itched his tents,
and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were
scant materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable,
indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further
materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not
afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and
from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at
the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the
history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose
then--Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much
better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all,
Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold
and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I
could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the
exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I,
something higher than a mere robber; someone like--like Colonel B---. By
the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B---,
of Londonderry in Ireland?

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B---, of Londonderry in
Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who
had been a partizan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain
discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia
from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond at
Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with
his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that
he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the
mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the
coffin through the streets.

Of his life I had inserted an account in the _Newgate Lives and Trials_;
it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the
seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination,
and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if
I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of
it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of
mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. 'I am afraid,' said
I, 'any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the
old tale; one will but spoil the ot