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
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br /> 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
&n
bsp; 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
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