Fame travels slowly up these breathless hills, and pauses overcome in the
heated hollow lanes.
A famous wit of European reputation, when living,
resided in Somerset. A traveller one day chancing to pass through the
very next parish inquired of a local man if somebody called Sydney Smith
did not once live in that neighbourhood. 'Yes,' was the reply, 'I've
heard all about Sydney Smith; I can tell you. He was a highwayman, and
was hung on that hill there.' He would have shown the very stump of the
gallows-tree as proof positive, like Jack Cade's bricks, alive in the
chimney to this day.
There really was a highwayman, however, whose adventures are said to have
suggested one of the characters in the romance of 'Lorna Doone.' This
desperate fellow had of course his houses of call, where he could get
refreshment safely, on the moors. One bitter winter's day the robber sat
down to a hearty dinner in an inn at Exford. Placing his pistols before
him, he made himself comfortable, and ate and drank his fill. By-and-by
an old woman entered, and humbly took a seat in a corner far from the
fire. In time the highwayman observed the wretched, shivering creature,
and of his princely generosity told her to come and sit by the hearth.
The old woman gladly obeyed, and crouched beside him. Presently, as he
sat absorbed in his meal, his arms were suddenly pinioned from behind.
The old woman had him tight, so that he could not use his weapons, while
at a call constables, who had been posted about, rushed in and secured
him.
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