Rookwood. William Harrison Ainsworth
wherein lies the difference? only in the name of the game. Who 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 dote upon him: not even your red-coat is so successful. Look at a highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his holsters, and his mask upon his face. What can be a more gallant sight? The clatter of his horse's heels is like music to his ear—he is in full quest—he shouts to the fugitive horseman to stay—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 corpulent pocket-book!—getting the brush is nothing to it. How tranquilly he departs, takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a pleasant journey, and disappears across the heath! England, sir, has reason to be proud of her highwaymen. They are peculiar to her clime, and are as much before the brigand of Italy, the contrabandist 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 Night 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?" said Coates.
"Claude Du-Val," replied Jack; "and though a Frenchman, he was a deuced fine fellow in his day—quite a tip-top macaroni—he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera-singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day—he always carried a lute in his pocket, along with his snappers. And then his dress—it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was rigg'd out, all velvet and lace; and even with his vizard 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 gentlemen, and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the kitchen-maid, over head and ears in love with him."
"But he was taken, I suppose?" asked Coates.
"Ay," responded Jack, "the women were his undoing, as they've been many a brave fellow's before, and will be again." Touched by which reflection, Jack became for once in his life sentimental, and sighed. "Poor Du-Val! he was seized at the Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street by the bailiff of Westminster, when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dells—and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn."
"It was thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, "that so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end!"
"Quite the contrary," returned Jack. "As his biographer, Doctor 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 upon 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 favorable 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 Coates, sang with much unction 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, gay Jemmy Hind![7] Which nobody can deny.
But the pleasantest coxcomb among them all
For lute, coranto, and madrigal,
Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val![8] Which nobody can deny.
And Tobygloak never a coach could rob,
Could lighten a pocket, or empty a fob,
With a neater hand than Old Mob, Old Mob![9] Which nobody can deny.
Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks
On the stubborn lid of a good strong box,
Than that prince of good fellows, Tom Cox, Tom Cox![10] Which nobody can deny.
A blither fellow on broad highway,
Did never with oath bid traveller stay,
Than devil-may-care Will Holloway![11] Which nobody can deny.
And in roguery naught could exceed the tricks
Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six
Who trod in the steps of bold Neddy Wicks![12] Which nobody can deny.
Nor could any so handily break a lock
As Sheppard, who stood on the Newgate dock,
And nicknamed the jailers around him "his flock!"[13] Which nobody can deny.
Nor did highwaymen ever before possess
For ease, for security, danger, distress,
Such a mare as Dick Turpin's Black Bess! Black Bess!
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[14] and Rapparees—nothing at all. They were the raal gentlemen—they were the boys to cut a throat aisily."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Jack, in disgust, "the gentlemen I speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence."
"Maybe not," replied Titus; "I'll not dispute the point—but these Rapparees 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 the bottle—talking's dry work. My service to you, doctor!" added he, winking at the somnolent Small. And tossing off his glass, Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he adapted to the tune of the Groves of the Pool:
THE RAPPAREES
Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks[15]—it's all botheration and talk; Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile, There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle!
First and foremost comes Redmond O'Hanlon, allowed the first thief of the world,[16] That o'er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfurled; Och! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife.
And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed Redmond's tail! Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal; Shure never were any boys like 'em for rows, agitations, and sprees, Not a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called Rapparees.[17]
Next comes Power, the great Tory[18] of Munster, a gentleman born every inch, And strong Jack Macpherson of Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch; The last was a fellow so lively, not death e'en his courage could damp, For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own "march to the camp."[19]
Paddy Fleming, Dick Balf, and Mulhoni, I think are the next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist;
Jemmy Carrick must follow his leaders, ould Purney who put in a huff, By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff.
There's Paul Liddy, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike,
And Billy Delaney, the "Songster,"[20] we never shall meet with his like; For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm, No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm.
And