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Catherine: A Story

by William Makepeace Thackeray · English · Gutenberg #1969 · 399,359 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Catherine: A Story

Author: William Makepeace Thackeray


        
Release date: November 1, 1999 [eBook #1969]
                Most recently updated: March 5, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1969

Credits: Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATHERINE: A STORY ***




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.



CHAPTER II. IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL
ATTACHMENT.


It will not be necessary, for the purpose of this history, to follow out
very closely all the adventures which occurred to Mrs. Catherine from
the period when she quitted the “Bugle” and became the Captain's lady;
for although it would be just as easy to show as not, that the young
woman, by following the man of her heart, had only yielded to an
innocent impulse, and by remaining with him for a certain period, had
proved the depth and strength of her affection for him,--although we
might make very tender and eloquent apologies for the error of both
parties, the reader might possibly be disgusted at such descriptions
and such arguments: which, besides, are already done to his hand in the
novel of “Ernest Maltravers” before mentioned.

From the gentleman's manner towards Mrs. Catherine, and from his
brilliant and immediate success, the reader will doubtless have
concluded, in the first place, that Gustavus Adolphus had not a very
violent affection for Mrs. Cat; in the second place, that he was a
professional lady-killer, and therefore likely at some period to resume
his profession; thirdly, and to conclude, that a connection so begun,
must, in the nature of things, be likely to end speedily.

And so, to do the Count justice, it would, if he had been allowed to
follow his own inclination entirely; for (as many young gentlemen will,
and yet no praise to them) in about a week he began to be indifferent,
in a month to be weary, in two months to be angry, in three to proceed
to blows and curses; and, in short, to repent most bitterly the hour
when he had ever been induced to present Mrs. Catherine the toe of his
boot, for the purpose of lifting her on to his horse.

“Egad!” said he to the Corporal one day, when confiding his griefs to
Mr. Brock, “I wish my toe had been cut off before ever it served as a
ladder to this little vixen.”

“Or perhaps your honour would wish to kick her downstairs with it?”
 delicately suggested Mr. Brock.

“Kick her! why, the wench would hold so fast by the banisters that I
COULD not kick her down, Mr. Brock. To tell you a bit of a secret, I
HAVE tried as much--not to kick her--no, no, not kick her, certainly:
that's ungentlemanly--but to INDUCE her to go back to that cursed
pot-house where we fell in with her. I have given her many hints--”

“Oh, yes, I saw your honour give her one yesterday--with a mug of beer.
By the laws, as the ale run all down her face, and she clutched a knife
to run at you, I don't think I ever saw such a she-devil! That woman
will do for your honour some day, if you provoke her.”

“Do for ME? No, hang it, Mr. Brock, never! She loves every hair of my
head, sir: she worships me, Corporal. Egad, yes! she worships me; and
would much sooner apply a knife to her own weasand than scratch my
little finger!”

“I think she does,” said Mr. Brock.

“I'm sure of it,” said the Captain. “Women, look you, are like dogs,
they like to be ill-treated: they like it, sir; I know they do. I never
had anything to do with a woman in my life but I ill-treated her, and
she liked me the better.”

“Mrs. Hall ought to be VERY fond of you then, sure enough!” said Mr.
Corporal.

“Very fond;--ha, ha! Corporal, you wag you--and so she IS very fond.
Yesterday, after the knife-and-beer scene--no wonder I threw the liquor
in her face: it was so dev'lish flat that no gentleman could drink it:
and I told her never to draw it till dinner-time--”

“Oh, it was enough to put an angel in a fury!” said Brock.

“Well, yesterday, after the knife business, when you had got the carver
out of her hand, off she flings to her bedroom, will not eat a bit of
dinner forsooth, and remains locked up for a couple of hours. At
two o'clock afternoon (I was over a tankard), out comes the little
she-devil, her face pale, her eyes bleared, and the tip of her nose as
red as fire with sniffling and weeping. Making for my hand, 'Max,' says
she, 'will you forgive me?' 'What!' says I. 'Forgive a murderess?'
says I. 'No, curse me, never!' 'Your cruelty will kill me,' sobbed she.
'Cruelty be hanged!' says I; 'didn't you draw that beer an hour before
dinner?' She could say nothing to THIS, you know, and I swore that every
time she did so, I would fling it into her face again. Whereupon
back she flounced to her chamber, where she wept and stormed until
night-time.”

“When you forgave her?”

“I DID forgive her, that's positive. You see I had supped at the 'Rose'
along with Tom Trippet and half-a-dozen pretty fellows; and I had eased
a great fat-headed Warwickshire landjunker--what d'ye call him?--squire,
of forty pieces; and I'm dev'lish good-humoured when I've won, and so
Cat and I made it up: but I've taught her never to bring me stale beer
again--ha, ha!”

This conversation will explain, a great deal better than any description
of ours, however eloquent, the state of things as between Count
Maximilian and Mrs. Catherine, and the feelings which they entertained
for each other. The woman loved him, that was the fact. And, as we have
shown in the previous chapter how John Hayes, a mean-spirited fellow
as ever breathed, in respect of all other passions a pigmy, was in the
passion of love a giant, and followed Mrs. Catherine with a furious
longing which might seem at the first to be foreign to his nature; in
the like manner, and playing at cross-purposes, Mrs. Hall had become
smitten of the Captain; and, as he said truly, only liked him the better
for the brutality which she received at his hands. For it is my opinion,
madam, that love is a bodily infirmity, from which humankind can no more
escape than from small-pox; and which attacks every one of us, from the
first duke in the Peerage down to Jack Ketch inclusive: which has no
respect for rank, virtue, or roguery in man, but sets each in his turn
in a fever; which breaks out the deuce knows how or why, and, raging its
appointed time, fills each individual of the one sex with a blind
fury and longing for some one of the other (who may be pure, gentle,
blue-eyed, beautiful, and good; or vile, shrewish, squinting,
hunchbacked, and hideous, according to circumstances and luck); which
dies away, perhaps, in the natural course, if left to have its way,
but which contradiction causes to rage more furiously than ever. Is not
history, from the Trojan war upwards and downwards, full of instances of
such strange inexplicable passions? Was not Helen, by the most moderate
calculation, ninety years of age when she went off with His Royal
Highness Prince Paris of Troy? Was not Madame La Valliere ill-made,
blear-eyed, tallow-complexioned, scraggy, and with hair like tow? Was
not Wilkes the ugliest, charmingest, most successful man in the world?
Such instances might be carried out so as to fill a volume; but cui
bono? Love is fate, and not will; its origin not to be explained, its
progress irresistible: and the best proof of this may be had at Bow
Street any day, where if you ask any officer of the establishment how
they take most thieves, he will tell you at the houses of the women.
They must see the dear creatures though they hang for it; they will
love, though they have their necks in the halter. And with regard to the
other position, that ill-usage on the part of the man does not destroy
the affection of the woman, have we not numberless police-reports,
showing how, when a bystander would beat a husband for beating his wife,
man and wife fall together on the interloper and punish him for his
meddling?

These points, then, being settled to the satisfaction of all parties,
the reader will not be disposed to question the assertion that Mrs. Hall
had a real affection for the gallant Count, and grew, as Mr. Brock was
pleased to say, like a beefsteak, more tender as she was thumped. Poor
thing, poor thing! his flashy airs and smart looks had overcome her in
a single hour; and no more is wanted to plunge into love over head and
ears; no more is wanted to make a first love with--and a woman's first
love lasts FOR EVER (a man's twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth is perhaps
the best): you can't kill it, do what you will; it takes root, and lives
and even grows, never mind what the soil may be in which it is planted,
or the bitter weather it must bear--often as one has seen a wallflower
grow--out of a stone.

In the first weeks of their union, the Count had at least been liberal
to her: she had a horse and fine clothes, and received abroad some of
those flattering attentions which she held at such high price. He had,
however, some ill-luck at play, or had been forced to pay some bills, or
had some other satisfactory reason for being poor, and his establishment
was very speedily diminished. He argued that, as Mrs. Catherine had
been accustomed to wait on others all her life, she might now wait upon
herself and him; and when the incident of the beer arose, she had
been for some time employed as the Count's housekeeper, with unlimited
superintendence over his comfort, his cellar, his linen, and such
matters as bachelors are delighted to make over to active female hands.
To do the poor wretch justice, she actually kept the man's menage in the
best order; nor was there any point of extravagance with which she could
be charged, except a little extravagance of dress displayed on the
very few occasions when he condescended to walk abroad with her, and
extravagance of language and passion in the frequent quarrels they
had together. Perhaps in such a connection as subsisted between this
precious couple, these faults are inevitable on the part of the woman.
She must be silly and vain, and will pretty surely therefore be fond of
dress; and she must, disguise it as she will, be perpetually miserable
and brooding over her fall, which will cause her to be violent and
quarrelsome.

Such, at least, was Mrs. Hall; and very early did the poor vain
misguided wretch begin to reap what she had sown.

For a man, remorse under these circumstances is perhaps uncommon.
No stigma affixes on HIM for betraying a woman; no bitter pangs of
mortified vanity; no insulting looks of superiority from his neighbour,
and no sentence of contemptuous banishment is read against him; these
all fall on the tempted, and not on the tempter, who is permitted to
go free. The chief thing that a man learns after having successfully
practised on a woman is to despise the poor wretch whom he has won.
The game, in fact, and the glory, such as it is, is all his, and the
punishment alone falls upon her. Consider this, ladies, when charming
young gentlemen come to woo you with soft speeches. You have nothing to
win, except wretchedness, and scorn, and desertion. Consider this, and
be thankful to your Solomons for telling it.

It came to pass, then, that the Count had come to have a perfect
contempt and indifference for Mrs. Hall;--how should he not for a young
person who had given herself up to him so easily?--and would have been
quite glad of any opportunity of parting with her. But there was a
certain lingering shame about the man, which prevented him from saying
at once and abruptly, “Go!” and the poor thing did not choose to take
such hints as fell out in the course of their conversation and quarrels.
And so they kept on together, he treating her with simple insult, and
she hanging on desperately, by whatever feeble twig she could find, to
the rock beyond which all was naught, or death, to her.

Well, after the night with Tom Trippet and the pretty fellows at the
“Rose,” to which we have heard the Count allude in the conversation
just recorded, Fortune smiled on him a good deal; for the Warwickshire
squire, who had lost forty pieces on that occasion, insisted on having
his revenge the night after; when, strange to say, a hundred and fifty
more found their way into the pouch of his Excellency the Count. Such a
sum as this quite set the young nobleman afloat again, and brought back
a pleasing equanimity to his mind, which had been a good deal disturbed
in the former difficult circumstances; and in this, for a little and to
a certain extent, poor Cat had the happiness to share. He did not alter
the style of his establishment, which consisted, as before, of herself
and a small person who acted as scourer, kitchen-wench, and scullion;
Mrs. Catherine always putting her hand to the principal pieces of the
dinner; but he treated his mistress with tolerable good-humour; or, to
speak more correctly, with such bearable brutality as might be expected
from a man like him to a woman in her condition. Besides, a certain
event was about to take place, which not unusually occurs in
circumstances of this nature, and Mrs. Catherine was expecting soon to
lie in.

The Captain, distrusting naturally the strength of his own paternal
feelings, had kindly endeavoured to provide a parent for the coming
infant; and to this end had opened a negotiation with our friend Mr.
Thomas Bullock, declaring that Mrs. Cat should have a fortune of twenty
guineas, and reminding Tummas of his ancient flame for her: but Mr.
Tummas, when this proposition was made to him, declined it, with many
oaths, and vowed that he was perfectly satisfied with his present
bachelor condition. In this dilemma, Mr. Brock stepped forward, who
declared himself very ready to accept Mrs. Catherine and her fortune:
and might possibly have become the possessor of both, had not Mrs. Cat,
the moment she heard of the proposed arrangement, with fire in her eyes,
and rage--oh, how bitter!--in her heart, prevented the success of the
measure by proceeding incontinently to the first justice of the peace,
and there swearing before his worship who was the father of the coming
child.

This proceeding, which she had expected would cause not a little
indignation on the part of her lord and master, was received by him,
strangely enough, with considerable good-humour: he swore that the wench
had served him a good trick, and was rather amused at the anger, the
outbreak of fierce rage and contumely, and the wretched wretched tears
of heartsick desperation, which followed her announcement of this step
to him. For Mr. Brock, she repelled his offer with scorn and loathing,
and treated the notion of a union with Mr. Bullock with yet fiercer
contempt. Marry him indeed! a workhouse pauper carrying a brown-bess!
She would have died sooner, she said, or robbed on the highway. And so,
to do her justice, she would: for the little minx was one of the vainest
creatures in existence, and vanity (as I presume everybody knows)
becomes THE principle in certain women's hearts--their moral spectacles,
their conscience, their meat and drink, their only rule of right and
wrong.

As for Mr. Tummas, he, as we have seen, was quite unfriendly to the
proposition as she could be; and the Corporal, with a good deal of
comical gravity, vowed that, as he could not be satisfied in his
dearest wishes, he would take to drinking for a consolation: which he
straightway did.

“Come, Tummas,” said he to Mr. Bullock “since we CAN'T have the girl
of our hearts, why, hang it, Tummas, let's drink her health!” To which
Bullock had no objection. And so strongly did the disappointment weigh
upon honest Corporal Brock, that even when, after unheard-of quantities
of beer, he could scarcely utter a word, he was seen absolutely to weep,
and, in accents almost unintelligible, to curse his confounded ill-luck
at being deprived, not of a wife, but of a child: he wanted one so, he
said, to comfort him in his old age.

The time of Mrs. Catherine's couche drew near, arrived, and was gone
through safely. She presented to the world a chopping boy, who might
use, if he liked, the Galgenstein arms with a bar-sinister; and in
her new cares and duties had not so many opportunities as usual of
quarrelling with the Count: who, perhaps, respected her situation, or,
at least, was so properly aware of the necessity of quiet to her, that
he absented himself from home morning, noon, and night.

The Captain had, it must be confessed, turned these continued absences
to a considerable worldly profit, for he played incessantly; and, since
his first victory over the Warwickshire Squire, Fortune had been so
favourable to him, that he had at various intervals amassed a sum of
nearly a thousand pounds, which he used to bring home as he won; and
which he deposited in a strong iron chest, cunningly screwed down by
himself under his own bed. This Mrs. Catherine regularly made, and the
treasure underneath it could be no secret to her. However, the noble
Count kept the key, and bound her by many solemn oaths (that he
discharged at her himself) not to reveal to any other person the
existence of the chest and its contents.

But it is not in a woman's nature to keep such secrets; and the Captain,
who left her for days and days, did not reflect that she would seek for
confidants elsewhere. For want of a female companion, she was compelled
to bestow her sympathies upon Mr. Brock; who, as the Count's
corporal, was much in his lodgings, and who did manage to survive the
disappointment which he had experienced by Mrs. Catherine's refusal of
him.

About two months after the infant's birth, the Captain, who was annoyed
by its squalling, put it abroad to nurse, and dismissed its attendant.
Mrs. Catherine now resumed her household duties, and was, as before,
at once mistress and servant of the establishment. As such, she had the
keys of the beer, and was pretty sure of the attentions of the Corporal;
who became, as we have said, in the Count's absence, his lady's chief
friend and companion. After the manner of ladies, she very speedily
confided to him all her domestic secrets; the causes of her former
discontent; the Count's ill-treatment of her; the wicked names he called
her; the prices that all her gowns had cost her; how he beat her; how
much money he won and lost at play; how she had once pawned a coat for
him; how he had four new ones, laced, and paid for; what was the best
way of cleaning and keeping gold-lace, of making cherry-brandy, pickling
salmon, etc., etc. Her confidences upon all these subjects used to
follow each other in rapid succession; and Mr. Brock became, ere long,
quite as well acquainted with the Captain's history for the last year as
the Count himself:--for he was careless, and forgot things; women
never do. They chronicle all the lover's small actions, his words, his
headaches, the dresses he has worn, the things he has liked for dinner
on certain days;--all which circumstances commonly are expunged from the
male brain immediately after they have occurred, but remain fixed with
the female.

To Brock, then, and to Brock only (for she knew no other soul), Mrs. Cat
breathed, in strictest confidence, the history of the Count's winnings,
and his way of disposing of them; how he kept his money screwed down in
an iron chest in their room; and a very lucky fellow did Brock consider
his officer for having such a large sum. He and Cat looked at the chest:
it was small, but mighty strong, sure enough, and would defy picklocks
and thieves. Well, if any man deserved money, the Captain did (“though
he might buy me a few yards of that lace I love so,” interrupted
Cat),--if any man deserved money, he did, for he spent it like a prince,
and his hand was always in his pocket.

It must now be stated that Monsieur de Galgenstein had, during Cat's
seclusion, cast his eyes upon a young lady of good fortune, who
frequented the Assembly at Birmingham, and who was not a little smitten
by his title and person. The “four new coats, laced, and paid for,” as
Cat said, had been purchased, most probably, by his Excellency for the
purpose of dazzling the heiress; and he and the coats had succeeded so
far as to win from the young woman an actual profession of love, and a
promise of marriage provided Pa would consent. This was obtained,--for
Pa was a tradesman; and I suppose every one of my readers has remarked
how great an effect a title has on the lower classes. Yes, thank Heaven!
there is about a freeborn Briton a cringing baseness, and lickspittle
awe of rank, which does not exist under any tyranny in Europe, and is
only to be found here and in America.

All these negotiations had been going on quite unknown to Cat; and, as
the Captain had determined, before two months were out, to fling that
young woman on the pave, he was kind to her in the meanwhile: people
always are when they are swindling you, or meditating an injury against
you.

The poor girl had much too high an opinion of her own charms to suspect
that the Count could be unfaithful to them, and had no notion of the
plot that was formed against her. But Mr. Brock had: for he had seen
many times a gilt coach with a pair of fat white horses ambling in
the neighbourhood of the town, and the Captain on his black steed
caracolling majestically by its side; and he had remarked a fat, pudgy,
pale-haired woman treading heavily down the stairs of the Assembly,
leaning on the Captain's arm: all these Mr. Brock had seen, not without
reflection. Indeed, the Count one day, in great good-humour, had slapped
him on the shoulder and told him that he was about speedily to purchase
a regiment; when, by his great gods, Mr. Brock should have a pair of
colours. Perhaps this promise occasioned his silence to Mrs. Catherine
hitherto; perhaps he never would have peached at all; and perhaps,
therefore, this history would never have been written, but for a small
circumstance which occurred at this period.

“What can you want with that drunken old Corporal always about your
quarters?” said Mr. Trippet to the Count one day, as they sat over their
wine, in the midst of a merry company, at the Captain's rooms.

“What!” said he. “Old Brock? The old thief has been more useful to me
than many a better man. He is as brave in a row as a lion, as cunning in
intrigue as a fox; he can nose a dun at an inconceivable distance, and
scent out a pretty woman be she behind ever so many stone walls. If a
gentleman wants a good rascal now, I can recommend him. I am going to
reform, you know, and must turn him out of my service.”

“And pretty Mrs. Cat?”

“Oh, curse pretty Mrs. Cat! she may go too.”

“And the brat?”

“Why, you have parishes, and what not, here in England. Egad! if a
gentleman were called upon to keep all his children, there would be no
living: no, stap my vitals! Croesus couldn't stand it.”

“No, indeed,” said Mr. Trippet: “you are right; and when a gentleman
marries, he is bound in honour to give up such low connections as are
useful when he is a bachelor.”

“Of course; and give them up I will, when the sweet Mrs. Dripping is
mine. As for the girl, you can have her, Tom Trippet, if you take a
fancy to her; and as for the Corporal, he may be handed over to my
successor in Cutts's:--for I will have a regiment to myself, that's poz;
and to take with me such a swindling, pimping, thieving, brandy-faced
rascal as this Brock will never do. Egad! he's a disgrace to the
service. As it is, I've often a mind to have the superannuated vagabond
drummed out of the corps.”

Although this resume of Mr. Brock's character and accomplishments
was very just, it came perhaps with an ill grace from Count Gustavus
Adolphus Maximilian, who had profited by all his qualities, and who
certainly would never have given this opinion of them had he known that
the door of his dining-parlour was open, and that the gallant Corporal,
who was in the passage, could hear every syllable that fell from the
lips of his commanding officer. We shall not say, after the fashion
of the story-books, that Mr. Brock listened with a flashing eye and a
distended nostril; that his chest heaved tumultuously, and that his
hand fell down mechanically to his side, where it played with the brass
handle of his sword. Mr. Kean would have gone through most of these
bodily exercises had he been acting the part of a villain enraged and
disappointed like Corporal Brock; but that gentleman walked away without
any gestures of any kind, and as gently as possible. “He'll turn me out
of the regiment, will he?” says he, quite piano; and then added (con
molta espressione), “I'll do for him.”

And it is to be remarked how generally, in cases of this nature,
gentlemen stick to their word.



CHAPTER III. IN WHICH A NARCOTIC IS ADMINISTERED, AND A GREAT DEAL OF
GENTEEL SOCIETY DEPICTED.


When the Corporal, who had retreated to the street-door immediately on
hearing the above conversation, returned to the Captain's lodgings
and paid his respects to Mrs. Catherine, he found that lady in high
good-humour. The Count had been with her, she said, along with a friend
of his, Mr. Trippet; had promised her twelve yards of the lace she
coveted so much; had vowed that the child should have as much more for
a cloak; and had not left her until he had sat with her for an hour,
or more, over a bowl of punch, which he made on purpose for her. Mr.
Trippet stayed too. “A mighty pleasant man,” said she; “only not very
wise, and seemingly a good deal in liquor.”

“A good deal indeed!” said the Corporal. “He was so tipsy just now that
he could hardly stand. He and his honour were talking to Nan Fantail in
the market-place; and she pulled Trippet's wig off, for wanting to kiss
her.”

“The nasty fellow!” said Mrs. Cat, “to demean himself with such low
people as Nan Fantail, indeed! Why, upon my conscience now, Corporal, it
was but an hour ago that Mr. Trippet swore he never saw such a pair of
eyes as mine, and would like to cut the Captain's throat for the love of
me. Nan Fantail, indeed!”

“Nan's an honest girl, Madam Catherine, and was a great favourite of
the Captain's before someone else came in his way. No one can say a word
against her--not a word.”

“And pray, Corporal, who ever did?” said Mrs. Cat, rather offended. “A
nasty, ugly slut! I wonder what the men can see in her?”

“She has got a smart way with her, sure enough; it's what amuses the
men, and--”

“And what? You don't mean to say that my Max is fond of her NOW?” said
Mrs. Catherine, looking very fierce.

“Oh, no; not at all: not of HER;--that is--”

“Not of HER!” screamed she. “Of whom, then?”

“Oh, psha! nonsense! Of you, my dear, to be sure; who else should he
care for? And, besides, what business is it of mine?” And herewith
the Corporal began whistling, as if he would have no more of the
conversation. But Mrs. Cat was not to be satisfied,--not she,--and
carried on her cross-questions.

“Why, look you,” said the Corporal, after parrying many of these,--“Why,
look you, I'm an old fool, Catherine, and I must blab. That man has been
the best friend I ever had, and so I was quiet; but I can't keep it in
any longer,--no, hang me if I can! It's my belief he's acting like a
rascal by you: he deceives you, Catherine; he's a scoundrel, Mrs. Hall,
that's the truth on't.”

Catherine prayed him to tell all he knew; and he resumed.

“He wants you off his hands; he's sick of you, and so brought here that
fool Tom Trippet, who has taken a fancy to you. He has not the courage
to turn you out of doors like a man; though indoors he can treat you
like a beast. But I'll tell you what he'll do. In a month he will go to
Coventry, or pretend to go there, on recruiting business. No such thing,
Mrs. Hall; he's going on MARRIAGE business; and he'll leave you without
a farthing, to starve or to rot, for him. It's all arranged, I tell you:
in a month, you are to be starved into becoming Tom Trippet's
mistress; and his honour is to marry rich Miss Dripping, the
twenty-thousand-pounder from London; and to purchase a regiment;--and to
get old Brock drummed out of Cutts's too,” said the Corporal, under his
breath. But he might have spoken out, if he chose; for the poor young
woman had sunk on the ground in a real honest fit.

“I thought I should give it her,” said Mr. Brock as he procured a glass
of water; and, lifting her on to a sofa, sprinkled the same over her.
“Hang it! how pretty she is.”

                    *****

When Mrs. Catherine came to herself again, Brock's tone with her was
kind, and almost feeling. Nor did the poor wench herself indulge in
any subsequent shiverings and hysterics, such as usually follow the
fainting-fits of persons of higher degree. She pressed him for further
explanations, which he gave, and to which she listened with a great deal
of calmness; nor did many tears, sobs, sighs, or exclamations of sorrow
or anger escape from her: only when the Corporal was taking his leave,
and said to her point-blank,--“Well, Mrs. Catherine, and what do you
intend to do?” she did not reply a word; but gave a look which made him
exclaim, on leaving the room,--

“By heavens! the woman means murder! I would not be the Holofernes to
lie by the side of such a Judith as that--not I!” And he went his way,
immersed in deep thought. When the Captain returned at night, she did
not speak to him; and when he swore at her for being sulky, she only
said she had a headache, and was dreadfully ill; with which excuse
Gustavus Adolphus seemed satisfied, and left her to herself.

He saw her the next morning for a moment: he was going a-shooting.

Catherine had no friend, as is usual in tragedies and romances,--no
mysterious sorceress of her acquaintance to whom she could apply for
poison,--so she went simply to the apothecaries, pretending at each that
she had a dreadful toothache, and procuring from them as much laudanum
as she thought would suit her purpose.

When she went home again she seemed almost gay. Mr. Brock complimented
her upon the alteration in her appearance; and she was enabled to
receive the Captain at his return from shooting in such a manner as made
him remark that she had got rid of her sulks of the morning, and might
sup with them, if she chose to keep her good-humour. The supper was
got ready, and the gentlemen had the punch-bowl when the cloth was
cleared,--Mrs. Catherine, with her delicate hands, preparing the liquor.

It is useless to describe the conversation that took place, or to reckon
the number of bowls that were emptied; or to tell how Mr. Trippet, who
was one of the guests, and declined to play at cards when some of the
others began, chose to remain by Mrs. Catherine's side, and make violent
love to her. All this might be told, and the account, however faithful,
would not be very pleasing. No, indeed! And here, though we are only in
the third chapter of this history, we feel almost sick of the characters
that appear in it, and the adventures which they are called upon to go
through. But how can we help ourselves? The public will hear of nothing
but rogues; and the only way in which poor authors, who must live, can
act honestly by the public and themselves, is to paint such thieves as
they are: not, dandy, poetical, rose-water thieves; but real downright
scoundrels, leading scoundrelly lives, drunken, profligate, dissolute,
low; as scoundrels will be. They don't quote Plato, like Eugene Aram; or
live like gentlemen, and sing the pleasantest ballads in the world, like
jolly Dick Turpin; or prate eternally about “to kalon,”[*] like that
precious canting Maltravers, whom we all of us have read about and
pitied; or die whitewashed saints, like poor “Biss Dadsy” in “Oliver
Twist.” No, my dear madam, you and your daughters have no right to
admire and sympathise with any such persons, fictitious or real:
you ought to be made cordially to detest, scorn, loathe, abhor, and
abominate all people of this kidney. Men of genius like those whose
works we have above alluded to, have no business to make these
characters interesting or agreeable; to be feeding your morbid fancies,
or indulging their own, with such monstrous food. For our parts, young
ladies, we beg you to bottle up your tears, and not waste a single drop
of them on any one of the heroes or heroines in this history: they
are all rascals, every soul of them, and behave “as sich.” Keep your
sympathy for those who deserve it: don't carry it, for preference, to
the Old Bailey, and grow maudlin over the company assembled there.

     * Anglicised version of the author's original Greek text.

Just, then, have the kindness to fancy that the conversation which took
place over the bowls of punch which Mrs. Catherine prepared, was such
as might be expected to take place where the host was a dissolute,
dare-devil, libertine captain of dragoons, the guests for the most
part of the same class, and the hostess a young woman originally from a
country alehouse, and for the present mistress to the entertainer of
the society. They talked, and they drank, and they grew tipsy; and very
little worth hearing occurred during the course of the whole evening.
Mr. Brock officiated, half as the servant, half as the companion of the
society. Mr. Thomas Trippet made violent love to Mrs. Catherine, while
her lord and master was playing at dice with the other gentlemen: and on
this night, strange to say, the Captain's fortune seemed to desert him.
The Warwickshire Squire, from whom he had won so much, had an amazing
run of good luck. The Captain called perpetually for more drink, and
higher stakes, and lost almost every throw. Three hundred, four hundred,
six hundred--all his winnings of the previous months were swallowed up
in the course of a few hours. The Corporal looked on; and, to do him
justice, seemed very grave as, sum by sum, the Squire scored down the
Count's losses on the paper before him.

Most of the company had taken their hats and staggered off. The Squire
and Mr. Trippet were the only two that remained, the latter still
lingering by Mrs. Catherine's sofa and table; and as she, as we have
stated, had been employed all the evening in mixing the liquor for
the gamesters, he was at the headquarters of love and drink, and had
swallowed so much of each as hardly to be able to speak.

The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long
wicks. Mr. Trippet could hardly see the Captain, and thought, as far as
his muzzy reason would let him, that the Captain could not see him:
so he rose from his chair as well as he could, and fell down on Mrs.
Catherine's sofa. His eyes were fixed, his face was pale, his jaw hung
down; and he flung out his arms and said, in a maudlin voice, “Oh, you
byoo-oo-oo-tifile Cathrine, I must have a kick-kick-iss.”

“Beast!” said Mrs. Catherine, and pushed him away. The drunken wretch
fell off the sofa, and on to the floor, where he stayed; and, after
snorting out some unintelligible sounds, went to sleep.

The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long
wicks.

“Seven's the main,” cried the Count. “Four. Three to two against the
caster.”

“Ponies,” said the Warwickshire Squire.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, clatter, NINE. Clap, clap, clap, clap,
ELEVEN. Clutter, clutter, clutter, clutter: “Seven it is,” says the
Warwickshire Squire. “That makes eight hundred, Count.”

“One throw for two hundred,” said the Count. “But stop! Cat, give us
some more punch.”

Mrs. Cat came forward; she looked a little pale, and her hand trembled
somewhat. “Here is the punch, Max,” said she. It was steaming hot, in a
large glass. “Don't drink it all,” said she; “leave me some.”

“How dark it is!” said the Count, eyeing it.

“It's the brandy,” said Cat.

“Well, here goes! Squire, curse you! here's your health, and bad luck
to you!” and he gulped off more than half the liquor at a draught. But
presently he put down the glass and cried, “What infernal poison is
this, Cat?”

“Poison!” said she. “It's no poison. Give me the glass.” And she pledged
Max, and drank a little of it. “'Tis good punch, Max, and of my brewing;
I don't think you will ever get any better.” And she went back to the
sofa again, and sat down, and looked at the players.

Mr. Brock looked at her white face and fixed eyes with a grim kind of
curiosity. The Count sputtered, and cursed the horrid taste of the punch
still; but he presently took the box, and made his threatened throw.

As before, the Squire beat him; and having booked his winnings, rose
from table as well as he might and besought to lead him downstairs;
which Mr. Brock did.

Liquor had evidently stupefied the Count: he sat with his head between
his hands, muttering wildly about ill-luck, seven's the main, bad punch,
and so on. The street-door banged to; and the steps of Brock and the
Squire were heard, until they could be heard no more.

“Max,” said she; but he did not answer. “Max,” said she again, laying
her hand on his shoulder.

“Curse you,” said that gentleman, “keep off, and don't be laying your
paws upon me. Go to bed, you jade, or to ----, for what I care; and give me
first some more punch--a gallon more punch, do you hear?”

The gentleman, by the curses at the commencement of this little speech,
and the request contained at the end of it, showed that his losses vexed
him, and that he was anxious to forget them temporarily.

“Oh, Max!” whimpered Mrs. Cat, “you--don't--want any more punch?”

“Don't! Shan't I be drunk in my own house, you cursed whimpering jade,
you? Get out!” and with this the Captain proceeded to administer a blow
upon Mrs. Catherine's cheek.

Contrary to her custom, she did not avenge it, or seek to do so, as
on the many former occasions when disputes of this nature had arisen
between the Count and her; but now Mrs. Catherine fell on her knees and,
clasping her hands and looking pitifully in the Count's face, cried,
“Oh, Count, forgive me, forgive me!”

“Forgive you! What for? Because I slapped your face? Ha, ha! I'll
forgive you again, if you don't mind.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” said she, wringing her hands. “It isn't that. Max,
dear Max, will you forgive me? It isn't the blow--I don't mind that;
it's--”

“It's what, you--maudlin fool?”

“IT'S THE PUNCH!”

The Count, who was more than half seas over, here assumed an air of much
tipsy gravity. “The punch! No, I never will forgive you that last glass
of punch. Of all the foul, beastly drinks I ever tasted, that was the
worst. No, I never will forgive you that punch.”

“Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!” said she.

“I tell you it is that,--you! That punch, I say that punch was no better
than paw--aw-oison.” And here the Count's head sank back, and he fell to
snore.

“IT WAS POISON!” said she.

“WHAT!” screamed he, waking up at once, and spurning her away from him.
“What, you infernal murderess, have you killed me?”

“Oh, Max!--don't kill me, Max! It was laudanum--indeed it was. You were
going to be married, and I was furious, and I went and got--”

“Hold your tongue, you fiend,” roared out the Count; and with more
presence of mind than politeness, he flung the remainder of the liquor
(and, indeed, the glass with it) at the head of Mrs. Catherine. But the
poisoned chalice missed its mark, and fell right on the nose of Mr. Tom
Trippet, who was left asleep and unobserved under the table.

Bleeding, staggering, swearing, indeed a ghastly sight, up sprang Mr.
Trippet, and drew his rapier. “Come on,” says he; “never say die! What's
the row? I'm ready for a dozen of you.” And he made many blind and
furious passes about the room.

“Curse you, we'll die together!” shouted the Count, as he too pulled out
his toledo, and sprang at Mrs. Catherine.

“Help! murder! thieves!” shrieked she. “Save me, Mr. Trippet, save me!”
 and she placed that gentleman between herself and the Count, and then
made for the door of the bedroom, and gained it, and bolted it.

“Out of the way, Trippet,” roared the Count--“out of the way, you
drunken beast! I'll murder her, I will--I'll have the devil's life.” And
here he gave a swinging cut at Mr. Trippet's sword: it sent the weapon
whirling clean out of his hand, and through a window into the street.

“Take my life, then,” said Mr. Trippet: “I'm drunk, but I'm a man, and,
damme! will never say die.”

“I don't want your life, you stupid fool. Hark you, Trippet, wake and
be sober, if you can. That woman has heard of my marriage with Miss
Dripping.”

“Twenty thousand pound,” ejaculated Trippet.

“She has been jealous, I tell you, and POISONED us. She has put laudanum
into the punch.”

“What, in MY punch?” said Trippet, growing quite sober and losing his
courage. “O Lord! O Lord!”

“Don't stand howling there, but run for a doctor; 'tis our only chance.”
 And away ran Mr. Trippet, as if the deuce were at his heels.

The Count had forgotten his murderous intentions regarding his mistress,
or had deferred them at least, under the consciousness of his own
pressing danger. And it must be said, in the praise of a man who had
fought for and against Marlborough and Tallard, that his courage in this
trying and novel predicament never for a moment deserted him, but that
he showed the greatest daring, as well as ingenuity, in meeting and
averting the danger. He flew to the sideboard, where were the relics of
a supper, and seizing the mustard and salt pots, and a bottle of oil,
he emptied them all into a jug, into which he further poured a vast
quantity of hot water. This pleasing mixture he then, without a moment's
hesitation, placed to his lips, and swallowed as much of it as nature
would allow him. But when he had imbibed about a quart, the anticipated
effect was produced, and he was enabled, by the power of this ingenious
extemporaneous emetic, to get rid of much of the poison which Mrs.
Catherine had administered to him.

He was employed in these efforts when the doctor entered, along with
Mr. Brock and Mr. Trippet; who was not a little pleased to hear that
the poisoned punch had not in all probability been given to him. He
was recommended to take some of the Count's mixture, as a precautionary
measure; but this he refused, and retired home, leaving the Count under
charge of the physician and his faithful corporal.

It is not necessary to say what further remedies were employed by
them to restore the Captain to health; but after some time the doctor,
pronouncing that the danger was, he hoped, averted, recommended that his
patient should be put to bed, and that somebody should sit by him; which
Brock promised to do.

“That she-devil will murder me, if you don't,” gasped the poor Count.
“You must turn her out of the bedroom; or break open the door, if she
refuses to let you in.”

And this step was found to be necessary; for, after shouting many
times, and in vain, Mr. Brock found a small iron bar (indeed, he had the
instrument for many days in his pocket), and forced the lock. The room
was empty, the window was open: the pretty barmaid of the “Bugle” had
fled.

“The chest,” said the Count--“is the chest safe?”

The Corporal flew to the bed, under which it was screwed, and looked,
and said, “It IS safe, thank Heaven!” The window was closed. The
Captain, who was too weak to stand without help, was undressed and put
to bed. The Corporal sat down by his side; slumber stole over the eyes
of the patient; and his wakeful nurse marked with satisfaction the
progress of the beneficent restorer of health.

When the Captain awoke, as he did some time afterwards, he found, very
much to his surprise, that a gag had been placed in his mouth, and that
the Corporal was in the act of wheeling his bed to another part of the
room. He attempted to move, and gave utterance to such unintelligible
sounds as could issue through a silk handkerchief.

“If your honour stirs or cries out in the least, I will cut your
honour's throat,” said the Corporal.

And then, having recourse to his iron bar (the reader will now see why
he was provided with such an implement, for he had been meditating this
coup for some days), he proceeded first to attempt to burst the lock of
the little iron chest in which the Count kept his treasure, and, failing
in this, to unscrew it from the ground; which operation he performed
satisfactorily.

“You see, Count,” said he, calmly, “when rogues fall out there's the
deuce to pay. You'll have me drummed out of the regiment, will you?
I'm going to leave it of my own accord, look you, and to live like a
gentleman for the rest of my days. Schlafen Sie wohl, noble Captain: bon
repos. The Squire will be with you pretty early in the morning, to ask
for the money you owe him.”

With these sarcastic observations Mr. Brock departed; not by the window,
as Mrs. Catherine had done, but by the door, quietly, and so into
the street. And when, the next morning, the doctor came to visit his
patient, he brought with him a story how, at the dead of night, Mr.
Brock had roused the ostler at the stables where the Captain's horses
were kept--had told him that Mrs. Catherine had poisoned the Count, and
had run off with a thousand pounds; and how he and all lovers of justice
ought to scour the country in pursuit of the criminal. For this end Mr.
Brock mounted the Count's best horse--that very animal on which he
had carried away Mrs. Catherine: and thus, on a single night, Count
Maximilian had lost his mistress, his money, his horse, his corporal,
and was very near losing his life.



CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH MRS. CATHERINE BECOMES AN HONEST WOMAN AGAIN.


In this woeful plight, moneyless, wifeless, horseless, corporalless,
with a gag in his mouth and a rope round his body, are we compelled to
leave the gallant Galgenstein, until his friends and the progress of
this history shall deliver him from his durance. Mr. Brock's adventures
on the Captain's horse must likewise be pretermitted; for it is our
business to follow Mrs. Catherine through the window by which she made
her escape, and among the various chances that befell her.

She had one cause to congratulate herself,--that she had not her baby at
her back; for the infant was safely housed under the care of a nurse,
to whom the Captain was answerable. Beyond this her prospects were but
dismal: no home to fly to, but a few shillings in her pocket, and a
whole heap of injuries and dark revengeful thoughts in her bosom: it was
a sad task to her to look either backwards or forwards. Whither was she
to fly? How to live? What good chance was to befriend her? There was an
angel watching over the steps of Mrs. Cat--not a good one, I think, but
one of those from that unnameable place, who have their many subjects
here on earth, and often are pleased to extricate them from worse
perplexities.

Mrs. Cat, now, had not committed murder, but as bad as murder; and as
she felt not the smallest repentance in her heart--as she had, in
the course of her life and connection with the Captain, performed and
gloried in a number of wicked coquetries, idlenesses, vanities, lies,
fits of anger, slanders, foul abuses, and what not--she was fairly bound
over to this dark angel whom we have alluded to; and he dealt with her,
and aided her, as one of his own children.

I do not mean to say that, in this strait, he appeared to her in the
likeness of a gentleman in black, and made her sign her name in blood
to a document conveying over to him her soul, in exchange for certain
conditions to be performed by him. Such diabolical bargains have always
appeared to me unworthy of the astute personage who is supposed to be
one of the parties to them; and who would scarcely be fool enough to pay
dearly for that which he can have in a few years for nothing. It is not,
then, to be supposed that a demon of darkness appeared to Mrs. Cat,
and led her into a flaming chariot harnessed by dragons, and careering
through air at the rate of a thousand leagues a minute. No such thing;
the vehicle that was sent to aid her was one of a much more vulgar
description.

The “Liverpool carryvan,” then, which in the year 1706 used to perform
the journey between London and that place in ten days, left Birmingham
about an hour after Mrs. Catherine had quitted that town; and as she sat
weeping on a hillside, and plunged in bitter meditation, the lumbering,
jingling vehicle overtook her. The coachman was marching by the side of
his horses, and encouraging them to maintain their pace of two miles an
hour; the passengers had some of them left the vehicle, in order to
walk up the hill; and the carriage had arrived at the top of it, and,
meditating a brisk trot down the declivity, waited there until the
lagging passengers should arrive: when Jehu, casting a good-natured
glance upon Mrs. Catherine, asked the pretty maid whence she was come,
and whether she would like a ride in his carriage. To the latter of
which questions Mrs. Catherine replied truly yes; to the former, her
answer was that she had come from Stratford; whereas, as we very well
know, she had lately quitted Birmingham.

“Hast thee seen a woman pass this way, on a black horse, with a large
bag of goold over the saddle?” said Jehu, preparing to mount upon the
roof of his coach.

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Cat.

“Nor a trooper on another horse after her--no? Well, there be a mortal
row down Birmingham way about sich a one. She have killed, they say,
nine gentlemen at supper, and have strangled a German prince in bed.
She have robbed him of twenty thousand guineas, and have rode away on a
black horse.”

“That can't be I,” said Mrs. Cat, naively, “for I have but three
shillings and a groat.”

“No, it can't be thee, truly, for where's your bag of goold? and,
besides, thee hast got too pretty a face to do such wicked things as to
kill nine gentlemen and strangle a German prince.”

“Law, coachman,” said Mrs. Cat, blushing archly-- “Law, coachman, DO you
think so?” The girl would have been pleased with a compliment even on
her way to be hanged; and the parley ended by Mrs. Catherine stepping
into the carriage, where there was room for eight people at least, and
where two or three individuals had already taken their places. For these
Mrs. Catherine had in the first place to make a story, which she did;
and a very glib one for a person of her years and education. Being asked
whither she was bound, and how she came to be alone of a morning sitting
by a road-side, she invented a neat history suitable to the occasion,
which elicited much interest from her fellow-passengers: one in
particular, a young man, who had caught a glimpse of her face under her
hood, was very tender in his attentions to her.

But whether it was that she had been too much fatigued by the
occurrences of the past day and sleepless night, or whether the little
laudanum which she had drunk a few hours previously now began to act
upon her, certain it is that Mrs. Cat now suddenly grew sick, feverish,
and extraordinarily sleepy; and in this state she continued for
many hours, to the pity of all her fellow-travellers. At length the
“carryvan” reached the inn, where horses and passengers were accustomed
to rest for a few hours, and to dine; and Mrs. Catherine was somewhat
awakened by the stir of the passengers, and the friendly voice of the
inn-servant welcoming them to dinner. The gentleman who had been smitten
by her beauty now urged her very politely to descend; which, taking the
protection of his arm, she accordingly did.

He made some very gallant speeches to her as she stepped out; and
she must have been very much occupied by them, or wrapt up in her own
thoughts, or stupefied by sleep, fever, and opium, for she did not take
any heed of the place into which she was going: which, had she done,
she would probably have preferred remaining in the coach, dinnerless and
ill. Indeed, the inn into which she was about to make her entrance was
no other than the “Bugle,” from which she set forth at the commencement
of this history; and which then, as now, was kept by her relative, the
thrifty Mrs. Score. That good landlady, seeing a lady, in a smart hood
and cloak, leaning, as if faint, upon the arm of a gentleman of good
appearance, concluded them to be man and wife, and folks of quality too;
and with much discrimination, as well as sympathy, led them through the
public kitchen to her own private parlour, or bar, where she handed the
lady an armchair, and asked what she would like to drink. By this time,
and indeed at the very moment she heard her aunt's voice, Mrs. Catherine
was aware of her situation; and when her companion retired, and the
landlady, with much officiousness, insisted on removing her hood, she
was quite prepared for the screech of surprise which Mrs. Score gave on
dropping it, exclaiming, “Why, law bless us, it's our Catherine!”

“I'm very ill, and tired, aunt,” said Cat; “and would give the world for
a few hours' sleep.”

“A few hours and welcome, my love, and a sack-posset too. You do look
sadly tired and poorly, sure enough. Ah, Cat, Cat! you great ladies
are sad rakes, I do believe. I wager now, that with all your balls, and
carriages, and fine clothes, you are neither so happy nor so well as
when you lived with your poor old aunt, who used to love you so.” And
with these gentle words, and an embrace or two, which Mrs. Catherine
wondered at, and permitted, she was conducted to that very bed which the
Count had occupied a year previously, and undressed, and laid in it, and
affectionately tucked up by her aunt, who marvelled at the fineness of
her clothes, as she removed them piece by piece; and when she saw
that in Mrs. Catherine's pocket there was only the sum of three and
fourpence, said, archly, “There was no need of money, for the Captain
took care of that.”

Mrs. Cat did not undeceive her; and deceived Mrs. Score certainly
was,--for she imagined the well-dressed gentleman who led Cat from the
carriage was no other than the Count; and, as she had heard, from time
to time, exaggerated reports of the splendour of the establishment which
he kept up, she was induced to look upon her niece with the very highest
respect, and to treat her as if she were a fine lady. “And so she IS
a fine lady,” Mrs. Score had said months ago, when some of these
flattering stories reached her, and she had overcome her first fury at
Catherine's elopement. “The girl was very cruel to leave me; but we must
recollect that she is as good as married to a nobleman, and must all
forget and forgive, you know.”

This speech had been made to Doctor Dobbs, who was in the habit of
taking a pipe and a tankard at the “Bugle,” and it had been roundly
reprobated by the worthy divine; who told Mrs. Score, that the crime
of Catherine was only the more heinous, if it had been committed from
interested motives; and protested that, were she a princess, he would
never speak to her again. Mrs. Score thought and pronounced the Doctor's
opinion to be very bigoted; indeed, she was one of those persons who
have a marvellous respect for prosperity, and a corresponding scorn for
ill-fortune. When, therefore, she returned to the public room, she
went graciously to the gentleman who had led Mrs. Catherine from the
carriage, and with a knowing curtsey welcomed him to the “Bugle;” told
him that his lady would not come to dinner, but bade her say, with her
best love to his Lordship, that the ride had fatigued her, and that she
would lie in bed for an hour or two.

This speech was received with much wonder by his Lordship; who was,
indeed, no other than a Liverpool tailor going to London to learn
fashions; but he only smiled, and did not undeceive the landlady, who
herself went off, smilingly, to bustle about dinner.

The two or three hours allotted to that meal by the liberal coachmasters
of those days passed away, and Mr. Coachman, declaring that his horses
were now rested enough, and that they had twelve miles to ride, put the
steeds to, and summoned the passengers. Mrs. Score, who had seen with
much satisfaction that her niece was really ill, and her fever more
violent, and hoped to have her for many days an inmate in her house, now
came forward, and casting upon the Liverpool tailor a look of profound
but respectful melancholy, said, “My Lord (for I recollect your Lordship
quite well), the lady upstairs is so ill, that it would be a sin to move
her: had I not better tell coachman to take down your Lordship's trunks,
and the lady's, and make you a bed in the next room?”

Very much to her surprise, this proposition was received with a roar
of laughter. “Madam,” said the person addressed, “I'm not a lord, but
a tailor and draper; and as for that young woman, before to-day I never
set eyes on her.”

“WHAT!” screamed out Mrs. Score. “Are not you the Count? Do you mean to
say that you a'n't Cat's--? DO you mean to say that you didn't order her
bed, and that you won't pay this here little bill?” And with this she
produced a document, by which the Count's lady was made her debtor in a
sum of half-a-guinea.

These passionate words excited more and more laughter. “Pay it, my
Lord,” said the coachman; “and then come along, for time presses.” “Our
respects to her Ladyship,” said one passenger. “Tell her my Lord can't
wait,” said another; and with much merriment one and all quitted the
hotel, entered the coach, and rattled off.

Dumb--pale with terror and rage--bill in hand, Mrs. Score had followed
the company; but when the coach disappeared, her senses returned. Back
she flew into the inn, overturning the ostler, not deigning to answer
Doctor Dobbs (who, from behind soft tobacco-fumes, mildly asked the
reason of her disturbance), and, bounding upstairs like a fury, she
rushed into the room where Catherine lay.

“Well, madam!” said she, in her highest key, “do you mean that you have
come into this here house to swindle me? Do you dare for to come with
your airs here, and call yourself a nobleman's lady, and sleep in the
best bed, when you're no better nor a common tramper? I'll thank you,
ma'am, to get out, ma'am. I'll have no sick paupers in this house,
ma'am. You know your way to the workhouse, ma'am, and there I'll trouble
you for to go.” And here Mrs. Score proceeded quickly to pull off the
bedclothes; and poor Cat arose, shivering with fright and fever.

She had no spirit to answer, as she would have done the day before, when
an oath from any human being would have brought half-a-dozen from her in
return; or a knife, or a plate, or a leg of mutton, if such had been to
her hand. She had no spirit left for such repartees; but in reply to the
above words of Mrs. Score, and a great many more of the same kind--which
are not necessary for our history, but which that lady uttered with
inconceivable shrillness and volubility, the poor wench could say
little,--only sob and shiver, and gather up the clothes again, crying,
“Oh, aunt, don't speak unkind to me! I'm very unhappy, and very ill!”

“Ill, you strumpet! ill, be hanged! Ill is as ill does; and if you are
ill, it's only what you merit. Get out! dress yourself--tramp! Get to
the workhouse, and don't come to cheat me any more! Dress yourself--do
you hear? Satin petticoat forsooth, and lace to her smock!”

Poor, wretched, chattering, burning, shivering Catherine huddled on her
clothes as well she might: she seemed hardly to know or see what she was
doing, and did not reply a single word to the many that the landlady let
fall. Cat tottered down the narrow stairs, and through the kitchen, and
to the door; which she caught hold of, and paused awhile, and looked
into Mrs. Score's face, as for one more chance. “Get out, you nasty
trull!” said that lady, sternly, with arms akimbo; and poor Catherine,
with a most piteous scream and outgush of tears, let go of the door-post
and staggered away into the road.

                    *****

“Why, no--yes--no--it is poor Catherine Hall, as I live!” said somebody,
starting up, shoving aside Mrs. Score very rudely, and running into
the road, wig off and pipe in hand. It was honest Doctor Dobbs; and
the result of his interview with Mrs. Cat was, that he gave up for ever
smoking his pipe at the “Bugle;” and that she lay sick of a fever for
some weeks in his house.

                    *****

Over this part of Mrs. Cat's history we shall be as brief as possible;
for, to tell the truth, nothing immoral occurred during her whole stay
at the good Doctor's house; and we are not going to insult the reader
by offering him silly pictures of piety, cheerfulness, good sense, and
simplicity; which are milk-and-water virtues after all, and have no
relish with them like a good strong vice, highly peppered. Well, to be
short: Doctor Dobbs, though a profound theologian, was a very simple
gentleman; and before Mrs. Cat had been a month in the house, he had
learned to look upon her as one of the most injured and repentant
characters in the world; and had, with Mrs. Dobbs, resolved many plans
for the future welfare of the young Magdalen. “She was but sixteen, my
love, recollect,” said the Doctor; “she was carried off, not by her own
wish either. The Count swore he would marry her; and, though she did not
leave him until that monster tried to poison her, yet think what a
fine Christian spirit the poor girl has shown! she forgives him as
heartily--more heartily, I am sure, than I do Mrs. Score for turning her
adrift in that wicked way.” The reader will perceive some difference in
the Doctor's statement and ours, which we assure him is the true one;
but the fact is, the honest rector had had his tale from Mrs. Cat, and
it was not in his nature to doubt, if she had told him a history ten
times more wonderful.

The reverend gentleman and his wife then laid their heads together; and,
recollecting something of John Hayes's former attachment to Mrs. Cat,
thought that it might be advantageously renewed, should Hayes be still
constant. Having very adroitly sounded Catherine (so adroitly, indeed,
as to ask her “whether she would like to marry John Hayes?”), that young
woman had replied, “No. She had loved John Hayes--he had been her early,
only love; but she was fallen now, and not good enough for him.” And
this made the Dobbs family admire her more and more, and cast about for
means to bring the marriage to pass.

Hayes was away from the village when Mrs. Cat had arrived there; but he
did not fail to hear of her illness, and how her aunt had deserted her,
and the good Doctor taken her in. The worthy Doctor himself met Mr.
Hayes on the green; and, telling him that some repairs were wanting in
his kitchen begged him to step in and examine them. Hayes first said no,
plump, and then no, gently; and then pished, and then psha'd; and then,
trembling very much, went in: and there sat Mrs. Catherine, trembling
very much too.

What passed between them? If your Ladyship is anxious to know, think of
that morning when Sir John himself popped the question. Could there be
anything more stupid than the conversation which took place? Such stuff
is not worth repeating: no, not when uttered by people in the very
genteelest of company; as for the amorous dialogue of a carpenter and
an ex-barmaid, it is worse still. Suffice it to say, that Mr. Hayes, who
had had a year to recover from his passion, and had, to all appearances,
quelled it, was over head and ears again the very moment he saw Mrs.
Cat, and had all his work to do again.

Whether the Doctor knew what was going on, I can't say; but this matter
is certain, that every evening Hayes was now in the rectory kitchen, or
else walking abroad with Mrs. Catherine: and whether she ran away with
him, or he with her, I shall not make it my business to inquire; but
certainly at the end of three months (which must be crowded up into this
one little sentence), another elopement took place in the village. “I
should have prevented it, certainly,” said Doctor Dobbs--whereat his
wife smiled; “but the young people kept the matter a secret from me.”
 And so he would, had he known it; but though Mrs. Dobbs had made
several attempts to acquaint him with the precise hour and method of the
intended elopement, he peremptorily ordered her to hold her tongue. The
fact is, that the matter had been discussed by the rector's lady many
times. “Young Hayes,” would she say “has a pretty little fortune and
trade of his own; he is an only son, and may marry as he likes; and,
though not specially handsome, generous, or amiable, has an undeniable
love for Cat (who, you know, must not be particular), and the sooner she
marries him, I think, the better. They can't be married at our
church you know, and--” “Well,” said the Doctor, “if they are married
elsewhere, I can't help it, and know nothing about it, look you.” And
upon this hint the elopement took place: which, indeed, was peaceably
performed early one Sunday morning about a month after; Mrs. Hall
getting behind Mr. Hayes on a pillion, and all the children of the
parsonage giggling behind the window-blinds to see the pair go off.

During this month Mr. Hayes had caused the banns to be published at the
town of Worcester; judging rightly that in a great town they would cause
no such remark as in a solitary village, and thither he conducted his
lady. O ill-starred John Hayes! whither do the dark Fates lead you? O
foolish Doctor Dobbs, to forget that young people ought to honour their
parents, and to yield to silly Mrs. Dobbs's ardent propensity for making
matches!

                    *****

The London Gazette of the 1st April, 1706, contains a proclamation
by the Queen for putting into execution an Act of Parliament for the
encouragement and increase of seamen, and for the better and speedier
manning of Her Majesty's fleet, which authorises all justices to issue
warrants to constables, petty constables, headboroughs, and tything-men,
to enter and, if need be, to break open the doors of any houses where
they shall believe deserting seamen to be; and for the further increase
and encouragement of the navy, to take able-bodied landsmen when seamen
fail. This Act, which occupies four columns of the Gazette, and another
of similar length and meaning for pressing men into the army, need
not be quoted at length here; but caused a mighty stir throughout the
kingdom at the time when it was in force.

As one has seen or heard, after the march of a great army, a number of
rogues and loose characters bring up the rear; in like manner, at
the tail of a great measure of State, follow many roguish personal
interests, which are protected by the main body. The great measure of
Reform, for instance, carried along with it much private jobbing and
swindling--as could be shown were we not inclined to deal mildly with
the Whigs; and this Enlistment Act, which, in order to maintain the
British glories in Flanders, dealt most cruelly with the British people
in England (it is not the first time that a man has been pinched at home
to make a fine appearance abroad), created a great company of rascals
and informers throughout the land, who lived upon it; or upon extortion
from those who were subject to it, or not being subject to it were
frightened into the belief that they were.

When Mr. Hayes and his lady had gone through the marriage ceremony at
Worcester, the former, concluding that at such a place lodging and food
might be procured at a cheaper rate, looked about carefully for the
meanest public-house in the town, where he might deposit his bride.

In the kitchen of this inn, a party of men were drinking; and, as
Mrs. Hayes declined, with a proper sense of her superiority, to eat in
company with such low fellows, the landlady showed her and her husband
to an inner apartment, where they might be served in private.

The kitchen party seemed, indeed, not such as a lady would choose to
join. There was one huge lanky fellow, that looked like a soldier,
and had a halberd; another was habited in a sailor's costume, with a
fascinating patch over one eye; and a third, who seemed the leader
of the gang, was a stout man in a sailor's frock and a horseman's
jack-boots, whom one might fancy, if he were anything, to be a
horse-marine.

Of one of these worthies, Mrs. Hayes thought she knew the figure and
voice; and she found her conjectures were true, when, all of sudden,
three people, without “With your leave,” or “By your leave,” burst into
the room, into which she and her spouse had retired. At their head was
no other than her old friend, Mr. Peter Brock; he had his sword drawn,
and his finger to his lips, enjoining silence, as it were, to Mrs.
Catherine. He with the patch on his eye seized incontinently on Mr.
Hayes; the tall man with the halberd kept the door; two or three heroes
supported the one-eyed man; who, with a loud voice, exclaimed, “Down
with your arms--no resistance! you are my prisoner, in the Queen's
name!”

And here, at this lock, we shall leave the whole company until the next
chapter; which may possibly explain what they were.



CHAPTER V. CONTAINS MR. BROCK'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, AND OTHER MATTERS.


“You don't sure believe these men?” said Mrs. Hayes, as soon as the
first alarm caused by the irruption of Mr. Brock and his companions had
subsided. “These are no magistrate's men: it is but a trick to rob you
of your money, John.”

“I will never give up a farthing of it!” screamed Hayes.

“Yonder fellow,” continued Mrs. Catherine, “I know, for all his drawn
sword and fierce looks; his name is---”

“Wood, madam, at your service!” said Mr. Brock. “I am follower to Mr.
Justice Gobble, of this town: a'n't I, Tim?” said Mr. Brock to the tall
halberdman who was keeping the door.

“Yes indeed,” said Tim, archly; “we're all followers of his honour
Justice Gobble.”

“Certainly!” said the one-eyed man.

“Of course!” cried the man in the nightcap.

“I suppose, madam, you're satisfied NOW?” continued Mr. Brock, alias
Wood. “You can't deny the testimony of gentlemen like these; and our
commission is to apprehend all able-bodied male persons who can give
no good account of themselves, and enrol them in the service of Her
Majesty. Look at this Mr. Hayes” (who stood trembling in his shoes).
“Can there be a bolder, properer, straighter gentleman? We'll have him
for a grenadier before the day's over!”

“Take heart, John--don't be frightened. Psha! I tell you I know the man”
 cried out Mrs. Hayes: “he is only here to extort money.”

“Oh, for that matter, I DO think I recollect the lady. Let me see; where
was it? At Birmingham, I think,--ay, at Birmingham,--about the time when
they tried to murder Count Gal--”

“Oh, sir!” here cried Madam Hayes, dropping her voice at once from a
tone of scorn to one of gentlest entreaty, “what is it you want with my
husband? I know not, indeed, if ever I saw you before. For what do you
seize him? How much will you take to release him, and let us go? Name
the sum; he is rich, and--”

“RICH, Catherine!” cried Hayes. “Rich!--O heavens! Sir, I have nothing
but my hands to support me: I am a poor carpenter, sir, working under my
father!”

“He can give twenty guineas to be free; I know he can!” said Mrs. Cat.

“I have but a guinea to carry me home,” sighed out Hayes.

“But you have twenty at home, John,” said his wife. “Give these brave
gentlemen a writing to your mother, and she will pay; and you will let
us free then, gentlemen--won't you?”

“When the money's paid, yes,” said the leader, Mr. Brock.

“Oh, in course,” echoed the tall man with the halberd. “What's a
thrifling detintion, my dear?” continued he, addressing Hayes. “We'll
amuse you in your absence, and drink to the health of your pretty wife
here.”

This promise, to do the halberdier justice, he fulfilled. He called upon
the landlady to produce the desired liquor; and when Mr. Hayes flung
himself at that lady's feet, demanding succour from her, and asking
whether there was no law in the land--

“There's no law at the 'Three Rooks' except THIS!” said Mr. Brock
in reply, holding up a horse-pistol. To which the hostess, grinning,
assented, and silently went her way.

After some further solicitations, John Hayes drew out the necessary
letter to his father, stating that he was pressed, and would not be set
free under a sum of twenty guineas; and that it would be of no use
to detain the bearer of the letter, inasmuch as the gentlemen who had
possession of him vowed that they would murder him should any harm
befall their comrade. As a further proof of the authenticity of the
letter, a token was added: a ring that Hayes wore, and that his mother
had given him.

The missives were, after some consultation, entrusted to the care of the
tall halberdier, who seemed to rank as second in command of the
forces that marched under Corporal Brock. This gentleman was called
indifferently Ensign, Mr., or even Captain Macshane; his intimates
occasionally in sport called him Nosey, from the prominence of that
feature in his countenance; or Spindleshins, for the very reason which
brought on the first Edward a similar nickname. Mr. Macshane then
quitted Worcester, mounted on Hayes's horse; leaving all parties at the
“Three Rooks” not a little anxious for his return.

This was not to be expected until the next morning; and a weary nuit de
noces did Mr. Hayes pass. Dinner was served, and, according to promise,
Mr. Brock and his two friends enjoyed the meal along with the bride and
bridegroom. Punch followed, and this was taken in company; then came
supper. Mr. Brock alone partook of this, the other two gentlemen
preferring the society of their pipes and the landlady in the kitchen.

“It is a sorry entertainment, I confess,” said the ex-corporal, “and a
dismal way for a gentleman to spend his bridal night; but somebody must
stay with you, my dears: for who knows but you might take a fancy to
scream out of window, and then there would be murder, and the deuce and
all to pay. One of us must stay, and my friends love a pipe, so you must
put up with my company until they can relieve guard.”

The reader will not, of course, expect that three people who were to
pass the night, however unwillingly, together in an inn-room, should
sit there dumb and moody, and without any personal communication; on the
contrary, Mr. Brock, as an old soldier, entertained his prisoners with
the utmost courtesy, and did all that lay in his power, by the help
of liquor and conversation, to render their durance tolerable. On
the bridegroom his attentions were a good deal thrown away: Mr. Hayes
consented to drink copiously, but could not be made to talk much; and,
in fact, the fright of the seizure, the fate hanging over him should his
parents refuse a ransom, and the tremendous outlay of money which would
take place should they accede to it, weighed altogether on his mind so
much as utterly to unman it.

As for Mrs. Cat, I don't think she was at all sorry in her heart to see
the old Corporal: for he had been a friend of old times--dear times to
her; she had had from him, too, and felt for him, not a little kindness;
and there was really a very tender, innocent friendship subsisting
between this pair of rascals, who relished much a night's conversation
together.

The Corporal, after treating his prisoners to punch in great quantities,
proposed the amusement of cards: over which Mr. Hayes had not been
occupied more than an hour, when he found himself so excessively sleepy
as to be persuaded to fling himself down on the bed dressed as he was,
and there to snore away until morning.

Mrs. Catherine had no inclination for sleep; and the Corporal, equally
wakeful, plied incessantly the bottle, and held with her a great deal
of conversation. The sleep, which was equivalent to the absence, of John
Hayes took all restraint from their talk. She explained to Brock the
circumstances of her marriage, which we have already described; they
wondered at the chance which had brought them together at the “Three
Rooks;” nor did Brock at all hesitate to tell her at once that his
calling was quite illegal, and that his intention was simply to extort
money. The worthy Corporal had not the slightest shame regarding his
own profession, and cut many jokes with Mrs. Cat about her late one; her
attempt to murder the Count, and her future prospects as a wife.

And here, having brought him upon the scene again, we may as well
shortly narrate some of the principal circumstances which befell him
after his sudden departure from Birmingham; and which he narrated with
much candour to Mrs. Catherine.

He rode the Captain's horse to Oxford (having exchanged his military
dress for a civil costume on the road), and at Oxford he disposed of
“George of Denmark,” a great bargain, to one of the heads of colleges.
As soon as Mr. Brock, who took on himself the style and title of Captain
Wood, had sufficiently examined the curiosities of the University, he
proceeded at once to the capital: the only place for a gentleman of his
fortune and figure.

Here he read, with a great deal of philosophical indifference, in the
Daily Post, the Courant, the Observator, the Gazette, and the chief
journals of those days, which he made a point of examining at “Button's”
 and “Will's,” an accurate description of his person, his clothes, and
the horse he rode, and a promise of fifty guineas' reward to any person
who would give an account of him (so that he might be captured) to
Captain Count Galgenstein at Birmingham, to Mr. Murfey at the “Golden
Ball” in the Savoy, or Mr. Bates at the “Blew Anchor in Pickadilly.” But
Captain Wood, in an enormous full-bottomed periwig that cost him sixty
pounds,[*] with high red heels to his shoes, a silver sword, and a
gold snuff-box, and a large wound (obtained, he said, at the siege of
Barcelona), which disfigured much of his countenance, and caused him to
cover one eye, was in small danger, he thought, of being mistaken for
Corporal Brock, the deserter of Cutts's; and strutted along the Mall
with as grave an air as the very best nobleman who appeared there.
He was generally, indeed, voted to be very good company; and as his
expenses were unlimited (“A few convent candlesticks,” my dear, he used
to whisper, “melt into a vast number of doubloons”), he commanded as
good society as he chose to ask for: and it was speedily known as a fact
throughout town, that Captain Wood, who had served under His Majesty
Charles III. of Spain, had carried off the diamond petticoat of Our Lady
of Compostella, and lived upon the proceeds of the fraud. People were
good Protestants in those days, and many a one longed to have been his
partner in the pious plunder.

     * In the ingenious contemporary history of Moll Flanders, a
     periwig is mentioned as costing that sum.

All surmises concerning his wealth, Captain Wood, with much discretion,
encouraged. He contradicted no report, but was quite ready to confirm
all; and when two different rumours were positively put to him, he used
only to laugh, and say, “My dear sir, _I_ don't make the stories; but
I'm not called upon to deny them; and I give you fair warning, that I
shall assent to every one of them; so you may believe them or not, as
you please.” And so he had the reputation of being a gentleman, not only
wealthy, but discreet. In truth, it was almost a pity that worthy Brock
had not been a gentleman born; in which case, doubtless, he would have
lived and died as became his station; for he spent his money like
a gentleman, he loved women like a gentleman, he would fight like a
gentleman, he gambled and got drunk like a gentleman. What did he want
else? Only a matter of six descents, a little money, and an estate, to
render him the equal of St. John or Harley. “Ah, those were merry days!”
 would Mr. Brock say,--for he loved, in a good old age, to recount the
story of his London fashionable campaign;--“and when I think how near
I was to become a great man, and to die perhaps a general, I can't but
marvel at the wicked obstinacy of my ill-luck.”

“I will tell you what I did, my dear: I had lodgings in Piccadilly, as
if I were a lord; I had two large periwigs, and three suits of laced
clothes; I kept a little black dressed out like a Turk; I walked daily
in the Mall; I dined at the politest ordinary in Covent Garden; I
frequented the best of coffee-houses, and knew all the pretty fellows of
the town; I cracked a bottle with Mr. Addison, and lent many a piece to
Dick Steele (a sad debauched rogue, my dear); and, above all, I'll tell
you what I did--the noblest stroke that sure ever a gentleman performed
in my situation.

“One day, going into 'Will's,' I saw a crowd of gentlemen gathered
together, and heard one of them say, 'Captain Wood! I don't know the
man; but there was a Captain Wood in Southwell's regiment.' Egad, it was
my Lord Peterborough himself who was talking about me. So, putting off
my hat, I made a most gracious conge to my Lord, and said I knew HIM,
and rode behind him at Barcelona on our entry into that town.

“'No doubt you did, Captain Wood,' says my Lord, taking my hand; 'and
no doubt you know me: for many more know Tom Fool, than Tom Fool knows.'
And with this, at which all of us laughed, my Lord called for a bottle,
and he and I sat down and drank it together.

“Well, he was in disgrace, as you know, but he grew mighty fond of me,
and--would you believe it?--nothing would satisfy him but presenting me
at Court! Yes, to Her Sacred Majesty the Queen, and my Lady Marlborough,
who was in high feather. Ay, truly, the sentinels on duty used to
salute me as if I were Corporal John himself! I was on the high road to
fortune. Charley Mordaunt used to call me Jack, and drink canary at my
chambers; I used to make one at my Lord Treasurer's levee; I had
even got Mr. Army-Secretary Walpole to take a hundred guineas as a
compliment: and he had promised me a majority: when bad luck turned, and
all my fine hopes were overthrown in a twinkling.

“You see, my dear, that after we had left that gaby, Galgenstein,--ha,
ha--with a gag in his mouth, and twopence-halfpenny in his pocket, the
honest Count was in the sorriest plight in the world; owing money here
and there to tradesmen, a cool thousand to the Warwickshire Squire: and
all this on eighty pounds a year! Well, for a little time the tradesmen
held their hands; while the jolly Count moved heaven and earth to
catch hold of his dear Corporal and his dear money-bags over again, and
placarded every town from London to Liverpool with descriptions of my
pretty person. The bird was flown, however,--the money clean gone,--and
when there was no hope of regaining it, what did the creditors do but
clap my gay gentleman into Shrewsbury gaol: where I wish he had rotted,
for my part.

“But no such luck for honest Peter Brock, or Captain Wood, as he was in
those days. One blessed Monday I went to wait on Mr. Secretary, and
he squeezed my hand and whispered to me that I was to be Major of a
regiment in Virginia--the very thing: for you see, my dear, I didn't
care about joining my Lord Duke in Flanders; being pretty well known
to the army there. The Secretary squeezed my hand (it had a fifty-pound
bill in it) and wished me joy, and called me Major, and bowed me out of
his closet into the ante-room; and, as gay as may be, I went off to
the 'Tilt-yard Coffee-house' in Whitehall, which is much frequented by
gentlemen of our profession, where I bragged not a little of my good
luck.

“Amongst the company were several of my acquaintance, and amongst them
a gentleman I did not much care to see, look you! I saw a uniform that
I knew--red and yellow facings--Cutts's, my dear; and the wearer of this
was no other than his Excellency Gustavus Adolphus Maximilian, whom we
all know of!

“He stared me full in the face, right into my eye (t'other one was
patched, you know), and after standing stock-still with his mouth open,
gave a step back, and then a step forward, and then screeched out, 'It's
Brock!'

“'I beg your pardon, sir,' says I; 'did you speak to me?'

“'I'll SWEAR it's Brock,' cries Gal, as soon as he hears my voice, and
laid hold of my cuff (a pretty bit of Mechlin as ever you saw, by the
way).

“'Sirrah!' says I, drawing it back, and giving my Lord a little touch
of the fist (just at the last button of the waistcoat, my dear,--a rare
place if you wish to prevent a man from speaking too much: it sent him
reeling to the other end of the room). 'Ruffian!' says I. 'Dog!' says
I. 'Insolent puppy and coxcomb! what do you mean by laying your hand on
me?'

“'Faith, Major, you giv him his BILLYFUL,' roared out a long Irish
unattached ensign, that I had treated with many a glass of Nantz at the
tavern. And so, indeed, I had; for the wretch could not speak for some
minutes, and all the officers stood laughing at him, as he writhed and
wriggled hideously.

“'Gentlemen, this is a monstrous scandal,' says one officer. 'Men of
rank and honour at fists like a parcel of carters!'

“'Men of honour!' says the Count, who had fetched up his breath by this
time. (I made for the door, but Macshane held me and said, 'Major, you
are not going to shirk him, sure?' Whereupon I gripped his hand and
vowed I would have the dog's life.)

“'Men of honour!' says the Count. 'I tell you the man is a deserter, a
thief, and a swindler! He was my corporal, and ran away with a thou--'

“'Dog, you lie!' I roared out, and made another cut at him with my cane;
but the gentlemen rushed between us.

“'O bluthanowns!' says honest Macshane, 'the lying scounthrel this
fellow is! Gentlemen, I swear be me honour that Captain Wood was wounded
at Barcelona; and that I saw him there; and that he and I ran away
together at the battle of Almanza, and bad luck to us.'

“You see, my dear, that these Irish have the strongest imaginations in
the world; and that I had actually persuaded poor Mac that he and I were
friends in Spain. Everybody knew Mac, who was a character in his way,
and believed him.

“'Strike a gentleman,' says I. 'I'll have your blood, I will.'

“'This instant,' says the Count, who was boiling with fury; 'and where
you like.'

“'Montague House,' says I. 'Good,' says he. And off we went. In
good time too, for the constables came in at the thought of such a
disturbance, and wanted to take us in charge.

“But the gentlemen present, being military men, would not hear of
this. Out came Mac's rapier, and that of half-a-dozen others; and the
constables were then told to do their duty if they liked, or to take a
crown-piece, and leave us to ourselves. Off they went; and presently, in
a couple of coaches, the Count and his friends, I and mine, drove off to
the fields behind Montague House. Oh that vile coffee-house! why did I
enter it?

“We came to the ground. Honest Macshane was my second, and much
disappointed because the second on the other side would not make a fight
of it, and exchange a few passes with him; but he was an old major,
a cool old hand, as brave as steel, and no fool. Well, the swords
are measured, Galgenstein strips off his doublet, and I my handsome
cut-velvet in like fashion. Galgenstein flings off his hat, and I handed
mine over--the lace on it cost me twenty pounds. I longed to be at him,
for--curse him!--I hate him, and know that he has no chance with me at
sword's-play.

“'You'll not fight in that periwig, sure?' says Macshane. 'Of course
not,' says I, and took it off.

“May all barbers be roasted in flames; may all periwigs, bobwigs,
scratchwigs, and Ramillies cocks, frizzle in purgatory from this day
forth to the end of time! Mine was the ruin of me: what might I not have
been now but for that wig!

“I gave it over to Ensign Macshane, and with it went what I had quite
forgotten, the large patch which I wore over one eye, which popped out
fierce, staring, and lively as was ever any eye in the world.

“'Come on!' says I, and made a lunge at my Count; but he sprang back
(the dog was as active as a hare, and knew, from old times, that I was
his master with the small-sword), and his second, wondering, struck up
my blade.

“'I will not fight that man,' says he, looking mighty pale. 'I swear
upon my honour that his name is Peter Brock: he was for two years
my corporal, and deserted, running away with a thousand pounds of my
moneys. Look at the fellow! What is the matter with his eye? why did he
wear a patch over it? But stop!' says he. 'I have more proof. Hand me
my pocket-book.' And from it, sure enough, he produced the infernal
proclamation announcing my desertion! 'See if the fellow has a scar
across his left ear' (and I can't say, my dear, but what I have: it was
done by a cursed Dutchman at the Boyne). 'Tell me if he has not got
C.R. in blue upon his right arm' (and there it is sure enough). 'Yonder
swaggering Irishman may be his accomplice for what I know; but I will
have no dealings with Mr. Brock, save with a constable for a second.'

“'This is an odd story, Captain Wood,' said the old Major who acted for
the Count.

“'A scounthrelly falsehood regarding me and my friend!' shouted out Mr.
Macshane; 'and the Count shall answer for it.'

“'Stop, stop!' says the Major. 'Captain Wood is too gallant a gentleman,
I am sure, not to satisfy the Count; and will show us that he has no
such mark on his arm as only private soldiers put there.'

“'Captain Wood,' says I, 'will do no such thing, Major. I'll fight that
scoundrel Galgenstein, or you, or any of you, like a man of honour; but
I won't submit to be searched like a thief!'

“'No, in coorse,' said Macshane.

“'I must take my man off the ground,' says the Major.

“'Well, take him, sir,' says I, in a rage; 'and just let me have the
pleasure of telling him that he's a coward and a liar; and that my
lodgings are in Piccadilly, where, if ever he finds courage to meet me,
he may hear of me!'

“'Faugh! I shpit on ye all,' cries my gallant ally Macshane. And sure
enough he kept his word, or all but--suiting the action to it at any
rate.

“And so we gathered up our clothes, and went back in our separate
coaches, and no blood spilt.

“'And is it thrue now,' said Mr. Macshane, when we were alone--'is
it thrue now, all these divvles have been saying?' 'Ensign,' says I,
'you're a man of the world?'

“''Deed and I am, and insign these twenty-two years.'

“'Perhaps you'd like a few pieces?' says I.

“'Faith and I should; for to tell you the secred thrut, I've not tasted
mate these four days.'

“'Well then, Ensign, it IS true,' says I; 'and as for meat, you shall
have some at the first cook-shop.' I bade the coach stop until he bought
a plateful, which he ate in the carriage, for my time was precious. I
just told him the whole story: at which he laughed, and swore that it
was the best piece of GENERALSHIP he ever heard on. When his belly was
full, I took out a couple of guineas and gave them to him. Mr. Macshane
began to cry at this, and kissed me, and swore he never would desert me:
as, indeed, my dear, I don't think he will; for we have been the best of
friends ever since, and he's the only man I ever could trust, I think.

“I don't know what put it into my head, but I had a scent of some
mischief in the wind; so stopped the coach a little before I got home,
and, turning into a tavern, begged Macshane to go before me to my
lodging, and see if the coast was clear: which he did; and came back to
me as pale as death, saying that the house was full of constables. The
cursed quarrel at the Tilt-yard had, I suppose, set the beaks upon me;
and a pretty sweep they made of it. Ah, my dear! five hundred pounds
in money, five suits of laced clothes, three periwigs, besides laced
shirts, swords, canes, and snuff-boxes; and all to go back to that
scoundrel Count.

“It was all over with me, I saw--no more being a gentleman for me; and
if I remained to be caught, only a choice between Tyburn and a file
of grenadiers. My love, under such circumstances, a gentleman can't be
particular, and must be prompt; the livery-stable was hard by where I
used to hire my coach to go to Court,--ha! ha!--and was known as a man
of substance. Thither I went immediately. 'Mr. Warmmash,' says I,
'my gallant friend here and I have a mind for a ride and a supper at
Twickenham, so you must lend us a pair of your best horses.' Which he
did in a twinkling, and off we rode.

“We did not go into the Park, but turned off and cantered smartly up
towards Kilburn; and, when we got into the country, galloped as if
the devil were at our heels. Bless you, my love, it was all done in
a minute: and the Ensign and I found ourselves regular knights of the
road, before we knew where we were almost. Only think of our finding you
and your new husband at the 'Three Rooks'! There's not a greater fence
than the landlady in all the country. It was she that put us on seizing
your husband, and introduced us to the other two gentlemen, whose names
I don't know any more than the dead.”

“And what became of the horses?” said Mrs. Catherine to Mr. Brock, when
his tale was finished.

“Rips, madam,” said he; “mere rips. We sold them at Stourbridge fair,
and got but thirteen guineas for the two.”

“And--and--the Count, Max; where is he, Brock?” sighed she.

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Brock. “What, hankering after him still? My dear,
he is off to Flanders with his regiment; and, I make no doubt, there
have been twenty Countesses of Galgenstein since your time.”

“I don't believe any such thing, sir,” said Mrs. Catherine, starting up
very angrily.

“If you did, I suppose you'd laudanum him; wouldn't you?”

“Leave the room, fellow,” said the lady. But she recollected herself
speedily again; and, clasping her hands, and looking very wretched
at Brock, at the ceiling, at the floor, at her husband (from whom she
violently turned away her head), she began to cry piteously: to which
tears the Corporal set up a gentle accompaniment of whistling, as they
trickled one after another down her nose.

I don't think they were tears of repentance; but of regret for the time
when she had her first love, and her fine clothes, and her white hat and
blue feather. Of the two, the Corporal's whistle was much more innocent
than the girl's sobbing: he was a rogue; but a good-natured old fellow
when his humour was not crossed. Surely our novel-writers make a great
mistake in divesting their rascals of all gentle human qualities:
they have such--and the only sad point to think of is, in all private
concerns of life, abstract feelings, and dealings with friends, and
so on, how dreadfully like a rascal is to an honest man. The man who
murdered the Italian boy, set him first to play with his children whom
he loved, and who doubtless deplored his loss.



CHAPTER VI. ADVENTURES OF THE AMBASSADOR, MR. MACSHANE.


If we had not been obliged to follow history in all respects, it
is probable that we should have left out the last adventure of Mrs.
Catherine and her husband, at the inn at Worcester, altogether; for, in
truth, very little came of it, and it is not very romantic or striking.
But we are bound to stick closely, above all, by THE TRUTH--the truth,
though it be not particularly pleasant to read of or to tell. As anybody
may read in the “Newgate Calendar,” Mr. and Mrs. Hayes were taken at
an inn at Worcester; were confined there; were swindled by persons who
pretended to impress the bridegroom for military service. What is one
to do after that? Had we been writing novels instead of authentic
histories, we might have carried them anywhere else we chose: and we
had a great mind to make Hayes philosophising with Bolingbroke, like a
certain Devereux; and Mrs. Catherine maitresse en titre to Mr. Alexander
Pope, Doctor Sacheverel, Sir John Reade the oculist, Dean Swift,
or Marshal Tallard; as the very commonest romancer would under such
circumstances. But alas and alas! truth must be spoken, whatever else
is in the wind; and the excellent “Newgate Calendar,” which contains the
biographies and thanatographies of Hayes and his wife, does not say a
word of their connections with any of the leading literary or military
heroes of the time of Her Majesty Queen Anne. The “Calendar” says, in so
many words, that Hayes was obliged to send to his father in Warwickshire
for money to get him out of the scrape, and that the old gentleman came
down to his aid. By this truth must we stick; and not for the sake of
the most brilliant episode,--no, not for a bribe of twenty extra guineas
per sheet, would we depart from it.

Mr. Brock's account of his adventure in London has given the reader
some short notice of his friend, Mr Macshane. Neither the wits nor the
principles of that worthy Ensign were particularly firm: for drink,
poverty, and a crack on the skull at the battle of Steenkirk had served
to injure the former; and the Ensign was not in his best days possessed
of any share of the latter. He had really, at one period, held such a
rank in the army, but pawned his half-pay for drink and play; and for
many years past had lived, one of the hundred thousand miracles of our
city, upon nothing that anybody knew of, or of which he himself could
give any account. Who has not a catalogue of these men in his list?
who can tell whence comes the occasional clean shirt, who supplies
the continual means of drunkenness, who wards off the daily-impending
starvation? Their life is a wonder from day to day: their breakfast
a wonder; their dinner a miracle; their bed an interposition of
Providence. If you and I, my dear sir, want a shilling tomorrow, who
will give it us? Will OUR butchers give us mutton-chops? will OUR
laundresses clothe us in clean linen?--not a bone or a rag. Standing as
we do (may it be ever so) somewhat removed from want,[*] is there one of
us who does not shudder at the thought of descending into the lists to
combat with it, and expect anything but to be utterly crushed in the
encounter?

     * The author, it must be remembered, has his lodgings and
     food provided for him by the government of his country.

Not a bit of it, my dear sir. It takes much more than you think for to
starve a man. Starvation is very little when you are used to it. Some
people I know even, who live on it quite comfortably, and make their
daily bread by it. It had been our friend Macshane's sole profession for
many years; and he did not fail to draw from it such a livelihood as was
sufficient, and perhaps too good, for him. He managed to dine upon it
a certain or rather uncertain number of days in the week, to sleep
somewhere, and to get drunk at least three hundred times a year. He
was known to one or two noblemen who occasionally helped him with a
few pieces, and whom he helped in turn--never mind how. He had
other acquaintances whom he pestered undauntedly; and from whom he
occasionally extracted a dinner, or a crown, or mayhap, by mistake, a
goldheaded cane, which found its way to the pawnbroker's. When flush of
cash, he would appear at the coffee-house; when low in funds, the deuce
knows into what mystic caves and dens he slunk for food and lodging. He
was perfectly ready with his sword, and when sober, or better still, a
very little tipsy, was a complete master of it; in the art of boasting
and lying he had hardly any equals; in shoes he stood six feet five
inches; and here is his complete signalement. It was a fact that he had
been in Spain as a volunteer, where he had shown some gallantry, had had
a brain-fever, and was sent home to starve as before.

Mr. Macshane had, however, like Mr. Conrad, the Corsair, one virtue in
the midst of a thousand crimes,--he was faithful to his employer for the
time being: and a story is told of him, which may or may not be to
his credit, viz. that being hired on one occasion by a certain lord to
inflict a punishment upon a roturier who had crossed his lordship in
his amours, he, Macshane, did actually refuse from the person to be
belaboured, and who entreated his forbearance, a larger sum of
money than the nobleman gave him for the beating; which he performed
punctually, as bound in honour and friendship. This tale would the
Ensign himself relate, with much self-satisfaction; and when, after the
sudden flight from London, he and Brock took to their roving occupation,
he cheerfully submitted to the latter as his commanding officer, called
him always Major, and, bating blunders and drunkenness, was perfectly
true to his leader. He had a notion--and, indeed, I don't know that
it was a wrong one--that his profession was now, as before, strictly
military, and according to the rules of honour. Robbing he called
plundering the enemy; and hanging was, in his idea, a dastardly and
cruel advantage that the latter took, and that called for the sternest
reprisals.

The other gentlemen concerned were strangers to Mr. Brock, who felt
little inclined to trust either of them upon such a message, or with
such a large sum to bring back. They had, strange to say, a similar
mistrust on their side; but Mr. Brock lugged out five guineas, which he
placed in the landlady's hand as security for his comrade's return; and
Ensign Macshane, being mounted on poor Hayes's own horse, set off to
visit the parents of that unhappy young man. It was a gallant sight to
behold our thieves' ambassador, in a faded sky-blue suit with orange
facings, in a pair of huge jack-boots unconscious of blacking, with
a mighty basket-hilted sword by his side, and a little shabby beaver
cocked over a large tow-periwig, ride out from the inn of the “Three
Rooks” on his mission to Hayes's paternal village.

It was eighteen miles distant from Worcester; but Mr. Macshane performed
the distance in safety, and in sobriety moreover (for such had been his
instructions), and had no difficulty in discovering the house of old
Hayes: towards which, indeed, John's horse trotted incontinently. Mrs.
Hayes, who was knitting at the house-door, was not a little surprised
at the appearance of the well-known grey gelding, and of the stranger
mounted upon it.

Flinging himself off the steed with much agility, Mr. Macshane, as soon
as his feet reached the ground, brought them rapidly together, in order
to make a profound and elegant bow to Mrs. Hayes; and slapping his
greasy beaver against his heart, and poking his periwig almost into the
nose of the old lady, demanded whether he had the “shooprame honour of
adthressing Misthriss Hees?”

Having been answered in the affirmative, he then proceeded to ask
whether there was a blackguard boy in the house who would take “the
horse to the steeble;” whether “he could have a dthrink of small-beer
or buthermilk, being, faith, uncommon dthry;” and whether, finally, “he
could be feevored with a few minutes' private conversation with her
and Mr. Hees, on a matther of consitherable impartance.” All these
preliminaries were to be complied with before Mr. Macshane would enter
at all into the subject of his visit. The horse and man were cared for;
Mr. Hayes was called in; and not a little anxious did Mrs. Hayes grow,
in the meanwhile, with regard to the fate of her darling son. “Where is
he? How is he? Is he dead?” said the old lady. “Oh yes, I'm sure he's
dead!”

“Indeed, madam, and you're misteeken intirely: the young man is
perfectly well in health.”

“Oh, praised be Heaven!”

“But mighty cast down in sperrits. To misfortunes, madam, look you, the
best of us are subject; and a trifling one has fell upon your son.”

And herewith Mr. Macshane produced a letter in the handwriting of young
Hayes, of which we have had the good luck to procure a copy. It ran
thus:--

“HONORED FATHER AND MOTHER,--The bearer of this is a kind gentleman, who
has left me in a great deal of trouble. Yesterday, at this towne, I fell
in with some gentlemen of the queene's servas; after drinking with
whom, I accepted her Majesty's mony to enliste. Repenting thereof, I did
endeavour to escape; and, in so doing, had the misfortune to strike my
superior officer, whereby I made myself liable to Death, according to
the rules of warr. If, however, I pay twenty ginnys, all will be wel.
You must give the same to the barer, els I shall be shott without fail
on Tewsday morning. And so no more from your loving son,

“JOHN HAYES.

“From my prison at Bristol, this unhappy Monday.”


When Mrs. Hayes read this pathetic missive, its success with her
was complete, and she was for going immediately to the cupboard, and
producing the money necessary for her darling son's release. But the
carpenter Hayes was much more suspicious. “I don't know you, sir,” said
he to the ambassador.

“Do you doubt my honour, sir?” said the Ensign, very fiercely.

“Why, sir,” replied Mr. Hayes “I know little about it one way or other,
but shall take it for granted, if you will explain a little more of this
business.”

“I sildom condescind to explean,” said Mr. Macshane, “for it's not the
custom in my rank; but I'll explean anything in reason.”

“Pray, will you tell me in what regiment my son is enlisted?”

“In coorse. In Colonel Wood's fut, my dear; and a gallant corps it is as
any in the army.”

“And you left him?”

“On me soul, only three hours ago, having rid like a horse-jockey ever
since; as in the sacred cause of humanity, curse me, every man should.”

As Hayes's house was seventy miles from Bristol, the old gentleman
thought this was marvellous quick riding, and so, cut the conversation
short. “You have said quite enough, sir,” said he, “to show me there
is some roguery in the matter, and that the whole story is false from
beginning to end.”

At this abrupt charge the Ensign looked somewhat puzzled, and then spoke
with much gravity. “Roguery,” said he, “Misthur Hees, is a sthrong term;
and which, in consideration of my friendship for your family, I shall
pass over. You doubt your son's honour, as there wrote by him in black
and white?”

“You have forced him to write,” said Mr. Hayes.

“The sly old divvle's right,” muttered Mr. Macshane, aside. “Well, sir,
to make a clean breast of it, he HAS been forced to write it. The story
about the enlistment is a pretty fib, if you will, from beginning to
end. And what then, my dear? Do you think your son's any better off for
that?”

“Oh, where is he?” screamed Mrs. Hayes, plumping down on her knees. “We
WILL give him the money, won't we, John?”

“I know you will, madam, when I tell you where he is. He is in the hands
of some gentlemen of my acquaintance, who are at war with the present
government, and no more care about cutting a man's throat than they do
a chicken's. He is a prisoner, madam, of our sword and spear. If you
choose to ransom him, well and good; if not, peace be with him! for
never more shall you see him.”

“And how do I know you won't come back to-morrow for more money?” asked
Mr. Hayes.

“Sir, you have my honour; and I'd as lieve break my neck as my word,”
 said Mr. Macshane, gravely. “Twenty guineas is the bargain. Take ten
minutes to talk of it--take it then, or leave it; it's all the same
to me, my dear.” And it must be said of our friend the Ensign, that he
meant every word he said, and that he considered the embassy on which he
had come as perfectly honourable and regular.

“And pray, what prevents us,” said Mr. Hayes, starting up in a rage,
“from taking hold of you, as a surety for him?”

“You wouldn't fire on a flag of truce, would ye, you dishonourable
ould civilian?” replied Mr. Macshane. “Besides,” says he, “there's more
reasons to prevent you: the first is this,” pointing to his sword; “here
are two more”--and these were pistols; “and the last and the best of all
is, that you might hang me and dthraw me and quarther me, an yet never
see so much as the tip of your son's nose again. Look you, sir, we run
mighty risks in our profession--it's not all play, I can tell you.
We're obliged to be punctual, too, or it's all up with the thrade. If I
promise that your son will die as sure as fate to-morrow morning, unless
I return home safe, our people MUST keep my promise; or else what chance
is there for me? You would be down upon me in a moment with a posse of
constables, and have me swinging before Warwick gaol. Pooh, my dear! you
never would sacrifice a darling boy like John Hayes, let alone his lady,
for the sake of my long carcass. One or two of our gentlemen have been
taken that way already, because parents and guardians would not believe
them.”

“AND WHAT BECAME OF THE POOR CHILDREN?” said Mrs. Hayes, who began to
perceive the gist of the argument, and to grow dreadfully frightened.

“Don't let's talk of them, ma'am: humanity shudthers at the thought!”
 And herewith Mr. Macshane drew his finger across his throat in such a
dreadful way as to make the two parents tremble. “It's the way of war,
madam, look you. The service I have the honour to belong to is not paid
by the Queen; and so we're obliged to make our prisoners pay, according
to established military practice.”

No lawyer could have argued his case better than Mr. Macshane so far;
and he completely succeeded in convincing Mr. and Mrs. Hayes of the
necessity of ransoming their son. Promising that the young man should
be restored to them next morning, along with his beautiful lady, he
courteously took leave of the old couple, and made the best of his way
back to Worcester again. The elder Hayes wondered who the lady could
be of whom the ambassador had spoken, for their son's elopement was
altogether unknown to them; but anger or doubt about this subject was
overwhelmed by their fears for their darling John's safety. Away rode
the gallant Macshane with the money necessary to effect this; and it
must be mentioned, as highly to his credit, that he never once thought
of appropriating the sum to himself, or of deserting his comrades in any
way.

His ride from Worcester had been a long one. He had left that city
at noon, but before his return thither the sun had gone down; and the
landscape, which had been dressed like a prodigal, in purple and
gold, now appeared like a Quaker, in dusky grey; and the trees by the
road-side grew black as undertakers or physicians, and, bending their
solemn heads to each other, whispered ominously among themselves; and
the mists hung on the common; and the cottage lights went out one by
one; and the earth and heaven grew black, but for some twinkling useless
stars, which freckled the ebon countenance of the latter; and the
air grew colder; and about two o'clock the moon appeared, a dismal
pale-faced rake, walking solitary through the deserted sky; and about
four, mayhap, the Dawn (wretched 'prentice-boy!) opened in the east
the shutters of the Day:--in other words, more than a dozen hours had
passed. Corporal Brock had been relieved by Mr. Redcap, the latter by
Mr. Sicklop, the one-eyed gentleman; Mrs. John Hayes, in spite of her
sorrows and bashfulness, had followed the example of her husband, and
fallen asleep by his side--slept for many hours--and awakened still
under the guardianship of Mr. Brock's troop; and all parties began
anxiously to expect the return of the ambassador, Mr. Macshane.

That officer, who had performed the first part of his journey with such
distinguished prudence and success, found the night, on his journey
homewards, was growing mighty cold and dark; and as he was thirsty and
hungry, had money in his purse, and saw no cause to hurry, he determined
to take refuge at an alehouse for the night, and to make for Worcester
by dawn the next morning. He accordingly alighted at the first inn on
his road, consigned his horse to the stable, and, entering the kitchen,
called for the best liquor in the house.

A small company was assembled at the inn, among whom Mr. Macshane took
his place with a great deal of dignity; and, having a considerable sum
of money in his pocket, felt a mighty contempt for his society, and soon
let them know the contempt he felt for them. After a third flagon of
ale, he discovered that the liquor was sour, and emptied, with much
spluttering and grimaces, the remainder of the beer into the fire. This
process so offended the parson of the parish (who in those good old
times did not disdain to take the post of honour in the chimney-nook),
that he left his corner, looking wrathfully at the offender; who without
any more ado instantly occupied it. It was a fine thing to hear
the jingling of the twenty pieces in his pocket, the oaths which he
distributed between the landlord, the guests, and the liquor--to remark
the sprawl of his mighty jack-boots, before the sweep of which the timid
guests edged farther and farther away; and the languishing leers which
he cast on the landlady, as with wide-spread arms he attempted to seize
upon her.

When the ostler had done his duties in the stable, he entered the inn,
and whispered the landlord that “the stranger was riding John Hayes's
horse:” of which fact the host soon convinced himself, and did not fail
to have some suspicions of his guest. Had he not thought that times
were unquiet, horses might be sold, and one man's money was as good as
another's, he probably would have arrested the Ensign immediately, and
so lost all the profit of the score which the latter was causing every
moment to be enlarged.

In a couple of hours, with that happy facility which one may have
often remarked in men of the gallant Ensign's nation, he had managed to
disgust every one of the landlord's other guests, and scare them from
the kitchen. Frightened by his addresses, the landlady too had taken
flight; and the host was the only person left in the apartment; who
there stayed for interest's sake merely, and listened moodily to
his tipsy guest's conversation. In an hour more, the whole house was
awakened by a violent noise of howling, curses, and pots clattering to
and fro. Forth issued Mrs. Landlady in her night-gear, out came John
Ostler with his pitchfork, downstairs tumbled Mrs. Cook and one or two
guests, and found the landlord and ensign on the kitchen-floor--the wig
of the latter lying, much singed and emitting strange odours, in the
fireplace, his face hideously distorted, and a great quantity of his
natural hair in the partial occupation of the landlord; who had drawn it
and the head down towards him, in order that he might have the benefit
of pummelling the latter more at his ease. In revenge, the landlord was
undermost, and the Ensign's arms were working up and down his face and
body like the flaps of a paddle-wheel: the man of war had clearly the
best of it.

The combatants were separated as soon as possible; but, as soon as the
excitement of the fight was over, Ensign Macshane was found to have no
further powers of speech, sense, or locomotion, and was carried by his
late antagonist to bed. His sword and pistols, which had been placed at
his side at the commencement of the evening, were carefully put by,
and his pocket visited. Twenty guineas in gold, a large knife--used,
probably, for the cutting of bread-and-cheese--some crumbs of those
delicacies and a paper of tobacco found in the breeches-pockets, and in
the bosom of the sky-blue coat, the leg of a cold fowl and half of a raw
onion, constituted his whole property.

These articles were not very suspicious; but the beating which the
landlord had received tended greatly to confirm his own and his wife's
doubts about their guest; and it was determined to send off in the early
morning to Mr. Hayes, informing him how a person had lain at their inn
who had ridden thither mounted upon young Hayes's horse. Off set John
Ostler at earliest dawn; but on his way he woke up Mr. Justice's clerk,
and communicated his suspicions to him; and Mr. Clerk consulted with the
village baker, who was always up early; and the clerk, the baker, the
butcher with his cleaver, and two gentlemen who were going to work, all
adjourned to the inn.

Accordingly, when Ensign Macshane was in a truckle-bed, plunged in that
deep slumber which only innocence and drunkenness enjoy in this world,
and charming the ears of morn by the regular and melodious music of
his nose, a vile plot was laid against him; and when about seven of the
clock he woke, he found, on sitting up in his bed, three gentlemen on
each side of it, armed, and looking ominous. One held a constable's
staff, and albeit unprovided with a warrant, would take upon himself the
responsibility of seizing Mr. Macshane and of carrying him before his
worship at the hall.

“Taranouns, man!” said the Ensign, springing up in bed, and abruptly
breaking off a loud sonorous yawn, with which he had opened the business
of the day, “you won't deteen a gentleman who's on life and death? I
give ye my word, an affair of honour.”

“How came you by that there horse?” said the baker.

“How came you by these here fifteen guineas?” said the landlord, in
whose hands, by some process, five of the gold pieces had disappeared.

“What is this here idolatrous string of beads?” said the clerk.

Mr. Macshane, the fact is, was a Catholic, but did not care to own it:
for in those days his religion was not popular.

“Baids? Holy Mother of saints! give me back them baids,” said Mr.
Macshane, clasping his hands. “They were blest, I tell you, by his
holiness the po--psha! I mane they belong to a darling little daughter
I had that's in heaven now: and as for the money and the horse, I should
like to know how a gentleman is to travel in this counthry without
them.”

“Why, you see, he may travel in the country to GIT 'em,” here shrewdly
remarked the constable; “and it's our belief that neither horse nor
money is honestly come by. If his worship is satisfied, why so, in
course, shall we be; but there is highwaymen abroad, look you; and, to
our notion, you have very much the cut of one.”

Further remonstrances or threats on the part of Mr. Macshane were
useless. Although he vowed that he was first cousin to the Duke of
Leinster, an officer in Her Majesty's service, and the dearest friend
Lord Marlborough had, his impudent captors would not believe a word of
his statement (which, further, was garnished with a tremendous number
of oaths); and he was, about eight o'clock, carried up to the house of
Squire Ballance, the neighbouring justice of the peace.

When the worthy magistrate asked the crime of which the prisoner had
been guilty, the captors looked somewhat puzzled for the moment; since,
in truth, it could not be shown that the Ensign had committed any crime
at all; and if he had confined himself to simple silence, and thrown
upon them the onus of proving his misdemeanours, Justice Ballance must
have let him loose, and soundly rated his clerk and the landlord for
detaining an honest gentleman on so frivolous a charge.

But this caution was not in the Ensign's disposition; and though his
accusers produced no satisfactory charge against him, his own words were
quite enough to show how suspicious his character was. When asked his
name, he gave it in as Captain Geraldine, on his way to Ireland,
by Bristol, on a visit to his cousin the Duke of Leinster. He
swore solemnly that his friends, the Duke of Marlborough and Lord
Peterborough, under both of whom he had served, should hear of the
manner in which he had been treated; and when the justice,--a sly old
gentleman, and one that read the Gazettes, asked him at what battles he
had been present, the gallant Ensign pitched on a couple in Spain and in
Flanders, which had been fought within a week of each other, and vowed
that he had been desperately wounded at both; so that, at the end of his
examination, which had been taken down by the clerk, he had been made
to acknowledge as follows:--Captain Geraldine, six feet four inches in
height; thin, with a very long red nose, and red hair; grey eyes, and
speaks with a strong Irish accent; is the first-cousin of the Duke of
Leinster, and in constant communication with him: does not know whether
his Grace has any children; does not know whereabouts he lives
in London; cannot say what sort of a looking man his Grace is: is
acquainted with the Duke of Marlborough, and served in the dragoons at
the battle of Ramillies; at which time he was with my Lord Peterborough
before Barcelona. Borrowed the horse which he rides from a friend in
London, three weeks since. Peter Hobbs, ostler, swears that it was in
his master's stable four days ago, and is the property of John Hayes,
carpenter. Cannot account for the fifteen guineas found on him by the
landlord; says there were twenty; says he won them at cards, a fortnight
since, at Edinburgh; says he is riding about the country for his
amusement: afterwards says he is on a matter of life and death, and
going to Bristol; declared last night, in the hearing of several
witnesses, that he was going to York; says he is a man of independent
property, and has large estates in Ireland, and a hundred thousand
pounds in the Bank of England. Has no shirt or stockings, and the coat
he wears is marked “S.S.” In his boots is written “Thomas Rodgers,” and
in his hat is the name of the “Rev. Doctor Snoffler.”

Doctor Snoffler lived at Worcester, and had lately advertised in the Hue
and Cry a number of articles taken from his house. Mr. Macshane said,
in reply to this, that his hat had been changed at the inn, and he was
ready to take his oath that he came thither in a gold-laced one. But
this fact was disproved by the oaths of many persons who had seen him at
the inn. And he was about to be imprisoned for the thefts which he had
not committed (the fact about the hat being, that he had purchased it
from a gentleman at the “Three Rooks” for two pints of beer)--he was
about to be remanded, when, behold, Mrs. Hayes the elder made her
appearance; and to her it was that the Ensign was indebted for his
freedom.

Old Hayes had gone to work before the ostler arrived; but when his wife
heard the lad's message, she instantly caused her pillion to be placed
behind the saddle, and mounting the grey horse, urged the stable-boy to
gallop as hard as ever he could to the justice's house.

She entered panting and alarmed. “Oh, what is your honour going to do
to this honest gentleman?” said she. “In the name of Heaven, let him go!
His time is precious--he has important business--business of life and
death.”

“I tould the jidge so,” said the Ensign, “but he refused to take my
word--the sacred wurrd of honour of Captain Geraldine.”

Macshane was good at a single lie, though easily flustered on an
examination; and this was a very creditable stratagem to acquaint Mrs.
Hayes with the name that he bore.

“What! you know Captain Geraldine?” said Mr. Ballance, who was perfectly
well acquainted with the carpenter's wife.

“In coorse she does. Hasn't she known me these tin years? Are we not
related? Didn't she give me the very horse which I rode, and, to make
belave, tould you I'd bought in London?”

“Let her tell her own story. Are you related to Captain Geraldine, Mrs.
Hayes?”

“Yes--oh, yes!”

“A very elegant connection! And you gave him the horse, did you, of your
own free-will?”

“Oh yes! of my own will--I would give him anything. Do, do, your honour,
let him go! His child is dying,” said the old lady, bursting into
tears. “It may be dead before he gets to--before he gets there. Oh, your
honour, your honour, pray, pray, don't detain him!”

The justice did not seem to understand this excessive sympathy on the
part of Mrs. Hayes; nor did the father himself appear to be nearly so
affected by his child's probable fate as the honest woman who interested
herself for him. On the contrary, when she made this passionate speech,
Captain Geraldine only grinned, and said, “Niver mind, my dear. If
his honour will keep an honest gentleman for doing nothing, why, let
him--the law must settle between us; and as for the child, poor thing,
the Lord deliver it!”

At this, Mrs. Hayes fell to entreating more loudly than ever; and as
there was really no charge against him, Mr. Ballance was constrained to
let him go.

The landlord and his friends were making off, rather confused, when
Ensign Macshane called upon the former in a thundering voice to stop,
and refund the five guineas which he had stolen from him. Again the host
swore there were but fifteen in his pocket. But when, on the Bible, the
Ensign solemnly vowed that he had twenty, and called upon Mrs. Hayes to
say whether yesterday, half-an-hour before he entered the inn, she had
not seen him with twenty guineas, and that lady expressed herself ready
to swear that she had, Mr. Landlord looked more crestfallen than ever,
and said that he had not counted the money when he took it; and though
he did in his soul believe that there were only fifteen guineas, rather
than be suspected of a shabby action, he would pay the five guineas out
of his own pocket: which he did, and with the Ensign's, or rather Mrs.
Hayes's, own coin.

As soon as they were out of the justice's house, Mr. Macshane, in the
fulness of his gratitude, could not help bestowing an embrace upon
Mrs. Hayes. And when she implored him to let her ride behind him to her
darling son, he yielded with a very good grace, and off the pair set on
John Hayes's grey.

“Who has Nosey brought with him now?” said Mr. Sicklop, Brock's one-eyed
confederate, who, about three hours after the above adventure, was
lolling in the yard of the “Three Rooks.” It was our Ensign, with the
mother of his captive. They had not met with any accident in their ride.

“I shall now have the shooprame bliss,” said Mr. Macshane, with much
feeling, as he lifted Mrs. Hayes from the saddle---“the shooprame bliss
of intwining two harrts that are mead for one another. Ours, my dear,
is a dismal profession; but ah! don't moments like this make aminds
for years of pain? This way, my dear. Turn to your right, then to your
left--mind the stip--and the third door round the corner.”

All these precautions were attended to; and after giving his concerted
knock, Mr. Macshane was admitted into an apartment, which he entered
holding his gold pieces in the one hand, and a lady by the other.

We shall not describe the meeting which took place between mother and
son. The old lady wept copiously; the young man was really glad to see
his relative, for he deemed that his troubles were over. Mrs. Cat bit
her lips, and stood aside, looking somewhat foolish; Mr. Brock counted
the money; and Mr. Macshane took a large dose of strong waters, as a
pleasing solace for his labours, dangers, and fatigue.

When the maternal feelings were somewhat calmed, the old lady had
leisure to look about her, and really felt a kind of friendship and
goodwill for the company of thieves in which she found herself. It
seemed to her that they had conferred an actual favour on her, in
robbing her of twenty guineas, threatening her son's life, and finally
letting him go.

“Who is that droll old gentleman?” said she; and being told that it was
Captain Wood, she dropped him a curtsey, and said, with much respect,
“Captain, your very humble servant;” which compliment Mr. Brock
acknowledged by a gracious smile and bow. “And who is this pretty young
lady?” continued Mrs. Hayes.

“Why--hum--oh--mother, you must give her your blessing. She is Mrs. John
Hayes.” And herewith Mr. Hayes brought forward his interesting lady, to
introduce her to his mamma.

The news did not at all please the old lady; who received Mrs.
Catherine's embrace with a very sour face indeed. However, the mischief
was done; and she was too glad to get back her son to be, on such an
occasion, very angry with him. So, after a proper rebuke, she told Mrs.
John Hayes that though she never approved of her son's attachment, and
thought he married below his condition, yet as the evil was done, it was
their duty to make the best of it; and she, for her part, would receive
her into her house, and make her as comfortable there as she could.

“I wonder whether she has any more money in that house?” whispered Mr.
Sicklop to Mr. Redcap; who, with the landlady, had come to the door of
the room, and had been amusing themselves by the contemplation of this
sentimental scene.

“What a fool that wild Hirishman was not to bleed her for more!” said
the landlady; “but he's a poor ignorant Papist. I'm sure my man”
 (this gentleman had been hanged), “wouldn't have come away with such a
beggarly sum.”

“Suppose we have some more out of 'em?” said Mr. Redcap. “What prevents
us? We have got the old mare, and the colt too,--ha! ha!--and the pair
of 'em ought to be worth at least a hundred to us.”

This conversation was carried on sotto voce; and I don't know whether
Mr. Brock had any notion of the plot which was arranged by the three
worthies. The landlady began it. “Which punch, madam, will you take?”
 says she. “You must have something for the good of the house, now you
are in it.”

“In coorse,” said the Ensign.

“Certainly,” said the other three. But the old lady said she was anxious
to leave the place; and putting down a crown-piece, requested the
hostess to treat the gentlemen in her absence. “Good-bye, Captain,” said
the old lady.

“Ajew!” cried the Ensign, “and long life to you, my dear. You got me out
of a scrape at the justice's yonder; and, split me! but Insign Macshane
will remimber it as long as he lives.”

And now Hayes and the two ladies made for the door; but the landlady
placed herself against it, and Mr. Sicklop said, “No, no, my pretty
madams, you ain't a-going off so cheap as that neither; you are not
going out for a beggarly twenty guineas, look you,--we must have more.”

Mr. Hayes starting back, and cursing his fate, fairly burst into tears;
the two women screamed; and Mr. Brock looked as if the proposition both
amused and had been expected by him: but not so Ensign Macshane.

“Major!” said he, clawing fiercely hold of Brock's arms.

“Ensign,” said Mr. Brock, smiling.

“Arr we, or arr we not, men of honour?”

“Oh, in coorse,” said Brock, laughing, and using Macshane's favourite
expression.

“If we ARR men of honour, we are bound to stick to our word; and, hark
ye, you dirty one-eyed scoundrel, if you don't immadiately make way for
these leedies, and this lily-livered young jontleman who's crying so,
the Meejor here and I will lug out and force you.” And so saying,
he drew his great sword and made a pass at Mr. Sicklop; which that
gentleman avoided, and which caused him and his companion to retreat
from the door. The landlady still kept her position at it, and with a
storm of oaths against the Ensign, and against two Englishmen who ran
away from a wild Hirishman, swore she would not budge a foot, and would
stand there until her dying day.

“Faith, then, needs must,” said the Ensign, and made a lunge at the
hostess, which passed so near the wretch's throat, that she screamed,
sank on her knees, and at last opened the door.

Down the stairs, then, with great state, Mr. Macshane led the elder
lady, the married couple following; and having seen them to the street,
took an affectionate farewell of the party, whom he vowed that he would
come and see. “You can walk the eighteen miles aisy, between this and
nightfall,” said he.

“WALK!” exclaimed Mr. Hayes. “Why, haven't we got Ball, and shall ride
and tie all the way?”

“Madam!” cried Macshane, in a stern voice, “honour before everything.
Did you not, in the presence of his worship, vow and declare that you
gave me that horse, and now d'ye talk of taking it back again? Let me
tell you, madam, that such paltry thricks ill become a person of your
years and respectability, and ought never to be played with Insign
Timothy Macshane.”

He waved his hat and strutted down the street; and Mrs. Catherine Hayes,
along with her bridegroom and mother-in-law, made the best of their way
homeward on foot.



CHAPTER VII. WHICH EMBRACES A PERIOD OF SEVEN YEARS.


The recovery of so considerable a portion of his property from the
clutches of Brock was, as may be imagined, no trifling source of joy to
that excellent young man, Count Gustavus Adolphus de Galgenstein; and
he was often known to say, with much archness, and a proper feeling of
gratitude to the Fate which had ordained things so, that the robbery
was, in reality, one of the best things that could have happened to him:
for, in event of Mr. Brock's NOT stealing the money, his Excellency the
Count would have had to pay the whole to the Warwickshire Squire, who
had won it from him at play. He was enabled, in the present instance, to
plead his notorious poverty as an excuse; and the Warwickshire conqueror
got off with nothing, except a very badly written autograph of the
Count's, simply acknowledging the debt.

This point his Excellency conceded with the greatest candour; but (as,
doubtless, the reader may have remarked in the course of his experience)
to owe is not quite the same thing as to pay; and from the day of his
winning the money until the day of his death the Warwickshire Squire
did never, by any chance, touch a single bob, tizzy, tester, moidore,
maravedi, doubloon, tomaun, or rupee, of the sum which Monsieur de
Galgenstein had lost to him.

That young nobleman was, as Mr. Brock hinted in the little
autobiographical sketch which we gave in a former chapter, incarcerated
for a certain period, and for certain other debts, in the donjons
of Shrewsbury; but he released himself from them by that noble and
consolatory method of whitewashing which the law has provided for
gentlemen in his oppressed condition; and he had not been a week in
London, when he fell in with, and overcame, or put to flight, Captain
Wood, alias Brock, and immediately seized upon the remainder of his
property. After receiving this, the Count, with commendable discretion,
disappeared from England altogether for a while; nor are we at all
authorised to state that any of his debts to his tradesmen were
discharged, any more than his debts of honour, as they are pleasantly
called.

Having thus settled with his creditors, the gallant Count had interest
enough with some of the great folk to procure for himself a post abroad,
and was absent in Holland for some time. It was here that he became
acquainted with the lovely Madam Silverkoop, the widow of a deceased
gentleman of Leyden; and although the lady was not at that age at which
tender passions are usually inspired--being sixty--and though she could
not, like Mademoiselle Ninon de l'Enclos, then at Paris, boast of charms
which defied the progress of time,--for Mrs. Silverkoop was as red as a
boiled lobster, and as unwieldy as a porpoise; and although her mental
attractions did by no means make up for her personal deficiencies,--for
she was jealous, violent, vulgar, drunken, and stingy to a miracle:
yet her charms had an immediate effect on Monsieur de Galgenstein; and
hence, perhaps, the reader (the rogue! how well he knows the world!)
will be led to conclude that the honest widow was RICH.

Such, indeed, she was; and Count Gustavus, despising the difference
between his twenty quarterings and her twenty thousand pounds, laid the
most desperate siege to her, and finished by causing her to capitulate;
as I do believe, after a reasonable degree of pressing, any woman will
do to any man: such, at least, has been MY experience in the matter.

The Count then married; and it was curious to see how he--who, as
we have seen in the case of Mrs. Cat, had been as great a tiger and
domestic bully as any extant--now, by degrees, fell into a quiet
submission towards his enormous Countess; who ordered him up and down as
a lady orders her footman, who permitted him speedily not to have a will
of his own, and who did not allow him a shilling of her money without
receiving for the same an accurate account.

How was it that he, the abject slave of Madam Silverkoop, had been
victorious over Mrs. Cat? The first blow is, I believe, the decisive
one in these cases, and the Countess had stricken it a week after their
marriage;--establishing a supremacy which the Count never afterwards
attempted to question.

We have alluded to his Excellency's marriage, as in duty bound, because
it 

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