 Rockwood by William Harrison Ainsworth This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org This reading by Paul Curran Rockwood by William Harrison Ainsworth Memoir William Harrison Ainsworth was born in King Street, Manchester, February 4th 1805 in a house that has long since been demolished. His father was a solicitor in a good practice and the son had all the advantages that educational facilities could afford. He was sent to the Manchester Grammar School and in one of his early novels has left an interesting and accurate picture of its then condition which may be contrasted with that of an early period left by the English opium eater. At 16 a brilliant handsome youth with more taste for romance and the drama than for the dry details of the law he was article to a leading solicitor of Manchester. The closest friend of his youth was a Mr James Crossley who was some years older but shared his intellectual taste and literary enthusiasm. A drama written for private theatricals in his father's house was printed in Alice's magazine and he also contributed to the Manchester Iris, the Edinburgh magazine and the London magazine. He even started a periodical which received the name of the Biotian and died at the 6th number. Many of the fugitive pieces of these early days were collected in volumes now exceedingly rare. December Tales, London 1823 which is not wholly from his pen. The works of Cheviot Titchburn, London 1822, Manchester 1825 dedicated to Charles Lamb and A Summer Evening Tale, London 1825. Sir John Chiverton appeared in 1826 and for 40 years was regarded as one of his early works but Mr John Partington Aston also claimed to be its author. In all probability both of these young men joined in the production of the novel which attracted the attention of Sir Walter Scott. On the death of his father in 1824 Innesworth went to London to finish his legal education but whatever intentions he may have formed of humdrum study and determined attention to the details of a profession in which he had no interest were dissipated by contact with the literary world of the metropolis. He made the acquaintance of Mr John Ebers who at that time combined the duties of manager of the opera house with the business of a publisher. He was who issued Sir John Chiverton and the verses forming its dedication are understood to have been addressed to Anne Francis Fanny Ebers who Mainsworth married October 11th 1826. Ainsworth had then to decide upon a career and acting upon the suggestion of Ebers his father-in-law he began business as a publisher but after an experience of about 18 months he abandoned it. In this brief interval he introduced the honourable Mrs Norton and Ood the Cook to the discerning though unequal admiration of the British public. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott who wrote the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee for an annual issued by him. Ainsworth gave him 20 guineas for it which Sir Walter accepted but laughingly handed over to the little daughter of Lockhart in whose London house they had met. Ainsworth's literary aspirations still burned with undiminished ardour and several plans were formed only to be abandoned and when in the summer of 1830 he visited Switzerland and Italy he was as far as ever from the fulfilment of his desires. In 1831 he visited Chesterfield and began the novel of Rookwood in which he successfully applied the method of Mrs Radcliffe to English scenes and characters. The finest passage is that relating Turpin's Ride to York which is a marvel of descriptive writing. It was written apparently in a glow of inspiration in less than a day and a half. The feat, he says, for feat it was being the composition of a hundred novel pages in less than 24 hours was achieved at the Elms a house I then occupied at Kilburne. The success of Rookwood was marked and immediate. Ainsworth at a bound reached popularity. This was in 1834 and in 1837 he published Crichton which is a fine piece of historical romance. The critics who had objected to the romantic glamour cast over the career of Dick Turpin were still further horrified at the manner in which that vulgar rascal Jack Shepard was elevated into a hero of romance. The outcry was not entirely without justification nor was it without effect on the novelist who thenceforward avoided this perilous ground. Jack Shepard appeared in Bentley's Miscellany of which Ainsworth became editor in March 1840 at a monthly salary of £51. The story is powerfully written. In 1841 he received £1,000 from The Sunday Times for Old St Paul's and he in 1848 had from the same source another £1,000 for The Lancashire Witches. In 1841 he began the publication of Ainsworth's magazine which came to an end in 1853 when he acquired the new monthly magazine which he edited for many years. This was the heyday of Ainsworth's reputation alike in literature and in society. His home at Kensal Manor House became famous for its hospitality and Dickens, Thackery, Lancere, Clarkson-Stanfield, Talford, Gerald and Cruikshank were among his guests. The list of his principal historical novels with their dates of issue may now be given. Rookwood 1834 Crichton 1837 Jack Shepard 1839 Tower of London 1840 Guy Fawkes 1841 Old St Paul's A Tale of the Plague and the Fire of London 1841 Windsor Castle 1843 St James or the Court of Queen Anne 1844 The Star Chamber 1854 Constable of the Tower 1861 The Lord Mayor of London 1862 Cardinal Pole 1863 John Law the Projector 1864 The Constable de Bourbon 1866 Talbot Harland 1870 Boscobel 1872 The Manchester Rebels or The Fatal 45 1873 and The Goldsmith's Wife 1874 These novels all met with a certain amount of success but those of later years did not attain the striking popularity of his earlier efforts. Many have been translated into various modern languages and the additions of his various works are so numerous that some 23 pages of the British Museum catalogue are devoted to his works. The scenery and history of his native country had a perennial interest for him. And a certain group of his novels that is Lancashire Witches, Guy Fawkes, The Manchester Rebels, etc. may almost be said to form a novelist's history of Lancashire from the pilgrimage of grace until the early part of the present century. Probably no more vivid account has been written of the Great Fire and Plague of London than that given in Old St Paul's. The charm of Ainsworth's novels is not at all dependent upon the analysis of motives or subtle description of character. Of this he has little or nothing but he realises vividly a scene or an incident and conveys the impression with great force and directness upon the reader's mind. Ainsworth came upon the reading world at a happy moment. People were weary of the inaneities of the fashionable novel and were ready to listen to one who had a power of vivacious narrative. In 1881, when he was in his 77th year, a pleasant tribute of respect and admiration was paid to him in his native town. The mayor of Manchester entertained him at a banquet in the town hall, September 15th, 1881, as an expression of the higher steam in which he is held by his fellow townsmen and of his services to literature. In proposing Mr Ainsworth's health, the mayor gave a curious instance of the popularity of his writings. In our Manchester Public Free Libraries, there are 250 volumes of Mr Ainsworth's different works. During the last 12 months, these volumes have been read 7,660 times, mostly by the artisan class of readers, and this means that 20 volumes of his works are being perused in Manchester by readers of the free libraries every day all year through. It was well that this pleasant recognition was not longer delayed, the contrast was pathetically great between the tall, handsome, dandy-fied figure presented in the portraits of him by Pickers Gill and McLeese, and the bent and feeble old man who stood by and acknowledged the plaudits of those who had assembled to honour him. His last published work was Stanley Brayton, which he dedicated to his hospitable entertainer. He died at Rygate, January 3rd, 1882, leaving a widow and also three daughters by his first marriage. He was buried at Kennsel Green Cemetery. With the exception of George Gleague, he was the last survivor of the brilliant group who wrote for the early numbers of Fraser's magazine, and, though he died in harness, had outlived nearly all the associates of the days when he first achieved fame. End of Memoir. When I inscribed this romance to you, my dear mother, on its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of indulgence. Since then, the approbation your partiality would scarcely have withheld has been liberally accorded by the public. And I have the satisfaction of reflecting that, in following the dictates of affection which prompted me to select the dearest friend I had in the world as the subject of a dedication, I have not overstepped the limits of prudence. Nor, in connecting with your honoured name with this trifling production, involved you in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years during which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed more than once securely into port, I again commit it to the waters, with more confidence than here too for, and with a firmer reliance that, if it should be found after many days, it may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard. Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by a domestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear mother, have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resignation which those who know you best can best appreciate, but which none can so well understand or so thoroughly appreciate as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few, and it is my fervent hope that my own children may emulate your virtues if they are happily spared your sorrows. Preface During a visit to Chesterfield in the autumn of the year 1831, I first conceived the notion of writing this story, wishing to describe, somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the picturesque domains, the ruck-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers and gloomier galleries of an ancient hall with which I was acquainted. I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs Radcliffe, which had always inexpressible charms for me, substituting an old English squire, an old English menorial residence, and an old English highwayman for the Italian machese, the castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of romance. While revolving this subject, I happened one evening to enter the spacious cemetery attached to the church with the queer, twisted steeple, which, like the uplifted tale of the renowned dragon of Wantley to whom houses and churches were as capons and turkeys, seems to menace the good town of Chesterfield with destruction. Here an incident occurred on the opening of a vault, which it is needless to relate, but which supplied me with a hint for the commencement of my romance, as well as for the ballad entitled The Coffin. Upon this hint I immediately acted, and the earlier chapters of the book, together with the description of the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were completed before I quitted Chesterfield. Another, and much larger portion of the work, was written during a residence at Rottingdeen in Sussex in the latter part of 1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the South Downs. Romance writing was pleasant occupation then. The ride to York was completed in one day and one night. This feat, for feat it was, being the composition of a hundred ordinary novel pages in less than 24 hours, achieved at The Elms, a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I remember the fever into which I was thrown during the time of composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So thoroughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that once started I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path as much facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. In his company I mounted the hillside, dashed through the bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. With him I shouted, sang, laughed, exalted wet. Nor did I retire to rest till, in imagination, I heard the bell of York minster toll forth the knell of poor black bess. The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the house of Rookwood, is ascribed by popular superstition to a family resident in Sussex, upon whose estate a fatal tree, a gigantic lime with mighty arms and huge girth of trunk, as described in the song, is still carefully preserved. Cookfield Place, to which this singular piece of timber is attached, is, I may state, for the benefit of the curious, the real Rookwood Hall. For I have not drawn upon imagination, but upon memory, in describing the seat and domains of that fated family. The general features of the venerable structure, several of its chambers, the old garden, and in particular the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its picturesque views of the hall, like bits of Mrs Radcliffe, as the poet Shelley once observed the same scene, its deep glades through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its uplands, slopes, brooks, breaks, culverts and groves are carefully delineated. The superstition of a fallen branch, affording a presage of approaching death, is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned. Many other old houses have been equally favoured. In fact, there is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom without a boding sign. For instance, the Britons of Brayton in Cheshire were warned by the appearance of stalks of trees floating like the swollen bodies of long-drowned men upon the surface of a somber lake called Blackmere from the inky colour of its waters, adjoining their residents. And numerous other examples might be given. The death presage of the Britons is alluded to by Drayton in the Polly Albion. It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall that the songs which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed from the author in person. With equal force does the reasoning apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author should be more at home in an assumed character than his own, but experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is no longer individually associated with his work. The writer proceeds with all the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasies merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with their thoughts, sees with their eyes, speaks with their tongues. His strains are such as he himself, per se, would not perhaps could not have originated. In this light, he may be said to bring to his subject not one mind, but several. He becomes not one poet, but many. For each actor in his drama has a share and an important share in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it is which has imparted any verve, variety or dramatic character they possess to the ballads contained in this production. Turpin I look upon as the real songster of Black Bess. To Jerry Juniper, I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without his hint, would never have been written. While to the sexton, I owe the solitary gleam of light I have been unable to throw upon the horrors and mystery of the churchyard. As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper, I may perhaps be allowed to make a few observations upon this branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so racy, idiomatic and plastic as our own Kant, that its metrical capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have numerous chansons d'argeaux, ranging from the time of Charles, Boudinier and Vion down to that of Vidoc and Victor Hugo, the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his Dernier Jour d'un Condamné by a festival song of this class. The Spaniards possess a large collection of romances de Germania by various authors amongst whom Quvedo holds a distinguished place. We, on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. With a race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our highwaymen, this is the more to be wondered at. Had they no bards amongst their bands, was there no minstrel at hand to record their exploits? I can only call to mind one robber who was a poet, Delaney, and he was an Irishman. This barrenness, I have shown, is not attributable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due cultivation. Materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few operators. Decker, Beaumont and Fletcher and Ben Johnson have all dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically. And one of the earliest and best specimens of a canting song occurs in Bromay's jovial crew, and in the adventures of Bamfiled Moor-Keru there is a solitary ode, addressed by the mendicant's fraternity to their newly elected monarch, but it has little humour and can scarcely be called a genuine canting song. This ode brings us down to our own time, to the effusions of the illustrious Pierce Egan, to Tom Moore's Flights of Fancy, to John Jackson's famous chant on the high Toby Spice flashed the muzzle, cited by Lord Byron in a note to Don Juan, and to the glorious Irish ballad worth them all put together entitled The Night Before Larry Was Stretched. This facetious performance is attributed to the late Dean Burroughs of Cork. It is worthy of note that almost all modern aspirants to the graces of the muser pedestrian are Irishmen. Of all rhymesters of the road, however, Dean Burroughs is, as yet, most fully entitled to the laurel. Larry is quite the potato! And here, as the candidates are so few and their pretensions so humble, I can't help putting in my claim for praise. I venture to affirm that I have done something more than has been accomplished by my predecessors or contemporaries. With the significant language on the consideration, I have written a purely flash song of which the great and peculiar merit consists in it being utterly incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding, while its meaning must be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the practised patterer of Romani or pedalers French. I have, moreover, been the first to introduce and naturalise amongst us a measure which, though common enough in the central sea of France, has been hitherto utterly unknown to our pedestrian poetry. Some years afterwards, the song alluded to, better known under the title of Nix My Dolly Pals, Fake Away, sprang into extraordinary popularity, being set to music by Rodwell, and chanted by glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs. Keely. Before quitting the subject of these songs, I may mention that they probably would not have been written at all if one of the earliest of them, a chance experiment, had not excited the warm approbation of my friend Charles Ollier, author of the striking romance of Ferrères. This induced me to prosecute the vein accidentally opened. Turpin was the hero of my boyhood. I had always a strange passion for highwaymen and have listened by the hour to their exploits, as narrated by my father and especially to those of Dauntless Dick, that chief minion of the moon. One of Turpin's adventures in particular, the writer Hoff Green, which took deep hold of my fancy I have recorded in song. When a boy, I have often lingered by the side of the deep old road where this robbery was committed, to cast wistful glances into its mysterious windings, and when night deepened the shadows of the trees, I have urged my horse on his journey from a vague apprehension of a visit from the ghostly highwaymen. And then there was the bolling with its shelvy banks which Turpin cleared at a bound, the broad medals over which he winged his flight, the pleasant bowling green of the pleasant olden at Hoff, where he produced his watch to the cheshire squires, with whom he was upon terms of intimacy, all brought something of the gallant robber to mind. No wonder, in after years, in selecting a highwayman for the character in a tale I should choose my old favourite, Dick Turpin. In reference to two of the characters here introduced and drawn from living personages living at the time the tale was written it may be mentioned that poor Jerry Juniper met his death from an accident at Chichester, while he was proceeding to Goodwood races, and that the night of Malta, Mr. Tom, a brewer of Truro, the self-styled Sir William Courtney played the strange tricks at Canterbury chronicled in a song given in these pages. After his release from Banning Heath Asylum, was shot through the head, while leading a mob of riotous Kentish yeoman, whom he had persuaded that he was the Messiah. If the design of romance be what it has been held the exposition of a useful truth by means of an interesting story I fear I have but imperfectly fulfilled the office imposed upon me, having as I will freely confess throughout, and I rather to the reader's amusement than his edification. One wholesome moral, however, may I trust, be gathered from the perusal of this tale, namely that without due governance of the passions high aspirations and generous emotions were little avail their possessor. The impersonations of the tempter, the tempted and the better influence may be respectively discovered by those who care to cool the honey from the flower in the sexton, in Luke and in Sibyl. The chief object I had in view in making the present essay was to see how far the infusion of a warmer and more genial current into the veins of old romance would succeed in reviving her fluttering and feeble pulses. The attempt has succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectation. Romance, if I am not mistaken, is destined shortly to undergo an important change. Modified by the German and French writers, by Hoffman, Tiek, Hugo, Dumar, Balzac and Paul Lacroix, the bibliophile Jacob, the structure commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk Louis, Mrs Radcliffe and Maturin, but left imperfect and inharmonious. It requires now that the rubbish which choked up its approaches removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation and perfection. And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy reader, farewell, beseeching you in the words of old Rabley to interpret all my sayings and doings in the perfectist sense, reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with all these jolly maggots, and do what lies in you to keep me always merry, be frolic now, my lads, cheer up your hearts and joyfully read the rest with all these of your body and comfort of your reins. Kensel Manor House December 15th, 1849 End of preface Chapter 1 Book 1 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org This reading by Paul Curran Rookwood Book 1 The Wedding Ring It has been observed and I am apt to believe it is an observation which will generally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes to light there are certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men for the reception of the truth itself. Gallic Reports Case of the Count Sanjiran Chapter 1 The Vault Let me know therefore fully the intent of this thydismal preparation, this talk fit for a channel. Webster Within a sepulchral vault and at midnight two persons were seated. The Chamber was of singular construction and considerable extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the height of about 17 feet measured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor while the sides were divided by slight partition walls into ranges of low narrow catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by an obtusely pointed arch resting upon slender granite pillars and the intervening space was filled with a variety of tablets, escutcheons, shields and inscriptions recording the titles and heraldic honours of the departed. There were no doors to the niches and within might be seen piles of coffins packed one upon another till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of the pillars upon a hook hung a rack of tattered time-out-of-mind hatchments the centre of the tomb might be seen the effigies of Sir Ranolf de Rookwood the builder of the mausoleum and the founder of the race who slept within its walls. The statue, wrought in black marble differed from most monumental carved work in that its posture was erect and lifelike. Sir Ranolf was represented as sheath in a complete suit of mail decorated with his emblazoned and gilded sircoat his arm leaning upon the pommel curtled axe. The attitude was that of stern repose iconically formed helmet rested upon the brow the beaver was raised and revealed harsh but commanding features the golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the heel and at the feet enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble dug from the same quarry as the statue rested the mortal remains of one of the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest. Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof the sickly flame of a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to throwing them into darkest relief and casting their opaque and fantastical shadows along the ground an old coffin upon a beer we have said served the mysterious twain for a seat between them stood a bottle and a glass Evidence is that whatever might be the ulterior object of their stealthy communion the immediate comfort of the creature had not all together been overlooked at the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock a horned lantern from which the candle had been removed a crowbar and a bunch of keys near to these implements of a vocation which the reader will readily surmise rested a strange superannuated terrier with wiry back and frosted muzzle a head minus an ear and a leg wanting a paw his master, for such we shall suppose him was an old man with a lofty forehead covered with a singularly shaped nightcap and clothed as to his lower limbs with tight ribbed grey worsted hose ascending externally after a bygone fashion considerably above the knee the old man's elbow rested upon the handle of his spade his wrist supported his chin and his grey glassy eyes glimmering like marsh meteors in the candlelight were fixed upon his companion with a glance of searching scrutiny the object of his investigation a much more youthful and interesting person seemed lost in reverie and alike insensible to time place and the object of the meeting with both hands grasped around the barrel of a fouling piece and his face leaning upon the same support the features were entirely concealed from view the light too being at the back and shedding its rays over rather than upon his person aided his disguise yet even thus imperfectly defined the outline of the head and the proportions of the figure were eminently striking and symmetrical a tide in a rough foresters costume of the mode of 1737 and of the roughest texture and rudest make his wild garb would have determined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society had not a certain loftiness of manner and bold though reckless deportment argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a more elevated station in life and contradicted in a great measure the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habiliments a cap of shaggy brown fur fancifully but not ungracefully fashioned covered his head from beneath which dropping in natural clusters over his neck and shoulders a cloud of raven hair escaped subsequently when his face was more fully revealed it proved to be that of a young man of dark aspect and grave melancholy expression of countenance approaching even to the stern when at rest sufficiently animated and earnest when engaged in conversation or otherwise excited his features were regular delicately formed and might be characterised as singularly handsome were not for a want of roundness in the contour of the face which gave the liniments a thin worn look totally distinct however from haggardness or emaciation the nose was delicate and fine the nostril especially so the upper lip was short curling graceful and heartily expressive as to complexion his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of colouring his figure when raised was tall and masculine and though slight exhibited a great personal figure we will now turn to his companion the old man with the great grey glittering eyes Peter Bradley of Rookwood where he had exercised a vocation of sexton for the best part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted to mortality was an odd caricature of humanity his figure was lean and almost as lank as a skeleton his bald head reminded one of a bleached skull allowing for the overhanging and ory brows deep seated and sunken within their sockets his grey orbs gleamed with intolerable luster few could endure his gaze and aware of his power Peter seldom failed to exercise it he had likewise another habit which as it savoured of insanity made him an object of commiseration with some while it rendered him yet more obnoxious to others the habit we allude to was the indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all merriments should be checked and when the exhibition of levity proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering or from mental alienation wearied with the prolonged silence Peter at length condescended to speak his voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge another glass said he pouring out a modicum of the pale fluid his companion shook his head it will keep out the cold continued the sexton pressing the liquid upon him and you who are not so much accustomed as I am to the dance of a vault may suffer from them besides how did he sneeringly it will give you courage his companion answered not but the flash of his eye resented the implied reproach nay never stare at me so hard Luke continued the sexton I doubt neither your courage nor your firmness but if you won't drink I will here's to the rest eternal of Sir Peter's Rookwood you'll say amen to that pledge or you neither grandson of mine nor offspring of his loins why should I reverence his memory answered Luke bitterly refusing the prophet potion who showed no fatherly love for me he disowned me in life, in death I disowned him Sir Peter's Rookwood was no father of mine he was certainly a father Susan Bradley your mother was my daughter rejoined the sexton and surely cried Luke impetuously you need not boast of the connection tis not for you old man to couple their names together to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your own dishonour shame sping not of them in the same breath if you would not have me in vault curses on the dead I have no reverence whatever you may have for the seducer for the murderer of my mother you have choice store of epithets in soothe young grandson rejoined Peter with a chuckling laugh it appears a murderer tush exclaimed Luke indignantly affect not ignorance you have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate and unless reporters belied you foully had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on the occasion but to change this painful subject added he with a sudden alteration of manner what hour did superes rook would die on Thursday last in the night time the exact hour I know not replied the sexton of what ailment neither do I know that his end was sudden yet not without a warning sign inquired Luke neither more nor less than the death omen of the house you look astonished is it possible you have never heard of the ominous lime tree in the fatal bow why? it is a common tale hereabouts and has been for centuries any old chrome would tell at you per adventure you have seen the old avenue of lime trees leading to the hall nearly a quarter of a mile in length and as noble a row of timber as any in the west riding of Yorkshire well there is one tree the last on the left hand before you come to the clock house larger than all the rest a huge piece of timber with broad spreading branches and a vinyl not what girth in the trunk that tree is in some mysterious manner connected with the family of rookwood and immediately previous to the death of one of that lime a branch is sure to be shed from the parent's stem prognosticating his doom but you shall hear the legend and in a strange support cruel tone not inappropriate however to his subject peter chanted the following ballad the legend of the lime tree amid the grove or arched above with lime trees old and tall the avenue that leads on to the rookwood's ancient hall I order rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky and wide out flings like mighty wings its arms unbrajously seven yards its base would scarce embrace a goodly tree I wean with silver bark and foliage dark of mel and collie green amid its bows two ravens house and build from year to year their black brood hatch their black brood watch then screaming disappear in that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh its leaves are stirred and there is heard a low and plaintive cry and when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend bows among sad wailing moans like human groans the concert harsh prolong but whether gale or calm prevail or threatening cloud hath fled by hand of fate predestinate a limb that tree will shed a verdant bow untouched eye-trow by axe or tempest's breath to rookwood's head and omen dread of fast approaching death some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power like laran bell death's note to nail at fates appointed hour while some avow that on its bow are fearful traces seen red as the stains from human veins commingling with the green others again there are maintain that on the shattered bark a print is made where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark that errant falls the raven calls thrice from that wizard bow and that each cry thus signify what space the fates allow in all and days the legend says as grim serrano feud that she'd hag her footsteps dragged beneath his lordly wood his bloodhounds twain he called a mane and straightway gave her chase was never seen in forest green so fierce so fleet a race with eyes aflame to run off came each red and ruthless hound while mangled torn a sight for lawn the hag lay on the ground in where she lay was turned the clay and limb and reeking bone within the earth with ribald mirth by ran off grim were thrown and while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witches gore a lime tree steak did ran off take and pierced her bosom's core and strange to tell what next befell that branch at once took root and richly fared within its bed strong suckers forth did shoot from year to year fresh bows appear it waxes huge in size and with wild glee this prodigy serrano grim as spies one day when he beneath that tree reclined in joy and pride a branch was found upon the ground the next serrano died and from that hour a fatal power has ruled that wizard tree an elf's line a warning sign of doom and destiny for when a bow is found I try beneath its shade to lie as sun shall rise thrice in the skies a rook would sure shall die and such an omen proceeded surpassed him eyes said Luke who had listened with some attention to his grand size song unquestionably replied the sexton not longer ago than Tuesday morning I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I have just described I know not what took me thither at that early hour but I wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the wizard lime tree great heaven what a surprise awaited me a huge branch lay right across the path it had evidently just fallen for the leaves were green and unwithered the sap still oozed from the splintered wood and there was neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark I looked up among the bows to mark the spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of fate for no human hand had done it and saw the pair of ancestral ravens perched amid the foliage and croaking as those carrion foul I want to do when they sent a carcass afar off just then a livelier sound saluted my ears a cheering cry of a pack of hounds resounded from the courts and the great gates being thrown open out issues appear as attended by a troop of his roistering companions all on horseback and all making the welkin ring with their vociferations so peers laughed as loudly as the rest but his mirth was speedily checked no sooner had his horse hold rook his favourite steed who never swerved at stake or pale before set eyes upon the accursed branch then he started as if the fiends stood before him and rearing backwards flung his rider from the saddle at this moment with loud screams the wizard ravens took flight so peers were somewhat hurt by the fall but he was more frightened than hurt and though he tried to put a bold face on the matter it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless Dr. Titus Turconnell and that wild fellow Jack Palmer who has lately come to the hall and of whom you know something tried to rally him but it would not do he broke up the day's sport and returned dejectedly to the hall before departing however he addressed a word to me in private respecting you and pointed with a melancholy shake of the head to the fatal branch it is my death warrant said he gloomily and so it proved two days afterwards his doom was accomplished and do you place faith in this idle legend asked Luke with effected indifference although it was evident from his manner that he himself was not so entirely free from a superstitious feeling of credulity as he would have it appear sirtees replied the sexton I was more difficult to be convinced than the unbelieving disciple else thrice hath it occurred to my own knowledge and ever with the same result first with Sir Reginald secondly with thy own mother and lastly as I have just told thee with Sir Pierce even now that this death omen if such it be was always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood and not to mere inmates of the mansion to the heads only of that house be they male or female then how could it apply to my mother was she of that house was she a wife who shall say she was not rejoined the sexton who shall say she was so replied Luke repeating the words that a smile cold as a wintery sun being played upon the sexton's rigid lips I will bear this no longer cried Luke anger me not I'll look to yourself in a word have you anything to tell me respecting her if not let me be gone I have but I will not be hurried by a boy like you replied Peter doggedly go if you will and take the consequences my lips are sealed forever and I have much to say much that it behoves you to know be brief then when you sought me out this morning in my retreat with the gypsy gang at Davenham Wood you made me meet you in the porch of Rookwood church at midnight I was true to my appointment and I will keep my promise replied the sexton draw closer that I may whisper in thine ear of every Rookwood who lies around us and all that ever bore the name of this himself who lies in state in the hall I hear not one mark what I say not one male branch of the house but has been suspected of what of murder returned the sexton in a hissing whisper murder echoed Luke recoiling there is one dark stain one foul blot on all blood has been spilt by all I and such blood theirs was no common crime even murder hath its degrees theirs was of the first class their wives you cannot mean that I their wives I do you have heard it then ha this is a trick they had did you ever hear the old saying no mate ever brook wood a Rook of the Rookwood saying it is and true no woman ever stood in a Rookwood's way but she was speedily removed that certain they had all say poor sepears the knack of stopping a troublesome woman's tongue and practised it to perfection a rare art eh what hath the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with sepears muttered Luke much less with my mother everything if he could not rid himself of his wife and she is a match for the devil himself the mistress might be more readily set aside have you absolute knowledge of art asked Luke his voice tremulous with emotion nay I but hinted such hints are worse than open speech let me know the worst did he kill her and Luke glared at the sexton as if he would have penetrated his secret soul but Peter was not so easily fathomed his cold bright eye returned Luke's gaze steadfastly as he answered composedly I have said all I know but not all you think thought should not always find utterance else we might often endanger our own safety and that of others an idle subterfuge and from you worse than idle I will have my answer yay or nay was it steel enough she died no it is not enough when where in her sleep in her bed why that was natural a wrinkling smile crossed the sexton's brow what means that horrible gleam of laughter exclaimed Luke grasping the shoulder of the man of graves with such forces to nearly annihilate him speak or I will strangle you she died you say in her sleep she did so replied the sexton shaking off Luke's hold and was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to avenge that you brought me to the tomb of her destroyer when he is beyond the reach of my vengeance Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture that the sexton entertained some little apprehension that his intellects were unsettled by the shock of the intelligence it was therefore in what he intended for a soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his grandson's attention I will hear nothing more interrupted Luke and the vaulted chamber rang with his passionate lamentations am I the sport of this mocking fiend cried he to whom my agonies derision my despair a source of enjoyment beneath whose withering glance my spirit shrinks who with half expressed insinuations tortures my soul awakening fancies that gored me on to dark and desperate deeds dead mother upon thee I call if in thy grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son yearning to avenge thee answer me if thou hast the power let me have some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions that I may wrestle against the demon but no I did he in accents of despair no way listens to me save his to whom my wretchedness is food for mockery could the dead hear thee thy mother might do so returned the sexton she lies within this space Luke staggered back as if struck by a sudden shot he spoke not but fell with a violent shock against the pile of coffins at which he caught for support what have I done he exclaimed recoiling a thundering crash resounded through the vault one of the coffins dislodged from its position by his fall tumbled to the ground and the lighting upon its side split asunder great heavens what's this cried Luke as a dead body clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb rolled forth to his feet it is your mother's corpse answered the sexton coldly I brought you hither to behold it for you have anticipated my intentions this my mother freaked Luke dropping upon his knees by the body and seizing one of its chilly hands as it lay upon the floor with the face upwards the sexton took the candle from the sconce can this be death shouted Luke impossible oh god she stirs she moves the light quick I see her stir this is dreadful do not deceive yourself said the sexton in a tone which betrayed more emotion than was his want it is the bewilderment of fancy she will never stir again and he shaded the candle with his hand so as to throw the full light upon the face of the corpse it was motionless as that of an image carved in stone no trace of corruption was visible upon the rigid yet exquisite tracery of its features a profuse cloud of raven hair escaped from its swathments in the fall hung like a dark veil over the human person of the dead and presented a startling contrast to the wax-like hue of the skin and the pallid sea clothes flesh still adhered to the hand though it was moulded into dust within the grip of Luke as he pressed the fingers to his lips the shroud was disposed like night gear about her person and from without its folds a few withered flowers had fallen a strong aromatic odor of a pungent nature was diffused around giving evidence that the art by which the ancient Egyptians endeavoured to rescue their kindred from decomposition had been resorted to to preserve the fleeting charms of the unfortunate Susan Bradley a pause of awful silence succeeded broken only by the convulsive respiration of Luke the sexton stood by apparently an indifferent spectator of the scene of horror wandered from the dead to the living and gleaned with a peculiar and indefinable expression half apathy, half abstraction for one single instant as he scrutinised the features of his daughter his brow contracted by anger immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn but otherwise you would have sought in vain to read the purport of that cold insensible glance which dwelt for a brief space on the face of the mother eventually upon her son at length the withered flowers attracted his attention he stooped to pick up one of them faded as the hand that gathered ye as the bosom on which ye were strewn he murmured no sweet smell left holding the dry leaves to the flame of the candle they were instantly ignited and the momentary brilliance played like a smile upon the features of the dead he observed the effect such was thy life he exclaimed a brief bright sparkle followed by dark utter extinction saying which he flung the expiring ashes of the flower it from his hand end of chapter one book one book one chapter two of Rookwood this is a Librivox recording all Librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit Librivox.org this reading by Paul Curran Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth book one chapter two the skeleton hand Dutch you are very cold I fear you are not well after your travel fur let her have lights enough Dutch what witchcraft doth he practised that he has left a dead hand here Duchess of Malfi the sexton's waning candle now warned him of the progress of time and having completed his arrangements he addressed himself to Luke intimating his intention of departing but receiving no answer and remarking no signs of life about his grandson he began to be apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon drawing near to Luke he took him gently by the arm thus disturbed Luke groaned aloud I'm glad to find you can breathe if it be only after that melancholy fashion said the sexton but come I've wasted time enough already you must indulge your grief elsewhere leave me side Luke it were as much as my office is worth you can return home some other night but go you must now at least if you take on thus I never calculated upon a scene like this or it had to be in long air I brought you hither so come away yet stay but first lend me a hand to replace the body in the coffin touch it not exclaimed Luke she shall not rest another hour within these accursed walls and sobbing hysterically he relapsed into his former insensibility ah this is worse than Midsomer Madness said Peter the lad is crazed with grief and all about a mother who has been four and twenty years in her grave I will input her out of the way myself saying which he proceeded as noiselessly as possible to raise the corpse in his arms and deposited it softly within its former peniment carefully as he executed his task he could not accomplish it without occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame in sensibles he was Luke had not relinquished the hold he maintained of his mother's hand and when Peter lifted the body the ligaments connecting the hand with the arm were suddenly snapped asunder it would appear afterwards that this joint had been tampered with and partially dislocated entering into further particulars in this place it may be sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, remained within the grip of Luke while ignorant of the mischief he had occasioned the sexton continued his labours unconsciously until the noise which he of necessity made in stamping with his heel upon the plank recalled his grandson to sensibility the first thing that the latter perceived upon collecting his faculties were the skeleton fingers twined in his own what have you done with the body why have you left this with me demanded he it was not my intention to have done so answered the sexton suspending his occupation have just made faster lid but it is easily undone you'd better restore it never returned Luke staring at the bony fragment and what advantage is a dead hand it is an unlucky keepsake and will lead to mischief the only use I ever heard such a thing being turned to was in the case of Bolegid Ben who was hanging irons for murder on hard chase heath on the York road and whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first night to make a hand of glory or dead man's candle hast thou never heard what the old song says and without awaiting his grandson's response Peter broke into the following wild strain the hand of glory from the corpse that hangs on the roadside tree a murderous corpse it needs must be sever the right hand carefully sever the hand that the deed hath done ere the flesh that clings to the bones be gone in its dry veins must blood be none those ghastly fingers white and cold within a winding sheet enfold count the mystic counts of seven name the governors of heaven then in earth and vessel place them and with dragon wart encase them bleach them in the noonday sun till the marrow melt and run till the flesh is pale and won as a moon and silvered cloud as an unpolluted shroud next within their chill embrace the dead man's awful candle place of murderous fat must that candle be you may scoop it beneath the roadside tree of wax and of Lapland's sesame its wick must be twisted of hair of the dead by the crow and her brood on the wild waste shed wherever that terrible light shall burn vainly the sleeper may toss and turn his lead and lids shall he near unclose so long as that magical taper glows life and treasures shall he command who knoweth the charm of the glorious hand but of black cat's gall let him eye have care and of screech owl's venomous blood beware peace! thundered Luke extending his mother's hand towards the sexton what see is thou? I see something shine hold it nigh of the light that is strange truly how came that ring there? ask of Sapears ask of her husband! shouted Luke with a wild burst of exulting laughter ha! tis a wedding ring and look the finger is bent it must have been placed upon it in her lifetime there is no deception in this no trickery it would seem not the sinew must have been contracted in life the tendons are pulled down so tightly that the ring could not be withdrawn without breaking the finger you are sure that coffin contains her body? as sure as I am this carcass is my own the hand tis hers can any doubt exist? wherefore should it? it was broken from the arm by accident within this moment I notice not the occurrence but it must have been so that it follows that she was wedded and I am not illegitimate for your own sake I'm glad of it my heart will burst oh could I what established the fact of this marriage her wrongs would be indeed avenged listen to me Luke I said the sexton solemnly I told you when I pointed this midnight interview I had a secret to communicate that secret is now revealed that secret was your mother's marriage and it was known to you during her lifetime? it was but I was sworn to secrecy you have proofs then I have nothing beyond Sir Piers's word and he is silent now by whom was the ceremony performed? by a rommish priest a Jesuit one father checkly and at that time an inmate of the hall for Sir Piers though he afterwards abjured it at that time professed the catholic faith and this checkly officiated as his confessor and counsellor as the partner of his pleasures and the promter of his iniquities he was your father's evil genius is he still alive? I know not after your mother's death he left the hall I have said he was a Jesuit and I may add that he was mixed up in dark political intrigues in which your father was too feeble a character to take much share but though too weak to guide he was a pliant instrument and this checkly knew he moulded him according to his wishes I cannot tell you what was the nature of their plots suffice it they were such as if discovered you would have involved your father in ruin he was saved however by his wife and her reward groaned Luke was death said Peter coldly what Jesuit ever forgave a wrong real or imaginary your mother I ought to have said was a Protestant hence there was a difference of religious opinion the worst of differences that can exist between husband and wife he checkly vowed her destruction and he kept his vow he was enamoured of her beauty but while he burnt with adulterous desire he was consumed by fiercest hate contending and yet strangely reconcilable passions as you may have reason hereafter to discover go on said Luke grinding his teeth I have done returned Peter from that hour your father's love for his supposed mistress and unacknowledged wife declined and with his waning love declined her health I will not waste words in describing the catastrophe that awaited her union it will be enough to say she was found one morning a corpse within her bed whatever suspicions were attached disappears were quieted by checkly who distributed gold largely and discreetly the body was embalmed by Barbara Lovell the gypsy queen my foster mother exclaimed Luke in a tone of extreme astonishment ah, replied Peter from her you may learn all particulars you have now seen what remains of your mother you are in possession of the secret of your birth the path is before you and if you would arrive at honour you must pursue it you are not actually turning neither to the right nor to the left opposition you will meet at each step but fresh light may be thrown upon this difficult case it is in vain to hope for checkly's evidence even should the cative priest be living he himself is too deeply implicated Peter stopped for at this moment the flame of the candle suddenly expired and the speakers were left in total darkness their own followed the conclusion of the Sexton's discourse it was evident that it proceeded not from his grandson as an exclamation burst from him at the same instant Luke stretched out his arm a cold hand seemed to press against his own communicating a chill like death to his frame who is between us? he ejaculated the devil cried the Sexton leaping from the coffin lid with an agility that did him honour it's all between us I will discharge my gun, its flash will light us do so he still rejoined Peter but not in this direction get behind me cried Luke and he pulled the trigger a blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness still nothing was visible saved the warrior figure which was seen for a moment and then vanished like a ghost the book shot rattled against the further end of the vault let us go hence ejaculated the Sexton who had rushed to the door and thrown it wide open all, all! cried he and the dog sprang after him I could have sworn I felt something said Luke whence issued that groan ask not whence replied Peter reach me my mattock and spade and the lantern they're behind you and stay it would better to bring away the bottle take them and leave me here alone in the vault, no, no Luke I have not told you half I know concerning that mystic statue it is said to move to walk to raise its axe be warned I pray leave me or abide if you will my coming in the church if the resort that may be revealed to my ear alone I will not shrink from it though the dead themselves should arise to proclaim the mystery it may be but go there are your tools and he shut the door with a jar that shook the Sexton's frame Peter after some muttered murmurings at the hardy-hood and madness he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky limbs to repose upon a cushioned bench without the communion railing as the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt cadaverous visage he looked like some unholy thing suddenly annihilated by the presiding influence of that sacred spot Mole crouched himself at a ring at his master's feet Peter had not dozed many minutes when he was roused by Luke's return the latter was very pale and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow have you made fast the door? inquired the Sexton here's the key what have you seen? he next demanded Luke made no answer at that moment the church clock struck two breaking the stillness with an iron clang Luke raised his eyes the moonlight streaming obliquely through the painted window fell upon a gilt lettering of a black mural and tablature the lower part of the inscription was in the shade but the emblazerment and the words orate pro anima reginaldi rookward equities orati were clear and distinct Luke trembled he knew not why as the Sexton pointed to it you have heard of the handwriting upon the wall said Peter look there his kingdom hath been taken from him ha listen to me of all thy monster race of all the race of rookward I should say no demon ever stalk the earth more terrible than him whose tablet you now behold by him a brother was betrayed by him a brother's wife was dishonoured love, honour, friendship were with him as words he regarded no ties he defied and set at naught all human laws and obligations and yet he was religious or esteemed so received the viaticum and died full of years and honours hugging salvation to his sinful heart and after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his virtues his virtues ask him who preaches to the kneeling throng gathering within this holy place what shall be the mother's portion and he will answer death and yet Sir Reginald was long lived the awful question Cain where is thy brother broke not his tranquil slumbers Luke I have told you much but not all you know not as yet nor shall you know your destiny but you shall be the avenger of infamy and blood I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping which hereafter I may delegate to you you shall be Sir Luke Rookwood but the conditions must be mine to propose no more said Luke my brain reels I'm faint let us quit this place and get into the fresh air and striding past his grand sire he traversed the isles with hasty steps Peter was not slow to follow the key was applied and they emerged into the churchyard the grassy mounds were bathed in the moonbeams and the two yew trees throwing their black jagged shadows over the grave hills looked like evil spirits brooding over the repose of the righteous the sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance where he fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moonlight I will be with you at your cottage air daybreak said Luke and turning an angle of the church he disappeared from view so exclaimed Peter gazing after him the train is laid the spark has been applied the explosion will soon follow the hour is fast approaching when I shall behold this accursed house shaken to dust when my long delayed vengeance will be gratified in that hope I am content to drag on the brief remnants of my days meanwhile I must not omit the stimulant in a short time I may not require it draining the bottle to the last drop he flung it from him and commenced chanting in a high key and cracked voice a wild ditty the words of which ran as follows the carrion crow the carrion crow is a sexton bold he rakeeth the dead from out the mould he delveth the ground like a miser old healthily hiding his store of gold the carrion crow hath a coat of black silky and sleek like a priest to his back like a lawyer he grubbeth no matter what way the foul are the awful the richer his prey the carrion crow dig dig in the ground below the carrion crow hath a dainty moor with savoury pickings he crammeth his crow the meat from the gibbet it pleatheth his whim it can never hang too long for him the carrion crow smelleth the powder to his said like a soldier sheweth the taste of cold lead no jester or mime hath more marvellous wit for wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit the carrion crow dig dig in the ground below shouldering his spade and whistling to his dog the sexton quitted the churchyard Peter hath not been gone many seconds when a dark figure muffled in a wide black mantel emerged from among the tombs surrounding the church gazed after him for a few seconds and then with a menacing gesture retreated behind the ivid buttresses of the grey old pile End of Book 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Book 1 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org This reading by Paul Curran Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth Book 1 Chapter 3 The Park Brian, Ralph, here is thou any stirring? Ralph, I heard once speak here hard-buy in the hollow peace-master speak low, noun'd, if I do not hear a bogo off and the book bray I never heard dear in my life Brian, stand or I'll shoot Sir Arthur, who's there? Brian, I am the keeper and do charge you stand you have stolen my dear Mary Devil of Edmonton Rook's first impulse had been to free himself from the restraint imposed by his grand sire's society he longed to commune with himself leaping the small boundary wall which defended the churchyard from a deep green lane he hurried along in a direction contrary to that taken by the sexton making the best of his way until he arrived at a gap in the high banked hazel hedge which overhung the road heedless of the impediments thrown in his way by the undergrowth of a rough ring fence he struck through the opening that presented itself and climbing over the moss-grown pailing trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rookwood Park a few minutes rapid walking brought him to the summit of a rising ground crowned with aged oaks and, as he passed beneath their broad shadows his troubled spirit soothed by the quietude of the scene and resumed its serenity Rook yielded to the gentle influence of the time and hour the stillness of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame and the dewy chillness cooled the fever of his brow leaning for support against the niled trunk of one of the trees he gave himself up to contemplation the events of the last hour of his whole existence passed in rapid review before him his thought of the wayward vagabond life he had led of the wild adventures of his youth of all that he had been of all that he had done of all he had endured crowded his mind and then, like the passing of a cloud flitting across the autumnal moon and occasionally obscuring the smiling landscape before him his soul was shadowed by the remembrance of the awful revelations of the last hour and the fearful knowledge she had acquired of his mother's fate of his father's guilt the eminence on which he stood was one of the highest points of the park and commanded a view of the hall which might be a quarter of a mile distant discernible through a broken vista of trees its whitened walls glimmering in the moonlight and its tall chimney spiring far from out the round masses of the wood in which it lay embosomed the ground gradually sloped in that direction occasionally rising into swells studded with magnificent timber dipping into smooth dells or stretching out into level glades until it suddenly sank into a deep declivity that formed an effectual division without the intervention of a ho-ho or other barrier between the chase and the home park a slender stream strayed through this ravine having found its way thither from a small reservoir hidden in the higher plantations to the left and further on in the open ground and in a line with the hall though of course much below the level of the building assisted by many local springs and restrained by a variety of natural and artificial embankments this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of water crossed by a rustic bridge the only communication between the parks the pool found its outlet into the meads below and even at that distance and at that still hour you might almost catch the sound of the brawling waters as they dash down the weir in a foaming cascade while far away in the spreading valley the serpentine meanderings of the slender current might be traced glittering like silvery threads in the moonshine the mild beams of the queen of night then in hermeridian trembled upon the topmost branches of the tall timber quivering like diamond spray upon the outer foliage and penetrating through the interstices of the trees fell upon the light reeds of vapor then beginning to rise from the surface of the pool steeping them in misty splendor and lending to this part of the picture a character of dreamy and unearthly beauty all else was in unison no sound interrupted the silence of Luke's solitude except the hooting of a large grey owl that, scared at his approach or in search of prey winged its spectral flight in continuous and mazy circles round his head uttering at each wheel its startling whoop or a deep distant bay that ever and anon boomed upon the ear proceeding from a pack of hounds kennelled in a shed adjoining the pool before mentioned but which was shrouded from view by the rising mist no living objects presented themselves save a herd of deer crouched in a culvert of brown fern beneath the shadow of a few stunted trees immediately below the point of land on which Luke stood and although their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from the ramifications of the wood itself they escaped not his practised ken how often? In years gone by have I traversed these moolic glades and wandered amid these woodlands on nights as heavenly as this I, and to some purpose as yon thinned heard might testify every dingle, every dale, every rising brow every bosky veil and shelving cobert have been as familiar to my track as to that of the fetest and freest of their number scarce a tree amidst the thickest of yon outstretching forests with which I cannot claim acquaintance it is long since I have seen them by heavens it is beautiful and it is all my own can I forget that it was here I first emancipated myself and thralled them can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced within my veins when I first threw off the yoke of servitude and roved, unshackled, unrestrained amidst these woods the wild intoxicating bliss still tingles to my heart and they are all my own my own softly, what have we there? Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not fail to interest him, sportsman as he was a snorting bray was heard and a lordly stag stalked slowly and majestically from out the cops Luke watched the actions of the noble animal with great interest drawing back into the shade a hundred yards are thereabouts might be between him and the book it was within range of ball Luke mechanically grasped his gun yet his hand had scarcely raised a piece half way to his shoulder when he dropped it again to its rest what am I about to do? he mentally ejaculated why, for me a pastime should I take away your noble creature's life when his carcass would be utterly useless to me yet such is the force of habit that I can scarce resist the impulse that tempted me to fire and I have known the time and that not long since when I should have shown no such self-control unconscious of the danger it had escaped the animal moved forward with the same stately step suddenly it stopped with ears pricked as if some sound had smoked them at that instant the click of a gunlock was heard at a little distance to the right the peace had missed fire an instantaneous report from another gun succeeded and with a bound high in the air the book fell upon his back struggling in the agonies of death Luke had at once divined the cause he was aware that poachers were at hand he fancied that he knew the parties nor was he deceived in his conjecture two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right and making to the spot the first who reached it put an end to the animal's struggles by plunging a knife into its throat the affrighted herd took to their heels and were seen darting swiftly down the chase one of the twain, meantime was occupied in feeling for the deer's fat when he was approached by the other who pointed in the direction of the house the former raised himself from his kneeling posture and both appeared to listen attentively Luke fancied he heard a slight sound in the distance whatever the noise proceeded from it was evident that the deer-stealers were alarmed they laid hold of the book and dragging it along concealed the carcass among the tall fern they then retreated halting for an instant to deliberate within a few yards of Luke who was concealed from their view by the trunk of the tree behind which he had ensconced his person they were so near that he lost not a word of their muttered conference the games spoiled this time, Rod Rust anyhow growled one in an angry tone the hawks are upon us and we must leave this brave book to take care of himself curse him, who'd have thought of Hugh Badgers quitting his bed tonight respect for his late master might have kept him quiet the night before the funeral but look out lad, dost see him aye, thanks to old Oliver, yonder they are returned the other one, two, three and a muzzle bowser to boot there's Hugh at the lead on him shall we stand and show fight I have half a mind for it no, no replied the first speaker that will never do, Rob, no fighting why run the risk of being grabbed for a haunch of venison had Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been with us it might have been another affair as it is it won't pay besides we have that to do at the hall tomorrow night that may make men of us for the rest of our natural lives we've pledged ourselves to Jack Palmer and we can't be off in honour it won't do to be snabbed in the nick of it so let's make for the pride in the lane keeping the shade as much as you can come along my hearty and away the two worthy scampered down the hillside shall I follow thought Luke and run the risk of falling into the keeper's hand just at this crisis too no but if I'm found here I shall be taken for one of the gang something must be done devil take them here they are already further time was not allowed him for reflection a horse baying was heard followed by a loud cry from the keepers the dog had scented out the game and as secrecy was no longer necessary his muzzle had been removed to rush forth now was certain betrayal to remain was almost equally assured detection and doubting whether he should obtain credence if he delivered himself over in that garb and armed Luke had once rejected the idea then it flashed across his recollection that his gun had remained unloaded and he applied himself eagerly to repair this negligence when he heard the dog in full cry making swiftly in his direction he threw himself upon the ground where the fern was thickest but this seemed insufficient to baffle the sagacity of the hound the animal had got his scent and was baying close at hand the keepers were drawing nigh Luke gave himself up for lost the dog however stopped where the two poachers had halted and was there completely at fault snuffing the ground he bade, wheeled around and then set off with renewed barking upon their track Hugh Badger and his comrades loitered an instant in the same place looked warily around and then as Luke conjectured followed the course taken by the hound swift as thought, Luke rose and keeping as much as possible under the cover of the trees started in a cross-line for the lane rapid as was his flight it was not without a witness one of the keepers' assistants who had lagged behind gave the view halloo in a loud voice Luke pressed forward with redoubled energy endeavouring to gain the shelter of the plantation and this he could readily have accomplished had no impediment been in his way but his rage and vexation were boundless when he heard the keepers cry echoed by shouts immediately below him and the tong of the hound resounding in the hollow he turned sharply round steering a middle course and still aiming at the fence it was evident from the cheers of his pursuers with full view and he heard them encouraging and directing the dog Luke had gained the park railings along which he rushed in the vain quest of some practicable point of egress for the fence was higher in this part of the park than elsewhere owing to the inequality of the ground he had cast away his gun as useless but even without that encumbrance he dared not hazard the delay of climbing the palings at this juncture a deep breathing was heard close behind him with a glance over his shoulder within a few yards was the ferocious bloodhound with whose savage nature Luke was well acquainted the breed, some of which he had already seen having been maintained at the hall ever since the days of grim old Sir Randolph the eyes of the hound were glaring blood red his tongue was hanging out and the row of keen white fangs was displayed like the teeth of a shark there was a growl, a leap and the dog was close upon him Luke's courage was doubled but his heart failed him as he heard the roar of the remorseless brute and felt that he could not avoid an encounter with the animal his resolution was instantly taken he stopped short with such suddenness that the dog when in the act of springing flew past him with great violence and the time momentary as it was occupied by the animal in recovering himself enabled Luke to drop on his knee and to place one arm like a buckler before his face while he held the other in readiness to grapple his adversary uttering a fierce yell the hound returned to the charge darting at Luke who received the assault without flinching and in spite of a severe laceration of the arm he seized his foe by the throat and hurling him upon the ground jumped with all his force upon his belly there was a yell of agony the contest was ended and Luke was at liberty to pursue his flight unmolested brief has had been the interval required for this combat it had been sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the fugitive Hugh Badger, who from their clivity had witnessed the fate of his favourite with a loud oath discharged the contents of his gun at the head of its destroyer it was fortunate for Luke that at this instant he stumbled over the root of a tree the shot rattled in the leaves as he fell and the keeper concluding that he had at least winged his bird descended more leisurely towards him as he lay upon the ground Luke felt that he was wounded whether by the teeth of the dog from a stray shot or from bruises inflicted by the foe he could not determine but, smarting with pain he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who approached him he vowed not to be taken with life to strangle any who should lay hands upon him and at that moment he felt a pressure at his breast it was the dead hand of his mother Luke shuddered the fire of revenge was quenched he mentally cancelled his rash oath yet he could not bring himself to surrender at discretion and without further effort the keeper and his assistants were approaching the spot where he lay and searching for his body Hugh Badger was foremost within a yard of him can found the rascal cried Hugh he's not half killed he seems to breathe the words were scarcely out of his mouth there the speak was dashed backwards and lay sprawling upon the sod suddenly and unexpectedly as an Indian chief might rush upon his foes Luke arose dashing himself with great violence against Hugh who happened to stand in his way and before the startled assistants who were either too much taken by surprise or unwilling to draw the trigger could in any way lay hands upon him exerting all the remarkable activity which he possessed he caught hold of a projecting branch of a tree and swung himself at a single bound fairly over the pailing Hugh Badger was shortly on his legs swearing lustily at his defeat directing his men to skirt alongside the fence and make for a particular part of the plantation which he named and snatching a loaded fouling piece from one of them he clambered over the pails and guarded by the crashing branches and other sounds conveyed to his quick ear he was speedily upon Luke's track the plantation through which the chase now took place was not as might be supposed a continuation of the ring fence which Luke had originally crossed on his entrance into the park though girded by the same line of pailing but in reality a close pheasant preserve occupying the banks of a ravine which after a deep and tortuous course terminated it in the declivity heretofore described as forming the park boundary Luke plunged into the heart of this defile fighting his way onwards in the direction of the brook his progress was impeded by a thick undergrowth of briar and other matted vegetation as well as by the entanglements thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn and hazel the entwined and elastic branches of which in their recoil galled and fretted him by inflicting smart blows on his face and hands this was a hardship he usually little regarded but upon the present occasion it had the effect by irritating his temper of increasing the thirst of vengeance raging in his bosom through the depths of the ravine welled the shadow stream before alluded to and Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgey margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive he looked cautiously round listened intently and inclined his ear to catch the faintest echo all was still not a branch shook not a leaf rustled Hugh looked aghast he had made sure of getting a glimpse and perhaps a stray shot at the poaching rascal as he termed him in the open space which he was sure the fellow was aiming to reach and now all at once he had disappeared like a willow the wisp or a boggert of the cloth however he could not be far off and Hugh endeavoured to obtain some clue to guide him in his quest he was not long in detecting recent marks deeply indented in the mud on the opposite bank Hugh leapt dither at once further on some rushes were trodden down and there were other indications of the course the fugitive had taken Hark! Forward! shouted Hugh in the joy of his heart at this discovery and like a well-trained dog he followed up with a lacquery the scent he had opened the brook presented still fewer impediments to expedition than the thick cops and the keeper pursued the wanderings of the petty current occasionally splashing into the stream here and there the print of a foot on the soil satisfied him he was on the right path at length he became aware from the crumbling soil that the object of his pursuit has scaled the bank and he forthwith moderated his pace halting he perceived what he took to be a face peeping at him from behind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving bank immediately above him his gun was instantly at his shoulder come down you infernal dear stealing scoundrel! cried Hugh or I'll blow you to shivers no answer was returned expostulation was vain and fearful of placing himself at a disadvantage if he attempted to scale the bank Hugh fired without further parley the sharp discharge rolled in echoes down the ravine and the pheasant scared by the sound answered the challenge from a neighbouring tree Hugh was an unerring marksman and on this occasion his aim had been steadily taken the result was not precisely such as he had anticipated a fur cap shaken by the shot from the bow on which it hung came rolling down the bank proclaiming the ruse that had been practised upon the keeper little time was allowed for reflection before he could reload he felt himself coloured by the iron arm of Luke Hugh Badger was a man of great personal strength square set, bandylegged with a prodigious width of chest and a frame like Hercules and energetic as was Luke's assault he maintained his ground without flinching the struggle was desperate Luke was of slight proportion though exceeding the keeper in stature by the head and shoulders this superiority availed him little it was rather a disadvantage in the conflict that ensued the grip fastened upon Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched vice but Luke might as well have grappled the neck of a bull as that of the stalwart keeper defending himself with his hobnail boots with which he inflicted several severe blows upon Luke's shins and struggling vehemently Hugh succeeded in extricating himself from his throttling grasp then he closed with his foe and they were locked together like a couple of bears at play straining, tugging and practising every slight and stratagem coming within the scope of feet, knees and thighs now tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retreating they continued the strife but all without full result victory at length seemed to declare itself in favour of the sturdy keeper aware of his opponent's strength it was Luke's chief endeavour to keep his lower limbs disengaged and to trust more to skill and force for ultimate success to prevent this with Hugh's grand object guarding himself against every faint he ultimately succeeded in firmly grappling his agile assistant Luke's spine was almost broken by the shock when he suddenly gave way and without losing his balance drew his adversary forward kicking his right leg from under him with a crash like that of an uprooted oak Hugh fell with his foe upon him into the bed of the rivulet not a word had been spoken during the conflict a convulsive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast his hand sought his girdle but in vain his knife was gone gazing upwards his dancing vision encountered the glimmer of the blade the weapon had dropped from its case in the fall Luke brandished it before his eyes Villain! gasped Hugh ineffectually struggling to free himself you will not murder me and his efforts to release himself became desperate no answered Luke flinging the uplifted knife into the brook I will not do that though thou hast twice aimed at my life tonight but I will silence thee at all events saying which he dealt the keeper a blow on the head that terminated all further resistance on his part leaving the inert mass to choke up the current with whose waters the blood oozing from the wound began to commingle Luke prepared to depart his perils were not yet passed guided by the firing the report of which alarmed them the keeper's assistants hastened in the direction of the sound presenting themselves directly in the path Luke was about to take he had either to retrace his steps or face a double enemy his election was made at once he turned and fled for an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion they then dragged him from the brook and with loud oads followed in pursuit threading for a second time the bosky labyrinth Luke sought the source of the stream this was precisely the course his enemies would have desired him to pursue and when they beheld him take it they felt confident of his capture the sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they advanced though they were less covered with brushwood the fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank but still pressed forward the road was tortuous and wound round a jutting point of rock now he was a fair mark no he had swept swiftly by and was out of sight before a gun could be raised they reached the same point he was still before them but his race was nearly run steep slippery rock shelving down to the edges of a small deep pool of water the source of the stream formed apparently insurmountable barrier in that direction rooted, heaven knows how in some reffed or fissure of the rock grew a wild ash throwing out a few bows over the solitary pool this was all the support Luke could hope for should he attempt to scale the rock the rock was sheer the pool deep yet still he hurried on he reached the muddy embankment mounted its sides and seemed to hesitate the keepers were now within a hundred yards of him both guns were discharged and sudden as the reports with a dead splashless plunge like a diving otter the fugitive dropped into the water the pursuers were at the brink they gazed into the pool a few bubbles floated upon its surface and burst the water was slightly discoloured with sand no ruddy astane crimsoned the tide no figure rested on the naked rock no hand clung to the motionless tree devil take the rascal growled one I hope he'd hand escaped us after all no, no he'd be fast enough, never fear rejoined the other sticking like a snig at the bottom of the pond and dang him, he deserves it for he slipped out of our fingers like a snig often enough to eat but come, let's be stomping and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and discomforted keeper End of Chapter 3, Book 1 Chapter 4, Book 1 of Rookwood this is a Librivox recording all Librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit Librivox.org this reading by Paul Curran Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth Book 1, Chapter 4 The Hall I am right against my house seat of my ancestors Yorkshire Tragedy Rookwood Place was a fine old irregular pile of considerable size presenting a rich picturesque outline with its innumerable gable ends its fantastical coins and tall crest of twisted chimneys there was no uniformity of style about the building yet the general effect was pleasing and beautiful its very irregularity constituted a charm nothing except convenience had been consulted in its construction additions had from time to time been made to it but everything dropped into its proper place and without apparent effort or design grew into an ornament and heightened the beauty of the whole it was, in short one of those glorious menorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greets us in our wanderings and gladden us like the discovery of a hidden treasure some such ancestral hall we have occasionally encountered in unlooked-for quarters in our native country of Lancaster or in its smiling sister-shire and never without feelings of intense delight rejoicing to behold the freshness of its antiquity and the greenness of its old age for be it observed in passing a Cheshire or Lancashire Hall time honoured though it be with its often renovated black and white squares fancifully filled up with trefoils and quarterfoils rosettes and other figures seems to bear its years so lightly that its age so far from detracting its beauty only lends it a grace and the same mansion to all outward appearance fresh and perfect as it existed in the days of good old Queen Bess may be seen in admirable preservation in the days of the youthful Victoria such is Bramall, such Morton and many other we might instance the former of these houses may perhaps be instanced as the best specimen of its class and in its class in our opinion is the best to be met with in Cheshire considered with reference either to the finished decoration of its exterior rich in the checkered colouring we have alluded to preserved with a care and neatness almost dutch to the consistent taste exhibited by its possessor to the restoration and maintenance of its original and truly national beauty within doors as an illustration of old English hospitality that real hearty hospitality for which the squierarchy of this country was once so famous ah, why have they bartered it for other customs less substantially English it may be mentioned that a road conducted the passenger directly through the great hall of this house literally of entertainment where if he listed strong ale and other refreshments awaited his acceptance and courted his stay well-might old king the Cheshire historian in the pride of his honest heart exclaim I know diverse men who are but farmers that in their housekeeping may compare with a lord or barren in some countries beyond the seas yea, although I named a higher degree I were able to justify it we have no such golden farmers in these degenerate days the mansion was originally built by Sir Randolph D. Rookwood or, as it was then written, Rookwood first of the name, a stout Yorkist who flourished in the reign of Edward IV and received the fair domain and broad lands upon which the edifice was raised from his sovereign in reward for good service retiring thither in the decline of life and the wars of the roses to sequestrate himself from scenes of strife and to consult his spiritual wheel in the erection and endowment of the neighbouring church it was of mixed architecture and combined the peculiarities of each successive era retaining some of the stern features of earlier days the period air yet the embattled manor house peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged into the graceful and peaceable hall the residence of the Rookwoods had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day though it could boast little of that exuberance of external ornament luxuriance of design and prodigality of beauty which, under the sway of the Virgin Queen distinguished the residence of the wealthier English landowner and rendered the Hall of Elizabeth properly so-called the pride and boast of our domestic architecture the site selected by Sir Rannell for his habitation had been already occupied by a vast fabric of oak which he in part removed though some vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile a massive edifice succeeded with gate and tower, court and moat complete substantially enough one would have thought to have endured for centuries but even this ponderous structure grew into misuse and Sir Rannell's successes, remodeling, repairing almost rebuilding the whole mansion in the end so metamorphosed its aspect that at last little of its original and distinctive character remained still, as we have said before, it was a fine old house though some changes had taken place for the worse which could not be readily pardoned by the eye of taste as, for instance, the deep, embayed windows had dwindled into modernised casements of lighter construction the wide porch, with its flight of steps leading to the great Hall of Entrance had yielded to a narrow door and the broad, quadrangular court was succeeded by a gravel drive yet, despite all these changes the house of the Rookwoods for an old house and after all, what is like an old house was no undesirable or uncongenial abode for any worshipful country gentleman who had a great estate the hall was situated near the base of a gently declining hill terminating a noble avenue of limes and partially embosomed in an immemorial wood of the same timber which had given its name to the family that dwelt amongst its Rook haunted shades descending the avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road that wound down the hillside towards a village distance about half a mile as you advanced the eye was first arrested by a singular octagonal turret of brick of more recent construction than the house and in all probability occupying the place where the gateway stood of yore this tower rose to a height corresponding with the roof of the mansion and was embellished on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering like an impudent observer at all that passed within doors two apartments which it contained were appropriated to the house porter despoiled of its marshal honors the gateway still displayed the achievements of the family the Rook and the fatal branch carved in granite which had resisted the storms of two centuries though stained green with moss and mapped over with lichens to the left overgrown with ivy and peeping out from a tuft of trees appeared the hoary summit of a dove cot indicating the near neighborhood of an ancient barn contemporary with the earliest dwelling house and of a little world of offices and outbuildings buried in the thickness of the foliage to the right was the garden the plaisons of the place formal, precise, old-fashioned artificial, yet exquisite for commend us to the bygone beautiful English garden really a garden not that mixture of park, meadow and wilderness brought up to one's very windows which since the days of the innovators Kent and his bold associates Capability Brown and Co has obtained so largely this was a garden there might be seen the stately terraces such as Watto and our own Wilson in his early works painted the trim alleys exhibiting all the triumphs of tropiarian art the side long walls of shaven ewe the holly's prickly arms trimmed into the high arcades the tonsile box woven mosaic mode of many a curl around the figured carpet of the lawn the gaze de paters the greenest of lawns with its admonitory sundial its marble basin in the centre its fountain and its conched water god the quaint summer house decorated with its guilt vein the statue glimmering from out its culvert of leaves the cool cascade the urns, the bowers and a hundred luxuries besides suggested and contrived by art to render nature most enjoyable and to enhance the recreative delights of home out of doors for such a garden should be with least sacrifice of indoor comfort and convenience when Epicurus to the world had taught that pleasure was the chiefest good and was perhaps in the right if rightly understood his life he to his doctrine brought and in his garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought all these delights might once have been enjoyed but at the time of which we write this fair garden was for the most part a waste ill kept and unregarded the gaze de paters were disfigured with weeds grass grew on the gravel walk several of the urns were overthrown the hour upon the sundial was untold the fountain was choked up and the smooth shaven lawn only rescued it would seem from the general fate that it might answer the purpose of a bowling green as the implements of that game scattered about plainly testified diverging from the garden to the house we have before remarked that the more ancient and characteristic features of the place had been for the most part destroyed less by the hand of time than to suit the tastes of different proprietors this however was not so observable in the eastern wing which overlooked the garden here might be discerned many indications of its antiquity the strength and solidity of the walls which had not been as elsewhere must with brickwork the low Tudor arches the million bars of the windows all attested its age the wing was occupied by an upper and the lower gallery communicating with suites of chambers for the most part deserted except in one or two which were used as dormitories and another little room on the ground floor with an aural window opening upon the lawn and commanding the prospect beyond a favourite resort the lates appears the interior was curious for his honeycomb ceiling deeply moulded in plaster with the arms and alliances at the rookwoods in the centre was the royal blazing of Elizabeth who had once honoured the hall with a visit during a progress and whose cipher E.R. was also displayed upon the immense plate of iron which formed the fire grate to return for a moment to the garden which we linger about as a bee around a flower below the lawn there was another terrace edged by a low balustrade of stone commanding a lovely view of the park water and woodland high hanging woods waved in the foreground and an exquisite sweep of flat champagne country stretched out to meet a line of blue hazy hills bounding the distant horizon End of Chapter 4, Book 1