“Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”
But Jemmy knew the men that were “skulkers,” as he termed them, and there was no coin, stock, or a glass for them. He invariably drank whiskey, a spirit not in general demand in England in those days. Gin was then, as now, the reigning favourite with the street folks. When the question was put to him in reference to his partiality to whiskey, he always replied—the Scotch blood proudly rising in his veins, and with a strong Northumberland burr, which never wholly forsook him, particularly when warmed by argument or drink—that, “He disdained to tipple with ‘stuff,’ by means of which all the women of the town got drunk. I am of Catnach. Yes! there’s Catnach blood in me. Catnach—King Catnach—Catnach, King of the Picts. We descend in a right straight line from the Picts. That’s the sort of blood-of-blood that flows in the veins of all the true-bred Catnachs.” Jemmy would be for continually arguing when in his cups, and the old and the more artful of the street-folk would let him have all the say and grandeur that he then felt within him on the subject, well knowing that they would be much more likely to have their glasses replenished by agreeing with him than by contradicting him. Even in his sober moments Jemmy always persisted, right or wrong, that the Catnachs, or Catternachs, were descended direct from a King of the Picts. Yet, what is somewhat anomalous, he was himself a rigid churchman and a staunch old Tory, “one of the olden time,” and “as full of the glorious Constitution as the first volume of Blackstone.”
On Catnach’s retirement from the business, he left it to Mrs. Annie Ryle, his sister, charged, nevertheless, to the amount of £1,000 payable at his death to the estate of his niece, Marion Martha Ryle. In the meanwhile Mr. James Paul acted as managing man for Mrs. Ryle. This Mr. Paul—of whom Jemmy was very fond, and rumour saith, had no great dislike to the mother—had grown from a boy to a man in the office of the “Catnach Press.” He was therefore, well acquainted with the customers, by whom he was much respected; and it was by his tact and judgment that the business was kept so well together. He married a Miss Crisp, the daughter of a publican in the immediate neighbourhood.
Catnach did not long enjoy or survive his retirement. After the novelty of looking, as the poet Cowper puts it, and no doubt in his case found it, “Through the loop-holes of retreat, to see the stir of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd,” had worn itself out, “James Catnach, Gentleman, formerly of Monmouth Court, Monmouth Street, Printer,” grew dull in his “Old Bachelor’s Box;” he was troubled with hypochondriasis, and a liver overloaded with bile, and was further off than ever from being a happy man. He had managed to rake and scrape together—as far as we can get any knowledge—some £5,000 or £6,000, although £10,000 and upwards is mostly put down to him. However, he had grabbed for and caught a fair amount of “siller and gold,” but it failed to realize to him—
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!
No! all he had realized was that unenviable position so popularly known as of a man not knowing what to do with himself. His visits to town were now much more frequent and of longer duration, and for hours he would sit and loiter about the shops and houses of his old neighbours, so that he might catch a glimpse, or enjoy a friendly chat with his old friends and customers. At length he got sick at heart, “wearied to the bone,” and sighed for the bustle of London Life.
From the following letter written to his sister, Mrs. Ryle, in 1840, and now before us, we glean something of his state of mind and bodily health:—
July, 4th, 40.
Dear Sister,—
I have been very ill for these last three weeks. I was obliged to send for Dr. Morris to cup me, which did some good for a few days, since then the pains have gone into my breast and ribs, and for the last three days I have kept my bed, and could take nothing but a little tea and water-gruel. I wish you to procure me 6 Bills to stick on my window shutters, outside and in, “This House to be Let,” and send them with ½lb Tea as soon as possible—but do not send them by Salmon’s Coach, for he will not leave them at Jackson’s as Wild does, but sends a boy with it, which costs me double porterage. I feel the loss of my jelly now I am so ill, and can eat little or nothing, it would have done my throat good. I have a great crop of black and red berries [currants] if you choose I will send them up, and you can make some jelly for us both; let me know as soon as you can, say Wednesday morning and I will make the Postwoman call for the parcel at Jackson’s. I also wish you to enquire of Carr what is the lowest he will take for the rooms over Mrs. Morgan, by the ½ year.