Eboracum.
("Doomsday Book.")
One can hardly think of York without recalling the wonderful ride of
Dick Turpin on his famous mare Black Bess. It came about one day that he
was resting at the Kilburn Wells--a site now taken up by a modern
banking-house--in the company of another notorious highwayman, King, who
seemed very much depressed. "Dick," he said, "I have had a most curious
dream. I seemed to be dying from a pistol-shot by you." "No, no,"
protested Dick, and was doing his best to cheer up his friend when
suddenly unusual commotion arose outside, followed by the immediate
entrance of the bailiffs to apprehend King dead or alive. One of his
numerous mistresses had given him away in a mad fit of jealousy. It took
little time for Turpin and King to reach their horses, which were always
tethered close by. Turpin was soon in the saddle, but turning round he
perceived that his comrade was in difficulties. The horse was restive,
and its master was making vain attempts to mount. To draw his pistol out
of the holster and empty its contents towards the man who had by now
laid his hand on King was a moment's thought. But to Turpin's horror he
saw the dream realised. His friend dead, it was folly to dally longer.
Amidst a volley of shots he quickly wheeled his mare round and galloped
off, hotly pursued by the excisemen, who had soon recognised him. Along
West End Lane into Finchley, away towards Barnet, his mare, gallantly
taking every toll-gate, soon carried her master out of immediate danger.
It was then that Dick Turpin determined to try the fettle of Bess by
carrying out his long-cherished ambition of riding ninety miles to York.
Without a change of mounts, and only an occasional rinse-out of his
faithful animal's mouth with some strong stimulant, he accomplished his
wish, but at the sacrifice of his mare. She died from exhaustion,
having, however, saved her master and cheated justice. This is no
legend, but an absolute fact--a story that has quickened the imagination
of every English schoolboy, accompanied with a regret that such good old
rollicking days no longer exist, that there is no relieving rich
merchants of well-filled purses, no opportunity of calming the fears
of fair ladies, no chance of acting the grand seigneur towards the poor,
no languishing in Newgate with a glorious death at Tyburn. No, that is
all a dream now.
[Illustration: YORK