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GIFT OF
MARY E. HAVEN
July 2, 1914






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FROM THE LIBRARY OF
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AND OF
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(Class of 1857)
GIFT OF
MARY E. HAVEN
July 2, 1914



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CATHERINE: A STORY.
LITTLE TRAVELS.
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
ETC. ETC.
By W. M. THACKERAY.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR, AND A PORTRAIT.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE.
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & Co.
1869.


7,F1.99.
GIFT HARVARD LIBRARY
COLLEGE OF
MARY E. HAVEN
JULY 2, 1914,


CONTENTS.
CATHERINE: A STORY.
CHAP
PAGE
•
I. INTRODUCING TO THE READER THE CHIEF PERSONAGES OF
THIS NARRATIVE . . . . . . . . . I
II. IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL
ATTACHMENT . .
. . . . . . 28
III. IN WHICH A NARCOTIC IS ADMINISTERED, AND A GREAT DEAL
OF GENTEEL SOCIETY DEPICTED . . . . . .
IV. IN WHICH MRS. CATHERINE BECOMES AN HONEST WOMAN AGAIN
V. CONTAINS MR. BROCK'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, AND OTHER MATTER.
VI. THE ADVENTURES OF THE AMBASSADOR, MR. MACSHANE. . 71
VII. Which EMBRACES A PERIOD OF SEVEN YEARS . . . 87
VIII. ENUMERATES THE ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF MASTER THOMAS
BILLINGS – INTRODUCES BROCK AS DR. Wood – AND
ANNOUNCES THE EXECUTION OF ENSIGN MACSHANE. . 103
IX. INTERVIEW BETWEEN Count GalgenSTEIN AND MASTER
THOMAS BILLINGS, WHEN HE INFORMS THE COUNT OF HIS
PARENTAGE . . . . . . . . . . 117
X. SHOWING HOW GALGENSTEIN AND MRS. CAT RECOGNIZE EACH
OTHER IN MARYLEBONE GARDENS—AND HOW THE COUNT
DRIVES HER HOME IN HIS CARRIAGE . . . . . 127
XI. OF SOME DOMESTIC QUARRELS AND THE CONSEQUENCE THEREOF 137
XII. Treats of Love, AND PREPARES FOR DEATH . . . . 150
XIII. BEING A PREPARATION FOR THE END . . . . . 154
CHAPTER THE LAST . . . . . . . . . 156
ANOTHER LAST CHAPTER . . . . .
..
.
.
.
161
161


CONTENTS.
LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
PAGE
.
171
I. From RICHMOND IN SURREY TO BRUSSELS IN BELGIUM .
II. GHENT-BRUGES :-
Ghent. (1840.). . . . . . . .
BRUGES . . . . . . . . . .
.
191
198
.
III. WATERLOO.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
201
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
.
209
231
.
FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS :-
PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . .
DOROTHEA . . . . . . . . . .
OTTILIA :-
Chap. I. THE ALBUM—THE MEDITERRANEAN HEATH.
» II. OTTILIA IN PARTICULAR . . .
FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS :-
- FIRST PROFESSION . . . . . . . . .
Second PROFESSION . . . . . . . .
.
244
247
.
.
. 260
271
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
.
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK . . . . . . . .
JOHN LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER.
287
325
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB . . . . . 337


ILLUSTRATIONS.
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR (to face Title.)
Mrs. CATHERINE'S TEMPTATION . . . . .
THE INTERRUPTED MARRIAGE . . . . . .
CAPTAIN BROCK APPEARS AT Court with MY LORD
PETERBOROUGH . . . . . . .
To face page
,
58
CATHERINE'S PRESENT To Mr. Hayes .
.
.
.
,
,





CATHERINE: A STORY.
By IKEY SOLOMONS, Esq., JUNIOR.


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 counter-
act 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.


CATHERINE:
A STORY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCING TO THE READER THE CHIEF PERSONAGES OF THIS
NARRATIVE.
L
stuartizing
the lustyd Mr. Josep that watchest cards
1 T that famous period of history, when the seventeenth century
A (after a deal of quarrelling, king-killing, reforming, republican-
izing, restoring, re-restoring, play-writing, sermon-writing, Oliver-
Cromwellizing, Stuartizing, and Orangizing, 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 Com-
missioner 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. ..


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 counter-
act 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.


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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, cut-throats, 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 villany, throat-cutting, and bodily suffering
in general, as are not to be found, no, not in — ; never mind
comparisons, for such are odious.
In the year 1705, then, whether it was that the Queen of England
did feel seriously alarmed at the notice 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
* This, as your ladyship is aware, is the polite name for her Majesty's prison
of Newgate.


CAPTAIN PLUME AND SERGEANT KITE.
3
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 depôt 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 birth-
place ; 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 accommo-
date 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 insubordina-
tion 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 purpose 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 Maxi-
milian von Galgenstein, had been in the service of the French,


CORPORAL BROCK AND HIS COMMANDER.
5
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, hand-
some 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, arched-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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 plcasure 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 fies 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 goll 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


“WILLIAM OF NASSAU” AND “GEORGE OF DENMARK.” 17
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.”


CATHERIVE: A STORY.
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, with-
out 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






Il
NNN
M
batharinis temptation.


THE BARMAID OF THE “BUGLE.”
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 in-
stantaneously 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."


10
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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," &c. &c., 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 com-
mander 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
drank. 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


MRS. CAT'S ACCOUNT OF HERSELF. II
delicate would have been ; and though she said to each, “Oh, novi,
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 pro-
duced 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-
“iny 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


12
CATHERINE: A STORY.
.
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 out of 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 ? "


CORPORAL BROCK'S ELOQUENCE.
13
“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 accom-
panied 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


CORPORAL BROCK'S ELOQUENCE,
13
“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 accom-
panied 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
action' ook you an; am and heroe


14
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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
seemn 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 partner-
ship 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 impres-
sion upon Mrs. Hall, towards 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 ;


JOHN HAYES AND HIS ENSLAVER.
15
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 quâ non,
and had dismissed, with the loudest scorn and indignation, all pro-
positions 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


16
CATHERINE: A STORY.
twelve; and at sixteen, a well-grown girl, under encouraging circum-
stances,-say, she is pretty, in a family of ugly elder sisters, or an
only child and heiress, or an 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 înfantine 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 clepict 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


MRS. CAT AND HER LOVERS.
17
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 woful 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 Ætna-flames are raging under-
neath 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 under-
stand 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 satisfac-
tion to be miserable in her company.
On this occasion, the disconsolate lover could be wretched to his
hearts 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


18
:
CATHERINE: A STORY.
of paper, she's as she lights miles which hen, he saw-n, seated
be induced to accept a guinea from his purse also ; and found him-
self, 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, pairs 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 conver-
sation on love and war—the two themes discussed by the two parties
occupying the kitchen—which, as the parts were sung together, duet-
wise, 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 prælia 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 gray 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,


TALK OF LOVE AND W’AR.
19
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 sacré !''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 r'entre
-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, le 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


20
, CATHERINE: A STORY.
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.”
namely, who son his arms undir. Blacksmith
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 him-
self; 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


VOTARIES OF VENUS AND JARS.
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 satisfac-
tion ; 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 con-


CATHERINE: A STORY.
descended 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 horse-boys; 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 every-
thing 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


A RUSTIC COQUETTE.
23
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 ”-sang she,
“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


24.
CATHERINE: A STORY.
.
the last 0-0-0 of the last no in the above poem of Tom D'Urſey,
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 break-
fast, 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.


A LOVE-CHASE.
25
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 sinile 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
mounted the wand for 13 11 ride ba


- 26
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 silver-lace. 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 thimblerigging 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
-
-
--
---
-


THE AUTHOR TO THE PUBLIC.
27
sympathizing 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.


CATHERINE: A STORY.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL
ATTACHMENT.
IT will not be necessary, for the purpose of this history, to
I 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 lis profession ; thirdly, and to conclude, that a connexion 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.”


BICKERING AND BEER.
29
“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 lier 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 Alings 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


30
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 land-junker-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 con-
tradiction 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 Vallière
ill-made, blear-eyed, tallow-complexioned, scraggy, and with hair like
tow? Was not Wilkes the ugliest, charmingest, most successful man


A DISCOURSE ON THE PASSION OF LOVE.
31
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 wall-flower 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 ménage 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
he condescended to walk abroad with her, and extravagance of
language and passion in the frequent quarrels they had together.
Perhaps in such a connexion 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 con-
versation 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 con-
versation 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 VICTIM'S RAGE AND REVENGE.
33
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 noble-
man afloat again, and brought back a pleasing equanimity to his mind,
which had been a good deal disturbed in the former difficult circum-
stances; 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 establish-
ment, 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 heart-sick desperation, which followed her
announcement of this step to him. For Mr. Brock, she repeiled his
offer with scorn and loathing, and treated the notion of a union with
Mr. Bullock with yet fiercer contempt. Marry him indeed! a


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 spec-
tacles, their conscience, their meat and drink, their only rule of right
and wrong.
As for Mr Tummas, he, as we have seen, was quite as unfriendly
to the proposition as she could be; and the Corporal, with a good
Geal 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.


MISTRESS CAT FINDS A CONFIDANT. 35
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 ex-
perienced by Mrs. Catherine's refusal of him.
som fatherine insane's himth. the Captain, who w
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, &c. &c. 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 head-
aches, 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


36
CATHERINE: A STORI.
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
free-born 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 pavé, he was kind to her in the mean-
while : 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 circum-
stance 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


THE CAT LET OUT OF THE BAG. 37
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 brave in a row as a
lion, as cunning in intrigue as a fox; he can nose a dun at an incon-
ceivable 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 con-
nexions as are useful when he is a bachelor.”
“Of course ; and give them up I will, when the sweet Mrs. Drip-
ping 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 dis-
grace to the service. As it is, I've often a mind to have the super-
annuated vagabond drummed out of the corps."
Although this résumé of Mr. Brock's character and accomplish-
ments 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 tumul-
tuously, 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


CATHERINE: A STORI.
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.


( 39 )
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH A NARCOTIC IS ADMINISTERED, AND A GREAT DEAL OF
GENTEEL SOCIETY DEPICTED.
HEN the Corporal, who had retreated to the street-door
VV 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 pro-
mised 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 some one 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, angry 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--".


CATHERIVE: A STORY.
“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 in-doors
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.”
81... came to Nor did hysterics, she pres. Jistene
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,


BREWING THE PUNCH.
41
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,


CATHERINE: A STORY.
profligate, dissolute, low; as scoundrels will be. They don't quote Prato,
like Eugene Aram ; or live like gentlemen, and sing the pleasantest
ballads in the world, like jolly Dick Turpin; or prate eternally about
tº kalov, 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 sympathize 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, cr 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.
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 com-
panion 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.


A GAMBLING ORGIE.
43
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 head-quarters 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-tiffle 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, ninc. Clap, clap, clap, clap,
cleven. 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,” says 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,


CATHERINE: A STORI.
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 Corporal Brock 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 ?”


COMPUNCTION AND CONFESSION.
45
“ 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 sprung
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 sprung 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.”


CATHERINE: A STORY.
“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 mar-
riage 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 scber, 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 few to the side-
board, 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, recom-
mended that his patient should be put to bed, and that somebody
should sit by him ; which Brock promised to do.


THE BITER BIT.
47
“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 utter-
ance 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


48
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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. Cathe-
rine : 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.


( 49 )
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH MRS. CATHERINE BECOMES AN HONEST WOMAN AGAIN.
IN this woful plight, moneyless, wifeless, horseless, corporalless,
T 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 for-
wards. 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


50
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 coach-
man 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, naïvely, " 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, coach-
man, 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. CAT IS UNEXPECTEDLY BEFRIENDED. 51
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 rapt 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


52
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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-four-
pence, 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,


MRS. SCORE FINDS HERSELF DECEIVED.
53
she was one of those persons who have a marvellous respect for
prosperity, and a corresponding scorn for ill-fortune. When, there-
fore, 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 coach-
masters 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


54
CATHERINE: A STORY.
followed the company; but when the coach disappeared, her senses
returned. Back she flew into the inn, overturning the ostler, not
deigning to answer Dr. 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 be-
fore, 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 as 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 out-
gush of tears, let go of the door-post and staggered away into the road.


A RESCUED MAGDALEN.
55
“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 : Dr. 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 attach-
ment 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 ;


56
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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
Dr. 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


MRS. CAT WINS THE RIGHTS AND TITLE OF A WIFE. 57
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 be conducted his lady. O ill-starred John Hayes ! whither
do the dark fates lead you ? O foolish Dr. 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 ist April, 1706, contains a procla-
mation 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, head-
boroughs, 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 wit!
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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 any-
thing, 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 a 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.



LI
VED
WWW
The menuphed Marriage


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 any-
thing, 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 a 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.



V's
3
The inkrupled Marring





( 59 )
CHAPTER V.
CONTAINS MR. BROCK'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, AND OTHER MATTER.
V OU don't sure believe these men ?” said Mrs. Hayes, as
I 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 halberd-man 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
a. 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 — "


60
CATHERINE: A STORY.
“ 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 thrilling 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 gentle-
men 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 pro-
minence 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.


THE INTERRUPTED MARRIAGE.
61
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 he 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 quan-
tities, 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,


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 inten-
tion 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 nar-
rated 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 dis-
posed 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
* In the ingenious contemporary history of Moll Flanders, a periwig is men-
tioned as costing that sum.


MR. BROCK'S ACCOUNT OF HIS EXPLOITS.
63
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 Com-
postella, 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.
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 gen-
tleman performed in my situation.


6+
CATHERINE: A STORY.
“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
congé to my lord, and said I knew him, and rode behind him at Bar-
celona 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 in 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 in 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 :



11
.
WIKI
11
TI
Captain Bruck appears at liut with My loved bikerbeterugh.





AN AWKWARD RENCONTRE.
65
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.)


66
CATHERINE: A STORY.
««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 imagi-
nations 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,


CAPTAIN WOOD DEFENDS HIS HONOUR. 67
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
menn ut hurt no.4
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


68
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 !


CAPTAIN WOOD TAKES THE ROAD.
69
ha !-and was known as a man of substance. Thither I went imme-
diately. '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 Stour-
bridge 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 accom-
paniment 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


70
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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.


( 71 )
CHAPTER VI.
THE ADVENTURES OF THE AMBASSADOR, MR. MACSHANE.
JF we had not been obliged to follow history in all respects, it
1 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 philosophizing with Bolingbroke, like a certain Devereux ;
and Mrs. Catherine maîtresse 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 circum-
stances. 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 connexions 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 to-morrow, 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 ?
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 gold-headed 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
* The author, it must be remembered, has his lodgings and food provided for
him by the government of his country.


THE THIEVES' AMBASSADOR.
73
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 pro-
fession 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 in-


CATHERINE: A STORY.
continently. Mrs. Hayes, who was knitting at the house-door, was
not a little surprised at the appearance of the well-known gray 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. “O 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


A DEMAND FOR RANSOM.
75
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,
“ From my prison at Bristol,
“ JOHN HAYES.
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 gentle-
man 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
.
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 dishonour-
able 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, and 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


THE ENVOY FULFILS HIS MISSION.
began to perceive the gist of the argument, and to grow dreadfully
frightened.
“Don't let's talk of them, ma’m : 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 gray ; 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 accord-
ingly 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 further and further 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


AN OBNOXIOUS GUEST.
79
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 up always early;
and the clerk, the baker, the butcher with his cleaver, and two gentle-
men who were going to work, all adjourned to the inn.


CATHERINE: A STORY.
.
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 land-
lord, 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.


ENSIGN MACSHANE BETRAY'S HIMSELF. 81
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 misdemeanors,
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; gray 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 they 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


82
CATHERINE: A STORY.
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."
Dr. 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 appear-
ance; 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 gray 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 wurd 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 !"


THE ENSIGN COMES OFF WITH FLYING COLOURS. 83
.."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 gray. . .
* . . . *
"Who has Nosey brought with him now?” said Mr. Sicklop,


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 betiveen
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,


CATHERINE: A STORY.
..“ 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
ner 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.


( 87 )
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, in-
carcerated 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


CATHERINE: A STORY.
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 will be necessary to account for his appearance hereafter in
a more splendid fashion than that under which he has hitherto been
known to us; and just comforting the reader by the knowledge that


COUNT VON GALGENSTEIN'S CAREER.
89
the union, though prosperous in a worldly point of view, was, in
reality, extremely unhappy, we must say no more from this time forth
of the fat and legitimate Madame de Galgenstein. Our darling is
Mrs. Catherine, who had formerly acted in her stead; and only in so
much as the fat Countess did influence in any way the destinies of
our heroine, or those wise and virtuous persons who have appeared
and are to follow her to her end, shall we in any degree allow her
name to figure here. It is an awful thing to get a glimpse, as one
sometimes does, when the time is past, of some little, little wheel
which works the whole mighty machinery of Fate, and see how our
destinies turn on a minute's delay or advance, or on the turning of a
street, or on somebody else's turning of a street, or on somebody else's
doing of something else in Downing Street or in Timbuctoo, now or
a thousand years ago. Thus, for instance, if Miss Poots, in the year
1695, had never been the lovely inmate of a Spielhaus at
Amsterdam, Mr. Van Silverkoop would never have seen her; if the
day had not been extraordinarily hot, the worthy merchant would
never have gone thither; if he had not been fond of Rhenish wine
and sugar, he never would have called for any such delicacies; if he
had not called for them, Miss Ottilia Poots would never have brought
them, and partaken of them; if he had not been rich, she would
certainly have rejected all the advances made to her by Silverkoop;
if he had not been so fond of Rhenish and sugar, he never would
have died; and Mrs. Silverkoop would have been neither rich nor a
widow, nor a wife to Count von Galgenstein. Nay, nor would this
history have ever been written; for if Count Galgenstein had not
married the rich widow, Mrs. Catherine would never have -
Oh, my dear Madam ! you thought we were going to tell you.
Pooh! nonsense,—no such thing! not for two or three and seventy
pages or so—when perhaps, you may know what Mrs. Catherine
never would have done.
The reader will remember, in the second chapter of these
Memoirs, the announcement that Mrs. Catherine had given to the
world a child, who might bear, if he chose, the arms of Galgenstein,
with the further adornment of a bar-sinister. This child had been
put out to nurse some time before its mother's elopement from the
Count ; and as that nobleman was in funds at the time (having had
that success at play which we duly chronicled), he paid a sum of no
less than twenty guineas, which was to be the yearly reward of the


90
CATHERINE: A STORY.
nurse into whose charge the boy was put. The woman grew fond of
the brat ; and when, after the first year, she had no further news or
remittances from father or mother, she determined, for a while at
least, to maintain the infant at her own expense : for, when rebuked
by her neighbours on this score, she stoutly swore that no parents
could ever desert their children, and that some day or other she
should not fail to be rewarded for her trouble with this one.
Under this strange mental hallucination poor Goody Billings, who
had five children and a husband of her own, continued to give food
and shelter to little Tom for a period of no less than seven years ;
and though it must be acknowledged that the young gentleman did
not in the slightest degree merit the kindnesses shown to him,
Goody Billings, who was of a very soft and pitiful disposition,
continued to bestow them upon him : because, she said, he was
lonely and unprotected, and deserved them more than other
children who had fathers and mothers to look after them. If, ther,
any difference was made between Tom's treatment and that of her
own brood, it was considerably in favour of the former; to whom the
largest proportions of treacle were allotted for his bread, and the
handsomest supplies of hasty pudding. Besides, to do Mrs. Billings
justice, there was a party against him ; and that consisted not only
of her husband and her five children, but of every single person in
the neighbourhood who had an opportunity of seeing and becoming
acquainted with Master Tom.
A celebrated philosopher-I think Miss Edgeworth-has broached
the consolatory doctrine, that in intellect and disposition all human
beings are entirely equal, and that circumstance and education are
the causes of the distinctions and divisions which afterwards
unhappily take place among them. Not to argue this question,
which places Jack Howard and Jack Thurtell on an exact level, -
which would have us to believe that Lord Melbourne is by natural
gifts and excellences a man as honest, brave, and far-sighted as the
Duke of Wellington,—which would make out that Lord Lyndhurst is,
in point of principle, eloquence, and political honesty, no better than
Mr. O'Connell,-not, I say, arguing this doctrine, let us simply state
that Master Thomas Billings (for, having no other, he took the name
of the worthy people who adopted him,) was in his long-coats
fearfully passionate, screaming and roaring perpetually, and showing
all the ill that he could show. At the age of two, when his strength


CHARACTER OF MASTER THOMAS BILLINGS. 91
enabled him to toddle abroad, his favourite resort was the coal-hole
or the dungheap: his roarings had not diminished in the least, and
he had added to his former virtues two new ones,-a love of fighting
and stealing ; both which amiable qualities he had many opportunities
of exercising every day. He fought his little adoptive brothers and
sisters; he kicked and cuffed his father and mother; he fought the
cat, stamped upon the kittens, was worsted in a severe battle with
the hen in the back-yard; but, in revenge, nearly beat a little sucking-
pig to death, whom he caught alone, and rambling near his favourite
haunt, the dunghill. As for stealing, he stole the eggs, which he per-
forated and emptied; the butter, which he ate with or without bread,
as he could find it; the sugar, which he cunningly secreted in the
leaves of a Baker's Chronicle, that nobody in the establishment could
read; and thus from the pages of history he used to suck in all he
knew-thieving and lying namely; in which, for his years, he made
wonderful progress. If any followers of Miss Edgeworth and the
philosophers are inclined to disbelieve this statement, or to set it
down as overcharged and distorted, let them be assured that just this
very picture was, of all pictures in the world, taken from nature. I,
Ikey Solomons, once had a dear little brother who could steal before
he could walk (and this not from encouragement,-for, if you know
the world, you must know that in families of our profession the point
of honour is sacred at home,-but from pure nature)—who could
steal, I say, before he could walk, and lie before he could speak; and
who, at four and a half years of age, having attacked my sister Rebecca
on some question of lollipops, had smitten her on the elbow with a fire-
shovel, apologized to us by saying simply, “ — her, I wish it had
been her head !” Dear, dear Aminadab ! I think of you, and laugh
these philosophers to scorn. Nature made you for that career which
you fulfilled : you were from your birth to your dying a scoundrel ;
you couldn't have been anything else, however your lot was cast; and
blessed it was that you were born among the prigs,—for had you
been of any other profession, alas ! alas ! what ills might you
have done? As I have heard the author of “ Richelieu," “ Siamese
Twins,” &c. say, “ Poëta nascitur non fit," which means that though
he had tried ever so much to be a poet, it was all moonshine : in the
like manner, I say, “ Roagus nascitur non fit.” We have it from
nature, and so a fig for Miss Edgeworth.
In this manner, then, while his father, blessed with a wealthy


92
CATHERINE: A STORY.
wife, was leading, in a fine house, the life of a galley-slave; while his
mother, married to Mr. Hayes, and made an honest woman of, as
the saying is, was passing her time respectably in Warwickshire,
Mr. Thomas Billings was inhabiting the same county, not cared for
by either of them ; but ordained by Fate to join them one day, and
have a mighty influence upon the fortunes of both. For, as it has
often happened to the traveller in the York or the Exeter coach to
fall snugly asleep in his corner, and on awaking suddenly to find
himself sixty or seventy miles from the place where Somnus first
visited him : as, we say, although you sit still, Time, poor wretch,
keeps perpetually running on, and so must run day and night,
with never a pause or a halt of five minutes to get a drink, until his
dying day ; let the reader imagine that since he left Mrs. Hayes and
all the other worthy personages of this history, in the last chapter,
seven years have sped away ; during which, all our heroes and
heroines have been accomplishing their destinies.
Seven years of country carpentering, or other trading, on the part
of a husband, of ceaseless scolding, violence, and discontent on the
part of a wife, are not pleasant to describe: so we shall omit altogether
any account of the early married life of Mr. and Mrs. John Hayes.
The “Newgate Calendar ” (to which excellent compilation we and the
other popular novelists of the day can never be sufficiently grateful)
states that Hayes left his house three or four times during this period,
and, urged by the restless humours of his wife, tried several professions;
returning, however, as he grew weary of each, to his wife and his
paternal home. After a certain time his parents died, and by their
demise he succeeded to a small property, and the carpentering
business, which he for some time followed.
What, then, in the meanwhile, had become of Captain Wood, or
Brock, and Ensign Macshane ?—the only persons now to be accounted
for in our catalogue. For about six months after their capture and
release of Mr. Hayes, those noble gentlemen had followed, with much
prudence and success, that trade which the celebrated and polite
Duval, the ingenious Sheppard, the dauntless Turpin, and indeed
many other heroes of our most popular novels, had pursued, or were
pursuing, in their time. And so considerable were said to be Captain
Wood's gains, that reports were abroad of his having somewhere a
buried treasure; to which he might have added more, had not Fate
suddenly cut short his career as a prig. He and the Ensign were-


WHAT HAPPENED IN SEVEV YEARS.
93
shame to say—transported for stealing three pewter-pots off a railing
at Exeter; and not being known in the town, which they had only
reached that morning, they were detained by no further charges, but
simply condemned on this one. For this misdemeanor, her Majesty's
Government vindictively sent them for seven years beyond the sea;
and, as the fashion then was, sold the use of their bodies to Virginian
planters during that space of time. It is thus, alas ! that the strong
are always used to deal with the weak, and many an honest fellow
has been led to rue his unfortunate difference with the law.
Thus, then, we have settled all scores. The Count is in Holland
with his wife ; Mrs. Cat in Warwickshire along with her excellent
husband; Master Thomas Billings with his adoptive parents in the
same county; and the two military gentlemen watching the progress
and cultivation of the tobacco and cotton plant in the New World.
All these things having passed between the acts, dingaring-a-dingaring-
a-dingledingle-ding, the drop draws up, and the next act begins. By
the way, the play ends with a drop: but that is neither here nor there.
[Here, as in a theatre, the orchestra is supposed to play something
melodious. The people get up, shake themselves, yawn, and
settle down in their seats again. “Porter, ale, ginger-beer,
cider," comes round, squeezing through the legs of the gentle.
men in the pit. Nobody takes anything as usual ; and lo!
the curtain rises again. "'Sh, 'shsh, 'shshshhh! Hats off !”
says everybody.)
Mrs. Hayes had now been for six years the adored wife of
Mr. Hayes, and no offspring had arisen to bless their loves and per-
petuate their name. She had obtained a complete mastery over her
lord and master; and having had, as far as was in that gentleman's
power, every single wish gratified that she could demand, in the way
of dress, treats to Coventry and Birmingham, drink, and what not-
for, though a hard man, John Hayes had learned to spend his money
pretty freely on himself and her—having had all her wishes gratified,
it was natural that she should begin to find out some more ; and the
next whim she hit upon was to be restored to her child. It may be
as well to state that she had never informed her husband of the
existence of that phenomenon, although he was aware of his wife's
former connection with the Count,-Mrs. Hayes, in their matrimonial
quarrels, invariably taupting him with accounts of her former splendour


94
CATHERINE: A STORY.
and happiness, and with his own meanness of taste in condescending
to take up with his Excellency's leavings.
She determined, then (but as yet had not confided her determina-
tion to her husband), she would have her boy; although in her seven
years' residence within twenty miles of him she had never once thought
of seeing him : and the kind reader knows that when his excellent
lady determines on a thing—a shawl, or an opera-box, or a new
carriage, or twenty-four singing-lessons from Tamburini, or a night at
the “ Eagle Tavern ” City Road, or a ride in a buss to Richmond and
tea and brandy-and-water at“Rose Cottage Hotel”—the reader, high
or low, knows that when Mrs. Reader desires a thing, have it she will;
you may just as well talk of avoiding her as of avoiding gout, bills, or
gray hairs—and that you know is impossible. I, for my part, have
had all three--ay, and a wife too.
I say that when a woman is resolved on a thing, happen it will:
if husbands refuse, Fate will interfere (flectere si nequeo, &c.; but
quotations are odious). And some hidden power was working in the
case of Mrs. Hayes, and, for its own awful purposes, lending her
its aid.
Who has not felt how he works--the dreadful, conquering Spirit of
Ill? Who cannot see, in the circle of his own society, the fated and
foredoomed to woe and evil? Some call the doctrine of destiny a
dark creed; but, for me, I would fain try and think it a consolatory
one. It is better, with all one's sins upon one's head, to deem oneself
in the hands of Fate than to think-with our fierce passions and weak
repentances; with our resolves so loud, so vain, so ludicrously,
despicably weak and frail ; with our dim, wavering, wretched conceits
about virtue, and our irresistible propensity to wrong,—that we are the
workers of our future sorrow or happiness. If we depend on our
strength, what is it against mighty circumstance ? If we look to our-
selves, what hope have we? Look back at the whole of your life, and
see how Fate has mastered you and it. Think of your disappoint-
ments and your successes. Has your striving influenced one or the
other? A fit of indigestion puts itself between you and honours and
reputation ; an apple plops on your nose, and makes you a world's
wonder and glory ; a fit of poverty makes a rascal of you, who were,
and are still, an honest man ; clubs, trumps, or six lucky mains at
dice, make an honest man for life of you, who ever were, will be, and
are a rascal. Who sends the illness ? who causes the apple to fall ?


TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
95
who deprives you of your worldly goods ? or who shuffles the cards,
and brings trumps, honour, virtue, and prosperity back again ? You
call it chance ; ay, and so it is chance that when the floor gives way,
and the rope stretches tight, the poor wretch before St. Sepulchre's
clock dies. Only with us, clear-sighted mortals as we are, we can't
see the rope by which we hang, and know not when or how the drop
may fall.
But revenons à nos moutons : let us return to that sweet lamb,
Master Thomas, and the milk-white ewe, Mrs. Cat. Seven years had
passed away, and she began to think that she should very much like
to see her child once more. It was written that she should ; and you
shall hear how, soon after, without any great exertions of hers, back
he came to her.
In the month of July, in the year 1715, there came down a road
about ten miles from the city of Worcester, two gentlemen; not
mounted, Templar-like, upon one horse, but having a horse between
them—a sorry bay, with a sorry saddle, and a large pack behind it;
on which each by turn took a ride. Of the two, one was a man of
excessive stature, with red hair, a very prominent nose, and a faded
military dress; while the other, an old weather-beaten, sober-looking
personage, wore the costume of a civilian—both man and dress
appearing to have reached the autumnal, or seedy state. However,
the pair seemed, in spite of their apparent poverty, to be passably
merry. The old gentleman rode the horse ; and had, in the course
of their journey, ridden him two miles at least in every three. The
tall one walked with immense strides by his side ; and seemed, indeed,
as if he could have quickly outstripped the four-footed animal, had
he chosen to exert his speed, or had not affection for his comrade
retained him at his stirrup.
A short time previously the horse had cast a shoe; and this the
tall man on foot had gathered up, and was holding in his hand : it
having been voted that the first blacksmith to whose shop they should
come should be called upon to fit it again upon the bay horse.
“Do you remimber this counthry, Meejor ? " said the tall man,
who was looking about him very much pleased, and sucking a flower.
“I think thim green cornfields is prettier looking at than the
tobacky out yondther, and bad luck to it!”
“I recollect the place right well, and some queer pranks we
played here seven years agone,” responded the gentleman addressed


96
CATHERINE: A STORY.
as Major. “You remember that man and his wife, whom we took in
pawn at the ‘Three Rooks?'”
" And the landlady only hung last Michaelmas ?" said the tall
man, parenthetically.
“ Hang the landlady!—we've got all we ever would out of her,
you know. But about the man and woman. You went after the
chap's mother, and, like a jackass, as you are, let him loose. Well,
the woman was that Catherine that you've often heard me talk about.
I like the wench, — her, for I almost brought her up; and she was
for a year or two along with that scoundrel Galgenstein, who has
been the cause of my ruin.”
“The inferrnal blackguard and ruffian !” said the tall man ; who,
with his companion, has no doubt been recognized by the reader.
“Well, this Catherine had a child by Galgenstein ; and some-
where here hard by the woman lived to whom we carried the brat to
nurse. She was the wife of a blacksmith, one Billings: it won't be
out of the way to get our horse shod at his house, if he is alive still,
and we may learn something about the little beast. I should be glad
to see the mother well enough."
“Do I remimber her?” said the Ensign. “Do I remimber
whisky ? Sure I do, and the snivelling sneak her husband, and the
stout old lady her mother-in-law, and the dirty one-eyed ruffian who
sold me the parson's hat, that had so nearly brought me into trouble.
Oh but it was a rare rise we got out of them chaps, and the old land-
lady that's hanged too !” And here both Ensign Macshane and
Major Brock, or Wood, grinned, and showed much satisfaction.
It will be necessary to explain the reason of it. We gave the
British public to understand that the landlady of the “Three Rooks,"
at Worcester, was a notorious fence, or banker of thieves ; that is, a
purchaser of their merchandise. In her hands Mr. Brock and his
companion had left property to the amount of sixty or seventy pounds,
which was secreted in a cunning recess in a chamber of the “Three
Rooks,” known only to the landlady and the gentlemen who banked
with her; and in this place, Mr. Sicklop, the one-eyed man who had
joined in the Hayes adventure, his comrade, and one or two of the
topping prigs of the county, were free. Mr. Sicklop had been shot
dead in a night attack near Bath; the landlady had been suddenly
hanged, as an accomplice in another case of robbery ; and when, on
their return from Virginia, our two heroes, whose hopes of livelihood


A STROKE OF GENIUS.
depended upon it, had bent their steps towards Worcester, they were
not a little frightened to hear of the cruel fate of the hostess and many
of the amiable frequenters of the “ Three Rooks." All the goodly
company were separated ; the house was no longer an inn. Was the
money gone too ? At least it was worth while to look-which Messrs.
Brock and Macshane determined to do.
The house being now a private one, Mr. Brock, with a genius that
was above his station, visited its owner, with a huge portfolio under
his arm, and, in the character of a painter, requested permission to
take a particular sketch from a particular window. The Ensign
followed with the artist's materials (consisting simply of a screw-driver
and a crow-bar); and it is hardly necessary to say that, when
admission was granted to them, they opened the well-known door,
and to their inexpressible satisfaction discovered, not their own
peculiar savings exactly, for these had been appropriated instantly on
hearing of their transportation, but stores of money and goods to the
amount of near three hundred pounds : to which Mr. Macshane said
they had as just and honourable a right as anybody else. And so
they had as just a right as anybody-except the original owners;
but who was to discover them?
With this booty they set out on their journey-anywhere, for they
knew not whither; and it so chanced that when their horse's shoe
canie off, they were within a few furlongs of the cottage of Mr. Billings,
the blacksmith. As they came near, they were saluted by tremendous
roars issuing from the smithy: A small boy was held across the
bellows, two or three children of smaller and larger growth were
holding him down, and many others of the village were gazing in at
the window, while a man, half-naked, was lashing the little boy with
a whip, and occasioning the cries heard by the travellers. As the
horse drew up, the operator looked at the new-comers for a moment,
and then proceeded incontinently with his work; belabouring the
child more fiercely than ever.
When he had donc, he turned round to the new-comers and
asked how he could serve them ? whereupon Mr. Wood (for such
was the name he adopted, and by such we shall call him to the end)
wittily remarked that however he might wish to serve them, he seemed
mightily inclined to serve that young gentleman first.
“It's no joking matter," said the blacksmith : "if I don't serve
him so now, he'll be worse off in his old age. He'll come to the


CATHERINE: A STORY.
gallows, as sure as his name is Bill-never mind what his name is.”
And so saying, he gave the urchin another cut; which elicited, of
course, another scream.
“Oh! his name is Bill?” said Captain Wood.
“His name's not Bill !” said the blacksmith, sulkily. “He's no
name; and no heart, neither. My wife took the brat in, seven years
ago, from a beggarly French chap to nurse, and she kept him, for she
was a good soul” (here his eyes began to wink)," and she's—she's gone
now” (here he began fairly to blubber). “And d-- him, out of love
for her, I kept him too, and the scoundrel is a liar and a thief. This
blessed day, merely to vex me and my boys here, he spoke ill of her
he did, and I'll—cut-his- life-out-1—will !” and with each
word honest Mulciber applied a whack on the body of little Tom
Billings; who, by shrill shrieks, and oaths in treble, acknowledged the
receipt of the blows.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Wood, " set the boy down, and the
bellows a-going; my horse wants shoeing, and the poor lad has had
strapping enough.”
The blacksmith obeyed, and cast poor Master Thomas loose. As
he staggered away and looked back at his tormentor, his countenance
assumed an expression which made Mr. Wood say, grasping hold of
Macshane's arm, “ It's the boy, it's the boy ! when his mother gave
Galgenstein the laudanum, she had the self-same look with her!”
“Had she really now ?” said Mr. Macshane. “And pree, Meejor,
who was his mother?”
“ Mrs. Cat, you fool!" answered Wood.
“Then, upon my secred word of honour, she's a mighty fine kitten
anyhow, my dear. Aha!”
“ They don't drown such kittens,” said Mr. Wood, archly; and
Macshane, taking the allusion, clapped his finger to his nose in token
of perfect approbation of his commander's sentiment.
While the blacksmith was shoeing the horse, Mr. Wood asked him
many questions concerning the lad whom he had just been chastising,
and succeeded, beyond a doubt, in establishing his identity with the
child whom Catherine Hall had brought into the world seven years
since. Billings told him of all the virtues of his wife, and the
manifold crimes of the lad: how he stole, and fought, and lied, and
swore; and though the youngest under his roof, exercised the most
baneful influence over all the rest of his family. He was determined


A VERY PRECOCIOUS URCHIN.
99
at last, he said, to put him to the parish, for he did not dare to
keep him.
: “He's a fine whelp, and would fetch ten pieces in Virginny,"
sighed the Ensign.
“ Crimp, of Bristol, would give five for him," said Mr. Wood,
ruminating
“Why not take him ?” said the Ensign.
“Faith, why not?” said Mr. Wood. “His keep, meanwhile, will
not be sixpence a day.” Then turning round to the blacksmith,
“ Mr. Billings,” said he, “you will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that
I know everything regarding that poor lad's history. His mother was
an unfortunate lady of high family, now no more ; his father a German
nobleman, Count de Galgenstein by name.”
“The very man !” said Billings : “a young, fair-liaired man, who
came here with the child, and a dragoon sergeant.”
“ Count de Galgenstein by name, who, on the point of death,
recommended the infant to me.”
“And did he pay you seven years' boarding ?” said Mr. Billings,
who was quite alive at the very idea.
“Alas, sir, not a jot ! he died, sir, six hundred pounds in my
debt; didn't he, Ensign ?”
“Six hundred, upon my secred honour ! I remember when he
got into the house along with the poli- ".
“Psha! what matters it?” here broke out Mr. Wood, looking
fiercely at the Ensign. “Six hundred pounds he owes me: how was
he to pay you? But he told me to take charge of this boy, if I
found him ; and found him I have, and will take charge of him, if
you will hand him over.”
“Send our Tom !" cried Billings. And when that youth appeared,
scowling, and yet trembling, and prepared, as it seemed, for another
castigation, his father, to his surprise, asked him if he was willing to
go along with those gentlemen, or whether he would be a good lad
and stay with him.
Mr. Tom replied immediately, “I won't be a good lad, and I'd
rather go to than stay with you!”
“Will you leave your brothers and sisters ?" said Billings, looking
very dismal.
“Hang my brothers and sisters—I hate 'em; and, besides, I
haven't got any !"


100
CATHERINE: A STORI.
“ But you had a good mother, hadn't you, Tom?"
Tom paused for a moment.
“ Mother's gone,” said he, “and you flog me, and I'll go with
these men.”
“Well, then, go thy ways,” said Billings, starting up in a passion :
“ go thy ways for a graceless reprobate ; and if this gentleman will
take you, he may do so."
After some further parley, the conversation ended, and the next
morning Mr. Wood's party consisted of three: a little boy being
mounted upon the bay horse, in addition to the Ensign or himself;
and the whole company went journeying towards Bristol.
We have said that Mrs. Hayes had, on a sudden, taken a fit of
maternal affection, and was bent upon being restored to her child ;
and that benign destiny which watched over the life of this lucky
lady instantly set about gratifying her wish, and, without cost to
herself of coach-bire or saddle-horse, sent the young gentleman very
quickly to her arms. The village in which the Hayeses dwelt was but
a very few miles out of the road from Bristol ; whither, on the bene-
volent mission above hinted at, our party of worthies were bound :
and coming, towards the afternoon, in sight of the house of that
very Justice Ballance who had been so nearly the ruin of Ensign
Macshane, that officer narrated, for the hundredth time, and with
much glee, the circumstances which had then befallen him, and the
manner in which Mrs. Hayes, the elder, had come forward to his
rescue.
“Suppose we go and see the old girl ?" suggested Mr. Wood.
“ No harm can come to us now.” And his comrade always assenting,
they wound their way towards the village, and reached it as the
evening came on. In the public-house where they rested, Wood
made inquiries concerning the Hayes family ; was informed of the
death of the old couple, of the establishment of John Hayes and his
wife in their place, and of the kind of life that these latter led
together. When all these points had been imparted to him, he
ruminated much : an expression of sublime triumph and exultation
at length lighted up his features. “I think, Tim," said he at last,
“that we can make more than five pieces of that boy.”
“Oh, in coorse!” said Timothy Macshane, Esq. ; who always
agreed with his “ Meejor.”


STRATEGIC COMBINATIONS.
101
“In coorse, you fool! and how? I'll tell you how. This Hayes
is well to do in the world, and — "
“And we'll nab him again-ha, ha!” roared out Macshane. “By
my secred honour, Meejor, there never was a gineral like you at a
strathyjam !”
“ Peace, you bellowing donkey, and don't wake the child. The
man is well to do, his wife rules him, and they have no children. Now,
either she will be very glad to have the boy back again, and pay for
the finding of him, or else she has said nothing about him, and will
pay us for being silent too: or, at any rate, Hayes himself will be
ashamed at finding his wife the mother of a child a year older than his
marriage, and will pay for the keeping of the brat away. There's profit,
my dear, in any one of the cases, or my name's not Peter Brock.”
When the Ensign understood this wondrous argument, he would
fain have fallen on his knees and worshipped his friend and guide.
They began operations, almost immediately, by an attack on
Mrs. Hayes. On hearing, as she did in private interview with the
ex-corporal the next morning, that her son was found, she was
agitated by both of the passions which Wood attributed to her. She
longed to have the boy back, and would give any reasonable sum
to see him ; but she dreaded exposure, and would pay equally to
avoid that. How could she gain the one point and escape the
other?
Mrs. Hayes hit upon an expedient which, I am given to under-
stand, is not uncommon now-a-days. She suddenly discovered that
she had a dear brother, who had been obliged to fly the country in
consequence of having joined the Pretender, and had died in France,
leaving behind him an only son. This boy her brother had, with his
last breath, recommended to her protection, and had confided him to
the charge of a brother officer who was now in the country, and would
speedily make his appearance ; and, to put the story beyond a doubt,
Mr. Wood wrote the letter from her brother stating all these par--
ticulars, and Ensign Macshane received full instructions how to per-
form the part of the “ brother officer.” What consideration Mr. Wood
received for his services, we cannot say ; only it is well known that
Mr. Hayes caused to be committed to gaol a young apprentice in his
service, charged with having broken open a cupboard in which
Mr. Hayes had forty guineas in gold and silver, and to which none
but he and his wife had access.
is services committed to saol a you cupboard in whone


102
CATHERINE: A STORY.
Having made these arrangements, the Corporal and his little
party decamped to a short distance, and Mrs. Catherine was left to
prepare her husband for a speedy addition to his family, in the shape
of this darling nephew. John Hayes received the news with any-
thing but pleasure. He had never heard of any brother of Catherine's;
she had been bred at the workhouse, and nobody ever hinted that
she had relatives : but it is easy for a lady of moderate genius to
invent circumstances; and with lies, tears, threats, coaxings, oaths,
and other blandishments, she compelled him to submit.
Two days afterwards, as Mr. Hayes was working in his shop with
his lady seated beside him, the trampling of a horse was heard in
his court-yard, and a gentleman, of huge stature, descended from it,
and strode into the shop. His figure was wrapped in a large cloak;
but Mr. Hayes could not help fancying that he had somewhere seen
his face before.
“This, I preshoom,” said the gentleman, “is Misther Hayes, that
I have come so many miles to see, and this is his amiable lady? I
was the most intimate frind, madam, of your laminted brother, who
died in King Lewis's service, and whose last touching letthers I
despatched to you two days ago. I have with me a.further precious
token of my dear friend, Captain Hall—it is here."
And so saying, the military gentleman, with one arm, removed
his cloak, and stretching forward the other into Hayes's face almost,
stretched likewise forward a little boy, grinning and sprawling in the
air, and prevented only from falling to the ground by the hold which
the Ensign kept of the waistband of his little coat and breeches.
“Isn't he a pretty boy?” said Mrs. Hayes, sidling up to her
husband tenderly, and pressing one of Mr. Hayes's hands.
About the lad's beauty it is needless to say what the carpenter
thought; but that night, and for many, many nights after. the lad
stayed at Mr. Hayes's.



M.
Kalul
batharinis kosent to M*Hayı.





( 103 )
CHAPTER VIII.
ENUMERATES THE ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF MASTER THOMAS BILLINGS-
INTRODUCES BROCK AS DR. WOOD—AND ANNOUNCES THE EXECU-
TION OF ENSIGN MACSHANE.
E are obliged, in recording this history, to follow accurately
V that great authority, the “ Calendarium Newgaticum Roago-
rumque Registerium," of which every lover of literature in the present
day knows the value ; and as that remarkable work totally discards
all the unities in its narratives, and reckons the life of its heroes only
by their actions, and not by periods of time, we must follow in the
wake of this mighty ark-a humble cockboat. When it pauses, we
pause ; when it runs ten knots an hour, we run with the same celerity ;
and as, in order to carry the reader from the penultimate chapter of
this work unto the last chapter, we were compelled to make him leap
over a gap of seven blank years, ten years more must likewise be
granted to us before we are at liberty to resume our history.
During that period, Master Thomas Billings had been under the
especial care of his mother; and, as may be imagined, he rather
increased than diminished the accomplishments for which he had
been remarkable while under the roof of his foster-father. And with
this advantage, that while at the blacksmith's, and only three or four
years of age, his virtues were necessarily appreciated only in his family
circle, and among those few acquaintances of his own time of life
whom a youth of three can be expected to meet in the alleys or over
the gutters of a small country hamlet,-in his mother's residence,
his circle extended with his own growth, and he began to give proofs
of those powers of which in infancy there had been only encouraging
indications. Thus it was nowise remarkable that a child of four
years should not know his letters, and should have had a great
disinclination to learn them ; but when a young man of fifteen showed
the same creditable ignorance, the same undeviating dislike, it was
easy to see that he possessed much resolution and perseverance.
When it was remarked, too, that, in case of any difference, he not
only beat the usher, but by no means disdained to torment and bully
---
-
-
---


104
CATHERINE: A STORY.
the very smallest boys of the school, it was easy to see that his mind was
comprehensive and careful, as well as courageous and grasping. As
it was said of the Duke of Wellington, in the Peninsula, that he had
a thought for everybody—from Lord Hill to the smallest drummer
in the army-in like manner Tom Dillings bestowel his attention
on high and low; but in the shape of blows: he would fight the
strongest and kick the smallest, and was always at work with one
or the other. At thirteen, when he was removed. from the establish-
ment whither he had been sent, he was the cock of the school out of
doors, and the very last boy in. He used to let the little boys and
new-comers pass him by, and laugh ; but he always belaboured them
unmercifully afterwards; and then it was, he said, his turn to laugh.
With such a pugnacious turn, Tom Billings ought to have been made
a soldier and might have died a marshal; but, by an unlucky
ordinance of fate, he was made a tailor, and died a - never
mind what for the present; suffice it to say, that he was suddenly cut
off at a very early period of his existence, by a disease which has
exercised considerable ravages among the British youth.
By consulting the authority above mentioned, we find that Hayes
did not confine himself to the profession of a carpenter, or remain
long established in the country; but was induced, by the eager spirit
of Mrs. Catherine most probably, to try his fortune in the metropolis ;
where he lived, flourished, and died. Oxford Road, Saint Giles's,
and Tottenham Court, were, at various periods of his residence in
town, inhabited by him. At one place, he carried on the business of
green-grocer and small-coalman ; in another, he was carpenter, under-
taker, and lender of money to the poor : finally, he was a lodging-
house keeper in the Oxford or Tyburn Road; but continued to
exercise the last-nained charitable profession.
Lending as he did upon pledges, and carrying on a pretty large
trade, it was not for him, of course, to inquire into the pedigree of all
the pieces of plate, the bales of cloth, swords, watches, wigs, shoe-
buckles, &c., that were confided by his friends to his keeping; but it
is clear that his friends had the requisite confidence in him, and that
he enjoyed the esteem of a class of characters who still live in history,
and are admired unto this very day. The mind loves to think that,
perhaps, in Mr. Hayes's back-parlour the gallant Turpin might have
hob-and-nobbed with Mrs. Catherine ; that here, perhaps, the noble
Sheppard might have cracked his joke, or quaffed his pint of rum.


A PARTY OF PLEASURE,
105
Who knows but that Macheath and Paul Clifford may have crossed
legs under Hayes's dinner-table? But why pause to speculate on
things that might have been ? why desert reality for fond imagina-
tion, or call up from their honoured graves the sacred dead? I know
not: and yet, in sooth, I can never pass Cumberland Gate without a
sigh, as I think of the gallant cavaliers who traversed that road in
old time. Pious priests accompanied their triumphs ; their chariots
were surrounded by hosts of glittering javelin-men. As the slave at
the car of the Roman conqueror shouted, “Remember thou art
mortal !” before the eyes of the British warrior rode the undertaker
and his coffin, telling him that he too must die! Mark well the spot!
A hundred years ago Albion Street (where comic Power dwelt,
Milesia's darling son)-Albion Street was a desert. The square of
Connaught was without its penultimate, and, strictly speaking, naught.
The Edgware Road was then a road, 'tis true ; with tinkling waggons
passing now and then, and fragrant walls of snowy hawthorn blossoms.
The ploughman whistled over Nutford Place; down the green solitudes
of Sovereign Sireet the merry milkmaid led the lowing kine. Here,
then, in the midst of green fields and sweet air—before ever omnibuses
were, and when Pineapple Turnpike and Terrace were alike unknown
-here stood Tyburn : and on the road towards it, perhaps to enjoy the
prospect, stood, in the year 1725, the habitation of Mr. John Hayes.
One fine morning in the year 1725, Mrs. Hayes, who had been
abroad in her best hat and riding-hood ; Mr. Hayes, who for a
wonder had accompanied her; and Mrs. Springatt, a lodger, who for
a remuneration had the honour of sharing Mrs. Hayes's friendship
and table: all returned, smiling and rosy, at about half-past ten
o'clock, from a walk which they had taken to Bayswater. Many
thousands of people were likewise seen flocking down the Oxford
Road; and you would rather have thought, from the smartness of
their appearance and the pleasure depicted in their countenances,
that they were just issuing from a sermon, than quitting the ceremony
which they had been to attend.
The fact is, that they had just been to see a gentleman hanged,
a cheap pleasure, which the Hayes family never denied themselves ;
and they returned home with a good appetite to breakfast, braced by
the walk, and tickled into hunger as it were by the spectacle. I
can recollect, when I was a gyp at Cambridge, that the “men” used
to have breakfast-parties for the very same purpose ; and the exhibition


106
CATHERINE: A STORY.
of the morning acted infallibly upon the stomach, and caused the
young students to eat with much voracity.
Well, Mrs. Catherine, a handsome, well-dressed, plump, rosy
woman, of three or four and thirty (and when, my dear, is a woman
handsomer than at that age?) came in quite merrily from her walk,
and entered the back-parlour, which looked into a pleasant yard, or
garden, whereon the sun was shining very gaily; and where, at a
table covered with a nice white cloth, laid out with some silver mugs,
too, and knives, all with different crests and patterns, sat an old
gentleman reading in an old book.
“Here we are at last, Doctor," said Mrs. Hayes, “and here's his
speech.” She produced the little halfpenny tract, which to this day
is sold at the gallows-foot upon the death of every offender. “I've
seen a many men turned off, to be sure ; but I never did see one who
bore it more like a man than he did.”
“My dear,” said the gentleman addressed as Doctor, “ he was as
cool and as brave as steel, and no more minded hanging than tooth-
drawing."
“ It was the drink that ruined him," said Mrs. Cat.
“Drink, and bad company. I warned him, my dear, I warned
him years ago : and directly he got into Wild's gang, I knew that he
had not a year to run. Ah, why, my love, will men continue such
dangerous courses,” continued the Doctor, with a sigh," and jeopardy
their lives for a miserable watch or a snuff-box, of which Mr. Wild
takes three-fourths of the produce? But here comes the breakfast;
and, egad, I am as hungry as a lad of twenty."
Indeed, at this moment Mrs. Hayes's servant appeared with a
smoking dish of bacon and greens; and Mr. Hayes himself ascended
from the cellar (of which he kept the key), bearing with him a toler-
ably large jug of small-beer. To this repast the Doctor, Mrs.
Springatt (the other lodger), and Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, proceeded
with great alacrity. A fifth cover was laid, but not used; the
company remarking that “ Tom had very likely found some
acquaintances at Tyburn, with whom he might choose to pass the
morning."
Tom was Master Thomas Billings, now of the age of sixteen :
slim, smart, five feet ten inches in height, handsome, sallaw in
complexion, black-eyed, and black-haired. Mr. Billings was appren-
tice to a tailor, of tolerable practice, who was to take him into


AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUTH.
107
partnership at the end of his term. It was supposed, and with
reason, that Tom would not fail to make a fortune in this business ;
of which the present head was one Beinkleider, a German. Bein-
kleider was skilful in his trade (after the manner of his nation, which
in breeches and metaphysics-in inexpressibles and incomprehen-
sibles—may instruct all Europe), but too fond of his pleasure. Some
promissory-notes of his had found their way into Hayes's hands, and
had given him the means not only of providing Master Billings with
a cheap apprenticeship, and a cheap partnership afterwards ; but
would empower him, in one or two years after the young partner hac
joined the firm, to eject the old one altogether. So that there was
every prospect that, when Mr. Billings was twenty-one years of age,
poor Beinkleider would have to act, not as his master, but his
journeyman.
Tom was a very precocious youth ; was supplied by a doting
mother with plenty of pocket-money, and spent it with a number of
lively companions of both sexes, at plays, bull-baitings, fairs, jolly-
parties on the river, and such like innocent amusements. He could
throw a main, too, as well as his elders ; had pinked his man, in a
row at Madam King's in the Piazza ; and was much respected at the
Roundhouse.
· Mr. Hayes was not very fond of this promising young gentleman ;
indeed, he had the baseness to bear malice, because, in a quarrel
which occurred about two years previously, he, Hayes, being desirous
to chastise Mr. Billings, had found himself not only quite incom-
petent, but actually at the mercy of the boy ; who struck him over
the head with a joint-stool, felled him to the ground, and swore he
would have his life. The Doctor, who was then also a lodger at
Mr. Hayes's, interposed, and restored the combatants, not to friend-
ship, but to peace. Hayes never afterwards attempted to lift his
hand to the young man, but contented himself with hating him
profoundly. In this sentiment Mr. Billings participated cordially ;
and, quite unlike Mr. Hayes, who never dared to show his dislike,
used on every occasion when they met, by actions, looks, words,
sneers, and curses, to let his step-father know the opinion which he
had of him. Why did not Hayes discard the boy altogether ?
Because, if he did so, he was really afraid of his life, and because he
trembled before Mrs. Hayes, his lady, as the leaf trembles before the
tempest in October. His breath was not his own, but hers; his


108
CATHERINE: A STORY.
money, too, had been chiefly of her getting,—for though he was as
stingy and mean as mortal man can be, and so likely to save much,
he had not the genius for getting which Mrs. Hayes possessed. She
kept his books (for she had learned to read and write by this time),
she made his bargains, and she directed the operations of the poor-
spirited little capitalist. When bills became due, and creditors
pressed for time, then she brought Hayes's own professional merits
into play. The man was as deaf and cold as a rock; never did
poor Pradesh
poor tradesman gain a penny from him ; never were the bailiffs
delayed one single minute from their prey. The Beinkleider busi-
ness, for instance, showed pretty well the genius of the two. Hayes
was for closing with him at once; but his wife saw the vast profits
which might be drawn out of him, and arranged the apprenticeship
and the partnership before alluded to. The woman heartily scorned
and spit upon her husband, who fawned upon her like a spaniel. She
loved good cheer; she did not want for a certain kind of generosity.
The only feeling that Hayes had for any one except himself was
for his wife, whom he held in a cowardly awe and attachment: he
liked drink, too, which made him chirping and merry, and accepted
willingly any treats that his acquaintances might offer him ; but he
would suffer agonies when his wife brought or ordered from the cellar
a bottle of wine.
And now for the Doctor. He was about seventy years of age.
He had been much abroad; he was of a sober, cheerful aspect;
he dressed handsomely and quietly in a broad hat and cassock; but
saw no company except the few friends whom he met at the coffee-
house. He had an income of about a hundred pounds, which he
promised to leave to young Billings. He was amused with the lad,
and fond of his mother, and had boarded with them for some
years past. The Doctor, in fact, was our old friend Corporal Brock ;
the Rev. Dr. Wood now, as he had been Major Wood fifteen
years back.
Any one who has read the former part of this history must have
seen that we have spoken throughout with invariable respect of
Mr. Brock; and that in every circumstance in which he has appeared,
he has acted not only with prudence, but often with genius. The
early obstacle to Mr. Brock's success was want of conduct simply.
Drink, women, play-how many a brave fellow have they ruined !
-had pulled Brock down as often as his merit had carried him up.


110
CATHERINE: A STORY.
the jug of beer which Mr. Hayes had drawn, and from which the
latter was about to help himself, and poured down his throat exactly
one quart.
“Ah!” said Mr. Billings, drawing breath after a draught which
he had learned accurately to gauge from the habit of drinking out
of pewter measures which held precisely that quantity.—“Ah!” said
Mr. Billings, drawing breath, and wiping his mouth with his sleeves,
“this is very thin stuff, old Squaretoes; but my coppers have been
red-hot since last night, and they wanted a sluicing.”
“Should you like some ale, dear ?" said Mrs. Hayes, that fond
and judicious parent.
“A quart of brandy, Tom ?” said Dr. Wood. “Your papa will
run down to the cellar for it in a minute."
“I'll see him hanged first !” cried Mr. Hayes, quite frightened.
“Oh, fie, now, you unnatural father !” said the Doctor. .
The very name of father used to put Mr. Hayes in a fury. “ I'm
not his father, thank heaven!” said he.
“No, nor nobody else's," said Tom.
Mr. Hayes only muttered “Base-born brat !”
“His father was a gentleman,—that's more than you ever were !"
screamed Mrs. Hayes. “His father was a man of spirit; no
cowardly sneak of a carpenter, Mr. Hayes ! Tom has noble blood
in his veins, for all he has a tailor's appearance; and if his mother
had had her right, she would be now in a coach-and-six."
“I wish I could find my father," said Tom ; " for I think Polly
Briggs and I would look mighty well in a coach-and-six.” Tom
fancied that if his father was a Count at the time of his birth, he
must be a prince now; and, indeed, went among his companions by
the latter august title.
“Ay, Tom, that you would,” cried his mother, looking at him
fondly.
“With a sword by niy side, and a hat and feather, there's never a
lord at St. James's would cut a finer figure.”
After a little more of this talk, in which Mrs. Hayes let the
company know her high opinion of her son-who, as usual, took care
to show his extreme contempt for his step-father—the latter retired
to his occupations; the lodger, Mrs. Springatt, who had never said a
word all this time, retired to her apartment on the second floor; and,
pulling out their pipes and tobacco, the old gentleman and the


THE END OF ENSIGN MACSHANE.
III
young one solaced themselves with half-an-hour's more talk and
smoking ; while the thrifty Mrs. Hayes, opposite to them, was busy
with her books.
“What's in the confessions ?" said Mr. Billings to Doctor Wood.
“ There were six of 'em besides Mac: two for sheep, four house-
breakers; but nothing of consequence, I fancy.”
“ There's the paper," said Wood, archly. “ Read for yourself,
Tom.”
Mr. Tom looked at the same time very fierce and very foolish;
for, though he could drink, swear, and fight, as well as any lad of his
inches in England, reading was not among his accomplishments. “I
tell you what, Doctor,” said he, “ — you ! have no bantering with
me,-for I'm not the man that will bear it, - me !” and he threw
a tremendous swaggering look across the table.
“I want you to learn to read, Tommy dear. Look at your
mother there over her books : she keeps them as neat as a
scrivener now, and at twenty she could make never a stroke.”
“Your godfather speaks for your good, child; and for me, thou
knowest that I have promised thee a gold-headed cane and periwig
on the first day that thou canst read me a column of the Flying
Post.”
“Hang the periwig !" said Mr. Tom, testily. “Let my godfather
read the paper himself, if he has a liking for it.”
Whereupon the old gentleman put on his spectacles, and
glanced over the sheet of whitey-brown paper, which, ornamented
with a picture of a gallows at the top, contained the biographies of
the seven unlucky individuals who had that morning suffered the
penalty of the law. With the six heroes who came first in the list we
have nothing to do; but have before us a copy of the paper
containing the life of No. 7, and which the Doctor read with an
audible voice :
“Captain Macshane.
“ The seventh victim to his own crimes was the famous
highwayman, Captain Macshane, so well known as the Irish Fire-
eater.
“ The Captain came to the ground in a fine white lawn shirt and
nightcap; and, being a Papist in his religion, was attended by


112
CATHERINE: A STORY.
Father O'Flaherty, Popish priest, and chaplain to the Bavarian
Envoy.
“ Captain Macshane was born of respectable parents, in the
town of Clonakilty, in Ireland, being descended from most of the
kings in that country. He had the honour of serving their Majesties
King William and Queen Mary, and her Majesty Queen Anne, in
Flanders and Spain, and obtained much credit from my Lords Marl-
borough and Peterborough for his valour.
“ But being placed on half-pay at the end of the war, Ensign
Macshane took to evil courses; and, frequenting the bagnios and
dice-houses, was speedily brought to ruin.
“ Being at this pass, he fell in with the notorious Captain Wood,
and they two together committed many atrocious robberies in the
inland counties ; but these being too hot to hold them, they went
into the west, where they were unknown. Here, however, the day
of retribution arrived ; for, having stolen three pewter-pots from
a public-house, they, under false names, were tried at Exeter, and
transported for seven years beyond the sea. Thus it is seen
that Justice never sleeps ; but, sooner or later, is sure to overtake
the criminal.
“ On their return from Virginia, a quarrel about booty arose
between these two, and Macshane killed Wood in a combat that
took place between them near to the town of Bristol; but a waggon
coming up, Macshane was obliged to fly without the ill-gotten
wealth : so true is it, that wickedness never prospers.
“ Two days afterwards, Macshane met the coach of Miss
Macraw, a Scotch lady and heiress, going, for lumbago and gout, to
the Bath. He at first would have robbed this lady; but such were
his arts, that he induced her to marry him ; and they lived together
for seven years in the town of Eddenboro, in Scotland, -he passing
under the name of Colonel Geraldine. The lady dying, and
Macshane having expended all her wealth, he was obliged to resume
his former evil courses, in order to save himself from starvation ;
whereupon he robbed a Scotch lord, by name the Lord of
Whistlebinkie, of a mull of snuff ; for which crime he was
condemned to the Tolbooth prison at Eddenboro, in Scotland, and
whipped many times in publick.
“ These deserved punishments did not at all alter Captain
Macshane's disposition ; and on the 17th of February last, he


EXCITING INTELLIGENCE.
113
stopped the Bavarian Envoy's coach on Blackheath, coming from
Dover, and robbed his Excellency and his chaplain ; taking from the
former his money, watches, star, a fur-cloak, his sword (a very
valuable one); and from the latter a Romish missal, out of which he
was then reading, and a case-bottle."
“The Bavarian Envoy !" said Tom parenthetically. “My master,
Beinkleider, was his lordship's regimental tailor in Germany, and is
pow making a court suit for him. It will be a matter of a hundred
pounds to him, I warrant."
Dr. Wood resumed his reading. “Hum-hum! A Romish
missal, out of which he was reading, and a case-bottle.
“ By means of the famous Mr. Wild, this notorious criminal was
brought to justice, and the case-bottle and missal have been restored
to Father O'Flaherty.
“ During his confinement in Newgate, Mr. Macshane could not
be brought to express any contrition for his crimes, except that of
having killed his coinmanding officer. For this Wood he pretended
an excessive sorrow, and vowed that usquebaugh had been the cause
of his death,-indeed, in prison he partook of no other liquor, and
drunk a bottle of it on the day before his death.
“ He was visited by several of the clergy and gentry in his cell;
among others, by the Popish priest whom he had robbed, Father
O'Flaherty, before mentioned, who attended him likewise in his last
moments (if that idolatrous worship may be called attention); and
likewise by the Father's patron, the Bavarian Ambassador, his
Excellency Count Maximilian de Galgenstein."
As old Wood came to these words, he paused to give them
utterance.
“What! Max?” screamed Mrs. Hayes, letting her ink-bottle fall
over her ledgers.
“Why, be hanged if it ben't my father !” said Mr. Billings.
“Your father, sure enough, unless there be others of his name,
and unless the scoundrel is hanged,” said the Doctor—sinking his
voice, however, at the end of the sentence.
Mr. Billings broke his pipe in an agony of joy. “I think we'll
have the coach now, mother,” says he ; "and I'm blessed if Polly
Briggs shall not look as fine as a duchess.”
“ Polly Briggs is a low slut, Tom, and not fit for the likes of you,


114
CATHERINE: A STORY.
his Excellency's son. Oh, fie! You must be a gentleman now,
sirrah ; and I doubt whether I shan't take you away from that odious
tailor's shop altogether.”
To this proposition Mr. Billings objected altogether; for, besides
Mrs. Briggs before alluded to, the young gentleman was much
attached to his master's daughter, Mrs. Margaret Gretel, or Gretchen
Beinkleider.
“No,” says he. “ There will be time to think of that hereafter,
ma'am. If my Pa makes a man of me, why, of course, the shop
may go to the deuce, for what I care ; but we had better wait, look
you, for something certain, before we give up such a pretty bird in
the hand as this.”
“ He speaks like Solomon," said the Doctor.
“I always said he would be a credit to his old mother, didn't
I, Brock?” cried Mrs. Cat, embracing her son very affectionately.
“A credit to her; ay, I warrant, a real blessing! And dost thou
want any money, Tom ? for a lord's son must not go about without a
few pieces in his pocket. And I tell thee, Tommy, thou must go
and see his lordship; and thou shalt have a piece of brocade for a
waistcoat, thou shalt ; ay, and the silver-hilted sword I told thee of ::
but oh, Tommy, Tommy! have a care, and don't be a-drawing of it
in naughty company at the gaming-houses, or at the "
“A drawing of fiddlesticks, mother! If I go to see my father, I
must have a reason for it; and instead of going with a sword in my
hand, I shall take something else in it."
“ The lad is a lad of nous," cried Dr. Wood, “ although his
mother does spoil him so cruelly. Look you, Madam Cat: did you
not hear what he said about Beinkleider and the clothes ? Tommy
will just wait on the Count with his lordship's breeches. A man may
learn a deal of news in the trying on of a pair of breeches."
And so it was agreed that in this manner the son should at first.
make his appearance before his father. Mrs. Cat gave him the piece
of brocade, which, in the course of the day, was fashioned into a
smart waistcoat (for Beinkleider's shop was close by, in Cavendish
Square). Mrs. Gretel, with many blushes, tied a fine blue riband
round his neck; and, in a pair of silk stockings, with gold buckles
to his shoes, Master Billings looked a very proper young gentleman.
“And, Tommy,” said his mother, blushing and hesitating, “ should
Max-should his lordship ask after your—want to know if your mother
d. in a pairany blusheas close by


ANTICIPATION AND RETROSPECTION.
115
is alive, you can say she is, and well, and often talks of old times.
And, Tommy” (after another pause), “you needn't say anything
about Mr. Hayes; only say I'm quite well.”
Mrs. Hayes looked at him as he marched down the street, a long,
long way. Tom was proud and gay in his new costume, and was not
unlike his father. As she looked, lo! Oxford Street disappeared,
and she saw a green common, and a village, and a little inn. There
was a soldier leading a pair of horses about on the green common ;
and in the inn sat a cavalier, so young, so merry, so beautiful ! Oh,
what slim white hands he had ; and winning words, and tender,
gentle blue eyes ! Was it not an honour to a country lass that such
a noble gentleman should look at her for a moment? Had he not
some charm about him that she must needs obey when he whispered
in her ear, “ Come, follow me!” As she walked towards the lane that
morning, how well she remembered each spot as she passed it, and
the look it wore for the last time! How the smoke was rising from
the pastures, how the fish were jumping and plashing in the mill-
stream! There was the church, with all its windows lighted up with
gold, and yonder were the reapers sweeping down the brown corn.
She tried to sing as she went up the hill—what was it? She could
not remember; but oh, how well she remembered the sound of the
horse's hoofs, as they came quicker, quicker-nearer, nearer! How
noble he looked on his great horse! Was he thinking of her, or were
they all silly words which he spoke last night, merely to pass away
the time and deceive poor girls with ? Would he remember them,
would he?
“ Cat my dear," here cried Mr. Brock, alias Captain, alias
Dr. Wood, “ here's the meat a-getting cold, and I am longing for my
breakfast.”
As they went in he looked her hard in the face. “What, still at
it, you silly girl ? I've been watching you these five minutes, Cat;
and be hanged but I think a word from Galgenstein, and you would
follow him as a fly does a treacle-pot ?”
They went into breakfast; but though there was a hot shoulder of
mutton and onion-sauce-Mrs. Catherine's favourite dish-she never
touched a morsel of it.
In the meanwhile Mr. Thomas Billings, in his new clothes which
his mamma had given him, in his new riband which the fair Miss


116
CATHERINE: A STORY.
Beinkleider had tied round his neck, and having his Excellency's
breeches wrapped in a silk handkerchief in his right hand, turned
down in the direction of Whitehall, where the Bavarian Envoy
lodged. But, before he waited on him, Mr. Billings, being exces-
sively pleased with his personal appearance, made an early visit to
Mrs. Briggs, who lived in the neighbourhood of Swallow Street; and
who, after expressing herself with much enthusiasm regarding her
Tommy's good looks, immediately asked him what he would stand to
drink? Raspberry gin being suggested, a pint of that liquor was
sent for; and so great was the confidence and intimacy subsisting
between these two young people, that the reader will be glad to hear
that Mrs. Poily accepted every shilling of the money which Tom
Billings had received from his mamma the day before ; nay, could
with difficulty be prevented from seizing upon the cut-velvet breeches
which he was carrying to the nobleman for whom they were made.
Having paid his adieux to Mrs. Polly, Mr. Billings departed to visit
his father,


( 117 )
CHAPTER IX.
INTERVIEW BETWEEN COUNT GALGENSTEIN AND MASTER THOMAS
BILLINGS, WHEN HE INFORMS THE COUNT OF HIS PARENTAGE.
I DON'T know in all this miserable world a more miserable
I spectacle than that of a young fellow of five or six and forty.
The British army, that nursery of valour, turns out many of the young
fellows I mean: who, having flaunted in dragoon uniforms from
seventeen to six-and-thirty ; having bought, sold, or swapped during
that period some two hundred horses ; having played, say fifteen
thousand games at billiards; having drunk some six thousand bottles
of wine ; having consumed a reasonable number of Nugee coats,
split many dozen pairs of high-heeled Hoby boots, and read the
newspaper and the army-list duly, retire from the service when they
have attained their eighth lustre, and saunter through the world,
trailing from London to Cheltenham, and from Boulogne to Paris,
and from Paris to Baden, their idleness, their ill-health, and their
cnnui. “In the morning of youth,” and when seen along with whole
troops of their companions, these flowers look gaudy and brilliant
enough; but there is no object more dismal than one of them alone,
and in its autumnal or seedy state. My friend, Captain Popjoy, is
one of them who has arrived at this condition, and whom everybody
knows by his title of Father Pop. A kinder, simpler, more empty-
headed fellow does not exist. He is forty-seven years old, and
appears a young, good-looking man of sixty. At the time of the
Army of Occupation he really was as good-looking a man as any in
the Dragoons. He now uses all sorts of stratagems to cover the
bald place on his head, by combing certain thin gray side-locks
over it. He has, in revenge, a pair of enormous moustaches, which
he dyes of the richest blue-black. His nose is a good deal larger
and redder than it used to be ; his eyelids have grown flat and heavy;
and a little pair of red, watery eyeballs float in the midst of them :
it seems as if the light which was once in those sickly green pupils
had extravasated into the white part of the eye. If Pop's legs are
not so firm and muscular as they used to be in those days when he


118
CATHERINE: A STORY.
-
-
-
took such leaps into White's buckskins, in revenge his waist is much
larger. He wears a very good coat, however, and a waistband, which
he lets out after dinner. Before ladies he blushes, and is as silent as
a schoolboy. He calls them “ modest women." His society is
chiefly among young lads belonging to his former profession. He
knows the best wine to be had at each tavern or café, and the waiters
treat him with much respectful familiarity. He knows the names of
every one of them; and shouts out, “Send Markwell here !” or,
“ Tell Cuttriss to give us a bottle of the yellow seal !” or, “ Dizzy
voo, Monsure Borrel, noo donny shampang frappy," &c. He always
makes the salad or the punch, and dines out three hundred days in
the year: the other days you see him in a two-franc eating-house at
Paris, or prowling about Rupert Street or St. Martin's Court, where
you get a capital cut of meat for eightpence. He has decent lodgings
and scrupulously clean linen; his animal functions are still tolerably
well preserved, his spiritual have evaporated long since ; he sleeps
well, has no conscience, believes himself to be a respectable fellow,
and is tolerably happy on the days when he is asked out to dinner.
Poor Pop is not very high in the scale of created beings; but, if
you fancy there is none lower, you are in egregious error. There was
once a man who had a mysterious exhibition of an animal quite un-
known to naturalists, called “the wusser.” Those curious individuals
who desired to see the wusser were introduced into an apartment
where appeared before them nothing more than a little lean, shrivelled,
hideous, blear-eyed, mangy pig. Every one cried out “Swindle !" and
“Shame !” “ Patience, gentlemen, be heasy," said the showman :
" look at that there hanimal ; it's a perfect phenomaly of hugliness: I
engage you never see such a pig.” Nobody ever had seen. “Now,
gentlemen,” said he, “I'll keep my promise, has per bill; and bad as
that there pig is, look at this here” (he showed another). “ Look at
this here, and you'll see at once that it's a wusser." In like manner
the Popjoy breed is bad enough, but it serves only to show off the
Galgenstein race; which is wusser.
Galgenstein had led a very gay life, as the saying is, for the last
fifteen years ; such a gay one, that he had lost all capacity of enjoy-
ment by this time, and only possessed inclinations without powers of
gratifying them. He had grown to be exquisitely curious and fastidious
about meat and drink, for instance, and all that he wanted was an
appetite. He carried about with him a French cook, who could not


AN AMBASSADOR AND HIS CHAPLAIN. 119
make him eat; a doctor, who could not make him well; a mistress,
of whom he was heartily sick after two days; a priest, who had been
a favourite of the exemplary Dubois, and by turns used to tickle him
by the imposition of a penance, or by the repetition of a tale from the
recueil of Nocé, or La Fare. All his appetites were wasted and worn;
only some monstrosity would galvanize them into momentary action.
He was in that effete state to which many noblemen of his time had
arrived ; who were ready to believe in ghost-raising or in gold-making,
cr to retire into monasteries and wear hair-shirts, or to dabble in con-
spiracies, or to die in love with little cook-maids of fifteen, or to pine
for the smiles or at the frowns of a prince of the blood, or to go mad
at the refusal of a chamberlain's key. The last gratification he
remembered to have enjoyed was that of riding bare-headed in a
soaking rain for three hours by the side of his Grand Duke's mistress's
coach ; taking the pas of Count Krähwinkel, who challenged him, and
was run through the body for this very dispute. Galgenstein gained a
rheumatic gout by it, which put him to tortures for many months; and
was further gratified with the post of English Envoy. He had a
fortune, he asked no salary, and could look the envoy very well.
Father O'Flaherty did all the duties, and furthermore acted as a spy
over the ambassador-a sinecure post; for the man had no feelings,
wishes, or opinions-absolutely none.
“ Upon my life, father," said this worthy man, “I care for nothing.
You have been talking for an hour about the Regent's death, and the
Duchess of Phalaris, and sly old Fleury, and what not; and I care
just as much as if you told me that one of my Bauers at Galgenstein
had killed a pig; or as if my lackey, La Rose yonder, had made love
to my mistress."
“He does !” said the reverend gentleman.
“Ah, Monsieur l'Abbé !” said La Rose, who was arranging his
master's enormous court periwig, "you are, hélas ! wrong. Monsieur
le Comte will not be angry at my saying that I wish the accusation
were true."
The Count did not take the slightest notice of La Rose's wit, but
continued his own complaints.
“I tell you, Abbé, I care for nothing. I lost a thousand guineas
t'other night at basset ; I wish to my heart I could have been vexed
about it. Egad! I remember the day when to lose a hundred made
me half mad for a month. Well, next day I had my revenge at dice,


120
CATHERINE: A STORY.
and threw thirteen mains. There was some delay; a call for fresh
bones, I think; and would you believe it? I fell asleep with the box
in my hand !”
“A desperate case, indeed,” said the Abbé.
“If it had not been for Krähwinkel I should have been a dead
man, that's positive. That pinking him saved me.”.
“I make no doubt of it,” said the Abbé. “Had your Excellency
not run him through, he, without a doubt, would have done the same
for you.”
“Psha ! you mistake my words, Monsieur l'Abbé” (yawning). “I
mean—what cursed chocolate !—that I was dying for want of excite-
ment. Not that I care for dying ; no, d— me, if I do!”
“ When you do, your Excellency means,” said the Abbé, a fat,
gray-haired Irishman, from the Irlandois College at Paris.
His Excellency did not laugh, nor understand jokes of any kind;
he was of an undeviating stupidity, and only replied, “Sir, I mean
what I say. I don't care for living : no, nor for dying either ; but I
can speak as well as another, and I'll thank you not to be correcting
my phrases as if I were one of your cursed school-boys, and not a
gentleman of fortune and blood.”
Herewith the Count, who had uttered four sentences about him-
self (he never spoke of anything else), sunk back on his pillows again,
quite exhausted by his eloquence. The Abbé, who had a seat and a
table by the bedside, resumed the labours which had brought him into
the room in the morning, and busied himself with papers, which
occasionally he handed over to his superior for approval.
Presently Monsieur La Rose appeared.
“Here is a person with clothes from Mr. Beinkleider's. Will your
Excellency see him, or shall I bid him leave the clothes ?”
The Count was very much fatigued by this time; he had signed
three papers, and read the first half-dozen lines of a pair of them.
“ Bid the fellow come in, La Rose ; and, hark ye, give me my wig:
one must show one's self to be a gentleman before these scoundrels."
And he therefore mounted a large chestnut-coloured, orange-scented
pyramid of horse-hair, which was to awe the new-comer.
He was a lad of about seventeen, in a smart waistcoat and a blue
riband : our friend Tom Billings, indeed. He carried under his arm
the Count's destined breeches. He did not seem in the least awed,
however, by his Excellency's appearance, but looked at him with a


122
CATHERINE: A STORY.
.
“I was born at Birmingham town.”
“Were you, really!”
“My mother's name was Hayes,” continued Billings, in a solemn
voice. “I was put out to nurse along with John Billings, a black
smith ; and my father run away. Now do you know who I am?"
"Why, upon honour, now," said the Count, who was amused, -
“upon honour, Mr. Billings, I have not that advantage.”
“Well, then, my lord, you're my father !"
Mr. Billings, when he said this, came forward to the Count with
a theatrical air; and, flinging down the breeches of which he was the
bearer, held out his arms and stared, having very little doubt but
that his lordship would forthwith spring out of bed and hug him to
his heart. A similar piece of naïveté many fathers of families have,
I have no doubt, remarked in their children ; who, not caring for
their parents a single doit, conceive, nevertheless, that the latter are
bound to show all sorts of affection for them. His lordship did
move, but backwards towards the wall, and began pulling at the
bell-rope with an expression of the most intense alarm.
“Keep back, sirrah !--keep back! Suppose I am your father,
do you want to murder me? Good heavens, how the boy smells of
gin and tobacco ! Don't turn away, my lad ! sit down there at a
proper distance. And, La Rose, give him some eau-de-Cologne, and
get a cup of coffee. Well, now, go on with your story. Egad, my
dear Abbé, I think it is very likely that what the lad says is true.”
“If it is a family conversation," said the Abbé, “I had better
leave you."
“Oh, for heaven's sake, no! I could not stand the boy alone.
Now, Mister ah !—What's-your-name? Have the goodness to tell
your story.”
Mr. Billings was wofully disconcerted ; for his mother and he had
agreed that as soon as his father saw him he would be recognized
at once, and, mayhap, made heir to the estates and title; in which,
being disappointed, he very sulkily went on with his narrative, and
detailed many of those events with which the reader has already been
made acquainted. The Count asked the boy's mother's Christian
name, and being told it, his memory at once returned to him.
“What! are you little Cat's son?” said his Excellency. “By
heavens, mon cher Abbé, a charming creature, but a tigress-positively
a tigress. I recollect the whole affair now. She's a little, fresh, black-


FATHER AND SON.
123
egad-hamounted her on the black hors
haired woman, a'n't she? with a sharp nose and thick eyebrows,
ay? Ah ! yes, yes,” went on my lord, “I recollect her, I recollect
her. It was at Birmingham I first met her : she was my Lady Trippet's
woman, wasn't she ? ”.
“She was no such thing," said Mr. Billings, hotly. “Her aunt
kept the “ Bugle Inn'on Waltham Green, and your lordship seduced
her."
“Seduced her! Oh, 'gad, so I did. Stap me, now, I did. Yes, I
made her jump on my black horse, and bore her off like-like Æneas
bore away his wife from the siege of Rome ! hey, l'Abbé ? ”
“The events were precisely similar," said the Abbé. "It is
wonderful what a memory you have !”
“I was always remarkable for it," continued his Excellency.
“Well, where was 1,-at the black horse? Yes, at the black horse.
Well, I mounted her on the black horse, and rode her en croupe,
egad-ha, ha !-to Birmingham; and there we billed and cooed
together like a pair of turtle doves : yes—ha !—that we did!”
“And this, I suppose, is the end of some of the biilings ?” said
the Abbé, pointing to Mr. Tom.
“Billings ! what do you mean? Yes--oh-ah-a pun, a calem-
bourg. Fi donc, M. l'Abbé.” And then, after the wont of very stupid
people, M. de Galgenstein went on to explain to the Abbé his own pun.
“Well, but to proceed,” cries he. “We lived together at Birmingham,
and I was going to be married to a rich heiress, egad! when what
do you think this little Cat does ? She murders me, egad! and
makes me manquer the marriage. Twenty thousand, I think it was;
and I wanted the money in those days. Now, wasn't she an
abominable monster, that mother of yours, hey, Mr. a-What's-your-
name?”
“She served you right!” said Mr. Billings, with a great oath,
starting up out of all patience.
“Fellow !” said his Excellency, quite aghast, “ do you know to
whom you speak ?—to a nobleman of seventy-eight descents; a count
of the Holy Roman empire ; a representative of a sovereign ? Ha,
egad! Don't stamp, fellow, if you hope for my protection.”
“D-n your protection !” said Mr. Billings, in a fury. “Curse
you and your protection too! I'm a free-born Briton, and no —
French Papist! And any man who insults my mother-ay, or calls
me feller, had better look to himself and the two eyes in his head, I


124
CATHERINE: A STORY.
can tell him!” And with this Mr. Billings put himself into the most
approved attitude of the Cockpit, and invited his father, the reverend
gentleman, and M. La Rose the valet, to engage with him in a
pugilistic encounter. The two latter, the Abbé especially, seemed
dreadfully frightened ; but the Count now looked on with much
interest; and giving utterance to a feeble kind of chuckle, which
lasted for about half a minute, said, -
“Paws off, Pompey! You young hang-dog, you-egad, yes, aha !
'pon honour, you're a lad of spirit ; some of your father's spunk in
you, hey? I know him by that oath. Why, sir, when I was sixteen,
I used to swear—to swear, egad, like a Thames waterman, and
exactly in this fellow's way! Buss me, my lad; no, kiss my hand.
That will do ”-and he held out a very lean yellow hand, peering from
a pair of yellow ruffles. It shook very much, and the shaking made
all the rings upon it shine only the more.
“Well,” says Mr. Billings, “if you wasn't a-going to abuse me
nor mother, I don't care if I shake hands with you. I ain't proud !”.
The Abbé laughed with great glee; and that very evening sent off
to his court a most ludicrous, spicy description of the whole scene of
meeting between this amiable father and child ; in which he said that
young Billings was the élève favorite of M. Kitch, Ecuyer, le bourreau
de Londres, and which made the Duke's mistress laugh so much
that she vowed that the Abbé should have a bishopric on his return :
for, with such store of wisdom, look you, my son, was the world
governed in those days.
The Count and his offspring meanwhile conversed with some
cordiality. The former informed the latter of all the diseases to
which he was subject, his manner of curing them, his great considera-
tion as chamberlain to the Duke of Bavaria ; how he wore his court
suits, and of a particular powder which he had invented for the hair;
how, when he was seventeen, he had run away with a canoness, egad!
who was afterwards locked up in a convent, and grew to be sixteen
stone in weight ; how he remembered the time when ladies did not
wear patches; and how the Duchess of Marlborough boxed his ears
when he was so high, because he wanted to kiss her.
All these important anecdotes took some time in the telling, and
were accompanied by many profound moral remarks ; such as, “I
can't abide garlic, nor white-wine, stap me! nor Sauerkraut, though
his Highness eats half a bushel per day. I ate it the first time at


A TOUCHING REMINISCENCE.
125
court; but when they brought it ne a second time, I refused —
refused, split me and grill me if I didn't! Everybody stared ; his
Highness looked as fierce as a Turk; and that infernal Krähwinkel
(my dear, I did for him afterwards)—that cursed Krähwinkel, I say,
looked as pleased as possible, and whispered to Countess Fritsch,
* Blitzchen Frau Gräfinn,' says he, “it's all over with Galgenstein.'
What did I do? I had the entrée, and demanded it. “Altesse,' says
I, falling on one knee, 'I ate no Kraut at dinner to-day. You
remarked it : I saw your Highness remark it.'
“I did, M. le Comte,' said his Highness, gravely.
“I had almost tears in my eyes; but it was necessary to come to
a resolution, you know. "Sir,' said I, “I speak with deep grief to
your Highness, who are my benefactor, my friend, my father ; but of
this I am resolved, I WILL NEVER EAT SAUERKRAUT MORE : it don't
agree with me. After being laid up for four weeks by the last dish
of Sauerkraut of which I partook, I may say with confidence-it don't
agree with me. By impairing my health, it impairs my intellect, and
weakens my strength ; and both I would keep for your Highness's
service.'
“Tut, tut !' said his Highness. “Tut, tut, tut!' Those were his
very words.
“Give me my sword or my pen,' said I. 'Give me my sword or
my pen, and with these Maximilian de Galgenstein is ready to serve
you ; but sure,—sure, a great prince will pity the weak health of a
faithful subject, who does not know how to eat Sauerkraut?' His
Highness was walking about the room: I was still on my knees, and
stretched forward my hand to seize his coat.
“GEHT ZUM TEUFEL, sir !' said he, in a loud voice (it means
‘Go to the deuce,' my dear),-'Geht zum Teufel, and eat what you
like!' With this he went out of the room abruptly ; leaving in my
hand one of his buttons, which I keep to this day. As soon as I was
alone, amazed by his great goodness and bounty, I sobbed aloud-
cried like a child” (the Count's eyes filled and winked at the very
recollection), “and when I went back into the card-room, stepping
up to Krähwinkel, ' Count,' says I, “who looks foolish now?'-Hey
there, La Rose, give me the diamond — Yes, that was the very
pun I made, and very good it was thought. “Krähwinkel,' says I,
“who looks foolish now ?' and from that day to this I was never at a
court-day asked to eat Sauerkraut-never."


125
CATHERINE: A STORY.
“Hey there, La Rose! Bring me that diamond snuff-box in the
drawer of my secrétaire ;” and the snuff-box was brought. “Look at
it, my dear,” said the Count," for I saw you seemed to doubt. There
is the button—the very one that came off his grace's coat.”
Mr. Billings received it, and twisted it about with a stupid air.
The story had quite mystified him ; for he did not dare yet to think
his father was a fool-his respect for the aristocracy prevented him.
When the Count's communications had ceased, which they did as
soon as the story of the Sauerkraut was finished, a silence of some
minutes ensued. Mr. Billings was trying to comprehend the circuni-
stances above narrated ; his lordship was exhausted; the chaplain had
quitted the room directly the word Sauerkraut was mentioned-he
knew what was coming. His lordship looked for some time at his
son; who returned the gaze with his mouth wide open. “Well,” said
the Count—“well, sir? What are you sitting there for? If you have
nothing to say, sir, you had better go. I had you here to amuse me
--split me—and not to sit there staring !”.
Mr. Billings rose in a fury.
“ Hark ye, my lad,” said the Count, “ tell La Rose to give thee five
guineas, and, ah—come again some morning. A nice, well-grown
young lad,” mused the Count, as Master Tommy walked wondering
out of the apartment; "a pretty fellow enough, and intelligent too."
“Well, he is an odd fellow, my father," thought Mr. Billings, as
he walked out, having received the sum offered to him. And he
immediately went to call upon his friend Polly Briggs, from whom he
had separated in the morning.
What was the result of their interview is not at all necessary to the
progress of this history. Having made her, however, acquainted with
the particulars of his visit to his father, he went to his mother's, and
related to her all that had occurred.
Poor thing, she was very differently interested in the issue of it !


( 127 )
CHAPTER X.
SHEWING HOW GALGENSTEIN AND MRS. CAT RECOGNIZE EACH OTHER
IN MARYLEBONE GARDENS—AND HOW THE COUNT DRIVES HER
HOME IN HIS CARRIAGE.
ABOUT a month after the touching conversation above related,
A there was given, at Marylebone Gardens, a grand concert and
entertainment, at which the celebrated Madame Aménaïde, a dancer
of the theatre at Paris, was to perform, under the patronage of several
English and foreign noblemen ; among whom was his Excellency the
Bavarian Envoy. Madame Aménaïde was, in fact, no other than the
maîtresse en titre of the Monsieur de Galgenstein, who had her a great
bargain from the Duke de Rohan-Chabot at Paris.
It is not our purpose to make a great and learned display here,
otherwise the costumes of the company assembled at this fête might
afford scope for at least half-a-dozen pages of fine writing ; and we
might give, if need were, specimens of the very songs and music sung
on the occasion. Does not the Burney collection of music, at the
British Museum, afford one an ample store of songs from which to
choose? Are there not the memoirs of Colley Cibber? those of
Mrs. Clark, the daughter of Colley? Is there not Congreve, and
Farquhar—nay, and at a pinch, the “Dramatic Biography,” or even
the Spectator, from which the observant genius might borrow passages,
and construct pretty antiquarian figments ? Leave we these trifles to
meaner souls ! Our business is not with the breeches and periwigs,
with the hoops and patches, but with the divine hearts of men, and
the passions which agitate them. What need, therefore, have we to
say that on this evening, after the dancing, the music, and the fire-
works, Monsieur de Galgenstein felt the strange and welcome pangs
of appetite, and was picking a cold chicken, along with some other
friends, in an arbour-a cold chicken, with an accompaniment of a
bottle of champagne-when he was led to remark that a very hand-
some, plump little person, in a gorgeous stiff damask gown and
petticoat, was sauntering up and down the walk running opposite his
supping-place, and bestowing continual glances towards his Excellency.


128
CATHERINE: A STORY.
The lady, whoever she was, was in a mask, such as ladies of high and
low fashion wore at public places in those days, and had a male
companion. He was a lad of only seventeen, marvellously well
dressed—indeed, no other than the Count's own son, Mr. Thomas
Billings; who had at length received from his mother the silver-hilted
sword, and the wig, which that affectionate parent had promised
to him.
In the course of the month which had elapsed since the interview
that has been described in the former chapter, Mr. Billings had
several times had occasion to wait on his father, but though he had,
according to her wishes, frequently alluded to the existence of his
mother, the Count had never at any time expressed the slightest wish
to renew his acquaintance with that lady; who, if she had seen him,
had only seen him by stealth.
The fact is, that after Billings had related to her the particulars of
his first meeting with his Excellency; which ended, like many of the
latter visits, in nothing at all ; Mrs. Hayes had found some pressing
business, which continually took her to Whitehall, and had been
prowling from day to day about Monsieur de Galgenstein's lodgings.
Four or five times in the week, as his Excellency stepped into his
coach, he might have remarked, had he chosen, a woman in a black
hood, who was looking most eagerly into his eyes : but those eyes had
long since left off the practice of observing; and Madam Catherine's
visits had so far gone for nothing.
On this night, however, inspired by gaiety and drink, the Count
had been amazingly stricken by the gait and ogling of the lady in the
mask. The Reverend O'Flaherty, who was with him, and had
observed the figure in the black cloak, recognized, or thought he
recognized, her. “It is the woman who dogs your Excellency every
day,” said he. “She is with that tailor lad who loves to see people
hanged—your Excellency's son, I mean.” And he was just about to
warn the Count of a conspiracy evidently made against him, and that
the son had brought, most likely, the mother to play her arts upon
him/he was just about, I say, to show to the Count the folly and
danger of renewing an old liaison with a woman such as he had
described Mrs. Cat to be, when his Excellency, starting up, and
interrupting his ghostly adviser at the very beginning of his sentence,
said, “ Egad, l'Abbé, you are right-it is my son, and a mighty smart-
looking creature with him. Hey! Mr. What's-your-name-Tom, you


AN OVERWHELMING RECOGNITION.
129
rogue, don't you know your own father?” And so saying, and
cocking his beaver on one side, Monsieur de Galgenstein strutted
jauntily after Mr. Billings and the lady.
It was the first time that the Count had formally recognized
his son.
“ Tom, you rogue,” stopped at this, and the Count came up. He
had a white velvet suit, covered over with stars and orders, a neat
modest wig and bag, and peach-coloured silk-stockings with silver
clasps. The lady in the mask gave a start as his Excellency came
forward. “Law, mother, don't squeege so," said Tom. The poor
woman was trembling in every limb; but she had presence of mind
to “squeege” Tom a great deal harder; and the latter took the hint,
I suppose, and was silent.
The splendid Count came up. Ye gods, how his embroidery
glittered in the lamps ! What a royal exhalation of musk and
bergamot came from his wig, his handkerchief, and his grand lace
ruffles and frills ! A broad yellow riband passed across his breast,
and ended at his hip in a shining diamond cross—a diamond cross,
and a diamond sword-hilt! Was anything ever seen so beautiful ?
And might not a poor woman tremble when such a noble creature
drew near to her, and deigned, from the height of his rank and
splendour, to look down upon her? As Jove came down to Semele
in state, in his habits of ceremony, with all the grand cordons of his
orders blazing about his imperial person—thus dazzling, magnificent,
triumphant, the great Galgenstein descended towards Mrs. Catherine.
Her cheeks glowed red hot under her coy velvet mask, her heart
thumped against the whalebone prison of her stays. What a
delicious storm of vanity was raging in her bosom! What a rush of
long-pent recollections burst forth at the sound of that enchanting
voice !
As you wind up a hundred-guinea chronometer with a twopenny
watch-key-as by means of a dirty wooden plug you set all the waters
of Versailles a-raging, and splashing, and storming—in like manner,
and by like humble agents, were Mrs. Catherine's tumultuous passions
set going. The Count, we have said, slipped up to his son, and
merely saying, “How do, Tom ?” cut the young gentleman altogether,
and passing round to the lady's side, said, “ Madam, 'tis a charming
evening-egad it is !” She almost fainted : it was the old voice.
There he was, after seventeen years, once more at her side !


130
CATHERINE: A STORY.
Now I know what I could have done. I can turn out a quotation
from Sophocles (by looking to the index) as well as another : I can
throw off a bit of fine writing too, with passion, similes, and a moral
at the end. What, pray, is the last sentence but one but the very
finest writing? Suppose, for example, I had made Maximilian, as he
stood by the side of Catherine, look up towards the clouds, and
exclaim, in the words of the voluptuous Cornelius Nepos,
'Αέναοι νεφέλαι
'Αρθώμεν φανεραι
Apooepàv púou xváyntoi, k. 7.1.
Or suppose, again, I had said, in a style still more popular :--The
Count advanced towards the maiden. They both were mute for a
while; and only the beating of her heart interrupted that thrilling and
passionate silence. Ah, what years of buried joys and fears, hopes
and disappointments, arose from their graves in the far past, and in
those brief moments flitted before the united ones! How sad was
that delicious retrospect, and oh, how sweet! The tears that rolled
down the cheek of each were bubbles from the choked and moss-
grown wells of youth ; the sigh that heaved each bosom had some
lurking odours in it-memories of the fragrance of boyhood, echoes
of the hymns of the young heart! Thus is it ever-for these blessed
recollections the soul always has a place; and while crime perishes,
and sorrow is forgotten, the beautiful alone is eternal.
“O golden legends, written in the skies !” mused De Galgenstein,
"ye shine as ye did in the olden days! We change, but ye speak
ever the same language. Gazing in your abysmal depths, the feeble
ratioci - "
*
*
*
*
There, now, are six columns * of the best writing to be found in
this or any other book. Galgenstein has quoted Euripides thrice,
Plato once, Lycophron nine times, besides extracts from the Latin
syntax and the minor Greek poets. Catherine's passionate embreathings
* There were six columns, as mentioned by the accurate Mr. Solomons; but
we have withdrawn two pages and three-quarters, because, although our corre-
spondent has been excessively eloquent, according to custom, we were anxious to
come to the facts of the story.
Mr. Solomons, by sending to our office, may have the cancelled passages. -0. Y.


A CONVIVIAL MENTOR.
131
are of the most fashionable order; and I call upon the ingenious
critic of the X- newspaper to say whether they do not possess the
real impress of the giants of the olden time—the real Platonic smack,
in a word ? Not that I want in the least to show off; but it is as
well, every now and then, to show the public what one can do.
Instead, however, of all this rant and nonsense, how much finer
is the speech that the Count really did make? “It is a very fine
evening, -egad it is !” The “egad” did the whole business :
Mrs. Cat was as much in love with him now as ever she had been ;
and, gathering up all her energies, she said, “It is dreadful hot too, I
think ;” and with this she made a curtsey.
“Stifling, split me !” added his Excellency. “What do you say,
madam, to a rest in an arbour, and a drink of something cool ?”
“Sir !” said the lady, drawing back.
“Oh, a drink-a drink by all means,"exclaimed Mr. Billings, who
was troubled with a perpetual thirst. “Come, mo— , Mrs. Jones, I
mean : you're fond of a glass of cold punch, you know; and the rum
here is prime, I can tell you."
The lady in the mask consented with some difficulty to the
proposal of Mr. Billings, and was led by the two gentlemen into an
arbour, where she was seated between them; and some wax-candles
being lighted, punch was brought.
She drank one or two glasses very eagerly, and so did her two
companions ; although it was evident to see, from the flushed looks
of both of them, that they had little need of any such stimulus. The
Count, in the midst of his champagne, it must be said, had been
amazingly stricken and scandalized by the appearance of such a youth
as Billings in a public place, with a lady under his arm. He was, the
reader will therefore understand, in the moral stage of liquor; and
when he issued out, it was not merely with the intention of examining
Mr. Billings's female companion, but of administering to him some
sound correction for venturing, at his early period of life, to form any
such acquaintances. On joining Billings, his Excellency's first step
was naturally to examine the lady. After they had been sitting for a
while over their punch, he bethought him of his original purpose, and
began to address a number of moral remarks to his son.
We have already given some specimens of Monsieur de Galgen:
stein's sober conversation; and it is hardly necessary to trouble the
reader with any further reports of his speeches. They were intolerably


132
CATHERINE: A STORY.
stupid and dull; as egotistical as his morning lecture had been, and
a hundred times more rambling and prosy. If Cat had been in the
possession of her sober senses, she would have seen in five minutes
that her ancient lover was a ninny, and have left him with scorn; but
she was under the charm of old recollections, and the sound of that
silly voice was to her magical. As for Mr. Billings, he allowed his
Excellency to continue his prattle ; only frowning, yawning, cursing
occasionally, but drinking continually.
So the Count descanted at length upon the enormity of young
Billings's early liaisons; and then he told his own, in the year four,
with a burgomaster's daughter at Ratisbon, when he was in the
Elector of Bavaria's service-then, after Blenheim, when he had come
over to the Duke of Marlborough, when a physician's wife at Bonn
poisoned herself for him, &c. &c.; of a piece with the story of the
canoness, which has been recorded before. All the tales were true.
A clever, ugly man every now and then is successful with the ladies;
but a handsome fool is irresistible. Mrs. Cat listened and listened.
Good heavens ! she had heard all these tales before, and recollected
the place and the time-how she was hemming a handkerchief for
Max; who came round and kissed her, vowing that the physician's
wife was nothing compared to her-how he was tired, and lying on
the sofa, just come home from shooting. How handsome he looked !
Cat thought he was only the handsomer now; and looked more grave
and thoughtful, the dear fellow !
The garden was filled with a vast deal of company of all kinds,
and parties were passing every moment before the arbour where our
trio sat. About half-an-hour after his Excellency had quitted his own
box and party, the Rev. Mr. O'Flaherty came discreetly round, to
examine the proceedings of his diplomatical chef. The lady in the
mask was listening with all her might ; Mr. Billings was drawing figures
on the table with punch ; and the Count talking incessantly. The
Father Confessor listened for a moment; and then, with something
resembling an oath, walked away to the entry of the gardens, where
his Excellency's gilt coach, with three footmen, was waiting to carry
him back to London. “Get me a chair, Joseph,” said his Reverence,
who infinitely preferred a seat gratis in the coach. “That fool,"
muttered he, “will not move for this hour.” The reverend gentleman
knew that, when the Count was on the subject of the physician's wife,
his discourses were intolerably long; and took upon himself, therefore,


A BACCHANALIAN CHORUS.
133
to disappear, along with the rest of the Count's party ; who procured
other conveyances, and returned to their homes.
After this quiet shadow had passed before the Count's box, many
groups of persons passed and repassed; and among them was
no other than Mrs. Polly Briggs, to whom we have been already
introduced. Mrs. Polly was in company with one or two other ladies,
and leaning on the arm of a gentleman with large shoulders and calves,
a fierce cock to his hat, and a shabby genteel air. His name was
Mr. Moffat, and his present occupation was that of door-keeper at a
gambling-house in Covent Garden; where, though he saw many
thousands pass daily under his eyes, his own salary amounted to no
more than four-and-sixpence weekly,—a sum quite insufficient to
maintain him in the rank which he held.
Mr. Moffat had, however, received some funds-amounting, indeed,
to a matter of twelve guineas—within the last month, and was treating
Mrs. Briggs very generously to the concert. It may be as well to say
that every one of the twelve guineas had come out of Mrs. Polly's
own pocket; who, in return, had received them from Mr. Billings.
And as the reader may remember that, on the day of Tommy's first
interview with his father, he had previously paid a visit to Mrs. Briggs,
having under his arm a pair of breeches, which Mrs. Briggs coveted-
he should now be informed that she desired these breeches, not for pin-
cushions, but for Mr. Moffat, who had long been in want of a pair.
Having thus episodically narrated Mr. Moffat's history, let us
state that he, his lady, and their friends, passed before the Count's
arbour, joining in a melodious chorus to a song which one of the
society, an actor of Betterton's, was singing :-
"'Tis my will, when I'm dead, that no tear shall be shed,
No Hic jacet' be graved on my stone ;
But pour o'er my ashes a bottle of red,
And say a good fellow is gone,
My brave boys !
And say a good fellow is gone."
“My brave boys” was given with vast emphasis by the party;
Mr. Moffat growling it in a rich bass, and Mrs. Briggs in a soaring
treble. As to the notes, when quavering up to the skies, they excited
various emotions among the people in the gardens. “Silence them
blackguards !” shouted a barber, who was taking a pint of small
beer along with his lady. “Stop that there infernal screeching !"


134
CATHERINE: A STORY.
said a couple of ladies, who were sipping ratafia in company with two
pretty fellows.
“Dang it, it's Polly !” said Mr. Tom Billings, bolting out of the
box, and rushing towards the sweet-voiced Mrs. Briggs. When he
reached her, which he did quickly, and made his arrival known by
tipping Mrs. Briggs slightly on the waist, and suddenly bouncing down
before her and her friend, both of the latter drew back somewhat
startled.
“ Law, Mr. Billings !” says Mrs. Polly, rather coolly, “is it you?
Who thought of seeing you here ?”
“Who's this here young feller ?" says towering Mr. Moffat, with
his bass voice.
“It's Mr. Billings, cousin, a friend of mine," said Mrs. Polly,
beseechingly.
“Oh, cousin, if it's a friend of yours, he should know better how
to conduct himself, that's all. Har you a dancing-master, young
feller, that you cut them there capers before gentlemen ? ” growled
Mr. Moffat; who hated Mr. Billings, for the excellent reason that he
lived upon him.
“Dancing-master be hanged !" said Mr. Billings, with becoming
spirit : “ if you call me dancing-master, I'll pull your nose."
“What !” roared Mr. Moffat, “pull my nose? My nose! I'll
tell you what, my lad, if you durst move me, I'll cut your throat,
curse me!”
“Oh, Moffy-cousin, I mean—'tis a shame to treat the poor boy
so. Go away, Tommy ; do go away ; my cousin's in liquor,"
whimpered Madam Briggs, who really thought that the great door-
keeper would put his threat into execution.
“ Tommy !” said Mr. Moffat, frowning horribly; “ Tommy to me
too? Dog, get out of my ssss__” sight was the word which
Mr. Moffat intended to utter ; but he was interrupted ; for, to the
astonishment of his friends and himself, Mr. Billings did actually
make a spring at the monster's nose, and caught it so firmly, that the
latter could not finish his sentence.
The operation was performed with amazing celerity ; and, having
concluded it, Mr. Billings sprung back, and whisked from out its
sheath that new silver-hilted sword which his mamma had given him.
“Now," said he, with a fierce kind of calmness, “now for the throat-
cutting, cousin : I'm your man!"


MRS. CATHERINE UNMASKS.
135
lemen actuand, restored, which, with
How the brawl might have ended, no one can say, had the two
gentlemen actually crossed swords; but Mrs. Polly, with a wonderful
presence of mind, restored peace by exclaiming, “Hush, hush! the
beaks, the beaks !” Upon which, with one common instinct, the
whole party made a rush for the garden gates, and disappeared into
the fields. Mrs. Briggs knew her company : there was something in
the very name of a constable which sent them all a-flying.
After running a reasonable time, Mr. Billings stopped. But the
great Moffat was nowhere to be seen, and Polly Briggs had likewise
vanished. Then Tom bethought him that he would go back to
his mother ; but, arriving at the gate of the gardens, was refused
admittance, as he had not a shilling in his pocket. “I've left," says
Tommy, giving himself the airs of a gentleman, “some friends in the
gardens. I'm with his Excellency the Bavarian henvy."
“ Then you had better go away with him” said the gate people.
“But I tell you I left him there, in the grand circle, with a
lady; and, what's more, in the dark walk, I have left a silver-hilted
sword.”
“Oh, my lord, I'll go and tell him then," cried one of the porters,
* If you will wait, eated his
Mr. Billings seated himself on a post near the gate, and there
consented to remain until the return of his messenger. The latter
went straight to the dark walk, and found the sword, sure enough.
But, instead of returning it to its owner, this discourteous knight
broke the trenchant blade at the hilt ; and flinging the steel away,
pocketed the baser silver metal, and lurked off by the private door
consecrated to the waiters and fiddlers...
In the meantime, Mr. Billings waited and waited. And what was
the conversation of his worthy parents inside the garden? I cannot
say; but one of the waiters declared that he had served the great
foreign Count with two bowls of rack-punch, and some biscuits, in
No. 3: that in the box with him were first a young gentleman, who
went away, and a lady, splendidly. dressed and masked : that when
the lady and his lordship were alone, she edged away to the further
end of the table, and they had much talk : that at last, when his Grace
had pressed her very much, she took off her mask and said, “ Don't
you know me now, Max?” that he cried out, “My own Catherine,
thou art more beautiful than ever !” and wanted to kneel down and
vow eternal love to her ; but she begged him not to do so in a place
ted to theme, Mr. Billingsarents insid


136
CATHERIVE: A STORY.
where all the world would see : that then his Highness paid, and they
left the gardens, the lady putting on her mask again.
When they issued from the gardens, “ Ho! Joseph La Rose, my
coach !" shouted his Excellency, in rather a husky voice; and the
men who had been waiting came up with the carriage. A young
gentleman, who was dozing on one of the posts at the entry, woke
up suddenly at the blaze of the torches and the noise of the footmen.
The Count gave his arm to the lady in the mask, who slipped in ;
and he was whispering La Rose, when the lad who had been sleeping
hit his Excellency on the shoulder, and said, “I say, Count, you can
give me a cast home too," and jumped into the coach.
When Catherine saw her son, she threw herself into his arms, and
kissed him with a burst of hysterical tears ; of which Mr. Billings
was at a loss to understand the meaning. The Count joined them,
looking not a little disconcerted ; and the pair were landed at their
own door, where stood Mr. Hayes, in his nightcap, ready to receive
them, and astounded at the splendour of the equipage in which his
wife returned to him.


( 137 )
CHAPTER XI.
OF SOME DOMESTIC QUARRELS, AND THE CONSEQUENCE THEREOF.
AN ingenious magazine-writer, who lived in the time of Mr. Brock
A and the Duke of Marlborough, compared the latter gentle-
man's conduct in battle, when he
" In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons lent the timely aid ;
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage "-
Mr. Joseph Addison, I say, compared the Duke of Marlborough
to an angel, who is sent by Divine command to chastise a guilty
people-
" And pleased his Masier's orders to perform,
Rides on the whirlwind, and directs the storm."
The four first of these novel lines touch off the Duke's disposition
and genius to a tittle. He had a love for such scenes of strife : in
the midst of them his spirit rose calm and supreme, soaring (like an
angel or not, but anyway the compliment is a very pretty one) on
the battle-clouds majestic, and causing to ebb or to flow the mighty
tide of war.
But as this famous simile might apply with equal propriety to a
bad angel as to a good one, it may in like manner be employed to
illustrate small quarrels as well as great—a little family squabble, in
which two or three people are engaged, as well as a vast national
dispute, argued on each side by the roaring throats of five hundred
angry cannon. The poet means, in fact, that the Duke of Marl-
borough had an immense genius for mischief.
Our friend Brock, or Wood (whose actions we love to illustrate
by the very handsomest similes), possessed this genius in common
with his Grace; and was never so happy, or seen to so much
advantage, as when he was employed in setting people by the ears.
His spirits, usually dull, then rose into the utmost gaiety and good-
humour. When the doubtful battle flagged, he by his art would


138
CATHERINE: A STORY.
instantly restore it. When, for instance, Tom's repulsed battalions
of rhetoric fled from his mamma's fire, a few words of apt sneer or
encouragement on Wood's part would bring the fight round again;
or when Mr. Hayes's fainting squadrons of abuse broke upon the
stubborn squares of Tom's bristling obstinacy, it was Wood's delight
to rally the former, and bring him once more to the charge. A great
share had this man in making those bad people worse. Many fierce
words and bad passions, many falsehoods and knaveries on Tom's
part, much bitterness, scorn, and jealousy on the part of Hayes and
Catherine, might be attributed to this hoary old tempter, whose joy
and occupation it was to raise and direct the domestic storms and
whirlwinds of the family of which he was a member. And do not
let us be accused of an undue propensity to use sounding words,
because we compare three scoundrels in the Tyburn Road to so
many armies, and Mr. Wood to a mighty field-marshal. My dear sir,
when you have well studied the world-how supremely great the
meanest thing in this world is, and how infinitely mean the greatest
-I am mistaken if you do not make a strange and proper jumble of
the sublime and the ridiculous, the lofty and the low. I have looked
at the world, for my part, and come to the conclusion that I know
not which is which.
Well, then, on the night when Mrs. Hayes, as recorded by us,
had been to the Marylebone Gardens, Mr. Wood had found the
sincerest enjoyment in plying her husband with drink ; so that, when
Catherine arrived at home, Mr. Hayes came forward to meet her in a
manner which showed that he was not only surly but drunk. Tom
stepped out of the coach first ; and Hayes asked him, with an oath,
where he had been? The oath Mr. Billings sternly flung back
again (with another in its company), and at the same time refused to
give his stepfather any sort of answer to his query.
“ The old man is drunk, mother,” said he to Mrs. Hayes, as he
handed that lady out of the coach (before leaving which she had to
withdraw her hand rather violently from the grasp of the Count, who
was inside). Hayes instantly showed the correctness of his surmise
by slamming the door courageously in Tom's face, when he
attempted to enter the house with his mother. And when
Mrs. Catherine remonstrated, according to her wont, in a very angry
and supercilious tone, Mr. Hayes replied with equal haughtiness, and
a regular quarrel ensued.


A MATRIMONIAL FRACAS.
139
People were accustomed in those days to use much more simple
and expressive terms of language than are now thought polite ; and
it would be dangerous to give, in this present year 1840, the exact
words of reproach which passed between Hayes and his wife in 1726.
Mr. Wood sat near, laughing his sides out. Mr. Hayes swore that
his wife should not go abroad to tea-gardens in search of vile
Popish noblemen ; to which Mrs. Hayes replied, that Mr. Hayes
was a pitiful, lying, sneaking cur, and that she would go where she
pleased. Mr. Hayes rejoined, that if she said much more he would
take a stick to her. Mr. Wood whispered, “ And serve her right.”
Mrs. Hayes thereupon swore she had stood his cowardly blows once
or twice before, but that if ever he did so again, as sure as she was
born, she would stab him. Mr. Wood said, “Curse me, but I like
her spirit.”
Mr. Hayes took another line of argument, and said, “The neigh-
bours would talk, madam.”
“Ay, that they will, no doubt,” said Mr. Wood.
“ Then let them,” said Catherine. “What do we care about the
neighbours? Didn't the neighbours talk when you sent Widow
Wilkins to gaol ? Didn't the neighbours talk when you levied
on poor old Thomson? You didn't mind then, Mr. Hayes."
“ Business, ma'am, is business ; and if I did distrain on
Thomson, and lock up Wilkins, I think you knew about it as much
as I.”
“I'faith, I believe you're a pair,” said Mr. Wood.
“ Pray, sir, keep your tongue to yourself. Your opinion isn't
asked anyhow, no, nor your company wanted neither," cried
Mrs. Catherine, with proper spirit.
At which remark Mr. Wood only whistled.
“I have asked this here gentleman to pass this evening along with
me. We've been drinking together, ma'am.”
“That we have,” said Mr. Wood, looking at Mrs. Cat with the
most perfect good-humour.
“I say, ma'am, that we've been a-drinking together; and when
we've been a-drinking together, I say that a man is my friend.
Dr. Wood is my friend, madam--the Rev. Dr. Wood. We've
passed the evening in company, talking about politics, madam-
politics and riddle-iddle-igion. We've not been flaunting in tea-
gardens, and ogling the men.”


140
CATHERINE: A STORY.
“It's a lie !” shrieked Mrs. Hayes. “I went with Tom-you
know I did : the boy wouldn't let me rest till I promised to go.”
“Hang him, I hate him," said Mr. Hayes : “he's always in my
way."
“He's the only friend I have in the world, and the only being I
care a pin for,” said Catherine.
"He's an impudent, idle, good-for-nothing scoundrel, and I
hope to see him hanged !” shouted Mr. Hayes. “And pray,
madam, whose carriage was that as you came home in ? I warrant
you paid something for the ride-Ha, ha !”
“Another lie !” screamed Cat, and clutched hold of a supper-
knife. “Say it again, John Hayes, and by --, Ill do for you."
“Do for me? Hang me," said Mr. Hayes, flourishing a stick,
and perfectly pot-valiant, “ do you think I care for a bastard and
a - ?”
He did not finish the sentence, for the woman ran at him like a
savage, knife in hand. He bounded back, flinging his arms about
wildly, and struck her with his staff sharply across the forehead.
The woman went down instantly. A lucky blow was it for Hayes
and her : it saved him from death, perhaps, and her from murder.
All this scene-a very important one of our drama—might have
been described at much greater length ; but, in truth, the author has
a natural horror of dwelling too long upon such hideous spectacles :
nor would the reader be much edified by a full and accurate
knowledge of what took place. The quarrel, however, though not
more violent than many that had previously taken place between
Hayes and his wife, was about to cause vast changes in the condition
of this unhappy pair.
Hayes was at the first moment of his victory very much
alarmed; he feared that he had killed the woman; and Wood
started up rather anxiously too, with the same fancy. But she soon
began to recover. Water was brought; her head was raised and
bound up; and in a short time Mrs. Catherine gave vent to a
copious fit of tears, which relieved her somewhat. These did not
affect Hayes much-they rather pleased him, for he saw he had got
the better; and although Cat fiercely turned upon him when he
made some small attempt towards reconciliation, he did not heed
her anger, but smiled and winked in a self-satisfied way at Wood.
The coward was quite proud of his victory; and finding Catherine


THE NIGHT OF THE QUARREL.
141
asleep, or apparently so, when he followed her to bed, speedily gave
himself up to slumber too, and had some pleasant dreams to his
portion.
Mr. Wood also went sniggering and happy upstairs to his
chamber. The quarrel had been a real treat to him ; it excited
the old man-tickled him into good-humour ; and he promised
himself a rare continuation of the fun when Tom should be made
acquainted with the circumstances of the dispute. As for his
Excellency the Count, the ride from Marylebone Gardens, and a
tender squeeze of the hand which Catherine permitted to him on
parting, had so inflamed the passions of the nobleman, that after
sleeping for nine hours, and taking his chocolate as usual the next
morning, he actually delayed to read the newspaper, and kept
waiting a toy-shop lady from Cornbill (with the sweetest bargain of
mechlin lace), in order to discourse to his chaplain on the charms of
Mrs. Hayes.
She, poor thing, never closed her lids, except when she would
have had Mr. Hayes imagine that she slumbered; but lay beside
him, tossing and tumbling, with hot eyes wide open, and heart
thumping, and pulse of a hundred and ten, and heard the heavy
hours tolling; and at last the day came peering, haggard, through
the window-curtains, and found her still wakeful and wretched.
Mrs. Hayes had never been, as we have seen, especially fond of
her lord ; but now, as the day made visible to her the sleeping figure
and countenance of that gentleman, she looked at hin with a
contempt and loathing such as she had never felt even in all the
years of her wedded life. Mr. Hayes was snoring profoundly : by
his bedside, on his ledger, stood a large greasy tin candlestick,
containing a lank tallow-candle, turned down in the shaft; and in
the lower part, his keys, purse, and tobacco-pipe; his feet were
huddled up in his greasy threadbare clothes ; his head and half his
sallow face muffled up in a red woollen nightcap ; his beard was
of several days' growth; his mouth was wide open, and he was
snoring profoundly : on a more despicable little creature the sun
never shone. And to this sordid wretch was Catherine united for
ever. What a pretty rascal history might be read in yonder
greasy day-book, which never left the miser !-he never read in any
other. Of what a treasure were yonder keys and purse the keepers !
not a shilling they guarded but was picked from the pocket of


142
CATHERINE: A STORY.
necessity, plundered from needy wantonness, or pitilessly squeezed
from starvation. “A fool, a miser, and a coward! Why was I
bound to this wretch ?” thought Catherine : "I, who am high-
spirited and beautiful (did not he tell me so ?); I who, born a
beggar, have raised myself to competence, and might have
mounted—who knows whither ?—if cursed Fortune had not baulked
me !"
As Mrs. Cat did not utter these sentiments, but only thought
them, we have a right to clothe her thoughts in the genteelest possible
language; and, to the best of our power, have done so. If the
reader examines Mrs. Hayes's train of reasoning, he will not, we
should think, fail to perceive how ingeniously she managed to fix
all the wrong upon her husband, and yet to twist out some consolatory
arguments for her own vanity. This perverse argumentation we have
all of us, no doubt, employed in our time. How often have we,-
we poets, politicians, philosophers, family-men-found charming
excuses for our own rascalities in the monstrous wickedness of the
world about us; how loudly have we abused the times and our
neighbours ! All this devil's logic did Mrs. Catherine, lying wakeful
in her bed on the night of the Marylebone fête, exert in gloomy
triumph.
It must, however, be confessed, that nothing could be more just
than Mrs. Hayes's sense of her husband's scoundrelism and mean-
ness; for if we have not proved these in the course of this history, we
have proved nothing. Mrs. Cat had a shrewd, observing mind; and
if she wanted for proofs against Hayes, she had but to look before
and about her to find them. This amiable pair were lying in a large
walnut-bed, with faded silk furniture, which had been taken from
under a respectable old invalid widow, who had become security for
a prodigal son; the room was hung round with an antique tapestry
(representing Rebecca at the Well, Bathsheba Bathing, Judith and
Holofernes, and other subjects from Holy Writ), which had been
many score times sold for fifty pounds, and bought back by Mr. Hayes
for two, in those accommodating bargains which he made with
young gentlemen, who received fifty pounds of money and fifty of
tapestry in consideration of their hundred-pound bills. Against this
tapestry, and just cutting off Holofernes's head, stood an enormous
ominous black clock, the spoil of some other usurious transaction.
Some chairs, and a dismal old black cabinet, completed the fur-


THE GAZE OF A GORGON.
143
niture of this apartment: it wanted but a ghost to render its gloom
complete.
Mrs. Hayes sat up in the bed sternly regarding her husband.
There is, be sure, a strong magnetic influence in wakeful eyes so
examining a sleeping person (do not you, as a boy, remember waking
of bright summer mornings and finding your mother looking over
you? had not the gaze of her tender eyes stolen into your senses
long before you woke, and cast over your slumbering spirit a sweet
spell of peace, and love, and fresh-springing joy ?) Some such
influence had Catherine's looks upon her husband : for, as he slept
under them, the man began to writhe about uneasily, and to burrow
his head in the pillow, and to utter quick, strange moans and cries,
such as have often jarred one's ear while watching at the bed of the
feverish sleeper. It was just upon six, and presently the clock began
to utter those dismal grinding sounds, which issue from clocks at
such periods, and which sound like the death-rattle of the departing
hour. Then the bell struck the knell of it; and with this
Mr. Hayes awoke, and looked up, and saw Catherine gazing
at him.
Their eyes met for an instant, and Catherine turned away, burning
red, and looking as if she had been caught in the commission of
a crime.
A kind of blank terror seized upon old Hayes's soul: a horrible
icy fear, and presentiment of coming evil ; and yet the woman had
but looked at him. He thought rapidly over the occurrences of the
last night, the quarrel, and the end of it. He had often struck her
before when angry, and heaped all kinds of bitter words upon her ;
but, in the morning, she bore no malice, and the previous quarrel
was forgotten, or, at least, passed over. Why should the last night's
dispute not have the same end? Hayes calculated all this, and tried
to smile.
"I hope we're friends, Cat ?" said he. “You know I was in
liquor last night, and sadly put out by the loss of that fifty pound.
They'll ruin me, dear, I know they will.”
Mrs. Hayes did not answer.
“I should like to see the country again, dear,” said he, in his
most wheedling way. “I've a mind, do you know, to call in all our
money? It's you who've made every farthing of it, that's sure ; and
it's a matter of two thousand pound by this time. Suppose we go


144
CATHERINE: A STORY.
into Warwickshire, Cat, and buy a farm, and live genteel. Shouldn't
you like to live a lady in your own county again? How they'd
stare at Birmingham ! hey, Cat?”.
And with this Mr. Hayes made a motion, as if he would seize his
wife's hand, but she flung his back again.
“ Coward !” said she, “ you want liquor to give you courage, and
then you've only heart enough to strike women.”
“It was only in self-defence, my dear,” said Hayes, whose courage
was all gone. “You tried, you know, to—o— ".
“ To stab you; and I wish I had !” said Mrs. Hayes, setting her
teeth, and glaring at him like a demon ; and so saying she sprung
out of bed. There was a great stain of blood on her pillow. “Look
at it,” said she. “That blood's of your shedding !” and at this Hayes
fairly began to weep, so utterly downcast and frightened was the
miserable man. The wretch's tears only inspired his wife with a still
greater rage and loathing; she cared not so much for the blow, but
she hated the man : the man to whom she was tied for ever-for
ever! The bar between her and wealth, happiness, love, rank
perhaps. “If I were free,” thought Mrs. Hayes (the thought had
been sitting at her pillow all night, and whispering ceaselessly into
her ear) “If I were free, Max would marry me; I know he would :
-he said so yesterday !”
As if by a kind of intuition, old Wood seemed to read all this
woman's thoughts; for he said that day with a sneer, that he would
wager she was thinking how much better it would be to be a Count's
lady than a poor miser's wife. “And faith," said he, "a Count and
a chariot-and-six is better than an old skinflint with a cudgel.” And
then he asked her if her head was better, and supposed that she was
used to beating ; and cut sundry other jokes, which made the poor
wretch's wounds of mind and body feel a thousand times sorer.
Tom, too, was made acquainted with the dispute, and swore his
accustomed vengeance against his stepfather. Such feelings, Wood,
with a dexterous malice, would never let rest ; it was his joy, at first
quite a disinterested one, to goad Catherine and to frighten Hayes :
though, in truth, that unfortunate creature had no occasion for incite-
ments from without to keep up the dreadful state of terror and
depression into which he had fallen.
For, from the morning after the quarrel, the horrible words and


AN ABODE OF THE FURIES.
145
looks of Catherine never left Hayes's memory; but a cold fear
followed him-a dreadful prescience. He strove to overcome this
fate as a coward would—to kneel to it for compassion—to coax and
wheedle it into forgiveness. He was slavishly gentle to Catherine,
and bore her fierce taunts with mean resignation. He trembled
before young Billings, who was now established in the house (his
mother said, to protect her against the violence of her husband), and
suffered his brutal language and conduct without venturing to resist.
The young man and his mother lorded over the house : Hayes
hardly dared to speak in their presence ; seldom sat with the family
except at meals; but slipped away to his chamber (he slept apart
now from his wife) or passed the evening at the public-house, where
he was constrained to drink-to spend some of his beloved sixpences
for drink!
And, of course, the neighbours began to say, “ John Hayes
neglects his wife.” “He tyrannizes over her, and beats her.”
“Always at the public-house, leaving an honest woman alone at
home!”
The unfortunate wretch did not hate his wife. He was used to
her-fond of her as much as he could be fond-sighed to be friends
with her again-repeatedly would creep, whimpering, to Wood's
room, when the latter was alone, and beg him to bring about a
reconciliation. They were reconciled, as much as ever they could be.
The woman looked at him, thought what she might be but for him,
and scorned and loathed him with a feeling that almost amounted to
insanity. What nights she lay awake, weeping and cursing herself
and him! His humility and beseeching looks only made him more
despicable and hateful to her.
If Hayes did not hate the mother, however, he hated the boy-
hated and feared him dreadfully. He would have poisoned him if
he had had the courage ; but he dared not: he dared not even
look at him as he sat there, the master of the house, in insolent
triumph. O God! how the lad's brutal laughter rung in Hayes's
ears; and how the stare of his fierce, bold black eyes pursued him !
Of a truth, if Mr. Wood loved mischief, as he did, honestly and
purely for mischief's sake, he had enough here. There was mean
malice, and fierce scorn, and black revenge, and sinful desire, boiling
up in the hearts of these wretched people, enough to content
Mr. Wood's great master himself.
IO


146
CATHERINE: A STORY.
Hayes's business, as we have said, was nominally that of a
carpenter; but since, for the last few years, he had added to it
that of a lender of money, the carpenter's trade had been neglected
altogether for one so much more profitable. Mrs. Hayes had exerted
herself, with much benefit to her husband, in his usurious business.
She was a resolute, clear-sighted, keen woman, that did not love
money, but loved to be rich and push her way in the world. She
would have nothing to do with the trade now, however, and told her
husband to manage it himself. She felt that she was separated from
him for ever, and could no more be brought to consider her interests
as connected with his own.
The man was well fitted for the creeping and niggling of his
dastardly trade ; and gathered his moneys, and busied himself with
his lawyer, and acted as his own book-keeper and clerk, not without
satisfaction. His wife's speculations, when they worked in concert,
used often to frighten him. He never sent out his capital without a
pang, and only because he dared not question her superior judgment
and will. He began now to lend no more : he could not let the
money out of his sight. His sole pleasure was to creep up into
his room, and count and recount it. When Billings came into the
house, Hayes had taken a room next to that of Wood. It was a
protection to him ; for Wood would often rebuke the lad for using
Hayes ill: and both Catherine and Tom treated the old man with
deference.
At last-it was after he had collected a good deal of his money,
Hayes began to reason with himself, “Why should I stay ?-stay to
be insulted by that boy, or murdered by him? He is ready for any
crime.” He determined to fly. He would send Catherine money
every year. No-she had the furniture ; let her let lodgings—that
would support her. He would go, and live away, abroad in some
cheap place-away from that boy and his horrible threats. The idea
of freedom was agreeable to the poor wretch ; and he began to wind
up his affairs as quickly as he could.
Hayes would now allow no one to make his bed or enter his
room ; and Wood could hear him through the panels fidgeting
perpetually to and fro, opening and shutting of chests, and clinking
of coin. At the least sound he would start up, and would go to
Billings's door and listen. Wood used to hear him creeping through
the passages, and returning stealthily to his own chamber.


HOUSEHOLD SPIES.
147
One day the woman and her son had been angrily taunting him
in the presence of a neighbour. The neighbour retired soon; and
Hayes, who had gone with him to the door, heard, on returning, the
voice of Wood in the parlour. The old man laughed in his usual
saturnine way, and said, “ Have a care, Mrs. Cat ; for if Hayes were
to die suddenly, by the laws, the neighbours would accuse thee of
his death.”
Hayes started as if he had been shot. “He too is in the plot,"
thought he. “They are all leagued against me: they will kill me :
they are only biding their time.” Fear seized him, and he thought of
flying that instant and leaving all; and he stole into his room and
gathered his money together. But only a half of it was there : in a
few weeks all would have come in. He had not the heart to go. But
that night Wood heard Hayes pause at his door, before he went to
listen at Mrs. Catherine's. “What is the man thinking of?” said
Wood. “He is gathering his money together. Has he a hoard
yonder unknown to us all ?”
Wood thought he would watch him. There was a closet between
the two rooms: Wood bored a hole in the panel, and peeped through.
Hayes had a brace of pistols, and four or five little bags before him
on the table. One of these he opened, and placed, one by one, five-
and-twenty guineas into it. Such a sum had been due that day-
Catherine spoke of it only in the morning ; for the debtor's name had
by chance been mentioned in the conversation. Hayes commonly
kept but a few guineas in the house. For what was he amassing all
these? The next day, Wood asked for change for a twenty-pound
bill. Hayes said he had but three guineas. And when asked by
Catherine where the money was that was paid the day before, said
that it was at the banker's. “The man is going to fly," said Wood;
" that is sure : if he does, I know him—he will leave his wife without
a shilling."
He watched him for several days regularly: two or three more
bags were added to the former number. “They are pretty things,
guineas," thought Wood, “and tell no tales, like bank-bills.” And
he thought over the days when he and Macshane used to ride abroad
in search of them.
I don't know what thoughts entered into Mr. Wood's brain ; but
the next day, after seeing young Billings, to whom he actually
made a present of a guinea, that young man, in conversing with his


148
CATHERINE: A STORY.
mother, said, “Do you know, mother, that if you were free, and
married the Count, I should be a lord ? It's the German law,
Mr. Wood says; and you know he was in them countries with
Marlborough.”
“Ay, that he would,” said Mr. Wood,“ in Germany : but
Germany isn't England ; and it's no use talking of such things.”
“Hush, child,” said Mrs. Hayes, quite eagerly: "how can I
marry the Count? Besides, a’n’t I married, and isn't he too great
a lord for me?"
“Too great a lord ?-not a whit, mother. If it wasn't for Hayes,
I might be a lord now. He gave me five guineas only last week;
but curse the skinflint who never will part with a shilling."
“It's not so bad as his striking your mother, Tom. I had my stick
up, and was ready to fell him t'other night,” added Mr. Wood. And
herewith he smiled, and looked steadily in Mrs. Catherine's face. She
dared not look again ; but she felt that the old man knew a secret
that she had been trying to hide from herself. Fool ! he knew it ;
and Hayes knew it dimly : and never, never, since that day of the
gala, had it left her, sleeping or waking. When Hayes, in his fear,
had proposed to sleep away from her, she started with joy : she had
been afraid that she might talk in her sleep, and so let slip her
horrible confession.
Old Wood knew all her history since the period of the Marylebone
fête. He had wormed it out of her, day by day; he had counselled
her how to act; warned her not to yield ; to procure, at least, a
certain provision for her son, and a handsome settlement for herself,
if she determined on quitting her husband. The old man looked on
the business in a proper philosophical light, told her bluntly that he
saw she was bent upon going off with the Count, and bade her take
precautions; else she might be left as she had been before.
Catherine denied all these charges ; but she saw the Count daily,
notwithstanding, and took all the measures which Wood had recom-
mended to her. They were very prudent ones. Galgenstein grew
hourly more in love : never had he felt such a flame; not in the
best days of his youth ; not for the fairest princess, countess, or
actress, from Vienna to Paris.
At length—it was the night after he had seen Hayes counting his
money-bags-old Wood spoke to Mrs. Hayes very seriously. “That
husband of yours, Cat,” said he, "meditates some treason; ay, and


A DEMON OF MISCHIEF.
149
fancies we are about such. He listens nightly at your door and at
mine: he is going to leave you, be sure on't; and if he leaves you,
he leaves you to starve.'
“I can be rich elsewhere," said Mrs. Cat.
“What, with Max?”
“Ay, with Max: and why not?” said Mrs. Hayes.
“Why not, fool! Do you recollect Birmingham ? Do you think
that Galgenstein, who is so tender now because he hasn't won you,
will be faithful because he has ? Psha, woman, men are not made
so! Don't go to him until you are sure: if you were a widow now,
he would marry you ; but never leave yourself at his mercy : if you
were to leave your husband to go to him, he would desert you in a
fortnight !”
She might have been a Countess ! she knew she might, but for
this cursed barrier between her and her fortune. Wood knew what
she was thinking of, and smiled grimly.
“Besides,” he continued, “remember Tom. As sure as you leave
Hayes without some security from Max, the boy's ruined: he who
might be a lord, if his mother had but - Psha! never mind :
that boy will go on the road, as sure as my name's Wood. He's a
Turpin cock in his eye, my dear,—a regular Tyburn look. He knows
too many of that sort already; and is too fond of a bottle and a girl
to resist and be honest when it comes to the pinch."
“It's all true," said Mrs. Hayes. “Tom's a high nettlesome
fellow, and would no more mind a ride on Hounslow Heath than he
does a walk now in the Mall."
“ Do you want him hanged, my dear?” said Wood.
“Ah, Doctor !"
“ It is a pity, and that's sure,” concluded Mr. Wood, knocking the
ashes out of his pipe, and closing this interesting conversation. “ It is
a pity that that old skinflint should be in the way of both your
fortunes; and he about to fling you over, too !”
Mrs. Catherine retired musing, as Mr. Billings had previously
done ; a sweet smile of contentment lighted up the venerable features
of Doctor Wood, and he walked abroad into the streets as happy a
fellow as any in London.


150
CATHERINE: A STORY.
CHAPTER XII.
TREATS OF LOVE, AND PREPARES FOR DEATH.
A ND to begin this chapter, we cannot do better than quote a part
A of a letter from M. l'Abbé O'Flaherty to Madame la Comtesse
de X— at Paris :
“MADAM,—The little Arouet de Voltaire, who hath come ‘hither to
take a turn in England,' as I see by the post of this morning, hath
brought me a charming pacquet from your ladyship’s hands, which
ought to render a reasonable man happy ; but, alas ! makes your
slave miserable. I think of dear Paris (and something more dear
than all Paris, of which, Madam, I may not venture to speak further)
-I think of dear Paris, and find myself in this dismal Vitehall,
where, when the fog clears up, I can catch a glimpse of muddy
Thames, and of that fatal palace which the kings of England have
been obliged to exchange for your noble castle of Saint Germains,
that stands so stately by silver Seine. Truly, no bad bargain. For
my part, I would give my grand ambassadorial saloons, hangings,
gildings, feasts, valets, ambassadors and all, for a bicoque in sight of
the Thuilleries' towers, or my little cell in the Irlandois.
“My last sheets have given you a pretty notion of our ambassador's
public doings ; now for a pretty piece of private scandal respecting
that great man. Figure to yourself, Madam, his Excellency is in
love ; actually in love, talking day and night about a certain fair one
whom he hath picked out of a gutter; who is well nigh forty years
old; who was his mistress when he was in England a captain of
dragoons, some sixty, seventy, or a hundred years since; who hath
had a son by him, moreover, a sprightly lad, apprentice to a tailor of
eminence that has the honour of making his Excellency's breeches.
“Since one fatal night when he met this fair creature at a certain
place of publique resort, called Marylebone Gardens, our Cyrus hath
been an altered creature. Love hath mastered this brainless
ambassador, and his antics afford me food for perpetual mirth. He
sits now opposite to me at a table inditing a letter to his Catherine,


A CHAPLAIN'S GOSSIP OF THE EMBASSY.
151
and copying it from—what do you think ?-from the 'Grand Cyrus.'
'I swear, madam, that my happiness would be to offer you this hand, as
I have my heart long ago, and I beg you to bear in mind this declaration.'
I have just dictated to him the above tender words; for our envoy, I
need not tell you, is not strong at writing or thinking.
“The fair Catherine, I must tell you, is no less than a car-
penter's wife, a well-to-do bourgeois, living at the Tyburn, or
Gallows Road. She found out her ancient lover very soon after our
arrival, and hath a marvellous hankering to be a Count's lady. A
pretty little creature is this Madam Catherine. Billets, breakfasts,
pretty walks, presents of silks and satins, pass daily between the pair;
but, strange to say, the lady is as virtuous as Diana, and hath resisted
all my Count's cajoleries hitherto. The poor fellow told me, with
tears in his eyes, that he believed he should have carried her by
storm on the very first night of their meeting, but that her son stepped
into the way; and he or somebody else hath been in the way ever
since. Madam will never appear alone. I believe it is this wondrous
chastity of the lady that has elicited this wondrous constancy of the
gentleman. She is holding out for a settlement; who knows if not
for a marriage? Her husband, she says, is ailing ; her lover is fool
enough, and she herself conducts her negotiations, as I must honestly
own, with a pretty notion of diplomacy.”
This is the only part of the reverend gentleman's letter that
directly affects this history. The rest contains some scandal con-
cerning greater personages about the court, a great share of abuse of
the Elector of Hanover, and a pretty description of a boxing-match at
Mr. Figg's amphitheatre in Oxford Road, where John Wells, of
Edmund Bury (as by the papers may be seen), master of the noble
science of self-defence, did engage with Edward Sutton, of Gravesend,
master of the said science; and the issue of the combat.
“N.B.”—adds the Father, in a postscript—“Monsieur Figue gives
a hat to be cudgelled for before the Master mount; and the whole of
this fashionable information hath been given me by Monseigneur's son,
Monsieur Billings, garçon-tailleur, Chevalier de Galgenstein.”
Mr. Billings was, in fact, a frequent visitor at the Ambassador's
house; to whose presence he, by a general order, was always
admitted. As for the connection between Mrs. Catherine and her


152
CATHERINE; A STORY.
former admirer, the Abbé's history of it is perfectly correct ; nor can
it be said that this wretched woman, whose tale now begins to wear a
darker hue, was, in anything but soul, faithless to her husband. But
she hated him, longed to leave him, and loved another : the end was
coming quickly, and every one of our unknowing actors and actresses
were to be implicated, more or less, in the catastrophe.
It will be seen that Mrs. Cat had followed pretty closely the
injunctions of Mr. Wood in regard to her dealings with the Count;
who grew more heart-stricken and tender daily, as the completion of
his wishes was delayed, and his desires goaded by contradiction.
The Abbé has quoted one portion of a letter written by himn ; here is
the entire performance, extracted, as the holy father said, chiefly from
the romance of the “Grand Cyrus : ”—
“ Unhappy MAXIMILIAN unto unjust CATHERINA.
“MADAM,—It must needs be that I love you better than any ever
did, since, notwithstanding your injustice in calling me perfidious, I
love you no less than I did before. On the contrary, my passion is
so violent, and your unjust accusation makes me so sensible of it,
that if you did but know the resentments of my soule, you would
confess your selfe the most cruell and unjust woman in the world.
You shall, ere long, Madam, see me at your feete; and as you were
my first passion, so you will be my last.
“On my knees I will tell you, at the first handsom opportunity,
that the grandure of my passion can only be equalled by your beauty ;
it hath driven me to such a fatall necessity, as that I cannot hide the
misery which you have caused. Sure, the hostil goddes have, to
plague me, ordayned that fatal marridge, by which you are bound to
one so infinitly below you in degree. Were that bond of ill-omind
Hymen cut in twayn witch binds you, I swear, Madam, that my
happiniss woulde be to offer you this hande, as I have my harte long
agoe. And I praye you to beare in minde this declaracion, which I
here sign with my hande, and witch I pray you may one day be
called upon to prove the truth on. Beleave me, Madam, that there is
none in the world who doth more honor to your vertue than myselfe,
nor who wishes your happinesse with more zeal than- MAXIMILIAN.
“From my lodgings in Whitehall, this 25th of February.
.6" To the incomparable Catherina, thes-, with a scar:et satten petticoat.”
misery which yoned that fatal marridge were that bond


THE VICTIM RESOLVES ON FLIGHT.
153
The Count had debated about the sentence promising marriage in
event of Hayes's death ; but the honest Abbé cut these scruples very
short, by saying, justly, that, because he wrote in that manner, there
was no need for him to act so; that he had better not sign and
address the note in full ; and that he presumed his Excellency was
not quite so timid as to fancy that the woman would follow him
all the way to Germany, when his diplomatic duties would be ended;
as they would soon.
The receipt of this billet caused such a flush of joy and exultation
to unhappy happy Mrs. Catherine, that Wood did not fail to remark
it, and speedily learned the contents of the letter. Wood had no
need to bid the poor wretch guard it very carefully : it never from
that day forth left her; it was her title of nobility,—her pass to rank,
wealth, happiness. She began to look down on her neighbours; her
manner to her husband grew more than ordinarily scornful; the poor,
vain wretch longed to tell her secret, and to take her place openly in
the world. She a Countess, and Tom a Count's son! She felt that
she should royally become the title !
About this time—and Hayes was very much frightened at the
prevalence of the rumour-it suddenly began to be bruited about in
his quarter that he was going to quit the country. The story was in
everybody's mouth; people used to sneer, when he turned pale, and
wept, and passionately denied it. It was said, too, that Mrs. Hayes
was not his wife, but his mistress-everybody had this story,-his
mistress, whom he treated most cruelly, and was about to desert.
The tale of the blow which had felled her to the ground was known
in all quarters. When he declared that the woman tried to stab him,
nobody believed him : the women said he would have been served
right if she had done so. How had these stories gone abroad ?
“Three days more, and I will fly,” thought Hayes; “and the worldl
may say what it pleases."
Ay, fool, fly-away so swiftly that Fate cannot overtake thee:
hidle so cunningly that Death shall not find thy place of refuge !


154
CATHERINE: A STORY.
CHAPTER XIII.
BEING A PREPARATION FOR THE END.
THE reader, doubtless, doth now partly understand what dark acts
I of conspiracy are beginning to gather around Mr. Hayes pand
possibly hath comprehended-
1. That if the rumour was universally credited which declared that
Mrs. Catherine was only Hayes's mistress, and not his wife,
She might, if she so inclined, marry another person; and thereby
not injure her fame and excite wonderment, but actually add to her
reputation.
2. That if all the world did steadfastly believe that Mr. Hayes
intended to desert this woman, after having cruelly maltreated her,
The direction which his journey might take would be of no con-
sequence; and he might go to Highgate, to Edinburgh, to Constan-
tinople, nay, down a well, and no soul would care to ask whither he
had gone.
These points Mr. Hayes had not considered duly. The latter case
had been put to him, and annoyed him, as we have seen ; the former
had actually been pressed upon him by Mrs. Hayes herself; who, in
almost the only communication she had had with him since their last
quarrel, had asked him, angrily, in the presence of Wood and her son,
whether he had dared to utter such lies, and how it came to pass that
the neighbours looked scornfully at her, and avoided her?
To this charge Mr. Hayes pleaded, very meekly, that he was not
guilty ; and young Billings, taking him by the collar, and clinching
his fist in his face, swore a dreadful oath that he would have the life
of him, if he dared abuse his mother. Mrs. Hayes then spoke of the
general report abroad, that he was going to desert her ; which, if he
attempted to do, Mr. Billings vowed that he would follow him to
Jerusalem, and have his blood. These threats, and the insolent
language of young Billings, rather calmed Hayes than agitated him :
he longed to be on his journey ; but he began to hope that no obstacle
would be placed in the way of it. For the first time since many days,
he began to enjoy a feeling something akin to security, and could look


THE CATASTROPHE FORESHADOWED. 155
with tolerable confidence towards a comfortable completion of his
own schemes of treason.
These points being duly settled, we are now arrived, 0 public, at
a point for which the author's soul hath been yearning ever since this
history commenced. We are now come, O critic, to a stage of the
work when this tale begins to assume an appearance so interestingly
horrific, that you must have a heart of stone if you are not interested
by it. O candid and discerning reader, who art sick of the hideous
scenes of brutal bloodshed which have of late come forth from pens
of certain eminent wits, * if you turn away disgusted from the book,
remember that this passage hath not been written for you, or such as
you, who have taste to know and hate the style in which it hath been
composed; but for the public, which hath no such taste :—for the
public, which can patronize four different representations of Jack
Sheppard,—for the public, whom its literary providers have gorged
with blood and foul Newgate garbage, -and to whom we poor
creatures, humbly following at the tail of our great high-priests and
prophets of the press, may, as in duty bound, offer some small gift of
our own : a little mite truly, but given with good will. Come up, then,
fair Catherine, and brave Count;-appear gallant Brock, and faultless
Billings ;—hasten hither, honest John Hayes: the former chapters are
but flowers in which we have been decking you for the sacrifice.
Ascend to the altar, ye innocent lambs, and prepare for the final act :
lo! the knife is sharpened, and the sacrificer ready! Stretch your
throats, sweet ones,-for the public is thirsty, and must have blood !
* This was written in 1840.


156
CATHERINE: A STORY.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
THAT Mr. Hayes had some notion of the attachment of Monsieur
1 de Galgenstein for his wife is very certain : the man could not
but perceive that she was more gaily dressed, and more frequently
absent than usual; and must have been quite aware that from the
day of the quarrel until the present period, Catherine had never asked
him for a shilling for the house expenses. He had not the heart to
offer, however ; nor, in truth, did she seem to remember that money
was due.
She received, in fact, many sums from the tender Count. Tom
was likewise liberally provided by the same personage; who was,
moreover, continually sending presents of various kinds to the person
on whom his affections were centred.
One of these gifts was a hamper of choice mountain-wine, which
had been some weeks in the house, and excited the longing of
Mr. Hayes ; who loved wine very much. This liquor was generally
drank by Wood and Billings, who applauded it greatly; and many
times, in passing through the back-parlour, which he had to traverse
in order to reach the stair, Hayes had cast a tender eye towards the
drink; of which, had he dared, he would have partaken.
On the ist of March, in the year 1726, Mr. Hayes had gathered
together almost the whole sum with which he intended to decamp;
and having on that very day recovered the amount of a bill which he
thought almost hopeless, he returned home in tolerable good-humour;
and feeling, so near was his period of departure, something like
security. Nobody had attempted the least violence on him: besides,
he was armed with pistols, had his money in bills and a belt about
his person, and really reasoned with himself that there was no danger
for him to apprehend.
He entered the house about dusk, at five o'clock. Mrs. Hayes
was absent with Mr. Billings; only Mr. Wood was smoking, according
to his wont, in the little back-parlour; and as Mr. Hayes passed, the
old gentleman addressed him in a friendly voice, and, wondering that
he had been such a stranger, invited him to sit and take a glass of


MR. WOOD SOOTHES THE VICTIM.
157
wine. There was a light and a foreman in the shop ; Mr. Hayes
gave his injunctions to that person, and saw no objection to
Mr. Wood's invitation.
The conversation, at first a little stiff between the two gentlemen,
began speedily to grow more easy and confidential : and so particu-
larly bland and good-humoured was Mr. or Doctor Wood, that his
companion was quite caught, and softened by the charm of his
manner; and the pair became as good friends as in the former days
of their intercourse.
“I wish you would come down sometimes of evenings,” quoth
Doctor Wood ; “for, though no book-learned man, Mr. Hayes, look
you, you are a man of the world, and I can't abide the society of
boys. There's Tom, now, since this tiff with Mrs. Cat, the scoundrel
plays the Grand Turk here! The pair of 'em, betwixt them, have
completely gotten the upper hand of you. Confess that you are
beaten, Master Hayes, and don't like the boy?"
“No more I do,” said Hayes ;“and that's the truth on't. A man
doth not like to have his wife's sins flung in his face, nor to be per-
petually bullied in his own house by such a fiery sprig as that.”
“Mischief, sir,-mischief only,” said Wood: “'tis the fun of
youth, sir, and will go off as age comes to the lad. Bad as you may
think him—and he is as skittish and fierce, sure enough, as a young
colt—there is good stuff in him; and though he hath, or fancies he
hath, the right to abuse every one, by the Lord he will let none others
do so! Last week, now, didn't he tell Mrs. Cat that you served her
right in the last beating matter? and weren't they coming to knives,
just as in your case? By my faith, they were. Ay, and at the
. Braund's Head,' when some fellow said that you were a bloody
Bluebeard, and would murder your wife, stab me if Tom wasn't up in
an instant and knocked the fellow down for abusing of you !”
The first of these stories was quite true; the second was only a
charitable invention of Mr. Wood, and employed, doubtless, for the
amiable purpose of bringing the old and young men together. The
scheme partially succeeded; for, though Hayes was not so far
mollified towards Tom as to entertain any affection for a young man
whom he had cordially detested ever since he knew him, yet he
felt more at ease and cheerful regarding himself: and surely not
without reason. While indulging in these benevolent sentiments,
Mrs. Catherine and her son arrived, and found, somewhat to their


158
CATHERINE: A STORY.
astonishment, Mr. Hayes seated in the back-parlour, as in former
times; and they were invited by Mr. Wood to sit down and drink.
We have said that certain bottles of mountain-wine were pre-
sented by the Count to Mrs. Catherine : these were, at Mr. Wood's
suggestion, produced; and Hayes, who had long been coveting them,
was charmed to have an opportunity to drink his fill. He forthwith
began bragging of his great powers as a drinker, and vowed that he
could manage eight bottles without becoming intoxicated.
Mr. Wood grinned strangely, and looked in a peculiar way at
Tom Billings, who grinned too. Mrs. Cat's eyes were turned towards
the ground ; but her face was deadly pale.
The party began drinking. Hayes kept up his reputation as a
toper, and swallowed one, two, three bottles without wincing. He
grew talkative and merry, and began to sing songs and to cut jokes ;
at which Wood laughed hugely, and Billings after him. Mrs. Cat
could not laugh ; but sat silent. What ailed her? Was she thinking
of the Count ? She had been with Max that day, and had promised
him, for the next night at ten, an interview near his lodgings at
Whitehall. It was the first time that she would see him alone.
They were to meet (not a very cheerful place for a love-tryst) at
St. Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster Abbey. Of this, no
doubt, Cat was thinking; but what could she mean by whispering to
Wood, “No, no! for God's sake, not to-night !”
“She means we are to have no more liquor," said Wood to
Mr. Hayes; who heard this sentence, and seemed rather alarmed.
“ That's it,—no more liquor," said Catherine, eagerly ;"you have
had enough to-night. Go to bed, and lock your door, and sleep,
Mr. Hayes."
“But I say I've not had enough drink!” screamed Hayes ; "I'm
good for five bottles more, and wager I will drink them too."
“ Done, for a guinea !” said Wood.
“Done, and done !” said Billings.
“Be you quiet !" growled Hayes, scowling at the lad. “I will
drink what I please, and ask no counsel of yours.” And he muttered
some more curses against young Billings, which showed what his
feelings were towards his wife's son; and which the latter, for a
wonder, only received with a scornful smile, and a knowing look at
Wood.
Well! the five extra bottles were brought, and drank by


A DEED OF DARKNESS.
159
Mr. Hayes; and seasoned by many songs from the recueil of
Mr. Thomas D'Urfey and others. The chief part of the talk and
merriment was on Hayes's part; as, indeed, was natural,—for, while
he drank bottle after bottle of wine, the other two gentlemen confined
themselves to small beer,-both pleading illness as an excuse for their
sobriety.
And now might we depict, with much accuracy, the course of
Mr. Hayes's intoxication, as it rose from the merriment of the three-
bottle point to the madness of the four-from the uproarious quarrel-
someness of the sixth bottle to the sickly stupidity of the seventh ; but
we are desirous of bringing this tale to a conclusion, and must
pretermit all consideration of a subject so curious, so instructive,
and so delightful. Suffice it to say, as a matter of history, that
Mr. Hayes did actually drink seven bottles of mountain-wine; and
that Mr. Thomas Billings went to the “ Braund's Head,” in Bond
Street, and purchased another, which Hayes likewise drank.
“That'll do,” said Mr. Wood to young Billings; and they led
Hayes up to bed, whither, in truth, he was unable to walk himself.
Mrs. Springatt, the lodger, came down to ask what the noise was.
“ 'Tis only Tom Billings making merry with some friends from the
country," answered Mrs. Hayes ; whereupon Springatt retired, and
the house was quiet.
Some scuffling and stamping was heard about eleven o'clock.
After they had seen Mr. Hayes to bed, Billings remembered that
he had a parcel to carry to some person in the neighbourhood of the
Strand ; and, as the night was remarkably fine, he and Mr. Wood
agreed to walk together, and set forth accordingly.
[Here follows a description of the THAMES AT MIDNIGHT, in a fine historical
style; with an account of Lambeth, Westminster, the Savoy, Baynard's Castle,
Arundel House, the Temple ; of Old London Bridge, with its twenty arches, “on
which be houses builded, so that it seemeth rather a continuall street than a


160
CATHERINE: A STORY.
bridge;" of Bankside, and the “Globe" and the “Fortune” Theatres ; of the
ferries across the river, and of the pirates who infest the same, -namely, tinkler.
men, petermen, hebbermen, trawlermen ; of the fleet of barges that lay at the
Savoy steps ; and of the long lines of slim wherries sleeping on the river-banks
and basking and shining in the moonbeams. A combat on the river is described,
that takes place between the crews of a tinklerman's boat and the water-bailiff's.
Shouting his war-cry, “St. Mary Overy à la rescousse!” the water-bailiff sprung
at the throat of the tinklerman captain. The crews of both vessels, as if aware
that the struggle of their chiefs would decide the contest, ceased hostilities, and
awaited on their respective poops the issue of the death-shock. It was not long
coming. “Yield, dog!" said the water-bailiff. The tinklerman could not
answer,- for his throat was grasped too tight in the iron clench of the city
champion ; but drawing his snickersnee, he plunged it seven times in the bailiff's
chest : still the latter fell not. The death-rattle gurgled in the throat of his
opponent ; his arms fell heavily to his side. Foot to foot, each standing at the
side of his boat, stood the two brave men,-they were both dead! “In the
name of St. Clement Danes,” said the master, "give way, my men !” and,
thrusting forward his halberd (seven feet long, richly decorated with velvet and
brass nails, and having the city arms, argent, a cross gules, and in the first quarter
a dagger displayed of the second), he thrust the tinklerman's boat away from his
own; and at once the bodies of the captains plunged down, down, down, down
in the unfathomable waters.
After this follows another episode. Two masked ladies quarrel at the door
of a tavern overlooking the Thames : they turn out to be Stella and Vanessa, who
have followed Swift thither ; who is in the act of reading “Gulliver's Travels” to
Gay, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke, and Pope. Two fellows are sitting shuddering
under a doorway; to one of them Tom Billings flung a sixpence. He little
knew that the names of those two young men were - Samuel Johnson and
Richard Savage.]


(
161 )
ANOTHER LAST CHAPTER.
M R . HAYES did not join the family the next day; and it appears
T that the previous night's reconciliation was not very durable ;
for when Mrs. Springatt asked Wood for Hayes, Mr. Wood stated that
Hayes had gone away without saying whither he was bound, or how
long he might be absent. He only said, in rather a sulky tone, that
he should probably pass the night at a friend's house. “For my
part, I know of no friend he hath,” added Mr. Wood ; " and pray
heaven that he may not think of deserting his poor wife, whom he
hath beaten and ill-used so already!” In this prayer Mrs. Springatt
joined; and so these two worthy people parted.
What business Billings was about cannot be said ; but he was
this night bound towards Marylebone Fields, as he was the night
before for the Strand and Westminster; and, although the night was
very stormy and rainy, as the previous evening had been fine, old
Wood good-naturedly resolved upon accompanying him ; and forth
they sallied together.
Mrs. Catherine, too, had her business, as we have seen; but this
was of a very delicate nature. At nine o'clock, she had an
appointment with the Count; and faithfully, by that hour, had
found her way to Saint Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster
Abbey, where she awaited Monsieur de Galgenstein.
The spot was convenient, being very lonely, and at the same time
close to the Count's lodgings at Whitehall. His Excellency came,
but somewhat after the hour ; for, to say the truth, being a
freethinker, he had the most firm belief in ghosts and demons, and
did not care to pace a churchyard alone. He was comforted,
therefore, when he saw a woman muffled in a cloak, who held out
her hand to him at the gate, and said, “Is that you ?” He took her
hand,-it was very clammy and cold ; and at her desire he bade his
confidential footman, who had attended him with a torch, to retire,
and leave him to himself.
The torch-bearer retired, and left them quite in darkness; and
the pair entered the little cemetery, cautiously threading their way
II


162
CATHERINE: A STORY.
among the tombs. They sat down on one, underneath a tree it
seemed to be ; the wind was very cold, and its piteous howling
was the only noise that broke the silence of the place. Catherine's
teeth were chattering, for all her wraps; and when Max drew her
close to him, and encircled her waist with one arm, and pressed her
hand, she did not repulse him, but rather came close to him, and
with her own damp fingers feebly returned his pressure.
The poor thing was very wretched and weeping. She confided
to Max the cause of her grief. She was alone in the world,-alone
and penniless. Her husband had left her; she had that very day
received a letter from him which confirmed all that she had
suspected so long. He had left her, carried away all his property,
and would not return!
If we say that a selfish joy filled the breast of Monsieur de
Galgenstein, the reader will not be astonished. A heartless
libertine, he felt glad at the prospect of Catherine's ruin ; for he
hoped that necessity would make her his own. He clasped the
poor thing to his heart, and vowed that he would replace the
husband she had lost, and that his fortune should be hers.
“Will you replace him ? ” said she.
“Yes, truly, in everything but the name, dear Catherine; and
when he dies, I swear you shall be Countess of Galgenstein.”
“Will you swear?" she cried, eagerly.
“ By everything that is most sacred : were you free now, I
would” (and here he swore a terrific oath) “at once make you
mine."
We have seen before that it cost Monsieur de Galgenstein
nothing to make these vows. Hayes was likely, too, to live as long
as Catherine-as long, at least, as the Count's connection with her ;
but he was caught in his own snare.
She took his hand and kissed it repeatedly, and bathed it in her
tears, and pressed it to her bosom. “Max,” she said, “ I am free!
Be mine, and I will love you as I have done for years and years."
Max started back. “What, is he dead ?" he said.
“No, no, not dead: but he never was my husband."
He let go her hand, and, interrupting her, said sharply, “Indeed,
madam, if this carpenter never was your husband, I see no cause
why I should be. If a lady, who hath been for twenty years the
mistress of a miserable country boor, cannot find it in her heart to


A GHASTLY APPARITION.
163
put up with the protection of a nobleman—a sovereign's representa-
tive—she may seek a husband elsewhere !”
“I was no man's mistress except yours,” sobbed Catherine, wring-
ing her hands and sobbing wildly ; “ but, О heaven! I deserved
this. Because I was a child, and you saw, and ruined, and left me-
because, in my sorrow and repentance, I wished to repair my crime,
and was touched by that man's love, and married him because he
too deceives and leaves me-because, after loving you—madly
loving you for twenty years—I will not now forfeit your respect, and
degrade myself by yielding to your will, you too must scorn me! It
is too much—too much— heaven !” And the wretched woman
fell back almost fainting...
Max was almost frightened by this burst of sorrow on her part,
and was coming forward to support her; but she motioned him
away, and, taking from her bosom a letter, said, “If it were light,
you could see, Max, how cruelly I have been betrayed by that man
who called himself my husband. Long before he married me, he
was married to another. This woman is still living, he says; and he
says he leaves me for ever.”
At this moment the moon, which had been hidden behind
Westminster Abbey, rose above the vast black mass of that edifice,
and poured a flood of silver light upon the little church of
St. Margaret's, and the spot where the lovers stood. Max was at a
little distance from Catherine, pacing gloomily up and down the
flags. She remained at her old position at the tombstone under the
tree, or pillar, as it seemed to be, as the moon got up. She was
leaning against the pillar, and holding out to Max, with an arm
beautifully white and rounded, the letter she had received from her
husband : “Read it, Max,” she said : “I asked for light, and here is
heaven's own, by which you may read.”
But Max did not come forward to receive it. On a sudden his
face assumed a look of the most dreadful surprise and agony. He
stood still, and stared with wild eyes starting from their sockets; he
stared upwards, at a point seemingly above Catherine's head. At
last he raised up his finger slowly, and said, “Look, Cat-the head-
the head !” Then uttering a horrible laugh, he fell down grovelling
among the stones, gibbering and writhing in a fit of epilepsy.
Catherine started forward and looked up. She had been
standing against a post, not a tree—the moon was shining full on it


164
CATHERINE: A STORY.
now; and on the summit, strangely distinct, and smiling ghastly, was
a livid human head.
The wretched woman fled-she dared look no more. And some
hours afterwards, when, alarmed by the Count's continued absence,
his confidential servant came back to seek for him in the
churchyard, he was found sitting on the flags, staring full at the
head, and laughing, and talking to it wildly, and nodding at it.
He was taken up a hopeless idiot, and so lived for years and
years ; clanking the chain, and moaning under the lash, and
howling through long nights when the moon peered through the bars
of his solitary cell, and he buried his face in the straw.
There—the murder is out! And having indulged himself in a
chapter of the very finest writing, the author begs the attention of the
British public towards it; humbly conceiving that it possesses some
of those peculiar merits which have rendered the fine writing in other
chapters of the works of other authors so famous.
Without bragging at all, let us just point out the chief claims of
the above pleasing piece of composition. In the first place, it is
perfectly stilted and unnatural ; the dialogue and the sentiments being
artfully arranged, so as to be as strong and majestic as possible.
Our dear Cat is but a poor, illiterate country wench, who has come
from cutting her husband's throat; and yet, see ! she talks and looks
like a tragedy princess, who is suffering in the most virtuous blank
verse. This is the proper end of fiction, and one of the greatest
triumphs that a novelist can achieve : for to make people sympathize
with virtue is a vulgar trick that any common fellow can do ; but
it is not everybody who can take a scoundrel, and cause us to weep
and whimper over him as though he were a very saint. Give a
young lady of five years old a skein of silk and a brace of netting-
needles, and she will in a short time turn you out a decent silk purse
-anybody can ; but try her with a sow's ear, and see whether she
can make a silk purse out of that. That is the work for your real
great artist; and pleasant it is to see how many have succeeded in
these latter days.
The subject is strictly historical, as any one may see by referring


TIIE AUTHOR ADDRESSES HIS READERS. 165
to the Daily Post of March 3, 1726, which contains the following
paragraph :-
“ Yesterday morning, early, a man's head, that by the freshness
of it seemed to have been newly cut off from the body, having its
own hair on, was found by the river's side, near Millbank, West-
minster, and was afterwards exposed to public view in St. Margaret's
churchyard, where thousands of people have seen it; but none could
tell who the unhappy person was, much less who committed such a
horrid and barbarous action. There are various conjectures relating
to the deceased ; but there being nothing certain, we omit them.
The head was much hacked and mangled in the cutting off.”
The head which caused such an impression upon Monsieur de
Galgenstein was, indeed, once on the shoulders of Mr. John Hayes,
who lost it under the following circumstances. We have seen how
Mr. Hayes was induced to drink. Mr. Hayes having been encouraged
in drinking the wine, and growing very merry therewith, he sang and
danced about the room ; but his wife, fearing the quantity he had
drunk would not have the wished-for effect on him, she sent away
for another bottle, of which he drank also. This effectually answered
their expectations; and Mr. Hayes became thereby intoxicated, and
deprived of his understanding.
He, however, made shift to get into the other room, and, throwing
himself upon the bed, fell asleep ; upon which Mrs. Hayes reminded
them of the affair in hand, and told them that was the most proper
juncture to finish the business.*
Ring, ding, ding! the gloomy green curtain drops, the dramatis:
persona are duly disposed of, the nimble candle-snuffers put out the:
lights, and the audience goeth pondering home. If the critic take the:
pains to ask why the author, who hath been so diffuse in describing :
* The description of the murder and the execution of the culprits, which here -
follows in the original, was taken from the newspapers of the day. Coming from
such a source they have, as may be imagined, no literary merit whatever. The
details of the crime are simply horrible, without one touch of even that sort of
romance which sometimes gives a little dignity to murder. As such they precisely
suited Mr. Thackeray's purpose at the time—which was to show the real manners
and customs of the Sheppards and Turpins who were then the popular heroes of
fiction. But now-a-days there is no such purpose to serve, and therefore these too.
literal details are omitted.


166
CATHERINE: A STORY.
the early and fabulous acts of Mrs. Catherine's existence, should
so hurry off the catastrophe where a deal of the very finest writing
might have been employed, Solomons replies that the “ordinary ”
narrative is far more emphatic than any composition of his own
could be, with all the rhetorical graces which he might employ.
Mr. Aram's trial, as taken by the penny-a-liners of those days,
hath always interested him more than the lengthened and poetical
report which an eminent novelist has given of the same. Mr.
Turpin's adventures are more instructive and agreeable to him in
the account of the Newgate Plutarch, than in the learned Ainsworth's
“ Biographical Dictionary." And as he believes that the professional
gentlemen who are employed to invest such heroes with the rewards
that their great actions merit, will go through the ceremony of the
grand cordon with much more accuracy and despatch than can be
shown by the most distinguished amateur ; in like manner he thinks
that the history of such investitures should be written by people directly
concerned, and not by admiring persons without, who must be ignorant
of many of the secrets of Ketchcraft. We very much doubt if Milton
himself could make a description of an execution half so horrible as
the simple lines in the Daily Post of a hundred and ten years since,
that now lies before us—“herrlich wie am ersten Tag,"-as bright
.and clean as on the day of publication. Think of it ! it has been read
by Belinda at her toilet, scanned at “Button's” and “Will's," sneered
at by wits, talked of in palaces and cottages, by a busy race in wigs, red
heels, hoops, patches, and rags of all variety—a busy race that hath
long since plunged and vanished in the unfathomable gulf towards
which we march so briskly.
Where are they?“ Afflavit Deus”—and they are gone! Hark !
is not the same wind roaring still that shall sweep us down? and
yonder stands the compositor at his types who shall put up a pretty
paragraph some day to say how,“ Yesterday, at his house in Grosvenor
Square,” or “At Botany Bay, universally regretted,” died So-and-
So. Into what profound moralities is the paragraph concerning
Mrs. Catherine's burning leading us !
Ay, truly, and to that very point have we wished to come ; for,
having finished our delectable meal, it behoves us to say a word or
two by way of grace at its conclusion, and be heartily thankful that
it is over. It has been the writer's object carefully to exclude from
his drama (except in two very insignificant instances-mere walking-


THE AUTHOR ADDRESSES HIS READERS. 167
gentlemen parts,) any characters but those of scoundrels of the very
highest degree. That he has not altogether failed in the object he
had in view, is evident from some newspaper critiques which he
has had the good fortune to see; and which abuse the tale of
“Catherine” as one of the dullest, most vulgar, and immoral works
extant. It is highly gratifying to the author to find that such opinions
are abroad, as they convince him that the taste for Newgate literature
is on the wane, and that when the public critic has right down
undisguised immorality set before him, the honest creature is shocked
at it, as he should be, and can declare his indignation in good round
terms of abuse. The characters of the tale are immoral, and no
doubt of it; but the writer humbly hopes the end is not so. The
public was, in our notion, dosed and poisoned by the prevailing style
of literary practice, and it was necessary to administer some medicine
that would produce a wholesome nausea, and afterwards bring about
a more healthy habit.
And thank heaven, this effect has been produced in very many
instances, and that the “ Catherine" cathartic has acted most effica-
ciously. The author has been pleased at the disgust which his work
has excited, and has watched with benevolent carefulness the wry
faces that have been made by many of the patients who have
swallowed the dose. Solomons remembers, at the establishment in
Birchin Lane where he had the honour of receiving his education,
there used to be administered to the boys a certain cough-medicine,
which was so excessively agreeable that all the lads longed to have
colds in order to partake of the remedy. Some of our popular
novelists have compounded their drugs in a similar way, and made
them so palatable that a public, once healthy and honest, has been
well-nigh poisoned by their wares. Solomons defies any one to say
the like of himself—that his doses have been as pleasant as cham-
pagne, and his pills as sweet as barley-sugar ;—it has been his attempt
to make vice to appear entirely vicious; and in those instances where
he hath occasionally introduced something like virtue, to make the
sham as evident as possible, and not allow the meanest capacity a
single chance to mistake it.
And what has been the consequence? That wholesome nausea
which it has been his good fortune to create wherever he has been
allowed to practise in his humble circle.
Has any one thrown away a halfpennyworth of sympathy upon


168
CATHERINE: A STORY.
any person mentioned in this history ? Surely no. But abler and
more famous men than Solomons have taken a different plan ; and it
becomes every man in his vocation to cry out against such, and
expose their errors as best he may.
Labouring under such ideas, Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, pro-
duced the romance of Mrs. Cat, and confesses himself completely
happy to have brought it to a conclusion. His poem may be dull-
ay, and probably is. The great Blackmore, the great Dennis, the
great Sprat, the great Pomfret, not to mention great men of our own
time—have they not also been dull, and had pretty reputations too?
Be it granted, Solomons is dull; but don't attack his morality; he
humbly submits that, in his poem, no man shall mistake virtue for
vice, no man shall allow a single sentiment of pity or admiration to
enter his bosom for any character of the piece ; it being, from
beginning to end, a scene of unmixed rascality performed by persons
who never deviate into good feeling. And, although he doth not
pretend to equal the great modern authors, whom he hath mentioned,
in wit or descriptive power; yet, in the point of moral, he meekly
believes that he has been their superior ; feeling the greatest disgust
for the characters he describes, and using his humble endeavour to
cause the public also to hate them.
Horsemonger Lane, January, 1840.


LITTLE TRAVELS
AND
ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
BY TITMARSH.


168
CATHERINE: A STORY.
any person mentioned in this history ? Surely no. But abler and
more famous men than Solomons have taken a different plan; and it
becomes every man in his vocation to cry out against such, and
expose their errors as best he may.
Labouring under such ideas, Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, pro-
duced the romance of Mrs. Cat, and confesses himself completely
happy to have brought it to a conclusion. His poem may be dull-
ay, and probably is. The great Blackmore, the great Dennis, the
great Sprat, the great Pomfret, not to mention great men of our own
time—have they not also been dull, and had pretty reputations too?
Be it granted, Solomons is dull; but don't attack his morality; he
humbly submits that, in his poem, no man shall mistake virtue for
vice, no man shall allow a single sentiment of pity or admiration to
enter his bosom for any character of the piece ; it being, from
beginning to end, a scene of unmixed rascality performed by persons
who never deviate into good feeling. And, although he doth not
pretend to equal the great modern authors, whom he hath mentioned,
in wit or descriptive power; yet, in the point of moral, he meekly
believes that he has been their superior ; feeling the greatest disgust
for the characters he describes, and using his humble endeavour to
cause the public also to hate them.
Ilorsemonger Lane, January, 1840.


LITTLE TRAVELS
AND
ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
BY TITMARSH.





LITTLE TRAVELS
AVD
ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
1.–FROM RICHMOND IN SURREY TO BRUSSELS IN BELGIUM.
* * I QUITTED the “Rose Cottage Hotel” at Richmond, one of
the comfortablest, quietest, cheapest, neatest little inns in England,
and a thousand times preferable, in my opinion, to the “Star and
Garter," whither, if you go alone, a sneering waiter, with his hair
curled, frightens you off the premises; and where, if you are bold
enough to brave the sneering waiter, you have to pay ten shillings
for a bottle of claret; and whence, if you look out of the window,
you gaze on a view which is so rich that it seems to knock you down
with its splendour-a view that has its hair curled like the swaggering
waiter: I say, I quitted the “Rose Cottage Hotel” with deep regret,
believing that I should see nothing so pleasant as its gardens, and its
veal cutlets, and its dear little bowling-green, elsewhere. But the
time comes when people must go out of town, and so I got on the
top of the omnibus, and the carpet-bag was put inside.
If I were a great prince and rode outside of coaches (as I should
if I were a great prince), I would, whether I smoked or not, have a
case of the best Havannahs in my pocket-not for my own smoking,
but to give them to the snobs on the coach, who smoke the vilest
cheroots. They poison the air with the odour of their filthy weeds.
A man at all easy in his circumstances would spare himself much
annoyance by taking the above simple precaution.


172 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
A gentleman sitting behind me tapped me on the back and asked
for a light. He was a footman, or rather valet. He had no livery,
but the three friends who accompanied him were tall men in pepper-
and-salt undress jackets with a duke's coronet on their buttons.
After tapping me on the back, and when he had finished his
cheroot, the gentleman produced another wind-instrument, which he
called a “kinopium," a sort of trumpet, on which he showed a great
inclination to play. He began puffing out of the “kinopium ” a most
abominable air, which he said was the “Duke's March.” It was played
by particular request of one of the pepper-and-salt gentry.
The noise was so abominable that even the coachman objected
(although my friend's brother footmen were ravished with it), and said
that it was not allowed to play toons on his 'bus. “Very well,” said
the valet, "we're only of the Duke of B-—'s establishment, THAT'S
ALL.” The coachman could not resist that appeal to his fashionable
feelings. The valet was allowed to play his infernal kinopium, and
the poor fellow (the coachman), who had lived in some private
families, was quite anxious to conciliate the footmen “of the
Duke of B.'s establishment, that's all," and told several stories of
his having been groom in Captain Hoskins's family, nephew of
Governor Hoskins; which stories the footmen received with great
contempt.
The footmen were like the rest of the fashionable world in this
respect. I felt for my part that I respected them. They were in
daily communication with a duke! They were not the rose, but they
had lived beside it. There is an odour in the English aristocracy
which intoxicates plebeians. I am sure that any commoner in
England, though he would die rather than confess it, would have a
respect for those great big hulking Duke's footmen.
The day before, her Grace the Duchess had passed us alone in a
chariot-and-four with two outriders. What better mark of innate
superiority could man want? Here was a slim lady who required
four-six horses to herself, and four servants (kinopium was, no doubt,
one of the number) to guard her.
We were sixteen inside and out, and had consequently an eighth
of a horse apiece.
A duchess = 6, a commoner = $; that is to say,
i duchess = 48 commoners.
If I were a duchess of the present day, I would say to the duke


174 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
the bowsprit, and perhaps to smoke a cigar at ease. The carriages
overcome, you find yourself confronted by a huge penful of Durham
oxen, lying on hay and surrounded by a barricade of oars. Fifteen
of these horned monsters maintain an incessant mooing and bellow-
ing. Beyond the cows come a heap of cotton-bags, beyond the
cotton-bags more carriages, more pyramids of travelling trunks, and
valets and couriers bustling and swearing round about them. And
already, and in various corners and niches, lying on coils of rope,
black tar-cloths, ragged cloaks, or hay, you see a score of those
dubious fore-cabin passengers, who are never shaved, who always
look unhappy, and appear getting ready to be sick.
At one, dinner begins in the after-cabin-boiled salmon, boiled
beef, boiled mutton, boiled cabbage, boiled potatoes, and parboiled
wine for any gentlemen who like it, and two roast-ducks between
seventy. After this, knobs of cheese are handed round on a plate,
and there is a talk of a tart somewhere at some end of the table.
All this I saw peeping through a sort of meat-safe which ventilates
the top of the cabin, and very happy and hot did the people seem
below.
“How the deuce can people dine at such an hour?” say several
genteel fellows who are watching the manoeuvres. “I can't touch a
morsel before seven."
But somehow at half-past three o'clock we had dropped a long
way down the river. The air was delightfully fresh, the sky of a
faultless cobalt, the river shining and flashing like quicksilver, and at
this period steward runs against me bearing two great smoking dishes
covered by two great glistening hemispheres of tin. “Fellow,” says
I, “what's that ?"
He lifted up the cover : it was ducks and green pease, by jingo!
“What! haven't they done yet, the greedy creatures ?” I asked.
“Have the people been feeding for three hours ? "
“Law bless you, sir, it's the second dinner. Make haste, or you
won't get a place.” At which words a genteel party, with whom I had
been conversing, instantly tumbled down the hatchway, and I find
myself one of the second relay of seventy who are attacking the boiled
salmon, boiled beef, boiled cabbage, &c. As for the ducks, I certainly
had some pease, very fine yellow stiff pease, that ought to have been
split before they were boiled; but, with regard to the ducks, I saw
the animals gobbled up before my eyes by an old widow lady and her


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS. 175
party just as I was shrieking to the steward to bring a knife and fork
to carve them. The fellow ! (I mean the widow lady's whiskered
companion)—I saw him eat pease with the very knife with which he
had dissected the duck!
After dinner (as I need not tell the keen observer of human
nature who peruses this) the human mind, if the body be in a decent
state, expands into gaiety and benevolence, and the intellect longs to
measure itself in friendly converse with the divers intelligences around
it. We ascend upon deck, and after eyeing each other for a brief
space and with a friendly modest hesitation, we begin anon to converse
about the weather and other profound and delightful themes of
English discourse. We confide to each other our respective opinions
of the ladies round about us. Look at that charming creature in a
pink bonnet and a dress of the pattern of a Kilmarnock snuff-box : a
stalwart Irish gentleman in a green coat and bushy red whiskers is
whispering something very agreeable into her ear, as is the wont of
gentlemen of his nation ; for her dark eyes kindle, her red lips open
and give an opportunity to a dozen beautiful pearly teeth to display
themselves, and glance brightly in the sun ; while round the teeth and
the lips a number of lovely dimples make their appearance, and her
whole countenance assumes a look of perfect health and happiness.
See her companion in shot silk and a dove-coloured parasol ; in what
a graceful Watteau-like attitude she reclines. The tall courier who has
been bouncing about the deck in attendance upon these ladies (it is
his first day of service, and he is eager to make a favourable impression
on them and the lady’s-maids too) has just brought them from the
carriage a small paper of sweet cakes (nothing is prettier than to see
a pretty woman eating sweet biscuits) and a bottle that evidently
contains Malmsey madeira. How daintily they sip it; how happy
they seem ; how that lucky rogue of an Irishman prattles away!
Yonder is a noble group indeed: an English gentleman and his family.
Children, mother, grandmother, grown-up daughters, father, and
domestics, twenty-two in all. They have a table to themselves on the
deck, and the consumption of eatables among them is really endless.
The nurses have been bustling to and fro, and bringing, first, slices of
cake; then dinner; then tea with huge family jugs of milk; and the
little people have been playing hide-and-seek round the deck,
coquetting with the other children, and making friends of every soul
on board. I love to see the kind eyes of women fondly watching


176 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
them as they gambol about ; a female face, be it ever so plain, when
occupied in regarding children, becomes celestial almost, and a man
can hardly fail to be good and happy while he is looking on at such
sights. “Ah, sir !” says a great big man, whom you would not accuse
of sentiment, “I have a couple of those little things at home ;” and
he stops and heaves a great big sigh and swallows down a half tumbler
of cold something and water. We know what the honest fellow means
well enough. He is saying to himself, “ God bless my girls and their
mother !” but, being a Briton, is too manly to speak out in a more
intelligible way. Perhaps it is as well for him to be quiet, and not
chatter and gesticulate like those Frenchmen a few yards from him,
who are chirping over a bottle of champagne.
There is, as you may fancy, a number of such groups on the deck,
and a pleasant occupation it is for a lonely man to watch them and
build theories upon them, and examine those two personages seated
cheek by jowl. One is an English youth, travelling for the first time,
who has been hard at his Guide-book during the whole journey. He
has a “Manuel du Voyageur" in his pocket: a very pretty, amusing little
oblong work it is too, and might be very useful, if the foreign people
in three languages, among whom you travel, would but give the
answers set down in the book, or understand the questions you put to
them out of it. The other honest gentleman in the fur cap, what can
his occupation be? We know him at once for what he is. “Sir,"
says he, in a fine German accent, “I am a brofessor of languages, and
will gif you lessons in Danish, Swedish, English, Bortuguese, Spanish
and Bersian.” Thus occupied in meditations, the rapid hours and the
rapid steamer pass quickly on. The sun is sinking, and, as he drops,
the ingenious luminary sets the Thames on fire: several worthy
gentlemen, watch in hand, are eagerly examining the phenomena
attending his disappearance,-rich clouds of purple and gold, that
form the curtains of his bed,- little barks that pass black across his
disc, his disc every instant dropping nearer and nearer into the water.
“There he goes !” says one sagacious observer. “No, he doesn't,”
cries another. Now he is gone, and the steward is already threading
the deck, asking the passengers, right and left, if they will take a little
supper. What a grand object is a sunset, and what a wonder is an
appetite at sea! Lo! the horned moon shines pale over Margate,
and the red beacon is gleaming from distant Ramsgate pier.


FROM RICHJIOND TO BRUSSELS,
177
A great rush is speedily made for the mattresses that lie in the
boat at the ship's side; and as the night is delightfully calın, many
fair ladies and worthy men determine to couch on deck for the night.
The proceedings of the former, especially if they be young and pretty,
the philosopher watches with indescribable emotion and interest.
What a number of pretty coquetries do the ladies perform, and into
what pretty attitudes do they take care to fall! All the little children
have been gathered up by the nursery-maids, and are taken down to
roost below. Balmy sleep seals the eyes of many tired wayfarers, as
you see in the case of the Russian nobleman asleep among the
portmanteaus; and Titmarsh, who has been walking the deck for some
time with a great mattress on his shoulders, knowing full well that
were he to relinquish it for an instant, some other person would seize
on it, now stretches his bed upon the deck, wraps his cloak about
his knees, draws his white cotton nightcap tight over his head and
ears; and, as the smoke of his cigar rises calmly upwards to the deep
sky and the cheerful twinkling stars, he feels himself exquisitely happy,
and thinks of thee, my Juliana !
Why people, because they are in a steam-boat, should get up so
deucedly early I cannot understand. Gentlemen have been walking
over my legs ever since three o'clock this morning, and, no doubt,
have been indulging in personalities (which I hate) regarding my
appearance and manner of sleeping, lying, snoring. Let the wags
laugh on; but a far pleasanter occupation is to sleep until breakfast-
time, or near it.
• The tea, and ham and eggs, which, with a beef-steak or two, and
three or four rounds of toast, form the component parts of the above-
named elegant meal, are taken in the River Scheldt. Little neat,
plump-looking churches and villages are rising here and there among
tufts of trees and pastures that are wonderfully green. To the right,
as the “Guide-book” says, is Walcheren : and on the left Cadsand,
memorable for the English expedition of 1809, when Lord Chatham,
Sir Walter Manny, and Henry Earl of Derby, at the head of the
English, gained a great victory over the Flemish mercenaries in the
pay of Philippe of Valois. The cloth-yard shafts of the English
archers did great execution. Flushing was taken, and Lord
Chatham returned to England, where he distinguished himself
greatly in the debates on the American war, which he called the
of Philippe or execution. , where he distin
12


178 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SK’ETCHES.
brightest jewel of the British crown. You see, my love, that, though
an artist by profession, my education has by no means been
neglected ; and what, indeed, would be the pleasure of travel,
unless these charming historical recollections were brought to bear
upon it?
Antwerp.
As many hundreds of thousands of English visit this city (I have
met at least a hundred of them in this half-hour walking the streets,
“Guide-book” in hand), and as the ubiquitous Murray has already
depicted the place, there is no need to enter into a long description
of it, its neatness, its beauty, and its stiff antique splendour. The
tall pale houses have many of them crimped gables, that look like
Queen Elizabeth's ruffs. There are as many people in the streets as
in London at three o'clock in the morning ; the market-women wear
bonnets of a flower-pot shape, and have shining brazen milk-pots,
which are delightful to the eyes of a painter. Along the quays of the
lazy Scheldt are innumerable good-natured groups of beer-drinkers
(small-beer is the most good-natured drink in the world); along the
barriers outside of the town, and by the glistening canals, are more
beer-shops and more beer-drinkers. The city is defended by the
queerest fat military. The chief traffic is between the hotels and the
railroad. The hotels give wonderful good dinners, and especially at
the “Grand Laboureur" may be mentioned a peculiar tart, which is
the best of all tarts that ever a man ate since he was ten years old.
A moonlight walk is delightful. * At ten o'clock the whole city is
quiet; and so little changed does it seem to be, that you may walk
back three hundred years into time, and fancy yourself a majestical
Spaniard, or an oppressed and patriotic Dutchman at your leisure.
You enter the inn, and the old Quentin Durward courtyard, on which
the old towers look down. There is a sound of singing-singing at
midnight. Is it Don Sombrero, who is singing an Andalusian segui-
dilla under the window of the Flemish burgomaster's daughter? Ah,
no! it is a fat Englishman in a zephyr coat: he is drinking cold gin-
and-water in the moonlight, and warbling softly-
“Nix my dolly, pals, fake away,
N-ix my dolly, pals, fake a-a-way.” *
I wish the good people would knock off the top part of Antwerp
Cathedral spire. Nothing can be more gracious and elegant than the
* In 1844.


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
179
lines of the first two compartments; but near the top there bulges
out a little round, ugly, vulgar Dutch monstrosity (for which the
architects have, no doubt, a name) which offends the eye cruelly.
Take the Apollo, and set upon him a bob-wig and a little cocked-
hat; imagine “God Save the King” ending with a jig; fancy a
polonaise, or procession of slim, stately, elegant court beauties,
headed by a buffoon dancing a hornpipe. Marshal Gérard should
have discharged a bomb-shell at that abomination, and have given
the noble steeple a chance to be finished in the grand style of the
early fifteenth century, in which it was begun.
This style of criticism is base and mean, and quite contrary to
the orders of the immortal Goethe, who was only for allowing the eye
to recognize the beauties of a great work, but would have its defects
passed over. It is an unhappy, luckless organization which will
be perpetually fault-finding, and in the midst of a grand concert
of music will persist only in hearing that unfortunate fiddle out
of tune.
Within-except where the rococo architects have introduced their
ornaments (here is the fiddle out of tune again)—the cathedral is
noble. A rich, tender sunshine is streaming in through the windows,
and gilding the stately edifice with the purest light. The admirable
stained-glass windows are not too brilliant in their colours. The organ
is playing a rich, solemn music; some two hundred of people are
listening to the service; and there is scarce one of the women
kneeling on her chair, enveloped in her full, majestic black drapery,
that is not a fine study for a painter. These large black mantles of
heavy silk brought over the heads of the women, and covering their
persons, fall into such fine folds of drapery, that they cannot help
being picturesque and noble. See, kneeling by the side of two of
those fine devout-looking figures, is a lady in a little twiddling
Parisian hat and feather, in a little lace mantelet, in a tight gown and
a bustle. She is almost as monstrous as yonder figure of the Virgin,
in a hoop, and with a huge crown and a ball and a sceptre; and a
bambino dressed in a little hoop, and in a little crown, round which
are clustered flowers and pots of orange-trees, and before which many
of the faithful are at prayer. Gentle clouds of incense come wafting
through the vast edifice; and in the lulls of the music you hear the
faint chant of the priest, and the silver tinkle of the bell.
Six Englishmen, with the commissionaires, and the “Murray's


180 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
Guide-books” in their hands, are looking at the “Descent from the
Cross." Of this picture the “Guide-book” gives you orders how to
judge. If it is the end of religious painting to express the religious
sentiment, a hundred of inferior pictures must rank before Rubens.
Who was ever piously affected by any picture of the master? He
can depict a livid thief writhing upon the cross, sometimes a blonde
Magdalen weeping below it; but it is a Magdalen a very short time
indeed after her repentance: her yellow brocades and flaring satins
are still those which she wore when she was of the world ; her body
has not yet lost the marks of the feasting and voluptuousness in
which she used to indulge, according to the legend. Not one of the
Rubens' pictures, among all the scores that decorate chapels and
churches here, has the least tendency to purify, to touch the affec-
tions, or to awaken the feelings of religious respect and wonder. The
“ Descent from the Cross” is vast, gloomy, and awful; but the awe
inspired by it is, as I take it, altogether material. He might have
painted a picture of any criminal broken on the wheel, and the sensa-
tion inspired by it would have been precisely similar. Nor in a
religious picture do you want the savoir-faire of the master to be
always protruding itself; it detracts from the feeling of reverence,
just as the thumping of cushion and the spouting of tawdry oratory
does from a sermon: meek religion disappears, shouldered out of
the desk by the pompous, stalwart, big-chested, fresh-coloured, bushy-
whiskered pulpiteer. Rubens' piety has always struck us as of this
sort. If he takes a pious subject, it is to show you in what a fine
way he, Peter Paul Rubens, can treat it. He never seems to doubt
but that he is doing it a great honour. His “Descent from the
Cross," and its accompanying wings and cover, are a set of puns
upon the word Christopher, of which the taste is more odious than
that of the hooped-petticoated Virgin yonder, with her artificial flowers,
and her rings and brooches. The people who made an offering
of that hooped petticoat did their best, at any rate ; they knew no
better. There is humility in that simple, quaint present ; trustfulness
and kind intention. Looking about at other altars, you see (much
to the horror of pious Protestants) all sorts of queer little emblems
hanging up under little pyramids of penny candles that are sputtering
and flaring there. Here you have a silver arm, or a little gold toe,
or a wax leg, or a gilt eye, signifying and commemorating cures that
have been performed by the supposed intercession of the saint over


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
181
whose chapel they hang. Well, although they are abominable super-
stitions, yet these queer little offerings seem to me to be a great deal
more pious than Rubens' big pictures ; just as is the widow with her
poor little mite compared to the swelling Pharisee who flings his
purse of gold into the plate.
A couple of days of Rubens and his church pictures makes one
thoroughly and entirely sick of him. His very genius and splendour
· palls upon one, even taking the pictures as worldly pictures. One
grows weary of being perpetually feasted with this rich, coarse,
steaming food. Considering them as church pictures, I don't want to
go to church to hear, however splendid, an organ play the “ British
Grenadiers."
The Antwerpians have set up a clumsy bronze statue of their
divinity in a square of the town ; and those who have not enough of
Rubens in the churches may study him, and indeed to much greater
advantage, in a good, well-lighted museum. Here, there is one
picture, a dying saint taking the communion, a large piece ten or
eleven feet high, and painted in an incredibly short space of time,
which is extremely curious indeed for the painter's study. The
picture is scarcely more than an immense magnificent sketch ; but it
tells the secret of the artist's manner, which, in the midst of its dash
and splendour, is curiously methodical. Where the shadows are
warm the lights are cold, and vice versân; and the picture has been
so rapidly painted, that the tints lie raw by the side of one another,
the artist not having taken the trouble to blend them.
There are two exquisite Vandykes (whatever Sir Joshua may say
of them), and in which the very management of the grey tones which
the President abuses forms the principal excellence and charm. Why,
after all, are we not to have our opinion ? Sir Joshua is not the Pope.
The colour of one of those Vandykes is as fine as fine Paul Veronese,
and the sentiment beautifully tender and graceful.
I saw, too, an exhibition of the modern Belgian artists (1843), the
remembrance of whose pictures after a month's absence has almost
entirely vanished. Wappers' hand, as I thought, seemed to have
grown old and feeble, Verboeckhoven's cattle-pieces are almost as
good as Paul Potter's, and Keyser has dwindled down into namby-
pamby prettiness, pitiful to see in the gallant young painter who
astonished the Louvre artists ten years ago by a hand almost as


182 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
dashing and ready as that of Rubens himself. There were besides
many caricatures of the new German school, which are in themselves
caricatures of the masters before Raphael.
An instance of honesty may be mentioned here with applause.
The writer lost a pocket-book containing a passport and a couple of
modest ten-pound notes. The person who found the portfolio
ingeniously put it into the box of the post-office, and it was faithfully
restored to the owner, but somehow the two ten-pound notes were
absent. It was, however, a great comfort to get the passport, and
the pocket-book, which must be worth about ninepence.
Brussels.
It was night when we arrived by the railroad from Antwerp at
Brussels; the route is very pretty and interesting, and the flat
countries through which the road passes in the highest state of
peaceful, smiling cultivation. The fields by the road-side are enclosed
by hedges as in England, the harvest was in part down, and an
English country gentleman who was of our party pronounced the
crops to be as fine as any he had ever seen. Of this matter a
cockney cannot judge accurately, but any man can see with what
extraordinary neatness and care all these little plots of ground are
tilled, and admire the richness and brilliancy of the vegetation.
Outside of the moat of Antwerp, and at every village by which we
passed, it was pleasant to see the happy congregations of well-clad
people that basked in the evening sunshine, and soberly smoked their
pipes and drank their Flemish beer. Men who love this drink must,
as I fancy, have something essentially peaceful in their composition,
and must be more easily satisfied than folks on our side of the water.
The excitement of Flemish beer is, indeed, not great. I have tried
both the white beer and the brown ; they are both of the kind which
schoolboys denominate “swipes,” very sour and thin to the taste, but
served, to be sure, in quaint Flemish jugs that do not seem to have
changed their form since the days of Rubens, and must please the
lovers of antiquarian knicknacks. Numbers of comfortable-looking
women and children sat beside the head of the family upon the
tavern-benches, and it was amusing to see one little fellow of eight
years old smoking, with much gravity, his father's cigar. How the
worship of the sacred plant of tobacco has spread through all Europe !


FROJI RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
183
I am sure that the persons who cry out against the use of it are
guilty of superstition and unreason, and that it would be a proper and
easy task for scientific persons to write an encomium upon the weed.
In solitude it is the pleasantest companion possible, and in company
never de trop. To a student it suggests all sorts of agreeable thoughts,
it refreshes the brain when weary, and every sedentary cigar-smoker
will tell you how much good he has had from it, and how he has been
able to return to his labour, after a quarter of an hour's mild interval
of the delightful leaf of Havannah. Drinking has gone from among
us since smoking came in. It is a wicked error to say that smokers
are drunkards; drink they do, but of gentle diluents mostly, for fierce
stimulants of wine or strong liquors are abhorrent to the real lover of
the Indian weed. Ah! my Juliana, join not in the vulgar cry that is
raised against us. Cigars and cool drinks beget quiet conversations,
good-humour, meditation; not hot blood such as mounts into the
head of drinkers of apoplectic port or dangerous claret. Are we not
more moral and reasonable than our forefathers? Indeed I think so
somewhat; and many improvements of social life and converse must
date with the introduction of the pipe.
We were a dozen tobacco-consumers in the waggon of the train
that brought us from Antwerp; nor did the women of the party
(sensible women !) make a single objection to the fumigation. But
enough of this; only let me add, in conclusion, that an excellent
Israelitish gentleman, Mr. Hartog of Antwerp, supplies cigars for a
penny apiece, such as are not to be procured in London for four
times the sum.
Through smiling corn-fields, then, and by little woods from which
rose here and there the quaint peaked towers of some old-fashioned
châtcaux, our train went smoking along at thirty miles an hour. We
caught a glimpse of Mechlin steeple, at first dark against the sunset,
and afterwards bright as we came to the other side of it, and admired
long glistening canals or moats that surrounded the queer old town,
and were lighted up in that wonderful way which the sun only under-
stands, and not even Mr. Turner, with all his vermilion and gamboge,
can put down on canvas. The verdure was everywhere astonishing,
and we fancied we saw many golden Cuyps as we passed by these
quiet pastures.
Steam-engines and their accompaniments, blazing forges, gaunt
manufactories, with numberless windows and long black chimneys, of


184 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
course take away from the romance of the place; but, as we whirled
into Brussels, even these engines had a fine appearance. Three or
four of the snorting, galloping monsters had just finished their
journey, and there was a quantity of flaming ashes lying under the
brazen bellies of each that looked properly lurid and demoniacal.
The men at the station came out with flaming torches-awful-looking
fellows indeed ! Presently the different baggage was handed out,
and in the very worst vehicle I ever entered, and at the very slowest
pace, we were borne to the “ Hôtel de Suède,” from which house of
entertainment this letter is written.
We strolled into the town, but, though the night was excessively
fine and it was not yet eleven o'clock, the streets of the little capital
were deserted, and the handsome blazing cafés round about the
theatres contained no inmates. Ah, what a pretty sight is the
Parisian Boulevard on a night like this ! how many pleasant hours
has one passed in watching the lights, and the hum, and the stir, and
the laughter of those happy, idle people! There was none of this
gaiety here ; nor was there a person to be found, except a skulking
commissioner or two (whose real name in French is that of a fish that
is eaten with fennel-sauce), and who offered to conduct us to certain
curiosities in the town. What must we English not have done, that
in every town in Europe we are to be fixed upon by scoundrels of
this sort; and what a pretty reflection it is on our country that such
rascals find the means of living on us !
Early the next morning we walked through a number of streets in
the place, and saw certain sights. The Park is very pretty, and all
the buildings round about it have an air of neatness—almost of
stateliness. The houses are tall, the streets spacious, and the roads
extremely clean. In the Park is a little theatre, a café somewhat
ruinous, a little palace for the king of this little kingdom, sume smart
public buildings (with S. P. Q. B. emblazoned on them, at which
pompous inscription one cannot help laughing), and other rows of
houses somewhat resembling a little Rue de Rivoli. Whether from
my own natural greatness and magnanimity, or from that handsome
share of national conceit that every Englishman possesses, my
impressions of this city are certainly anything but respectful. It has
an absurd kind of Lilliput look with it. There are soldiers, just as in
Paris, better dressed, and doing a vast deal of drumming and bustle ;


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
185
and yet, somehow, far from being frightened at them, I feel inclined
to laugh in their faces. There are little Ministers, who work at their
little bureaux ; and to read the journals, how fierce they are ! A great
thundering Times could hardly talk more big. One reads about the
rascally Ministers, the miserable Opposition, the designs of tyrants,
the eyes of Europe, &c., just as one would in real journals. The
Moniteur of Ghent belabours the Independent of Brussels; the Inde-
pendent falls foul of the Lynx; and really it is difficult not to suppose
sometimes that these worthy people are in earnest. And yet how
happy were they sua si bona nôrint! Think what a comfort it would
be to belong to a little state like this; not to abuse their privilege,
but philosophically to use it. If I were a Belgian, I would not care
one single fig about politics. I would not read thundering leading-
articles. I would not have an opinion. What's the use of an
opinion here? Happy fellows ! do not the French, the English, and
the Prussians, spare them the trouble of thinking, and make all their
opinions for them ? Think of living in a country free, easy, respectable,
wealthy, and with the nuisance of talking politics removed from out of
it. All this might the Belgians have, and a part do they enjoy, but
not the best part; no, these people will be brawling and by the ears,
and parties run as high here as at Stoke Pogis or little Pedlington.
These sentiments were elicited by the reading of a paper at the
café in the Park, where we sat under the trees for awhile and sipped
our cool lemonade. Numbers of statues decorate the place, the very
worst I ever saw. These Cupids must have been erected in the time
of the Dutch dynasty, as I judge from the immense posterior develop-
ments. Indeed the arts of the country are very low. The statues
here, and the lions before the Prince of Orange's palace, would dis-
grace almost the figure-head of a ship.
Of course we paid our visit to this little lion of Brussels (the
Prince's palace, I mean). The architecture of the building is admirably
simple and firm; and you remark about it, and all other works here,
a high finish in doors, wood-works, paintings, &c. that one does not
see in France, where the buildings are often rather sketched than
completed, and the artist seems to neglect the limbs, as it were, and
extremities of his figures.
The finish of this little place is exquisite. We went through some
dozen of state-rooms, paddling along over the slippery floors of inlaid
woods in great slippers, without which we must have come to the


184 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
course take away from the romance of the place; but, as we whirled
into Brussels, even these engines had a fine appearance. Three or
four of the snorting, galloping monsters had just finished their
journey, and there was a quantity of flaming ashes lying under the
brazen bellies of each that looked properly lurid and demoniacal.
The men at the station came out with flaming torches-awful-looking
fellows indeed! Presently the different baggage was handed out,
and in the very worst vehicle I ever entered, and at the very slowest
pace, we were borne to the “ Hôtel de Suède," from which house of
entertainment this letter is written.
We strolled into the town, but, though the night was excessively
fine and it was not yet eleven o'clock, the streets of the iittle capital
were deserted, and the handsome blazing cafés round about the
theatres contained no inmates. Ah, what a pretty sight is the
Parisian Boulevard on a night like this ! how many pleasant hours
has one passed in watching the lights, and the hum, and the stir, and
the laughter of those happy, idle people! There was none of this
gaiety here ; nor was there a person to be found, except a skulking
commissioner or two (whose real name in French is that of a fish that
is eaten with fennel-sauce), and who offered to conduct us to certain
curiosities in the town. What must we English not have done, that
in every town in Europe we are to be fixed upon by scoundrels of
this sort; and what a pretty reflection it is on our country that such
rascals find the means of living on us !
Early the next morning we walked through a number of streets in
the place, and saw certain sights. The Park is very pretty, and all
the buildings round about it have an air of neatness—almost of
stateliness. The houses are tall, the streets spacious, and the roads
extremely clean. In the Park is a little theatre, a café somewhat
ruinous, a little palace for the king of this little kingdom, some smart
public buildings (with S. P. Q. B. emblazoned on them, at which
pompous inscription one cannot help laughing), and other rows of
houses somewhat resembling a little Rue de Rivoli. Whether from
my own natural greatness and magnanimity, or from that handsome
share of national conceit that every Englishman possesses, my
impressions of this city are certainly anything but respectful. It has
an absurd kind of Lilliput look with it. There are soldiers, just as in
Paris, better dressed, and doing a vast deal of drumming and bustle;


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
185
and yet, somehow, far from being frightened at them, I feel inclined
to laugh in their faces. There are little Ministers, who work at their
little bureaux ; and to read the journals, how fierce they are ! A great
thundering Times could hardly talk more big. One reads about the
rascally Ministers, the miserable Opposition, the designs of tyrants,
the eyes of Europe, &c., just as one would in real journals. The
Moniteur of Ghent belabours the Independent of Brussels; the Inde-
pendent falls foul of the Lynx; and really it is difficult not to suppose
sometimes that these worthy people are in earnest. And yet how
happy were they sua si bona nôrint! Think what a comfort it would
be to belong to a little state like this; not to abuse their privilege,
but philosophically to use it. If I were a Belgian, I would not care
one single fig about politics. I would not read thundering leading-
articles. I would not have an opinion. What's the use of an
opinion here? Happy fellows ! do not the French, the English, and
the Prussians, spare them the trouble of thinking, and make all their
opinions for them? Think of living in a country free, easy, respectable,
wealthy, and with the nuisance of talking politics removed from out of
it. All this might the Belgians have, and a part do they enjoy, but
not the best part; no, these people will be brawling and by the ears,
and parties run as high here as at Stoke Pogis or little Pedlington.
These sentiments were elicited by the reading of a paper at the
café in the Park, where we sat under the trees for awhile and sipped
our cool lemonade. Numbers of statues decorate the place, the very
worst I ever saw. These Cupids must have been erected in the time
of the Dutch dynasty, as I judge from the immense posterior develop-
ments. Indeed the arts of the country are very low. The statues
here, and the lions before the Prince of Orange's palace, would dis-
grace almost the figure-head of a ship.
Of course we paid our visit to this little lion of Brussels (the
Prince's palace, I mean). The architecture of the building is admirably
simple and firm ; and you remark about it, and all other works here,
a high finish in doors, wood-works, paintings, &c. that one does not
see in France, where the buildings are often rather sketched than
completed, and the artist seems to neglect the limbs, as it were, and
extremities of his figures.
The finish of this little place is exquisite. We went through some
dozen of state-rooms, paddling along over the slippery floors of inlaid
woods in great slippers, without which we must have come to the


186 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
ground. How did his Royal Highness the Prince of Orange manage
when he lived here, and her Imperial Highness the Princess, and their
excellencies the chamberlains and the footmen? They must have
been on their tails many times a day, that's certain, and must have
cut queer figures.
The ball-room is beautiful—all marble, and yet with a comfortable,
cheerful look; the other apartments are not less agreeable, and the
people looked with intense satisfaction at some great lapis-lazuli
tables, which the guide informed us were worth four millions, more or
less; adding with a very knowing look, that they were un peu plus ·
cher que l'or. This speech has a tremendous effect on visitors, and
when we met some of our steam-boat companions in the Park or else-
where—in so small a place as this one falls in with them a dozen
times a day—“Have you seen the tables?" was the general question.
Prodigious tables are they, indeed! Fancy a table, my dear-a table
four feet wide-a table with legs. Ye heavens! the mind can hardly
picture to itself anything so beautiful and so tremendous !
There are some good pictures in the palace, too, but not so extra-
ordinarily good as the guide-books and the guide would have us to
think. The latter, like most men of his class, is an ignoramus, who
showed us an Andrea del Sarto (copy or original), and called it a
Correggio, and made other blunders of a like nature. As is the case
in England, you are hurried through the rooms without being allowed
time to look at the pictures, and, consequently, to pronounce a satis-
factory judgment on them.
In the Museum more time was granted me, and I spent some
hours with pleasure there. It is an absurd little gallery, absurdly
iinitating the Louvre, with just such compartments and pillars as you
see in the noble Paris gallery ; only here the pillars and capitals are
stucco and white in place of marble and gold, and plaster-of-paris
busts of great Belgians are placed between the pillars. An artist of
the country has made a picture containing them, and you will be
ashamed of your ignorance when you hear many of their names. Old
Tilly of Magdeburg figures in one corner ; Rubens, the endless
Rubens, stands in the midst. What a noble countenance it is, and
what a manly, swaggering consciousness of power !
The picture to see here is a portrait, by the great Peter Paul, of
one of the governesses of the Netherlands. It is just the finest portrait
that ever was seen. Only a half-length, but such a majesty, such a


FROM RICHMOND TO BRUSSELS.
187
force, such a splendour, such a simplicity about it! The woman is in
a stiff black dress, with a ruff and a few pearls ; a yellow curtain is
behind her—the simplest arrangement that can be conceived ; but
this great man knew how to rise to his occasion ; and no better proof
can be shown of what a fine gentleman he was than this his homage
to the vice-Queen. A common bungler would have painted her in
her best clothes, with crown and sceptre, just as our Queen has been
painted by—but comparisons are odious. Here stands this majestic
woman in her every-day working-dress of black satin, looking your hat
off, as it were. Another portrait of the same personage hangs else-
where in the gallery, and it is curious to observe the difference between
the two, and see how a man of genius paints a portrait, and how a
common limner executes it.
Many more pictures are there here by Rubens, or rather from
Rubens' manufactory,—odious and vulgar most of them are ; fat
Magdalens, coarse Saints, vulgar Virgins, with the scene-painter's
tricks far too evident upon the canvas. By the side of one of the
most astonishing colour-pieces in the world, the “Worshipping of the
Magi,” is a famous picture of Paul Veronese that cannot be too much
admired. As Rubens sought in the first picture to dazzle and astonish
by gorgeous variety, Paul in his seems to wish to get his effect by
simplicity, and has produced the most noble harmony that can be
conceived. Many more works are there that merit notice,-a singularly
clever, brilliant, and odious Jordaens, for example; some curious
costume-pieces; one or two works by the Belgian Raphael, who was
a very Belgian Raphael indeed ; and a long gallery of pictures of the
very oldest school, that, doubtless, afford much pleasure to the
amateurs of ancient art. I confess that I am inclined to believe in
very little that existed before the time of Raphael. There is, for
instance, the Prince of Orange's picture by Perugino, very pretty
indeed, up to a certain point, but all the heads are repeated, all the
drawing is bad and affected ; and this very badness and affectation is
what the so-called Catholic school is always anxious to imitate.
Nothing can be more juvenile or paltry than the works of the native
Belgians here exhibited. Tin crowns are suspended over many of
them, showing that the pictures are prize compositions: and pretty
things, indeed, they are! Have you ever read an Oxford prize-poem?
Well, these pictures are worse even than the Oxford poems-an awful
assertion to make.


188 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
In the matter of eating, dear sir, which is the next subject of the
fine arts, a subject that, after many hours' walking, attracts a gentle-
man very much, let me attempt to recall the transactions of this very
day at the table-d'hôte. 1, green pea soup ; 2, boiled salmon ; 3,
mussels ; 4, crimped skate ; 5, roast-meat ; 6, patties; 7, melon; 8,
carp, stewed with mushrooms and onions ; 9, roast-turkey ; 10,
cauliflower and butter; 11, fillets of venison piqués, with asafetida
sauce ; 12, stewed calf's-ear; 13, roast-veal; 14, roast-lamb; 15,
stewed cherries; 16, rice pudding; 17, Gruyère cheese, and about
twenty-four cakes of different kinds. Except 5, 13, and 14, I give you
my word I ate of all written down here, with three rolls of bread and
a score of potatoes. What is the meaning of it? How is the stomach
of man brought to desire and to receive all this quantity? Do not
gastronomists complain of heaviness in London after eating a couple
of mutton-chops? Do not respectable gentlemen fall asleep in their
arm-chairs ? Are they fit for mental labour? Far from it. But look
at the difference here : after dinner here one is as light as a gossamer.
One walks with pleasure, reads with pleasure, writes with pleasure-
nay, there is the supper-bell going at ten o'clock, and plenty of eaters,
too. Let lord mayors and aldermen look to it, this fact of the extra-
ordinary increase of appetite in Belgium, and, instead of steaming to
Blackwall, come a little further to Antwerp.
Of ancient architectures in the place, there is a fine old Port de
Halle, which has a tall, gloomy, bastille look; a most magnificent
town-hall, that has been sketched a thousand of times, and opposite
it, a building that I think would be the very model for a Conservative
club-house in London. Oh! how charming it would be to be a
great painter, and give the character of the building, and the number-
less groups round about it. The booths lighted up by the sun, the
market-women in their gowns of brilliant hue, each group having a
character and telling its little story, the troops of men lolling in all
sorts of admirable attitudes of ease round the great lamp. Half-a-
dozen light-blue dragoons are lounging about, and peeping over the
artist as the drawing is made, and the sky is more bright and blue
than one sees it in a hundred years in London.
The priests of the country are a remarkably well-fed and respect-
able race, without that scowling, hang-dog look which one has
remarked among reverend gentlemen in the neighbouring country of
France. Their reverences wear buckles to their shoes, light-blue


FROM RICHAIOND TO BRUSSELS.
189
s, male anion that was pubeneath it ho
neckcloths, and huge three-cornered hats in good condition. To-day,
strolling by the cathedral, I heard the tinkling of a bell in the street,
and beheld certain persons, male and female, suddenly plump down
on their knees before a little procession that was passing. Two men
in black held a tawdry red canopy, a priest walked beneath it holding
the sacrament covered with a cloth, and before him marched a couple
of little altar-boys in short white surplices, such as you see in Rubens,
and holding lacquered lamps. A small train of street-boys followed
the procession, cap in hand, and the clergyman finally entered a
hospital for old women, near the church, the canopy and the lamp-
bearers remaining without
It was a touching scene, and as I stayed to watch it, I could not
but think of the poor old soul who was dying within, listening to the
last words of prayer, led by the hand of the priest to the brink of the
black, fathomless grave. How bright the sun was shining without
all the time, and how happy and careless everything around us
looked !
The Duke d'Arenberg has a picture-gallery worthy of his princely
house. It does not contain great pieces, but tit-bits of pictures, such
as suit an aristocratic epicure. For such persons a great huge
canvas is too much, it is like sitting down alone to a roasted ox; and
they do wisely, I think, to patronize small, high-flavoured, delicate
morceaux, such as the Duke has here.
Among them may be mentioned, with special praise, a magnificent
small Rembrandt, a Paul Potter of exceeding minuteness and beauty,
an Ostade, which reminds one of Wilkie's early performances, and
a Dusart quite as good as Ostade. There is a Berghem, much more
unaffected than that artist's works generally are ; and, what is more,
precious in the eyes of many ladies as an object of art, there is, in
one of the grand saloons, some needlework done by the Duke's own
grandmother, which is looked at with awe by those admitted to see
the palace.
The chief curiosity, if not the chief ornament of a very elegant
library, filled with vases and bronzes, is a marble head, supposed to be
the original head of the Laocoon. It is, unquestionably, a finer head
than that which at present figures upon the shoulders of the famous
statue. The expression of woe is more manly and intense ; in the
group as we know it, the head of the principal figure has always


190 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
seemed to me to be a grimace of grief, as are the two accompanying
young gentlemen with their pretty attitudes, and their little silly,
open-mouthed despondency. It has always had upon me the effect
of a trick, that statue, and not of a piece of true art. It would look
well in the vista of a garden ; it is not august enough for a temple,
with all its jerks, and twirls, and polite convulsions. But who knows
what susceptibilities such a confession may offend? Let us say no.
more about the Laocoon, nor its head, nor its tail. The Duke was
offered its weight in gold, they say, for this head, and refused. It
would be a shame to speak ill of such a treasure, but I have my
opinion of the man who made the offer.
In the matter of sculpture almost all the Brussels churches are
decorated with the most laborious wooden pulpits, which may be
worth their weight in gold, too, for what I know, including his reve-
rence preaching inside. At St. Gudule the preacher mounts into no
less a place than the garden of Eden, being supported by Adam and
Eve, by Sin and Death, and numberless other animals; he walks up
to his desk by a rustic railing of flowers, fruits, and vegetables, with
wooden peacocks, paroquets, monkeys biting apples, and many more
of the birds and beasts of the field. In another church the clergy-
man speaks from out a hermitage; in a third from a carved palm-
tree, which supports a set of oak clouds that form the canopy of the
pulpit, and are, indeed, not much heavier in appearance than so many
huge sponges. A priest, however tall or stout, must be lost in the
midst of all these queer gimcracks ; in order to be consistent, they
ought to dress him up, too, in some odd fantastical suit. I can fancy
the Curé of Meudon preaching out of such a place, or the Rev. Sydney
Smith, or that famous clergyman of the time of the League, who
brought all Paris to laugh and listen to him.
But let us not be too supercilious and ready to sneer. It is only
bad taste. It may have been very true devotion which erected these
strange edifices.


( 191 )
II.-GHENT-BRUGES.
GHENT. (1840.)
THE Béguine College or Village is one of the most extraordinary
1 sights that all Europe can show. On the confines of the town
of Ghent you come upon an old-fashioned brick gate, that seems as if
it were one of the city barriers; but, on passing it, one of the prettiest
sights possible meets the eye : At the porter's lodge you see an old
lady, in black and a white hood, occupied over her book; before
you is a red church with a tall roof and fantastical Dutch pinnacles,
and all around it rows upon rows of small houses, the queerest,
neatest, nicest that ever were seen (a doll's house is hardly smaller
or prettier). Right and left, on each side of little alleys, these little
mansions rise; they have a courtlet before them, in which some
green plants or hollyhocks are growing; and to each house is a gate,
that has mostly a picture or queer-carved ornament upon or about it,
and bears the name, not of the Béguine who inhabits it, but of the
saint to whom she may have devoted it—the house of St. Stephen,
the house of St. Donatus, the English or Angel Convent, and so on.
Old ladies in black are pacing in the quiet alleys here and there, and
drop the stranger a curtsey as he passes them and takes off his hat.
Never were such patterns of neatness seen as these old ladies and
their houses. I peeped into one or two of the chambers, of which
the windows were open to the pleasant evening sun, and saw beds
scrupulously plain, a quaint old chair or two, and little pictures of
favourite saints decorating the spotless white walls. The old ladies
kept up a quick, cheerful clatter, as they paused to gossip at the gates
of their little domiciles; and with a great deal of artifice, and lurking
behind walls, and looking at the church as if I intended to design
that, I managed to get a sketch of a couple of them.
But what white paper can render the whiteness of their linen ;
what black ink can do justice to the lustre of their gowns and shoes ?
Both of the ladies had a neat ankle and a tight stocking; and I fancy
that heaven is quite as well served in this costume as in the dress of


192 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
a scowling, stockingless friar, whom I had seen passing just before.
The look and dress of the man made me shudder. His great red
feet were bound up in a shoe open at the toes, a kind of compromise
for a sandal. I had just seen him and his brethren at the Dominican
Church, where a mass of music was sung, and orange-trees, flags, and
banners decked the aisle of the church.
One begins to grow sick of these churches, and the hideous
exhibitions of bodily agonies that are depicted on the sides of all the
chapels. Into one wherein we went this morning was what they
called a Calvary : a horrible, ghastly image of a Christ in a tomb, the
figure of the natural size, and of the livid colour of death ; gaping
red wounds on the body and round the brows: the whole piece
enough to turn one sick, and fit only to brutalise the beholder of it.
The Virgin is commonly represented with a dozen swords stuck in
her heart; bleeding throats of headless John Baptists are perpetually
thrust before your eyes. At the Cathedral gate was a papier-mâché
church-ornament shopmost of the carvings and reliefs of the same
dismal character : One, for instance, represented a heart with
a great gash in it, and a double row of large blood-drops
dribbling from it ; nails and a knife were thrust into the heart;
round the whole was a crown of thorns. Such things are
dreadful to think of. The same gloomy spirit which made a religion
of them, and worked upon the people by the grossest of all means,
terror, distracted the natural feelings of man to maintain its power-
shut gentle women into lonely, pitiless convents—frightened poor
peasants with tales of tornient—taught that the end and labour of
life was silence, wretchedness, and the scourge-murdered those by
fagot and prison who thought otherwise. How has the blind and
furious bigotry of man perverted that which God gave us as our
greatest boon, and bid us hate where God bade us love! Thank
heaven that monk has gone out of sight! It is pleasant to look at the
smiling, cheerful old Béguine, and think no more of yonder livid face.
One of the many convents in this little religious city seems to be
the specimen-house, which is shown to strangers, for all the guides
conduct you thither, and I saw in a book kept for the purpose the
names of innumerable Smiths and Joneses registered.
A very kind, sweet-voiced, smiling nun (I wonder, do they always
choose the most agreeable and best-humoured sister of the house to
show it to strangers ?) came tripping down the steps and across the


GHENT.
193
Aags of the little garden-court, and welcomed us with much courtesy
into the neat little old-fashioned, red-bricked, gable-ended, shining-
windowed Convent of the Angels. First she showed us a white-
washed parlour, decorated with a grim picture or two and some
crucifixes and other religious emblems, where, upon stiff old chairs,
the sisters sit and work. Three or four of them were still there,
pattering over their laces and bobbins; but the chief part of the
sisterhood were engaged in an apartment hard by, from which issued
a certain odour which I must say resembled onions : it was in fact
the kitchen of the establishment
Every Béguine cooks her own little dinner in her own little
pipkin ; and there was half-a-score of them, sure enough, busy over
their pots and crockery, cooking a repast which, when ready, was
carried off to a neighbouring room, the refectory, where, at a ledge-
table which is drawn out from under her own particular cupboard, each
nun sits down and eats her meal in silence. More religious emblems
ornamented the carved cupboard-doors, and within, everything was
as neat as neat could be: shining pewter-ewers and glasses, snug
baskets of eggs and pats of butter, and little bowls with about a
farthing's-worth of green tea in them-for some great day of fête,
doubtless. The old ladies sat round as we examined these things,
each eating soberly at her ledge and never looking round. There was
a bell ringing in the chapel hard by. “Hark!” said our guide, “ that
is one of the sisters dying. Will you come up and see the cells ? "
The cells, it need not be said, are the snuggest little nests in the
world, with serge-curtained beds and snowy linen, and saints and
martyrs pinned against the wall. “We may sit up till twelve
o'clock, if we like," said the nun; • but we have no fire and candle,
and so what's the use of sitting up? When we have said our prayers
we are glad enough to go to sleep.”
I forget, although the good soul told us, how many times in the
day, in public and in private, these devotions are made, but fancy
that the morning service in the chapel takes place at too early an
hour for most easy travellers. We did not fail to attend in the
evening, when likewise is a general muster of the seven hundred,
minus the absent and sick, and the sight is not a little curious and
striking to a stranger.
The chapel is a very big whitewashed place of worship, supported
by half-a-dozen columns on either side, over each of which stands the
13


194 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
statue of an Apostle, with his emblem of martyrdom. Nobody was
as yet at the distant altar, which was too far off to see very distinctly;
but I could perceive two statues over it, one of which (St. Laurence,
no doubt) was leaning upon a huge gilt gridiron that the sun lighted
up in a blaze-a painful but not a romantic instrument of death. A
couple of old ladies in white hoods were tugging and swaying about
at two bell-ropes that came down into the middle of the church, and
at least five hundred others in white veils were seated all round about
us in mute contemplation until the service began, looking very solemn,
and white, and ghastly, like an army of tombstones by moonlight.
The service commenced as the clock finished striking seven: the
organ pealed out, a very cracked and old one, and presently some
weak old voice from the choir overhead quavered out a canticle ;
which done, a thin old voice of a priest at the altar far off (and which
had now become quite gloomy in the sunset) chanted feebly another
part of the service; then the nuns warbled once more overhead; and
it was curious to hear, in the intervals of the most lugubrious chants,
how the organ went off with some extremely cheerful military or profane
air. At one time was a march, at another a quick tune; which ceasing,
the old nuns began again, and so sung until the service was ended.
In the midst of it one of the white-veiled sisters approached us with
a very mysterious air, and put down her white veil close to our ears and
whispered. Were we doing anything wrong, I wondered? Were they
come to that part of the service where heretics and infidels ought to
quit the church? What have you to ask, O sacred, white-veiled maid?
All she said was, “Deux centièmes pour les suisses," which sum
was paid; and presently the old ladies, rising from their chairs one
by one, came in face of the altar, where they knelt down and said
a short prayer; then, rising, unpinned their veils, and folded them
up all exactly in the same folds and fashion, and laid them square like
napkins on their heads, and tucked up their long black outer dresses,
and trudged off to their convents.
The novices wear black veils, under one of which I saw a young,
sad, handsome face ; it was the only thing in the establishment that
was the least romantic or gloomy: and, for the sake of any reader of a
sentimental turn, let us hope that the poor soul has been crossed in love,
and that over some soul-stirring tragedy that black curtain has fallen.
Ghent has, I believe, been called a vulgar Venice. It contains
- dirty canals and old houses that must satisfy the most eager antiquary,


GHENT.
195
though the buildings are not quite in so good preservation as others
that may be seen in the Netherlands. The commercial bustle of the
place seems considerable, and it contains more beer-shops than any
city I ever saw.
These beer-shops seem the only amusement of the inhabitants,
until, at least, the theatre shall be built, of which the elevation is now
complete, a very handsome and extensive pile. There are beer-shops
in the cellars of the houses, which are frequented, it is to be pre-
sumed, by the lower sort ; there are beer-shops at the barriers, where
the citizens and their families repair ; and beer-shops in the town,
glaring with gas, with long gauze blinds, however, to hide what I hear
is a rather questionable reputation.
Our inn, the “Hotel of the Post,” a spacious and comfortable
residence, is on a little place planted round with trees, and that seems
to be the Palais Royal of the town. Three clubs, which look from
without to be very comfortable, ornament this square with their gas-
lamps. Here stands, too, the theatre that is to be; there is a café,
and on evenings a military band plays the very worst music I ever
remember to have heard. I went out to-night to take a quiet walk
upon this place, and the horrid brazen discord of these trumpeters
set me half mad.
I went to the café for refuge, passing on the way a subterraneous
beer-shop, where men and women were drinking to the sweet music
of a cracked barrel-organ. They take in a couple of French papers
at this café, and the same number of Belgian journals. You may
imagine how well the latter are informed, when you hear that the
battle of Boulogne, fought by the immortal Louis Napoleon, was not
known here until some gentlemen out of Norfolk brought the news
from London, and until it had travelled to Paris, and from Paris to
Brussels. For a whole hour I could not get a newspaper at the café.
The horrible brass band in the meantime had quitted the place, and
now, to amuse the Ghent citizens, a couple of little boys came to the
café and set up a small concert : one played ill on the guitar, but
sang, very sweetly, plaintive French ballads; the other was the comic
singer ; he carried about with him a queer, long, damp-looking,
mouldy white hat, with no brim. “Ecoutez," said the waiter to me,
“il va faire l'Anglais ; c'est très drôle !” The little rogue mounted
his immense brimless hat, and, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-
holes of his waiscoat, began to faire l'Anglais, with a song in which


192 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SK’ETCHES.
a scowling, stockingless friar, whom I had seen passing just before.
The look and dress of the man made me shudder. His great red
feet were bound up in a shoe open at the toes, a kind of compromise
for a sandal. I had just seen him and his brethren at the Dominican
Church, where a mass of music was sung, and orange-trees, flags, and
banners decked the aisle of the church.
One begins to grow sick of these churches, and the hideous
exhibitions of bodily agonies that are depicted on the sides of all the
chapels. Into one wherein we went this morning was what they
called a Calvary : a horrible, ghastly image of a Christ in a tomb, the
figure of the natural size, and of the livid colour of death ; gaping
red wounds on the body and round the brows: the whole piece
enough to turn one sick, and fit only to brutalise the beholder of it.
The Virgin is commonly represented with a dozen swords stuck in
her heart; bleeding throats of headless John Baptists are perpetually
thrust before your eyes. At the Cathedral gate was a papier-mâché
church-ornament shop-most of the carvings and reliefs of the same
dismal character : One, for instance, represented a heart with
a great gash in it, and a double row of large blood-drops
dribbling from it ; nails and a knife were thrust into the heart;
round the whole was a crown of thorns. Such things are
dreadful to think of. The same gloomy spirit which made a religion
of them, and worked upon the people by the grossest of all means,
terror, distracted the natural feelings of man to maintain its power—
shut gentle women into lonely, pitiless convents—frightened poor
peasants with tales of torment—taught that the end and labour of
life was silence, wretchedness, and the scourge-murdered those by
fagot and prison who thought otherwise. How has the blind and
furious bigotry of man perverted that which God gave us as our
greatest boon, and bid us hate where God bade us love! Thank
heaven that monk has gone out of sight! It is pleasant to look at the
smiling, cheerful old Béguine, and think no more of yonder livid face.
One of the many convents in this little religious city seems to be
the specimen-house, which is shown to strangers, for all the guides
conduct you thither, and I saw in a book kept for the purpose the
names of innumerable Smiths and Joneses registered.
A very kind, sweet-voiced, smiling nun (I wonder, do they always
choose the most agreeable and best-humoured sister of the house to
show it to strangers ?) came tripping down the steps and across the


GHENT.
193
flags of the little garden-court, and welcomed us with much courtesy
into the neat little old-fashioned, red-bricked, gable-ended, shining-
windowed Convent of the Angels. First she showed us a white-
washed parlour, decorated with a grim picture or two and some
crucifixes and other religious emblems, where, upon stiff old chairs,
the sisters sit and work. Three or four of them were still there,
pattering over their laces and bobbins; but the chief part of the
sisterhood were engaged in an apartment hard by, from which issued
a certain odour which I must say resembled onions : it was in fact
the kitchen of the establishment.
Every Béguine cooks her own little dinner in her own little
pipkin; and there was half-a-score of them, sure enough, busy over
their pots and crockery, cooking a repast which, when ready, was
carried off to a neighbouring room, the refectory, where, at a ledge-
table which is drawn out from under her own particular cupboard, each
nun sits down and eats her meal in silence. More religious emblems
ornamented the carved cupboard-doors, and within, everything was
as neat as neat could be: shining pewter-ewers and glasses, snug
baskets of eggs and pats of butter, and little bowls with about a
farthing's-worth of green tea in them—for some great day of fête,
doubtless. The old ladies sat round as we examined these things,
each cating soberly at her ledge and never looking round. There was
a bell ringing in the chapel hard by. “Hark !” said our guide, “ that
is one of the sisters dying. Will you come up and see the cells ?”
The cells, it need not be said, are the snuggest little nests in the
world, with serge-curtained beds and snowy linen, and saints and
martyrs pinned against the wall. “We may sit up till twelve
o'clock, if we like,” said the nun ; • but we have no fire and candle,
and so what's the use of sitting up? When we have said our prayers.
we are glad enough to go to sleep."
I forget, although the good soul told us, how many times in the
day, in public and in private, these devotions are made, but fancy
that the niorning service in the chapel takes place at too early an
hour for most easy travellers. We did not fail to attend in the
evening, when likewise is a general muster of the seven hundred,
minus the absent and sick, and the sight is not a little curious and
striking to a stranger.
The chapel is a very big whitewashed place of worship, supported
by half-a-dozen columns on either side, over each of which stands the
13


194 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
statue of an Apostle, with his emblem of martyrdom. Nobody was
as yet at the distant altar, which was too far off to see very distinctly;
but I could perceive two statues over it, one of which (St. Laurence,
no doubt) was leaning upon a huge gilt gridiron that the sun lighted
up in a blaze-a painful but not a romantic instrument of death. A
couple of old ladies in white hoods were tugging and swaying about
at two bell-ropes that came down into the middle of the church, and
at least five hundred others in white veils were seated all round about
us in mute contemplation until the service began, looking very solemn,
and white, and ghastly, like an army of tombstones by moonlight.
The service commenced as the clock finished striking seven: the
organ pealed out, a very cracked and old one, and presently some
weak old voice from the choir overhead quavered out a canticle ;
which done, a thin old voice of a priest at the altar far off (and which
had now become quite gloomy in the sunset) chanted feebly another
part of the service; then the nuns warbled once more overhead; and
it was curious to hear, in the intervals of the most lugubrious chants,
how the organ went off with some extremely cheerful military or profane
air. At one time was a march, at another a quick tune; which ceasing,
the old nuns began again, and so sung until the service was ended.
In the midst of it one of the white-veiled sisters approached us with
a very mysterious air, and put down her white veil close to our ears and
whispered. Were we doing anything wrong, I wondered? Were they
come to that part of the service where heretics and infidels ought to
quit the church? What have you to ask, O sacred, white-veiled maid ?
All she said was, “ Deux centièmes pour les suisses,” which sum
was paid; and presently the old ladies, rising from their chairs one
by one, came in face of the altar, where they knelt down and said
a short prayer; then, rising, unpinned their veils, and folded them
up all exactly in the same folds and fashion, and laid them square like
napkins on their heads, and tucked up their long black outer dresses,
and trudged off to their convents.
The novices wear black veils, under one of which I saw a young,
sad, handsome face ; it was the only thing in the establishment that
was the least romantic or gloomy: and, for the sake of any reader of a
sentimental turn, let us hope that the poor soul has been crossed in love,
and that over some soul-stirring tragedy that black curtain has fallen.
Ghent has, I believe, been called a vulgar Venice. It contains
- dirty canals and old houses that must satisfy the most eager antiquary,


GHENT.
195
though the buildings are not quite in so good preservation as others
that may be seen in the Netherlands. The commercial bustle of the
place seems considerable, and it contains more beer-shops than any
city I ever saw.
These beer-shops seem the only amusement of the inhabitants,
until, at least, the theatre shall be built, of which the elevation is now
complete, a very handsome and extensive pile. There are beer-shops
in the cellars of the houses, which are frequented, it is to be pre-
sumed, by the lower sort ; there are beer-shops at the barriers, where
the citizens and their families repair ; and beer-shops in the town,
glaring with gas, with long gauze blinds, however, to hide what I hear
is a rather questionable reputation.
Our inn, the “Hotel of the Post,” a spacious and comfortable
residence, is on a little place planted round with trees, and that seems
to be the Palais Royal of the town. Three clubs, which look from
without to be very comfortable, ornament this square with their gas-
lamps. Here stands, too, the theatre that is to be; there is a café,
and on evenings a military band plays the very worst music I ever
remember to have heard. I went out to-night to take a quiet walk
upon this place, and the horrid brazen discord of these trumpeters
set me half mad.
I went to the café for refuge, passing on the way a subterraneous
beer-shop, where men and women were drinking to the sweet music
of a cracked barrel-organ. They take in a couple of French papers
at this café, and the same number of Belgian journals. You may
imagine how well the latter are informed, when you hear that the
battle of Boulogne, fought by the immortal Louis Napoleon, was not
known here until some gentlemen out of Norfolk brought the news
from London, and until it had travelled to Paris, and from Paris to
Brussels. For a whole hour I could not get a newspaper at the café.
The horrible brass band in the meantime had quitted the place, and
now, to amuse the Ghent citizens, a couple of little boys came to the
café and set up a small concert : one played ill on the guitar, but
sang, very sweetly, plaintive French ballads; the other was the comic
singer ; he carried about with him a queer, long, damp-looking,
mouldy white hat, with no brim. “Ecoutez,” said the waiter to me,
“il va faire l'Anglais ; c'est très drôle !” The little rogue mounted
his immense brimless hat, and, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-
holes of his waiscoat, began to faire l'Anglais, with a song in which


196 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
swearing was the principal joke. We all laughed at this, and indeed
the little rascal seemed to have a good deal of humour.
How they hate us, these foreigners, in Belgium as much as in
France! What lies they tell of us; how gladly they would see us
humiliated! Honest folks at home over their port-wine say, " Ay, ay,
and very good reason they have too. National vanity, sir, wounded
-we have beaten them so often.” My dear sir, there is not a greater
error in the world than this. They hate you because you are stupid,
hard to please, and intolerably insolent and air-giving. I walked
with an Englishman yesterday, who asked the way to a street of
which he pronounced the name very badly to a little Flemish boy:
the Flemish boy did not answer; and there was my Englishman quite
in a rage, shrieking in the child's ear as if he must answer. He
seemed to think that it was the duty of “the snob,” as he called him,
to obey the gentleman. This is why we are hated—for pride. In
our free country a tradesman, a lacquey, or a waiter will submit to
almost any given insult from a gentleman : in these benighted lands
one man is as good as another; and pray God it may soon be so with
us! Of all European people, which is the nation that has the most
haughtiness, the strongest prejudices, the greatest reserve, the greatest
dulness ? I say an Englishman of the genteel classes. An honest
groom jokes and hobs-and-nobs and makes his way with the kitchen-
maids, for there is good social nature in the man ; his master dare
not unbend. Look at him, how he scowls at you on your entering
an inn-room ; think how you scowl yourself to meet his scowl.
To-day, as we were walking and staring about the place, a worthy
old gentleman in a carriage, seeing a pair of strangers, took off his
hat and bowed very gravely with his old powdered head out of the
window : I am sorry to say that our first impulse was to burst out
laughing-it seemed so supremely ridiculous that a stranger should
notice and welcome another.
As for the notion that foreigners hate us because we have beaten
them so often, my dear sir, this is the greatest error in the world :
well-educated Frenchmen do not believe that we have beaten them. A
man was once ready to call me out in Paris because I said that we
had beaten the French in Spain ; and here before me is a French
paper, with a London correspondent discoursing about Louis Buona-
parte and his jackass expedition to Boulogne. “He was received at
Eglintoun, it is true,” says the correspondent, “ but what do you


GHEAT.
197
think was the reason ? Because the English nobility were anxious
to revenge upon his person (with some coups de lance) the checks which
the grand homme' his uncle had inflicted on us in Spain.”
This opinion is so general among the French, that they would
laugh at you with scornful incredulity if you ventured to assert any
other. Foy's history of the Spanish War does not, unluckily, go far
enough. I have read a French history which hardly mentions the
war in Spain, and calls the battle of Salamanca a French victory.
You know how the other day, and in the teeth of all evidence, the
French swore to their victory of Toulouse : and so it is with the rest ;
and you may set it down as pretty certain, ist, That only a few people
know the real state of things in France, as to the matter in dispute
between us; 2nd, That those who do, keep the truth to themselves,
and so it is as if it had never been.
These Belgians have caught up, and quite naturally, the French
tone. We are perfide Albion with them still. Here is the Ghent
paper, which declares that it is beyond a doubt that Louis Napoleon
was sent by the English and Lord Palmerston; and though it states
in another part of the journal (from English authority) that the Prince
had never seen Lord Palmerston, yet the lie will remain uppermost-
the people and the editor will believe it to the end of time. i.
See to what a digression yonder little fellow in the tall hat has given
rise! Let us make his picture, and have done with him.
I could not understand, in my walks about this place, which is
certainly picturesque enough, and contains extraordinary charms in
the shape of old gables, quaint spires, and broad shining canals—I
could not at first comprehend why, for all this, the town was especially
disagreeable to me, and have only just hit on the reason why.
Sweetest Juliana, you will never guess it : it is simply this, that I
have not seen a single decent-looking woman in the whole place;
they look all ugly, with coarse mouths, vulgar figures, mean mercan-
tile faces ; and so the traveller walking among them finds the
pleasure of his walk excessively damped, and the impressions made
upon him disagreeable.
In the Academy there are no pictures of merit; but sometimes a
second-rate picture is as pleasing as the best, and one may pass an
hour here very pleasantly. There is a room appropriated to Belgian
artists, of which I never saw the like : they are, like all the rest of the


198 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
things in this country, miserable imitations of the French school-
great nude Venuses, and Junos à la David, with the drawing
left out.
BRUGES.
The change from vulgar Ghent, with its ugly women and coarse
bustle, to this quiet, old, half-deserted, cleanly Bruges, was very
pleasant. I have seen old men at Versailles, with shabby coats and
pigtails, sunning themselves on the benches in the walls ; they had
seen better days, to be sure, but they were gentlemen still: and so
we found, this morning, old dowager Bruges basking in the pleasant
August sun, and looking if not prosperous, at least cheerful and well-
bred. It is the quaintest and prettiest of all the quaint and pretty
towns I have seen. A painter might spend months here, and wander
from church to church, and admire old towers and pinnacles, tall
gables, bright canals, and pretty little patches of green garden and
moss-grown wall, that reflect in the clear quiet water. Before the
inn-window is a garden, from which in the early morning issues a
most wonderful odour of stocks and wall-flowers; next comes a road
with trees of admirable green; numbers of little children are playing
in this road (the place is so clean that they may roll in it all day
without soiling their pinafores), and on the other side of the trees are
little old-fashioned, dumpy, whitewashed, red-tiled houses. A poorer
landscape to draw never was known, nor a pleasanter to see—the
children especially, who are inordinately fat and rosy. Let it be
remembered, too, that here we are out of the country of ugly
women: the expression of the face is almost uniformly gentle and
pleasing, and the figures of the women, wrapped in long black monk-
like cloaks and hoods, very picturesque. No wonder there are so
many children : the “Guide-book” (omniscient Mr. Murray !) says
there are fifteen thousand paupers in the town, and we know how such
multiply. How the deuce do their children look so fat and rosy?
By eating dirt-pies, I suppose. I saw a couple making a very nice
savoury one, and another employed in gravely sticking strips of stick
betwixt the pebbles at the house-door, and so making for herself a
stately garden. The men and women don't seem to have much more
to do. There are a couple of tall chimneys at either suburb of the
town, where no doubt manufactories are at work, but within the walls
everybody seems decently idle.


BRUGES.
199
We have been, of course, abroad to visit the lions. The tower in
the Grand Place is very fine, and the bricks of which it is built do
not yield a whit in colour to the best stone. The great building
round this tower is very like the pictures of the Ducal Palace at
Venice; and there is a long market area, with columns down the
middle, from which hung shreds of rather lean-looking meat, that
would do wonders under the hands of Cattermole or Haghe. In the
tower there is a chime of bells that keep ringing perpetually. They
not only play tunes of themselves, and every quarter of an hour, but
an individual performs selections from popular operas on them at
certain periods of the morning, afternoon, and evening. I have
heard to-day “Suoni la Tromba,” “Son Vergin Vezzosa,” from the
“Puritani,” and other airs, and very badly they were played too; for
such a great monster as a tower-bell cannot be expected to imitate
Madame Grisi or even Signor Lablache. Other churches indulge in
the same amusement, so that one may come here and live in melody
all day or night, like the young woman in Moore's “ Lalla Rookh.”
In the matter of art, the chief attractions of Bruges are the
pictures of Hemling, that are to be seen in the churches, the
hospital, and the picture-gallery of the place. There are no more
pictures of Rubens to be seen, and, indeed, in the course of a fort-
night, one has had quite enough of the great man and his magnificent,
swaggering canvases. What a difference is here with simple Hemling
and the extraordinary creations of his pencil! The hospital is par-
ticularly rich in them; and the legend there is that the painter, who
had served Charles the Bold in his war against the Swiss, and his last
battle and defeat, wandered back wounded and penniless to Bruges,
and here found cure and shelter.
This hospital is a noble and curious sight. The great hall is
almost as it was in the twelfth century ; it is spanned by Saxon
arches, and lighted by a multiplicity of Gothic windows of all sizes ;
it is very lofty, clean, and perfectly well ventilated ; a screen runs
across the middle of the room, to divide the male from the female
patients, and we were taken to examine each ward, where the poor
people seemed happier than possibly they would have been in health
and starvation without it. Great yellow blankets were on the iron
beds, the linen was scrupulously clean, glittering pewter-jugs and
goblets stood by the side of each patient, and they were provided
with godly books (to judge from the binding), in which several were


200 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
reading at leisure. Honest old comfortable nuns, in queer dresses
of blue, black, white, and flannel, were bustling through the room,
attending to the wants of the sick. I saw about a dozen of these
kind women's faces; one was young-all were healthy and cheerful.
One came with bare blue arms and a great pile of linen from an out-
house—such a grange as Cedric the Saxon might have given to a guest
for the night. A couple were in a laboratory, a tall, bright, clean
room, 500 years old at least. “We saw you were not very religious,"
said one of the old ladies, with a red, wrinkled, good-humoured face,
“ by your behaviour yesterday in chapel.” And yet we did not laugh
and talk as we used at college, but were profoundly affected by the
scene that we saw there. It was a fête-day: a mass of Mozart was
sung in the evening-not well sung, and yet so exquisitely tender and
melodious, that it brought tears into our eyes. There were not above
twenty people in the church : all, save three or four, were women in
long black cloaks. I took them for nuns at first. They were,
however, the common people of the town, very poor indeed, doubtless,
for the priest's box that was brought round was not added to by most
of them, and their contributions were but two-cent pieces,-five of
these go to a penny; but we know the value of such, and can tell the
exact worth of a poor woman's mite! The box-bearer did not seem
at first willing to accept our donation-we were strangers and heretics;
however, I held out my hand, and he came perforce as it were.
Indeed it had only a franc in it: but que voulez-vous ? I had been
drinking a bottle of Rhine wine that day, and how was I to afford
more? The Rhine wine is dear in this country, and costs four francs
a bottle.
Well, the service proceeded. Twenty poor women, two English-
men, four ragged beggars, cowering on the steps; and there was the
priest at the altar, in a great robe of gold and damask, two little
boys in white surplices serving him, holding his robe as he rose and
bowed, and the money-gatherer swinging his censer, and filling the
little chapel with smoke. The music pealed with wonderful sweet-
ness; you could see the prim white heads of the nuns in their
gallery. The evening light streamed down upon old statues of saints
and carved brown stalls, and lighted up the head of the golden-
haired Magdalen in a picture of the entombment of Christ. Over
the gallery, and, as it were, a kind protectress to the poor below,
stood the statue of the Virgin.


( 201 )
Sve to reads obligeaned be sure twice guit
III.—WATERLOO.
IT is, my dear, the happy privilege of your sex in England to quit
T the dinner-table after the wine-bottles have once or twice gone
round it, and you are thereby saved (though, to be sure, I can't tell
what the ladies do upstairs) —you are saved two or three hours'
excessive dulness, which the men are obliged to go through.
I ask any gentleman who reads this—the letters to my Juliana
being written with an eye to publication—to remember especially
how many times, how many hundred times, how many thousand
times, in his hearing, the battle of Waterloo has been discussed after
dinner, and to call to mind how cruelly he has been bored by the
discussion. “Ah, it was lucky for us that the Prussians came up!"
says one little gentleman, looking particularly wise and ominous.
“Hang the Prussians !” (or, perhaps, something stronger "the
Prussians !") says a stout old major on half-pay. “We beat the French
without them, sir, as beaten them we always have! We were thun-
dering down the hill of Belle Alliance, sir, at the backs of them, and
the French were crying 'Sauve qui peut' long before the Prussians
ever touched them !” And so the battle opens, and for many
mortal hours, amid rounds of claret, rages over and over again.
I thought to myself, considering the above things, what a fine
thing it will be in after-days to say that I have been to Brussels and
never seen the field of Waterloo ; indeed, that I am such a philo-
sopher as not to care a fig about the battle-nay, to regret, rather,
that when Napoleon came back, the British Government had not
spared their men and left him alone.
But this pitch of philosophy was unattainable. This morning,
after having seen the Park, the fashionable boulevard, the pictures,
the cafés—having sipped, I say, the sweets of every flower that grows
in this paradise of Brussels, quite weary of the place, we mounted
on a Namur diligence, and jingled off at four miles an hour for
Waterloo.
sopher aen Napoleon left him alon was unatta


202 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
The road is very neat and agreeable: the Forest of Soignies here
and there interposes pleasantly, to give your vehicle a shade ; the
country, as usual, is vastly fertile and well cultivated. A farmer and
the conducteur were my companions in the imperial, and, could I
have understood their conversation, my dear, you should have had
certainly a report of it. The jargon which they talked was, indeed,
most queer and puzzling-French, I believe, strangely hashed up
and pronounced, for here and there one could catch a few words of
it. Now and anon, however, they condescended to speak in the
purest French they could muster; and, indeed, nothing is more
curious than to hear the French of the country. You can't under-
stand why all the people insist upon speaking it so badly. I asked
the conductor if he had been at the battle ; he burst out laughing
like a philosopher, as he was, and said, “ Pas si bête." I asked the
farmer whether his contributions were lighter now than in King
William's time, and lighter than those in the time of the Emperor ?
He vowed that in war-time he had not more to pay than in time of
peace (and this strange fact is vouched for by every person of every
nation), and being asked wherefore the King of Holland had been
ousted from his throne, replied at once, “Parceque c'étoit un voleur :"
for which accusation I believe there is some show of reason, his
Majesty having laid hands on much Belgian property before the
lamented outbreak which cost him his crown. A vast deal of
laughing and roaring passed between these two worldly people and
the postilion, whom they called “baron," and I thought no doubt
that this talk was one of the many jokes that my companions were
in the habit of making. But not so: the postilion was an actual
baron, the bearer of an ancient name, the descendant of gallant
gentlemen. Good heavens! what would Mrs. Trollope say to see
his lordship here? His father the old baron had dissipated the
family fortune, and here was this young nobleman, at about five-and-
forty, compelled to bestride a clattering Flemish stallion, and bump
over dusty pavements at the rate of five miles an hour. But see the
beauty of high blood : with what a calm grace the man of family accom-
modates himself to fortune. Far from being cast down, his lordship
met his fate like a man: he swore and laughed the whole of the
journey, and as we changed horses, condescended to partake of half
a pint of Louvain beer, to which the farmer treated him-indeed the
worthy rustic treated me to a glass too.


WATERLOO.
203
Much delight and instruction have I had in the course of the
journey from my guide, philosopher, and friend, the author of
“Murray's Handbook.” He has gathered together, indeed, a store
of information, and must, to make his single volume, have gutted
many hundreds of guide-books. How the Continental ciceroni must
hate him, whoever he is! Every English party I saw had this infallible
red book in their hands, and gained a vast deal of historical and
general information from it. Thus I heard, in confidence, many
remarkable anecdotes of Charles V., the Duke of Alva, Count Egmont,
all of which I had before perceived, with much satisfaction, not only
in the “ Handbook," but even in other works. i
The Laureate is among the English poets evidently the great
favourite of our guide : the choice does honour to his head and heart.
A man must have a very strong bent for poetry, indeed, who carries
Southey's works in his portmanteau, and quotes them in proper time
and occasion. Of course at Waterloo a spirit like our guide's cannot
fail to be deeply moved, and to turn to his favourite poet for
sympathy. Hark how the laureated bard sings about the tombstones
at Waterloo
“That temple to our hearts was hallow'd now,
For many a wounded Briton there was laid,
With such for help as time might then allow,
From the fresh carnage of the field conveyed.
And they whom human succour could not save,
Here, in its precincts, found a hasty grave.
And here, on marble tablets, se: on high,
In English lines by foreign workmen traced,
The names familiar to an English eye,
Their brethren here the fit memorial placed ;
Whose unadorned inscriptions briefly tell
Their gallant comrades' rank, and where they fell.
The stateliest monument of human pride,
Enriched with all magnificence of art,
To honour chieftains who in victory died,
Would wake no stronger feeling in the heart
Than these plain tablets by the soldier's hand
Raised to his comrades in a foreign land.”
There are lines for you! wonderful for justice, rich in thought and
novel ideas. The passage concerning their gallant comrades' rank
should be specially remarked. There indeed they lie, sure enough :
the Honourable Colonel This of the Guards, Captain That of the


204 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
Hussars, Major So-and-So of the Dragoons, brave men and good, who
did their duty by their country on that day, and died in the perform-
ance of it.
Amen. But I confess fairly, that in looking at these tablets, I felt
very much disappointed at not seeing the names of the men as well as
the officers. Are they to be counted for nought? A few more inches
of marble to each monument would have given space for all the names
of the men ; and the men of that day were the winners of the battle.
We have a right to be as grateful individually to any given private as
to any given officer; their duties were very much the same. Why
should the country reserve its gratitude for the genteel occupiers of
the army-list, and forget the gallant fellows whose humble names were
written in the regimental books ? In reading of the Wellington wars,
and the conduct of the men engaged in them, I don't know whether
to respect them or to wonder at them most. They have death, wounds,
and poverty in contemplation ; in possession, poverty, hard labour,
hard fare, and small thanks. If they do wrong, they are handed over
to the inevitable provost-marshal ; if they are heroes, heroes they may
be, but they remain privates still, handling the old brown-bess, starving
on the old twopence a day. They grow grey in battle and victory, and
after thirty years of bloody service, a young gentleman of fifteen, fresh
from a preparatory school, who can scarcely read, and came but
yesterday with a pinafore in to papa's dessert—such a young gentle-
man, I say, arrives in a spick-and-span red coat, and calmly takes the
command over our veteran, who obeys him as if God and nature had
ordained that so throughout time it should be.
That privates should obey, and that they should be smartly
punished if they disobey, this one can understand very well. But to
say obey for ever and ever—to say that Private John Styles is, by some
physical disproportion, hopelessly inferior to Cornet Snooks—to say
that Snooks shall have honours, epaulets, and a marble tablet if
he dies, and that Styles shall fight his fight, and have his twopence
a day, and when shot down shall be shovelled into a hole with other
Styleses, and so forgotten; and to think that we had in the course of
the last war some 400,000 of these Styleses, and some 10,000, say, of
the Snooks sort—Styles being by nature exactly as honest, clever,
and brave as Snooks—and to think that the 400,000 should bear this,
is the wonder!
Suppose Snooks makes a speech. “Look at these Frenchmen,


WATERLOO.
205
British soldiers," says he, “and remember who they are. Two-and-
twenty years since they hurled their King from his throne and mur-
dered him” (groans). “ They flung out of their country their ancient
and famous nobility — they published the audacious doctrine of
equality—they made a cadet of artillery, a beggarly lawyer's son, into
an Emperor, and took ignoramuses from the ranks—drummers and
privates, by Jove !—of whom they made kings, generals, and marshals !
Is this to be borne?” (Cries of “ No ! no !") “Upon them, my boys !
down with these godless revolutionists, and rally round the British
lion !”
So saying, Ensign Snooks (whose flag, which he can't carry, is
held by a huge grizzly colour-sergeant,) draws a little sword, and pipes
out a feeble huzza. The men of his company, roaring curses at the
Frenchmen, prepare to receive and repel a thundering charge of
French cuirassiers. The men fight, and Snooks is knighted because
the men fought so well.
But live or die, win or lose, what do they get? English glory is
too genteel to meddle with those humble fellows. She does not
condescend to ask the names of the poor devils whom she kills in her
service. Why was not every private man's name written upon the
stones in Waterloo Church as well as every officer's? Five hundred
pounds to the stone-cutters would have served to carve the whole
catalogue, and paid the poor compliment of recognition to men who
died in doing their duty. If the officers deserved a stone, the men ·
did. But come, let us away and drop a tear over the Marquis of
Anglesea's leg!
As for Waterloo, has it not been talked of enough after dinner?
Here are some oats that were plucked before Hougoumont, where
grow not only oats, but flourishing crops of grape-shot, bayonets, and
legion-of-honour crosses, in amazing profusion.
Well, though I made a vow not to talk about Waterloo either here
or after dinner, there is one little secret admission that one must make
after seeing it. Let an Englishman go and see that field, and he never
forgets it. The sight is an event in his life ; and, though it has been
seen by millions of peaceable gents-grocers from Bond Street, meek
attorneys from Chancery Lane, and timid tailors from Piccadilly--I
will wager that there is not one of them but feels a glow as he looks
at the place, and remembers that he, too, is an Englishman.


206 LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.
It is a wrong, egotistical, savage, unchristian feeling, and that's the
truth of it. A man of peace has no right to be dazzled by that red-
coated glory, and to intoxicate his vanity with those remembrances of
carnage and triumph. The same sentence which tells us that on earth
there ought to be peace and goodwill amongst men, tells us to whom
GLORY belongs.
END OF "LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.'


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.





THE
FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.*
FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
PREFACE.
GEORGE FITZBOODLE, ESQUIRE, TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQUIRE.
Omnium Club, May 20, 1842.
EAR SIR,—I have always been considered the third-best whist-
player in Europe, and (though never betting more than five
pounds) have for many years past added considerably to my yearly
income by my skill in the game, until the commencement of the present
season, when a French gentleman, Monsieur Lalouette, was admitted
to the club where I usually play. His skill and reputation were so
great, that no men of the club were inclined to play against us two
of a side ; and the consequence has been, that we have been in a
manner pitted against one another. By a strange turn of luck (for I
cannot admit the idea of his superiority), Fortune, since the French-
man's arrival, has been almost constantly against me, and I have lost
two-and-thirty nights in the course of a couple of score of nights'
play.
Everybody knows that I am a poor man; and so much has
Lalouette's luck drained my finances, that only last week I was
obliged to give him that famous grey cob on which you have seen
* The “Fitz-Boodle Papers” first appeared in Fraser's Magazine for the
year 1842.
14


210
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
me riding in the Park (I can't afford a thorough-bred, and late a
cocktail),--I was, I say, forced to give him up my cob in exchange
for four ponies which I owed him. Thus, as I never walk, being a
heavy man whom nobody cares to mount, my time hangs heavily
on my hands; and as I hate home, or that apology for it—a bachelor's
lodgings-and as I have nothing earthly to do now until I can afford
to purchase another horse, I spend my time in sauntering from one
club to another, passing many rather listless hours in them before
the men come in.
You will say, Why not take to backgammon, or écarté, or amuse
yourself with a book ? Sir (putting out of the question the fact that
I do not play upon credit), I make a point never to play before
candles are lighted ; and as for books, I must candidly confess to
you I am not a reading man. 'Twas but the other day that some
one recommended me to read your Magazine after dinner, saying it
contained an exceedingly witty article upon-I forget what. I give
you my honour, sir, that I took up the work at six, meaning to
amuse myself till seven, when Lord Trumpington's dinner was to
come off, and egad ! in two minutes I fell asleep, and never woke
till midnight. Nobody ever thought of looking for me in the library,
where nobody ever goes; and so ravenously hungry was I, that I was
obliged to walk off to Crockford's for supper.
What is it that makes you literary persons so stupid? I have
inet various individuals in society who I was told were writers of
books, and that sort of thing, and expecting rather to be amused by
their conversation, have invariably found them dull to a degree, and
as for information, without a particle of it. Sir, I actually asked one
of these fellows, “What was the nick to seven ? ” and he stared in
my face, and said he didn't know. He was hugely over-dressed in
satin, rings, chains and so forth; and at the beginning of dinner was
disposed to be rather talkative and pert ; but my little sally silenced
him, I promise you, and got up a good laugh at his expense too.
“ Leave George alone,” said little Lord Cinqbars, “ I warrant he'll
be a match for any of you literary fellows.” Cinqbars is no great
wiseacre ; but, indeed, it requires no great wiseacre to know that.
What is the simple deduction to be drawn from this truth? Why,
this, that a man to be amusing and well-informed, has no need of
books at all, and had much better go to the world and to men for
his knowledge. There was Ulysses, now, the Greek fellow engaged


212
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
contracted an irrepressible habit of smoking after dinner, which has
obliged me to give up a great deal of the dear creatures' society ; nor
can I go much to country-houses for the same reason. Say what
they will, ladies do not like you to smoke in their bed-rooms; their
silly little noses scent out the odour upon the chintz, weeks after you
have left them. Sir John has been caught coming to bed particularly
merry and redolent of cigar-smoke; young George, from Eton, was
absolutely found in the little green-house puffing an Havannah; and
when discovered, they both lay the blame upon Fitz-Boodle. “ It
was Mr. Fitz-Boodle, mamma,” says George, “who offered me the
cigar, and I did not like to refuse him.” “That rascal Fitz seduced
us, my dear,” says Sir John, “and kept us laughing until past mid-
night.” Her ladyship instantly sets me down as a person to be
avoided. “George,” whispers she to her boy,“ promise me, on your
honour, when you go to town, not to know that man.” And when
she enters the breakfast-room for prayers, the first greeting is a
peculiar expression of countenance, and inhaling of breath, by which
my lady indicates the presence of some exceedingly disagreeable
odour in the room. She makes you the faintest of curtsies, and
regards you, if not with a “flashing eye,” as in the novels, at least
with a “distended nostril.” During the whole of the service, her
heart is filled with the blackest gall towards you; and she is thinking
about the best means of getting you out of the house.
What is this smoking that it should be considered a crime? I
believe in my heart that women are jealous of it, as of a rival.
They speak of it as of some secret, awful vice that seizes upon a
man, and makes him a pariah from genteel society. I would lay a
guinea that many a lady who has just been kind enough to read the
above lines lays down the book, after this confession of mine that I
am a smoker, and says, “Oh, the vulgar wretch !” and passes on to
something else.
The fact is, that the cigar is a rival to the ladies, and their con-
queror too. In the chief pipe-smoking nations they are kept in
subjection. While the chief, Little White Belt, smokes, the women
are silent in his wigwam ; while Mahomet Ben Jawbrahim causes
volumes of odorous incense of Latakia to play round his beard, the
women of the harem do not disturb his meditations, but only add to
the delight of them by tinkling on a dulcimer and dancing before
him. When Professor Strumpff of Göttingen takes down No. 13 from


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
213
the wall, with a picture of Beatrice Cenci upon it, and which holds a
pound of canaster, the Frau Professorin knows that for two hours
Hermann is engaged, and takes up her stockings and knits in quiet.
The constitution of French society has been quite changed within the
last twelve years : an ancient and respectable dynasty has been over-
thrown ; an aristocracy which Napoleon could never master has
disappeared : and from what cause ? I do not hesitate to say, -
from the habit of smoking. Ask any man whether, five years before
the revolution of July, if you wanted a cigar at Paris, they did not
bring you a roll of tobacco with a straw in it? Now, the whole city
smokes; society is changed; and be sure of this, ladies, a similar
combat is going on in this country at present between cigar-smoking
and you. Do you suppose you will conquer ? Look over the wide
world, and see that your adversary has overcome it. Germany has
been puffing for threescore years ; France smokes to a man. Do
you think you can keep the enemy out of England ? Psha! look
at his progress. Ask the club-houses, Have they smoking-rooms, or
not? Are they not obliged to yield to the general want of the age,
in spite of the resistance of the old women on the committees?
I, for my part, do not despair to see a bishop lolling out of the
“Athenæum” with a cheroot in his mouth, or, at any rate, a pipe
stuck in his shovel-hat.
But as in all great causes and in promulgating new and illus-
trious theories, their first propounders and exponents are generally the
victims of their enthusiasm, of course the first preachers of smoking
have been martyrs, too; and George Fitz-Boodle is one. The first
gas-man was ruined ; the inventor of steam-engine printing became a
pauper. I began to smoke in days when the task was one of some
danger, and paid the penalty of my crime. I was flogged most
fiercely for my first cigar; for, being asked to dine one Sunday
evening with a half-pay colonel of dragoons (the gallant, simple,
humorous Shortcut-heaven bless him !-I have had many a guinea
from him who had so few), he insisted upon my smoking in his room
at the "Salopian," and the consequence was, that I became so
violently ill as to be reported intoxicated upon my return to
Slaughter-House School, where I was a boarder, and I was whipped
the next morning for my peccadillo. At Christ Church, one of our
tutors was the celebrated lamented Otto Rose, who would have
been a bishop under the present Government, had not an immoderate


214
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
indulgence in water-gruel cut short his elegant and useful career.
He was a good man, a pretty scholar and poet (the episode upon
the discovery of eau-de-Cologne, in his prize-poem on “ The
Rhine," was considered a masterpiece of art, though I am not much
of a judge myself upon such matters), and he was as remarkable for
his fondness for a tuſt as for his nervous antipathy to tobacco. As
ill-luck would have it, my rooms (in Tom Quad) were exactly under
his; and I was grown by this time to be a confirmed smoker. I was a
baronet's son (we are of James's the First's creation), and I do believe
our tutor could have pardoned any crime in the world but this. He
had seen me in a tandem, and at that moment was seized with a
violent fit of sneezing—(sternutatory paroxysm he called it)—at the
conclusion of which I was a mile down the Woodstock Road. He
had seen me in pink, as we used to call it, swaggering in the open
sunshine across a grass-plat in the court; but spied out opportunely
a servitor, one Todhunter by name, who was going to morning
chapel with his shoestring untied, and forthwith sprung towards that
unfortunate person, to set him an imposition. Everything, in fact,
but tobacco he could forgive. Why did cursed fortune bring him
into the rooms over mine? The odour of the cigars made his gentle
spirit quite furious; and one luckless morning, when I was standing
before my “oak," and chanced to puff a great bouffée of Varinas into
his face, he forgot his respect for my family altogether (I was the
second son, and my brother a sickly creature then,-he is now
sixteen stone in weight, and has a half-score of children); gave me
a severe lecture, to which I replied rather hotly, as was my wont.
And then came demand for an apology ; refusal on my part ; appeal
to the dean ; convocation ; and rustication of George Savage Fitz-
Boodle.
My father had taken a second wife (of the noble house of Flint-
skinner), and Lady Fitz-Boodle cletested smoking, as a woman of her
high principles should. She had an entire mastery over the worthy
old gentleman, and thought I was a sort of demon of wickedness.
The old man went to his grave with some similar notion,-heaven
help him! and left me but the wretched twelve thousand pounds
secured to me on my poor mother's property.
In the army, my luck was much the same. I joined the — th
Lancers, Lieut.-Col. Lord Martingale, in the year 1817. I only did
duty with the regiment for three months. We were quartered at
9, and thone had an en smoking, as


FITZ-BOODLE’S CONFESSIONS.
215
Cork, where I found the Irish doodheen and tobacco the pleasantest
smoking possible; and was found by his lordship, one day upon
stable duty, smoking the shortest, dearest little dumpy clay-pipe in
the world.
“Cornet Fitz-Boodle,” said my lord, in a towering passion, “from
what blackguard did you get that pipe ?"
I omit the oaths which garnished invariably his lordship's
conversation.
"I got it, my lord,” said I, “ from one Terence Mullins, a jingle-
driver, with a packet of his peculiar tobacco. You sometimes smoke
Turkish, I believe; do try this. Isn't it good ?" And in the
simplest way in the world I puffed a volume into his face. “I see
you like it,” said I, so coolly, that the men—and I do believe the
horses—burst out laughing.
He started back-choking almost, and recovered himself only to
vent such a storm of oaths and curses that I was compelled to
request Capt. Rawdon (the captain on duty) to take note of his
lordship's words; and unluckily could not help adding a question
which settled my business. “You were good enough,” I said, “ to
ask me, my lord, from what blackguard I got my pipe ; might I ask
from what blackguard you learned your language?”
This was quite enough. Had I said, “ From what gentleman did
your lordship learn your language?” the point would have been
quite as good, and my Lord Martingale would have suffered in my
place: as it was, I was so strongly recommended to sell out by
his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, that, being of a good-
natured disposition, never knowing how to refuse a friend, I at
once threw up my hopes of military distinction and retired into
civil life.
My lord was kind enough to meet me afterwards in a field in the
Glanmire Road, where he put a ball into my leg. This I returned to
him some years later with about twenty-three others—black ones—
when he came to be balloted for at a club of which I have the honour
to be a member.
Thus by the indulgence of a simple and harmless propensity,~of
a propensity which can inflict an injury upon no person or thing
except the coat and the person of him who indulges in it,-of a
custom honoured and observed in almost all the nations of the world,
-of a custom which, far from leading a man into any wickedness or


214
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
indulgence in water-gruel cut short his elegant and useful career.
He was a good man, a pretty scholar and poet (the episode upon
the discovery of eau-de-Cologne, in his prize-poem on “ The
Rhine," was considered a masterpiece of art, though I am not much
of a judge myself upon such matters), and he was as remarkable for
his fondness for a tuft as for his nervous antipathy to tobacco. As
ill-luck would have it, my rooms (in Tom Quad) were exactly under
his; and I was grown by this time to be a confirmed smoker. I was a
baronet's son (we are of James's the First's creation), and I do believe
our tutor could have pardoned any crime in the world but this. He
had seen me in a tandem, and at that moment was seized with a
violent fit of sneezing—(sternutatory paroxysm he called it)—at the
conclusion of which I was a mile down the Woodstock Road. He
had seen me in pink, as we used to call it, swaggering in the open
sunshine across a grass-plat in the court; but spied out opportunely
a servitor, one Todhunter by name, who was going to morning
chapel with his shoestring untied, and forthwith sprung towards that
unfortunate person, to set him an imposition. Everything, in fact,
but tobacco he could forgive. Why did cursed fortune bring him
into the rooms over mine? The odour of the cigars made his gentle
spirit quite furious; and one luckless morning, when I was standing
before my "oak," and chanced to puff a great bouffée of Varinas into
his face, he forgot his respect for my family altogether (I was the
second son, and my brother a sickly creature then,-he is now
sixteen stone in weight, and has a half-score of children); gave me
a severe lecture, to which I replied rather hotly, as was my wont.
And then came demand for an apology ; refusal on my part; appeal
to the dean ; convocation ; and rustication of George Savage Fitz-
Boodle.
My father had taken a second wife (of the noble house of Flint-
skinner), and Lady Fitz-Boodle cletested smoking, as a woman of her
high principles should. She had an entire mastery over the worthy
old gentleman, and thought I was a sort of demon of wickedness.
The old man went to his grave with some similar notion,-heaven
help him! and left me but the wretched twelve thousand pounds
secured to me on my poor mother's property.
In the army, my luck was much the same. I joined the — th
Lancers, Lieut.-Col. Lord Martingale, in the year 1817. I only did
duty with the regiment for three months. We were quartered at


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
215
Cork, where I found the Irish doodheen and tobacco the pleasantest
smoking possible; and was found by his lordship, one day upon
stable duty, smoking the shortest, dearest little dumpy clay-pipe in
the world.
“ Cornet Fitz-Boodle,” said my lord, in a towering passion, “ from
what blackguard did you get that pipe ?"
I omit the oaths which garnished invariably his lordship’s
conversation.
“ I got it, my lord,” said I, “from one Terence Mullins, a jingle-
driver, with a packet of his peculiar tobacco. You sometimes smoke
Turkish, I believe ; do try this. Isn't it good ?" And in the
simplest way in the world I puffed a volume into his face. “I see
you like it,” said I, so coolly, that the men—and I do believe the
horses-burst out laughing.
He started back-choking almost, and recovered himself only to
vent such a storm of oaths and curses that I was compelled to
request Capt. Rawdon (the captain on duty) to take note of his
lordship's words; and unluckily could not help adding a question
which settled my business. “You were good enough,” I said, “to
ask me, my lord, from what blackguard I got my pipe; might I ask
from what blackguard you learned your language ?"
This was quite enough. Had I said, “ From what gentleman did
your lordship learn your language ?" the point would have been
quite as good, and my Lord Martingale would have suffered in my
place: as it was, I was so strongly recommended to sell out by
his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, that, being of a good-
natured disposition, never knowing how to refuse a friend, I at
once threw up my hopes of military distinction and retired into
civil life.
My lord was kind enough to meet me afterwards in a field in the
Glanmire Road, where he put a ball into my leg. This I returned to
him some years later with about twenty-three others—black ones-
when he came to be balloted for at a club of which I have the honour
to be a member.
Thus by the indulgence of a simple and harmless propensity,-of-
a propensity which can inflict an injury upon no person or thing
except the coat and the person of him who indulges in it,-of a
custom honoured and observed in almost all the nations of the world,
-of a custom which, far from leading a man into any wickedness or


216
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
dissipation to which youth is subject, on the contrary, begets only
benevolent silence and thoughtful good-humoured observation-I
found at the age of twenty all my prospects in life destroyed. I
cared not for woman in those days : the calm smoker has a sweet
companion in his pipe. I did not drink immoderately of wine; for
though a friend to trifling potations, to excessively strong drinks
tobacco is abhorrent. I never thought of gambling, for the lover of
the pipe has no need of such excitement; but I was considered a
monster of dissipation in my family, and bade fair to come to ruin.
“Look at George," my mother-in-law said to the genteel and
correct young Flintskinners. “He entered the world with every
prospect in life, and see in what an abyss of degradation his fatal
habits have plunged him! At school he was flogged and disgraced,
he was disgraced and rusticated at the university, he was disgraced
and expelled from the army! He might have had the living of
Boodle” (her ladyship gave it to one of her nephews), “but he would
not take his degree; his papa would have purchased him a troop-
nay, a lieutenant-colonelcy some day, but for his fatal excesses. And
now as long as my dear husband will listen to the voice of a wife who
adores him—never, never shall he spend a shilling upon so worthless
a young man. He has a small income from his mother (I cannot but
think that the first Lady Fitz-Boodle was a weak and misguided
person); let him live upon his mean pittance as he can, and I heartily
pray we may not hear of him in gaol !"
My brother, after he came to the estate, married the ninth
daughter of our neighbour, Sir John Spreadeagle ; and Boodle Hall
has seen a new little Fitz-Boodle with every succeeding spring. The
dowager retired to Scotland with a large jointure and a wondrous
heap of savings. Lady Fitz is a good creature, but she thinks me
something diabolical, trembles when she sees me, and gathers all her
children about her, rushes into the nursery whenever I pay that little
seminary a visit, and actually slapped poor little Frank's ears one
day when I was teaching him to ride upon the back of a Newfound-
land dog.
“George," said my brother to me the last time I paid him a visit
at the old hall, “ don't be angry, my dear fellow, but Maria is in a-
hum—in a delicate situation, expecting her—hum”—(the eleventh) -
"and do you know you frighten her? It was but yesterday you met
her in the rookery—you were smoking that enormous German pipe-


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
217
and when she came in she had an hysterical seizure, and Drench says
that in her situation it's dangerous. And I say, George, if you go to
town you'll find a couple of hundred at your banker's.” And with
this the poor fellow shook me by the hand, and called for a fresh
bottle of claret.
Afterwards he told me, with many hesitations, that my room at
Boodle Hall had been made into a second nursery. I see my sister-
in-law in London twice or thrice in the season, and the little people,
who have almost forgotten to call me uncle George.
It's hard, too, for I am a lonely man after all, and my heart
yearns to them. The other day I smuggled a couple of them into
my chambers, and had a little feast of cream and strawberries to
welcome them. But it had like to have cost the nursery-maid (a
Swiss girl that Fitz-Boodle hired somewhere in his travels) her place.
My step-mamma, who happened to be in town, came flying down in
her chariot, pounced upon the poor thing and the children in the
midst of the entertainment; and when I asked her, with rather a bad
grace to be sure, to take a chair and a share of the feast-
“Mr. Fitz-Boodle," said she, “ I am not accustomed to sit down
in a place that smells of tobacco like an ale-house-an ale-house
inhabited by a serpent, sir ! A serpent !—do you understand me?—who
carries his poison into his brother's own house, and purshues his
eenfamous designs before his brother's own children. Put on Miss
Maria's bonnet this instant. Mamsell, ontondy-voo? Metty le bonny
à mamsell. And I shall take care, Mamsell, that you return to
Switzerland to-morrow. I've no doubt you are a relation of
Courvoisier-oui ! oui ! Courvoisier, vous comprenny—and you shall
certainly be sent back to your friends."
With this speech, and with the children and their naid sobbing
before her, my lady retired; but for once my sister-in-law was on my
side, not liking the meddlement of the elder lady.
I know, then, that from indulging in that simple habit of smoking,
I have gained among the ladies a dreadful reputation. I see that
they look coolly upon me, and darkly at their husbands when they
arrive at home in my company. Men, I observe, in consequence,
ask me to dine much oftener at the club, or the “Star and Garter” at
Richmond, or at “Lovegrove's,” than in their own houses; and with
this sort of arrangement I am fain to acquiesce; for, as I said before,
I am of an easy temper, and can at any rate take my cigar-case out


2iS
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
after dinner at Blackwall, when my lady or the duchess is not by.
I know, of course, the best men in town ; and as for ladies' society,
not having it (for I will have none of your pseudo-ladies, such as
sometimes honour bachelors' parties,-actresses, couturières, opera-
dancers, and so forth)—as for ladies' society, I say, I cry pish ! 'tis
not worth the trouble of the complimenting, and the bother of pumps
and black silk stockings.
Let any man remember what ladies' society was when he had an
opportunity of seeing them among themselves, as What-d'ye-call'im
does in the Thesmophoria—(I beg pardon, I was on the verge of a
classical allusion, which I abominate)—I mean at that period of his
life when the intellect is pretty acute, though the body is small-
namely, when a young gentleman is about eleven years of age, dining
at his father's table during the holidays, and is requested by his papa
to quit the dinner-table when the ladies retire from it.
Corblou ! I recollect their whole talk as well as if it had been
whispered but yesterday; and can see, after a long dinner, the yellow
summer sun throwing long shadows over the lawn before the dining-
room windows, and my poor mother and her company of ladies sailing
away to the music-room in old Boodle Hall. The Countess Dawdley
was the great lady in our county, a portly lady who used to love
crimson satin in those days, and birds-of-paradise. She was flaxen-
haired, and the Regent once said she resembled one of King Charles's
beauties.
When Sir John Todcaster used to begin his famous story of the
exciseman (I shall not tell it here, for very good reasons), my poor
mother used to turn to Lady Dawdley, and give that mystic signal at
which all females rise from their chairs. Tufthunt, the curate, would
spring from his seat, and be sure to be the first to open the door for
the retreating ladies; and my brother Tom and I, though remaining
stoutly in our places, were speedily ejected from them by the
governor's invariable remark, “Tom and George, if you have had
quite enough of wine, you had better go and join your mamma."
Yonder she marches, heaven bless her! through the old oak hall
(how long the shadows of the antlers are on the wainscot, and the
armour of Rollo Fitz-Boodle looks in the sunset as if it were
emblazoned with rubies)—yonder she marches, stately and tall, in
her invariable pearl-coloured tabinet, followed by Lady Dawdley,
blazing like a flamingo; next comes Lady Emily Tufthunt (she was


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
219
Lady Emily Flintskinner), who will not for all the world take pre-
cedence of rich, vulgar, kind, good-humoured Mrs. Colonel Grog-
water, as she would be called, with a yellow little husband from
Madras, who first taught me to drink sangaree. He was a new
arrival in our county, but paid nobly to the hounds, and occupied
hospitably a house which was always famous for its hospitality-
Sievely Hall (poor Bob Cullender ran through seven thousand a year
before he was thirty years old). Once when I was a lad, Colonel
Grogwater gave me two gold mohurs out of his desk for whist-
markers, and I'm sorry to say I ran up from Eton and sold them
both for seventy-three shillings at a shop in Cornhill. But to return
to the ladies, who are all this while kept waiting in the hall, and to
their usual conversation after dinner.
Can any man forget how miserably flat it was? Five matrons
sit on sofas, and talk in a subdued voice :-
First Lady (mysteriously).—“My dear Lady Dawdley, do tell me
about poor Susan Tuckett.”
Second Lady.—“ All three children are perfectly well, and I assure
you as fine babies as I ever saw in my life. I made her give them
Daffy's Elixir the first day; and it was the greatest mercy that I had
some of Frederick's baby-clothes by me ; for you know I had
provided Susan with sets for one only, and really——".
Third Lady.—“Of course one couldn't; and for my part I think
your ladyship is a great deal too kind to these people. A little
gardener's boy dressed in Lord Dawdley's frocks indeed! I
recollect that one at his christening had the sweetest lace in the
world !”
Fourth Lady.--"What do you think of this, ma'am-Lady Emily,
I mean? I have just had it from Howell and James :-guipure,
they call it. Isn't it an odd name for lace? And they charge me,
upon my conscience, four guineas a yard !”
Third Lady.—“My mother, when she came to Flintskinner, had
lace upon her robe that cost sixty guineas a yard, ma'am! 'Twas
sent from Malines direct by our relation, the Count d'Araignay."
Fourth Lady (aside).—“I thought she would not let the evening
pass without talking of her Malines lace and her Count d'Araignay:
Odious people ! they don't spare their backs, but they pinch
their --"
Here Tom upsets a coffee-cup over his white jean trousers, and


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
221
know, that he shall very soon have one, and puts bear's-grease on his
chin every night.”
Second Miss.-“ Mary, nonsense!”
Third Miss.—“Well, only ask him. You know he came to our
dressing-room last night and took the pomatum away; and he says
that when boys go to Oxford they always — ".
First Miss.—“O heavens ! have you heard the news about the
Lancers ? Charles—that is, Captain Travers, told it me!"
Second Miss.—“ Law! they won't go away before the ball, I
hope!”
First Miss.—“No, but on the 15th they are to shave their
moustaches! He says that Lord Tufto is in a perfect fury about it!”
Second Miss.—“And poor George Beardmore, too !” &c.
Here Tom upsets the coffee over his trousers, and the conversa-
tions end. I can recollect a dozen such, and ask any man of sense
whether such talk amuses him ?
Try again to speak to a young lady while you are dancing-
what we call in this country—a quadrille. What nonsense do you
invariably give and receive in return! No, I am a woman-scorner,
and don't care to own it. I hate young ladies! Have I not been in
love with several, and has any one of them ever treated me decently?
I hate married women! Do they not hate me? and, simply because
I smoke, try to draw their husbands away from my society ? I hate
dowagers ! Have I not cause? Does not every dowager in London
point to George Fitz-Boodle as to a dissolute wretch whom young
and old should avoid ?
And yet do not imagine that I have not loved. I have, and
madly, many, many times! I am but eight-and-thirty,* not past the
age of passion, and may very likely end by running off with an
heiress—or a cook-maid (for who knows what strange freaks Love
may choose to play in his own particular person? and I hold a man
to be a mean creature who calculates about checking any such
sacred impulse as lawful love)—I say, though despising the sex in
general for their conduct to me, I know of particular persons
belonging to it who are worthy of all respect and esteem, and as such
I beg leave to point out the particular young lady who is perusing
these lines. Do not, dear inadam, then imagine that if I knew you I
should be disposed to sneer at you. Ah, no! Fitz-Boodle's bosom
* He is five-and-forty, if he is a day old.-O. Y.


222
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
has tenderer sentiments than from his way of life you would fancy,
and stern by rule is only too soft by practice. Shall I whisper to
you the story of one or two of my attachments ? All terminating
fatally (not in death, but in disappointment, which, as it occurred, I
used to imagine a thousand times more bitter than death, but from
which one recovers somehow more readily than from the other-
named complaint)-all, I say, terminating wretchedly to myself,
as if some fatality pursued my desire to become a domestic
character.
My first love-no, let us pass that over. Sweet one! thy name
shall profane no hireling page. Sweet, sweet memory! Ah, ladies,
those delicate hearts of yours have, too, felt the throb. And between
the last ob in the word throb and the words now written, I have
passed a delicious period of perhaps an hour, perhaps a minute, I
know not how long, thinking of that holy first love and of her who
inspired it. How clearly every single incident of the passion is remem-
bered by me! and yet 'twas long, long since. I was but a child then
-a child at school-and, if the truth must be told, L-ra R-ggl-s
(I would not write her whole name to be made one of the Marquess
of Hertford's executors) was a woman full thirteen years older than
myself; at the period of which I write she must have been at least
five-and-twenty. She and her mother used to sell tarts, hard-bake,
lollipops, and other such simple comestibles, on Wednesdays and
Saturdays (half-holidays), at a private school where I received the
first rudiments of a classical education. I used to go and sit before
her tray for hours, but I do not think the poor girl ever supposed
any motive led me so constantly to her little stall beyond a vulgar
longing for her tarts and her ginger-beer. Yes, even at that early
period my actions were misrepresented, and the fatality which has
oppressed my whole life began to show itself,—the purest passion
was misinterpreted by her and my school-fellows, and they thought
I was actuated by simple gluttony. They nicknamed me Alicom-
payne.
Well, be it so. Laugh at early passion ye who will; a high-born
boy madly in love with a lowly ginger-beer girl! She married after-
wards, took the name of Latter, and now keeps with her old husband
a turnpike, through which I often ride; but I can recollect her bright
and rosy of a sunny summer afternoon, her red cheeks shaded by
a battered straw bonnet, her tarts and ginger-beer upon a neat white


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
223
cloth before her, mending blue worsted stockings until the young
gentlemen should interrupt her by coming to buy.
Many persons will call this description low; I do not envy them
their gentility, and have always observed through life (as, to be sure,
every other gentleman has observed as well as myself) that it is your
parvenu who stickles most for what he calls the genteel, and has the
most squeamish abhorrence for what is frank and natural. Let us
pass at once, however, as all the world must be pleased, to a recital
of an affair which occurred in the very best circles of society, as they
are called, viz. my next unfortunate attachment.
It did not occur for several years after that simple and platonic
passion just described : for though they may talk of youth as the
season of romance, it has always appeared to me that there are no
beings in the world so entirely unromantic and selfish as certain
young English gentlemen from the age of fifteen to twenty. The
oldest Lovelace about town is scarcely more hard-hearted and
scornful than they; they ape all sorts of selfishness and rouerie: they
aim at excelling at cricket, at billiards, at rowing, and drinking, and
set more store by a red coat and a neat pair of top-boots than by any
other glory. A young fellow staggers into college-chapel of a
morning, and communicates to all his friends that he was “so cut
last night,” with the greatest possible pride. He makes a joke of
having sisters and a kind mother at home who loves him; and if he
speaks of his father, it is with a knowing sneer to say that he has a
tailor's and a horse-dealer's bill that will surprise “the old governor."
He would be ashamed of being in love. I, in common with my
kind, had these affectations, and my perpetual custom of smoking
added not a little to my reputation as an accomplished roué. What
came of this custom in the army and at college, the reader has
already heard. Alas! in life it went no better with me, and many
pretty chances I had went off in that accursed smoke.
After quitting the army in the abrupt manner stated, I passed
some short time at home, and was tolerated by my mother-in-law,
because I had formed an attachment to a young lady of good con-
nections and with a considerable fortune, which was really very nearly
becoming mine. Mary M'Alister was the only daughter of Colonel
M'Alister, late of the Blues, and Lady Susan his wife. Her ladyship
was no more ; and, indeed, of no family compared to ours (which has
refused a peerage any time these two hundred years) ; but being an


224
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPER'S.
earl's daughter and a Scotchwoman, Lady Emily Fitz-Boodle did
not fail to consider her highly. Lady Susan was daughter of the late
Admiral Earl of Marlingspike and Baron Plumduff. The Colonel,
Miss M‘Alister's father, had a good estate, of which his daughter was
the heiress, and as I fished her out of the water upon a pleasure-
party, and swam with her to shore, we became naturally intimate,
and Colonel M'Alister forgot, on account of the service rendered to
him, the dreadful reputation for profligacy which I enjoyed in the
county.
Well, to cut a long story short, which is told here merely for the
moral at the end of it, I should have been Fitz-Boodle M'Alister at
this minute most probably, and master of four thousand a year, but
for the fatal cigar-box. I bear Mary no malice in saying that she
was a high-spirited little girl, loving, before all things, her own way ;
nay, perhaps I do not, from long habit and indulgence in tobacco-
smoking, appreciate the delicacy of female organizations, which were
oftentimes most painfully affected by it. She was a keen-sighted
little person, and soon found that the world had belied poor George
Fitz-Boodle; who, instead of being the cunning monster people
supposed him to be, was a simple, reckless, good-humoured, honest
fellow, marvellously addicted to smoking, idleness, and telling the
truth. She called me Orson, and I was happy enough on the
14th February, in the year 18—(it's of no consequence), to send her
such a pretty little copy of verses about Orson and Valentine, in
which the rude habits of the savage man were shown to be overcome
by the polished graces of his kind and brilliant conqueror, that she
was fairly overcome, and said to me, “ George Fitz-Boodle, if you
give up smoking for a year I will marry you.”
I swore I would, of course, and went home and flung four pounds
of Hudson's cigars, two meerschaum pipes that had cost me ten
guineas at the establishment of Mr. Gattie at Oxford, a tobacco-bag
that Lady Fitz-Boodle had given me before her marriage with my
father (it was the only present that I ever had from her or any member
of the Flintskinner family), and some choice packets of Varinas and
Syrian, into the lake in Boodle Park. The weapon amongst them all
which I most regretted was—will it be believed ?—the little black
doodheen which had been the cause of the quarrel between Lord
Martingale and me. However, it went along with the others. I
would not allow my groom to have so much as a cigar, lest I should


FITZ-BOODLE’S CONFESSIONS.
225
be tempted hereafter ; and the consequence was that a few days after
many fat carps and tenches in the lake (I must confess 'twas no
bigger than a pond) nibbled at the tobacco, and came floating on
their backs on the top of the water quite intoxicated. My conversion
made some noise in the county, being emphasized as it were by this
fact of the fish. I can't tell you with what pangs I kept my
resolution ; but keep it I did for some time.
With so much beauty and wealth, Mary M‘Alister had of course
many suitors, and among them was the young Lord Dawdley, whose
mamma has previously been described in her gown of red satin. As
I used to thrash Dawdley at school, I thrashed him in after-life in
love; he put up with his disappointment pretty well, and came
after a while and shook hands with me, telling me of the bets that
there were in the county, where the whole story was known, for and
against me. For the fact is, as I must own, that Mary M'Alister, the
queerest, frankest of women, made no secret of the agreement, or the
cause of it.
“I did not care a penny for Orson,” she said, “but he would go
on writing me such dear pretty verses that at last I couldn't help
saying yes. But if he breaks his promise to me, I declare, upon my
honour, I'll break mine, and nobody's heart will be broken either.”
This was the perfect fact, as I must confess, and I declare that
it was only because she amused me and delighted me, and provoked
me, and made me laugh very much, and because, no doubt, she was
very rich, that I had any attachment for her.
“For heaven's sake, George,” my father said to me, as I quitted
home to follow my beloved to London, “ remember that you are a
younger brother and have a lovely girl and four thousand a year
within a year's reach of you. Smoke as much as you like, my boy,
after marriage," added the old gentleman, knowingly (as if he, honest
soul, after his second marriage, dared drink an extra pint of wine
without my lady's permission !) “but eschew the tobacco-shops till
then."
I went to London resolving to act upon the paternal advice, and
oh ! how I longed for the day when I should be married, vowing in
my secret soul that I would light a cigar as I walked out of St. George's,
Hanover Square..
Well, I came to London, and so carefully avoided smoking that
I would not even go into Hudson's shop to pay his bill, and as
15


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THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
smoking was not the fashion then among young men as (thank
heaven !) it is now, I had not many temptations from my friends'
examples in my clubs or elsewhere ; only little Dawdley began to
smoke, as if to spite me. He had never done so before, but confessed
-the rascal !—that he enjoyed a cigar now, if it were but to mortify
me. But I took to other and more dangerous excitements, and
upon the nights when not in attendance upon Mary M‘Alister, might
be found in very dangerous proximity to a polished mahogany table,
round which claret-bottles circulated a great deal too often, or worse
still, to a table covered with green cloth and ornamented with a
couple of wax-candles and a couple of packs of cards, and four
gentlemen playing the enticing game of whist. Likewise, I came to
carry a snuff-box, and to consume in secret huge quantities of rappee.
For ladies' society I was even then disinclined, hating and
despising small-talk, and dancing, and hot routs, and vulgar scrambles
for suppers. I never could understand the pleasure of acting the
part of lacquey to a dowager, and standing behind her chair, or bustling
through the crowd for her carriage. I always found an opera too
long by two acts, and have repeatedly fallen asleep in the presence
of Mary M'Alister herself, sitting at the back of the box shaded by
the huge beret of her old aunt, Lady Betty Plumduff; and many a
time has Dawdley, with Miss M'Alister on his arm, wakened me up
at the close of the entertainment in time to offer my hand to Lady
Betty, and lead the ladies to their carriage. If I attended her
occasionally to any ball or party of pleasure, I went, it must be
confessed, with clumsy, ill-disguised ill-humour. Good heavens !
have I often and often thought in the midst of a song, or the very
thick of a ball-room, can people prefer this to a book and a sofa, and
a dear, dear cigar-box, from thy stores, O charming Mariana Wood-
ville! Deprived of my favourite plant, I grew sick in mind and
body, moody, sarcastic, and discontented.
Such a state of things could not long continue, nor could Miss
M‘Alister continue to have much attachment for such a sullen, ill-
conditioned creature as I then was. She used to make me wild with
her wit and her sarcasm, nor have I ever possessed the readiness to
parry or reply to those fine points of woman's wit, and she treated
me the more mercilessly as she saw that I could not resist her.
Well, the polite reader must remember a great fête that was
given at B- House, some years back, in honour of his Highness


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
227
the Hereditary Prince of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel, who was then
in London on a visit to his illustrious relatives. It was a fancy ball,
and the poems of Scott being at that time all the fashion, Mary was
to appear in the character of the “ Lady of the Lake,” old M‘Alister
making a very tall and severe-looking harper; Dawdley, a most
insignificant Fitzjames; and your humble servant a stalwart manly
Roderick Dhu. We were to meet at B- House at twelve
o'clock, and as I had no fancy to drive through the town in my cab
dressed in a kilt and philibeg, I agreed to take a seat in Dawdley's
carriage, and to dress at his house in May Fair. At eleven I left a
very pleasant bachelors' party, growling to quit them and the honest,
jovial claret-bottle, in order to scrape and cut capers like a harlequin
from the theatre. When I arrived at Dawdley's, I mounted to a
dressing-room, and began to array myself in my cursed costume.
The art of costuming was by no means so well understood in
those days as it has been since, and mine was out of all correctness.
I was made to sport an enormous plume of black ostrich-feathers,
such as never was worn by any Highland chief, and had a huge
tiger-skin sporran to dangle like an apron before innumerable yards
of plaid petticoat. The tartan cloak was outrageously hot and
voluminous; it was the dog-days, and all these things I was con-
demned to wear in the midst of a crowd of a thousand people !
Dawdley sent up word, as I was dressing, that his dress had
not arrived, and he took my cab and drove off in a rage to his
tailor.
There was no hurry, I thought, to make a fool of myself ; so
having put on a pair of plaid trews, and very neat pumps with shoe-
buckles, my courage failed me as to the rest of the dress, and
taking down one of his dressing-gowns, I went downstairs to the
study, to wait until he should arrive.
The windows of the pretty room were open, and a snug sofa, with
innumerable cushions, drawn towards one of them. A great tranquil
moon was staring into the chamber, in which stood, amidst books
and all sorts of bachelor's lumber, a silver tray with a couple of tall
Venice glasses, and a bottle of Maraschino bound with straw. I can
see now the twinkle of the liquor in the moonshine, as I poured it
into the glass; and I swallowed two or three little cups of it, for my
spirits were downcast. Close to the tray of Maraschino stood-must
I say it ?-a box, a mere box of cedar, bound rudely together with


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THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
pink paper, branded with the name of “Hudson" on the side, and
bearing on the cover the arms of Spain. I thought I would just take
up the box and look in it.
Ah heaven! there they were-a hundred and fifty of them, in
calm, comfortable rows : lovingly side by side they lay, with the great
moon shining down upon them—thin at the tip, full in the waist,
elegantly round and full, a little spot here and there shining upon
them-beauty-spots upon the cheek of Sylvia. The house was quite
quiet. Dawdley always smoked in his room ;-I had not smoked
for four months and eleven days.
ed up into the dress my man, and get rentoud, me you were
When Lord Dawdley came into the study, he did not make any
remarks; and oh, how easy my heart felt! He was dressed in
his green and boots, after Westall's picture, correctly.
“ It's time to be off, George,” said he; "they told me you were
dressed long ago. Come up, my man, and get ready."
I rushed up into the dressing-room, and madly dashed my head
and arms into a pool of eau-de-Cologne. I drank, I believe, a
tumblerful of it. I called for my clothes, and, strange to say,
they were gone. My servant brought them, however, saying that
he had put them away-making some stupid excuse. I put theni
on, not heeding them much, for I was half tipsy with the excite-
ment of the ci- of the smo- of what had taken place in
Dawdley's study, and with the Maraschino and the eau-de-Cologne
I had drunk.
“What a fine odour of lavender-water !” said Dawdley, as we
rode in the carriage.
I put my head out of the window and shrieked out a laugh ; but
made no other reply.
“What's the joke, George?” said Dawdley. “Did I say any-
thing witty?"
“No,” cried I, yelling still more wildly; "nothing more witty
than usual.”
“Don't be severe, George,” said he, with a mortified air; and
we drove on to B-- House.
There must have been something strange and wild in my appear-
ance, and those awful black plumes, as I passed through the crowd ;
for I observed people looking and making a strange nasal noise


FITZ-BOODLE’S CONFESSIONS.
229
(it is called sniffing, and I have no other more delicate term for
it), and making way as I pushed on. But I moved forward
very fiercely, for the wine, the Maraschino, the eau-de-Cologne,
and the—the excitement had rendered me alınost wild ; and at
length I arrived at the place where my lovely Lady of the Lake and
her Harper stood. How beautiful she looked,-all eyes were
upon her as she stood blushing. When she saw me, however, her
countenance assumed an appearance of alarm. “Good heavens,
George !” she said, stretching her hand to me, “what makes you
look so wild and pale?” I advanced, and was going to take her
hand, when she dropped it with a scream.
“Ah-ah-ah!” she said. “Mr. Fitz-Boodle, you've been
smoking !"
There was an immense laugh from four hundred people round
about us, and the scoundrelly Dawdley joined in the yell. I rushed
furiously out, and, as I passed, hurtled over the fat Hereditary Prince
of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel.
“Es riecht hier ungeheuer stark von Tabak !" I heard his
Highness say, as I madly flung myself through the aides-de-camp.
The next day Mary M‘Alister, in a note full of the most odious
good sense and sarcasm, reminded me of our agreement; said that
she was quite convinced that we were not by any means fitted for
one another, and begged me to consider myself henceforth quite
free. The little wretch had the impertinence to send me a dozen
boxes of cigars, which, she said, would console me for my lost love;
as she was perfectly certain that I was not mercenary, and that I
loved tobacco better than any woman in the world.
I believe she was right, though I have never to this day been able
to pardon the scoundrelly stratagem by which Dawdley robbed me of
a wife and won one himself. As I was lying on his sofa, looking at
the moon and lost in a thousand happy contemplations, Lord Dawdley,
returning from the tailor's, saw me smoking at my leisure. On
entering his dressing-room, a horrible treacherous thought struck
him. “I must not betray my friend," said he; “but in love all is
fair, and he shall betray himself.” There were my tartans, my cursed
feathers, my tiger-skin sporran, upon the sofa.
He called up my groom; he made the rascal put on all my
clothes, and, giving him a guinea and four cigars, bade him lock
ohimself into the little pantry and smoke them without taking the


230
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
clothes off. John did so, and was very ill in consequence, and so
when I came to B-- House, my clothes were redolent of tobacco,
and I lost lovely Mary M‘Alister.
I am godfather to one of Lady Dawdley's boys, and hers is the
only house where I am allowed to smoke unmolested ; but I have
never been able to admire Dawdley, a sly, sournois, spiritless,
lily-livered fellow, that took his name off all his clubs the year he
married.


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
231
DOROTHEA.
D EYOND sparring and cricket, I do not recollect I learned
D anything useful at Slaughter-House School, where I was
educated (according to an old family tradition, which sends
particular generations of gentlemen to particular schools in the
kingdom ; and such is the force of habit, that though I hate the
place, I shall send my own son thither too, should I marry any day).
I say I learned little that was useful at Slaughter House, and nothing
that was ornamental. I would as soon have thought of learning to
dance as of learning to climb chimneys. Up to the age of seventeen,
as I have shown, I had a great contempt for the female race, and
when age brought with it warmer and juster sentiments, where was
I ?-I could no more dance nor prattle to a young girl than a young
bear could. I have seen the ugliest little low-bred wretches
carrying off young and lovely creatures, twirling with them in
waltzes, whispering between their glossy curls in quadrilles, simpering
with perfect equanimity, and cutting pas in that abominable “cavalier
seul,” until my soul grew sick with fury. In a word, I determined to
learn to dance.
But such things are hard to be acquired late in life, when the
bones and the habits of a man are formed. Look at a man in a
hunting-field who has not been taught to ride as a boy. All the
pluck and courage in the world will not make the man of him that I
am, or as any man who has had the advantages of early education in
the field.
In the same way with dancing. Though I went to work with
immense energy, both in Brewer Street, Golden Square (with an adver-
tising fellow), and afterwards with old Coulon at Paris, I never was
able to be easy in dancing; and though little Coulon instructed me
in a smile, it was a cursed forced one, that looked like the grin of a
person in extreme agony. I once caught sight of it in a glass, and
have hardly ever smiled since.


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THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
Most young men about London have gone through that strange
secret ordeal of the dancing-school. I am given to understand that
young snobs from attorneys' offices, banks, shops, and the like, make
not the least mystery of their proceedings in the saltatory line, but
trip gaily, with pumps in hand, to some dancing-place about Soho,
waltz and quadrille it with Miss Greengrocer or Miss Butcher, and
fancy they have had rather a pleasant evening. There is one house
in Döver Street, where, behind a dirty curtain, such figures may be
seen hopping every night, to a perpetual fiddling; and I have stood
sometimes wondering in the street, with about six blackguard boys
wondering too, at the strange contortions of the figures jumping up and
down to the mysterious squeaking of the kit. Have they no shame ces
gens ? are such degrading initiations to be held in public? No, the
snob may, but the man of refined mind never can submit to show him-
self in public labouring at the apprenticeship of this most absurd art.
It is owing, perhaps, to this modesty, and the fact that I had no sisters
at home, that I have never thoroughly been able to dance ; for though
I always arrive at the end of a quadrille (and thank heaven for it
too!) and though, I believe, I make no mistake in particular, yet I
solemnly confess I have never been able thoroughly to comprehend
the mysteries of it, or what I have been about from the beginning to
the end of the dance. I always look at the lady opposite, and do as
she does : if she did not know how to dance, par hasard, it would be
all up. But if they can't do anything else, women can dance : let us
give them that praise at least.
In London, then, for a considerable time, I used to get up at
eight o'clock in the morning, and pass an hour alone with
Mr. Wilkinson, of the Theatres Royal, in Golden Square ;-an hour
alone. It was “ one, two, three ; one, two, three-now jump-right
foot more out, Mr. Smith ; and if you could try and look a little
more cheerful ; your partner, sir, would like you hall the better."
Wilkinson called me Smith, for the fact is, I did not tell him my real
name, nor (thank heaven !) does he know it to this day.
I never breathed a word of my doings to any soul among my
friends ; once a pack of them met me in the strange neighbourhood,
when, I am ashamed to say, I muttered something about a "little
French milliner,” and walked off, looking as knowing as I could.
In Paris, two Cambridge-men and myself, who happened to be
staying at a boarding-house together, agreed to go to Coulon, a little


FITZ-BOODLE’S CONFESSIONS.
233
creature of four feet high with a pigtail. His room was hung round
with glasses. He made us take off our coats, and dance each before a
mirror. Once he was standing before us playing on his kit—the sight
. of the little master and the pupil was so supremely ridiculous, that I
burst into a yell of laughter, which so offended the old man that he
walked away abruptly, and begged me not to repeat my visits. Nor
did I. I was just getting into waltzing then, but determined to drop
waltzing, and content myself with quadrilling for the rest of my days.
This was all very well in France and England; but in Germany
what was I to do? What did Hercules do when Omphale
captivated him ? What did Rinaldo do when Armida fixed upon
him her twinkling eyes ? Nay, to cut all historical instances short, by
going at once to the earliest, what did Adam do when Eve tempted
him ? He yielded and became her slave; and so I do heartily trust
every honest man will yield until the end of the world—he has no
heart who will not. When I was in Germany, I say, I began to
learn to waltz. The reader from this will no doubt expect that
some new love-adventures befell me-nor will his gentle heart be dis-
appointed. Two deep and tremendous incidents occurred which
shall be notified on the present occasion.
The reader, perhaps, remembers the brief appearance of his
Highness the Duke of Kalbsbraten-Punipernickel at B- House, in
the first part of my Memoirs, at that unlucky period of my life when the
Duke was led to remark the oclour about my clothes, which lost me the
hand of Mary M'Alister. I somehow found myself in his Highness's
territories, of which anybody may read a description in the Almanach
de Gotha. His Highness's father, as is well known, married Emilia
Kunegunda Thomasina Charleria Emanuela Louisa Georgina, Prin-
cess of Saxe-Pumpernickel, and a cousin of his Highness the Duke.
Thus the two principalities were united under one happy sovereign in
the person of Philibert Sigismund Emanuel Maria, the reigning Duke,
who has received from his country (on account of the celebrated
pump which he erected in the market-place of Kalbsbraten) the well-
merited appellation of the Magnificent. The allegory which the
statues round about the pump represent, is of a very mysterious and
complicated sort. Minerva is observed leading up Ceres to a river-
god, who has his arms round the neck of Pomona; while Mars (in a
full-bottomed wig) is driven away by Peace, under whose mantle two
lovely children, representing the Duke's two provinces, repose. The


234
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
celebrated Speck is, as need scarcely be said, the author of this
piece ; and of other magnificent edifices in the Residenz, such as the
guard-room, the skittle-hall (Grossherzoglich Kalbsbratenpumpernickel-
isch Schkittelspielsaal), &c., and the superb sentry-boxes before the
Grand-Ducal Palace. He is Knight Grand Cross of the Ancient
Kartoffel Order, as, indeed, is almost every one else in his Highness's
dominions.
The town of Kalbsbraten contains a population of two thousand
inhabitants, and a palace which would accommodate about six times
that number. The principality sends three and a half men to the
German Confederation, who are commanded by a General (Excellency),
two Major-Generals, and sixty-four officers of lower grades ; all noble,
all knights of the Order, and almost all chamberlains to his Highness
the Grand Duke. An excellent band of eighty performers is the
admiration of the surrounding country, and leads the Grand-Ducal
troops to battle in time of war. Only three of the contingent of
soldiers returned from the Battle of Waterloo, where they won much
honour; the remainder was cut to pieces on that glorious day.
There is a chamber of representatives (which, however, nothing
can induce to sit), home and foreign ministers, residents from neigh-
bouring courts, law presidents, town councils, &c., all the adjuncts of
a big or little government. The court has its chamberlains and
marshals, the Grand Duchess her noble ladies in waiting, and
blushing maids of honour. Thou wertone, Dorothea! Dost
remember the poor young Engländer ? We parted in anger; but I
think-I think thou hast not forgotten him.
The way in which I have Dorothea von Speck present to my
mind is this: not as I first saw her in the garden for her hair was
in bandeaux then, and a large Leghorn hat with a deep riband
covered half her fair face,-- not in a morning-dress, which, by the
way, was none of the newest nor the best made—but as I saw her
afterwards at a ball at the pleasant splendid little court, where she
moved the most beautiful of the beauties of Kalbsbraten. The
grand saloon of the palace is lighted—the Grand Duke and his
officers, the Duchess and her ladies, have passed through. I, in my
uniform of the --th, and a number of young fellows (who are
evidently admiring my legs and envying my distingué appearance),
are waiting round the entrance-door, where a huge Heyduke is
standing, and announcing the titles of the guests as they arrive.


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
235
“ HERR OBERHOF- UND- BAUINSPEKTOR VON SPECK!" shouts the
Heyduke ; and the little Inspector comes in. His lady is on his arm
- huge, in towering plumes, and her favourite costume of light blue.
Fair women always dress in light blue or light green ; and Frau von
Speck is very fair and stout.
But who comes behind her? Lieber Himmel! It is Dorothea !
Did earth, among all the flowers which have sprung from its bosom,
produce ever one more beautiful ? She was none of your heavenly
beauties, I tell you. She had nothing ethereal about her. No, sir;
she was of the earth earthy, and must have weighed ten stone four
or five, if she weighed an ounce. She had none of your Chinese
feet, nor waspy, unhealthy waists, which those may admire who will.
No: Dora's foot was a good stout one ; you could see her ankle (if
her robe was short enough) without the aid of a microscope ; and that
envious little, sour, skinny Amalia von Mangelwürzel used to hold
up her four fingers and say (the two girls were most intimate friends
of course), “Dear Dorothea's vaist is so much dicker as dis.” And so
I have no doubt it was.
But what then? Goethe sings in one of his divine epigrams :-
“ Epicures vaunting their taste, entitle me vulgar and savage,
Give them their Brussels-sprouts, but I am contented with cabbage."
I hate your little women—that is, when I am in love with a tall one;
and who would not have loved Dorothea ?
Fancy her, then, if you please, about five feet four inches high-
fancy her in the family colour of light blue, a little scarf covering the
most brilliant shoulders in the world; and a pair of gloves clinging
close round an arm that may, perhaps, be somewhat too large now,
but that Juno might have envied then. After the fashion of young
ladies on the continent, she wears no jewels or gimcracks: her only
ornament is a wreath of vine-leaves in her hair, with little clusters of
artificial grapes. Down on her shoulders falls the brown hair, in rich
liberal clusters ; all that health, and good-humour, and beauty can
do for her face, kind nature has done for hers. Her eyes are frank,
sparkling, and kind. As for her cheeks, what paint-box or dictionary
contains pigments or words to describe their recl? They say she
opens her mouth and smiles always to show the dimples in her cheeks.
Psha ! she smiles because she is happy, and kind, and good-humoured,
and not because her teeth are little pearls.


236
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
All the young fellows crowd up to ask her to dance, and, taking
from her waist a little mother-of-pearl remembrancer, she notes them
down. Old Schnabel for the polonaise ; Klingenspohr, first waltz ;
Haarbart, second waltz ; Count Hornpieper (the Danish envoy),
third ; and so on. I have said why I could not ask her to waltz, and
I turned away with a pang, and played écarté with Colonel Trumpen-
pack all night.
In thus introducing this lovely creature in her ball-costume, I
have been somewhat premature, and had best go back to the beginning
of the history of my acquaintance with her.
Dorothea, then, was the daughter of the celebrated Speck before
mentioned. It is one of the oldest names in Germany, where her
fathers and mother's houses, those of Speck and Eyer, are loved
wherever they are known. Unlike his warlike progenitor, Lorenzo
von Speck, Dorothea's father, had early shown himself a passionate
admirer of art ; had quitted home to study architecture in Italy, and
had become celebrated throughout Europe, and been appointed Ober-
hofarchitect and Kunst- und- Bau-inspektor of the united princi-
palities. They are but four miles wide, and his genius has conse-
quently but little room to play. What art can do, however, he does.
The palace is frequently whitewashed under his eyes ; the theatre
painted occasionaliy; the noble public buildings erected, of which I
have already made mention.
I had come to Kalbsbraten, scarce knowing whither I went; and
having, in about ten minutes, seen the curiosities of the place (I
did not care to see the King's palace, for chairs and tables have
no great charm for me), I had ordered horses, and wanted to get
on I cared not whither, when Fate threw Dorothea in my way. I was
yawning back to the hotel through the palace-garden, a valet-de-place
at my side, when I saw a young lady seated under a tree reading a
novel, her mamma on the same bench (a fat woman in light blue)
knitting a stocking, and two officers, choked in their stays, with
various orders on their spinach-coloured coats, standing by in first
attitudes : the one was caressing the fat-lady-in-blue's little dog ; the
other was twirling his own moustache, which was already as nearly as
possible curled into his own eye.
I don't know how it is, but I hate to see men evidently intimate
with nice-looking women, and on good terms with themselves.
There's something annoying in their cursed complacency — their


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
237
evident sunshiny happiness. I've no woman to make sunshine for
me; and yet my heart tells me that not one, but several such suns,
would do good to my system.
“Who are those pert-looking officers,” says I, peevishly, to the
guide, “who are talking to those vulgar-looking women ?”
“The big one, with the epaulets, is Major von Schnabel ; the
little one, with the pale face, is Stiefel von Klingenspohr.”
“And the big blue woman ? "
“ The Grand-Ducal Pumpernickelian-court-architectress and
Upper-Palace-and-building-inspectress Von Speck, born V. Eyer,"
replied the guide. “Your well-born honour has seen the pump in
the market-place; that is the work of the great Von Speck.”
“And yonder young person ?”.
“ Mr. Court-architect's daughter; the Fräulein Dorothea.”
Dorothea looked up from her novel here, and turned her face
towards the stranger who was passing, and then blushing turned it
down again. Schnabel looked at me with a scowl, Klingenspohr
with a simper, the dog with a yelp, the fat lady in blue just gave one
glance, and seemed, I thought, rather well pleased. “Silence,
Lischen !” said she to the dog. “Go on, darling Dorothea," she
added, to her daughter, who continued her novel.
Her voice was a little tremulous, but very low and rich. For
some reason or other, on getting back to the inn, I countermanded
the horses, and said I would stay for the night.
I not only stayed that night, but many, many afterwards ; and as for
the manner in which I became acquainted with the Speck family, why
it was a good joke against me at the time, and I did not like then to
have it known; but now it may as well come out at once. Speck, as
everybody knows, lives in the market-place, opposite his grand work
of art, the town pump, or fountain. I bought a large sheet of paper,
and having a knack at drawing, sat down, with the greatest gravity,
before the pump, and sketched it for several hours. I knew it would
bring out old Speck to see. At first he contented himself by
flattening his nose against the window-glasses of his study, and
looking what the Engländer was about. Then he put on his grey
cap with the huge green shade, and sauntered to the door : then he
walked round me, and formed one of a band of street-idlers who were
looking on: then at last he could restrain himself no more, but,


238
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
pulling off his cap, with a low bow, began to discourse upon arts, and
architecture in particular.
" It is curious,” says he, “that you have taken the same view of
which a print has been engraved.”
“That is extraordinary,” says I (though it wasn't, for I had traced
my drawing at a window off the very print in question). I added
that I was, like all the world, immensely struck with the beauty of the
edifice; heard of it at Rome, where it was considered to be superior
to any of the celebrated fountains of that capital of the fine arts;
finally, that unless perhaps the celebrated fountain of Aldgate in
London might compare with it, Kalbsbraten building, except in that
case, was incomparable.
This speech I addressed in French, of which the worthy Hof-
architect understood somewhat, and continuing to reply in German,
our conversation grew pretty close. It is singular that I can talk to
a man and pay him compliments with the utmost gravity, whereas,
to a woman, I at once lose all self-possession, and have never said a
pretty thing in my life.
My operations on old Speck were so conducted, that in a quarter
of an hour I had elicited from him an invitation to go over the town
with him, and see its architectural beauties. So we walked through
the huge half-furnished chambers of the palace, we panted up the
copper pinnacle of the church-tower, we went to see the Museum and
Gymnasium, and coming back into the market-place again, what
could the Hofarchitect do but offer me a glass of wine and a seat in
his house? He introduced me to his Gattinn, his Leocadia (the fat
woman in blue), “ as a young world-observer, and worthy art-friend,
a young scion of British Adel, who had come to refresh himself at the
Urquellen of his race. and see his brethren of the great family of
Hermann.”
I saw instantly that the old fellow was of a romantic turn, from
this rodomontade to his lady: nor was she a whit less so ; nor was
Dorothea less sentimental than her mamma. She knew everything
regarding the literature of Albion, as she was pleased to call it; and
asked me news of all the famous writers there. I told her that
Miss Edgeworth was one of the loveliest young beauties at our
court; I described to her Lady Morgan, herself as beautiful as the
wild Irish girl she drew; I promised to give her a signature of
Mrs. Hemans (which I wrote for her that very evening); and


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
239
described a fox-hunt, at which I had seen Thomas Moore and
Samuel Rogers, Esquires; and a boxing-match, in which the
athletic author of "Pelham ” was pitched against the hardy mountain
bard, Wordsworth. You see my education was not neglected, for
though I have never read the works of the above-named ladies and
gentlemen, yet I knew their names well enough.
Time passed away. I, perhaps, was never so brilliant in conver-
sation as when excited by the Asmanshauser and the brilliant eyes of
Dorothea that day. She and her parents had dined at their usual
heathen hour; but I was, I don't care to own it, so smitten, that for
the first time in my life I did not even miss the meal, and talked
on until six o'clock, when tea was served. Madame Speck said
they always drank it; and so placing a teaspoonful of bohea in
a cauldron of water, she placidly handed out this decoction, which
we took with cakes and tartines. I leave you to imagine how
disgusted Klingenspohr and Schnabel looked when they stepped
in as usual that evening to make their party of whist with the
Speck family! Down they were obliged to sit; and the lovely
Dorothea, for that night, declined to play altogether, and sat on the
sofa by me.
What we talked about, who shall tell? I would not, for my part,
break the secret of one of those delicious conversations, of which I
and every man in his time have held so many. You begin, very
probably, about the weather—'tis a common subject, but what
sentiments the genius of Love can fling into it! I have often, for
my part, said to the girl of my heart for the time being, “ It's a fine
day," or, “ It's a rainy morning!” in a way that has brought tears to
her eyes. Something beats in your heart, and twangle! a corre-
sponding string thrills and echoes in hers. You offer her anything
--her knitting-needles, a slice of bread-and-butter—what causes the
grateful blush with which she accepts the one or the other? Why,
she sees your heart handed over to her upon the needles, and the
bread-and-butter is to her a sandwich with love inside it. If you say
to your grandmother, “Ma'am, it's a fine day,” or what not, she would
find in the words no other meaning than their outward and visible
one; but say so to the girl you love, and she understands a thousand
mystic meanings in them. Thus, in a word, though Dorothea and I
did not, probably, on the first night of our meeting, talk of anything
more than the weather, or trumps, or some subjects which to such


240
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
listeners as Schnabel and Klingenspohr and others might appear
quite ordinary, yet to us they had a different signification, of which
Love alone held the key.
Without further ado then, after the occurrences of that evening, I
determined on staying at Kalbsbraten, and presenting my card the
next day to the Hof-Marshal, requesting to have the honour of being
presented to his Highness the Prince, at one of whose court-balls my
Dorothea appeared as I have described her.
It was summer when I first arrived at Kalbsbraten. The little
court was removed to Siegmundslust, his Highness's country-seat: no
balls were taking place, and, in consequence, I held my own with
Dorothea pretty well. I treated her admirer, Lieutenant Klingenspohr,
with perfect scorn, had a manifest advantage over Major Schnabel,
and used somehow to meet the fair one every day, walking in company
with her mamma in the palace garden, or sitting under the acacias,
with Belotte in her mother's lap, and the favourite romance beside
her. Dear, dear Dorothea ! what a number of novels she must have
read in her time! She confesses to me that she had been in love
with Uncas, with Saint Preux, with Ivanhoe, and with hosts of
German heroes of romance; and when I asked her if she, whose
heart was so tender towards imaginary youths, had never had a
preference for any one of her living adorers, she only looked, and
blushed, and sighed, and said nothing.
You see I had got on as well as man could do, until the
confounded court season and the balls began, and then—why, then
came my usual luck.
Waltzing is a part of a German girl's life. With the best will in
the world—which, I doubt not, she entertains for me, for I never put
the matter of marriage directly to her-Dorothea could not go to
balls and not waltz. It was madness to me to see her whirling round
the room with officers, attachés, prim little chamberlains with gold
keys and embroidered coats, her hair floating in the wind, her hand
reposing upon the abominable little dancer's epaulet, her good-
humoured face lighted up with still greater satisfaction. I saw that I
must learn to waltz too, and took my measures accordingly.
The leader of the ballet at the Kalbsbraten theatre in my time was
Springbock, from Vienna. He had been a regular Zephyr once, 'twas
said, in his younger days; and though he is now fifteen stone weight,
I can, hélas ! recommend him conscientiously as a master; and I


242
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
even made an allusion to the circumstance. When on this eventſul
night, I went, as usual, and made him my bow in the presentation,
“ Vous, monsieur," said he—“ vous qui êtes si jeune, devez aimer la
danse." I blushed as red as my trousers, and bowing, went away.
I stepped up to Dorothea. Heavens ! how beautiful she looked !
and how archly she smiled as, with a thumping heart, I asked her
hand for a waltz! She took out her little mother-of-pearl dancing-
book, she wrote down my name with her pencil: we were engaged
for the fourth waltz, and till then I left her to other partners.
Who says that his first waltz is not a nervous moment? I vow I
was more excited than by any duel I ever fought. I would not dance
any contre-danse or galop. I repeatedly went to the buffet and got
glasses of punch (dear simple Germany ! 'tis with rum-punch and egg-
flip thy children strengthen themselves for the dance !) I went into
the ball-room and looked—the couples bounded before me, the music
clashed and rung in my ears—all was fiery, feverish, indistinct. The
gleaming white columns, the polished oaken floors in which the
innumerable tapers were reflected-all together swam before my eyes,
and I was in a pitch of madness almost when the fourth waltz at,
length came. “Will you dance with your sword on ? ” said the
sweetest voice in the world. I blushed, and stammered, and trembled,
as I laid down that weapon and my cap, and hark! the music began !
Oh, how my hand trembled as I placed it round the waist of
Dorothea! With my left hand I took her right-did she squeeze it?
I think she did—to this day I think she did. Away we went ! we
tripped over the polished oak floor like two young fairies. “Courage,
monsieur," said she, with her sweet smile. Then it was “ Très bien,
monsieur.” Then I heard the voices humming and buzzing about.
“Il danse bien, l'Anglais.” “Ma foi, oui,” says another. On we
went, twirling and twisting, and turning and whirling ; couple after
couple dropped panting off. Little Klingenspohr himself was obliged
to give in. All eyes were upon us—we were going round alone.
Dorothea was almost exhausted, when
I have been sitting for two hours since I marked the asterisks,
thinking—thinking. I have committed crimes in my life—who
hasn't? But talk of remorse, what remorse is there like that which
rushes up in a flood to my brain sometimes when I am alone, and
causes me to blush when I'm a-bed in the dark?


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
243
I fell, sir, on that infernal slippery floor. Down we came like
shot; we rolled over and over in the midst of the ball-room, the
music going ten miles an hour, 8oo pairs of eyes fixed upon us, a cursed
shriek of laughter bursting out from all sides. Heavens ! how clear I
heard it, as we went on rolling and rolling! “My child! my
Dorothea !” shrieked out Madame Speck, rushing forward, and as
soon as she had breath to do so, Dorothea of course screamed too;
then she fainted, then she was disentangled from out my spurs, and
borne off by a bevy of tittering women. “Clumsy brute !” said
Madame Speck, turning her fat back upon me. I remained upon my
séant, wild, ghastly, looking about. It was all up with me I knew
it was. I wished I could have died there, and I wish so still.
Klingenspohr married her, that is the long and short ; but before
that event I placed a sabre-cut across the young scoundrel's nose,
which destroyed his beauty for ever.
O Dorothea ! you can't forgive me—you oughtn't to forgive me ;
but I love you madly still.
My next flame was Ottilia : but let us keep her for another
number; my feelings overpower me at present.


244
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
OTTILIA.
CHAPTER I.
THE ALBUM—THE MEDITERRANEAN HEATH.
TRAVELLING some little time back in a wild part of Conne-
mara, where I had been for fishing and seal-shooting, I had
the good luck to get admission to the château of a hospitable Irish
gentleman, and to procure some news of my once dear Ottilia.
Yes, of no other than Ottilia v. Schlippenschlopp, the Muse of
Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel, the friendly little town far away in
Sachsenland, where old Speck built the town pump, where Klingen-
spohr was slashed across the nose, —where Dorothea rolled over
and over in that horrible waltz with Fitz-Boo- Psha !-away
with the recollection : but wasn't it strange to get news of Ottilia in
the wildest corner of Ireland, where I never should have thought to
hear her gentle name ? Walking on that very Urrisbeg Mountain
under whose shadow I heard Ottilia's name, Mackay, the learned
author of the “Flora Patlandica," discovered the Mediterranean
heath,—such a flower as I have often plucked on the sides of
Vesuvius, and as Proserpine, no doubt, amused herself in gathering
as she strayed in the fields of Enna. Here it is—the self-same
flower, peering out at the Atlantic from Roundstone Bay; here, too,
in this wild lonely place, nestles the fragrant memory of my Ottilia !
In a word, after a day on Ballylynch Lake (where, with a brown
fly and a single hair, I killed fourteen salmon, the smallest twenty-
nine pounds weight, the largest somewhere about five stone ten), my
young friend Blake Bodkin Lynch Browne (a fine lad who has made
his continental tour) and I adjourned, after dinner, to the young gentle-
man's private room, for the purpose of smoking a certain cigar; which
is never more pleasant than after a hard day's sport, or a day spent
in-doors, or after a good dinner, or a bad one, or at night when you
are tired, or in the morning when you are fresh, or of a cold winter's
day, or of a scorching summer's afternoon, or at any other moment
you choose to fix upon.


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
245
What should I see in Blake's room but a rack of pipes, such as are
to be found in almost all the bachelors' rooms in Germany, and
amongst them was a porcelain pipe-head bearing the image of the
Kalbşbraten pump! There it was: the old spout, the old familiar
allegory of Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum, and the rest, that I had so
often looked at from Hofarchitect Speck's window, as I sat there
by the side of Dorothea. The old gentleman had given me one of
these very pipes ; for he had hundreds of them painted, wherewith he
used to gratify almost every stranger who came into his native town.
Any old place with which I have once been familiar (as, perhaps,
I have before stated in these “ Confessions ”—but never mind that) is
in some sort dear to me : and were I Lord Shootingcastle or Colonel
Popland, I think after a residence of six months there I should love
the Fleet Prison. As I saw the old familiar pipe, I took it down,
and crammed it with Cavendish tobacco, and lay down on a sofa,
and puffed away for an hour well-nigh, thinking of old, old times.
“You're very entertaining to-night, Fitz,” says young Blake, who
had made several tumblers of punch for me, which I had gulped down
without saying a word. “Don't ye think ye'd be more easy in bed
than snorting and sighing there on my sofa, and groaning fit to
make me go hang myself ?”
“I am thinking, Blake," says I, “ about Pumpernickel, where
old Speck gave you this pipe."
“'Deed he did,” replies the young man; "and did ye know the
old Bar'n?"
"I did," said I. “My friend, I have been by the banks of the
Bendemeer. Tell me, are the nightingales still singing there, and
do the roses still bloom ?”.
“The hwhat ?" cries Blake. “What the divvle, Fitz, are you
growling about ? Bendemeer Lake's in Westmoreland, as I pre-
shume ; and as for roses and nightingales, I give ye my word it's
Greek ye're talking to me.” And Greek it very possibly was, for my
young friend, though as good across country as any man in his
county, has not the fine feeling and tender perception of beauty
which may be found elsewhere, dear madam.
“Tell me about Speck, Blake, and Kalbsbraten, and Dorothea,
and Klingenspohr her husband.”
“He with the cut across the nose, is it?" cries Blake. “I know
him well, and his old wife.”


2.46
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
“ His old what, sir !" cries Fitz-Boodle, jumping up from his seat.
“ Klingenspohr's wife old !—Is he married again ?-Is Dorothea, then,
d-d-dead?”
“Dead !—no more dead than you are, only I take her to be five-
and-thirty. And when a woman has had nine children, you know, she
looks none the younger ; and I can tell ye, that when she trod on my
corruns at a ball at the Grand Juke's, I felt something heavier than a
feather on my foot.”
“Madame de Klingenspohr, then,” replied I, hesitating some-
what," has grown rather--rather st-st-out ?" I could hardly get out
the out, and trembled I don't know why as I asked the question.
“Stout, begad !-she weighs fourteen stone, saddle and bridle.
That's right, down goes my pipe ; flop ! crash falls the tumbler into
the fender! Break away, my boy, and remember, whoever breaks a
glass here pays a dozen.”
The fact was, that the announcement of Dorothea's changed
condition caused no small disturbance within me, and I expressed it
in the abrupt manner mentioned by young Blake.
Roused thus from my reverie, I questioned the young fellow
about his residence at Kalbsbraten, which has been always since the
war a favourite place for our young gentry, and heard with some
satisfaction that Potzdorff was married to the Behrenstein, Haarbart
had left the dragoons, the Crown Prince had broken with the
but mum ! of what interest are all these details to the reader, who
has never been at friendly little Kalbsbraten?
Presently Lynch reaches me down one of the three books that
formed his library (the “ Racing Calendar” and a book of fishing-fies
making up the remainder of the set). “And there's my album,” says
he. “You'll find plenty of hands in it that you'll recognize, as you
are an old Pumpernickelaner.” And so I did, in truth : it was a
little book after the fashion of German albums, in which good simple
little ledger every friend or acquaintance of the owner inscribes a
poem or stanza from some favourite poet or philosopher with the
transcriber's own name, as thus :-
“ To the true house-friend, and beloved Irelandish youth.
" • Sera nunquam est ad bonos mores via.'
WACKERBART, Professor at the
Grand-Ducal Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickelisch Gymnasium."


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
247
Another writes, —
"• Wander on roses and forget me not."
AMALIA V. NACHTMUTZE,
GEB. v. SCHLAFROCK,"
with a flourish, and the picture mayhap of a rose. Let the reader
imagine some hundreds of these interesting inscriptions, and he will
have an idea of the book.
Turning over the leaves I came presently on Dorothea's hand.
There it was, the little neat, pretty handwriting, the dear old up-
and-down-strokes that I had not looked at for many a long year,-
the Mediterranean heath, which grew on the sunniest banks of Fitz-
Boodle's existence, and here found, dear, dear little sprig ! in rude
Galwagian bog-lands.
“Look at the other side of the page,” says Lynch, rather
sarcastically (for I don't care to confess that I kissed the name of
“ Dorothea V. Klingenspohr, born v. Speck" written under an
extremely feeble passage of verse). “ Look at the other side of
the paper !”
I did, and what do you think I saw ?
I saw the writing of five of the little Klingenspohrs, who have all
sprung up since my time.
“Ha! ha! haw!” screamed the impertinent young Irishman, and
the story was all over Connemara and Joyce's Country in a day after.
CHAPTER II.
OTTILIA IN PARTICULAR.
COME kind critic who peruses these writings will, doubtless, have
the goodness to point out that the simile of the Mediterranean
heath is applied to two personages in this chapter—to Ottilia and
Dorothea, and say, Psha! the fellow is but a poor unimaginative
creature not to be able to find a simile apiece at least for the girls;
how much better would we have done the business!
Well, it is a very pretty simile. The girls were rivals, were
beautiful, I loved them both,—which should have the sprig of heath 2 ·


248
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
Mr. Cruikshank (who has taken to serious painting) is getting ready
for the exhibition a fine piece, representing Fitz-Boodle on the
Urrisbeg Mountain, county Galway, Ireland, with a sprig of heath
in his hand, hesitating, like Paris, on which of the beauties he should
bestow it. In the background is a certain animal between two
bundles of hay; but that I take to represent the critic, puzzled to
which of my young beauties to assign the choice.
If Dorothea had been as rich as Miss Coutts, and had come to
me the next day after the accident at the ball and said, “ George,
will you marry me?” it must not be supposed I would have done
any such thing. That dream had vanished for ever : rage and pride
took the place of love ; and the only chance I had of recovering from
my dreadful discomfiture was by bearing it bravely, and trying, if
possible, to awaken a little compassion in my favour. I limped
home (arranging my scheme with great presence of mind as I
actually sat spinning there on the ground)—I limped home, sent for
Pflastersticken, the court-surgeon, and addressed him to the follow-
ing effect: “Pflastersticken,” says I, “there has been an accident
at court of which you will hear. You will send in leeches, pills, and
the deuce knows what, and you will say that I have dislocated
my leg : for some days you will state that I am in considerable
danger. You are a good fellow and a man of courage I know,
for which very reason you can appreciate those qualities in another ;
so mind, if you breathe a word of my secret, either you or I must
lose a life.”
Away went the surgeon, and the next day all Kalbsbraten knew
that I was on the point of death: I had been delirious all night, had
had eighty leeches, besides I don't know how much medicine ; but
the Kalbsbrateners knew to a scruple. Whenever anybody was
ill, this little kind society knew what medicines were prescribed.
Everybody in the town knew what everybody had for dinner. If
Madame Rumpel had her satin dyed ever so quietly, the whole
society was on the qui vive; if Countess Pultuski sent to Berlin for
a new set of teeth, not a person in Kalbsbraten but what was ready
to compliment her as she put them on ; if Potzdorff paid his tailor's
bill, or Muffinstein bought a piece of black wax for his moustaches,
it was the talk of the little city. And so, of course, was my accident.
In their sorrow for my misfortune, Dorothea's was quite forgotten,
and those eighty leeches saved me. I became interesting ; I had
finstein Las she put thein Kalbsbratultuski se


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
249
cards left at my door ; and I kept my room for a fortnight, during
which time I read every one of M. Kotzebue's plays.
At the end of that period I was convalescent, though still a
little lame. I called at old Speck's house and apologized for my
clumsiness, with the most admirable coolness; I appeared at court,
and stated calmly that I did not intend to dance any more ; and
when Klingenspohr grinned, I told that young gentleman such a
piece of my mind as led to his wearing a large sticking-plaster patch
on his nose : which was split as neatly down the middle as you would
split an orange at dessert. In a word, what man could do to repair
my defeat, I did.
There is but one thing now of which I am ashamed of those
killing epigrams which I wrote (mon Dicu! must I own it ?—but
even the fury of my anger proves the extent of my love !) against the
Speck family. They were handed about in confidence at court, and
made a frightful sensation :
“Is it possible ?
“ There happened at Schloss P-mp-rn-ckel,
A strange mishap our sides to tickle,
And set the people in a roar ;-
A strange caprice of Fortune fickle:
I never thought at Pumpernickel
To see a SPECK upon the floor!”
“La Perfide Albion; or, a Caution to ilaltzers.
" Come to the dance,' the Briton said,
And forward D-r-th-a led,
Fair, fresh, and three-and-twenty !
Ah, girls, beware of Britons red!
What wonder that it turned her head?
SAT VERBUM SAPIENTI."
“Reasons for not Marrying.
“• The lovely Miss S.
Will surely say “yes,"
You've only to ask and try ;'
“That subject we'll quit,'
Says Georgy the wit,
*I've a much better Spec in my eye!'”
This last epigram especially was voted so killing that it flew like
wildfire; and I know for a fact that our Chargé-d'Affaires at Kalbs-


250
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
braten sent a courier express with it to the Foreign Office in England,
whence, through our amiable Foreign Secretary, Lord P-lm-rston, it
made its way into every fashionable circle: nay, I have reason to
believe caused a smile on the cheek of R-y-lty itself. Now that Time
has taken away the sting of these epigrams, there can be no harm in
giving them ; and 'twas well enough then to endeavour to hide under
the lash of wit the bitter pangs of humiliation : but my heart bleeds
now to think that I should have ever brought a tear on the gentle
cheek of Dorothea.
Not content with this—with humiliating her by satire, and with
wounding her accepted lover across the nose-I determined to carry
my revenge still farther, and to fall in love with somebody else. This
person was Ottilia v. Schlippenschlopp.
Otho Sigismund Freyherr von Schlippenschlopp, Knight Grand
Cross of the Ducal Order of the Two-Necked Swan of Pumpernickel,
of the Porc-et-Siflet of Kalbsbraten, Commander of the George and
Blue-Boar of Dummerland, Excellency, and High Chancellor of the
United Duchies, lived in the second floor of a house in the Schwaps-
gasse; where, with his private income and his revenues as Chancellor,
amounting together to some 300l. per annum, he maintained such a
state as very few other officers of the Grand-Ducal Crown could
exhibit. The Baron is married to Maria Antoinetta, a Countess of
the house of Kartoffelstadt, branches of which have taken root all
over Germany. He has no sons, and but one daughter, the Fräulein
OTTILIA.
The Chancellor is a worthy old gentleman, too fat and wheezy to
preside at the Privy Council, fond of his pipe, his ease, and his rubber.
His lady is a very tall and pale Roman-nosed Countess, who looks as
gentle as Mrs. Robert Roy, where, in the novel, she is for putting
Baillie Nicol Jarvie into the lake, and who keeps the honest Chancellor
in the greatest order. The Fräulein Ottilia had not arrived at Kalbs-
braten when the little affair between me and Dorothea was going on ;
or rather had only just come in for the conclusion of it, being pre-
sented for the first time that year at the ball where I-where I met
with my accident.
At the time when the Countess was young, it was not the fashion
in her country to educate the young ladies so highly as since they
have been educated ; and provided they could waltz, sew, and make
puddings, they were thought to be decently bred ; being seldom


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
251
called upon for algebra or Sanscrit in the discharge of the honest
duties of their lives. But Fräulein Ottilia was of the modern school
in this respect, and came back from her pension at Strasburg speaking
all the languages, dabbling in all the sciences : an historian, a poet,-
a blue of the ultramarinest sort, in a word. What a difference there
was, for instance, between poor, simple Dorothea's love of novel-
reading and the profound encyclopædic learning of Ottilia !
Before the latter arrived from Strasburg (where she had been
under the care of her aunt the canoness, Countess Ottilia of Kartoffel-
stadt, to whom I here beg to offer my humblest respects), Dorothea
had passed for a bel esprit in the little court circle, and her little
simple stock of accomplishments had amused us all very well. She
used to sing “Herz, mein Herz” and “T'en souviens-tu,” in a decent
manner (once, before heaven, I thought her singing better than Grisi’s),
and then she had a little album in which she drew flowers, and used
to embroider slippers wonderfully, and was very merry at a game of
loto or forfeits, and had a hundred small agrémens de société which
rendered her an acceptable member of it.
But when Ottilia arrived, poor Dolly's reputation was crushed in
a month. The former wrote poems both in French and German ;
she painted landscapes and portraits in real oil; and she twanged off
a rattling piece of Listz or Kalkbrenner in such a brilliant way, that
Dora scarcely dared to touch the instrument after her, or venture,
after Ottilia had trilled and gurgled through “ Una voce," or
“ Di piacer” (Rossini was in fashion then), to lift up her little modest
pipe in a ballad. What was the use of the poor thing going to sit in
the park, where so many of the young officers used ever to gather
round her? Whirr! Ottilia went by galloping on a chestnut mare
with a groom after her, and presently all the young fellows who could
buy or hire horseflesh were prancing in her train.
When they met, Ottilia would bounce towards her soul's darling,
and put her hands round her waist, and call her by a thousand
affectionate names, and then talk of her as only ladies or authors
can talk of one another. How tenderly she would hint at Dora's
little imperfections of education !-how cleverly she would insinuate
that the poor girl had no wit! and, thank God, no more she had.
The fact is, that do what I will I see I'm in love with her still,
and would be if she had fifty children ; but my passion blinded
me then, and every arrow that fiery Ottilia discharged I marked


252
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with savage joy. Dolly, thank heaven, didn't mind the wit much ;
she was too simple for that. But still the recurrence of it would
leave in her heart a vague, indefinite feeling of pain, and somehow
she began to understand that her empire was passing away, and
that her dear friend hated her like poison; and so she married
Klingenspohr. I have written myself almost into a reconciliation
with the silly fellow; for the truth is, he has been a good, honest
husband to her, and she has children, and makes puddings, and
is happy.
Ottilia was pale and delicate. She wore her glistening black hair
in bands, and dressed in vapoury white muslin. She sang her own
words to her harp, and they commonly insinuated that she was alone
in the world, that she suffered some inexpressible and mysterious
heart-pangs, the lot of all finer geniuses,—that though she lived and
moved in the world she was not of it,—that she was of a consumptive
tendency and might look for a premature interment. She even had
fixed on the spot where she should lie : the violets grew there, she
said, the river went moaning by; the grey willow whispered sadly
over her head, and her heart pined to be at rest. “Mother," she
would say, turning to her parent, “ promise me—promise me to lay
me in that spot when the parting hour has come !” At which
Madame de Schlippenschlopp would shriek, and grasp her in her
arms; and at which, I confess, I would myself blubber like a child.
She had six darling friends at school, and every courier from Kalbs-
braten carried off whole reams of her letter-paper.
In Kalbsbraten, as in every other German town, there are
a vast number of literary characters, of whom our young friend
quickly became the chief. They set up a literary journal, which
appeared once a week, upon light-blue or primrose paper, and which,
in compliment to the lovely Ottilia's maternal name, was called the
Kartoffelnkranz. Here are a couple of her ballads extracted from
the Kranz, and by far the most cheerful specimen of her style. For
in her songs she never would willingly let off the heroines without a
suicide or a consumption. She never would hear of such a thing as a
happy marriage, and had an appetite for grief quite amazing in so
young a person. As for her dying and desiring to be buried under
the willow-tree, of which the first ballad is the subject, though I
believed the story then, I have at present some doubts about it.
For, since the publication of my Memoirs, I have been thrown much


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
253
into the society of literary persons (who admire my style hugely),
and egad ! though some of them are dismal enough in their works, I
find them in their persons the least sentimental class that ever a
gentleman fell in with.
“THE WILLOW.TREE.
“Know ye the willow-tree
“ Then sank the moon away
Whose grey leaves quiver,
Under the billow,
Whispering gloomily
Still wept the maid alone-
To yon pale river ?
There by the willow!
Lady, at even-tide
Wander not near it :
“ Through the long darkness,
They say its branches hide
By the stream rolling,
A sad, lost spirit !
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling
“ Once to the willow-tree
Long was the darkness,
A maid came fearful,
Lonely and stilly ;
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Shrill came the night-wind,
Her blue eye tearful ;
Piercing and chilly.
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter.
“ Shrill blew the morning breeze,
No one was there-ah me!
Biting and cold,
No one to meet her!
Bleak peers the grey dawn
Over the wold.
“ Quick beat her heart to hear
Bleak over moor and stream
The far bell's chime
Looks the grey dawn,
Toll from the chapel-tower
Grey, with dishevelled hair,
The trysting time:
Still stands the willow there-
But the red sun went down
THE MAID IS GONE !
In golden flame,
“ Domine, Domine!
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came !
Sing we a litany,-
Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and
“ Presently came the night,
weary;
Sadly to greet her,-
Domine, Domine !
Moon in her silver light,
Sing we a litany,
Stars in their glitter.
| Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!”
One of the chief beauties of this ballad (for the translation of
which I received some well-merited compliments) is the delicate way
in which the suicide of the poor young woman under the willow-tree
is hinted at; for that she threw herself into the water and became
one among the lilies of the stream, is as clear as a pikestaff. Her
suicide is committed some time in the darkness, when the slow
hours move on tolling and tolling, and is hinted at darkly as befits
the time and the deed.


25+
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
But that unromantic brute, Van Cutsem, the Dutch Chargé-
d'Affaires, sent to the Kartoffelnkranz of the week after a conclusion
of the ballad, which shows what a poor creature he must be. His
pretext for writing it was, he said, because he could not bear such
melancholy endings to poems and young women, and therefore he
submitted the following lines :-
“ Long by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother's screams
O'er the grey water :
• Where is my lovely one ?
Where is my daughter ?
VI.
“ Yes, 'twas Elizabeth-
Yes, 'twas their girl ;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
"Mother!' the loving one,
Blushing, exclaimed,
'Let not your innocent
Lizzy be blamed.
VII.
««• Rouse thee, Sir Constable-
Rouse thee and look ;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook !'
“? Yesterday, going to aunt
Jones's to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold,
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.'
III.
“ Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her ;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder ;
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her !
IV.
VIII.
“ Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know :
Stern they received her ;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night,
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.
" Mother, beside the fire
Sat, her nightcap in;
Father, in easy-chair,
Gloomily napping ;
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping!
v.
“ And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother's heart,
Sick with amazement;
And at the vision, which
Came to surprise her,
Shrieked in an agony-
• Lor'! it's Elizar !!
IX.
" MORAL.
" Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the Fiddlety,
Maidens of England, take caution
by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the
door-key!"


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
255
Some people laughed at this parody, and even preferred it to the
original ; but for myself I have no patience with the individual who
can turn the finest sentiments of our nature into ridicule, and make
everything sacred a subject of scorn. The next ballad is less
gloomy than that of the willow-tree, and in it the lovely writer
expresses her longing for what has charmed us all, and, as it were,
squeezes the whole spirit of the fairy tale into a few stanzas :-
“FAIRY DAYS.
" Beside the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee,
Of happy fairy days—what tales were told to me!
I thought the world was once-all peopled with princesses,
And my heart would beat to hear—their loves and their distresses;
And many a quiet night,-in slumber sweet and deep,
The pretty fairy people-would visit me in sleep.
“ I saw them in my dreams-come flying east and west,
With wondrous fairy gifts—the new-born babe they bless'd ;
One has brought a jewel-and one a crown of gold,
And one has brought a curse—but she is wrinkled and old.
The gentle queen turns pale-to hear those words of sin,
But the king he only laughs—and bids the dance begin.
“ The babe has grown to be—the fairest of the land
And rides the forest green-a hawk upon her hand.
An ambling palfrey white--a golden robe and crown ;
I've seen her in my dreams-riding up and down ;
And heard the ogre laugh—as she fell into his snare,
At the little tender creature—who wept and tore her hair !
.
“But ever when it seemed—her need was at the sorest
A prince in shining mail--comes prancing through the forest.
· A waving ostrich-plume—a buckler burnished bright;
I've seen him in my dreams-good sooth! a gallant knight.
His lips are coral red-beneath a dark moustache ;
See how he waves his hand—and how his blue eyes flash !
" • Come forth, thou Paynim knight !'-he shouts in accents clear.
The giant and the maid—both tremble his voice to hear.
Saint Mary guard him well !-he draws his falchion keen,
The giant and the knight-are fighting on the green.
I see them in my dreams-his blade gives stroke on stroke,
The giant pants and reels-and tumbles like an oak !


256
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
“ With what a blushing grace-he falls upon his knee
And takes the lady's hand-and whispers, “You are free !'
Ah! happy childish tales-of knight and faerie !
I waken from my dreams—but there's ne'er a knight for me ;
I waken from my dreams—and wish that I could be
A child by the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee.”
Indeed, Ottilia looked like a fairy herself: pale, small, slim, and
airy. You could not see her face, as it were, for her eyes, which
were so wild, and so tender, and shone so that they would have
dazzled an eagle, much more a poor goose of a Fitz-Boodle. In the
theatre, when she sat on the opposite side of the house, those big
eyes used to pursue me as I sat pretending to listen to the “ Zauber-
flöte," or to “Don Carlos,” or “ Egmont,” and at the tender passages,
especially, they would have such a winning, weeping, imploring look
with them as flesh and blood could not bear.
Shall I tell how I became a poet for the dear girl's sake ? 'Tis
surely unnecessary after the reader has perused the above versions of
her poems. Shall I tell what wild follies I committed in prose as
well as in verse ? how I used to watch under her window of icy
evenings, and with chilblainy fingers sing serenades to her on the
guitar? Shall I tell how, in a sledging party, I had the happiness to
drive her, and of the delightful privilege which is, on these occasions,
accorded to the driver ?
Any reader who has spent a winter in Germany perhaps knows it.
A large party of a score or more of sledges is formed. Away they go
to some pleasure-house that has been previously fixed upon, where a
ball and collation are prepared, and where each man, as his partner
descends, has the delicious privilege of saluting her. O heavens and
earth! I may grow to be a thousand years old, but I can never forget
the rapture of that salute.
“The keen air has given me an appetite,” said the dear angel, as
we entered the supper-room; and to say the truth, fairy as she was,
she made a remarkably good meal-consuming a couple of basins of
white soup, several kinds of German sausages, some Westphalia ham,
some white puddings, an anchovy-salad made with cornichons and
onions, sweets innumerable, and a considerable quantity of old Stein-
wein and rum-punch afterwards. Then she got up and danced as
brisk as a fairy; in which operation I of course did not follow her,
but had the honour, at the close of the evening's amusement, once


FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
257
more to have her by my side in the sledge, as we swept in the moon-
light over the snow.
Kalbsbraten is a very hospitable place as far as tea-parties are
concerned, but I never was in one wherc dinners were so scarce. At
the palace they occurred twice or thrice in a month; but on these
occasions spinsters were not invited, and I seldom had the opportunity
of seeing my Ottilia except at evening-parties.
Nor are these, if the truth must be told, very much to my taste.
Dancing I have forsworn, whist is too severe a study for me, and I do
not like to play écarté with old ladies, who are sure to cheat you in the
course of an evening's play.
But to have an occasional glance at Ottilia was enough; and
many and many a napoleon did I lose to her mamma, Madame de
Schlippenschlopp, for the blest privilege of looking at her daughter.
Many is the tea-party I went to, shivering into cold clothes after
dinner (which is my abomination) in order to have one little look at
the lady of my soul.
At these parties there were generally refreshments of a nature
more substantial than mere tea-punch, both milk and rum, hot
wine, consommé, and a peculiar and exceedingly disagreeable sand-
wich made of a mixture of cold white puddings and garlic, of which I
have forgotten the name, and always detested the savour.
Gradually a conviction came upon me that Ottilia ate a great
deal.
I do not dislike to see a woman eat comfortably. I even think
that an agreeable woman ought to be friande, and should love certain
little dishes and knicknacks. I know that though at dinner they
commonly take nothing, they have had roast-mutton with the children
at two, and laugh at their pretensions to starvation.
No! a woman who eats a grain of rice, like Amina in the
“ Arabian Nights,” is absurd and unnatural; but there is a modus in
rebus : there is no reason why she should be a ghoul, a monster, an
ogress, a horrid gormandiseress—faugh!
It was, then, with a rage amounting almost to agony, that I found
Ottilia ate too much at every meal. She was always eating, and
always eating too much. If I went there in the morning, there was
the horrid familiar odour of those oniony sandwiches; if in the after-
noon, dinner had been just removed, and I was choked by reeking
reminiscences of roast-meat. Tea we have spoken of. She gobbled


FITZ-BOODLE’S CONFESSIONS.
259
saloon brilliant with hundreds of uniforms and brilliant toilettes-not
the least beautiful among them, I need not say, was Ottilia.
At midnight the supper-rooms were thrown open, and we formed
into little parties of six, each having a table, nobly served with plate,
a lacquey in attendance, and a gratifying ice-pail or two of champagne
to égayer the supper. It was no small cost to serve five hundred
people on silver, and the repast was certainly a princely and magni-
ficent one.
I had, of course, arranged with Mademoiselle de Schlippenschlopp.
Captains Frumpel and Fridelberger of the Duke's Guard, Mesdames
de Butterbrod and Bopp, formed our little party.
The first course, of course, consisted of the oysters. Ottilia's eyes
gleamed with double brilliancy as the lacquey opened them. There
were nine apiece for us—how well I recollect the number!
I never was much of an oyster-eater, nor can I relish them in
naturalibus as some do, but require a quantity of sauces, lemons,
cayenne peppers, bread and butter, and so forth, to render them
palatable.
By the time I had made my preparations, Ottilia, the Captains,
and the two ladies, had well-nigh finished theirs. Indeed Ottilia had
gobbled up all hers, and there were only my nine left in the dish.
I took one-IT WAS BAD. The scent of it was enough,—they were
all bad. Ottilia had eaten nine bad oysters.
I put down the horrid shell. Her eyes glistened more and more ;
she could not take them off the tray.
“Dear Herr George,” she said, “ will you give me your oysters ?”
She had them all down-before-I could say–Jack-Robinson !
I left Kalbsbraten that night, and have never been there since.


260
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
BEING APPEALS TO THE UNEMPLOYED YOUNGER SONS
OF THE NOBILITY.
FIRST PROFESSION.
THE fair and honest proposition in which I offered to com-
[ municate privately with parents and guardians, relative to
two new and lucrative professions which I had discovered, has, I
find from the publisher, elicited not one single inquiry from those
personages, who I can't but think are very little careful of their
children's welfare to allow such a chance to be thrown away. It is
not for myself I speak, as my conscience proudly tells me; for
though I actually gave up Ascot in order to be in the way should
any father of a family be inclined to treat with me regarding my
discoveries, yet I am grieved, not on my own account, but on theirs,
and for the wretched penny-wise policy that has held them back.
That they must feel an interest in my announcement is unques-
tionable. Look at the way in which the public prints of all parties
have noticed my appearance in the character of a literary man !
Putting aside my personal narrative, look at the offer I made to the
nation,-a choice of no less than two new professions ! Suppose I
had invented as many new kinds of butcher's-nieat; does any one
pretend that the world, tired as it is of the perpetual recurrence of
beef, mutton, veal, cold beef, cold veal, cold mutton, hashed ditto,
would not have jumped eagerly at the delightful intelligence that
their old, stale, stupid meals were about to be varied at last ?
Of course people would have come forward. I should have had
deputations from Mr. Gibletts and the fashionable butchers of this
world ; petitions would have poured in from Whitechapel salesmen ;
the speculators panting to know the discovery; the cautious with


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
261
stock in hand eager to bribe me to silence and prevent the certain
depreciation of the goods which they already possessed. I should
have dealt with them, not greedily or rapaciously, but on honest
principles of fair barter. “Gentlemen," I should have said, or rather,
“Gents "—which affectionate diminutive is, I am given to under-
stand, at present much in use among commercial persons—“Gents,
my researches, my genius, or my good fortune, have brought
me to the valuable discovery about which you are come to treat.
Will you purchase it outright, or will you give the discoverer an honest
share of the profits resulting from your speculation ? My position in
the world puts me out of the power of executing the vast plan I have
formed, but 'twill be a certain fortune to him who engages in it; and
why should not I, too, participate in that fortune?”
Such would have been my manner of dealing with the world, too,
with regard to my discovery of the new professions. Does not the
world want new professions ? Are there not thousands of well-
educated men panting, struggling, pushing, starving, in the old ones?
Grim tenants of chambers looking out for attorneys who never come?
-wretched physicians practising the stale joke of being called out of
church until people no longer think fit even to laugh or to pity ? Are
there not hoary-headed midshipmen, antique ensigns growing mouldy
upon fifty years half-pay? Nay, are there not men who would pay
anything to be employed rather than remain idle? But such is the
glut of professionals, the horrible cut-throat competition among them,
that there is no chance for one in a thousand, be he ever so willing,
or brave, or clever : in the great ocean of life he makes a few strokes,
and puffs, and sputters, and sinks, and the innumerable waves over-
whelm him and he is heard of no more.
Walking to my banker's t'other day—and I pledge my sacred
honour this story is true—I met a young fellow whom I had known
attaché to an embassy abroad, a young man of tolerable parts,
unwearied patience, with some fortune too, and, moreover, allied to
a noble Whig family, whose interest had procured him his appoint-
ment to the legation at Krähwinkel, where I knew him. He remained
for ten years a diplomatic character; he was the working-man of the
legation : he sent over the most diffuse translations of the German
papers for the use of the Foreign Secretary: he signed passports with
most astonishing ardour; he exiled himself for ten long years in a
wretched German town, dancing attendance at court-balls and paying


262
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
no end of money for uniforms. And for what? At the end of the
ten years—during which period of labour he never received a single
shilling from the Government which employed him (rascally spend-
thriſt of a Government, i'a ! ),—he was offered the paid attachéship to
the court of H. M. the King of the Mosquito Islands, and refused
that appointment a week before the Whig Ministry retired. Then he
knew that there was no further chance for him, and incontinently
quitted the diplomatic service for ever, and I have no doubt will sell
his uniform a bargain. The Government had him a bargain certainly;
nor is he by any means the first person who has been sold at that price.
Well, my worthy friend met me in the street and informed me of
these facts with a smiling countenance,—which I thought a master-
piece of diplomacy. Fortune had been belabouring and kicking him
for ten whole years, and here he was grinning in my face : could
Monsieur de Talleyrand have acted better? “I have given up
diplomacy,” said Protocol, quite simply and good-humouredly, “ for
between you and me, my good fellow, it's a very slow profession; sure
perhaps, but slow. But though I gained no actual pecuniary remunera-
tion in the service, I have learned all the languages in Europe, which
will be invaluable to me in my new profession—the mercantile one
-in which directly I looked out for a post I found ore.”
“What! and a good pay ?” said I.
“Why, no ; that's absurd, you know. No young men, strangers
to business, are paid much to speak of. Besides, I don't look to a
paltry clerk's pay. Some day, when thoroughly acquainted with the
business (I shall learn it in about seven years), I shall go into a good
house with my capital and become junior partner.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile I conduct the foreign correspondence of the
eminent house of Jam, Ram, and Johnson; and very heavy it is,
I can tell you. From nine till six every day, except foreign post
days, and then from nine till eleven. Dirty dark court to sit in;
snobs to talk to,—great change, as you may fancy."
“And you do all this for nothing ?”.
“I do it to learn the business.” And so saying Protocol gave
me a knowing nod and went his way.
Good heavens! I thought, and is this a true story? Are there
hundreds of young men in a similar situation at the present day,
giving away the best years of their youth for the sake of a mere


FITZ-BOODLES PROFESSIONS.
263
windy hope of something in old age, and dying before they come to
the goal? In seven years he hopes to have a business, and then to
have the pleasure of risking his money? He will be admitted into
some great house as a particular favour, and three months after the
house will fail. Has it not happened to a thousand of our acquaint-
ance? I thought I would run after him and tell him about the new
professions that I have invented.
“Oh! ay! those you wrote about in Fraser's Magazine. Egad !
George, Necessity makes strange fellows of us all. Who would ever
have thought of you spelling, much more writing?"
“Never mind that. Will you, if I tell you of a new profession
that, with a little cleverness and instruction from me, you may bring
to a most successful end—will you, I say, make me a fair return?”
“My dear creature," replied young Protocol, “ what nonsense you
talk ! I saw that very humbug in the Magazine. You say you have
made a great discovery-very good; you puff your discovery-very
right; you ask money for it-nothing can be more reasonable; and
then you say that you intend to make your discovery public in the
next number of the Magazine. Do you think I will be such a fool
as to give you money for a thing which I can have next month for
nothing? Good-by, George my boy; the next discovery you make
I'll tell you how to get a better price for it.” And with this the fellow
walked off, looking supremely knowing and clever.
This tale of the person I have called Protocol is not told without
a purpose, you may be sure. In the first place, it shows what are the
reasons that nobody has made application to me concerning the new
professions, namely, because I have passed my word to make them
known in this Magazine, which persons may have for the purchasing,
stealing, borrowing, or hiring, and, therefore, they will never think of
applying personally to me. And, secondly, his story proves also my
assertion, viz. that all professions are most cruelly crowded at present,
and that men will make the most absurd outlay and sacrifices for the
smallest chance of success at some future period. Well, then, I will
be a benefactor to my race, if I cannot be to one single member of it,
whom I love better than most men. What I have discovered I will
make known; there shall be no shilly-shallying work here, no
circumlocution, no bottle-conjuring business. But oh! I wish for all
our sakes that I had had an opportunity to impart the secret to one
or two persons only; for, after all, but one or two can live in the


264
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
manner I would suggest. And when the discovery is made known,
I am sure ten thousand will try. The rascals ! I can see their brass-
plates gleaming over scores of doors. Competition will ruin my pro-
fessions, as it has all others.
It must be premised that the two professions are intended for
gentlemen, and gentlemen only—men of birth and education. No
others could support the parts which they will be called upon to play.
And, likewise, it must be honestly confessed that these professions
have, to a certain degree, been exercised before. Do not cry out at
this and say it is no discovery! I say it is a discovery. It is a
discovery if I show you—a gentlernan-a profession which you may
exercise without derogation, or loss of standing, with certain profit, nay,
possibly with honour, and of which, until the reading of this present
page, you never thought but as of a calling beneath your rank and
quite below your reach. Sir, I do not mean to say that I create a
profession. I cannot create gold; but if, when discovered, I find
the means of putting it in your pocket, do I or do I not
deserve credit ?
I see you sneer contemptuously when I mention to you the word
AUCTIONEER. “Is this all,” you say, “ that this fellow brags and
prates about ? An auctioneer forsooth! he might as well have
'invented' chimney-sweeping ?”
No such thing. A little boy of seven, be he ever so low of birth,
can do this as well as you. Do you suppose that little stolen Master
Montague made a better sweeper than the lowest-bred chummy that
yearly commemorates his release ? No, sir. And he might have
been ever so much a genius or a gentleman, and not have been able
to make his trade respectable.
But all such trades as can be rendered decent the aristocracy has
adopted one by one. At first they followed the profession of arms,
flouting all others as unworthy, and thinking it ungentlemanlike to
know how to read or write. They did not go into the church in
very early days, till the money to be got from the church was strong
enough to tempt them. It is but of later years that they have con-
descended to go to the bar, and since the same time only that we
see some of them following trades. I know an English lord's son
who is, or was, a wine-merchant (he may have been a bankrupt for
what I know). As for bankers, several partners in banking-houses
have four balls to their coronets, and I have no doubt that another


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
265
sort of_banking, viz. that practised by gentlemen who lend small
sums of money upon deposited securities, will be one day followed
by the noble order, so that they may have four balls on their
coronets and carriages, and three in front of their shops.
Yes, the nobles come peoplewards as the people, on the other
hand, rise and mingle with the nobles. With the plebs, of course,
Fitz-Boodle, in whose veins flows the blood of a thousand kings, can
have nothing to do; but, watching the progress of the world, 'tis
impossible to deny that the good old days of our race are passed
away. We want money still as much as ever we did; but we cannot
go down from our castles with horse and sword and waylay fat
merchants—no, no, confounded new policemen and the assize-courts
prevent that. Younger brothers cannot be pages to noble houses, as
of old they were, serving gentle dames without disgrace, handing my
lord's rose-water to wash, or holding his stirrup as he mounted for
the chase. A page, forsooth! A pretty figure would George Fitz-
Boodle or any other man of fashion cut, in a jacket covered with
sugar-loafed buttons, and handing in penny-post notes on a silver
tray. The plebs have robbed us of that trade among others: nor,
I confess, do I much grudge them their trouvaille. Neither can we
collect together a few scores of free lances, like honest Hugh
Calverly in the Black Prince's time, or brave Harry Butler of
Wallenstein's dragoons, and serve this or that prince, Peter the
Cruel or Henry of Trastamare, Gustavus or the Emperor, at our
leisure; or, in default of service, fight and rob on our own gallant
account, as the good gentlemen of old did. Alas! no. In South
America or Texas, perhaps, a man might have a chance that way;
but in the ancient world no man can fight except in the king's
service (and a mighty bad service that is too), and the lowest
European sovereign, were it Baldomero Espartero himself, would
think nothing of seizing the best-born condottiere that ever drew
sword, and shooting him down like the vulgarest deserter.
What, then, is to be done? We must discover fresh fields of
enterprise-of peaceable and commercial enterprise in a peaceful and
commercial age. I say, then, that the auctioneer's pulpit has never
yet been ascended by a scion of the aristocracy, and am prepared to
prove that they might scale it, and do so with dignity and profit.
For the auctioneer's pulpit is just the peculiar place where a man
of social refinement, of elegant wit, of polite perceptions, can bring


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his wit, his eloquence, his taste, and his experience of life, most
delightfully into play. It is not like the bar, where the better and
higher qualities of a man of fashion find no room for exercise. In
defending John Jorrocks in an action of trespass, for cutting down a
stick in Sam Snooks's field, what powers of mind do you require ? -
powers of mind, that is, which Mr. Serjeant Snorter, a butcher's son
with a great loud voice, a sizar at Cambridge, a wrangler, and so
forth, does not possess as well as yourself? Snorter has never been
in decent society in his life. He thinks the bar-mess the most
fashionable assemblage in Europe, and the jokes of “grand day” the
ile plus ultra of wit. Snorter lives near Russell Square, eats beef and
Yorkshire-pudding, is a judge of port-wine, is in all social respects
your inferior. Well, it is ten to one but in the case of Snooks
v. Jorrocks, before mentioned, he will be a better advocate than you;
he knows the law of the case entirely, and better probably than you.
He can speak long, loud, to the point, grammatically--more gram-
matically than you, no doubt, will condescend to do. In the case of
Snooks v. Jorrocks he is all that can be desired. And so about dry
disputes, respecting real property, he knows the law; and, beyond
this, has no more need to be a gentleman than my body-servant
has-who, by the way, from constant intercourse with the best
society, is almost a gentleman. But this is apart from the question.
Now, in the matter of auctioneering, this, I apprehend, is not the
case, and I assert that a high-bred gentleman, with good powers of
mind and speech, must, in such a profession, make a fortune. I do
not mean in all auctioneering matters. I do not mean that such a
person should be called upon to sell the good-will of a public-house,
or discourse about the value of the beer-barrels, or bars with pewter
fittings, or the beauty of a trade doing a stroke of so many hogs-
heads a week. I do not ask a gentleman to go down and sell pigs,
ploughs, and cart-horses, at Stoke Pogis; or to enlarge at the Auction-
Rooms, Wapping, upon the beauty of the “ Lively Sally" schooner.
These articles of commerce or use can be better appreciated by
persons in a different rank of life to his.
But there are a thousand cases in which a gentleman only can
do justice to the sale of objects which the necessity or convenience
of the genteel world may require to change hands. All articles
properly called of taste should be put under his charge. Pictures,
- he is a travelled man, has seen and judged the best galleries of


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
267
Europe, and can speak of them as a common person cannot. For,
mark you, you must have the confidence of your society, you must
be able to be familiar with them, to plant a happy mot in a graceful
manner, to appeal to my lord or the duchess in such a modest, easy,
pleasant way as that her grace should not be hurt by your allusion to
her-nay, amused (like the rest of the company) by the manner in
which it was done.
What is more disgusting than the familiarity of a snob? What
more loathsome than the swaggering quackery of some present
holders of the hammer? There was a late sale, for instance, which
made some noise in the world (I mean the late Lord Gimcrack's, at
Dilberry Hill). Ah! what an opportunity was lost there! I declare
solemnly that I believe, but for the absurd quackery and braggadocio
of the advertisements, much more money would have been bid ;
people were kept away by the vulgar trumpeting of the auctioneer,
and could not help thinking the things were worthless that were so
outrageously lauded.
They say that sort of Bartholomew-fair advocacy (in which people
are invited to an entertainment by the medium of a hoarse yelling
beef-eater, twenty-four drums, and a jack-pudding turning head over
heels) is absolutely necessary to excite the public attention. What
an error! I say that the refined individual so accosted is more
likely to close his ears, and, shuddering, run away from the booth.
Poor Horace Waddlepoodle! to think that thy gentle accumulation
of bricabrac should have passed away in such a manner ! by means of
a man who brings down a butterfly with a blunderbuss, and talks
of a pin's head through a speaking-trumpet! Why, the auctioneer's
very voice was enough to crack the Sèvres porcelain and blow the
lace into annihilation. Let it be remembered that I speak of the
gentleman in his public character merely, meaning to insinuate
nothing more than I would by stating that Lord Brougham speaks
with a northern accent, or that the voice of Mr. Sheil is sometimes
unpleasantly shrill.
Now the character I have formed to myself of a great auctioneer
is this. I fancy him a man of first-rate and irreproachable birth and
fashion. I fancy his person so agreeable that it must be a pleasure
for ladies to behold and tailors to dress it. As a private man he
must move in the very best society, which will flock round his pulpit
when he mounts it in his public calling. It will be a privilege for


268
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
vulgar people to attend the hall where he lectures ; and they will
consider it an honour to be allowed to pay their money for articles
the value of which is stamped by his high recommendation. Nor
can such a person be a mere fribble; nor can any loose hanger-on of
fashion imagine he may assume the character. The gentleman
auctioneer must be an artist above all, adoring his profession; and
adoring it, what must he not know ? He must have a good know-
ledge of the history and language of all nations; not the knowledge
of the mere critical scholar, but of the lively and elegant man of
the world. He will not commit the gross blunders of pronunciation
that untravelled Englishmen perpetrate ; he will not degrade his
subject by coarse eulogy, or sicken his audience with vulgar banter.
He will know where to apply praise and wit properly; he will
have the tact only acquired in good society, and know where a
joke is in place, and how far a compliment may go. He will not
outrageously and indiscriminately laud all objects committed to his
charge, for he knows the value of praise; that diamonds, could we
have them by the bushel, would be used as coals; that, above all, he
has a character of sincerity to support; that he is not merely the
advocate of the person who employs him, but that the public is his
client too, who honours him and confides in him. Ask him to sell
a copy of Raffaelle for an original; a trumpery modern Brussels coun-
terfeit for real old Mechlin; some common French forged crockery
for the old delightful, delicate, Dresden china ; and he will quit you
with scorn, or order his servant to show you the door of his study.
Study, by the way,-no, “study” is a vulgar word; every word is
vulgar which a man uses to give the world an exaggerated notion of
himself or his condition. When the wretched bagman, brought up
to give evidence before Judge Coltman, was asked what his trade
was, and replied that “he represented the house of Dobson and
Hobson," he showed himself to be a vulgar, mean-souled wretch, and
was most properly reprimanded by his lordship. To be a bagman is to
be humble, but not of necessity vulgar. Pomposity is vulgar, to ape
a higher rank than your own is vulgar, for an ensign of militia to call
himself captain is vulgar, or for a bagman to style himself the “repre-
sentative" of Dobson and Hobson. The honest auctioneer, then,
will not call his room his study ; but his "private room," or his office,
or whatever may be the phrase commonly used among auctioneers.
He will not for the same reason call himself (as once in a


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
269
momentary feeling of pride and enthusiasm for the profession I
thought he should)—he will not call himself an “advocate," but an
auctioneer. .There is no need to attempt to awe people by big titles:
let each man bear his own name without shame. And a very gentle-
manlike and agreeable, though exceptional position (for it is clear
that there cannot be more than two of the class,) may the auctioneer
occupy.
He must not sacrifice his honesty, then, either for his own sake
or his clients', in any way, nor tell fibs about himself or them. He
is by no means called upon to draw the long bow in their behalf; all
that his office obliges him to do—and let us hope his disposition will
lead him to do it also-is to take a favourable, kindly, philanthropic
view of the world; to say what can fairly be said by a good-natured
and ingenious man in praise of any article for which he is desirous
to awaken public sympathy. And how readily and pleasantly may
this be done! I will take upon myself, for instance, to write an
eulogium upon So-and-So's last novel, which shall be every word of it
true ; and which work, though to some discontented spirits it might
appear dull, may be shown to be really amusing and instructive, —
nay, is amusing and instructive,—to those who have the art of
discovering where those precious qualities lie.
An auctioneer should have the organ of truth large ; of imagina-
tion and comparison, considerable ; of wit, great; of benevolence,
excessively large.
And how happy might such a man be, and cause others to be !
He should go through the world laughing, merry, observant, kind-
hearted. He should love everything in the world, because his profes-
sion regards everything. With books of lighter literature (for I do
not recommend the genteel auctioneer to meddle with heavy anti-
quarian and philological works) he should be elegantly conversant,
being able to give a neat history of the author, a pretty sparkling
kind criticism of the work, and an appropriate eulogium upon the
binding, which would make those people read who never read before;
or buy, at least, which is his first consideration. Of pictures we have
already spoken. Of china, of jewellery, of gold-headed canes, valu-
able arms, picturesque antiquities, with what eloquent entrainement
might he not speak! He feels every one of these things in his heart.
He has all the tastes of the fashionable world. Dr. Meyrick can-
not be more enthusiastic about an old suit of armour than he; Sir
regardsend the orical word


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
271
SECOND PROFESSION.
T HIS profession, too, is a great, lofty, and exceptional one, and
I discovered by me considering these things, and deeply musing
upon the necessities of society. Nor let honourable gentlemen
imagine that I am enabled to offer them in this profession, more than
any other, a promise of what is called future glory, deathless fame,
and so forth. All that I say is, that I can put young men in the way
of making a comfortable livelihood, and leaving behind them, not a
name, but what is better, a decent maintenance to their children.
Fitz-Boodle is as good a name as any in England. General Fitz-
Boodle, who, in Marlborough's time, and in conjunction with the
famous Van Slaap, beat the French in the famous action of Visch-
zouchee, near Mardyk, in Holland, on the 14th of February, 1709,
is promised an immortality upon his tomb in Westminster Abbey ;
but he died of apoplexy, deucedly in debt, two years afterwards : and
what after that is the use of a name?
No, no; the age of chivalry is past. Take the twenty-four first
men who come into the club, and ask who they are, and how they
made their money? There's Woolsey-Sackville : his father was
Lord Chancellor, and sat on the woolsack, whence he took his title ;
his grandfather dealt in coal-sacks, and not in wool-sacks,-small
coal-sacks, dribbling out little supplies of black diamonds to the poor.
Yonder comes Frank Leveson, in a huge broad-brimmed hat, his
shirt-cuffs turned up to his elbows. Leveson is as gentlemanly a
fellow as the world contains, and if he has a fault, is perhaps too
finikin. Well, you fancy him related to the Sutherland family : nor,
indeed, does honest Frank deny it; but entre nous, my good sir, his
father was an attorney, and his grandfather a bailiff in Chancery
Lane, bearing a name still older than that of Leveson, namely, Levy.
So it is that this confounded equality grows and grows, and has laid
the good old nobility by the heels. Look at that venerable Sir
Charles Kitely, of Kitely Park : he is interested about the Ashantees,
and is just come from Exeter Hall. Kitely discounted bills in the
City in the year 1787, and gained his baronetcy by a loan to the
French princes. All these points of history are perfectly well


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
273
legitimate interest which he may feel for his client, and which leads
him to see that the latter is not cheated by his tradesmen. For the
dinner-giver is almost naturally an ignorant man. How in mercy's
name can Mr. Serjeant Snorter, who is all day at Westminster, or in
chambers, know possibly the mysteries, the delicacy, of dinner-giving ?
How can Alderman Pogson know anything beyond the fact that
venison is good with currant-jelly, and that he likes lots of green fat
with his turtle? Snorter knows law, Pogson is acquainted with the
state of the tallow-market; but what should he know of eating, like
you and me, who have given up our time to it? (I say me only
familiarly, for I have only reached so far in the science as to know
that I know nothing.) But men there are, gifted individuals, who
have spent years of deep thought-not merely intervals of labour, but
hours of study every day-over the gormandizing science,—who, like
alchemists, have let their fortunes go, guinea by guinea, into the all-
devouring pot,—who, ruined as they sometimes are, never get a guinea
by chance but they will have a plate of pease in May with it, or a little
feast of ortolans, or a piece of Glo'ster salmon, or one more flask from
their favourite claret-bin.
It is not the ruined gastronomist that I would advise a person to
select as his table-master; for the opportunities of peculation would
be too great in a position of such confidence — such complete
abandonment of one man to another. A ruined man would be
making bargains with the tradesmen. They would offer to cash bills
for him, or send him opportune presents of wine, which he could
convert into money, or bribe him in one way or another. Let this be
done, and the profession of table-master is ruined. Snorter and
Pogson may almost as well order their own dinners, as be at the
mercy of a "gastronomic agent” whose faith is not beyond all
question.
A vulgar mind, in reply to these remarks regarding the gastro-
nomic ignorance of Snorter and Pogson, might say, “ True, these
gentlemen know nothing of household economy, being occupied
with other more important business elsewhere. But what are their
wives about? Lady Pogson in Harley Street has nothing earthly to
do but to mind her poodle, and her mantua-maker's and housekeeper's
bills. Mrs. Snorter in Bedford Place, when she has taken her drive
in the Park with the young ladies, may surely have time to attend to
her husband's guests and preside over the preparations of his kitchen,
18


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
275
be done by a man. It can't be done by an ordinary man, because
he does not understand it. Vain fool ! and he sends off to the
pastrycook in Great Russell Street or Baker Street, he lays on a
couple of extra waiters (green-grocers in the neighbourhood), he
makes a great pother with his butler in the cellar, and fancies he has
done the business.
Bon Dieu ! Who has not been at those dinners ?—those
monstrous exhibitions of the pastrycook's art? Who does not know
those made dishes with the universal sauce to each : fricandeaux,
sweet-breads, damp dumpy cutlets, &c., seasoned with the compound
of grease, onions, bad port-wine, cayenne pepper, curry-powder
(Warren's blacking, for what I know, but the taste is always the
same)—there they lie in the old corner dishes, the poor wiry Moselle
and sparkling Burgundy in the ice-coolers, and the old story of white
and brown soup, turbot, little smelts, boiled turkey, saddle-of-mutton,
and so forth ? " Try a little of that fricandeau,” says Mrs. Snorter,
with a kind smile. “You'll find it, I think, very nice.” Be sure it
has come in a green tray from Great Russell Street. “Mr. Fitz-
Boodle, you have been in Germany,” cries Snorter, knowingly ;
“ taste the hock, and tell me what you think of that.”
How should he know better, poor benighted creature; or she,
dear good soul that she is? If they would have a leg-of-mutton
and an apple-pudding, and a glass of sherry and port (or simple
brandy-and-water called by its own name) after dinner, all would be
very well; but they must shine, they must dine as their neighbours.
There is no difference in the style of dinners in London ; people
with five hundred a year treat you exactly as those of five thousand.
They will have their Moselle or hock, their fatal side-dishes brought
in the green trays from the pastrycook's.
Well, there is no harm done; not as regards the dinner-givers at
least, though the dinner-eaters may have to suffer somewhat; it only
shows that the former are hospitably inclined, and wish to do the
very best in their power,-good honest fellows! If they do wrong,
how can they help it? they know no better.
And now, is it not as clear as the sun at noon-day, that A WANT
exists in London for a superintendent of the table—a gastronomic
agent-a dinner-master, as I have called him before? A man of
such a profession would be a metropolitan benefit; hundreds of
thousands of people of the respectable sort, people in white waist-


276
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS,
coats, would thank him daily. Calculate how many dinners are
given in the City of London, and calculate the numbers of benedic-
tions that “the Agency” might win.
And as no doubt the observant man of the world has remarked
that the freeborn Englishman of the respectable class is, of all others,
the most slavish and truckling to a lord ; that there is no fly-blown
peer but he is pleased to have him at his table, proud beyond
measure to call him by his surname (without the lordly prefix); and
that those lords whom he does not know, he yet (the freebom
Englishman) takes care to have their pedigrees and ages by heart
from his world-bible, the “Peerage :" as this is an indisputable fact,
and as it is in this particular class of Britons that our agent must look
to find clients, I need not say it is necessary that the agent should
be as high-born as possible, and that he should be able to tack, if
possible, an honourable or some other handle to his respectable name.
He must have it on his professional card -
The Honourable George Gormand Gobbleton,
Apician Chambers, Pall Mall.
Or,
Sir Augustus Carver Cramley Cramley,
Amphitryonic Council Office, Swallow Street.
or, in some such neat way, Gothic letters on a large handsome
crockeryware card, with possibly a gilt coat-of-arms and supporters,
or the blood-red hand of baronetcy duly displayed. Depend on it
plenty of guineas will fall in it, and that Gobbleton's supporters will
support him comfortably enough.
For this profession is not like that of the auctioneer, which I take
to be a far more noble one, because more varied and more truthful ;
but in the Agency case, a little humbug at least is necessary. A man
cannot be a successful agent by the mere force of his simple merit or
genius in eating and drinking. He must of necessity impose upon


FITZ-BOODLES PROFESSIONS.
277
the vulgar to a certain degree. He must be of that rank which will
lead them naturally to respect him, otherwise they might be led to
jeer at his profession ; but let a noble exercise it, and bless your soul,
all the “ Court Guide” is dumb !
He will then give out in a manly and somewhat pompous address
what has before been mentioned, namely, that he has seen the fatal
way in which the hospitality of England has been perverted hitherto,
accaparé'd by a few cooks with green trays. (He must use a good
deal of French in his language, for that is considered very gentleman-
like by vulgar people.) He will take a set of chambers in Carlton
Gardens, which will be richly though severely furnished, and the
door of which will be opened by a French valet (he must be a French-
man, remember), who will say, on letting Mr. Snorter or Sir Benjamin
Pogson in, that “ Milor is at home.” Pogson will then be shown
into a library furnished with massive book-cases, containing all the
works on cookery and wines (the titles of them) in all the known
languages in the world. Any books, of course, will do, as you will
have them handsomely bound, and keep them under plate-glass. On
a side-table will be little sample-bottles of wines, a few truffles on a
white porcelain saucer, a prodigious strawberry or two, perhaps, at
the time when such fruit costs much money. On the library will be
busts marked Ude, Carème, Béchamel, in marble (never mind what
heads, of course); and, perhaps, on the clock should be a figure of
the Prince of Condé's cook killing himself because the fish had not
arrived in time : there may be a wreath of immortelles on the figure to
give it a more decidedly Frenchified air. The walls will be of a dark
rich paper, hung round with neat gilt frames, containing plans of
menus of various great dinners, those of Cambacères, Napoleon,
Louis XIV., Louis XVIII., Heliogabalus if you like, each signed by
the respective cook.
After the stranger has looked about him at these things, which he
does not understand in the least, especially the truffles, which look
like dirty potatoes, you will make your appearance, dressed in a dark
dress, with one handsome enormous gold chain, and one large
diamond ring; a gold snuff-box, of course, which you will thrust
into the visitor's paw before saying a word. You will be yourself
a portly grave man, with your hair a little bald and grey. In fact,
in this, as in all other professions, you had best try to look as like
Canning as you can.


278
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
When Pogson has done sneezing with the snuff, you will say to him,
“Take a fauteuil. I have the honour of addressing Sir Benjamin
Pogson, I believe?” And then you will explain to him your
system.
This, of course, must vary with every person you address. But
let us lay down a few of the heads of a plan which may be useful, or
may be modified infinitely, or may be cast aside altogether, just as
circumstances dictate. After all I am not going to turn gastronomic
agent, and speak only for the benefit perhaps of the very person who
is reading this :-
“ SYNOPSIS OF THE GASTRONOMIC AGENCY OF THE HONOURABLE
. GEORGE GOBBLETON.
“The Gastronomic Agent having traversed Europe, and dined with
the best society of the world, has been led naturally, as a patriot, to
turn his thoughts homeward, and cannot but deplore the lamentable
ignorance regarding gastronomy displayed in a country for which
Nature has done almost everything.
“ But it is ever singularly thus. Inherent ignorance belongs to
man ; and The Agent, in his Continental travels, has always
remarked, that the countries most fertile in themselves were invari-
ably worse tilled than those more barren. The Italians and the
Spaniards leave their fields to Nature, as we leave our vegetables,
fish, and meat. And, heavens! what richness do we fling away,-
what dormant qualities in our dishes do we disregard,—what glorious
gastronomic crops (if The Agent may be permitted the expression)
what glorious gastronomic crops do we sacrifice, allowing our goodly
meats and fishes to lie fallow! 'Chance, it is said by an ingenious
historian, who, having been long a secretary in the East India House,
must certainly have had access to the best information upon Eastern
matters—Chance, it is said by Mr. Charles Lamb, 'which burnt
down a Chinaman's house, with a litter of sucking-pigs that were
unable to escape from the interior, discovered to the world the
excellence of roast-pig. Gunpowder, we know, was invented by a
similar fortuity.” [The reader will observe that my style in the
supposed character of a Gastronomic Agent is purposely pompous
and loud.] “So, 'tis said, was printing,-so glass.-We should have
drunk our wine poisoned with the villanous odour of the borachio,
had not some Eastern merchants, lighting their fires in the Desert,


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
279
marked the strange composition which now glitters on our sideboards,
and holds the costly produce of our vines.
“We have spoken of the natural riches of a country. Let the
reader think but for one moment of the gastronomic wealth of our
country of England, and he will be lost in thankful amazement as he
watches the astonishing riches poured out upon us from Nature's
bounteous cornucopia ! Look at our fisheries !--the trout and
salmon tossing in our brawling streams; the white and full-breasted
turbot struggling in the mariner's net; the purple lobster lured by
hopes of greed into his basket-prison, which he quits only for the red
ordeal of the pot. Look at whitebait, great heavens !-look at
whitebait, and a thousand frisking, glittering, silvery things besides,
which the nymphs of our native streams bear kindly to the deities of
our kitchens—our kitchens such as they are.
“And though it may be said that other countries produce the
freckle-backed salmon and the dark broad-shouldered turbot; though
trout frequent many a stream besides those of England, and lobsters
sprawl on other sands than ours; yet, let it be remembered, that our
native country possesses these altogether, while other lands only know
them separately; that, above all, whitebait is peculiarly our country's
-our city's own! Blessings and eternal praises be on it, and, of course,
on brown bread and butter! And the Briton should further remember,
with honest pride and thankfulness, the situation of his capital, of
London : the lordly turtle floats from the sea into the stream, and
from the stream to the city; the rapid fleets of all the world se donnent
rendezvous in the docks of our silvery Thames; the produce of our
coasts and provincial cities, east and west, is borne to us on the swift
lines of lightning railroads. In a word—and no man but one who, like
The Agent, has travelled Europe over, can appreciate the gift—there
is no city on earth's surface so well supplied with fish as London !
“With respect to our meats, all praise is supererogatory. Ask the
wretched hunter of chevreuil, the poor devourer of rehbraten, what
they think of the noble English haunch, that, after bounding in the
Park of Knole or Windsor, exposes its magnificent flank upon some
broad silver platter at our tables ? It is enough to say of foreign
venison, that they are obliged to lard it. Away! ours is the palm of
roast; whether of the crisp mutton that crops the thymy herbage of
our downs, or the noble ox who revels on lush Althorpian oil-cakes.
What game is like to ours? Mans excels us in poultry, 'tis true; but


280
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
’tis only in merry England that the partridge has a flavour, that the
turkey can almost se passer de truffes, that the jolly juicy goose can
be eaten as he deserves.
“ Our vegetables, moreover, surpass all comment; Art (by the
means of glass) has wrung fruit out of the bosom of Nature, such as
she grants to no other clime. And if we have no vineyards on our
hills, we have gold to purchase their best produce. Nature, and
enterprise that masters Nature, have done everything for our land.
“But, with all these prodigious riches in our power, is it not painful
to reflect how absurdly we employ them? Can we say that we are
in the habit of dining well? Alas, no ! and The Agent, roaming
o'er foreign lands, and seeing how, with small means and great
ingenuity and perseverance, great ends were effected, comes back
sadly to his own country, whose wealth he sees absurdly wasted,
whose energies are misdirected, and whose vast capabilities are
allowed to lie idle. * * *” [Here should follow what I have only
hinted at previously, a vivid and terrible picture of the degradation
of our table.] “* * * Oh, for a master spirit, to give an impetus
to the land, to see its great power directed in the right way, and its
wealth not squandered or hidden, but nobly put out to interest and
spent !
“The Agent dares not hope to win that proud station—to be the
destroyer of a barbarous system wallowing in abusive prodigality-to
become a dietetic reformer- the Luther of the table.
“But convinced of the wrongs which exist, he will do his humble
endeavour to set them right, and to those who know that they are
ignorant (and this is a vast step to knowledge) he offers his counsels,
his active co-operation, his frank and kindly sympathy. The Agent's
qualifications are these :-
“1. He is of one of the best families in England; and has in
himself, or through his ancestors, been accustomed to good living
for centuries. In the reign of Henry V., his maternal great-great-
grandfather, Roger de Gobylton” (the name may be varied, of course, or
the king's reign, or the dish invented), “was the first who discovered the
method of roasting a peacock whole, with his tail-feathers displayed ;
and the dish was served to the two kings at Rouen. Sir Walter
Cramley, in Elizabeth's reign, produced before her Majesty, when at
Killingworth Castle, mackerel with the famous gooseberry sauce, &c.
“2. He has, through life, devoted himself to no other study than


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
281
that of the table : and has visited to that end the courts of all the
monarchs of Europe: taking the receipts of the cooks, with whom
he lives on terms of intimate friendship, often at enormous expense
to himself.
“3. He has the same acquaintance with all the vintages of the
Continent; having passed the autumn of 1811 (the comet year) on
the great Weinberg of Johannisberg ; being employed similarly at
Bordeaux, in 1834 ; at Oporto, in 1820; and at Xeres de la Frontera,
with his excellent friends, Duff, Gordon and Co., the year after. He
travelled to India and back in company with fourteen pipes of
Madeira (on board of the Samuel Snob' East Indiaman, Captain
Scuttler), and spent the vintage season in the island, with unlimited
powers of observation granted to him by the great houses there.
“4. He has attended Mr. Groves of Charing Cross, and Mr.
Giblett of Bond Street, in a course of purchases of fish and meat ; and
is able at a glance to recognize the age of mutton, the primeness of
beef, the firmness and freshness of fish of all kinds.
“ 5. He has visited the parks, the grouse-manors, and the prin-
cipal gardens of England, in a similar professional point of view.”
The Agent then, through his subordinates, engages to provide
gentlemen who are about to give dinner-parties-
“1. With cooks to dress the dinners; a list of which gentlemen
he has by him, and will recommend none who are not worthy of the
strictest confidence.
“2. With a menu for the table, according to the price which the
Amphitryon chooses to incur.
“ 3. He will, through correspondences with the various fournis-
seurs of the metropolis, provide them with viands, fruit, wine, &c.,
sending to Paris, if need be, where he has a regular correspondence
with Messrs. Chevet.
“4. He has a list of dexterous table-waiters (all answering to the
name of John for fear of mistakes, the butler's name to be settled
according to pleasure), and would strongly recommend that the
servants of the house should be locked in the back-kitchen or
servants' hall during the time the dinner takes place.
“ 5. He will receive and examine all the accounts of the fournis-
seurs,-of course pledging his honour as a gentleman not to receive
one shilling of paltry gratification from the tradesmen he employs,


282
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
but to see that the bills are more moderate, and their goods of better
quality, than they would provide to any person of less experience
than himself.
“6. His fee for superintending a dinner will be five guineas: and
The Agent entreats his clients to trust entirely to him and his subor-
dinates for the arrangement of the repast,—not to think of inserting
dishes of their own invention, or producing wine from their own
cellars, as he engages to have it brought in the best order, and fit for
immediate drinking. Should the Amphitryon, however, desire some
particular dish or wine, he must consult The Agent, in the first case
by writing, in the second, by sending a sample to The Agent's
chambers. For it is manifest that the whole complexion of a dinner
may be altered by the insertion of a single dish; and, therefore,
parties will do well to mention their wishes on the first interview with
The Agent. He cannot be called upon to recompose his bill of fare,
except at great risk to the ensemble of the dinner and enormous incon-
venience to himself.
“7. The Agent will be at home for consultation from ten o'clock
until two-earlier, if gentlemen who are engaged at early hours in
the City desire to have an interview : and be it remembered, that a
personal interview is always the best : for it is greatly necessary to
know not only the number but the character of the guests whom the
Amphitryon proposes to entertain,—whether they are fond of any
particular wine or dish, what is their state of health, rank, style,
profession, &c.
“8. At two o'clock, he will commence his rounds; for as the
metropolis is wide, it is clear that he must be early in the field in
some districts. From 2 to 3 he will be in Russell Square and the
neighbourhood ; 3 to 3*, Harley Street, Portland Place, Cavendish
Square, and the environs ; 34 to 4), Portman Square, Gloucester
Place, Baker Street, &c.; 44 to 5, the new district about Hyde Park
Terrace; 5 to 51, St. John's Wood and the Regent's Park. He will
be in Grosvenor Square by 6, and in Belgrave Square, Pimlico, and
its vicinity, by 7. Parties there are requested not to dine until
8 o'clock; and The Agent, once for all, peremptorily announces that
he will not go to the palace, where it is utterly impossible to serve a
good dinner.”


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
283
“TO TRADESMEN.
“ EVERY Monday evening during the season the Gastronomic Agent
proposes to give a series of trial-dinners, to which the principal
gourmands of the metropolis, and a few of The Agent's most
respectable clients, will be invited. Covers will be laid for ten at
nine o'clock precisely. And as The Agent does not propose to exact
a single shilling of profit from their bills, and as his recommendation
will be of infinite value to them, the tradesmen he employs will
furnish the weekly dinner gratis. Cooks will attend (who have
acknowledged characters) upon the same terms. To save trouble, a
book will be kept where butchers, poulterers, fishmongers, &c. may
inscribe their names in order, taking it by turns to supply the trial-
table. Wine-merchants will naturally compete every week promis-
cuously, sending what they consider their best samples, and leaving
with the hall-porter tickets of the prices. Confectionery to be done
out of the house. Fruiterers, market-men, as butchers and poul-
terers. The Agent's maître-d'hôtel will give a receipt to each
individual for the articles he produces; and let all remember that
The Agent is a very keen judge, and woe betide those who serve him
or his clients ill!
“ GEORGE GORMAND GOBBLETON.
“ Carlton Gardens, June 10, 1842."
Here I have sketched out the heads of such an address as I
conceive a gastronomic agent might put forth; and appeal pretty
confidently to the British public regarding its merits and my own
discovery. If this be not a profession-a new one—a feasible one-
a lucrative one,—I don't know what is. Say that a man attends but
fifteen dinners daily, that is seventy-five guineas, or five hundred and
fifty pounds weekly, or fourteen thousand three hundred pounds for
a season of six months : and how many of our younger sons have
such a capital even? Let, then, some unemployed gentleman with
the requisite qualifications come forward. It will not be necessary
that he should have done all that is stated in the prospectus; but,
at any rate, let him say he has : there can't be much harm in an
innocent fib of that sort; for the gastronomic agent must be a sort
of dinner-pope, whose opinions cannot be supposed to err.
And as he really will be an excellent judge of eating and


284
THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
drinking, and will bring his whole mind to bear upon the question,
and will speedily acquire an experience which no person out of the
profession can possibly have ; and as, moreover, he will be an
honourable man, not practising upon his client in any way, or
demanding sixpence beyond his just fee, the world will gain vastly
by the coming forward of such a person,-gain in good dinners,
and absolutely save money: for what is five guineas for a dinner
of sixteen? The sum may be gaspillé by a cook-wench, or by
one of those abominable before-named pastrycooks with their
green trays.
If any man take up the business, he will invite me, of course, to
the Monday dinners. Or does ingratitude go so far as that a man
should forget the author of his good fortune? I believe it does.
Turn we away from the sickening theme !
And now, having concluded my professions, how shall I express
my obligations to the discriminating press of this country for the
unanimous applause which hailed my first appearance? It is the
more wonderful, as I pledge my sacred word, I never wrote a docu-
ment before much longer than a laundress's bill, or the acceptance
of an invitation to dinner. But enough of this egotism : thanks for
praise conferred sound like vanity ; gratitude is hard to speak of,
and at present it swells the full heart of
GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.
END OF "THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS."


CRITICAL REVIEWS.





288
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
thrust away all other society from him. Some old friends remain, it
is true, but these are become as a habit-a part of your selfishness;
and, for new ones, they are selfish as you are. Neither member of the
new partnership has the capital of affection and kindly feeling, or can
even afford the time that is requisite for the establishment of the new
firm. Damp and chill the shades of the prison-house begin to close
round us, and that “vision splendid” which has accompanied our
steps in our journey daily farther from the east, fades away and dies
into the light of common day.
And what a common day! what a foggy, dull, shivering apology
for light is this kind of muddy twilight through which we are about to
tramp and flounder for the rest of our existence, wandering farther
and farther from the beauty and freshness and from the kindly gushing
springs of clear gladness that made all around us green in our youth !
One wanders and gropes in a slough of stock-jobbing, one sinks or
rises in a storm of politics, and in either case it is as good to fall as
to rise—to mount a bubble on the crest of the wave, as to sink a
stone to the bottom.
The reader who has seen the name affixed to the head of this
article scarcely expected to be entertained with a declamation upon
ingratitude, youth, and the vanity of human pursuits, which may seem
at first sight to have little to do with the subject in hand. But
(although we reserve the privilege of discoursing upon whatever
subject shall suit us, and by no means admit the public has any right
to ask in our sentences for any meaning, or any connection whatever)
it happens that, in this particular instance, there is an undoubted
connection. In Susan's case, as recorded by Wordsworth, what
connection had the corner of Wood Street with a mountain ascending,
a vision of trees, and a nest by the Dove? Why should the song of
a thrush cause bright volumes of vapour to glide through Lothbury,
and a river to flow on through the vale of Cheapside ? As she stood
at that corner of Wood Street, a mop and a pail in her hand most
likely, she heard the bird singing, and straightway began pining and
yearning for the days of her youth, forgetting the proper business of
the pail and mop. Even so we are moved by the sight of some of
Mr. Cruikshank's works--the “Busen fühlt sich jugendlich erschüttert,"
the “schwankende Gestalten ” of youth flit before one again,-Cruik-
shank's thrush begins to pipe and carol, as in the days of boyhood;
hence misty moralities, reflections, and sad and pleasant remembrances


290
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
Knight's, in Sweeting's Alley ; Fairburn's, in a court off Ludgate
Hill; Hone's, in Fleet Street-bright, enchanted palaces, which
George Cruikshank used to people with grinning, fantastical imps, and
merry, harmless sprites,--where are they ? Fairburn's shop knows
him no more; not only has Knight disappeared from Sweeting's Alley,
but, as we are given to understand, Sweeting's Alley has disappeared
from the face of the globe. Slop, the atrocious Castlereagh, the
sainted Caroline (in a tight pelisse, with feathers in her head), the
“Dandy of sixty,” who used to glance at us from Hone's friendly
windows—where are they ? Mr. Cruikshank may have drawn a
thousand better things since the days when these were; but they are
to us a thousand times more pleasing than anything else he has done.
How we used to believe in them ! to stray miles out of the way on
holidays, in order to ponder for an hour before that delightful window
in Sweeting's Alley ! in walks through Fleet Street, to vanish abruptly
down Fairburn's passage, and there make one at his “charming gratis”
exhibition. There used to be a crowd round the window in those
days, of grinning, good-natured mechanics, who spelt the songs, and
spoke them out for the benefit of the company, and who received the
points of humour with a general sympathizing roar. Where are these
people now? You never hear any laughing at HB. ; his pictures are
a great deal too genteel for that-polite points of wit, which strike
one as exceedingly clever and pretty, and cause one to smile in a
quiet, gentleman-like kind of way.
There must be no smiling with Cruikshank. A man who does
not laugh outright is a dullard, and has no heart; even the old dandy
of sixty must have laughed at his own wondrous grotesque image, as
they say Louis Philippe did, who saw all the caricatures that were
made of himself. And there are some of Cruikshank's designs which
have the blessed faculty of creating laughter as often as you see them.
As Diggory says in the play, who is bidden by his master not to laugh
while waiting at table—“Don't tell the story of Grouse in the Gun-
room, master, or I can't help laughing." Repeat that history ever so
often, and at the proper moment, honest Diggory is sure to explode.
Every man, no doubt, who loves Cruikshank has his “ Grouse in the
Gun-room.” There is a fellow in the “ Points of Humour" who is
offering to eat up a certain little general, that has made us happy any
time these sixteen years : his huge mouth is a perpetual well of
laughter-buckets full of fun can be drawn from it. We have formed


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK,
291
no such friendships as that boyish one of the man with the mouth.
But though, in our eyes, Mr. Cruikshank reached his apogee some
eighteen years since, it must not be imagined that such is really the
case. Eighteen sets of children have since then learned to love and
admire him, and may many more of their successors be brought up in
the same delightful faith. It is not the artist who fails, but the men
who grow cold—the men, from whom the illusions (why illusions ?
realities) of youth disappear one by one; who have no leisure to be
happy, no blessed holidays, but only fresh cares at Midsummer and
Christmas, being the inevitable seasons which bring us bills instead
of pleasures. Tom, who comes bounding home from school, has the
doctor's account in his trunk, and his father goes to sleep at the
pantomime to which he takes him. Pater infelix, you too have
laughed at clown, and the magic wand of spangled harlequin ; what
delightful enchantment did it wave around you, in the golden days
“when George the Third was king !” But our clown lies in his grave;
and our harlequin, Ellar, prince of how many enchanted islands, was
he not at Bow Street the other day,* in his dirty, tattered, faded
motley—seized as a law-breaker, for acting at a penny theatre, after
having well-nigh starved in the streets, where nobody would listen
to his old guitar? No one gave a shilling to bless him : not one of
us who owe him so much.
We know not if Mr. Cruikshank will be very well pleased at
finding his name in such company as that of Clown and Harlequin ;
but he, like them, is certainly the children's friend. His drawings
abound in feeling for these little ones, and hideous as in the course
of his duty he is from time to time compelled to design them, he
never sketches one without a certain pity for it, and imparting to the
figure a certain grotesque grace. In happy school-boys he revels;
plum-pudding and holidays his needle has engraved over and over
again ; there is a design in one of the comic almanacs of some young
gentlemen who are employed in administering to a schoolfellow the
correction of the pump, which is as graceful and elegant as a drawing
of Stothard. Dull books about children George Cruikshank makes
bright with illustrations—there is one published by the ingenious and
opulent Mr. Tegg. It is entitled “Mirth and Morality,” the mirth
being, for the most part, on the side of the designer—the morality,
* This was written in 1840.


292
CRITICAL REVIEW'S.
unexceptionable certainly, the author's capital. Here are then, to
these moralities, a smiling train of mirths supplied by George Cruik-
shank. See yonder little fellows butterfly-hunting across a common !
Such a light, brisk, airy, gentleman-like drawing was never made upon
such a theme. Who, cries the author-
“ Who has not chased the butterfly,
And crushed its slender legs and wings,
And heaved a moralizing sigh : ..
Alas ! how frail are human things !'
A very unexceptionable morality truly; but it would have puzzled
another than George Cruikshank to make mirth out of it as he has
done. Away, surely not on the wings of these verses, Cruikshank's
imagination begins to soar; and he makes us three darling little men
on a green common, backed by old farm-houses, somewhere about
May. A great mixture of blue and clouds in the air, a strong fresh
breeze stirring, Tom's jacket flapping in the same, in order to bring
down the insect queen or king of spring that is fluttering above him,
-he renders all this with a few strokes on a little block of wood not
two inches square, upon which one may gaze for hours, so merry and
life-like a scene does it present. What a charming creative power is
this, what a privilege-to be a god, and create little worlds upon
paper, and whole generations of smiling, jovial men, women, and
children half inch high, whose portraits are carried abroad, and
have the faculty of making us monsters of six feet curious and happy
in our turn. Now, who would imagine that an artist could make
anything of such a subject as this? The writer begins by stating,-
“ I love to go back to the days of my youth,
And to reckon my joys to the letter,
And to count o'er the friends that I have in the world,
Ay, and those who are gone to a better."
This brings him to the consideration of his uncle. “Of all the men
I have ever known,” says he, “my uncle united the greatest degree
of cheerfulness with the sobriety of manhood. Though a man when
I was a boy, he was yet one of the most agreeable companions I ever
possessed.... He embarked for America, and nearly twenty
years passed by before he came back again; ... but oh, how
altered he was in every sense of the word an old man, his body and
mind were enfeebled, and second childishness had come upon him.


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
293
How often have I bent over him, vainly endeavouring to recall to his
memory the scenes we had shared together: and how frequently, with
an aching heart, have I gazed on his vacant and lustreless eye, while
he has amused himself in clapping his hands and singing with a
quavering voice a verse of a psalm.” Alas! such are the consequences
of long residences in America, and of old age even in uncles ! Well,
the point of this morality is, that the uncle one day in the morning of
life vowed that he would catch his two nephews and tie them together,
ay, and actually did so, for all the efforts the rogues made to run away
from him ; but he was so fatigued that he declared he never would
make the attempt again, whereupon the nephew remarks,—" Often
since then, when engaged in enterprises beyond my strength, have I
called to mind the determination of my uncle.”
Does it not seem impossible to make a picture out of this? And
yet George Cruikshank has produced a charming design, in which the
uncles and nephew's are so prettily portrayed that one is reconciled to
their existence, with all their moralities. Many more of the mirths in
this little book are excellent, especially a great figure of a parson
entering church on horseback,-an enormous parson truly, calm, un-
conscious, unwieldy. As Zeuxis had a bevy of virgins in order to
make his famous picture—his express virgin—a clerical host must
have passed under Cruikshank's eyes before he sketched this little,
enormous parson of parsons.
Being on the subject of children's books, how shall we enough
praise the delightful German nursery-tales, and Cruikshank's illustra-
tions of them? We coupled his name with pantomime awhile since,
and sure never pantomimes were more charming than these. Of all
the artists that ever drew, from Michael Angelo upwards and down-
wards, Cruikshank was the man to illustrate these tales, and give them
just the proper admixture of the grotesque, the wonderful, and the
graceful. May all Mother Bunch's collection be similarly indebted
to him; may “Jack the Giant Killer," may “ Tom Thumb,” may
“Puss in Boots,” be one day revivified by his pencil. Is not
Whittington sitting yet on Highgate Hill, and poor Cinderella (in
that sweetest of all fairy stories) still pining in her lonely chimney
nook? A man who has a true affection for these delightful companions
of his youth is bound to be grateful to them if he can, and we pray
Mr. Cruikshank to remember them.
It is folly to say that this or that kind of humour is too good for


294
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
the public, that only a chosen few can relish it. The best humour
that we know of has been as eagerly received by the public as by the
most delicate connoisseur. There is hardly a man in England who
can read but will laugh at Falstaff and the humour of Joseph Andrews;
and honest Mr. Pickwick's story can be felt and loved by any person
above the age of six. Some may have a keener enjoyment of it than
others, but all the world can be merry over it, and is always ready to
welcome it. The best criterion of good humour is success, and what
a share of this has Mr. Cruikshank had ! how many millions of
mortals has he made happy! We have heard very profound persons
talk philosophically of the marvellous and mysterious manner in
which he has suited himself to the time-fait vibrer la fibre populaire
(as Napoleon boasted of himself), supplied a peculiar want felt at a
peculiar period, the simple secret of which is, as we take it, that he,
living amongst the public, has with them a general wide-hearted
sympathy, that he laughs at what they laugh at, that he has a kindly
spirit of enjoyment, with not a morsel of mysticism in his composition ;
that he pities and loves the poor, and jokes at the follies of the great,
and that he addresses all in a perfectly sincere and manly way. To
be greatly successful as a professional humourist, as in any other
calling, a man must be quite honest, and show that his heart is in his
work. A bad preacher will get admiration and a hearing with this
point in his favour, where a man of three times his acquirements will
only find indifference and coldness. Is any man more remarkable
than our artist for telling the truth after his own manner? Hogarth's
honesty of purpose was as conspicuous in an earlier time, and we
fancy that Gilray would have been far more successful and more
powerful but for that unhappy bribe, which turned the whole course
of his humour into an unnatural channel. Cruikshank would not for
any bribe say what he did not think, or lend his aid to sneer down
anything meritorious, or to praise any thing or person that deserved
censure. When he levelled his wit against the Regent, and did his
very prettiest for the Princess, he most certainly believed, along with
the great body of the people whom he represents, that the Princess
was the most spotless, pure-mannered darling of a Princess that ever
married a heartless debauchee of a Prince Royal. Did not millions
believe with him, and noble and learned lords take their oaths to her
Royal Highness's innocence ? Cruikshank would not stand by and
see a woman ill-used, and so struck in for her rescue, he and the people


296
CRITICAL REVIEW S.
gaiters. Those who wish to study this subject should peruse Monsieur
Paul de Kock's histories of " Lord Boulingrog” and “Lady Crockmi-
love.” On the other hand, the old émigré has taken his station
amongst us, and we doubt if a good British gallery would understand
that such and such a character was a Frenchman unless he appeared
in the ancient traditional costume.
A curious book, called “Life in Paris,” published in 1822, contains
a number of the artist's plates in the aquatint style ; and though we
believe he had never been in that capital, the designs have a great
deal of life in them, and pass muster very well. A villanous race of
shoulder-shrugging mortals are his Frenchmen indeed. And the heroes
of the tale, a certain Mr. Dick Wildfire, Squire Jenkins, and Captain
O'Shuffleton, are made to show the true British superiority on every
occasion when Britons and French are brought together. This book
was one among the many that the designer's genius has caused to be
popular; the plates are not carefully executed, but, being coloured,
have a pleasant, lively look. The same style was adopted in the once
famous book called “Tom and Jerry, or Life in London," which must
have a word of notice here, for, although by no means Mr. Cruik-
shank's best work, his reputation was extraordinarily raised by it.
Tom and Jerry were as popular twenty years since as Mr. Pickwick
and Sam Weller now are ; and often have we wished, while reading
the biographies of the latter celebrated personages, that they had
been described as well by Mr. Cruikshank's pencil as by Mr.
Dickens's pen.
As for Tom and Jerry, to show the mutability of human affairs
and the evanescent nature of reputation, we have been to the British
Museum and no less than five circulating libraries in quest of the
book, and “ Life in London," alas, is not to be found at any one of
them. We can only, therefore, speak of the work from recollection,
but have still a very clear remembrance of the leather-gaiters of Jerry
Hawthorn, the green spectacles of Logic, and the hooked nose of
Corinthian Tom. They were the school-boy's delight; and in the
days when the work appeared we firmly believed the three heroes
above named to be types of the most elegant, fashionable young fellows
the town afforded, and thought their occupations and amusements
were those of all high-bred English gentlemen. Tom knocking down
the watchman at Temple Bar ; Tom and Jerry dancing at Almack's;
or flirting in the saloon at the theatre ; at the night-houses, after the


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
297
play; at Tom Cribb's, examining the silver cup then in the possession
of that champion ; at the chambers of Bob Logic, who, seated at a
cabinet piano, plays a waltz to which Corinthian Tom and Kate are
dancing; ambling gallantly in Rotten Row; or examining the poor
fellow at Newgate who was having his chains knocked off before
hanging : all these scenes remain indelibly engraved upon the mind,
and so far we are independent of all the circulating libraries in
London.
As to the literary contents of the book, they have passed sheer
away. It was, most likely, not particularly refined ; nay, the chances
are that it was absolutely vulgar. But it must have had some merit
of its own, that is clear ; it must have given striking descriptions of
life in some part or other of London, for all London read it, and went
to see it in its dramatic shape. The artist, it is said, wished to close
the career of the three heroes by bringing them all to ruin, but the
writer, or publishers, would not allow any such melancholy subjects
to dash the merriment of the public, and we believe Tom, Jerry, and
Logic, were married off at the end of the tale, as if they had been the
most moral personages in the world. There is some goodness in this
pity, which authors and the public are disposed to show towards
certain agreeable, disreputable characters of romance. Who would
mar the prospects of honest Roderick Random, or Charles Surface,
or Tom Jones ? only a very stern moralist indeed. And in regard of
Jerry Hawthorn and that hero without a surname, Corinthian Tom,
Mr. Cruikshank, we make little doubt, was glad in his heart that he
was not allowed to have his own way.
Soon after the “ Tom and Jerry” and the “Life in Paris,"
Mr. Cruikshank produced a much more elaborate set of prints, in a
work which was called “ Points of Humour." These “Points” were
selected from various comic works, and did not, we believe, extend
beyond a couple of numbers, containing about a score of copper-plates.
The collector of humourous designs cannot fail to have them in his
portfolio, for they contain some of the very best efforts of Mr. Cruik-
shank's genius, and though not quite so highly laboured as some of
his later productions, are none the worse, in our opinion, for their
comparative want of finish. All the effects are perfectly given, and
the expression is as good as it could be in the most delicate engraving
upon steel. The artist's style, too, was then completely formed ; and,
for our parts, we should say that we preferred his manner of 1825 to


296
CRITICAL REVIEW'S.
gaiters. Those who wish to study this subject should peruse Monsieur
Paul de Kock's histories of “Lord Boulingrog” and “ Lady Crockmi-
love.” On the other hand, the old émigré has taken his station
amongst us, and we doubt if a good British gallery would understand
that such and such a character was a Frenchman unless he appeared
in the ancient traditional costume.
A curious book, called “ Life in Paris," published in 1822, contains
a number of the artist's plates in the aquatint style ; and though we
believe he had never been in that capital, the designs have a great
deal of life in them, and pass muster very well. A villanous race of
shoulder-shrugging mortals are his Frenchmen indeed. And the heroes
of the tale, a certain Mr. Dick Wildfire, Squire Jenkins, and Captain
O'Shuffleton, are made to show the true British superiority on every
occasion when Britons and French are brought together. This book
was one among the many that the designer's genius has caused to be
popular; the plates are not carefully executed, but, being coloured,
have a pleasant, lively look. The same style was adopted in the once
famous book called “ Tom and Jerry, or Life in London,” which must
have a word of notice here, for, although by no means Mr. Cruik-
shank's best work, his reputation was extraordinarily raised by it.
Tom and Jerry were as popular twenty years since as Mr. Pickwick
and Sam Weller now are ; and often have we wished, while reading
the biographies of the latter celebrated personages, that they had
been described as well by Mr. Cruikshank's pencil as by Mr.
Dickens's pen.
As for Tom and Jerry, to show the mutability of human affairs
and the evanescent nature of reputation, we have been to the British
Museum and no less than five circulating libraries in quest of the
book, and “Life in London,” alas, is not to be found at any one of
them. We can only, therefore, speak of the work from recollection,
but have still a very clear remembrance of the leather-gaiters of Jerry
Hawthorn, the green spectacles of Logic, and the hooked nose of
Corinthian Tom. They were the school-boy's delight; and in the
days when the work appeared we firmly believed the three heroes
above named to be types of the most elegant, fashionable young fellows
the town afforded, and thought their occupations and amusements
were those of all high-bred English gentlemen. Tom knocking down
the watchman at Temple Bar ; Tom and Jerry dancing at Almack's;
or flirting in the saloon at the theatre ; at the night-houses, after the


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
297
play; at Tom Cribb's, examining the silver cup then in the possession
of that champion; at the chambers of Bob Logic, who, seated at a
cabinet piano, plays a waltz to which Corinthian Tom and Kate are
dancing; ambling gallantly in Rotten Row; or examining the poor
fellow at Newgate who was having his chains knocked off before
hanging : all these scenes remain indelibly engraved upon the mind,
and so far we are independent of all the circulating libraries in
London.
As to the literary contents of the book, they have passed sheer
away. It was, most likely, not particularly refined ; nay, the chances
are that it was absolutely vulgar. But it must have had some merit
of its own, that is clear; it must have given striking descriptions of
life in some part or other of London, for all London read it, and went
to see it in its dramatic shape. The artist, it is said, wished to closc
the career of the three heroes by bringing them all to ruin, but the
writer, or publishers, would not allow any such melancholy subjects
to dash the merriment of the public, and we believe Tom, Jerry, and
Logic, were married off at the end of the tale, as if they had been the
most moral personages in the world. There is some goodness in this
pity, which authors and the public are disposed to show towards
certain agreeable, disreputable characters of romance. Who would
mar the prospects of honest Roderick Random, or Charles Surface,
or Tom Jones ? only a very stern moralist indeed. And in regard of
Jerry Hawthorn and that hero without a surname, Corinthian Tom,
Mr. Cruikshank, we make little doubt, was glad in his heart that he
was not allowed to have his own way.
Soon after the “ Tom and Jerry" and the “Life in Paris,"
Mr. Cruikshank produced a much more elaborate set of prints, in a
work which was called “ Points of Humour.” These “Points” were
selected from various comic works, and did not, we believe, extend
beyond a couple of numbers, containing about a score of copper-plates.
The collector of humourous designs cannot fail to have them in his
portfolio, for they contain some of the very best efforts of Mr. Cruik-
shank's genius, and though not quite so highly laboured as some of
his later productions, are none the worse, in our opinion, for their
comparative want of finish. All the effects are perfectly given, and
the expression is as good as it could be in the most delicate engraving
upon steel. The artist's style, too, was then completely formed ; and,
for our parts, we should say that we preferred his manner of 1825 to


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CRITICAL REVIEWS.
any other which he has adopted since. The first picture, which is
called “The Point of Honour,” illustrates the old story of the officer
who, on being accused of cowardice for refusing to fight a duel, came
among his brother officers and flung a lighted grenade down upon the
floor, before which his comrades fled ignominiously. This design is
capital, and the outward rush of heroes, walking, trampling, twisting,
scuffling at the door, is in the best style of the grotesque. You see
but the back of most of these gentlemen; into which, nevertheless, the
artist has managed to throw an expression of ludicrous agony that one
could scarcely have expected to find in such a part of the human
figure. The next plate is not less good. It represents a couple who,
having been found one night tipsy, and lying in the same gutter, were,
by a charitable though misguided gentleman, supposed to be man and
wife, and put comfortably to bed together. The morning came;
fancy the surprise of this interesting pair when they awoke and dis-
covered their situation. Fancy the manner, too, in which Cruikshank
has depicted them, to which words cannot do justice. It is needless
to state that this fortuitous and temporary union was followed by one
more lasting and sentimental, and that these two worthy persons were
married, and lived happily ever after.
We should like to go through every one of these prints. There is
the jolly miller, who, returning home at night, calls upon his wife to
get him a supper, and falls to upon rashers of bacon and ale. How
he gormandizes, that jolly miller! rasher after rasher, how they pass
away frizzling and smoking from the gridiron down that immense
grinning gulf of a mouth. Poor wife ! how she pines and frets, at
that untimely hour of midnight to be obliged to fry, fry, fry perpetually,
and minister to the monster's appetite. And yonder in the clock :
what agonized face is that we see? By heavens, it is the squire of the
parish. What business has he there? Let us not ask. Suffice it to
say, that he has, in the hurry of the moment, left upstairs his br— ;
his-psha ! a part of his dress, in short, with a number of bank-notes
in the pockets. Look in the next page, and you will see the ferocious,
bacon-devouring ruffian of a miller is actually causing this garment to
be carried through the village and cried by the town-crier. And we
blush to be obliged to say that the demoralized miller never offered
to return the bank-notes, although he was so mighty scrupulous in
endeavouring to find an owner for the corduroy portfolio in which
he had found them.


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
299
Passing from this painful subject, we come, we regret to state, to
a series of prints representing personages not a whit more moral.
Burns's famous “Jolly Beggars” have all had their portraits drawn by
Cruikshank. There is the lovely “hempen widow," quite as
interesting and romantic as the famous Mrs. Sheppard, who has at the
lamented demise of her husband adopted the very same consolation.
“My curse upon them every one,
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ;
And now a widow I must mourn
Departed joys that ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can
When I think on John Highlandman."
Sweet “raucle carlin," she has none of the sentimentality of the
English highwayman's lady; but being wooed by a tinker and
“ A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle
Wha us’d to trystes and fairs to driddle,"
prefers the practical to the merely musical man. The tinker sings
with a noble candour, worthy of a fellow of his strength of body and
station in life-
“My bonnie lass, I work in brass,
A tinker is my station ;
I've travellid round all Christian ground
In this my occupation.
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enrollid
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I march'd
To go an' clout the caudron.”
It was his ruling passion. What was military glory to him, forsooth ?
He had the greatest contempt for it, and loved freedom and his copper
kettle a thousand times better-a kind of hardware Diogenes. Of
fiddling he has no better opinion. The picture represents the “sturdy
caird” taking “poor gut-scraper" by the beard, drawing his “roosty
rapier," and swearing to "speet him like a pliver" unless he would
relinquish the bonnie lassie for ever-
“ Wi' ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
An' so the quarrel ended.”
Hark how the tinker apostrophizes the violinist, stating to the widow


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at the same time the advantages which she might expect from an
alliance with himself:-
“ Despise that shrimp, that withered imp,
Wi'a' his noise and caperin' ;
And take a share with those that bear
The budget and the apron !
" And by that stowp, my faith an' houpe,
An' by that dear Kilbaigie !
If e'er ye want, or ineet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.”
Cruikshank's caird is a noble creature ; his face and figure show him to
be fully capable of doing and saying all that is above written of him.
In the second part, the old tale of “The Three Hunchbacked
Fiddlers” is illustrated with equal felicity. The famous classical
dinners and duel in “ Peregrine Pickle” are also excellent in their
way; and the connoisseur of prints and etchings may see in the latter
plate, and in another in this volume, how great the artist's mechanical
skill is as an etcher. The distant view of the city in the duel, and of
a market-place in “The Quack Doctor," are delightful specimens of
the artist's skill in depicting buildings and backgrounds. They are
touched with a grace, truth, and dexterity of workmanship that leave
nothing to desire. We have before mentioned the man with the
mouth, which appears in this number emblematical of gout and
indigestion, in which the artist has shown all the fancy of Callot.
Little demons, with long saws for noses, are making dreadful incisions
into the toes of the unhappy sufferer; some are bringing pans of hot
coals to keep the wounded member warm ; a huge, solemn nightmare
sits on the invalid's chest, staring solemnly into his eyes ; a monster,
with a pair of drumsticks, is banging a devil's tattoo on his forehead;
and a pair of imps are nailing great tenpenny nails into his hands
to make his happiness complete.
The late Mr. Clark's excellent work, “ Three Courses and a
Dessert,” was published at a time when the rage for comic stories was
not so great as it since has been, and Messrs. Clark and Cruikshank
only sold their hundreds where Messrs. Dickens and Phiz dispose of
their thousands. But if our recommendation can in any way influence
the reader, we would enjoin him to have a copy of the “Three
Courses,” that contains some of the best designs of our artist, and
some of the most amusing tales in our language. The invention of


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CRITICAL REVIEWS.
different expressions of the two interesting fugitives. The fiery
charioteer who belabours the poor donkey has still a glance for his
brother on foot, on whom punishment is about to descend. And not
a little curious is it to think of the creative power of the man who has
arranged this little tale of low life. How logically it is conducted,
how cleverly each one of the accessories is made to contribute to the
effect of the whole. What a deal of thought and humour has the
artist expended on this little block of wood; a large picture might
have been painted out of the very same materials, which Mr. Cruik-
shank, out of his wondrous fund of merriment and observation, can
afford to throw away upon a drawing not two inches long. From
the practical dustmen we pass to those purely poetical. There are
three of them who rise on clouds of their own raising, the very genii
of the sack and shovel.
Is there no one to write a sonnet to these ?—and yet a whole poem
was written about Peter Bell the Waggoner, a character by no means
so poetic.
And lastly, we have the dustman in love: the honest fellow having
seen a young beauty stepping out of a gin-shop on a Sunday morning,
is pressing eagerly his suit.
Gin has furnished many subjects to Mr. Cruikshank, who labours
in his own sound and hearty way to teach his countrymen the dangers
of that drink. In the “ Sketch-Book” is a plate upon the subject,
remarkable for fancy and beauty of design ; it is called the “Gin
Juggernaut," and represents a hideous moving palace, with a reeking
still at the roof and vast gin-barrels for wheels, under which unhappy
millions are crushed to death. An immense black cloud of desolation
covers over the country through which the gin monster has passed,
dimly looming through the darkness whereof you see an agreeable
prospect of gibbets with men dangling, burnt houses, &c. The vast
cloud comes sweeping on in the wake of this horrible body-crusher;
and you see, by way of contrast, a distant, smiling, sunshiny tract of
old English country, where gin as yet is not known. The allegory is
as good, as earnest, and as fanciful as one of John Bunyan's, and we
have often fancied there was a similarity between the men.
The reader will examine the work called “My Sketch-Book" with
not a little amusement, and may gather from it, as we fancy, a good
deal of information regarding the character of the individual man,
George Cruikshank : what points strike his eye as a painter; what


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
303
move his anger or admiration as a moralist; what classes he seems
most especially disposed to observe, and what to ridicule. There are
quacks of all kinds, to whom he has a mortal hatred; quack dandies,
who assume under his pencil, perhaps in his eye, the most grotesque
appearance possible—their hats grow larger, their legs infinitely more
crooked and lean ; the tassels of their canes swell out to a most pre-
posterous size; the tails of their coats dwindle away, and finish where
coat-tails generally begin. Let us lay a wager that Cruikshank, a man
of the people if ever there was one, heartily hates and despises these
supercilious, swaggering young gentlemen ; and his contempt is not a
whit the less laudable because there may be tant soit peu of prejudice
in it. It is right and wholesome to scorn dandies, as Nelson said it
was to hate Frenchmen; in which sentiment (as we have before said)
George Cruikshank undoubtedly shares. In the “Sunday in London,"*
Monsieur the Chef is instructing a kitchen-
maid how to compound
some rascally French kickshaw or the other—a pretty scoundrel truly !
with what an air he wears that nightcap of his, and shrugs his lank
shoulders, and chatters, and ogles, and grins : they are all the same,
these mounseers; there are other two fellows—morbleu ! one is
* The following lines—ever fresh—by the author of “Headlong Hall,” pub-
lished years ago in the Globe and Traveller, are an excellent comment on several of
the cuts from the “Sunday in London :"-
I.
“ The poor man's sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act,
Buying greens on Sunday morning.
IV.
“ The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality ;
The poor can but share
A crack'd fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.
II.
** The rich man's sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station,
And escape the sight
Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.
V.
“ The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him ;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer [him.
Where the saint can't choose but spy
III.
“ The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner ;
The poor who would roast,
To the baker's must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.
VI.
“ The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society ;
But the poor man's delight
Is a sore in the sight
And a stench in the nose of piety."


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CRITICAL REVIEW'S.
putting his dirty fingers into the saucepan ; there are frogs cooking in
it, no doubt; and just over some other dish of abomination, another
dirty rascal is taking snuff! Never mind, the sauce won't be hurt by
a few ingredients more or less. Three such fellows as these are not
worth one Englishman, that's clear. There is one in the very midst
of them, the great burly fellow with the beef: he could beat all three
in five minutes. We cannot be certain that such was the process going
on in Mr. Cruikshank's mind when he made the design ; but some
feelings of the sort were no doubt entertained by him.
Against dandy footmen he is particularly severe. He hates idlers,
pretenders, boasters, and punishes these fellows as best he may. Who
does not recollect the famous picture, “What is Taxes, Thomas ?"
What is taxes indeed ; well may that vast, over-fed, lounging funkey
ask the question of his associate Thomas : and yet not well, for all that
Thomas says in reply is, “ I don't know.” “O beati plushicola,” what a
charming state of ignorance is yours ! In the “Sketch-Book” many foot-
men make their appearance: one is a huge fat Hercules of a Portman
Square porter, who calmly surveys another poor fellow, a porter like-
wise, but out of livery, who comes staggering forward with a box that
Hercules might lift with his little finger. Will Hercules do so ? not
he. The giant can carry nothing heavier than a cocked-hat note on
a silver tray, and his labours are to walk from his sentry-box to the
door, and from the door back to his sentry-box, and to read the
Sunday paper, and to poke the hall fire twice or thrice, and to make
five meals a day. Such a fellow does Cruikshank hate and scorn
worse even than a Frenchman.
The man's master, too, comes in for no small share of our artist's
wrath. There is a company of them at church, who humbly designate
themselves “miserable sinners !” Miserable sinners indeed! Oh, what
floods of turtle-soup, what tons of turbot and lobster-sauce must have
been sacrificed to make those sinners properly miserable. My lady
with the ermine tippet and draggling feather, can we not see that she
lives in Portland Place, and is the wife of an East India Director ?
She has been to the Opera over-night (indeed her husband, on her
right, with his fat hand dangling over the pew-door, is at this minute
thinking of Mademoiselle Léocadie, whom he saw behind the scenes)
-she has been at the Opera over-night, which with a trifle of supper
afterwards—a white-and-brown soup, a lobster-salad, some wood-
cocks, and a little champagne-sent her to bed quite comfort-


GEORGE CRUIKSHAVK.
305
able. At half-past eight her maid brings her chocolate in bed, at ten
she has fresh eggs and muffins, with, perhaps, a half-hundred of prawns
for breakfast, and so can get over the day and the sermon till lunch-
time pretty well. What an odour of musk and bergamot exhales from
the pew !-how it is wadded, and stuffed, and spangled over with
brass nails ! what hassocks are there for those who are not too
fat to kneel! what a flustering and flapping of gilt prayer-books;
and what a pious whirring of bible leaves one hears all over the
church, as the doctor blandly gives out the text! To be miserable at
this rate you must, at the very least, have four thousand a year : and
many persons are there so enamoured of grief and sin, that they would
willingly take the risk of the misery to have a life-interest in the
consols that accompany it, quite careless about consequences, and
sceptical as to the notion that a day is at hand when you must fulfil
your share of the bargain.
Our artist loves to joke at a soldier ; in whose livery there appears
to him to be something almost as ridiculous as in the uniform of the
gentleman of the shoulder-knot. Tall life-guardsmen and fierce
grenadiers figure in many of his designs, and almost always in a
ridiculous way. Here again we have the honest popular English
feeling which jeers at pomp or pretension of all kinds, and is especially
jealous of all display of military authority. “Raw Recruit,” “ ditto
dressed,” ditto “served up,” as we see them in the “Sketch-Book,” are
so many satires upon the army : Hodge with his ribbons faunting in
his hat, or with red coat and musket, drilled stiff and pompous, or at
last, minus leg and arm, tottering about on crutches, does not fill our
English artist with the enthusiasm that follows the soldier in every
other part of Europe. Jeanjean, the conscript in France, is laughed
at to be sure, but then it is because he is a bad soldier : when he
comes to have a huge pair of mustachios and the croix-d'honneur to
briller on his poitrine cicatrisée, Jeanjean becomes a member of a class
that is more respected than any other in the French nation. The
veteran soldier inspires our people with no such awe—we hold that
democratic weapon the fist in much more honour than the sabre and
bayonet, and laugh at a man tricked out in scarlet and pipe-clay.
That regiment of heroes is “marching to divine service,” to the
tune of the “ British Grenadiers.” There they march in state, and a
pretty contempt our artist shows for all their gimcracks and trumpery.
He has drawn a perfectly English scene — the little blackguard
20


306
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
boys are playing pranks round about the men, and shouting, “Heads
up, soldier,” “Eyes right, lobster," as little British urchins will do.
Did one ever hear the like sentiments expressed in France? Shade
of Napoleon, we insult you by asking the question. In England,
however, see how different the case is : and designedly or unde-
signedly, the artist has opened to us a piece of his mind. In the
crowd the only person who admires the soldiers is the poor idiot,
whose pocket a rogue is picking. There is another picture, in which
the sentiment is much the same, only, as in the former drawing we
see Englishmen laughing at the troops of the line, here are Irishmen
giggling at the militia.
We have said that our artist has a great love for the drolleries of
the Green Island. Would any one doubt what was the country of the
merry fellows depicted in his group of Paddies ?
“ Place me amid O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal race of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
The pathless wilds of Connemara.”
We know not if Mr. Cruikshank has ever had any such good luck
as to see the Irish in Ireland itself, but he certainly has obtained a
knowledge of their looks, as if the country had been all his life familiar
to him. Could Mr. O'Connell himself desire anything more national
than the scene of a drunken row, or could Father Mathew have a
better text to preach upon ? There is not a broken nose in the
room that is not thoroughly Irish.
We have then a couple of compositions treated in a graver
manner, as characteristic too as the other. We call attention to
the comical look of poor Teague, who has been pursued and beaten
by the witch's stick, in order to point out also the singular neatness
of the workmanship, and the pretty, fanciful little glimpse of land-
scape that the artist has introduced in the background. Mr. Cruik-
shank has a fine eye for such homely landscapes, and renders them
with great delicacy and taste. Old villages, farm-yards, groups of
stacks, queer chimneys, churches, gable-ended cottages, Elizabethan
mansion-houses, and other old English scenes, he depicts with
evident enthusiasm.
Famous books in their day were Cruikshank's “John Gilpin " and
“Epping Hunt;" for though our artist does not draw horses very


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
307
scientifically,—to use a phrase of the atelier,—he feels them very
keenly; and his queer animals, after one is used to them, answer
quite as well as better. Neither is he very happy in trees, and such
rustical produce; or rather, we should say, he is very original, his
trees being decidedly of his own make and composition, not imitated
from any master.
But what then? Can a man be supposed to imitate everything ?
We know what the noblest study of mankind is, and to this
Mr. Cruikshank has confined himself. That postilion with the people
in the broken-down chaise roaring after him is as deaf as the post by
which he passes. Suppose all the accessories were away, could not
one swear that the man was stone-deaf, beyond the reach of trumpet ?
What is the peculiar character in a deaf man's physiognomy ?-can
any person define it satisfactorily in words ?—not in pages ; and
Mr. Cruikshank has expressed it on a piece of paper not so big as the
tenth part of your thumb-nail. The horses of John Gilpin are much
more of the equestrian order; and as here the artist has only his
favourite suburban buildings to draw, not a word is to be said against
his design. The inn and old buildings are charmingly designed, and
nothing can be more prettily or playfully touched.
" At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.
" • Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house!'
They all at once did cry ;
• The dinner waits, and we are tired '
Said Gilpin—“So am I !!
“ Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry :-
«• Stop thief ! stop thief !-a highwayman !!
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
“ And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race."


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CRITICAL REVIEWS.
The rush, and shouting, and clatter are excellently depicted
by the artist; and we, who have been scoffing at his manner of
designing animals, must here make a special exception in favour of
the hens and chickens ; each has a different action, and is curiously
natural.
Happy are children of all ages who have such a ballad and such
pictures as this in store for them! It is a comfort to think that wood-
cuts never wear out, and that the book still may be had for a shilling,
for those who can command that sum of money.
In the “ Epping Hunt,” which we owe to the facetious pen
of Mr. Hood, our artist has not been so successful. There is here
too much horsemanship and not enough incident for him ; but the
portrait of Roundings the huntsman is an excellent sketch, and a
couple of the designs contain great humour. The first represents
the Cockney hero, who, “ like a bird, was singing out while sitting
on a tree."
And in the second the natural order is reversed. The stag having
taken heart, is hunting the huntsman, and the Cheapside Nimrod is
most ignominiously running away.
The Easter Hunt, we are told, is no more ; and as the Quarterly
Raziew recommends the British public to purchase Mr. Catlin's
pictures, as they form the only record of an interesting race now rapidly
passing away, in like manner we should exhort all our friends to pur-
chase Mr. Cruikshank's designs of another interesting race, that is run
already and for the last time.
Besides these, we must mention, in the line of our duty, the notable
tragedies of “Tom Thumb” and “Bombastes Furioso,” both of which
have appeared with many illustrations by Mr. Cruikshank. The
“brave army” of Bombastes exhibits a terrific display of brutal force,
which must shock the sensibilities of an English radical. And we can
well understand the caution of the general, who bids this soldatesque
effrénće to begone, and not to kick up a row.
Such a troop of lawless ruffians let loose upon a populous city
would play sad havoc in it; and we fancy the massacres of Birming-
ham renewed, or at least of Badajoz, which, though not quite so
dreadful, if we may believe his Grace the Duke of Wellington, as the
former scenes of slaughter, were nevertheless severe enough : but we
must not venture upon any ill-timed pleasantries in presence of the
disturbed King Arthur and the awful ghost of Gaffer Thumb.


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
309
We are thus carried at once into the supernatural, and here we
find Cruikshank reigning supreme. He has invented in his time a
little comic pandemonium, peopled with the most droll, good-natured
fiends possible. We have before us Chamisso's “ Peter Schlemihl,”
with Cruikshank's designs translated into German, and gaining nothing
by the change. The “ Kinder und Hans-Maerchen" of Grimm are
likewise ornamented with a frontispiece, copied from that one which
appeared to the amusing version of the English work. The books on
Phrenology and Time have been imitated by the same nation ; and
even in France, whither reputation travels slower than to any country
except China, we have seen copies of the works of George
Cruikshank.
He in return has complimented the French by illustrating a couple
of Lives of Napoleon, and the “Life in Paris” before mentioned. He
has also made designs for Victor Hugo's “Hans of Iceland.” Strange,
wild etchings were those, on a strange, mad subject; not so good in
our notion as the designs for the German books, the peculiar humour
of which latter seemed to suit the artist exactly. There is a mixture
of the awful and the ridiculous in these, which perpetually excites and
keeps awake the reader's attention ; the German writer and the
English artist seem to have an entire faith in their subject. The
reader, no doubt, remembers the awful passage in “ Peter Schlemihl,”
where the little gentleman purchases the shadow of that hero-
“ Have the kindness, noble sir, to examine and try this bag.” “He
put his hand into his pocket, and drew thence a tolerably large bag
of Cordovan leather, to which a couple of thongs were fixed. I
took it from him, and immediately counted out ten gold pieces, and
ten more, and ten more, and still other ten, whereupon I held out
my hand to him. Done, said I, it is a bargain; you shall have my
shadow for your bag. The bargain was concluded; he knelt down
before me, and I saw him with a wonderful neatness take my shadow
from head to foot, lightly lift it up from the grass, roll and fold it
up neatly, and at last pocket it. He then rose up, bowed to me
once more, and walked away again, disappearing behind the rose-
bushes. I don't know, but I thought I heard him laughing a little.
I, however, kept fast hold of the bag. Everything around me
was bright in the sun, and as yet I gave no thought to what I
had done."
This marvellous event, narrated by Peter with such a faithful,


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CRITICAL REVIEWS.
circumstantial detail, is painted by Cruikshank in the most wonderful
poetic way, with that happy mixture of the real and supernatural that
makes the narrative so curious, and like truth. The sun is shining
with the utmost brilliancy in a great quiet park or garden ; there is a
palace in the background, and a statue basking in the sun quite
lonely and melancholy; there is a sun-dial, on which is a deep
shadow, and in the front stands Peter Schlemihl, bag in hand : the
old gentleman is down on his knees to him, and has just lifted off
the ground the shadow of one leg; he is going to fold it back
neatly, as one does the tails of a coat, and will stow it, without any
creases or crumples, along with the other black garments that lie in
that immense pocket of his. Cruikshank has designed all this as if
he had a very serious belief in the story; he laughs, to be sure, but
one fancies that he is a little frightened in his heart, in spite of all
his fun and joking.
The German tales we have mentioned before. “The Prince riding
on the Fox," “ Hans in Luck,” “The Fiddler and his Goose," "Heads
off," are all drawings which, albeit not before us now, nor seen for ten
years, remain indelibly fixed on the memory. “ Heisst du etwa
Rumpelstilzchen ? " There sits the Queen on her throne, surrounded
by grinning beef-eaters, and little Rumpelstiltskin stamps his foot
through the floor in the excess of his tremendous despair. In one of
these German tales, if we remember rightly, there is an account of a
little orphan who is carried away by a pitying fairy for a term of seven
years, and passing that period of sweet apprenticeship among the
imps and sprites of fairy-land. Has our artist been among the same
company, and brought back their portraits in his sketch-book? He
is the only designer fairy-land has had. Callot's imps, for all their
strangeness, are only of the earth earthy. Fuseli's fairies belong to
the infernal regions; they are monstrous, lurid, and hideously melan-
choly. Mr. Cruikshank alone has had a true insight into the character
of the “little people.” They are something like men and women,
and yet not flesh and blood; they are laughing and mischievous, but
why we know not. Mr. Cruikshank, however, has had some dream
or the other, or else a natural mysterious instinct (as the Seherinn of
Prevorst had for beholding ghosts), or else some preternatural fairy
revelation, which has made him acquainted with the looks and ways
of the fantastical subjects of Oberon and Titania.
We have, unfortunately, no fairy portraits ; but, on the other hand,


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
311
can descend lower than fairy-land, and have seen some fine speci-
mens of devils. One has already been raised, and the reader has
seen him tempting a fat Dutch burgomaster, in an ancient gloomy
market-place, such as George Cruikshank can draw as well as
Mr. Prout, Mr. Nash, or any man living. There is our friend once
more; our friend the burgomaster, in a highly excited state, and
running as hard as his great legs will carry him, with our mutual enemy
at his tail.
What are the bets; will that long-legged bond-holder of a devil
come up with the honest Dutchman? It serves him right: why did
he put his name to stamped paper ? And yet we should not wonder
if some lucky chance should turn up in the burgomaster's favour,
and his infernal creditor lose his labour; for one so proverbially
cunning as yonder tall individual with the saucer eyes, it must be con-
fessed that he has been very often outwitted.
There is, for instance, the case of “The Gentleman in Black,"
which has been illustrated by our artist. A young French gentleman,
by name M. Desonge, who having expended his patrimony in a
variety of taverns and gaming-houses, was one day pondering upon
the exhausted state of his finances, and utterly at a loss to think how
he should provide means for future support, exclaimed, very naturally,
“What the devil shall I do?” He had no sooner spoken than
a GENTLEMAN IN BLACK made his appearance, whose authentic
portrait Mr. Cruikshank has had the honour to paint. This gentle-
man produced a black-edged book out of a black bag, some black-
edged papers tied up with black crape, and sitting down familiarly
opposite M. Desonge, began conversing with him on the state of his
affairs.
It is needless to state what was the result of the interview.
M. Desonge was induced by the gentleman to sign his name to one
of the black-edged papers, and found himself at the close of the con-
versation to be possessed of an unlimited command of capital. This
arrangement completed, the Gentleman in Black posted (in an extra-
ordinarily rapid manner) from Paris to London, there found a young
English merchant in exactly the same situation in which M. Desonge
had been, and concluded a bargain with the Briton of exactly the
same nature.
The book goes on to relate how these young men spent the
money so miraculously handed over to them, and how both,


312
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
when the period drew near that was to witness the performance of
their part of the bargain, grew melancholy, wretched, nay, so absolutely
dishonourable as to seek for every means of breaking through their
agreement. The Englishman living in a country where the lawyers
are more astute than any other lawyers in the world, took the advice
of a Mr. Bagsby, of Lyon's Inn ; whose name, as we cannot find it in
the “ Law List,” we presume to be fictitious. Who could it be that
was a match for the devil? Lord — very likely; we shall not give
his name, but let every reader of this Review fill up the blank
according to his own fancy, and on comparing it with the copy pur-
chased by his neighbours, he will find that fifteen out of twenty have
written down the same honoured name.
Well, the Gentleman in Black was anxious for the fulfilment of his
bond. The parties met at Mr. Bagsby's chambers to consult, the
Black Gentleman foolishly thinking that he could act as his own
counsel, and fearing no attorney alive. But mark the superiority of
British law, and see how the black pettifogger was defeated.
Mr. Bagsby simply stated that he would take the case into
Chancery, and his antagonist, utterly humiliated and defeated, refused
to move a step farther in the matter.
And now the French gentleman, M. Desonge, hearing of his
friend's escape, became anxious to be free from his own rash engage-
ments. He employed the same counsel who had been successful in
the former instance, but the Gentleman in Black was a great deal
wiser by this time, and whether M. Desonge escaped, or whether he
is now in that extensive place which is paved with good intentions, we
shall not say. Those who are anxious to know had better purchase
the book wherein all these interesting matters are duly set down.
There is one more diabolical picture in our budget, engraved by
Mr. Thompson, the same dexterous artist who has rendered the former
diableries so well.
We may mention Mr. Thompson's name as among the first of the
engravers to whom Cruikshank's designs have been entrusted ; and
next to him (if we may be allowed to make such arbitrary distinctions)
we may place Mr. Williams; and the reader is not possibly aware of
the immense difficulties to be overcome in the rendering of these little
sketches, which, traced by the designer in a few hours, require weeks'
labour from the engraver. Mr. Cruikshank has not been educated in
the regular schools of drawing (very luckily for him, as we think), and


314
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
We have spoken of the admirable way in which Mr. Cruikshank
has depicted Irish character and Cockney character; English country
character is quite as faithfully delineated in the person of the stout
porteress and her children, and of the “Chawbacon” with the shovel,
on whose face is written“ Zummerzetsheer." Chawbacon appears in
another plate, or else Chawbacon's brother. He has come up to
Lunnan, and is looking about him at raaces.
How distinct are these rustics from those whom we have just been
examining! They hang about the purlieus of the metropolis: Brook
Green, Epsom, Greenwich, Ascot, Goodwood, are their haunts. They
visit London professionally once a year, and that is at the time of
Bartholomew fair. How one may speculate upon the different degrees
of rascality, as exhibited in each face of the thimblerigging trio, and
form little histories for these worthies, charming Newgate romances,
such as have been of late the fashion! Is any man so blind that he
cannot see the exact face that is writhing under the thimblerigged
hero's hat? Like Timanthes of old, our artist expresses great passions
without the aid of the human countenance. There is another specimen
-a street row of inebriated bottles. Is there any need of having a
face after this? “Come on!” says Claret-bottle, a dashing, genteel
fellow, with his hat on one ear—“Come on! has any man a mind to
tap me?” Claret-bottle is a little screwed (as one may see by his
legs), but full of gaiety and courage ; not so that stout, apoplectic
Bottle-of-rum, who has staggered against the wall, and has his hand
upon his liver : the fellow hurts himself with smoking, that is clear,
and is as sick as sick can be. See, Port is making away from the
storm, and Double X is as flat as ditch-water. Against these, awful
in their white robes, the sober watchmen come.
Our artist then can cover up faces, and yet show them quite
clearly, as in the thimblerig group; or he can do without faces
altogether; or he can, at a pinch, provide a countenance for a gentle-
man out of any given object-a beautiful Irish physiognomy being
moulded upon a keg of whisky; and a jolly English countenance
frothing out of a pot of ale (the spirit of brave Toby Philpot come
back to reanimate his clay); while in a fungus may be recognized
the physiognomy of a mushroom peer. Finally, if he is at a loss, he
can make a living head, body, and legs out of steel or tortoise-shell,
as in the case of the vivacious pair of spectacles that are jockeying
the nose of Caddy Cuddle.


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
315
Of late years Mr. Cruikshank has busied himself very much with
steel engraving, and the consequences of that lucky invention have
been, that his plates are now sold by thousands, where they could
only be produced by hundreds before. He has made many a book-
seller's and author's fortune (we trust that in so doing he may not
have neglected his own). Twelve admirable plates, furnished yearly
to that facetious little publication, the Comic Almanac, have gained
for it a sale, as we hear, of nearly twenty thousand copies. The idea
of the work was novel ; there was, in the first number especially, a
great deal of comic power, and Cruikshank's designs were so admirable
that the Almanac at once became a vast favourite with the public, and
has so remained ever since.
Besides the twelve plates, this almanac contains a prophetic wood-
cut, accompanying an awful Blarneyhum Astrologicum that appears
in this and other almanacs. There is one that hints in pretty clear
terms that with the Reform of Municipal Corporations the ruin of the
great Lord Mayor of London is at hand. His lordship is meekly
going to dine at an eightpenny ordinary,—his giants in pawn, his men
in armour dwindled to “one poor knight,” his carriage to be sold,
his stalwart aldermen vanished, his sheriffs, alas ! and alas ! in gaol !
Another design shows that Rigdum, if a true, is also a moral and
instructive prophet. John Bull is asleep, or rather in a vision; the
cunning demon, Speculation, blowing a thousand bright bubbles about
him. Meanwhile the rooks are busy at his fob, a knave has cut a
cruel hole in his pocket, a rattle-snake has coiled safe round his feet,
and will in a trice swallow Bull, chair, money and all; the rats are at
his corn-bags (as if, poor devil, he had corn to spare); his faithful dog
is bolting his leg-of-mutton-nay, a thief has gotten hold of his very
candle, and there, by way of moral, is his ale-pot, which looks and
winks in his face, and seems to say, O Bull, all this is froth, and a
cruel satirical picture of a certain rustic who had a goose that laid
certain golden eggs, which goose the rustic slew in expectation of
finding all the eggs at once. This is goose and sage too, to borrow
the pun of “ learned Doctor Gill;" but we shrewdly suspect that
Mr. Cruikshank is becoming a little conservative in his notions.
We love these pictures so that it is hard to part us, and we still
fondly endeavour to hold on, but this wild word, farewell, must be
spoken by the best friends at last, and so good-by, brave wood-cuts :
we feel quite a sadness in coming to the last of our collection.


316
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
In the earlier numbers of the Comic Almanac all the manners
and customs of Londoners that would afford food for fun were noted
down; and if during the last two years the mysterious personage
who, under the title of “Rigdum Funnidos,” compiles this ephemeris,
has been compelled to resort to romantic tales, we must suppose
that he did so because the great metropolis was exhausted, and
it was necessary to discover new worlds in the cloud-land of
fancy. The character of Mr. Stubbs, who made his appearance in
the Almanac for 1839, had, we think, great merit, although his
adventures were somewhat of too tragical a description to provoke
pure laughter.
We should be glad to devote a few pages to the “ Illustrations of
Time," the “Scraps and Sketches," and the “Illustrations of
Phrenology,” which are among the most famous of our artist's publica-
tions; but it is very difficult to find new terms of praise, as find them
one must, when reviewing Mr. Cruikshank's publications, and more
difficult still (as the reader of this notice will no doubt have perceived
for himself long since) to translate his design into words, and go to the
printer's box for a description of all that fun and humour which the
artist can produce by a few skilful turns of his needle. A famous
article upon the “Illustrations of Time" appeared some dozen years
since in Blackwood's Magazine, of which the conductors have always
been great admirers of our artist, as became men of honour and
genius. To these grand qualities do not let it be supposed that we
are laying claim, but, thank heaven, Cruikshank's humour is so good
and benevolent that any man must love it, and on this score we may
speak as well as another.
Then there are the “Greenwich Hospital” designs, which must
not be passed over. “Greenwich Hospital” is a hearty, good-natured
book, in the Tom Dibdin school, treating of the virtues of British tars,
in approved nautical language. They maul Frenchmen and Spaniards,
they go out in brigs and take frigates, they relieve women in distress,
and are yard-arm and yard-arming, athwart-hawsing, marlinspiking,
binnacling, and helm's a-leeing, as honest seamen invariably do, in
novels, on the stage, and doubtless on board ship. This we cannot
take upon us to say, but the artist, like a true Englishman, as he is,
loves dearly these brave guardians of Old England, and chronicles their
rare or fanciful exploits with the greatest good-will. Let any one look
at the noble head of Nelson in the “Family Library,” and they will,


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
317
we are sure, think with us that the designer must have felt and loved
what he drew. There are to this abridgment of Southey's admirable
book many more cuts after Cruikshank; and about a dozen pieces
by the same hand will be found in a work equally popular, Lock-
hart's excellent “Life of Napoleon.” Among these the retreat from
Moscow is very fine ; the Mamlouks most vigorous, furious, and
barbarous, as they should be. At the end of these three volumes
Mr. Cruikshank's contributions to the “Family Library” seem
suddenly to have ceased.
We are not at all disposed to undervalue the works and genius of
Mr. Dickens, and we are sure that he would admit as readily as any
man the wonderful assistance that he has derived from the artist who
has given us the portraits of his ideal personages, and made them
familiar to all the world. Once seen, these figures remain impressed
on the memory, which otherwise would have had no hold upon
them, and the heroes and heroines of Boz become personal acquaint-
ances with each of us. Oh, that Hogarth could have illustrated
Fielding in the same way! and fixed down on paper those grand
figures of Parson Adams, and Squire Allworthy, and the great
Jonathan Wild.
With regard to the modern romance of “ Jack Sheppard,” in which
the latter personage makes a second appearance, it seems to us that
Mr. Cruikshank really created the tale, and that Mr. Ainsworth, as it
were, only put words to it. Let any reader of the novel think over it
for awhile, now that it is some months since he has perused and laid
it down let him think, and tell us what he remembers of the tale ?
George Cruikshank's pictures—always George Cruikshank's pictures.
The storm in the Thames, for instance : all the author's laboured
description of that event has passed clean away—we have only before
the mind's eye the fine plates of Cruikshank : the poor wretch
cowering under the bridge arch, as the waves come rushing in, and
the boats are whirling away in the drift of the great swollen black
waters. And let any man look at that second plate of the murder on
the Thames, and he must acknowledge how much more brilliant the
artist's description is than the writer's, and what a real genius for the
terrible as well as for the ridiculous the former has; how awful is the
gloom of the old bridge, a few lights glimmering from the houses here
and there, but not so as to be reflected on the water at all, which is
too turbid and raging: a great heavy rack of clouds goes sweeping


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
319
designed as it might be, and the expression of the eyes (not an un-
common fault with our artist) much caricatured. The print is cut up,
to use the artist's phrase, by the number of accessories which the
engraver has thought proper, after the author's elaborate description,
elaborately to reproduce. The plate of “Wild discovering Darrell in
the loft” is admirable-ghastly, terrible, and the treatment of it
extraordinarily skilful, minute, and bold. The intricacies of the
tile-work, and the mysterious twinkling of light among the beams,
are excellently felt and rendered ; and one sees here, as in the two
next plates of the storm and murder, what a fine eye the artist has,
what a skilful hand, and what a sympathy for the wild and dreadful.
As a mere imitation of nature, the clouds and the bridge in the
murder picture may be examined by painters who make far higher
pretensions than Mr. Cruikshank. In point of workmanship they
are equally good, the manner quite unaffected, the effect produced
without any violent contrast, the whole scene evidently well and
philosophically arranged in the artist's brain, before he began to put
it upon copper.
The famous drawing of " Jack carving the name on the beam,"
which has been transferred to half the play-bills in town, is over-loaded
with accessories, as the first plate ; but they are much better arranged
than in the last-named engraving, and do not injure the effect of the
principal figure. Remark, too, the conscientiousness of the artist, and
that shrewd pervading idea of form which is one of his principal
characteristics. Jack is surrounded by all sorts of implements of his
profession; he stands on a regular carpenter's table: away in the
shadow under it lie shavings and a couple of carpenter's hampers.
The glue-pot, the mallet, the chisel-handle, the planes, the saws, the
hone with its cover, and the other paraphernalia are all represented
with extraordinary accuracy and forethought. The man's mind has
retained the exact drawing of all these minute objects (unconsciously
perhaps to himself), but we can see with what keen eyes he must go
through the world, and what a fund of facts (as such a knowledge of
the shape of objects is in his profession) this keen student of nature
has stored away in his brain. In the next plate, where Jack is
escaping from his mistress, the figure of that lady, one of the deepest
of the Budúcoltoi, strikes us as disagreeable and unrefined ; that of
Winifred is, on the contrary, very pretty and graceful; and Jack's
puzzled, slinking look must not be forgotten. All the accessories are


320
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
good, and the apartment has a snug, cosy air ; which is not remarkable,
except that it shows how faithfully the designer has performed his
work, and how curiously he has entered into all the particulars of the
subject.
Master Thames Darrell, the handsome young man of the book,
is, in Mr. Cruikshank's portraits of him, no favourite of ours. The
lad seems to wish to make up for the natural insignificance of his face
by frowning on all occasions most portentously. This figure,
borrowed from the compositor's desk, will give a notion of
what we mean. Wild's face is too violent for the great man
of history (if we may call Fielding history), but this is in
consonance with the ranting, frowning, braggadocio character that
Mr. Ainsworth has given him.
The “Interior of Willesden Church” is excellent as a composition,
and a piece of artistical workmanship; the groups are well arranged;
and the figure of Mrs. Sheppard looking round alarmed, as her son is
robbing the dandy Kneebone, is charming, simple, and unaffected.
Not so “ Mrs. Sheppard ill in bed,” whose face is screwed up to an
expression vastly too tragic. The little glimpse of the church seen
through the open door of the room is very beautiful and poetical: it
is in such small hints that an artist especially excels; they are the
morals which he loves to append to his stories, and are always
appropriate and welcome. The boozing ken is not to our liking ;
Mrs. Sheppard is there with her horrified eyebrows again. Why this
exaggeration-is it necessary for the public? We think not, or if they
require such excitement, let our artist, like a true painter as he is,
teach them better things.*
The “ Escape from Willesden Cage” is excellent; the “ Burglary
in Wood's house” has not less merit; “Mrs. Sheppard in Bedlam," a
ghastly picture indeed, is finely conceived, but not, as we fancy, so
** A gentleman (whose wit is so celebrated that one should be very cautious in
repeating his stories) gave the writer a good illustration of the philosophy of
exaggeration. Mr. — was once behind the scenes at the Opera when the scene-
shifters were preparing for the ballet. Flora was to sleep under a bush, whereon
were growing a number of roses, and amidst which was fluttering a gay covey of
butterflies. In size the roses exceeded the most expansive sun-flowers, and the
butterflies were as large as cocked hats ;—the scene-shifter explained to Mr. —
who asked the reason why everything was so magnified, that the galleries could
never see the objects unless they were enormously exaggerated. How many of
our writers and designers work for the galleries ?


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
321
carefully executed; it would be better for a little more careful drawing
in the female figure.
“ Jack sitting for his picture” is a very pleasing group, and
savours of the manner of Hogarth, who is introduced in the company.
The “Murder of Trenchard" must be noticed too as remarkable for
the effect and terrible vigour which the artist has given to the scene.
The“Willesden Churchyard " has great merit too, but the gems of the
book are the little vignettes illustrating the escape from Newgate.
Here, too, much anatomical care of drawing is not required ; the
figures are so small that the outline and attitude need only to be
indicated, and the designer has produced a series of figures quite
remarkable for reality and poetry too. There are no less than ten of
Jack's feats so described by Mr. Cruikshank. (Let us say a word
here in praise of the excellent manner in which the author has carried
us through the adventure.) Here is Jack clattering up the chimney,
now peering into the lonely red room, now opening “the door between
the red room and the chapel.” What a wild, fierce, scared look he
has, the young ruffian, as cautiously he steps in, holding light his bar
of iron. You can see by his face how his heart is beating! If any
one were there ! but no! And this is a very fine characteristic of the
prints, the extreme loneliness of them all. Not a soul is there to dis-
turb him-woe to him who should—and Jack drives in the chapel
gate, and shatters down the passage door, and there you have him on
the leads. Up he goes ! it is but a spring of a few feet from the
blanket, and he is gone-abiit, evasit, erupit! Mr. Wild must catch
him again if he can.
We must not forget to mention “Oliver Twist,” and Mr. Cruik-
shank's famous designs to that work.* The sausage scene at Fagin's,
Nancy seizing the boy ; that capital piece of humour, Mr. Bumble's
courtship, which is even better in Cruikshank's version than in Boz's
exquisite account of the interview ; Sykes's farewell to the dog ; and
the Jew,—the dreadful Jew—that Cruikshank drew! What a fine
touching picture of melancholy desolation is that of Sykes and the
dog! The poor cur is not too well drawn, the landscape is stiff and
formal ; but in this case the faults, if faults they be, of execution rather
add to than diminish the effect of the picture : it has a strange, wild,
* Or his new work, “The Tower of London," which promises even to surpass
Mr. Cruikshank's former productions.
21


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CRITICAL REVIEWS.
dreary, broken-hearted look; we fancy we see the landscape as it
must have appeared to Sykes, when ghastly and with bloodshot eyes
he looked at it. As for the Jew in the dungeon, let us say nothing
of it—what can we say to describe it? What a fine homely poet is
the man who can produce this little world of mirth or woe for us !
Does he elaborate his effects by slow process of thought, or do they
come to him by instinct ? Does the painter ever arrange in his brain
an image so complete, that he afterwards can copy it exactly on the
canvas, or does the hand work in spite of him?
A great deal of this random work of course every artist has done
in his time; many men produce effects of which they never dreamed,
and strike off excellences, haphazard, which gain for them reputation ;
but a fine quality in Mr. Cruikshank, the quality of his success, as we
have said before, is the extraordinary earnestness and good faith with
which he executes all he attempts—the ludicrous, the polite, the low,
the terrible. In the second of these he often, in our fancy, fails, his
figures lacking elegance and descending to caricature ; but there is
something fine in this too: it is good that he should fail, that he should
have these honest naïve notions regarding the beau monde, the
characteristics of which a namby-pamby tea-party painter could hit off
far better than he. He is a great deal too downright and manly to
appreciate the flimsy delicacies of small society-you cannot expect a
lion to roar you like any sucking dove, or frisk about a drawing-room
like a lady's little spaniel.
If then, in the course of his life and business, he has been
occasionally obliged to imitate the ways of such small animals, he has
done so, let us say it at once, clumsily, and like as a lion should.
Many artists, we hear, hold his works rather cheap; they prate about
bad drawing, want of scientific knowledge ;—they would have some-
thing vastly more neat, regular, anatomical.
Not one of the whole band most likely but can paint an Academy
figure better than himself; nay, or a portrait of an alderman's lady and
family of children. But look down the list of the painters and tell us
who are they? How many among these men are poets (makers),
possessing the faculty to create, the greatest among the gifts with
which Providence has endowed the mind of man? Say how many
there are, count up what they have done, and see what in the course
of some nine-and-twenty years has been done by this indefatigable
man.


GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
323
What amazing energetic fecundity do we find in him! As a boy
he began to fight for bread, has been hungry (twice a day we trust)
ever since, and has been obliged to sell his wit for his bread week by
week. And his wit, sterling gold as it is, will find no such purchasers
as the fashionable painter's thin pinchbeck, who can live comfortably
for six weeks, when paid for and painting a portrait, and fancies his
mind prodigiously occupied all the while. There was an artist in
Paris, an artist hairdresser, who used to be fatigued and take
restoratives after inventing a new coiffure. By no such gentle opera-
tion of head-dressing has Cruikshank lived : time was (we are told so
in print) when for a picture with thirty heads in it he was paid three
guineas-a poor week's pittance truly, and a dire week's labour. We
make no doubt that the same labour would at present bring him
twenty times the sum ; but whether it be ill-paid or well, what labour
has Mr. Cruikshank's been! Week by week, for thirty years, to pro-
duce something new; some smiling offspring of painful labour, quite
independent and distinct from its ten thousand jovial brethren ; in
what hours of sorrow and ill-health to be told by the world, “ Make
us laugh or you starve—Give us fresh fun; we have eaten up the old
and are hungry.” And all this has he been obliged to do—to wring
laughter day by day, sometimes, perhaps, out of want, often certainly
from ill-health or depression—to keep the fire of his brain perpetually
alight: for the greedy public will give it no leisure to cool. This he
has done and done well. He has told a thousand truths in as many
strange and fascinating ways; he has given a thousand new and
pleasant thoughts to millions of people; he has never used his wit
dishonestly; he has never, in all the exuberance of his frolicsome
humour, caused a single painful or guilty blush : how little do we
think of the extraordinary power of this man, and how ungrateful we
are to him!
Here, as we are come round to the charge of ingratitude, the
starting-post from which we set out, perhaps we had better conclude.
The reader will perhaps wonder at the high-flown tone in which we
speak of the services and merits of an individual, whom he considers
a humble scraper on steel, that is wonderfully popular already. But
none of us remember all the benefits we owe him; they have come
one by one, one driving out the memory of the other: it is only when
we come to examine them altogether, as the writer has done, who has
a pile of books on the table before him a heap of personal kindnesses


324
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from George Cruikshank (not presents, if you please, for we bought,
borrowed, or stole every one of them)—that we feel what we owe him.
Look at one of Mr. Cruikshank's works, and we pronounce him an
excellent humourist. Look at all: his reputation is increased by a
kind of geometrical progression; as a whole diamond is a hundred
times more valuable than the hundred splinters into which it might
be broken would be. A fine rough English diamond is this about
which we have been writing.


ZOHN LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE
AND CHARACTER.*
T E, who can recall the consulship of Plancus, and quite
V respectable, old-fogeyfied times, remember amongst other
amusements which we had as children the pictures at which we were
permitted to look. There was Boydell's Shakspeare, black and
ghastly gallery of murky Opies, glum Northcotes, straddling Fuselis !
there were Lear, Oberon, Hamlet, with starting muscles, rolling eye-
balls, and long pointing quivering fingers; there was little Prince
Arthur (Northcote) crying, in white satin, and bidding good Hubert
not put out his eyes; there was Hubert crying; there was little
Rutland being run through the poor little body by bloody Clifford ;
there was Cardinal Beaufort (Reynolds) gnashing his teeth, and
grinning and howling demoniacally on his deathbed (a picture frightful
to the present day); there was Lady Hamilton (Romney) waving
a torch, and dancing before a black background,-a melancholy
museum indeed. Smirke's delightful “ Seven Ages” only fitfully
relieved its general gloom. We did not like to inspect it unless
the elders were present, and plenty of lights and company were in
the room.
Cheerful relatives used to treat us to Miss Linwood's. Let the
children of the present generation thank their stars that tragedy is
put out of their way. Miss Linwood's was worsted-work. Your
grandmother or grandaunts took you there, and said the pictures
were admirable. You saw “ the Woodman” in worsted, with his axe
and dog, trampling through the snow; the snow bitter cold to look
at, the woodman's pipe wonderful: a gloomy piece, that made you
shudder. There were large dingy pictures of woollen martyrs, and
* Reprinted from the Quarterly Review, No. 191, Dec. 1854, by permission of
Mr. John Murray.
children of the presen. Miss Linwood's, era, and said the p


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scowling warriors with limbs strongly knitted; there was especially, at
the end of a black passage, a den of lions, that would frighten any
boy not born in Africa, or Exeter 'Change, and accustomed to them.
Another exhibition used to be West's Gallery, where the pleasing
figures of Lazarus in his grave-clothes, and Death on the pale horse,
used to inipress us children. The tombs of Westminster Abbey,
the vaults at St. Paul's, the men in armour at the Tower, frowning
ferociously out of their helmets, and wielding their dreadful swords;
that superhuman Queen Elizabeth at the end of the room, a livid
sovereign with glass eyes, a ruff, and a dirty satin petticoat, riding a
horse covered with steel : who does not remember these sights in
London in the consulship of Plancus ? and the wax-work in Fleet
Street, not like that of Madame Tussaud's, whose chamber of death
is gay and brilliant; but a nice old gloomy waxwork, full of murderers;
and as a chief attraction, the Dead Baby and the Princess Charlotte
lying in state?
Our story-books had no pictures in them for the most part. Frank
(dear old Frank !) had none; nor the “ Parent's Assistant;” nor the
“Evenings at Home;” nor our copy of the “Ami des Enfans: ” there
were a few just at the end of the Spelling-Book ; besides the allegory
at the beginning, of Education leading up Youth to the temple of
Industry, where Dr. Dilworth and Professor Walkinghame stood with
crowns of laurel. There were, we say, just a few pictures at the end
of the Spelling-Book, little oval grey woodcuts of Bewick's, mostly of
the Wolf and the Lamb, the Dog and the Shadow, and Brown, Jones,
and Robinson with long ringlets and little tights; but for pictures, so to
speak, what had we? The rough old woodblocks in the old harlequin-
backed fairy-books had served hundreds of years ; before our Plancus,
in the time of Priscus Plancus—in Queen Anne's time, who knows?
We were flogged at school ; we were fifty boys in our boarding-house,
and had to wash in a leaden trough, under a cistern, with lumps of
fat yellow soap floating about in the ice and water. Are our sons
ever flogged? Have they not dressing-rooms, hair-oil, hip-baths, and
Baden towels? And what picture books the young villains have !
What have these children done that they should be so much happier
than we were ?
We had the “ Arabian Nights” and Walter Scott, to be sure.
Smirke's illustrations to the former are very fine. We did not know
how good they were then ; but we doubt whether we did not prefer


LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER. 327
the little old “ Miniature Library Nights” with frontispieces by
Uwins ; for these books the pictures don't count. Every boy of
imagination does his own pictures to Scott and the “ Arabian
Nights" best.
Of funny pictures there were none especially intended for us
children. There was Rowlandson's “ Doctor Syntax:" Doctor Syntax,
in a fuzz-wig, on a horse with legs like sausages, riding races, making
love, frolicking with rosy exuberant damsels. Those pictures were
very funny, and that aquatinting and the gay-coloured plates very
pleasant to witness; but if we could not read the poem in those days,
could we digest it in this ? Nevertheless, apart from the text which
we could not master, we remember Doctor Syntax pleasantly, like
those cheerful painted hieroglyphics in the Nineveh Court at Syden-
ham. What matter for the arrow-head, illegible stuff? give us the
placid grinning kings, twanging their jolly bows over their rident
horses, wounding those good-humoured enemies, who tumble gaily off
the towers, or drown, smiling, in the dimpling waters, amidst the
anerithmon gelasma of the fish.
After Doctor Syntax, the apparition of Corinthian Tom, Jerry
Hawthorn, and the facetious Bob Logic must be recorded — a
wondrous history indeed theirs was! When the future student of our
manners comes to look over the pictures and the writing of these
queer volumes, what will he think of our society, customs, and lan-
guage in the consulship of Plancus? “ Corinthian," it appears, was
the phrase applied to men of fashion and ton in Plancus's time : they
were the brilliant predecessors of the “swell” of the present period
-brilliant, but somewhat barbarous, it must be confessed. The
Corinthians were in the habit of drinking a great deal too much in
Tom Cribb's parlour : they used to go and see “life” in the gin-
shops; of nights, walking home (as well as they could), they used to
knock down“ Charleys,” poor harmless old watchmen with lanterns,
guardians of the streets of Rome, Planco Consule. They perpetrated
a vast deal of boxing ; they put on the “mufflers” in Jackson's
rooms; they “sported their prads” in the Ring in the Park; they
attended cock-fights, and were enlightened patrons of dogs and
destroyers of rats. Besides these sports, the délassemens of gentlemen
mixing with the people, our patricians, of course, occasionally enjoyed
the society of their own class. What a wonderful picture that used
to be of Corinthian Tom dancing with Corinthian Kate at Almack's !


LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER. 329
for their Majesties! This little fiend, this beggar's brat, cowardly,
murderous, and atheistic as he was (we remember, in those old port-
folios, pictures representing Boney and his family in rags, gnawing
raw bones in a Corsican hut; Boney murdering the sick at Jaffa ;
Boney with a hookah and a large turban, having adopted the Turkish
religion, &c.)--this Corsican monster, nevertheless, had some devoted
friends in England, according to the Giiray chronicle,-a set of
villains who loved atheism, tyranny, plunder, and wickedness in
general, like their French friend. In the pictures these men were all
represented as dwarfs, like their ally. The miscreants got into power
at one time, and, if we remember right, were called the Broad-backed
Administration. One with shaggy eyebrows and a bristly beard, the
hirsute ringleader of the rascals, was, it appears, called Charles James
Fox; another miscreant, with a blotched countenance, was a certain
Sheridan ; other imps were hight Erskine, Norfolk (Jockey of), Moira,
Henry Petty. As in our childish innocence we used to look at these
demons, now sprawling and tipsy in their cups; now scaling heaven,
from which the angelic Pitt hurled them down; now cursing the
light (their atrocious ringleader Fox was represented with hairy cloven
feet, and a tail and horns); now kissing Boney's boot, but inevitably
discomfited by Pitt and the other good angels : we hated these vicious
wretches, as good children should; we were on the side of Virtue and
Pitt and Grandpapa. But if our sisters wanted to look at the port-
folios, the good old grandfather used to hesitate. There were some
prints among them very odd indeed ; some that girls could not
understand ; some that boys, indeed, had best not see. We swiftly
turn over those prohibited pages. How many of them there were in
the wild, coarse, reckless, ribald, generous book of old English
humour !
How savage the satire was—how fierce the assault—what garbage
hurled at opponents—what foul blows were hit—what language of
Billingsgate flung! Fancy a party in a country-house now looking
over Woodward's facetiæ or some of the Gilray comicalities, or the
slatternly Saturnalia of Rowlandson! Whilst we live we must laugh,
and have folks to make us laugh. We cannot afford to lose Satyr
with his pipe and dances and gambols. But we have washed, combed,
clothed, and taught the rogue good manners: or rather, let us say,
he has learned them himself; for he is of nature soft and kindly, and
he has put aside his mad pranks and tipsy habits; and, frolicsome


330
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always, has become gentle and harmless, smitten into shame by the
pure presence of our women and the sweet confiding smiles of our
children. Among the veterans, the old pictorial satirists, we have
mentioned the famous name of one humourous designer who is still
alive and at work. Did we not see, by his own hand, his own
portrait of his own famous face, and whiskers, in the Illustrated
London News the other day? There was a print in that paper of an
assemblage of Teetotallers in “ Sadler's Wells Theatre," and we
straightway recognized the old Roman hand—the old Roman's of the
time of Plancus—George Cruikshank's. There were the old bonnets
and droll faces and shoes, and short trousers, and figures of 1820 sure
enough. And there was George (who has taken to the water-doctrine,
as all the world knows) handing some teetotalleresses over a plank to
the table where the pledge was being administered. How often has
George drawn that picture of Cruikshank! Where haven't we seen
it? How fine it was, facing the effigy of Mr. Ainsworth in Ainsworth's
Magazine when George illustrated that periodical! How grand and
severe he stands in that design in G. C.'s “Omnibus," where he repre-
sents himself tonged like St. Dunstan, and tweaking a wretch of a
publisher by the nose! The collectors of George's etchings—oh the
charming etchings !-oh the dear old “German Popular Tales !” —
the capital “ Points of Humour"—the delightful “ Phrenology" and
“Scrap-books,” of the good time, our time-Plancus's in fact !—the
collectors of the Georgian etchings, we say, have at least a hundred
pictures of the artist. Why, we remember him in his favourite Hessian
boots in “ Tom and Jerry" itself; and in woodcuts as far back as the
Queen's trial. He has rather deserted satire and comedy of late
years, having turned his attention to the serious, and warlike, and
sublime. Having confessed our age and prejudices, we prefer the
comic and fanciful to the historic, romantic, and at present didactic
George. May respect, and length of days, and comfortable repose
attend the brave, honest, kindly, pure-minded artist, humourist,
moralist! It was he first who brought English pictorial humour and
children acquainted. Our young people and their fathers and mothers
owe him many a pleasant hour and harmless laugh. Is there no way
in which the country could acknowledge the long services and brave
career of such a friend and benefactor ?
Since George's time humour has been converted. Comus and
his wicked satyrs and leering fauns have disappeared, and fled into


LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER. 331
the lowest haunts; and Comus's lady (if she had a taste for humour,
which may be doubted) might take up our funny picture books with-
out the slightest precautionary squeamishness. What can be purer
than the charming fancies of Richard Doyle? In all Mr. Punch's
huge galleries can't we walk as safely as through Miss Pinkerton's
school-rooms ? And as we look at Mr. Punch's pictures, at the
Illustrated News pictures, at all the pictures in the book-shop
windows at this Christmas season, as oldsters, we feel a certain pang
of envy against the youngsters—they are too well off. Why hadn't
we picture books ? Why were we flogged so? A plague on the
lictors and their rods in the time of Plancus !
And now, after this rambling preface, we are arrived at the subject
in hand-Mr. John Leech and his “Pictures of Life and Character,"
in the collection of Mr. Punch. This book is better than plum-cake
at Christmas. It is an enduring plum-cake, which you may eat and
which you may slice and deliver to your friends; and to which,
having cut it, you may come again and welcome, from year's end to
year's end. In the frontispiece you see Mr. Punch examining the
pictures in his gallery—a portly, well-dressed, middle-aged, respect-
able gentleman, in a white neckcloth, and a polite evening costume-
smiling in a very bland and agreeable manner upon one of his
pleasant drawings, taken out of one of his handsome portfolios.
Mr. Punch has very good reason to smile at the work and be satisfied
with the artist. Mr. Leech, his chief contributor, and some kindred
humourists, with pencil and pen have served Mr. Punch admirably.
Time was, if we remember Mr. P.'s history rightly, that he did not
wear silk stockings nor well-made clothes (the little dorsal irregularity
in his figure is almost an ornament now, so excellent a tailor has he).
He was of humble beginnings. It is said he kept a ragged little
booth, which he put up at corners of streets ; associated with beadles,
policemen, his own ugly wife (whom he treated most scandalously),
and persons in a low station of life ; earning a precarious livelihood
by the cracking of wild jokes, the singing of ribald songs, and half-
pence extorted from passers-by. He is the Satyric genius we spoke
of anon: he cracks his jokes still, for satire must live ; but he is
combed, washed, neatly clothed, and perfectly presentable. He goes
into the very best company; he keeps a stud at Melton; he has a
moor in Scotland ; he rides in the Park; has his stall at the Opera;
is constantly dining out at clubs and in private society; and goes


332
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
every night in the season to balls and parties, where you see the most
beautiful women possible. He is welcomed amongst his new friends
the great; though, like the good old English gentleman of the song,
he does not forget the small. He pats the heads of street boys and
girls; relishes the jokes of Jack the costermonger and Bob the dust-
man; good-naturedly spies out Molly the cook flirting with police-
man X, or Mary the nursemaid as she listens to the fascinating
guardsman. He used rather to laugh at guardsmen, " plungers,” and
other military men; and was until latter days very contemptuous in
his behaviour towards Frenchmen. He has a natural antipathy to
pomp, and swagger, and fierce demeanour. But now that the guards-
men are gone to war, and the dandies of “The Rag”—dandies no
more—are battling like heroes at Balaklava and Inkermann * by the
side of their heroic allies, Mr. Punch's laughter is changed to hearty
respect and enthusiasm. It is not against courage and honour he
wars : but this great moralist-must it be owned ?-has some popular
British prejudices, and these led him in peace time to laugh at soldiers
and Frenchmen. If those hulking footmen who accompanied the
carriages to the opening of Parliament the other day, would form a
plush brigade, wear only gunpowder in their hair, and strike with
their great canes on the enemy, Mr. Punch would leave off laughing
at Jeames, who meanwhile remains among us, to all outward appear-
ance regardless of satire, and calmly consuming his five meals per
diem. Against lawyers, beadles, bishops and clergy, and authorities,
Mr. Punch is still rather bitter. At the time of the Papal aggression
he was prodigiously angry; and one of the chief misfortunes which
happened to him at that period was that, through the violent opinions
which he expressed regarding the Roman Catholic hierarchy, he lost
the invaluable services, the graceful pencil, the harmless wit, the
charming fancy of Mr. Doyle. Another member of Mr. Punch's
cabinet, the biographer of Jeames, the author of the “Snob Papers,"
resigned his functions on account of Mr. Punch's assaults upon the
present Emperor of the French nation, whose anger Jeames thought
it was unpatriotic to arouse. Mr. Punch parted with these contri-
butors: he filled their places with others as good. The boys at the
railroad stations cried Punch just as cheerily, and sold just as many
numbers, after these events as before.
* This was written in 1854.


LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER. 333
There is no blinking the fact that in Mr. Punch's cabinet Jolin
Leech is the right-hand man. Fancy a number of Punch without
Leech's pictures! What would you give for it? The learned gentle-
men who write the work must feel that, without him, it were as well
left alone. Look at the rivals whom the popularity of Punch has
brought into the field ; the direct imitators of Mr. Leech's manner-
the artists with a manner of their own-how inferior their pencils are
to his in humour, in depicting the public manners, in arresting,
amusing the nation. The truth, the strength, the free vigour, the
kind humour, the John Bull pluck and spirit of that hand are
approached by no competitor. With what dexterity he draws a
horse, a woman, a child! He feels them all, so to speak, like a man.
What plump young beauties those are with which Mr. Punch's chief
contributor supplies the old gentleman's pictorial harem! What
famous thews and sinews Mr. Punch's horses have, and how Briggs,
on the back of them, scampers across country! You see youth,
strength, enjoyment, manliness in those drawings, and in none more
so, to our thinking, than in the hundred pictures of children which
this artist loves to design. Like a brave, hearty, good-natured
Briton, he becomes quite soft and tender with the little creatures,
pats gently their little golden heads, and watches with unfailing
pleasure their ways, their sports, their jokes, laughter, caresses.
Enfans terribles come home from Eton ; young Miss practising her
first flirtation; poor little ragged Polly making dirt-pies in the gutter,
or staggering under the weight of Jacky, her nursechild, who is as
big as herself—all these little ones, patrician and plebeian, meet with
kindness from this kind heart, and are watched with curious nicety
by this amiable observer.
We remember, in one of those ancient Gilray portfolios, a print
which used to cause a sort of terror in us youthful spectators, and in
which the Prince of Wales (his Royal Highness was a Foxite then)
was represented as sitting alone in a magnificent hall after a volup-
tuous meal, and using a great steel fork in the guise of a toothpick.
Fancy the first young gentleman living employing such a weapon in
such a way! The most elegant Prince of Europe engaged with a
two-pronged iron fork—the heir of Britannia with a bident ! The
man of genius who drew that picture saw little of the society which
he satirised and amused. Gilray watched public characters as they
walked by the shop in St. James's Street, or passed through the lobby


334
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
of the House of Commons. His studio was a garret, or little better ;
his place of amusement a tavern-parlour, where his club held its
nightly sittings over their pipes and sanded floor. You could not
have society represented by men to whom it was not familiar. When
Gavarni came to England a few years since—one of the wittiest of
men, one of the most brilliant and dexterous of draughtsmen-he
published a book of “ Les Anglais,” and his Anglais were all French-
men. The eye, so keen and so long practised to observe Parisian
life, could not perceive English character. A social painter must be
of the world which he depicts, and native to the manners which he
portrays.
Now, any one who looks over Mr. Leech's portfolio must see that
the social pictures which he gives us are authentic. What comfortable
little drawing-rooms and dining-rooms, what snug libraries we enter;
what fine young-gentlemanly wags they are, those beautiful little
dandies who wake up gouty old grandpapa to ring the bell; who
decline aunt's pudding and custards, saying that they will reserve
themselves for an anchovy toast with the claret; who talk together in
ball-room doors, where Fred whispers Charley-pointing to a dear
little partner seven years old—“My dear Charley, she has very much
gone off ; you should have seen that girl last season !” Look well at
everything appertaining to the economy of the famous Mr. Briggs :
how snug, quiet, appropriate all the appointments are! What a com-
fortable, neat, clean, middle-class house Briggs's is (in the Bayswater
suburb of London, we should guess from the sketches of the sur-
rounding scenery)! What a good stable he has, with a loose box for
those celebrated hunters which he rides ! How pleasant, clean, and
warm his breakfast-table looks! What a trim little maid brings in
the top-boots which horrify Mrs. B! What a snug dressing-room
he has, complete in all its appointments, and in which he appears
trying on the delightful hunting-cap which Mrs. Briggs flings into the
fire! How cosy all the Briggs party seem in their dining-room :
Briggs reading a Treatise on Dog-breaking by a lamp ; Mamma and
Grannie with their respective needleworks; the children clustering
round a great book of prints—a great book of prints such as this
before us, which, at this season, must make thousands of children
happy by as many firesides ! The inner life of all these people is
represented: Leech draws them as naturally as Teniers depicts
Dutch boors, or Morland pigs and stables. It is your house and


LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER. 335
mine : we are looking at everybody's family circle. Our boys coming
from school give themselves such airs, the young scapegraces ! our
girls, going to parties, are so tricked out by fond mammas-a social
history of London in the middle of the nineteenth century. As such,
future students—lucky they to have a book so pleasant will regard
these pages : even the mutations of fashion they may follow here if
they be so inclined. Mr. Leech has as fine an eye for tailory and milli-
nery as for horse-flesh. How they change those cloaks and bonnets.
How we have to pay milliners' bills from year to year! Where are
those prodigious châtelaines of 1850 which no lady could be with-
out? Where those charming waistcoats, those “stunning ” waistcoats,
which our young girls used to wear a few brief seasons back, and
which cause 'Gus, in the sweet little sketch of “La Mode,” to ask
Ellen for her tailor's address. 'Gus is a young warrior by this time,
very likely facing the enemy at Inkermann; and pretty Ellen, and
that love of a sister of hers, are married and happy, let us hope,
superintending one of those delightful nursery scenes which our
artist depicts with such tender humour. Fortunate artist, indeed !
You see he must have been bred at a good public school ; that he
has ridden many a good horse in his day ; paid, no doubt, out of his
own purse for the originals of some of those lovely caps and bonnets;
•and watched paternally the ways, smiles, frolics, and slumbers of his
favourite little people.
As you look at the drawings, secrets come out of them,-private
jokes, as it were, imparted to you by the author for your special
delectation. How remarkably, for instance, has Mr. Leech observed
the hair-dressers of the present age ! Look at “Mr. Tongs,” whom
that hideous old bald woman, who ties on her bonnet at the glass,
informs that “she has used the whole bottle of Balm of California,
but her hair comes off yet.” You can see the bear's-grease not only
on Tongs' head but on his hands, which he is clapping clammily
together. Remark him who is telling his client “ there is cholera in
the hair ;” and that lucky rogue whom the young lady bids to cut off
“a long thick piece”—for somebody, doubtless. All these men are
different, and delightfully natural and absurd. Why should hair-
dressing be an absurd profession ?
The amateur will remark what an excellent part hands play in
Mr. Leech's pieces: his admirable actors use them with perfect
naturalness. Look at Betty, putting the urn down ; at cook, laying


336
CRITICAL REVIEW'S.
her hands on the kitchen table, whilst her policeman grumbles at the
cold meat. They are cook's and housemaid's hands without mistake,
and not without a certain beauty too. The bald old lady, who is
tying her bonnet at Tongs', has hands which you see are trembling.
Watch the fingers of the two old harridans who are talking scandal :
for what long years past they have pointed out holes in their neigh-
bours' dresses and mud on their flounces. “Here's a go! I've lost
my diamond ring.” As the dustman utters this pathetic cry, and
looks at his hand, you burst out laughing. These are among the
little points of humour. One could indicate hundreds of such as one
turns over the pleasant pages.
There is a little snob or gent, whom we all of us know, who wears
little tufts on his little chin, outrageous pins and pantaloons, smokes
cigars on tobacconists' counters, sucks his cane in the streets, struts
about with Mrs. Snob and the baby (Mrs. S. an immense woman,
whom Snob nevertheless bullies), who is a favourite abomination of
Leech, and pursued by that savage humourist into a thousand of his
haunts. There he is, choosing waistcoats at the tailor's—such waist-
coats! Yonder he is giving a shilling to the sweeper who calls him
“ Capting ;” now he is offering a paletot to a huge giant who is going
out in the rain. They don't know their own pictures, very likely; if
they did, they would have a meeting, and thirty or forty of them
would be deputed to thrash Mr. Leech. One feels a pity for the
poor little bucks. In a minute or two, when we close this discourse
and walk the streets, we shall see a dozen such.
Ere we shut the desk up, just one word to point out to the
unwary specially to note the backgrounds of landscapes in Leech's
drawings—homely drawings of moor and wood, and seashore and
London street—the scenes of his little dramas. They are as excel-
lently true to nature as the actors themselves; our respect for the
genius and humour which invented both increases as we look and
look again at the designs. May we have more of them ; more
pleasant Christmas volumes, over which we and our children can
laugh together. Can we have too much of truth, and fun, and beauty,
and kindness?
END OF "CRITICAL REVIEWS."


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Mr. HORACE MILLIKEN, a Widower, a wealthy City Merchant.
GEORGE MILLIKEN, a Child, his Son.
Captain Touchit, his Friend.
CLARENCE KICKLEBURY, brother to Milliken's late Wife.
JOHN HOWELL, M.'s Butler and confidential Servant.
CHARLES PAGE, Foot-boy.
BULKELEY, Lady Kicklebury's Servant.
MR. BONNINGTON.
Coachman, Cabman; a Bluecoat Bey, another Boy (Mrs. Prior's Sons).
LADY KICKLEBURY, Mother-in-law to Milliken.
Mrs. BONNINGTON, Milliken's Mother (married again).
Mrs. PRIOR.
Miss Prior, her Daughter, Governess to Milliken's Children.
ARABELLA MILLIKEN, a Child.
MARY BARLOW, School-room Maid.
A grown-up Girl and Child of Mrs. Prior's, Lady K.'s Maid, Cook.


THE
WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
ACT I.
SCENE.—MILLIKEN's villa at Richmond; two drawing-rooms opening
into one another. The late Mrs. MILLIKEN's portrait over the
mantelpiece; book-cases, writing-tables, piano, newspapers, a hand-
somely furnished saloon. The back-room opens, with very large
windows, on the lawn and pleasure-ground; gate, and wall-over
which the heads of a cab and a carriage are seen, as persons arrive.
Fruit, and a ladder on the walls. A door to the dining-room,
another to the sleeping-apartments, avc.
JOHN.—Everybody out; governor in the city ; governess (heigh-
ho !) walking in the Park with the children ; ladyship gone out in the
carriage. Let's sit down and have a look at the papers. Buttons !
fetch the Morning Post out of Lady Kicklebury's room. Where's the
Daily News, sir?
PAGE.—Think it's in Milliken's room.
John.—Milliken ! you scoundrel! What do you mean by
Milliken? Speak of your employer as your governor if you like ; but
not as simple Milliken. Confound your impudence ! you'll be calling
me Howell next.
PAGE.—Well ! I didn't know. You call him Milliken.
JOHN.-Because I know him, because I'm intimate with him,
because there's not a secret he has but I may have it for the asking ;
because the letters addressed to Horace Milliken, Esq., might as well
be addressed John Howell, Esq., for I read 'em, I put 'em away and
docket 'em, and remember 'em. I know his affairs better than he


310
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
does : his income to a shilling, pay his tradesmen, wear his coats if I
like. I may call Mr. Milliken what I please ; but not you, you little
scamp of a clod-hopping ploughboy. Know your station and do your
business, or you don't wear them buttons long, I promise you. [Exit
Page.]
Let me go on with the paper [reads]. How brilliant this writing
is ! Times, Chronicle, Daily News, they're all good, blest if they ain't.
How much better the nine leaders in them three daily papers is, than
nine speeches in the House of Commons! Take a very best speech
in the 'Ouse now, and compare it with an article in The Times ! I
say, the newspaper has the best of it for philosophy, for wit, novelty,
good sense too. And the party that writes the leading article is
nobody, and the chap that speaks in the House of Commons is a
hero. Lord, Lord, how the world is 'umbugged ! Pop'lar repre-
sentation ! what is pop'lar representation ? Dammy, it's a farce.
Hallo! this article is stole! I remember a passage in Montesquieu
uncommonly like it. [Goes and gets the book. As he is standing upon
sofa to get it, and sitting down to read it, Miss Prior and the Children
have come in at the garden. Children pass across stage. Miss PRIOR
enters by open window, bringing flowers into the room.]
John.—It is like it. (He slaps the book, and seeing Miss Prior
who enters, then jumps up from sofa, saying very respectfully,]
JOHN.-I beg your pardon, Miss.
Miss P.— sarcastically.] Do I disturb you, Howell?
John.—Disturb! I have no right to say—a servant has no right
to be disturbed, but I hope I may be pardoned for venturing to look
at a volume in the libery, Miss, just in reference to a newspaper
harticle—that's all, Miss.
Miss P.—You are very fortunate in finding anything to interest
you in the paper, I'm sure.
JOHN.—Perhaps, Miss, you are not accustomed to political dis-
cussion, and ignorant of—ah-I beg your pardon: a servant, I know,
has no right to speak. [Exit into dining-room, making a low bow.]
Miss PRIOR. —The coolness of some people is really quite extraordi-
nary! the airs they give themselves, the way in which they answer one,
the books they read ! Montesquieu : “Esprit des Lois !” (takes book up
which J. has left on sofa.] I believe the man has actually taken this
from the shelf. I am sure Mr. Milliken, or her ladyship, never would.
The other day “ Helvetius” was found in Mr. Howell's pantry, for-


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
341
sooth! It is wonderful how he picked up French whilst we were
abroad. “Esprit des Lois !” what is it? it must be dreadfully stupid.
And as for reading “Helvetius” (who, I suppose, was a Roman
general), I really can't understand how - Dear, dear! what airs
these persons give themselves! What will come next? A footman-
I beg Mr. Howell's pardon-a butler and confidential valet lolls on
the drawing-room sofa, and reads Montesquieu ! Impudence! And
add to this, he follows me for the last two or three months with eyes
that are quite horrid. What can the creature mean? But I forgot-
I am only a governess. A governess is not a lady—a governess is
but a servant-a governess is to work and walk all day with the
children, dine in the school-room, and come to the drawing-room to
play the man of the house to sleep. A governess is a domestic, only
her place is not the servants' hall, and she is paid not quite so well
as the butler who serves her her glass of wine. Odious! George !
Arabella ! there are those little wretches quarrelling again ! [Exit.
Children are heard calling out, and seen quarrelling in garden.]
JOHN [re-entering).-See where she moves! grace is in all her
steps. 'Eaven in her high-no—a-heaven in her heye, in every
gesture dignity and love—ah, I wish I could say it! I wish you may
procure it, poor fool! She passes by me—she tr-r-amples on me.
Here's the chair she sets in [kisses it.] Here's the piano she plays
on. Pretty keys, them fingers outhivories you! When she plays on
it, I stand and listen at the drawing-room door, and my heart thr-obs
in time! Fool, fool, fool! why did you look on her, John Howell !
why did you beat for her, busy heart! You were tranquil till you
knew her! I thought I could have been a-happy with Mary till then.
That girl's affection soothed me. Her conversation didn't amuse me
much, her ideers ain't exactly elevated, but they are just and proper.
Her attentions pleased me. She ever kep'the best cup of tea for me.
She crisped my buttered toast, or mixed my quiet tumbler for me, as
I sat of hevenings and read my newspaper in the kitching. She
respected the sanctaty of my pantry. When I was a-studying there,
she never interrupted me. She darned my stockings for me, she
starched and folded my chokers, and she sowed on the babsent
buttons of which time and chance had bereft my linning. She has a
good heart, Mary has. I know she'd get up and black the boots for
me of the coldest winter mornings. She did when we was in humbler
life, she did.


342
THE WOLVES AND THE LAUB.
Enter MARY.
You have a good heart, Mary!
MARY.-Have I, dear John ? (sadly.]
JOHN.— Yes, child-yes. I think a better never beat in woman's
bosom. You're good to everybody-good to your parents whom you
send half your wages to : good to your employers whom you never
robbed of a halfpenny.
Mary [whimpering).—Yes, I did, John. I took the jelly when
you were in bed with the influenza; and brought you the pork-wine
negus.
John.-Port, not pork, child. Pork is the hanimal which Jews
ab'or. Port is from Oporto in Portugal.
MARY [still crying).—Yes, John;you know everything a’most, John.
John.—And you, poor child, but little! It's not heart you want,
you little trump, it's education, Mary : it's information : it's head,
head, head! You can't learn. You never can learn. Your ideers
ain't no good. You never can hinterchange 'em with mine. Con-
versation between us is impossible. It's not your fault. Some
people are born clever; some are born tall, I ain't tall.
MARY.-Ho! you're big enough for me, John. [Offers to take
his hand.]
JOHN.--Let go my 'and-my a-hand, Mary! I say, some people
are born with brains, and some with big figures. Look at that great
ass, Bulkeley, Lady K.'s man—the besotted, stupid beast! He's as
big as a life-guardsman, but he ain't no more education nor ideers
than the ox he feeds on.
Mary.—Law, John, whathever do you mean?
JOHN.-Hm ! you know not, little one! you never can know.
Have you ever felt the pangs of imprisoned genius ? have you ever
felt what 'tis to be a slave?
Mary.--Not in a free country, I should hope, John Howell—no
such a thing. A place is a place, and I know mine, and am content
with the spear of life in which it pleases heaven to place me, John:
and I wish you were, and remembered what we learned from our
parson when we went to school together in dear old Pigeoncot, John
- when you used to help little Mary with her lessons, John, and
fought Bob Brown, the big butcher's boy, because he was rude to
me, John, and he gave you that black hi.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
343
JOHN.—Say eye, Mary, not heye (gently).
MARY.-Eye; and I thought you never looked better in all your
life than you did then: and we both took service at Squire Milliken's
-me as dairy-girl, and you as knife-boy; and good masters have
they been to us from our youth hup: both old Squire Milliken and
Mr. Charles as is master now, and poor Mrs. as is dead, though she
had her tantrums—and I thought we should save up and take the
“Milliken Arms”-and now we have saved up-and now, now, now
-oh, you are a stone, a stone, a stone ! and I wish you were hung
round my neck, and I were put down the well! There's the hup-
stairs bell. [She starts, changing her manner as she hears the bell, and
exit.
JOHN [looking after her).—It's all true. Gospel-true. We were
children in the same village—sat on the same form at school. And
it was for her sake that Bob Brown the butcher's boy whopped me.
A black eye! I'm not handsome. But if I were ugly, ugly as the
Saracen's 'Ead, ugly as that beast Bulkeley, I know it would be all
the same to Mary. She has never forgot the boy she loved, that
brought birds’-nests for her, and spent his halfpenny on cherries, and
bought a fairing with his first half-crown—a brooch it was, I remem-
ber, of two billing doves a-hopping on one twig, and brought it home
for little yellow-haired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked Mary. Lord, Lord !
I don't like to think how I've kissed 'em, the pretty cheeks ! they've
got quite pale now with crying—and she has never once reproached
me, not once, the trump, the little tr-rump!
Is it my fault [stamping) that Fate has separated us? Why did
my young master take me up to Oxford, and give me the run of his
libery and the society of the best scouts in the University? Why did he
take me abroad? Why have I been to Italy, France, Jummany with
him—their manners noted and their realms surveyed, by jingo! I've
improved myself, and Mary has remained as you was. I try a con-
versation, and she can't respond. She's never got a word of poetry
beyond Watt's Ims, and if I talk of Byron or Moore to her, I'm blest
if she knows anything more about 'em than the cook, who is as
hignorant as a pig, or that beast Bulkeley, Lady Kick's footman.
Above all, why, why did I see the woman upon whom my wretched
heart is fixed for ever, and who carries away my soul with her-
prostrate, I say, prostrate, through the mud at the skirts of her gownd !
Enslaver ! why did I ever come near you? O enchantress Kelipso !


344
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
how you have got hold of me! It was Fate, Fate, Fate. When
Mrs. Milliken fell ill of scarlet fever at Naples, Milliken was away at
Petersborough, Rooshia, looking after his property. Her foring
woman fled. Me and the governess remained and nursed her and
the children. We nursed the little ones out of the fever. We
buried their mother. We brought the children home over Halp and
Happenine. I nursed 'em all three. I tended 'em all three, the
orphans, and the lovely gu-gu-governess. At Rome, where she took
ill, I waited on her; as we went to Florence, had we been attacked
by twenty thousand brigands, this little arm had courage for them
all! And if I loved thee, Julia, was I wrong? and if I basked in thy
beauty day and night, Julia, am I not a man? and if, before this
Peri, this enchantress, this gazelle, I forgot poor little Mary Barlow,
how could I help it? I say, how the doose could I help it?
[Enter Lady KICKLEBURY, BULKELEY following with parcels and
a spaniel.
LADY K.-Are the children and the governess come home?
JOHN.—Yes, my lady [in a perfectly altered tone).
Lady K.—Bulkeley, take those parcels to my sitting-room.
John.—Get up, old stoopid. Push along, old daddylonglegs
[aside to BULKELEY].
LADY K.-Does any one dine here to-day, Howell?
JOHN.—Captain Touchit, my lady.
LADY K.-He's always dining here.
JOHN.—My master's oldest friend.
LADY K.-Don't tell me. He comes from his club. He smells
of smoke; he is a low, vulgar person. Send Pinhorn up to me when
you go downstairs. [Exit Lady K.]
JOHN.-I know. Send Pinhorn to me, means, Send my bonny
brown hair, and send my beautiful complexion, and send my figure-
and, O Lord ! O Lord ! what an old tigress that is! What an old
Hector! How she do twist Milliken round her thumb! He's born
to be bullied by women: and I remember hin henpecked-let's see,
ever since—ever since the time of that little gloveress at Woodstock,
whose picter poor Mrs. M. made such a noise about when she found
it in the lumber-room. Heh! her picture will be going into the
lumber-room some day. M. must marry to get rid of his mother-in-


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
345
law and mother over him: no man can stand it, not M. himself,
who's a Job of a man. Isn't he, look at him! [As he has been
speaking, the bell has rung, the Page has run to the garden-door, and
MILLIKEN enters through the garden, laden with a hamper, band-box,
and cricket-bat.
MilliKEN.—Why was the carriage not sent for me, Howell ?
There was no cab at the station, and I have had to toil all the way
up the hill with these confounded parcels of my lady's.
John.—I suppose the shower took off all the cabs, sir. When
did a man ever git a cab in a shower ?—or a policeman at a pinch-
or a friend when you wanted him—or anything at the right time, sir ?
MILLIKEN.—But, sir, why didn't the carriage come, I say?
JOHN.— You know.
MilliKEN.—How do you mean I know? confound your
impudence !
JOHN.—Lady Kicklebury took it-your mother-in-law took it-
went out a-visiting-Ham Common, Petersham, Twick'nam-doose
knows where. She, and her footman, and her span'l dog.
Milliken.—Well, sir, suppose her ladyship did take the carriage ?
Hasn't she a perfect right? And if the carriage was gone, I want to
know, John, why the devil the pony-chaise wasn't sent with the
groom ? Am I to bring a bonnet-box and a hamper of fish in my
own hands, I should like to know?
JOHN.—Heh! (laughs).
MILLIKEN.—Why do you grin, you Cheshire cat ?
JOHN.—Your mother-in-law had the carriage; and your mother
sent for the pony-chaise. Your Pa wanted to go and see the Wicar
of Putney. Mr. Bonnington don't like walking when he can ride.
MILLIKEN.—And why shouldn't Mr. Bonnington ride, sir, as long
as there's a carriage in my stable? Mr. Bonnington has had the gout,
sir! Mr. Bonnington is a clergyman, and married to my mother.
He has every title to my respect.
JOHN.-And to your pony-chaise-yes, sir.
MILLIKEN.—And to everything he likes in this house, sir.
John.—What a good fellow you are, sir! You'd give your head
off your shoulders, that you would. Is the fish for dinner to-day ?
Band-box for my lady, I suppose, sir? (Looks in]—Turban, feathers,
bugles, marabouts, spangles-doose knows what. Yes, it's for her
ladyship. [To Page). Charles, take this band-box to her lady-


346
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
ship's maid. [To his master.] What sauce would you like with the
turbot ? Lobster sauce or Hollandaise ? Hollandaise is best-most
wholesome for you. Anybody besides Captain Touchit coming to
dinner?
MILLIKEN.—No one that I know of.
JOHN.–Very good. Bring up a bottle of the brown hock? He
likes the brown hock, Touchit does. [Exit John.]
Enter Children. They run to MilliKEN.
Both.—How d’you do, Papa! How do you do, Papa !
MILLIKEN.—Kiss your old father, Arabella. Come here, George
What ?
GEORGE.—Don't care for kissing—kissing's for gals. Have you
brought me that bat from London ? '
MILLIKEN.—Yes. Here's the bat; and here's the ball (takes one
from pocket-and-
GEORGE.— Where's the wickets, Papa. 0-0-0—where's the
wickets ? [howls.]
MILLIKEN.—My dear, darling boy ! I left them at the office.
What a silly papa I was to forget them! Parkins forgot them.
GEORGE.—Then turn him away, I say! Turn him away! [He
stamps.]
MilliKEN.—What! an old, faithful clerk and servant of your
father and grandfather for thirty years past? An old man, who loves
us all, and has nothing but our pay to live on?
ARABELLA.—Oh, you naughty boy!
GEORGE.—I ain't a naughty boy.
ARABELLA.—You are a naughty boy.
GEORGE.—He ! he! he ! he! [Grins at her.]
MILLIKEN.—Hush, children ! Here, Arabella darling, here is a
book for you. Look-aren't they pretty pictures ?
ARABELLA.—Is it a story, Papa ? I don't care for stories in
general. I like something instructive and serious. Grandmamma
Bonnington and grandpapa say—
GEORGE.—He's not your grandpapa.
ARABELLA.—He is my grandpapa.
GEORGE.—Oh, you great story! Look! look! there's a cab.
[Runs out. The head of a Hansom cab is seen over the garden-gate.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
347
Bell rings. Page comes. Altercation between Cabman and Captain
Touchit appears to go on, during which]
MilliKEN.—Come and kiss your old father, Arabella. He's
hungry for kisses.
ARABELLA.—Don't. I want to go and look at the cab ; and to
tell Captain Touchit that he mustn't use naughty words. [Runs
towards garden. Page is seen carrying a carpet-bag.]
Enter Touchit through the open window smoking a cigar.
TOUCHIT.—How d'ye do, Milliken? How are tallows, hey, my
noble merchant? I have brought my bag, and intend to sleep-
GEORGE.—I say, godpapa-
Touchit.-Well, godson !
GEORGE.—Give us a cigar!
TOUCHIT.—Oh, you enfant terrible !
MILLIKEN [wheezily). — Ah — ahem — George Touchit! you
wouldn't mind-a-smoking that cigar in the garden, would you ?
Ah-ah!
Touchit.—Hullo! What's in the wind now? You used to be a
most inveterate smoker, Horace.
MilliKEN.—The fact is, my mother-in-law-Lady Kicklebury-
doesn't like it, and while she's with us, you know
Touchit.—Of course, of course [throws away cigar). I beg her
ladyship's pardon. I remember when you were courting her daughter
she used not to mind it.
Milliken.—Don't—don't allude to those times. [He looks up at
his wife's picture.]
GEORGE.—My mamma was a Kicklebury. The Kickleburys are
the oldest family in all the world. My name is George Kicklebury
Milliken, of Pigeoncot, Hants; the Grove, Richmond, Surrey; and
Portland Place, London, Esquire—my name is.
Touchit.—You have forgotten Billiter Street, hemp and tallow
merchant.
GEORGE.—Oh, bother! I don't care about that. I shall leave
that when I'm a man : when I'm a man and come into my property.
MILLIKEN.—You come into your property ?
GEORGE.— I shall, you know, when you're dead, papa. I shall
have this house, and Pigeoncot; and the house in town—no, I don't


348
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
mind about the house in town—and I shan't let Bella live with me-
no, I won't.
BELLA.—No; I won't live with you. And I'll have Pigeoncot.
GEORGE.—You shan't have Pigeoncot. I'll have it: and the
ponies : and I won't let you ride them—and the dogs, and you shan't
have even a puppy to play with—and the dairy—and won't I have
as much cream as I like that's all !
Touchit.— What a darling boy! Your children are brought up
beautifully, Milliken. It's quite delightful to see them together.
GEORGE.—And I shall sink the name of Milliken, I shall.
MilliKEN.—Sink the name? why, George?
GEORGE.—Because the Millikens are nobodies—grandmamma
says they are nobodies. The Kickleburys are gentlemen, and came
over with William the Conqueror.
BELLA.—I know when that was. One thousand one hundred
and one thousand one hundred and onety-one !
GEORGE.—Bother when they came over! But I know this, when
I come into the property I shall sink the name of Milliken.
MilliKEN.—So you are ashamed of your father's name, are you,
George, my boy?
George.—Ashamed! No, I ain't ashamed. Only Kicklebury
is sweller. I know it is. Grandmamma says so.
BELLA.—My grandmamma does not say so. My dear grand-
mamma says that family pride is sinful, and all belongs to this
wicked world ; and that in a very few years what our names are will
not matter.
GEORGE.—Yes, she says so because her father kept a shop; and
so did Pa's father keep a sort of shop-only Pa's a gentleman now.
Touchit.—Darling child! How I wish I were married ! If I
had such a dear boy as you, George, do you know what I would
give him ?
GEORGE [quite pleased). — What would you give him, godpapa ?
TOUCHIT.—I would give him as sound a flogging as ever boy
had, my darling. I would whip this nonsense out of him. I would
send him to school, where I would pray that he might be well
thrashed : and if when he came home he was still ashamed of his
father, I would put him apprentice to a chimney-sweep—that's what
I would do.
GEORGE.—I'm glad you're not my father, that's all.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
349
Bella.—And I'm glad you're not my father, because you are a
wicked man!
MilliKEN.-Arabella!
Bella.—Grandmamma says so. He is a worldly man, and the
world is wicked. And he goes to the play : and he smokes, and
he says-
Touchit.-Bella, what do I say?
BELLA.-Oh, something dreadful! You know you do! I heard
you say it to the cabman.
Touchit. -So I did, so I did! He asked me fifteen shillings
from Piccadilly, and I told him to go to -- to somebody whose
name begins with a D.
CHILDREN.—Here's another carriage passing.
BELLA.— The Lady Rumble's carriage.
GEORGE.—No, it ain't : it's Captain Boxer's carriage (they run into
the garden).
Touchit.-And this is the pass to which you have brought your-
self, Horace Milliken! Why, in your wife's time, it was better than
this, my poor fellow!
MILLIKEN.—Don't speak of her in that way, George Touchit!
Touchit.—What have I said ? I am only regretting her loss for
your sake. She tyrannized over you ; turned your friends out of
doors; took your name out of your clubs; dragged you about from
party to party, though you can no more dance than a bear, and from
opera to opera, though you don't know “God Save the Queen" from
“Rule Britannia." You don't, sir; you know you don't. But
Arabella was better than her mother, who has taken possession of
you since your widowhood.
MILLIKEN.—My dear fellow ! no, she hasn't. There's my
mother.
Touchit.—Yes, to be sure, there's Mrs. Bonnington, and they
quarrel over you like the two ladies over the baby before King
Solomon.
MilliKEN.—Play the satirist, my good friend ! laugh at my
weakness !
TOUCHIT.—I know you to be as plucky a fellow as ever stepped,
Milliken, when a man's in the case. I know you and I stood up to
each other for an hour and a half at Westminster.
MILLIKEN.—Thank you! We were both dragons of war!,


350
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
tremendous champions ! Perhaps I am a little soft as regards
women. I know my weakness well enough ; but in my case what is
my remedy ? Put yourself in my position. Be a widower with two
young children. What is more natural than that the mother of my
poor wife should come and superintend my family ? My own
mother can't. She has a half-dozen of little half brothers and sisters,
and a husband of her own to attend to. I dare say Mr. Bonnington
and my mother will come to dinner to-day.
Touchit.—Of course they will, my poor old Milliken, you don't
dare to dine without them.
Milliken.—Don't go on in that manner, George Touchit! Why
should not my stepfather and my mother dine with me? I can
afford it. I am a domestic man and like to see my relations about
me. I am in the city all day.
TOUCHIT.—Luckily for you.
MilliKEN.—And my pleasure of an evening is to sit under my
own vine and under my own fig-tree with my own olive-branches
round about me ; to sit by my fire with my children at my knees; to
coze over a snug bottle of claret after dinner with a friend like you to
share it ; to see the young folks at the breakfast-table of a morning,
and to kiss them and so off to business with a cheerful heart. This
was my scheme in marrying, had it pleased heaven to prosper my
plan. When I was a boy and came from school and college, I
used to see Mr. Bonnington, my father-in-law, with his young
ones clustering round about him, so happy to be with him ! so
eager to wait on him ! all down on their little knees round
my mother before breakfast or jumping up on his after dinner.
It was who should reach his hat, and who should bring his
coat, and who should fetch his umbrella, and who should get the
last kiss.
TOUCHIT.—What? didn't he kiss you ? Oh, the hard-hearted
old ogre !
MILLIKEN.-Don't, Touchit! Don't laugh at Mr. Bonnington !
He is as good a fellow as ever breathed. Between you and me, as
my half brothers and sisters increased and multiplied year after year,
I used to feel rather lonely, rather bowled out, you understand.
But I saw them so happy that I longed to have a home of my own.
When my mother proposed Arabella forme (for she and Lady
Kicklebury were immense friends at one time), I was glad enough to
It wanother be on him about himy fatherom schoo


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
351
give up clubs and bachelorhood, and to settle down as a married
man. My mother acted for the best. My poor wife's character, my
mother used to say, changed after marriage. I was not as happy as
I hoped to be; but I tried for it. George, I am not so comfortable
now as I might be. A house without a mistress, with two mothers-in-
law reigning over it—one worldly and aristocratic, another what you
call serious, though she don't mind a rubber of whist: I give you my
honour my mother plays a game at whist, and an uncommonly good
game too-each woman dragging over a child to her side: of course
such a family cannot be comfortable. [Bell rings.] There's the first
dinner-bell. Go and dress, for heaven's sake. .
Touchit.—Why dress? There is no company !
MilliKEN.—Why? ah! her ladyship likes it, you see. And it
costs nothing to humour her. Quick, for she don't like to be kept
waiting.
Touchit.—Horace Milliken ! what a pity it is the law declares a
widower shall not marry his wife's mother! She would marry you
else,—she would, on my word.
Enter John.
JOHN.--I have took the Captain's things in the blue room, sir.
[Exeunt gentlemen, John arranges tables, &c.]
Ha! Mrs. Prior! I ain't partial to Mrs. Prior. I think she's an
artful old dodger, Mrs. Prior. I think there's mystery in her
unfathomable pockets, and schemes in the folds of her umbrella.
But—but she's Julia's mother, and for the beloved one's sake I am
civil to her.
Mrs. Prior.—Thank you Charles [to the Page, who has been seen
to let her in at the garden-gate], I am so much obliged to you! Good
afternoon, Mr. Howell. Is my daughter—are the darling children
well? Oh, I am quite tired and weary! Three horrid omnibuses
were full, and I have had to walk the whole weary long way. Ah,
times are changed with me, Mr. Howell. Once when I was young
and strong, I had my husband's carriage to ride in.
John [aside].—His carriage ! his coal-waggon! I know well
enough who old Prior was. A merchant? yes, a pretty merchant !
kep' a lodging-house, share in a barge, touting for orders, and at last
a snug little place in the Gazette.
MRS. PRIOR.—How is your cough, Mr. Howell? I have brought
nd's carriavell. Ondecary long


352
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
you some lozenges for it (takes numberless articles from her pocket),
and if you would take them of a night and morning-oh, indeed, you
would get better! The late Sir Henry Halford recommended them
to Mr. Prior. He was his late Majesty's physician and ours. You
know we have seen happier times, Mr. Howell. Oh, I am quite tired
and faint.
John.-Will you take anything before the school-room tea,
ma'am ? You will stop to tea, I hope, with Miss Prior, and our young
folks ?
MRS. PRIOR.—Thank you : a little glass of wine when one is so
faint-a little crumb of biscuit when one is so old and tired! I have
not been accustomed to want, you know; and in my poor dear
Mr. Prior's time-
JOHN.—I'll fetch some wine, ma'am. [Exit to the dining-room.]
Mrs. PRIOR.—Bless the man, how abrupt he is in his manner !
some wine, maram. alexinto
He quite shocks a poor lady who has been used to better days.
What's here? Invitations-ho! Bills for Lady Kicklebury! They
are not paid. Where is Mr. M. going to dine, I wonder ? Captain
and Mrs. Hopkinson, Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, request the
pleasure. Request the pleasure ! Of course they do. They are
always asking Mr. M. to dinner. They have daughters to marry, and
Mr. M. is a widower with three thousand a year, every shilling of
it. I must tell Lady Kicklebury. He must never go to these places
-never, never-mustn't be allowed. [While talking, she opens all the
letters on the table, rummages the portfolio and writing-box, looks at
cards on mantelpiece, work in work-basket, tries tea-box, and shows the
greatest activity and curiosity.]
Sir John Soing to dine, I Kicklebury? days.
Re-enter John, bearing a tray with cakes, a decanter, &c.
Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howell! Oh, oh, dear me, not so much
as that! Half a glass, and one biscuit, please. What elegant sherry!
[sips a little, and puts down glass on tray). Do you know, I remember
in better days, Mr. Howell, when my poor dear husband ?
JOHN.-Beg your pardon. There's Milliken's bell going like
mad. [Exit John.]
MRS. PRIOR.—What an abrupt person ! Oh, but it's comfortable,
this wine is! And—and I think how my poor Charlotte would like
a little—she so weak, and ordered wine by the medical man! And


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
353
when dear Adolphus comes home from Christ's Hospital, quite
tired, poor boy, and hungry, wouldn't a bit of nice cake do hin)
good! Adolphus is so fond of plum-cake, the darling child! And
so is Frederick, little saucy rogue ; and I'll give them my piece, and
keep my glass of wine for my dear delicate angel Shatty! [Takes
bottle and paper out of her pocket, cuts off a great slice of cake, and pours
wine from wine-glass and decanter into bottle.]
Enter PAGE.
PAGE.—Master George and Miss Bella is going to have their
teas down here with Miss Prior, Mrs. Prior, and she's up in the
school-room, and my lady says you may stay to tea.
Mrs. PRIOR.—Thank you, Charles ! How tall you grow! Those
trousers would fit my darling Frederick to a nicety. Thank you,
Charles. I know the way to the nursery. [Exit Mrs. P.]
PAGE.—Know the way! I believe she do know the way. Been
a having cake and wine. Howell always gives her cake and wine-
jolly cake, ain't it! and wine, oh, my !
Re-enter John.
JOHN.—You young gormandizing cormorant! What! five meals
a day ain't enough for you! What? beer ain't good enough for you,
hey? [Pulls boy's ears.]
Page [crying].—Oh, oh, do-o-n't, Mr. Howell. I only took
half a glass, upon my honour.
JOHN.—Your a-honour, you lying young vagabond ! I wonder
the ground don't open and swallow you. Half a glass ! (holds up
decanter.] You've took half a bottle, you young Ananias ! Mark this,
sir! When I was a boy, a boy on my promotion, a child kindly took
in from charity-school, a horphan in buttons like you, I never lied;
no, nor never stole, and you've done both, you little scoundrel.
Don't tell me, sir ! there's plums on your coat, crumbs on your cheek,
and you smell sherry, sir! I ain't time to whop you now, but come
to my pantry to-night after you've took the tray down. Come
without your jacket on, sir, and then I'll teach you what it is to lie and
steal. There's the outer bell. Scud, you vagabond !


351
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Enter Lady K.
LADY K.—What was that noise, pray?
JOHN.–A difference between me and young Page, my lady. I
was instructing him to keep his hands from picking and stealing.
I was learning him his lesson, my lady, and he was a-crying it out.
Lady K.-It seems to me you are most unkind to that boy,
Howell. He is my boy, sir. He comes from my estate. I will not
have him ill-used. I think you presume on your long services. I
shall speak to my son-in-law about you. ["Yes, my lady; no, my
lady; very good, my lady.” John has answered each sentence as she is
speaking, and exit grately bowing.] That man must quit the house.
Horace says he can't do without him, but he must do without him.
My poor dear Arabella was fond of him, but he presumes on that
defunct angel's partiality. Horace says this person keeps all his
accounts, sorts all his letters, manages all his affairs, may be trusted
with untold gold, and rescued little George out of the fire. Now I
have come to live with my son-in-law, I will keep his accounts, sort
his letters, and take charge of his money: and if little Georgy gets
into the grate, I will take him out of the fire. What is here?
Invitation from Captain and Mrs. Hopkinson. Invitation from
Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, who don't even ask me ! Monstrous !
he never shall go—he shall not go! (Mrs. Prior has re-entered, she
drops a very low curtsey to Lady K., as the latter, perceiving her, lays
the cards down.]
MRS. PRIOR.—Ah, dear madam! how kind your ladyship's
message was to the poor lonely widowwoman! Oh, how thoughtful
it was of your ladyship to ask me to stay to tea!
LADY K.-With your daughter and the children? Indeed, my
good Mrs. Prior, you are very welcome!
Mrs. PRIOR.—Ah! but isn't it a cause of thankfulness to be
made welcome ? Oughtn't I to be grateful for these blessings ?-yes,
I say blessings. And I am-I am, Lady Kicklebury—to the mother
-of-that angel who is gone (points to the picture). It was your
sainted daughter left us—left my child to the care of Mr. Milliken,
and—and you, who are now his guardian angel I may say. You are,
Lady Kicklebury—you are. I say to my girl, Julia, Lady Kicklebury
is Mr. Milliken's guardian angel, is your guardian angel—for without
you could she keep her place as governess to these darling children ?


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
357
that my little Adolphus, for whom your son's bounty procured his
place at Christ's Hospital, was very much touched indeed, the dear
child, with Mr. Bonnington's discourse last Sunday three weeks, and
refused to play marbles afterwards at school? The wicked, naughty
boys beat the poor child; but Adolphus has his consolation! Is
Master Edward well, ma'am, and Master Robert, and Master
Frederick, and dear little funny Master William ?
Mrs. B.—Thank you, Mrs. Prior; you have a good heart,
indeed!
Mrs. P.—Ah, what blessings those dears are to you! I wish
your dearest little grandson-
Mrs. B.— The little naughty wretch ! Do you know, Mrs. Prior,
my grandson, George Milliken, spilt the ink over my dear husband's
bands, which he keeps in his great dictionary; and fought with my
child, Frederick, who is three years older than George-actually beat
his own uncle !
MRS. P.-Gracious mercy! Master Frederick was not hurt, I
hope ?
Mrs. B.-No; he cried a great deal; and then Robert came up,
and that graceless little George took a stick; and then my husband
came out, and do you know George Milliken actually kicked
Mr. Bonnington on his shins, and butted him like a little naughty
ram?
Mrs. P.—Mercy ! mercy! what a little rebel! He is spoiled,
dear madam, and you know by whom.
Mrs. B.-By his grandmamma Kicklebury. I know it. I want
my son to whip that child, but he refuses. He will come to no good,
that child.
Mrs. P.-Ah, madam! don't say so ! Let us hope for the best.
Master George's high temper will subside when certain persons who
pet him are gone away.
Mrs. B.-Gone away! they never will go away! No, mark my
words, Mrs. Prior, that woman will never go away. She has made
the house her own : she commands everything and everybody in it.
She has driven me—me-Mr. Milliken's own mother—almost out of
it. She has so annoyed my dear husband, that Mr. Bonnington will
scarcely come here. Is she not always sneering at private tutors,
because Mr. Bonnington was my son's private tutor, and greatly
valued by the late Mr. Milliken? Is she not making constant


358
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
allusions to old women marrying young men, because Mr. Bonnington
happens to be younger than me? I have no words to express my
indignation respecting Lady Kicklebury. She never pays any one,
and runs up debts in the whole town. Her man Bulkeley's conduct
in the neighbourhood is quite-quite-
MRS. B.-Gracious goodness, ma'am, you don't say so! And
then what an appetite the gormandizing monster has ! Mary tells
me that what he eats in the servants' hall is something perfectly
frightful.
Mrs. B.-Everybody feeds on my poor son! You are looking at
my cap, Mrs. Prior ? [During this time Mrs. Prior has been peering
into a parcel which Mrs. BONNINGTON brought in her hand.] I brought
it with me across the Park. I could not walk through the Park in
my cap. Isn't it a pretty ribbon, Mrs. Prior ?
Mrs. P.-Beautiful ! beautiful! How blue becomes you! Who
would think you were the mother of Mr. Milliken and seven other
darling children? You can afford what Lady Kicklebury cannot.
Mrs. B.-And what is that, Prior? A poor clergyman's wife, with
a large family, cannot afford much.
Mrs. P.-He! he! You can afford to be seen as you are, which
Lady K. cannot. Did you not remark how afraid she seemed lest I
should enter her dressing-room? Only Pinhorn, her maid, goes
there, to arrange the roses, and the lilies, and the figure—he! he !
Oh, what a sweet, sweet cap-ribbon! When you have worn it, and
are tired of it, you will give it me, won't you? It will be good enough
for poor old Martha Prior!
Mrs. B.—Do you really like it? Call at Greenwood Place,
Mrs. Prior, the next time you pay Richmond a visit, and bring your
little girl with you, and we will see.
Mrs. P.-Oh, thank you ! thank you! Nay, don't be offended !
I must! I must! [Kisses Mrs. BONNINGTON.]
Mrs. B.—There, there! We must not stay chattering! The bell
has rung. I must go and put the cap on, Mrs. Prior.
Mrs. P.-And I may come, too? You are not afraid of my
seeing your hair, dear Mrs. Bonnington! Mr. Bonnington too young
for you! Why, you don't look twenty !
Mrs. B.—Oh, Mrs. Prior!
Mrs. P.-Well, five-and-twenty, upon my word—not more than
five-and-twenty—and that is the very prime of life! [Exeunt Mrs. B.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
359
and Mrs. P. hand in hand. As Captain Touchit enters, dressed for
dinner, he bows and passes on.]
Touchit.—So, we are to wear our white cravats, and our
varnished boots, and dine in ceremony. What is the use of a man
being a widower, if he can't dine in his shooting-jacket? Poor Mill!
He has the slavery now without the wife. [He speaks sarcastically to
the picture.] Well, well! Mrs. Milliken! You, at any rate, are gone;
and, with the utmost respect for you, I like your picture even better
than the original. Miss Prior!
being a who clavery now without the woni You, at any rate, are fotter
.
---, .. ceremony. What is the west
Enter Miss PRIOR.
Miss PRIOR.—I beg pardon. I thought you were gone to
dinner. I heard the second bell some time since. [She is drawing
back.]
Touchit.—Stop! I say, Julia ! [She returns, he looks at her,
takes her hand.] Why do you dress yourself in this odd poky way?
You used to be a very smartly dressed girl. Why do you hide your
hair, and wear such a dowdy, high gown, Julia ?
JULIA.—You mustn't call me Julia, Captain Touchit.
TOUCHIT.—Why? when I lived in your mother's lodging, I called
you Julia. When you brought up the tea, you didn't mind being
called Julia. When we used to go to the play with the tickets the
Editor gave us, who lived on the second floor,
JULIA.—The wretch !—don't speak of him!
Touchit.—Ah! I am afraid he was a sad deceiver, that Editor.
He was a very clever fellow. What droll songs he used to sing !
What a heap of play-tickets, diorama-tickets, concert tickets, he used
to give you! Did he touch your heart, Julia ?
JULIA.—Fiddlededee ! No man ever touched my heart, Captain
Touchit.
Touchit.—What! not even Tom Flight, who had the second
floor after the Editor left it, and who cried so bitterly at the idea of
going out to India without you? You had a tendre for him—a little
passion—you know you had. Why, even the ladies here know it.
Mrs. Bonnington told me that you were waiting for a sweetheart in
India, to whom you were engaged; and Lady Kicklebury thinks you
are dying in love for the absent swain.
JULIA.—I hope—I hope-you did not contradict them, Captain
Touchit.


362
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Miss P.-Ah! I am very glad you stay, for if I had not you for
a protector I think you know I must go, Lady Kicklebury. I think
you know there are those who would forget my attachment to these
darling children, my services to-to her--and dismiss the poor
governess. But while you stay I can stay, dear Lady Kicklebury!
With you to defend me from jealousy I need not quite be afraid.
Lady K.-Of Mrs. Bonnington ? Of Mr. Milliken's mother; of
the parson's wife who writes out his stupid sermons, and has half-a-
dozen children of her own ? I should think not indeed! I am the
natural protector of these children. I am their mother. I have no
husband! You stay in this house, Miss Prior. You are a faithful,
attached creature—though you were sent in by somebody I don't like
very much [pointing to Touchit, who went off laughing when JULIA
began her speech, and is now looking at prints, &c., in next room).
Miss P.—Captain Touchit may not be in all things what one
could wish. But his kindness has formed the happiness of my life in
making me acquainted with you, ma'am : and I am sure you would
not have me be ungrateful to him.
LADY K.-A most highly principled young woman. [Goes out in
garden and walks up and down with Captain Touchit.]
Enter Mrs. BONNINGTON.
Miss P.-Oh, how glad I am you are come, Mrs. Bonnington.
Have you brought me that pretty hymn you promised me? You
always keep your promises, even to poor governesses. I read dear
Mr. Bonnington's sermon! It was so interesting that I really could
not think of going to sleep until I had read it all through ; it was
delightful, but oh! it's still better when he preaches it! I hope I did
not do wrong in copying a part of it? I wish to impress it on the
children. There are some worldly influences at work with them, dear
madam [looking at Lady K. in the garden), which I do my feeble effort
to-to modify. I wish you could come oftener.
Mrs. B.—I will try, my dear—I will try. Emily has sweet
dispositions.
Mrs. P.-Ah, she takes after her grandmamma Bonnington !
Mrs. B.-But George was sadly fractious just now in the school-
room because I tried him with a tract.
Miss P.-Let us hope for better times ! Do be with your
children, dear Mrs. Bonnington, as constantly as ever you can, for


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
363
my sake as well as theirs ! I want protection and advice as well as
they do. The governess, dear lady, looks up to you as well as the
pupils; she wants the teaching which you and dear Mr. Bonnington
can give her ! Ah, why could not Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington come
and live here, I often think? The children would have companions
in their dear young uncles and aunts; so pleasant it would be. The
house is quite large enough; that is, if her ladyship did not occupy
the three south rooms in the left wing. Ah, why, why couldn't
you come ?
MRS. B.—You are a kind, affectionate creature, Miss Prior. I
do not very much like the gentleman who recommended you to
Arabella, you know. But I do think he sent my son a good governess
for his children.
Two Ladies walk up and down in front garden.
Touchit enters.
Touchit.—Miss Julia Prior, you are a wonder! I watch you
with respect and surprise.
Miss P.-Me! what have I done ? a poor friendless governess-
respect me ?
Touchit. I have a mind to tell those two ladies what I think of
Miss Julia Prior. If they knew you as I know you, O Julia Prior,
what a short reign yours would be !
Miss P.-I have to manage them a little. Each separately it is
not so difficult. But when they are together, oh, it is very hard
sometimes.
Enter Milliken dressed, shakes hands with Miss P.
MILLIKEN.— Miss Prior! are you well? Have the children been
good ? and learned all their lessons ?
Miss P.—The children are pretty good, sir.
MILLIKEN.—Well, that's a great deal as times go. Do not bother
them with too much learning, Miss Prior. Let them have an easy
life. Time enough for trouble when age comes.
Enter John.
JOHN.—Dinner, sir. [And exit.]
MILLIKEN. —Dinner, ladies. My Lady Kicklebury (gives arm to
Lady K).


364
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
LADY K.-My dear Horace, you shouldn't shake hands with
Miss Prior. You should keep people of that class at a distance, my
dear creature. (They go in to dinner, Captain Touchit following with
MRS. BONNINGTON. As they go out, enter Mary with children's tea-
tray, exc., children following, and after them MRS. PRIOR. MARY
gives her tea.]
Mrs. Prior.—Thank you, Mary! You are so very kind! Oh,
what delicious tea !
GEORGY.—I say, Mrs. Prior, I dare say you would like to dine
best, wouldn't you?
Mrs. P.—Bless you, my darling love, I had my dinner at one
o'clock with my children at home.
GEORGY.-So had we: but we go in to dessert very often ; and
then don't we have cakes and oranges and candied-peel and
macaroons and things! We are not to go in to-day; because Bella
ate so many strawberries she made herself ill.
BELLA.—So did you.
GEORGY.—I'm a man, and men eat more than women, twice as
much as women. When I'm a man I'll eat as much cake as ever I
like. I say, Mary, give us the marmalade.
MRS. P.-Oh, what nice marmalade! I know of some poor
children-
Miss P.-Mamma! don't, mamma [in an imploring tone].
Mrs. P.-I know of two poor children at home, who have very
seldom nice marmalade and cake, young people.
GEORGE.—You mean Adolphus and Frederick and Amelia, your
children. Well, they shall have marmalade and cake.
BELLA.—Oh, yes! I'll give them mine.
Mrs. P.—Darling, dearest child !
GEORGE (his mouth full).—I wont give 'em mine : but they can
have another pot, you know. You have always got a basket with
you, Mrs. Prior. I know you have. You had it that day you took
the cold fowl.
Mrs. P.-For the poor blind black man ! oh, how thankful he was !
GEORGE.—I don't know whether it was for a black man. Mary,
get us another pot of marmalade.
Mary.—I don't know, Master George.
GEORGE.-I will have another pot of marmalade. If you don't,
I'll—I'll smash everything I will.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
365
BELLA. -Oh, you naughty, rude boy!
GEORGE.-Hold your tongue ! I will have it. Mary shall go and
get it.
Mrs. P.-Do humour him, Mary; and I'm sure my poor children
at home will be the better for it.
GEORGE.—There's your basket ! now put this cake in, and this
pat of butter, and this sugar. Hurray, hurray! Oh, what jolly fun !
Tell Adolphus and Amelia I sent it to them—tell 'em they shall never
want for anything as long as George Kicklebury Milliken, Esq., can
give it 'em. Did Adolphus like my grey coat that I didn't want ?
Miss P.—You did not give him your new grey coat ?
GEORGE.—Don't you speak to me; I'm going to school—I'm not
going to have no more governesses soon.
Mrs. P.-Oh, my dear Master George, what a nice coat it is, and
how well my poor boy looked in it!
Miss P.-Don't, mamma! I pray and entreat you not to take the
things!
Enter John from dining-room with a tray.
JOHN.—Some cream, some jelly, a little champagne, Miss Prior;
I thought you might like some.
GEORGE.-Oh, jolly ! give us hold of the jelly ! give us a glass of
champagne.
JOHN.— I will not give you any.
GEORGE.—I'll smash every glass in the room if you don't ; I'll cut
my fingers; I'll poison myself—there! I'll eat all this sealing-wax if
you don't, and it's rank poison, you know it is.
MRS. P.—My dear Master George! [Exit John.]
GEORGE.—Ha, ha! I knew you'd give it me ; another boy taught
me that.
BELLA.—And a very naughty, rude boy.
GEORGE.—He, he, he! hold your tongue, Miss! And said he
always got wine so; and so I used to do it to my poor mamma,
Mrs. Prior. Usedn't to like mamma much.
BELLA.—Oh, you wicked boy!
GEORGY.—She usedn't to see us much. She used to say I tried
her nerves: what's nerves, Mrs. Prior? Give us some more cham-
pagne! Will have it. Ha, ha, ha! ain't it jolly? Now I'll go out
and have a run in the garden. [Runs into garden].


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
367
MRS. P.-And we kep' a lodging-house in Bury Street, St. James's,
which your father's brother furnished for us, who was an extensive oil-
merchant. He brought you up; and afterwards he quarrelled with
my poor James, Robert Prior did, and he died, not leaving us a
shilling. And my dear eldest boy went into a wine-merchant's office :
and my poor darling Julia became a governess, when you had had
the best of education at Clapham ; you had, Julia. And to think
that you were obliged, my blessed thing, to go on in the Oriental
ballet of “The Rose and the Bul- "
Miss P.—Mamma, hush, hush! forget that story.
Enter Page from dining-room.
PAGE.—Miss Prior ! please, the ladies are coming from the dining-
room. Mrs. B. have had her two glasses of port, and her ladyship is
now a-telling the story about, the Prince of Wales when she danced
with him at Carlton House. [Exit Page.]
Miss P. —Quick, quick! There, take your basket! Put on your
bonnet, and good-night, mamma. Here, here is a half-sovereign and
three shillings; it is all the money I have in the world ; take it, and
buy the shoes for Adolphus.
MRS. P.—And the under-clothing, my love-little Amelia's under-
clothing ?
Miss P.—We will see about it. Good-night [kisses her]. Don't
be seen here, -Lady K. doesn't like it.
Pi-out on to about two glas
Enter Gentlemen and Ladies from dining-room.
LADY K.-We follow the Continental fashion. We don't sit after
dinner, Captain Touchit.
CAPTAIN T.-Confound the Continental fashion ! I like to sit a
little while after dinner [aside).
MRS. B.-So does my dear Mr. Bonnington, Captain Touchit.
He likes a little port-wine after dinner.
TOUCHIT.—I'm not surprised at it, ma’am.
MRS. B.—When did you say your son was coming, Lady Kickle-
bury ?
LADY K.-My Clarence! He will be here immediately, I hope,
the dear boy. You know my Clarence ?
He routes


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
369
Mrs. B.--Lady Kicklebury ! is my son's establishment not good
enough for any powdered monster in England ? Is the house of a
British merchant- ?
LADY K.-My dear creature ! my dear creature ! it is the house of
a British merchant, and a very comfortable house.
Mrs. B.— Yes, as you find it.
LADY K.—Yes, as I find it, when I come to take care of my
departed angel's children, Mrs. Bonnington-[pointing to picture]-of
that dear seraph's orphans, Mrs. Bonnington. You cannot. You
have other duties—other children—a husband at home in delicate
health, who-
Mrs. B.—Lady Kicklebury, no one shall say I don't take care of
my dear husband !
MILLIKEN.—My dear mother! My dear Lady Kicklebury !
[To T., who has come forward.] They spar so every night they meet,
Touchit. Ain't it hard ?
Lady K.-I say you do take care of Mr. Bonnington, Mrs. Bon-
nington, my dear creature ! and that is why you can't attend to Horace.
And as he is of a very easy temper-except sometimes with his poor
Arabella's mother—he allows all his tradesmen to cheat him, all his
servants to cheat him, Howell to be rude to everybody—to me
amongst other people, and why not to my servant Bulkeley, with whom
Lord Toddleby's groom of the chambers gave me the very highest
character.
Mrs. B.--I'm surprised that noblemen have grooms in their
chambers. I should think they were much better in the stables. I
am sure I always think so when we dine with Doctor Clinker. His
man does bring such a smell of the stable with him.
LADY K.-He! he! you mistake, my dearest creature ! Your
poor mother mistakes, my good Horace. You have lived in a quiet
and most respectable sphere—but not-not-
Mrs. B.-Not what, Lady Kicklebury? We have lived at Rich-
mond twenty years—in my late husband's time—when we saw a
great deal of company, and when this dear Horace was a dear boy
at Westminster School. And we have paid for everything we have
had for twenty years, and we have owed not a penny to any trades-
man, though we mayn't have had powdered footmen six feet high, who
were impertinent to all the maids in the place- Don't ! I will speak,
Horace—but servants who loved us, and who lived in our families.
24


370
THE WOLVES AND THE LAJIB.
MILLIKEN.- Mamma, now, my dear, good old mother! I am
sure Lady Kicklebury meant no harm.
LADY K.—Me! my dear Horace! harm! What harm could I
mean?
MilliKEN.—Come ! let us have a game at whist. Touchit, will
you make a fourth? They go on so every night almost. Ain't it a
pity, now?
Touchit.-Miss Prior generally plays, doesn't she?
MILLIKEN.—And a very good player, too. But I thought you
might like it.
Touchit.—Well, not exactly. I don't like sixpenny points,
Horace, or quarrelling with old dragons about the odd trick. I will
go and smoke a cigar on the terrace, and contemplate the silver
Thames, the darkling woods, the starry hosts of heaven. 1-I like
smoking better than playing whist. (MILLIKEN rings bell.]
MILLIKEN.—Ah, George ! you're not fit for domestic felicity.
Touchit.—No, not exactly.
Howell enters.
MILLIKEN.—Lights and a whist-table. Oh, I see you bring 'em.
You know everything I want. He knows everything I want, Howell
does. Let us cut. Miss Prior, you and I are partners !


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
371
ACT II.
SCENE. — As before.
LADY K.-Don't smoke, you naughty boy. I don't like it.
Besides it will encourage your brother-in-law to smoke.
CLARENCE K.-Anything to oblige you, I'm sure. But can't do
without it, mother ; it's good for my health. When I was in the
Plungers, our doctor used to say, “You ought never to smoke more
than eight cigars a day”—an order, you know, to do it-don't
you see?
LADY K.—Ah, my child! I am very glad you are not with those
unfortunate people in the East.
K.-So am I. Sold out just in time. Much better fun being
here, than having the cholera at Scutari. Nice house, Milliken's.
Snob, but good fellow-good cellar, doosid good cook. Really, that
salmi yesterday,—couldn't have it better done at the “Rag” now.
You have got into good quarters here, mother.
LADY K.—The meals are very good, and the house is very good ;
the manners are not of the first order. But what can you expect of
city people? I always told your poor dear sister, when she married
Mr. Milliken, that she might look for everything substantial,—but
not manners. Poor dear Arabella would marry him.
K.-Would! that is a good one, mamma! Why, you made
her! It's a dozen years ago. But I recollect, when I came home
from Eton, seeing her crying because Charley Tufton-
LADY K.-Mr. Tufton had not a shilling to bless himself with.
The marriage was absurd and impossible.
K.-He hadn't a shilling then. I guess he has plenty now.
Elder brother killed, out hunting. Father dead. Tuf a baronet,
with four thousand a year if he's a shilling.
LADY K.-Not so much.
K.-Four thousand if it's a shilling. Why, the property adjoins


372
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Kicklebury's—I ought to know. I've shot over it a thousand times.
Heh! I remember, when I was quite a young 'un, how Arabella used
to go out into Tufton Park to meet Charley—and he is a doosid
good fellow, and a gentlemanlike fellow, and a doosid deal better
than this city fellow.
LADY K.-If you don't like this city fellow, Clarence, why do
you come here? why didn't you stop with your elder brother at
Kicklebury ?
K.—Why didn't I? Why didn't you stop at Kicklebury,
mamma? Because you had notice to quit. Serious daughter-in-
law, quarrels about management of the house—row in the building.
My brother interferes, and politely requests mamma to shorten her
visit. So it is with your other two daughters ; so it was with Arabella
when she was alive. What shindies you used to have with her, Lady
Kicklebury! Heh! I had a row with my brother and sister about a
confounded little nursery-maid.
LADY K.-Clarence !
K.—And so I had notice to quit too. And I'm in very good
quarters here, and I intend to stay in 'em, mamma. I say—-
LADY K.—What do you say?
K.-Since I sold out, you know, and the regiment went abroad,
confound me, the brutes at the “Rag" will hardly speak to me! I
was so ill, I couldn't go. Who the doose can live the life I've led
and keep health enough for that infernal Crimea ? Besides, how
could I help it? I was so cursedly in debt that I was obliged to have
the money, you know. You hadn't got any.
LADY K.-Not a halfpenny, my darling. I am dreadfully in
debt myself.
K.-I know you are. So am I. My brother wouldn't give me
any, not a dump. Hang him! Said he had his children to look to.
Milliken wouldn't advance me any more—said I did him in that
horse transaction. He ! he! he ! so I did! What had I to do but
to sell out? And the fellows cut me, by Jove. Ain't it too bad ?
I'll take my name off the “Rag,” I will, though.
LADY K.-We must sow our wild oats, and we must sober down ;
and we must live here, where the living is very good and very cheap,
Clarence, you naughty boy! And we must get you a rich wife. Did
you see at church yesterday that young woman in light green, with
rather red hair and a pink bonnet ?


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
373
K.-I was asleep, ma'am, most of the time, or I was bookin' up
the odds for the Chester Cup. When I'm bookin' up, I think of
nothin' else, ma'am,-nothin'.
LADY K.-That was Miss Brocksopp—Briggs, Brown and Brock-
sopp, the great sugar-bakers. They say she will have eighty thousand
pound. We will ask her to dinner here.
K.-I say—why the doose do you have such old women to dinner
here? Why don't you get some pretty girls ? Such a set of
confounded old frumps as eat Milliken's mutton I never saw.
There's you, and his old mother Mrs. Bonnington, and old
Mrs. Fogram, and old Miss What's-her-name, the woman with the
squint eye, and that immense Mrs. Crowder. It's so stoopid, that
if it weren't for Touchit coming down sometimes, and the billiards
and boatin', I should die here—expire, by gad! Why don't you have
some pretty women into the house, Lady Kicklebury ?
LADY K.-Why! Do you think I want that picture taken
down: and another Mrs. Milliken? Wisehead! If Horace married
again, would he be your banker, and keep this house, now that
ungrateful son of mine has turned me out of his ? No pretty woman
shall come into the house whilst I am here.
K.-Governess seems a pretty woman : weak eyes, bad figure,
poky, badly dressed, but doosid pretty woman.
LADY K.-Bah! There is no danger from her. She is a most
faithful creature, attached to me beyond everything. And her eyes
-her eyes are weak with crying for some young man who is in India.
She has his miniature in her room, locked up in one of her drawers.
K.—Then how the doose did you come to see it?
LADY K.—We see a number of things, Clarence. Will you drive
with me?
K.—Not as I knows on, thank you. No, Ma; drivin's too slow :
and you're goin' to call on two or three old dowagers in the Park ?
Thank your ladyship for the delightful offer.
Enter JOHN.
JOHN.—Please, sir, here's the man with the bill for the boats;
two pound three.
K.-Damn it, pay it-Jon't bother me!
JOHN.—Haven't got the money, sir.
LADY K.-Howell ! I saw Mr. Milliken give you a cheque for


374
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
twenty-five pounds before he went into town this morning. Look,
sir (runs, opens drawer, takes out cheque-book]. There it is, marked,
“ Howell, 251."
JOHN.- Would your ladyship like to step down into my pantry
and see what I've paid with the twenty-five pounds ? Did my master
leave any orders that your ladyship was to inspect my accounts ?
LADY K.-Step down into the pantry! inspect your accounts ? I
never heard such impertinence. What do you mean, sir ?
K.-Dammy, sir, what do you mean?
JOHN.—I thought as her ladyship kept a heye over my master's
private book, she might like to look at mine too.
LADY K.-Upon my word, this insolence is too much.
JOHN.-I beg your ladyship's pardon. I am sure I have said
nothing.
K.-Said, sir! your manner is mutinous, by Jove, sir! if I had
you in the regiment !
John.—I understood that you had left the regiment, sir, just
before it went on the campaign, sir.
K.-Confound you, sir! (Starts up.]
LADY K.-Clarence, my child, my child !
JOHN.—Your ladyship needn't be alarmed ; I'm a little man, my
lady, but I don't think Mr. Clarence was a-goin' for to hit me, my
lady; not before a lady, I'm sure. I suppose, sir, that you won't pay
the boatman?
K.—No, sir, I won't pay him, nor any man who uses this sort of
damned impertinence !
JOHN.—I told Rullocks, sir, I thought it was jest possible you
wouldn't. [Exit.]
K.—That's a nice man, that is an impudent villain !
LADY K.—Ruined by Horace's weakness. He ruins everybody,
poor good-natured Horace !
K.—Why don't you get rid of the blackguard ?
LADY K.—There is a time for all things, my dear. This man is
very convenient to Horace. Mr. Milliken is exceedingly lazy, and
Howell spares him a great deal of trouble. Some day or other I
shall take all this domestic trouble off his hands. But not yet :
your poor brother-in-law is restive, like many weak men. He is
subjected to other influences : his odious mother thwarts me a
great deal.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
375
K.—Why, you used to be the dearest friends in the world. I
recollect when I was at Eton-
LADY K.-Were ; but friendship don't last for ever. Mrs. Bon-
nington and I have had serious differences since I came to live
here: she has a natural jealousy, perhaps, at my superintending her
son's affairs. When she ceases to visit at the house, as she very
possibly will, things will go more easily; and Mr. Howell will go too,
you may depend upon it. I am always sorry when my temper breaks
out, as it will sometimes.
K.-Won't it, that's all !
LADY K.–At his insolence, my temper is high ; so is yours, my
dear. Calm it for the present, especially as regards Howell.
K.—Gad! d'you know I was very nearly pitching into him? But
once, one night in the Haymarket, at a lobster-shop, where I was with
some fellows, we chaffed some other fellows, and there was one fellah
-quite a little fellah—and I pitched into him, and he gave me the
most confounded lickin' I ever had in my life, since my brother
Kicklebury licked me when we were at Eton; and that, you see, was
a lesson to me, ma'am. Never trust those little fellows, never chaff
'em : dammy, they may be boxers.
LADY K.—You quarrelsome boy! I remember you coming home
with your naughty head so bruised. [Looks at watch.] I must go now
to take my drive. [Exit LADY K.)
K.-I owe a doose of a tick at that billiard-room; I shall have
that boatman dunnin' me. Why hasn't Milliken got any horses to
ride? Hang him ! suppose he can't ride- suppose he's a tailor.
He ain't my tailor though, though I owe him a doosid deal of money.
There goes mamma with that darling nephew and niece of mine.
[Enter BULKELEY.] Why haven't you gone with my lady, you, sir ? [to
Bulkeley].
BULKELEY. — My lady have a-took the pony-carriage, sir ;
Mrs. Bonnington have a-took the hopen carriage and 'orses, sir,
this mornin', which the Bishop of London is 'olding a confirmation
at Teddington, sir, and Mr. Bonnington is attending the serimony.
And I have told Mr. 'Owell, sir, that my lady would prefer the hopen
carriage, sir, which I like the hexercise myself, sir, and that the pony-
carriage was good enough for Mrs. Bonnington, sir; and Mr. 'Owell
was very hinsolent to me, sir; and I don't think I can stay in the
'ouse with him.
this reddington, sile. "Owell, sir, tercis


376
THE WOLVES AND THE LAJIB.
K.-Hold your jaw, sir.
BULKELEY.— Yes, sir. (Exit BuLKELEY.]
K.-I wonder who that governess is ?-sang rather prettily last
night-wish she'd come and sing now—wish she'd come and amuse
me—I've seen her face before where have I seen her face?—it ain't
at all a bad one. What shall I do? dammy, I'll read a book : I've not
read a book this ever so long. What's here? [looks amongst books,
selects one, sinks down in easy chair so as quite to be lost].
Enter Miss Prior.
Miss PRIOR.—There's peace in the house! those noisy children
are away with their grandmamma. The weather is beautiful, and I
hope they will take a long drive. Now I can have a quiet half-hour,
and finish that dear pretty “Ruth”-oh, how it makes me cry, that
pretty story. [Lays down her bonnet on table-goes to glass-takes off
cap and spectacles-arranges her hair-Clarence has got on chair looking
at her.]
K.-By Jove! I know who it is now! Remember her as well
as possible. Four years ago, when little Foxbury used to dance in
the ballet over the water. Don't I remember her! She boxed my
ears behind the scenes, by jingo. [Coming forward.] Miss Pember-
ton! Star of the ballet! Light of the harem! Don't you remember
the grand Oriental ballet of the “ Bulbul and the Peri?".
Miss P.-Oh! (screams.] No, n-no, sir. You are mistaken:
my name is Prior. -never was at the “ Coburg Theatre.” I-
K. (seizing her hand.]-No, you don't, though! What! don't you
remember well that little hand slapping this face? which nature hadn't
then adorned with whiskers, by gad! You pretend you have for-
gotten little Foxbury, whom Charley Calverley used to come after,
and who used to drive to the “Coburg” every night in her brougham.
How did you know it was the “ Coburg?” That is a good one !
Had you there, I think.
Miss P.-Sir, in the name of heaven, pity me! I have to keep
my mother and my sisters and my brothers. When—when you saw
me, we were in great poverty; and almost all the wretched earnings
I made at that time were given to my poor father then lying in the
Queen's Bench hard by. You know there was nothing against my
character-you know there was not. Ask Captain Touchit whether
I was not a good girl. It was he who brought me to this house.


THE W'OLVES AND THE LAMB.
377
K.-Touchit! the old villain !
Miss P.-I had your sister's confidence. I tended her abroad
on her death-bed. I have brought up your nephew and niece. Ask
any one if I have not been honest ? As a man, as a gentleman, I
entreat you to keep my secret! I implore you for the sake of my
poor mother and her children ! [kneeling.]
K.—By Jove ! how handsome you are! How crying becomes
your eyes! Get up; get up. Of course I'll keep your secret, but-
Miss P.-Ah ! ah ! [She screams as he tries to embrace her.
Howell rushes in.]
HOWELL.—Hands off, you little villain ! Stir a step, and I'll kill
you, if you were a regiment of captains! What! insult this lady
who kept watch at your sister's death-bed and has took charge of her
children ! Don't be frightened, Miss Prior. · Julia-dear, dear Julia
-I'm by you. If the scoundrel touches you, I'll kill him. 1-I love
you—there—it's here_love you madly—with all my 'art—my a-heart !
Miss P.-Howell—for heaven's sake, Howell !
K.-Pooh-ooh! [bursting with laughter). Here's a novel, by
jingo! Here's John in love with the governess. Fond of plush,
Miss Pemberton-ey ? Gad, it's the best thing I ever knew. Saved
a good bit, ey, Jeames ? Take a public-house? By Jove! I'll buy
my beer there.
JOHN.-Owe for it, you mean. I don't think your tradesmen
profit much by your custom, ex-Cornet Kicklebury.
K.—By Jove ! I'll do for you, you villain !
JOHN.-No, not that way, Captain. [Struggles with and throws
him.]
K. (screams.]–Hallo, Bulkeley! [Bulkeley is seen strolling in the
garden.]
you wiss P.-Howni Sbursting moth the gove
Enter BULKELEY.
BULKELEY,- What is it, sir ?
K.—Take this confounded villain off me, and pitch him into the
Thames—do you hear?
JOHN.—Come here, and I'll break every bone in your hulking
body. [To BULKELEY.]
BULKELEY.—Come, come ! what hever his hall this year row about?
Miss P.-For heaven's sake, don't strike that poor man.
BULKELEY.— You be quiet. What's he a-hittin' about my master for?


378
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
John.--Take off your hat, sir, when you speak to a lady. [Takes
up a poker.] And now come on both of you, cowards! [Rushes at
BULKELEY and knocks his hat off his head.]
BULKELEY (stepping back).—If you'll put down that there poker,
you know, then I'll pitch into you fast enough. But that there poker
ain't fair, you know.
K.-You villain ! of course you will leave this house. And, Miss
Prior, I think you understand that you will go too. I don't think my
niece wants to learn dancin', you understand. Good-by. Here,
Bulkeley! [Gets behind footman and exit.]
Miss P.-Do you know the meaning of that threat, Mr. Howell ?
JOHN.— Yes, Miss Prior.
Miss P.—I was a dancer once, for three months, four years ago,
when my poor father was in prison.
JOHN.—Yes, Miss Prior, I knew it. And I saw you a many times.
Miss P.-And you kept my secret ?
JOHN.— Yes, Ju-Jul-Miss Prior.
Miss P.—Thank you, and God bless you, John Howell. There,
there. You mustn't ! indeed, you mustn't !
JOHN.—You don't remember the printer's boy who used to come
to Mr. O'Reilly, and sit in your 'all in Bury Street, Miss Prior? I was
that boy. I was a country-bred boy—that is if you call Putney
country, and Wimbledon Common and that. I served the Milliken
family seven year. I went with Master Horace to college, and then
I revolted against service, and I thought I'd be a man and turn printer
like Doctor Frankling. And I got in an office : and I went with
proofs to Mr. O'Reilly, and I saw you. And though I might have
been in love with somebody else before I did—yet it was all hup when
I saw you.
Miss P. [kindly.]—You must not talk to me in that way, John
Howell.
JOHN.—Let's tell the tale out. I couldn't stand the newspaper
night-work. I had a mother and brothers and sisters to keep, as you
had. I went back to Horace Milliken and said, Sir, I've lost my
work. I and mine want bread. Will you take me back again ? And
he did. He's a kind, kind soul is my master.
Miss P.-He is a kind, kind soul.
JOHN.—He's good to all the poor. His hand's in his pocket for
everybody. Everybody takes advantage of him. His mother-in-lor


380
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
here without being a hypocrite to both of them? Go, John. My
good, dear friend, John Howell, marry Mary. You'll be happier with
her than with me. There ! There! [They embrace.]
Mary.-0-0-0! I think I'll go and hiron hout Miss Harabella's
frocks now. (Exit Mary].
Enter Milliken with CLARENCE—who is explaining things to him.
CLARENCE.—Here they are, I give you my word of honour. Ask
'em, damp 'em.
Milliken.—What is this I hear ? You, John Howell, have dared
to strike a gentleman under my roof! Your master's brother-in-law ?
JOHN.—Yes, by Jove! and I'd do it again.
MILLIKEN.–Are you drunk or mad, Howell?
JOHN.—I'm as sober and as sensible as ever I was in my life, sir
- I not only struck the master, but I struck the man, who's twice as
big, only not quite as big a coward, I think.
Milliken.—Hold your scurrilous tongue, sir! My good nature
ruins everybody about me. Make up your accounts. Pack your
trunks-and never let me see your face again.
John.-Very good, sir.
MilliKEN.—I suppose, Miss Prior, you will also be disposed to
—to follow Mr. Howell ?
Miss P.—To quit you, now you know what has passed ? I never
supposed it could be otherwise-I deceived you, Mr. Milliken—as I
kept a secret from you, and must pay the penalty. It is a relief to
me, the sword has been hanging over me. I wish I had told your
poor wife, as I was often minded to do.
MILLIKEN.—Oh, you were minded to do it in Italy, were you?
Miss P.--Captain Touchit knew it, sir, all along : and that my
motives and, thank God, my life were honourable.
MilliKEN.-Oh, Touchit knew it, did he? and thought it
honourable-honourable. Ha ! ha! to marry a footman—and keep
a public-house? I-I beg your pardon, John Howell—I mean
nothing against you, you know. You're an honourable man enough,
except that you have been damned insolent to my brother-in-law.
JOHN.-Oh, heaven! (John strikes his forehead, and walks away.]
Miss P.—You mistake me, sir. What I wished to speak of was
the fact which this gentleman has no doubt communicated to you,
that I danced on the stage for three months.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
381
MILLIKEN.—Oh, yes. Oh, damme, yes. I forgot. I wasn't
thinking of that.
KICKLEBURY.—You see she owns it.
Miss P.-We were in the depths of poverty. Our furniture and
lodging-house under execution—from which Captain Touchit, when
he came to know of our difficulties, nobly afterwards released us.
My father was in prison, and wanted shillings for medicine, and I
-I went and danced on the stage.
MILLIKEN.—Well ?
Miss P.-And I kept the secret afterwards; knowing that I
could never hope as governess to obtain a place after having been a
stage-dancer.
MILLIKEN.–Of course you couldn't,-it's out of the question ;
and may I ask, are you going to resume that delightful profession
when you enter the married state with Mr. Howell ?
Miss P.-Poor John! it is not I who am going to—that is, it's
Mary, the school-room maid.
MILLIKEN.-Eternal blazes ! Have you turned Mormon, John
Howell, and are you going to marry the whole house?
JOHN.-I made a hass of myself about Miss Prior. I couldn't
help her being 1-1-lovely.
Kick.—Gad, he proposed to her in my presence.
John.—What I proposed to her, Cornet Clarence Kicklebury,
was my heart and my honour, and my best, and my everything—and
you—you wanted to take advantage of her secret, and you offered her
indignities, and you laid a cowardly hand on her—a cowardly hand !
—and I struck you, and I'd do it again.
MILLIKEN.—What? Is this true? [Turning round very fiercely
to K.]
KICK.-Gad! Well—I only—
MILLIKEN.—You only what? You only insulted a lady under
my roof—the friend and nurse of your dead sister—the guardian of
my children. You only took advantage of a defenceless girl, and
would have extorted your infernal pay out of her fear. You miserable
sneak and coward !
Kick.—Hallo! Come, come! I say I won't stand this sort of
chaff. Dammy, I'll send a friend to you !
MILLIKEN.-Go out of that window, sir. March ! or I will tell
my servant, John Howell, to kick you out, you wretched little scamp!


382
1114
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Tell that big brute, -what's-his-name ?—Lady Kicklebury's man, to
pack this young man's portmanteau and bear's-grease pots; and if
ever you enter these doors again, Clarence Kicklebury, by the
heaven that made me !—by your sister who is dead !—I will cane
your life out of your bones. Angel in heaven! Shade of my
Arabella-to think that your brother in your house should be found
to insult the guardian of your children !
John.—By jingo, you're a good-plucked one! I knew he was,
Miss-I told you he was. [Exit, shaking hands with his master,
and with Miss P., and dancing for joy. Exit CLARENCE, scared, out
of window.]
John (without].—Bulkeley! pack up the Capting's luggage !
MilliKEN.—How can I ask your pardon, Miss Prior? In my
wife's name I ask it—in the name of that angel whose dying-bed you
watched and soothed-of the innocent children whom you have faith-
fully tended since.
Miss P.-Ah, sir ! it is granted when you speak so to me.
MILLIKEN.—Eh, eh-d-don't call me sir !
Miss P.-It is for me to ask pardon for hiding what you know
now: but if I had told you—you—you never would have taken me
into your houseyour wife never would.
Milliken.—No, no. [Weeping]
Miss P.—My dear, kind Captain Touchit knows it all. It was
by his counsel I acted. He it was who relieved our distress. Ask
him whether my conduct was not honourable-ask him whether
my life was not devoted to my parents—ask him when—when I
am gone.
MilliKEN.—When you are gone, Julia! Why are you going?
Why should you go, my love—that is-why need you go, in the
devil's name?
Miss P.-Because, when your mother—when your mother-in-law
come to hear that your children's governess has been a dancer on
the stage, they will send me away, and you will not have the power
to resist them. They ought to send me away, sir ; but I have acted
honestly by the children and their poor mother, and you'll think of
me kindly when-I-am-gone ?
Milliken.—Julia, my dearest-dear-noble—dar— the devil !
here's old Kicklebury.


THE WOLVES AVD THE LAMB.
383
Enter Lady K., Children, and CLARENCE.
LADY K.-So, Miss Prior ! this is what I hear, is it? A dancer
in my house! a serpent in my bosom-poisoning-yes, poisoning
those blessed children ! occasioning quarrels between my own son
and my dearest son-in-law ; flirting with the footman! When do you
intend to leave, madam, the house which you have po-poll--luted ?
Miss P.--I need no hard language, Lady Kicklebury: and I will
reply to none. I have signified to Mr. Milliken my wish to leave
his house.
MILLIKEN.—Not, not, if you will stay. [To Miss P.]
LADY K.-Stay, Horace! she shall never stay as governess in
this house!
MilliKEN.—Julia ! will you stay as mistress? You have known
me for a year alone-before, not so well—when the house had a
mistress that is gone. You know what my temper is, and that my
tastes are simple, and my heart not unkind. I have watched you,
and have never seen you out of temper, though you have been tried.
I have long thought you good and beautiful, but I never thought to
ask the question which I put to you now :-come in, sir ! [to
CLARENCE at door] :—now that you have been persecuted by those
who ought to have upheld you, and insulted by those who owed you
gratitude and respect. I am tired of their domination, and as weary
of a man's cowardly impertinence [to CLARENCE] as of a woman's
jealous tyranny. They have made what was my Arabella's home
miserable by their oppression and their quarrels. Julia ! my wife's
friend, my children's friend ! be mine, and make me happy! Don't
leave me, Julia ! say you won't—say you won't-dearest—dearest girl !
Miss P.-I won't-leave-you.
GEORGE [without].—Oh, I say! Arabella, look here : here's papa
a-kissing Miss Prior!
Lady K.-Horace-Clarence my son! Shade of my Arabella !
can you behold this horrible scene, and not shudder in heaven !
Bulkeley ! Clarence! go for a doctor-go to Doctor Straitwaist at
the Asylum-Horace Milliken, who has married the descendant of
the Kickleburys of the Conqueror, marry a dancing-girl off the stage !
Horace Milliken! do you wish to see me die in convulsions at your
feet? I writhe there, I grovel there. Look! look at me on my
knees ! your own mother-in-law ! drive away this fiend !


384
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Milliken.—Hem! I ought to thank you, Lady Kicklebury, for
it is you that have given her to me.
LADY K.-He won't listen ! he turns away and kisses her horrible
hand. This will never do: help me up, Clarence, I must go and
fetch his mother. Ah, ah ! there she is, there she is ! [Lady K.
rushes out, as the top of a barouche, with Mr. and Mrs. BONNINGTON
and Coachman, is seen over the gate.]
Mrs. B.-What is this I hear, my son, my son? You are going
to marry a—a stage-dancer ? you are driving me mad, Horace !
MILLIKEN.—Give me my second chance, mother, to be happy.
You have had yourself two chances.
Mrs. B.-Speak to him, Mr. Bonnington. [BONNINGTON makes
dumb show.]
Lady K.-Implore him, Mr. Bonnington.
Mrs. B.—Pray, pray for him, Mr. Bonnington, my love—my lost,
abandoned boy!
LADY K.-Oh, my poor dear Mrs. Bonnington !
Mrs B.—Oh, my poor dear Lady Kicklebury. [They embrace
each other.]
LADY K.-I have been down on my knees to him, dearest
Mrs. Bonnington.
Mrs. B.—Let us both—both go down on our knees—I will ſto
her husband). Edward, I will! [Both ladies on their knees. Bon-
NINGTON with outstretched hands behind them.] Look, unhappy boy!
look, Horace ! two mothers on their wretched knees before you,
imploring you to send away this monster! Speak to him, Mr. Bon-
nington. Edward ! use authority with him, if he will not listen to his
mother-
LADY K.—To his mothers !
CHIT.
Enter Touchit.
Touchit.—What is this comedy going on, ladies and gentlemen ?
The ladies on their elderly knees-Miss Prior with her hair down
her back. Is it tragedy or comedy — is it a rehearsal for a
charade, or are we acting for Horace's birthday? or, oh !-I beg
your Reverence's pardon-you were perhaps going to a professional
duty ?
MRS. B.—It's we who are praying this child, Touchit. This child,
with whom you used to come home from Westminster when you were


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
385
boys. You have influence with him ; he listens to you. Entreat him
to pause in his madness.
TouchiT.-What madness ?
Mrs. B.—That-that woman— that serpent yonder-that-that
dancing-woman, whom you introduced to Arabella Milliken,-ah !
and I rue the day :-Horace is going to mum-mum-marry her!
Touchit.—Well! I always thought he would. Ever since I saw
him and her playing at whist together, when I came down here a
month ago, I thought he would do it.
Mrs. B.-Oh, it's the whist, the whist! Why did I ever play at
whist, Edward ? My poor Mr. Milliken used to like his rubber.
TouchIT.-Since he has been a widower--
Lady K.-A widower of that angel! [Points to picture.
TouchIT.-Pooh, pooh, angel! You two ladies have never given
the poor fellow any peace. You were always quarrelling over him.
You took possession of his house, bullied his servants, spoiled his
children ; you did, Lady Kicklebury.
LADY K.-Sir, you are a rude, low, presuming, vulgar man.
Clarence ! beat this rude man !
Touchit.—From what I have heard of your amiable son, he is
not in the warlike line, I think. My dear Julia, I am delighted with
all my heart that my old friend should have found a woman of sense,
good conduct, good temper—a woman who has had many trials, and
borne them with great patience-to take charge of him and make
him happy. Horace, give me your hand! I knew Miss Prior in
great poverty. I am sure she will bear as nobly her present good
fortune ; for good fortune it is to any woman to become the wife of
such a loyal, honest, kindly gentleman as you are !
Enter John.
John.— If you please, my lady—if you please, sir- Bulkeley—-
LADY K.- What of Bulkeley, sir?
John.—He has packed his things, and Cornet Kicklebury's
things, my lady.
MILLIKEN.—Let the fellow go.
JOHN.—He won't go, sir, till my lady have paid him his book and
wages. Here's the book, sir.
Lady K.-Insolence ! quit my presence! And I, Mr. Milliken,
will quit a house--
25


386
THE WOLVES AND THE LAVD.
John.-Shall I call your ladyship a carriage ?
Lady K.—Where I have met with rudeness, cruelty, and fiendish
[to Miss P., who smiles and curtsies)-yes, fiendish ingratitude. I
will go, I say, as soon as I have made arrangements for taking other
lodgings. You cannot expect a lady of fashion to turn out like a
servant.
JOHN.-Hire the “Star and Garter” for her, sir. Send down to
the “Castle ;” anything to get rid of her. I'll tell her maid to pack
her traps. Pinhorn! [Beckons maid and gives orders.
Touchit.—You had better go at once, my dear Lady Kickle-
bury.
LADY K.--Sir!
Touchit.— The other mother-in-law is coming! I met her on the
road with all her family. He ! he! he! [Screams.]
Enter Mrs. Prior and Children.
MRS. P.—My lady! I hope your ladyship is quite well! Dear,
kind Mrs. Bonnington! I came to pay my duty to you, ma'am.
This is Charlotte, my lady—the great girl whom your ladyship so kindly
promised the gown for ; and this is my little girl, Mrs. Bonnington,
ma'am, please ; and this is my Bluecoat boy. Go and speak to dear,
kind Mr. Milliken-our best friend and protector—the son and son-
in-law of these dear ladies. Look, sir! He has brought his copy to
show you. [Boy shows copy. ] Ain't it creditable to a boy of his age,
Captain Touchit? And my best and most grateful services to you,
sir. Julia, Julia, my dear, where's your cap and spectacles, you
stupid thing? You've let your hair drop down. What! what!
--[Begins to be puzzled.]
Mrs. B.- Is this collusion, madam ?
Mrs. P.-Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonnington !
LADY K.-Or insolence, Mrs. Prior ?
Mrs. P.-Insolence, your ladyship! What—what is it? what
has happened? What's Julia's hair down for ? Ah! you've not sent
the poor girl away? the poor, poor child, and the poor, poor
children !
Touchit.—That dancing at the “ Coburg” has come out,
Mrs. Prior.
Mrs. P.-Not the darling's fault. It was to help her poor father in
prison. It was I who forced her to do it. Oh! don't, don't, dear


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
387
Lady Kicklebury, take the bread out of the mouths of these poor
orphans ! [Crying.]
MilliKEN.-Enough of this, Mrs. Prior : your daughter is not
going away. Julia has promised to stay with me-and-never to
leave me—as governess no longer, but as wife to me.
Mrs. P.-Is it-is it true, Julia ?
Miss P.— Yes, mamma.
MRS. P.-Oh! oh! oh! [Flings down her umbrella, kisses JULIA,
and running to Milliken,] My son, my son! Come here, children.
Come, Adolphus, Amelia, Charlotte — kiss your dear brother,
children. What, my dears! How do you do, dears ? [to MILLIKEN'S
children]. Have they heard the news ? And do you know that my
daughter is going to be your mamma ? There—there-go and play
with your little uncles and aunts, that's good children! [She motions
off the Children, who retire towards garden. Her manner changes to
one of great patronage and intense satisfaction.] Most hot weather,
your ladyship, I'm sure. Mr. Bonnington, you must find it hot
weather for preachin'! Lor'! there's that little wretch beatin'
Adolphus ! George, sir ! have done, sir! [Runs to separate them.]
How ever shall we make those children agree, Julia ?
Miss P.-They have been a little spoiled, and I think
Mr. Milliken will send George and Arabella to school, mamma : will
you not, Horace ?
MR. MILLIKEN.-I think school will be the very best thing for
them.
Mrs. P. And [MRS. P. whispers, pointing to her own children the
blue room, the green room, the rooms old Lady Kick has-plenty of
room for us, my dear!
Miss P.—No, mamma, I think it will be too large a party, -
Mr. Milliken has often said that he would like to go abroad, and I
hope that now he will be able to make his tour.
Mrs. P.--Oh, then! we can live in the house, you know: what's
the use of payin' lodgin', my dear ?
Miss P.— The house is going to be painted. You had best live
in your own house, mamma; and if you want anything, Horace,
Mr. Milliken, I am sure, will make it comfortable for you. He has
had too many visitors of late, and will like a more quiet life, I think.
Will you not ?
MILLIKEN.-I shall like a life with you, Julia.


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
389
you, as I dare say (turning to Mr. B.), hold gov'nor, you will !—Make
it up with your poor son, Mrs. Bonnington, ma'am. You have took
a second 'elpmate, why shouldn't Master Horace ? (to Mrs. B.] He
- he wants somebody to help him, and take care of him, more than
you do.
Touchit.—You never spoke a truer word in your life, Howell.
JOHN.-It's my general 'abit, Capting, to indulge in them sort of
statements. A true friend I have been to my master, and a true
friend I'll remain when he's my master no more.
MILLIKEN.—Why, John, you are not going to leave me?
JOHN.-It's best, sir, I should go. I—I'm not fit to be a servant
in this house any longer. I wish to sit in my own little home, with
my own little wife by my side. Poor dear! you've no conversation,
Mary, but you're a good little soul. We've saved a hundred pound
apiece, and if we want more, I know who won't grudge it us, a good
feller—a good master—for whom I've saved many a hundred pound
myself, and will take the “ Milliken Arms” at old Pigeoncot-and
once a year or so, at this hanniversary, we will pay our respects to
you, sir, and madam. Perhaps we will bring some children with us,
perhaps we will find some more in this villa. Bless 'em beforehand!
Good-by, sir, and madam-come away, Mary ! [going).
Mrs. P. [entering with clothes, &c.]—She has not left a single
thing in her room. Amelia, come here ! this cloak will do capital for
you, and this—this garment is the very thing for Adolphus. Oh,
John ! eh, Howell! will you please to see that my children have
something to eat, immediately! The Milliken children, I suppose,
have dined already?
JOHN.— Yes, ma'am ; certainly, ma'am.
MRS. P.-I see he is inclined to be civil to me now !
Miss P.—John Howell is about to leave us, mamma. He is
engaged to Mary Barlow, and when we go away, he is going to set
up housekeeping for himself. Good-by, and thank you, John Howell
[gives her hand to John, but with great reserve of manner]. You have
been a kind and true friend to us—if ever we can serve you, count
upon us—may he not, Mr. Milliken ?
MILLIKEN.—Always, always.
Miss P.-But you will still wait upon us—upon Mr. Milliken, for
a day or two, won't you, John? until we—until Mr. Milliken has found
some one to replace you. He will never find any one more honest


390
THE WOLVES AND THE LAJIB.
than you, and good, kind little Mary. Thank you, Mary, for your
goodness to the poor governess.
MARY.---Oh, miss! oh, mum! (Miss P. kisses Mary patronizingly).
Miss P. [to JOHN).----And after they have had some refreshment,
get a cab for my brothers and sisters, if you please, John. Don't
you think that will be best, my--my dear ?
MilliKEN.-Of course, of course, dear Julia !
Miss P.--And, Captain Touchit, you will stay, I hope, and dine
with Mr. Milliken? And, Mrs. Bonnington, if you will receive as a
daughter one who has always had a sincere regard for you, I think
you will aid in making your son happy, as I promise you with all
my heart and all my life to endeavour to do. [Miss. P. and M. go
up to Mrs. BONNINGTON.]
Mrs. BONNINGTON.-Well, there then, since it must be so, bless
you, my children.
Touchit.—Spoken like a sensible woman! And now, as I do
not wish to interrupt this felicity, I will go and dine at the “Star and
Garter."
Miss P.-My dear Captain Touchit, not for worlds! Don't you
know I mustn't be alone with Mr. Milliken until-until --?
MILLIKEN.—Until I am made the happiest man alive! And you
will come down and see us often, Touchit, won't you? And we
hope to see our friends here often. And we will have a little life and
spirit and gaiety in the place. Oh, mother! oh, George ! oh, Julia !
what a comfort it is to me to think that I am released from the
tyranny of that terrible mother-in-law !
MRS. PRIOR.–Come in to your teas, children. Come this
moment, I say. [The Children pass, quarrelling, behind the characters,
Mrs. PRIOR summoning them ; John and Mary standing on each side
of the dining-room door, as the curtain falls.]
THE END.


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OLD BAILEY, E.C.


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