Page 1 of A Story




  Catherine: A Story

  by William Makepeace Thackeray

  Catherine, A Story by Ikey Solomons, Esq., Junior.

  Contents

  Advertisement

  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

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p; 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