 Chapter 1, Book 4 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 4, The Ride to York. Then one Halu boys, one loud cheering Halu, To the swiftest of courses, the gallant the true, For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless Of the horse of the highwayman, Bonnie Blackbess. Richard Turpin. Chapter 1, The Rendezvous at Kilburn. Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, Of the bastinado, Of stramasons, tinctures, and slie passatres, Of the caricado and rare embrecado, Of blades and rapier hilts of surest guard, Of the vincencio and burgundian ward, Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil button? Win gold and wear gold, boys, Tis we that merit it. The Prince of Priggs Rebels. An excellent comedy, replete with various conceits and Taltonian mirth. The present, straggling suburb at the north-west of the metropolis known as Kilburn, Had scarcely been called into existence a century ago, and an ancient hostel With a few detached farmhouses where the sole inhabitants to be found In the present populous viscinage. A piece of refreshment for the ruralising cockney of 1737 Was a substantial-looking tenement of the good old stamp, With great bay windows and a balcony in front, Bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of the lusty night Jack Falstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of the tree, To incline the wanderer on those dusty ways to rest and be thankful, And to cry on-core to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained Within the chimes of bow-bells. Upon a table, green as a privet and holly that formed the walls of the bower In which it was placed, stood a great china-bowl, One of those leviathan memorials of bygone wasselry, Which we may sometimes espy, reversed in token of its dejuitude, Perched on the top of an old Japaned closet. But seldom, if ever, encountered in its proper position at the genial board. All the appliances of festivity were at hand, Pipes and rumours strewed the board, Perfume, subtle yet mellow as of pine and lime Exhaled from out the bowl, And mingling with the scent of a neighbouring bed of mignonette, And the subdued odour of the Indian weed, Formed altogether as delectable an atmosphere as sweet As one could wish to inhale on a melting August afternoon. So at least, thought the inmates of the arbor. Nor did they by any means confine themselves to the gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial contents of the china-bowl proved as delicious to the taste As its bouquet was grateful to the smell. While the eyesight was soothed by reposing on the smooth sward of a bowling-green, Spread out immediately before it, Or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, Terminating at about a miles distance in the woody spire-crowned heights of Hampstead. At the left of the table was seated, or rather, lounged, A slender, elegant-looking young man with dark languid eyes, Sallow complexion, and features wearing that peculiar, pensive expression Often communicated by dissipation. An expression which, we regret to say, Is sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress, Fashioned according to the taste of the time, Of plain and unpretending material, and rather, under than overdressed, He had perhaps on that very account perfectly the air of a gentleman. There was altogether an absence of pretension about him, Which, combined with great apparent self-possession, Contrasted very forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. The figure of the youth was slight, even too fragility, Giving little outward manifestation of the vigor of frame he, in reality, possessed. This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom King, A noted high toby-glok of his time, Who obtained, from his appearance and address, The sobriquet of the gentleman highwayman. Tom was, indeed, a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was brief, but brilliant. Your meteors are ever momentary. He was a younger son of a good family, Had good blood in his veins, though not a groat in his pockets. According to the old song, when he arrived at man's estate, It was all the estate he had. And all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he had no income, he contrived, as he said, To live as if he had the minds of Peru at his control, A miracle not solely confined to himself. For a moneyless man he had rather expensive habits. He kept his three nags, and if fame does not belie him, A like number of mistresses. Nay, if we are to place any faith in certain scandalous chronicles To which we have had access, He was for some time the favoured lover of a celebrated actress, Who, for the time, supplied him with the means of keeping up His showy establishment. But things could not long hold thus. Tom was a model of infidelity, And that was the only failing his mistress could not overlook. She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily, too, he had other propensities Which contributed to involve him. He had a taste for the turf, a taste for play, Was well known in the hundreds of drury, And cut no mean figure at howls, And the farrow tables there and ent. He was the glory of the Smyrna, Dos Indas, and other chocolate houses of the day, And it was at this time he fell into the hands Of certain dexterous sharpers By whom he was at first plucked And subsequently patronised. Under their tuition he improved wonderfully. He turned his wit and talent to some account. He began to open his eyes. His nine days blindness was over, The dog saw. But, in spite of his quickness, He was at length discovered and dejected from howls In a manner that left him no alternative. He must either have called out his adversary Or have gone out himself. He preferred the latter and took to the road. And in his new line he was eminently successful. Fortunately he had no scruples to get over. Tom had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates An indistinct notion of meum and tuum. And became confirmed in the opinion That everything he could lay hands upon Constituted lawful spoil. And then, even those he robbed, Admitted that he was the most gentlemen-like highwayman They had ever the fortune to meet with And trusted they might always be so lucky. So popular did he become upon the road That it was accounted a distinction to be stopped by him. He made a point of robbing none but gentlemen and Tom's shade with quarrel with us Were we to omit them. Ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was singular And originated in a recont. Struck with his appearance, stick presented a pistol And bade King deliver. The latter burst into a laugh And an explanation immediately ensued. Thence forward they became sworn brothers. The Pilades and Oristies of the road And though seldom seen together in public Had many a merry moonlight ride in company. Tom still maintained three mistresses. Valle, his groom. Tiger, we should have called him. And many a change of clothes besides, Said his biographer, With which he appeared more like a lord Than a highwayman. And what more we should like to know Would a lord wish to have Few younger sons we believe can boast so much. And it is chiefly on their account With some remote view to the benefit Of the unemployed youth of all professions That we have enlarged so much Upon Tom King's history. The road we must beg to repeat Is still open. The chances are greater than they ever were. We fully believe it is there Only road to preferment. And we are sadly in want of highwaymen. Fancy Tom lounging at dosindars. Carelessly tapping his boots on the steps. There he stands. Is he not a devilish good looking Gentleman like sort of fellow? You could never have taken him A waiter appears. Supper is ordered at twelve. A broiled chicken. And the bottle of burgundy. His groom brings his nags to the door. He mounts. It is his custom to ride out on an evening. He is less liable to interruption. A marley bone fields. Now the regents park. His groom leaves him. He has a mistress in the neighbourhood. He is absent for a couple of hours. And returns gay or dispirited At twelve he is at supper. And has the night before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it be possible we have no Tom King's? To return to Tom as he was in the arbour. Judging from his manner He appeared to be almost insensible To the presence of his companions. And to be scarcely a partaker in their revelry. His back was towards his immediate neighbour. His glass sparkled untouched at his elbow. And one hand, beautifully white and small A mark of his birth and breeding Cray Day Byron Rested upon the edge of the table While his thin, delicate digits Palpably demonstrative of his faculty for adaptation Cray Day James Hardy-Voe Were employed with a silver toothpick. In other respects He seemed to be lost in reverie And was, in all probability Meditating new exploits. Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper. Not, however, the Jerry of the Gypsies But a much more showy-looking personage. Jerry was no longer a gentleman of three outs. The difficulty would now have been To say that he was without. Snake-like he had cast his slough And rejoiced in new and brilliant investiture. His were speaking garments Speaking pockets too. His linen was of the finest Those of the smartest. Gay rings glittered on his fingers. A crystal snuff-box underwent graceful manipulation. A handsome gold repeater was sometimes drawn From its location with a monstrous bunch of onions. Anglissé seals, depending from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists and shoes Of which they had long been unconscious. With buckles nearly as large as themselves Can find his feet. The rich, powdered perook and silver-hilted sword Completed the gear of the transmogrified Jerry Or, as he now chose to be designated, Count Albert Cogniers. The fact was that Jerry, after the fracar, Apprehensive that the country would be too hot for him, Had, in company with Zoroaster, Quitted the ranks of the canting crew And made the best of his way to town. A lucky spice on the road set them up. And having some acquaintance with Tom King, The party on their arrival, Sought him out at his customary haunt, Dos Indas, and enlisted under his banners. Tom received them with open arms, Gave them unlimited use of his wardrobe, And only required a little trifling assistance in return. He had a grand scheme in petto, In the execution of which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a Greek by nature, And could land a flat as well as the best of them. Zoroaster was just the man to lose a fight, Or, in the language of the fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could serve Tom's purposes better. He welcomed them with fraternal affection. We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite neighbour, Who was, however, no other than the upright man, The Magus Zoroaster, that great name. Changed as was Juniper, The Magus was yet more whimsically metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, But not a vestige was left of the original Dimbodamba, His tawny mother had not known her son. This alteration, however, was not owing to change of dress. It was the result of the punishment He had received at the set, too, at the priory. Not a feature was in its place. His swollen lip-tress passed upon the precincts of his nose, His nose trod hard upon his cheek, While his cheek again, not to be behind the rest, Rolls up like an apple-dumpling under his single eye. Single, we say, for alas, there was no speculation in the other. His dexter daylight was utterly darkened, And indeed, the orb that remained was a sanguinary, Illuminary as ever struggled through a London fog at noon-day. To borrow a couplet or so from the laureate of the fancy, One of his peepers was put on the bankruptcy list, With his shop window shut, While the other made nearly as tag rag a show, All rimmed round with black like the courier in woe. One black patch decorated his rainbow-colored cheek, Another adorned his chin, A grinder having been dislodged, His pipe took possession of the aperture, His togery was that of a member of the prize ring. What we now call a belcher bound his throat, A spotted fogal bandaged his jacket, And shaded his right peeper, While a white beaver crowned the oxyput of the magus. And though at first sight, They would appear to be some incongruity In the association of such a battered character As the upright man with his smart companions, The reader's wonder will rapidly diminish When he reflects that any distinguished PC man Can ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society. Viewed in this light, Zoroaster's familiarity with his swell acquaintance Occasioned no surprise toward Simon Carr, The bottlenosed landlord of the false staff, Who was a man of discernment in his way, And knew a thing or two. Despite such striking evidences to the contrary, The magus was perfectly at his ease, And sacrificing as usual to the god of flame, His mithra, or pipe, the symbol of his faith, Was zealously placed between his lips, And never did his chaldean, bactrian, persian, Pamphylian, Procaneesian, or Babylonian namesake, Whichever of the six was the true Zoroaster, Vidae Bale, Respire more fervently at the altar of fire Than our magus at the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed, we believe Zoroaster was a dualist, And believed in the coexistence and mystical relation Of the principles of good and ill. His pipe being his yesdan, or benign influence, His empty pouch is Ariman, or the devil. We shall not pause to examine his tenets, We meddle with no man's religious opinions, And shall leave the magus to the enjoyment Of his own sentiments. Be they what they may. One guest alone remains, And him we shall briefly dismiss. The reader we imagine will scarcely need To be told who was the owner of those keen grey eyes, Those exuberant red whiskers that air as your frock. It was our brave co-partner of the roads, Skillful surveyor of highways and hedges. In a word, Dick Turpin. Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, And an excellent president he made, Sedulously devoting himself to the Jew administration Of the punchbowl. Not a rumour was allowed to stand empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anachronistic song, Succeeded each other at speedy intervals, But there was no speachifying, no politics. He left church and state to take care of themselves. Whatever his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to interfere with his pleasures. His maxim was to make the most of the passing moment. Dumb vivimus vivimus was never out of his mind. A precautionary measure which we recommend To the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, Or any other precarious profession. Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality, Seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, Conversation, somehow or other, began to flag, From being general it became particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, Especially at that time of day, fell into a deep reverie. Your game-sters often do so, While the magus who had smoked himself drowsy Was composing himself to doze, Terpin seized this opportunity of addressing a few words On matters of business to Jerry Juniper, Or, as he now chose to be called, Count Conyears. My dear Count, said Dick, In a low and confidential tone, You are aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have smashed lawyer Coates' screen, Pocketed the Dimmock. Here it is. Continued he, parenthetically slapping his pockets, And done to the trick in prime twig for Tom King, With a cool thousand in hand I might, If I chose, rest a while on my oars, But a quiet life don't suit me, I must be moving, So I shall start to yawks you tonight. Indeed, said the soire disante Count In a languid tone, so soon. I have nothing to detain me, replied Dick. And to tell you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke Rockwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall For want of any assistance I can render him. True, returned the Count, One would regret such an occurrence certainly, But I fear your assistance may arrive a little too late. He's pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this time. That remains to be seen, said Turpin. His case is a bad one, to be sure, But I trust not, utterly hopeless. With all his impetuousity and pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his legs, But I think it may be done. That underground marriage was sheer madness, And turned out as ill as such a scheme Might ever have been expected to do so. Poor Sibyl, if I could pipe an eye for anything It should be for her, I can't get her out of my head. Give me a pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman-won. As to the priest, that's a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, Old Allen did right To take the law into his own hands, and throttle him in return. I'd have done the same thing myself. And being a prescribed Jesuit, returned, As I understand without the King's license for so doing, Why, Father, check his murder, If it must be so called, I can't abide hard terms, Won't lie very heavy at Allen's door. That, however, was nothing to do with Salook. He was neither accessory nor principal. Still, he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood. The whole county of York, I make no doubt, Is up in arms by this time. Then why go dither? Asked the Count somewhat ironically. For my part, I have a strange fancy For keeping out of harm's way as long as possible. Every man to his taste, returned Turpin. I love to confront danger. Run away, ah, always meet your foe. True, replied the Count. Halfway, but you go the whole distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in his den? I was never a prudent man, rejoined Dick, smiling. I have no superfluous caution about me. Come, what will? I shall try to find out this Luke Rookwood. And offer him my purse, such as it is. And it is now better lined than usual, A hand free to act as he lists, And a head which, imprudent though it be, Can often think better for others than for its own master. Vastly fine, exclaimed the Count, With an ill-disguised sneer. I hope you don't forget that the marriage certificate Which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are aware? I no longer salutes. I see what you're driving at, Count. Returned Dick, coldly, But he will need it to establish his claim to the title, And he shall have it. While he was salute, with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, And would have stood out for the last stiver. Now that he's one of us, A mere knight of the road, He shall have it and welcome. Perhaps Lady Rookwood, Or Mrs. Mowbray, might be inclined to treat. Maliciously insinuated the Count, The title may be worth something to... Rannel. It is worth more to Luke, And if it were not, he gets it. Are you satisfied? Perfectly, Replied the Count, With affected Bonner me, And I will now let you into a secret respecting Mrs. Mowbray, From which you may gather something for your guidance in this matter, And if the word of a woman is at all to be trusted, Though individually I cannot say I have much faith in it, So Luke's planetary hour is not yet completely overcast. That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow, Said Turpin, eagerly. You have already told me you were witness to a singular interview With Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after my departure from the Priory. If I mistook you not, The whole business will hinge upon that. What occurred? Let me have every particular, The whole history and mystery. You shall have it with pleasure, Said the Count, And I hope it may tend your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of action at the Priory, And that your desire left the Rookwood party masters of the field, I fled with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. There we held a council of war for a short time. Some were far returning to the fight, But this was negative entirely, And in the end it was agreed that those who had wives, Daughters and sisters, Should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat in the Grange. As I happened to have none of these attractive ties, And had only a troublesome mistress, Who I thought could take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, But struck deeper into the wood, And made my way, guided by destiny, I suppose, Towards the cave. The cave! cried Dick, rubbing his hands. I did lighten a cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping, And I'll have another one of these fine days. A cave is as proper to a high-towman as a castle to a baron. Pray, go on. The cave I speak of, continued the Count, Was seldom used, except upon great emergencies By any of the stop-hole labby-crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our own lioness, Barbara, And like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the cave is a good cave for all that. It's well concealed by brushwood And contably lighted from a crevice in the rock above. It lies near the brink of the stream, Almost the woods just above the waterfall, And is somewhat difficult of approach. I know something of the situation, said Turpin. Well, returned the Count, not to lose time. Into this den I crept, and expecting to find it vacant, You may imagine my surprise on discovering That it was already occupied, And that Salig Rukwud, his grandad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and worst of all, The very person I wish most to avoid, My old flame, Handasa, constituted the party. Fortunately, they did not perceive my entrance, And I took a special care not to introduce myself. Retreat, however, was, for the moment, impracticable, And I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had passed between the parties Before my arrival, but I heard Miss Mowbray Employ Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He seemed half inclined to comply with her entreaties, But old Alan shook his head. It was then that Handasa, put in a word, The minx was ever ready at that. Fear not, said she, that she will wed Sir Randolph, Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you, Sir Luke, and woo her honourably, she will accept you. Sir Luke stared incredulously, And grim old Alan smiled. She has sworn to be yours, continued Handasa, Sworn it by every hope of heaven, And the oath has been sealed by blood, By Sibyl's blood. Does she speak the truth, as Sir Luke trembling with agitation? Miss Mowbray answered not. You will not deny it, lady, said Handasa. I heard that oath proposed, I saw it registered, You cannot deny it. I do not, replied Miss Mowbray, With much anguish of manner. If he claim me, I am his. And he will claim you, said Alan Rookwood triumphantly. He has your oath, no matter how exhorted. You must fulfil your vow. I am prepared to do so, said Eleanor. But if you would not utterly destroy me, Let this maid conduct me to my mother, to my friends. To Randolph, asked Sir Luke bitterly, No, no, return, Miss Mowbray, In accents of deepest despair, To my mother, I wish not to behold him again. Be it so, cried Sir Luke. But remember, in love or hate, you are mine, I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath. Farewell, Handasa will lead you to your mother. Miss Mowbray bowed her head, but returned no answer, While, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke departed from the cavern. Wither, when they, demanded Turpin. That I know not, replied Jerry. I was about to follow when I was prevented By the abrupt entrance of another party. Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods Have made good their retreat, When shouts were heard without, And young Randolph and Major Mowbray forced their way. Soared in hand into the cave. Here was a situation. For me, I mean. To the young lady, I make no doubt it was pleasant enough. But my neck was in jeopardy. However, you know, I'm not deficient in strength, And upon the present occasion, I made the best use of the agility With which nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion, The sobbing and embracing and congratulations, That ensued, I contrived, like a wild cat, To climb the rocky sides of the cave And concealed myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well I did so, for scarcely was I hidden When in came old Barbara, Followed by Mrs. Mowbray and a dozen others. Barbara, ejaculated Dick. Was she a prisoner? No, replied Jerry. The old Hellcat is too deep for that. She had betrayed Sir Luke, And hoped they would seize him and his grandad. But the birds were flown. I'm glad she was balked, said Dick. Was any search made after them? Can't say, replied Jerry. I could only distinctly catch the sounds of their voices From my lofty retreat. Before they left the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rookwood And to take her daughter Dither, A proceeding to which the latter demurred. To Rookwood, said Dick musingly. Will she keep her oath, I wonder? That's more than I can say, said Jerry, To a deceitful sex. To a deceitful sex indeed, Echoed Dick, tossing off a tumbler. For one symbol we meet with twenty handasses, A count. Twenty, say rather a hundred, Replied Jerry, it is a vile sex. End of chapter one, book four. Chapter two, book four, 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 four, chapter two, Tom King. Grim, how gloriously the sun sets tonight. More. When I was a boy, my favourite thought was that I should live and die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought. Grim, true captain? The robbers. Peace-based columniaters, exclaimed Tom King, Aroused from his toothpick reverie by these dispersions of the best part of creation. Peace, I say, none shall dare abuse that dear devoted sex in the hearing of their champion without pricking a lance with him in their behalf. What do you, either of you, who abuse woman in that wholesale style know of her? Nothing, less than nothing, and yet you venture upon your paltry experience to lift up your voices and decry the sex. Now, I do know her, and upon my own experience of ouch, that as a sex woman compared with man is as angel to a devil. As a sex woman is faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. We tis that make her otherwise. We selfish, exacting, neglectful men. We teach her indifference and then blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own hand and then blame the cards. No abuse of women in my hearing. Give me a glass of grogdick. The sex, three times three. And here's a song for you in the bargain. Saying which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the following. Pledge of the highwayman. Come, fill up her bumpers to Eve's various daughters, who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free. Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot and Waters. What ere their attraction? What ere their degree? Pledge, pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden, whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman's fall, who stud by the gallows with sorrow or laden, bemoaning the fates of the gallant Duval. Here's to each lovely lass, chance of war bringeth near one, whom with manner impassioned we tenderly stop, and to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one, in terms of entreaty, the question we pop. How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter, than the rosiest book, bright eyes saved a bright ring, while that one other kiss has brought off a repeater, and the bead as a favour, the favourite string. With our hearts readily rifled, each pocket we rifle, with the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts. Life's risk for our mistress's praise is a trifle, and each purse as a trophy our homage attests. Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit, near with names, or with number, your memories vex. Our toast boys embraces each woman of merit, and for fear of omission will drink the whole sex. Well, replied Dick, replenishing King's rumour while he laughed heartily at his ditty, I shall refuse your toast, though my heart don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom, the sex you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you please, but curse me if I ever pin my life to a petticoat. I'd as soon think of neglecting the four cautions. The four cautions, said King, what are they? Did you never hear them? replied Dick, attend then, and be edified. The four cautions. Pay attention to these cautions, and through life you will need little more. Should you dole out your days to three score, beware of a pistol before, before, beware of a pistol before. And when backward his ears are inclined, and his tail with his ham is combined, caution to you will bear in your mind, beware of a prancer behind, behind, behind, beware of a prancer behind. Thirdly, when in the park you may ride, on your best bit of blood, sir, astride, chatting gay to your old friend's young bride, beware of a coach at the side, at the side, at the side, beware of a coach at the side. Lastly, whether in purple or grey, canter, ranta, grave, solemn, or gay, what ere he may do, or may say, beware of a priest, every way, every way, every way, beware of a priest, every way. Well, said Tom King. All you can sing or say, don't alter my good opinion of the women, not a secret have I from the girl of my heart. She could have sold me over and over again if she had chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that. It is not too late, said Dick. Your Delilah may yet hand you over to the Philistines. Then I shall die in a good cause, said King, but the Tyburn tree has no terrors for me. Let better men swing, I'm at liberty. I shall never come to the scragging post. Unless you turn topsman, Dick Typen, my nativity has been cast, and the stars have declared I am to die by the hand of my best friend. And that's you, eh, Dick? It sounds like it, replied Typen. But I advise you not to become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best friend after all. Why, faith, that's true, replied King, laughing. And if I must ride backwards up Hohborn Hill, I'll do the thing in style, and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his Jews. A man should always die, game. We none of us know how soon our turn may come. But come when it will, I shall never flinch from it. As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest, so the highwayman's death is the briefest and best. He dies not as other men die, by degrees, but at once, without flinching, and quite at his ease. As the song you are so fond of says, when I die, it will not be of consumption, and if the surgeon's knife must come near me, it will be after death. There's some comfort in that reflection at all events. True, replied Typen. And with a little alteration, my song would suit you capitely. There is not a king should you search the world round, so blithe is the king's king, Tom King, to be found. Dear woman's his empire, each girl is his own, and he'd have a long reign if he'd let him alone. Laughed Tom. And now, Dick, to change the subject, you are off, I understand, to Yorkshire tonight, upon my soul, you are a wonderful fellow, an alibi personified, here and everywhere at the same time. No wonder you are called the flying highwayman, today in town, tomorrow at York, the day after, Chester. The devil only knows where you will pitch your quarters a week hence. There are rumours of you in all counties at the same moment. This man swears you rubbed him at Hounslow, that on Salisbury plain, while another averse you monopolised Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to hunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good stories of you at Doe Cindars to the day. The fellow who told them to me little thought I was a brother-blade. You flatter me, said Dick, smiling complacently, but it's no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the same time, you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime, a glass to the best mare in England. You won't refuse that, Toast Tom. Ah, if your mistress is only as true to you as mine nag to me, you might set at naught the ticest hemp and cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt you. Black Bess, and God bless her, and now for the song. Saying which, with much emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes. Black Bess. Let the lover his mistresses beauty rehearse, and lord her attractions in languishing verse, be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express, the love I bear to my Bonnie Black Bess. From the west was her dam, from the east was her sire, from the one came her swiftness, the other her fire. No peer of the realm better blood can possess than flows in the reins of my Bonnie Black Bess. Look, look how that eyeball grows bright as a brand, that neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand, mark that wide flowing mane of which its silky tress might adorn prouder beauties though none like Black Bess. Mark that skin's sleek as velvet and dusky as night, with its jet undisfigured by one lock of white, that throat branched with veins prompt to charge or caress. Now is she not beautiful, Bonnie Black Bess? Over highway and byway, in rough and smooth weather, some thousands of miles have we journeyed together, our coach the same straw, and our meal the same mess, no couple more constant than I and Black Bess. By moonlight, in darkness, by night or by day, her headlong career there is nothing can stay, she cares not for distance, she knows not distress, can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess? Egard, I should think not, exclaimed King, you are as sentimental on the subject of your mare as I am when I think of my darling Susan, but part of my interruption, pray proceed. Let me first clear my throat, return dick. And now to resume. Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped on a horseman alone whom I speedily stopped, that I lightened his pockets you'll readily guess, quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess. Now it seems the man knew me, Dick Turpin, said he, you shall swing for this job as you live, do you see? I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress, I was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess. The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine, over shadow completely by wood like a screen, I clambered the bank and I neath must confess that one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess. Break brook, meadow on plowed field, Bess fleetily bestrode, as the crow wingsed her flight, we selected our road, we arrived at Hof Green in five minutes or less, my neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess. Stepping carelessly forward, I lounged on the green, taking excellent care that by all I am seen, some remarks on time's flight to the Squires I address, but I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess. I mention the hour, it was just about four, play a rubber at bowls, think the danger is o'er, when a thwart by next game, like a checkmate at chess, comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess. What matter details, off with triumph I came, he swears to the hour and the Squires swear the same, I have robbed him at four, while at four, they profess, I was quietly bowling, all thanks to Black Bess. Then one Hulu boys, one loud cheering Hulu, to the swiftest of courses, the gallant the true, for the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless, of the horse of the highwayman, Bonnie Black Bess. Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awakened from his doze, Zoro asked to beat time to the melody, the only thing Jerry said, he was capable of beating in his present shattered condition. After some little persuasion, the Magus was prevailed upon to enliven the company with a strain, which he trolled forth after a marbling manner, the double cross. Though all of us have heard of crossed fights, and certain gains by certain lost fights, I rather fancies that it's news how in a mill both men should lose, for where the odds are thus made even, it plays the dickens with the Stephen, besides against all rule they're sinning, there neither has no chance of winning. To milling coves, it's wide awake, they're back to fight for heavy stake, but in the meantime so it was, both kids agree to play across. Both came each buffer to the scratch, to make it look a tightest match, they peeled in style, and bets were making, for six to four, but few were taking. Quite cautiously the mill began, for neither knew the other's plan, each cull completely in the dark, if Vot might be his neighbour's mark, resolve his fibbing not to mind, nor yet to pay him back in kind, so on each other kept they tout, and sparred a bit and dodged about. With mollies raised, Tom bent his back, as if to plant a heavy thwack, vile gem with neat left-handed stopper, straight threatened Tommy with a topper, it is all my eye, no clattered flows, no faces sound, no smashing blows, five minutes pass, yet not a hit, how can it end pals, wait a bit. Each cove was teased with double duty, to please his backers, yet play booty, then lucky leaf or gem a teller, was planted right upon his smeller, down-dropped he stunned, then time was called, seconds in vain, the seconds bald, the mill is o'er, the cross across, the loser's van, the vin has lost. The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass was circulated so freely, that at last a final charge drained the ample bowl of its contents. The best of friends must part, said Dick, and I would willingly order another whiff of punch, but I think we have all had enough to satisfy us, as you milling coves have it, Zory, your one eye has got a drop in it already, old fellow, and to speak the truth, I must be getting into the saddle without more delay, for I have a long ride before me, and now friend Jerry before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry staves, we haven't heard your pipe today, and never a cross cove of us can throw off so prime a chant as yourself, a song, a song. Aye, a song, reiterated King and the Magus. You do meet too much honour, German, said Jerry, modestly taking a pinch of snuff, I am sure I shall be most happy, my chants are all of a sort, you must make all due allowances, and clearing his throat he forthwith wobbled, the modern Greek. Ahem! Come, German name, and make your game, see round the ball is spinning, black, red, or blue, the colours view, undure, sank, it is beginning, then make your game, the colour name, while round the ball is spinning, this slight of hand, my flat shall land, while covered in my bonnet, I plant my ball, and boldly call, come make your game upon it, thus retitat, I land my flat, it is black, not red, is winning. A gay roulette was never met, and lands like mine for bleeding, I'm near at fault, at nothing halt, all other legs proceeding, to all awake, I never shake a mag unless I nip it, blind hook he sees, how well I sneeze, the well-packed cards in shuffling, a cart a wist, I never mist, and nick the broads, while ruffling, mogul, or lou, the same I do, I am down to trumps as trippet, French hazard tain, I nick the main, was ne'er so prime, a caster, no crabs for me, I'm fly, jissie, the bank shall change its master, seven, quatra, trois, the stakes are high, ten mains, ten mains are mine pals, at Rue Genois, you hell it's choir, I make no bones of stripping, one glorious coup for me shall do, while they may deal each pippin, trontuna prey, ne'er clogs my way, the game, the game's divine pals, a billiard set, I make my bet, I'll score and win the rub pals, I'll miss my cue, my hazard too, but yet my fo'al drub pals, that cannon twist, I ne'er had missed, a lest to suit my views pals, to make all right, the match look tight, this trick you know, is done pals, but now be gay, I'll show my play, for ah, the game is won pals, no hand so fine, no wrist like mine, no odds I air refuse pals, then choose your game, what air you name, to me, I like all offers, chic hazard wist, what air you list, replenish quick your coffers, thus ratatat, I land my flat, to every purse I speak pals, cramped boxes where, all's right and fair, barred balls I bar when goaded, the juices ace, is out of place, the juicer die is loaded, then make your game, your colour name, success attend the Greek pals, Bravo Gerry, bravesimo, chorus the party, and now pals farewell, along farewell, said Dick, in a tone of theatrical valediction, as I said before, the best friends must separate, may we soon meet again, or we now may part forever, we cannot command our luck, but we may make the best of the span allotted to us, you have your game to play, I have mine, may each of us meet with the success he deserves, hey God, I hope not, said King, I'm afraid, in that case the chances would be against us, well then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it, be joined, Dick, I have only to observe one thing more, namely that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occupation, not a word, I won't hear a syllable, landlord I say, what o? continued Dick, stepping out of the arbore, here my old admiral of the white, what's the reckoning, what's the pay I say? let ye know directly sir, replied mine host of the false staff, order my horse, the black mare, added Dick, and mine, said King, the sorrow coped, I'll ride with you a mile or two on the road, Dick, perhaps we may stumble upon something, very likely, we meet at twelve, a do-syndage Jerry, said King, if nothing happens, agreed, responded Juniper, what say you to a rubber of bulls in the meantime? said the magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips, Jerry nodded acquiescence, and while they went in search of the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on the green, it was a delicious evening, the sun was slowly declining, and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighbouring elm, whether, like the robbermoor, Tom King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine, certain it was that the shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he gazed in the direction of Harrow on the hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty collage against the ruddy sky. He spoke not, but Dick noticed the passing emotion. What hails you, Tom? said he, with much kindness of manner. Are you not well, lad? Yes, I'm well enough, said King. I know not what came over me, but looking at Harrow I thought of my school days and what I was then, and that bright prospect reminding me of my boyish hopes. Tut, tut, said Dick, this is idle. You're a man now. I know I am, replied Tom, but I have been a boy. Had I any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I shall ever see. Here comes our host, said Dick, smiling. I've no presentiment that this is the last bill I shall ever pay. The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's conduct was singular and awakened his suspicions. Are our horses ready? asked Dick quickly. They are, sir, said the landlord. Let us be gone, whispered Dick to King. I don't like this fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up at the indoor just now. There may be danger, be fly. Added he to Jerry in the Magus. Now, sir, he said to the landlord, lead the way, keep on the alert, Tom. Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They watched their comrades and listened intently for any manifestation of alarm. End of Chapter 2, Book 4. Chapter 3, Book 4 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 4, Chapter 3. A Surprise. Was this well done, Jenny? Captain McHeath. While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling-reen, we will see what has taken place outside the inn. Tom's presentiments of danger were not, it appeared, without foundation. Scarcely had the Osla brought forth our two highwaymen's steeds when a post-shea, escorted by two or three horsemen, drove furiously up to the door. The sole occupant of the carriage was a lady whose slight and pretty figure was all that could be distinguished, her face being closely veiled. The landlord, who was visiting casting up Turpin's account, rushed forth at the summons. A word or two passed between him and the horseman, upon which the former's countenance fell. He posted in the direction of the garden, and the horseman instantly dismounted. We have him now, sure enough? Said one of them, a very small man who looked in his boots like buckle equipped for the oaks. By the powers, I begin to think so, replied the other horseman. But don't spoil all, Mr. Coats, by being too precipitous. Never fear that, Mr. Tick Honol, said Coats. For it was the gallant attorney. He's sure to come for his mare. That's a trap certain to catch him, eh, Mr. Patterson? With the chief constable of Westminster to back us, the devil's in it if we are not a match for him. And for Tom King too, replied the chief constable. Since his blow and speech, the game's up with him too. We've long had an eye upon him, and now we'll have a finger. He's one of your dashing trouts to whom we always give a long line. But we'll land him this time anyhow. If you look after Dick Turpin, gentlemen, I'll make sure of Tom. I'd rather you would help us, Mr. Patterson, said Coats. Never mind Tom King. Another time will do for him. No such thing, said Patterson. One weighs just as much for that matter as another. I'll take Tom to myself, and surely you too, with the landlord and Osler, can manage Turpin amongst you. I don't know that, said Coats doubtfully. He's a devil of a fellow to deal with. Take him quietly, said Patterson. Draw the shades out of the whale-add. Take our tits to one side, and place their nags near the door, Osler. Shall you be able to see him, ma'am, where you are? Asked the chief constable, walking to the carriage, and touching his hat to the lady within. Having received a satisfactory nod from the bonnet and veil, he returned to his companions. And now, German, how did he? Let's step aside a little. Don't use your firearms too soon. As if conscious of what was passing around her, and of the danger that awaited her master, Blackbess exhibited so much impatience and plunged so violently that it was with difficulty the Osler could hold her. The devil's in the mare, said he. What's the matter with her? She was quiet enough a few minutes since all I stand. Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the house preceded by the host who conducted them, and not without some inward trepidation towards the door. Arrived there, each man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an instant, and stamping her foot on the Osler's leg, Blackbess compelled the man, yelling with pain to quit his hold of the bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before he could mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, which startled the animal and caused him to swerve so that Tom lost his footing in the stirrup and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by Patterson, and a struggle commenced. King endeavouring but in vain to draw a pistol. Flip him, Dick, fire, or I'm taken, cried King. Fire, damn you, why won't you fire? shouted he, in desperation, still struggling vehemently with Patterson, who was a strong man and more than a match for a lightweight like King. I can't, cried Dick. I shall hit you if I fire. Take your chance, shouted King. Is this your friendship? Thus urged, Turpin fired, the bowl ripped up the sleeve of Patterson's coat but did not wound him. Again, cried King, shoot him, I say, don't you hear me, fire again. Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for both coats and turconal had fired upon him and were now mounting their steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin could take sure aim, added to which, in the struggle, Patterson and King were each moment changing their relative positions. He, however, would no longer hesitate to gain at his friend's request fired. The bowl lodged itself in King's breast. He fell at once. At this instant, a shriek was heard from the Shays. The window was thrown open and her thick veil being drawn aside, the features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror and contrition was suddenly exhibited. King fixed his glazing eyes upon her. Susan, sighed he, is it you that I beheld? Yes, yes, is she sure enough? said Patterson. You see, Mam, what you and such like have brought him to, however, you'll lose your reward. He's going fast enough. Reward, gasped King. Reward, did she betray me? Aye, aye, sir, said Patterson. She blowed the gaff, if it's any consolation to you to know it. Consolation! repeated the dying man. Oh, the prophecy, my best friend. Serpin, I die by his hand. And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and expired. Alas, poor Tom. Mr. Patterson, Mr. Patterson, cried coats, leave the landlord to look after the body of that dying ruffian and mount with us in the pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir, quick, mount, dispatch. You see, he is yonder, he seems to hesitate. We shall have him now. Well, Gemem, I'm ready, said Patterson. But how the devil came you to let him escape? St. Patrick only knows, said Titus. He's as slippery as an eel, and like a cat, turn him which way you will. He's always sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder what we lose him now, after all, though he has such a small start, that mare flies like the wind. He shall have a tight run for it, as all events, said Patterson, putting spurs into his horse. I have a good nag under me, and you are neither of you badly mounted. He's only three hundred yards before us, and the devil's in it if we can't run him down. It's a three hundred pound job, Mr. Coats, and well worth a race. You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take him, said Coats, urging his steed forward. Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we'll make sure of him, said the constable. Gently, gently, not so fast upon the hill. Boss, all in good time, Mr. Coats, all in good time, sir, and maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered leisurely up the ascent, now called Windmill Hill. We shall now return to Turpin. Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, dick remained for a few moments, it resolute. He perceived that King was mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue would be fruitless. He perceived likewise that Jerry and the Magus had affected their escape from the bowling green, as he could detect their figures stealing along the hedge side. He hesitated no longer, turning his horse, he galloped slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with which he was threatened. Every bullet has its billets, said Dick, but little did I think that I really should turn poor Tom's executioner to the devil with this rascally snapper, cried he, throwing the pistol over the hedge. I could never have used it again. It is strange, too, that he should have foretold his own fate. Devil is strange. And then that he should have been betrayed by the very blow and he trusted. That's a lesson if I wanted any, but trust a woman, not I, the length of my little finger. End of Chapter 3, Book 4. Chapter 4, Book 4 of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, all to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 4, Chapter 4, The Hue and Cry. Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly, with post boys scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry. Stop thief! Stop thief! A highwayman! Not one of them was mute. And all and each that passed that way, did join in the pursuit. John Gilpin. Arrived at the brow of the hill, when such a beautiful view of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained, Turpin turned for an instant to recognize his pursuers. Coats and Titus he utterly disregarded. But Paterson was a more formidable foe and he knew well that he had to deal with a man of experience and resolution. It was then for the first time that the thoughts of executing his extraordinary ride to York first flashed across him. His bosom throbbed high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised himself in the saddle, by God, I will do it! He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a world of trees beneath him. And as his quick eye ranged over the magnificent prospect lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not help thinking of Tom King's last words. Poor fellow, thought Dick, he said truly he will never see another sunset. Aroused by the approaching clatter of his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane which lies on the right of the road, now called Shoot Up Hill Lane, and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hampstead. Now, cried Paterson, put your tits to it, my boys, do not lose sight of him for a second in these lanes! Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconveniencing his mare in this early stage of the business, and as the ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative distances. At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and devious lane, after scaring one or two farmers and riding over a brood or two of ducks, dipping into the verdant valley of West End and ascending up another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsi, sandy and beautiful heath of Hampstead. Shaping his course to the left, Dick then made for the lower part of the heath, and skirted a path that leads towards North End, passing the first crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines. It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest. Being open ground, the pursued and the pursuers were in full view of each other, and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had a very animated appearance. He crossed the hill, the Henden Road, passed the Crackskull Common, and dashed along the crossroad to Highgate. Here the two, no advantage had been gained by the pursuers. They had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and much spurring was required to maintain their position. As they approached Highgate, Dick slackened his pace, and the other party redoubled their efforts. To avoid the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and rode easily down the hill. His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their further progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beautiful style. Not so with Coates' party, and the time they lost in unfastening the gate, which none of them chose to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space betwixt them. It did not, however, appear to be his intention altogether to outstrip his pursuers. The chase seemed to give him excitement, which he was willing to prolong as much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding rapidly passed Highgate, like a swift sailing schooner with three lumbering India men in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a narrow lane that threads in the fields in the direction of Hornsey. The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its name from Duval, and in which a house frequented by the gayest of robber stands, or stood, a highwayman, a highwayman, rang in his ears in a discordant chorus of many voices. The whole neighbourhood was alarmed by the cries and by the tramp of horses. The men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize the fugitive, and the women held up their babes with a glimpse of the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation as it advanced. Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road. They hear the uproar on the din. A highwayman! A highwayman! cried the voices. Stop him! Stop him! But it is no such easy matter, with a pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his teeth, turp him past boldly on. His fierce looks, his furious steed, the impetus with which he pressed forward, bore down all before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the list of his pursuers. We have him now! We have him now! cried Patterson exultingly. Shout for your lives! The turnpike man will hear us. Shout again! Again! The fellow has heard us. The gate is shut. We shall have him! Ha ha! The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux de frisse on the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung into its lock, and like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of the turnpike trusts, and sconst within his doorway, held himself in readiness to spring upon the runaway, but Dick kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate, he looked to the right and to the left, nothing better offered. He spoke a few words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then struck his spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch. Out rushed the amazed turnpike man, thus unmercifully built, and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Patterson's horse. Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious! shouted the chief constable. Not I, said the man sturdily, unless it gets me dues. I've been done once already, but strike me stupid if I'm done a second time. Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? Don't you know that I'm the chief constable of Westminster? said Patterson, showing his staff. How dare you oppose me in the discharge of my duty? That may be, or it may not be, said the man doggily, but don't ye pass, unless I get some blunt, and that's the long and the short on it. Amidst the storm of odes, coats flung down a crownpiece, and the gate was thrown open. Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare, and striking into a bylane at Duckett's Green, cantered easily along in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him, yelling like a pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again at his heels. He had now to run the gauntlet of the long, struggling town of Tottenham, and various weather devices of the populace to entrap him. The whole place was up in arms, shouting, screaming, running, dancing, and hurling every possible description of missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to their clamour as he flew past, and laughed at the brick-bats that were showered thick as hail and quite as harmlessly around him. A few more miles hard riding tired the volunteers, and before the chase reached Edmonton most of them were nowhere. Here, fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field was again mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of Edmonton, than did our highwaymen, as he galloped through their town. Unlike the men of Tottenham, he received him with acclamations, thinking, no doubt, that like the citizens of famous London town, he rode for a wager. Presently, however, born on the wings of the blast came the cries of Terpin! Dick Terpin! And the hurrahs were changed to hootings, but such was the rate at which our highwaymen rode that no serious opposition could be offered to him. A man in a donkey cart, unable to get out of the way, drew himself up in the middle of the road. Terpin treated him as he had done the dub and at the napping jigger, and cleared the driver and his little wane with ease. This was a capital stroke, and well adapted to please the multitude who are ever taken with a brilliant action. Hark away, Dick! Resounded all on hands, while hisses were as liberally bestowed upon his pursuers. End of chapter four, book four. Chapter five, book four 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 four, chapter five, the short pipe. The pay-ons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them at a gallop, throw the rain on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose tobacco, and with a piece of paper or a leaf of Indian corn, make a cigar, and then take out a flint and steel, and light it. Heads, rough notes. Away they fly past scattered cottages swiftly and skimmingly, like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield Highway, all were well mounted, and the horses now thoroughly warmed had got into their paces and did their work beautifully. The horsemen were lost ground, but they maintained it at the expense of their steeds, which were streaming like water carts, while Blackbess had scarcely turned the hair. Terpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider. He was THE crack rider of England of this time, and perhaps of any time. The craft, a mystery of jockeyship, was not so well understood in the 18th, as it is in the 19th century. Men treated their horses differently, and they followed them as well as many ride now, when every youngster takes to the field as naturally as if he had been bred a goucho. Dick Terpin was a glorious exception to this rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonderfully lightly, yet sat in his saddle to perfection, distributing the weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure. He yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it were, part and parcel of itself. He took care best should neither be strained nor rung, freely, and as likely as a feather, she was born along. Beautiful it was to see her in action, to watch her style and temper of covering the ground, and many a first-rate Meltonian might have got a wrinkle from Terpin's seat and conduct. We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to ride away from his pursuers. He could have done that at any moment. He liked the fun of the chase, and would have been sorry to put a period to his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept her at such a speed as should his pursuers completely to it, without in the slightest degree inconveniencing himself. Some judgement of the speed at which they went may be formed. When we state that, little better than an hour had elapsed, and nearly twenty miles had been ridden over. Not bad travelling that, me thinks we hear the reader exclaim. By the mother that bore me, said Titus, as they went along in this slapping style. Titus, by the by, rode a big Roman-nosed powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action, and keep his rider alongside his companions. By the mother that bore me, said he, almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Busephalus with his calves, into the Irish fashion. If the fellow is at lighting his pipe, I saw the sparks flying each side of him, and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning. See, he turns his impudent fizz with the pipe in his mouth. Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates? Wait a while, sir, wait a while, said Coates. We'll smoke him by and by. Peans have been sung in honour of the paeons of the Pampas by the headlong Sir Francis, but what the gallant major extolls so loudly in the South American horsemen, vis the lighting of a cigar when in mid-career, was accomplished with equalies by our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feet either, flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick's ample pouch. The short pipe was at hand, and within a few seconds there was a stream of vapor exhaling from his lips, putting down the river and tracking his still rapid course through the air. I'll let him see what I think of him, said Dick coolly as he turned his head. It was now grey twilight, the mists of coming night were weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only by the regular clatter of the horse's hooves. Tired of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence. The rich man held his breath and plunged his spurs, rowled deep into his horse. But the animals were already at the top of their speed and incapable of greater exertion. Patterson, who was a hard rider and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they might. Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene would have been still and soothing. Overhead, a cloud of rucks were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an ancient mansion to the right. The bat was on the wing. The distant lowing of a herd of kind saluted the ear at intervals. The blithe whistle of the rustic herdsmen and the merry chime of wagon bells rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful sounds which make the still twilight hour delightful were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter and the wagon a-pricked up his ears and fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake. On rushed the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for every life. Again they gave voice in hopes the wagon might succeed in stopping the fugitive, but Dick was already by his side. Harky, my tulip! cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth as they passed. Tell my friends behind, they will hear of me at York. What did he say? asked Patterson, coming up the next moment. That you'll find him at York! replied the wagoner. At York! echoed coats in a maze. Turpin was now out of sight and although our trio flogged with might and main they could never catch a glimpse of him until within a short distance of where they beheld him at the door of a little public house standing with his bridle in his hand, coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they in sight and revolted into the saddle and rode off. Devil sees you, sir. Why did you not stop him? exclaimed Patterson as he rode up. My horse is dead lame. I can't go any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed? Do you know who that was? Now, sir, I don't, said the publican. But I know he gave me his mare more ale than he took himself. And he has given me a guinea instead of a shilling. He's a regular gooden. Said Patterson. It was Turpin. The notorious highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses? Our cattle are all blown. You'll find the post down in the town, gentlemen. I'm sorry I can't accommodate you, but I keep now stabling. I wish you a very good evening, sir. Saying which, the publican retreated to his domicile. That's a flash crib. I'll be bound. Said Patterson. I'll chalk you down, my friend. You may rely upon it. Thus far we're done, Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give it in. I'll follow him to the world end first. Right, sir. Right, said the attorney. A very proper spirit, Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr. Patterson, Christopher, or Kit Coates, a name as well known at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wildes. You recollect him, eh? Perfectly well, sir, replied the chief constable. The greatest thief-taker, though I say it, continued Coates. On record. I inherit all his zeal, all his ardour. Come along, sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour, bright as day, to the post house, to the post house. Accordingly to the post house they went, and, with as little delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, accompanied by a pastillion, the party again pursued their onward course, encouraged to believe they were still in the right scent. Night had now spread her mantle over the earth. Still, it was not wholly dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern horizon heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze was stirring. The dews of evening had already fallen, and the air felt bland and dry. It was just the night one would have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour, and to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared little less than heavenly. Full of ardour and excitement, determined to execute what he had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. Everything was favourable to his project. The roads were in admirable condition. His mare was in like order. She was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in more perfect training. She has now got the wind in her, said Dick. I'll see what she can do. Hack away, lass, hack away. I wish they could see her now, added he, as he felt her almost fly away with him. Encouraged by her master's voice in hand, Blackbess started forward at a pace which few horses could have equaled, and scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at the speed with which he was born along. Bravo! Bravo! shouted he. Hack away, Bess. The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs, and thus he held his way, while, in the words of the ballad, fled past on right and left how fast, each city, town, and tower. End of Chapter 5, Book 4. Chapter 6, Book 4 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 Harris. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 4, Chapter 6. Black Bess. Dofan. I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pastons. Saha! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs. Le Chival Volant. The Pegasus Quay Alinarine defer. When I bestried him, I saw. I'm a hawk. He trots the air. What sings when he touches it? The bassist horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes. Shakespeare. Henry V, Act 3. Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the fourth book of this romance. We may perhaps be pardoned for expatiating a little in this place upon her birth, parentage, breeding, appearance, and attractions. And first as to her pedigree, for in the horse, unlike the human species, nature has strongly impressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is the real aristocrat, and the pure blood that flows in the veins of the gallant steed will infallibly transmitted if his mate be suitable throughout all his line. Bess was no cocktail. She was a thoroughbred. She boasted blood in every bright and branching vein. If blood can give nobility, a noble steed was she. Her sire was blood, and blood her dam, and all her pedigree. As to her pedigree, her sire was a desert Arab, renowned in his day, and brought to this country by a wealthy traveller. Her dam was an English racer, cold black as her child. Bess united all the fire and gentleness, the strength and hardyhood, the abstinence and endurance of fatigue of the one, with the spirit and extraordinary fleetness of the other. How turpin became possessed of her is of little consequence. We never heard that he paid a heavy price for her, though we doubt if any sum would have induced him to part with her. In colour, she was perfectly black, with a smooth skin on the surface as polished jet. Not a single white hair could be detected in her satin coat. In make, she was magnificent. Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact, modelled in little for strength and speed. Arched was her neck, as that of the swan, clean and fine were her lower limbs as those of the gazelle. Round and sound as a drum was her carcass, and as broad as a cloth yard shaft her width of chest. Hers were the pulcra clune, blave caput, adwak civics of the Roman bard. There was no redundancy of flesh, tis true. Her flanks might, to please some tastes, have been rounder, and her shoulders fuller, but look at the nerve and sinew, palpable through the veined limbs. She was built more for strength than beauty, and yet she was beautiful. Look at that elegant little head, those thin tapering ears closely placed together, that broad, snorting nostril, which seems to snuff the gale with disdain, that eye glowing and large as the diamond of Giamshid. Is she not beautiful? Behold her paces! How graceful she moves, she's off! No eagle on the wing could skim the air more swiftly. Is she not superb? As to her temper, the lamb is not more gentle. A child might guide her. But hark back to Dick Turpin, we left him rattling along in superb style, and in the highest possible glee, he could not, in fact, be otherwise an exhilarated, nothing being so wildly intoxicating as a mad gallop. We seemed to start out of ourselves to be endued for the time with new energies. Our thoughts take wings rapid as our steed. We feel as if his fleetless and boundless impulses were for the moment our own. We laugh, we exult, we shout for very joy. We cry out with mephistopheles, but in anything but a sardonic mood. What I enjoy with spirit is it the less my own on that account. If I can pay for six horses and not their powers mine, I drive along and I'm a proper man, as if I had four and twenty legs. These were Turpin's sentiments precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain. And he needed no mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as his nag could carry him. Away, away! The road is level, the path is clear. Press on, thou gallant steed. No obstacle is in thy way. And lo, the moon breaks forth. Her silvery light is thrown over the woody landscape. Dark shadows are cast to thwart the road. And the flying figures of thy rider and thyself are traced, like giant phantoms in the dust. Away, away! Our breath is gone in keeping up with this tremendous run. Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind. For we hear his cheering cry. Hark, he sings. The reader will bear in mind that Oliver means the moon. To Whittle is to Blab. Oliver Whittles. Oliver Whittles, the Tattler old. Telling what best had been left untold. Oliver Nair was a friend of mine. Or Glimms I hate that so brightly shine. Give me a night black as hell, and then see what I'll show you, my merry men. Oliver Whittles, who cares? Who cares? If down upon us he peers and stares. Mine him who will, with his great white face. Boldly I'll ride by his Glimm to the chase. Give him a Roland, and loudly as ever. Shout as I show myself. Standard deliver. He got, so lilic-wise Dick. As he concluded his song, looking up at the moon. Old Knowles, no bad fellow either. I wouldn't be without his white face tonight for a trifle. He's as good as a lamb to guide one. And let Bess only hold on as she goes now, and I'll do it with ease. Softly when, softly, does not see, it's a hill we're rising, the devil's in the mare. She cares for nothing. And as they ascended the hill, Dick's voice once more awoke the echoes of night. Will Davis, and Dick Turpin. Haudier, me he, crass to be. Saint Augustine. One night when mounted on my mare, to Bagshot Heath I did repair, and saw Will Davis hanging there, upon the gibbet bleak and bare, with a rustified, fustified, mustified air. Within his chain's bold will looked blue, gone were his sword and snappers too, which served their master well and true. Says I, Will Davis, how are you, with your rustified, fustified, mustified air? Says he, Dick Turpin, here I be, upon the gibbet as you see, I take the matter easily. You'll have your turn as well as me, with your whistle me, pistol me, cut my throat air. Says I, that's very true, my lad. Meantime with pistol and with prad, I'm quite content as I am, and heed the gibbet not a dam, with its rustified, fustified, mustified air. Poor Will Davis, sighed Dick, Bagshot ought never to forget him. For nevermore shall Bagshot see a highwayman of such degree, appearance and gentility, as will who hangs upon the tree, with his rustified, fustified, mustified air. Well, muse Turpin, I suppose one day it will be with me, like all the rest of them. And that I shall dance a long lavalter to the music of the four whistling winds, as my betters have done before me. But I trust, whenever the chanter calls and last speech scribblers get hold of me, they'll at least put no cursed nonsense into my mouth, but make me speak, as I have ever felt, like a man who never either feared death, nor turned his back upon his friend. In the meantime, I'll give them something to talk about. This ride of mine shall ring in their ears long after I'm done for, put to bed with a mattock, and tucked up with a spade. And when I'm gone, boys, each huntsman shall say, non-road like Dick Turpin so far in a day. And now too, brave best, thy name shall be linked with mine, and we'll go down to posterity together. And what, how did he, despondingly, if it should be too much for thee? What if? But no matter. Better die now while I am with thee than fall into the knackers' hands. Better die with all thy honours upon thy head than drag out thy old age at the sandcart. Hark forward, lass! Hark forward! By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the horse, will at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's physical temperament, and allow himself to be so influenced by it that, according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his own energies rise and fall, wavering from walk to trot, from canter to full speed? How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with the metaphysics of the hymnum than we pretend to be? Do the saddle or the rain convey, like metallic tractors, vibrations of the spirit betwixt the two? We know not, but this much is certain that no servant partakes so much of the character of his master as the horse. Indeed, we are want to ride, becomes a portion of ourselves. He thinks and feels with us. As we are lively, he is sprightly. As we are depressed, his courage droops. In proof of this, let the reader see what horses some men make. Make, we say, because in such hands their character is wholly altered. Partaking in a measure of the courage and the firmness of the hand that guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that sways them, what their rider wills they do, or strive to do. When that governing power is relaxed, their energies are relaxed likewise, and their fine sensibilities supply them with an instant knowledge of the disposition and capacity of the rider. A gift of the gods is the gallant steed, which, like any other faculty we possess to use or abuse, to command or neglect, rests within ourselves. He is the best general test of our own self-government. Blackbess' action amply verified what we have just asserted. For Turpin's momentary despondency, her pace was perceptibly diminished and her force retarded. But as she revived, she rallied instantly, and seized apparently with a kindred enthusiasm, snorted joyously as she recovered her speed. Now was it that the child of the desert showed herself the undoubted offspring of the hardy loins from whence she sprung. Full fifty miles had she sped, yet she showed no symptoms of distress. If possible, she appeared fresher than when she started. She had breathed, her limbs were suppler, her action was freer, easier, lighter. Her sire, who, upon his trackless wiles, could have outstripped the pestilent simmoom, and with throat unslaked and hunger unappeased, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down had not greater powers of endurance. His vigor was her heritage. Her dam, who, upon the velvet sod, was of almost unapproachable swiftness, and who had often brought her own golden assurances of her worth, could scarce have kept pace with her, and would have sunk under a third of her fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. We nair shall look upon her like again, unless we can prevail upon some Bedouin chief to present us with a brood mare, and then the racing world shall see what a breed we will introduce to this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be nothing to our cults, and even the railroad's slow travelling compared with the speed of our new nags. But to return to Bess, or rather, to go along with her, for there is no halting now, we are going at the rate of 20 knots an hour, sailing before the wind, and the reader must either keep pace with us, or drop a stern. Bess is now in her speed, and Dick happy. Happy, he is enraptured, maddened, furious, intoxicated as with wine. Sure, wine could never throw him into such a burning delirium. Its choicest juices have no inspiration like this. Its fumes are slow and heady. This is ethereal transporting. His blood spins through his veins, winds round his heart, mounts to his brain. Away, away, he is wild with joy, haul, cot, tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland a scene, past, left behind, and vanish, as in a dream. Motion is scarcely perceptible. It is impetus, volition, the horse and her rider are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarcely discovered ere the flints sparkle beneath the water's hooves. A moment's clatter upon the stones, and it is left behind. Again it is the silent, smiling country. Now they are buried in the darkness of the woods, now sweeping along on the wide plain, now clearing the unopened toll-bar, now trampling over the hollow sounding bridge, their shadows momentarily reflected in the placid mirror of the stream. Now scaling the hillside, a thought more slowly, now plunging, as the bridge goes into the ocean down its precipitous sides. The limits of two shires are already passed. They are within the confines of a third. They have entered the Mary County of Huntingdon. They have surmounted the gentle hill that slips into Godmunchester. They are by the banks of the rapid ooze. The bridge is passed, and as Terpin rode through the deserted streets of Huntingdon he heard the eleventh hour given from the iron tongue of St. Mary's Spire. In four hours it was seven when he started. Dick had accomplished full sixty miles. A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horsemen flit past, and one or two windows were thrown open. But peeping Tom of Conventry would have had small chance of beholding the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at the rate of Dick Terpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost as soon as he appeared. Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows or pastureland with drowsy cattle or low-bleating sheep lie on either side. But what to Terpin at that moment is nature, animate or inanimate. He thinks only of his mare, his future fame, none are by to see him ride, no stimulating plaudits ring in his ears, no thousand hands are clapping, no thousand voices huzzaring, no hanker chiefs are waved, no necks strained, no bright eyes rain influence upon him, no eagle orbs watch his motions, no bells are rung, no cupper waits his achievement, no sweepstakes, no plate, but his will be renown, everlasting renown. His will be fame which will not die with him, which will keep his reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of men. He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has that within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding for life, he's riding for immortality. And as the hero may perchance feel for even a highwayman may feel like a hero, when he willingly throws away his existence in the hope of earning a glorious name, Terpin cared not what might befall himself, so he could proudly signalise himself as the first of his land and which the world with noble horsemanship. What need had he of spectators? The eye of posterity was upon him. He felt the influence of that argous glance which has made many a poor white spur on his pegasus with not half so good a chance of reaching the goal as Dick Terpin. Multitudes yet unborn, he knew would hear and lord his deeds. He trembled with excitement and best trembled under him, but the emotion was transient. On, on they fly, the torrent leaping from the crag, the bolt from the bow, the air cleaving eagle thoughts themselves as scarce more winged in their flight. End of Chapter 6, Book 4 Chapter 7, Book 4 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 4, Chapter 7, The York Stage York Four days. Stagecoach begins on Friday the 18th of April, 1706. All that are desirous to pass from London to York or from York to London or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan in Holborn in London or to the Black Swan in Coney Street in York. At both which places they may be received in a stagecoach, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday which performs the journey in four days if God permits and sets forth at five in the morning and returns from York to Stamford in two days and from Stamford by Huntingdon in two days more and like the stages in their return allowing each passenger 14 pounds weight and all above three pence per pound, performed by Benjamin Kingman, Henry Harrison and Wallabanes. Placard preserved in the coffee room of the Black Swan in at York. The night had hitherto been barmy and beautiful with a bright array of stars and a golden harvest moon which seemed to diffuse even warmth with its radiance but now Turpin was approaching the region of Fog and Fen and he began to feel the influence of that dank atmosphere. The intersecting dykes, yarners, gullies or whatever they are called began to send forth their steaming vapours and chilled the soft and wholesome air obscuring the void and in some instances as it were choking up the road itself with vapour. But Fog or Fen was the same to Bess. Her hooves rattled fairly along the road and she burst from a cloud like Eus at the break of dawn. It chanced as he issued from a fog of this kind that Turpin burst upon the York stagecoach. It was no uncommon thing for the coach to be stopped and so furious was the career of our highwayman that the man involuntarily drew up his horses. Turpin had also to draw in the rain a task of no little difficulty as charging a huge lumbering coach with its full compliments of passengers was more than even Bess could accomplish. The moon shone brightly on Turpin and his mare. He was unmasked and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation was uttered by a gentleman on the box who, it appeared, instantly recognised him. Pull up, draw your horses across the road! cried the gentleman. That's Dick Turpin, the highwayman! His capture would be worth 300 pounds to you! added he addressing the coachman. And his of equal importance to me! Stand! shouted he, presenting a cocked pistol. The resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers, the name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man jumped off behind and was with difficulty after he was recovered having tumbled into a deep ditch at the roadside. An old gentleman with a cotton nightcap who had popped out his head to swear at the coachman drew it suddenly back. A faint scream in a female key issued from within and there was a considerable hubbub on the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds the guard was heard to click his long horse pistols. Stop the four day stage! Said he, forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat embracing shore. The fastest coach in the kingdom was ever such atrocity heard of. I say Joe, keep them here leader steady. We shall all be in the ditch. Don't you see where the hind wheels are? Whoop whoop I say! The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol and the confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped out like a rabbit's head and as quickly popped back on hearing the highwayman's voice owing to the plunging of the horses the gentleman had missed his aim. Prepared for such emergencies as the present and seldom at any time taken aback Dick received the fire without flinching. He then lashed the horses out of his course and rode up pistol in hand to the gentleman who had fired. Major Mobri said he in a stern tone. I know you. I meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen yet you have attempted my life sir for a second time but you are now in my power by hell if you do not answer the questions I put to you nothing earthly shall save you if you ask not I may not answer fire said the major I will never ask life from such as you have you seen art of Sir Luke Rookwood asked Dick the villain you mean is not yet secured replied the major but we have traces of him it is with a view of procuring more efficient assistance as I ride to town they have not met then since said Dick carelessly met whom do you mean your sister and Sir Luke said Dick my sister meet him cried the major angrily think you he dares to show himself at Rookwood laughed Dick she is at Rookwood then a thousand thanks major good night to you gentlemen take that with you I remember the guard cried the fellow who unable to take aim from where he sat had crept along the coach roof and discharged thence one of his large horse pistols at what he took to be the highwayman's head but which luckily for Dick was his hat which he had raised to salute the passengers remember you said Dick coolly replacing his perforated beaver on his brow you may rely upon it my fine fellow I'll not forget you next time we meet and off he went like the breath of the whirlwind end of chapter seven book four chapter eight book four 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 William Harrison Ainsworth book four chapter eight roadside in Moore take my horse and dash a bottle of wine over him to his hot work Shiller the robbers we will now make inquiries after Mr. Coats and his party of whom both we and Dick Terpin have for some time lost sight with unabated ardour the vindictive man of law his myrmidons pressed forward a tacit compact seem to have been entered into between the highwaymen and his pursuers that he was to fly off while they were to follow like bloodhounds they kept steadily upon his trail nor were they so far behind as Dick imagined at each post house they passed they obtained fresh horses and while these were saddling a post boy was dispatched on Courier to order relays at the next station they proceeded after the first stoppage without interruption horses were in waiting for them as they bloody with spurring fiery hot with haste and their jaded hacks arrived Terpin had been heard or seen in all quarters turnpikemen, wagonners, carters trampers all had seen him besides, strange as it may sound they placed some faith in his word York they believed would be his destination at length, the coach which Dick had encountered Hove in sight there was another stoppage and another hubbub the old gentleman's nightcap was again manifested and suffered a sudden occultation as upon the further occasion the post boy, who was in advance had halted and given up his horse to Major Mobury who exchanged his seat on the box for one on the saddle, deeming it more expedient after his interview with Terpin to return to Rookwood and then proceed to town the post boy was placed behind coats as being the lightest weight and thus reinforced the party pushed forward as rapidly as her two four 80 and odd miles had now been traversed the boundary of another county Northampton passed yet no respiter Dick Terpin or his unflinching mare enjoyed but here he deemed it fitting to make a brief halt bordering the beautiful domains of Burley House stood a little retired hostelry of some antiquity which bore the great Lord Treasurer's arms with this house Dick was not altogether unacquainted the lad who acted as Osler was known to him it was now midnight but a bright and beaming night to the door of the stable then did he ride and knocked in a peculiar manner reconnoitering Dick threw a broken pane of glass in the lintel and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny the lad thrust forth ahead of her as full of straw as mad Tom's is represented to be upon the stage a chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy salutation glad to see you Captain Terpin said he can I do anything for you get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beef steak said Dick as to the brandy you can have that in a jiffy but the steak Lord love you the old woman won't stand for it at this time but there's a curl round a slice of that might do or a knuckle of ham a pest on your knuckles Ralph have you any raw meat in the house raw meat echo Ralph in surprise oh yeah there's a spear ramp of beef you can have a cut of that if you like that's the thing I want said Dick give me the scraper there I can get a wisp of straw from your head now run and get the brandy better bring three bottles and let me have half a pail of water to mix with the spirit a pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak my eyes exclaimed Ralph opening his sleepy peepers adding as he went about the execution of his task I always thought them ramp headers as they call themselves ramp fellows but now I'm starting sure on it the most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more attention upon the horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now paid to his mare he scraped chafed and dried her sounded each muscle traced each sinew pulled her ears examined the state of her feet and ascertaining that her withers were unrung finally washed her from head to foot in the diluted spirit not however before he had conveyed a thimble full of the liquid to his own parched throat and replenished what false stuff calls a pocket pistol which he had about him while Ralph was engaged in rubbing her down after her bath Dick occupied himself not in dressing the raw steak in the manner the stable boy had anticipated but in rolling it round the bit of his bridle she will go now as long as there's breath in her body said he putting the flesh-colored iron within her mouth the saddle being once more replaced after champing a moment or two at the bit best began to snort and paw the earth as if impatient of delay and acquainted as he was with her indomitable spirit and power her condition was a surprise even to Dick himself her vigor seemed inexhaustible her vivacity was not a wit diminished but as she was led into the open space her step became as light and free as when she started on her ride and her sense of sound as quick as ever suddenly she pricked her ears oh no, a dull tramp was audible ha! exclaimed Dick springing into his saddle they come who come captain? asked Ralph the road takes a turn here don't it? asked Dick sweeps around to the right by the plantations in the hollow answered Ralph it's plain you nose aground what lies behind yon shed? a stiff fence captain a regular asper no horses as ever shoe can go down it indeed laughed Dick allowed Halu from Major Mowbray who seemed advancing upon the wings of the wind told Dick that he was discovered the major was a superb horseman and took the lead of his party striking his spurs deeply into his horse and giving him bridal enough the major seemed to shoot forward like a shell through the air the burly arms retired some hundred yards from the road the space in front being occupied by a neat garden with low clipped edges no tall timber intervened between Dick and his pursuers so that the motions of both parties were visible to each other Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he should come into collision with the major exactly at the angle of the road and he was by no means desirous of hazarding such a recon he looked wistfully back at the double fence come into the stable quick captain quick exclaimed Ralph the stable echoed Dick hesitating aye the stable it's your only chance don't you see he's turning the corner and they're all coming quick sir quick Dick lowering his head rolled into the tenement the door of which was unceremoniously slapped in the major's face and bolted on the other side villain cried Major Mowbray thundering at the door come forth you are now fairly trapped at last caught like the woodcock in your own spring we have you open the door I say and save us a trouble of forcing it you cannot escape us we will burn the building down but we will have you what dan you want master cried Ralph from the lintel whence he reconnoited the major and kept the door fast you'll clean me stayin they've been on here and leaping from his horse the chief constable took a short run to give himself impetus and with his foot burst open the door this being accomplished in dash the major and Patterson but the stable was vacant a door was open at the back they rushed to it the sharply sloping sides of a hill slipped abruptly downwards within a yard of the door it was a perilous descent to the horsemen yet the print of a horse's heels were visible in the dislodged turf melted soil confusion cried the major he has escaped us he is yonder said Patterson pointing out turpin moving swiftly through the steaming meadow see he makes a game for the road he clears the fence a regular throw he's given us by the lord nobly done by heaven cried the major with all his faults I honour the fellow's courage and admire his prowess he's already ridden tonight as I believe a man wrote before I would not have ventured to slide down that wall for it's nothing else with the enemy at my heels what say you gentlemen have you had enough? shall we let him go or? as far as chase goes I don't care if we bring the matter to a conclusion said titers I don't think as it is that I shall have a sight to sit on this week to come I've lost leather most confoundedly what says Mr. Coates asked Patterson to look to him then mount and off cried Coates public duty requires that we should take him and private peak returned the major no matter the end is the same justice shall be satisfied till you steed my merry men all harkened away once more upon the move Titus forgot his distress and addressed himself to the attorney by whose side he rode what place is that we're coming to and asked he pointing to a cluster of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were rapidly approaching Stanford replied Coates Stanford exclaimed Titus by the powers then we've ridden a matter of 90 miles why the great deeds of redmond don't handle them with nothing to this I'll remember it to my dying day and with reason added he uneasily shifting his position on the saddle and of chapter 8 book 4 chapter 9 book 4 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 4 chapter 9 Excitement how fled what moonshine faintly showed how fled what darkness hid how fled the earth beneath their feet the heaven above their head William and Helen Dick Turpin meanwhile held bravely on his course Bess was neither strained by her gliding passage down the slippery hillside nor shaken by larking the fence in the meadow as Dick said it took a devilish deal to take it out of her on regaining the high road she resumed her old pace and once more they were distancing time's swift chariot in its whirling passage all the earth Stamford and the tongue of Lincoln's fennishire upon which it is situated were passed almost in a breath Rutland is worn and passed and Lincolnshire once more entered the road now verged within a bullshot of that sporting Athens Corinth perhaps we should say Melton-Mowbray Melton was then unknown to fame but as if inspired by that furor of Anaticus which now inspires all who come within 20 miles of this charibdis of the chase Bess here let out in a style with which it would have puzzled the best Leicestershire Squire's best pride to have kept pace the spirit she imbibed through the pores of her skin and the juices of the meat she had champed seem to have communicated preter natural excitement to her her pace was absolutely terrific her eyeballs were dilated and glowed like flaming carbuncles while her widely distended nostril seemed in the cold moonshine to snort forth smoke as from a hidden fire Fane would turbin have controlled her but without bringing into play all his tremendous nerve no check could be given her headlong course and for once and the only time in her submissive career Bess resolved to have her own way and she had it like a sensible fellow Dick conceded the point there was something even of conjugal philosophy in his self-communion upon the occasion Eane let her take her own way and be hanged to her for an obstinate self-willed jade as she is said he now her back is up there'll be no stopping her I'm sure she rattles away like a woman's tongue and when that once begins we all know what chance the curb has Bess to let her have it out or rather to lend her a lift it will be over the sooner Tantivelas Tantive I know which of us will tire first we have before said that the vehement excitement of continued swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium and mounting to delirium Dick's blood was on fire again he was first giddy as after a deep draft of kindling spirit this passed off but the spirit was still in his veins the yeast stroll was working in his brain all his ardour, his eagerness his fury returned he rode like one insane and his course a par took of his frenzy she bounded, she leapt she tore up the ground beneath her while Dick gave vent to his exultation in one wild prolonged hallou more than half his races run he has triumphed over every difficulty he will have no further occasion to halt Bess carries her forage along with her the course is straight forward success seems certain the goal already reached the path of glory won another wild hallou to which the echoing woods reply and away, away, away thou matchless steed yet brace fast thy sinews hold, hold thy breath for alas the goal is not yet attained but forward, forward on they go high snorts the straining steed thick pants the rider's laboring breath as headlong on they speed End of Chapter 9, Book 4