ption of the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were
completed before I quitted Chesterfield.

Another and much larger portion of the work was written during a
residence at Rottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter part of 1833, and
owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the South Downs.
Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then.

The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night. This feat--for
a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred ordinary novel pages
in less than twenty-four hours--was achieved at "The Elms," a house I
then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I remember the fever into which I was
thrown during the time of composition. My pen literally scoured over the
pages. So thoroughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman,
that, once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred
enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much facility as
Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. In his
company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the bustling village,
swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent street, plunged into
the eddying stream, and kept an onward course, without pause, without
hindrance, without fatigue. With him I shouted, sang, laughed, exulted,
wept. Nor did I retire to rest till, in imagination, I heard the bell of
York Minster toll forth the knell of poor Black Bess.

The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one of the
ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the house of
Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a family resident in
Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree--a gigantic lime, with mighty
arms and huge girth of trunk, as described in the song--is still
carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place, to which this singular piece of
timber is attached, is, I may state, for the benefit of the curious, the
real Rookwood Hall; for I have not drawn upon imagination, but upon
memory, in describing the seat and domains of that fated family. The
general features of the venerable structure, several of its chambers,
the old garden, and, in particular, the noble park, with its spreading
prospects, its picturesque views of the Hall, "like bits of Mrs.
Radcliffe,"--as the poet Shelley once observed of the same scene,--its
deep glades, through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its
uplands, slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully
delineated.

The superstition of