'Gentleman Harry' was neither a brilliant thief nor a courteous
highwayman. There was no touch of the grand manner even in his prettiest
achievement. His predecessors had made a pistol and a vizard an
overwhelming terror, and he did but profit by their tradition when
he bade the cowed traveller stand and deliver. His profession, as he
practised it, neither demanded skill nor incurred danger. Though he
threatened death at every encounter, you never hear that he pulled a
trigger throughout his career. If his opponent jeered and rode off, he
rode off with a whole skin and a full pocket. Once even this renowned
adventurer accepted the cut of a riding-whip across his face, nor made
any attempt to avenge the insult. But his manifold shortcomings were no
hindrance to his success. Wherever he went, between London and York,
he stopped coaches and levied his tax. A threatening voice, an arched
eyebrow, an arrogant method of fingering an unloaded pistol, conspired
with the craven, indolent habit of the time to make his every journey
a procession of triumph. He was capable of performing all such feats
as the age required of him. But you miss the spirit, the bravery, the
urbanity, and the wit, which made the adventurer of the seventeenth
century a figure of romance.
One point only of the great tradition did Harry Simms remember. He was
never unwilling to restore a trinket made precious by sentiment. Once
when he took a gold ring from a gentleman's finger a gentlewoman burst
into tears, exclaiming, 'There goes your father's ring.
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