CHAPTER XII.

Up rouse ye then,

My merry, merry men!

--JOANNA BAILLIE.

When the moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palely

broke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarned

traveller would not have been eager to pass, but which might not have

afforded a bad study to such artists as have caught from the savage

painter of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Dark

trees, scattered far and wide over a broken but verdant sward, made the

background; the moon shimmered through the boughs as she came slowly

forth from her pavilion of cloud, and poured a broader beam on two

figures just advanced beyond the trees. More plainly brought into light

by her rays than his companion, here a horseman, clad in a short cloak

that barely covered the crupper of his steed, was looking to the priming

of a large pistol which he had just taken from his holster. A slouched

hat and a mask of black crape conspired with the action to throw a

natural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His horse, a beautiful

dark gray, stood quite motionless, with arched neck, and its short

ears quickly moving to and fro, demonstrative of that sagacious and

anticipative attention which characterizes the noblest of all tamed

animals; you would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, but

for the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional

and unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially

thrown into the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad,

was busied in tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and

size. As he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a

popular drinking-song.

“'Sdeath, Ned!” said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged

in a silent revery,--“'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the

fine arts at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every

moment; at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar. Recollect

we are not at Gentleman George's now!”

“The more's the pity, Augustus,” answered Ned. “Soho, Little John;

woaho, sir! A nice long night like this is made on purpose for drinking.

Will you, sir? keep still then!”

“Man never is, but always to be blest,” said the moralizing Tomlinson;

“you see you sigh for other scenes even when you have a fine night and

the chance of a God-send before you.”

“Ay, the night is fine enough,” said Ned, who was rather a grumbler,

as, having finished his groom-like operation, he now slowly mounted.

“D---it, Oliver! [The moon] looks out as broadly as if he were going

to blab. For my part, I love a dark night, with a star here and there

winking at us, as much as to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I won't say

a word about it,' and a small, pattering, drizzling, mizzling rain, that

prevents Little John's hoofs being heard, and covers one's retreat, as

it were. Besides, when one is a little wet, it is always necessary to

drink the more, to keep the cold from one's stomach when one gets home.”

“Or in other words,” said Augustus, who loved a maxim from his very

heart, “light wet cherishes heavy wet!”

“Good!” said Ned, yawning. “Hang it, I wish the captain would come. Do

you know what o'clock it is? Not far short of eleven, I suppose?”

“About that! Hist, is that a carriage? No, it is only a sudden rise in

the wind.”

“Very self-sufficient in Mr. Wind to allow himself to be raised without

our help!” said Ned; “by the way, we are of course to go back to the Red

Cave?”

“So Captain Lovett says. Tell me, Ned, what do you think of the new

tenant Lovett has put into the cave?”

“Oh, I have strange doubts there,” answered Ned, shaking the hairy

honours of his head. “I don't half like it; consider the cave is our

stronghold, and ought only to be known--”

“To men of tried virtue,” interrupted Tomlinson. “I agree with you; I

must try and get Lovett to discard his singular protege, as the French

say.”

“'Gad, Augustus, how came you by so much learning? You know all the

poets by heart, to say nothing of Latin and French.”

“Oh, hang it, I was brought up, like the captain, to a literary way of

life.”

“That's what makes you so thick with him, I suppose. He writes (and

sings too) a tolerable song, and is certainly a deuced clever fellow.

What a rise in the world he has made! Do you recollect what a poor sort

of way he was in when you introduced him at Gentleman George's? and now

he's the Captain Crank of the gang.”

“The gang! the company, you mean. Gang, indeed! One would think you were

speaking of a knot of pickpockets. Yes, Lovett is a clever fellow; and,

thanks to me, a very decent philosopher!” It is impossible to convey

to our reader the grave air of importance with which Tomlinson made his

concluding laudation. “Yes,” said he, after a pause, “he has a

bold, plain way of viewing things, and, like Voltaire, he becomes a

philosopher by being a Man of Sense! Hist! see my horse's ears! Some one

is coming, though I don't hear him! Keep watch!”

The robbers grew silent; the sound of distant hoofs was indistinctly

heard, and, as it came nearer, there was a crash of boughs, as if a

hedge had been ridden through. Presently the moon gleamed picturesquely

on the figure of a horseman, approaching through the copse in the rear

of the robbers.

Now he was half seen among the sinuosities of his forest path; now in

full sight, now altogether hid; then his horse neighed impatiently; now

he again came in sight, and in a moment more he had joined the pair!

The new-comer was of a tall and sinewy frame, and in the first bloom

of manhood. A frock of dark green, edged with a narrow silver lace, and

buttoned from the throat to the middle, gave due effect to an upright

mien, a broad chest, and a slender but rounded waist, that stood in no

need of the compression of the tailor. A short riding-cloak, clasped

across the throat with a silver buckle, hung picturesquely over one

shoulder, while his lower limbs were cased in military boots, which,

though they rose above the knee, were evidently neither heavy nor

embarrassing to the vigorous sinews of the horseman. The caparisons of

the steed--the bit, the bridle, the saddle, the holster--were according

to the most approved fashion of the day; and the steed itself was in

the highest condition, and of remarkable beauty. The horseman's air was

erect and bold; a small but coal-black mustachio heightened the resolute

expression of his short, curved lip; and from beneath the large hat

which overhung his brow his long locks escaped, and waved darkly in the

keen night air. Altogether, horseman and horse exhibited a gallant and

even a chivalrous appearance, which the hour and the scene heightened to

a dramatic and romantic effect.

“Ha! Lovett.”

“How are you, my merry men?” were the salutations exchanged.

“What news?” said Ned.

“Brave news! look to it. My lord and his carriage will be by in ten

minutes at most.”

“Have you got anything more out of the parson I frightened so

gloriously?” asked Augustus.

“No; more of that hereafter. Now for our new prey.”

“Are you sure our noble friend will be so soon at hand?” said Tomlinson,

patting his steed, that now pawed in excited hilarity.

“Sure! I saw him change horses; I was in the stable-yard at the time. He

got out for half an hour, to eat, I fancy. Be sure that I played him a

trick in the mean while.”

“What for?” asked Ned.

“Self and servant.”

“The post-boys?”

“Ay, I forgot them. Never mind, you, must frighten them.”

“Forwards!” cried Ned; and his horse sprang from his armed heel.

“One moment,” said Lovett; “I must put on my mask. Soho, Robin, soho!

Now for it,--forwards!”

As the trees rapidly disappeared behind them, the riders entered, at a

hand gallop, on a broad tract of waste land interspersed with dikes and

occasionally fences of hurdles, over which their horses bounded like

quadrupeds well accustomed to such exploits.

Certainly at that moment, what with the fresh air, the fitful moonlight

now breaking broadly out, now lost in a rolling cloud, the exciting

exercise, and that racy and dancing stir of the blood, which all action,

whether evil or noble in its nature, raises in our veins; what with

all this, we cannot but allow the fascination of that lawless life,--a

fascination so great that one of the most noted gentlemen highwaymen of

the day, one too who had received an excellent education and mixed in no

inferior society, is reported to have said, when the rope was about his

neck, and the good Ordinary was exhorting him to repent of his

ill-spent life, “Ill-spent, you dog! 'Gad!” (smacking his lips) “it was

delicious!”

“Fie! fie! Mr. -------, raise your thoughts to Heaven!”

“But a canter across the common--oh!” muttered the criminal; and his

soul cantered off to eternity.

So briskly leaped the heart of the leader of the three that, as they

now came in view of the main road, and the distant wheel of a carriage

whirred on the ear, he threw up his right hand with a joyous gesture,

and burst into a boyish exclamation of hilarity and delight.

“Whist, captain!” said Ned, checking his own spirits with a mock air of

gravity, “let us conduct ourselves like gentlemen; it is only your low

fellows who get into such confoundedly high spirits; men of the world

like us should do everything as if their hearts were broken.”

“Melancholy ever cronies with Sublimity, and Courage is sublime,” said

Augustus, with the pomp of a maxim-maker.

[A maxim which would have pleased Madame de Stael, who thought that

philosophy consisted in fine sentiments. In the “Life of Lord

Byron,” just published by Mr. Moore, the distinguished biographer

makes a similar assertion to that of the sage Augustus: “When did

ever a sublime thought spring up in the soul that melancholy was not

to be found, however latent, in its neighbourhood?” Now, with due

deference to Mr. Moore, this is a very sickly piece of nonsense,

that has not even an atom of truth to stand on. “God said, Let

there be light, and there was light!”--we should like to know where

lies the melancholy of that sublime sentence. “Truth,” says Plato,

“is the body of God, and light is his shadow.” In the name of

common-sense, in what possible corner in the vicinity of that lofty

image lurks the jaundiced face of this eternal bete noir of Mr.

Moore's? Again, in that sublimest passage in the sublimest of the

Latin poets (Lucretius), which bursts forth in honour of Epicurus,

is there anything that speaks to us of sadness? On the contrary, in

the three passages we have referred to, especially in the two first

quoted, there is something splendidly luminous and cheering. Joy is

often a great source of the sublime; the suddenness of its ventings

would alone suffice to make it so. What can be more sublime than

the triumphant Psalms of David, intoxicated as they are with an

almost delirium of transport? Even in the gloomiest passages of the

poets, where we recognize sublimity, we do not often find

melancholy. We are stricken by terror, appalled by awe, but seldom

softened into sadness. In fact, melancholy rather belongs to

another class of feelings than those excited by a sublime passage or

those which engender its composition. On one hand, in the loftiest

flights of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we will challenge a critic

to discover this “green sickness” which Mr. Moore would convert

into the magnificence of the plague. On the other hand, where is

the evidence that melancholy made the habitual temperaments of those

divine men? Of Homer we know nothing; of Shakspeare and Milton, we

have reason to believe the ordinary temperament was constitutionally

cheerful. The latter boasts of it. A thousand instances, in

contradiction to an assertion it were not worth while to contradict,

were it not so generally popular, so highly sanctioned, and so

eminently pernicious to everything that is manly and noble in

literature, rush to our memory. But we think we have already quoted

enough to disprove the sentence, which the illustrious biographer

has himself disproved in more than twenty passages, which, if he is

pleased to forget, we thank Heaven posterity never will. Now we are

on the subject of this Life, so excellent in many respects, we

cannot but observe that we think the whole scope of its philosophy

utterly unworthy of the accomplished mind of the writer; the

philosophy consists of an unpardonable distorting of general truths,

to suit the peculiarities of an individual, noble indeed, but

proverbially morbid and eccentric. A striking instance of this

occurs in the laboured assertion that poets make but sorry domestic

characters. What! because Lord Byron is said to have been a bad

husband, was (to go no further back for examples)--was Walter Scott

a bad husband, or was Campbell, or is Mr. Moore himself? why, in

the name of justice, should it be insinuated that Milton was a bad

husband, when, as far as any one can judge of the matter, it was

Mrs. Milton who was the bad wife? And why, oh! why should we be

told by Mr. Moore,--a man who, to judge by Captain Rock and the

Epicurean, wants neither learning nor diligence,--why are we to be

told, with peculiar emphasis, that Lord Bacon never married, when

Lord Bacon not only married, but his marriage was so advantageous as

to be an absolute epoch in his career? Really, really, one begins

to believe that there is not such a thing as a fact in the world!]

“Now for the hedge!” cried Lovett, unheeding his comrades; and his horse

sprang into the road.

The three men now were drawn up quite still and motionless by the side

of the hedge. The broad road lay before them, curving out of sight on

either side; the ground was hardening under an early tendency to frost,

and the clear ring of approaching hoofs sounded on the ear of the

robbers, ominous, haply, of the chinks of “more attractive metal” about,

if Hope told no flattering tale, to be their own.

Presently the long-expected vehicle made its appearance at the turn of

the road, and it rolled rapidly on behind four fleet post-horses.

“You, Ned, with your large steed, stop the horses; you, Augustus, bully

the post-boys; leave me to do the rest,” said the captain.

“As agreed,” returned Ned, laconically. “Now, look at me!” and the horse

of the vain highwayman sprang from its shelter. So instantaneous were

the operations of these experienced tacticians, that Lovett's orders

were almost executed in a briefer time than it had cost him to give

them.

The carriage being stopped, and the post-boys white and trembling, with

two pistols (levelled by Augustus and Pepper) cocked at their heads,

Lovett, dismounting, threw open the door of the carriage, and in a very

civil tone and with a very bland address accosted the inmate.

“Do not be alarmed, my lord, you are perfectly safe; we only require

your watch and purse.”

“Really,” answered a voice still softer than that of the robber, while

a marked and somewhat French countenance, crowned with a fur cap, peered

forth at the arrester,--“Really, sir, your request is so modest that I

were worse than cruel to refuse you. My purse is not very full, and you

may as well have it as one of my rascally duns; but my watch I have a

love for, and--”

“I understand you, my lord,” interrupted the highwayman. “What do you

value your watch at?”

“Humph! to you it may be worth some twenty guineas.”

“Allow me to see it!”

“Your curiosity is extremely gratifying,” returned the nobleman, as with

great reluctance he drew forth a gold repeater, set, as was sometimes

the fashion of that day, in precious stones. The highwayman looked

slightly at the bauble.

“Your lordship,” said he, with great gravity, “was too modest in your

calculation; your taste reflects greater credit on you. Allow me to

assure you that your watch is worth fifty guinea's to us, at the least.

To show you that I think so most sincerely, I will either keep it, and

we will say no more on the matter; or I will return it to you upon your

word of honour that you will give me a check for fifty guineas payable,

by your real bankers, to 'bearer for self.' Take your choice; it is

quite immaterial to me!”

“Upon my honour, sir,” said the traveller, with some surprise struggling

to his features, “your coolness and self-possession are quite admirable.

I see you know the world.”

“Your lordship flatters me!” returned Lovett, bowing. “How do you

decide?”

“Why, is it possible to write drafts without ink, pen, or paper?”

Lovett drew back, and while he was searching in his pockets for writing

implements, which he always carried about him, the traveller seized

the opportunity, and suddenly snatching a pistol from the pocket of the

carriage, levelled it full at the head of the robber. The traveller was

an excellent and practised shot,--he was almost within arm's length

of his intended victim,--his pistols were the envy of all his Irish

friends. He pulled the trigger,--the powder flashed in the pan; and

the highwayman, not even changing countenance, drew forth a small

ink-bottle, and placing a steel pen in it, handed it to the nobleman,

saying, with incomparable sang froid: “Would you like, my lord, to try

the other pistol? If so, oblige me by a quick aim, as you must see the

necessity of despatch. If not, here is the back of a letter, on which

you can write the draft.”

The traveller was not a man apt to become embarrassed in anything

save his circumstances; but he certainly felt a little discomposed and

confused as he took the paper, and uttering some broken words, wrote the

check. The highwayman glanced over it, saw it was written according to

form, and then with a bow of cool respect, returned the watch, and shut

the door of the carriage.

Meanwhile the servant had been shivering in front, boxed up in that

solitary convenience termed, not euphoniously, a dickey. Him the robber

now briefly accosted.

“What have you got about you belonging to your master?”

“Only his pills, your honour! which I forgot to put in the--”

“Pills!--throw them down to me!” The valet tremblingly extricated from

his side-pocket a little box, which he threw down and Lovett caught in

his hand.

He opened the box, counted the pills,--“One, two, four, twelve,--aha!”

He reopened the carriage door. “Are these your pills, my lord?”

The wondering peer, who had begun to resettle himself in the corner of

his carriage, answered that they were.

“My lord, I see you are in a high state of fever; you were a little

delirious just now when you snapped a pistol in your friend's face.

Permit me to recommend you a prescription,--swallow off all these

pills!”

“My God!” cried the traveller, startled into earnestness; “what do you

mean?--twelve of those pills would kill a man!”

“Hear him!” said the robber, appealing to his comrades, who roared with

laughter. “What, my lord, would you rebel against your doctor? Fie, fie!

be persuaded.”

And with a soothing gesture he stretched the pill-box towards the

recoiling nose of the traveller. But though a man who could as well as

any one make the best of a bad condition, the traveller was especially

careful of his health; and so obstinate was he where that was concerned,

that he would rather have submitted to the effectual operation of

a bullet than incurred the chance operation of an extra pill. He

therefore, with great indignation, as the box was still extended towards

him, snatched it from the hand of the robber, and flinging it across the

road, said with dignity,--

“Do your worst, rascals! But if you leave me alive, you shall repent the

outrage you have offered to one of his Majesty's household!” Then, as if

becoming sensible of the ridicule of affecting too much in his present

situation, he added in an altered tone: “And now, for Heaven's sake,

shut the door; and if you must kill somebody, there's my servant on the

box,--he's paid for it.”

This speech made the robbers laugh more than ever; and Lovett, who liked

a joke even better than a purse, immediately closed the carriage door,

saying,--

“Adieu, my lord; and let me give you a piece of advice: whenever you

get out at a country inn, and stay half an hour while your horses are

changing, take your pistols with you, or you may chance to have the

charge drawn.”

With this admonition the robber withdrew; and seeing that the valet held

out to him a long green purse, he said, gently shaking his head,--

“Rogues should not prey on each other, my good fellow. You rob your

master; so do we. Let each keep what he has got.”

Long Ned and Tomlinson then backing their horses, the carriage was

freed; and away started the post-boys at a pace which seemed to show

less regard for life than the robbers themselves had evinced.

Meanwhile the captain remounted his steed, and the three confederates,

bounding in gallant style over the hedge through which they had

previously gained the road, galloped off in the same direction they had

come; the moon ever and anon bringing into light their flying figures,

and the sound of many a joyous peal of laughter ringing through the

distance along the frosty air.