You don't drink."
"I suppose," said I, emptying my glass--"I suppose you have heard of
the famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of Hempstead, and
who used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hundred years
since."
"Have I?" cried he--"to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that; sound
as pitch. Old Turpentine!--as we used to call him. A famous fine
fellow, sir."
"Well, sir," continued I, "I have visited Waltham Abbey, and Chinkford
Church, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploits
there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he used
to conceal himself. You must know," added I, "that I am a sort of
amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing, daring fellows; the last
apologies that we had for the knight errants of yore. Ah, sir! the
country has been sinking gradually into tameness and commonplace. We
are losing the old English spirit. The bold knights of the post have
all dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneaking pick-pockets.
There's no such thing as a dashing gentlemanlike robbery committed
now-a-days on the king's highway. A man may roll from one end of
England to the other in a drowsy coach or jingling post-chaise without
any other adventure than that of being occasionally overturned,
sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner.
"We hear no more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by a
well-mounted gang of resolute fellows with pistols in their hands and
crapes over their faces.
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