Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 31

Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s. —Cicero.

“One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,

And the noose be my portion, or freedom I’ll gain!

Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,

And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o’er!”

Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,

That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;

Had entrapped him as puss on her form you’d ensnare,

And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare.

Hilloah!

How Dick had been captured is readily told,

The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,

So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose

Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.

But in vain was his caution — in vain did his steed,

Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,

With lip and with hoof on her master’s cheek press —

He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.

Hilloah!

“Zounds! gem’men!” cried Turpin, “you’ve found me at fault,

And the highflying highwayman’s come to a halt;

You have turned up a trump — for I weigh well my weight —

And the forty is yours, though the halter’s my fate. Well, come on’t what will, you shall own when all’s past, That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last. But, before we go further, I’ll hold you a bet, That one foot in my stirrup you won’t let me set. Hilloah!

“A hundred to one is the odds I will stand, A hundred to one is the odds you command; Here’s a handful of goldfinches ready to fly! May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?” As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:— You might tell by the singular toss of her head, And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read. Hilloah!

With derision at first was Dick’s wager received,

And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;

But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,

And offered to “make up the hundred to two,”

There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,

The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,

“Let the fool act his folly — the stirrup of Bess!

He has put his foot in it already, we guess!” Hilloah!

Bess was brought to her master — Dick steadfastly gazed

At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;

His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein —

He was safe on the back of his courser again!

As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh

Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry “Hark-away!”

“Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;

My foot’s in the stirrup and catch me who can!”

Hilloah!

There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,

And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines’ shout!

There was hurling and whirling o’er brake and o’er brier,

But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven’s fire.

Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,

Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;

“My foot’s in the stirrup!”— thus rang his last cry;

“Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we’ll try!”

Hilloah!

Uproarious applause followed Jack’s song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state-room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.

Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.

The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff’s sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o’er the dead, and released the penitent’s soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted — his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth — the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family — and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.

With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers — Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote — that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.

The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted — a circumstance which did not escape Peter’s observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, “Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don’t let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup’s brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will — ha, ha!” And the sexton passed onwards.

His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.

“In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras,” said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.

“My task here is ended,” muttered Peter, “but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church.”

Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes: