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-corner 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 ............