Part the Second.
There’s a stir and confusion in Redburn town,
And all the way up and all the way down
The principal street,
When the neighbours meet,
They do nothing but chafe, and grumble, and frown,
And sputter and mutter,
And sentences utter,
Such as these—“Have you heard,
The thing that’s occurred?
His worship the Mayor?
Shocking affair!
Much too bad, I declare!
Fifty pounds, I’ve been told!
And as much more in gold.
Well, the villain is bold!
Two horse pistols!—No more?
I thought they said four.
And so close to the town!
I say, Gaffer Brown,
Do tell us about it.”
“Thus the matter fell out—it
Was only last night that his worship the Mayor,
Master Zachary Blair,
Having been at St. Alban’s and sold in the fair
Some fifteen head of cattle, a horse and a mare,
Jogging home on his nag
With the cash in a bag,
Was met by a highwayman armed to the teeth,
With a belt full of pistols and sword in its sheath,
A murderous villain, six feet high,
With spur on heel and boot on thigh,
And a great black beard and a wicked eye;
And he said to his Worship, ‘My fat little friend,
I will thank you to lend
Me that nice bag of gold, which no doubt you intend
Before long to expend
In some awfully slow way,
Or possibly low way,
Which I should not approve. Come, old fellow, be quick!’
And then Master Blair heard an ominous click,
Betokening the cocking
Of a pistol, a shocking
Sound, which caused him to quake,
And shiver and shake,
From the crown of his head to the sole of his stocking.
So yielding himself with a touching submission
To what he considered a vile imposition,
He handed the bag with the tin to the highwayman,
who took it, and saying, in rather a dry way,
‘Many thanks, gallant sir,’ galloped off down a bye way.”
The town council has met, and his worship the Mayor,
Master Zachary Blair,
Having taken the chair,
And sat in it too, which was nothing but fair,
Did at once, then and there,
Relate and declare,
With a dignified air,
And a presence most rare,
The tale we’ve just heard, which made all men to stare,
And indignantly swear,
It was too bad to bear.
Then after they’d fully discussed the affair,
To find out the best method of setting things square,
They agreed one and all the next night to repair,
Upon horseback, or mare,
To the highwayman’s lair,
And, if he appeared, hunt him down like a hare.
Over No-Man’s-Land[2] the moon shines bright,
And the furze and the fern in its liquid light
Glitter and gleam of a silvery white;
The lengthened track which the cart-wheels make,
Winds o’er the heath like a mighty snake,
And silence o’er that lonely wold
Doth undisputed empire hold,
Save where the night-breeze fitfully
Mourns like some troubled spirit’s cry;
At the cross roads the old sign-post
Shows dimly forth, like sheeted ghost,
As with weird arm, extended still,
It points the road to Leamsford Mill;
In fact it is not
At all a sweet spot,
A nice situation,
Or charming location;
The late Robins himself, in despite his vocation,
Would have deemed this a station
Unworthy laudation,
And have probably termed it “a blot on the nation.”
In a lane hard by,
Where the hedge-rows high,
Veil with their leafy boughs the sky,
Biding their time, sits his worship the Mayor,
Master Zachary Blair,
And my Lord Dandelion,
That illustrious scion,
And Oxley the butcher, and Doughy the baker,
And Chisel the joiner and cabinet-maker,
And good farmer Dacre,
Who holds many an acre,
And, insuper omnes, bold Jonathan Blaker,
The famous thief-taker,
Who’s been sent for from town as being more wide awaker,
(Excuse that comparative, sure ’tis no crime
To sacrifice grammar to such a nice rhyme,)
And up to the dodges of fellows who take a
Delight in being born in “stone jugs,” and then fake a-
way all their lives long in a manner would make a
Live Archbishop to swear, let alone any Quaker,
Wet or dry, you can name, or a Jumper or Shaker;
And, to add to this list, Hobbs was there, so was Dobbs,
With several others, all more or less snobs,
Low partys, quite willing to peril their nobs
In highwayman catching, and such-like odd jobs,
To obtain a few shillings, which they would term bobs.
’Tisn’t pleasant to wait
In a fidgety state
Of mind, at an hour we deem very late,
When our fancies have fled
Home to supper and bed,
And we feel we are catching a cold in the head;
(By the way, if this ailment should ever make you ill,
Drop some neat sal-volatile into your gruel,
You’ll be all right next day,
And will probably say,
This, by way of receipt, is a regular jewel;)
To wait, I repeat,
For a robber or cheat,
On a spot he’s supposed to select for his beat,
When said robber wont come’s the reverse of a treat.
So thought the butcher, and so thought the baker,
And so thought the joiner and cabinet-maker,
And so thought all the rest except Jonathan Blaker;
To him catching a thief in the dead of the night
Presented a source of unfailing delight;
And now as he sat
Peering under his hat,
He looked much like a terrier watching a rat.
Hark! he hears a muffled sound;
He slips from the saddle, his ear’s to the ground.
Louder and clearer,
Nearer and nearer,
’Tis a horse’s tramp on the soft green sward!
He is mounted again: “Now, good my Lord,
Now, master Mayor, mark well, if you can,
A rider approaches, is this your man?”
Ay, mark that coal-black barb that skims,
With flowing mane and graceful limbs,
As lightly onward o’er the lea
As greyhound from the leash set free;
Observe the rider’s flashing eye,
His gallant front and bearing high;
His slender form, which scarce appears
Fitted to manhood’s riper years;
The easy grace with which at need
He checks or urges on his steed;
Can this be one whose fame is spread
For deeds of rapine and of dread?
My Lord Dandelion
Placed his spy-glass his eye on,
Stared hard at the rider, and then exclaimed, “Well—ar—
’Tis weally so dark! but I think ’tis the fellar.”
While his worship the Mayor
Whispered, “O, look ye there!
That purse in his girdle, d’ye see it?—I twigged it;
’Tis my purse as was prigged, and the willin what prigged it!”
Hurrah! hurrah!
He’s off and away,
Follow who can, follow who may.
There’s hunting and chasing
And going the pace in
Despite of the light, which is not good for racing.
“Hold hard! hold hard! there’s somebody spilt,
And entirely kilt!”
“Well, never mind,
Leave him behind,”—
The pace is a great deal too good to be kind.
Follow, follow,
O’er hill and hollow,—
Faster, faster,
Another disaster!
His worship the Mayor has got stuck in a bog.
And there let us leave him to spur and to flog,
He’ll know better the next time,—a stupid old dog!
“Where’s Hobbs?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Dobbs and the snobs?”
“All used-up long ago.”
“My nag’s almost blown!”
“And mine’s got a stone
In his shoe—I’m afraid it’s no go. Why, I say!
That rascally highwayman’s getting away!”
’Tis true. Swift as the trackless wind,
The gallant barb leaves all behind;
Hackney and hunter still in vain
Exert each nerve, each sinew strain;
And all in vain that motley-crew
Of horsemen still the chase pursue.
Two by two, and one by one,
They lag behind—’tis nearly done,
That desperate game, that eager strife,
That fearful race for death or life.
Those dark trees gained that skirt the moor,
All danger of pursuit is o’er;
Screened by their shade from every eye,
Escape becomes a certainty.
Haste! for with stern, relentless will
One rider’s on thy traces still!
’Tis bold Jonathan Blaker who sticks to his prey
In this somewhat unfeeling, though business-like way.
But even he, too, is beginning to find
That the pace is so good he’ll be soon left behind.
He presses his horse on with hand and with heel,
He rams in the persuaders too hard a great deal;
’Tis but labour in vain,
Though he starts from the pain,
Nought can give that stout roadster his wind back again.
Now Jonathan Blaker had formerly been
A soldier, and fought for his country and queen,
Over seas, the Low Countries to wit, and while there, in
Despite of good teaching,
And praying and preaching,
Had acquired a shocking bad habit of swearing;
Thus, whenever, as now,
The red spot on his brow
Proved him “wrathy and riled,”
He would not draw it mild,
But would, sans apology, let out on such
Occasions a torrent of very low Dutch.
One can scarce feel surprise, then, considering the urgency
Of the case, that he cried in the present emergency,
“Ach donner und blitzen” (a taste of his lingo),
“He’ll escape, by—” (I don’t know the German for “jingo”).
“Tausend teufel! sturmwetter!
To think I should let a
Scamp like that get away; don’t I wish now that I’d ha’
Drove a brace of lead pills through the horse or the rider;
Pr’aps there’s time for it still—Mein auge (my eye),
’Tis the only chance left, so here goes for a try.”
Oh, faster spur thy flagging steed,
Still faster,—fearful is thy need.
Oh, heed not now his failing breath,
Life lies before, behind thee death!
Warning all vainly given! too late
To shield thee from the stroke of fate.
One glance the fierce pursuer threw,
A pistol from his holster drew,
Levelled and fired, the echoes still
Prolong the sound from wood to hill;
But ere the last vibrations die,
A WOMAN’S shriek of agony
Rings out beneath that midnight sky!
The household sleep soundly in Allinghame Hall,
Groom, butler, and coachman, cook, footboy, and all;
The fat old housekeeper
(Never was such a sleeper),
After giving a snore,
Which was almost a roar,
Has just turned in her bed and begun a fresh score;
The butler (a shocking old wine-bibbing sinner),
Having made some mistake after yesterday’s dinner,
As to where he should put a decanter of sherry,
Went to bed rather merry,
But perplexed in his mind,
Not being able to find
A legitimate reason
Why at that time and season
His eight-post bed chooses, whichever way he stirs,
To present to his vision a couple of testers!
Since which, still more completely his spirits to damp,
He’s been roused twice by nightmare and three times by cramp!
And now he dreams some old church-bell
Is mournfully tolling a dead man’s knell,
And he starts in his sleep, and mutters, “Alas!
Man’s life’s brittle as glass!
There’s another cork flown, and the spirit escaped;
Heigh ho!” (here he gaped),
Then, scratching his head,
He sat up in bed,
For that bell goes on ringing more loud than before,
And he knows ’tis the bell of the great hall door.
Footman tall,
Footboy small,
Housekeeper, butler, coachman, and all,
In a singular state of extreme dishabille,
Which they each of them feel
Disinclined to reveal,
And yet know not very well how to conceal,
With one accord rush to the old oak hall;
To unfasten the door
Takes a minute or more;
It opens at length and discloses a sight
Which fills them with wonder, and sorrow, and fright.
The ruddy light of early dawn
Gilds with its rays that velvet lawn;
From every shrub and painted flower
Dew-drops distill in silvery shower;
Sweet perfumes load the air; the song
Of waking birds is borne along
Upon the bosom of the breeze
That murmurs through the waving trees;
The crystal brook that dances by
Gleams in the sunlight merrily;
All tells of joy, and love, and life—
All?—Said I everything was rife
With happiness?—Behold that form,
Like lily broken by the storm,
Fall’n prostrate on the steps before
The marble threshold of the door!
The well-turned limbs, the noble mien,
The riding-coat of Lincoln green;
The hat, whose plume of sable hue
Its shadow o’er his features threw;
Yon coal-black barb, too, panting near,
All show some youthful cavalier;
While, fatal evidence of strife,
From a deep hurt the flood of life
Proves, as its current stains the sod,
How man defiles the work of God.
With eager haste the servants raise
The head, and on the features gaze,
Then backward start in sad surprise
As that pale face they recognise.
Good reason theirs, although, in sooth,
They knew but half the fatal truth;
For, strange as doth the tale appear,
One startling fact is all too clear,
The robber, who on No-Man’s-Land
Was shot by Blaker’s ruthless hand,—
That highwayman of evil fame
Is beauteous Maude of Allinghame!