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.<
br />
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! c
all
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
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