LIVES AND EXPLOITS
OF THE MOST NOTED
HIGHWAYMEN,
ROBBERS AND MURDERERS,

OF ALL NATIONS,
DRAWN FROM THE MOST AUTHENTIC SOURCES
AND BROUGHT DOWN TO
THE PRESENT TIME.

WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.

HARTFORD:
PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON.

CONTENTS.

Claude Du Vall. [P. 7].

CLAUDE DU VALL.

It might very naturally be objected to us by some, that we should introduce into our work the life of any highwayman, however celebrated, whose fortune it was to have been born in France; but, without insisting upon the celebrity of the person whose life we are about to narrate, it will be sufficient to inform the objecting reader, that many of the adventures achieved by Claude du Vall were performed in England, and that he is accordingly, to all intents and purposes, although a Frenchman by birth, an English highwayman.

This noted person was born at Domfront, in Normandy.[1] His father was a miller, and his mother was descended from a worshipful race of tailors. He was brought up in the Catholic faith, and received an education suited to the profession for which he was intended,—namely, that of a footman. But, although his father was careful to train up his son in the religion of his ancestors, he was himself utterly without religion. He talked more of good cheer than of the church; of sumptuous feasts than of ardent faith; of good wine than of good works.

Du Vall’s parents were exempted from the trouble and expense of rearing their son at the age of thirteen. We first find him at Rouen, the principal city of Normandy, in the character of a stable-boy. Here he fortunately found retour horses going to Paris: upon one of these he was permitted to ride, on condition of assisting to dress them at night. His expenses were likewise defrayed by some English travellers whom he met upon the road.

Arrived at Paris, he continued at the same inn where the Englishmen put up, and by running messages, or performing the meanest offices, subsisted for a while. He continued in this humble station until the restoration of Charles II., when multitudes from the continent resorted to England. In the character of a footman to a person of quality, Du Vall also repaired to England. The universal joy which seized the nation upon that happy event contaminated the morals of all: riot, dissipation, and every species of profligacy abounded. The young and sprightly French footman entered keenly into these amusements. His funds, however, being soon exhausted, he deemed it no great crime for a Frenchman to exact contributions from the English. In a short time, he became so dexterous in his new employment, that he had the honor of being first named in an advertisement issued for the apprehending of some notorious robbers.

One day, Du Vall and some others espied a knight and his lady travelling along in their coach. Seeing themselves in danger of being attacked, the lady resorted to a flageolet, and commenced playing, which she did very dexterously. Du Vall taking the hint, pulled one out of his pocket, began to play, and in this posture approached the coach. “Sir,” said he to the knight, “your lady performs excellently, and I make no doubt she dances well; will you step out of the coach, and let us have the honor to dance a courant with her upon the heath?” “I dare not deny any thing, sir,” replied the knight readily, “to a gentleman of your quality and good behavior; you seem a man of generosity, and your request is perfectly reasonable.” Immediately the footman opened the door, and the knight came out. Du Vall leaped lightly off his horse, and handed the lady down. It was surprising to see how gracefully he moved upon the grass: scarcely a dancing-master in London but would have been proud to have shown such agility in a pair of pumps, as Du Vall evinced in a pair of French riding-boots. As soon as the dance was over, he handed the lady to the coach, but just as the knight was stepping in, “Sir,” said he, “you forget to pay the music.” His worship replied, that he never forgot such things, and instantly put his hand under the seat of the coach, pulled out one hundred pounds in a bag which he delivered to Du Vall, who received it with a very good grace, and courteously answered, “Sir you are liberal, and shall have no cause to regret your generosity; this hundred pounds, given so handsomely is better than ten times the sum taken by force. Your noble behavior has excused you the other three hundred pounds which you have in the coach with you.” After this, he gave him his word that he might pass undisturbed, if he met any other of his crew, and then wished them a good journey.

At another time, Du Vall and some of his associates met a coach upon Blackheath, full of ladies, and a child with them. One of the gang rode up to the coach, and in a rude manner robbed the ladies of their watches and rings, and even seized a silver sucking bottle of the child’s. The infant cried bitterly for its bottle, and the ladies earnestly entreated he would only return that article to the child, which he barbarously refused. Du Vall went forward to discover what detained his accomplice, and, the ladies renewing their entreaties to him, he instantly threatened to shoot his companion, unless he returned that article, saying, “Sirrah, can’t you behave like a gentleman and raise a contribution without stripping people? but, perhaps, you had some occasion for the sucking-bottle, for, by your actions, one would imagine you were hardly weaned.” This smart reproof had the desired effect, and Du Vall, in a courteous manner, took his leave of the ladies.

One day Du Vall met Roper, master of the hounds to Charles II., who was hunting in Windsor Forest; and, taking the advantage of a thicket, demanded his money, or he would instantly take his life. Roper, without hesitation, gave him his purse, containing at least fifty guineas: in return for which, Du Vall bound him neck and heel, tied his horse to a tree beside him, and rode across the country.

It was a considerable time before the huntsmen discovered their master. The squire, being at length released, made all possible haste to Windsor, unwilling to venture himself into any more thickets for that day, whatever might be the fortune of the hunt. Entering the town, he was accosted by Sir Stephen Fox, who inquired if he had had any sport. “Sport!” replied Roper, in a great passion, “yes, sir, I have had sport enough from a villain who made me pay full dear for it; he bound me neck and heels, contrary to my desire, and then took fifty guineas from me to pay him for his labor, which I had much rather he had omitted.”

England now became too contracted a sphere for the talents of our adventurer; and, in consequence of a proclamation issued for his detection, and his notoriety in the kingdom, Du Vall retired to his native country. At Paris he lived in a very extravagant style, and carried on war with rich travellers and fair ladies, and proudly boasted that he was equally successful with both; but his warfare with the latter was infinitely more agreeable, though much less profitable, than with the former.

There is one adventure of Du Vall at Paris, which we shall lay before our readers. There was in that city a learned Jesuit, confessor to the French king, who had rendered himself eminent, both by his politics and his avarice. His thirst for money was insatiable, and increased with his riches. Du Vall devised the following plan to obtain a share of the immense wealth of this pious father.

To facilitate his admittance into the Jesuit’s company, he dressed himself as a scholar, and, waiting a favorable opportunity, went up to him very confidently, and addressed him as follows: “May it please your reverence, I am a poor scholar, who have been several years travelling over strange countries, to learn experience in the sciences, principally to serve mine own country, for whose advantage I am determined to apply my knowledge, if I may be favored with the patronage of a man so eminent as yourself.” “And what may this knowledge of yours be?” replied the father, very much pleased. “If you will communicate any thing to me that may be beneficial to France, I assure you, no proper encouragement shall be wanting on my side.” Du Vall, upon this, growing bolder, proceeded: “Sir, I have spent most of my time in the study of alchymy, or the transmutation of metals, and have profited so much at Rome and Venice, from great men learned in that science, that I can change several metals into gold, by the help of a philosophical powder which I can prepare very speedily.”

The father confessor was more elated with this communication than all the discoveries he had obtained in the way of his profession, and his knowledge even of his royal penitent’s most private secrets gave him less delight than the prospect of immense riches which now burst upon his avaricious mind. “Friend,” said he, “such a thing as this will be serviceable to the whole state, and particularly grateful to the king, who, as his affairs go at present, stands in great need of such a curious invention. But you must let me see some proof of your skill, before I credit what you say, so far as to communicate it to his majesty, who will sufficiently reward you, if what you promise be demonstrated.” Upon this, the confessor conducted Du Vall to his house, and furnished him with money to erect a laboratory, and to purchase such other materials as were requisite, in order to proceed in this invaluable operation, charging him to keep the secret from every living soul. Utensils being fixed, and every thing in readiness, the Jesuit came to witness the wonderful operation. Du Vall took several metals and minerals of the basest sort, and put them in a crucible, his reverence viewing every one as he put them in. Our alchymist had prepared a hollow tube, into which he conveyed several sprigs of real gold; with this seeming stick he stirred the operation, which, with its heat, melted the gold, and the tube at the same time, so that it sank imperceptibly into the vessel. When the excessive fire had consumed all the different materials which he had put in, the gold remained pure, to the quantity of an ounce and a half. This the Jesuit ordered to be examined, and, ascertaining that it was actually pure gold, he became devoted to Du Vall, and, blinded with the prospect of future advantage, credited every thing our impostor said, furnishing him with whatever he demanded, in hopes of being made master of this extraordinary secret. Thus were our alchymist and Jesuit, according to the old saying, as “great as two pickpockets.” Du Vall was a professed robber; and what is a court favorite but a picker of the people’s pockets? So that it was two sharpers endeavoring to outsharp one another. The confessor was as candid as Du Vall could wish; he showed him all his treasures, and several rich jewels which he had received from the king; hoping, by these obligations, to incline him to discover his wonderful secrets with more alacrity. In short, he became so importunate, that Du Vall was apprehensive of too minute an inquiry, if he denied the request any longer: he therefore appointed a day when the whole was to be disclosed. In the mean time, he took an opportunity of stealing into the chamber where the riches were deposited, and where his reverence generally slept after dinner; finding him in deep repose, he gently bound him, then took his keys, and unhoarded as much of his wealth as he could carry off unsuspected; after which, he quickly took leave of him and France.

It is uncertain how long Du Vall continued his depredations after his return to England; but we are informed, that in a fit of intoxication he was detected at the Hole-in-the-Wall, in Chandos street, committed to Newgate, convicted, condemned, and executed at Tyburn, in the twenty-seventh year of his age, on the 1st of January 1669: and so much had his gallantries and handsome figure rendered him the favorite of the fair sex, that many a bright eye was dimmed at his funeral; his corpse was bedewed with the tears of beauty, and his actions and death were celebrated by the immortal author of the inimitable Hudibras. He was buried with many flambeaux, amidst a numerous train of mourners, (most of them ladies,) in the middle aisle of the church in Covent Garden.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] We find, by reference to an old Life of Du Vall, published in 1670, that Domfront was a place by no means unlikely to have produced our adventurer. Indeed, it appears that common honesty was a most uncommon ingredient in the moral economy of the place, as the following curious extract from the work in question will abundantly testify:—

“In the days of Charles IX. the curate of Domfront, (for so the French name him whom we call parson, and vicar,) out of his own head began a strange innovation and oppression in that parish; that is, he absolutely denied to baptize any of their children, if they would not, at the same time, pay him his funeral fees: and what was worse, he would give them no reason for this alteration, but only promised to enter bond for himself and successors, that hereafter, all persons paying so at their christening should be buried gratis. What think ye the poor people did in this case? They did not pull his surplice over his ears, nor tear his mass-book, nor throw crickets at his head: no, they humbly desired him to alter his resolutions, and amicably reasoned with him; but he, being a capricious fellow, gave them no other answer, but ‘What I have done, I have done; take your remedy where you can find it; it is not for men of my coat to give an account of my actions to the laity;’ which was a surly and quarrelsome answer, and unbefitting a priest. Yet this did not provoke his parishioners to speak one ill word against his person or function, or to do any illegal act. They only took the regular way of complaining of him to his ordinary, the archbishop of Rouen. Upon summons, he appears: the archbishop takes him up roundly, tells him he deserves deprivation, if that can be proved which is objected against him, and asked him what he had to say for himself. After his due reverence, he answers, that he acknowledges the fact, to save the time of examining witnesses; but desires his grace to hear his reasons, and then do unto him as he shall see cause. ‘I have,’ says he, ‘been curate of this parish seven years; in that time I have, one year with another, baptized a hundred children, and buried not one. At first I rejoiced at my good fortune to be placed in so good an air; but, looking into the register-book, I found, for a hundred years back, near the same number yearly baptized, and no one above five years old buried; and which did more amaze me, I find the number of communicants to be no greater now than they were then. This seemed to me a great mystery; but, upon farther inquiry, I found out the true cause of it; for all that were born at Domfront were hanged at Rouen. I did this to keep my parishioners from hanging, encouraging them to die at home, the burial duties being already paid.’

“The archbishop demanded of the parishioners whether this was true or not. They answered, that too many of them came to that unlucky end at Rouen. ‘Well, then,’ says he, ‘I approve of what the curate has done, and will cause my secretary, in perpetuam rei memoriam, to make an act of it;’ which act the curate carried home with him, and the parish cheerfully submitted to it, and have found much good by it; for within less than twenty years, there died fifteen of natural deaths, and now there die three or four yearly.”

SAWNEY BEANE.

The following narrative presents such a picture of human barbarity, that, were it not attested by the most unquestionable historical evidence, it would be rejected as altogether fabulous and incredible.

Sawney Beane was born in the county of East Lothian, about eight miles east of Edinburgh, in the reign of James I. of Scotland. His father was a hedger and ditcher, and brought up his son to the same laborious employment. Naturally idle and vicious, he abandoned that place in company with a young woman equally idle and profligate, and retired to the deserts of Galloway, where they took up their habitation by the sea-side. The place which Sawney and his wife selected for their dwelling was a cave of about a mile in length, and of considerable breadth, so near the sea, that the tide often penetrated into the cave above two hundred yards. The entry had many intricate windings and turnings, leading to the extremity of the subterraneous dwelling, which was literally “the habitation of horrid cruelty.”

Sawney and his wife took shelter in this cave, and commenced their depredations. To prevent the possibility of detection, they murdered every person they robbed. Destitute also of the means of obtaining any other food, they resolved to live upon human flesh. Accordingly, when they had murdered any man, woman, or child, they carried them to their den, quartered them, salted the limbs, and dried them for food. In this manner they lived, carrying on their depredations and murder, until they had eight sons and six daughters, eighteen grandsons and fourteen granddaughters, all the offspring of incest.

But though they soon became numerous, yet such was the multitude which fell into their hands, that they had often superabundance of provisions, and would, at a distance from their own habitation, throw legs and arms of dried human bodies into the sea by night. These were often cast out by the tide, and taken up by the country people, to the great consternation and dismay of all the surrounding inhabitants. Nor could any one discover what had befallen the many friends, relations, and neighbors who had unfortunately fallen into the hands of these merciless cannibals.

In proportion as Sawney’s family increased, every one that was able acted his part in these horrid assassinations. They would sometimes attack four or six men on foot, but never more than two upon horseback. To prevent the possibility of escape, they would lie in ambush in every direction, that if they escaped those who first attacked, they might be assailed with renewed fury by another party, and inevitably murdered. By this means they always secured their prey, and prevented detection.

At last, however, the vast number who were slain roused the inhabitants of the country, and all the woods and lurking-places were carefully searched; yet, though they often passed by the mouth of the horrible den, it was never once suspected that any human being resided there. In this state of uncertainty and suspense concerning the authors of such frequent massacres, several innocent travellers and innkeepers were taken up on suspicion, because the persons who were missing had been seen last in their company, or had last resided at their houses. The effect of this well-meant and severe justice constrained the greater part of the innkeepers in those parts to abandon such employments, to the great inconvenience of those who travelled through that district.

Meanwhile, the country became depopulated, and the whole nation was at a loss to account for the numerous and unheard-of villanies and cruelties that were perpetrated, without the slightest clue to the discovery of the abominable actors. At length Providence interposed in the following manner to terminate the horrible scene. One evening, a man and his wife were riding home upon the same horse from a fair which had been held in the neighborhood, and, being attacked, the husband made a most vigorous resistance: his wife, however, was dragged from behind him, carried to a little distance, and her entrails instantly taken out. Struck with grief and horror, the husband continued to redouble his efforts to escape, and even trod some of the assassins down under his horse’s feet. Fortunately for him, and for the inhabitants of that part of the country, in the mean time, twenty or thirty in a company came riding home from the fair. Upon their approach, Sawney and his bloody crew fled into a thick wood, and hastened to their infernal den.

This man, who was the first that had ever escaped out of their hands, related to his neighbors what had happened, and showed them the mangled body of his wife lying at a distance, the bloodthirsty wretches not having time to carry it along with them. They were all struck with astonishment and horror, took him with them to Glasgow, and reported the whole adventure to the chief magistrate of the city, who, upon this information, instantly wrote to the king, informing him of the matter.

In a few days, his majesty in person, accompanied by four hundred men, went in quest of the perpetrators of these horrible cruelties. The man, whose wife had been murdered before his eyes, went as their guide, with a great number of bloodhounds, that no possible means might be left unattempted to discover the haunt of such execrable villains.

They searched the woods, and traversed and examined the sea-shore; but, though they passed by the entrance into their cave, they had no suspicion that any creature resided in that dark and dismal abode. Fortunately, however, some of the bloodhounds entered the cave, raising an uncommon barking and noise, an indication that they were about to seize their prey. The king and his men returned, but could scarcely conceive how any human being could reside in a place of utter darkness, and where the entrance was difficult and narrow; but, as the bloodhounds increased in their vociferation, and refused to return, it occurred to all that the cave ought to be explored to the extremity. Accordingly, a sufficient number of torches was provided; the hounds were permitted to pursue their course; a great number of men penetrated through all the intricacies of the path, and at length arrived at the private residence of the horrible cannibals.

They were followed by all the band, who were shocked to behold a sight unequalled in Scotland, if not in any part of the universe. Legs, arms, thighs, hands, and feet, of men, women, and children, were suspended in rows like dried beef. Some limbs and other members were soaked in pickle; while a great mass of money, both of gold and silver, watches, rings, pistols, clothes, both linen and woollen, with an immense quantity of other articles, were either thrown together in heaps, or suspended upon the sides of the cave.

The whole cruel, brutal family, to the number formerly mentioned, were seized; the human flesh buried in the sand of the sea-shore; the immense booty carried away, and the king marched to Edinburgh with the prisoners. This new and wretched spectacle attracted the attention of the inhabitants, who flocked from all quarters to see, as they passed along, so bloody and unnatural a family, which had increased, in the space of twenty-five years, to the number of twenty-seven men and twenty-one women. Arrived in the capital, they were all confined in the Tolbooth under a strong guard, and were next day conducted to the common place of execution in Leith Walk, and executed without any formal trial, it being deemed unnecessary to try those who were avowed enemies of all mankind, and of all social order.

The enormity of their crimes dictated the severity of their death. The men had their entrails thrown into the fire, their hands and legs were severed from their bodies, and they were permitted to bleed to death. The wretched mother of the whole crew, the daughters, and grandchildren, after being spectators of the death of the men, were cast into three separate fires, and consumed to ashes. Nor did they, in general, display any signs of repentance or regret, but continued, with their last breath, to pour forth the most dreadful curses and imprecations upon all around, and upon those who were instrumental in consigning them to the hands of a tardy but a certain and inevitable justice.

THOMAS WYNNE.

This notorious criminal was born at Ipswich, where he continued till he was between fifteen and sixteen, and then went to sea. Nine years after, coming to London, and associating with loose company, especially with women of the most infamous character, he left no villainy undone for the support of himself and them in their extravagances, till at last he became so expert in house-breaking and all sorts of theft, that he was esteemed the most remarkable villain of his time.

It was in the reign of queen Elizabeth that our artist flourished: accordingly, we find that he had the boldness to rob the royal lodgings at Whitehall palace of plate to the amount of 400l. for which he was taken and committed to Newgate. But fortunately for him, her majesty’s act of grace coming out, granting a free pardon for all offences except murder, treason, and other notorious crimes, he was allowed the benefit of that act, and thus obtained his liberty. But neither the royal clemency, nor the imminent danger to which he had been exposed, had any effect upon the obdurate heart of Wynne; for, pursuing his villanies, he was soon constrained to hire himself as under servant in the kitchen, to the earl of Salisbury, to avoid detection. While he was in this post, he had the audacity to make love to the countess’s woman, who, astonished at such insolence in a fellow of his rank, returned his addresses with the greatest contempt. This exasperated Wynne so much, that his pretended love turned to hatred, and he vowed revenge. He embraced an opportunity, and used her in a very brutal manner, until she was under the necessity of calling to the other servants for assistance. The poor woman took to her bed, and remained very unwell for some time. The master, informed of this shocking piece of cruelty, ordered Wynne to be whipped by the coachman, and the same to be repeated once a week during a month. Though Wynne was happy in having satiated his vengeance upon the woman who had contemptuously spurned his addresses, yet he was not very much in love with the reward assigned him by his master; therefore, robbing the coachman of nine pounds, borrowing fifteen pounds of the master-cook, carrying off a silver cup of the master’s, and all the best clothes of the woman whom he had so greatly injured, he went in quest of new adventures.

At that time innkeepers were not so active as now; Wynne therefore often dressed himself in the garb of a porter, and carried off parcels consigned to carriers, and continued undetected in this practice, until he had acquired about two hundred pounds, for which the different carriers had to pay through their neglect. Taught by experience, however, they began to look better after the goods entrusted to their care, so that Wynne had to turn to a new employment.

One day, hearing a man inform his wife, as he was going out, that it would be five or six hours before he would return, he followed him until he saw him go into a tavern; and, after getting acquainted with the name of the landlord, he went back to the man’s neighborhood, and discovered his name also. Having obtained this intelligence, he goes to the man’s wife, and informs her that her husband is taken suddenly ill, and wishes to see her before his death. Upon this the poor woman cried bitterly, and, after giving the maid orders to take care of the house, she ran off with this pretended messenger to the place where her husband was supposed to be in the jaws of death.

They had not proceeded far, when Wynne, upon pretence of business in a different part of the town, left her to prosecute her journey,—returned back to the house, and told the maid, that “her mistress had sent him to acquaint her, that if she did not come home by such an hour, she might go to bed, for she should not come home all night.” Wynne in the mean time seeming out of breath with haste, the maid civilly requested him to come in and rest himself. This according with his wishes, he immediately complied, and, when the maid was going to fetch him some meat, he suddenly knocked her down, bound her hand and foot, and robbed the house of every thing he could carry off, to the amount of 200l.

Wynne, having reigned eight years in his villanies, formed a strong desire to rob a linen-draper who had retired from business, and with his wife was living upon the fruits of his industry. He accordingly one evening broke into their house, and, to prevent discovery, cut both their throats while they were asleep, and rifled the house to the amount of 2500l.; and, to prevent detection, sailed to Virginia, with his wife and four children.

The two old people not appearing in the neighborhood next day as usual, and the doors remaining locked, the neighbors were alarmed, sent for a constable and burst open the doors, when they found them weltering in their blood, and their house pillaged. Diligent search was made, and a poor man, who begged his bread, was taken up on suspicion, because he had been seen about the doors, and sitting upon a bench belonging to the house the day before: and although nothing but circumstantial evidence appeared against him, he was tried, condemned, and executed before the door of the house, and his body hung in chains at Holloway.

Meanwhile Wynne, the murderer, was in safety in a foreign land. It also happened, that by the price of innocent blood he prospered, and his riches greatly increased. After he had resided twenty years in Virginia, where his family became numerous, and his riches great, he resolved to visit England before his death, and then to return to deposit his bones in a foreign grave. During his stay in London, he one day went into a goldsmith’s shop in Cheapside, to purchase some plate that he intended to take home with him. It happened, while the goldsmith was weighing the plate which Wynne had purchased, that an uproar took place in the street, occasioned by the circumstance of a gentleman running off from certain bailiffs who were conducting him to prison. Upon this Wynne ran also out into the street, and hearing somebody behind him crying out, “Stop him! stop him!” his conscience instantly awoke, so that he stopped, and exclaimed, “I am the man!” “You the man!” cried the people; “what man?” “The man,” replied Wynne, “that committed such a murder in Honey lane twenty years ago, for which a poor man was hanged wrongfully!”

Upon this confession he was carried before a magistrate, to whom he repeated the same acknowledgment, and was committed to Newgate, tried, condemned, and executed before the house where he perpetrated the horrid deed. In this manner the justice of Heaven pursued this guilty wretch long after he thought himself beyond the reach of punishment. Justice also overtook his family, who were privy to his guilt. Upon the intelligence of his shameful end, his wife immediately became deranged, and continued so to her death. Two of his sons were hanged in Virginia for robbery, and the whole family were soon reduced to beggary.

THOMAS WITHERINGTON.

This person was the son of a worthy gentleman of Carlisle, in the county of Cumberland, who possessed a considerable estate, and brought up his children suitably to his condition. Thomas, the subject of this memoir, received a liberal education, as his father intended that he should live free from the toil and hazard of business. The father dying, Thomas came into possession of the estate, which soon procured him a rich wife, who afterwards proved the chief cause of his ruin. She was loose in her conduct, and violated her matrimonial obligations, which drove him from his house to seek happiness in the tavern, or in the company of abandoned women. These by degrees perverted all the good qualities he possessed; nor was his estate less subject to ruin and decay; for the mortgages he made on it, in order to support his luxury and profusion, soon reduced his circumstances to the lowest ebb. Undisciplined in poverty, how could a man of his late affluent fortune, and unacquainted with business, procure a maintenance? He was possessed of too independent a spirit to stoop either to relations or friends for a precarious subsistence, and to solicit the benevolence of his fellow-men was what his soul abhorred. Starve he could not, and only one way of living presented itself to his choice—levying contributions on the road. This he followed for six or seven years with tolerable success; and we shall now relate a few of his most remarkable adventures.

Upon his first outset he repaired to a friend, and with a grave face lamented his late irregularities, and declared his determination to live by some honest means; but for this purpose he required a little money to assist him in establishing himself, and hoped his friend would find it convenient to accommodate him. His friend was overjoyed at the prospect of his amendment and willingly lent him fifty pounds, with as many blessings and exhortations. But Witherington frustrated the expectations of his friend, and with the money bought himself a horse and other necessaries fit for his future enterprises.

One night he stopped at Keswick in Cumberland, where he met with the dean of Carlisle. Being equally learned, they found each other’s company very agreeable, and Witherington passed himself off for a gentleman who had just returned from the East Indies with a handsome competency, and was returning to his friends at Carlisle, among whom he had a rich uncle, who had lately died and left him sole heir to his estate. “True,” said the dean, “I have often heard of a relation of Mr. Witherington’s being in the East Indies; but his family, I can assure you, have received repeated information of his death, and what prejudice this may have done to your affairs at Carlisle, to-morrow will be the best witness.” The dean then told him his own history, and concluded in these words:—“And I am now informed that, to support his extravagance, Mr. Witherington frequents the road, and takes a purse wherever he can extort it.” Our adventurer seemed greatly hurt at this account of his cousin’s conduct, and thanked the doctor for his information. Being both fond of their bottle, they spent the evening very agreeably, promising to travel together on the following day to Carlisle.

Having arrived at a wood on the road, Witherington rode close up to the dean, and whispered into his ear, “Sir, though the place at which we now are is private enough, yet willing that what I do should be still more private, I take the liberty to acquaint you, that you have something about you that will do me an infinite piece of service.”—“What’s that?” answered the doctor; “you shall have it with all my heart.”—“I thank you for your civility,” said Witherington. “Well then, to be plain, the money in your breeches-pocket will be very serviceable to me at the present moment.”—“Money!” rejoined the doctor; “sir, you cannot want money; your garb and person both tell me you are in no want.”—“Ay, but I am; for the ship in which I came over happened to be wrecked, so that I have lost all I brought from India; and I would not enter Carlisle for the whole world without money in my pocket.”—“Friend, I may urge the same plea, and say I would not go into that city without money for the world; but what then? If you are Mr. Witherington’s nephew, as you pretend to be, you would not thus peremptorily demand money of me, for at Carlisle your friends will supply you; and if you have none now, I will bear your expenses to that place.”—“Sir,” said Witherington, “the question is not whether I have money or not, but concerning that which is in your pocket; for, as you say, my cousin is obliged to take purses on the road, and so am I; so that if I take yours, you may ride to Carlisle, and say that Mr. Witherington met you and demanded your charity.” After a good deal of expostulation, the dean, terrified at the sight of a pistol, delivered to Witherington a purse containing fifty guineas, before he pursued his journey to Carlisle, and our adventurer set off in search of more prey.

Witherington being at Newcastle, put up at an inn where some commissioners were to meet that day, to make choice of a schoolmaster for a neighboring parish. The salary being very handsome, many spruce young clergymen and students appeared as competitors: and, being possessed of sufficient qualifications, Witherington bethought him of standing a candidate, for which purpose he borrowed coarse, plain clothes from the landlord, to make his appearance correspond with the conduct he meant to pursue. Repairing to the kitchen, and sitting down by the fire, he called for a mug of ale, putting on a very dejected countenance. One of the freeholders who came to vote, observing him as he stood warming himself by the fire, was taken with his countenance, and entered into conversation with him. He very modestly let the freeholder know that he had come with the intention of standing a candidate, but when he saw so many gay young men as competitors, and fearing that every thing would be carried by interest, he resolved to return home. “Nay,” replied the honest freeholder, “as long as I have a vote, justice shall be done; and never fear, for egad, I say, merit shall have the place, and if thou be found the best scholar, thou shalt certainly have it; and to show you I am sincere, I now, though you are a stranger to me, promise you my vote, and my interest likewise.” Witherington thanked him for his civility, and consented to wait for the trial. A keen contest took place between two of the most successful candidates, when our adventurer was introduced as a man who had so much modesty as to make him fearful of appearing before so great an assembly, but who nevertheless wished to be examined. He confronted the two opponents, and exposed their ignorance to the trustees, who were all astonished at the stranger. He showed it was not a number of Greek and Latin sentences that constituted a good scholar, but a thorough knowledge of the nature of the book which he read, and the ability to discover the design of the author. Suffice it to say, that Witherington was installed into the office with all the usual formalities.

Conducting himself with much moderation and humility, the churchwardens of the parish took a great fancy to him, and made him overseer and tax-gatherer to the parish; and the rector likewise committed to his care the collection of his rents and tithes. This friendly disposition towards Witherington extended itself over the parish, and never was a man believed to be more honest or industrious. Of the latter qualification, we must say, in this instance, he showed himself possessed; but of the former he had never any notion. His opinion had great weight with the heads of the parish, and he proposed the erection of a new school-house, and for this purpose offered, himself, to sink a year’s salary towards a subscription. It was willingly agreed to, and contributions came in from all quarters, and a sum exceeding 700l. was speedily raised. The mind of Witherington was now big with hope, but, being discovered by two gentlemen who had come from Carlisle, he made off with all the subscriptions and funds in his possession, leaving the parish to reflect upon the honesty of their schoolmaster and their own credulity.

He went to Buckinghamshire, and, being at an inn in the county town, fell into the company of some farmers, who, he discovered, had come to meet their landlord with their rents. They were all tenants of the same proprietor, and poured out many complaints against him for his harshness and injustice, in not allowing some deduction from their rents, or time after quarter-day, when they met with severe losses from bad weather or other causes. He learned that this landlord was very rich, and so miserly that he denied himself even the necessaries of life; our adventurer, therefore, determined, if possible, to rifle him before he parted.

The landlord soon arrived, and the company were shown into a private room; Witherington, upon pretence of being a friend of one of the farmers, and a lawyer, accompanied them. He requested a sight of the last receipts, and examined them with great care, and then addressing the landlord, “Sir,” said he, “these honest men, my friends, have been your tenants for a long time, and have paid their rents very regularly; but why they should be so fond of your farms at so high a rent I am unable to comprehend, when they may get other lands much cheaper; and that you should be so unreasonable as not to allow a reduction in their rents in a season like this, when they must lose instead of gaining by their farms. It is your duty, sir, to encourage them, and not to grind them so unmercifully, else they will soon be obliged to leave your farms altogether.” The landlord endeavored to argue the point; and the farmers seeing the drift of Witherington, refrained from interfering. “It is unnecessary,” resumed Witherington, “to have more parley about it; I insist, on behalf of my friends here, that you remit them a hundred and fifty pounds of the three hundred you expect them to pay you, for I am told you have more than enough to support yourself and family.” “Not a sous,” replied the landlord. “We’ll try that presently. But pray, sir, take your pen, ink, and paper, in the mean time, and write out their receipts, and the money shall be forthcoming immediately.” “Not a letter, till the money is in my hands.” “It must be so, then,” answered Witherington; “you will force a good-natured man to use extremities with you;” and so saying, he laid a brace of loaded pistols on the table. In a moment the landlord was on his knees, crying, “Oh! dear sir, sweet sir, kind sir, merciful sir, for God of Heaven’s sake, sir, don’t take away the life of an innocent man, sir, who never intended harm to any one, sir.” “Why, what harm do I intend you, friend? Cannot I lay the pistols I travel with on the table, but you must throw yourself into this unnecessary fear? Pray, proceed with the receipts, and write them in full of all demands to this time, or else—”—“Oh, God, sir! Oh, dear sir! you have an intention—pray, dear sir, have no intention against my life.” “To the receipts then, or by Jupiter Ammon! I’ll—”—“O yes, I will, sir.” With this the old landlord wrote full receipts, and delivered them to the respective farmers.

“Come,” said Witherington, “this is honest, and to show you that you have to deal with honest people, here is the hundred and fifty pounds; and I promise you, in the name of these honest men, that if things succeed well, you shall have the other half next quarter-day.” The farmers paid the money, and departed astonished, and not a little afraid, at the consequences of this proceeding. Witherington ordered his horse, and inquired of the ostler the road the old gentleman had to travel, and presently took his departure.

He chose the road which the old gentleman had to travel, and soon observed him jogging away in sullen silence, with a servant behind him. When he observed our hero, he would have fled, but Witherington seized the bridle of his horse, and forced him to proceed, bantering him upon the folly of hoarding up wealth, without enjoying it himself, merely for some spendthrift son to squander after his death. “For,” he continued, “money is a blessing sent us from Heaven, in order that, by its circulation, it may afford nourishment to the body politic; and if such wretches as you, by laying up thousands in your coffers to no advantage, cause a stagnation, there are thousands in the world that must feel the consequences, and I am to acquaint you of them; so that a better deed cannot be done, than to bestow what you have about you upon me; for, to be plain with you, I am not to be refused;” and hereupon he presented his pistol. The old gentleman, in trepidation for his life, resigned his purse, containing more than three hundred and fifty guineas; and Witherington, unbuckling the portmanteau from behind the servant, placed it on his own horse, and left the old landlord with an admonition, to be in future affable and generous to his tenants, for they were the persons who supported him, adding, that if he ever again heard complaints from them, he would visit his house, and partake liberally of what he most coveted.

The county, after this adventure, was up in pursuit of Witherington, and he retired to Cheshire with great expedition. The first house he put up at was an inn kept by a young widow, noted as well for her kindness to travellers, as her wealth and beauty. She paid our adventurer great attention, and invited him to be of a party, consisting of some friends, which she was to have that evening. He was not blind to the charms of the widow, and gladly accepted the invitation. The company he found to consist chiefly of gentlemen, who, he could discover, were angling for the widow’s riches. Witherington gained great favor in the eyes of the lady, and she asked him to favor the company with a song, as she was sure, from his sweet clear voice, he could perform well. Witherington wanting no farther importunity from a person he had fixed his affections upon, complied with the request, and sang an amorous ditty, very applicable to his present situation, and, with the assistance of a side glance and a sigh, enabled the widow to draw the most favorable inferences. He was completely successful, and the widow evidently vanquished. Witherington was now requested by the widow to relate some story concerning himself, “as certainly a person who could make himself so agreeable, and make others take such an interest in his welfare, could not fail to have met with something remarkable in his lifetime.” Witherington was all compliance, and begged leave to give a short recital of his life; and the company were anxious that he should proceed, expecting to be informed of something marvellous and mysterious.

He invented an artful story, the drift of which was to give the widow a high idea of himself, of the power that love had over him, and of the generosity of his own mind. His greatest misfortune, he said, was disappointment in love, the object of his choice having been stolen from him by an old rich uncle, against her inclination, and he stated that he had just left home, in order to divert his mind from the melancholy with which this had overcast him; “chance,” said he, in conclusion, “has thrown me into this hospitable house, where I cannot but own I have found as much beauty as I have been unfortunately deprived of.”

This story excited considerable interest throughout the company, more particularly in the breast of the widow, towards whom Witherington now evinced unequivocal marks of attention, which seemed to excite considerable jealousy in some of the gentlemen present. They all parted, however, on the most friendly terms, and our adventurer resolved to stay some time at Nantwich, in order to follow out this adventure. Next morning, Witherington renewed his assiduities, and both he and the amorous widow were equally gratified with each other’s company; at length, determined to carry his point by a coup de grace, he declared a most ardent passion for her, which, after much prefacing and many assurances, was returned tenfold. She assured him, at the same time, that he had many rivals, but over these he had gained the pre-eminence, in her estimation.

A few days after the first interview with the other suitors at the inn, Witherington’s ascendancy was so evident, that a rival, who imagined he had the game within reach, was seriously alarmed, and had recourse to stratagem to free himself from such an opponent. For this purpose he sent for Witherington, and, with every appearance of disinterested friendship, informed him, that he had sent for him to caution him against further intimacy with the widow, to whom he confessed he once paid matrimonial court, but that he had thrown her completely off since he had discovered the measure of her guilt, and congratulated himself upon his escape. Expressing his detestation of the character of a defamer, and solemnly avowing the purity of his motives, he informed Witherington, that the widow was most fickle and insincere in her attachment, as any one might have discovered at the supper party: and, in order to gratify this wavering inclination, she had poisoned her last husband. He entreated him then, as he valued his own happiness and security, to desist from prosecuting his intentions farther, and hoped Witherington would pardon the liberty he had taken; for, hearing his acquaintance was to end in marriage, and considering the fortunate escape he had himself made, he was bound to prevent a stranger from being imposed upon.

Witherington at once saw the drift of his rival, and humored him accordingly. He seemed shocked at the baseness of the widow, and joined the other in self-congratulation. He thanked the gentleman for his kindly warning, and told him to leave the affair to his management, and he would soon discover the depth of her guilt; and that as they both seemed to have one object in view, namely, the possession of her money, they might then be able to make what use of the circumstances they found convenient and proper. The gentleman seemed satisfied, and they parted for the present.

Our adventurer returning to the inn, acquainted the widow with the whole conversation between him and the gentleman. She was greatly incensed, declared the world was very censorious, and vowed revenge at whatever price. Witherington judging that a rupture was about to take place, thought it high time to take advantage of the credulous woman; so, that evening, taking her aside, he observed to her that the best way of revenging herself upon his rival would be, if she had any serious intention of marrying him, to show her inclination by some mark of her favor that might distinguish him above his rival. Glad of this opportunity, she conveyed him into a closet, where, showing him all her money and plate, she told him that all these were at his service, provided he could deliver her from the importunities of the gentleman. Witherington assured her that she might depend upon him, and, taking his leave for the night, retired to his chamber. Here he wrote the following letter to the widow:

“My Dear,

“Ever mindful of what a woman says, especially one who has been pleased to set her affections on me, I have written this letter purely to acquaint you that, being obliged to go to London, and the journey being pretty long, I could not do better than make use of the money in the closet which you were so good as to say was at my service. I was in exceeding haste when I began to write this, so that I can spare no more time than to request you to be sure of thinking of me till my return.

T. Witherington.”

After writing this he went privately into the widow’s closet and secured all her ready money, which amounted to above three hundred pounds; then, going into the stable, saddled his horse, mounted, and rode out at the back door, leaving the family fast asleep, and the widow and the gentleman lover to prosecute their amours as they thought fit.

Witherington, not yet content with the spoil obtained from the parish and from the widow, repaired to the London road, where he perpetrated a robbery between Acton and Uxbridge; after which he was detected and committed to Newgate, where he led a most profligate life till the day of his execution.

He was executed with Jonathan Woodward and James Philpot, two most notorious housebreakers, who had once before received mercy from king James I. upon his accession to the throne. One of the name of Elliot, the son of a respectable lady then living, was condemned at the same time, but afterwards pardoned. This individual, thus restored to society by the royal clemency, afterwards became a worthy citizen and a good Christian. Out of compassion for other criminals, and in acknowledgment of the king’s favor, his mother, upon her death-bed, bequeathed a handsome sum to the parish of St. Sepulchre’s in London, upon the condition of finding a man who should always, between the hours of eleven and twelve o’clock of the night previous to the execution of any unhappy criminal, go under Newgate, and, giving notice of his approach by the ringing of a bell, remind the prisoners of their approaching end, by repeating religious exhortations, tending to prepare them for death. Witherington and his companions in death were the first to whom these exhortations were given; and as the design is truly benevolent, and as they are often fraught with incalculable blessings to the guilty, we will gratify our readers by the insertion of them, and with this close the life of Witherington.

The person appointed, after inquiring of the criminals if they are awake, and being answered in the affirmative, proceeds thus:

“Gentlemen, I am the unwelcome messenger who comes to inform you that to-morrow you must die. Your time is but short, the time slides away apace, the glass runs fast, and the last sand being now about to drop, when you must launch out into boundless eternity, give not yourselves to sleep, but watch and pray to gain eternal life. Repent sooner than St. Peter, and repent before the cock crows, for now repentance is the only road to salvation; be fervent in this great duty, and without doubt you may to-morrow be with the penitent thief in paradise. Pray without ceasing; quench not the spirit; abstain from all appearance of evil; as your own wickedness hath caused all this to fall upon you, and brought the day of tribulation near at hand, so let goodness be your sole comfort, that your souls may find perpetual rest with your blessed Savior who died for the sins of the world; he will wipe all tears from your eyes, remove your sorrows, and assuage your grief, so that your sin-sick souls shall be healed for evermore. I exhort you earnestly not to be negligent of the work of your salvation, which depends upon your sincere devotion betwixt this and to-morrow, when the sword of justice shall send you out of the land of the living. Fight the good fight of faith, and lay hold of eternal life whilst you may, for there is no repentance in the grave. Ye have pierced yourselves with many sorrows, but a few hours will bring you to a place where you will know nothing but joy and gladness. Love righteousness and hate iniquity, then God, even your God, will anoint you with the oil of gladness above your fellows. Go now boldly to the throne of grace, that ye may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need. The God of peace sanctify you wholly! and I pray God, your whole spirits, and souls, and bodies, may be preserved blameless, until the meeting of your blessed Redeemer! The Lord have mercy upon you! Christ have mercy upon you! Sweet Jesus receive your souls! and to-morrow may you sup with him in paradise! Amen! Amen!”

Next day, when they were to die, the bell on the steeple was tolled, and the cart stopped under the churchyard wall at St. Sepulchre’s, where the same person related from the wall the following additional exhortation:

“Gentlemen, consider, now you are going out of this world into another, where you will live in happiness or woe for evermore. Make your peace with God Almighty, and let your whole thoughts be entirely bent upon your latter end. Cursed is he that hangeth on a tree; but it is hoped the fatal knot will bring your precious souls to a union with the great Creator of heaven and earth, to whom I recommend your souls, in this your final hour of distress. Lord have mercy upon you! Christ look down upon you and comfort you! Sweet Jesus receive your souls this day into eternal life! Amen!”

JAMES BATSON.

This famous robber was born in the first year of James the First. It so happens (although perhaps the circumstance is no very satisfactory evidence of the authenticity of his adventures) that he is his own historian; we are accordingly compelled, in default of other particulars, to lay his auto-biography before our readers.

“I suppose,” says he, “that, according to custom, the reader will expect some relation of my genealogy, and as I am a great admirer of fashion, I shall gratify his curiosity. My grandfather had the good fortune to marry a woman well skilled in vaulting and rope-dancing, and who could act her part uncommonly well. Though above fifty years of age, and affected with the phthisic, she died in the air. To avoid seeing other women fly as she had done, her husband would not marry again; but diverted himself with keeping a puppet-show in Moorfields, deemed the most remarkable that ever had been seen in that place. My grandfather was also so little, that the only difference between him and his puppets was, that they spoke through a trunk, and he without one. He was, however, so eloquent, and made such lively speeches, that his audience were never rendered drowsy. All the apple-women, hawkers, and fish-women, were so charmed by his wit, that they would run to hear him, and leave their goods without any guard but their own straw hats.

“My father had two trades, or two strings to his bow; he was a painter and a gamester, and master much alike at both; for his painting could scarcely rise so high as a sign-post, and his hand at play was of such an ancient date, that it could scarcely pass. He had one misfortune, which, like original sin, he entailed upon all his children; and that was, his being born a gentleman, which is as bad as being a poet, few of whom escape eternal poverty.

“My mother had the misfortune to die longing for mushrooms. Besides myself she left two daughters, both very handsome and very young; and though I was then young myself, yet I was much better skilled in sharping than my age seemed to promise. When the funeral sermon was preached, the funeral rites performed, and our tears dried up, my father returned to his daubing, my sisters to their stitching, and I was despatched to school. I had such an excellent memory, that though my dispositions were then what they have continued to be, yet I soon learned as much as might have been applied to better purposes than I have done. My tricks upon my master and my companions were so numerous, that I obtained the honorable appellation of the Little Judas. My avaricious disposition soon appeared, and if my covetous eyes once beheld any thing, my invention soon put it into my possession. These, however, I could not obtain gratis, for they cost me many a boxing bout every day. The reports of my conduct were conveyed home, and my eldest sister would frequently spend her white hands upon the side of my pate; and sometimes even carried her admonitions so far, as politely to inform me, that I would prove a disgrace to the family.

“It was my good fortune, however, not to be greatly agitated by her remonstrances, which went in at the one ear and out at the other. It happened, however, that my adventures were so numerous, and daily increasing in their magnitude, that I was dismissed the school with as much solemnity as if it had been by beat of drum. After giving me a complete drubbing, my father carried me to a barber, in order to be bound as his apprentice. I was first sent to the kitchen, where my mistress soon provided me with employment, by showing me a parcel of dirty clothes, informing me, that it made part of the apprentice’s work to clean them: ‘Jemmy,’ said she, ‘mind your heels, there’s a good boy!’ I hung down my head, tumbled all the clouts into a trough, and washed them as well as I could. I so managed the matter, that I was soon discarded from my office, which was very fortunate for me, for it would have put an end to Jemmy in less than a fortnight.

“The third day of my apprenticeship, my master having just given me a note to receive money, there came into the shop a ruffian with a pair of whiskers, and told my master he would have them turned up. The journeyman not being at hand, my master began to turn them up himself and desired me to heat the irons. I complied, and just as he had turned up one whisker, there happened a quarrel in the street, and my master ran out to learn the cause. The scuffle lasting long, and my master desirous to see the end as well as the beginning of the bustle, the spark was all the time detained in the shop, with the one whisker ornamented, and the other hanging down like an aspen leaf. In a harsh tone he asked me, if I understood my trade; and I, thinking it derogatory to my understanding to be ignorant, boldly replied that I did; ‘Why, then,’ said he, ‘turn up this whisker for me, or I shall go into the street as I am, and kick your master.’ I was unwilling to be detected in a lie, and deeming it no difficult matter to turn up a whisker, never showed the least concern, but took up one of the irons, that had been in the fire ever since the commencement of the street bustle, and having nothing to try it on, and willing to appear expeditious, I took a comb, stuck it into his bristly bush, and clapped the iron to it: no sooner did they meet, than there arose a smoke, as if it had been out of a chimney, with a whizzing noise, and in a moment all the hair vanished. He exclaimed furiously, ‘Thou son of a thousand dogs! dost thou take me for St. Lawrence, that thou burnest me alive!’ With that he let fly such a bang at me, that the comb dropped out of my hand, and I could not avoid, in the fright, laying the hot iron close along his cheek: this made him give such a shriek as shook the whole house, and he, at the same time, drew his sword to send me to the other world. I, however, recollecting the proverb, that ‘One pair of heels is worth two pair of hands,’ ran so nimbly into the street, and fled so quickly from that part of the town, that though I was a good runner, I was amazed when I found myself about a mile from home, with the iron in my hand, and the remainder of the whisker sticking to it. As fortune would have it, I was near the dwelling of the person who was to pay the note my master gave me: I went and received the money, but deemed it proper to detain it in lieu of my three days’ wages.

“This money was all exhausted in one month, when I was under the necessity of returning to my father’s house. Before arriving there, I was informed, that he was gone to the country to receive a large sum of money which was due him, and therefore went boldly in, as if the house had been my own. My grave sisters received me very coldly, and severely blamed me for the money which my father paid for my pranks. Maintaining, however, the honor of my birthright, I kept them at considerable distance. The domestic war being thus prolonged, I one day lost temper, and was resolved to make them feel the consequences of giving me sour beer; and, though the dinner was upon the table, I threw the dish at my eldest sister, and the beer at the younger, overthrew the table, and marched out of doors on a ramble. Fortunately, however, I was interrupted in my flight by one who informed me, that my father was dead, and in his testament had very wisely left me sole heir and executor. Upon this I returned, and soon found the tones and tempers of my sisters changed, in consequence of the recent news. I sold the goods, collected the debts, and feasted all the rakes in town, until not one farthing remained.

“One evening, a party of my companions carried me along with them, and, opening the door of a certain house, conveyed from thence some trunks, which a faithful dog perceiving, he gave the alarm. The people of the house attacked the robbers, who threw down their burdens to defend themselves: meanwhile, I skulked into a corner all trembling. The watch made their appearance, and seeing three trunks in the street, two men dangerously wounded, and myself standing at a small distance, they seized me as one concerned in the robbery. Next day I was ordered to a place of confinement, and could find no friend to bail me from thence. In ten days I was tried, and my defences being frivolous and unsatisfactory, I was about to be hoisted up by the neck, and sent out of the world in a swinging manner, when a reprieve came, and in two months a full pardon.

“After this horrible fright, (for I was not much disposed to visit the dwelling of my grandfather,) I commenced travelling merchant, and, according to my finances, purchased a quantity of wash-balls, toothpicks, and tooth-powders. Pretending that they came from Japan, Peru, or Tartary, and extolling them to the skies, I had a good sale, particularly among the gentry of the playhouse. Upon a certain day, one of the actresses, a beautiful woman of eighteen, and married to one of the actors, addressed me, saying, ‘she had taken a liking to me, because I was a confident, sharp, forward youth; and therefore, if I would serve her, she would entertain me with all her heart; and that, when the company were strolling, I might beat the drum and stick up the bills.’ Deeming it an easier mode of moving through the world, I readily consented, only requesting two days to dispose of my stock, and to settle all my accounts.

“In my new profession my employments were various, some of which, though not very pleasant, I endeavored to reconcile myself to, inasmuch as they were comparatively better than my former. In a little time, I became more acquainted with the tempers of my master and mistress, and became so great a favorite, that fees and bribes replenished my coffers from all expectants and authors who courted their favor. Unfortunately, however, one day, in their absence, I was invited by some of the party to take a walk, and, going into a tavern, commenced playing at cards, till my last farthing was lost. Determined, if possible, to be revenged of my antagonist, I requested time to run home for more money: it was readily granted. I ran and seized an article belonging to my mistress, pawned it for a small sum, which soon followed my other stores. But evils seldom come alone: I was in this situation not only deprived of my money, but also obliged to decamp.”

The next adventure of Batson was to enlist as a soldier. It happened, however, that his captain cheating him out of his pay, caused a grievous quarrel. Batson soon found that it was dangerous to reside in Rome and strive with the pope. His captain, upon some pretence of improper conduct, had him apprehended, tried, and condemned to be hanged. The cause of this harsh treatment was a very simple one: “For,” says Batson, “I was one day drinking with a soldier, and happened to fall out about a lie given. My sword unluckily running into his throat, he kicked up his heels, through his own fault, for he ran upon my point, so that he may thank his own hastiness.” Upon this our hero says, “As if it had been a thing of nothing, or as a matter of pastime, they gave sentence that I should be led in state along the streets, then mounted upon a ladder, kick up my heels before all the people, and take a swing in the open air, as if I had another life in my knapsack. A notary informed me of this sentence, who was so generous that he requested no fee, nor any expenses for his trouble during the trial. The unfeeling gaoler desired me to make my peace with my Maker, without giving me one drop to cheer my desponding heart. Informed of my melancholy condition, a compassionate friar came to prepare me for another world, since the inhabitants of this were so ready to bid me farewell. When he arrived, he inquired for the condemned person. I answered, ‘Father, I am the man, though you do not know me.’ He said, ‘Dear child, it is now time for you to think of another world, since sentence is passed, and, therefore, you must employ the short time allowed you in confessing your sins, and asking forgiveness of your offences.’ I answered, ‘Reverend father, in obedience to the commands of the church, I confess but once in the year, and that is in Lent; but if, according to the human laws, I must atone with my life for the crime I have committed, your reverence, being so learned, must be truly sensible that there is no divine precept which says, “Thou shall not eat or drink;” and therefore, since it is not contrary to the law of God, I desire that I may have meat and drink, and then we will discourse of what is best for us both; for I am in a Christian country, and plead the privilege of sanctuary.’

“The good friar was much moved at finding me so jocular when I ought to be so serious, and began to preach to me a loud and a long sermon upon the parable of the lost sheep, and the repentance of the good thief. But the charity bells that ring when criminals are executed knolling in mine ears, made a deeper impression than the loud and impressive voice of the friar. I therefore kneeled down before my ghostly father, and cleared the store-house of my sins, and poured forth a dreadful budget of iniquity. He then gave me his blessing, and poor Batson seemed prepared to take his flight from a world of misfortunes and insults.

“But, having previously presented a petition to the marquis D’Este, then commanding officer, he at that critical moment called me before him. He, being a merciful man, respited my sentence, and sent me to the galleys for ten years. Some friends farther interfered, and informed the marquis, that the accusation and sentence against me were effected by the malice of the captain, who was offended because I had insisted for the whole of my listing money. The result was that he ordered me to be set at liberty, to the disappointment of my captain, together with that of the multitude and the executioner.

“The deadly fright being over, and my mind restored to tranquillity, I went forth to walk, and to meditate upon what method I was now to pursue in the rugged journey of life. Every man has his own fortune, and, as good luck would have it, I again met with a recruiting officer, who enlisted me, and, from partiality, took me home to his own quarters. The cook taking leave of the family, I was interrogated if I understood any thing in that line. To this I replied, as usual, in the affirmative, and was accordingly installed into the important office of a cook.

“In the course of a military life, my master took up his winter residence at Bavaria, in the house of one of the richest men in those parts. To save his property, however, the Bavarian pretended to be very poor, drove away all his cattle, and removed all his stores to another quarter. Informed of this, I waited upon him, and acquainted him that, as he had a person of quality in his house, it would be necessary to provide liberally for him and his servants. He replied, that I had only to inform him what provisions I wanted, and he would order them immediately. I then informed him, that my master always kept three tables, one for the gentlemen and pages, a second for the butler and under officers, a third for the footmen, grooms, and other liveries; that for these tables he must supply one ox, two calves, four sheep, twelve pullets, six capons, two dozen of pigeons, six pounds of bacon, four pounds of sugar, two of all sorts of spice; a hundred eggs, half a dozen dishes of fish, a pot of wine to every plate, and six hogsheads to stand by. He blessed himself, and exclaimed, ‘If all you speak of be only for the servants’ tables, the village will not be able to furnish the master’s.’ To this I replied, that my master was such a good-natured man, that, if he saw his servants and attendants well provided, he was indifferent to his own table; a dish of imperial stuffed meat, with an egg in it, would be sufficient for him. He asked me of what that same imperial stuffed meat was composed? I desired him to send for a grave-digger and a cobbler, and while they were at work, I would inform him what there was wanting. They were instantly called. I then took an egg, and putting it into the body of a pigeon, which I had already gutted with my knife, said to him, ‘Now, sir, take notice; this egg is in the pigeon, the pigeon is to be put into a partridge, the partridge into a pheasant, the pheasant into a pullet, the pullet into a turkey, the turkey into a kid, the kid into a sheep, the sheep into a calf, the calf into a cow; all these creatures are to be pulled, flead, and larded, except the cow, which is to have her hide on; and as they are through one into another, like a nest of boxes, the cobbler is to sew every one of them with an end, that they may not slip out; and the grave-digger is to throw up a deep trench, into which one load of coals is to be cast, and the cow laid on the top of it, and another load above her; the fuel set on fire, to burn about four hours, more or less, when the meat being taken out, is incorporated, and becomes such a delicious dish, that formerly the emperors used to dine upon it on their coronation-day; for which reason, and because an egg is the foundation of all that curious mass, it is named the “imperial egg-stuffed meat.”’ The landlord was not a little astonished, but after some conversation we understood each other, and my master left the matter to my care.

“In the course of my negotiations with the landlord, I incurred the displeasure of my master, who, discovering my policy, came into the kitchen, seized the first convenient instrument, and belabored me most unmercifully. He was, however, punished for his rashness, by the want of a cook for two weeks.

“The scoundrels of the French were audacious enough to pay us a visit while we remained here. I was ordered out with the rest, but I kept at the greatest distance, lest any bullet should have mistaken me for some other person. No sooner did I receive the intelligence that the French were conquered, than I ran to the field of battle, brandishing my sword, and cutting and slashing among the dead men. It unfortunately happened, however, that, as I struck one of them with my sword, he uttered a mournful groan, and, apprehensive that he was about to revenge the injury done to him, I ran off with full speed, leaving my sword in his body. In passing along, I met with another sword, which saved my honor, as I vaunted that I had seized it from one in the field of battle.

“While thus rambling through the field of blood and danger, my master was carried home mortally wounded, who called me a scoundrel, and cried, ‘Why did not you obey me?’ ‘Lest, sir,’ replied I, ‘I should have been as you now are.’ The good man soon breathed his last, leaving me a horse and fifty ducats.

“Being again emancipated from the bonds of servitude, I began to enjoy life, and continued to treat all my acquaintance so long as my money would permit. The return of poverty, however, made me again enlist under the banners of servitude.

“About this time a singular occurrence happened to me. I chanced to go out into the street, when my eyesight was so affected, that I could not discern black from green, nor white from gray. Observing the candles suspended in a candle-maker’s shop, and taking them for radishes, I thought there was no great harm though I should taste one of them. Accordingly, laying hold of one, down fell the whole row, and being dashed to pieces upon the floor, a scuffle ensued; I was taken into custody, and made to pay the damage, which operated to restore my sight to its natural state.

“Not long after this adventure, I was assailed with love for the fair sex, and, after some sighs and presents, I was bound to a woman for better or for worse, and continued with her until the charms of the marriage state and the pleasures of domestic life began to pall upon me, and an ardent desire to return to my old course of adventure took possession of my mind. Towards the attainment of this desirable end, I one day kicked my wife out of doors, dressed myself, and prepared to sally forth. I had no sooner effected this liberation, than a tavern was my first resting-place to recruit my spirits and to redeem lost time.

“I at last formed the resolution of returning to my native home, and there spending the evening of my bustling life in calm repose. After travelling many a tedious mile, I got to London. Arrived in the capital, I went directly to my father’s house, but found it in the possession of another, and my sisters departed this life. As both of them had been married, and had left children, there was no hope of any legacy by their death: I was therefore under the necessity of doing something for a living. Finding the gout increasing upon me, I, by the advice of an acquaintance, took a public house; and, as I understood several languages, I thought I might have many customers from among foreigners.”

Batson then gravely concludes his own narrative in these words:—

“I intend to leave off my foolish pranks, and as I have spent my juvenile years and money in keeping company, hope to find some fools as bad as myself, who delight in throwing away their estates and impairing their health.”

He accordingly took a house in Smithfield, and acquired a considerable sum. But, being desirous to make a fortune with one dash, he hastened his end. Among others who put up at his house was a gentleman who had purchased a large estate in the country, and was going to deliver the cash. The ostler observed to his master, that the bags belonging to the gentleman were uncommonly heavy when he carried them into the house. They mutually agreed to rob, and afterwards to murder him; and the ostler accomplished the horrid deed. But, differing about the division of the spoil, the ostler got drunk, and disclosed the whole matter. The house was searched, the body of the gentleman found, and both the murderers were seized, tried, and condemned. The ostler died before the fatal day, but Batson was executed, and, according to the Catholic faith, died a penitent, a year before the restoration of king Charles the Second.

John Cottington. [P. 47].

MULLED SACK, alias JOHN COTTINGTON.

This man’s father was a petty haberdasher in Cheapside, but living above his income, he died so poor that he was interred by the parish. He had eighteen children, fifteen daughters and three sons. Our hero was the youngest of the family, and at the age of eight was bound apprentice to a chimney-sweeper. In his first year, deeming himself as expert at his profession as his master, he left him, and, acting for himself, soon acquired a great run of business.

Money now coming in upon him, he frequented the tavern, and, disdaining to taste of any thing but mulled sack, he acquired that appellation. One evening he there met with a young woman, with whom he was so enamored, that “he took her for better for worse.” But, not enjoying that degree of comfort in this union which his imagination had painted to him, he frequented the company of other women, until it became necessary to make public contributions to supply their pressing necessities. His first trials were in picking pockets of watches, and any small sum he could find. Among others, he robbed a lady famous among the usurers, of a gold watch set with diamonds, and another lady of a similar piece of luxury, as she was going into church to hear a celebrated preacher. By the aid of his accomplices, the pin was taken out of the axle of her coach, which fell down at the church door, and in the crowd, Mulled Sack, being dressed as a gentleman, gave her his hand, while he seized her watch. The pious lady did not discover her loss, until she wished to know the length of the sermon, when her devout meditations, excited by the consoling exhortation of the pious preacher, were sadly interrupted by the loss of her time-piece. It is related, that upon a certain occasion, he had the boldness to attempt the pocket of Oliver Cromwell, and that the danger to which he was then exposed determined him to leave that sneaking trade, and in a genteel manner to enter upon the honorable profession of public collector on the highway.

He entered into partnership with Tom Cheney. Their first adventure was attacking colonel Hewson, who had raised himself by his merit from a cobbler to a colonel. He was riding at some distance from his regiment upon Hounslow-heath, and, even in the sight of some of his men, these two rogues robbed him. The pursuit was keen: Tom’s horse failing, he was apprehended, but Mulled Sack escaped. The prisoner, being severely wounded, entreated that his trial might be postponed on that account. But, on the contrary, lest he should die of his wounds, he was condemned at two o’clock, and executed that evening.

One Horne was the next accomplice of Mulled Sack. His companions were, however, generally unfortunate. Upon their first attempt, Horne was pursued, taken, and executed.

Thus twice bereft of his associates, he acted alone, but generally committed his depredations upon the republican party, who then had the wealth of the nation in their possession. Informed that the sum of four thousand pounds was on its way from London, to pay the regiments of Oxford and Gloucester, he concealed himself behind a hedge where the wagon was to pass, presented his pistols, and the guard supposing that many more must have been concealed, fled, and left him the immense prize.

There were a few passengers in the wagon, who were greatly affrighted. He, however, consoled them, assuring them that he would not injure them, saying, “This which I have taken is as much mine as theirs who own it, being all extorted from the public by the rapacious members of our commonwealth, to enrich themselves, maintain their janizaries, and keep honest people in subjection, the most effectual way to do which is to keep them very poor.”

When not employed as a chimney-sweep, which profession he still occasionally pursued, he dressed in high style, and is said to have received more money by robbery than any man in that age. One day, being informed that the receiver-general was to send up to London six thousand pounds, he entered his house the night before, and rendered that trouble unnecessary. Upon the noise which this notorious robbery occasioned, Mulled Sack was apprehended; but through cunning, baffling the evidence, or corrupting the jury, he was acquitted.

In a little time after, he robbed and murdered a gentleman, and, for fear of detection, went to the continent, and was introduced into the court of Charles the Second. Upon pretence of giving information, he came home, and applied to Cromwell, confessed his crime, but proposed to purchase his life by important information. But whether he failed in his promise, or whether Cromwell thought that such a notorious offender was unworthy to live, cannot be ascertained; one thing is certain, that he was tried and executed in the forty-fifth year of his age, in the month of April 1659.

CAPTAIN JAMES HIND.

The father of Hind was an industrious saddler, a cheerful companion, and a good Christian. He was a native of Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, where James was born. As our hero was his only son, he received a good education, and remained at school until he was fifteen years of age.

He was then sent as an apprentice to a butcher in that place, and continued in that employment during two years. Upon leaving his master’s service, he applied to his mother for money to bear his expenses to London, complaining bitterly of the rough and quarrelsome temper of his master. The complying mother yielded, and, giving him three pounds, she, with a sorrowful heart, took farewell of her beloved son.

Arrived in the capital, he soon contracted a relish for the pleasures of the town. His bottle and a female companion became his principal delight, and occupied the greater part of his time. He was unfortunately detected one evening with a woman of the town who had just robbed a gentleman, and along with her confined until the morning. He was acquitted because no evidence appeared against him, but his fair companion was committed to Newgate.

Captain Hind, soon after this accident, became acquainted with one Allan, a famous highwayman. While partaking of a bottle, their conversation became mutually so agreeable that they consented to unite their fortunes.

Their measures being concerted, they set out in quest of plunder. They fortunately met a gentleman and his servant travelling along the road. Hind being raw and inexperienced, Allan was desirous to have a proof of his courage and address; he, therefore, remained at a distance, while Hind boldly rode up to them and took from them fifteen pounds, at the same time returning one to bear their expenses home. This he did with so much grace and pleasantry, that the gentleman vowed that he would not injure a hair of his head though it were in his power.

About this period, the unfortunate Charles I. suffered death for his political principles. Captain Hind conceived an inveterate enmity to all those who had stained their hands with their sovereign’s blood, and gladly embraced every opportunity to wreak his vengeance upon them. In a short time, Allan and Hind met with the usurper, Oliver Cromwell, riding from Huntingdon to London. They attacked the coach, but Oliver being attended by seven servants. Allan was apprehended, and it was with no small difficulty that Hind made his escape. The unfortunate Allan was soon after tried, and suffered death for his audacity. The only effect which this produced upon Hind was to render him more cautious in his future depredations. He could not, however, think of abandoning a course on which he had just entered, and which promised so many advantages.

The captain had ridden so hard to escape from Cromwell and his train that he killed his horse, and having no money to purchase a substitute, he was under the necessity of trying his fortune upon foot, until he should find means to procure another. It was not long before he espied a horse tied to a hedge with a saddle on and a brace of pistols attached to it. He looked round and observed a gentleman on the other side of the hedge. “This is my horse,” exclaimed the captain, and immediately vaulted into the saddle. The gentleman called out to him that the horse was his. “Sir,” said Hind, “you may think yourself well off that I have left you all the money in your pocket to buy another, which you had best lay out before I meet you again, lest you should be worse used.” So saying, he rode off in search of new booty.

There is another story of Hind’s ingenious method of supplying himself with a horse upon occasion. It appears that, being upon a second extremity reduced to the humble station of a footpad, he hired a sorry nag and proceeded on his journey. He was overtaken by a gentleman mounted on a fine hunter, with a portmanteau behind him. They entered into conversation upon such topics as are common to travellers, and Hind was very eloquent in the praise of the gentleman’s horse, which inclined the other to descant upon the qualifications of the animal. There was upon one side of the road a wall, which the gentleman said his horse would leap over. Hind offered to risk a bottle on it, to which the gentleman agreed, and quickly made his horse leap over. The captain acknowledged that he had lost his wager, but requested the gentleman to let him try if he could do the same; to which he consented, and the captain, being seated in the saddle of his companion, rode off at full speed and left him to return the other miserable animal to its owner.

At another time the captain met the regicide Hugh Peters in Enfield chace, and commanded him to deliver his money. Hugh, who was not deficient in confidence, began to combat Hind with texts of scripture, and to cudgel our bold robber with the eighth commandment: “It is written in the law,” said he, “that ‘Thou shalt not steal:’ and furthermore, Solomon, who was surely a very wise man, spoke in this manner, ‘Rob not the poor, because he is poor.’” Hind was desirous to answer him in his own strain, and for that purpose began to rub up his memory for some of the texts he had learned when at school. “Verily,” said Hind, “if thou hadst regarded the divine precepts as thou oughtest to have done, thou wouldst not have wrested them to such an abominable and wicked sense as thou didst the words of the prophet, when he said, ‘Bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron.’ Didst thou not then, detestable hypocrite, endeavor, from these words, to aggravate the misfortunes of thy royal master, whom thy cursed republican party unjustly murdered before the gate of his own palace?” Here Hugh Peters began to extenuate that proceeding, and to allege other parts of scripture in his own defence. “Pray, sir,” replied Hind, “make no reflections against men of my profession, for Solomon plainly said, ‘do not despise a thief.’ But it is to little purpose for us to dispute; the substance of what I have to say is this, deliver thy money presently, or else I shall send thee out of the world to thy master, the devil, in an instant.” These terrible words of the captain’s so terrified the old Presbyterian, that he forthwith gave him thirty broad pieces of gold and then departed.

But Hind was not satisfied with allowing so bitter an enemy to the royal cause to depart in such a manner. He accordingly rode after him at full speed, and, overtaking him, addressed him in the following language:—“Sir, now I think of it, I am convinced this misfortune has happened to you because you did not obey the words of the scripture, which expressly says, ‘provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass, in your purses, for your journey,’ whereas it is evident that you had provided a pretty decent quantity of gold. However, as it is now in my power to make you fulfil another commandment, I would by no means slip the opportunity; therefore, pray give me your cloak.” Peters was so surprised that he neither stood still to dispute nor to examine what was the drift of Hind’s demand. But he soon made him understand his meaning, when he added, “You know, sir, our Savior has commanded, that if any man take away thy cloak, thou must not refuse thy coat also; therefore, I cannot suppose that you will act in direct contradiction to such an express command, especially as you cannot pretend you have forgot it, seeing that I now remind you of that duty.” The old Puritan shrugged his shoulders some time before he proceeded to uncase them; but Hind told him that his delay would be of no service to him, for he would be implicitly obeyed, because he was sure that what he requested was entirely consonant with the scripture. He accordingly surrendered, and Hind carried off the cloak.

The following sabbath, when Hugh ascended the pulpit, he was inclined to pour forth an invective against stealing, and selected for his subject these words: “I have put off my coat, how shall I put it on?” An honest plain man, who was present, and knew how he had been treated by the robber, promptly cried out, “Upon my word, sir, I believe there is nobody here can tell you, unless captain Hind were here.” Which ready answer to Hugh’s scriptural question put the congregation into such an outrageous fit of laughter, that the parson was made to blush, and descended from his pulpit, without prosecuting the subject farther.

The captain, as before mentioned, indulged a rooted hatred against all those who were concerned in the murder of the late king; and frequently these men fell in his way. He was one day riding on the road, when president Bradshaw, who had sat as judge upon the king, and passed the sentence of death upon him, met with the captain. The place where they came into collision was on the road between Sherbourne and Shaftesbury. Hind rode up to the coach, and demanded Bradshaw’s money, who, supposing that his very name would convey terror along with it, informed him who he was. “Marry,” cried Hind, “I neither fear you nor any king-killing villain alive. I have now as much power over you, as you lately had over the king, and I should do God and my country good service, if I made the same use of it; but live, villain, to suffer the pangs of thine own conscience, till justice shall lay her iron hand upon thee, and require an answer for thy crimes, in a way more proper for such a monster, who art unworthy to die by any hands but those of the common hangman, or at any other place than Tyburn. Nevertheless, though I spare thy life as a regicide, be assured, that unless thou deliver up thy money immediately, thou shalt die for thy obstinacy.”

Bradshaw began to perceive that the case was not now with him as it was when he sat at Westminster hall, supported by all the strength of the rebellion. A horror took possession of his soul, and discovered itself in his countenance. He put his trembling hand into his pocket, and pulled out about forty shillings in silver, which he presented to the captain, who swore he would that minute shoot him through the heart, unless he found him coin of another species. To save his life, the sergeant pulled out that which he valued next to it, and presented the captain with a purse full of Jacobuses.

But though Hind had got possession of the cash, he was inclined to detain the sergeant a little longer, and began the following eulogium upon the value of money:—

“This, sir, is the metal that wins my heart forever! O precious gold! I admire and adore thee as much as either Bradshaw, Prynne, or any other villain of the same stamp, who, for the sake of thee, would sell his Redeemer again, were he now upon earth. This is that incomparable medicament, which the republican physicians call the wonder-working plaster; it is truly catholic in operation, and somewhat of kin to the Jesuit’s powder, but more effectual. The virtues of it are strange and various; it maketh justice deaf as well as blind; and takes out spots of the deepest treasons as easily as Castile soap does common stains; it alters a man’s constitution in two or three days, more than the virtuoso’s transfusion of blood can do in seven years. It is a great alexipharmic, and helps poisonous principles of rebellion, and those that use them; it miraculously exalts and purifies the eye-sight, and makes traitors behold nothing but innocence in the blackest malefactors: it is a mighty cordial for a declining cause; it stifles faction and schism as certainly as rats are destroyed by common arsenic: in a word, it makes fools wise men, and wise men fools, and both of them knaves. The very color of this precious balm is bright and dazzling. If it be properly applied to the fist, that is, in a decent manner, and in a competent dose, it infallibly performs all the above-mentioned cures, and many others too numerous to be here mentioned.”

The captain, having finished his panegyric upon the virtues of the glittering metal, pulled out his pistol, and again addressed the serjeant, saying, “You and your infernal crew have a long while run on, like Jehu, in a career of blood and impiety, falsely pretending that zeal for the Lord of Hosts has been your only motive. How long you may be suffered to continue in the same course, God only knows. I will, however, for this time, stop your race in a literal sense of the word.” And without farther delay, he shot all the six horses that were in the carriage, and left Bradshaw to ponder upon the lesson he had received.

Hind’s next adventure was with a company of ladies, in a coach upon the road between Petersfield and Portsmouth. He accosted them in a polite manner, and informed them that he was a protector of the fair sex, and it was purely to win the favor of a hard-hearted mistress that he had travelled the country. “But, ladies,” added he, “I am at this time reduced to the necessity of asking relief, having nothing to carry me on in the intended prosecution of my adventures.” The young ladies, who had read many romances, could not help concluding that they had met with some Quixote or Amadis de Gaul, who was saluting them in the strains of knight-errantry. “Sir knight,” said one of the most jocular of the company, “we heartily commiserate your condition, and are very much troubled that we cannot contribute towards your support; for we have nothing about us but a sacred depositum, which the laws of your order will not suffer you to violate.” The captain was much pleased at having met with such a pleasant lady, and was much inclined to have permitted them to proceed; but his necessities were at this time very urgent. “May I, bright ladies, be favored with the knowledge of what this sacred depositum, which you speak of, is, that so I may employ my utmost abilities in its defence, as the laws of knight-errantry require.” The lady who had spoken before told him, that the depositum she had spoken of was 3000l. the portion of one of the company, who was going to bestow it upon the knight who had won her good-will by his many past services. “Present my humble duty to the knight,” said he, “and be pleased to tell him that my name is captain Hind; that out of mere necessity I have made bold to borrow part of what, for his sake, I wish were twice as much; that I promise to expend the sum in defence of injured lovers, and in the support of gentlemen who profess knight-errantry.” Upon the name of captain Hind, the fair ones were sufficiently alarmed, as his name was well known all over England. He, however, requested them not to be affrighted, for he would not do them the least injury, and only requested 1000l. of the 3000l. As the money was bound up in several parcels, the request was instantly complied with, and our adventurer wished them a prosperous journey, and many happy days to the bride.

Taking leave of the captain for a little, we shall inform our readers of the consequences of this extorted loan of the captain’s. When the bride arrived at the dwelling of her intended husband, she faithfully recounted to him her adventures upon the road. The avaricious and embryo curmudgeon refused to accept her hand until her father should agree to make up the loss. Partly because he detested the request of the lover, and partly because he had sufficiently exhausted his funds, the father refused to comply. The pretended lover, therefore, declined her hand, because it was emptied of the third part of her fortune; and the affectionate and high spirited lady died of a broken heart. Hind often declared, that this adventure caused him great uneasiness, while it filled him with detestation at the dishonorable and base conduct of the mercenary lover.

The transactions of Hind were now become so numerous, and made him so well known, that he was forced to conceal himself in the country. During this cessation from his usual industrious labors, his funds became so exhausted, that even his horse was sold to maintain his own life. Impelled by necessity, he often resolved to hazard a few movements upon the highway; but he had resided so long in that quarter, that he durst not risk any such adventure. Fortune, however, commiserated the condition of the captain, and provided relief. He was informed that a doctor, who resided in the neighborhood, had gone to receive a handsome fee for a cure which he had effected. The captain then lived in a small house which he had hired upon the side of a common, and which the doctor had to pass in his journey home. Hind, having long and impatiently waited his arrival, ran up to him, and in the most piteous tone and suppliant language, told the doctor his wife was suddenly seized with illness, and that unless she got some assistance she would certainly perish, and entreated him just to tarry for a minute or two and lend her his medical assistance, and he would gratefully pay him for his trouble as soon as it was in his power.

The tender-hearted doctor, moved with compassion, alighted and accompanied him into his house, assuring him that he should be very happy to be of any service in restoring his wife to health. Hind showed the doctor up-stairs; but they had no sooner entered the door, than he locked it, presented a pistol, showing, at the same time, his empty purse, saying: “This is my wife; she has so long been unwell, that there is now nothing at all within her. I know, sir, that you have a sovereign remedy in your pocket for her distemper, and if you do not apply it without a word, this pistol will make the day shine into your body!” The doctor would have been content to have lost his fee, upon condition of being delivered from the importunities of his patient; but it required only a small degree of the knowledge of symptoms to be convinced, that obedience was the only thing which remained for him to observe: he therefore emptied his own purse of forty guineas into that of the captain, and thus left our hero’s wife in a convalescent state. Hind then informed the doctor, that he would leave him in possession of his whole house, to reimburse him for the money which he had taken from him. So saying, he locked the door upon the doctor, mounted that gentleman’s horse, and went in quest of another county, since this had become too hot for him.

Hind has been often celebrated for his generosity to the poor; and the following is a remarkable instance of his virtue in that particular. He was upon one occasion extremely destitute of cash, and had waited long upon the road without receiving any supply. An old man, jogging along upon an ass, at length appeared. He rode up to him, and very politely inquired where he was going. “To the market,” said the old man, “at Wantage, to buy me a cow, that I may have some milk for my children.” “How many children have you?” The old man answered, “Ten.” “And how much do you mean to give for a cow?” said Hind. “I have but forty shillings, master, and that I have been scraping together these two years.” Hind’s heart ached for the poor man’s condition; at the same time he could not help admiring his simplicity; but, being in absolute want himself, he thought of an expedient which would serve both himself and the poor old man. “Father,” said he, “the money which you have is necessary for me at this time; but I will not wrong your children of their milk. My name is Hind, and if you will give me your forty shillings quietly, and meet me again this day se’nnight at this place, I promise to make the sum double.” The old man reluctantly consented, and Hind enjoined him to “be cautious not to mention a word of the matter to any body between this and that time.” The old man came at the appointed time, and received as much as would purchase two cows, and twenty shillings more, that he might thereby have the best in the market.

Though Hind had long frequented the road, yet he carefully avoided shedding blood; and the following is the only instance of this nature related of him. He had one morning committed several robberies, and among others, had taken more than 70l. from colonel Harrison, the celebrated parliamentary general. As the Roundheads were Hind’s inveterate foes, the colonel immediately raised the hue-and-cry after him, which was circulated in that part of the country before the captain was aware of it. At last, however, he received intelligence at one of the inns upon the road, and made every possible haste to fly the scene of danger. In this situation the captain was apprehensive of every person he met upon the road. He had reached a place called Knowl Hill, when the servant of a gentleman, who was following his master, came riding at full speed behind him. Hind, supposing that it was one in pursuit of himself, upon his coming up, turned about, and shot him through the head, when the unfortunate man fell dead upon the spot. Fortune favored the captain at this time, and he got off in safety.

The following adventure closes the narrative of Hind’s busy life. After Charles I. was beheaded, the Scots remained loyal, proclaimed his son Charles II., and resolved to maintain his right against the usurper. They suddenly raised an army, and entering England, proceeded as far as Worcester. Multitudes of the English joined the royal army, and among these captain Hind, who was loyal from principle, and brave by nature. Cromwell was sent by Parliament with an army to intercept the march of the royalists. Both armies met at Worcester, and a desperate and bloody battle ensued. The king’s army was routed. Captain Hind had the good fortune to escape, and, reaching London, lived in a retired situation. Here, however, he had not remained long, when he was betrayed by one of his intimate acquaintances. It will readily be granted that his actions merited death by the law of his country, but the mind recoils with horror from the thought of treachery in an intimate friend.

Hind was carried before the speaker of the house of commons, and, after a long examination, was committed to Newgate and loaded with irons; nor was any person allowed to converse with him without a special permission. He was brought to the bar of the session-house at the Old Bailey, indicted for several crimes, but, for want of sufficient evidence, nothing worthy of death could be proved against him. Not long after this, he was sent down to Reading under a strong guard, and, being arraigned before judge Warburton, for killing George Symson at Knowl Hill, as formerly mentioned, he was convicted of wilful murder. An act of indemnity for all past offences was issued at this time, and he hoped to have been included; but an order of council removed him to Worcester gaol, where he was condemned for high treason, and hanged, drawn, and quartered, on the 24th September 1652, aged thirty-four years. His head was stuck upon the top of the bridge over the Severn, and the other parts of his body placed upon the gates of the city. The head was privately taken down and interred, but the remaining parts of his body remained until consumed by the influence of the weather.

In his last moments he declared that his principal depredations had been committed against the republican party, and that he was sorry for nothing so much as not living to see his royal master restored.

THE GERMAN PRINCESS.

Though this remarkable female character was denominated a German Princess, for a reason which will be mentioned in the course of her narrative, she was a native of Canterbury, and her father a chorister of that cathedral. From her sprightly and volatile disposition, she at an early period took delight in reading the novels that were at that time fashionable,—such as Parismus and Parismanus, Don Bellianis of Greece, Amadis de Gaul, and Cassandra and Cleopatra; and in a little time really believed what she wished, even that she was a princess.

But in her marriage she lost sight of her exalted conceptions, and united her fortune with a journeyman shoemaker. She resided with him until she had two children, who both died in their infancy. The industrious shoemaker was unable to support her extravagance, so that she at last left him, to seek her fortune elsewhere.

A woman of her figure, beauty, and address, was not long before she procured another husband. She went to Dover, and married a surgeon of that place, but, being apprehended and tried at Maidstone for having two husbands, by some dexterous manœuvre she was acquitted.

She presently after embarked for Holland, and travelled by land to Cologne, and having a considerable sum of money, took handsome lodgings at a house of entertainment, and cut a dashing figure. As it is customary for the gentry in England to frequent Brighton during the season, so it was then customary for those in Germany to frequent the Spa. Our heroine went thither, and was addressed by an old gentleman who had a good estate in the vicinity. With the assistance of her landlady, she managed this affair with great art. The old gentleman presented her with several fine jewels, besides a gold chain and costly medal, which had been given him, for some gallant action under count Tilly, against the valiant Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. He at length began to press matrimony with all the keenness of a young lover, and, unable to resist the siege any longer, she consented to make him happy in three days. Meanwhile, he supplied her with money in great profusion, and she was requested to prepare what things she pleased for the wedding. The Princess now deemed it high time to be gone, and, to secure her retreat, acquainted her landlady with her design. Having already shared largely of the spoils that our adventurer had received from her old doating lover, the aged beldame, in hopes of pillaging him a little more, encouraged and aided her flight. Our heroine requested her to go and provide her a seat in a carriage which took a different road from that of Cologne, as she did not wish that her lover should be able to trace her route. When our Princess found herself alone, she broke open a chest in which the good woman had deposited all her share of the spoil that she had received from our heroine, as well as her own money. Madame made free with all, and took her passage to Utrecht, from thence went to Amsterdam, sold her chains and some jewels, and then passed into Rotterdam, from whence she speedily embarked for England.

She landed at Billingsgate, one morning very early in the end of March 1663, and found no house open until she came to the Exchange inn, where she attained to the dignity of a German princess in the following manner. In this inn, she got into the company of some gentlemen who, she perceived, were full of money, and these addressing her in a rude manner, she began to weep most bitterly, exclaiming that it was extremely hard for her to be reduced to this extreme distress, who was once a princess. Here she recited the story of her extraction and education, and much about her pretended father, the lord Henry Vanwolway, a prince of the empire, and independent of every man but his Imperial Majesty. “Certainly,” said she, “any gentleman here present may conceive what a painful situation this must be to me to be thus reduced, brought up as I have been under the care of an indulgent father, and in all the luxuries of a court. But, alas! what do I say?—Indulgent father! was it not his cruelty which banished me, his only daughter, from his dominions, merely for marrying, without his knowledge, a nobleman of the court whom I loved to excess? Was it not my father who occasioned my dear lord and husband to be cut off in the bloom of his age, by falsely accusing him of a design against his person,—a deed which his virtuous soul abhorred?” Here she pretended that the poignancy of her feelings would allow her to relate no more of her unfortunate history.

The whole company was touched with compassion at the melancholy tale, which she related with so much unaffected simplicity, that they had not a doubt of its truth. Compassionating her unfortunate situation, they requested her acceptance of all the money they had about them, promising to return again with more. They were as good as their promise, and she ever after went by the name of the unfortunate German Princess.

The man who kept the inn, knowing that she was come from the continent, and seeing that she had great riches about her, was disposed more than ever to believe the truth of her story. Nor was Madame backward to inform him, that she had collected all that she possessed from the benevolent contributions of neighboring princes, who knew and pitied her misfortunes. “Nor durst any one of them,” continued she, “let my father know what they had done, or where I am, for he was so much more powerful than any of them, that if he understood that any one favored me, he would instantly make war upon them.”

King, the innkeeper, being convinced of her rank and fortune, John Carleton, his brother-in-law, no doubt receiving proper information from King, became enamored of the Princess, and presumed to pay his addresses to her. She was highly displeased at first, but, from his importunity, was at last prevailed upon to descend from her station, and receive the hand of a common man. Poor Carleton thought himself the happiest of mortals, in being thus so highly honored by a union with such an accomplished and amiable princess, possessed of an ample fortune, though far inferior to what she had a right to expect from her noble birth.

But, during this dream of pleasure, Mr. King received a letter, informing him, that the woman who resided at his house, and was married to his brother-in-law, was an impostor, that she had already been married to two husbands, and had eloped with all the money she could lay her hands on: and that the writer said nothing but what could be proved by the most unquestionable evidence in a court of justice. The consequence was, that a prosecution was instituted against her for polygamy; but from insufficient evidence she was acquitted.

She was then introduced as an actress among the players, and by them supported for some time. Upon the strength of her popularity the house was often crowded, and the public curiosity was excited by a woman who had made such a figure in the world, and was receiving great applause in her dramatic capacity. She generally appeared in characters suited to her habits of life, and those scenes which had been rendered familiar to her by former deception and intrigues. But what tended chiefly to promote her fame, was a play called the “German Princess,” written principally upon her account, in which she spoke the following prologue in such a manner as gained universal applause.

I’ve passed one trial, but it is my fear
I shall receive a rigid sentence here:
You think me a bold cheat, but case ’twere so,
Which of you are not? Now you’d swear, I know;
But do not, lest that you deserve to be
Censured worse than you can censure me;
The world’s a cheat, and we that move in it
In our degrees do exercise our wit;
And better ’tis to get a glorious name,
However got, than live by common fame.

The Princess had too much mercury in her constitution to remain long within the bounds of a theatre, when London itself was too limited for her volatile disposition. She did not, however, leave the theatre until she had procured many admirers. Her history was well known, as well as her accomplishments and her gallantry, and introduced her into company. She was easy of access, but in society carried herself with an affected air of indifference.

There were two young beaux, in particular, who had more money in their pockets than wit in their heads; and from the scarcity of that commodity in themselves, they the more admired her wit and humor. She encouraged their addresses until she had extracted about three hundred pounds from each of them, and then observing their funds were nearly exhausted, discarded them both, saying, she was astonished at their impudence, in making love to a princess!

Her next lover was an old gentleman about fifty, who saw her, and though he was acquainted with her history, nevertheless resolved to be at the expense of some hundreds a year, provided she would consent to live with him. To gain his purpose he sent her several rich presents, which, with seeming reluctance, she accepted. When they commenced living together as man and wife, she so accommodated herself to his temper and disposition that he was constantly making her rich presents, which were always accepted with apparent reluctance, as laying her under so many obligations. In this manner they continued, until her doating lover one evening coming home intoxicated, she thought it a proper opportunity to decamp. So soon as he was asleep, she rifled his pockets, and found his pocket-book, containing a bill for a hundred pounds, and some money. She also stripped him of his watch, and, taking his keys, opened his coffers, and carried off every thing that suited her purpose. She next went and presented the bill, and, as the acceptor knew her, received the money without hesitation.

Having thus fleeced her old lover, our German princess took up lodgings in a convenient place, under the character of a young lady with a thousand pounds, whose father was able to give her twice as much: but disliking a person whom he had provided as a husband for her, she had left her father’s house, and did not wish to be discovered by any of her friends. Madame now continued to have different letters sent her from time to time, containing an account of all the news concerning her father and lover. These were left carelessly about the room, and her landlady reading them, became confirmed in the belief of her story.

This woman had a rich nephew, a young man, who, having been introduced to her acquaintance, became enamored of her, and to gain her favor presented her with a gold watch, which she could hardly be prevailed upon to accept. Her lover already thought the door of paradise open to him, and their amour proceeded with all the mutual felicity that young lovers can expect or desire. But in this season of bliss, a porter knocked at the door with a letter. Her maid, as previously directed, brought the letter in to her, which she had no sooner read, than she exclaimed, “I am undone! I am ruined!”—and pretended to swoon away. The scent bottle was employed, and her enraptured lover was all kindness and attention. When she was a little recovered, she presented the letter, saying, “Sir, since you are at last acquainted with most of my concerns, I shall not make a secret of this; therefore, if you please, read this letter and know the occasion of my affliction.” The young gentleman received it, and read as follows:

“Dear Madam,

“I have several times taken my pen in my hand, on purpose to write you, and as often laid it aside again, for fear of giving you more trouble than you already labor under. However, as the affair so immediately concerns you, I cannot in justice hide what I tremble to disclose, but must in duty tell you the worst of news, whatever may be the consequence of my so doing.

“Know, then, that your affectionate and tender brother is dead. I am sensible how dear he was to you, and you to him, yet let me entreat you, for your own sake, to acquiesce in the will of Providence as much as possible, since our lives are all at his disposal who gave us being. I could use another argument to comfort you, that, with a sister less loving than you, would be of more weight than that I have urged; but I know your soul is above all mercenary views. I cannot, however, forbear to inform you, that he has left you all he had; and farther, that your father’s estate of 200l. per annum, can devolve upon no other person than yourself, who are now his only child.

“What I am next to acquaint you with may, perhaps, be almost as bad as the former particular. Your hated lover has been so importunate with your father, especially since your brother’s decease, that the old gentleman resolves, if ever he should hear of you any more, to marry you to him, and he makes this the condition of your being again received into his favor, and having your former disobedience, as he calls it, forgiven. While your brother lived, he was every day endeavoring to soften the heart of your father, and we were only last week in hopes he would have consented to let you follow your inclinations, if you would come home to him again; but now there is no advocate in your cause who can work upon the man’s peevish temper; for he says, as you are now his sole heir, he ought to be more resolute in the disposal of you in marriage.

“While I am now writing, I am surprised with an account that your father and lover are preparing to come to London, where, they say, they can find you out. Whether or not this be only a device, I cannot tell, nor can I conceive where they could receive their information, if it be true. However, to prevent the worst, consider whether or not you can cast off your old aversion, and submit to your father’s commands; for if you cannot, it will be most advisable in my opinion to change your residence. I have no more to say in the affair, being unwilling to direct you in such a very nice circumstance. The temper of your own mind will be the best instructer you can apply to; for your future happiness or misery during life depends on your choice. I hope that every thing will turn out for the best.

“From your sincere friend, S. E.”

Her lover saw that she had good reason to be afflicted, and, whilst he seemed to feel for her, he was no less concerned about his own interest. He advised her immediately to leave her lodgings, and added that he had very elegant apartments which were at her service. She accepted his offer; and, with her maid, who was informed of her intentions, and prepared to assist her, immediately set out for the residence of her lover. When introduced to their new apartment, these ladies did not go to bed, as they had resolved to depart next morning, but lay down to rest themselves with their clothes on. When the house was all quiet, they broke open the lover’s desk, took out a bag with a hundred pounds, two suits of clothes, and every thing valuable that they could carry along with them.

Her numerous and varied adventures would far exceed the limits appropriated to one life in this volume. It is sufficient to observe, that rather than her hands should be unemployed, or her avaricious disposition unsatisfied, she would carry off the most trifling article; that, according to the proverb, all was fish that came into her net; and that when a watch, a diamond, or piece of plate could not be found, a napkin, a pair of sheets; or any article of wearing apparel, would suffice.

One day she, along with her pretended maid, went into a mercer’s shop in Cheapside, and purchased a piece of silk to the value of six pounds. She pulled out her purse to pay the draper, but to her surprise found that she had no money except some large pieces of gold, for which she had so high an esteem, that she could not think of parting with them. The polite draper, on his part, could not think of hurting the feelings of a lady so elegantly dressed, and, accordingly, dispatched one of his shopkeepers along with her to receive his money. Arrived at the Royal Exchange, Madame ordered the coachman to stop, when, upon pretence of purchasing some ribands that would suit the silks, her maid carried out the parcel, and went along with her, leaving the shopman in the coach to wait their return. The young man waited in the coach, until he was impatient and ashamed, and then returned home to relate his misfortunes, and the loss of his master.

Upon another occasion Madame waited upon a French weaver in Spitalfields, and purchased goods to the amount of forty pounds. He went home with her to carry the parcel and to receive his money. She desired him to make out a bill for the whole of the goods, as one half belonged to a lady in the next room. With all the ceremony natural to a Frenchman, he sat down to write his account, while she took the silk into the adjacent room to show it to her niece, to whom the one half belonged. By means of a bottle of wine which Madame had placed before the French weaver, half an hour passed over without much uneasiness. At length his patience was exhausted, and, having called up the people of the house, he inquired for the lady who came in with him, and who told him she was only gone into the next room. To the utter confusion and disappointment of poor Monsieur, he was informed that his lady was gone, and would, they believed, return no more to that dwelling. To calm his rage, and to convince him that they were not confederates in her villany, they conveyed him to the next room, and showed him, that the proper entry to her apartment was by a back stair; adding, that she had only taken their room for a month, for which she had paid them, and that her time being expired, they knew not whither she had gone.

Determined to collect her contributions from householders instead of travellers, she next took lodgings from a tailor. As it was natural for a generous, good-hearted lady to promote the prosperity of the family where she resided, Madame employed the tailor to make the goods she had procured from the mercer and the weaver. Convinced that he had got an excellent job, as well as a rich lodger, the tailor, with mirth and song, sat down to make Madame’s dresses. As she acquainted him that upon a specified day she was to have a large party, the tailor called in all his journeymen to his aid, and had the whole finished by that time. Meanwhile, the Princess gave her landlady a guinea to purchase what things she deemed necessary, promising to pay her the remainder the following day. The day arrived, the guests appeared, an elegant entertainment was served up, and plenty of wine drunk. None were without their due portion. The tailor had plied his glass so plentifully, that his wife had to lend him her assistance to his bed-chamber. This answered the design of our Princess. She and all her company departed one by one, carrying away, each a silver tankard, or a saltcellar, or a knife, or a fork, while the maid carried off all the clothes that were not upon their backs. The moment they reached the street, the maid was placed in a coach with the booty, and the rest of the company took different directions, none of them being discovered. Thus a merry night brought a sorrowful morning to the poor industrious tailor.

Madame being attacked with a fit of mourning, sent her confidential maid to a shop in the New Exchange, where she had purchased a few articles the previous day. The woman of the shop, with all possible expedition, selected the best specimens of her goods, and hastened to the lodgings. Madame was so very much indisposed when the milliner arrived, that she could not look at the things, and desired her to return after dinner, when she doubted not but they would agree as to the price. The obliging milliner was satisfied, and requested liberty to leave her goods until she returned, a request which was readily granted. At the hour appointed she returned, and inquired if the lady up stairs were at home. To her great mortification she was informed that she was gone they could not tell where, and that she did not intend to return. But before her departure she had conveyed away the valuable part of her effects. Thus both her landlady and the milliner were left to regret her absence, and to reflect upon their own easy credulity and loss.

But the adventures of our ingenious Princess increase in magnitude as they multiply in number. Being arrayed in her sable robes, and having taken lodgings in Holborn, she sent for a barrister of Gray’s Inn, and informed him, that by the death of her father, she was sole heir to his fortune, but that she was married to an extravagant husband, who was resolved to secure her property to himself. Here she poured forth a torrent of tears and the most grievous lamentations, the more to interest the young barrister in her favor. But while the lawyer was squaring his features to the occasion, and talking of the matter in a learned and eloquent strain, a woman ran up stairs, exclaiming, “O, madam, we are all undone! for my master is below; he has been asking for you, and swears that he will come up to your chamber. I am afraid the people of the house will not be able to hinder him, he appears so resolute.”—“O heavens!” exclaimed Madame, “what shall I do?”—“Why?” cried the lawyer. “Why!” quoth she, “I mean how shall I dispose of you? Dear me, what excuse shall I make for your being here? I dare not tell him your quality and business, for that would endanger all; and, on the other side, he is extremely jealous. Therefore, good sir, step into that closet until I can send him away.” Surprised, and at a loss what to do, the lawyer complied. The closet being locked, and the curtains of the bed drawn, she opened the door to her husband, who was loudly demanding admittance.

The moment he entered, he gave his spouse the most opprobrious language. “O, mistress abandoned! I understand you have a man in the room: a pretty companion for a poor innocent woman, truly! one who is always complaining how hardly I use her. Where is the villain? I shall sacrifice him this moment. Is this your modesty, madam? this your virtue? Let me see your gallant immediately, or, by the light! you shall be the first victim yourself.” Saying this, he made to the closet door, and burst it open like a fury. The young lawyer was discovered with shame, though innocent, and trembling in every limb. The husband’s sword was unsheathed, and death was before the barrister’s eyes. But Madame, interposing, seemed determined rather to die herself than to suffer the blood of an innocent man to stain her chamber. A companion of the husband also fortunately came to her assistance, and seizing the arm of the infuriated man, struggled to wrest the sword from his hand.

The discernment of the lawyer soon discovered the deception, and, to exculpate and relieve himself, he candidly related the whole matter, and the reason for which he was introduced into that place. But all was in vain. The injured and enraged husband insisted that this was only a feigned narrative to cover his villany, and nothing but his blood, or an adequate remuneration, would assuage his fury. The cause was at last referred to the arbitration of the kind stranger who had interfered, and aided Madame in protecting the young lawyer. Five hundred pounds were proposed as a proper recompense; but that was far beyond the power of the lawyer to command. It was with no small difficulty agreed that he should give a hundred pounds, rather than be found exposed to the consequences of detection, in a situation where he was unable to vindicate his innocence. He sent a note to a friend for that sum, the confederates being careful to examine it before it was transmitted, lest it should be for a constable, instead of a hundred pounds. Upon the payment of that sum the lawyer was liberated, and went off with the bitter reflection, that, instead of receiving a good fee for writing a deed of settlement, he had paid a hundred pounds for a few minutes’ lodging in a closet; but, consoling himself with the hopes of seeing this amiable widow speedily exalted to merited honor.

The good wishes of the lawyer were in a very few years verified in her history. Not long after this, Madame was apprehended, accused of stealing a silver tankard at Covent Garden, and sent to Newgate. At the next sessions she was tried, and transported to Jamaica; where, however, she only remained two years, when she returned to England, and appeared in the character of a great heiress. The result of this artifice was, that she was speedily married to a rich apothecary, whom she soon robbed of above three hundred pounds, and then left him to resolve the question whether the loss of his money or the loss of his wife was the greatest misfortune. Madame went next to lodge in a house where the landlady, a watchmaker, herself, and her faithful maid, composed the whole family. Having established her character for sobriety and probity, she invited her landlady and the watchmaker to the play, and treated them with tickets. They accepted the invitation, and the maid remained at home, sole guardian of the garrison. But during their absence, she broke open the locks, extracted about two hundred pounds, and made free with about thirty watches; so that her spoil amounted in all to six hundred pounds, which she carried to the appointed place of rendezvous. Meanwhile, Madame, not satisfied with treating the watchmaker and her good landlady with tickets to the play, after it was over took them to a tavern to treat them to a small collation, where she embraced an opportunity to decamp.

It happened that one Mr. Freeman, a brewer, had been robbed of two hundred pounds, and that an officer had been sent to search every suspected place for the thieves. One Lancaster was the person upon whom suspicion chiefly rested, and, while searching a house for him, they discovered Madame walking in a night-gown. The thief-catcher entered her room, and, seeing two letters upon the table, he began to examine their contents. Madame was highly displeased with his impertinent freedom, and, in the course of the dispute which ensued, he had occasion to examine the features of her countenance, and recognising her ladyship, took both her and her letters along with him.

When removed to the Old Bailey, she was interrogated, whether she was the woman who usually went by the name of Mary Carleton. She answered, “Yes.” The court then demanded the reason of her return from banishment before the specified time. She made many trifling excuses, which detained the court for a few days; but finding these excuses would not answer her purpose, she pleaded pregnancy. A committee of matrons was then appointed to examine her, who gave a verdict against her, and she was condemned to suffer in conformity with her previous sentence.

In prison she was visited by many, out of curiosity to see the behavior of such a remarkable character in confinement and under sentence of death; and several clergymen attended her to conduct her devotions, and to direct her in her calamitous situation. She confessed herself to be a Roman Catholic, and sincerely bewailed her criminal conduct, frequently wishing that she could again renew her life, in order to spend it in a more exemplary and virtuous manner.

On the day of her execution, she appeared more cheerful and gay than usual, and, placing the picture of her husband upon her arm, she went to Tyburn with it. She appeared devout, and, when she heard St. Sepulchre’s bell begin to toll, uttered several pious ejaculations. To a friend, who rode in a cart with her to the place of execution, she delivered two Roman Catholic books; and, addressing the multitude, owned that she had been a very vain woman, and hoped that her fate would deter others from the same evil ways; and that, though the world had condemned her, she had much to say for herself. Then, praying God to forgive her as she did her most inveterate enemies, she was in a few minutes launched into eternity. She was executed in the year 1672, in the thirty-eighth year of her age, and in the same month of the year in which she was born.

CAPTAIN DUDLEY.

Captain Dudley was born at Swepston in Leicestershire. His father once possessed a considerable estate, but through extravagance lost the whole except about sixty pounds per annum. In these reduced circumstances he went to London, intending to live in obscurity, corresponding to the state of his finances.

Richard his son had a promising genius, and received a liberal education at St. Paul’s school. But a naturally vicious disposition baffled all restraints. When only nine years old he showed his covetous disposition, by robbing his sister of thirty shillings, and absconding with it. In a few days, however, he was found, brought home, and sent to school, where his vicious propensities were only strengthened by indulgence. Impatient of the confinement of a school, he next robbed his father of a considerable sum of money, and absconded. His father, however, discovered his retreat, and found him a little way from town in the company of two loose women.

Despairing of his settling at home, his father sent him on board a man-of-war, in which he sailed up the straits, and behaved gallantly in several actions. Upon his arrival in England, he left the ship, under the pretence that a younger officer had been preferred before him, upon the death of one of the lieutenants. In a short time he joined a band of thieves, assisted them in robbing the country-house of admiral Carter, and escaped detection. Having at length commenced robber, the first remarkable robbery in which he was engaged, was that of breaking into the house of a lady of Blackheath, and carrying off a large quantity of plate.

He and his associates were successful in selling the plate to a refiner; but in a short time he was apprehended for the robbery, and committed to Newgate. While there, he sent for the refiner, and severely reproached him in the following manner: “It is,” said he, “a hard matter to find an honest man and a fair dealer: for, you cursed rogue, among the plate you bought there was a cup with a cover, which you told us was but silver gilt, buying it at the same price with the rest; but it plainly appeared, by the advertisement in the gazette, that it was a gold cup and cover; I see you are a rogue, and that there is no trusting any body.” Dudley was tried, convicted for this robbery, and sentenced to death: but his youth, and the interest of his friends, procured him a royal pardon.

For two years he conducted himself to the satisfaction of his father, so that he purchased for him a commission in the army. In that situation he also acquitted himself honorably, and married a young lady of a respectable family, with whom he received an estate of a hundred and forty pounds a year. This, with his commission, enabled them to live in a genteel manner. Delighting, however, in company, and having become security for one of his companions for a debt, and that person being arrested for it, one of the bailiffs was killed in the scuffle, and Dudley was suspected of being the murderer.

What strengthened this suspicion was, that Dudley was the avowed enemy of all that class of society. He deemed a bailiff in England, or what is known in Scotland by the name of messenger, as one who is determined to strip every person who comes under his power of all he possibly can.

But, leaving the statements of Dudley concerning these men, let us return to the relation of his actions. Having banished every virtuous feeling, being more inclined to live upon the ruins of his country than the fruits of his industry, and more disposed to fight than to work, he abandoned his own house, and joined a band of robbers. Dudley soon became so expert a robber, that there was scarcely any robbery committed but he acted a principal part in it. Pleased with this easy way of obtaining money, and of supporting an extravagant expense, he also prevailed upon Will, his brother, to join him in this employment. It happened, however, that Will had not been long in his new occupation, when the captain was apprehended for robbing a gentleman of a watch, a sword, a whip, and nine shillings. But, fortunately for him, the evidence was defective, and he escaped death a second time.

Now hardened in vice, he immediately recurred to his old trade. He robbed on the highway, broke into houses, picked pockets, or performed any act of violence or cunning by which he could procure money. Fortune favored him long, and he went on with impunity, but was at last apprehended for robbing Sir John Friend’s house. Upon trial the evidence was decisive, and he received sentence of death. His friends again interposed, and through their influence his sentence was changed for that of banishment. Accordingly, he and several other convicts were put on board a ship bound for Barbadoes. But they had scarcely reached the Isle of Wight, when he excited his companions to a conspiracy, and, having concerted their measures while the ship’s company were under hatches, they went off with the longboat.

No sooner had he reached the shore than he abandoned his companions, and travelled through woods and by-paths. Being in a very mean dress, he begged when he had no opportunity to steal. Arriving, however, at Hounslow heath, he met with a farmer, robbed him, seized his horse, and, having mounted, set forward in quest of new spoils. This was a fortunate day, for Dudley had not proceeded far on the heath when a gentleman, well dressed, and better mounted than the farmer, made his appearance. He was commanded to halt and to surrender. Dudley led him aside into a retired thicket, exchanged clothes and horse, rifled his pockets, and then addressed him, saying, that “he ought never to accuse him of robbing him, for according to the old proverb, exchange was no robbery;” so bidding him good day, he marched off for London. Arrived there, he went in search of his old associates, who were glad to see their friend; and who, in consequence of his fortunate adventures and high reputation among them, conferred upon him the title of captain, all agreeing to be subject to his commands. Thus, at the head of such an experienced and desperate band, no part of the country was secure from his rapine, nor any house sufficiently strong to keep him out. The natural consequences were, that he soon became known and dreaded all over the country.

To avoid capture, and to prevent all inquiries, he paid a visit to the north of England, and, being one day in search of plunder, he robbed a Dutch colonel of his horse, arms, and fine laced coat. Thus equipped, he committed several other robberies. At length, however, he laid aside the colonel’s habit, only using his horse, which soon became dexterous at his new employment. But one day meeting a gentleman near Epsom, the latter resisted the captain’s demands, and discharged his pistol at Dudley. In the combat, however, he was victorious, wounded the gentleman in the leg, and, having stripped him of his money, conveyed him to the next village, that he might receive medical assistance, and then rode off in search of new adventures. The captain and his men were very successful in this quarter. No stage, nor coach, nor passenger, of which they had intelligence, could escape their depredations, and scarcely a day passed without the commission of some notorious robbery.

Captain Dudley and his men went on in a continued course of good fortune, acquiring much wealth, but amassing little, as their extravagance was equal to their gains. On one ill-fated day, however, having attacked and robbed the Southampton coach, they were keenly pursued, and several of them taken, but Dudley escaped. Deprived of the chief part of his own forces, he now attached himself to some housebreakers, and with them continued to commit many robberies; in particular, with three others, he entered the house of an old woman in Spitalfields, gagged her, bound her to a chair, and rifled the house of a considerable sum of money, which the good woman had been long scraping together. Hearing the money clink that was going to be taken from her, she struggled in her chair, fell down upon her face, and was stifled to death, while the captain and his companions went off with impunity. But when the old woman came to be interred, a grandson of hers, who had been one of the robbers, when about to be fitted with a pair of mourning gloves, changed countenance, was strongly agitated, and began to tremble. He was suspected, charged with the murder, confessed the crime, and informing upon the rest, two of them were taken, tried, and condemned, and the three hanged in chains.

Yet, though Dudley’s name was published as accessory to the murder, he long escaped detection. At length, however, he was apprehended, and charged with several robberies, of which he, by dexterous management, evaded the deserved punishment. He was also called to stand trial for the murder of the old woman; but the principal evidence, upon whose testimony the other three were chiefly condemned, being absent, he escaped suffering for that crime. The dexterous manner in which he managed that trial, the witnesses whom he had suborned, and the manner in which he maintained his innocence before the jury, were often the cause of his boast and amusement.

The profligate Dudley was no sooner relieved from prison than he hastened to join his old companions in vice. Exulting to see their captain again at their head, they redoubled their activity, and committed all manner of depredations. Among other adventures, they robbed a nobleman on Hounslow heath of fifteen hundred pounds, after a severe engagement with his servants, three of whom were wounded, and two had their horses shot under them. They next directed their course along the west country road, and having robbed a parson, enjoined him, under the most terrific threats, to preach a sermon in praise of thieving. He was forced to comply, and the sermon being ended, they returned his money, and gave him four shillings to drink their health and success.

After this adventure, they left off infesting the highways, and rode for London. Arrived in the capital, the captain’s brother employed his dexterity about town in several adventures, which go far to show how well the brother profited by the example and instructions of the captain. He first dressed himself as a countryman, with a pair of dirty boots on, and a whip in his hand, and went to Bartholomew Fair, where he wandered all the forenoon without meeting any prey. But as he was returning, he accosted a plain countryman, saying, “Have a care, honest friend, of your money, for we are going into a cursed place, full of thieves, rogues, and pickpockets. I am almost ruined by them, and I am glad that they have not pulled the teeth out of my head. Let one take never so good care, they will be sure of his money; the devil certainly helps them.”

The face of the countryman glowed with courage as he replied, “I defy all the devils to rob me of any thing I value. I have a round piece which I’ll secure;” and thrusting it into his mouth, he rushed confidently into the fair. Will was only desirous to ascertain the fact that he had money about him; therefore, giving his instructions with a few sixpences and groats to a hopeful boy, he immediately ran after the countryman, while Will followed at a distance. The boy coming up with the countryman, fell down before him, scattering the money all around; and starting up, he raised the most hideous noise, crying that he was undone, and that he must run away from his apprenticeship, that his master was a furious man, and that he would certainly be killed. The countryman and others flocked around, and endeavored to assist the boy in gathering up his lost money. Then one of them said, “Have you found all?” “Yes, all the silver, but that is of no avail; there is a broad piece of gold which I was carrying to my master for a token sent from the country, and for the loss of it I shall be killed. Alas! I am undone! what will become of me?” Will now advanced among the crowd, and was equally concerned for the unhappy boy; and, seeing the countryman standing by, he gravely observed that he had seen him put a piece of gold into his mouth. The mob instantly seized him, and while one opened his mouth by force, another extracted the broad piece of gold; and when he attempted to speak in his own defence, he was kicked, pinched, and so tossed about, that he was glad to escape with his life. Meanwhile, the boy slipped away among the crowd, and at an appointed place met Will to surrender to him his booty.

Having changed his clothes, Will went into the market, and mingling with the crowd, learned that the countryman was gone to an inn, where he had sent for his master, a knight of a large estate, and some other respectable persons, to attest his character. Will knew this person well, and hastened to the Exchange, in full hopes of meeting him. Having reconnoitred the gentleman, and followed him until he perceived an opportunity, he robbed him of every guinea he had, except one, which he considerately left him to pay for his dinner. The knight, repairing to the inn, laughed heartily when the poor countryman informed him that he had been robbed, while he told him that he also had, in like manner, been just fleeced upon the Exchange. The countryman laughed in his turn, and said, “Sir, let us make our escape from this roguish place;” adding, with a shrug of the shoulders, “Sir, they’ll steal our small guts to make fiddle-strings of them.”

The gentleman, having recruited his purse, went on the next day to the Exchange. Will paid him the same compliment the second day. The knight was surprised how it was possible for any man to rob him when he was so forewarned, and so upon his guard; but, looking hastily about, his eye fixed upon Will, whom he suspected to be the delinquent. He went up to him, and, taking him by the button, informed him, that he strongly suspected that he was the person who had robbed him; but, as he was a gentleman of a large fortune, he did not regard the money, and would freely pardon him, and give him all the money, upon condition that he would inform him by what means he had done so. “This,” said he, “I promise upon my honor.” “Your word of honor,” said Will, “is sufficient; I know the greatness of your fortune; I am the man. I will wait on your worship at the tavern, and there show you some of my art more freely than I would do to my fellow-rogues.” In their way to the inn, the gentleman informed Will, that as he wished to make a frolic of the matter, he would send for some other gentlemen to be present, assuring him, at the same time, that he should sustain no damage from any discovery that he might make to them. “I know you’re a gentleman,” said Will, “and men of honor scorn to keep base company. Call as many as you please; I’ll take their word, and I know that I am safe.”

When the gentlemen arrived, Will told them many things which greatly astonished and pleased them; and when he pulled out the piece of gold, and informed them how he had used Roger, the gentleman’s tenant, he was immediately sent for to increase the amusement. “What would you say,” cried the knight, as he entered, “if you saw your gold again?” “Oh!” said he, “I wish I could; but if my mouth can’t keep it, where shall I put it? Shud! I’d rather see the rogue; I’d make a jelly of his bones!” “There he is,” said the knight, “and there’s your broad piece.” As Roger began to heave and to bully, his master commanded him to take his piece of gold, and sit down by him: upon which, the pacified Roger, seeing how things went, drank to his new acquaintance.

One of the gentlemen pulling out a curious watch, said, he wondered how it was possible to take a watch out of a fob; that it certainly must be from carelessness on the part of the owner. “No,” said Will, “if the gentleman will take a turn in Moorfields, I’ll wager a guinea I’ll have the watch before he return, let him take what care he pleases, and I shan’t stir out of the room.” “Done,” cried the gentleman; and every gentleman in the room laid down his guinea, while Roger staked his broad piece. The gentleman went out, and was careful that he would not suffer man, woman, nor child to come near him. When the time approached that he should return, a boy came pretty near him, but, to avoid suspicion, ran past him, and at the same time looking on his back, informed the gentleman that it swarmed with vermin. The gentleman observing them, and loathing the sight, said, “Good boy, take them off, and I’ll give you a shilling.” The boy did so, at the same time stealing his watch; and, having received his shilling, ran off. The gentleman returned to the tavern, wondering all the way how he could possibly come by such vermin, and taking the greatest care that no person should approach him.

Upon his return to the tavern, Will asked him what o’clock it was. He attempted to pull out his watch, but, to his utter astonishment and confusion, it was gone. Upon this, Will produced it, and asked the gentleman if that were his. The gentleman was struck dumb, casting up his hands and eyes, and, full of amazement, addressed Will, saying, “You must have had the assistance of the devil.” “Of a boy,” said Will. “Did not a boy pick you clean?” “There’s the devil,” said the gentleman; “and he threw them on, too, I suppose.” “Ay, through a quill,” said the other.

All present were astonished at the ingenuity of the trick, but particularly plain Roger, who could not, at times, restrain his laughter. “Alas!” said Will, “this trick is not worth talking about: it is only one of those we commit to our boys. There is a nobleman just passing the window, with a very rich coat upon his back; I’ll wager, as before, to steal it from him, before all his followers, and bring it here on my own back.” The gentlemen all staked their guineas, and were seconded by Roger. “Come, now,” said Will, “this matter must not be entrusted to a boy; you will give me leave to go myself, nor must you restrict me to any particular time to return.” So out he ran, and followed the nobleman from street to street, until he saw him enter a tavern.

The nobleman was conducted up-stairs. Will bustling in after him, hastened to the bar-keeper, and desired him to lend him an apron, as his master would be served only by his own footman. “He is a very good customer, and expects the very best wine: I must go to the cellar and taste it for him.” The apron being given, he went to the cellar, and returned with some of the best of each wine for his pretended master. He ran so quick up and down stairs, and was so alert at his work, that none of the other servants could equal him. Meanwhile, the company up-stairs taking him for the servant of the house, were highly satisfied with his attendance. Will was also careful to give full cups to the servant who should have served in his place, with some money, which the other was very glad to receive for doing nothing. He seldom also went into the room without passing some merry jest to amuse the company. They were so highly pleased with him, that they said one to another, “This is a merry, witty fellow; such a man as he is fit to make a house; he deserves double wages.” When Will saw his plan ripe for execution, he came into the room with some wine, and by the aid of his knife, made a slit in my lord’s coat. Returning with a bottle in one hand, and his other hand full of glasses, before he approached his lordship he started and stared, saying, “What fellows are those who have made that coat?” with other imprecations against the tailor. Then some of the company rising up, saw the rent in my lord’s coat, and cried, “My lord, the tailor has cheated you.” Will, drawing near, said, “Such things may happen; but give me the coat, and I’ll carry it privately under my master’s cloak to an acquaintance of mine, who will presently make it as good as if it had not been torn.” Borrowing a great coat of a gentleman present, the nobleman gave Will his coat to carry to the tailor, who, coming down stairs, informed the landlord of the disaster, received his cloak, and, putting the rent coat below it, seized a good beaver hat off one of the cloak-pins, and hastened from the tavern. Arriving at the inn where the gentlemen were anxiously waiting his return, he went into another room, dressed himself, and entered with the cloak and beaver on. “What!” said one of them, “instead of a coat, you come with a cloak, and great need for it; for,” he added, “there’s a deal of knavery under it.” Will then opened the cloak, and showed them the coat, saying, that he had received the cloak and beaver into the bargain; and gave an account of the whole adventure.

Meanwhile, my lord and his company had waited long in expectation of the servant, whom they supposed to have been one of the waiters of the house. The landlord also wondering that they were so long in calling for more wine, one of the servants was sent up-stairs to force trade. He entered the room, saying, “Call here, call here, gentlemen?” “Yes,” said one of them, “where is your fellow-servant who waited upon us?” “My fellow-servant!” exclaimed the other; “he said he was my lord’s servant, and that his master would be served by none but himself, and I should have good vails, nevertheless.” My lord replied, “How can that be? I have only one gentleman of my own retinue; the rest are with my lady. He that served us came in with an apron, and in the character of one of the servants of the house:—call up the landlord!” Boniface instantly waited upon them, when one of the gentlemen asked him, if he kept sharpers in his house, to affront gentlemen and to rob them. “Nay,” replied the vintner, who was a choleric man, “do you bring sharpers along with you, to affront me and rob my house? I am sure I have lost a new cloak and beaver; and, for aught I know, though you look like gentlemen, you may be sharpers yourselves; and I expect to be paid by you for my losses, as well as for the reckoning.” One of them instantly drew upon him, enraged at his insolent language; but the landlord ran down stairs in affright, and alarmed the whole house, entreating them not to suffer such rogues to escape. In the mean time he seized a sword, the servants armed themselves with spits, pokers, and such other weapons as the house afforded. A great uproar was soon raised; and the nobleman coming first out to penetrate through the crowd, made a thrust at the landlord, but was beaten back by a fire-shovel in the hand of one of the waiters, and narrowly escaped being run through with a long spit in the hands of a cook maid. His lordship, seeing the door so completely guarded, shut himself up in the room, and began to consult with the rest of the company what was best to be done.

Fortunately, however, the gentleman who was in the other tavern with Will, conjecturing that a quarrel might ensue between the nobleman and the vintner, who had lost his cloak and beaver, sent his own landlord to inform him, that the rogue was caught, and in safe custody.

He was admitted up-stairs, waited on his lordship, and communicated to him the whole affair. A cessation of arms took place. They drank to the health of the landlord, assuring him, that in future they would be friendly to his house; but, in the mean time, they attended their peacemaker to the tavern, where Will was exhibiting his dexterity. The vintner went along with them, and, after common compliments, Will restored the coat, the cloak, and the beaver, and continued to amuse them during the remainder of the evening with the relation of his adventures.

But to return, at length, to the captain his brother. He had, along with his companions, committed so many robberies upon the highway, that a proclamation was issued against them, offering a reward to those who should bring them, either dead or alive. This occasioned their detection in the following manner:—having committed a robbery, and being closely pursued to Westminster ferry, the wherryman refused to carry any more that night. Two of them then rode off, and the other four gave their horses to a waterman to lead to the next inn. The horses foaming with sweat, the waterman began to suspect that they were robbers who had been keenly pursued, and communicated his suspicions to the constable, who secured the horses, and went in search of the men.

He was not long in seizing one of them, who confessed; and the constable, hastening to the inn, secured the rest, and, having placed a strong guard upon them, rode to Lambeth, and making sure of the other two, led them before a justice of the peace, who committed them to Newgate.

At the next sessions, captain Dudley, his brother, and three other accomplices, were tried, and condemned to suffer death.

After sentence, captain Dudley was brought to Newgate, where he conducted himself agreeably to his sad situation. He was conveyed from Newgate with six other prisoners. He appeared pretty cheerful, but his brother lay all the time sick in the cart. The ceremonies of religion being performed, they were launched into another world on the twenty-second of February, 1681, to answer for the numerous crimes of their guilty lives.

The bodies of the captain and his brother, having been cut down, were put into separate coffins, to be conveyed to their disconsolate father, who at the sight was so overwhelmed, that he sank upon the dead bodies, and never spoke more, and was buried at the same time and in the same grave with his two sons.

WILLIAM NEVISON.

The advancement of the arts and sciences is not more rapid than the progress of folly and vice. In the following memoir it will be demonstrated, that the best education may be perverted by vicious dispositions.

William Nevison was born at Pomfret, in Yorkshire, about the year 1639, and his parents, being in good circumstances, conferred upon him a decent education. He remained at school until he was about thirteen years of age. During that period, his expanding talents promised a luxuriant harvest; but the general bent of his future character, and the ruling motive of all his actions, were exhibited at that period. He commenced his depredations by stealing a silver spoon from his own father. The too indulgent parent, instead of chastising him for the crime, transferred the unpleasant work to the schoolmaster. The father who resigns authority over his own children may expect either to lose them altogether, or to have his heart grieved and his family dishonored by their conduct. The schoolmaster having punished young Nevison for the theft, he spent a sleepless night in meditating revenge. He knew that the pedagogue had a favorite horse, which grazed in an adjacent paddock. William rose early in the morning, moved quietly into his father’s closet, stole his keys, and supplied himself with cash to the amount of ten pounds; then, taking a saddle and bridle from his father’s stable, he hastened to the paddock in which the schoolmaster’s horse was accustomed to feed; and, having saddled and bridled the animal, with all haste rode towards London. About a mile or two from the capital, he cut the throat of the poor horse, for fear of detection. Arrived in London, he changed his name and clothes, and then hired himself to a brewer. Although circumstances compelled him to be for a while industrious, in order to obtain the necessaries of life, his mind was always upon the stretch to invent some more expeditious mode of acquiring money than the slow return of annual pay; accordingly he often, ineffectually, attempted to rob his master. One evening, however, the clerk happening to use his bottle too freely, Nevison followed him into the counting-house, and, while he was enjoying a recruiting nap, stole the keys of the desks, and relieved them of their burden, to the amount of about two hundred pounds. Without waiting to discover whether the clerk or the servant would be blamed for the cash, he sailed for Holland.

But change of climate had no effect in changing his nature. Through his instigation, the daughter of a respectable citizen robbed her father of a large sum of money, and a quantity of jewels, and eloped with the Englishman. They were pursued, taken, and committed to prison. Thus detected, Nevison would certainly have finished a short but villanous career in a foreign land, had he not fortunately effected his escape.

With no small difficulty he arrived in Flanders, and enlisted into a regiment of English volunteers, under the command of the duke of York. In that station he behaved with considerable reputation, and even acquired some money; but his restless temper and disposition to acquire riches, by whatever means, did not permit him to remain in a situation of industry or sobriety. He deserted, went over to England, with his money purchased a horse, together with all other necessaries, and commenced his depredations in a systematic form. His success was uncommon, and he every day found means to replenish his coffers, and to nourish his extravagance. Nor would he unite his fortune with any one, who, from selfish motives, might feel disposed to participate in his lucrative employment.

One day Nevison, who went otherwise by the name of Johnson, travelling on the road, and scouring about in search of a prize, met two countrymen, who, coming up towards him, informed him that it was very dangerous travelling forward, for that the way was set, and they had been robbed by three highwaymen, about half a mile off; and if he had any charge of money about him, it was his safest course to turn back. Nevison asking them what they had lost, they told him forty pounds: upon which he replied, “Turn back with me and show me the way they took, and my life to a farthing, I’ll make them return you your money again.” They rode along with him till they came in sight of the highwaymen, when Nevison, ordering the countrymen to stay behind him at some distance, rode up, and spoke to the foremost of them, saying, “Sir, by your garb and the color of your horse, you should be one of those I looked after; and if so, my business is to tell you, that you borrowed of two friends of mine forty pounds, which they desire me to demand of you, and which, before we part, you must restore.” “How!” cried the highwayman, “forty pounds! What! is the fellow mad?” “So mad,” replied Nevison, “that your life shall answer me, if you do not give me better satisfaction.” Upon which he drew his pistol and suddenly clapped it to the other’s breast, who finding that Nevison had also his rein, and that he could not get his sword or pistols, yielded, telling him his life was at his mercy. “No,” said Nevison, “it is not that I seek, but the money you robbed these two men of who are riding up to me, which you must refund.”

The thief was forced to consent, and readily to deliver such part as he had, saying his companions were in possession of the rest; so that Nevison, having made him dismount, and taking away his pistols, which he gave to the countrymen, ordered them to secure him, and hold his own, while he took the thief’s horse, and pursued the other two, whom he soon overtook; for they, thinking him their companion, stopped as soon as they saw him; so that he came up to them in the midst of a common. “How now, Jack,” said one of them, “what made you engage with yon fellow?” “No, gentlemen,” replied Nevison, “you are mistaken in your man: Thomas—for by the token of your horse and arms, I perceive you are Thomas—he hath sent me to you for the ransom of his life, amounting to no less than the prize of the day, which if you presently surrender, you may go about your business; if not, I must have a little dispute with you at sword and pistol!” At which one of them fired at him, but missing his aim, received Nevison’s bullet in his right shoulder; and being thereby disabled, Nevison was about to discharge at the other, when he called for quarter, and came to a parley, which, in short, was made up, with Nevison’s promise to send their friend, and their delivering him all the ready money they had, amounting to a hundred and fifty pounds. Having obtained his booty, he rode back to the two countrymen, and released their prisoner, giving them their whole forty pounds, with a caution for the future to look better after it, and not, like cowards, as they were, to surrender the same on such easy terms again.

In all his exploits, Nevison was tender of the fair sex, and bountiful to the poor. He was also a true loyalist, and never levied any contributions upon the royalists. One day, fortunately encountering a rich usurer, he stopped his coach, and demanded that he would deliver the money which he had extorted from poor widows and orphans. The pistol presented to his breast, and the reproaches of the highwayman, filled his guilty mind with inexpressible terror, and he began to expostulate for his life. “That shall be granted,” replied Nevison, “upon condition of your surrendering your gold.” The other reluctantly drew out sixty broad pieces of gold; but this sum being inadequate to the necessities of Nevison, he constrained the usurer to mount upon the postilion’s horse, and allowed the coach with the three ladies in it to proceed. The poor Jew, now thinking that the hour was verily nigh at hand when he would be bereft of life and separated from his treasures, experienced all the violent emotions of terror, chagrin and despair. Nevison compelled him to draw a note upon sight for five hundred pounds upon a scrivener in London. He then permitted him to ride after his friends to acquaint them with his misfortunes, while he himself rode all night, that he might have the money drawn before advice could be forwarded to stop the payment.

After several adventures of a similar nature, Nevison one day robbed a rich grazier of 450l. and then proposed to himself to retire with the spoil. Accordingly, he returned home, and, like the prodigal son, was joyfully received by his father, who, not having heard of him during seven or eight years, supposed that he had been dead. He remained with his father until the day of the old man’s death, living as soberly and honestly as if no act of violence had ever sullied his reputation. Upon the death of his father, however, he returned to his former courses, and in a short time, his name was a terror to every traveller upon the road. To such an extent did he carry his plans, that the carriers and drovers who frequented that road willingly agreed to leave certain sums at such places as he appointed, to prevent their being stripped of their all.

Continuing his wicked course, he was at last apprehended, thrown into Leicester gaol, put in irons, and strictly guarded; but, in spite of all the precautions of the county, he effected his escape. One day, two or three of his trusty friends visited him, one of whom, being a physician, gave out that he was infected with the plague, and that, unless he was removed to a larger room, where he might enjoy free air, he should not only himself perish, but communicate the infection to all the inhabitants of the gaol. He was instantly removed, and the gaoler’s wife would not allow her husband to go farther then the door of his room, for fear of the infection, which afforded Nevison and his friends time to perfect their scheme. The physician came twice or thrice every day to see him, and continued to declare his case hopeless. At last a painter was brought in, who painted all his body with spots, similar to those that appear upon a person infected with the pestilence. In a few days after, he received a sleeping draught, and was declared to be dead. The inquest who sat upon his body were afraid to approach in order to make a minute inspection, and thus a verdict was returned that he had died of the plague. His friends now demanded his body, and he was carried out of prison in a coffin.

This insertion into a coffin only rendered him more callous and daring in vice. He, with redoubled vigor, renewed his depredations, and, meeting his carriers and drovers, informed them, that it was necessary to increase their rents, in order to refund his expenses while in gaol and his loss of time. It was at first supposed, that it was his ghost, who carried on the same pranks that he had done in his lifetime. The truth of this, however, came to be suspected, and the gaoler offered a reward of 20l. to any person who would restore him to his former domicile.

Resolved to visit the capital, he upon his journey met a company of canting beggars, pilgrims, and idle vagabonds. Continuing in their company for some time, and observing the merry life that they pursued, he took an opportunity to propose himself as a candidate for admission into their honorable fraternity. Their leader applauded his resolution, and addressed him in these words:—“Do not we come into the world arrant beggars, without a rag upon us? And do we not all go out of the world like beggars, saving only an old sheet over us? Shall we, then, be ashamed to walk up and down the world like beggars, with old blankets pinned about us? No! no! that would be a shame to us, indeed. Have we not the whole kingdom to walk in at our pleasure? Are we afraid of the approach of quarter-day? Do we walk in fear of sheriffs, bailiffs, and catchpoles? Who ever knew an arrant beggar arrested for debt? Is not our meat dressed in every man’s kitchen? Does not every man’s cellar afford us beer? And the best men’s purses keep a penny for us to spend?” Having, by these words, as he thought, fully fixed him in love with begging, he then acquainted the company with Nevison’s desire, in consequence of which they were all very joyful, being as glad to add one to their society, as a Mussulman to obtain a proselyte. The first question they asked him was, if he had any loure in his bung. Nevison stared on them, not knowing what they meant; till at last, one informed him it was money in his purse. He told them he had but eighteen pence, which he gave them freely. This, by a general vote, was condemned to be spent in a booze for his initiation. They then commanded him to kneel down, which being done, one of the chief of them took a gage of booze, which is a quart of drink, and poured the same on his head, saying, “I do, by virtue of this sovereign liquor, install thee in the Roage, and make thee a free denizen of our ragged regiment. So that henceforth it shall be lawful for thee to cant, only observing these rules:—First, that thou art not to wander up and down all countries, but to keep to that quarter that is allotted thee; and, secondly, thou art to give way to any of us that have borne all the offices of the wallet before; and, upon holding up a finger, to avoid any town or country village, where thou seest we are foraging for victuals for our army that march along with us. Observing these two rules, we take thee into our protection, and adopt thee a brother of our numerous society.”

The leader having ended his oration, Nevison rose up, and was congratulated by all the company’s hanging about him, like so many dogs about a bear, and making such a hideous noise, that the chief, commanding silence, addressed him as follows:—“Now that thou art entered into our fraternity, thou must not scruple to act any villanies, whether it be to cut a purse, steal a cloak-bag, or portmanteau, convey all manner of things, whether a chicken, sucking-pig, duck, goose, or hen, or to steal a shirt from the hedge; for he that will be a quier cove, (a professed rogue) must observe these rules. And because thou art but a novice in begging, and understandest not the mysteries of the canting language, thou shalt have a wife to be thy companion, by whom thou mayest receive instructions.” And thereupon, he singled him out a girl of about seventeen years of age, which tickled his fancy very much: but he must presently be married to her after the fashion of their patrico, who, amongst beggars, is their priest. Whereupon the ceremony was performed after this manner:—

They took a hen, and, having cut off the head of it, laid the dead body on the ground, placing Nevison on the one side, and his intended on the other; this being done, the priest, standing by, with a loud voice bade them live together till death did them part; then shaking hands, and kissing each other, the ceremony of the wedding was over, and the whole group appeared intoxicated with joy. Night approaching, and all their money being spent, they betook themselves to a barn not far off, where they broached a hogshead, and went to sleep.

Nevison, having met with this odd piece of diversion in his journey, slipped out of the barn when all were asleep, took a horse, and posted directly away. But, coming to London, he found there was too much noise about him to permit him to tarry there: he therefore returned into the country, and fell to his old pranks again. Several who had been formerly robbed by him, happening to meet him, imagined that his ghost walked abroad, having heard the report of his pestilential death in Leicester gaol. In short, his crimes became so notorious, that a reward was offered to any that would apprehend him: this made many waylay him, especially two brothers, named Fletcher, one of whom Nevison shot dead; but, going into a little village about thirteen miles from York, he was taken by captain Hardcastle, and sent to York gaol, where, on the 15th March 1684, he was tried, condemned, and executed, aged forty-five.

The Golden Farmer. [P. 99].

THE GOLDEN FARMER.

This man’s real name was William Davis, a native of North Wales, but he obtained the title of Golden Farmer from his custom of paying any considerable sum in gold. He was born in the year 1626. At an early period of life he removed to Sudbury, in Gloucestershire, where he took a farm, married the daughter of a wealthy innkeeper, by whom he had eighteen children, and followed that industrious employment merely to disguise the real character of a robber, which he sustained without suspicion for the space of forty-two years. He usually robbed alone. One day, meeting some stage-coaches, he stopped one of them, full of ladies, all of whom complied with his demands, except a Quaker, who vowed she had no money, nor any thing valuable about her: upon which, fearing lest he should lose the booty of the other coaches, he told her he would go and see what they could afford him, and return to her again. Having rifled the other three coaches, he was as good as his word; and the Quaker, persisting in her former statement, enraged the Farmer to such a degree, that, seizing her by the shoulder, and employing language which it would be hardly proper here to set down, he so scared the poor Quaker, as to cause her to produce a purse of guineas, a gold watch, and a diamond ring. Whereupon, they parted as good friends as when they were first introduced to each other.

Upon another occasion, our desperado met the duchess of Albemarle in her coach, as she was riding over Salisbury Plain; but he encountered greater difficulty in this case than he had contemplated. Before he could assault the lady he was compelled to engage a postilion, the coachman, and two footmen; but, having disabled them all by discharging several pistols, he approached his prey, whom he found more refractory than the female Quaker. Perceiving another person of quality’s coach approaching, with a retinue of servants, he was fain to content himself by pulling three diamond rings from her fingers by force, snatching a rich gold watch from her side, and venting a portion of abuse upon her obstinate ladyship.

It was not very long after this exploit, that our adventurer met with Sir Thomas Day, a justice of the peace, living at Bristol. They fell into discourse, and, riding along, the Golden Farmer informed his new acquaintance, that a little while before, he had narrowly escaped being robbed by a couple of highwaymen, but, luckily, his horse having better heels than theirs, he had got clear of them. “Truly,” said Sir Thomas, “that had been very hard: but, nevertheless, as you would have been robbed between sun and sun, the county, upon suing it, would have been obliged to make your loss good.” Thus, chatting together, and coming to a convenient place, the Golden Farmer shot Sir Thomas’s man’s horse under him, and, compelling him to retire to a distance, presented a pistol to the knight’s heart, and demanded his money. “I thought, sir,” said Sir Thomas, “that you had been an honest man.” “Your worship is mistaken,” cried the Farmer; “and if you had had any skill in physiognomy, you might have perceived that my countenance is the very picture of necessity; so deliver me presently, for I’m in haste.” Sir Thomas, therefore, being constrained to give him the money he had about him, which was about 60l. in gold and silver, the other humbly thanked his worship, and told him, that what he had parted with was not lost, because he had been robbed between sun and sun, and could therefore come upon the county.

One Mr. Hart, a young gentleman of Enfield, who, it appears, possessed a good estate, but was not overburdened with brains, riding one day over Finchley Common, where the Golden Farmer had been for some hours hunting for prey, was met by him, and saluted with a smart slap with the flat of his drawn hanger upon his shoulders: “A plague on you!” said the Farmer; “how slow you are, to make a man wait upon you all the morning: come, deliver what you have, and go to the devil for orders!” The young gentleman, rather surprised at this novel greeting, began to make several excuses, saying he had no money about him: but his incredulous antagonist took the liberty of searching him, and, finding about him above a hundred guineas, he bestowed upon him two or three farther slaps on the shoulders, telling him, at the same time, not to give his mind to lying in future, when an honest gentleman required a small gratuity from him.

Another time, this notorious robber having paid his landlord about 80l. for rent, the latter, going home with it, was accosted by his goodly tenant in disguise, who, bidding him stand, said:—“Come, Mr. Gravity, deliver what you have in a trice!” The old gentleman, fetching a deep sigh, to the hazard of displacing several buttons from his waistcoat, told him, that he had not above two shillings about him, and hoped, therefore, he was more a gentleman than to take so small a matter from a poor man. “I have no faith,” replied the Farmer; “for you seem, by your habit to be a man of better circumstances than you pretend; therefore, open your budget, or I shall fall foul of you.” “Dear sir,” cried the landlord, “you can’t be so barbarous to an old man. What! have you no religion, pity, or compassion in you? Have you no conscience? Have you no respect for your body or soul?” “Don’t talk of age or barbarity to me,” said the tenant, “for I show neither pity nor compassion to any body. Talk of conscience to me! I have no more of that dull commodity than you have; therefore, deliver every thing you have about you, before this pistol makes you repent your obstinacy.” The landlord being thus threatened, delivered his money, without receiving a receipt for it, although he had given one to the Farmer.

An old grazier at Putney Heath was the next victim to the avaricious Farmer. Having accosted him on the road, he informed him that there were some suspicious persons behind them, whom he suspected to be highwaymen; and, if that should be the case, he begged that he would conceal ten guineas for him, which would be safer with him, from the meanness of his apparel. He accepted the charge, and said, that as he himself had fifty guineas bound in the lappet of his shirt, he would deposit them along with his own. In a short time, the Farmer said,—“It does not appear that any person will run the risk of his neck by robbing you to-day; it will, therefore, be as well that I do so myself.” Without any farther preamble, therefore, he demanded of him, instead of delivering up his purse, to cut off the lappet of his shirt; but, declining to comply with his request, the Farmer put himself to the trouble of lightening the fore-garment of the grazier.

Squire Broughton, a gentleman of the Middle Temple, was the succeeding prey of the Golden Farmer. Happening to meet at an inn upon the road, the Farmer pretended to be on his way to the capital, concerning an offence that a neighboring farmer had committed against him, by allowing his cattle to break into his grounds. Meanwhile, he requested that squire Broughton would recommend him to an expert and faithful agent to conduct his cause. Like every other lawyer, Broughton was desirous to have him for a client, and proceeded to explain the nature of his cause. Having spent the night at the inn, they proceeded next morning on their journey, when the Farmer addressed the counsellor, saying, “Pray, sir, what is meant by trover and conversion in the law of England?” He replied, that it signified, in our common law, an action which one man has against another, who, having found any of his goods, refuses to deliver them up on demand, and perhaps converts them to his own use.

The Golden Farmer being now at a place convenient for his purpose, “Very well, then, sir,” said he, “should I find any money about you, and convert it to my use, it is only actionable, I find.” “That is a robbery,” said the barrister, “which requires no less a satisfaction than a man’s life.” “A robbery!” replied the Golden Farmer; “why, then, I must commit one in my time:” and presenting his pistol, he instantly demanded his money or his life. Surprised at his client’s rough behavior, the lawyer began to remonstrate in strong terms upon the impropriety of his conduct, urging, that it was both contrary to law and to conscience. His eloquent pleading, however, made no impression upon the mind of the Farmer, who, putting a pistol to his breast, compelled the lawyer to deliver his money, amounting to the sum of 40l., some large pieces of gold, and a gold watch.

One day, accosting a tinker upon the road, whom he knew to have 7l. or 8l. upon him, he said, “Well, brother tinker, you seem to be very decent, for your life is a continual pilgrimage, and, in humility, you go almost barefooted, making necessity a virtue.” “Ay, master,” replied the tinker, “necessity compels when the devil drives, and, had you no more than I, you would do the same.” “That might be,” replied the Farmer, “and I suppose you march all over England.” “Yes,” said the tinker, “I go a great deal of ground, but not so much as you ride.” “Be this as it will. I suppose that your conversation is unblamable, because you are continually mending.” “I wish,” replied the tinker, “that as much could be said in commendation of your character.” The Farmer replied, that he was not like him, who would rather steal than beg, in defiance of whips or imprisonment. Determined to have the last word of the Farmer, the tinker rejoined, “I would have you to know, that I take a great deal of pains for a livelihood.” The Farmer, equally loquacious, replied, “I know that you are such an enemy to idleness, that, rather than want work, you will make three holes in mending one.” “That may be,” said the honest tinker, “but I begin to wish that there were a greater distance between us, as I do neither love your conversation nor appearance.” “I am equally ready to say the same of you; for, though you are entertained in every place, yet you are seldom permitted to enter the door of any dwelling.” The tinker repeated his strong suspicions of the Farmer. “Nor shall it be without cause!” exclaimed he; “therefore, open your wallet, and deliver the money that is there.” Here their dialogue being about to close, the tinker entreated that he would not rob him, as he was above a hundred miles from home: but the Golden Farmer, being indifferent to all the consequences of the loss of the other’s property, seized both his wallet and his money, and left the poor tinker to renew his journey and his toils.

This famous highwayman had only a few more acts of violence to perform. His actions and character being now universally known, many a hue-and-cry was sent after him, and conspired to his overthrow. He was seized and imprisoned, tried, and condemned. He spent his time in prison in the same merry way in which his former life had been passed, and a violent death terminated his wicked course on the 20th December 1689.

JONATHAN SIMPSON.

This man was the son of a respectable gentleman in Launceston, in Cornwall, and put an apprentice to a linen-draper. After serving his time with great approbation, his father gave him 1500l. to commence business for himself.

He had not been a year in business when he married a merchant’s daughter, and received with her 2000l. of portion. Such an accession to his wealth enabled him to extend his business, and to conduct it with ease. But money cannot procure happiness. The affections of the young lady had been gained by a man of less fortune, and, to please her father, she had given her hand where she could not bestow her heart; and, though married to another, she continued in a degree of familiarity with her former lover that excited her husband’s jealousy, the most violent of all the passions.

In a short time, after having lived in a very unhappy manner, Simpson took the opportunity to sell all off, and, having shut up shop, went away with what money he could raise, determined no longer to remain in Bristol. He was now possessed of about 5000l. but his expenses were so extravagant, that this large sum was soon exhausted. He then went to the highway, committed a robbery, was apprehended, and would certainly have been hanged, had not some of his rich relations procured a reprieve. The difficulty of obtaining it may be guessed from the fact, that it arrived at Tyburn just when the rope was about his neck. Such was his obduracy, that, when returning to Newgate behind one of the sheriff’s men, the latter asked him what he thought of a reprieve when he was come to the gallows. “No more than I thought of my dying day.”

When he came to the prison-door, the turnkey refused to receive him, saying, that he was sent to be executed, and that he was discharged of him, and would not permit him to enter without a new warrant. Upon which Simpson exclaimed, “What an unhappy cast-off dog am I, that both Tyburn and Newgate should in one day refuse to entertain me! Well, I’ll mend my manners for the future, and try whether I can’t merit a reception at them both, next time I am brought thither.”

He immediately recommenced his operations, and one day robbed a gentleman of a purse full of counters, which he supposed were gold. He kept them in his pockets, always anxiously looking out for his benefactor. About four months after, he met him upon Bagshot heath, riding in a coach: “Sir,” said he, “I believe you made a mistake the last time I had the happiness of seeing you, in giving these pieces. I have been troubled ever since, lest you should have wanted them at cards, and am glad of this opportunity to return them; only, for my care, I require you to come this moment out of your coach, and give me your breeches, that I may search them at leisure, and not trust any more to your generosity, lest you should mistake again.” A pistol enforced his demand, and Simpson found a gold watch, a gold snuff-box, and ninety-eight guineas, with five jacobuses.

At another time, he robbed lord Delamere of three hundred and fifty guineas. He was almost unequalled in his depredations: in one day he robbed nineteen different people, and took above 200l.; and, in the space of six weeks, committed forty robberies in the county of Middlesex. He even ventured to attack the duke of Berwick, and took from him articles to a very great value.

But wickedness has a boundary over which it cannot pass. Simpson attacked two captains of the guards: a strong struggle ensued: his horse was shot under him, and he was wounded in both arms and one of his legs before he was taken. He was sent to Newgate, and now found that he was not refused entrance: and he soon also discovered, that Tyburn was equally ready to receive him. His execution took place on the 8th September 1686.

WILLIAM CADY.

This gentleman was a native of Norfolk county, and the son of an eminent surgeon. After the preparatory steps of education, William went to the University of Cambridge, and was tutor to lord Townshend. He was during that time made bachelor of arts, and continued to pursue his studies until deprived of his father by death.

The loss of a prudent father to a young man, forms a remarkable era in his life. If he is left with an ample fortune, he has then the means of gratifying his wishes, whether in the field of benevolence or in that of dissipation: and though left with no fortune, yet he is then at full liberty to follow his ruling inclination. Upon the intelligence of his father’s death, William went to London and began to practise medicine. His first patient was his own uncle, who, being dangerously affected with an imposthume, was cured by him in the following manner:—

When he entered his uncle’s bedchamber, his first care was to examine the state of the old gentleman’s stomach: for this purpose he ranged about the room, overturning every plate and dish, to discover what had been given him to eat. He at last discovered an old saddle, which he thought would answer for the intended experiment. Upon seeing this he cried out, “Uncle, your case is very desperate!”—“Not so bad, I hope,” said the uncle, “as to make me past remedy.”—“Heaven knows that,” cried Cady, “but a surfeit is a terrible thing, and I perceive that you have got a violent one.”—“A surfeit!” said the old gentleman; “you mistake, nephew; it is an imposthume that I am affected with.”—“The deuce it is!” replied Cady; “why, I could have sworn it had been a surfeit, for I perceive you have eaten a whole horse, and left us only the saddle!” At this he held up the saddle; and the old gentleman fell into such a fit of laughter as instantly broke his imposthume, so that he became quite well in less than a fortnight.

This is not the only instance of a disease of this nature being cured by a fit of laughter; and it is certainly an agreeable mode of being relieved of a painful and dangerous malady.

A cardinal at Padua, who was at the point of death, under the influence of this distemper, being past all hopes of recovery, his servants had begun to pillage his house, and even to make free with the hangings of his own bed. An ape, in the midst of this bustle, seized a nightcap that lay near, fixed it upon his head, and made so many and such curious tricks, that his reverence fell into a fit of laughter, and broke the imposthume, to the preservation of his life and property.

Another instance may be related. A countrywoman, very ignorant and superstitious, took it into her head to send for the parson of the parish to pray for the recovery of her cow, which was affected with a distemper incident to animals of that species. Not suspecting but that he was called to visit the woman herself, or some of her family in affliction, the pious man went forthwith, and, to his surprise, was not only informed why he was sent for, but the good woman insisted that he should go and see her cow before she would allow him to depart. Unable to resist her importunities, he went to the byre, and taking a handful of the short straw that lay beside the cow, spread it upon her back, saying, “Poor beast, if you be no better for this, you will be no worse.” The parson returned home, and the good woman was highly displeased with his indifference towards her favorite cow.

It happened, soon after, that she had an opportunity to retaliate: the parson was taken dangerously ill of an imposthume, and the woman, hearing of it, went to return his visit. Arrived at the parson’s house, she, in consequence of her importunities, was admitted into his bedchamber; and, having kindly inquired after his health, went forward to the chimney, and taking up a handful of ashes from the hearth, scattered them over the parson, using his own words, “Poor man! if you be no better for this, you will be no worse;” which raised such a fit of laughter in the good man, that his imposthume broke and his cure was effected.

For the speedy and unexpected cure before related, the uncle of Cady gave him fifty guineas, which supplied his extravagances for one month. His purse being empty, he took his leave of the healing art, in which he had been so successful, and commenced robber. His first adventure was with a captain of the guards and another gentleman, of whom he inquired the way to Staines, as he was a stranger. They informed him that they were going to that place, and that they would be glad of his company. When he arrived at a convenient place, Cady shot the gentleman through the head, and, turning to the officer, told him that “if he did not deliver, he should share the same fate.” The other replied that as he was a captain of the guards, Cady must fight if he expected to get anything from him. “If you are a soldier,” cried Cady, “you ought to obey the word of command, otherwise you know your sentence: I have nothing to do but to tie you neck and heel.” “You are an unconscionable rogue,” said the captain, “to demand money of me, who never owed you any.” “Sir,” replied Cady, “there is not a man that travels the road but owes me money, if he has any about him: therefore, as you are one of my debtors, if you do not pay me instantly, your blood shall satisfy my demand.” The captain exchanged several shots with Cady; but his horse being killed under him, he surrendered his watch, a diamond ring, and a purse of twenty guineas. William, having collected all he could, tied the captain neck and heel, nailed the skirts of his coat to a tree, and rode off in search of more booty.

His next encounter was with viscount Dundee, who commanded the forces of James VII. of Scotland, and the second of England, and fell in the battle of Killicrankie. Dundee was mounted upon horseback, attended by two servants. Cady rode up to them at full speed, and inquired if they did not see a man ride past with more than ordinary haste. “Yes,” he was presently answered. “He has robbed me of twenty pounds that I was going to pay my landlord, and I am utterly ruined!” cried Cady. The man who had ridden by was a confederate, and had done so by express concert. His lordship was moved with compassion, and ordered the two footmen to pursue the robber. When the servants seemed to have got to a sufficient distance, Cady turned upon his lordship, and robbed him of a gold watch, a gold snuff-box, and fifty guineas. He then shot the viscount’s horse, and rode after the footmen, whom he found about a mile off with the supposed robber as their prisoner. These men were surprised when Cady desired them to let him go, and laughed at them for what they had done. They, however, refusing to part with their prey, a scuffle ensued, and one of the footmen being slain, the other fled, and found that his master had been dismounted and robbed.

Dundee complained of this injury at court, and a reward of two hundred pounds was offered to any person who should apprehend either Cady or his companion, who were both minutely described. To evade the diligent search which he was certain this proclamation would occasion, he went over to Flanders. As he had received a liberal education, he entered himself of the English seminary of Douay, and, joining the fraternity of Benedictine friars, soon acquired an extraordinary character for learning and piety. The natural result was, that many penitents resorted to him for confession. The rigid sanctity and ecclesiastical duties of Cady were, however, soon found rather troublesome companions, and he resolved to return to England, preferring his rambles upon the highway to the devotions of the convent. But, as money was necessary for his voyage, his invention was again set in motion.

To effect his purpose, he feigned himself sick, and, being confined to bed, was visited by many of those who had formerly employed him as their father-confessor. He particularly fixed his attention upon two young women, who generally came together, and were both very rich and very handsome. He had previously procured a brace of pistols. When the ladies next came to him and had made their confession, he desired them presently to attend to him. He briefly informed them that he was greatly in want of money, and that if they did not instantly supply his wants, he would deprive them of their lives, holding at the same time a pistol to their breasts. He then proceeded to rifle their pockets, where he found fifty pistoles. In addition to this, he compelled them to make an offering of two diamond rings from their fingers; then, binding them neck and heel, he informed the father of the convent that he was going to walk a little in the fields, and would soon return. It is needless to say that he returned no more to his religious habitation, but renewed his former mode of life.

Scarcely was he arrived in England, when he met a hop merchant, accompanied by his wife, upon Blackheath, and commanded them to stand and deliver. The merchant made a stout resistance, firing two pistols, but without effect; so that he was left to the mercy of the robber, who killed their horse, and, examining their pockets, found twenty-eight pounds upon the merchant, and half a crown upon his wife.

Cady then addressed her thus: “Is this your way of travelling? What! carry but half a crown in your pocket when you are to meet a gentleman-collector on the highway? I’ll assure you, madam, I shall be even with you, therefore off with that ring from your finger.” She begged him to spare her marriage ring, as she would not lose it for double the value, having kept and worn it these twenty years. “You whining old woman,” quoth William, “marriage is nothing to me;—am I to be more favorable to you than any other woman, I’ll warrant? Give me the ring in a moment, without any more cant, or I shall make bold to cut off your finger for despatch, as I have served several of your sex before.” The good woman, seeing all her entreaties vain, hastily pulled the ring off her finger, and thrust it into her mouth. Cady then stamped, raged, and swore that he would be even with her: and instantly shooting her through the head, went away perfectly unmoved, while the husband, being tied to a tree, was a spectator of this horrid barbarity.

Cady rode instantly to London, but fearing that even that great city could not conceal the author of a crime so unparalleled, he left the metropolis, and went to Scotland. Either his inclinations did not lead him, or he deemed that country too poor to afford him sufficient booty; he therefore soon returned again to England. On his road to the capital, between Ferrybridge and Doncaster, he met with Dr. Morton, a prebendary of Durham, well mounted; but whether meditating upon the amount of his tithes, or the next Sabbath’s sermon, is uncertain. Cady instantly rode up to him, and cried, “Deliver, or you are a dead man!” The doctor, unaccustomed to such language, began to admonish him concerning the atrocity of his conduct, and the danger that he was in, both with respect to his body and his soul. Cady stared him in the face with all the ferocity that he could muster, and informed him that his remonstrances were in vain, saying, that if he did not deliver him what he had, he should speedily send him out of the world. “But then,” added Cady, “that is nothing, because all the gentlemen of your cloth are prepared for death. What, you unreasonable, you unmannerly dog!” continued he, in a rage, unable to discover the doctor’s cash, “what do you mean, to meet a man in the midst of his journey, without bringing him any money to pay his charges?” For the doctor had taken care to hide his money in a hedge, so that Cady, upon examining him, found his pockets completely empty. The ruffian, convinced that a man of his appearance could not travel without money, with dreadful imprecations threatened that if he would not inform him what he had done with it, he should never go home alive. The doctor insisting that he had none, the wretch shot him through the heart with as little remorse as he would have drunk a glass of burgundy.

He next undertook a journey into Norfolk to visit his relations, but meeting a coach near that place, in which were three gentlemen and a lady, he rode up to it, and addressed them in his own language. The gentlemen, however, were resolved to stand upon the defensive, and one of them fired a blunderbuss at him, which only grazed his arm, without doing any material injury. This put him into a violent passion, and, after taking a hundred and fifty pounds from the company, he brutally added, that the gentleman who fired at him should not pass unpunished, and instantly shot him through the heart; then, cutting the reins of the horses, he went off in search of new plunder, and declined visiting his relations upon that occasion, lest he should have been detected.

Directing his course to London, he came up with a lady taking a ride for the benefit of the air, attended by a single footman, and fell upon her in a very rude manner, pulling a diamond ring from her finger, a gold watch out of her pocket, and a purse with eighty guineas; insulting her meanwhile with opprobrious language. Though the lady had commanded her footman not to interfere, yet the man could not help complimenting Cady with some well-merited appellations. The ferocious monster, without uttering a word, saluted him with a brace of bullets in the head, and he fell upon the spot. Cady was just about to prosecute his journey, when two gentlemen, perceiving what he had done, rode up to him with pistols in their hands. Cady seeing his danger, fired at them, and shots were exchanged with the greatest rapidity, until Cady’s horse was shot under him; and even then he struggled with the greatest violence with the gentlemen, until his strength was exhausted; he was then apprehended, and carried to Newgate under a strong guard. There he remained until the assizes, without showing the least signs of repentance, or tokens of regret. Upon his trial he behaved with the most daring insolence, calling the judges “a huddle of alms-women,” and treating the jury in the same manner. The crime for which he was accused was so clearly proved, that he was sentenced to death, and committed to the condemned hole. But this place of darkness and horror had no effect upon his mind. He continued to roar, curse, blaspheme, and get drunk, as he had always done. It is probable that the hope of pardon, by the influence of some friends at court, tended to harden him the more; but the number and enormity of his crimes prevented James the Second from extending his royal mercy to such a miscreant. The day of execution being come, and the cart stopping as usual under St. Sepulchre’s wall, while the bellman rang his bell and repeated his exhortations, instead of being moved, he began to swear and to rail because they stopped him to hear an old puppy chatter nonsense. At Tyburn he acted in a similar manner: without either taking any notice of the ordinary, praying by himself, or addressing the people, he rushed into an eternal state to suffer the just punishment of his great and numerous offences. He died in the twenty-fifth year of his age, in the year 1687.

PATRICK O’BRIAN.

Patrick O’Brian was a native of Ireland, and his parents were very indigent. He came over to England, and enlisted in the Coldstream Guards. He was, however, not so dexterous in the use of his arms as he was in the practice of all manner of vice. Patrick was resolved not to want money, if there was any in the country. He first ran into debt at all the public houses and shops that would trust him; then borrowed from every person, as long as any one could be found to believe him.

When fraud failed him, he had recourse to force. Doctor Clewer, rector of Croydon, was the first whom he attacked. This man had been, in his youth, tried at the Old Bailey, and burned in the hand, for stealing a silver cup. Alluding to this, Patrick said, that “he could not refuse lending a little assistance to one of his old profession.” The doctor assured him that “he had not made a word, if he had had any money about him; but he had not so much as a single farthing.” “Then,” said Patrick, “I must have your gown, sir.” “If you can win it,” cried the doctor, “you shall; but let me have the chance of a game of cards.” To this O’Brian consented; and the doctor pulling out a pack of cards, they commenced. Patrick was victorious, and obtained the black gown.

One day, Patrick attacked a famous posture-master, and commanded him to “stand and deliver!” The latter instantly jumped over his head, which led Patrick to suppose that it was the devil come to sport with him before his time. By this display of his agility the harlequin escaped with his money, and had the good fortune never to afford to O’Brian an opportunity to be revenged of him for his fright.

Our adventurer at last commenced highwayman. For this purpose he purchased a horse and other necessaries, and began in due form. He one day met with the celebrated Nell Gwynne in her coach, and addressed her, saying: “Madam, I am a gentleman; I have done a great many signal services to the fair sex, and have, in return, been all my life maintained by them. Now, as I know that you are a charitable woman, I make bold to ask you for a little money, though I never had the honor of serving you in particular. However, if any opportunity shall ever fall in my way, you may depend upon it I will not be ungrateful.” Nell made him a present of ten guineas, and he went off in quest of more plunder.

It was with O’Brian as with every other wicked man: he was solicitous to lead others to the same line of conduct. In particular, he seduced a young man, of the name of Wilt, who was apprehended, and suffered for his first offence. O’Brian was also apprehended, and executed at Gloucester; and when he had hung the usual time, his body was cut down, and given to his friends; but when carried home, he was observed to move, on which a surgeon was immediately sent for, who bled him; and other means being used, he recovered life. This fact was kept a secret, and it was hoped that it would have had a salutary effect upon his future conduct. His friends were very willing to contribute towards his support, in order that he might live in the most retired manner, and O’Brian engaged to reform his life, and for some time kept his promise; but the impressions of death, and all its tremendous consequences, soon wearing off his mind, he returned to his vicious courses. Abandoning his friends, and purchasing a horse and other necessaries, O’Brian again visited the road.

In about a year after his execution he met the very gentleman who was his former prosecutor, and attacked him in the same manner as before. The gentleman was surprised to see himself stopped by the very same person who had formerly robbed him, and who was executed for that crime. His consternation was so great that he could not avoid exhibiting it, and he addressed O’Brian, saying, “How comes this to pass? I thought that you had been hanged a twelvemonth ago.” “So I was, and therefore you ought to imagine that what you now see is only my ghost. However, lest you should be so uncivil as to hang my ghost too, I think it my best way to secure you.” Upon this, he discharged a pistol through the gentleman’s head, and, alighting from his horse, cut his body in pieces with his hanger.

One barbarity was followed by a greater. O’Brian, accompanied by four others, attacked the house of Launcelot Wilmot, Esq. of Wiltshire; entered, and bound all the servants; then went up to the gentleman’s own room, and bound him and his wife. They next proceeded to the daughter’s chamber, whom they stabbed to the heart, and having returned, in the same manner butchered the old people, and rifled the house to the value of two thousand five hundred pounds.

This miscreant continued his depredations two years longer, until one of his accomplices confessed his crime, and informed upon all who were concerned. Our adventurer was seized at his lodgings at Little Suffolk street, and conveyed to Salisbury, where he acknowledged the crime. He was a second time executed, and, to prevent another resuscitation, was hung in chains, near the place where the crime was perpetrated, on the 30th of April, 1689.

THOMAS RUMBOLD.

Rumbold was the son of honest and industrious parents, who lived at Ipswich, in Suffolk. In his youth he was apprenticed to a bricklayer; but evil inclinations gaining an ascendancy over his mind, he quitted his employment before a third part of his time was expired. In order to support himself after having absconded, and conceiving a great desire to see London, he repaired thither, and soon confederated himself with a gang of robbers. In conjunction with these he shared in many daring exploits; but wishing to try his skill and fortune alone, he left them, and repaired to the road.

He travelled from London with the intention of waylaying the archbishop of Canterbury. Having got sight of the party between Rochester and Sittingbourne in Kent, he got into a field, and placing a tablecloth on the grass, on which he placed several handfuls of gold and silver, took a box and dice out of his pocket, and commenced a game at hazard by himself. His grace observing him in this situation, sent a servant to inquire the meaning; who upon coming near Rumbold, heard him swearing and rioting about his losses, but never paid the least attention to his questions. The servant returned and informed the prelate, who alighted, and seeing none but Rumbold, asked him whom he was playing with. “Pray, sir,” said Rumbold, “be silent—five hundred pounds lost in a jiffey!” His grace was about to speak again—“Ay,” continued Rumbold, continuing to play on, “there goes a hundred more!” “Pr’ythee,” said the archbishop, “do tell me whom you play with.” Rumbold replied, “With ——,” naming some one who perhaps never had existence. “And how will you send the money to him?” “By his ambassadors,” quoth Rumbold; “and, considering your grace as one of them extraordinary, I shall beg the favor of you to carry it to him.” He accordingly rose and rode up to the carriage, and, placing in the seat about six hundred pounds, rode off. He proceeded on the road he knew the archbishop had to travel, and both, having refreshed at Sittingbourne, again took the road, Rumbold preceding the bishop by a little distance. He waited at a convenient place, and again seared himself on the grass in the same manner as before, only having very little money on the cloth. The bishop again observed him, and now believing him really to be a mad gamester, walked up to him, and just as his grace was going to accost him, Rumbold cried out with great seeming joy, “Six hundred pounds!” “What!” said the archbishop, “losing again?” “No, by G—!” replied Rumbold, “won six hundred pounds! I’ll play this hand out, and then leave off while I’m well.” “And of whom have you won them?” said his grace. “Of the same person that I left the six hundred pounds for with you before dinner.” “And how will you get your winnings?” “Of his ambassador, to be sure,” said Rumbold; so, presenting his pistol and drawn sword, he rode up to the carriage, and took from the seat his own money, and fourteen hundred pounds besides, with which he got clear off.

With part of this money Rumbold bought himself an eligible situation; but still he could not give up his propensity of appropriating to himself the purses of others. For many miles round London he had the waiters and chambermaids of the inns enlisted into his service; and though, to appearance, in an honest way of gaining a livelihood, he continued his nefarious courses to a great extent. He was not, indeed, always successful; but, having once been apprized of two rich travellers being at an inn where one of his assistants was, he left London immediately, and waited on the road which he had been informed the travellers were to take: long, however, he might have waited, for the travellers were too cunning, and pretended to be travelling to the place which they had last left. Determined, however, not to return without doing some business, he waited on the road: the earl of Oxford, attended by a single footman, soon appeared, and, being known to his lordship, he disguised himself by throwing his long hair over his face, and holding it with his teeth. In this clumsy mask he rode up, demanded his lordship’s purse, and threatened to shoot both the servant and him if they made the least resistance. Expostulations were vain, and he proceeded to rifle the earl, in whose coat and waistcoat he found nothing but dice and cards, and was much enraged, till, feeling the other pockets, he discovered a nest of goldfinches,[2] with which he was mightily pleased, and said he would take them home and cage them: recommending his lordship to return to his regiment and attend to his duty, giving him a shilling as an encouragement.

As Rumbold was riding along the road, he met a country girl with a milkpail on her head, with whose beauty and symmetry of shape he was greatly taken. Having entered into conversation, Rumbold alighted, and, excusing himself for the freedom, sat beside her while she milked her cows. Pleased with each other’s company, they made an assignation the same evening: our adventurer was to come to her father’s house at a late hour, and, pretending to have lost his road, solicit a night’s lodging. The plan was accordingly followed out: but they were disappointed in each other’s society that evening, for some one of the family kept astir all night. Determined, however, not to leave his fair convert, he pretended in the morning to be taken dangerously ill, and the good farmer rode off immediately for medical assistance. All the power of surgery, however, could not discover his ailment. The farmer kindly insisted upon his remaining where he was until he should recover, to which he, with great professions of gratitude, assented. Completely overpowered by such generosity, Rumbold wished to make some apparent return; and, borrowing a name, told him he was a bachelor of property in a certain county; that he had hitherto remained secure against the attacks of beauty, but that he now was vanquished by the attractions of his daughter, and hoped, if the girl had no objection, that a proposal of marriage would not be unacceptable to the family. The farmer, in his turn, overcome by such a mark of condescension, expressed himself highly gratified by the proposal; and, upon communicating it to the family, all were agreeable, and none more so than the girl. The idea of adding gentility to the fortune which the farmer intended for his daughter, quite elated him, and made him extremely anxious to gain the favor of the suitor. Rumbold followed out the design, and his endearments with the daughter were thus more frequent than he expected. His principal design was to sift the girl as to the quantity of money her father had in the house, and where it lay; but he was chagrined when informed that there were only a few pounds; for that, a few days before they met, her father had made a great purchase, which took all his ready money. Seeing, now, that there was no chance of gleaning the father’s harvest, he resolved to leave the family, and, accordingly, one evening took his march incognito, leaving the girl a present of twenty pieces of gold, inclosed in a copy of verses.

He proceeded on the road, and met with no person worthy his notice until the following day, when a singular occurrence happened to him. Passing by a small coppice between two hills, a gentleman, as he supposed, darted out upon him, and commanded him to stand and deliver. Rumbold requested him to have patience, and he would surrender all his property; when, putting his hand in his pocket, he drew a pistol, and fired at his opponent without the shot taking effect. “If you are for sport,” cried the other, “you shall have it!” and instantly shot him slightly in the thigh; and at the same moment drawing his sword, he cut Rumbold’s reins at one blow; thus rendering him unable to manage his horse. Rumbold fired his remaining pistol, and again missed his adversary, but shot his horse dead. Thus dismounted, the gentleman made a thrust at him with his sword, which, missing Rumbold, penetrated his horse, and brought them once more upon an equal footing. After hard fighting on both sides, our adventurer threw his adversary, bound him hand and foot, and proceeded to his more immediate object of rifling. Upon opening his coat he was amazed to discover that he had been fighting with a woman. Raising her up in his arms, he exclaimed, “Pardon me, most courageous Amazon, for thus rudely dealing with you: it was nothing but ignorance that caused this error; for, could my dim-sighted soul have distinguished what you were, the great love and respect I bear your sex would have deterred me from contending with you: but I esteem this ignorance of mine as the greatest happiness, since knowledge, in this case, might have deprived me of the opportunity of knowing there could be so much valor in a woman. For your sake, I shall forever retain a very high esteem for the worst of females.” The Amazon replied, that this was neither a place nor opportunity for eloquent speeches, but that, if he felt no reluctance, she would conduct him to a more appropriate place; to which he readily assented. They entered a dark wood, and, following the winding of several obscure passages, arrived at a house upon which, apparently, the sun had not been accustomed to shine. A number of servants appeared, and bustled about their lady, whose disguise was familiar to them; but they were astonished to see her return on foot, attended by a stranger.

Being conducted into an elegant apartment, and having been refreshed by whatever the house afforded, they became very familiar, and Rumbold pressed his companion to relate her history, which, with great frankness, she did in the following words:—

“I cannot, sir, deny your request, since we seem to have formed a friendship which, I hope, will turn out to our mutual advantage. I am the daughter of a sword-cutler: in my youth my mother would have taught me to handle a needle, but my martial spirit gainsaid all persuasions to that purpose. I never could bear to be among the utensils of the kitchen, but was constantly in my father’s shop, and took wonderful delight in handling the warlike instruments he made; to take a sharp and well-mounted sword in my hand, and brandish it, was my chief recreation. Being about twelve years of age, I studied by every means possible how I might form an acquaintance with a fencing-master. Time brought my desires to an accomplishment; for such a person came into my father’s shop to have a blade furbished, and it so happened that there was none to answer him but myself. Having given him the satisfaction he desired, though he did not expect it from me, among other questions I asked him if he was not a professor of the noble science of self-defence, which I was pretty sure of from his postures, looks, and expressions. He answered in the affirmative, and I informed him I was glad of the opportunity, and begged him to conceal my intention, while I requested he would instruct me in the art of fencing. At first, he seemed amazed at my proposal; but, perceiving I was resolved in good earnest, he granted my request, and appointed a time which he could conveniently allot to that purpose. In a short time I became so expert at buck-sword and single rapier, that I no longer required his assistance, and my parents never once discovered this transaction.

“I shall waive what exploits I did by the help of my disguise, and only tell you that, when I reached the age of fifteen, an innkeeper married me, and carried me into the country. For two years we lived peaceably and comfortably together; but at length the violent and imperious temper of my husband called my natural humor into action. Once a week we seldom missed a combat, which generally proved very sharp, especially on the head of the poor innkeeper; the gaping wounds of our discontent were not easily salved, and they in a manner became incurable. I was not much inclined to love him, because he was a man of a mean and dastardly spirit. Being likewise stinted in cash, my life grew altogether comfortless, and I looked on my condition as insupportable, and, as a means of mitigating my troubles, I was compelled to adopt the resolution of borrowing a purse occasionally. I judged this resolution safe enough, if I were not detected in the very act; for who could suspect me to be a robber, wearing abroad man’s apparel, but at home a dress suitable to my sex? Besides, no one could procure better information, or had more frequent opportunities than myself: for, keeping an inn, who could ascertain what booty their guests carried with them better than their landlady?

“As you can vouch, sir, I knew myself not to be destitute of courage; what, then, could hinder me from entering on such enterprises? Having thus resolved, I soon provided myself with the necessary habiliments for my scheme, carried it into immediate execution, and continued with great success, never having failed till now. Instead of riding to market, or travelling five or six miles about some piece of business, (the usual pretences with which I blinded my husband,) I would, when out of sight, take the road to the house in which we now are, where I metamorphosed myself, and proceeded to the road in search of prey. Not long since, my husband had one hundred pounds due to him about twenty miles from home, and appointed a certain day for receiving it. Glad I was to hear of this, and instantly resolved to be revenged on him for all the injuries and churlish outrages he had committed against me; I knew very well the way he went, and understood the time he intended to return. I waylaid him, and had not to wait above three hours, when my lord and master made his appearance, whistling with joy at his heavy purse. I soon made him change the tune to a more doleful ditty in lamentation of his bad fortune. I permitted him to pass, but soon overtook him, and keeping close by him for a mile or two, at length found the coast clear, and, riding up and seizing his bridle, presented a pistol to his breast, and in a hoarse voice demanded his purse, else he was a dead man. This imperious don, seeing death before his face, had nearly saved me the trouble by dying without compulsion; and so terrified did he appear, that he looked more like an apparition than any thing human. ‘Sirrah!’ said I, ‘be expeditious;’ but a dead palsy had so seized every part of him, that his eyes were incapable of directing his hands to his pockets. I soon recalled his spirits by two or three sharp blows with the flat of my sword, which speedily wakened him, and, with great trembling and submission, he resigned his money. After I had dismounted him, I cut his horse’s reins and saddle-girths, beat him most soundly, and dismissed him, saying: ‘Now, you rogue, I am even with you; have a care, the next time you strike a woman, (your wife, I mean,) for none but such as dare not fight a man, will lift up his hand against the weaker vessel. Now you see what it is to provoke them, for, if once irritated, they are restless till they accomplish their revenge to their satisfaction: I have a good mind to end your wicked courses with your life, inhuman varlet, but I am loth to be hanged for nothing, I mean for such a worthless fellow as you are. Farewell! this money shall serve me to purchase wine to drink a toast to the confusion of all such rascally and mean-spirited things!’ I then left him, and—”

This extraordinary character was about to proceed with the narration of her exploits, when the servant announced the arrival of two gentlemen. Our heroine left the room, and returning with her friends, apologized to our adventurer for the interruption, but hoped he would not find the company of her companions disagreeable, whom he soon discovered to be likewise females in disguise. The conversation now became general, and, upon condition of Rumbold stopping all night with them, the Amazon promised to finish her adventures next day. This accorded with the wishes of Rumbold; and when they retired to rest, he found the same room was destined for them all. His curiosity was, however, overcome by his covetousness; for, rising early next morning, and finding all his companions asleep, he rifled their pockets of a considerable quantity of gold, and decamped with great expedition, thus disappointing the reader in the continuation of a narrative almost incredible from its singularity.

Our adventurer had frequently observed a goldsmith in Lombard street counting large bags of gold, and he became very desirous to have a share of the glittering hoard. He made several unsuccessful attempts; but having in his possession many rings, which he had procured in the way of his profession, he dressed himself in the habit of a countryman, attended by a servant, and going to the goldsmith’s shop, proposed to sell one of these rings. The goldsmith, perceiving it to be a diamond of considerable value, and from the appearance of Rumbold supposing he was ignorant of its real worth, after examining it, with some hesitation estimated its value at ten pounds. To convince the countryman that this was its full value, he showed him a diamond ring very superior in quality, which he would sell him for twenty pounds. Rumbold took the goldsmith’s ring to compare with his own, and, fully acquainted with its value, informed him that he had come to sell, but that it was a matter of small importance to him whether he purchased or sold. He accordingly pulled out a purse of gold, and laid down the twenty pounds for the ring. The goldsmith stormed and raged, crying that he had cheated him, and insisted on having back his ring. Rumbold, however, kept hold of his bargain, and replied, that the other had offered him the ring for twenty pounds; that he had a witness to his bargain; there was his money, and he hoped that he would give him a proper exchange for his gold.

The goldsmith’s indignation increasing at the prospect of parting with his ring, he carried the matter before a justice. Being plaintiff, he began his tale by informing the magistrate, that “the countryman had taken a diamond ring from him worth a hundred pounds, and would give him but twenty pounds for it.” “Have a care,” replied Rumbold, “for if you charge me with taking a ring from you, which is, in other words, stealing, I shall vex you more than I have yet done.” He then told the magistrate the whole story, and produced his servant as a witness to the bargain. The goldsmith now became infuriated, exclaiming, that “he believed the country gentleman and his servant were both impostors and cheats!” Rumbold replied, that “he would do well to take care not to make his cause worse; that he was a gentleman of three hundred pounds per annum; and that, being desirous to sell a ring at its just price to the goldsmith, the latter endeavored to cheat him, by estimating it far below its value.” The magistrate, accordingly, decided in favor of our adventurer, only appointing him to pay the twenty pounds in gold, without any change.

The gold of Lombard street still continuing to attract the attention of Rumbold, he with longing eyes one day traversed that street, attended by a boy whom he had trained in his service. The boy ran into a shop where they were counting a bag of gold, seized a handful, then let it all fall upon the counter, and ran off. The servants pursued, seized the boy, and charged him with having some of the money. Rumbold approached to the assistance of the boy, insisting that the youth had not stolen a farthing of their money, and that the goldsmith should suffer for his audacity. The goldsmith and Rumbold came to high words, and mutual volleys of imprecations were exchanged. The latter then inquired what sum he charged the boy with having stolen. The goldsmith replied, that he did not know, but that the bag originally contained a hundred pounds.

Upon this, Rumbold insisted that he would wait until he saw the money counted. He tarried about half an hour, and the money was found complete. The goldsmith made an apology to Rumbold for the mistake; but the latter replied, that, as a gentleman, no one should put upon him such an affront with impunity. After some strong expressions on both sides, Rumbold took his leave, assuring his antagonist that he should hear from him. The goldsmith was arrested the day following, in an action of defamation. The bailiff who arrested him, being bribed by our adventurer, advised him to compromise the matter; urging, that the gentleman he had injured was a person of quality, and if he persisted in the action, it would expose him to severe damages. With some difficulty the matter was settled, by the goldsmith giving Rumbold twenty pounds in damages.

A jeweller in Foster lane next supplied the extravagances of Rumbold. He had often disposed of articles for that jeweller, who had full confidence in Rumbold’s fidelity. One day, having observed in his shop a very rich jewel, he acquainted the jeweller that he could sell it for him. Happy at such information, he delivered it to Rumbold, who carried it to another jeweller to have a false one, exactly similar, prepared. He then embraced an opportunity to leave the counterfeit jewel with the jeweller’s wife, in his absence. Shortly afterwards, he met the jeweller in the street, who said he never expected to have been so used by him, and threatened to bring the matter under the cognizance of a judge; but Rumbold retreated to a remote part of the city.

Rumbold was one day travelling in the vicinity of Hackney, when his attention was directed towards a house, which he earnestly desired to possess. He approached the house, knocked at the door, and inquired if the landlord was at home. He soon appeared; when Rumbold politely informed him, that, having been highly pleased with the appearance of his house, he was resolved to have one built after the same model, and requested the favor of being permitted to send a tradesman to take its exact dimensions. This favor was readily granted; when our adventurer went to a carpenter, and informed him that he wished him to go along with him to Hackney to measure a house, in order that he might have one built on a similar construction. They accordingly went, and found the gentleman at home, who kindly entertained Rumbold, while the carpenter took the dimensions of every part of the house.

The carpenter, being amply rewarded, was dismissed, and, by the aid of the draught of the house taken by him, Rumbold drew up a lease, with a very great penalty in case of failure to fulfil the agreement. Being provided with witnesses to the deed, he went and demanded possession. The gentleman was surprised, and only smiled at the absurdity of the demand. Rumbold commenced a lawsuit for possession of the house, and his witnesses swore to the validity of the deed. The carpenter’s evidence was also produced, many other circumstances were mentioned to corroborate the fact, and a verdict was obtained in favor of Rumbold’s claim. But the gentleman deemed it proper to pay the penalty rather than to lose his house.

Rumbold, disguised in the apparel of a person of quality, one day waited on a scrivener, and acquainted him that he had immediate occasion for a hundred pounds, which he hoped he would be able to raise for him upon good security. The scrivener inquired who were the securities, and Rumbold named two respectable citizens, whom he knew to be at that time in the country; which satisfying the money-lender, he desired our adventurer to call next day. In the mean time, the lender made inquiry after the stability of the securities, and found he had not been imposed upon as to their respectability. Our adventurer again waited upon the scrivener, who having agreed to advance the sum, Rumbold sent for two of his accomplices, who personated his securities, and, after a little preliminary caution, signed the bond for him under their assumed names; and, upon Rumbold’s receiving the money, they immediately took their leave. The name which Rumbold assumed on this occasion was of further service to him; for it happened to be that of a gentleman in Surrey, whom he met with, after this adventure, at an inn. Having learned what time the gentleman intended to remain in town, and the name and situation of his estate, he determined to render his chance meeting of service to him. He accordingly again waited on the same scrivener, and informed him he had occasion for another hundred, but did not wish to trouble any of his friends to become security for such a trifle; for that, as he possessed a good estate, it might be advanced upon his own bond; and that if the scrivener could spare a servant to ride the length of Surrey, he would then learn the extent of his estate, and be enabled to remove any scruple whatever. A servant was accordingly sent, and directed to go and make inquiry after the property of the stranger whom Rumbold had met at the inn. Returning in a few days, Rumbold found the scrivener very condescending, and prodigal of congratulations upon the possession of so pleasant and valuable a property, and said he would not have scrupled though the loan had been for a thousand. Rumbold, finding him thus inclined, doubled the sum, and, after giving his own bond for two hundred pounds, left the scrivener to seek redress as he best could.

Rumbold thus supported himself by exercising his ingenuity at the expense of others, and by this means amassed a considerable sum of money. He was not so addicted to these bad habits but that he felt an inclination to retire from scenes so fraught with danger and infamy. For this purpose he placed his money in the hands of a private banker, with a design of living frugally and comfortably upon the interest. This banker unfortunately failed, and made off with all Rumbold’s property; so that he was once more reduced to the necessity of having recourse to his old employment.

The first exploit recorded of Rumbold after his reappearance in public, is the following:—He stopped at a tavern, where he called for a flagon of beer, which was handed him in a silver cup, as was customary at that time. Being in a private room and alone, he called to the landlord to partake of his noggin, and they continued together for some time, until the landlord had occasion to leave him. Soon after, he went to the bar and paid for his beer, while the waiter at the same time went for the cup: missing which, he called Rumbold back and asked him for the cup. “Cup!” said Rumbold, “I left it in the room.” A careful search was made, but to no effect; the cup could not be found, and the landlord openly accused Rumbold of the theft. He willingly permitted his person to be searched, which proved equally unsuccessful; but the landlord still persisted in maintaining that Rumbold must have it, or, at all events, that he was chargeable with the loss, and would have the matter investigated by a justice, before whom they immediately went. The landlord stated the case, while Rumbold complained loudly of the injury done him by the suspicion; and from his never endeavoring to run off when he was called back, and submitting so readily to be searched, the justice dismissed him, and fined the landlord for his rashness.

During their visit to the justice, some of Rumbold’s associates entered the same inn, where, according to arrangement, they found the cup fixed under the table with soft wax, and made off with it without the least suspicion.

The last recorded adventure of Rumbold was one which is now very common in the metropolis. Having observed a countryman pretty flush of money, he and his accomplices followed him; but, from Hodge’s attention to his pocket, they failed in several attempts to pick it. Our practitioners, however, taking a convenient opportunity and place, one of them went before and dropped a letter, while another kept close by the countryman, and upon seeing it cried out, “See, what is here?” But, although the countryman stooped to take it up, our adventurer was too nimble for him; and having it in his hand, observed, “Here is somewhat else besides a letter.” “I cry halves,” said the countryman. “Well,” said Rumbold, “you stooped, indeed, as well as I; but I have it. However, I will be fair with you; let us see what it is, and whether it is worth dividing;” and thereupon broke open the letter, in which was enclosed a chain or necklace of gold. “Good fortune,” said Rumbold, “if this be real gold.” “How shall we know that?” replied the countryman; “let us see what the letter says;” which ran as follows:—

“Brother John,

“I have here sent you back this necklace of gold you have sent me, not from any dislike I have to it, but my wife is covetous, and would have a bigger. This comes not to above seven pounds, and she would have one of ten pounds; therefore, pray get it changed for one of that price, and send it by the bearer to your loving brother,

Jacob Thornton.”

“Nay, then we have good luck,” observed the cheat. “But I hope,” said he to the countryman, “you will not expect a full share, for, you know, I found it; and, besides, if one should divide it, I know not how to break it in pieces without injuring it; therefore, I had rather have my share in money.” “Well,” said the countryman, “I will give you your share in money, provided we divide equally.” “That you shall,” said Rumbold, “and therefore I must have three pounds ten shillings, the price in all being, as you see, seven pounds.” “Ay,” said the countryman, thinking to be cunning with our adventurer, “it may be worth seven pounds in money, fashion and all: we must, however, not value that, but only the gold; therefore I think three pounds in money are better than half the chain, and so much I’ll give, if you’ll let me have it.” “Well, I’m contented,” said Rumbold: “but then you shall give me a pint of wine, over and above.” To this the other agreed, and to a tavern they went, where the bargain was ratified. There Rumbold and the countryman quickly disposed of two bottles of wine. In the mean time one of Rumbold’s companions entered the inn, inquiring for a certain person who was not there. Rumbold informed the stranger (as he pretended to be) that he would be there presently, as he had seen him in the street, and requested him to come in and wait for him. Upon this the stranger sat down to wait the arrival of his friend. In a little time Rumbold proposed to remove into a larger apartment, where they commenced playing at cards, to amuse themselves until the gentleman expected should arrive.

Rumbold and his associate began their amusement, the countryman being a stranger to the game. After he had continued a spectator of the good fortune of our adventurer, who in general vanquished the stranger, the countryman was at length prevailed upon to run halves with the fortunate gamester. For a while the same good fortune smiled upon them, and the stranger, in a rage at his great losses, refused to proceed. But after a few bottles more were emptied, the long-expected gentleman never appearing, they renewed their amusement; and fortune deserting Rumbold and the countryman who seconded him, in a short time the latter found himself without a shilling.

The landlord was then called to assist in drinking the money gained, and, being informed how they had cheated the countryman, was resolved to exert his ingenuity at their expense. Meanwhile, several associates of Rumbold, who had been respectively employed in similar adventures, entered the room, joined in their conversation, and participated in their wine. The landlord was at last requested to bring supper, which was done with great alacrity. The bottle continuing to move with considerable rapidity, the company were in general intoxicated before they sat down to supper. When it was brought in, however, they commenced with great avidity, and soon despatched a shoulder of mutton and two capons; and, under the influence of wine, all fell asleep with the dishes before them.