A Story

by William Makepeace Thackeray

Maximilian Gustavus Adolphus von Galgenstein, captain of horse and

  of the Holy Roman Empire" (he lifted here his hat with much gravity,

  and all the crowd, even to the parson, did likewise). "We call him

  'George of Denmark,' sir, in compliment to Her Majesty's husband:

  he is Blenheim too, sir; Marshal Tallard rode him on that day, and

  you know how HE was taken prisoner by the Count."

  "George of Denmark, Marshal Tallard, William of Nassau! this is

  strange indeed, most wonderful! Why, sir, little are you aware that

  there are before you, AT THIS MOMENT, two other living beings who

  bear these venerated names! My boys, stand forward! Look here,

  sir: these children have been respectively named after our late

  sovereign and the husband of our present Queen."

  "And very good names too, sir; ay, and very noble little fellows

  too; and I propose that, with your reverence and your ladyship's

  leave, William Nassau here shall ride on George of Denmark, and

  George of Denmark shall ride on William of Nassau."

  When this speech of the Corporal's was made, the whole crowd set up

  a loyal hurrah; and, with much gravity, the two little boys were

  lifted up into the saddles; and the Corporal leading one, entrusted

  the other to the horse-boy, and so together marched stately up and

  down the green.

  The popularity which Mr. Brock gained by this manoeuvre was very

  great; but with regard to the names of the horses and children,

  which coincided so extraordinarily, it is but fair to state, that

  the christening of the quadrupeds had only taken place about two

  minutes before the dragoon's appearance on the green. For if the

  fact must be confessed, he, while seated near the inn window, had

  kept a pretty wistful eye upon all going on without; and the horses

  marching thus to and fro for the wonderment of the village, were

  only placards or advertisements for the riders.

  There was, besides the boy now occupied with the horses, and the

  landlord and landlady of the "Bugle Inn," another person connected

  with that establishment--a very smart, handsome, vain, giggling

  servant-girl, about the age of sixteen, who went by the familiar

  name of Cat, and attended upon the gentlemen in the parlour, while

  the landlady was employed in cooking their supper in the kitchen.

  This young person had been educated in the village poor-house, and

  having been pronounced by Doctor Dobbs and the schoolmaster the

  idlest, dirtiest, and most passionate little minx with whom either

  had ever had to do, she was, after receiving a very small portion of

  literary instruction (indeed it must be stated that the young lady

  did not know her letters), bound apprentice at the age of nine years

  to Mrs. Score, her relative, and landlady of the "Bugle Inn."

  If Miss Cat, or Catherine Hall, was a slattern and a minx, Mrs.

  Score was a far superior shrew; and for the seven years of her

  apprenticeship the girl was completely at her mistress's mercy. Yet

  though wondrously stingy, jealous, and violent, while her maid was

  idle and extravagant, and her husband seemed to abet the girl, Mrs.

  Score put up with the wench's airs, idleness, and caprices, without

  ever wishing to dismiss her from the "Bugle." The fact is, that

  Miss Catherine was a great beauty, and for about two years, since

  her fame had begun to spread, the custom of the inn had also

  increased vastly. When there was a debate whether the farmers, on

  their way from market, would take t'other pot, Catherine, by

  appearing with it, would straightway cause the liquor to be

  swallowed and paid for; and when the traveller who proposed riding

  that night and sleeping at Coventry or Birmingham, was asked by Miss

  Catherine whether he would like a fire in his bedroom, he generally

  was induced to occupy it, although he might before have vowed to

  Mrs. Score that he would not for a thousand guineas be absent from

  home that night. The girl had, too, half-a-dozen lovers in the

  village; and these were bound in honour to spend their pence at the

  alehouse she inhabited. O woman, lovely woman! what strong resolves

  canst thou twist round thy little finger! what gunpowder passions

  canst thou kindle with a single sparkle of thine eye! what lies and

  fribble nonsense canst thou make us listen to, as they were gospel

  truth or splendid wit! above all what bad liquor canst thou make us

  swallow when thou puttest a kiss within the cup--and we are content

  to call the poison wine!

  The mountain-wine at the "Bugle" was, in fact, execrable; but Mrs.

  Cat, who served it to the two soldiers, made it so agreeable to

  them, that they found it a passable, even a pleasant task, to

  swallow the contents of a second bottle. The miracle had been

  wrought instantaneously on her appearance: for whereas at that very

  moment the Count was employed in cursing the wine, the landlady, the

  wine-grower, and the English nation generally, when the young woman

  entered and (choosing so to interpret the oaths) said, "Coming, your

  honour; I think your honour called"--Gustavus Adolphus whistled,

  stared at her very hard, and seeming quite dumb-stricken by her

  appearance, contented himself by swallowing a whole glass of

  mountain by way of reply.

  Mr. Brock was, however, by no means so confounded as his captain:

  he was thirty years older than the latter, and in the course of

  fifty years of military life had learned to look on the most

  dangerous enemy, or the most beautiful woman, with the like daring,

  devil-may-care determination to conquer.

  "My dear Mary," then said that gentleman, "his honour is a lord; as

  good as a lord, that is; for all he allows such humble fellows as I

  am to drink with him."

  Catherine dropped a low curtsey, and said, "Well, I don't know if

  you are joking a poor country girl, as all you soldier gentlemen do;

  but his honour LOOKS like a lord: though I never see one, to be

  sure."

  "Then," said the Captain, gathering courage, "how do you know I look

  like one, pretty Mary?"

  "Pretty Catherine: I mean Catherine, if you please, sir."

  Here Mr. Brock burst into a roar of laughter, and shouting with many

  oaths that she was right at first, invited her to give him what he

  called a buss.

  Pretty Catherine turned away from him at this request, and muttered

  something about "Keep your distance, low fellow! buss indeed; poor

  country girl," etc. etc., placing herself, as if for protection, on

  the side of the Captain. That gentleman looked also very angry; but

  whether at the sight of innocence so outraged, or the insolence of

  the Corporal for daring to help himself first, we cannot say. "Hark

  ye, Mr. Brock," he cried very fiercely, "I will suffer no such

  liberties in my presence: remember, it is only my condescension

  which permits you to share my bottle in this way; take care I don't

  give you instead a taste of my cane." So saying, he, in a

  protecting manner, placed one hand round Mrs. Catherine's waist,

  holding the other clenched very near to the Corporal's nose.<
br />
  Mrs. Catherine, for HER share of this action of the Count's,

  dropped another curtsey and said, "Thank you, my Lord." But

  Galgenstein's threat did not appear to make any impression on Mr.

  Brock, as indeed there was no reason that it should; for the

  Corporal, at a combat of fisticuffs, could have pounded his

  commander into a jelly in ten minutes; so he contented himself by

  saying, "Well, noble Captain, there's no harm done; it IS an honour

  for poor old Peter Brock to be at table with you, and I AM sorry,

  sure enough."

  "In truth, Peter, I believe thou art; thou hast good reason, eh,

  Peter? But never fear, man; had I struck thee, I never would have

  hurt thee."

  "I KNOW you would not," replied Brock, laying his hand on his heart

  with much gravity; and so peace was made, and healths were drunk.

  Miss Catherine condescended to put her lips to the Captain's glass;

  who swore that the wine was thus converted into nectar; and although

  the girl had not previously heard of that liquor, she received the

  compliment as a compliment, and smiled and simpered in return.

  The poor thing had never before seen anybody so handsome, or so

  finely dressed as the Count; and, in the simplicity of her coquetry,

  allowed her satisfaction to be quite visible. Nothing could be more

  clumsy than the gentleman's mode of complimenting her; but for this,

  perhaps, his speeches were more effective than others more delicate

  would have been; and though she said to each, "Oh, now, my Lord,"

  and "La, Captain, how can you flatter one so?" and "Your honour's

  laughing at me," and made such polite speeches as are used on these

  occasions, it was manifest from the flutter and blush, and the grin

  of satisfaction which lighted up the buxom features of the little

  country beauty, that the Count's first operations had been highly

  successful. When following up his attack, he produced from his neck

  a small locket (which had been given him by a Dutch lady at the

  Brill), and begged Miss Catherine to wear it for his sake, and

  chucked her under the chin and called her his little rosebud, it was

  pretty clear how things would go: anybody who could see the

  expression of Mr. Brock's countenance at this event might judge of

  the progress of the irresistible High-Dutch conqueror.

  Being of a very vain communicative turn, our fair barmaid gave her

  two companions, not only a pretty long account of herself, but of

  many other persons in the village, whom she could perceive from the

  window opposite to which she stood. "Yes, your honour," said she--

  "my Lord, I mean; sixteen last March, though there's a many girl in

  the village that at my age is quite chits. There's Polly Randall

  now, that red-haired girl along with Thomas Curtis: she's seventeen

  if she's a day, though he is the very first sweetheart she has had.

  Well, as I am saying, I was bred up here in the village--father and

  mother died very young, and I was left a poor orphan--well, bless

  us! if Thomas haven't kissed her!--to the care of Mrs. Score, my

  aunt, who has been a mother to me--a stepmother, you know;--and I've

  been to Stratford fair, and to Warwick many a time; and there's two

  people who have offered to marry me, and ever so many who want to,

  and I won't have none--only a gentleman, as I've always said; not a

  poor clodpole, like Tom there with the red waistcoat (he was one

  that asked me), nor a drunken fellow like Sam Blacksmith yonder, him

  whose wife has got the black eye, but a real gentleman, like--"

  "Like whom, my dear?" said the Captain, encouraged.

  "La, sir, how can you? Why, like our squire, Sir John, who rides in

  such a mortal fine gold coach; or, at least, like the parson, Doctor

  Dobbs--that's he, in the black gown, walking with Madam Dobbs in

  red."

  "And are those his children?"

  "Yes: two girls and two boys; and only think, he calls one William

  Nassau, and one George Denmark--isn't it odd?" And from the parson,

  Mrs. Catherine went on to speak of several humble personages of the

  village community, who, as they are not necessary to our story, need

  not be described at full length. It was when, from the window,

  Corporal Brock saw the altercation between the worthy divine and his

  son, respecting the latter's ride, that he judged it a fitting time

  to step out on the green, and to bestow on the two horses those

  famous historical names which we have just heard applied to them.

  Mr. Brock's diplomacy was, as we have stated, quite successful; for,

  when the parson's boys had ridden and retired along with their mamma

  and papa, other young gentlemen of humbler rank in the village were

  placed upon "George of Denmark" and "William of Nassau;" the

  Corporal joking and laughing with all the grown-up people. The

  women, in spite of Mr. Brock's age, his red nose, and a certain

  squint of his eye, vowed the Corporal was a jewel of a man; and

  among the men his popularity was equally great.

  "How much dost thee get, Thomas Clodpole?" said Mr. Brock to a

  countryman (he was the man whom Mrs. Catherine had described as her

  suitor), who had laughed loudest at some of his jokes: "how much

  dost thee get for a week's work, now?"

  Mr. Clodpole, whose name was really Bullock, stated that his wages

  amounted to "three shillings and a puddn."

  "Three shillings and a puddn!--monstrous!--and for this you toil

  like a galley-slave, as I have seen them in Turkey and America,--ay,

  gentlemen, and in the country of Prester John! You shiver out of

  bed on icy winter mornings, to break the ice for Ball and Dapple to

  drink."

  "Yes, indeed," said the person addressed, who seemed astounded at

  the extent of the Corporal's information.

  "Or you clean pigsty, and take dung down to meadow; or you act

  watchdog and tend sheep; or you sweep a scythe over a great field of

  grass; and when the sun has scorched the eyes out of your head, and

  sweated the flesh off your bones, and well-nigh fried the soul out

  of your body, you go home, to what?--three shillings a week and a

  puddn! Do you get pudding every day?"

  "No; only Sundays."

  "Do you get money enough?"

  "No, sure."

  "Do you get beer enough?"

  "Oh no, NEVER!" said Mr. Bullock quite resolutely.

  "Worthy Clodpole, give us thy hand: it shall have beer enough this

  day, or my name's not Corporal Brock. Here's the money, boy! there

  are twenty pieces in this purse: and how do you think I got 'em?

  and how do you think I shall get others when these are gone?--by

  serving Her Sacred Majesty, to be sure: long life to her, and down

  with the French King!"

  Bullock, a few of the men, and two or three of the boys, piped out

  an hurrah, in compliment to this speech of the Corporal's: but it

  was remarked that the greater part of the crowd drew back--the women

  whispering ominously to them and looking at the Corporal.

  "I see, ladies, what it is," said he. "You are frightened, and

  think I am a crimp come to steal your sweethearts away. What! c
all

  Peter Brock a double-dealer? I tell you what, boys, Jack Churchill

  himself has shaken this hand, and drunk a pot with me: do you think

  he'd shake hands with a rogue? Here's Tummas Clodpole has never had

  beer enough, and here am I will stand treat to him and any other

  gentleman: am I good enough company for him? I have money, look

  you, and like to spend it: what should _I_ be doing dirty actions

  for--hay, Tummas?"

  A satisfactory reply to this query was not, of course, expected by

  the Corporal nor uttered by Mr. Bullock; and the end of the dispute

  was, that he and three or four of the rustic bystanders were quite

  convinced of the good intentions of their new friend, and

  accompanied him back to the "Bugle," to regale upon the promised

  beer. Among the Corporal's guests was one young fellow whose dress

  would show that he was somewhat better to do in the world than

  Clodpole and the rest of the sunburnt ragged troop, who were

  marching towards the alehouse. This man was the only one of his

  hearers who, perhaps, was sceptical as to the truth of his stories;

  but as soon as Bullock accepted the invitation to drink, John Hayes,

  the carpenter (for such was his name and profession), said, "Well,

  Thomas, if thou goest, I will go too."

  "I know thee wilt," said Thomas: "thou'lt goo anywhere Catty Hall

  is, provided thou canst goo for nothing."

  "Nay, I have a penny to spend as good as the Corporal here."

  "A penny to KEEP, you mean: for all your love for the lass at the

  'Bugle,' did thee ever spend a shilling in the house? Thee wouldn't

  go now, but that I am going too, and the Captain here stands treat."

  "Come, come, gentlemen, no quarrelling," said Mr. Brock. "If this

  pretty fellow will join us, amen say I: there's lots of liquor, and

  plenty of money to pay the score. Comrade Tummas, give us thy arm.

  Mr. Hayes, you're a hearty cock, I make no doubt, and all such are

  welcome. Come along, my gentleman farmers, Mr. Brock shall have the

  honour to pay for you all." And with this, Corporal Brock,

  accompanied by Messrs. Hayes, Bullock, Blacksmith, Baker's-boy,

  Butcher, and one or two others, adjourned to the inn; the horses

  being, at the same time, conducted to the stable.

  Although we have, in this quiet way, and without any flourishing of

  trumpets, or beginning of chapters, introduced Mr. Hayes to the

  public; and although, at first sight, a sneaking carpenter's boy may

  seem hardly worthy of the notice of an intelligent reader, who looks

  for a good cut-throat or highwayman for a hero, or a pickpocket at

  the very least: this gentleman's words and actions should be

  carefully studied by the public, as he is destined to appear before

  them under very polite and curious circumstances during the course

  of this history. The speech of the rustic Juvenal, Mr. Clodpole,

  had seemed to infer that Hayes was at once careful of his money and

  a warm admirer of Mrs. Catherine of the "Bugle:" and both the

  charges were perfectly true. Hayes's father was reported to be a

  man of some substance; and young John, who was performing his

  apprenticeship in the village, did not fail to talk very big of his

  pretensions to fortune--of his entering, at the close of his

  indentures, into partnership with his father--and of the comfortable

  farm and house over which Mrs. John Hayes, whoever she might be,

  would one day preside. Thus, next to the barber and butcher, and

  above even his own master, Mr. Hayes took rank in the village: and

  it must not be concealed that his representation of wealth had made

  some impression upon Mrs. Hall toward whom the young gentleman had

  cast the eyes of affection. If he had been tolerably well-looking,

  and not pale, rickety, and feeble as he was; if even he had been

  ugly, but withal a man of spirit, it is probable the girl's kindness

  for him would have been much more decided. But he was a poor weak

  creature, not to compare with honest Thomas Bullock, by at least