Chapter 5. Book 1 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 1. Chapter 5. Sir Reginald Rookwood A king who changed his wives as easily as a woman changes her dress. He threw aside the first, cut off the second's head, the third he disemboweled. As for the fourth, he pardoned her, and simply turned her out of doors, but to make matters even, cut off the head of number 5. Victor Hugo. Marie Tudor. From the house to its inhabitants, the transition is natural. Besides the connection between them, there were many points of resemblance, many family features in common. There was the same melancholy grandeur, the same character of romance, the same fantastical display, nor were the secret passages peculiar to the one wanting to the history of the other. Both had their mysteries. One blot there was in the otherwise proud escutcheon of the Rookwoods. That dimmed its splendour and made pale its pretensions. Their sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to its meridian, and so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach attached to all the race none escaped it. Traditional rumours were handed down from father to son throughout the county, and like all the rumours had taken to themselves wings and flown abroad, their crimes became a byword. How was it they escaped punishment? How came they to evade the hand of justice? Proof was ever wanting. Justice was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-necked people of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to breast difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed ordinary individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its possessor as firmness, and the determined energy of the Rookwoods bore them harmless through a sea of trouble. Besides, they were wealthy, lavish even to profusion, and gold will do much if skilfully administered. Yet, despite all this, a dark, ominous cloud settled over their house, and men wondered when the vengeance of heaven so long delayed would fall and consume it. Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending over nearly half the west riding of Yorkshire, the family increased in power and importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until the outbreak of that intestine discord which ended in the Civil Wars, when the espousal of the royalist party with sword and substance by Sir Ralph Rookwood, the then lord of the mansion, a dissolute depraved personage who, however, had been made a knight of the bath of the coronation of Charles I, ended in his own destruction at Naysby, and the wreck of much of his property, a loss which the gratitude of Charles II on his restoration did not fail to make good to Sir Ralph's youthful heir Reginald. Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The fate of the latter was buried in obscurity. It was even a mystery to his family. He was, it said, a youth of much promise and of gentle manners, who, having made an imprudent match from jealousy or some other motive, deserted his wife and fled his country. Various reasons were assigned for his conduct. Amongst others it was stated that the object of Alan's jealous suspicions was his elder brother, Reginald, and that it was the discovery of his wife's infidelity in this quarter which occasioned his sudden disappearance with his infant daughter. Some say he died abroad, others that he had appeared again for a brief space at the hall, but all now concurred in a belief of his decease. Of his child nothing was known. His inconstant wife, after enduring for some years the agonies of remorse abandoned by Sir Reginald and neglected by her own relatives, put an end to her existence by poison. That is all that could be gathered of the story or the misfortunes of Alan Rookwood. The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles in the manner of a page during his exile, and if he could not re-quite the devotion of the son by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the father, the monarch could at least accord him the fostering influence of his favour and countenance, and bestow upon him certain lucrative situations in his household as an earnest of his goodwill. And thus much he did. Remarkable for his personal attractions in youth, it is not to be wondered at that we should find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded in the scandalous chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address and discretion, matchless wit and marvellous pleasantry, and eminent beyond his peers for successes with some of the most distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and voluptuous court. A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first match was unproprietis, foiled in his attempts upon the chastity of a lady of great beauty and high honour he was rash enough to marry her. Rash, we say, for on that fatal hour all became darkness, the curtain fell upon the comedy of his life to rise no tragic horrors. When passion subsided, repentance awoke, and he became anxious for deliverance from the fetters he had so heedlessly imposed upon himself, and on his unfortunate dame. The hapless lady of Reginald was a fair and fragile creature, floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried in destruction as the summer gossamer swept away by the rude breeze and lost forever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if sorrow had not made, sorrow more beautiful than beauty's self, it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness and sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came, saddening and shading the one smooth and smiling brow, when tears dimmed the blue beauty of those deep and tender eyes, when hot hectic flushes supplied the place of healthful bloom, and despair took possession of her heart, then was it seen what was the charm of Lady Rookwood, if charm that could have been called which was such a saddening sight to see, and melted the beholder's soul within him. All acknowledged that exquisite as she had been before, the sad, sweet lady was now more exquisite still. Seven moons had waned and flown, seven bitter, tearful moons, and each day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more soothing attention at the hand of her lord. About this time his wife's brother, whom he hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck with his sister's altered appearance, he readily divined the cause, indeed all tongues were eager to proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, Lionel Vavasor implored an explanation of the cause of his sister's griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively, attributing her woe-begone looks to any other cause and her husband's cruelty, and pressing her brother as he valued her peace, her affection, never to allude to the subject again. The fiery youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law, and taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his upbradings. So Reginald listened silently and calmly. When the other had finished with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied, Sir, I am much beholden for the trouble you have taken in your sister's behalf, but when she entrusted herself to my keeping, she relinquished. I conceive all claim on your guardianship. However, I thank you for the trouble you have taken, but for your own sake I would venture to caution you against a repetition of interference like the present. And I, sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my words, or by the heaven above us I will enforce attention to them. You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my conduct, as I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my wife. What more would you have? Were she a harlot, you should have her back and welcome. The tool is virtuous. Devise some scheme and take her with you hence, so you rid me of her as I am content.  And Vavasor spat upon his brother's cheek. Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its scabbard. Defend yourself, he exclaimed, furiously attacking Vavasor. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were made and parried. Faint and appeal, the most desperate and dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced like lightning flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled. There was a moment's cessation. Each glanced at the other with a deadly, inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasor's blade shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary, an adversary who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his brother's body. The hilt struck against the ribs. Sir Reginald's eye was kindled, not extinguished by the deed he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood. Like the tiger, he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He was greeted by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet summoned courage sufficient to approach him. She embraced his arm. She clasped his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was cutting as his daggers edge. What hails you, sweetheart? said he. I know not. Your smile frightens me. My smile frightens you. Fool! Be thankful that I frown not. Oh, do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were when I first knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then that I may for one instant dream you love me. Silly wench. There. I do smile. That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know what I have endured this morning on your account? My brother Lionel has been here. Indeed. Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my altered appearance. And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause. You told him your version of the story. Not a word, as I hope to live. A lie. By my truth. No. A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself. Impossible. He could not. Would not disobey me. Reginald laughed bitterly. He would not, I'm sure, give utterance to any scandal, continued Lady Rookwood. You say this, but to try me do you not. What is this? Your hand is bloody. You have not harmed him. Whose blood is this? Your brother spat upon my cheek. I have washed out the stain, replied Reginald coldly.  Is he dead? So Reginald turned away. Stay! she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and becoming white as ashes. Abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast, dying.  Yes, one besides. My brother. And you have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them, have clasped them.  I renounce you forever. May my dying words ring in your ears on your deathbed. For that hour will come. You cannot shun that. Then think of him. Think of me. Away, interrupted Reginald, endeavouring to shake her off. I will not away.    You shall learn to fear even me. I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman. Fear the dead, then! There was a struggle, a blow, and the wretched lady sank, shrieking upon the floor. Convulsions seized her.  She spoke no more, but died within the hour, giving birth to a female child. Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol, her father's bane. All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her mother's beauty she had all her mother's pride. So Reginald's every thought was for his daughter, for her a grandisement. In vain. She seemed only to endure him, and while his affection waxed stronger and entwined itself round her alone, she withered beneath his embraces, as the shrub withers in the clasping folds of the parasite plant. She grew toward womanhood, suit us thronged about her, gentle and noble ones. So Reginald watched them with a jealous eye. He was wealthy, powerful, high in royal favour, and could make his own election. He did so. For the first time Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded with her own humour. The day was appointed. It came, but with it came not the bride. She had fled with the humblest and the meanest of the pretenders to her land, with one upon whom so Reginald's suppose she had not designed to cast her eyes. He endeavoured to forget her, and, to all outward seeming, was successful in the effort. But he felt that the curse was upon him. The undying flame scorched his heart. Once, and only once, they met again in France wither she had wandered. It was a dread encounter, terrible to both, but most so to Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards. Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald had made proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome jointure, one of his earlier attachments, and was, without scruple, accepted. The power of the family might then be said to be at its zenith. But for certain, untoward circumstances, and the growing influence of his enemies, Sir Reginald would have been elevated to the peerage. Like most reformed Spenthriffs, he had become proportionately avaricious, and his mind seemed engrossed in accumulating wealth. In the meantime, his second wife followed her predecessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and disappointment. The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing characteristic of the Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald. Another dame followed, equally rich, younger, and far more beautiful than her immediate predecessor. She was a prodigious flirt, and soon set her husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not condescend to expossulate. It was not his way. He effectually prevented any recurrence of her indiscretions. She was removed, and with her expired Sir Reginald's waning popularity. So strong was the expression of odium against him, that he thought it prudent to retire to his mansion in the country, and there altogether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Reginald's otherwise utterly selfish character was uncompromising devotion to the House of Stuart, and shortly after the abdication of James II, he followed that monarch to Saint-Germain, having previously mixed largely in secret political intrigues, and only returned from the French court to lay his bones with those of his ancestry in the family vault at Rookwood. End of Chapter 5, Book 1. Chapter 6, Book 1 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth Book 1, Chapter 6, Sir Piers Rookwood Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children. A daughter, the before mentioned Eleanor, who entirely discounted by the family, had been seemingly forgotten by all but her father, and two sons by his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, whose military taste had early procured him the command of a company of horse, and whose politics did not coalesce with those of his sire fell during his father's lifetime at Killy Cranky, under the banners of William. Piers, therefore, the second son, succeeded to the title. A very different character in many respects from his father and brother, holding in supreme dislike courts and courtiers, party warfare, political intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplomacy, neither having any inordinate relish for camps or campaigns, Sir Piers Rookwood yet displayed in early life one family propensity, vis unremitting devotion to the sex. Among his other mistresses was the unfortunate Susan Bradley, in whom, by some, he was supposed to have been clandestinely united. In early youth, as has been stated, Sir Piers professed the faith of Rome. But shortly after the death of his beautiful mistress, or wife, as it might be, having quarrelled with his father's confessor, Checkley, he publicly abdued his heresies. Sir Piers subsequently allied himself to Maude, only daughter of Sir Thomas Dobbany, the last of a line as proud and intolerant as his own. The tables were then turned. Lady Rookwood usurped sovereign sway over her lord and Sir Piers. A cipher in his own house, scarce master of himself, much less of his dame, endured an existence so miserable that he was often heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not inherited, with the estate of his forefathers, the family secrets of shaking off the matrimonial yoke when found to press too hardly. At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage. But in vain, he was fast fettered, and only bruised himself like the caged lark against the bars of his prison house. Abandoning all further effort at emancipation, he gave himself up to the usual resource of a weak mind, debauchery, and drank so deeply to drown his cares that, in the end, his hailed constitution yielded to his excesses. It was even said that remorse at his abandonment of the faith of his fathers had some share in his misery, and that his old spiritual, and if reports spoke truly sinful advisor, Father Checkley, had visited him secretly at the hall. Sir Piers was observed to shudder whenever the priest's name was mentioned. Sir Piers Rookwood was a good, humid man in the main, had little of the old family leaven about him, and was esteemed by his associates. Of late, however, his temper became soured, and his friends deserted him, for, between his domestic annoyances, remorseful feelings, and the inroads already made upon his constitution by constant inebriity, he grew so desperate and insane in his revels, and committed such fearful extravagances, that even his boon companions shrank from his orges. Fearful were the scenes between him and Lady Rookwood upon these occasions, appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves, and it was perhaps their frequent recurrence that, more than anything else, banished all decent society from the hall. At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down to the date of our story, his son and successor, Randolph, was absent on his travels. Shortly after the completion of his academic education, he had departed to make the tour of the continent, and had been absent rather better than a year. He had quitted his father in displeasure, and was destined never again to see his face while living. The last intelligence received of young Rookwood was from Bordeaux, whence it was thought he had departed for the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been dispatched in search of him, with tidings of the melancholy event, but, as it was deemed improbable by Lady Rookwood that her son could return within any reasonable space, she gave directions for the accomplishments of the funeral rites of her husband on the sixth night after his decease, it being the custom of the Rookwoods ever to inter their dead at midnight, entrusting their solemnization entirely to the care of one of Piers' hangers-on, Dr. Titus, Tia Connell, for which she was greatly scandalised in the neighbourhood. Randolph Rookwood was a youth of goodly promise, the stock from which he sprang wood on neither side warrant such conclusion, but it sometimes happens that, from the darkest elements are compounded the brightest and subtlest substances, and so it occurred in this instance, fair, frank, and free, generous, open, insuspicious, he seemed the very opposite of all his race, their antagonising principle. Capriciously indulgent, his father had allowed him ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his expenditure, exceeding at one moment to every inclination and the next in resolutely opposing it, it was impossible therefore for him, in such a state of things, to act decidedly without incurring his father's displeasure, and the only measure he resolved upon, which was to absent himself for a time, was conjectured to have brought about the result he had endeavoured to avoid. Other reasons however there were, which secretly influenced him, which it will be our business in due time to detail. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book one, chapter seven, The Return. Flam. How croaks the raven. Is our good duchess dead? Lod. Dead. Webster. The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying of the domestics to and fro, the multifarious arrangements for the night, the distribution of the melancholy trappings, and the discussion of the funeral-baked meats furnished abundant occupation within doors. Without, there was a constant stream of the tenantry, thronging down the avenue mixed with an occasional horseman, once or twice intercepted by a large, lumbering carriage, bringing friends of the deceased, some really anxious to pay the last tribute of regard, but the majority attracted by the anticipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There were others, indeed, to whom it was not a matter of choice, who were compelled by a vassal tenure of their lands, held of the house of Rookwood to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch on the burial of its Lord. Of these, there was a plentiful muster collected in the hall. They were to be marshaled by Peter Bradley, who was deemed to be well skilled in the proceedings, having been present at two solemnities of the kind. That mysterious personage, however, had not made his appearance to the great dismay of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in search of him, but they returned with the intelligence that the door of his habitation was fastened, and its inmate, apparently absent. No other tidings of the truant sexton could be obtained. It was a sultry, august evening. No breeze was stirring in the garden. No cool juice refreshed the parched and heated earth, yet from the languishing flowers rich sweets exhaled. The splash of a fountain fell pleasantly upon the ear, conveying in its sound a sense of freshness to the fervid air, while deep and drowsy murmurs hummed heavily beneath the trees, making the twilight slumberously musical. The westering sun, which filled the atmosphere with flame throughout the day, was now wildly setting, and, as he sank behind the hall, its varied and picturesque tracery became each instant more darkly and distinctly defined against the crimson sky. At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the chase, was thrown open, and a young man entered the garden, passing through the shrubbery and hurrying rapidly forward till he arrived at a vista opening upon the house. The spot at which the stranger halted was marked by a little basin, scantily supplied with water streaming from a lion's kingly jaws. His dress was travel-soiled and dusty, and his whole appearance betokened great exhaustion from heat and fatigue. Seating himself upon an adjoining bench, he threw off his riding cap, and unclasped his collar, displaying a finely turned neck and head, and a countenance which, besides its beauty, had that rare nobility of feature which seldom falls to the lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of an inferior order. A restless dequietude of manner showed that he was suffering from over-excitement of mind, as well as from bodily exertion. His look was wild and hurried. His black ringlets were dashed heedlessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care was prematurely written, while his large melancholy eyes were bent, with a look almost at agony, upon the house before him. After a short pause, and as if struggling against violent emotions and some overwhelming remembrance, the youth arose, and plunged his hand into the basin, applying the moist element to his burning brow. Apparently becoming more calm, he bent his steps towards the hall, when two figures suddenly issuing from an adjoining cops arrested his progress. Neither saw him. Muttering a hurried farewell, one of the figures disappeared within the shrubbery, and the other, confronting the stranger, displayed the harsh features and gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had Peter encountered the dead's appears in corporeal form, he could not have manifested more surprise than he exhibited for an instant or two, as he shrunk back from the stranger's path. End of Chapter 7, Book 1. Chapter 8, Book 1, of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 1, Chapter 8, an Irish adventurer. Scapin. A most outrageous roaring fellow with a swelled red face inflamed with brandy. Cheats of Scapin. An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small, cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to a justituary business by its late owner, but in reality used as a sanctum, snuggery, or smoking room. A singular trio were assembled, fraught with the ulterior purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron and friend, though immediately occupied in the discussion of a magnum of excellent claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air like the fragrance of a bed of violets. This little room had been poor Sapir's favourite retreat. It was, in fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own, and thither would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the flagging hours secure from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned apartment it was, wainscoted with rich black oak, with a fine old cabinet of the same material, and a line or two of crazy, worm-eaten bookshelves laden with sundry, dusty, unconsulted lortomes, and a light sprinkling of the Elder Divine's equally neglected. The only book, indeed, Sapir's ever read, was the Anatomy of Melancholy, and he merely studied Burton because the quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his humourate seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his wine. Four portraits adorned the walls, those of Sir Reginald Rookwood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the flowering drapery of Charles II's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms being somewhat sullied by overexposure, and the vermal tinting of their cheeks darkened by fumes of tobacco. There was a shepherdess, with her taper crook, whose large, languishing eyes, ripe, pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses, and there of voluptuous abandonment scarcely suited the innocent simplicity of her costume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy sheep, with azure ribbons round their necks, accompanied by one of those invaluable little dogs, whose length of ear and silkiness of skin and vinced him perfect in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indifference to his charge proved him to be as much out of character with his situation, as the refined and luxuriant charms of his mistress were out of keeping with her artless attire. This was Sophia's mother, the third wife, beautiful woman, answering to the notion of one who had been somewhat a flirt in her day, next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat and arm of a Juno, and a superb bust, the bust was then what the bustle is now, a paramount attraction. Whether the modification be an improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the beautiful, this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this unfortunate lady had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the hand of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, almost as powerful as that which had dwelt around the exquisite original. Over the high carved mantelpiece was suspended the portrait of Sir Reginald. It had been painted in early youth, the features were beautiful, disdainful, with a fierceness breaking through the courtly air. The eyes were very fine, black as midnight, and piercing as those of Caesar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's wonderful picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to fascinate the Gaser, to rivet his glances, to follow him with so ever he went, and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and had all the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master, nor was the haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the patrician painter. No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But in lieu thereof, depending from a pair of Buck's horns hung the worthy knight's stained scarlet coat, the same in which he had ridden forth with the intent to hunt, on the eventful occasion detailed by Peter Bradley, his velvet cap, his book handled whip, and the residue of his equipment for the chase, this attire was reviewed with melancholy interest and unaffected emotion by the company, as reminding them forcibly of the departed, of which it seemed a portion. The party consisted of the vicar of Rookwood, Dr. Polycarp Small, Dr. Titus T. Connell, an emigrant and empirical professor of medicine, from his sister isle, whose convivial habits had first introduced him to the hall, and afterwards retained him there, and Mr. Cody Silcoates, clerk of the peace, attorney at law, bailiff, and receiver. We were wrong in saying that T. Connell was retained. He was an impudent, intrusive fellow whom, having once gained a footing in the house, it was impossible to dislodge. He cared for no insult, perceived no slight, and professed in her presence the profoundest respect for Lady Rookwood, in short, he was ever ready to do anything but depart. Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot dine alone. He disliked to solitary repast almost as much as a tater-tate with his lady. He would have been recognised at once as the true amphiterion, had anyone been hard enough to play the part of Jupiter. Ever ready to give a dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually experienced on such occasions, there was no one upon whom to bestow it. He had the best of wine, kept an excellent table, was himself no-niggered host, but his own merits, and those of his cuisine, were forgotten in the invariable pedant to the feast. And the best of wine lost its flavour when the last bottle found its way to the guest's head. Dine alone, Sir Piers would not, and as his old friends forsook him, he plunged lower into his search of society, collecting within his house a class of persons whom no one would have expected to meet at the hall, nor even its owner have chosen for his companions had any choice remained to him. He did not endure this state of things without much outward show of discontent. Anything for a quiet life was his constant saying. Unlike the generality of people with whom those words form a favourite maxim, he led the most uneasy life imaginable. Endurance to excite commiseration must be uncomplaining, an axiom to the aggrieved of the gentle sex should remember. Sir Piers endured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all hands voted a bore, domestic grievances, especially if the husband be the plaintiff being the most intolerable of all mentionable miseries. No wonder that his friends deserted him. Still there was Titus Tyrconnell, his ears and lips were ever open to the pathos and to punch, so Titus kept his station. Immediately after her husband's demise, it had been Lady Rookwood's intention to clear the house of all the vermin, so she expressed herself, that had so long infested it, and forcibly to eject Titus, and one or two other intruders of the same class, but in consequence of certain hints received from Mr. Coates, who represented the absolute necessity of complying with Sir Piers' testamentary instructions, which were particular in that respect, she thought proper to deter her intentions until after the ceremonial of interment should be completed, and in the meantime, strange to say, committed its arrangement to Titus Tyrconnell, who, ever ready to accommodate, accepted nothing loss, the charge, and acquitted himself admirably well in his undertaking, especially, as he said, in the eating and drinking department, the most essential part of it all. He kept an open house, open dining room, open cellar, resolved that his patron's funeral should emulate as much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, the finest sight, in his opinion, in the whole world. Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with heat sat Titus like a robustuous periwig-pated alderman after a civic feast, the natural ruby-cundity of his countenance was darkened to a deep purple tint, like that of a full-blown peony, while his ludicrous dignity was augmented by a shining suit of sables in which his portly person was invested. The first magnum had been discussed in solemn silence. The cloud, however, which hung over the conclave, disappeared under the genial influence of, another, and better, bottle, and gave place to a denser vapour occasioned by the introduction of the pipe and its accompaniments. Enskanced in a comfortable old chair, it is not, every old chair that is comfortable, with pipe in mouth, and in full unbuttoned ease, his bushy cauliflower wig laid aside by reason of the heat, reposed Dr. Small. Small, indeed, was somewhat of a misnomer, as applied to the worthy doctor, who, besides being no diminutive specimen of his kind, entertained no insignificant opinion of himself. His height was certainly not remarkable, but his width of shoulder, his sesquipediality of stomach, and obesity of calf, these were unique. Of his origin we know nothing, but, presume we must, in some way or other, have been connected with the numerous family of the Smalls, who, according to Christopher North, formed the predominant portion of mankind. In appearance, the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a sodden, pasty face, wherein were set eyes whose obliquity of vision was, in some measure, redeemed by their expression of humour. He was accounted a man of parts and erudition, and had obtained high honours at his university. Rigidly orthodox, he abominated the very names of papists and Jacobites, amongst which heretical herd he classed his companion, Mr Titus Ter Connell, Ireland, being with him synonymous with superstition and Catholicism, and every Irishman rebellious and schismatical. On his head, he was inclined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent him from passing the claret, nor from laughing, as heartily as a plethoric asthma and sense of the decorum to the occasion would permit, at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, he admitted, not withstanding his heresies, was a pleasant fellow in the main. And when, in addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insinuated by the officious Titus, at the precise moment that Small yearned for his afternoon solace, yet scrupled to ask for it, when the door had been made fast, and the first whiff exhaled, all his misgivings vanished, and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In this illusian state, we find him. Ah, you may say that Dr Small, said Titus, in answer to some observation of the vicar, that's our most original apothejum. We all of us hold our lives by a thread, oh, man is the sudden finale I have seen. Man is the fine fellow's heels tripped upon a wares when least expected.  And that brings me back again to Sapares. Poor gentleman, ah, we shan't soon see the like of him again. Poor Sapares, said Mr Coats, a small man in a scratch wig with a red face and round as an apple, and almost as diminutive, it is to be regretted that this over conviviality should so much have hastened his lamented demise. Conviviality, replied Titus, no such thing, it was apoplexy, extravasation of Sarrum. Extravasation of rum and water, you mean, replied Coats, who like all his tribe rejoiced in a quibble. The squire's ailment, continued Titus, was a sanguineous effusion, as we call it, positive determination of blood to the head, occasioned by a low way he got into just before his attack, a confirmed case of hypochondriasis, as that old book's appears was so fond of terms the blue devils, he neglected the bottle, which, in a man who has been a hard drinker all his life, is a bad sign. The lowering system never answers, never, doctor, I'll just trouble you. For small, in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass the bottle, though not to help himself. Had he stuck to this, holding up a glass, ruby bright, the elixir vitae, the grand panacea, he might have been hail and hearty at this present moment, and as well as any of us, but he wouldn't be advised. To my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the better for a little of your reverence's spiritual advice, and this conscious having been believed by confession and absolution, he might have opened a fresh account with an icy heart and clean breast. I trust, sir, said small gravely, withdrawing his pipe from his lips, that Sir Pierce Rook would address himself to a higher source than a sinning creature of clay like himself for remission of his sins, but, if there was any load of secret guilt that might have weighed heavy upon his conscience, it is to be regretted that he refused the last offices of the church and died in Communicate. I was denied all admittance to his chamber. Exactly my case, said Mr. Colts, petishly. I was refused entrance, though my business was of the most important certain disposition, special bequests, matter connected with his sister, for though the estate is entailed, yet still there are charges, you understand me, very strange to refuse to see me. Some people may regret it, may live to, regret it, I say, that's all. I've just sent up a package to Lady Rookwood which was not to be delivered till after Sir Pierce's death, odd circumstance that, being in my custody a long while, some reason to think Sir Pierce meant to alter his will, ought have seen me, sad neglect. More's the pity, but it was none of Sir Pierce doing, replied Titus. He had no will of his own poor fellow during his lifetime, and the devil of will was he likely to have after his death. It was all Lady Rookwood's doing, had it he, in a whisper. I, his medical advisor, and confidential friend, was ordered out of the room, and although I knew it was as much as his life was worth to leave him for a moment in that state, I was forced to comply, and would you believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words. Yes, Doctor, as I hoped to be saved, words of anger from her at that awful jolture. The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, and very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely together that the bowls of their pipes formed a common centre whence the stems radiated. A momentary silence ensued, during which each band puffed for very life. Small necks knocked the ashes from his tube, and began to replenish it, coughing significantly. Mr. Coates expelled a thin, curling stream of vapour from a minute orifice in the corner of his almost invisible mouth, and arched his eyebrows in a singular manner, as if he dared not trust the expression of his thoughts to any other feature. Titus shook his huge head, and, upon the strength of a bumper which he swallowed, mustered resolution enough to unburden his bosom. By my soul, he said mysteriously, I've seen enough lately to frighten any quiet gentleman out of his senses. I'll not get a wink of sleep I fear for a week to come. There must have been something dreadful upon Sir Pears' mind. Sure, nay, there's no use in mincing the matter with you. In a word, then, some crime too deep to be divulged. Crime, echoed Coates, and small in a breath. I, crime, repeated Titus, whist, not so loud, lest anyone should overhear us. Poor Sir Pears, he's dead now. I'm sure you both loved him as I did, and pity him pardoned him if he was guilty. For certain am I that no soul ever took its flight more heavily laden than that of our poor friend. Oh, it was a terrible ending. But you shall hear how he died, and judge for yourselves. When I returned to his room after Lady Rockwood's departure, I found him quite delirious. I knew death was not far off. One minute he was in the chase, cheering on the hounds. Hello, tell you, cried he. Who clears the fence? Sue swims what stream. The next he was drinking, carousing, and hurraring at the head of his table. Hip, hip, hip! As mad and wild and frantic as ever he used to be when wine had got the better of him. And then, all of a sudden, in the midst of this shouting, he stopped, exclaiming, What? Here again? Who let her in? The door is fast. I looked at myself. Devil, why did you open it? You have betrayed me. She will poison me, and I cannot resist. Ah, another who? Who is that? Her face is white. Her hair hangs about her shoulders. Is she alive again? Susan! Susan, why that look? You loved me well. Too well. You will not drag me to perdition. You will not appear against me. No! No! No! It is not in your nature. You whom I doted on, whom I loved, whom I... But I repented. I sorrowed. I prayed, prayed. Oh no! No prayers would avail. Pray for me, Susan, forever. Your intercession may avail. It is not too late. I will do justice to all. Bring me pen and ink, paper. I will confess. He shall have it all. Where is my sister? I would speak with her. Would tell her, tell her. Call Alan Rookwood. I shall die before I could tell it. Come hither! Said he to me. There is a dark, dreadful secret on my mind. It must forth. Tell my sister. Oh no! My senses swim. Susan is near me. Fury in her eyes. Avenging fury. Keep her off. What is this white mass in my arms? What do I hold? Is it the corpse by my side as I lay that long, long night? It is. It is. Cold stiff stillness as then. White, horribly white. As when the moon that would not set showed all its ghastliness. Ah! It moves, embraces me, stifles, suffocates me. Help! Remove the pillow. I cannot breathe. I joke. Oh! And now I am coming to the strangest part of my story. And, strange as it may sound, every word is as true as gospel. Ahem! coughed small. Well, at this moment, this terrible moment, what should I hear but a tap against the wane-skirt? Holy virgin, how it startled me! My heart leapt to my mouth in an instant, and then went thump, thump against my ribs. But I said nothing, though you may be sure I kept my ears wide open. And then, presently, I heard the tap repeated somewhat louder, and shortly afterwards a third. I should still have said nothing, but Sapares heard the knock and raised himself at the summons. As if it had been on the last trumpet. Come in! cried he, in a dying voice. And heaven forgive me if I confess that I expected a certain person, whose company one would rather dispense with upon such an occasion to step in. However, though it wasn't the old gentleman, it was somebody near akin to him, for a door I had never seen and never even dreamed of opened in the wall, and insteped Peter Bradley. Aye, you may well stare, gentlemen, but it was Peter, looking as stiff as a crowbar and as blue as a mattock. Well, he walked straight up to the bed of the dying man, and bent his great diabolical grey eyes upon him, laughing all the while. Yes, laughing, you know the cursed grin he has. To proceed, you have called me, he said to Sapares. I am here. What would you with me? We are not alone, groaned the dying man. Leave us, Dr. Tick Honnell, leave me for five minutes, only five, mark me. I'll go, thinks I, but I shall never see you again alive. And true enough it was, I never did see him again with breath in his body. Without more ado, I left him, and I had scarcely reached the corridor when I heard the door bolted behind me. I then stopped to listen, and I'm sure you'll not blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole for I suspected something wrong. But heaven save us, that crafty grave digger had taken his precautions too well. I could neither see nor hear anything, except after a few minutes a wild, unearthly screech. And then the door was thrown open and I, not expecting it, was precipitated, head foremost into the room to the great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had vanished, I suppose, as he came.  A profound silence succeeded this narrative. Mr. Coates would not venture upon a remark. Dr. Small seemed, for some minutes, lost in painful reflection. At length he spoke. You have described a shocking scene, Mr. Tierconnell, and in a manner that convinces me of its fidelity, but I trust you will excuse me, as a friend of the late appears, in requesting you to maintain silence in future on the subject. Its repetition can be productive of no good, and may do infinite harm by giving currency to unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of the survivors. Everyone acquainted with Sapir's history must be aware, as I dare say you are already, of an occurrence which cast a shade of his early life, blighted his character, and endangered his personal safety. It was a dreadful accusation, but I believe, nay, I am sure, it was unfounded. Dark suspicions attached to a rommish priest of the name of Checkley. He, I believe, is beyond the reach of human justice. Airing Sapir's was, undoubtedly, but I trust he was more weak than sinful. I have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially the wretch I have named, and it is easy to perceive how that incomprehensible lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy over him. The daughter you are aware was Sapir's mistress. Our friend is now gone, and with him let us bury his offences, and the remembrance of them, that his soul was heavily laden, would appear from your account of his last moments. Yet I fervently trust that his repentance was sincere, in which case there is hope of forgiveness for him. At what time, so ever a sinner shall repent of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will blot out all his wickedness out of my remembrance, saith the Lord. Heaven's mercy is greater than man's sins, and there is hope of salvation, even for Sapir's. I trust so indeed, said Titus, with emotion. And as to repeating a syllable of what I have just said, devil a word more while I utter on the subject. My lips shall be shut and sealed, as close as one of Mr. Coat's bonds, forever and a day, but I thought it just right to make you acquainted with the circumstances, and now, having dismissed the bad forever, I am ready to speak of Sapir's good qualities, and not few they were. What was there becoming a gentleman that he couldn't do, I'd like to know? Couldn't he hunt as well as ever a one in the county, and hadn't he as good a pack of hounds? Couldn't he shoot as well, and fish as well, and drink as well, or better? Only he couldn't carry his wine, which was his misfortune, not his fault, and wasn't he always ready to ask a friend to dinner with him, and didn't he give him a good dinner when he came, barring the cross cups afterwards? And hadn't he everything agreeable about him, except his wife, which was a great drawback, and with all his peculiarities and humours, wasn't he as kind-hearted as a man needs be, and an Irishman at the core, and so, if he weren't dead, I'd say long life to him, but, as he is, his peace to his memory. At this juncture, a knocking was heard at the door, which someone without had vainly tried to open. Titus rose to enclose it, ushering in an individual known at the hall as Jack Palmer. End of Chapter 8, Book 1. Chapter 9, Book 1 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 1, Chapter 9. An English adventurer. Mrs. Peacham. Sure, the captain's the finest gentleman on the road. Beggar's Opera. Jack Palmer was a good-humoured, good-looking man, with immense, bushy red whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, and sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards the scalp of the head, which garnished the nape of his neck with a wroth of crisp little curls, like the ring on a monk's shaven crown. Notwithstanding his tendency to baldness, Jack could not be more than thirty, though his looks were some five years in advance. His face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which appeared to be proper to a peculiar class of men, a regular, new market, physiognomy, compounded chiefly of cunning and insurance, not low cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty, sporting subtlety, careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for the main chance, game, and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he looked half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of our own. His netherman appeared in well-fitting, well-worn bookskins, and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle, while the airy extravagance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding-coat, the richness of his vest, the pockets of which were beautifully exuberant according to the mode of 1737, the smart luxuriant of his cravat, and a certain curious taste in the size and style of his buttons, proclaimed that, in his own esteem at least, his person did not appear altogether unworthy of decoration, nor, in justice to Jack, can we allow that he was in error. He was a model of a man, for five feet ten, square, compact, capitally built in every particular, excepting that his legs were slightly imbued, which defect probably arose from his being almost constantly on horseback, a sort of exercise in which Jack greatly delighted, and was accounted a superb rider. It was indeed his daring horsemanship upon one particular occasion, when he had outstripped a whole field that had procured him the honour of an invitation to Rookwood. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question not easily answered, Jack himself evading all solution to the inquiry. Sapir's never troubled his head about the matter. He was a juice-good fellow, roadwell, and stood on no sort of ceremony. That was good enough for him. Nobody else knew anything about him. Save that he was a capitol judge of horse flesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every hunt in the West Riding, that he could sing a good song, was a choice companion, and could drink three bottles without feeling the worst for them. Sensible of the indecorum that might attach to his appearance, Dr. Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and arranged his wig. But when he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of defiance, he resumed his occupation, without returning the bow of the latter, or bestowing further notice upon him. Nothing discomposed at the churchman's displeasure, Jack greeted Titus accordively, and carelessly saluting Mr. Coates through himself into a chair. He next filled a tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught. How far have you ridden, Jack? asked Titus, noticing the dusty state of Parma's azure attire. Some dozen miles, replied Parma, and that, on such a sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirsty-ish, and as dry as a sand bed. Famous wine, this beautiful tipple, better than all your red fustion. Ah, how porse appears you used to like it. Well, that's all over. A glass like this might do him good in his present quarters. I'm afraid I'm intruding. But the fact is, I wanted a little information about the order of the procession, and missing you below came hither in search of you. You're to be chief mourner, I suppose, Titus. Rehearsing your party. Come, come, Jack. No joking, replied Titus. The subject's too serious. I am to be chief mourner, and I expect you to be a mourner, and everybody else to be mourners. We must all mourn at the proper time. There'll be a power of people at the church. There are a power of people here already, returned Jack, if they all attend. And they all will attend. Oh, what is the eating and drinking to go for? I shan't leave a soul in the house. Accepting one, said Jack, actually. Lady Rookwood won't attend, I think. Aye, accepting her ladyship and her ladyship's abbegale, all the rest go with me, and form part of the procession you go to. Of course. At what time do you start? Twelve precisely, as the clock strikes, we set out, all in a line, and a long line will make. I'm waiting for that old coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order. How long will it all occupy, thank you? asked Jack carelessly. That, I can't say, returned Titus. Possibly an hour, more or less. But we shall start to the minute. This is, if we can all get together, so don't be out of the way. And, Harky Jack, you must contrive to change your togery. That sky-blue coat won't do. It's not the thing at all, at all. Never fear that, replied Palmer. But who were those in the carriages? Is it the last carriage you mean? Squire, Forrester, and his sons, they're dining with the other gentlefolk in the great room upstairs to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a grand bearing, and by Sir Patrick, I must be looking after it. Stay a minute, said Jack. Let's have a cool bottle first. They're all taking care of themselves below, and Peter Bradley has not made his appearance. So you need be in no hurry. I shall go with you presently. Shall I ring for the claret? By all means, replied Titus. Jack accordingly rose, and, a butler answering the summons, a long-necked bottle was soon placed before them. You heard of the affray last night, I presume? Said Jack, renewing the conversation. With the poachers, to be sure I did. Wasn't I called in to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this morning? A deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides other bruises. Is the wound dangerous? inquired Palmer. Not exactly mortal, if you mean that, replied the Irishman. Dangerous, certainly. exclaimed Jack. They'd a pretty harshest bout of it, I understand. Anything been heard of the body? What body? inquired Small, who was half-dozing. The body of the drowned poacher, replied Jack. They were off to search for it this morning. Found it, not they, exclaimed Titus. I can't help laughing, for the life and soul of me a capital tricky played on them. Capital, what do you think the fellow did? After leading them the devil's dance all around the park, killing a hound as savage as a wolf, and breaking Hugh Badger's head, which is as hard and thick as a butcher's block. What does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a great rock hanging over it, and make his way to the other side through a subterranean cavern, which nobody knew anything about, till they came to drag it, thinking him snuggly drowned all the while. Ha ha, chorus Jack.  He who? inquired the attorney. Why, the poacher to be sure, replied Jack. Who else were we talking about? Big pardon, returned Coates. I thought you might have heard some intelligence. We've got an eye upon him. We know who it was. Indeed, said Jack, and who was it? A fellow by the name of Luke Bradley. Zounds, cried Titus. You don't say it was he. Murdering Irish, that baits everything. Why, he was Sapir's natural son, replied the attorney. He has not been heard of for some time. Shockingly incorrigible rascal, impossible to do anything with him. You don't say so, observed Jack. I've heard Sapir's speak of the lad, and by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed Tit's back. Only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us may be. Once breaking, that's all. Your skittish cult makes the best horse, and so will he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he escaped. So am I, rejoined Titus. For in the first place, I have a foolish partiality for poachers, and I'm sorry when any of them come to hurt. And in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had happened to one of Sapir's flesh and blood, as this young chap appears to be. Appears to be, repeated Palmer. There's no appearing in the case, I take it. This bridle is an undoubted offshoot of the old squire. His mother was a servant made at the hall, I rather think. You, sir, continued he, addressing Coates. Perhaps cunning forms of the real facts of the case. She was something better than a servant, replied the attorney, with a slight cough and a knowing wink. I remember her quite well, though I was but a boy then. A lovely creature and so taking. I don't wonder that Sapir's was smitten with her. He was mad after the women in those days, and pretty subrately above all others. She lived with him quite like his lady. So I've heard, returned Jack, and she remained with him till her death. Let me see. Wasn't there something rather odd in the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected? A noise made about it at the time, eh?  Small, snored, audibly. I was too young then to pay any attention to idle rumours, continued Coates. It is a long time ago. May I ask the reason of your inquiry? Nothing further than simple curiosity, replied Jack, enjoying the consternation of his companions. It is, as you say, a long while since, but it's singular how that sort of thing is remembered. One would think people had something else to do than talk of one's private affairs forever. For my part, I despise such tattle, but there are persons in the neighbourhood who still say it was an awkward business. Amongst others, I've heard that this very Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about it. Does he indeed, said Coates, so much the worse for him. Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth that shall spoil his talking in the future. That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at, replied Jack. And I advise you by all means to accomplish that for the sake of the family. Nobody likes his friends to be talked about, so I'd settle the matter amicably, where are you? Just let the fellow go his way, he won't return here again in a hurry, I'll be bound. As to clapping him in quad, he might prattle. Turn stag. Turn stag, replied Coates. What the juice is that? In my opinion, he has turned stag already. At all events, he'll pay dear for his knight's sport, you may depend on it. What signifies it, what he says. Let me lay hands upon him, that's all. Well, well, said Jack, no offence. I only meant to offer a suggestion. I thought the family, young Serano, if I mean, might not like the story to be revived. As to Lady Rookwood, she don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports. Indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she bears this chance to know particularly good will to begin with, and has tried hard to get him out of the country. But as you say, what does it signify, what he says, he can only talk, it appears he's dead and gone. Mutted Coates, peevishly. But it does seem a little hard that a lad should swing for killing a bit of Venice and in his own father's park. Which he'd a natural right to do, cried Titus. He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and endanger the life of his fathers, or anybody else's gamekeeper, retorted Coates. I tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence, and if he's taken, no chance of that, I hope, interrupted Jack. That's a wish I can't help wishing myself, said Titus. On my conscience, these poachers are fine boys when all's said and done. The finest of all boys, exclaimed Jack, with kindred enthusiasm, are those birds of the night and minions of the moon, whom we call most unjustly poachers. They are, after all, only professional sportsmen making a business of what we make a pleasure. A nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation. There's the main distinction. As to the rest, it's all in idea. They're merely thin and overstocked park, as you would reduce a plethora patient doctor, or as you would work a money client if you got him into chancery, Mr. Attorney, and then how much more scientifically and systematically they set to work than we amateurs do. How noiselessly they bag a hair, smoke a pheasant, or knock a book down with an air gun. How independent they are of any licence, except that of a good eye and a swift pair of legs. How unnecessary it is for them to ask permission or shoot over Mr. So-and-so's grounds on my lord that preserves they are free of every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the game laws. I have some thoughts when everything else fails. I've taken to poaching myself. In my opinion, a poachers a highly respectable character. What say you, Mr. Coats? Turning very gravely to that gentleman. Such a question, sir, replied Coats, bridling up, scarcely deserves a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next maintain that a highwayman is a gentleman. Most undoubtedly, replied Palmer, in the same grave tone, which might have passed the banter had Jack ever bantered, I'll maintain and prove it. I don't see how he can be otherwise. It is as necessary for a man to be a gentleman before he can turn highwayman, as it is for a doctor to have his diploma or an attorney his certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their day, as Captain Lovelace, Hind, Hanum and Dudley, were eminent on the road, and they set the fashion. Ever since their day, a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced if he did not conduct himself in every way like a gentleman. Of course, there are pretenders in this line, as in everything else, but these are only exceptions and prove the rule. What are the distinguishing characteristics of a fine gentleman? Perfect knowledge of the world, perfect independence of character, notoriety, command of cash, and inordinate success with the women. You grant all these premises? First then, it is part of a highwayman's business to be thoroughly acquainted with the world. He is the easiest and pleasantest fellow going. There is Tom King, for example. He is the handsomest man about town and the best bred fellow on the road. Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as the highwayman's, so long as the mopus is last? Who produces so great an effect by so few words? Stand and deliver, it's sure to attest attention. Everyone is captivated by an address so taking. As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as easily as you would the same sum from the Faro table. And wherein lies the difference? Only in the name of the game. Why so little need of a banker as he? All he has to apprehend is a check. All he has to draw is a trigger. As to the women, they dot upon him. Not even your red coat is so successful.  What can be a more gallant sight? The clatter of his horses' heels is like music to his ear. He is in full quest. He shouts to the fugitive horseman to say, the other flies all the faster. What chase can be half so exciting as that? Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will. How readily his summons to deliver is obeyed. How satisfactory is the appropriation of a lusty purse or carpulent pocketbook. Getting the brush is nothing to it. How tranquilly he departs. Takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishing him a pleasant journey and disappears across the heath. England, sir, has reason to be proud of her highwayman. They are peculiar to her climb, and there are as much before the brigand of Italy, the contrabandes of Spain, or the cut purse of France, as her sailors are before all the rest of the world. The day will never come, I hope, when we shall degenerate into the footpad and lose our knight's errantry. Even the French borrow from us. They have only one highwayman of eminence, and he learnt and practised his art in England. And who was he, may I ask? asked Coates. Claude Duval, replied Jack, and though a Frenchman, he was a juiced fine fellow in his day, quite a tip-top macaroni. He could skip and twirl like a figurant, wobble like an opera singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day. He always carried a loot in his pocket along with his snappers, and then his dress. It was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was rigged out, all velvet and lace. And even with his visard on his face, the ladies used to cry out to see him. Then he took a purse with the air and grace of a receiver general. All the women adored him, and that, bless their pretty faces, was the best proof of his gentility. I wish he'd not been a mounseer. The women never mistake. They can always discover the true gentleman, and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the kitchen maid, overhead and ears in love with him. But he was taken, I suppose. I responded, Jack. The women were his undoing, as they've been many a brave fellows before, and will be again. Touched by which reflection, Jack became for once in his life, sentimental and sighed, Poor Gival. He was seized at the hole in the wall in Chandor Street, by the bailiff of Westminster, when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dels, and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn. It was a thousand pitties, said Mr. Colts with a sneer. That so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end. Quite the contrary, returned Jack. As his biographer, Dr. Pope, properly remarks, who is there worthy of the name of man that would not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary, inglorious life? By the by, Titus, as we're on the subject, if you like, I'll sing you a song about highwaymen. I should like it of all things, replied Titus, who entertained a very favourable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no means an indifferent performer. Only let it be in a minor key. Jack required no further encouragement, but, disregarding the hints and looks of Colts, sang with much unction to the following ballad to a good old tune, then very popular, the merit of which nobody can deny. A chapter of highwaymen. Of every rascal, of every kind, the most notorious to my mind was the cavalier captain, Gaye Gemme Hind, which nobody can deny. But the pleasantest cockscomb among them all, for Lute, Caranto, and Madrigal, was the Galiard Frenchman Claude Gival, which nobody can deny. And Toby Glok, never coach would rob, could lighten a pocket or empty a fob, with a neater hand than old mob, old mob, which nobody can deny. Nor did Housebreaker ever deal harder knocks on the stubborn lid of a good strong box than that Prince of Goodfellow's Tom Cox, Tom Cox, Tom Cox, which nobody can deny. A blithe fellow on broad highway, did never with oath bid traveller stay, than Devil May Care Will Holloway, which nobody can deny. And in roguery knots could exceed the tricks of Gettings and Gray and the Five or Six, who trod in the steps of old Nelly Wicks, which nobody can deny. Nor could any so handily break a lock, a shepherd who stood on the Newgate Dock, and nicknamed the jailers around him, his flock, which nobody can deny. Nor did Highwomen ever before possess, for eads, for security, danger, distress, such a mere as Dick Turpin's Blackbess, Blackbess, which nobody can deny. A capital song by the powers, cried Titus, as Jack's ditty came to a close. But your English robbers are nothing at all compared with our Tories and Rapperees, nothing at all. They were the rail, gentlemen. They were the boys to cut a throat easily. For sure, exclaimed Jack in disgust. The gentleman I speak of never maltreated anyone, except in self-defense. Maybe not, replied Titus. I'll not dispute the point, but these Rapperees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen every inch, I'll just sing you a song I made about them myself. But meanwhile, don't let's forget this bottle, talking's dry work. My service to you, doctor, I did he, winking at the somnolent small, and tossing off his glass, Titus delivered himself with as much joviality of the following ballad, the words of which he adapted to the tune of the groves of the pool. The Rapperees Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Shepherds as cocks of the walk. His mullsacks and chainies and swift necks its all botheration and talk. Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile. They never were yet any rascals like those of my own native Isle. First and foremost comes Redmond O'Hanlon, a loud the first thief of the world, that all the broad province of Ulster, the Rapperee banner unfurled. Ock, he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, at fingering the blunderbush trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife. And then such a daredevil squadron as that, which composed Redmond's tale, Meel, Matig, Jack Riley, Shanburner, Phil Gullog, and Arthur O'Neill. Sure never were any boys like him for rouse, agitations and sprees, nor a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called Rapperees. Next comes Power, the great Tory of Munster, a gentleman born every inch, and strong Jack McPherson of Lenster, a horseshoe who broke at a pinch. The last was a fellow so lively, not death in his courage could damp. For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own march to the camp. Paddy Fleming, Dick Balth, Angmalhoney, I think are the next on my list, all adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist. Jimmy Canick must follow his leaders, old Pernie who put in a hoof, by dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff. There's Paul Liddy, the curly-paked Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike, and Bill Delaney, the songster, we shall there meet with his like. Nor his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm. No hemp that was ever twisted, his wonderful throttle could harm. And lastly, there's Kehir Nakapul, the handiest rogue of them all, who only need whisper a word, and your horse would trot out of his stall. Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near, and devil a bit in the paddock, if Kehir get hold of his ear. Then success is to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay, with them the best rumpads of England are not to be named the same day. And we're further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our prigs, recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your country are wigs. Bravissimo! cried Jack, drumming on the table. Well, said Coat, we've had enough about the Irish highwaymen in all conscience, but there's a rascal on our side of the channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who makes more noise than them all put together. Who's that? asked Jack, with some curiosity. Dick Turpin! replied the attorney. He seems to me quite as worthy of mention as any of the Heinz, the Duvales, or the Ohanlans. You have either of you enumerated. I did not think of him, replied Palmer smiling, though if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious heroes. God's bobs! cried Titus. They tell me Turpin keeps the best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further in a day than any other man in a week. So I've heard, said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction. I should like to try a run with him. I'll warrant me. I'd be not far behind. I should like to get a peep at him, quoth Titus. So should I, asked Coates, vastly. You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen, said Palmer. Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speaking of the devil. He's at your elbow, air the words well out of your mouth. He may be within hearing at this moment, for anything we know to the contrary. Body of me! ejaculated Coates. You don't say so, Turpin, in Yorkshire. I thought he could find his exploits to the neighbourhood of the Metropolis, and made epping forest his headquarters. So he did, replied Jack. But the cave is all up now. The whole of the Great North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York Gates, comes within Dick's present range, and St Nicholas only knows in which part of it he's most likely to be found. He shifts his quarters as often and as readily as a Tata, and he who looks for him may chance to catch a Tata. It's a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should remain unhanged, returned Coates, peevishly. Government ought to look into it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agitation by a single highwayman? So Robert Walpole should take the affair into his own hands. Fudge! exclaimed Jack, emptying his glass. I've already addressed a letter to the editor of the Common Sense on the subject, said Coates, in which I've spoken my mind pretty plainly, and I repeat, it is perfectly disgraceful that such a rascal should be suffered to remain at large. You don't happen to have that letter by you, I suppose, said Jack. Or should I beg the favour to hear it? I'm not acquainted with the newspaper to which you allude. I read Fogg's journal. So I thought, replied Coates with a sneer, that's the reason you are so easily mystified, but luckily I have the paper in my pocket, and you are quite welcome to my opinions. Here it is, added he, drawing forth the newspaper. I shall wave my preliminary remarks and come to the point at once. By all means, said Jack. I thank God, began Coates, in an authoritative tone, that I was born in a country that hath formally emulated the Romans in their public spirit, as is evident from their conquests abroad and their struggles for liberty at home. What has all this got to do with turpin, interposed Jack? You will hear, replied the attorney, no interruptions if you please. But this noble principle, continued he, with great emphasis, though not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so active, as it ought to be in a nation so jealous of her liberty. Good, exclaimed Jack, there is more than common sense in that observation, Mr Coates. My suspicion, preceded Coates, is founded on a late instance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of the notorious turpin, who hath robbed in a manner scarce ever known before for several years, and is grown so insolent and impudent as to threaten particular persons and become openly dangerous to the lives as well as fortunes of the people of England. Better and better, shouted Jack, laughing immoderately. Pray, go on, sir. That a fellow, continued Coates, who is known to be a thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest of us. Capital, excuse me, sir, rod Jack, laughing till the tears run down his cheeks. Pray, pray, go on. I see nothing to laugh at, replied Coates, somewhat offended. However, I will conclude my letter since I haven't begun it. Not only to rob us, but to make a jest of us, shall defy the laws and laugh at justice. I use a want of public spirit, which should make every particular member of the community sensible of the public calamity. And ambitious of the honour of extirpating such a notorious highwayman from society, since he owes his long successes to no other cause than his immoderate impudence. And the sloth and pusillanimity of those who art to bring him to justice. I will not deny, continued Coates, that professing myself as I do to be a staunch new wig, I have not some covert political object impending this epistle. Nevertheless, setting aside my principles, writes, observed Jack, you wigs, new or old, always set aside your principles, setting aside any political feeling I may entertain, continued Coates, disregarding the interruption. I repeat, I am ambitious of extirpating this modern cacus, this altolicus of the 18th century. And what course do you mean to pursue? Asked Jack. For I suppose you do not expect to catch this altolicus, as you call him, by a line in the newspapers.  Oons, is there a reward offered for Turpin's apprehension? asked Titus. No less than two hundred pounds, answered Coates, and that's no trifle, as you will both admit. Have you not seen the king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer? Not I, replied Jack. With affected indifference. Nor I, added Titus, with some appearance of curiosity. Do you happen to have that by you too? I always carried about with me, replied Coates, that I may refer to it in case of emergency. My father, Christopher, or Kit Coates, as he was familiarly called, was a celebrated thief-taker. He apprehended spigot and child, and half a dozen others, and always kept their descriptions in his pocket. I endeavour to tread in my worthy father's footsteps. I hope to signalise myself by capturing a high-women. By the by, added he, surveying Jack more narrowly, it occurs to me that Turpin must be rather like you, Mr. Palmer. Like me, said Jack, regarding Coates' escanse. Like me? How am I to understand you, sir, eh? No offence, none, whatever, sir. Ah, stay. You won't object to my comparing the description that can do no harm. Nobody would take you for a highwayman, nobody whatever. Singular resemblance. These things do happen sometimes, but here is Turpin's description in the Gazette, June 28th, AD 1737. It having been represented to the king, that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the 4th of May last, rob on his majesties highway, Vavasur-Mobre Esquire, major of the second troop of horse grenadiers. That major mobre, by the way, is the nephew of the late Sir Peers and cousin of the present Baronet, and commit other notorious felonies and robberies near London. His majesties please to promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and the reward of £200 to any person or persons who shall discover him so as he may be apprehended and convicted. Odds, bodkins, exclaimed Titus, and noble reward. I should like to lay hands upon Turpin, added he, slapping Palmer's shoulder. I wish you were in your place at this moment, Jack. Thank you, replied Palmer, shifting his chair. Turpin, continued coats, was born at Thackstead in Essex, is about 30. You, sir, I believe, are about 30. Added he, addressing Palmer. They're about, said Jack, bluffly. But what has my age to do with that of Turpin? Nothing, nothing at all, answered coats. So for me, however, to proceed, is by trade a butcher. You, sir, I believe, never had any dealings in that line. I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf, returned Jack. What Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of the same name. Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne? I know him, replied coats.  The modern Turpin is about five feet nine inches high. Exactly your height, sir. Exactly. I'm five feet ten, answered Jack, standing bolt upright. You have an inch, then, in your favour, returned the unperturbed attorney deliberately, proceeding with his examination. He has a brown complexion marked with the smallpox. My complexion is floored my face without a seam, called Jack. Those whiskers would conceal anything, replied coats, with a grin. Nobody wears whiskers nowadays, except a highwayman. Sir, said Jack sternly, you are personal. I don't mean to be so, replied coats, but you must allow that the description tallies with your own, in a remarkable manner. Hear me out, however. His cheekbones are broad. His face is thinner towards the bottom. His visage short, pretty upright, and broad about the shoulders. Now, I appeal to Mr. Tear Connell, if all this does not sound like a portrait of yourself. Don't appeal to me, said Titus hastily, upon such a delicate point. I can't say that I approve of a gentleman being likened to a highwayman, but if ever there was a highwayman I'd wish to resemble, it is either Redmond O'Hanlon or Richard Turpin, and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two is that greater rascal. Well, Mr. Palmer, said coats, I repeat, I mean no offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my Lord North, whether I am or not, the Lord knows, but if ever I meet with Turpin I shall bear you. In mind, ah, if ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I have a plan for his capture which couldn't fail. Only let me get a glimpse of him, that's all. You shall see how I dispose of him. Well, sir, we shall see, observed Palmer. And for your own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are at this moment.  I once saw him at Newmarket, where he was coloured by two constable coals on each side, shaking one off and dealing the other a blow in the face with his heavy handled whip. He stuck spurs into his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced them all easily. And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you were there as you boasted a short time ago? Asked Coates. So I did, and stuck closer to him than anyone else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have delivered him to the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined. Sounds, replied Coates. If I'd had a similar opportunity, it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the scragging post first. I'd take him dead or alive. You take Turpin, cried Jack with a sneer. I'd engage to do it, replied Coates. I'll bet you a hundred guineas I'd take him, if ever I have the same chance. Done, exclaimed Jack, wrapping the table at the same time, so that the glasses danced upon it. That's right, cried Titus. I'll go, you halves. What's the matter? What's the matter? exclaimed Small, awakened from his doze. Only a trifling bet about a highwayman, replied Titus. A highwayman, I called Small. Hey, what? There are not in the house, I hope. I hope not, answered Coates.  Returned Small, the less said about that rascal the better. So I think, replied Jack, the fact is, as you say, sir, would Dick here, he would, I'm sure, take the freedom to hide him. Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily advanced towards the table around which the company was seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole group. Curiosity was exhibited in every countenance. The magnum remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer. Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe, and Mr. Coates was almost choked by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapour. Young Sir Randolph, ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope would permit him. Sir Randolph here, echo Palmer rising. Angels and ministers, exclaimed Small. Odds bodskins, cried Titus, with a theatrical start. This is more than I expected. Gentlemen, said Randolph, do not, let by unexpected arrival here, discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting, and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father's medical attendant, Dr. Tyr Connell. I had that honour, replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly. I am Dr. Tyr Connell, Sir Randolph, at your service. When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir? Enquired Randolph. Pulse appears, answered Titus again, bowing. Departed this life on Thursday last. The hour, the precise minute, asked Randolph eagerly. Troth to Randolph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few minutes before midnight. The very hour, exclaimed Randolph, striding towards the window. His steps were arrested, as his eye fell upon the attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Randolph continued gazing intently at the apparel. The very dress, too, muttered he. Then, turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with surprise, Dr. said he, addressing Small, I have something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes? On my conscience, said Tyr Connell, to Jack Palmer, as they quitted the sanctum. A mighty fine boy is this young Sir Randolph. A chip off the old block. He'll be as good a fellow as his father. No doubt, replied Palmer, shutting the door. But what the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it? End of Chapter 9, Book 1