LITMIR.BIZ

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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 Tory18 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 lastly, there’s Cahir na Cappul, the handiest rogue of them all,

       Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall;

       Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near,

       And devil a bit in the paddock, if Cahir gets hould of his ear.

      Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay!

With them the best Rumpads21 of England are not to be named the same day! And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our prigs, Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your country are Whigs.

      “Bravissimo!” cried Jack, drumming upon the table.

      “Well,” said Coates, “we’ve had enough about the Irish highwaymen, in all conscience. But there’s a rascal on our side of the Channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who makes more noise than them all put together.”

      “Who’s that?” asked Jack, with some curiosity.

      “Dick Turpin,” replied the attorney: “he seems to me quite as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the O’Hanlons, you have either of you enumerated.”

      “I did not think of him,” replied Palmer, smiling; “though, if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious heroes.”

      “Gads bobs!” cried Titus; “they tell me Turpin keeps the best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further in a day than any other man in a week.”

      “So I’ve heard,” said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction. “I should like to try a run with him. I warrant me, I’d not be far behind.”

      “I should like to get a peep at him,” quoth Titus.

      “So should I,” added Coates. “Vastly!”

      “You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen,” said Palmer. “Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speaking of the devil, he’s at your elbow ere the word’s well out of your mouth. He may be within hearing at this moment, for anything we know to the contrary.”

      “Body o’ me!” ejaculated Coates, “you don’t say so? Turpin in Yorkshire! I thought he confined his exploits to the neighborhood of the metropolis, and made Epping Forest his headquarters.”

      “So he did,” replied Jack, “but the cave is all up now. The whole of the great North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York gates, comes within Dick’s present range; and Saint Nicholas only knows in which part of it he is most likely to be found. He shifts his quarters as often and as readily as a Tartar; and he who looks for him may chance to catch a Tartar — ha! — ha!”

      “It’s a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should remain unhanged,” returned Coates, peevishly. “Government ought to look to it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agitation by a single highwayman? — Sir Robert Walpole should take the affair into his own hands.”

      “Fudge!” exclaimed Jack, emptying his glass.

      “I have already addressed a letter to the editor of the Common Sense on the subject,” said Coates, “in which I have spoken my mind pretty plainly: and I repeat, it is perfectly disgraceful that such a rascal should be suffered to remain at large.”

      “You don’t happen to have that letter by you, I suppose,” said Jack, “or I should beg the favor to hear it? — I am not acquainted with the newspaper to which you allude; — I read Fog’s Journal.”

      “So I thought,” replied Coates, with a sneer; “that’s the reason you are so easily mystified. But luckily I have the paper in my pocket; and you are quite welcome to my opinions. Here it is,” added he, drawing forth a newspaper. “I shall waive my preliminary remarks, and come to the point at once.”

      “By all means,” said Jack.

      “‘I thank God,’” began Coates, in an authoritative tone, “‘that I was born in a country that hath formerly emulated the Romans in their public spirit; as is evident from their conquests abroad, and their struggles for liberty at home.’”

      “What has all this got to do with Turpin?” interposed Jack.

      “You will hear,” replied the attorney —“no interruptions if you please. ‘But this noble principle,’” continued he, with great emphasis, “‘though not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so active as it ought to be in a nation so jealous of her liberty.’”

      “Good!” exclaimed Jack. “There is more than ’common sense‘ in that observation, Mr. Coates.”

      “‘My suspicion,’” proceeded Coates, “‘is founded on a late instance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of the notorious Turpin, who hath robb’d in a manner scarce ever known before for several years, and is grown so insolent and impudent as to threaten particular persons, and become openly dangerous to the lives as well as fortunes of the people of England.’”

      “Better and better,” shouted Jack, laughing immoderately. “Pray go on, sir.”

      “‘That a fellow,’” continued Coates, “‘who is known to be a thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest of us ——’”

      “Ha — ha — ha — capital! Excuse me, sir,” roared Jack, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks —“pray, pray, go on.”

“I see nothing to laugh at,” replied Coates, somewhat offended; “however, I will conclude my letter, since I have begun it —‘not only rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy the laws, and laugh at justice, argues a want of public spirit, which should make every particular member of the community sensible of the public calamity, and ambitious of the honor of extirpating such a notorious highwayman from society, since he owes his long successes to no other cause than his immoderate impudence, and the sloth and pusillanimity of those who ought to bring him to justice.’ I will not deny,” continued Coates, “that, professing myself, as I do, to be a staunch new Whig, I had not some covert political object in penning this epistle.22

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