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ROOKWOOD:
A ROMANCE.
I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand,
Begins to shake our ancient house to dust.
Yorkshire Tragedy.
BY
W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.
FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION,
IN TWO VOLUMES.
OL. HI.
PHILADELPHIA:
CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD.
1834.


A
0
in the line cia dosling
A world to aramay, and a come with these
+
BOOK THE THIRD.
CONTINUED.
CHAPTER V.
Beggar. Concert, Sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry
beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous
songs at London, were fain to fly into one covey, and here they sing all our
poets' ditties. They can sing any thing, most tuneably, Sir, but psalms.
What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they
live very eirilly and genteelly among us.
Spring. But, what is here that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of
kimself, or any for him?
Beggor. O, Sir, the rarest man of all : he is a prophet. See how he holds up
his prognosticating nose. He is divining nox.
Spring. How, a prophet !
Beggar. Yes, Sir; a cunning man, and a fortune teller; a very ancient
stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies : and is a Patrico.
The Merry Beggars.
In consequence of some few words which the Sexton let
fall, in the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more
perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumoured
throughout the camp, that the redoubted Richard Turpin was
for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some
such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of some
petty town, on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a
commander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished
personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his
fellow men by Rumour, “and her thousand tongues;" and
who, like our Highwayman, has rendered himself
sufficiently
notorious to be an object of admiration and emulation amongst
his contemporaries.
All started up at the news. The Upright Man, the chief
of the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state,
a very ancient brocade dressing gown, filched, most probably,


5
Dick Turpin, at the period of which we speak, was in the
zenith of his reputation. His deeds were full blown : his
exploits were in every man's mouth; and a heavy price was
set upon his head. That he should show himself thus
openly, where he might be so easily betrayed, excited no
little surprise amongst the craftiest of the crew, and argued
an excess of temerity on his part. Rash daring was the
main feature of Turpin's character. Like our great Nelson,
he knew fear only by name; and when he thus trusted him-
self into the hands of strangers, confident in himself and in
his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He
relied also in the continuance of his good luck, which had as
yet never deserted him. Possessed of the belief, that his
hour was not yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk
he might run; and though he might undoubtedly have some
presentiment of the probable termination of his career, he
never suffered it to militate against his present enjoyment,
which proved that he was no despicable philosopher.
Dick Turpin was the Ultimus Romanorum, the last of a
race which (we were almost about to say we regret) is now
altogether extinct. Several successors he had, it is true,
but no name worthy to be recorded after his own. With
him, expired the chivalrous spirit which animated succes-
sively the bosoms of so many Knights of the Road; with
him, died away that passionate love of enterprise, that high
spirit of devotion to the fair sex, which was first breathed
upon the highway by the gay, gallant Chevalier Du Val, the
Bayard of the road--Le Filou sans peur et sans reproche-
but which was extinguished at last by the cord which tied
the heroic Turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject
well worthy of inquiry, to trace this decline and fall of the
empire of the Tobymen, to its remoter causes-to ascertain
the why and the wherefore, that with so many half-pay cap-
tains; so many poor curates; so many lieutenants, of both
services, without hopes of promotion; so many penny-a-liners,
and fashionable novelists; so many damned dramatists, and
damning critics; so many Edinburgh and Quarterly Re-
viewers; so many detrimental brothers, and younger sons;
when there are horses .to be hired, pistols to be borrowed,
purses to be taken, and mails are as plentiful as partridges;-
it were worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain
why, with the best material imaginable for a new race of
highwaymen, we have none, not so much as an amateur.
Why do not sonie of these choice spirits quit the salons of
Pall-Mall, and take to the road; the air of the heath is more
bracing and wholesome, we should conceive, than that of
any “hell” whatever, and the chances of success incom-
1*


6
parably greater? We throw out this hint, without a doubt
of seeing it followed up. Probably the solution of our inquiry
may be, that the supply is greater than the demand ; that, in
the present state of things, embryo highwaymen may be more
abundant than purses; and then, have we not the horse pa-
trol? With such an admirably-organised system of conser-
vation, it is vain to anticipate a change. The highwaymen,
we fear, like their Irish brothers, the Rapparees, went out
with the Tories. They were averse to Reform, and eschewed
Emancipation.
Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures
of the highwayman's existence, they shall hear what “the
right villainous” Jack Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day,
has got to say on the subject. “ His life (the highwayman's)
has, generally, the most mirth and the least care in it of any
man's breathing, and all he deals for is clear profit: he has
that point of good conscience, that he always sells as he buys,
a good pennyworth, which is something rare, since he trades
with so small a stock. The Fence* and he are like the devil
and the doctor, they live by one another; and, like traitors,
'tis best to keep each other's counsel. He has this point of
honesty, that he never robs the house he frequents ;” (Tur-
pin had the same scruples respecting the Hall of Rookwood
in Sir Piers's life-time ;)“ and perhaps pays his debts better
than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his
employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency,
and loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much
amiss, that he takes no more than he has occasion for ;” (Jack,
we think, was a little mistaken here,) " which he verifies
this way; he craves no more while that lasts. He is a less
nuisance in a Commonwealth than a miser, because the mo-
ney engrosses, all circulates again, which the other hoards
as though 'twere only to be found again at the Day of Judg.
ment. He is the tithe-pig of his family, which the gallows,
instead of the parson, claims as its due. He has reason
enough to be bold in his undertakings, for though all the
world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it,
and that's the hangman; and with him too he is generally
in Fee: however, I cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares
look any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then
a little modest. Newgate may be said to be his country-
house, where he frequently lives so many months in the year,
and he is not so much concerned to be carried thither for a
small matter, if 'twere only for the benefit of renewing his
acquaintance there.
He holds a petit larceny as light as a
he
* Receiver.


7
Nun does auricular confession, though the priest has a more
compassionate character than the hangman. Every man in
this community is esteemed according to his particular qua-
lity, of which there are several degrees, though it is contrary
often to public government; for here a man shall be valued
purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be but to a
halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in dying like a
hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to the two last
staves of the fifty-first Psalm."*
This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man,
and again we throw out the hint for adoption. All that we
regret is, that we are now degenerated from the grand toby-
man to the cracksman and the sneak,t about whom there are
no redeeming features. How much lower the next genera-
tion of thieves will dive, it boots not to conjecture :
Ætas Parentum pejor avis tulit,
Nos nequiores; mox daturos,
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
“ Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away,” sang Byron;
and if Gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our Night
Errantry, (unlike the Robbers of Schiller, which is said to
have inflamed the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania for
brigandage,) the Beggars' Opera helped not to fan the dying
fire. That laugh was fatal as laughs generally are. Mac-
heath gave the highwayman his coup
de
grace.
The last of this race (for we must persist in maintaining
that he was the last,) Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up
some parting rays of glory, and tinged the far highways with
a lustre which may yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by
his horse's retreating heels. Unequalled in the command of
his steed, the most singular feat that the whole race of the
annals of horsemanship has to record, and of which we may
have more to say hereafter, was achieved by him. So perfect
was his jockeyship, so clever his management of the animal
he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every cross
road in the neighbourhood of the metropolis (a book of which
he constructed, and carried constantly about his person,) as
well as with many other parts of England, particularly the
counties. of Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outstripped
every pursuer, and baffled all attempts at capture. His reck-
less daring, his restless rapidity (for so suddenly did he
* Memoirs of the Right Villainous John Hall, the famous and
notorious robber, penned from his own mouth some time be.
fore his death, 1708.
† Housebreakers.


8
change his ground, and renew his attacks in other quarters,
that he seemed to be endowed with ubiquity,) his bravery, his
resolution, and above all, his generosity, won for him a high
reputation amongst his compatriots,and even elicited applauses
from those upon whom he levied his contributions.
Beyond dispute he ruled as master of the road. His hands
were, as yet, unstained with blood; he was ever prompt to
check the disposition to outrage, and to prevent, as much as
lay in his power, the commission of violence by his associates.
Of late, since he had possessed himself of his favourite mare,
black Bess, his robberies had been perpetrated with a sudden-
ness of succession, and at distances so apparently impractica-
ble, that the idea of all having been executed by one man, was
rejected as an impossibility; and the only way of reconciling
the description of the horse and rider, which tallied in each
instance, was the supposition that these attacks were per-
formed by confederates similarly mounted, and similarly ac-
coutered.
There was, in all this, as much of the famæ sacra fames,”
as of the “ auri ;” of the hungering after distinction, as well
as of the appetite of gain. Enamoured of his vocation, Turpin
delighted to hear himself designated as the flying Highway-
man; and it was with rapturous triumph that he found his
single-handed feats attributed to a band of marauders. But
this state of things could not long endure; his secret was
blown ; the vigilance of the police was aroused; he was
tracked to his haunts; and after a number of hairbreadth
'scapes, which he only effected by miracle, or by the aid of
his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the heathy
hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow (over
which, like an archetype of the galloping Captain Head, he
had so often scoured,) the gorsy commons of Highgate,
Hampstead, and Finchley, the marshy fields of Battersea, al-
most all of which he had been known to visit in a single
night, and, leaving these beaten tracks to the occupation of
younger and less practised hands, he bequeathed to them at the
same time his own reversionary interests in the gibbet there-
upon erected, and betook himself to the country.
After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer
found himself at Rookwood, whither he had been invited after
a grand field day, by its hospitable and by no means inquisi-
tive owner. Breach of faith and good fellowship formed no
part of Turpin's character; he had his lights as well as his
shades; and so long as Sir Piers lived, his purse and coffers
would have been free from molestation, except “ so far,”
Dick said, “ as a cog or two of dice went. My dice you know,
are longs for odd and even, a bale of bar'd cinque deuces," a


10
look of blarney like that of O'Connell, and of assurance like
that of Hunt, he surveyed the male portion of the spectators,
tipped a knowing wink at the prettiest brunettes he could se-
lect, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well-booted legs,
which brought down another peal of rapturous applause.
“ A rank scamp !"* cried the Upright Man; and this excla-
mation, however equivocal it may sound, was intended, on
his part, to be highly complimentary.
"I believe ye," returned the Ruffler, stroking his chin,-
“one may see that he's no half swell, by the care with which
he cultivates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a
rank nib.”t.
“ Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the Palliard,
who was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps.
“ Though a needy mizzler myself, I likes to see a cove vot's
vel dressed. Jist twig his swell kickseys and pipes ;£ if they
ain't the thing, I'm
done. Lame Harry can't dance better nor
heno, nor Jerry Juniper neither.”
“ I'm dumb founded," roared the Dummerar, “ if he can't
patter Romanys as well as the best on us! He looks like a
rum 'un."
“ And a rum ’un he be, take my word for't," returned the
Whip Jack or sham sailor. “ Look at his rigging-see how
he flashes his sticks||—those are the tools to rake a three-
decker. He's as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day,
or I'm no judge."
The women were equally enchanted-equally eloquent in
the expression of their admiration.
“ What ogles !" cried a mort.
“ What pins !” said an autem mort, or, married woman.
Sharp as needles,” said a dark-eyed dell, who had en-
countered one of the freo and frolicsome glances which our
Highwayman distributed so liberally amongst the petticoats.
It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Cæsar betrayed
his baldness.
" A thousand pities !" cried the men, compassionating his
thinly covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy
and luxuriant, though unconscious of Maccassar. " A thou-
sand pities that so fine a fellow should have a sconce like a
cocoa nut?”
" But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of
the uniformity of thick black heads of hair; " what a warmth
of colouring they impart to his face, and then only look how
* A famous highwayman.
+ A real gentleman.
# Breeches and boots.
§ Gipsey flash.
|| How he exposes his pistols.
66


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flush they are !-how beautifully bushy they make his cheeks
appear!"
Lady Baussière and the Court of the Queen of Navarre,
were not more smitten with the irresistible whiskers of the
Sieur de Croix.
The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assem-
blage. Amidst that throng of dark faces, there was not one
familiar to him.
Before him stood the Upright Man, Zoroaster (so was he
called,) a sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and
stature (as has not unfrequently beep the case in the infancy
of governments that have risen to more importance than is
likely to be the case with that of Lesser Egypt) had been the
means of his elevation to his present dignified position. Zo-
Toaster literally fought his way upwards, and had at first to
maintain his situation by the strong arm; but he now was
enabled to repose upon his hard won laurels, to smoke “ the
calumet of peace," and quaff his tipple with impunity. For
one of gipsy blood, he presented an unusual jovial, liquor-
loving countenance-his eye was mirthful-his lip moist, as
if from oft potations—his cheek mellow as an Orleans plum,
which fruit, in colour and texture, it mightily resembled.
Strange to say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was
heavy and hebetudinous ; the consequence, no doubt, of habi-
tual intemperance. Like Crib, he waxed obese upon the
championship. There was a kind of mock state in his car-
riage, as he placed himself before Turpin, and with his left
hand twisted up the tail of his dressing gown, while the right
thrust his truncheon into his hip, which was infinitely divert-
ing to the Highwayman.
Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards
his neighbour, the Ruffler, in whom he recognised a well
known impostor of the day, with whose history he was suffi-
ciently well acquainted to be able at once to identify the indi-
vidual. We have before stated, that a magnificent coal-black
beard decorated the chin of this singular character; but this
is not all-his costume was in perfect keeping with his
beard, and consisted of a very theatrical-looking tunic, upon
the breast of which was embroidered, in golden wire, the
maltese cross; while over his shoulders were thrown the
ample folds of a cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was girt
a long and doughty sword, which he called, in his knightly
phrase, Excalibur; and upon his profuse hair, rested a hat as
broad in the brim as a Spanish sombrero.
Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure
our readers, that it is not overdrawn; and that a counterpart
of the sketch we have given of the Ruffler, certainly “strutted


12
his hour” upon the stage of human life, and that the very an-
cient and discriminating City of Canterbury (to which be all
honour) was his theatre of action. His history is so far cu-
rious, ihat it exemplifies more strongly than a thousand dis-
courses could do, how prone we are to be governed by appear-
ances, and how easily we may be made the dupes of a
plausible impostor. Be it remembered, however, that we
treat of the eighteenth century, before the march of intellect
had commenced; we are much too knowing to be similarly
practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let
ihe Knight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the
Ruffler, tell his own story in his own way hereafter; content-
ing onrselves with the moral precepts we have already de-
duced from it.
Next to the Knight of Malta, stood the Whip Jack, habited
in his sailor gear-striped shirt and dirty canvass trowsers;
and adjoining him was the Palliard, a loathsome tatterdema-
lion, his dress one heap of rags, and his discoloured skin one
mass of artificial leprosy and imposthumes.
As Turpin's eyes shifted from one to another of these fi-
gures, he chanced upon an individual who had been long en-
deavouring to arrest his attention. This person was complete-
ly in the back-ground. All that Dick could discern of him,
was a brown curly head of hair, carelessly arranged in the
modern mode; a handsome, impudent, sun-freckled face, with
one eye closed, and the other occupied hy a broken bottle neck,
through which, as a substitute for a lorgnette, the individual
reconnoitered him. A cocked hat was placed in a very déga-
gée manner under his arm, and he held a black ebony cane in
his hand, very much in the style of a modern élégant. This
glimpse was sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognized in
this whimsical personage an old acquaintance.
Jerry Juniper was what the classic Captain Grose would
designate a “gentleman with three onts ;” and although he
was not entirely without wit, nor, his associates avouched,
without money, nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that
been asked, without manners; yet was he assuredly without
shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficien-
cy was made up by a voluminous cravat, tied with proportion-
ably large bows. A jaunty pair of yellow inexpressibles,
somewhat faded ; a waistcoat of silver brocade, richly embroi-
dered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre ; a murrey-coloured
velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of this
Beggar Brummell, this mendicant maccaroni!
Jerry was a character well known at the time, as a constant
frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull-
baits, and prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which


13
one cut
he transported himself with an expedition little less remark-
able than that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascott,
at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the Roodee of Chester, at the
Curragh of Kildare. The most remote as well as the most
adjacent meeting attracted him. The cock-pit was his con-
stant haunt, and in more senses than one was he a leg. No
opera dancer could be more agile, more nimble; scarcely, in-
deed, more graceful, than was Jerry, with his shoeless and
stockingless feet; and the manner in which he executed a pi-
rouette or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom failed to
procure him "golden opinions from all sorts of dames.” With
the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy
terms; but then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms
with Jerry; and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest
with him, what marvel if he should sometimes slightly trans-
gress the laws of decorum. These aberrations, however,
were trifling : altogether he was so well known, and knew
every body else so well, that he seldom committed himself;
and singular to say, could on occasions even be serious. In
addition to his other faculties, no
sly joke, no one
trolled a merry ditty, better than Jerry. His peculiarities, in
short, were on the pleasant side, and he was a general favour-
ito in consequence:
No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognized, than,
after kissing his hand with the air of a petit-maitre to the
Highwayman, he strove to edge his way through the crowd.
All his efforts were fruitless; and, tired of a situation in the
rear rank, so inconsistent, he conceived, with his own import-
ance, he had recourse to an expedient often practised with
success in harlequinades, and not unfrequently in real life,
where a flying leap is occasionally taken over our heads. He
van back a few yards, to give himself an impetus, retu ned,
and placing his hands upon the shoulders of a stalwart vaga-
bond near to him, threw a somerset upon the broad cap of a
pilliard, who was so jammed in the midst that he could not
have stirred to avoid the shock; thence, without pausing, he
vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground in front
of Zoroaster, and immediately before the Highwayman.
Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's maneuvre. He
shook his old chum cordially by the hand, saying, in a whis-
per,
- What the devil brings you here, Jerry?"
“I might retort, and ask you that question, Captain Turpin,"
replied Jerry, sotto voce. "It is odd to see me here, certainly,
quite out of my element-quite lost among this canaille—this
canting crew—all the fault of a pair of gipsy eyes, bright as
a diamond, dark as a sloe. You comprehend—a little affair,
ah! Liable to these things. Bring your ear closer, my boy
VOL. II.
2
79


15
22
considerable, and by creating you an honorary member of the
Refuse Club, which we have recently established ; and in so
doing, we would fain express the sentiments of gratification
and pride which we experience in enrolling among our mem-
bers the name of one who has extended the glory of roguery
so widely over the land, and who has kicked up a dust upon
the highways of England, with which he most effectually
blinded the natives—a name which is itself a legion--of high-
waymen! Awaiting, with respectful deference, the acquies-
cence of Captain-Turpin, we beg to tender him the freedom of
our crew.??
“Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see
the drift of this harangue,"you do me a vast deal of honour. I
am quite at a loss to conceive how I possibly have merited so
much attention at your hands; and, indeed, I feel myself so
unworthy-" here Dick received an expressive wink from Ju-
niper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter his expression.
“ Could I conceive myself at all deserving of so much distinc-
tion," continued the modest speaker, “ I should at once accept
your obliging offer-but-
“None so worthy," said the Upright Man.
“ Can't hear of a refusal," said the Knight of Malta.
6. Refusal-impossible !" reiterated Juniper.
6 No, no refusal,” exclaimed a chorus of voices.
Turpin must be one of us. - He shall be our Dimber Damber.”
“Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing,” replied Tur-
pin, " even so be it. I will be your Dimber Damber.”
• Bravo! bravo," cried the mob, not " of gentlemen.”
“ About it, Palls, at once,” said the Knight of Malta, flour-
ishing Excalibur. “ By St. Thomas à Becket, we'll have as
fine a scene as I myself ever furnished to the Canterbury lieges.”
" About what?" asked Dick.
6. Your matriculation,” replied Jerry. 66 There are certain
forms to be gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a
trifle-We'll have a jolly boose, when all's over. Come,
bing avast, my merry Palls—to the green-to the green-a
Turpin !-a Turpin
!-a new brother!"
“A Turpin !-a Turpin ! a new brother !” echoed the crew.
" I've brought you through,” said Jerry, taking advantage
of the uproar that ensued, to whisper to his chum none of
them will dare to lift a finger against you now—they are all
your friends for life.”
“Nevertheless," returned Turpin, “I should be glad to
know what has become of Bess."
“ If it's your pancer you are wanting," chirped a fluttering
creature, whom Turpin recognized as Luke's groom, Grass-
hopper, “ I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoup of stingo, as you
66 Dick
79
1


16
A solemn pre-
bade me, and there she be, under yon tree, as quiet as a Jamb.”
“I see her,” replied Turpin ; “just tighten her girths,
Grasshopper, and bring her after me, and thou shalt have
wherewithal to chirp over thy cups at supper.”
Away bounded the elfin dwarf, to execute his behest.
A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards
was heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the
tattoo of a drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies ele-
vated the Highwayman upon their shoulders. In this way he
was carried to the centre of the green, where the long oaken
table, which had once served the Franciscans for- refection,
was now destined for the stage of the pageant.
Upon this table three drums were placed, and Turpin was
requested to seat himself on the central one.
lude, more unearthly than the incantation in the Freyschutz,
was played by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the Pa-
ganini of the place, who elicited the most marvellous notes from
his shell. A couple of shawms* emitted sepulchral sounds,
while the hollow rolling of the drum broke ever and anon up-
on the ear. The effect was prodigiously grand. During this
overture, the Patrico and the Upright Man had ascended the
rostrum, each taking their places, the former on the right hand
of Turpin, the latter upon his left. Below them stood the
Knight of Malta, with Excalibur drawn in his hand, and
gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was amused
with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which he
found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a
compact mass of heads; so compact indeed, that they looked
like one creature-an Argus, with each eye up-turned upon
the Highwayman. The idea struck Turpin, that the restless
mass of particoloured shreds and patches, of vivid hues and
varied tintings, singularly, though accidentally, disposed to
produce such an effect, resembled an immense tiger-moth, or
it might be a turkey carpet, spread out upon the grass !
The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sunshiny
morning. The air, freshened and purified by the storm of the
preceding night, breathed a balm upon the nerves and senses
of the robber. The wooded hills were glittering in light;
the brook was flowing swiftly past the edge of the verdant
slope, glancing like a wreathed snake in the sunshine-its
" quiet song” lost in the rude harmony of the mummers, as
were the thousand twitterings of the rejoicing birds—the rocks
bared their bosoms to the sun, or were buried in the deep-cast
* " The shalm, or shawn, was a wind instrument like a pipe,
with a swelling protuberance in the middle."
Earl of Northumberland's Household Book.


17
gloom--the shadows of the pillars and arches of the old walls
of the priory were projecting afar, while thọ rose-like ramifi-
cations of the magnificent marigold window were traced, as if
by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the sod.
The overture was finished. With the appearance of the
principal figures in this strange picture the reader is already
familiar. It remains only to give him some idea of the Patri-
co. Imagine, then, an old superannuated goat, reared upon
its hind legs, and clad in a white sheet, disposed in folds like
those of an ephod about its limbs, and you have some idea of
Balthazar the Patrico. The resemblance of the animal be-
fore mentioned, was rendered the more striking, by his huge,
hanging, goat-like underlip, his lengthy white beard, and a sort
of cap, covering his head, which was ornamented with a pair
of horns, such as are to be seen in Michael Angelo's tremen-
dous statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides being the Patrico of
the tribe, was its principal professor of divination, and had been
the long-tried and faithful minister of Barbara Lovel, from
whose secret instructions he was supposed to have derived
much of his magical skill.
Placing a pair of spectacles upon his “prognosticating
nose,” and unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange cha-
racters were written, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus com-
menced, in a solemn voice :-
Thou who wouldst our brother be,
Say how shall we enter thee?
Name the name that thou wilt bear,
Ere our livery thou wear. .
" I see no reason why I should alter my designation,” re-
plied the novice; “but as Popes change their titles on their cre-
ation, there can be no objection to a Scampsman following so
excellent an example. Let me be known as the Night Hawk.”
“ The Night Hawk-good,” returned the hierophant, pro-
ceeding to register the name upon the parchment.
“ Kneel
down,'' continued he.
After some hesitation, Turpin complied.
“ You must repeat the ‘Salamon,' or oath of our creed, after
my dictation,” said the Patrico; and Turpin, signifying his
assent by a nod, Balthazar propounded the following adjura-
tion :
OATH OF THE CANTING CREW.
I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be
True to this fraternity-
That I will in all obey
Rule and order of the Lay.
2*


18
Never blow the gab, or squeak :
Nevér snitch to bum or beak ;
But religiously maintain
Authority of those who reign
Over Stop Hole Abbey green,
Be they Tawny King or Queen.
In their cause alone will fight ;
Think what they think, wrong or right ;
Serve them truly, and no other,
And be faithful to my brother ;
Suffer none, from far or near,
With their rights to interfere ;
No strange Abram, Ruffier crack-
Hooker of another pack-
Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer,
Irish Toyle, or other wanderer ;
No dimber damber, angler, dancer,
Prig of cackler, prig of prancer ;
No swigman, swaddler, clapperdudgeon ;
Cadge-gloak, curtal, or curmudgeon ;
No whip-jack, palliard, patrico ;
No jarkman, be he high or low ;
No dummerar, or romany.;
No member of “the Family;"
No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer,
Nor any other, will I suffer ;
But stall-off now and for ever,
All outliers whatsoever ;
And as I keep to the fore-gone,
So may help me, Salamon! *
Perhaps the most whimsical laws that were ever prescribed
to a gang of thieves, were those framed by William Holliday,
one of the prigging community, who was hanged in 1695:
ART. I. Directs, That none of his
company should
to wear shirts, on pain of being cashiered.
II. That none should lie in any other places than stables,
empty houses, or other bulks.
III. That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and
that they should give away all the money they got by cleaning
boots among one another, for the good of the fraternity.
IV. That they should neither learn to read nor write, that
he may have them the better under command.
V. That they should appear every morning by nine, on the
parade, to receive necessary orders.
VI. That none should presume to follow the scent but such
as he ordered on that party.
VII.- That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, he
should convert them into money to play.
presume


19
My
“. So help me, Salamon,” repeated Turpin, with extrava-
gant
emphasis.
“ Zoroaster," said the Patrico to the Upright Man, “ do
thy part of this ceremonial.”
Zoroaster obeyed; and, taking Excalibur from the Knight
of Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon
the shoulders of the kneeling Highwayman, assisting him
wards to arise.
The inauguration was complete.
"Well," exclaimed Dick, “ I'm glad its all over.
leg feels a little stiffish- I'm not much given to kneeling-
I must dance it off;” saying which, he began to shuffle upon
the boards. “ I tell you what,” continued he, “most Reve-
rend Patrico, that same · Salmon' of yours, has a cursed long
tail—I could scarce swallow it at all, and it's strange if it
don't give me an indigestion. As to you, sage Zory, from
the dexterity with which you flourish your sword, I should
say you had practised at Court; his Majesty could scarce do
the thing better, when, slapping some fat Alderman upon
the shoulder, he bids him rise Sir Richard.
palls,” added he, glancing round, “as I am one of you, let's
have a boose together ere I depart, for I don't think my stay
will be long in the land of Egypt."
This suggestion of Turpin was so entirely consonant to
the wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal ap-
probation, and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his fol.
lowers departed in search of supplies for the carousal. Zo-
roaster leaped from the table, and his example was followed
by Turpin, and mose leisurely by the Patrico.
It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout; but the
canting crew were not remarkably particular. The chairs
were removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the ar-
rival of the preliminaries of the matutine symposion. Poles,
canvass, and cords were next brought; and in almost as short
space of time as one scene is substituted for another in a
theatrical representation, was a tent erected. Benches,
stools, and chairs, appeared with equal celerity, and the in-
terior soon presented an appearance like that of a booth at a
And now,
VIII. That they should steal nothing they could not come
at, for fear of bringing a scandal upon the company.
IX. That they should not endeavour to clear themselves of
vermin, by killing or eating them.
x. That they should cant better than the Newgate birds,
pick pockets without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a
Lord at a gaming table, and brazen out all their villanies be-
yond an Irishman.


20
fair. A keg of brandy was broached, and the health of the
new brother
quaffed in brimmers.
Our Highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the
chair, the Knight of Malta acting as croupier. A second
toast was proposed—the Tawny Queen. This was drunk
with a like enthusiasm, and with a like allowance of the
potent spirit; but as bumpers of brandy are not to be repeat-
ed with impunity, it became evident to the President of the
board that he must not repeat his toasts quite so expeditious-
ly. To create a temporary diversion, therefore, he called for
a song:
The dulcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the cla-
mour, and in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered
the following:
JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT.
In a box (1) of the Stone Jug (2) I was born,
Of a hempen widow (3) the kid forlorn.
Fake away:
And my father, as I've heard say,
Fake away,
Was a merchant of capers (4) gay,
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
(5) Nix my doll palls, fake away.
Who cut his last Aing with great applause, (6)
To the tune of a “hearty choke with caper sauce.”
Fake away:
The knucks in quod (7) did my schoolmen play,
Fake away.
And put me up to the time of day;
Until at last there was none so knowing,
Nix my doll palls, fake away.
Until at last there was none so knowing,
No such sneaksman (8) or buzgloak (9) going,
Fake away.
Fogles (10) and fawnies (11) soon went their way,
Fake away:
To the spout (12) with the sneezers (13) in grand array,
No dummy hunter (14) had forks (15) so fly;
Nix my doll palls, fake away.
(1) Cell. (2) Newgate. (3) A woman whose husband has been hanged. (4)
A dancing master. (5) “ Nothing, comrades, on, on," supposed to be addressed
by a thief to his confederates. (6) Thus Victor Hugo, in Le Dernier Jour
d'un Condamne, makes an imprisoned felon sing
Jl' li ferai danser une danse
Qu il n'y a pas de plancher.
(7) Thieves in prison. (8) Shoplifter. (9) Pickpocket. (10) Handkerchiefs.
(11) Rings. (12) To the Pawnbroker. (13) Snuff boxes. (14) Pickpucket.
(15) The two fore-fingers used in picking a pocket.


22
Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's attempt
to please; and though the meaning of his chant, even with
the aid and abetment of the numerous notes which we have
appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our readers, we
can assure them that it was perfectly intelligible to the Cant-'
ing Crew. Jerry was now entitled to a call; and happening,
at the moment, to meet the fine dark eyes of a sentimental
gipsy, one of the better class of mendicants who wandered
about the country with a guitar at his back, his election fell
upon him. The youth, without prelude struck up a
GIPSY SERENADE.
Merry maid, merry maid, wilt thou wander with me?
We will roam through the forest, the meadow and lea ;
We will haunt the sunny bowers, and when day begins to fee,
Our couch shall be the ferny brake, our canopy the tree.
Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me ;
No life like the gipsy's so joyous and free !
Merry maid, merry maid, though a roving life be ours,
We will laugh away the laughing and quickly fleeting hours ;
Our hearts are free, as is the free and open sky above,
And we know what tamer souls know not, how lovers ought to
love.
Merry maid, merry maid, come and wander with me;
No life like the gipsy's, so joyous and free!
Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to
intimate his intention of proposing a toast.
A universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklers,t was
followed by profound silence. The sage spoke :-
". The city of Canterbury, palls," said he; “ and may it
never want a Knight of Malta.”
The toast was pledged with much laughter, and in many
bumpers.
The Knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose “ with
stately bearing and majestic motion,” to return thanks.
“I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother palls," said
he, glancing around the assemblage; and bowing to the pre-
sident, “ and to you, most Upright Zory, for the honour you
have done me in associating my name with that City. Be-
lieve me, I sincerely appreciate the compliment, and echo the
sentiment from the bottom of my soul. I trust it never will
want a Knight of Malta. In return for your consideration,
but a poor one you will say, you shall have a ditty, which I
* The words of this song have been published, accompanied
with music, by Mr. Alexander Roche.
f Pickpockets.


24
Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a
raree;
The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury,
With my coal-black beard, &c.
The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd,
sirs,
And on retrenchment, and reform, I spouted long and loud,
sirs,
On tithes, and on taxation, I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs,
Who so able as a Malta Knight, the malt tax to repeal, sirs.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city,
And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity!
For surely I thé fittest was, and very proper very,
To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer
did,
And the justices upon the bench I literally bearded ;
For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear
as day, sirs,
That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs,
With my coal-black beard, &c.
This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,
And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under;
To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs,
And thus crossed the Knight of Malta was at length obliged to
hop, sirs.
With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor,
Good bye to the Knight of Malta!
The Knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the
company.
The party, meanwhile, had been increased, by the arrival
of Luke and the Sexton. The former, who was in no mood
for revelry, refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation
to enter, and remained sullenly at the door, his arms folded,
and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he com-
manded through the canvas aperture. The Sexton walked up
to Dick, who was seated at the post of honour, and clapping
him upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfort-
able position in which he found him.
“ Ha! ha! Are you there my old Death's Head on a Mop
Stick ?" said Turpin, with a laugh.
46 Ain't we merry


25
pin ?"
mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah
-make yourself comfortable, Methusalem.”
“ What say you to a drop of as fine old Nantz as you ever
tasted in your life, old covy ?” said Zoroaster.
“Say," returned Peter, “that I have no sort of objection
to it, provided you will all pledge my toast.”'
6. That I will, were it old Ruffin himself,” shouted Turpin.
“Here's to the three leg'd mare,” cried Peter. “To the
tree that bears fruit all the year round, and that yet has neither
bark nor branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Tur-
56 Not I,” answered Dick; “ I owe the gallows no grudge.
'If, as Jerry's song says, I must have a hearty choke and caper
sauce for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall
never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neg.
lected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Brad-
ley's toast, The Scragging Post. The three leg'd mare, with
three times three."
Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be
so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and
the shouts soon died away.
• They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin
to Peter. • More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten
children, believe me, and never yet alarmed a brave man.
The gallows, pshaw! One can die but once, and what sig-
nifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of
the last leap into eternity, than of clearing a five-barred gate.
A rope's end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most
of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can
throw off a rum chant,” added he, turning to Peter. "I
heard you sing, last night, at the Hall. Troil us a stave, my
antediluvian file, and in the mean time tip me a gage of fogus,*
Jerry, and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-buttf you are brew-
ing, Sir William,” added 'he, addressing the Knight of Malta,
“ you may send me a jorum thereof at your convenience."
Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tum-
bler of the beverage which the Knight had prepared, which
he pronounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed
round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that
Peter was ready to break into song.
Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied
at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody,
in a key so high, that the utmost exertion of the shawm-blower
* A pipe of tobacco.
† A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy.
Vol. II.
3


26
failed to approach its altitudes. The separate burthen of his
minstrelsy was-
THE MANDRAKE.*
The Mandrake grows ’neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves,
And though all around it be bleak and bare,
Freely the Mandrake flourisheth there.
Maranatha!-Anathema!
Dread is the curse of Mandragora!
Euthanasy!
At the foot of the gibbet the Mandrake springs,
Just where the creaking carcass swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
* The imaginary malignant and fatal influence of this plant
is frequently alluded to by our older dramatists; and with one
of the greatest of them, Webster (as might be expected from
a charnel Muse, that revels like a ghoul in graves and sepul-
chres, and rakes up hideous and revolting lore,) it is an espe--
cial favourite for illustration. But none have plunged so deeply
into the disquisition of the supposititious virtues of the Man-
drake, as the learned and profound Sir Thomas Browne. He
tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger
ensuing from eradication of the Mandrake, he thus writeth:-
6. The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to
them that pull it up, that some evil fate pursues them, and that
they live not very long hereafter. Therefore the attempt
hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way; but, as
Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of
this plant, they took the wind thereof, and with a sword de-
scribing three circles about it, they digged it up, looking to-
wards the West. A conceit not only injurious unto truth and
confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory unto
the Providence of God; that is, not only to impose so destruc-
tive a quality on any plant, but to conceive a vegetable whose
parts are so useful unto many, should, in the only taking up,
prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second for-
bidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not
only mortal for Adam to taste the one, bút capital for his pos-
terity to eradicate, or dig up the other.”—Vulgar Errors,
Book ïi. c. vi.


27
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is vain imagining:
Maranatha!-Anathema!
Dread is the curse of Mandragora!
Euthanasy!
A charnel leaf doth the Mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the Mandrake bear;
Yet none like the Mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
Maranatha!-Anathema!
Dread is the curse of Mandragora!
Euthanasy!
1
And whether the Mandrake be create
Flesh with the flower incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the earth are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes, and drops from the clammy core.
Maranatha!-Anathema!
Dread is the curse of Mandragora!
Euthanasy!
Whoso gathereth the Mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans;
Like to the Mandrake's expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside-
With penitent prayers—but all have died.
Jesu! save us, by night and day!
From the terrible death of Mandragora!
Euthanasy!
an encore.
“A queer chaunt that,” said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in
token of his disapprobation.
“Not much to my taste,"quoth the Knight of Malta. “We
like something more sprightly in Canterbury.”
“ Nor to mine," added Jerry; “ don't think it's likely to have
'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something
yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree.”
“ With all my heart,” replied Turpin, "you shall have-
but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? devil take my tongue,
Luke Bradley I mean. What, ho! Luke, nay, nay, man, no
shrinking-stand forward—I've a word or two to say to you.
We must have a hob-a-nob glass together, for old acquaint-
ance sake. Nay, no airs, man; dammee you're not a lord yet,


29
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY.
Now Oliver (1) puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim (2) is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the Scampsman (3) gone,
His matchless cherry-black (4) prancer riding ;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol (5) by his side, and his pops (6) in his pocket.
CHORUS
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games-High Toby. (7)
The traveller hears him, away ! away!
Over the wide, wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit ?
He is caught-he must “ stand and deliver,”
Then out with the dummy, (8) and off with the bit, (9)
Oh ! the game of High Toby for ever!
GRAND CHORUS.
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games-High Toby?
Believe me there's not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of High Toby ;
No rapture can equal the Tobyman's joys,
To blue devils blue plums (10) give the go-by ;
And what if, at length, boys, he comes to the Crap, (11)
Even rack punch has some bitter in it.
For the Mare-with-three-legs, (12) boys, I care not a rap.
'Twill be over in less than a minute !
GRAND CHORUS.
Then hip, hurrah !
Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of High Toby!
as we
1 The moon. 2 Light. 3 Highwayman. 4 Cher-
ry-coloured black ; there being black che
as red.
GROSE. 5 Sword. 6 Pistols. 7 Highway robbery.
8 Pocket book.
9 Money 10 Bullets. 11 The
gallows. 12 Ditto.
3*


30
" And now, gentlemen," said Dick, who began to feel the
influence of these morning cups, “I vote that we adjourn.
Believe me, I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of
your band ; Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together,
ere I take my leave. Adieu !"
And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent.
Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.
At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper, with Black
Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the
bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walki
over the green.
For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in ru-
mination.
“I tell you what, Sir Luke,” said he, “I should like to do
a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper.
But one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know-there
is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which
must be taken at the flood, or else---but no matter. Your old
dad, Sir Piers (God help him!) had the gingerbread, that I
know; he was, as we say, a regular rhinocerical cull. You
won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and besides
there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who row in the same
boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of the
regʻlars. All this considered, you can't complain, I think, if
I ask five thousand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rook-
wood, offered me nearly as much.”
“ I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke ; " I will
not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by acci-
dent into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I
blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I
must, perforce, agree to your terms."
" Oh no," replied Dick, “ it's quite optional ; Lady Rook-
wood will give as much, and make no mouths at it. So ho,
lass! What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion-Ha-
Carriage wheels in the distance ! that jade knows sound as
well as I do. I'll just see what it's like !-you will have ten
minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come
in for a good thing here ?"
At that instant a carriage passed the angle of a rock some
three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending
the hill side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dash-
ed after it.
In vain the Sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his ca-
reer, called after him to halt. . He sped like a bolt from a
bow.
“ May the devil break his neck,” cried Peter, as he saw
him dash through the brook, “could he not let them alone ?"
2


32
sensibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage
aroused the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray per-
ceived that the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of
a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed. The ap-
pearance of the horseman was somewhat singular, and might
have created some uneasiness as to the nature of his ap-
proach, had not the Major immediately recognized a friend ;
he was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see him, and turn-
ed to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father Ambrose, to
his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them, and ap-
peared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome
tidings.
Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad brimmed har
drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish
further of the priest's figure and features beyond the circum-
stance of his height, which was remarkable, until he had
reached the carriage window, when, raising his hat, he dis-
closed a head that Titian might have painted, and which,
arising from the dark drapery, looked not unlike the visage of
some grave and saturnine Venetian. There was a venerable
expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with hair, towering over
black pent-house-like brows, which, in their turn, shadowed
keen penetrating priest-like eyes ; the temples were hollow,
and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the
cheek-bones high, and there was something in the face that
spoke of self-mortification ; while the thin, livid lips, closely
compressed, and the austere and sinister expression of his
countenance, showed that self-abasement, if he had ever prac-
tised it, had scarcely prostrated the demon of pride, whose do-
minion might still be traced in the lines and furrows of his
haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. Mowbray,
and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. Mrs. Mowbray ap-
peared to understand him.
“ You would say a word to me in private,” said Mrs. Mow-
bray, “ shall I descend ?”
The Priest bowed assent.
“ It is not to you alone that my mission extends," said he,
gravely;"you are all in part concerned ; your son had better
alight with you."
* Instantly,” replied the Major. “ If you will give your
horse in charge of the postillion, we will attend you at once."
With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she
knew not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her mother and
brother descend from the carriage.
Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Elea-
nor disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy to-
wards him, which she could neither extirpate nor control, dur-


33
ing their long and close intimacy. It may be necessary to
mention that Eleanor's religious culture had been in accord-
ance with the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith
(the faith of her ancestry) her mother had continued ; and that
Father Ambrose, with whom she had first become acquainted
during the residence of the family near Bourdeaux, was her
ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth, he
had been appointed Curé to the ess in which they dwelt,
and was, consequently, a frequent visiter, almost a constant
inmate, of the chateau : yet, though duty and respect would have
prompted her to regard the Father with affection, Eleanor
could never conquer the feelings of dislike and distrust which
she had at first entertained towards him ; a dislike which was
increased by the strange control in which he seemed to hold
her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching
to infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction she bade
him adieu. He had, however, followed his friends to Eng-
land under a feigned name (as, being a recusant Romish
priest, and supposed to have been engaged in certain jesuiti-
cal plots, his return to his own country was attended with
considerable risk,) and had now remained domesticated with
them for some months. That he had been in some way,
early in life, connected with a branch of the house of Rook-
wood, Eleanor was aware (she fancied he might have been
engaged in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would
well have accorded with his ardent ambitious temperament,)
and the knowledge of this circumstance made her doubly ap-
prehensive, lest the nature of his present communication
should have reference to her lover, towards whose cause the
Father had never been favorable, and respecting whose situa-
tion he might have made some discovery, which she feared he
might use to Ranulph's disadvantage.
With such misgivings, therefore Eleanor watched the mo-
tions of the party narrowly, in hopes to gain some clue, from
their gestures, to the subject of their conversation. From the
earnest manner of the priest, and the interest which his narra-
tive seemed to excite in his hearers, it was evident that his
communication was of importance.
Accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray returned
to the carriage, while the Major, mounting the horse of the
former, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with
a look that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by
his words “ that all was well,” but without staying to offer
her any explanation of the cause of his sudden departure, rode
back the way they had just traversed, and in the direction of
Rookwood. Bereft of the only person to whom she could have
applied for information, though dying with curiosity and anx-


34
iety, to know the meaning of this singular interview, and oni
the sudden change of plans which she felt so intimately con-
cerned herself, Eleanor was constrained to preserve silence,
as, after their entrance into the carriage, her mother seemed
lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not; and the Father
drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared intently
occupied in its perusal.
“Dear mother,” said Eleanor, at length turning to Mrs.
Mowbray, “ my brother is gone
“ To Rookwood,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated
to check further inquiry ; but Eleanor was too anxious to
notice it.
“ And wherefore, mother,” said she, “may I not know ?"
“ Not as yet, my child—not as yet,” replied Mrs. Mow-
bray'; “you will learn all sufficiently early."
The priest now raised his cat-like eyes from the book, to
watch the effect of this speech, but dropped them instantly, as
Eleanor turned towards him. She had been about to appeal
to him, but having witnessed this look, she relinquished her
scarce-formed purpose, and endeavoured to divert her tristful
thoughts by gazing through the glimmering medium of her
tears upon the soothing aspect of external nature—that aspect
which, in sunshine or in storm, hath ever relief in store for a
heart embittered by the stony coldness of the world. Turn to
the bosom of nature, ye that are sore afflicted, and ye shall
find the relief ye seek—the sympathy after which ye yearn!
The road meanwhile had led them through a long woody
valley, and was now climbing the sides of a steep hill. They
were soon in the vicinity of the Priory, and of the gipsies' en-
campment. The priest leaned forward, and whispered some-
thing in Mrs. Mowbray's ear, who looked towards the ruined
shrine, part of whose mouldering walls were visible from the
road.
At this moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the sound
of a loud voice, commanding the postillion, in a menacing
tone, to stop, accompanied by a volley of imprecations, inter-
rupted the conference, and bespoke the approach of an unwel.
come intruder, and one whom all, too truly, feared would not
be readily dismissed. The postillion, however, did his best
to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving a masked horseman
behind him, approaching
at a furious rate, he had little doubt
as to his intentions, and Turpin soon made his doubts certain-
ties. He called on him to stop, but the fellow paid no atten-
tion to his command, however peremptory, and disregarded
even the pistol which he saw, in a casual glimpse over his
near side, was presented at his person. Clapping his spurs
into his horses' flanks, he sought succour in fight. Turpin


35
99
66
was by his side in an instant. As the highwayman endea.
voured to catch his reins, the lad suddenly wheeled the car-
riage right upon him, and but for the dexterity of Turpin, and
the clever conduct of his mare, would inevitably have crushed
him against the road-side. As it was, his left leg was slightly
grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin fired over the man's head, and
with the butt-end of the pistol felled him from his seat.
Startled by the sound, and no longer under the governance
of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic violence towards
a ditch, which bounded the other side of the highway, down
which the carriage was precipitated, and at once overturned.
Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no mischief
had been occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm inci-
dent to the shock, was to compel the postillion, who had by
this time gained his legs, to release the horses from their trace.
This done, with the best grace he could assume, and adjust-
ing his mask, he opened the carriage, and proceeded to libe-
rate the captives.'
· Beg pardon, Madam,” said he, so soon as he had released
Mrs. Mowbray, “ excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have
been the cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you—all the
fault, I assure you, of that rascal of a postillion; had the fel-
low only pulled up when I commanded him, all this might
have been avoided-you will remember that, when you pay
him-all his fault, I assure you, Ma'am.”
Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with
whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly
smitten. Leaving the Father to shift for himself; he turned
to address some observation of coarse gallantry to her; but
she eluded his grasp, and flew to her mother's side.
“ It is useless, Sir,” said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew
near them, “ to affect ignorance of your intentious. You have
already occasioned us serious alarm, much delay and incon-
venience. I trust, therefore, that beyond our purses, which
are but scantily supplied, but to which you are welcome, we
shall sustain no molestation. You seem to have less of the
ruffian about you than the rest of your lawless race, and are
not, I should hope, destitute of common humanity.”
" Common humanity !" replied Turpin, “ bless you, Madam,
I'm the most humane creature breathing ; would not hurt a
fily, much less a lady. Incivility was never laid to my charge.
This business may be managed in a few seconds; and as soon
as we have settled the matter, I'll lend your stupid Jack-boy
a hand to put the horses to the carriage again, and get the
wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker, Ma'am, I sup-
pose in town-perhaps in the country; but I don't like coun.
iry bankers ; besides I want a little ready cash in Rumville-


36
beg pardon, Ma'am, London I mean ; but my ears have been
so stunned with those Romany patterers, I almost think in
flash. Just draw me a cheque ; I've pen and ink always
ready: a cheque for fifty pounds, Ma'am-only fifty. What's
your banker's name? I've blank cheques of all the best
houses in my pocket; that, and a kiss from the pretty lips of
that cherry-cheeked maid,” winking to Eleanor, “ will fully
content me. You see you have neither an exorbitant nor un-
civil personage to deal with.”
Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother. Exhausted by
previous agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the
shock which she had just sustained, and still more alarmed
by the words and gestures of the highwayman, she felt that
she was momentarily in danger of fainting, and with difficulty
prevented herself from falling. The Priest, who had suc-
ceeded in freeing himself from the carriage, now placed him-
self between Turpin and the ladies.
“ Be satisfied, misguided man,” said the Father, in a stern
voice, offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extend-
ed towards him, “ with the crime you have already commit-
ted, and seek not to peril your soul, by deeper guilt: be con-
tent with the plunder you now obtain, and depart; for, by my
holy calling, I affirm to you, that if you advance one footstep
towards the further molestation of these ladies, it shall be at
the hazard of your life.”
“ Bravo !” exclaimed Turpin. “ Now this is what I like ;
who would have thought the old autem bawler had so much
pluck in him. Sir, I commend you for your courage, hat you
are mistaken ; I am the quietest man breathing, and never
harm a human being; in proof of which, only look at your
rascal of a postillion, whom any one of my friends would
have sent post-haste to the devil, for half the trouble he gave
me;
but easy as I am, I never choose to be baulked in my hu-
I must have the fifty and the buss, and then I'm off,
as soon as you like, and I may as well have the kiss, while
the old lady signs the cheque, and then we shall have the
seal as well as the signature. Poh-ooh-no nonsense.
Many a pretty lass has thought it an honour to be kissed by
'Turpin."
Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the
highwayman thrust aside the useless opposition of the priest,
and approach her. He had removed his mask; his face fush-
ed with insolent triumph, was turned towards her. Despite
the loathing which curdled the blood within her veins, she
could not avert her eyes. He drew near, she uttered a shrill
At that moment a powerful grasp was laid upon
Turpin's shonlder; he turned, and beheld Luke.
mours.
scream.


38
mysterious manner prepared for it. This, then, was the
dreaded secret. This, then, was the cause of her brother's
sudden departure. The truth flashed with lightning swift-
ness across her brain.
Chagrined and mortified, Luke saw that glance of inquiry.
His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown to-
wards his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck, with
her beauty. He acknowledged the truth of Peter's words.
Eleanor's loveliness was without parallel. He had seen
nought so fair, and the instant he beheld her, he felt that for
her alone could he have cancelled his vows to Sybil. The
spirit of rivalry and jealousy was therefore instantly aroused,
by Eleanor's exclamations.
“ His elder brother !” echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his
words, and addressing Luke" then you must be-but no,
you are not, you cannot be—it is Ranulph's title—it is not
yours--you are not-
“I am Sir Luke Rookwood,” replied Luke, proudly.
Ere the words were uttered, Eleanor had fainted.
“ Assistance is at hand, Madam, if you will accept it, and
follow me,” said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms,
and bearing her down the hill towards the encampment, whi-
ther he was followed by Mrs. Mowbray and the Priest, be-
tween whom, during the hurried dialogue which we have de-
tailed, very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin,
who, as it may be supposed, had not been an incurious observer
at what was passing, burst into his usual loud laugh, on see-
ing Luke bear away his lovely burthen.
6 Cousin ! Ha, ha !” said he. “ So the wench is his cou-
sin. Dammee, but I half suspect that he has fallen in love
with his new-found cousin; and if so, Miss Sybil, or I'm mis-
taken, will look as yellow as a bean.* If that little Spanish
devil gets it into her pretty jealous pate, that he is about to
bring home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy scene,
in the twinkling of a bed-post. However, I shan't lose sight
of Sir Luke, until I have settled my accounts with him. Hark
ye, boy,” continued he, addressing the postillion, "remain
where you are; you won't be wanted yet awhile, I imagine.
There's a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin's health.”
Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily
down the hill.
66 And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about,”
quoth the lal, looking curiously after him; “well, he's as ci-
vil speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he ain't; and
if I'd had a notion it were he, I'd have stopped at first call,
* Guinea.


39
without more ado. Nothing like experience.--I shall know
better another time,” added he, pocketing the shiner.
Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's
brink, to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale
brow of Eleanor. As he held her in his arms, thoughts which
he fain would have stifled in their birth took possession of his
heart. "Would she were mine!” murmured he.
66 Yet no
---the wish is unworthy." But that wish returned unbidden.
Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk
without support, and Luke raising her once more in his arm,
and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the brook by
means of stepping stones, and conducted his charge along a
bye-path towards the Priory so as to avoid meeting with the
crew assembled upon the green.
They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he en-
countered Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party,
the Patrico was about to address the Priest as an acquaint-
ance, when his more orthodox brother raised his finger to his
lips, in token of caution. The action passed unobserved.
"Hie thee to Sybil,” said Luke to the Patrico. “ Bid her
haste hither. Say that this maiden—that Eleanor Mowbray
is here, and requires her aid-Ay. I will bear her to the re-
fectory.'
As Balthazar passed the Priest, he pointed with a signifi-
cant glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be
an opening to some subterraneous chamber. The father again
made a gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his
mission.
Luke led them to the refectory; he brought a chair for Elea-
nor's support; but so far from reviving after such attention as
could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker.
He
was about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his sur-
prise he found the door fastened.
“Our orders are, that you do not pass this way," said a
voice, which Luke instantly recognized as that of the Knight
of Malta.
“ Not pass !" echoed Luke. 66 What does this mean ?"
66 Our orders are from the Queen,” returned the Knight.
At this instant the low tolling of a muffled bell was heard.
" The bell !” exclaimed Luke; “ some danger is at hand.”
His heart smote him, as he thought of Sybil, and he looked
anxiously towards Eleanor.
Balthazar rushed into the room.
“ Where is Sybil ?" cried Luke. 66 Will she not come ?"
" She will be here anon," answered the Patrico.
" I will seek her myself then,' ” said Luke. 66 The door
by which you entered is free.”


40
“It is not free,” replied Balthazar. - Remain where you
are.'
“Remain here," echoed Luke. 66 Who will prevent my
going forth ?”
" I will,” said Barbara Lovel, as she suddenly appeared in
the door-way. “You stir not, excepting at my pleasure.
Where is the maiden ?" continued she, looking around with a
grim smile of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her
appearance. “ Ha! I see-she faints. Here is a cordial that
shall revive her. Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the
Gipsies' dwelling—you and your daughter; and you, Sir Luke
Rookwood, I congratulate you upon your accession of digni-
ty:" Turning to the priest
, who was evidently overwhelmed
with confusion, she exclaimed, “ Think you I know not Rich-
ard Checkley? We have met, ere this, at Rookwood. Know
you not Barbara Lovel ? Ha, ha! It is long since my poor
dwelling has been so highly honoured. But I must not delay
the remedy. Give her to drink of this,” said she, giving a
phial to Mrs. Mowbray. “It will instantly restore her.”
“It is poison," cried Luke," she shall not drink it."
"Poison !" reiterated Barbara. « Behold!" and she drank
of the liquid. · I would not poison thy bride,” added she,
turning to Luke.
“ My bride ?" echoed Luke.
“ Ay, thy bride;" repeated Barbara.
Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mowbray almost felt
inclined to believe she was a dreamer, so visionary did the
whole scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at
the entrance. Foremost amongst them was the Sexton. Sud.
denly a shriek was heard, and the crowd opening, to allow
her passage, Sybil rushed forward,
68


41
CHAPTER VII.
Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee
for wholesome policy and good counsel : thou took'st pains to chalk men out
the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the
grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy principles are quite forsa-
ken, and worn out of memory.
Shakerley Marmion's Antiquary.
Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded
Miss Mowbray with new dismay. But she saw them not.
Her soul seemed riveted by Eleanor, towards whom she rush-
ed; and while her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised
the braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear, polished
forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of
hatred. The fierce expression that had lit up her dark orbs,
was succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an im-
ploring appeal at Barbara.
Ay, ay,” returned the old gipsy, extending at the same
time the phial ; “I understand. Here is that will bring the
blood once more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire
within her eyes. Give her of this.”
“ This !" echoed Sybil, regarding the phial with distrust.
" Ay, this,” retorted Barbara, “and quickly. Why dost
pause? Do it, and waste not a drop of the precious potion
-'tis the drink of life.”
“Of life eternal, perchance,” said Sybil, still hesitating.
Mrs. Mowbray vainly endeavoured to restore her child to
animation. Seriously alarmed, she now called loudly for as-
sistance.
6 Go, I command thee ; give her of the cordial,” said Bar-
bara, with meaning gesture. My hand shakes, or I would
minister to her aid myself.”.
6. Fear nothing,” said Luke, approaching them; " 'tis, as
she says, a cordial ; delay may endanger Miss Mowbray's
recovery."
“ And do you likewise command me to do it?" asked Sy-
bil, reproachfully, of Luke.
Luke signified his assent, and, without further remon-
strance, she obeyed. The effect of the potion was almost in-
stantaneous, amply attesting Barbara's skill in its concoction.
Stifled respiration first proclaimed Eleanor's recovery. She
opened her large and languid eyes—her bosom heaved almost
to bursting-her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly; and,
as the stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed
Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maid-
66
in her eyes.
4*


42
ens met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and in si-
lence. Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she could
not mistake that look of sympathy-she could not mistake
the tremulous pressure of her hand-she felt the silent trick-
ling tears. She returned the sympathising glance, and gazed
with equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such she al-
most seemed, that knelt before her. Lovely it was, to see
these two fair creatures together, alike in beauty, yet how
different in its expression! Day and night could not be more
opposite. Each was equally enchanted with the other. Looks
speak as plainly as words, nay plainer ; they tell what words
cannot, what words dare not-they talk from the heart, where-
as the lips often speak the language of constraint. The eyes
of youth seldom belie the feelings; and how much may not a
glance convey! In this instance it spoke volumes on both
sides.
As Eleanor's looks wandered from the kindly glance of
Sybil, to the withered and inauspicious aspect of the Gipsy
Queen, who, in her strange and fantastical gear looked like
the baleful witch Mara, and shifted thence to the dusky gnome-
like figures of her gipsy gang, looming in the twilight entrance,
like familiars of the sorceress—as she gazed upon these wild
objects, she exclaimed, “ Who are these, and where am I ?"
“ You are in safety,” replied Luke. 6. This is the ruined
Priory of St. Francis; and those strange personages are a
horde of gipsies. You need fear no injury from them.”
“ My deliverer !” murmured Eleanor; when all at once
the recollection that he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and
the elder brother of Ranulph, flashed across her memory.
“ Gipsies ! did you not say these people were gipsies? Your
own attire is the same as their's—You are not, cannot be the
brother of Ranulph.'
“I do not boast the same mother," returned Luke, proudly,
“ but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder
born."
He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain.
Maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and
insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to
catch his eye, but who spoke not, he thought of nothing but
revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All within
was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were
chained down by the onward promptings of evil.
prophecy," said he-"But that is nought. Yet Barbara
called her my bridemy bride! Oh that it were so !--Would
that I could call her mine-would that she loved me in lieu
of Ranulph. He is my brother; yet I have no brotherly love
towards him; and if that prophecy should be truth, and with
66 That


43
1
son.
her he should wrest from me my newly-acquired possession,
my happiness would be wrecked. But this shall never be.
She is here--she is mine-she shall be mine. And Sybil-
what of her ? A stunning, yelling demon, shouts within, and
drowns the cries of conscience. Methinks, if the tempter
were near at hand, to offer that maiden to me, even at the pe-
ril of my soul's welfare, I could not resist it."
The tempter was at hand. He is seldom absent on occa-
sions like the present. The Sexton stood beside his grand-
Luke started—he eyed Peter from head to foot, almost
expecting to find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the
fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision.
“ So ho! thou wouldst summon hell to thine aid ; and lo!
the devil is at thine elbow. Pshaw ! look not startled, man.
I am no dealer in the black art-no fiend, or familiar of fiend,
or aught unearthly in the guise of earth. I am a mere crea-
ture of clay, like thyself; but I can render thee all the aid
thou couldst derive from powers of darkness. She is thine."
“ Mine !" echoed Luke, wildly. “Peter Bradley-grand-
sire-man-fiend—be thou what thou mayest, for I can hardly
think thee human, trifle not with me; I am in no mood for it';
I am distracted. Thou hast kindled wild fire in my heart, it
scorches, it burns."
• He has it,” muttered Peter, regarding him fixedly for a
moment. " The dark delusion of his race is upon him. He
is doomed, like the rest.
• Devil! didst thou not say she should be mine ?”
Spare thy nick-names. I repeat it.— She shall be
• Make good thy words,” cried Luke, impatiently.
6 Softly-softly,” returned Peter. “ The bird is snared ;
it can only flutter ; it cannot escape. Moderate thyself, and
thy wishes shall be accomplished. Thine own desires chime
with those of others; nay, with those of Barbara. She would
wed thee to Miss Mowbray. Thou starest. But it is so.
This is but a cover for some deeper plot; no matter. It shall
go hard, despite her cunning, if I foil her not at her own wea-
pons. There is more mischief in that old woman's brain,
than was ever hatched within the crocodile's egg; but she
shall find her match. Do not thwart her; leave all to me.
She is about it now,” added he, noticing Barbara and Mrs.
Mowbray in conference together. “ Be patient-I will watch
her.” And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scan-
ning more closely the maneuvres of the old gipsy.
Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.
5. You need fear no relapse in your daughter, I will answer
for that,” said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; “Sybil will
thine. »


44
tend her. Quit not the maiden's side," continued she, ad-
dressing her grandchild, adding in a whisper, “Be cautious
-alarm her notmine eye will be upon thee-drop not a
word.”
So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mow-
bray, keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as
the panther might watch the gambols of the fawn from out its
lair.
“ Know you who speaks to you ?" said the old crone, in
the peculiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe
to strangers. “ Have you forgotten the name of Barbara
Lovel ?"
“I have no distinct remembrance of it,” returned Mrs.
Mowbray.
" Think again,” said Barbara ; " and though years are
flown, you may perchance recall the black gipsy woman, who,
when you were surrounded by gay gallants, with dancing
plumes, lordlings, and gentles of high degree, perused your
palm, and whispered in your ear the favoured suitor's name.
?Bide with me a moment, Madam,” said Barbara, seeing that
Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up,
“I am old-very old, I have survived the shows of flattery,
and, being vested with a power over my people, am apt, per-
chance, to take too much upon myself with others." The old
gipsy paused here, and then, assuming a more haughty man-
ner, exclaimed, “ The estates of Rookwood are ample-
6. Ha!"
“ They should have been your's, lady, and would have
been, but for that marriage. You would have beseemed them
bravely. But Sir Reginald was wilful, and erased the daugh-
ter's name to substitute that of his son. Pity it is that so fair
a creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty
and her birth entitle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph Rook-
wood should lose those lands and titles, at the moment when
he deemed they were dropping into his possession. Pity that
those broad lands should pass away from you and from your
children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united.”
6. They never shall be united,” replied Mrs. Mowbray,
hastily surprised out of her caution.
" "Twere indeed to wed thy child to beggary,” said Barbara.
Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.
" There is a way," continued the old crone, " by which the
estates might be still her's and thine.'
“ How ?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.
6. Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons.'
66 Ha!”
“ The elder is here."
99


46
“ The dead," echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh;
“ha, ha! he is dead then; and what became of his fair wife
-his brother's minion? 'Twas a foul deed I grant, and yet
there was expiation. Blood flowed-blood-
“ No blood-no blood," said Peter, with a dreadful look.
“No blood ! ha, I forgot; the Rookwoods never strike.
None since the first have done so; and what of Alan's
daughter ?”
“ Silence, thou night hag," thundered Peter, " or I will
have thee burned at the stake, for the sorcery thou practisest.
Beware," added he, in a deep tone, “I am thy friend.”
Barbara's withered countenance exhibited for an instant the
deepest indignation at the Sexton's threat. The malediction
trembled on her tongue-she raised her staff to smite him, but
she checked the action. In the same tone, but with a sharp,
suspicious look, she answered, “My friend, sayest thou ?
See that it prove so, or beware of me."
And with a malignant scowl the Gipsy Queen slowly
shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.
CHAPTER VIII.
No marriage I esteem it, where the friends
Force love upon their children ; where the virgin
Is not so truly given as betrayed.
I would not bave betrothed people (for
I can by no means call them lovers,) make
Their rites no wedlock, but a sacrifice.
Combat of Love and Friendship.
Miss MOWBRAY had witnessed her mother's withdrawal
from her side with infinite uneasiness, and was with difficulty
prevented, by Sybil, from breaking upon her conference with
the Gipsy Queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed upon them
during the whole of the interview, and communicated an inde-
finite sense of dread to Eleanor.
46 Who--who is that old woman ?" asked Eleanor, under
her breath. “ Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen
aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies
me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother-we have
never injured her ?"


47
“ Is there any
* Alas !” sighed Sybil.
“ You sigh," exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm.
real danger then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my
mother; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her.”
“ Hush !" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved de-
meanour under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara.
" Stir not, as
you value your life-you know not where you are, or what
may befall you. Your mother is not in danger. You alone
have cause for fear."
“I!” exclaimed Eleanor, growing pale as death, and with
difficulty repressing a scream. “Why should danger alight
on me! What have I done? What will you gain by injuring
me? Not you I fear, but her,--that terrible old woman, who
glances at us, like a hungry wolf. Tell me—tell me, how I
am in danger. Do not hold me-let me go to my mother; or
lead me forth into the open air-any where but here."
“ Command yourself, Lady, I entreat you,” said Sybil, " as
you value your life,-let not the trembling of a nerve, if you
can control it, betray your apprehension ; your safety de-
pends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger ; but
what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal
blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another.”
“ Heavens !” ejaculated Eleanor, “and to whom ?"
" To Sir Luke Rookwood.”
“ I would die sooner! Marry him? They shall kill me,
ere they force me to it!"
“Could you not love him ?"
“Love him ! I loathe him ; I have only seen him within
this hour-I knew not of his existence-he rescued me from
peril-I would thank him-I would love him if I could, for
Ranulph's sake ; and yet for Ranulph's sake I hate him.”
“Speak not of him thus to me,” said Sybil angrily. “ If
you love him not, I love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon
my impatience—my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased
to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent
to this forced union. Here are the means," and, unperceived
by Barbara, she placed the poignard within the folds of Elea-
nor's bosom.
"I would rather die than wed him," said Eleanor, shud-
dering ; “ but this is a dreadful alternative. Take back your
dagger-I dare not use it.”
“ And you love Ranulph ?"
“I dare not die-I shrink from self-destruction--my hand
trembles, even while I touch the steel.”
“ Yet keep it; the moment may arrive when you will clutch
it firmly."
“Oh, no. You may view death with indifference-I never


48
as I am.
tears.
can; not even love can disarm it of its terrors. Life is very
dear to me."
“ Dearer than your lover !” said Sybil, with ill dis-
guised scorn.
“ Ranulph is true to me--he loves me,” said Eleanor_ I
cling to hope as to existence.”
" True, true," returned Sybil ; you are not all desolate
Give me the dagger-go to your mother-I will
protect you. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacri-
fice-God grant I may be the only one. Be happy-as happy
as I am wretched. You shall see what the love of a gipsy
can do."
Sybil took the poignard, and burst into a flood of passionate
Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commisera-
tion ; but the feeling was transient; for Barbara now advanc-
ing, exclaimed, “ Hence, to thy mother. The bridegroom is
waiting; to thy mother, girl ?" and she motioned Eleanor
fiercely away. “What means this?” continued the old gipsy.
“ What hast thou said to that girl ?" Did I not caution thee
against speech with her ? and thou hast dared to disobey me.
Thou, my grandchild-the daughter of my Agatha, with
whom my slightest wish was law! I abandon thee I curse
thee
“Oh, curse me not!” cried Sybil. “Add not to my des-
pair.”
“Then follow my advice implicitly know thyself-cast
off this weakness all is in readiness. He shall descend into
the vaulted chapel ; the ceremony shall there take place
there also shall she die--and there again shalt thou be
wedded
“ To death!" groaned Sybil.
“ Take this phial," continued Barbara :-"place it within
the folds of thy girdle. When all is over, I will tell thee when
to use it. Be firm-be true. I will remove all obstacles ;
thou wilt have no fear of rivalry—all will then be over.”
“It will, indeed, be over," muttered Sybil. " And have
you no pity for youth and innocence ?"
None! when they interfere with my purposes."
“No fear for the consequences of crimes so dreadful ?"
“None—the guilt—the punishment-be mine-I will
brave all-I will fulfil my word. Thou shouldst be Lady
Rookwood, were the title to be purchased by the blood of all
their line. Art thou prepared ? shall we set out ?"
“I am-I am prepared,” replied Sybil, in accents hollow
as despair; “ but let me speak with Luke before we go."
6. To what end ?”
“Grant me this request, I beseech you, mother-this last
"


49
66
ill.»
request, and ask me not my motive. I will obey you in all
else ; leave us an instant together.”
“ Be brief then-each moment is precious.' Go to him.
He is yonder. Keep a guard upon thy tongue. I will to
Mrs. Mowbray. Stay. Thou hast placed the phial in safety.
A drop will free thee from thy troubles.”
“'Tis in that hope I guard it,” replied Sybil, as she de-
parted in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join
her faithless lover, and then turned shortly towards Mrs.
Mowbray and her daughter.
Luke was alone. The Sexton remained in earnest con-
verse with Mrs. Mowbray and the Priest. Peter had instilled
his venom-he left it to operate : he had others besides Luke
upon whom to practise. Luke, meanwhile, with hasty step,
paced the further end of the apartment. From time to time
he cast anxious glances at Sybil and Eleanor. As he regard-
ed the former, he felt the bitterest remorse at his conduct, in-
ternally execrating himself for his cruelty and hardness of
heart, yet did he lack the resolution to avow his penitence
and implore her forgiveness. This feeling of compunction
was, however, short lived. He looked at Eleanor, and Sy-
bil's image was obliterated.
6. You are ill, dear Luke,” said Sybil, who had silently ap-
proached him, very
· Ill !" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. “Ill!
-Ha! ha!-upon my wedding day.-No-I am well-well.
Your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy."
“ Jealousy! Luke—Luke, this from you. Laugh not
thus.-It terrifies me; I shall think you insane. Such laugh-
ter is ghastly—such levity fiendish. There, you are calmer-
you are more like yourself-more human. You looked just
now-Oh God! that I should say it of you-as if you were .
possessed by devils."
“ And if I were possessed, what then ?"
66 What then? Horrible! Hint not at it. You almost make
me credit the dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wed-
ding-day the Rookwoods are subject to the power of the Evil
One.”
• Upon their wedding-day-and I look thus ?"
“ You do-you do. Oh! cast it from you."
6. She is mine-she is mine-I care not, though fiends pos.
sess me, so it may be my wedding-day—and thou sayst I
look like a Rookwood-ha, ha!”
• That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore thee, hear
me one word-my last-
"I will not hear reproaches.”
“ I mean not to reproach you. I came to bless you-to for-
VOL. II.
63
66
5


50
66 No more.
99
give you—to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell ?"
" Farewell."
“ Not so—not sommercy, my God! compassionate him
and me-my heart will break with agony-Luke, if you
would not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of my
death be yours. 'Tis to save you from that, that I die.”
“ Die!
“ For you; but oh ! let it not be by you."
“Sybil, you have said rightly-I am not myself—I know
not what demons have possession of my soul, that I can be-
hold your agonies without remorse-that your matchless af-
fection should awaken no return; but so it is. Since the fa-
tal moment when I beheld yon maid, I have loved her.”
“ Loved her !" gasped Sybil.
6. Wildly-desperately."
Now I can part with you-farewell.”
“ Stay, stay-wretch that I am-stay, Sybil. If we must
part, and that it must be so I feel, let me receive your pardon,
if you can bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within
my arms.
May you live to happier days--may you
« Oh to die thus !” sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from
his embrace. “Live to happier days, saidst thou, Luke ?
When have I given thee reason to doubt, for an instant, the
sincerity of my love, that thou shouldst venture to insult me
thus?"
“ Then live with me-live for me."
6 Live for thee," echoed Sybil. “If thou canst love me
still, I will live for thee-as thy slave--thy minion—thy
wife--aught that thou wilt have me be. Thou hast raised
ine from wretchedness. Oh,” continued she, in an altered
tone, “ have I mistaken thy meaning ? saidst thou those
words in false compassion for my sufferings ?-speak, it is not
yet too late—all may be well. My fate--my life, is in thy
hands. If thou lovest me yet-if thou canst forsake Elea-
nor, speak—if not, be silent.”
Luke averted his head.
Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; “I un-
derstand-may God forgive thee. Fare thee well—we shall
meet no more."
“Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to re-
gard her.
“ FOR EVER,” answered Sybil.
Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and
disappeared from his view. Swifter almost than thought,
she plunged amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the
door. Amongst the crowd she discovered the face of one
upon whose fidelity she could depend, were it to peril life for


52
CHAPTER IX.
Thou hast practised on her with foul charms,
Abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals.
Shakspeare-Othello.
66
AMONGST those who had noticed Sybil's metamorphosis and
departure, was Jerry Juniper, and he had remarked it not
without some uneasiness; for if truth must be told, the black
eyes of the pretty brunette, Handassah, had been the loadstars
which attracted the caper merchant's son towards the patterers
of Romany, and detained him amongst their tents. Handassah
was neither a coquette nor a flirt-she requited Jerry's pas-
sion, and for such a fickle personage, Juniper was more con-
stant than might have been anticipated. Three moons, how-
ever, had only revolved over their liaison !
“What the devil are you about, my dear,” said he, becom-
ing serious, though he could not, under any circumstances,
divest himself of his slang and swagger—" It's as much as
your life is worth to do what you have done. I won't answer
for the consequences, if Barbara's hawk's eye penetrates your
disguise. Why need you meddle in this matter? If Barbara
has made up her mind, I should as soon think of opposing the
arch Queen of Beelzebuth as attempt to interfere with her."
Hush, hush—be quiet,” returned Handassah, “I am frigh-
tened enough already, without your adding to my terror; but
I will risk any thing for Sybil. If you love me, keep near, and
contrive, if possible, to interpose your person between me and
Barbara, whenever she looks in my direction."
“I will do my best, certainly,” answered Jerry; “but it will
be confoundedly awkward, and still more unpleasant, if any
unexpected éclaircissement should take place. For my part,
I can't conceive what's to come of all this mystery and ma-
neuvering. But never fear, girl. I'll stand by you, and by
Sybil too, should need be,” added he, affecting a sympathy
which we are sorry to say he did not feel. · Hist! Barbara
calls for Sybil, that's you-you know now-keep behind me.
I won't indulge her with a more particular view of your pretty
face than I can possibly help. You ask if I love you? see
what risks I am prepared to run for you: let my present con-
duct be my answer.'
With fear and trembling Handassah advanced, Jerry hover-
ing before her in his jaunty fashion, chuckling and spreading
himself out like a turkey gua ng its chick from an adverse
brood. All his dexterity and assurance were needed to shel-
ter her from Barbara's scrutiny; and it is probable that, but for
63


53
WHOSES
the bila
Joakti
pattered
andas
core.co
ils, bot
, becur
Istane
nuch
PS TOC
Barber
ing the
her
7 trig
Or; 60
ar, de
the libations he had swallowed, even Jerry's impudence might
have failed him at this critical conjuncture. Barbara was in
no mood for trifling. He saw in an instant, by her eye, the
ticklish situation in which he stood; but he could not in honour
slink back. So he floundered forward; but his laughter
changed to somewhat of that sort which is vulgarly described
as being “on the wrong side of one's mouth," as he stood
close beside the Gipsy Queen. After all, what a glorious
thing is assurance! It carries all before it-It is the greatest
privilege of genius. Jerry nodded slightly, not daring to make-
à salutation more profound, for fear of betraying his mis-
tress.
“I called for Sybil. What wouldst thou? ha—;" cried
Barbara, in a tone that showed him plainly enough that any
pleasantry he might attempt would be ill-timed. The joke he
had meditated died away upon his lips.
" It is ill playing with edged tools,” thought Jerry.
“Where is Sybil ?" asked Barbara.
“She is here," replied Jerry.—“All's up,” muttered he.
6. What the devil shall I do?"
“ Art thou her spokesman,” said Barbara. “ Stand aside.”
Might I have a moment's speech with you ?" continued
Jerry, struggling to maintain his ground.
“Not now—well what is't ? speak quickly, thou pertina-
cious knave."
"It concerns yourself.”
"Out with it then."
“This marriage."
“Ha?"
“ The crew murmur.”
“ Murmur-ha-"
"Not exactly murmur~I am wrong; but they talk. You
understand,--they talk. You know what I mean by talking.
They know you are a wonderful wise woman; that you have
more in you than half of your sex put together--they admit
all this they are prepared, like good and faithful lieges to do
whatever you bid them, and ask no questions; but still they
don't exactly see how marrying Sybil's lover to her rival can
benefit either her or you. Perhaps you will deign to give them
some explanation.”
Explanation! ha—dost thou chaffer with them thus? I
know thee, sirrah. Thou art not one of us. Thou art not
gipsy born. I have marked thee. A marriage, saidst thou ?
Thou shalt have another marriage of my making, besides this,
to talk of. Thou hast trifled with the affections of one of the
daughters of my people—with Handassah.—The wench must
have been a weak fool indeed to credit the professions of such
me an
fan
par!
d
id bi
baths
erbari
me
rrett
set
CON-
Ter
ing
nel
for
5*


55
tunity.”
your eyes out, you vile monster, on the first seasonabie oppor-
“Faint in the meantime, or all's up with Sybil,” returned
Jerry, with delectable coolness.
Handassah accordingly uttered one of those hysterical
screams which many of her sex have ready for occasions like
the present, and falling into Jerry's arms, buried her face in
his bosom, contriving, at the same time, to give him a very
severe pinch, which the delinquent endured with the resigna-
tion of a martyr.
“Poor thing, she struggles shockingly,” cried Jerry, with
admirably-affected alarm; "it must be a fit-how excessively
unlucky.”
“Unlucky, indeed,” exclaimed Barbara ; the girl's weakness
will destroy my fairest plans. Call Handassah to her assis-
tance."
“Had I not better bear her into the open air she will never
recover here, I am persuaded.”
“Do so. Thy life be answerable for thy charge. Stay-
bear her at once to the vaulted chapel. Let Handassah go
with thee.”
“She shall go with me, depend upon it,” answered Jerry,
bearing her off in triumph, somewhat allayed by the scene
which he anticipated in private.
To return to Miss Mowbray. – In a state of mind bordering
upon distraction, Eleanor rushed to her mother, and, flinging
her arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her.
Mrs. Mowbray was deeply touched by her daughter's distress.
What mother could be otherwise ? she was alarmed at her
frantic manner, at the words she uttered, and which, though
incoherent, were not to be mistaken. She folded Eleanor to
her bosom, and sought, by every means in her power, to re-
store her to calmness. Eleanor became calm; but her terrors
returned as she looked around.
“ Mother, dear mother,” she said at length, “I have been a
timid creature ever; but I have hitherto been spared the con-
sciousness of my own weakness. With you near me, have
never, as yet, known what it has been to be afraid, but now I
fear even you will lack the power to aid me. What will your
single arm avail against yon fearful band, were you to raise it
in my defence? They will murder me, mother, in your pre-
sence.”
“Whom do you fear, my child ?"
"I know not whom, and scarcely what, I have to dread,”
said Eleanor. “All seem to desert me-even my reason."
Mrs. Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered counte-
nance of her daughter; but a few moments relieved her from
92


56
much of her uneasiness. The expression of pain gradually
subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one of
frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two,
dimmed her eyes—they now gleamed with unnatural lustre.
She smiled—the smile was singular; it was not the playful,
pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be; but it.
was a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied.
Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circı ance she could
attribute this wonderful change. She looked at the Priest
standing beside them—he was equally surprised ; but he was
more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden altera-
tion in Eleanor's manner.
“What if she have swallowed a love powder ?" said he, ap-
proaching Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. “ I have
heard of such abominable mixtures; îndeed the holy St. Je-
rome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life
of Hilarius; and these people are said to compound them.”
“ It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray in the same tone.
I think that that peculiar softness in the eye is more than na-
tural.”
“I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or
fallacy of my supposition," returned the Father. "I have
heard that those who have drank of these philters conceive a
sudden and irresistible passion for him they gaze upon while
under the influence of the potion. . I will direct her attention
to the youth. Seest thou thy destined bridegroom yonder ?”
continued he, addressing Eleanor.
She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father
Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to
describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought
not of Ranulph; or if she did, it was with vague indifference.
Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the plea-
surable impulse, which directed her unsettled fancies towards
Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from
him. The Priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.
Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them.
Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness
of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The
soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as that
which sparkles on the wing of the luciola.
Luke approached her; he took her hand-she withdrew it
not. He kissed it-still she withdrew it not-but gazed at
him with gently glimmering eyes.
My daughter is your's, Sir Luke Rookwood,” exclaimed
Mrs. Mowbray.
" What says the maid herself?" asked Luke.
Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.


57
66
66
“She will not refuse me her hand,” said Luke.
“Ha! it is not Ranulph's hand !" screamed Eleanor, recoil-
ing from his touch.
Ranulph's?" echoed Luke, gloomily.
“You are aware of her attachment to your brother ?” said
Mrs. Mowbray.
"I am--time may conquer it. You give her to me, Madam.”
I do."
"Enough,” returned Luke, again taking Eleanor's hand.
This time the victim resisted not.
“ Benedicite," exclaimed the holy hypocrite.
“To the subterranean shrine,” cried Barbara ; and she gave
the preconcerted signal to the band.
Why should it not take place here?” cried Luke, “these
walls are hallowed."
“ Within that chapel lived and died a saint,” said Bar-
bara, 6 there shall it bę."
“It must not-it shall not take place there," said the
Priest.
“What !-Do you refuse, Richard Checkley ?" said Bar-
bara, with a ghastly smile. “Dare you refuse me ?--I say it
shall take place there, or wheresoever else I please.”
“You give strange license to your tongue"
• Wilt thou obey me?"
Nay, let her have her way," whispered Peter. “I have
prepared them.”
“Are you ready?"! asked Barbara. The Priest bowed re-
luctant assent.
The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. Elevating a
lighted torch over his head, the Knight of Malta drew Ex-
calibur from its scabbard, and prepared to lead the way to the
subterranean chapel. We may here casually note, that the
crew had been by no means uninterested or silent spectators
of passing events; but had, on the contrary, indulged them-
selves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable issue.
“ Make way there-make way, palls, for the bride and
bridegroom,” cried the Knight of Malta.
The train began to move, Eleanor leaned upon the arm of
her mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of
triumph. Luke followed with the Priest. One by one the
assemblage had quitted the apartment.
The Sexton alone lingered. “The moment is at hand,”
said he musingly, “when all shall be consummated.”
A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was
there still. A moment's delay had taken place. The Knight
of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his
torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting,


58
it would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So thought
Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She hesi-
tated-she trembled-she refused; but her mother's en-
treaties, and Barbara's threatening looks, induced, in the end,
reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. Pe-
ter was about to follow, when the sound of horses' hoofs
broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mount-
ed figure of the Highwayman burst within the limits of the
court.
“ Ha, ha ?” old earthworm, cried Dick, “my Nestor of the
churchyard, alone! where the devil are all the folks gone?
Where's Sir Luke, and his new-found cousin, eh?"
Peter hastily explained.
“A wedding under ground ? famous ! the thing of all others
I should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub
my way with you thither, old mole.”
" You must stay here, and keep guard,” returned Peter.
“Stay here! May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is
going on.”
“ Hanged, in all probability, you will be,” returned Peter;
“ but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny.
Stay here you must, and will, that's peremptory. You will
be the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly-I will
answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ra-
nulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here."
“ The devil they are; but how or why-
“ I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, dis-
charge a pistol—they must not enter the vault. Have you a
whistle? for you must play a double part, and we may need
your assistance below."
Sir Luke may command me-here's a pipe as shrill as the
devil's own cat-call.”
“If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I
need. May we rely on you?"
“Rely on me? When did Dick Turpin desért his friends ?
Any where on this side the Styx the sound of that whistle
will reach me. l'll ride about the court, and stand sentry.'
Enough” cried the Sexton, as he dived under ground.
“ Take care of your shins,” shouted Dick. * That's a
cursed ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh!
I'll just give a look to my snappers--flints all safe. Now I'm
ready for them, come when they like.”. And, having made
the circuit of the place after the manner of the amphithea-
trical Ducrow, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean
chapel, to be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and throwing
his right leg lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light
a short pipe (the luxury of the cigar being then unknown,)


59
humming the while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which
was his own exploits.
As I was riding o’er Hounslow Moor,
I saw a lawyer trot on before ;
So I rode up, and asked if he was not afraid
To meet Dick Turpin, that mischievous blade.
To meet Dick Turpin that mischievous blade.
Thus, between long-drawn whiffs did he chant-lapped in
the smoker's dreamy elysium, with short pipe ruminant-his
solitary song; and though apparently lost in forgetfulness,
and listening to his own melody, he remained with one ear
thrown back like that of the hare, on the alert for every
sound. It was this power of abstraction which gave to our
Highwayman that philosophic character which we have here-
tofore remarked, as distinguishing him beyond his fellow herd.
When meditating his greatest exploits he appeared the most
indifferent--when surrounded by danger he seemed the most
insensible; yet it was not so. He was never, as he himself
expressed it, “caught napping." He was ever ready to start
to arms, yet lolled upon the cannon's breech. Whatever
his existence might be, he made the most of it. He under-
stood the savoir vivre to perfection. Behold him now!
How negligently his hat is set on one side of his head—yon
Bond-street lounger could not have more of the took of in-
dolent fatuité-yet Turpin, take our words for it, was neither
a fat nor a Bond-street lounger. His eyes are half closed;
but a quick glance beams beneath the eyelids. His leg,
equipped in that peculiarly-fashioned boot, which, in his day,
obtained for it the name of the “Turpin top," and which was
quite the rage amongst the sporting characters of the period,
is thrown indolently and caressingly over the neck of his fa-
vourite mare; yet an instant will bring his foot to the stirrup
he looks the picture of repose. Reader, are you disposed to
capture a Highwayman ?' Now is your moment—his eyes
absolutely close—he nods I feel assured he is asleep-ap-
proach him softly—there, now rush upon him--you have re-
ceived a cursed kick from that black mare and a voice thun-
--ders in your ear
“ Dick TURPIN NEVER SLEEPS !”
Never! for at this moment he resumes his song--
Says I, “All my money I've managed to pop
“Where no man will find it, beneath my boot-top.”
Says the lawyer, “Dick Turpin my cash ne'er will find;
“ For its sewed in the folds of my coat-cape behind ;
“So I care not for Turpin, that mischievous blade.”


60
Another whiff of the short pipe:
I rode till I came to the powder-mill,
Where the smell of my pops made him soon stand still.
“My mare wants a new saddle-cloth,” said I-
“Permit me the cape of your coat to try,
“For I am Dick Turpin, that mishcievous blade."
And thus for the present we leave him. O rare Dick
Turpin!
te
CHAPTER X.
Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.
Dante.
CYPRIAN DE MULVERTON, fifth Prior of the Monastry of St.
Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, in his
latter days, with a despondency so deep that neither penance
nor fasting could remove it, vowed never again to behold, with
earthly eyes, the blessed light of heaven, nor to dwell longer
with his fellow men; but relinquishing his spiritual dignity,
" the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” to immure him-
self, while living; within the tonb.
He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the
saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was
another chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding a solemn
farewell to the world, and bestowing his benediction upon his
Hock, whom he committed to the care of his successor, did the
Tholy man retire.
Never, save at midnight, and then only during the per-
formance of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from
his cell; and as the sole light allowed within the dismal
dungeon of his choice was that of a dim sepulchral lamp, as
none spake with him when in his silent retreat, save in
muttered syllables, what effect must the Aash of lustre ema-
* Music-sellers are respectfully informed that the copy-right
of this song is the entire property of that spirited publisher,
Mr. Catnach, of Monmouth-court, Seven Dials.


61
nating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odours
of the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the chilly
vapours of his prison-house, and the solemn swell of the
sanctus, hare had upon his excited senses? Surely they must
have seemed like a foretaste of the heaven he sought to gain!
Ascetic to the severest point to which Nature's endurance
could be stretched, he even denied himself repose. He sought
not sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares.
His couch was the flinty rock ; and long afterwards, when the
zealous resorted to the sainted prior's cell, and were shown
those sharp and jagged stones, they marvelled how one like
unto themselves, could rest or even recline upon their points
without anguish, until it was explained to them that, doubt-
less, he who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb had made
that flinty couch soft to the holy sufferer as a bed of down.
His limbs were clothed in a garb of horse-hair
of the coarsest
fabric; his drink, the dank drops that oozed from the porous
walls of his cell; and his sustenance, such morsels as were
bestowed upon him by the poor—the only strangers suffered
to approach him. No fire was suffered, where perpetual
winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly vigils--
none witnessed any act of penance-nor were any groans
heard to issue from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-
stained thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed
in what manner those long, lone nights were spent. Thus
did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in
his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl; but he
meekly declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been
his wont, at the midnight mass; but the door of his cell was
thrown open at that hour; the light streamed down like a
glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant reverbera-
tions of the deep miserere ; and breathed odours as if wafted
from Paradise.
One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found
him with his head upon his bosom kneeling before the be-
nign image of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to
disturb his devotions, they stood reverently looking on, and
thus silently did they tarry for an hour; but, as in that space
he had shown no signs of motion, fearing the worst, they
ventured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before
which he knelt. In the act of the humblest intercession
it may be in the hope of grace, had his spirit fled.
" Blessed are they who die in' the Lord,” exclaimed his
brethren, regarding his remains with deepest awe.
On being
touched, the body fell to the ground. It was little more than
a skeleton.
Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred
VOL. II.
6


62
AE
towa
ber, I
famil
herse
before
towar
BIOOTTE
Gip
posses
mght
profesa
ng to
cons
blame
religie
Deram
A sele
with a degree of pomp and ostentation which but little ac-
corded with the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of
many sorrows.
This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty
much in the same condition as it existed in the days of its
holy inmate. Hewn out of the entrails of the rock-the roof,
the vaults, the floor, were of solid granite. Three huge cy-
lindrical pillars, carved out of the native rock, rough as the
stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent to support the ceiling.
Support, however, was unneeded an earthquake would scarce
have shaken down these solid rafters. Only in one corner,
where the water welled through a crevice of the rock, in
drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here the stone,
worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places given
way. In shape, the vault was circular. The interval be-
tween each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again,
from each pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by dia-
gonal, ogive branches, weaving one into the other, and ra-
diating from the centre, constituted those beautifully intricate
combinations upon which the eye of the enthusiast loves to
linger. Within the ring formed by these triple columns, in
which again, the pillars had their own web of arches, was
placed an altar of stone, and beside it a great crucifix of the
same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image of
her who had filled the Prior with holy aspirations; now a
shapeless stone. The diin lamp, that, like a star struggling
with the thick gloom of the wintry cell, had shed its slender
radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. But
around the key stone of the central arches whence a chain had
once depended might be traced in ancient characters, half
effaced by time
Sta. TVECZA OKA PRO NOBXS.
One outlet only was there from the chapel-that which led
by winding steps to the monastery-one only recess-the
Prior's cell. The former faced the altar--the latter yawned
like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Altogether it was a
dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they refused to
return murmured orisons of the anchorite. One uniform
colouring prevailed throughout: the grey granite was grown
hoar with age, and had a ghostly look; the columns were
ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and super-
stition had their tale, and a moral gloom deepened the dark-
ness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its construc-
tion, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable
sort a
penite
SI
brad.
betroti
with
dared
At thi
lored
faltere
deeme
figure
though
that he
smelt
In b
ber
Sorrow
reption
premet
SCIENCE
wards
recesses.
f the


63
Alone, within the dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched
towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil.
All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours that surrounded
her, nor the shrine before which she bent, were visible; but,
familiar with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed
herself aright. Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed
before the altar of stone—that her benighted vision was turned
towards the broken image of the saint, though now involved in
gloom the most profound.
Gipsy as she was, infidel as she might be supposed, Sybil
possessed, notwithstanding, a zeal and fervour in her faith that
might have found favour in the eyes of the most orthodox
professor of Catholicism; and if her fiery Spanish blood, flow-
ing too swiftly in her veins, sometimes impelled her to actions,
inconsistent it might be with the principles of that faith, the
blame of them rested not so much with her want of proper
religious bias, as with her sanguine and uncontrollable tem-
perament. Any aberrations of this sort were succeeded by fits
of severe repentance; and upon those occasions would she re-
sort alone to St. Cyprian's cell, pouring forth at its altar her
penitential prayers. Her sins indeed were light and venial;
and she speedily left the shrine with a heart lightened of its
load. The most grievous offence she had committed was her
betrothment to Luke. 'Offence we say, because her mother,
with her dying lips, had interdicted it. And yet she had
dared to act in opposition to the last injunction of her parent.
At this very altar was she plighted to him. Much as she
loved him, she shuddered as her hand was clasped in his--she
faltered as she pronounced the binding oath-an ill-omen she
deemed it then, that she thought of her dying mother, whose
figure seemed to arise between her and her lover. But those
thoughts were speedily banished. Often, afterwards, at that
altar, had she implored her mother's forgiveness, and she
trusted that she had obtained it. Now she saw the vanity of
that hope—the realization of that dark foreboding. As she
knelt before the altar, the voice of prayer was stifled.
In her agony she cried out, and the sullen walls returned
her wail with a reponse hollow as the mockery of a fiend.
Sorrow for uncommitted sin availeth nothing. With con-
ceptions hideous as those which pressed upon her soul—with
premeditated guilt clogging her heart, and choking her ut-
terance, she could not pray, and she resigned herself, con-
science-stricken and self-abased. Remorse shrieked in her
ears, “away”- despair, with scorpion lash, impelled her on-
wards—she could neither advance nor retreat. Then in that
dark hour did a phantasm, such as is said to haunt the couches
of the dying, and to predict immediate dissolution, appear be-


64
fore her. And who shall say in what enchanting colours the
retrospect may not then array itself, contrasted, as it must be,
with the near approach of death, and the utter darkness in
which he cometh enveloped ? Clear and distinct as the reality,
did the events of her past existence retrace themselves before
Sybil's mental vision'; and, without losing the sense of her
present misery, she endured the agonizing consciousness of
past happiness fled for ever. Her eyes filled with tears, she
could see no longer--her very brain was blinded. No more
visions of past blissfulness, turning her present woe to more.
intense wretchedness, distracted her-all was blank despair;
but even despair has its limits, and beyond them yawned
the wide gulf of madness. Sybil's sense reeled-she laugh-
ed in her agonyshe tottered towards the brink of this terrible
precipice—she was upon the very verge of actual insanity,
when, by almost super-human effort, she saved herself.
“Mother of mercy,” cried she, “whither was I going ?
What crouching fiend was that about to seize? What pit
was that which opened beneath me, to engulf me in its depth
for ever ? But I am rescued. A saving arm hath been stretched
out towards mema ray of comfort shines out from above-I
can pray now—my hardness of heart hath passed away I can
weep as heretofore, and my heart will feel refreshed.”
And with clasped hands, and streaming eyes, in low and
mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn
to the tutelar saint of the spot :-
HYMN TO ST. THECLA.
In my trouble, in my anguish,
In the depths of my despair,
As in grief and pain i languish,
Unto thee I raise my prayer.
Sainted Virgin ! martyr'd maiden !
Let thy countenance incline
Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine
That in agony, in terror,
In her blind perplexity,
Wandering weak in doubt and error,
Calleth feebly upon thee.
Sinful thoughts, sweet Saint, oppress me,
Thoughts that will not be dismissed ;
Temptations dark possess me,
Which my strength may not resist,
I am full of pain, and weary
Of my life, I fain would die ;
Unto me the world is dreary ;
To the grave for rest I fly.
3


65
colour
it mus
Darknes
the me
elres per
OSTAS
De to 0.1
she latest
duisterni
ell.
I DOLA
its depa
Stretch
abore
low
ing hymui
For rest oh, could I borrow
Thy bright wings, celestial Dove !
They should waft me from my sorrow,
Where peace dwells in bowers above.
Upon one with woes o'erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
Sainted Virgin ! martyr'd maiden !
Let thy countenance incline.
Mei miserere, Virgo,
Requiem æternam dona !
By thy loveliness----thy purity,
Unpolluted----undefiled,
That in serene security,
Upon earth's temptations smiled ;----
By the fetters that constrained thee,
By thy flame-attested faith ;
By the fervour that sustained thee,
By thine angel-ushered death ;----
By the soul's divine elation,
Mid thine agonies assuring
Of thy sanctified translation,
To beatitude enduring ;----
By the mystic interfusion
of thy spirit with the rays'
That in ever.bright profusion
Round the throne eternal blaze ; ----
By thy portion now partaken,
With the pain-perfected Just;
Look on one of hope forsaken,
From the gates of mercy thrust ;
Upon one with woes o’erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine,
Sainted Virgin! martyr'd maiden,
Let thy countenance incline.
Ora pro me mortis hora
Sancta Virgo oro te !
Kyrie Eleison !
The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The
sharpness of her sorrow. was assuaged. Seldum, indeed, is it
that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflict-
ed. Sybil became more composed. She still, however, trem-
bled at the thoughts of what remained for her to do.
“They will be here ere my prayer be finished,” murmured
she; “ere the end be accomplished for which I came hither
alone. Let me, oh let me make my peace with my Creator,
ere I surrender my being to his hands, and then let them deal
with me as they will." And she bowed her head in lowly
prayer.
6*


66
Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes upwards to-
wards the black ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession
of the saintly man, who had bequeathed his name to the cell.
HYMN TO ST. CYPRIAN.
HEAR; oh hear me, sufferer holy!
Who didst make thine habitation
'Mid these rocks, devoting wholly
Life to one long expiation
Of thy guiltiness, and solely
By severe mortification
Didst deliver thee. Oh, hear me!
In my dying moments cheer me.
By thy penance-self-denial-
Aid me in the hour of trial!
May, through thee, my prayers prevailing
On the majesty of heaven,
O’er the hosts of hell assailing
My soul, in this dark hour be driven;
So my spirit, when exhaling,
May of sinfulness be shriven;
And his gift unto the giver,
May be rendered pure as ever.
By thy own dark-dread possession,
Aid me with thine intercession!
Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when whispered ac-
cents and stealthy footsteps caught her ear. She arose at once,
challenging the intruders in a firm tone. ,
“Who approaches ?" asked she.
“ A friend,” replied the voice of Handassah.
“You are not alone,” returned Sybil.
“ 'Tis 1,” replied the peculiarly conceited tones of Jerry
Juniper ; "your friend, madam, if you will allow me to call
myself such. I have ventured into this dungeon-looking place
at Handassah's special request; and now I am here, to beg to
say that, if I can be of the slightest use, you have only to com.
mand me. Infernally dark, to be sure. What the devil ?"
added he, stumbling forwards, “a stone pillar, eh? s'death,
I've nearly cracked my head against it. Give me your hand,
Handassah, you know the way about this cursed place.” And
Jerry groaned dismally from the effects of the concussion.
“It serves you right,” said the relentless Handassah ; "I
hope it will do you good.”.
Jerry answered not;"but would, in all probability, had the
darkness permitted, have given her a look, such as Byron says


67
he bestowed when a similar benison was passed upon his bro-
ken tooth. “Do me good !" Jerry mentally ejaculated; " may
the devil fly away with you, if that's all the sympathy my bro-
ken pate is likely to meet with. My own opinion is, that the
sex was only created to be a perpetual plague to the better
species. The sooner I clear myself of my present incumbrance
the better."
“ Follow me," said Handassah.
“ Whither?" demanded Jerry, sulkily; "I can't possibly
tell where to follow, unless you lead the way.”
“I am just before you,” returned she; " step on boldly."
Jerry obeyed. He marched angrily forwards; but while
essaying to grasp the hand of his mistress, which he fondly
imagined was stretched out, to guide him upon his way, his
shins encountered the sharp edges of what appeared to be a
huge box, laid upon the floor, and, his equilibrium being thus
destroyed, he was pitched forward, his head coming once more
into contact with a hard stone pillar.
Smothered laughter from Handassah explained to Jerry, if
he wanted explanation, the trick which his treacherous mis-
tress had played him.
“ How troublesome,” cried she, in a tone of mock commis-
eration, “in people to leave their lumber here! I'm afraid
your shins must have suffered severely, Jerry. Your head,
too, I fear, has not altogether escaped ; luckily, it's none of
the softest. But I'm sincerely sorry, I assure your for your
accident; besides, a blow on the shins is so painful.”
“ Accident !” echoed Jerry, springing to his feet, “ do you
call that an accident? I'm lamed I fear, for life, and that's
the greatest misfortune that could happen to a man of my
figure and dexterity. Accident! To the devil with you,
whimpering hussy ; it's an accident, with a spice of design in
it; it's odds, but I'll be even with you before long. For my
own part, I can't tell what this big lumbering chest is doing
here at all, except it be to occasion accidents. Let me feel
whether it's open-here-take care of your own shins, my
darling."
Saying which, he pushed the chest, angrily, in the direc-
tion where he thought Handassah stood. Jerry missed his
mark; but the box being struck forcibly against the stone
altar, upset its contents upon the floor.
“What have you done ?" asked Handassah, in alarm.
66 What does that box contain ?"
“ How the devil should I know !” replied Jerry; you, who
placed it there, ought to be acquainted with its contents.”
“ I placed it there!” retorted Handassah, “I never saw it
in the course of my life; and what can you be thinking about,


68
to suppose I could carry such a box as that—but do feel what
it contains. I'm sure I heard a groan.”
“Not 1,” returned Juniper; “no more tricks upon travel-
lers, if you please-Hark! I hear their voices in the court-
they come.
“They come !" echoed Sybil, aroused from her abstraction.
s Is the hour then arrived ?"
“See, the torchlight gleams down the staircase,” cried Han-
dassah ;
" they are here."
“ Not a moment is to be lost,” exclaimed Sybil addressing
Juniper. " Here is a jewel; be it thy portion with Handas-
sah.' Wed her, and oh! be happy.".
Jerry hemmed slightly, but he took the jewel.
“ You hear the conditions ?" said Handassah.
“I do,” replied he.
“ What am I to do for you ?" asked he, of Sybil. “ Com-
mand me as you think proper. My life is at your disposal.”
Sybil whispered in his ear.
It shall be done,” replied he; “I will not fail you.'
“Remain within yon cell until the appointed moment,” said
Sybil: "give me your hand—I'will guide you thither.'
Jerry extended his hand.
Scarcely was he concealed, when the torch of the Knight
of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the
chapel.
66
th
CHAPTER XI.
Cari.-I will not die, I must not-I am contracted
To a young gentleman.
Executioner.-Here's your wedding ring.
Duchess of Malfy.
Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as
if the rites at which they were about to assist had been those
of funeral, and not of nuptial, solemnization. Indeed, to look
upon those wild and fierce faces, by the ruddily-flashing torch-
light, which lent to each a stern and savage expression—to
look at those scowling visages, surrounding a bride, from
whose pallid cheeks every vestige of colour, and almost of


69
66
us."
animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with countenance yet
more haggard, and demeanour yet more distracted, the be-
holder must have imagined that the spectacle was some hor-
rible ceremonial, practised by dæmons rather than human
beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, and the
wild figures, formed a picture worthy of Rembrant or Sal-
vator.
“ Is Sybil within the apel ?" asked Barbara.
“I am here," returned a deep voice from the altar. It was
so uttered, that Barbara scarcely recognized in its tones those
of her grandchild.
Why do we tarry?" said the Gipsy Queen, “we are all
assembled. To the altar.”
“ To the altar ?" shrieked Eleanor. “Oh! no-no-
“ Remember my threat, and obey,” muttered Barbara ;
"* thou art in my power now.”
A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.
6 Our number is not complete,” said the Priest, who had
looked in vain for the Sexton ; “ Peter Bradley is not with
“ Ha!” exclaimed Barbara. " Let him be sought for in-
stantly."
“Their search need not extend beyond this spot,” said
Peter, stepping forward.
The Knight of Malta advanced towards the altar.' The
torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon
the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who
stood beside. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an ob-
ject hitherto hidden from view was revealed. Sybil uttered a
prolonged and fearful shriek; the Knight recoiled likewise in
horror; and a simultaneous cry of astonishinent burst from
the lips of the foremost of the group: All crowded forwards,
and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage.
Each one gazed at his neighbour, anxious to learn the occa-
sion of this tumult, and vague fears were communicated to
those behind, from the terrified glances, which were the only
answers returned by their comrades in front.
" Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Bar-
bara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension,
pointing at the same time to the ghastly corse of a female,
with streaming hair, at the altar's feet. 6. Who has dared to
do this, I say? My curse light on him, whomsoever he be.
Quick! remove it, I say.. What do you stare at? Cravens!
is this the first time you have looked upon a corse-
shrink aghast—that you tremble before it? It is a clod-ay,
less than a clod. Away with it-away, I say
- Touch it not,” cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair
from off the features ; " it is my mother,"
- that you


70
9
* My daughter," exclaimed the sexton.
“ What!" vociferated Barhara—Is that thy daughter-is
that Lady Rookwood ? Are the dead arisen to do honour to
these nuptials ? Speak; thou canst perchance explain how
she came hither.”
“I know not,” returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Bar-
bara: “ I may, anon, demand that question of thee. How
came this body here ?"
“ Ask of Richard Checkley,” said Barbara, turning to the
Priest. “He can percharice inform thee. Priest," added
she, in a low voice, " this is thy handiwork.”
Checkle yrepliod net.
“ Will none remove the body?” ejaculated Barbara. “Once
more I ask
you,
do
you
fear the dead ?"
A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach
the corse.
Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring
with tiger fury.
“ Back, old man," cried he, “ and dare not, any of you, to
lay a sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him
that advanceth, as lowly as lies my mother's head. When, or
how, it came hither, matters not. Here, at the altar, hath it
been placed, and none shall move it hence. The dead shall
witness my nuptials. Fate hath ordained it—my fate-o'er
which the dead preside! Her ring shall link me to my bride.
I knew not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to
what end I preserved it. I learn it now. It is here ;" and he
held forth a ring.
66 "Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring,” cried Sybil ;
66 such a ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be
mine own-such a ring she said should wed me
“ Unto whom ?" fiercely demanded Luke.
s* Unto Death,” she solemnly rejoined.
Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed,
unable further to brook her gaze; while in accents of such
wildly touching pathos as sunk into the heart of each who
heard her-hearts, few of them framed of lightly penetrable
stuff—the despairing maiden burst into the following strain :
99
THE TWICE USED-RING.
“ Beware thy bridal day,”.
On her death-bed, sighed my mother ;
• Beware---beware, I say,
Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother ;
Beware thy bridal kiss.


71
Thy wedding ring shall be
From a clay-cold finger taken ;
From one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
For a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken ;
Beware that fatal ring.
“ The altar and the grave,
Many steps are not assunder ;
Bright banners o'er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe may sound the bell,
Yet 'twill toll thy knell ;
Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder
Beware that blighted wreath."
Beware my bridal day!
Dying lips my doom have spoken ;
Deep tones call me away;
From the grave is sent a token.
Cold---cold fingers bring
That ill-omened ring
Soon will a second heart be broken;
This is my bridal day.
There was a deep, profound silence, as the last melancholy
cadence of the song died away, and many a rugged heart was
melted, even to tears. What a vacancy is left in the bosom,
when sweet sounds, which have held it in their thrall, fade,
and are heard no more! For a moment all was hushed-all
eyes were directed towards Sybil. During her song, there
had been something in rapt looks which communicated to
them that pathetic and sublime expression, often conferred by
the painter upon the features of the Sainted Cecilia. More
of pain, perhaps, might dwell in the countenance of Sybil
than would be proper to the lineaments of the divine lyrist;
but there was, combined even with the anguish, an ecstatic
elevation of soul, which lent to her dark dilated eyes, turned
heavenwards, and fraught with unutterable passion, no inapt
resemblance of the Virgin Martyr, about to immolate herself
at the shrine of pure and holy affection. Eleanor remained
in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil,
upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing but dis-
tinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.
“ This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone,
when Sybil had finished. “ Said not that sweet voice so ? I


72
know 'tis my bridal day. I am to wed him. Yet he was
buried yesternight. I know it, I saw him in his coffin, cold
and dead. My love--my Ranulph-and would you wed me
to him there-well, as you like-better a dead bridegroom
than none at all-better, ah! better than wed me to another
what a chapel you have chosen, mother! A tomb—a sepul-
chre—but 'tis meet for such nuptials as mine—and what
wedding guests !- Was that pale woman, in her shroud-like
dress, invited here by you? Tell me that mother."
“ My God, her senses are gone !" cried Mrs. Mowbray.
“Why did I venture into this horrible place ?"
“ Ask not why, now, Madam,” rejoined the Priest.
“ The
hour for consideration is past—we must act.
Let the mar-
riage proceed, at all hazards; we will then take means to ex-
tricate ourselves from this accursed place."
“ Spoken aright, father," said the Sexton, who was near
them;
" the time for action is arrived. Proceed with the
marriage. You shall depart in safety; of that I pledge my-
self.”
“Remove that horrible object,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “ it
fascinates the visions of my child.”.
“ Lend me thine hand, father,” said Peter, staring fixedly at
the Priest.
“No, no," replied the Priest, shuddering. “I will not
cannot touch it do thou alone remove it."
Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further
opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Elea-
nor followed it into the dark recesses of the vault; and when
she could no longer distinguish the white flutter of the sere-
cioths, her labouring bosom seemed torn asunder with the
profound sigh that burst from it, and her head declined upon
her shoulder.
“Give me to see that ring,” said the Priest, addressing
Luke, who still held the wedding ring between his fingers.
“I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray;
" whether my mind be affected with the horrors of this place,
I know not; but I have dread of that ring. She shall not
66 Where no other can be found," said the Priest, with a
significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, “I see no
reason why this should be objected to. I should not have
suspected you, Madam, of such weakness—but grant there
were evil spell, or charm, attached to it, which, trust me,
there is not--as how should there be, to a harmless piece of
gold ? my benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, hath
sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. To remove your
fears, it shall be done at once."
wear it."


73
A cup containing water was brought him, together with a
plate of salt, which condiment the Devil is said to abhor, and
which is held to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity ;
in that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from
corruption. And with the customary formula of prayer and
exorcism, the Priest thrice mingled the crystal particles with
the pure fluid ; after which, taking the ring in his hand, with
much solemnity, he besprinkled it with a few drops of the water
which he had blessed ; made the sign of the cross upon the
golden circlet; uttered another and more potent exorcism, to
eradicate and expel every device of Satan, and delivered it
back to Luke.
“She may wear it now in safety," said the Sexton, with
strong contempt. “ Were the snake himself coiled round
that consecrated bauble, thy prayers would unclasp his light-
est folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Nought lies be-
tween us and the altar—the path is clear. The bridegroom
grows impatient.”
“ And the bride ?” asked Barbara.
“ Is ready," replied the Priest. “Madam, delay not lon-
ger. Daughter, your hand.”
Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Sup-
ported by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar,
which was but a few steps from where they stood. She of
fered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke was by
her side. Then, for the first time, did the enormity of the
barbarous, dishonourable act he was about to commit, strike
him with its full force. He saw it in its darkest colours. It
was one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel
of passion stands suddenly still.
* There is yet time,” groaned he. 66 Oh let me not damn
myself perpetually—let me save her--save Sybil-save my-
self.”
They were at the altar--that wild wedding train. Higla
over head the torch was raised. The red light flashed on
bridegroom and on bride, giving to the pale features of ea c
an almost livid look-it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the Sex-
ton, and lit up the smile of triumphant malice that played
upon his face-it fell upon the fantastical habiliments of Bar-
bara, and upon the haughty but perturbed physiognomy of
Mrs. Mowbray-it fell upon the salient points of the Gothic
arches—upon one moulded pillar-upon the marble image of
the Virgin Thecla—and on the scarcely less marble counte-
nance of Sybil, who stood behind the altar, silent, statue-like,
immoveable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of
the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineament of
many of the group, was also eminently striking.
VOL. II.
ng


75
benediction, “ Benedic, Domine, annulum hunc, quem nos in
tuo nomine benedicimus, ut quæ cum gestaverit, fidelitatem
integram suo sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua perma-
neat atque in mutua charitate
semper
vivat."
He was about to return the ring to Luke, when the torch,
held by the Knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground by
some unseen hand, and instantly extinguished. The wild
pageant vanished, as suddenly as the figures disappear when
the magic glass is darkened. A wild hubbub succeeded.
Hoarsely above the clamour arose the voice of Barbara.
“ To the door, quickly-let no one pass. We will find out
the author of this mishap, anon. Away.”
She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves
at the door.
“ Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara.
By darkness or by light, the match shall be completed.”
Right,” cried the Sexton. · Proceed-proceed.”
The ceremonial proceeded. The ring was placed upon the
finger of the bride; and as Luke touched it, he shuddered.
It was cold as that of the corpse which he had clasped but
now. The prayer is said the blessing given—it is complete.
Suddenly then, there issued from the darkness, deep dirge-
like tones, and a voice solemnly chanted, what all knew to be
a death-song of their race, always hymned by wailing women
over an expiring sister. The music seemed to float in the air.
Thus ran the rhymes :
66
THE SOUL BELL.
Fast the life of sand is falling,
Fast her latest sigh exhaling-
Fast, fast is she dying.
With death's chills her limbs are shivering!
With death's gasp her lips are quivering
Fast her soul away is flying.
O'er the mountain-top it feeteth,
And the skiey wonders greeteth,
Singing loud, as stars it meeteth,
On its way.
Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in echoes rolling,
Seems to say
She will ope her eyes oh never!
Quenched their dark light-gone for ever!
She is dead.


76.
• Do you,
99
Meanwhile the marriage group lingered near the altar,
awaiting, it would seem, permission from the Gipsy Queen
to quit the cell. Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the
cold hand of his bride detained him; and when he would
have moved, hier tightened grasp prevented his departure.
Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay.
She was not altogether free from apprehension.
• Why do
we linger here ?" she whispered to the Priest.
father, lead the way.'
• The crowd is dense,” replied Checkley. They resist my
efforts."
“ Resist!” cried Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm, " are we prison-
ers here?”
“ Let me make the attempt,” cried Luke, with fiery impa-
tience. “I will force a passage out."
“Quit not thy bride,” whispered Peter, “as thou valuest
her safety. Heed not ought else. She alone is in danger.
Suffer her not to be withdrawn from thy hand, if thou wouldst
not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the matter to a
speedy issue.”
“Enough,” replied Luke; I stir not hence, and he drew
his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss
upon her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he
touched them, but she resisted not his embrace.
Peter's attempt to effect an egress, was as unsuccessful as
that of the Priest. Presenting Excalibur at his bosom, the
Knight of Malta challenged him to stand.
“You cannot pass,” exclaimed the Knight, “our orders
are peremptory."
“What am I to understand by this ?" said Peter, angrily.
Why are we detained ?"
" You will learn all anon," returned Barbara; “in the mean
time you are my prisoners ;-or, if you like not the phrase,
my wedding guests."
“ The wedding is complete,” repeated the Sexton ; “the
bride and bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the
guests, albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness, desire
not to hold our nuptial revels here."
“But Sybil's wedding hath not taken place,” said Barbara;
‘ you must tarry for that.”
“ Ha! now it comes,” thought Peter.
" And who, may I
ask,” said he aloud, “amongst this goodly company, is to be
her bridegroom ?”
“ The best amongst them," returned Barbara ; “ Sir Luke
Rookwood. Art thon answered now ?"
6. No,” replied Peter, “he haih a bride already."
“She may be removed,” said Barbara, with bitter and pe-
culiar emphasis.
66


77
murmur.
VOW.
“ Thou canst not mean to destroy her who now stands at
the altar ?" said the Sexton.
She who now stands at the altar must make way for a
successor--she who grasps the bridegroom's hand, shall
die."
“ Recall that oath,” exclaimed a voice from the altar.
"I may not. "Tis irrevokable. She must die.”
" And think you, you will be allowed to execute your mur-
derous intention with impunity ?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in
an agony of terror. “ Think you that I will stand by, and see
my child slaughtered before my face? Think you that even
your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible purpose ?
They will not. They will side with us. Even now they
What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and
dreadful? What object can you have ?"
“ The same as your own,” reiterated Barbara !- the ad-
vancement of my child. Sybil is as dear to me, as Eleanor
is to you. She is my child's child--the daughter of my best
beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke
Rookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my
I will wed her to him. You did not hesitate to tear
your daughter from the man she loved, to give her to the man
she hated ; and for what? For gold—for power-for rank.
I have the same motive. I love my child, and she loves Sir
Luke, has loved him long, and truly; therefore shall she have
him. What to me is thy child, or thy feelings, except they
are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way-I
remove her.”
“ Who placed her in thy path ?" asked the Sexton. 66 Didst
thou not create that obstacle thyself?"
“I did,” replied Barbara. 66 Wouldst thou know where-
fore? I will tell thee. I had a double motive for it. There
is a curse upon the house of Rookwood, that killeth the first
fair bride each generation leadeth to the altar. Hast thou
never heard of that?"
“I have! But did that idle legend sway thee?"
6. And dost thou call it idle? Thou!-Well-I had another
motive—a prophecy.”
By thyself uttered,” replied Peter.
“Even so,” replied Barbara. “ The prophecy is fulfilled.
The stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated.
Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his
lands. The prophecy is fulfilled."
6 But how?" asked Peter. “ Will thy art tell thee how
and why she shall now hold possession? Canst tell me
that ?"
My art goeth not so far. I know the why and wherefore
7*


78
he will now hold them. I have predicted the event. It hath
come to pass. I am satisfied. He hath wedded her. Be it
mine to free him from that yoke.” And Barbara laughed
exultingly.
The Sexton approached the old crone, and looked her stead-
fastly in the face.
“ Hear me,” said he ; and I will tell thee that with which
thy juggling art refuseth to acquaint thee. Eleanor Mowbray
is heir to the lands of Rookwood—the estates are her's—they
were bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald.”
“ She was unborn when he died,” cried Mrs. Mowbray.
6. True,” replied Peter; “but the lands were left to thy
issue female, should such issue be born to thee.'
" And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this ?" asked
Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.
“ He did but he withheld the knowledge of it from thee
and thine.”
“My curses on his memory. Why did'st thou not tell me
this before ?"
6. Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell thee,”
returned Peter, coldly.
“I have sacrificed my child,” cried Mrs. Mowbray. "I
have lost her, and her inheritance.".
" Thou hast, indeed,” replied Barbara. 66 Thou hast lost
all. But it works well for me."
A deep groan burst from the bosom of the bride. Luke
had heard all. He had with difficulty controlled his rising
choler. He did, however, control it; but not without a ter-
rible effort.
“ It is false-it is false," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray : her
anger and vexation getting the better of her fears. “I will
not believe it.
Wo art thou, that pretendest to know the se-
crets of our house ?"
“ Would'st thou know who I am ?" replied the Sexton, ap-
proaching her.
“Iam Alan Rookwood-ihe sworn enemy of
thy house-of thy father-of thee-of all ye: your fate-
your destiny-your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood, whose
name thou breathedst in the vault. I am he, the avenger-
the avenged. I saw thy faiher die. I heard his groans—his
groans !-ha, ha. I saw his sons die ;---one fell in battle ---I
was with him there---the other expired in his bed. I was hid-
den in Sir Piers's room when he breathed his last, and listen-
ed to his death agonies. 'Twas I who counselled him to keep
the lands from thee, and from thy child, and he withheld them.
One only ainongst the race whose name I have cast off have I
loved; and him because,” added he, with something like
emotion---" because he was my daughter's child---Luke Řook-


79
wood---and even he shall minister to my vengeance. He will
be thy curse---thy daughter's curse---for he loves her not. Yet
he is her husband, and hath her lands ;---ha, ha!" And he
laughed till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of savage
exultation.
“ Mine ears are stunned,” cried Mrs. Mowbray.' “ He is
possessed with devils---"
“ The bride is mine, relinquish her to me,” cried Barbara,
who had listened for an instant with some curiosity to the
Sexton's avowal. “ Advance and seize her, my children."
Alan Rookwood (as we shall now denominate him) sudden-
ly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, and blew a
call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung
back, irresolute.
There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels
were struck down; and, with pistols in each hand, and follow-
ed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprung into the thick of the
crew.
66
6. Here we are," cried he,“ ready for action. Where is Sir
Luke Rookwood ? where 'my church-yard pal, Peter ?”
Here,” cried the Sexton and Luke simultaneously.
“ Then stand aside,” cried Dick, pushing in the direction
of the sounds, and bearing down all opposition.
* Have a
care there---these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, who
touches me, shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am,
pal Peter; and here are my two chums, Rust and Wilder.---
Speak the word; what next?”'
“ Have we license to pass now?" asked the Sexton; “or
shall we make good our way ?"
“ You shall not pass,” cried Barbara, furiously. “Think
you to rob me of my prey ? Upon them---seize her. What,
cowards! Do you hesitate? Ha!”
“ Kindle the torches,” cried several voices.
6. We fight
not in the dark.”
A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light
fell upon a tumultuous
group.
“ Seize the bride,” cried Barbara.
66 Hold !” exclaimed a voice from the altar. The tones were
those of Sybil.
Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had faint-
ed in the arms of Jerry Juniper.
“ Art thou my bride ?" ejaculated Luke, in mixed anger
and astonishment.
“ Behold the ring upon my finger !---Thine own hand placed
it there.”
A murmur ran through the assembiy.
“ Betrayed !” screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. “ My


81
ed murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands
of it a shot or two in self-defence is another matter-and
when-"
“ A truce to this,” interrupted Alan ; “ the girl is safe will
you mount guard again ?"
“ If that be the case, certainly,” replied Dick, “I shall be
glad to get back to Bess—I couldn't bring her with me into
this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you 'tis Ranulph
Rookwood—but mind—no harm to the gipsy girl—to Lady
Rookwood I should say—she's a jewel, take my word for it,
which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away." . And calling
his men, he departed.
Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the Gipsy Queen.
Dark thoughts gathered thickly o'er his brow. He smiled as
he drew near Barbara-a smile it was
“That wrinkled up his skin, even to the hair."
The crone looked at him at first with distrust, but as he de-
veloped his secret purposes, that smile becanie reflected upon
her own features. Their conference took place apart. We
willingly leave them, to return to the altar.
Mrs. Mowbray and the Priest were still there. Both were
occupied in ineffectual endeavours to restore Eleanor to con-
sciousness. She recovered from her swoon, but it was evi-
dent her intellects wandered, and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray
lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor re-
turned them not.
Luke meanwhile had given vent to the wildest fury. He
shook away Sybil's grasp—and dashing her from him, re-
garded her with withering glances--and loaded her with re-
proaches. She bore his violence with the meekest submission;
she looked imploringly--but she replied not to his taunts-
and clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. Can
the heart of man resist such love in woman ? hath it no com-
punction; no pity? Luke appeared onmoved; what passed
within, we pause not to examine. He grew calmer-his
calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous wrath
had been.
“ You are my wife,” said he ; “ what then? by fraud, by
stratagem, you have obtained that title, and perforce must
keep it—but the title only shall you retain. No rights of wife
shall ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself
Lady Rookwood—you will be so in name-in nothing else."
“I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.
Luke laughed scornfully. “ So you said before," replied
he; " and yet I see not wherefore you are likely to abandon


82
it. The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me,
and I place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was
your's—you refused it—when I would give it to another, clan.
destinely you grasp it. And am I then to believe what now
you say? And wind will change—the vane veer with it.
" It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.
Why did you step between me and my bride ?"
“ To save her life; to lay down mine for her's."
“ An idle subterfuge. Well do you know you run no risk
of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger.
The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with
your assistance: my own hand would have sufficed to protect
Eleanor."
“ Your single arm would not have prevailed against num-
bers : they would have killed you likewise."
“ Tush ;" said Luke fiercely, “not only have you snatched
from me my bride you have robbed me of my fair estates-
my house-my all-save of my barren title—and that, even
that, you have tarnished.”
“ True-true,” cried Sybil. " I knew not that the lands
were hers, else had I never done it."
“ False-false,” ejaculated Luke; “ false as the rest. They
will be Ranulph's—she will be his. I shall still be an out-
cast, while he will riot in my halls—will press her to his
bosom. Cling not to me. Hence! or I will spurn thee from
I am undone—undone, by thee, accursed one!"
6 Oh! curse me not-your words cut deep enough."
“ Would they could kill thee,” cried Luke, with savage
bitterness. “'Thou hast placed a bar between me and my
prospects, which nothing can now remove—nothing but-ha!”
and his countenance assumed a deadly hue, and fearful ex-
pression. By heaven, thou almost rousest the fell spirit
which is said to dwell within the breast of my devoted race.
I feel as if I could stab thee.”
No, no,” cried Sybil ; “ for mercy's sake-for thy own
sake, do not kill me. It is not too late-I will repair thy
“ Èver deceiving thou wouldst again delude me. Thou
canst not repair it. One way alone remains, and that
“I will pursue,” responded Sybil, sadly but firmly.
66 Never," echoed Luke; " thou shalt not.
claimed he, as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind
him. “ What new treachery is this? By whose orders am
I thus fettered ?"
“ By mine,” said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.
• By thine !" echoed Luke.
“ Release me.
** Be patient,” replied Alan. 6. You will hear all anon. In
me.
1
66
wrong!”
Ha!” ex-


83
27
the mean time you must be content to remain my prisoner.
Quit not your hold,” added he, addressing the gipsies who
kept charge of Luke.
6. Their lives shall answer for their obedience,” said Bar-
bara.
Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from
her mother's arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over
Mrs. Mowbray's face, that before she could raise a cry of
alarm, all possibility of utterance was effectually prevented.
The Priest alone was left at liberty.
Barbara, snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her
to Sybil.
66 Thou art Lady Rookwood,” whispered she; “ but she
hath thy domains. I give her to thee.”
“ She is the only bar between thy husband and his rights,
whispered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony. “ It
is not too late to repair thy wrong.'
“ Away, tempter!,' cried Sybil, horror-stricken. “I know-
thee well. Yet,” continned she, in an altered tone, 6 I will
risk all for him. I have done him wrong. But one mode of
atonement remains; and, terrible though it be, I will embrace
it. Let me not pause. Give her to me. And she seized
upon the unresisting hand of Eleanor.
“ Need'st thou my aid,” asked Barbara ?
" I need no aid," replied Sybil ; 6 let none approach us.
A clapping of hands will tell you when all is over." And she
dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault.
“ Sybil-Sybil,” cried Luke, struggling with frantic vio-
lence to liberate himself. “ Hurt her not~I was rash-I
was mad—but I am calmer now ; she hears me not-she will
not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her-it will be
done while I speak. Release her-I must prevent it.
the cause of all-release me, villains. Would that I had
died, ere I had seen this day!"
At a signal from the Sexton, Luke also was blindfolded.
He ceased to struggle; but his labouring breast proclaimed
the strife within.
“ Miscreants !” exclaimed the Priest, who had hitherto
witnessed the proceedings in horror. · Why do not these
rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her-
oh save her. Have you no pity for the innocent ?"
“Such pity have we,” replied Barbara, as thyself did show
to Susan Rookwood. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mow-
bray, and yet thou didst not pity her.”
“Heaven is my witness,” exclaimed the Priest, “ that I
never injured her.
" Take not heaven's name in vain," cried Barbara.
I am
66 Hea-


84
66
6 He
ven has its own season—who stood by while it was doing?-
who-but thou ? Whose firmer hand lent aid unto the mur-
derer's trembling efforts ? Thine. Whose pressure stifled her
thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy! Thine-
thine : and now thou pratest to me of pity—thou, the slayer of
the sleeping and the innocent!"
" What !" cried Alan, with terrific eagerness,
66 Was not
Sir Piers alone guilty of that damned act? Was there an ac-
cessory ?"
“ There was,” replied Barbara ; behold him.”
“ 'Tis false,” exclaimed the Priest, in extremity of terror.
• I had Sir Piers's own confession," cried Barbara.
told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his
wife opposed-you hated her—you were in the confidence of
both-how did you keep that confidence ?—He told me how,
by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o'ermaster-
ed all his better feelings. False -He told me of your hellish
machinations—your jesuitical plots-your schemes—but they
failed. He was too weak—too feeble an instrument to serve
you-you left him, but not before she had left him.-False!
ha! I have that shall instantly convict you. The corse is
here, within the cell. Who brought it hither? You, or I ?"
The Priest was silent: he seemed stunned by the crone's
violence of manner.
“ You did," continued Barbara. 6. Your agent, Balthazar,
has betrayed you. You were aware of the secret entrance to
the family vault at Rookwood—Sir Piers had shown it to you.
You overheard the midnight conference 'twixt Alan Rook-
wood and his grandson. I knew all. The body was brought
hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke Rookwood's legiti-
macy. You meant to make your own terms about it. It has
come hither to proclaim your guilt
to be a fearful witness
against you. You have called heaven to witness your inno-
cence-you shall attest it by oath upon that body : and should
aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog,
and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from
this?"
" I shrink not,” replied the Priest, in a voice hollow and
broken. “ Bring me to the body.”
“Seize each an arm," said Barbara-addressing Zoroaster
and the knight of Malta, “ and lead him to the corse.”
“I will administer the oath,” said Alan Rookwood, stern-
ly.
" No-not thou," stammered the Priest.
" And wherefore not?" asked Alan. “If you are innocent,
you need fear nothing from her."
I fear nothing from the dead," replied Checkley;“ lead on."
1


85
Sybil was alone with her victim. They were near the
mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian's flinty dor-
mitory, and were almost involved in darkness-one stream of
light glancing through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken.
She had suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance,
scarce conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil relin-
quished her hold; but Eleanor attempted not to fly. The
gipsy, girl gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and
surprise. “She comprehends not her perilous situation,"
murmured Sybil. “She knows not that she stands upon the
threshold of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray.
Shall I, her murderess, pray for her. My prayers would not
be heard. And yet to kill her unshriven, would be a two-fold
crime. Let me not look on her—my hand trembles—I can
scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all Luke has said.
I have wronged him-I am his bane-his curse. I have rob-
bed him of all —there is but one remedy—'tis this. Oh, God !
she recovers--I cannot do it now."
It was a terrible moment for Eleanor's revival, when the
bright steel flashed before her eyes. Better, if it were to strike
her, that the weapon had found its way upon the instant to
her heart, than that time should be given for agonizing reflec-
tion. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself at Sy.
bil's feet.
Spare-spare me,” cried she. 66 Oh what a dream I have
had—and to waken thus, with the dagger's point at my
breast-rebut you will not kill-you, gentle maid, who promis.
ed to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not.”
“ Appeal no more to me,” said Sybil, sternly. “Make your
peace with heaven. Your minutes are numbered."
“I cannot pray,” said Eleanor," while you are near me.
6. Will you pray if I retire and leave you ? Give me a sig-
nal when you are prepared.”
“I cannot give the signal. Terrible as you are much as
I fear you, I love you still. Oh! do not leave me, or let me
“ If you but stir," said Sybil, “I stab you to the heart."
“ I will not stir-I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I
kneel—as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to
yon thus-while I kiss your hands--while I bedew them with
Those tears will not sally them, not so my
blood.'
Speak not of that,” cried Sybil, shudderingly, endeavour-
ing to withdraw her hand.
" Ah no, I quit you not: your hand trembles—there is
hope
there is mercy; this shaking hand could ne'er shed
blood.”
“ It shall not do so,” gasped Sybil.
VOL. II.
8
go."
my tears.
2


86
6 You are my
66
“Say you so,” cried Eleanor, in transport.
benefactress—you have given me life.”
“I am your worst of foes,” responded Sybil, sadly, yet
firmly. “You mușt partake of this;" and she extended a
phial towards her.
" It is poison,” shrieked Eleanor.
" It is."
“ I will not drink it. I have no choice of death, if die I
must. Both ways equally affright me. Chose thou, Tell me
not how, or when. Yet a moment—thou lovest, maiden, is't
not so ?”
- Few have loved as I love,” said Sybil.
" And art beloved ?”
66 Not so."
“Yet think upon thy lover, and spare me, for my Ranulph's
sake.”
6. For my lover's sake I slay thee,” returned Sybil. “ Thou
wilt never wed thy Ranulph! Prepare. Thy sand is run."
66 Yet a moment hear me."
“ Not a second. Close thine eyes."
No, I will fix them on thee thus—thou canst not strike
then. I will use every art to move thee. Thy nature is not
cruel-thy soul is full of pity. It melts—those tears—thou
wilt be merciful-thou canst not deliberately kill me."
“I cannot I cannot,” replied Sybil. *“ Take thy life on
one condition."
“ Name it!”
66 That thou weddest Sir Luke Rookwood."
6. Ha!” exclaimed Eleanor; “ all rushes back upon me at
that name, the whole of that fearful scene passes in review
before me.”
Do you reject my proposal ?"
- I dare not.”
“I must have your oath. Swear by your every hope of
eternity, that yo'l will wed none other than Sir Luke Rook-
By every x pe, I swear it.”
66 While he liveth ?”
66 While he liveth.".
Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not-
scream not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends
upon your firmness.
When I am no more.
“ No more," echoed Eleanor, in horror ?
“ Be calm,” said Sybil. • When I am dead, clap your
hands together. They will come to seek you. They will
find me in your stead. Then rush to him—to Sir Luke Rook.
wood. He will protect you. Say to him, hereafter, that I
wood."


87
ears.
died for the wrong I did him—that I died, and blessed
him."
“Can you not live and save me?" sobbed Eleanor.
“ Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When
I am gone, none will seek to injure you. Fare you well !-
Remember your oath. Remember also—ha! that groan.
Both maidens started, as a deep groan knelled in their
“ Whence comes that sound !" asked Sybil.
66 Hist!-a
voice?"
“ It is that of the Priest,” replied Eleanor. 66 Hark! he
groans. They have murdered him. Kind heaven receive
his soul."
6. Pray for me,” cried Sybil: “pray fervently-avert your
face-down on your knees-down-down."
We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely
less painful, and return to the unfortunate Priest.
The father had been brought before the body of Susan
Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white
sere-cloths, and the pallid features of the corpse were ghastly
enough. The torchlight made them terrible.
" Kneel,” said Alan Rookwood. The Priest complied.
Alan knelt beside him.
“ Knowest thou these features ?" asked he. “Regard
them well-fix thine eyes full upon them. Dost thou know
them?"
" I do."
“ Place thy hand upon her breast. Doth not the flesh creep,
and sink beneath thy touch? doth she not writhe and struggle,
as when 'twas done! Art still firm ? Now raise thine hand
-make the cross of thy faith upon her bosom. By that faith
thou swearest thou art innocent."
I do," returned the Priest; “ art thou now satisfied ?"
• No," replied Alan. 6. Let the torch be removed. Thy
innocence must be more deeply attested,” continued he, as
the light was withdrawn. : “ This proof will not fail. En-
twine thy fingers round her throat."
“ Her throat ?"
“ Thou refusest?-Ha!"
" Have I not done enough ?"
“Thy hesitation proves thy guilt,” exclaimed Barbara.
“ That proof is wanting then ?" returned the Priest; “my
hand is upon her throat-what more?"
“ As thou dost hope for mercy in thine hour of need, swear
that thou didst never refuse her mercy!"
" I swear.”
• May the dead convict thee of perjury if thou hast for-
66
66
66


88
sworn thyself,” said Alan; “thou art free. Take away thy
hand.”
" Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the Priest. You have
put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand.
It sticks to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood.
Tear me away-I have not force enough to liberate myself.
Why dost thou grin at me? The corse grins likewise. It
is jugglery. I am innocent-You would take away my life.
Tear me away, I say: the veins rise—they blacken-they are
filling with new blood, I feel them swell—they coil like
living things around my fingers—She is alive."
6. And thou art innocent ?"
“ I am-I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's
sake release me.'
Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold thee not.”
“ Thou dost," groaned the Priest. " Thy grasp tightens
round my throat;—thy hard and skinny fingers are there~I
strangle-help!”
“Thy own fears strangle thee. My hand is at my side,"
returned Alan, calmly.
“ Villain, thou liest. Thy grasp is like a vice. The
strength of a thousand devils is in thy hand. Will none lend
help? I never pressed so hard. She never suffered this tor-
ture !-I choke-choke-ha.” And the Priest rolled heavily
backwards.
There was a groan—a rattle in the throat-and all was
still.
“He is dead-strangled," cried several voices, holding
down the torch. The face of the Priest was blackened and
contorted—the "eye-balls farther out than when he lived."
It was a ghastly sight.
A murmur rose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it
prudent to appease them.
“ He was guilty,” cried she. “ He was the murderer of
Susan Rookwood.”
" And I, her father, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence which followed his speech was broken
by the report of a pistol. Its sound, though startling, was
felt almost as a relief.
66 We are beset," eried Alan. “ Some of you fly to recon-
noitre."
" To your posts,” cried Barbara.
Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.
“ Unbind the prisoners,” cried Alan.
Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.
Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now
heard.


89
“ 'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," shouted Alan; “ that was the
preconcerted signal.”
“ Ranulph Rookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the
exclamation ; he comes to save me.”
“Remember thy oath,” gasped a dying voice.
« He is
no longer thine.”
“I remember," replied Eleanor, tremblingly;
A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the
ears of Barbara.
“ All is over,” muttered she.
“ Ha!” exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look,
65 is it done ?"
Barbara motioned him towards the farther end of the vault.
CHAPTER XIII.
Grimm. Look, Captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.
Schw. Down with him. Don't let him utter a word.
Moor. Silence, I will hear him.
The Robbers Schiller.
GLADLY do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of St.
Cyprian's cell, and the gloomy horrors which have detained
us there so long, for balmy air and genial sunshine--and the
boon companionship of Dick Turpin.
Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient Priory, all
appeared pretty much as our Highwayman had left it. Dick
wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate
whịnnying sound as he approached her, and yielded, as he
drew near, her sleek neck to his caresses.
No Bedouin ever loved his horse more tenderly than Tur-
pin."
-66 'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" mur-
mured he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks.
Bess thrust her hose into his hand, biting him playfully,-as
much as to say—“That day shall never arrive."
Turpin at least understood the appeal. He was skilled, in
the language of the Huoyhnymns—“ I would rather lose my
right hand than that should happen,” sighed Dick ;-" but,
there's no saying:—the best of friends must part; and thou and
g*


90 .
I may be one day separated,—thy destination is the knacker;
mine, perhaps, the gallows. We are neither of us cut out for
old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is, but
since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into
my head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench,
Sybil, but, may I be d -d if I'd use thee as her fancy man
Luke has used her. “ Ha !” exclaimed he, drawing a pistol
with a suddenness that made his companion start-adding, in
a whisper_" we are watched. See you not how yon shadow
falls from behind the wall ?"
“I do," replied Wilder.
“ The varmint shall be speedily unearthed,” cried Rust,
rushing to the spot.
In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a little
substantial personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered.
He was brought before our Highwayman, who had mean-
while vaulted into his saddle.
“ Mr. Coates !” cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at
the ridiculous fignre presented to his view, or the mud de-
ceives me."
“ It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin,” replied the
Attorney ; “you do indeed behold that twice unfortunate per-
son.”
“What brings you here ?" asked Dick. “Ah! I see. You
are come to pay me my wager."
“ I thought you gave me a discharge for that,” rejoined
Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting
quibble.
" True—but it was in blank,” replied Turpin readily ;
" and that don't hold good in law you know. But here you
are again. You have thrown away a second chance. Play
or pay, all the world over. I shan't let you off so easily this
time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony-or take your
measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, Sir,
but out with the stumpy. How dare you bandy jokes at the
point of the pistol ?"
“No!" replied Coates-“ You are better able to keep up
the ball, than I am."
“ Shall we break his neck, or shoot him ?" cried Wilder.
“ A truce to this,” exclaimed Turpin ; " leave him alone-
overhawl his toggery-fake his clies. Let us see what he
has about him."
“ In the twinkling of a bed post,” replied Rust. 66 We'll
turn him inside outWhat's here?” cried he-searching the
Attorney's pockets. “ A brace of barkers," handing a pair
of pistols to Turpin ; "a haddock, stuffed with nothing l'm


91
thinking ; one quid, two coach wheels, half a bull, three hogs,
and a kick ;*ad- d dickey concern, Captain !”,
“ Three hogs and a kick,” muttered Coates, “the knave
says true enough.”
6 Bug over the rag,”'t cried Turpin. “ Is there anything
else ?”
“ Only an old snuffy fogle, and a pewter sneezer."
“ No reader? Try his hoxter."!
“ Here's a pit-man, s Captain.”
6. Give it me. Ah! this will do,” cried Dick, examining
the contents of the pocket-book; “ this is a glorious windfall
indeed—a bill of exchange for £500—payable on demand-
Eh ! Mr. Coates-quick, indorse it, Sir-here's pen and ink-
rascal, if you attempt to tear the bill I'll blow your brains out
-steady, Sir, sign-good—” added he, as Coates most reluc-
tantly indorsed the bill. “ You have now fairly paid your
wager, and I'm sure you won't begrudge another hundred or
so, to make up the difference with your friends there. Sorry I
can't return you the change out, Sir; off to town, and shall
want some small steyen,ll for the dubs at the knapping jig-
gers. Eh! what's this ?-my Lady Rookwood's superscrip-
tion !- Excuse me, Mr. Coates, but I must have a peep at her
Ladyship's billet doux. All's safe with me-man of honour-
· I must detain your reader a moment longer."
“ You should take charge of yourself then,” replied Coates,
sulkily—“ You appear to be my reader.”
“ Bravo,” cried Turpin. “ You may jest now with impu-
nity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes,
and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his
own expense; ha, ha. What's this ?" exclaimed he, opening
the letter—" a fawney," as I'm awake, and from her Lady-
ship’s own fair fammtt I'll be sworn, for it bears her chanti
ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart, eh,
Coates. Egad, you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such
a favour from such a lady ; ha, ha. Meantime, I'll take care
of it for you,” continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little
finger.
Dick, as we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry;
(he was almost as largely endowed with the faculty of imita-
A guinea-two dollars, half-a-crown, three shillings, and
sixpence. Rust's elegant enumeration of the money, reminds
us of a waiter at one of the clubs, giving orders to a fellow-
servant below stairs, who vociferated—“One ox-two mocks
-three peas—and a bully!”
† Hand over the money.
# Inside coat pocket.
Ś A small pocket-book. | Money. q Turnpike men.
** A Ring
t Finger
#1 Cipher.
#*
*


92
tion as our own inimitable Yates, who, like some weird ma-
gician, can make the “great departed fit and talk before us;")
and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creep-
ing over him, that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rook-
wood's epistle, delivered with an enunciation as peremptory
and imperious as that of her Ladyship's self. The letter was
hastily indited, but in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its
writer's bold decision of character. Dick found no difficulty
in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive:
“ Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own
honour, and that of my son to your charge. Time will not
permit me to see you, or I would not write; but I place my-
self entirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my
confidence. To the point: A Major Mowbray has just arrived
here with intelligence, that the body of Susan Bradley (you
will know to whom I allude) has been removed from our fa-
mily vault by a "Romish Priest and his assistants. How it
came there, or wherefore it was removed, I know not. It is
not my present purpose to inquire. Suffice it, that it now lies
in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son,
Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful tales
of the impostor, who calls this woman mother, is at present
engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the to-
nantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance
is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins.
Now mark me.
THAT BODY MUST NOT BE FOUND. Be it
your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest.
horse you can procure-spare neither whip nor spur-haste to
the Priory-procure by any means, and at any expense, the
assistance of the gipsies. Find out the body-conceal it-
destroy it-cut it into a thousand pieces—do what you will,
so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment~I will bear
you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act
upon my responsibility. I pledge my honour for your safety.
My curse shall rest on Ranulphs head if he molest you. Use
all dispatch, and calculate upon due requital of your service
from
Maud Rook WOOD.
Haste, and God speed you !"
“God speed you,” echoed Dick, in his own voice contempt-
uously. The devil drive you, would have been a fitter post-
script. And so it was upon this precious errand you came,
Mr. Coates ?”
Exactly,” replied the Attorney ; " but I find the premises
pre-occupied-fast as I have ridden, you were liere before
me."


93
29
“ And what do you now propose to do ?” asked Turpin.
“ Bargain with you for the body," replied Coates, coolly.
“ Bargain with me !" shouted Dick—“ Do you take me for
a resurrection cove-for a dealer in dead stock, eh! sirrah ?"
“I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to
his own interests”-returned Coates. “ These gentlemen
may, perhaps, not be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my
proposals.
"Hark!” interrupted Turpin---" I hear the tramp of horses'
hoofs, without; hark !---that shout.”
“ Make your own terms before they come,” insinuated
Coates.' " Leave all to me---I'll put 'em on a wrong scent.
“To the devil with your terms"--cried Turpin ; " the sig-
nal !” and he pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols,
which he held in his hand, the shot of which rang in the ears
of the astounded Attorney, as it whizzed past him.
Drag him into the mouth of the vault,” thundered Tur-
pin, “ he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to
your sticks—and keep tout,*-away.'
Vainly did the unfortunate Attorney kick and struggle-
swear and scream—his hat was pushed over his eyes, his bob
wig thrust into his mouth, and his legs tripped from under
him. Thus blind, dumb, and half suffocated, was he hurried
within the entrance ot the cell.
Turpin, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin.
He there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless
as a statue.
As his quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in front
of the ancient Priory, Dick's brow became for an instant con-
tracted, and he bit his lips with vexation. But the feeling was
transient--the next instant saw him the same easy, reckless
being that he had been before; there was a little more pale-
ness in his cheek than usual ; that was all---but then his eyes
were keener and brighter, and his knees involuntarily clasped
his saddle the more firmly---there was no other outward symp-
tom of anxiety about him. It would be no impeachment of
Dick's valour, where it necessary for us here to admit, that a
slight tremor crossed him, as he scanned the formidable array
of his opponents.
No such admission is, however, necessary.
---Dick himself would have been the last man to notice it.
nor shall we do the memory of our undaunted highwayman
any such dishonour. Turpin was intrepid to a fault---he was
rash---apt to run into risks for the mere pleasure of getting out
of them; danger was his delight, and the degree of excite-
ment was always in proportion to the peril incurred. After
* Keep guard.


94
the first glance, he became, to use his own words, “as cool as
a cucumber---"' and continued as long as they permitted him,
like a skilful commander, calmly to calculate the numerical
strength of his adversary, and to arrange his own plan of re-
sistance.
This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably
amount, in the aggregate, to twenty men, and presented an
appearance like that of a strong muster at a rustic fox chase,
due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence;
to wit, naked sabres, firelocks, and a world of huge horse pis-
tols, which the present field carried along with them. This
'resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old hunts-
man, and a gamekeeper or two, in scarlet and green jackets,
and a few yelping hounds, that had followed after them. The
majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yeoman---some of
whom, mounted upon wild unbroken colts, had pretty lives of
it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in “ most ad.
mired disorder ;” others were seated upon more docile, but
quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose
sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel, or ash sap-
ling, refused to obey their riders' intimations to move---while
others again brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge
---obstinate, impracticable little brutes, that seem to prefer re-
volving on their own axis, and describing absurd rotatory mo-
tions, to proceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out
to them. Dick could scarce forbear from laughing at these
ridiculous maneuvres, but his attention was chiefly attracted
towards three individuals, who were evidently the leaders of
this warlike expedition. In the thin tall figure of the first of
these, he recognized Ranulph Rookwood.---With the features
and person of the second of the group he was totally unac-
quainted, but fancied (nor incorrectly fancied) that his milita-
ry bearing, or, as he would have expressed it, “the soldier-
like cut of his jib,” could belong to no other than Major Mow.
bray.---In the round, rosy countenance, and robustious person
of the last of the trio, he discovered his ancient ally, Titus
Tyrconnell.
" Ah, Titus, my jewel---are you there?” exclaimed Dick,
as he distinguished the Irishman. “Come, I have one friend
among them, whom I may welcome. --Soh, they see me now.
Off they come, pall-mall. Back, Bess, back--slowly, wench,
slowly---there---stand.” And Bess again remained motion-
less.
The report of Turpin's pistol had reached the ears of the
troop, and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely pre-
sented himself at the archway many seconds, when a loud
shout was raised, and the whole cavalcade galloped towards


95
him, creating, as may be imagined, the wildest disorder_each
yelling, as they neared the arch, and concentrated their forces
into the other's way, mutually belabouring each other with
oaths and blows, and reciprocating their cuffs and concus-
sions with such unlimited good will, that, had Turpin ever
read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of King
Agramante's
camp,
this mélee must have struck him as its
realization. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of
the result of this onslaught, he shouted encouragement to
them. Scarcely, however, had the foremost horseman disen-
tangled himself from the press of his companions, and, strug-
gling to the door, was in the act of levelling his pistol at
Turpin's head, when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of
his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vow-
ing vengeance, a second succeeded, and was, in like manner,
compelled to bite the dust.
6. That will let old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is
at hand,” exclaimed Dick. "I shan't throw away another
shot.'
The scene at the archway was now one of complete confu-
sion. Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have
drawn back, while others, in mid career, advanced, and pro-
pelled them forwards. It was like the meeting of two tides.
Here and there, regardless of the bit, and scared by the firing,
would a wild colt break all bounds, and, hurling his rider in
the air, dart off into the green; or, in another case, rush for-
wards, and encountering the prostrate cattle that strewed the
entrance to the Priory hall, would stumble, and precipitate
his master neck over heels at the very feet of his enemy.
During all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the highway-
man, which, without doing one jot of mischief, served mate-
rially to increase their own confusion.
The voice of Turpin was now heard, above the din and
turmoil, to sound a parley; and as he appeared disposed to
offer no opposition, some of his antagonists ventured to raise
themselves from the ground, and to approach him.
“I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Tur-
pin.
“ He is here,” said Ranulph, riding up.
66 Villain, you
are my prisoner.”
“ As you list, Sir Ranulph,” returned Dick, coolly : “ but
let me have a word in private with you ere you do aught you
may repent hereafter."
« Not a word-deliver up your arms, or-
My pistols are at your service," replied Dick, “ I have
just discharged them.”
“ You may have others—we must search you."


96
91
“ Hold," cried Dick; if you will not listen to me, read that
letter; and he handed Ranulph his mother's letter. It was
without the envelope, which he had thrown aside.
“ My mother's hand,” exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with
anger, as he hastily perused its contents. 66 And she sent
this to you? You lie, sirrah'tis a forgery."
“Let this speak for me,” returned Dick, holding out his
finger upon which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed.
“Know you that cipher ?"
“ You have stolen it," exclaimed Ranulph. “My mother,"
added he, in a deep stern whisper, articulated only for Tur-
pin's hearing, “would never have entrusted her honour to
your keeping.”
“She has entrusted more-her life," replied Dick, in a
careless tone. 66 She would have bribed me to do murder,"
“ Murder!" echoed Ranulph, aghast.
"Ay, to murder your brother,” returned Dick; “ but let
that
pass. You have read that note. I have acted solely
upon your mother's responsibility. Lady Rookwood's ho-
nour is pledged for my safety. Of course, her son will set
me free."
“ Villain-I know not yet my mother-
“ Is in my power. Betray me, and you betray her. Free
me, and none shall ever be the wiser.'
“ How shall I act?” mused Ranulph. -66
16. My duty to so-
ciety, my respect for the laws he hath outraged, impel me to
seize his person-but my mother-I cannot bring shame upon
her head and then her curse-
“Will rest upon thy head, if you molest me," said Turpin.
* No more" returned Ranulph, sternly.
Pledge me your word of honour that I am safe.”
Ranulph had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mowe
bray rode furiously up. A deep flush of anger burst upon his
cheeks; his sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced at
Turpin, as if he would have felled him from the saddle.
“This is the ruffian,” cried the Major, fiercely, “ who rob-
bed my mother and my sister. The post-boy knew him the
moment he came up. Where are they, villain ?-Whither
are they gone?-answer!”
" I know not,” replied Turpin, calmly. “ Did not the lad
tell you they were rescued ?"
“ Rescued !—by whom ?" asked Ranulph, with great emo-
tion.
“By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answer-
ed Turpin, with a meaning smile.
By him!” ejaculated Ranulph! “ Where are they now ?"
99
“ Go your ways
you are free."
66


97
"I have already answered that question,” said Dick. “I
* repeat it, I know not.”
“ You are my prisoner,” cried the Major, seizing Turpin's
bridle.
“I have Sir Ranulph's word of honour for my safety,” re-
joined Turpin. “ Let go my rein."
“ How is this?" asked the Major, incredulously.
66 Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph. “I will
explain all hereafter. Let us search for them—for Eleanor.
Surely, after this, you will help us to find them,” added he,
addressing Turpin.
66 I wish with all my soul, I could do so," replied the high-
wayman.
“ I seed the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old ru-
ins," interposed the post-boy, who had now joined the party.
" I seed 'em from where I stood in the hill side, and as I kept
a pretty sharp look out, and have a tolerably bright eye of my
own, I don't think as how they ever comed out again.”
“ And is that all you've got to say upon the subject," ex-
claimed a voice, with whose accent Dick was perfectly famil-
iar ? " then, by my sowl, you might just as well have kept
that ugly mouth of your's shut; for shure, and should we not
have met the ladies, bless their hearts, if they'd come out of
this place at all. Don't we know that they've hidden them-
selves here to get out of the way of that vagabond !".
“Easy words, friend Titus, if you please,” said Dick.
Aisy words; and is it to me you're talking, you thief of
the night---you notorious rapparee,” replied Titus; “because
if it is, I'd like to know how it is that you are after addressing
me as your friend; but that it would be beneath me to fight
with a highwayınan, I'd have satisfaction for the affront on the
spot; by St. Patrick ! and so I would.”
“ You may have it in a twinkling, if that's your desire,”
returned Dick. " I'm as free as air. One of these
gentlemen
will lend me a pistol, and we'll have it out at once.
“Lend you a pistol,” said Titus; “by my, faith, Sir, but
your modesty will never stand in your way. And do you:
think if they would lend you one, that I'd demane myself by
fighting with you. Do you think I'd make such a hole in my
It is plain you know little of the pride of the Try-
connels. While you were Jack Palmer, the thing would have
been all mighty well--but as you are blown as Dick Turpin,
the thing's clane out of the question. Fight with a rapparee!
---hout tout man, I'd lose my grade in society by it, entirely,
and, like my friend, Doctor Polyphamus Small, I've too much
of a caste in my eye for that."
“ None of your dd palaver, Titus," replied Turpin,
VOL. II.
9
66
97
manners.


99
65
And away
more of this matter than you choose to explain, and if you
do not satisfy me at once fully and explicitly, I vow to heaven
-” and the Major's sword described a glittering circle
round his head.
“Are you privy to their concealment ?" asked Ranulph.
“ Have you seen aught of them, or of Luke Bradley ?"
Speak, or this moment is your last,” said the Major.
“ If it is my last, I cannot speak," returned Coates; “I be-
gin to think the world is at an end.”
“ And you positively assure me you have not seen them ?"
said Ranulph.
Turpin here winked at Coates. The Attorney understood
him.
“I don't positively assert that,” faltered he.
“How! you have seen them ?" shouted Ranulph.
“ Where are they ?-In safety-speak!”.
Another expressive gesture from the highwayman, commu-
nicated to the Attorney the nature of his reply.
“ Without, Sir-without-yonder,” he replied. “I will
show you myself—follow, gentlemen, follow.”
scampered Coates, without once venturing to look behind
him.
In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin alone
left behind. In the excitement of the moment, his presence
had been forgotten. In an instant afterwards, the arena was
again occupied by a company equally numerous. Rust and
Wilder issued from their hiding places, followed by a throng
of the gipsy crew.
" Where is Sir Luke Rookwood ?" asked Turpin.
* He remains below," was the answer returned.
“ And Peter Bradley ?".
“Stays there likewise."
“No matter. Now make ready, palls. Give 'em one shout
-Hurrah !”
“Hurrah !" replied the crowd, at the top of their voices.
Ranulph Rookwood and his companions heard this shout.
Mr. Coates had already explained the stratagem which had
been practised upon them by the wily highwayman, as well
as the perilous situation in which he himself had been placed ;
and they were in the act of returning, to make good his cap-
ture, when the loud shouts of the crew arrested them. From
the clamour, it was evident that some considerable reinforce-
ment must have arrived from some unlooked-for quarter, and
although burning to be avenged upon the audacious highway-
man, the Major felt that it wculd be a task of difficulty, and
that extreme caution could alone ensure their success. With
difficulty restraining the impatience of Ranulph, who could
162921.


100
scarcely brook these few minutes of needful delay, Major
Mowbray gave particular instructions to each of the men in
detail, and caused several of them to dismount. By this ar-
rangement, Mr. Coates found himself accommodated with a
horse, and a pair of pistols, with which latter he vowed to
wreak his vengeance upon some of his recent tormentors.
After a short space of time occupied in this manner, the troop
slowly advanced towards the postern, in much better order
than upon the previous occasion ; but the stoutest of them
quailed as they caught sight of the numerous gipsy gang
drawn out in battle array, within the Abbey walls. Each par-
ty scanned the other's movements in silence and wonder, anx-
iously awaiting, yet in a measure dreading, their leader's sig-
nal to begin, that signal was not long wanting. A shot from
the ranks of Rookwood, did instant and bitter execution. Rob
Rust was stretched lifeless upon the ground. Nothing more
was needed. The action now became general. Fire arms
were discharged on both sides without much damage to eith-
er party---but a rush being made by a detachment of horse,
headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon became more se-
rious. The gipsies, after the first fire, threw aside their pis-
tols, and fought with long knives, with which they inflicted
desperate gashes, both on men and horses. Major Mowbray
was slightly wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving
the blow intended for himself, stumbled, and threw his rider.
Luckily for the Major, Ranulph Rookwood was at hand, and
with the butt end of a heavy-handled pistol, felled the ruffian
to the earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the
thrust.
Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share
in the conflict. He seemed to content himself by acting upon
the defensive, and except, in the case of Titus Tyrconnel,
whom, espying among the crowd, he had considerably alarm-
ed, by sending a bullet through his wig, he did not fire a sin-
gle shot.
He also succeeded in unhorsing Coates, by hurling with
great dexterity, the empty pistol at his head. Though appa-
rently unconcerned in the skirmish, he did not finch from it,
but kept his ground unyieldingly. “ A charmed life” he
seemed to bear, for amid the shower of bullets, many of
which were especially aimed at himself, he came off unhurt.
“ He that is born to be hanged, will never be drownded,
that's certain,” said Titus. “It's no use trying to bring him
down. But by Jasus he's spiled my best hat and wig, any.
how. There's a hole in my beaver as big as a crown piece.
“ But your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction,"
said Coates, “ whereas, mine has a bump on it, as large as a
swan's egg. Ah!~if we could only get behind him.”


102
Jerry, like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. “The
proper moment,” he said, “ had not arrived." A fatality
seemed to attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was
the first who fell; Wilder also was now among the slain.
Things were precisely in this condition when the messen-
ger returned. A marked change was instantly perceptible in
Turpin's manner. He no longer looked on with indifference.
He seemed angry and distrustful. He gnawed his lip, ever
a sign with him of vexation. He addressed a few words to
those about him, and then spoke more loudly to the rest of
the crew. Being in the jargon of the tawney tribe, his words
were not intelligible to the opposite party; but their import
was soon made known by the almost instant and total relin-
quishment of the field of the gipsies. They took to their heels
at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded
behind them; and, flying along the intricate ruins of the
Priory, baffled all pursuit, wherever it was attempted. Jerry
Juniper was the last in the retreat; but upon receiving a hint
from Turpin, vaulted like a roe over the heads of his adversa-
ries, and made good his escape.
Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay, quiel-
ly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph
Rookwood rode up, and bade him surrender.
“ Detain me not,” cried he, in a voice of thunder.
you would save her who is dear to you, descend into that
vault. Off, I say.".
And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp which Ra-
nulph had laid upon him.
“Villain, you do not escape me this time,” said Major
Mowbray, interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet.
“ Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my
head,” said Dick. “ Let me pass,” and he levelled a pistol
at the Major.
“ Fire if you dare,” said the Major, raising his sword.
“ You pass not. I will die rather than allow you to escape.
Barricade the door. Strike him down, if he attempt to pass.”
“I will not take your life," said Turpin.
mother and sister within yon vault. You will find employ-
ment'enough there."
Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few
yards; and then, striking his heels sharply into her sides,
his purpose could be divined by the spectators, charged, and
cleared the lower part of the mouldering Priory walls. This
feat was apparently accomplished at no great effort by his ad-
mirable and unequalled mare.
“ By the powers,” cried Titus, “ and he's given us the slip,
after all. And just when we thought to make sure of him,
“ If
o Go seek your
ere


103
99
too. Why, Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five-
barred gate, or any stone wall in my own country. It's just
the most extraordinary lepp I ever set eyes on.”
“ The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his horse," re-
turned Coates; “ but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I
know whither he's bound. I'll follow him.-I'll track him
like a blood-bound, slowly but surely. Recollect the hare and
the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift. What say
you ? 'Tis a match for five hundred pounds-nay, for five
thousand; for there is a certain marriage certificate in the
way-a glorious golden venture. You shall go halves, if we
win. We'll have him dead, or alive. What say you for Lon-
don, Mr. Tyrconnel ?-Shall we start at once ?.
“ With all my sowl,” replied Titus.
" I'm with you."
And away this par nobile scoured.
Ranulph meantime had plunged into the vault. The floor
was slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep la-
mentations, and a wailing sound, like that of a lament for the
dead, boomed in his ears. A light at the farther extremity of
the vault attracted his attention. He was filled with terrible
forebodings, but even these were not so terrible as suspense.
He rushed towards the light. He passed the massive pillars,
and the e, by the ruddy torch flame, discovered two female
figures. One was that of an old woman, fantastically attired,
wringing her hands and moaning, or gibbering wild strains
in broken discordant, yet pathetic tones. The other was Mrs.
Mowbray. Both were images of despair. Before them lay an
object of dread. He noticed not that old woman—he scarce
saw Mrs. Mowbray-he beheld only that! It was a female
figure, but it moved not—it breathed not. The light fell im-
perfectly upon the face-he could not discern the features, but
the veil in which it was swathed—that veil was her's !-was
Eleanor's! He asked no more.
With a wild cry he stumbled forward. -“ Eleanor, my be-
loved," shrieked he.
Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned,
and helpless.
“She is dead,” said Ranulph, stooping towards the body.
“ Dead-dead !”
“ Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish
-66 dead-dead!"
- But this is not Eleanor." exclaiməd he, as he viewed the
features more closely. “ This face, though beautiful, is not
her's. This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that
shade her cheek are black. She is scarce dead. The hand I
clasp is yet warm—the fingers are pliant."


104
“ Yet she is dead,” said the old woman, in a broken voice.
· She is slain.”
“ Who hath slain her ?” asked Raonlph.
“I-I-her mother's mother, slew her.”
“ Thou !” exclaimed Ranulph, horror stricken. “ And where
is Eleanor !” asked he. “ Was she not here !"
“ Better she were here now, even though she were as that
poor maid,” groaned Mrs. Mowbray, “ than where she is.”
- Where is she then ?" asked Ranalph, with frantic eager.
ness.
“ Fled! Whither I know not.”
“ With whom ?”
“ With Sir Luke Rookwood-with Alan Rookwood. They
have borne her bence-Ranulph, you are too late."
“ Gone-gone,” cried Ranulph. - How escaped they!
There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. I will
search each nook and cranny."
“ Tis vain,” replied Mrs. Mowbray. “There is another
outlet through yon cell. By that passage did they escape.”
“Too true--too true,” shouted Ranulph, who flew to ex-
amine the cell. " And wherefore followed you not ?"
“ The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts ; I
could not follow.”
“ My sister !” exclaimed Major Mowbray, who had now
joined them.
66 Where is she ?”
66 Gone,” said Ranulph, in accents of despair.
“ Gone," echoed the Major, " And Father Ambrose ?"
“Murdered,” answered Mrs. Mowbray.
“She is goneshe is lost to me for ever," cried Ranulph
bitterly.
“ No,” exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. “ Place thy
trust in me, and I will find her for thee.”
- Thou !” said Ranulph.
“ Even 1,” replied Barbara. “ 'Thy wrongs shall be righted
--my Sybil be avenged."


BOOK IV.
The Highwayman.
Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have
effected universal reformation, has been doomed to perish
by the halter ; but does not such a man's renown extend
through centuries and tens of centuries ; while many a
prince would be overlooked in history, were it not the his-
torian's interest to increase the number of his pages ? Nay,
when the traveller sees a gibbet, does he not exclaim,
“ that fellow was no fool !” and lament the hardness of the
times ?
SCHILLER,


BOOK THE FOURTH.
CHAPTER I.
Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado,
Of Stramazons, tinctures, and the slie passatas ;
Of the carricado, and rare embrocado,
Of blades, and rapier hilts of surest guard,
of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward.
Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil button?
Win gold and wear gold boys, 'tis we that merit it.
Prince of Prig's Revels.
An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth.
ALLOWING a space of three or four days to elapse without
notice, we shall now transport our readers to the neighbour-
hood of the metropolis, and, with their permission, conduct
them to a retired arbour adjoining the bowling green of the
old hostel of Kilburn Wells.
The present straggling suburb, known as Kilburn, had
scarcely been called into existence a century ago, and the inn
of which we speak, with a few detached farm-houses, were
the sole habitations to be found in the present populous vi-
cinage. The place of refreshment for the ruralizing cock-
ney of 172—was an ancient substantial looking tenement of
the good old stamp, with great bay windows, and a balcony in
front, bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of the lusty
knight, Jack Falstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, stood a
circular bench, embracing the aged trunk of the tree; suf-
ficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer on those
dusty ways (the Edgeware Road has ever been proverbial for
its dust and its paupers) to “ rest and be thankful,” and to cry
encore to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained
within the chimes of the Bow Bells.
Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the
walls of the bower, was placed a great china bowl, one of
those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry, which we may
sometimes espy (reversed in token of its desuetude,) perched


107
on the top of an old japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, en-
countered in its proper position at the genial board. All the
appliance of festivity were at hand. Pipes and rummers
strewed the board. Perfume, subtle, yet mellow, as of pine
and lime, exhaled from out the bowl, and, mingling with the
scent of a neighbouring bed of mignionette, and the subdued
odour of the Indian weed, formed altogether as delectable an
atmosphere of sweets as one would wish to inhale on a melting
August afternoon. So at least thought the inmates of the
arbour, nor did they, by any means, confine themselves to the
gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial contents of the
china bowl proved as delicious to the taste, as its bouquet to
the smell; while the eyesight was soothed and gratified by
reposing on the smooth sward of the bowling green, spread
out immediately before it, or in dwelling upon gently un-
dulating meads, terminating at about a mile's distance in the
woody spire-crowned heights of Hampstead.
At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a
slender, elegant-looking young man, with dark languid eyes,
sallow complexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pen-
sive expression, often communicated by dissipation; an ex-
pression which, we regret to say, is sometimes found more
pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the gentle sex.
Habited in a light summer riding dress, fashioned according
to the taste of the time, but of plain, and unpretending ma-
terial, and rather under, than over-dressed, he had, perhaps,
on that very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman. There
was, altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which,
combined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted
very forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy com-
panions. The figure of the youth was slight, even to fra-
gility, giving little outward manifestation of the vigour of
frame he in reality possessed. His features would have been
altogether effeminate, but for a pair of raven whiskers, with
which his cheeks were shaded. To save the reader any
speculatiou as to who this spark might be, we will at once
acquaint him with his name and calling. He was a no less
distinguished personage than Tom King, a noted Tobyman
of his time, who obtained, from his appearance and address,
the sobriquet of the “Gentleman Highwayman."
Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career
was brief, but brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary.
He was a younger son of a good family—had good blood in
his veins-but not a groat in his pockets. According to the
1
old song,
When he arrived at man's estate,
It was all the estate he had !


109
(tiger we should have called him,) “and many a change of
clothes besides,” says his biographer, “with which he ap-
peared more like a lord than a highwayman.” And what
more, we should like to know, would a lord wish to have ?
Few younger sons, we believe, can boast so much; and it is
chiefly on their account, with some remote view to the benefit
of the unemployed youth of all professions, that we have en-
larged so much upon Tom King's history. The road, we
must beg to repeat, is still open-the chances are greater
than they ever were-we fully believe it is their only road to
preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen!
Fancy Tom lounging at D’Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his
boots on the steps—there he stands! Is he not a devilish good-
looking gentlemanlike sort of a fellow? You could never
have taken him for a highwayman but for our information. A
waiter appears—supper is ordered at twelve-a broil chicken
and a bottle of Burgundy—his groom brings his nags to the
door-he mounts. It is his custom to ride out on an evening-
he is less liable to interruption.* At Marylebone Fields (now
the Regent's Park) his groom. leaves him. He has a mistress
in the neighbourhood. He is absent for a couple of hours, and
returns gay or dispirited, as his luck may have turned out. · At
twelve he is at supper, and has the night before him, How
very easy all this seems. Can it be possible, we have no Tom
Kings?
But to return to Tom as he was in the arbour. Judging
from his manner, he appeared to be almost insensible of the
presence of his companions, and to be scarcely a partaker in
their revelry. His back was towards his immediate neigh-
bour; his glass sparkled untouched at his elbow-and one
hand, beautifully white and small, a mark of his birth and
breeding (crede Byron,) rested upon the edge of the table,
while his then delicate digits, palpably demonstrative of his
faculty of adaptation (crede James Hardy Vaux,) were em-
ployed with a silver toothpick. In other respects, he seemed
to be lost in reverie, and was in all probability, meditating new
exploits.
Next to King, sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; not, how-
ever, the Jerry of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking
personage. "Jerry was no longer a gentleman of "three outs'
--the difficulty would now have been to say what he was
* We have heard of a certain gentleman Tobyman, we for.
get whom, taking the horses from his curricle for a similar
purpose, but we own we think King's the simpler plan, and
quite practicable still. A cabriolet would be quite out of the
question, but particularly easy to stop.
VOL. II.
10


110
" without.”. Snake-like he had cast his slough, and rejoiced
in new and brilliant investiture. His were “speaking gar-
ments, speaking pockets too." His linen was the finest, his
hose of the smartest. Gay rings glittered on his fingers—a
crystal snuff-box underwent graceful manipulation-a hand-
some gold repeater was sometimes drawn from its location
with a monstrous bunch of onions (anglice seals,) depending
from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists, and shoes
(of which they had been long unconscious) with buckles near-
ly as large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich powdered
peruke, and silver hilted sword, completed the gear of the trans-
mogrified Jerry, or, as he now chose to be designated, Count
Albert Conyers. The fact was, that Jerry, after the fracas,
apprehensive that the country would be too hot for him, had,
in company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks of the canting
crew, and made the best of his way to town. A lucky spice*
on the road set them up, and having some acquaintance with
Tom King, the party on their arrival sought him out at his
customary haunt, D’Osyndar's, and enlisted under his banners.
Tom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited
use of his wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assis-
tance in return. He had a grand scheme in petto, in the exe-
cution of which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a
Greek by nature, and could land a flat as well as the best of
them. Žoroaster was just the man to lose a fight; or, in the
language of the Fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could
serve Tom's purposes better; he welcomed them with frater-
nal affection.
But in the meantime, we must proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's
opposite neighbour, who was, however, no other than that Up-
right Man,
The Magus Zoroaster, that great name,
SHELLEY.
Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsi-
cally metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained,
but not a vestige was left of the original Dimber Damber.
His tawny mother had not known her son. This alteration,
however, was not owirg to change of dress; it was the result
of the punishment he had undergone at the “Set to" at the
Priory. Not a feature was in its place; his swollen lip tres-
passed upon the precincts of his nose, his nose trod hard upon
his cheek, while his cheek again not to be behind the rest,
rose up like an apple-dumpling under his single eye-single
we say—for alas:—there was no speculation in the other-his
* Foot-pad robbery.


112
Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board,
and an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting him-
self to the due administration of the punch bowl. Not a rum-
mer was allowed to stand empty for an instant. Toast, senti-
ment, and anacreontic song, succeeded each other at speedy
intervals; but there was no speechifying—no politics. He
left church and state to take care of themselves. Whatever
his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to interfere
with his pleasures. His maxim was to make the most of the
passing moment; the dum vivimus vivamus was never out of
his mind; a precautionary measure which we recommend to
the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any other preca-
rious profession.
Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality,
seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversa-
tion somehow or other began to flag; from being general it
became particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, es-
pecially at that time of day, fell into a deep reverie--your
gamesters often do so—while the Magus, who had smoked
himself drowsy, was composing himself to a doze. Turpin
seized this opportunity of addressing a few words on matters
of business to Jerry Juniper, or, as he now chose to be called,
Count Conyers.
“My dear Count,” said Dick, in a low and confidential tone,
“you are aware that my errand to town is accomplished
have smashed Lawyer Coates's screen--pocketed the dimmock,
here 'tis,” continued he, (parenthetically slapping his pockets,)
“and done t'other trick in prime twig for 'Tom Xing. With a
cool thousand in hand, I might, if I chose, rest awhile on my
oars; but a quiet life don't suit me. I must be moving. So I
shall start to Yorkshire to-night.”
“Indeed,” said the soi disant Count, in a languid tone "SO
“ I have nothing to detain me," replied Dick. “ And, to
tell you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir
Luke Rookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall for
want of any assistance I can render him.
“ True," returned the Count, “one would regret such an
occurrence certainly—but I fear your assistance may arrive a
little too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine,
by this time.”
“ That remains to be seen,” said Turpin.
" His case is a
bad one to be sure-
dd bad—but I trust not utterly hope-
less. With all his impetuosity and pride, I like the fellow,
and will help him if I can. It will be a difficult game to set
him on his legs, but I think it may be done. That underground
marriage was sheer madness, and turned out as ill as such a
66
soon ?”


113
scheme might have been expected to do. Poor Sybil ! if I
could pipe an eye for any thing, it would be for her. I wouldn't
have her death at my door for a trifle—but that's neither here
nor there. It was her own act, and no one is answerable for
it in any court below stairs, whatever they may be at that
above. - I don't know how it is, Jerry; I'm not much given to
thinking of those things, but that girl's looks have been running
in my noddle ever since I saw her by torchlight at the altar,
just before her death. I never saw any thing that moved me so
much. I can't get her out of my head. Give me a pinch of
snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest, that's a
totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old Alan
did right to take the law into his own hands, and squeeze his
throttle for him-I'd have done the same thing myself; and,
being a proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without
the King's license for so doing, why father Checkley's murder
(if it must be so called, I can't abide hard terms) won't lie
very heavy at Alan's door. That, however, has nothing to do
with Sir Luke. He was neither accessory nor principal. Still
he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood's machina-
tions. The whole county of York, I make no doubt, is up in
arms by this time.”
“Then why venture thither ?” said the Count, somewhat
ironically; “for my part, I've a strange fancy for keeping out
of harm's way as long as possible.”
“Every man to his taste,” returned Turpiu— I like a row.
My craft sails tautest when the breeze is brisk; for then there
is always most to be picked up. I love to confront danger.
Run away! pshaw! always meet your foe half way.
" True,” replied the Count, “half-way!”—but you go
whole distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in
his den ?"
“I never was a prudent man,” rejoined Dick, smiling—-I
have no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I
shall try to find out this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my
purse, such as it is, and it is now better lined than usual; à
hand free to act as he lists, and a head which, imprudent
though it be, can often think better for others than for its own
master."
“ Vastly fine !" exclaimed the Count, with an ill-disguised
sneer" but I hope you don't forget that the marriage certifi-
cate, which you hold, is perfectly valueless now. The estates,
you are aware
“Are no longer Sir Luke's~I see what you are driving at,
Count,” returned Dick, coldly.—“But he will need it, to es-
tablish his claim to the title and he shall have it.-While he
was Sir Luke with £10,000 a-year, I drove a hard bargain,
99
the
10*


114
and would have stood out for the last stiver I demanded; but
now that he is one of us,' a simple Chevalier d'Industrie, hc
shall have it, and welcome.”
“ Perhaps Lady Rookwood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might be in-
clined to treat," maliciously insinuated the Count ; " the title
may be worth something to Ranulph."
"It is worth more to Luke; and if it were not—he gets it.
Are you satisfied ?"
“Perfectly,” replied the Count, with affected bonhommie-
“ and I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mow-
bray, from which you may gather something for your guidance
in this matter; and if the word of a woman be at all to be
trusted, though individually I cannot say that I have much
faith in it, Sir Luke's planetary hour is not yet completely
overcast.”
“ That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow,” said
Turpin, eagerly. -"You have already told me that you were
witness to a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and
Sir Luke, after my departure from the Priory. If I mistook
you not, the whole business will hinge upon that. What oc-
curred? Let me have every particular? The whole history
and mystery.”
“You shall with pleasure,” said the Count—"and I hope it
may tend to your benefit; as I have just observed, the fabric
rests on a sandy foundation. But, before I begin, I must clear
my whistle, for its a long tale. Here's to their speedy union,
ha-ha! though an old catch that I've heard, says,-
“No mate ever brook would,
A rook of the Rookwood.'
I wonder how it will turn out in Sir Luke's case."
“ Poh-poh,” cried Dick impatiently,—"the interview-the
interview.
“Well,” said the Count, “ you shall have it without more
delay. After I had quitted the scene of action at the Priory,
and at your desire left the Rookwood party masters of the field,
I fled with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. There we
held council of war for a short time. Some were for returning
to the fight; but this was negatived entirely, and in the end it
was agreed that those who had wives, daughters and sisters,
should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat in the
grange ; but as I happened to have none of these attractive
ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I thought
could take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but
struck deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by
destiny, I suppose, towards the cave."
The cave !" cried Dick, rubbing his hands—"I delight in
1
99


115
a cave.
Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Ep-
ping, and I'll have another, one of these fine days—a cave is
as proper to a high Tobyman as a castle to a Baron; but go
on.
“ The cave I speak of," continued the Count, “
was seldom
used, except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole
Abbey crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old lioness
Barbara, and, like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes;
however, the cave is a good cave for all that is well conceal-
ed by brush-wood, and comfortably, lighted from a crevice in
the rock above; it lies near the brink of the stream, amongst
the woods, just above the waterfall, and is somewhat difficult
of approach.”
“I
know something of the situation,” said Turpin.
“Well,” returned the Count; “not to lose time, into this
den I crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine
my surprise on discovering that it was already occupied, and
that Sir Luke Rookwood, his grand-dad, Miss Mowbray, and
worst of all, the very person I wished most to avoid, my old
flame Handassah, constituted the party.
“A disagreeable rencontre, truly," said Turpin.
* Fortunately, they did not perceive my entrance,” con-
tinued Jerry; “ and I took especial care not to introduce my-
self. Retreat, however, was for the moment impracticable,
and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had
passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss
Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother.
He seemed half inclined to comply with her piteous entrea-
ties; but old Alan shook his head. It was then Handassah
put in a word; the minx was ever ready at that. •Fear not,'
said she, “that she will wed Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her.
friends, I beseech you, Sir Luke, and woo her honourably. She
will accept you.' Sir Luke stared incredulously, and grim old
Alan smiled. She has sworn to be yours,' continued Han-
dassah; sworn it by every hope of heaven, and the oath has
been sealed by blood-by Sybil's blood.'—Speaks she true?'
asked Sir Luke, trembling with agitation. Miss Mowbray an-
swered not. You will not deny it, lady,' said Handassah.
• I heard that oath proposed—I heard it utterred—I saw it
registered. You cannot-you will not—dare not deny it.' •1 do
not,' replied Miss Mowbray with much anguish of manner; if
he claim me, I am his.' • And he will claim thee,' said Alan
Rookwood, triumphantly. He has thy oath, no matter how
extorted—thou must fulfil thy vow.'—"I am prepared to do so,'
said Eleanor. • But if you would not utterly destroy me, let
this maid conduct me to my mother-to my friends.' To Ra-
nulph ?' asked Sir Luke, bitterly. "No, no,' returned Miss


116
Mowbray, in accents of deepest despair-'to my mother-I
wish not to behold him again.'— Be it so, cried Sir Luke;
but remember, in love or hate, thou art mine; I shall claim
the fulfilment of thy oath. Farewell. Handassah will lead
thee to thy mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed her head, but re-
turned no answer, while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke de-
parted from the cavern.”
6 Whither went they ?" demanded Turpin.
“That I know not,” replied Jerry. “ I was about to follow,
when I was prevented.”
“How ?” asked Dick. “ By the abrupt entrance of another
party. Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods have made
good their retreat, when shouts were heard without, and
young Ranulph and Major Mowbray forced their way, sword
in hand, into the cave. Here was a situation for me I mean
-to the young lady, I make no doubt, it was pleasant enough
-but my neck was in jeopardy. However, you know that I
am not deficient in strength, and, upon the present occasion,
I made the best use of the agility with which boon nature has
endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion-the sobbings,
and embracings, and congratulations that ensued, I contrived,
like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and con-
ceal myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well
I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in came old Bar-
bara, followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen others.”
6. Barbara !" ejaculated Dick. “ Was she a prisoner ?”
A prisoner!" repeated Jerry, smiling significantly. “No,
the old hell cat is too deep for that. She had nosed upon
Sir Luke, and hoped they would grab him and his gran-dad.
But the birds were flown."
“ I'm glad she was baulked,” said Dick.
search made after them ?"
“Can't say,” replied Jerry. "I could only indistinctly
catch the sounds of their voices from my lofty hiding place.
Before they left the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray
resolved to go to Rookwood, and to take her daughter thither,
a proceeding to which the latter strongly objected.”
*«. To Rookwood,” said Dick, musingly. " Will she keep
her oath, I wonder ?"
“ That's more than I can say,” said Jerry, sipping his
punch. 6. 'Tis a deceitful sex.'
“ A deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a tum-
bler; “ for one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassaha, eh,
Count."
• Twenty-a hundred to one,” replied Jerry. "Iis a vile
sex!”
66
66 Was any


117
CHAPTER. II.
Grimm. How gloriously the sun sets to-night.
Moor. When I was a boy, my favourite thought was, that I should live and
die like yonder gloriour orb. It was a boyish thought.
Grimm. True, Captain.
The Robbers.
sex.
“PEACE, base calumniators,” exclaimed Tom King, aroused
'from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part
of creation. 6 Peace, I say. None shall dare to abuse that
dear devoted sex in the hearing of her champion, without
pricking a lance with me in her behalf. What do you, either
of you, who abuse woman in that wholesale style, know of
her? Nothing-less than nothing; and yet you venture, upon
your paltry experience, to lift up your voices and decry the
Now, I do know her—and upon my own experience, I
avouch, that as a sex, woman, compared with man, is an angel
a devil. As a sex, woman is faithful-loving-self-
sacrificing. We 'tis that make her otherwise ; we, selfish,
exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indifferenc, and then
blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own hand, and then
blame the cards. · No abuse of woman in my hearing. Give
me a glass of grog, Dick—the sex-three times three; and
here's a song for you into the bargain.” Saying which, in a
mellow plaintive tone, Tom gave the following:
to
PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN.
Come fill up a bumper to Eve's fairest daughters,
Who have lavish'd their smiles on the brave and the free;
Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot, and Waters, *
Whate'er their attractions, whate'er their degree.
Pledge-pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden,
Whose bright eyes were dimm'd at the Highwayman's fall-
Who stood by the gallows with sorrow o'erladen,
Bemoaning the fate of the gallant Du Val.
Here's to each pretty lass chance of war bringeth near one,
Whom, with manner empassioned, we tenderly stop;
And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one,
In terms of entreaty, the question we pop.
How oft in such case rosy lips have proved sweeter
Than the rosiest book-bright eyes saved a bright ring,
While that one other kiss has brought off a repeater ;
And a bead as a favour—the favourite string.
* Four celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honour-
able distinction of Captain.


118
1
With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle,
With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts;
Life's risk for our mistress's praise is a trifle;
And each purse is a trophy our homage attests.
Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit,
Ne'er with names, or with number, your memories vex;
Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit,
And for fear of omission we'll toast the WHOLE SEX.
6. Well,” replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, while
he laughed heartily at his ditty, “I shan't refuse your toast,
though my heart don't respond to your sentiment. "Ah, Tom!
the sex you praise so much, may, I fear, prove your undoing.
Do as yon please, but curse me if ever I pin my life to a pet-
ticoat. I'd as soon think of neglecting the four cautions."
“The four cautions,” said King; "what are they ?"
“ Did you never hear them ?" replied Dick. 66 Attend
then, and be edified.”
THE FOUR CAUTIONS.
Pay attention to these cautions four,
And through life you will need little more.
Should you dole out your days. to three score:
Beware of a pistol before,
Before, before,
Beware of a pistol before.
And when backwards his ears are inclined,
And his tail with his ham is combined,
Caution two you will bear in mind:
Beware of a prancer behind,
Behind, behind,
Beware of a prancer behind.
Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,
On your best bit of blood, Sir, astride,
Chatting gay to your old friend's young bride,
Beware of a coach at the side,
At the side, at the side,
Beware of a coach at the side.
Lastly, whether in purple or grey,
Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,
Whate'er he may do or may say,
Beware of a priest every way,
Every way, every way,
Beware of a priest every way.


120
your pocket. I heard some devilish good stories of you at
D'Osyndar's t'other day; the fellow who told them to me, little
thought I was a brother blade."
“ You flatter me,” said Dick, smiling complacently, “but
it's no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it,
and her's be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the
same time, you shall hear what she once did for me in. Che-
shire. Meantime a glass to the best mare in England-you
won't refuse that toast, Tom. Ah! if your mistress was only
as true to you, as my nag to me, you might set at nought the
tightest hempen cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your
best friend to hurt you-Black Bess! and God bless her. And
now for the song.” Saying which, with much emotion, he
chanted the following rhymes.
BLACK BESS.
Let the lover his mistress's beauty rehearse,
And laud her attractions in languishing verse;
Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express,
The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess.
From the West was her dam, from the East was her sire;
From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire;
No peer of the realm better blood can possess,
Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess.
Look! look! how that eyeball grows bright as a brand!
That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand!
Mark! that wide-flowing mane; of which each silky tress
Might adorn prouder beauties——though none like Black Bess.
Mark! that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night,
With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white;
That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress,
Now is she not beautiful-bonny Black Bess?
Over highway and byeway, in rough and smooth weather,
Some thousands of miles have we journied together;
Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess,
No couple more constant than I and Black Bess.
By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day,
Her headlong career there is nothing can stay.
She cares not for distance—she knows not distress
Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess?
** Egad, I should think not,” exclaimed King; “you are as
sentimental on the subject of your mare, as I am when I think


123
Vile Jem with neat left-handed stopper,
Straight threatened Tommy with a topper ;
'Tis all my eye! no claret flows,
No facers sound-no smashing blows
Five minutes pass—yet not a hit,
How can it end, palls ? vait a bit ?
Ri-tol-lol_&c.
Each cove was teazed with double duty,
To please his backers, yet play booty ,
Ven luckily for Jim a teller
Vos planted right upon his smeller ;
Down dropped he stunned—ven time was called,
Seconds in vain the seconds bawled-
The mill is o’er—the crosser crost,
The losser's von, the vinner lost.
Ri-tol-lol-&c.
The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass
was circulated so freely, that at last a final charge drained the
ample bowl of its contents.
“ The best of friends must part,” said Dick, “and will-
ingly would I order another whiff of punch, but that I think
we have all had enough to satisfy us, as you milling coves
have it, Zory!-- Your one eye has got a drop in it already, old
fellow-and to speak the truth, I must be getting into the
saddle without more delay, for I have a long ride before me.
And now friend, Jerry, before I start, suppose you tip us one
of your merry staves ; we haven't heard your pipe to-day, and
never a cross cove of us all, be he high or low toby, cracks-
man, spicegloak, or sneak, can throw off so rum a chant. as
yourself. A song, a song."
Ay, a song," reiterated King and the Magus.
6. You do me too much honour, gemmen,” said Jerry mo-
destly, taking a pinch of snuff; “ I am sure I shall be most
happy-my chants are all of a sort-you must make all due
allowances-hem !” And clearing his throat, he forthwith
warbled
THE MODERN ĜREEK.
(Not translated from the Romaic.)
Come gemmen name, and make your game,
See round the ball is spinning.
Black, red, or blue, the colours view,
Une, deux, cinque, 'tis beginning.
Then make your game,
The colour name,
While round the ball is spinning:
66
Deceive them.


124
This sleight of hand my flat shall land
While covered by my bonnet,
I plant my ball, and boldly call,
Come make your game upon it.
Thus rat-a-tat,
I land my flat,
'Tis black-not red-is winning-
At gay roulette was never met
A lance like mine for bleeding;
I'm ne'er at fault, at nothing halt,
All other legs preceding;
To all awake,
I never stake
A mag, t unless I nip it.
Blind-hookey sees how well I squeeze,
The well-packed cards in shuffling ;
Ecarté-whist-I never missed
A nick the broadst while ruffling.
Mogul or loo,
The same I do.
I'm down to trumps as trippet.
French Hazard ta’en, I nick the main,
Was ne'er so prime a caster.
No crabs for me, I'm fly d'ye see,
The bank shall change its master.
Seven, quatre, trois
The stakes are high,
Ten mains-ten mains are mine, pals.
At Rouge et Noir, yon hellites choir,
I'll make no bones of stripping.
One glorious coup for me shall do,
While they may deal each pip in.
Trente-un-apres,
Ne'er clogs my way,
The game—the game's divine, pals.
At Billiards set, I make my bet,
I'll score and win the rub, pals;
I miss my cue, my hazard too,
But yet my foe I'll drub, pals,
That cannon-twist,
"I ne'er had missed,
Unless to suit my views, pals.
* Accomplice.
♡ Qy. elite.-Printer's Devil.
† A farthing
Carda


126
66
“ We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King,
“ if nothing happens.”
“ Agreed,” said Jerry.
“What say you to a rubber at bowls in the meantime?"
said the Magus, taking his pipe from his lips.
Jerry nodded acquiescence; and while they went in search
for the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered
gently on the green.
It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining,
and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a
neighbouring elm. Whether, like Charles de Moor, Tom
King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to
determine, but certain it was, that a shade of inexpressible
melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he
gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-the-Hill, which, lying to
the west of the green upon which they walked, stood out
with its pointed spire and lofty college, against the ruddy
sky. He spoke not, but Dick noticed the passing emotion.
6. What ails you, Tom ?" said he, with much kindness of
manner,
are you not well, lad ?”
“Yes, I am well enough,” said King; “ I know not what
came over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my school
days, and what I was then, and that bright prospect remind-
ed me of my boyish hopes.”
“ Tut-tut,” said Dick, “ This is idle you are a man
now."
“I know I am,” replied Tom, “but I have been a boy.
Had I any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last
sunset I shall ever see.
“ Here comes our host,” said Dick, smiling. “I've no
presentiment that this is the last bill I shall ever pay.”
The bill was brought, and settled. As Turpin paid it, the
man's conduct altogether was singular, and awakened Tur-
pin's suspicions.
6. Are our horses ready ?” asked Dick quickly.
“They are, Sir," said the landlord.
• Let us begone,” whispered Turpin to King,
" I don't
like this fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw
up at the inn door just now—there may be danger. Be fly,"
added he to Jerry and the Magus. “ Now, Sir, said he to
the landlord,
Keep on the alert, Tom."
Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They
watched their comrades; and listened intently for any mani.
festation of alarm.
6 lead the way.


130
remained for a few moments irresolute; he perceived that King
was mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue would
be fruitless;
he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the Magus
had effected their escape from the bowling green, and he could
detect their figures stealing along the hedge-side. He hesi-
tated no longer. Sauve qui peut was the order of the day.
He turned his horse, and galloped slowly off, little heeding
the pursuit with which he was threatened.
“ Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; “ but little did I
think that I really should tarn poor Tom's executioner. To
the devil with this rascally snapper,” cried he, throwing the
pistol over the hedge. “ I could never have used it again.
Tis strange too that he should have foretold his own fate-
devilish strange ; and then that he should have been betrayed
by the very blowen he trusted! that's a lesson, if I wanted
any—but trust a woman—not I, the length of my little fin-
ger.”
Arrived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful
view of the country surrounding the Metropolis is obtained, *
Turpin turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers.
Coates and Titus, he utterly disregarded; but Paterson was
a more formidable foe, and he well knew that he had to deal
with a man of experience and resolution. It was then, for the
first time, that the thoughts of executing his extraordinary
ride to York first flashed across him-his bosom throbbed
high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed aloud, as
he raised himself in the saddle, “ By . I will do it!"
He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in
a world of trees beneath him, and as his quick eye ranged
over the magnificent prospect lit by that gorgeous sunset, he
could not help thinking of Tom King's last words—“Poor
fellow !" thought Dick, " he said truly-he should never see
another sunset?” Aroused by the approaching clatter of his
pursuers but little behind him, Dick struck into a lane which
ſies on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane,
and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hamstead.
“ Now,” cried Paterson, “put your tits to it, my boys
we must not lose sight of him for a second in these lanes.”
And accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of
inconveniencing his mare in this early stage of the business,
and as the ground was still upon an ascent, the parties still
preserved their relative distances.
* Since the first edition of this work went to press, we regret
to state (for to us at least it is matter of regret) that this gentle
ascent has been cut through, and the fair prospect from its
brow utterly destroyed.


131
At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep
and devious lane, after scaring one or two farmers, and riding
over a brood or two of ducks, dipping into the verdant valley
of West End, and ascending another hill, Turpin burst upon
the gorsy, sandy, and beautiful Heath of Hamstead; still
shaping his course to the left, Dick made for the lower part
of the heath, and skirted a path which leads towards North-
End, passing the furze-crowned summit, which is at present
crested by a clump of lofty pines.
It was here that the chase first assumed à character of in-
terest. Being open ground, the pursued and pursuers were
in full view of each other, and as Dick rode swiftly across the
heath, with the shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had
a very animated appearance. He crossed the hill-the Hen-
don Road passed Crackskull Common-and dashed along
the cross-road to Highgate.
Hitherto, no advantage had been gained by the pursuers-
they had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an
inch, and much spurring was required to maintain their posi-
tion. . But, as they approached Highgate, Dick slackened his
pace; and the other party redoubled their efforts. To avoid
the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and
rode easily down the hill.
His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted
to him to stand. Pointing to a gate, which seemed to har
their farther progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing
it in beautiful style. Not so with Coates's party—and the
time they lost in unfastening the gate, which none of them
liked to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space betwixt
them. It did not, however, appear to be his intention alto-
gether to outstrip his pursuers; the chase seemed to give him
excitement, which he was willing to prolong, as much as was
consistent with his safety. Scudding rapidly passed High-
gate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three lumbering
Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a nar-
row lane, that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey.
The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them,
and as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes
its name from Du Val, and in which a house frequented by
him, stands, or stood, “A highwayman-a highwayman,"
rang in his ears in a discordant chorus of many voices.
The whole neighbourhood was alarmed by the cries, and
by the tramp of horses—the men of Hornsey rushed into the
road to seize the fugitive-and women held up their babes to
tch a glimpse of the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain
number and animation as it advanced. Suddenly three horse-
men appear in the road—they hear the uproar and the din.
1


132
"A highwayman-a bighwayman!” cry the voices, stop
him, stop him!” But it is no such easy matter. With a
pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his teeth, did Turpin
boldly pass on. ' His fierce looks—his furious steed—the im-
petus with which he pressed forward, bore down all before
him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the
list of his pursuers.
“We have him now-we have him now !” cried Paterson,
exultingly. “Shout for your lives—the turnpike man will
ķear us—shout again-again-the fellow has heard it-the
gate is shut; we have him-ha-ha!”.
The old Hornsey toll bar was a high gate, with chevaux de
frize in the upper rail-it may be so still. The gate was
swung into its lock, and like a tiger in his lair was the prompt
custodian of the turnpike trusts ensconced within his door-
way, and ready to spring forth upon the runaway. But Dick
kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate
he looked to the right and to the left; nothing better offered
-he spoke a few words of encouragement to Bess-gently
patted her neck--then struck spurs into her sides, and cleared
ihe spikes by an inch. Out rushed the amazed turnpike-man,
thus unmercifully bilked, and was nearly trampled to death
under the feet of Paterson's horse.
“ Open the gate, fellow, and be dd to you," said the
chief constable.
“ Not I," said the man, sturdily—" unless I gets my dues
-I've been done once already; but strike me stupid if I'm
done a second time."
“Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? don't you
know that I'm chief constable of Westminster?" said Paterson,
showing his staff. “How dare you oppose me in the discharge
of my duty ?"
s That may be or it may not be,” said the man, doggedly;
“but you don't pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the
long and short on't.”
Amidst a storm of oaths, Coates flung down a crown piece,
and the gate was thrown open.
Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare;
and, striking into a bye lane, at Dukett's green, cantered
easily along in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was,
however, allowed him. Yelling like a pack of hounds in full
cry, his pursuers were again at his heels. He had now to
run the gauntlet of the long straggling town of Tottenham,
and various were the devices of the populace to entrap him.
The whole place was up in arms, shouting, sereaming, run-
ning, dancing, and hurling every possible description of mis-
sile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to


133
16
no
their clamour, as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats
that were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly
around him,
A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and be-
fore the chace reached Edmonton, most of them were
where.” Here, however, fresh relays were gathered, and a
strong field again mustered. John Gilpin himself could not
have excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of
Edmonton, than did our Highwayman, as he galloped through
the town. Unlike the men of Tottenham, the mob received
him with acclamations, thinking, no doubt, that, like the
citizen of famous London town, he rode for a wager. Pre-
sently, however, borne on the wings of the blast, came the
cries of.“ Turpin, Dick Turpin!” and the hurrahs were
changed to hootings; but such was the rate at which our
Highwayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered
to him. A man in a donkey cart, unable to get out of the way,
drew himself up in the middle of the road—but Turpin treated
him as he had done the dub at the knapping jigger, and
cleared the driver and his little wain with ease. This was a
capital stroke, and well adapted to please the multitude, who
are ever taken with a brilliant action. “ Hark away Dick!".
resounded on all hands-while hisses were as liberally be-
stowed upon his pursuers.
CHAPTER IV.
The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them at a gallop
throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose tobacco,
and with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian corn, make a cigar, and then
take out a flint and steel and light it.
Heads Rough Notes.
Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skim-
mingly, like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway.
All were well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly
warmed, had got into their paces, and did their work beauti-
fully. None of the Coates' party had lost ground, but they
had maintained it at the expense of their steeds, which were
VOL. II.
12


134
streaming like water carts, whereas Black Bess had scarcely
turned a hair.
Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider ; he
was the crack rider of England of his time, and perhaps of
any time; he ought to be classed among “ Nimrod's” splendid
array of horsemen—and would that it had devolved in that
great master of the sporting world, instead of on ourselves, to
record his wondrous achievements! How would his nimble
pen have galloped fleetly across his pages, carrying along
with him in this, as in all his other spirited descriptions! The
craft and mystery of jockeyship was not at that time so well
understood as it is now-a-days; men treated their horses dif-
ferently; and few rode then, as well as many ride now, when
every youngster takes to the field as naturally as if he had
been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was a glorious exception
to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonderfully
light, yet sat his saddle to perfection ; distributing his weight
so exquisitely, that his horse scarce felt his pressure ; he
yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became
as it were part and parcel of itself; he took care she should
be neither strained nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as a
feather, was she borne along; beautiful was it to see her ac-
tion—to watch her style and temper of covering the ground,
and many a first rate Meltonian might have got a wrinkle
from Turpin's seat and conduct.
We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to ride
away from his pursuers; he could have done that at any mo-
ment; he liked the fun of the chase, and would have been
sorry to put a period to his own excitement. Confident in his
mare, he just kept her at such speed as should put his pur-
suers completely to it, without in the slightest degree incon-
veniencing himself. The reader may judge of the speed at
which they went, when we inform him that little better than
an hour had elapsed, and nearly twenty miles had been ridden
“ Not bad travelling, thạt,” methinks we hear him ex-
claim.
6. By the mother that bore me,” said Titus, as they went
along in this slapping style ;-- Titus, by the bye, was on a
big, Roman-nosed powerful horse, well adapted to his weight,
but which required a plentiful exercise both of leg and arm,
to call forth all his actions, and keep his rider alongside his
companions—" by the mother that bore me,” said he, almost
thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his
calves, after the Irish fashion, “if the fellow isn't lighting
his pipe ! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him—and there
he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning! see, he
turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth! are we
to stand that, Mr. Coates ?"
over.


135
" Wait awhile, Sir-wait awhile,” said Coates, “ we'll
smoke him, by and bye.”
Pæans have been sung in honour of the Peons of the Pam-
pas, by the Headlong Sir Francis, but what the gallant Major
extols so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz. the
lighting of a cigar when in mid career, was accomplished
with equal ease by our English Highwayman, a hundred
years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat
either. Flint, steel, and tinder, were bestowed within Dick's
ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand, and within a few
seconds there was a stream of vapour exhaling from his lips,
like the smoke from a steam-boat shooting down the river, and
tracking his still rapid course through the air.
“I'll let 'em see what I think of 'em,” said Dick coolly, as
he turned his head.
It was now gray twilight. The mists of coming night were
weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape.
All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard,
broken only by the regular clatter of the horses' hoofs. Tired
of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence;
each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep,
into his horse; but the animals were already at the top of their
speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who was
a hard rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the
lead; the rest followed as they mnight.
Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the
scene would have been still soothing. Overhead a cloud of
rooks were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral ave-
nue of an ancient mansion to the right--the bat was on the
wing—the distant lowering of a herd of kine saluted the ear
at intervals—the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and
the merry chime of waggon bells rang pleasantly from afar.
But these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight
hour delightful, were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now
three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter; and
the waggoner pricked up his ears, and fancied he heard
the distant rumbling of an earthquake.
On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life.
Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed
in stopping the fugitive; but Dick was already by his side.
“ Harkee, my tulip,” cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth
as he passed. “ Tell my friends, behind; they will hear of -
me at York."
" What did he say!" asked Paterson.
"That you'll find him at York,” said the waggoner.
6. At York !" echoed Coates, in amaze.
Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged


137
was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to re•
cover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never
been in more perfect training. • She has now got her wind
in her,” said Dick_6 I'll see what she can do-hark away,
lass—hark away! I wish they could see her now," as he
felt her almost fly away with him.
Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess
started forward at a pace which few horses could have equalled
and scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accus-
tomed as he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at
the speed with which he was borne along. “ Bravo— Bravo!"
shouted he, “ hark away, Bess.”
The deep and solemn woods through which they were
rushing, rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's
hoofs; and thus he held his way, while, in the words of the
ballad,
Fled past, on right and left, how fast,
Each forest, grove, and bower;
On right and left, fled past, how fast,
Each city, town, and tower.
CHAPTER V.
Hurrah-hurrab-avoid the way of the avenging Childe,
His horse is swift, as sands that drift-an Arab of the wild.
Lockhart, Spanish Ballad.
Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of "book four,"
our readers will, perhaps, pardon our expatiating a little in
this place, upon her birth, parentage, breeding, appearance,
and attractions. And first as to her pedigree; for in the horse,
unlike the human species, Nature has strongly impressed the
noble and ignoble caste ; he is the real aristocrat—and th
pure blood that flows in the veins of the gallant steed will be
infallibly transmitted, if his mate be suitable, throughout all
his line. Bess was no cock-tail—she was thorough bred-she
boasted blood in every bright and branching vein :-
12*


142
outstripped the pestilent Simoom, with throat unslaked, and
hunger unappeased—could thrice have seen the scorching sun
go down-had not greater power of endurance. His vigour
was her heritage. Her dam, who upon the velvet sod was of
almost unapproachable swiftness, and who had often brought
her owner golden assurance of her worth, could scarce have
kept pace with her, and would have sunk under a third of her
fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. We ne'er shall look upon
her like again, unless we can prevail upon some Bedouin
Chief to present us with a brood mare, and then the racing
world shall see what a breed we will introduce into this
country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be nothing
to our colts, and even the rail-road slow travelling compared
with the speed of our new nags.
But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for
there is no halting now; we are going at the rate of twenty
knots an hour-sailing before the wind; and you must either
keep pace with us, or drop astern, Reader - Bess is now
in her speed, and, Dick happy. Happy She is enraptured-
maddened—furious—intoxicated as with wine. Pshaw! wine
could never throw him into such a burning delirium. Its
choicest juices have no inspiration like this. Its fumes are
slow and heady. This is ethereal, transporting. His blood
spins through his veins—winds round his heart-mounts to
his brain. Away-away! He is wild with joy. Hall, cot,
tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen, passed,
left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarce per-
ceptible—it is impetus-propulsion. The horse and her rider
are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A
hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarce discovered, ere
the flints sparkle beneath the mare's hoofs. A moment's
clatter upon the stones, and it is left behind. Again, it is the
silent, smiling country. Now they are buried in the darkness
of woods—now sweeping along on the wide plain—now
clearing the unopened toll-bar-now trampling over the hol-
low sounding bridge, their shadows momently reflected in the
placid mirror of the stream-now scaling the hill side a
thought more slowly-now plunging, as the horses of Phæbus
into the ocean, down its precipitous tides.
The limits of two shires are already past. They are within
the confines of a third. They have entered the merry county
of Huntingdon—they have surmounted the gentle hill that
slips into Godmanchester. They are by the banks of the rapid
Ouse—the bridge is past, and as Turpin rode through the
deserted streets of Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour
given from the iron tongue of Saint Mary's spire. In four
hours (it was about seven when he had started.) Dick had
accomplished full sixty miles !


147
Lord Treasurer's arms. With this house Dick was not al.
together unacquainted. The lad who acted as ostler was
known to him. It was now midnight, but a bright and beam-
ing night. To the door of the stable then did Dick ride,
and knocked in a peculiar manner. Reconnoitering Dick
through a broken pane of glass in the lintel, and apparently
satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad thrust forth a head of hair
as full of straw as mad Tom's is represented to be upon the
stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy.salutation.
“Glad to see you, Captain Turpin,” said he, “can I do any
thing for you?"
“Get a couple of bottles of brandy, and a beef-steak,” said
Dick.
“ As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy—but the
steak, Lord love 'ye, the old ooman won't stand it at this
time; but there's a cold round, mayhap a slice of that might
do-or a knuckle of ham ??'
“D-n your knuckles, Ralph,” cried Dick, “have you any
raw meat in the house ?"
“ Raw meat!" echoed Ralph, in surprise, “oh, yes, there's
a rare rump of beef, you can have a cut off that if you like."
“That's the thing I want,” said Dick ungirthing his mare;
“ give me the scraper-there-I can get a whisp of straw
from your head-now run and get the brandy_better bring
three bottles-uncork 'em, and let me have half a pail of
water to mix with the spirit.”
“A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw
steak--my eyes!” exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy
peepers, adding, as he went about the execution of his task,
“I always thought, them Rum-padders, as they calls them-
selves, rum fellows, but now I'm sartin sure on it."
The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more
attention upon the horse of his heart, than Dick Turpin now
paid to his mare. He scraped, chafed, and dried her, sounded
each muscle, traced each sinew, pulled her ears, examined
the state of her feet, and, ascertaining that “her withers
were unwrung,” finally washed her from head to foot in the
diluted spirit; not however before he had conveyed a thimble-
ful of the liquid to his own parched throat, and replenished
what Falstaff calls a “pocket pistol” which he had about
him. While Ralph was engaged in rubbing her down after
her bath, Dick occupied himself, not in dressing the raw
steak in the manner the stable boy had anticipated, but in
rolling it round the bit of his bridle.
“She will now go as long as there's breath in her body,"
said he, putting the flesh-covered iron within her mouth.
The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a


150
“ Stamford !" echoed Titus; “ by the powers then, we've
ridden a matter of ninety miles. Why the great deeds of Red-
mond O'Hanlon were nothing to this. I'll remember it to my
dying day, and with reason,” added he, slightly altering his
position on the saddle.
“ And who was Redmond O'Hanlon?" inquired Coates,
desirous of keeping Titus in good humour.
“A famous Rapparee, or Tory,” replied the Irishman.
“ Just such another as Dick Turpin, though not quite such a
desperate fellow on horseback. But talking about Tories, did
I never sing you a song I made in praise of 'em ?"
“ Never," said Coates. “I should like, of all things, to
hear it. Might I ask the favour now. You can give it an
excellent running accompaniment to your laud-a-tory strain.
“I shan't do it justice, I'm afraid,” said Titus, still winc-
ing in his seat; “ but, however, to please you, I'll do my
best;" and with lusty lungs, that drowned even the rattle of
their horses, Titus sang as follows:—to the tune of the Groves
of the Pool.
THE RAPPAREES.
Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Shepherds, as
cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks*—it's all bothera-
tion and talk;
Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within
half a mile,
There never were yet any rascals, like those of my own native
isle.
First and foremost comes REDMOND O'Hanlon, allowed the
first thief of the world, t
That o’er the broad province of Ulster, the Rapparee banner
unfurled;
Och! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life,
At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-
cutting knife.
And then such a dare devil squadron as that which composed
Redmond's tail,
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and
Arthur O'Neal;
A trio of famous high Tobygloaks ; Świftneck was a captain of Irish dra-
goons by the bye.
+ Redmond O'Hanlon was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures, many
of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich materials for the no-
velist, as they have already done for the ballad mongers: some of them are, how-


151
+
Shure never were any boys like 'em, for rows, agitation, and
sprees;
Scarce a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they
were called Rapparees.*
Next comes Power the great Toryt of Munster, a gentleman
born every inch,
And strong JACK MACPHERSON of Leinster, a horse-shoe who
broke at a pinch;:
The last was a fellow so lively, not death e’en his courage could
damp,
For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own march to
the camp.'+
PADDY FLEMING, Dick Balf, and Melhoni, I think, are the
next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist;
ever sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little tome, published at Belfast,
entitled The History of the Rapparees, from which we shall have hereafter
occasion to quote.
We are also in possession of a funeral discourse preached at
the obsequies of the “ noble and renowned" Henry St. John, Esq. who was un-
fortunately killed by the Tories-in the induction to which we find some allusion
to Redmond. After describing the thriving condition of the North of Ireland,
about 1680, the Rev. Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, “ One
mischief there was, which indeed in a great measure destroyed all, and that was,
a pack of insolent blondy outlaws, whom they here call Tories. These had so
rivetted themselves in these parts, what by the interest they had among the na.
tives, and some English too, to their shame be it spoken, that they exercise a
kind of separate sovereignty in three or four counties in the North of Ireland.
Redmond O'Hanlon is their chief, and has been these many years ; a cunning,
dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an outlaw with the rest of his crew,
snd sums of money set upon their heads, yet he reigns still, and keeps all in sub-
jection, so far, that 'tis credibly reported he raises more in a year by contribu-
tion a-la-mode de France, than the King's Land taxes and Chim ney money
come to, and thereby is enabled to bribe clerks and officers, if not their masters!
and makes all too much truckle to him.” Agitation, it seems, was not con-
fined to our day—but the “ finest country in the world” has been and ever will
be the same. The old game is played under a new colour-the only difference
is, that had Redmond lived in our time, he would in all probability, not only
have pillaged a county, but represented it in Parliament. The spirit of the
Rapparee is still broad-though we fear there is little of the Tory left about it.
We recommend this note to the serious consideration of the declaimers against
the sufferings of the “ six millions.”
* Here Titus was slightly in error ; he mistook the cause for the effect.
“ They were called Rapparees,” Mr. Malone says, “ from being armed with a
half pike, called by the Irish a rapery.”—Todd's Johnson.
+ Tory, so called from the Irish word Tories, give me your money.--Todd's
Johnson.
* As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his own com-
posing on the bagpipes, which retains the name of Macpherson's tune to this
day.-History of the Rapparees.


152
JEMMI CARRACK* must follow his leaders, auld Purney who put
in a huff,
By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman
for snuff.
There's Paul Liddy the curl-pate Tory, whose noddle was
stuck on a spike,
And Billy DELANEY the “ Songster,'t we never shall meet
with his like;
For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by
her charm,
No hemp that was ever yet twisted, his wonderful throttle could
harm.
And lastly there's Cauir na CAPPUL, the handiest rogue of
them all,
Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of
his stall;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom
should be near,
And devil a bit in the paddock, if Caur gets hould of his
ear.
* This shameless conduct of the Tory, we regret to say, had a precedent in
the case of one Tom Cox, who, just before he was turned off, kicked Mr. Smith,
the ordinary, and the hangman out of the cart.
+ "Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delaney was a handsome porily
man, very diverting in company, and could behave himself before gentlemen
very agreeably. He had a political genius (not altogether surprising in so eminent
a Tory,) and would have made a great proficiency in learning if he had rightly
applied his time. He composed several songs, and put tunes to them; and by
his skill in music had gained the favour of some of the leading musicians in the
country, who endeavoured to get him reprieved."— History of the Rapparces.
We have already given some account of Delaney, and of Cahir na Cappul, the
“Whisper," in our first volume. They were both indebted, we believe, to the
same aulil woman for their enchantments. The particulars of the Songster's
execution are singular. When he was brought into court to receive sentence
of death, the Judge told him that he was informed he should say that there
was not a rope in Ireland sufficient to liang him. But,' says he, • I'll try if
Kilkenny cau't afford one strong enough to do your business ; and if that will
not do, you shall have another and another.' Then he ordered the Sheriff to
choose a rope, and Delaney was ordered for execution the next day. The She.
riff, having notice of his mother's boasting that no rope could hang her son,
(and pursuant to the Judge's order,) provided two ropes, but Delaney broke
them one after another. The Sheriff was then in a rage, and went for three
bed-cords, which he plaited three fuld together, and they did his business. Yet
the Sheriff was afraid he was not dead ; and in a passion, to make trial, stabbed
him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and at last cut the rope. After he
was cut down his body was carried into the court-house, where it remained in
the coffin for two days, standing up, till the Judge and all the spectators were
fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and then permission was given to his
friends to remove the corpse and bury it
History of the Rapparees.


153
Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gala
lant, the
gay,
With them the best Rumpads* of England are not to be named
the same day;
And were farther proof wanting to show what precedence we
take to our prigs,
Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your
country are Waigs.
Tyrconnel's song was barely completed, when they reached
Stamford. Their
first inquiry was for post-horses.
CHAPTER VII.
* Dost fear? The moon shines clear;
Dost fear to ride with me?
Hurrah ! lurrah-the dead can ride !"
« Oh William let them be !
See there, see there! what yonder swings,
And creaks, mid whistling rain ?"
“ Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel
A murderer in his chain.”
William and Helen.
Dick TURPIN meanwhile held bravely on his course.-Bess
was neither strained by her gliding passage down the slippery
hill side, nor shaken by larking the fence in the meadow. As
Dick said, “ It took a devilish deal to take it out of her.” On
regaining the high road, she resumed her old pace, and once
more they were distancing Time's swift chariot in its whirl-
ing passage o'er the earth. Stamford, and the tongue of Lin-
coln's fenny shire, upon which it is situated, are passed almost
in a breath. Rutland is won, and past, and Lincolnshire once
more entered. The road now verged within a bow-shot of
that sporting Athens (Corinth, perhaps, we should say) Mel-
ton Mowbray. Melton was then unknown to fame, but, as if in-
spired by that furor venaticus which now inspires all who
come within twenty miles of this Charybdis of the chase, Bess
here let out in a style with which it would have puzzled the
* Highwaymen.


154
'best Leicestershire squire's best prad to have kept pace. The
spirit which she imbibed through the pores of her skin, and
the joices of the meat she had champed, seemed to have com-
municated preternatural excitement to her. Her pace was ab-
solutely terrificher eyeballs were dilated, and glowed like
faming carbuncles; while her widely distended nostril seem-
ed, in the cold moonshine, to snort forth smoke, as from a
bidden fire. Fain would Turpin have controlled her; but,
without bringing into play all his tremendous nerve, no check
could be given her headlong course, and for once, and the
only time in her submissive career, Bess resolved to have her
own way—and she had it. Like a sensible fellow, Dick con-
ceded the point.-- There was something even of conjugal phi-
losophy in his self-communion upon the occasion. • }'en let
her take her own way and be hanged to her, for an obstinate,
self-willed jade as she is,” said he; “ now her back is up,
there'll be no stopping her, I'm sure : she rattles away like a
woman's tongue, and when that once begins, we all know
what chance the curb has. Best to let her have it out, or
rather to lend her a lift—'twill be over the sooner.—Tantivy,
lass—Tantivy! I know which of us will tire first."
We have before said, that the vehement excitement of con-
tịnued swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium,
amounting to delirium. Dick's blood was again on fire. He
was first giddy, as after a deep draught of kindling spirit ;
this passed off, but the spirit was still in his veins--the estro
was working in his brain. All his ardour, his eagerness, his
fury, returned-he rode like one insane, and his courser par-
took of his frenzy. She hounded-she leaped-she tore up
the ground beneath her—while Dick gave vent to his exulta-
tion in one wild prolonged halloo. More than half his race is
He has triumphed over every difficulty. He will have
no further occasion to halt. Bess carries her forage along with
her. The course is straightforward—success seems certain
the goal already reached—the path of glory won. Another
wild halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, and away-!
Away-away !-thou matchless steed !--yet brace fast thy
sinews--hold, hold thy breath, for alas the goal is not yet at-
tained !
run,
But forward-forward, on they go,
High snorts the straining steed,
Thick pants the rider's labouring breath,
As headlong on they steed!
As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling
bleak December, did the pair pass over what remained of Lin-
colnshire. Grantham is gone, and now more slowly are they


155
looking up the ascent of Gonerby hill, a path well known to
Turpin; where often, in by-gone nights, had many a purse
changed its owner. With that feeling of independence and
exhilaration which every one feels, we believe, on having
climbed the hill side, Turpin turned to the gaze around.
There was triumph in his eye, but the triumph was checked
as his glance fell upon a gibbet near him to the right, on a
round point of hill which is a landmark to the wide vale of
Belvoir. Pressed as he was for time, Dick immediately
- struck out of the road, and approached the spot where it'
stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with rags and rusty
links of chain, depended from the tree. A night crow scream-
ing around the carcasses, added to the hideous effect of the
scene. Nothing but the living highwayman and his skeleton
brethren were visible upon the solitary spot. Around him was
the lonesome waste of hill, o'erlooking the moonlit valley-
beneath his feet, a patch of bare and lightning-blasted sod-
above, the wan declining moon and skies, flaked with ghostly
clouds-before him, the bleached bodies of the murderers, for
such they were.
" Will this be my lot, I marvel ?” said Dick, looking up-
wards with an involuntary shudder.
" Ay, marry, will it,” cried a crouching figure, suddenly
springing from beside a tuft of briars that skirted the blasted
ground.
Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged,
at the sight of this unexpected apparition.
“ What, ho! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou ?" ex-
claimed Dick, re-assured upon discovering that it was the gip-
sy queen, and no spectre whom he beheld. “ Stand still,
Bess—stand, lass. What dost thou here, mother of darkness?
Art gathering mandrakes for thy poisonous messes, or pilfer-
ing flesh from the dead? Meddle not with their bones, or I
will drive thee hence. What dost thou here, I say, old dam
of the gibbet ?”
“I come to die here!” replied Barbara, in a feeble tone,
and throwing back her hood, she displayed features well nigh
as ghastly as those of the skeletons above her.
“Indeed,” replied Dick. - You've made choice of a plea-
sant spot, it must be owned. But you'll not die yet."
“Knowest thou whose these bodies are ?" said Barbara,
pointing upwards.
“ Two of thy race," replied Dick; “right brethren of the
blade."
“Two of my sons,” cried Barbara ; " my twin children. I
am come to lay my bones beneath their bones-my sepulchre
shall be their sepulchre; my body feed the fowls of the air


156
as their's have fed them. And if ghosts can walk, we'll scour
this heath together. I tell thee what, Dick Turpin," said the
hag, drawing as near to the highwayman, as Bess would per-
mit her; “ dead men walk and ride--ay, ride there's a com-
fort for thee. I've seen these do it. I have seen them fling
off their chains, and dance-ay, dance with me with their
mother. No revels like dead men's revels, Dick. I shall
soon join 'em.”
“But you will not lay violent hands upon yourself, moth-
er ?" said Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror.
6. No,” replied Barbara, in an altered tone. " But I will
let nature do her task-would she could do it more quickly,
but such a life as mine won't go out without a long struggle.
What have I to live for now? All are gone-she and her
child! But what is this to thee? Thou hast no child-And
if thou hadst, thou couldst not feel like a father-but no mat-
ter-I rave. Listen to me. I have crawled hither to die.-
'Tis five days since I beheld thee, and during that time, food
has not passed these lips—nor aught of moisture, save Heav-
en's dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall they to the last.
That time cannot be far off—and now canst guess how I mean
to die?—Begone, and leave me—thy presence troubles me. I
would breathe my last breath alone, with none to witness the
parting pang.'
“ I will not trouble you more, mother,” said Dick, turning
his mare, nor will I ask your blessing.'
“ My blessing !” scornfully ejaculated Barbara.
" Thou
shalt have it if thou wilt, but thou wilt find it a curse. Stay
-a thought strikes me. Whither goest thou ?"
To seek Sir Luke Rookwood,” replied Dick; “know you
aught of him?"
7 Sir Luke Rookwood !-thou seekest him—thou wouldst
find him !"-screamed Barbara.
“I would,” said Dick.
". And thou wilt find him," said Barbara—"and that ere
long. But I shall ne'er again behold him—would I could !
But I have a message for him—one of life and death. Wilt
thou convey it to him ?”
“ I will,” said Dick.
- Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing
with her skinny fingers to the gibbet. “ That thou wilt do
my bidding."
I swear,” cried Dick.
“Fail not, or we will haunt thee to thy life's end,” cried
Barbara, adding, as she gave a sealed package to the high-
wayman, “ Give this to Sir Luke-to him alone. I would
have sent to him by other hands ere this, but my people have
63


157
deserted me--have pillaged my stores-have rifled me of all,
save this. I who-but no matter. Give this, I say, to Sir
Luke, with thy own hands :-thou hast sworn it, and wilt
obey. Give it to him, and bid him, as he opens it, to think
of Sybil. But this must not be till Eleanor is in his power;
and she must be present when the seal is broken. It relates:
to both. Dare not thou to tamper with it, or my curse shall
pursue thee. That packet is guarded with a triple spell,
which to thee were fatal. Obey me, and my dying breath
shall bless thee."
“ Never fear,” said Dick, taking the packet--"I'll not
disappoint you, mother, depend upon it.”
“ Hence," cried the crone; and as she watched Dick's
figure lessening upon the Waste, and at length beheld him
finally disappear down the hill side, she sank to the ground,
her frail strength being entirely exhausted—“-Body and soul
may now part in peace,” gasped she—“All I lived for is ac-
complished.” And ere one hour had elapsed, the night crow
battened upon her still breathing frame.
Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued
his way. At length he thought fit to examine the packet with
which the old gipsy had entrusted him
6. It feels like a cas-
ket!” thought he; " it can't be gold—but then it may be jew-
els—though they don't rattle, and it ain't quite heavy enough.
What can it be?-I should like to know. There is some mys-
tery, that's certain, about it—but I will not break the seal, not
1. As to her spell—that I don't value a rush, but I've sworn
to give it to Sir Luke, and deliver her message, and I'll keep
my word if I can—he shall have it.” Saying which he re-
placed it in his pocket.
CHAPTER VIII.
The sight renewed my courser's feet
A moment, staggering feebly fleet
A moment, with a faint low neigh
He answered, and then fell ;
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay,
And reeking limbs immovable,
His first and last career is done.
Mazeppa.
TIME presses. We may not linger in our course. We must
fly on before our flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall
we pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, and
he still urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as ever,
and purpose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the dashing
VOL. II.
14


160
saddle. We know not whether there was any likeness between
our Turpin and that modern Hercules of the sporting world,
Mr. Osbaldeston-far be it from us to institute any similitude,
though we cannot help thinking that, in one particular, he re-
sembled that famous “copper-bottomed” Squire. But this
we will leave to our readers' discrimination. Dick bore his
fatigues wonderfully-he suffered somewhat of that martyr-
dom which, according to Tom Moore, occurs “ to weavers and
M. P’s. from sitting too long”—but once on his courser's
back, he cared not for any thing.
Once more at a gallant pace is he traversing the banks of the
Don, skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hur-
rying far more swiftly than its current to its confluence with
the Aire. Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby
when dawn first began to break. Here and there a twitter
was heard in the hedge; a hare ran across his path, gray look-
ing as the morning self; and the mists began to rise from the
earth. A bar of gold was drawn against the east, like the
roof of a gorgeous palace; but the mists were heavy in this
world of rivers and their tributary streams.
The Ouse was
before him, the Trent and Aire behind; the Don and Der-
went on either hand, all on their way to commingle their
currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region
so prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain.
Here and there the ground was clear; but then again came a
volley of vapour palpable almost as smoke.
While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware
of another horseman by his side. It was impossible to dis-
cern the features of the rider, but his figure, in the mist,
seemed gigantic; neither was the colour of his steed distin-
guishable. Nothing was visible but the meagre-looking
phantom-like outline of a horse and his rider, and, as the un-
known rode upon the turf that edged the way, even the sound
of his horse's hoofs were scarce audible. Turpin gazed not
without superstitious awe.
Once or twice did he essay to
address the strange horseman, but his tongue clave to the
roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered in the mist-
exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and fantastical
resemblance to his friend, Tom King. “ It must be Tom,"
thought Tarpin; "he is come to warn me of my approaching
end, I will speak to him.”
But terror o'ermastered his speech-he could not force out
a word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking
with fears he would scarce acknowledge to himself, Dick
watched every motion of his companion he was still, stern,
spectre-like, erect, and looked for all the world like a demon
on his phantom steed. His courser seemed, in the indistinct.
outline, to be huge and bony, and as he snorted furiously in
2


162
him with all a brother's hatred. Dost know what that feeling
is ? No hate is like it. Twice have I failed in my endea-
vours to bear her off. I am from Rookwood even now ; but
to-night I shall renew the attack."
“ To-night?" interrupted Dick.
To-right. Wilt thou assist me?"
“I will-she is at Rookwood ?"
“She languishes there at present, attended by her mother
and her lover-ay, her lover-her favoured lover. The hall
is watched and guarded-Ranulph is ever on the alert, and
one more dangerous than him is Lady Rookwood. But we
will storm their garrison—I have a spy within its walls-a
gipsy girl, faithful to my interests, Handassah. From her I
have learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph-
that the marriage is to take place privately to-morrow-this
must be prevented.”
“ It must. But why not boldly advance and claim her?"
“Why not? Askest thou that? I am a proscribed felon
-a price is set upon my head-I am hunted through the
country-I am driven to concealment, and dare not show my-
self for fear of capture. What could I do now? They would
load me with fetters—bury me in a dungeon, and wed Elea-
nor to Ranulph. What would avail my rights? What
would avail her oath to them ? No; she must be mine by
force. His she shall never be. Again, I ask thee, wilt thou
aid me?”
6 I will. Where is Alan Rookwood ?"
“ Concealed within the huton Thorne Waste—thou know'st
it-it was one of thy haunts."
“I know it well,” said Dick, " and Conkey Jem, its
keeper, into the bargain-he is a knowing file. And you
mean to try it on to-night for the last time ?"
“I do."
“ I'll join you at the hut at midnight, if all goes well.
We'll bring off the wench, in spite of them all-just the thing
I like; but in case of a break down on my part, suppose you
take charge of my purse in the mean time."
Luke would have declined this offer.
" Pshaw,” said Dick. “ Who know's what may happen?
and it's not ill lined either. You'll find an odd hundred or so,
in that silken bag—it's not often your highwayman gives
away a purse; but take it, man-we'll settle all to-night;
and if I don't come, keep it-it will help you instead of me
to your bride-and now off with you to the hut, for you are
only hindering me. Adieu! My love to old Alan-we'll do
the trick to-night. Away with you to the hut-keep your-
self snug there till midnight, and we'll ride over to Rook-
wood.”


164
He cried to the boatman and bade him pull fast.--The man
obeyed, but he had to breast a strong stream-and had a lazy
bark, and heavy sculls, to contend with. He had scarcely left
the shore--when another shout was raised from the pursuers
-the tramp of their-steeds grew louder and louder.
The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream.
His captors were at hand. Quietly he walked down the bank
-cautiously entered the water—there was a plunge--steed
and rider were swimming down the river.
Major Mowbray was at the brink of the water. He hesi-
tated an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized as it were by
a mania for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved the tor-
rent. Not so, Paterson. He very coolly took out his bull-dogs,
and, watching 'Turpin, cast up in his own mind the pros and
cons of shooting him as he was crossing. “I could certainly
hit him," thought or said the constable; “but what of that?
A dead highwayman is worth nothing-alive, he weighs £300.
I won't shoot him, but I'll make a pretence--" and he fired
accordingly.
The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was in-
tended, do much mischief. It however occasioned a mishap,
which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic Attorney. Alarm-
ed at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation of the
moment, Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his steed in-
stantly sank. A moment or two afterwards he rose, shaking
his ears, and floundering heavily towards the shore ; and such
was the chilling effect of this sudden immersion, that Mr.
Coates now thought much more of saving himself, than of
capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile, had reached the oppo-
site bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess scrambled up the
sides of the stream, and speedily regained the road. “I shall
do it, yet,” shouted Dick, “ that stream has saved her.-Hark
away, lass !—Hark away!”
Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call.
She roused all her energies—she strained every sinew-she
put forth all her remaining strength. Once more on wings of
swiftness, she bore him away from his pursuers, and Major
Mowbray, who had now scrambled on the shore, and made
certain of securing him, beheld him spring, like a wounded
hare, from beneath his
very
hand. “ It cannot hold cut,” said
the Major; “it is but an expiring flash—that horse must soon
drop."
“ She be regularly booked, that's certain,” said the post-boy.
6 We shall find her on the road."
Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set
pursuit at defiance Her pace was swift as when she start-
ed--but it was unconscious and mechanical action-it wanted
the ease, the lightness, the life of her former riding. She


165
on.
seemed screwed up to a task which she must execute. There
was no flogging-no gory heel :—but the heart was throbbing,
tugging at the sides within and her spirit spurred her on-
wards. Her eye was glazing—her ehest heaving-her flank
quivering—her crest again fallen.--Yet she held on.
6. She
is dying, by God,” said Dick, “I feel it -” No, she held
Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst
upon him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a
bright, clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to
smile a welcome-a greeting.—The noble Minster and its se-
rene and massive pinnacles,-crocketed, lantern-like, and
beautiful. St. Mary's lofty spire-All Hallow's Tower—the
massive mouldering walls of the adjacent postern-the grim
castle--and Clifford's neighbouring keep-all beam upon him,
“like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly;"
“ It is
done—it is won,” cried Dick.—“Hurrah-hurrah." And the
sunny air was cleft with his shouts.
Bess was not insensible to her master's exultation. She
neighed feebly, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous sight
to see her—to mark her staring, protruding eye-balls--her
shaking flanks;—but, while life and limb held together,
holds she on. Another mile is past. York is near.
· Hurrah,” shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed.
Bess tottered—fell. There was a dreadful gasp—a parting
moan-a snort—her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her mas-
ter, with a dying glare—then grew glassy, rayless, fixed-a
shiver ran through her frame.- Her heart had burst.
Dick's eyes were blinded as with rain. His triumph,
though achieved, was forgotten-his present safety unthought
of. He stood weeping and swearing like one beside himself.
“And art thou gone, Bess !" cried he, in a despairing
voice, lifting up his courser's head, and kissing her lips,
covered with blood-flecked foam.
“Gone-gone-
and I have
killed the best steed that was ever crossed ! and for what?”
At that moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled
out the hour of six.
“I am answered,” said Dick; “it was to hear those
strokes."
Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which
he had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to
himself by the blow, he started at once on his feet, while his
hands sought his pistols, but he was spared the necessity of
using them by discovering in the intruder the bearded visage
of the gipsy Balthazar. The Patrico was habited in mendi-
cant weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his shoulders.
“So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see,”
said Balthazar; “but I can guess how it has happened—you
are pursued."


166
rode up:
“I am,” said Dick, roughly.
“Your pursuers are at hand ?"
“ Within a few hundred yards.”.
“Then why stay here?-fly while you can."
“Never-never,” cried Turpin ; “I'll fight it out here-by
Bess's side. Poor lass! I've killed her- but she has done
it-ha, ha---we have won—what?" and his utterance was
again choked.
“Hark! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts,” cried the
Patrico. “Take this wallet-you will find a change of dress
within it-dart into that thick copse-save yourself.”
“ But Bess—I cannot leave her,” exclaimed Dick, with an
agonizing look at his horse.
'“ And what died Bess for, but to save you ?" rejoined the
Patrico.
“ True—true,” said Dick; “but take care of her. Don't
let these dogs of hell meddle-
“Away,” cried the Patrico; “leave her to me.”
Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the
adjoining copse.
He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray
“Who is this?" exclaimed the Major, flinging himself from
his horse, and seizing the Patrico: “this is not Turpin.”
Certainly not,” replied Balthazar coolly. “I am not ex-
actly the figure for a highwayman.”
“ Where is he? what has become of him ?" asked Coates
in despair, as he and Paterson joined the Major.
Escaped I fear,” replied the Major.
“ Have you seen
any one, fellow ?” added he, addressing the Patrico.
* I have seen no one,” replied Balthazar. “I am but this
instant arrived—this dead horse lying in the road attracted
my attention.”
““ Ha !"--exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed; "this
may be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the
devil himself, and may have carried that goat's hair in his
pocket.” Saying which he seized the Patrico by the beard,
and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul handled the
chin of the Roman Senator.
“The devil !-hands off,” roared Balthazar, .“ By Salmon,
but I shan't stand such usage-Do you think a beard like
mine is the growth of a few
minutes ? Hands off, I say."
Regularly done !" said Paterson, removing his hold of
the Patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.
“Ay,” exclaimed Coates, "all owing to this worthless
piece of carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him
dangling from those walls,” pointing towards the Castle, “I
should wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs
66
66


167
no
66
with her;" and he was about to spurn the breathless carcase
of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the Patrico's staff,
felled him to the ground.
“I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to
attack Paterson.
“Cone, come, said the discomfited Chief Constable, “
more of this. It's plain, we're in the wrong box. Every
bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your
cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let's
be moving. We've had an infernal long ride for nothing."
“Not so," replied Coates; “I've paid pretty dearly for it.
However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the
bowling-green, yonder; though I've already had my morning
draught," added the facetious man of law, looking at his
dripping apparel.
To the bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the
Patrico in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black
Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be pre-
pared with all possible expedition.
A countryman in a smock was busily engaged at his morn-
ing's meal.
“ To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would
think he had fasted for a month,” said Cuates;
see the
wholesome effects of an honest industrious life, Paterson.
I envy him his appetite-I should fall to with more zest,
were Dick Turpin in his place.”
The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow,
with a terrible squint, and a strange contorted countenance.
“An ugly dog!” exclaimed Paterson—"what a deyil of a
twist he has got !”
What's that you says about Dick Taarpin?" asked the
countryman, with his mouth half-full of bread.
“Have you seen aught of him ?” asked Coates.
“Not 1%” mumbled the rustic-"but I hears aw the folk
hereabouts talk on him—they say he sets all the lawyers
and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their
efforts to catch him--ha-ha. He gets over more ground in
a day, than they do in a week--ho-ho."
"That's all over now,” said Coates, peevishly. • He has
cut his own throat-ridden his famous mare to death."
The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to
bolt a huge mouthful. “Ay-indeed! How happened that?"
asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.
The fool rode her from London to York, last night,” re-
turned Coates; “such a feat was never performed before
what horse could be expected to live through such work as
that?"
“Ah, he were a fool to attempt that,” observed the con
tryman,
« but
you followed, belike ?"


168
" We did."
" And took him arter all ?” asked the rustic, squinting more
horribly than ever.
“ No," returned Coates, “ I can't say we did.—But we'll
have him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off-we may be
nearer him than we imagine.'
“ May be so, Sir," returned the countryman ; “but might
I be so bold as to ask how many horses you used i' the chase
-some half dozen, perhaps ?”
“ Half dozen !" growled Paterson ; “ we had twenty at the
least."
“* And I one,” mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the
countryman.
BOOK V.
The Oath.
It was an ill oath, better broke than kept ;
The laws of nature, and of nations, do
Dispense with matters of divinity
In such a case.
TATEHAM.
CHAPTER I.
Hind. Are all our horses and our arms in safety ?
Furbo. They feed like Pluto's palfreys, under ground;
Our pistols, swords, and other furniture,
Are safely locked up at our rendezvous.
Prince of Prigs' Revels.
The hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before inci.
dentally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, was
a low, lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and oozy
Don, at the eastern extremity of that extensive moor. Osten-
sibly its owner fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that part of
the river ; but as the road which skirted his tenement was but
little frequented, his craft was for the most part allowed to
sleep undisturbed in her moorings.


170
his scarred and tufted eyebrows—while certain of his teeth
projected, like the tusks of a boar, from out his coarse-lipped,
sensual mouth. Dwarfish in stature, and deformed in per-
son, Jem was built for strength; and what with his width of
shoulder, and shortness of neck, his figure looked as square
and solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute chest, constant-
ly exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing tan, while
his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with fur
like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers-
presented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of
which few would have desired to encounter in action.
It was now on the stroke of midnight, and Jem, who had
been lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly
aroused by that warning impulse which never fails to awaken
one of his calling at the exact moment when they require to
be on the alert, now set about fanning into flame the expiring
fuel upon his hearth. Having succeeded in igniting further
portions of turf, Jem proceeded to examine the security of his
door and window, and satisfied that lock and bolt were shot,
and that the shutter was carefully closed-he kindled a light
at his fire, and walked towards his bed-room. But it was not
to retire for the night, that the ferryman eutered his dormi-
tory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter of empty bottles,
and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. The latter he rolled
aside, and pressing his foot upon the plank beneath it, the
hoard gave way, and a trap-door opening, discovered a ladder
conducting, apparently, into the bowels of the earth. Jem
leaned over the abyss, and called, in hoarse accents, to some
one below.
An answer was immediately returned, and a light became
soon afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures
next ascended; the first who set foot within the ferryman's
chamber was Alan Rookwood; the
her, as the reader may
perhaps conjecture, was his grandson.
“ Is it the hour ?” asked Luke, as he sprang from out the
trap-door.
Ay,” replied Jem, with a coarse laugh ; " or I had not
disturbed myself to call you. But inay be," added he, soften-
ing his manner a little, you'll like some refreshment be-
fore you start? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for the
job, ha, ha!”
- Not I,” replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his compa-
nion's familiarity.
- Give me to drink,” said Alan-walking feebly towards
the fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. "I
chilled by the damps of that swampy cave—the natural heat
within me is nigh extinguished.”
“ Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones,"
am


171
Icturned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy—“ never
stint it. I'll be sworn you'll be better on't, for you look
desperate queer, man, about the mazzard.”
Alan was in sooth a ghastly spectacle; since the reader
last heard of him, he was fearfully changed. His counte-
nance was almost exanimate; and when, with shaking hand
and trembling lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the
dregs, a terrible grimace was excited upon his features, such
as is produced upon the corpse hy the action of the galvanic
machine. Even Jem regarded him with a sori of apprehen-
sion. After he had taken breath for a moment, Alan broke
out into a fit of wild and immoderate laughter.
“Why, ay,” said he,“ this is indeed to grow young again,
and to feel fresh fire within one's veins. Who would have
thought so much of life and energy could reside in this little
vessel ? I am myself once more, and not the same soul-less,
pulse-less, lump of clay, I was a moment or two back. The
damps of that den had destroyed me—and the solitude-the
waking dreams I've had—the visions !-horrible !—but I will
not think of those--I am etter now-ready to execute my
plans.--Thy plans I should say, grandson Luke.
Are our
horses in readiness? Why do we tarry ? The hour is ar-
rived, and I would not that my new-blown courage should
evaporate, ere the great work, for which I live, be accom-
plished. That done, I ask no further stimulant–Let us
away.”
“We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke; “I am as impatient
as yourself. I fcar some mischance must have befallen him,
or he would have been true to his appointment. Do you not
think so ?" added he, addressing the ferryman.
“Why,” replied Jem, reluctantly, “since you put it home
to me, and I can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I
didn't tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth
about it; Dick Turpin can do nothing for you-he's grabbed.”
Turpin apprehended ?" ejaculated Luke.
“Ay," returned Jem. 66 l learnt froin a farmer, who cross-
ed the ferry at night-fall, that he were grabb'd this morning at
York, after having ridden his famous cherry coloured prad to
death-that's what hurts me niore nor all the rest; though I
fear Dick will scarce cheat the gallows this go.—His time's
up, I reckon."
“ Will you supply his place, and accompany us?” asked
Luke, of the ferryman.
“ No-no---" replied Jem, shaking his head---66 there's too
much risk, and too little profit, in the business for me---it won't
* And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise ?"
asked Alan.
- More than you have to offer, Master Peter,” replied Jem,
pay.”


173
him."
self upon him, was apparently searching about for some wea-
pon, to put a bloody terinination to the conflict, when a horse
was heard at the door, three taps repeated slowly, one after
the other, and a call from a whistle.
“ Damnation !” ejaculated Jem, gruffly; "interrupted!”
And he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on
Luke's body.
The moment was fortunate for Luke, and in all probability
saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferryman's
grasp, regained his feet, and what was of more importance,
the weapon he had thrown away.
• Villain!” cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his
force into his enemy's side, “ You shall-
The whistle was again heard without.
“Don't you mark that?" cried Jem ; " 'tis Turpin's call.”'
6. Turpin!” echoed Luke-dropping the point of his wea-
pon. “Unbar the door, thou treacherous rascal, and admit
6 Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke,” said Jem, fawn-
ingly; " I knows I owes you my life—and I thank you for it.
Take back the lour*-he should not have shown it me-it
was that as did all the mischief."
“ Unbar the door, and parley not,” said Luke, contemp-
tuously.
Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but with real reluc-
tance, casting suspicious glances at Luke, as he withdrew the
bolts. The door at length, being opened-haggard, exhausted,
and covered with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut.
“ Well, I am here,” said he, with a hollow laugh.—“ I've
kept my word-ha-ha! I've been damnably put to it-but
here I am, ha-ha!” and he sunk upon one of the stools.
“We heard you were apprehended,” said Luke. “I am
glad to find the information was false," added he, glancing
angrily at the ferryman.
* False !" echoed Dick. 6 Whoever told you that, told
you a lie, Sir Luke. But what are you scowling at, old Cha-
ron ?--and you, Sir Luke ?-Why do you glower at each
other ?- Make fast the door-bolt it, Cerberus-right. Now
give me a glass of brandy—and then I'll talk-a bumper-
so-another. What's that I see-a dead man? Old Peter. -
Alan, I mean-has anything happened to him, that he has
taken his measures there so quietly ?"
“ Nothing I trust,” said Luke, stooping to raise up his
grandsire. " The blow has stunned him."
“ The blow !" repeated Turpin. 66 What! there has been
a quarrel then ? I thought as much, from your agreeable looks
*
Money.
15*


174
1
at each other. Come-come-we must have no differences.
Give the old earthworm a taste of this—I'll engage it will
bring him to, fast enough.-Ay, rub his temples with it if
you'd rather—but it's a better remedy down the gullet—the
natural course—And hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly,
and see if you have any grub within it, and any more bub in
the cellar—I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as thirsty as a
camel."
While the ferryman went in search of such provisions as
his hovel afforded, Turpin lent his assistance towards the re-
vival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts,
united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored
to consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the high-
wayman had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to
quit the hut as speedily as possible.
“That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow,” said Dick.
" But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone
through a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would
per-
ceive, without difficulty, the propriety of supping before you
started. In the mean time here comes Jem, with a flitch of
bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting.
• In my present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the
sty.” Whereupon, he applied himself to the loaf, and to a
bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed upon the table,
quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the ferryman
employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch upon
the hissing embers.
Luke meanwhile stalked impatiently about the room. He
had laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed
a pistol within his breast, to be ready for instant service,
should occasion demand it, as he could now put little reliance
upon the ferryman's fidelity. He glanced with impatience at
Turpin, who pursued his meal with a steady voracity, worthy
of a half-famished soldier ;-but the highwayman returned no
answer to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the in-
cessant clatter of his masticating jaws, during the progress of
his apparently, interminable repast.
“ Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke,” said Dick; "all
right now-capital ale, Charon-strong as Styx-ha, ha!
one other rasher and I've done-sorry to keep you-can't con-
ceive how clever I put the winkers upon ’em at York, in the
dress of a countryman-all owing to old Balty, the Patrico-
an old pall-ha, ha! My old palls never nose upon me, eh,
Jem-always help out of the water-always staunch-here's
a health to you, old crony.”
Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher
on the table, which was speedily discussed.
“ Poor Bess,” muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final


175
glass of ale. “Poor wench ;-we buried her by the road side,
beneath the trees-deep-deep. Her remains shall never be
disturbed. Alas! alas ! my bonny Black Bess! but no mat-
ter-her name is yet alive-her deeds will survive her-the
trial is over. And now," continued he, rising from his seat ;
“ I'm with you.
Where are the tits ?".
“ In the stable underground,” growled Jem.
Alan Rookwood in the meantime had joined his grandson,
and they conversed an instant or two apart.
“ My strength will not bear me through the night,” said he.
" That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must now go
without me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret passage.
You know the entrance. I will await you in the tomb."
• The tomb ?" echoed Luke.
Ay, our family vault,” returned Alan, with a ghastly
grin—" it is the only place of security for me now. But let
me see her there. Let me know that my vengeance is com-
plete—that I triumph in my death over him, the accursed
brother-through thee, my grandson. Thou hast a rival
brother a successful one-thou knowest now what hatred is.'
“ I do," returned Luke, fiercely.
• But not such hate as mine—which through a life, a long
life hath endured-intense as when 'twas first engendered in
my bosom—which from one hath spread o'er all my race-
o'er all save thee-and which, even now, when death stares
me in the face—when the spirit pants to fly from its prison-
house, burns fierce as ever. Thou canst not know what hate
like that may be. Thou must have wrongs—such wrongs as
mine first.”
“My hate to Ranulph is bitter as thine own to-
“ Name him not,” shrieked Alan. “But oh! to think upon
the bride of whom he robbed me—the young--the beautiful-
whom I loved to madness-whose memory is a barbed shaft,
yet rankling keen as ever at my heart. God of Justice, how
is it that I have thus long survived—but some men die by
inches, My dying lips shall name him once again, and then
'twill be but to blend his name with curses.'
“I speak of him no more,” said Luke. “I will meet you
in the vault."
And if thou failest-
" I return not."
“Remember, to-morrow is her wedding-day.with Ranulph.”
6. Think'st thou I forget it ?”
“Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see
her thine or his. Thou hast her oath. To thee or to death she
is affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do not thou
hesitate ; woman's will is fickle-her scruples of conscience
will be readily overcome-she will not heed her vows but


176
both."
let her not escape thee. Cast off all thy weakness. Thou art
young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and,” added
he, with a look of terrible meaning, “ if all else should fail-
if thou art surrounded—if thou canst not bear her off, use
this," and he placed a short dagger in Luke's hands.“ It hath
avenged me ere now on a perjured wife-it will avenge thee
of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacles to Rook-
wood."
Luke took the weapon. “Wouldst thou have me kill her?”
demanded he.
“ Sooner than she should be his."
“ Ay, aught sooner than that; but I would not murder
“ Both?" echoed Alan. “I understand thee not."
“Sybil and Eleanor,” replied Luke; “for as surely as I
live, will Sybil's death lie at my door.”
“How so ?” asked Alan ; "the poison was self-adminis-
tered.”
" True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, “but I spoke
daggers. Hearken to me,” said he, hollowly whispering in
his grandsire's ear. “ Methinks I am not long for this world.
I have seen her since death."
“ Tut-Tut,” replied Alan. 56 'Tis not for thee to talk
thus. A truce to these womanish fancies."
6 Womanish or not,” returned Luke ; “ either may fancy
has deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold
thee, within yon cave, while thou wert sleeping by my side."
" Art sure of that?” said Alan, slightly shivering, and re-
garding his grandson with a look of inquisitive horror. “ Was
she alone ?"
" No! There was another with her."
“ It is disordered fancy,” cried Alan Rookwood ; " thou
shalt live-live to inherit Rookwood-live to see them fall
crushed beneath thy feet. For myself, if I but see thee mas-
ter of Eleanor's hand, or know that she no longer lives to
bless thy rival, or to mar thy prospects, I care not how soon
I brave my threatened doom.'
“Of one or other thou shalt be resolved to-night,” said
Luke, placing the dagger within his vest.
At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the
the hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded
from the door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light,
motioning his companions to remain silent.
" What, ha!" shouted a voice ; “ferry wanted.”
“Gad zooks!" exclaimed Dick, “as I live, 'tis Major Mow-
bray.”
Major Mowbray," echoed Alan, in amazement.
" What
doth he here!"
1
66


177
66
“He's on his way from York to Rookwood I conclude,"
said Dick. “ If he's here, I'll engage the others are not far
off.”
Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth when further
clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were
heard, in altissimo key, demanding admittance.
6. Let us retire into the next room,” whispered Turpin," and
then admit them by all means, Jem; and hark ye, manage to
detain 'em a few seconds."
- I'll do it,” said Jem. “There's a bit of a hole, you can
peep through.
Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to
burst it off its hinges.
5. Well, I be coming,” said Jem, seeing the coast was clear,
in a drowsy yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep.
“ You'll cross the river none the faster for making so much
noise.” Saying which he unbarred the door, and Coates and
Paterson, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood
with the Major, entered the hovel. Major Mowbray remained
on horseback at the door.
“ Can you find us a glass of brandy, to keep out the fog ?”
said Coates, who knew something of our ferryman's voca-
tions. “I know you are a lad of amazing spirit.”
May be I can, Master, if I choose ; but won't the other
gemman walk in doors, likewise ?"
“No, no,” said Coates, “ Major Mowbray don't choose to
dismount.”
“ Well, as you please,” said Jem; “but it will take me a
minute or two to get the punt in order for all them prads."
“ The brandy in the first place,” said Coates.
o What's here?” added the loquacious Attorney, noticing
the remnants of Turpin's repast. " But that we're hurried, I
should like a little frizzled bacon myself.”
Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest
caution, but apparent indifference, and almost instantly re-
turned with the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson,
and then another for himself. The ferryman left the house
apparently to prepare his boat, half closing the door after him.
• By my faith but this is the right thing, Paterson,” said
the Attorney. “We may be sure that the strength of this
was never tested by a gauger's proof; take another thimble-
full, we've twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through, ere
we reach Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night's
' work of it, Paterson—cursed stupid in us, to let him escape.
I only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him
within reach now-how we would spring upon him-secure
him in an instant-I should glory in the encounter. I tell
you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken, I shall make a point


179
aspect of Luke, who held a cutlass in his hand, which he had
picked up in the ferryman's bed-room.
“ So you would condemn me for crimes which I have never
committed," said Luke. “I am tempted, I own, to add the
destruction of your worthless existence to their number.”
Mercy, for God's sake, mercy!” cried Coates, throwing
himself at Luke's feet; "I meant not what I said.”
“Hence, reptile,” said Luke, pushing him aside. “I leave
thee to be dealt upon by others."
At this juncture the door of the hut was flung open, and in
rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed by Conkey
Jem.
" There he stands, Sir,” cried the latter; upon
him."
“ What! Conkey Jem turnes snitch upon his pals ?” cried
Dick; “I scarce believe my own ears.”
“ Make yourself scarce, Dick,” scowled Jem;
ger's* open, and the boat loose-leave Luke to his fate-he's
“the jig.
sold.”
“ Never, vile traitor," shouted Dick; “ 'tis thou art sold,
not he;" and almost ere the words were spoken a ball was
lodged in the brains of the treacherous ferryman.
Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon
Luke, who met his assault with determined calınness. The
strife was sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue; on
the Major's side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust,
which Luke had some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no
wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the Major, Luke was
not a whit inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of
defence, and in the exercise of the broad sword he was per-
haps the more skilful of the two; upon the present occasion
his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing him hard
pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance, but Luke
shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, ainid
the terrific. clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the
way of the combatants. Luke's arm was now slightly
grazed by a pass made by the Major, which he had parried.
The smart of the wound roused his ire. He attacked the
Major in his turn, with so much vigour and good will, that,
driven backwards by the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray
stumbled over the ferryman's body, which happened to lie in
his way, and, his sword being struck out of his grasp, his life
became at once at his adversary's disposal.
Luke sheathed his sword. • Major Mowbray,” said he,
sternly, “your life is in my power-I spare it for the blood
that is between us—for your sister's sake- I would not raise
my hand against her brother."
66
* Door.


180
* I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!” wrathfully
exclaimed the Major. “I hold you no otherwise than as a
wretched impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify;
and as to my sister, if you but dare to couple her name”.
and the Major made an ineffectual attempt to raise himself,
and to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed.
“ Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; "hereafter you may
learn to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my
daring ; and in that confidence I give you life. Listen to
me, Sir, I am now bound for Rockwood—I have private
access to the house —to your sister's chamber-her chamber-
marked you that?, I shall go armed-attended. This night
she shall be mine. From you—from Ranulph—from Lady
Rookwood, from all will I bear her off. She shall be mine
and you before the dawn my brother, or-
" aud Luke
paused.
"What further villany remains untold ?" inquired the Ma-
jor fiercely.
“ You shall bewail her memory," replied Luke, gloomily.
“I embrace the latter alternative with rapture,” replied
the Major—“God grant her firmness to resist thee—but I
tremble for her;" and the stern soldier groaned aloud in his
agony.
“Here is a cord to bind him," said Turpin ; "he must re-
main a prisoner here."
Right,” said Alan Rookwood—“ unless—but enough blood
has been shed already.”
“Ay, marry has it,” said Dick—"and I had rather not
have given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plum, had there been
any other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which
there was not ; but as to the Major, he's a gallant enemy, and
shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin stands by:-Come,
Sir,” added he to the Major, as he bound him hand and foot
with the rope. “I'll do it as gently as I can-but you had
better submit with a good grace—there's no help for it. And
now for my friend Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me
with a hempen cravat, before my neck was in order-he shall
have an extra twist of the rope himself, to teach him the in-
convenience of a tight neckcloth, when he recovers.” Saying
which he bound Paterson in such manner, that any attempt
at liberation on the chief constable's part, would infallibly
strangle hiin. “ As to you, Mr. Coates," said he, addressing
the trembling man of law, "you shall to Rookwood with us.
You may yet be useful, and I'll accommodate you with a seat
behind my own saddle-a distinction I never yet conferred upon
any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman at the bowling-
green at York-ha, ha! Come along, Sir.” And having
kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.
1


182
93
“It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, “ doth it not?"
“Perchance," muttered Alan. 6. "Tis a vast bough.
“We meet within an hour,” said Luke, abruptly.
“The tomb," replied Alan; “I will await thee there."
CHAPTER II.
I have heard it rumoured for these many years
None of our family dies, but there is seen
The shape of an old woman, which is given
By tradition to us to have been murthered
By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure
One night--as the prince sat up late at his book
Appeared to him ; when crying out for help
The gentlemen of his chamber found his Grace
All in a cold sweat, altered in'ch in face
And language; since which apparition
He hath grown worse and worse, and much I fear
He cannot live.
Duchess of Malfy.
We shall now revisit Rookwood Place, from which we have
so long of necessity, absented ourselves.
In one of those large antique rooms, which the reader may
perchance remember, belonged to the suite of apartments con-
stituting the eastern wing of the mansion-upon the same
night as that on which the events just detailed took place, and
it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor and her now at-
tendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former were
fixed, with a mixture of tenderness ard pity, upon the line-
aments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a strik-
ing resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its attire,
and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon a ta-
blet, placed upon a raised frame before her. "It was now the
witching hour of night. The room was sombre and dusky,
partially dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights,
which were set upon the table, but feebly illumined its dreary
extent. Tradition murked it out as the chamber in which
many of the hapless dames of Rookwood had expired and
hence had Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain.
The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a long space
shared the fate of haunted rooms—complete desertion. It was
now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught un-
earthly. Eleanor seemed nevertheless, affected by the pro-
found melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At
length Handassah observed her start, and avert her
eyes shud-
deringly from the picture.
“ Take it hence,” exclaimed Eleanor; “I have looked at
that image of my ancestress, till it has seemed endowed with


183
life-till its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep.
Remove it, Handassah.'
Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against
the wall of the chamber.
“Not there—not there,” cried Eleanor, “turn it with its
face to the wall-I cannot bear those eyes; and now come hi-
ther, girl-approach me nearer—for 1 know not what of sud-
den dread has crossed me-this was her room, Handassah
the chamber of my ancestress of all the Ladies Rookwood
where they say–ha !-Didst thou not hear a noise ?—a rustle
in the tapestry—a footstep near the wall ?-why, thou look’st
frightened as I look, wench-Stay by me -I will not have
thee stir from my side— 'twas mere fancy.”
“ No doubt, lady,” said Handassah, with her eyes
fixed
upon
the arras.
“Hist!” exclaimed Eleanor, “ there 'tis again."
“ 'Tis nothing," replied Handassah ; but her looks belied
her words.
“Well, I will command myself,” said Eleanor, endeavour-
ing to regain her calmness; “but the thoughts of the Lady
Eleanor—for she was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah-and
ah! even more ill-fated and unhappy-have brought a whole
train of melancholy ancies into my mind I cannot banish
them: nay, though painful to me, I recur to those images of
dread with a species of fascination, as if in their fate I
templated mine own. Not one who hath wedded a Rookwood,
but hath rued it."
« Yet
you
will wed one,” said Handassah.
“ He is not like the rest,” said Eleanor.
“How know you that, Lady?” asked Handassah.
time may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring
forth.”
“ Thou art averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handas-
sah."
“I was Sybil's handmaid, ere I was your's, Lady: I bear
in mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage
will violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he de-
mand your hand.”
“ But he has not demanded it."
“ Would you accept him were he to do so?" asked Handas-
sah, suddenly.
“I meant not that,” replied Eleanor. “My oath is
annulled-
"Say not so, Lady,” cried Handassah, “'twas not for this
that Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil,
and I would see her dying behests complied with.”
“It may not be, Handassah,' replied Eleanor.
Why,
from a phantom sense of honour, am I to sacrifice my whole
CON-
“ His
99


184
existence to one who neither can love me, nor whom I my-
self can love? Am I to wed this man because, in her blind
idolatry of him, she enforced an oath upon me which I had no
power to resist, but which was mentally cancelled ere taken!
Recall not the horrors of that dreadful cell-urge not the
subject more. 'Tis in the hope that I may be freed for ever
from this persecution, that I have consented thus early to wed
with Ranulph. This will set Luke's fancied claims at rest
for ever."
Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in
acquiescence.
Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered
in our old acquaintance, Doctor Small and Mrs. Mowbray.
“I come to take my leave of you for the night, my dear
young lady,” said the Doctor; “ but before I start for the
Vicarage, I have just a word or two more to say, in addition
to the advice which you were so good as to receive from me
this morning. Suppose you allow your attendant to retire
for a few minutes." What I have got to say concerns yourself
solely. Your mother will bear us company. There,” con-
tinued the Doctor, as Handassah was dismissed—"I am glad
that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure. I can't say
that I like her sharp suspicious manner; and the first ex-
ercise I should make of my powers, were I to be your
hus-
band, should be to discharge such a dingy soubrette. But to
the point of my visit. We are alone, I think. But this is a
queer house Miss Mowbray; and this is the queerest part of
it. Walls have ears they say; and there are so many holes
and corners in this mansion, that one ought never to talk se-
crets above one's breath."
“ But I am yet to learn, Sir," said Eleanor, “ that there is
any secret to be told.”
“Why, not much, I own,” replied the Doctor; “at least
what has occurred is not a secret to the house by this time.
What do you think has happened?
“ It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph
I hope.
• Nothing of consequence, I trust-though he is in part
concerned with it."
What is it?" asked Eleanor.
Pray satisfy her curiosity, Doctor ?" interposed Mrs.
Mowbray.
“ Well then,” said Small, rather more gravely, “the fact
of the matter stands thus:-Lady Ruokwood, who, as you
know was not the meekest wife in the world, now turns out
by no means the gentlest mother, and has, within this hour,
found out that she has some objection to your union with her
son.


185
was it
en-
" You alarm me, Doctor."
“Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be all got over
without difficulty, and only requires a little management.
Ranulph is with her now, and I doubt not will arrange all to
her satisfaction."
“ But what was her objection ?" asked Eleanor;
any one founded upon my obligation to Luke-my oath!"
“ Tut-tut !- dismiss that subject from your
mind
tirely,” said the Doctor. “That oath is no more binding on
your conscience than would have been the ties of marriage
had you been wedded by that recusant Romish Priest, Fa-
ther Checkley, upon whom however the Lord be merciful.
Bestow not a thought upon that. My anxiety, together with
that of your mother, is to see you now, as speedily as may be,
wedded to Ranulph, and then that idle question is set at rest
for ever; and therefore, if even such a thing were to occur,
as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her consent to your
marriage, why, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we
must go through the ceremonial without it."
“ The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections” said Mrs.
Mowbray.
“ Ay, the grounds of her Ladyship's objections,” interposed
Small, who liked nobody to talk but himself, “are simply
these, and exactly the sort of objections one would expect
her to raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandoning the
control of the house and estates to other hands. She cannot
and will not relinquish her station as head of the establish-
ment, which Ranulph has insisted upon as your right. I
thought, when I conversed with her on this subject, that she
was changed, but
Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque revertet.
I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same.”
“But why did not Ranulph concede the point to her. I
wish not to dwell here. I care not for these domains---for this
mansion. They have no charms for me. I could be happy
with Ranulph any where, but happier any where than here."
The kind-hearted Doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brush-
ing a tear from his eyes.
Why did he not concede it ?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proud-
ly. 1" Because the choice remained not with him. It was not
his to concede. This house these lands-all-all are thine
-and it were meet requital indeed, that, after they have so
long been wrongfully withheld from thee, thou shouldst be a
dependant of Lady Rookwood.”
“Without going quite so far as that, Madam,” said the
Doctor, “it is but justice to your daughter that she should be
put in full possession of her rights; nor should I for one in-
66
16*


186
stant advise, or even consent, to her inbabiting the same house
with Lady Rookwood. Her Ladyship's peculiarities of tem-
per are such as to preclude all possibility of happiness; but at
the same time I trust that by management-always by man-
agement, Madam--her Ladyship's quiet departure may be en-
sured. I understand that all such legal arrangements in the
way of settlements as could be entered into, between your
daughter and her future husband, are completed. I have only
to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, on this mo-
mentous occasion. It will be a loss to him. But hark! I
hear Ranulph's step in the gallery. He will tell us the result
of his final interview. I came to give you advice, my dear,"
added the Doctor in a low tone to Eleanor; “but I find you
heed it not. · Whoso humbleth himself shall be exalted. I
am glad you do not split upon that rock which has broken the
shins of half your generation.”
At this moment, Ranulph Rook wood entered the room. His
cheeks were flushed, and his manner agitated.
The whole party were startled by his looks.
“What has happened ?” asked Doctor Small and Mrs. Mow-
bray, in the same breath.
Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which
space he regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and
seemed revolving within himself how he could frame his re-
ply, in such way as should be least painful to her feelings;
while, with instinctive apprehension of coming misfortune,
Miss Mowbray eagerly seconded the inquiries of her compa-
nions.
“ It is with great pain,” said he, at length, in a tone of de-
spondency, not unmingled with displeasure, “ that I am obliged
to descant upon the infirmities of a parent, and to censure her
conduct as severely as I may do now. I feel the impropriety
of such a step, and I would willingly avoid it, could I do so in
justice to my own feelings--and especially at a moment like
the present-when every hope of my life is fixed upon uniting
you, dear Eleanor, by ties almost as near as my own to that pa-
rent. But the interview which I have just had with Lady
Rookwood--the bitter, heart-breaking interview compels me
to reprobate her conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, un-
just, and dishonourable; and if I could wholly throw off the
son, as she avows she has thrown off the mother, I should un-
hesitatingly pronounce it as little short of
“Dear Ranulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with apprchen-
sion, “I never saw you so much moved."
“Nor with so much reason,” rejoined Ranulph.
self, I could endure anything—but for you
"And does your dispute relate to me?" asked Eleanor. “Is
it for my sake that you have braved your mother's displeasure ?
66
For my-


187
Is it because Lady Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control
of this house, and those lands to me, that you have parted in
anger with your mother? Was this the cause of your quarrel ?"
“ It was the origin of it,” replied Ranulph.
“ Mother,” said Eleanor, firmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, “ go
with me to Lady Rookwood's chamber.”
“ Wherefore," demanded Mrs. Mowbray.
“Question me not, dear mother-or let me go alone."
• Daughter, I guess your meaning,” said Mrs. Mowbray,
sternly— You would relinquish your claims in favour of
Lady Rookwood—Is it not so ?”
“Since you oblige me to answer you, mother,” said Elea-
nor, blushing," I must admit that you have guessed my mean-
ing. To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a daugh-
ter as far as is consistent with my duty,” added she, blushing
still more deeply, “ but my first consideration shall be my hus-
band; and if Lady Rookwood can be content—but pray ques-
tion me not further--accompany me to her chamber.”
“ Eleanor,” interposed Ranulph_" dearest Eleanor--the
sacrifice you would make is unncessary—uncalled for. · You
do not know my mother-she would not, I grieve to say it, ap-
preciate the generosity of your motives—she would not give
you credit for your feelings—she would only resent your visit
as an intrusion.”
“ My daughter comprehends you, Sir,” said Mrs. Mowbray,
haughtily. * I will take care that in her own house, my
daughter shall remain free from insult."
“ Mother, dear mother,” said Eleanor, “ do not wilfully
misunderstand him.”
“ You can be little aware, Madam,” said Ranulph calmly,
but sadly, “ how much I have recently endured-how much
of parental anger-how much of parental malediction I have
incurred to save you and your daughter from the indignity
you apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my mo-
ther; could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to con-
ceive the extremities to which the violence of her psssion
will, when her schemes are thwarted, hurry her. The terms
upon which you met together, will not escape your recollec-
tion—nor shall I need to call to your mind, her haughtiness
and coldness. That coldness has since ripened into distrust-
and the match which she was at first all anxiety to promote
she would now utterly set aside, were it in her power to do so.
Whence this alteration in her views has arisen, I have no
means of ascertaining; it is not my mother's custom to give
a reason for her actions, or her wishes : it is all sufficient to
express them ; but I have perceived that as the time has
drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest hopes, her unwil-
lingness has increased ; until to-day what had hitherto been


188
confined to hints, has been openly espressed, and absolate
objections raised. Sach, however, is the peculiarity of her
temper, that I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be
able to work a change—but no-our last meeting was deci-
sive. She commanded me to break off the match. At once,
and peremptorily, I refused. Pardon me, madam-pardon me,
dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter into particulars—but it is ab-
solutely necessary now that I should be explicit. Enraged at
my opposition to her wishes, her fury became ungovernable.
With appalling imprecations upon the memory of my poor
father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief offence in
her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to
Eleanor, she bade me begone, and take her curses as my wed-
ding portion. Beneath this roof-beneath her roof, she added,
no marriage of mine should e'er take place. I might go hence,
or might stay, as I thought fitting; but you and your daugh-
ter, whom she characterized as intruders, should not remain
another hour within her house. To this wild raving, I an-
swered, with as much composure as I could command, that
she entirely mistook her own position, and that, so far from the
odium of intrusion resting with you, if applicable to any one,
the term must necessarily affix itself on those who, through
ignorance, had for years unjustly deprived the rightful own-
ers of this place of their inheritance. Upon this, her wrath
was boundless. She disowned me as her son-disclaimed all
maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful male-
diction, at the recollection of which I still tremble. But I
will spare you further details of this dreadful scene. To me
it is most distressing; for however firmly resolved I may be
to pursue a line of conduct which every sound principle within
me dictates as the correct one, yet I cannot be insensible to
the awful responsibility which I shall incur in bringing down
a mother's curse upon my head, nor to the jeopardy in which
her own excessive violence may place her.”
Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation in haughty
displeasure ; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Doctor
Small, with mixed feelings of anger and astonishment.
“ Lady Rookwood's conduct,” said the Doctor, “ is, you
must forgive me, my dear Ranulph, for using strong expressions,
outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excusable on the
ground of insanity, to which I wish it were possible we could
attribute it. There is, however, too much method in her
madness to allow us to indulge any such notion: she is
shrewd, dangerous, and designing; and since she has resolv-
ed to oppose this match, she will leave no means untried to
do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under the circum-
stancesthat is, if my advice were asked.”
“ Which I scarcely think it is likely to be, Sir," said Mrs.
Mowbray, coldly. - After what has occurred, Is all think it


189
my duty to break off this alliance, which I have never con-
sidered to be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an
instant's uneasiness."
“ A plague on all these Rookwoods ?" muttered Small.
“ One would think all the pride of Lucifer were centered in
their bosoms. But, Madam," continued the benevolent Doc-
tor, “ have you no consideration for the feelings of your
daughter, or for those of one who is no distant relation to
you—your nephew? Your son Major Mowbray, is, if I mis-
take not, most eager for this union to take place between his
sister and his friend."
“ My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obe-
dience to my wishes,” said Mrs. Mowbray; "and Major
Mowbray, I am sure, will see the propriety of the step I am
about to take. I am content, at least, to abide by his opi-
nion.'
“Snub'd again!" mentally ejaculated the Doctor, with a
shrug of despair. " It is useless attempting to work upon
such impracticable material.”
Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melan-
choly. An eloquent interchange of glances had passed be-
tween him and Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious
state of the other's feelings.
It was at this crisis thal the door was suddenly opened, and
old Agnes, Lady Rookwood's aged attendant, rushed into
the room, and sank upon her knees on the floor, her limbs
shaking, her teeth chattering, and every feature expressive of
intense terror. Ranulph went instantly towards her, to do-
mand the cause of her alarm.
“ No, let me pray,” cried Agnes, as he took her hand in
the attempt to raise her—" let me pray while there is yet
time-let the worthy Doctor pray beside me. Pray for an
overladen soul, Sir-pray heartily as you would hope for
mercy yourself; ah! little know the righteous of the terrors
of those that are beyond the pale of mercy. The Lord par-
don me my iniquities, and absolve her.”
“ Her ! >whom do you mean ?" asked Ranulph in agita-
tion. “ You do not allude to my mother ?"
* You have no longer a mother, young man,” said Agnes,
solemnly.
" What!” exclaimed Ranulph, terror stricken, “is she
dead ?"
“ She is gone.”
“Gone! How?" exclaimed all, their amazement increasing
each instant, at the terror of the old woman, and the appa-
rently terrible occasion of it.
• Speak !” exclaimed Ranulph; “but why do I loiter ?
my
mother, perchance, is dying-let me go.” But the old wo-
man maintained her clutching grasp, which was strong and


190
convulsive, as that of one struggling betwixt life and death.”
“It's no use I tell you ; it's all over,” said she" the dead
are come, the dead are come, and she is gone.”—
“Gone !-Whither?”
" To the grave-to the tomb,” said Agnes, in a deep and
hollow tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph's soul.
“ Listen to me, Ranulph, my child, my nurseling-listen
while I can speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after
that scene between you-after the dark denunciations she had
heaped-upon the dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind
of sob, and there I saw your mother, staring wildly upon the
vacancy-as if she saw that of which 1 dare not think.”
“What think you she beheld ?" asked Ranulph, quaking
with apprehension.
“ That which had been your father,” returned Agnes, in a
hollow tone. “ Don't doubt me, Sir-you'll find the truth in
what I say, anon-I am sure he was there. There was a thrill-
ing speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that
froze my old blood to ice—to the ice which 'tis now-ough-
ough. Well, at length she rose, with her eyes still fixed, and
passed through the panelled door, without a word. She is
gone!"
66 Let me go,
“ What madness is this !" cried Ranulph.
woman.”
6 Go then," cried Agnes. “ If you will not believe my
words, search for her, and satisfy ġourself. She is gone, I
tell you-the room was empty, all the rooms were empty-
the passage void—through the door she went—silently,-
slow. But
go, f you will, and search for her throughout the
house-go-go-
And she rushed out of the chamber, followed by Ranulph,
Mrs. Mowbray, and Doctor Small, who were all eager to have
some explanation of the distracted story of Agnes.
Handassah followed Ranulph to the door, closed it after
him, and then locked it within side. This done, she walked
back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of ex-
ultation, “ You have parted with him for ever.'
CHAPTER III.
Card.-Now art thou come? Thou look'st ghastly ;
There sits in thy face some great determination,
Mixed with some fear.
Bos.-Thus it lightens into action :
I am come to kill thee.
Duchess of Malfy.
“What mean you, girl ?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her
manner. “Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I
command you !"


191
“ Command me!” laughed Handassah, scornfully. “What
if I refuse your mandate ? what if, in my turn, I bid you obey
me? I never owned but one mistress, and if I have bowed
my neck to you for a time, 'twas to fulfil her dying wishes.
If I have submitted to your control, it was to accomplish
what I have now accomplished. Your oath-remember your
oath; the hour is come for its fulfilment."
Saying which, Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in
the wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Si-
lently, and with stern deliberation, he strode towards Eleanor,
and seizing one of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him.
Eleanor resisted not; she had not the power ; neither did she
scream ; for so extreme was her terror, that for the moment it
took away all power of utterance. Luke neither stirred nor
spoke, but still maintaining his hold, gazed searchingly upon
her features, while Eleanor, as if spell-bound, could not with-
draw her eyes from his. Nothing more terribly impressive
could be conceived than Luke's whole appearance. Harassed
and exhausted by the life he had recently led--deprived al-
most of natural rest--goaded by remorse, his frame was al-
most worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and
swarthy, was now blanched and colourless as whitest marble.
This pallid and death-like hue was, in all probability, owing
to the loss of blood which he had sustained from the wound
inflicted by the Major ; for though staunched, the effusion had
been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes blazed
their wonted fire--nay, they looked darker and larger from
his exceeding paleness, and so much of intense mental and
bodily suffering was imprinted upon his whole countenance,
that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few could have
regarded him without sympathy. Real desperation has so
much of agony in its character, that few can witness it un-
moved. His garb was not that in which the reader was first
introduced to him, but a dark simple suit, corresponding more
with his real rank in life, than his former gipsy attire ; but it
was disordered by his recent conflict, and stained with bloody
testimonials of the recent fray; while his long sable curls,
once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf
locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her ter-
ror, as she dwelt upon his pallid features, Eleanor could not
help admitting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and
the living likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished
of her house-the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As
her eye mechanically following this train of thought, wander-
ed for an instant to the haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald,
which formed part of the family pictures, and thence to those
of his unfortunate Lady, she was struck by the fancy that, by
some terrible fatality, the tragic horrors of bye-gonę days


193
vulsively fast in her despairing energy against the handle of
the door, that he could not tear her thence. By this time Ra-
nulph Rookwood, who had caught her reiterated screams for
help, was at the entrance. He heard her struggles—he heard
Luke's threats-his mockery-his derisive laughter ;-but
vainly, vainly did he attempt to force it open. It was of the
strongest oak, and the bolts resisted all his efforts. A board
alone divided him from his mistress. He could hear her
sobs and gasps—he saw, from the action of the handle, with
what tenacity she clung to it; and, stung, to phrenzy by the
sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank-but all in
vain. At length the handle was still—there was a heavy fall
upon the floor—a stifled scream and a sound as of a body
being dragged along. The thought was madness.
• To the panel-to the panel,” cried a voice (it was that of
Turpin from within.)
“ The panel! ha!” echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam
of hope. “ I may yet save her.” And he darted along the cor-
ridor with the swiftness of thought.
Luke meanwhile had for some minutes fruitlessly exhaust-
ed all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave
her strength-she clutched at the door—but she felt her
strength failing her-her grasp was relaxing. And then the
maddening thought, that she would be shortly his--that he
would slay her—while the idea that Ranulph was so near,
and yet unable to protect her, added gall even to her bitter-
With savage delight Luke exulted in the lovers' tor-
tures. He heard Ranulph's ineffectual attempts he heard his
groanshe heard their mutual cries. Inflamed by jealousy,
he triumphed in his power of vengeance, and even prolonged
the torture which accident had given him the means of in-
Aicting. He stood like the inquisitor, who marks his victim's
anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further en-
durance. But he could not longer dally even with this horri-
ble gratification. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor's
fair long tresses had escaped from their confinement in the
struggle, and fell down her neck in disorder. Twining his
fingers amidst its folds, Luke dragged her from her hold back-
wards ;-and, incapable of further resistance her strength
completely exhausted, the wretched girl fell to the ground.
Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms,
and had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard
in the panel opposite to that by which he was about to escape,
and communicating with a further apartment. It was thrown
open, and Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at the nar-
row partition. An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in
time, escaped his lips; and he was about to clear the partition
at a bound, and to precipitate himself upon Luke, when, as
VOL. II.
17
ness.


194
suddenly as his own action, was the person of the unfortunate
Mr. Coates wedged into the aperture.
“ Traitor," cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concen-
trated fury, “ dare you oppose me hence, or by heaven I will
cut you down."
“'Tis impossible," ejaculated the Attorney. "For your
own sake, Sir Ranulph-for my sake-I beg—I implore of
you—not to attempt to pass this way–Try the other door."
Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the
body of the miserable Attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell.
The only obstacle to his passage being thus removed, he at
once leaped into the room.
The brothers were now confronted together, but little of
brotherly love mingled with the glances which they threw
upon each other. Ranulph's gentle, but withal enthusiastic
temperament, had kindled, under his present excitement, like
► flax at the sudden approach of flame. He was wild with
frenzy. Luke was calmer, but his fury was deadly and inex-
tinguishable. The meeting was terrible on both sides.
With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he
uplifted the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom.
Scowling grim defiance at Ranulph—he exclaimed, in a de-'
termined tone—“ Advance a footstep, and my dagger de-
scends into her heart."
Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with
rage, and yet trembling with apprehension.
* Ranulph,” gasped Eleanor, 6. Life without thee were va-
lueless—advance-avenge me!"
But Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of
his own, compromise Eleanor's safety.
Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it.
• You seal her destruction if you stir,” said he.
“ Villain,” returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth,
and with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak
with deliberation, “ you perceive your power; but injure her,
and nothing earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take
your life and liberty; nay, reward if you will—you cannot
otherwise escape me.'
“ Escape you !" laughed Luke, disdainfully. “Stand aside,
and let me pass. Beware,” added he, sternly, “ how you op-
pose me I would not have a brother's blood upon my soul.”
6. Nor 1,” cried Ranulph; “but you pass not,” and he
placed himself full in Luke's path.
Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor
between himself and Ranulph so as to shield his own person ;
but fancying he saw an opportunity of dealing a blow without
injury to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard the
thrust, when his arms were seized behind, and he was ren-
dered powerless.


196
was seen no more.
and amazement. Ere the cause could be expressed, the door
was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major
Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, rushed into the room.
Nay, then the game's up,” exclaimed Dick, “I have
done with Rookwood,” and springing through the pannel, he
When the new comers first looked round, they could per-
ceive only two figures besides themselves, those of the two
lovers, Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost
senseless, into the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a
ghastly object altracted their attention. All rushed towards
it-all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was the
lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like
those of a corpse which has for hours been such—his eyes
protruded from their sockets—his face was livid and blotched.
All bespoke with terrible certainty, the efficacy of the poison,
and the full accomplishment of Barbara's revenge.
Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere
Turpin fled. At all events, she was not heard of again at
Rookwood.
It required but little to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly
she revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious
of her escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and
sank into the embraces of her brother.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mowbray and Doctor Small had joined
the assemblage.
The worthy Doctor had been full of alarm, but his medi-
tated condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he
heard the particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred,
and of Eleanor's singular and almost providential deliverance.
“ After what has befallen, Madam,” said the Doctor to
Mrs. Mowbray, slightly coughing, “ you can no longer raise
any objections to a certain union, eh ?,
“ I will answer for my mother in that particular, said
Major Mowbray, stepping forward.
" She will answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mow-
bray. “ The match has her full and entire consent; but to
what am I to attribute the unexpected happiness of your
return ?"
“ To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the Major,
“ which I will hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that
but for this gentleman's fortunate arrival, I might have been
detained a prisoner, without parole, in a lone hut perhaps for
days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted with the
meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively lucky
for me, Mr. Tyrconne!, that you happened to pass that way,
and for poor Paterson likewise.”
“ Arrah, by my sowl, Major, and you may say that with


197
safety, and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled
upon the tits in the cellar, or we'd never have been here just
in the nick of it. I begin to think we've lost all chance of
taking Dick Turpin this time. He's got clane away.”
“ I am not sorry for his escape,” said the Major."" He's a
brave fellow ; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even,
Sir, in a highwayman.”
We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting
which now ensued between the brother and sister--the con-
gratulations upon Eleanor's escape from peril, intermingled
with the tenderest embraces, and the warmest thanks offered
to Ranulph for his gallant service. “ She is your's, my dear
boy,” said the Major; "and though you are a Rookwood,
and she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that,
contrary to the usual custom of our families in such cases, all
your misfortunes have occurred before marriage.”
6. There is only one thing,” said Small, with a very pecu-
liar expression, which might almost be construed into serio-
comic, could we suspect the benevolent Doctor of any such
waggery, “ which can possibly throw a shade over our pre-
sent felicity. Nothing is to be heard of Lady Rookwood.”
My poor mother,” said Ranulph, starting.
“ Make yourself easy” said the Doctor; “ I doubt not we
shall hear of her to-morrow. My only fear," added he, half
aside, “is that we may have tidings before."
6. One other circumstance afflicts me,” said Ranulph, “poor
Mr. Coates."
“What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph ?" ex-
claimed Titus.
“ I fear he is killed, said Ranulph.'“ Let some one search
for the body.”
“ Kilt?" echoed Titus. “ Is it kilt he is? Ah! Ullagone,
and is it over with him entirely? Bring me to his remains.”
“ He will bring them to you himself,” said the Attorney,
stepping forward. “Luckily, Sir Ranulph,” said the incu-
rable punster, “it was merely the outer coats that your sword
passed through; the inner remains uninjured, so that you did
not act as my conveyancer to eternity-I've as many lives as
a cat-ha, ha!”
Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little
satisfaction.
We think it unnecessary to enter into much further detail,
Another chamber was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to
which she was almost immediately transported. The remains
of the once fierce and haughty Luke, now stiff and ark, but
still wearing, even in death, their proud character, were placed
upon the self-same bier, and covered with the self-same pall
which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his father's fune-
99
17*


198
ral. And as the domestics crowded round the corpse, there
was not one of them but commented upon his startling resem-
blance to his grandsire, Sir Reginald; nor, amongst the super-
stitious, was the falling of the fatal bough forgotten.
Tranquillity was at length restored at the Hall. Through-
out the night, and during the next day, Ranulph made every
search for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her.
Seriously alarmed, he then caused more strict and general in-
quiry to be instituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It
was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that her fate was
ascertained.
Her old handmaiden, Agnes, died raving, in the course of
the following day, declaring, upon her death-bed, that she
was certain Sir Piers had fetched away her mistress ;” a 20-
tion which prevailed pretty generally amongst the credulous,
of whom there were not few to be met with at the Hall.
<
CHAPTER IV.
So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.
Webster.
NOTWITHSTANDING the obscurity which hung over the fate
of Lady Rookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir
Ranulph and Eleanor was not long delayed; the ceremony
took place at the parish church, and the worthy Vicar offici-
ated upon the occasion. It was a joyous sight to all who
witnessed it, and not few were they who did so, for the whole
neighbourhood was bidden to the festival. The old avenue
was thronged with bright and beaming faces, rustic maidens
deck'd out in ribbons of many-coloured splendour, and stout
youths in their best holiday trim; nor was the lusty yeoman
and his buxom spouse~nor yet the patriarch of the village,
nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks seemed
to participate in the universal merriment, and returned from
their eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter
to the frolic train. The church-yard path was strewn with
flowers—the church itself a complete garland. Never was
there seen a blither wedding—the sun smiled upon the bride,
accounted a fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies and stormy
weather had, within the memory of the oldest of the tenantry,in-
auspiciously ushered in all former espousals. The bride had
recovered her bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which
had seemingly settled for ever upon the open brow of the
bridegreom, had now given place to a 'pensive shade, which
only added interest to his expressive features ; and, as in
simple state, after the completion of the sacred rites, tie


199
youthful pair walked arm in arm amongst their thronging and
admiring tenants towards the hall, many a fervent prayer was
breathed that the curse of the House of Rookwood might be
averted from their heads; and, not to leave the reader in doubt
upon the subject, we can add that these aspirations were not
in vain, but that the day which dawned so brightly, was one
of serene and unclouded beauty to its close.
After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity.
Crowded with company, from its ample hall to its kitchen
ingle, the old mansion could scarce contain its numerous
guests, while its walls resounded with hearty peals
of laugh-
ter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The tables
groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef-the weighty chine
-the castled pastry flanked on the one hand with neats'
tongue, and on the other defended by a mountainous ham, an
excellent pièce de résistance—and every other substantial ap-
pliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale were
broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed,
and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiasti-
cally drunk in the brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with
floating toast. Titus 'Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremo-
nies, and was, Mr. Coates said, “ quite in his element.” So
much was he elated, that he ventured to cut some of his old
jokes upon the Vicar, and, strange to say, without incurring
the resentment of Small.
To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state
that some weeks before this happy event, had the remains of
the unfortunate Sir Luke Rookwood been gathered to those of
his fathers. The document which attested his birth being
his person, the claims which were denied to him
in life, were conceded in death; and he was interred, with all
the pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house,
within the tomb of his ancestry.
It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan
Rookwood, in order to explain which we must again revert
to the night of the meditatated enlèvement of Eleanor.
After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his
course among the fields in the direction to the church. He
sought his own humble but now deserted dwelling. The
door had been forced—some of its meagre furniture was re-
moved; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. 6 Poor
Mole!” said he, - thou hast found, I trust, a better master."
And having possessed himself of what he came in search,
namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, deposited in an out-
of-the-way cupboard, which had escaped notice, he quickly
departed.
He was once more within the church-yard-once more
upon that awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact for a
found upon


200
long season his late fantastical character; and he gazed upon
the church-tower, glistening in the moonshine-the green and
undulating hillocks—the “ chequered cross-sticks," the clus-
tered head-stones and the black and portentous yew trees,
as upon“ old familiar faces.” He mused for a few moments
upon the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then
walked beneath the shadow of one of the yews, chanting an
odd stanza or so of one of his wild melodies, wrapped the
while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the
subject matter of his song:
THE YEW.
A noxious tree is the church-yard yew,
As if from the dead its sap it drew ;*
Dark are its branches, and dismal to see,
Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity.
Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings
Which some spirit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings :
Oh ! a terrible tree is the church-yard yew ;-
Like it is nothing so ghastly to view.
Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,
Can nought so tough in the grove be found;
From it were fashioned brave English bows,
The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.
For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves
From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves ;
And though it be dreary and dismal to view,
Staunch at the heart is the church-yard yew.
His ditty concluded, Alan entered the church-yard, taking
care to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his
grandson's entrance. For an instant, he lingered in the
chancel. The full moonlight fell upon the monuments of his
race; and directed by the feīl instinct of hate, Alan's eye rested
upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother, Re-
ginald, and muttering “ curses, not loud, but deep,” he
passed on. Having lighted his lantern, in no tranquil mood,
he descended into the vault, observing a similar caution with
respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left partially
unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to
abide Luke's coming. The reader knows what probability
there was of his expectations being realized.
For awhile he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy medita-
tion, and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's ex-
pedition, and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling
from time to time, beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the
Metuenda que succo
Taxus.
STATIUS,


201
grim array of coffins, and noticing, with something like satis-
faction, that the shell which contained the remains of his
daughter, had been restored to its former position. He then
bethought him of Father Checkley's midnight intrusion upon
his conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a super-
natural visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to ascer-
tain by what means the priest had gained admission to the
spot unperceived, and unheard. He resolved to sound the
floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed ; and hol-
lowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his
heel, as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ring-
ing of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of
Sir Ranulph, resolved the point. There it was that the priest
had found access to the vault; but Alan's disappointment was
excessive, when he discovered that this plate was fastened on
the underside, and all communication thence with the church-
yard, or to wherever else it might conduct him, cut off ; but
the present was not the season for further investigation, and
tolerably pleased with the discovery he had already made, he
returned to his silent march around the sepulchre.
At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church
door, broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In
the hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard
threading the aisle.
“ He comes—he comes !” exclaimed Alan joyfully-add-
ing an instant after, in an altered voice _" but he comes
alone."
The footsteps drew near to the mouth of the vault-it was
upon the stairs-Alan stepped forward to greet, as he sup-
posed, his grandson, but started back in astonishment and
dismay, as he encountered, in his stead, Lady Rookwood.
Alan retreated, while the Lady advanced, swinging the iron
door after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Ap-
proaching the statute of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and
Alan then remarked the singular and terrible expression of her
eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the statue, or upon
some invisible object near it. There was something in her
whole attitude and manner, calculated to impress the deepest
terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an
awe which moniently increased. Lady Rookwood's bearing
was as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to
have been-her brow was as haughtily bent-her chiselled lip
as disdainfully curled, but the staring, changeless eye, and
the deep-heaved sob, which occasionally escaped her, betray-
ed how much she was under the influence of mortal terror.
Alan watched her in amazement. He knew not how the
scene was likely to terminate, nor what could have induced
her to visit this ghostly spot, at such an hour, and alone ; but


203
66
" What doth it contain ?" asked Lady Rookwood.
“ A warrior's ashes," returned Alan.
“ There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen,” cried
Lady Rookwood, holding down the light.
“It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house
of Rookwood was stabbed,” said Alan, with a grim smile.
• Which whoso claspeth in the tomb,
Shall clutch until the hour of doom.'
" So saith the rhyme.—Have you seen enough ?"
No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the
marble coffin. “ That weapon shall be mine."
“ Come forth-come forth,” cried Alan. My arm trem-
bles—I cannot support the lid.”
"I will have it though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked La-
dy Rookwood, vainly endeavouring to wrest away the dagger,
which was fastened, together with the linen upon which it
lay, by some adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell.
At this moment, Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye
upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror.
The axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in
the act to strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evi-
dent, existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious
image—but in the first impulse of his alarm, Alan abandoned
his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He ut-
tered a loud cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this ery
-she raised herself at the same moment—the dagger was in
her hand-she pressed against the lid, but its downward force
was too great to be withstood—the light was within the sar-
cophagus, and Alan could discern her features; the expression
was terrible; she uttered one shriek—and the lid closed for-
Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed
with Lady Rookwood. There was something so horrible in
her probable fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon
it. Exerting all his remaining strength, he essayed to raise
the lid, but now it was more firmly closed than ever. It de-
fied all his power. Once, for an instant, he fancied that it
yielded to his straining sinews, but it was only his hand that
slided
upon the surface of the marble. It was fixed-immove-
able. The sides and lid rang with the strokes which the un-
fortunate Lady bestowed upon them with the dagger's point,
but these were not long heard. Presently, all was still, the
marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan struck the lid
with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All was
silent.
He now turned his attention to his own situation, which
had become sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed,
ever!


205
and lamenting! He was stunned stifled--the air scemed
to grow suffocating-pestilential the wild laughter was re-
doubled—the horrible troop assailed him—they dragged him
along the tombmand amid their howls he fell, and became in.
sensible.
When he returned to himself, it was some time before he
could collect his scattered faculties; and when the agouizing
consciousness of his terrible situation forced itself upon his
mind, he had nigh relapsed into oblivion. He arose-lie rushed
towards the door-he knocked against it with his knuckles till
the blood strcamed from them-he scratched against it with
his nails till they were torn off by the roots—with immense
fury hurled himself against the iron frame it was in vain.
Again he had recourse to the trap door. He searched for it.
he found it. He laid himself upon the ground--there was no
interval of space in which he could even introduce a finger's
point-he beat it with his clenched hand-tore it with his
teeth--jumped upon it and smote it with his heel--the iron
returned a sullen sound.
He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved
his strength. He raised the lid a few inches-le shouted
screamed-but no answer was returned and again the lid
fell.
“She is dead!” cried Alan. “Why have I not shared her
fate? - But mine is to come and such a death!mah, ah!"
and, frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door, and
renewed his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave way,
and he sank upon the floor, groaning and exhausted.
Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mens
tal tortures. Parched and consumed as by à fierce internal
fever, he was tormented by unappeasable thirst, of all human
ills the most unendurable. His tongile was dry and dustym
his throat inflamed his lips had lost all moisture. Jie licked
the humid floor-he sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from the
walls; but instead of allaying his thirst, they increased it.
He would have given the world, had he possessed it, for a
draught of cold spring water. Oh, to have died with his lips
upon some bubbling fountain's marge--but to perish thus!
Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. 'He had to en,
dure all the horrors of famine as well as the agonies of quenchs
less thirst.
In this dreadful state did three days and nights pass over
Alan's fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with
him, was only measured by its duration, and that seemed in.
terminable. Each hour added only to his suffering, and
brought with it no relief. During this period of prolonged
misery, reason often tottered on her throne. Sometimes he
was under the influence of the wildest passions. He dragged
VOL. II.
18


206
coffins from their recesses-hurled them upon the ground,
striving to break them open, and drag forth their loathsome
contents. Upon other occasions, he would weep bitterly and
wildly; and once-once only, did he attempt to pray, but he
started from his knees with an echo of infernal laughter, as he
deemed, ringing in his ears. Then again, would he call down
imprecations upon himself and his whole line-trampling upon
the pile of coffins he had reared-and, lastly, more subdued,
would he creep to the boards that contained the body of his
child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of affection.
At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution.
To him the thought of death might well be terrible, but he
quailed not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest moments,
to resume all his wonted firmness of character. Gathering
together his ' remaining strength, he dragged himself towards
the niche wherein his brother was deposited, and placing his
hand upon the coffin, solemnly exclaimed—“My curse—my
dying curse—be upon thee evermore!"
Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly ex-
pired. In this attitude were his remains discovered.


207
L'envoi.
Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we may be allowed to add
a few words respecting two of the subordinate characters of
our drama (melo-drama we ought to say,) namely, Jerry Ju-
niper and the Knight of Malta. What became of the Caper
Merchant's son after his flight from Kilburn Wells, we have
never been able distinctly to ascertain. Juniper, however,
would seem to be a sort of wandering Jew, for certain it is,
that somebody very like him is extant still, and to be met with
at Jerry's old haunts; indeed we have no doubt of encounter-
ing him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot and Hampton.
As regards the Knight of Malta—(Knight of Roads · Rhodes'
he should have been)—we are sorry to state, that the career
of the Ruffler was terminated in a madhouse, and thus the
poor Knight became, in reality, a Hospitaller! According to
the custos observed in those establishments, the Knight was
deprived of his luxuriant locks, and the loss of his beard
rendered his case incurable ; but in the meantime the barber
of the place made his fortune by retailing the material of all
the black wigs he could collect to the impostor's dupes.
Such was the latest piece of intelligence that has reached
us, of the Arch hoaxer of Canterbury.
Turpin (why disguise it ?) was hanged at York, in 1739.
His firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted
the steps, his left leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently
down, and after a brief chat with the hangman, threw himself
suddenly and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings
would appear to have been slight. The remains of the vagrant
highwayman found a final resting place in the desecrated
church-yard of St. George, without the Fishergate postern, a
green
and
grassy cemetry, but withal a melancholy one. А
few recent tombs mark out the spot where some of the victims
of the late pestilence have been interred; but we have made
vain search for the grave of the last Highwayman.
The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown at
York Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength; and
though the Herculean robber is said to have moved in them
with ease, the present turnkey was scarce able to lift the
ponderous irons. An old woman of the same city has a lock
of hair, said to have been Turpin's, which she avouches her
grandfather cut off from the body after the execution, and
which the believers look upon with great reverence.
O rare
Dick Turpin! We shall perhaps be accused of dilating too
much upon the character of the Highwayman, and we plead


NEW WORKS.
CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD
HAVE LATELY PUBLISHED
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Letters to a Gentleman in Germany, written after a trip from
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VATHEK.
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SKETCHES OF SOCIETY IN GREAT BRITAIN
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十
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APR 1 0. 1918