest
disgust for the characters he describes, and using his humble endeavour
to cause the public also to hate them.
Horsemonger Lane: January 1840.
End of Project Gutenberg's Catherine: A Story, by William Makepeace Thackeray