In the course of Whitney’s rambles, he one day put up at an inn in Doncaster, and lived in a dashing style, as he had then plenty of money. He was informed that the landlord was a complete miser and sharper, and that he would not spare the smallest sum to a poor relation of his, who lived in the neighborhood. Accordingly, Whitney resolved to exert his ingenuity upon his landlord; and gave out that he had a good estate, and travelled merely for his own amusement. He continued to pay his bills regularly, until he supposed that his credit would be sufficiently established. Then he one day mentioned to his landlord, that as his money was run short, he would be obliged to him for credit until he received remittances. “Oh, dear sir, you need not give yourself any uneasiness about such a thing as this; every thing in my house is at your service; and I shall think myself honored if you use me as your friend.” With abundance of eloquence, our adventurer returned the compliment. He continued to live at his table,—his horse was well fed with corn and hay, while Whitney, almost every day, took a ride to some neighboring village along with the landlord and some others, who were all proud of the honor he had done them.
It happened that there was an annual fair in that place, and in the morning a box came directed to him; opening it, he took out a letter, and, having read it, locked the box, and delivered it to the landlady, saying, that it would be safer in her custody than in his own. Having gone to see the fair, he returned in great haste in the afternoon, desiring his horse to be instantly dressed, as he had seen a horse in the fair for which he was desirous to exchange his own, adding, that he was determined to have the animal. He then requested the landlady to give him his box; but he was informed that she was gone to the fair. Hereupon he affected to burst out into a violent passion, saying, that he supposed she had locked up what he committed to her keeping:—“If she has,” said he, “I had rather have given ten guineas, for I have no money but what is in her possession.” Inquiry was made, and it was found to be as he had said, which put him into a still greater rage. This was, however, what he both wished and expected,—the whole being of his own invention. The landlord was informed of his rage, and the cause of it, and entreated that he would be easy, as he would lend him the sum he wanted until his wife came home. Our hero was greatly distressed that he should have to borrow money when he had so much of his own; but as there was no other method of obtaining cash to purchase his favorite horse, he accepted of the proffered loan: with an imperious and haughty air, demanding that his bill might be prepared for payment forthwith.
With forty guineas he rode to the fair; but instead of inquiring for any other horse, he spurred his own through the crowd, and hastened to London. The people of the inn waited long for his return that evening; but, as he had frequently stayed two or three days at once in his rambles through the country, they suspected no fraud. After waiting with no small impatience for a whole week, the landlord resolved to break open the box, and went to the magistrates of the place, accompanied by witnesses. It is needless to record his chagrin and mortification, when he found the box filled with sand and stones.
In London, Whitney was apprehended upon the information of one of those abandoned females who live by betraying the simple ones of their own, and by robbing and plundering the profligate of the other sex. He was committed, tried, and condemned at the following sessions. The judge, before passing sentence, made an excellent speech to him and the other malefactors, in strong terms exhibiting the nature of their several crimes; and in particular addressed himself to Whitney, exhorting him to a sincere repentance, as there could be no hope of a pardon to him after a course of so many villanies.
At the place of execution, Whitney addressed the multitude in nearly the following terms:—“I have been a great offender, both against God and my country, by transgressing all laws, both human and divine. I believe there is not one here present but has often heard my name before my confinement, and seen the long catalogue of my crimes, which have since been made public. Why then should I pretend to vindicate a life stained with so many enormous deeds? The sentence passed upon me is just, and I can see the footsteps of a Providence, which, before, I had profanely laughed at, in my apprehension and conviction. I hope the sense which I have of these things has enabled me to make my peace with Heaven, the only thing which is now of any concern to me. Join in your prayers with me, my dear countrymen, that God would not forsake me in my last moments.” Having spent a few minutes in prayer, he suffered, in the thirty-fourth year of his age, on the 19th of December 1694.
TIM BUCKELEY.
Tim was reared to the useful occupation of a shoemaker, but leaving his master, he came to London, and soon found out companions suited to his disposition. He and his associates frequented an alehouse at Wapping; and one day being run short of cash, Tim asked the landlord for ten shillings, which he refused. Tim was so exasperated, that, along with some of his associates, he broke into his house, and bound him, his wife, and maid. When Tim was about this operation, the landlord conjured him to be favorable. “No, no, you must not expect any favor from my hands, whose prodigality makes you lord it over the people here like a boatswain over a ship’s crew; but I shall go to another part of the town, where I will be more civilly used, and spend a little of your money there.” Accordingly, Tim and his companions robbed the house of forty pounds, three silver tankards, a silver watch, and three gold rings.
Upon another day Tim was airing in Hyde-park-corner, and met with Dr. Cateby, the famous mountebank. At the words “Stand and deliver!” the doctor went into a long harangue about the honesty of his calling, and of the great difficulty with which he made a living. Tim laughed heartily, saying, “Quacks pretend to honesty! there is not such a pack of cheating knaves in the nation. Their impudence is intolerable for deceiving honest simple people, and pretending that more men were not slain at the battle of the Boyne, than they have recovered from death, or beckoned their souls back when they have been many leagues from their bodies: therefore, deliver! or this pistol shall put a stop to your further ramblings and deception.” The doctor preferring his life to his gold, presented Tim with six guineas, and a watch, to show him how to keep time while spending the money.
Tim was once apprehended by a baker, in the character of a constable, and sent to Flanders as a soldier. He deserted, and returning to London, one day met with the baker’s wife. He presented a pistol, and demanded her money; she exclaimed, “Is this justice or conscience, sir?” “Don’t tell me of justice, for I hate her as much as your husband can, because her scales are even! And as for conscience, I have as little of that as any baker in England, who cheats other people’s bellies to fill his own!—Nay, a baker is a worse rogue than a tailor; for, whereas the latter commonly pinches his cabbage from the rich, the former, by making his bread too light, robs all without distinction, but chiefly the poor, for which he deserves hanging more than I, or any of my honest fraternity.” Then, taking from her eleven shillings and two gold rings, he sent her home to relate her adventure to her husband.
Tim next stealing a good horse, commenced upon the highway, and meeting with a pawnbroker by whom he had lost some articles, he commanded him to stand and deliver. The pawnbroker entreated for favor, saying “that it was a very hard thing that honest people could not go about their lawful business without being robbed.” “You talk of honesty, who live by fraud and oppression!—your shop, like the gates of hell, is always open, in which you sit at the receipt of custom, and having got the spoils of the needy, you hang them up in rank and file, like so many trophies of victory. To your shop all sorts of garments resort, as on a pilgrimage. Thou art the treasurer of the thieves’ exchequer, for which purpose you keep a private warehouse from whence you ship them off wholesale, or retail, according to pleasure. Nay, the poor and the oppressed have often to pay their own cloth, before they can receive them back by your exorbitant exactions. Come, come, blood-sucker, open your purse-strings, or this pistol shall send you where you are to go sooner or later.” The poor pawnbroker did not, however, wish to visit his old friend before his time; he therefore ransomed his life at the expense of twenty-eight guineas, a gold watch, a silver box, and two gold rings.