Chapter VI: Part 6

Having thus fortunately succeeded, and been able to fulfil his promise of giving one of the above-mentioned ladies a silk dress, he hastened to their dwelling, where they divided the spoil. For some days he remained there, indulging in all manner of riot and excess, until, satiated, he returned to his labor of seeking new adventures. Determined, however, that no other person but himself should reap the fruits of his ingenuity, he wrote a letter to the mercer, informing him where he would find his silks. Accordingly, having obtained a warrant, the house of the two damsels was searched, the pieces found, and both the ladies were sentenced to Bridewell to undergo whipping, and to submit to hard labor.

When Whitney was confirmed in his business, he met a gentleman on Bagshot heath, whom he commanded to stand and deliver: on which the other remarked, “It is well you spoke first, sir, for I was just going to make a similar demand.” “Why, then, you are a gentleman-thief?” Whitney cried. “Yes,” said the stranger, “but I have had very bad success to-day, for I have been riding up and down all this morning without meeting with any prize.” Whitney upon this wished him better luck, and took his leave.

At night Whitney and the above gentleman put up at the same inn, when the latter related to some other travellers by what stratagem he had evaded being robbed on the road. Whitney having changed his dress, the gentleman did not recognise him. Whitney also heard him whisper to one of the company, that by this contrivance he had saved a hundred pounds. That person informed him, that he had a considerable sum upon him, and that, if agreeable, he would travel next day with him. Our adventurer overheard the conversation, and resolved, without being solicited, to make one of the party. In the morning they commenced their journey, and Whitney followed about a quarter of an hour after. Their conversation turned upon the best means to deceive the highwaymen; and our adventurer’s meditations were, how he should be revenged upon his quondam friend for the cheat he had received the day before.

Whitney soon overtook them, and riding before, turned suddenly about, presented his pistols, and commanded them to stand and deliver. “We were going to say the same to you, sir!” “Were you so?” replied our hero, “and are you then of my profession?” “Yes,” said they both. “If you are, I suppose you remember the old proverb, that two of a profession cannot agree together, so that you must not expect any favor on that score. But to be plain with you, gentlemen, I know you very well, and must have your hundred pounds, sir,--and your considerable sum, sir,”--turning first to the one, and then to the other,--“otherwise I shall be bold to send a brace of bullets through each of your heads. You, Messieurs Highwaymen, should have kept your secret a little longer, and not have boasted so soon of having outwitted a thief. There is now nothing for you but to deliver or die!” These words put them in a sad consternation: they were very unwilling to lose their money, but more unwilling to lose their lives; of two evils, therefore, they preferred choosing the least. The one produced his hundred pounds first, and the other gentleman his considerable sum, which was a good deal more.

At another time, our adventurer met with an old miser named Hull, on Hounslow Heath. The word of command being given, he trembled in every joint, and using the most piteous tones and humiliating complaints, said that he was a very poor man and had a large family, and he would be hard-hearted indeed who would take his money. He added, besides, a great deal more concerning the illegality of such an action, and how dangerous it was to engage in evil courses. Whitney, who knew him well, cried out in a violent passion, “Sirrah, you pretend to preach morality to an honester man than yourself. Is it not more generous to take a man’s money from him bravely, than to grind him to death by exacting eight or ten per cent. under cover of serving him? You make a prey of all mankind, and necessity in an honest man is often the means of his falling into your hands, who are sure to be the means of undoing him. I am a man of more honor than to show any compassion to one whom I esteem an enemy to the whole species. For once, at least, I shall oblige you to lend me what you have, without interest or bond, so make no words!” Old Hull, upon this, reluctantly pulled out eighteen pounds, telling him at the same time that he would see him some time ride up Holborn hill backwards. Whitney was retiring until he heard these words, when, returning, he drew Hull off his horse, and putting him on again with his face towards the tail, and tying his legs, “Now,” said he, “you old rogue, let me see what a figure a man makes when he rides backwards, and let me have the pleasure at least of seeing you first in that posture:” so giving the horse a whip, the animal proceeded at a desperate pace until it came to Hounslow Town, where the people untied him, after they had enjoyed themselves at his expense.

In the course of Whitney’s rambles, he one day put up at an inn in Doncaster, and lived in a dashing style, as he had then plenty of money. He was informed that the landlord was a complete miser and sharper, and that he would not spare the smallest sum to a poor relation of his, who lived in the neighborhood. Accordingly, Whitney resolved to exert his ingenuity upon his landlord; and gave out that he had a good estate, and travelled merely for his own amusement. He continued to pay his bills regularly, until he supposed that his credit would be sufficiently established. Then he one day mentioned to his landlord, that as his money was run short, he would be obliged to him for credit until he received remittances. “Oh, dear sir, you need not give yourself any uneasiness about such a thing as this; every thing in my house is at your service; and I shall think myself honored if you use me as your friend.” With abundance of eloquence, our adventurer returned the compliment. He continued to live at his table,--his horse was well fed with corn and hay, while Whitney, almost every day, took a ride to some neighboring village along with the landlord and some others, who were all proud of the honor he had done them.

It happened that there was an annual fair in that place, and in the morning a box came directed to him; opening it, he took out a letter, and, having read it, locked the box, and delivered it to the landlady, saying, that it would be safer in her custody than in his own. Having gone to see the fair, he returned in great haste in the afternoon, desiring his horse to be instantly dressed, as he had seen a horse in the fair for which he was desirous to exchange his own, adding, that he was determined to have the animal. He then requested the landlady to give him his box; but he was informed that she was gone to the fair. Hereupon he affected to burst out into a violent passion, saying, that he supposed she had locked up what he committed to her keeping:--“If she has,” said he, “I had rather have given ten guineas, for I have no money but what is in her possession.” Inquiry was made, and it was found to be as he had said, which put him into a still greater rage. This was, however, what he both wished and expected,--the whole being of his own invention. The landlord was informed of his rage, and the cause of it, and entreated that he would be easy, as he would lend him the sum he wanted until his wife came home. Our hero was greatly distressed that he should have to borrow money when he had so much of his own; but as there was no other method of obtaining cash to purchase his favorite horse, he accepted of the proffered loan: with an imperious and haughty air, demanding that his bill might be prepared for payment forthwith.

With forty guineas he rode to the fair; but instead of inquiring for any other horse, he spurred his own through the crowd, and hastened to London. The people of the inn waited long for his return that evening; but, as he had frequently stayed two or three days at once in his rambles through the country, they suspected no fraud. After waiting with no small impatience for a whole week, the landlord resolved to break open the box, and went to the magistrates of the place, accompanied by witnesses. It is needless to record his chagrin and mortification, when he found the box filled with sand and stones.

In London, Whitney was apprehended upon the information of one of those abandoned females who live by betraying the simple ones of their own, and by robbing and plundering the profligate of the other sex. He was committed, tried, and condemned at the following sessions. The judge, before passing sentence, made an excellent speech to him and the other malefactors, in strong terms exhibiting the nature of their several crimes; and in particular addressed himself to Whitney, exhorting him to a sincere repentance, as there could be no hope of a pardon to him after a course of so many villanies.

At the place of execution, Whitney addressed the multitude in nearly the following terms:--“I have been a great offender, both against God and my country, by transgressing all laws, both human and divine. I believe there is not one here present but has often heard my name before my confinement, and seen the long catalogue of my crimes, which have since been made public. Why then should I pretend to vindicate a life stained with so many enormous deeds? The sentence passed upon me is just, and I can see the footsteps of a Providence, which, before, I had profanely laughed at, in my apprehension and conviction. I hope the sense which I have of these things has enabled me to make my peace with Heaven, the only thing which is now of any concern to me. Join in your prayers with me, my dear countrymen, that God would not forsake me in my last moments.” Having spent a few minutes in prayer, he suffered, in the thirty-fourth year of his age, on the 19th of December 1694.

TIM BUCKELEY.

Tim was reared to the useful occupation of a shoemaker, but leaving his master, he came to London, and soon found out companions suited to his disposition. He and his associates frequented an alehouse at Wapping; and one day being run short of cash, Tim asked the landlord for ten shillings, which he refused. Tim was so exasperated, that, along with some of his associates, he broke into his house, and bound him, his wife, and maid. When Tim was about this operation, the landlord conjured him to be favorable. “No, no, you must not expect any favor from my hands, whose prodigality makes you lord it over the people here like a boatswain over a ship’s crew; but I shall go to another part of the town, where I will be more civilly used, and spend a little of your money there.” Accordingly, Tim and his companions robbed the house of forty pounds, three silver tankards, a silver watch, and three gold rings.

Upon another day Tim was airing in Hyde-park-corner, and met with Dr. Cateby, the famous mountebank. At the words “Stand and deliver!” the doctor went into a long harangue about the honesty of his calling, and of the great difficulty with which he made a living. Tim laughed heartily, saying, “Quacks pretend to honesty! there is not such a pack of cheating knaves in the nation. Their impudence is intolerable for deceiving honest simple people, and pretending that more men were not slain at the battle of the Boyne, than they have recovered from death, or beckoned their souls back when they have been many leagues from their bodies: therefore, deliver! or this pistol shall put a stop to your further ramblings and deception.” The doctor preferring his life to his gold, presented Tim with six guineas, and a watch, to show him how to keep time while spending the money.

Tim was once apprehended by a baker, in the character of a constable, and sent to Flanders as a soldier. He deserted, and returning to London, one day met with the baker’s wife. He presented a pistol, and demanded her money; she exclaimed, “Is this justice or conscience, sir?” “Don’t tell me of justice, for I hate her as much as your husband can, because her scales are even! And as for conscience, I have as little of that as any baker in England, who cheats other people’s bellies to fill his own!--Nay, a baker is a worse rogue than a tailor; for, whereas the latter commonly pinches his cabbage from the rich, the former, by making his bread too light, robs all without distinction, but chiefly the poor, for which he deserves hanging more than I, or any of my honest fraternity.” Then, taking from her eleven shillings and two gold rings, he sent her home to relate her adventure to her husband.

Tim next stealing a good horse, commenced upon the highway, and meeting with a pawnbroker by whom he had lost some articles, he commanded him to stand and deliver. The pawnbroker entreated for favor, saying “that it was a very hard thing that honest people could not go about their lawful business without being robbed.” “You talk of honesty, who live by fraud and oppression!--your shop, like the gates of hell, is always open, in which you sit at the receipt of custom, and having got the spoils of the needy, you hang them up in rank and file, like so many trophies of victory. To your shop all sorts of garments resort, as on a pilgrimage. Thou art the treasurer of the thieves’ exchequer, for which purpose you keep a private warehouse from whence you ship them off wholesale, or retail, according to pleasure. Nay, the poor and the oppressed have often to pay their own cloth, before they can receive them back by your exorbitant exactions. Come, come, blood-sucker, open your purse-strings, or this pistol shall send you where you are to go sooner or later.” The poor pawnbroker did not, however, wish to visit his old friend before his time; he therefore ransomed his life at the expense of twenty-eight guineas, a gold watch, a silver box, and two gold rings.

Upon another occasion, Tim fortunately met with a stock-jobber (who had prosecuted him for felony,) and robbed him of forty-eight guineas. He requested something to carry him home. Tim refused, saying, “I have no charity for you stock-jobbers, who rise and fall like the ebbing and flowing of the tide, and whose paths are as unfathomable as the ocean. The grasshopper in the Royal Exchange is an emblem of your character. What! give you something to carry you home out of the paltry sum of forty-eight guineas! I won’t give you a farthing.” He then bade him farewell until next meeting.

Though unexpected and unwished, it was not long before the stock-jobber reconnoitred Tim, and caused him to be apprehended and committed to Newgate. He was tried, and received sentence of death; but obtaining a reprieve, and afterwards a pardon, he was determined to be revenged of the man who would not give him rest to pursue his honest employment; he therefore set fire to a country-house belonging to him. To his no small chagrin, however, it was quenched before much harm was done.

Tim then went to Leicestershire, broke into a house, seized eighty pounds, purchased a horse, and renewed his former mode of life. Thus mounted, he attacked a coach in which were three gentlemen, and two footmen attending. Tim’s horse being shot under him, he killed one of the gentlemen and a footman, but being overpowered, was committed to Nottingham gaol, and suffered the due reward of murder and robbery, at the age of twenty-nine, and in the year 1701.

TOM JONES.

Tom was a native of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. His father was a clothier, whose business he followed until he was two-and-twenty years of age. In that period, however, the prominent dispositions of his mind were displayed, by extravagance, and running into debt. In order, therefore, to retrieve his circumstances, he went upon the highway.

Out of gratitude for his father’s kindness, he commenced by robbing him of eighty pounds and a good horse. Unaccustomed to such work, he rode, under the impression that he was pursued and in danger of being taken, no less than forty miles. Arriving in Staffordshire, he attacked and robbed the stage-coach of a considerable booty. During the scuffle, several shots were fired at the passengers, but no injury was done.

A monkey belonging to one of the passengers, being tied behind the coach, was so frightened with the firing, that he broke his chain, and ran for his life. At night, as a countryman was coming over a gate, pug leaped out of the hedge upon his back, and clung very fast. The poor man, who had never seen such an animal, imagined that he was no less a person than the devil; and when he came home, thundered at the door. His wife looked out at the window, and asked him what he had got. “The devil!” cried he, and entreated that she would go to the parson, and beg his assistance. “Nay,” quoth she, “you shall not bring the devil in here. If you belong to him, I don’t; so be content to go without my company.” Poor Hob was obliged to wait at his door until one of his neighbors, wiser than the rest, came, and with a few apples and pears, dispossessed him of the devil, and got him for his pains. He accordingly carried him to the owner, and received a suitable reward.

Tom’s next adventure was with a Quaker, who formerly kept a button shop, but, being reduced in his circumstances, he was going down to the country to avoid an arrest. In this situation he was more afraid of a bailiff than a robber. Therefore, when Tom took hold of him by the coat, broadbrim very gravely said, “At whose suit dost thou detain me?”--“I detain thee on thy own suit, and my demand is for all thy substance.” The Quaker having discovered his mistake, added, “Truly, friend, I don’t know thee, nor can I indeed imagine that ever thee and I had any dealings together.”--“You shall find then,” said Jones, “that we shall deal together now.” He then presented his pistol. “Pray, neighbor, use no violence, for if thou carriest me to jail, I am undone. I have fourteen guineas about me, and if that will satisfy thee, thou art welcome to take them. Here they are, and give me leave to assure thee, that I have frequently stopped the mouth of a bailiff with a much less sum, and made him affirm to my creditors that he could not find me.” Jones received the money, and replied, “Friend, I am not such a rogue as thou takest me to be: I am no bailiff, but an honest, generous highwayman.”--“I shall not trouble myself,” cried the Quaker, “about the distinction of names; if a man takes my money from me by force, it concerns me but little what he calls himself, or what his pretences may be for so doing.”

At another time Tom met with lord and lady Wharton, and though they had three men attending, demanded their charity in his usual style. His lordship said, “Do you know me, sir, that you dare be so bold as stop me upon the road?”--“Not I; I neither know nor care who you are. I am apt to imagine that you are some great man, because you speak so big; but, be as great as you will, sir, I must have you to know, that there is no man upon the road so great as myself; therefore, pray be quick in answering my demands, for delays may prove dangerous.” Tom then received two hundred pounds, three diamond rings, and two gold watches.

Upon another day, Tom received intelligence that a gentleman was upon the road with a hundred pounds. He waited upon the top of a hill to welcome his approach. A steward of the gentleman discovered him, and suspecting his character, desired that the money might be given to him, and he would ride off with it, as the robber would not suspect him. This was done; Tom came forward, stopped the coach, and the gentleman gave him ten pounds. He was greatly enraged, and mentioned the sum he knew the gentleman carried along with him. In an instant, however, suspecting the stratagem, he rode after the steward with all possible speed; but the latter observing him in pursuit, increased his pace, and reached an inn before Tom could overtake him.

After many similar adventures, Tom was apprehended for robbing a farmer’s wife. He was so habituated to vice, that nothing but the gallows could arrest his course, and in the forty-second year of his age he met with that fate, on the 25th April 1702.

ARTHUR CHAMBERS.

Arthur Chambers was of low extraction, and destitute of every amiable quality. From his very infancy he was addicted to pilfering; and the low circumstances of his parents being unable to support his extravagances, he had recourse to dishonest practices. It is even reported, that before he was dressed in boy’s clothes, he committed several acts of theft.

The first thing which he attempted, was to learn from an experienced master, all those cant words and phrases current among pickpockets, by which they distinguish one another. Chambers was soon an adept in this new language; and being well dressed, he was introduced to the better sort of company, and took occasion, when such opportunities offered, to rob his companions.

In a short time he was confined in Bridewell, to answer with hard labor for some small offence. Having obtained his liberty, he left the town, where he again begun to be suspected, and went to Cornwall. His social turn gained him a reception in genteel companies, and he became a memorable character in the place. Before he left London, he provided himself with a large quantity of base crowns and half-crowns, which he uttered wherever he went. After many had been deceived, strict search was made, and Chambers detected. For this offence he was committed to gaol, where he remained a year and a half.

As he could no longer abide in Cornwall, he returned to London. Upon his arrival he went to an alehouse, and called for a pot of beer and a slice of bread and cheese. Having refreshed himself, he entered into conversation with some persons in a neighboring box. The conversation turned upon the superior advantages of a country life, but was insensibly directed to that of robbery. Chambers, improving the hint, regretted that no better provision was made for suppressing such villanies; for, added he, death is too scarce a punishment for a man even if he robbed the whole world. “But why do I talk thus?” he continued; “if great offenders are suffered, well may the poor and necessitous say, we must live, and where is the harm of taking a few guineas from those who can spare them, or who, perhaps, have robbed others of them? For my own part, I look upon a dexterous pickpocket as a very useful person, as he draws his resources from the purses of those who would spend their money in gaming, or worse. Look ye, gentlemen, I can pick a pocket as well as any man in Britain, and yet, though I say it, I am as honest as the best Englishman breathing. Observe that country gentleman passing by the window there; I will engage to rob him of his watch, though it is scarcely five o’clock.”

A wager of ten shillings was instantly taken, and Chambers hastened after the gentleman. He accosted him at the extremity of Long lane, and pulling off his hat, asked him if he could inform him the nearest way to Knave’s acre. The stranger replied that he himself wished to know the way to Moorfields, which Chambers pointed out: and while the other kept his eyes fixed upon the places to which he directed him, he embraced an opportunity to rob him of his watch, and hastening back to the alehouse, threw down his plunder, and claimed the wager.

He next exerted his ingenuity upon a plain countryman, newly come to town. The rustic had got into the company of sharpers, and stood gazing at a gaming table. Our adventurer stepping up, tapped him on the shoulder, and inquired what part of the country he came from, and if he was desirous to find a place as a gentleman’s servant. Robin answered, that it was his very errand to town, to find such a place. Chambers then said that he could fit him to a hair. “I believe I can afford you myself four pounds a year, standing wages, and six shillings a week board wages, and all cast clothes, which are none of the worst.” This was sufficient to make Robin almost leap out of his skin, for never before had such an offer been made to him. Having arranged every thing to his wish, Robin entered upon his new service. He received Chambers’ cloak, threw it over his arm, and followed his master. Chambers ordered a coach, and Robin being placed behind, they drove off to an inn. Dinner being ordered, Robin sat down with his master, and made a hearty meal, the former in the mean while instructing him in all the tricks of the town and inculcating the necessity of his being always upon his guard. He informed him also, that the servants of the inn would be requesting him to join in play at cards, and that he was in danger of being imposed upon; therefore, if he had any money upon him, it would be proper to give it to him, and he would receive it back when necessary. Robin, accordingly, pulled out his purse, and delivered all that he had, with which Chambers paid his dinner, and went off, leaving Robin to shift for himself, and to lament the loss of his money and his new master.

The next adventure of Chambers was directed against the innkeeper of the Greyhound, St. Alban’s. His wife was rather handsome, and exceedingly facetious; and Chambers being often there, was on terms of the greatest familiarity with the household. Directing his steps thither, and pretending to have been attacked by three men near the inn, he went in with his clothes all besmeared. The travellers who were in the inn condoled with him on his misfortune, and gave him a change of clothes until his own should be cleaned. To make amends to himself for this sad disaster, he invited six of his fellow-travellers, with the landlord and his wife, to supper. The glass circulated pretty freely, and the wife entertained them with several appropriate songs. Chambers was careful that her glass never remained long empty. In a short time he saw with pleasure that all his companions, with the solitary exception of the landlord, were sunk in the arms of sleep, and he proposed that they should be conveyed to bed; whereupon two or three stout fellows came to perform that office. Chambers was so obliging as to lend his assistance, but took care that their money and watches should pay him for his trouble.

Left alone with the landlord, he proposed that they should have an additional bottle. Another succeeded before the landlord was in a condition to be conveyed to rest. In aiding the servants with the corpulent innkeeper, he discovered the geography of his bedroom, and finding that the door was directly opposite to his own, he retired, not to rest, but to plot and to perfect his villany.

When he was convinced that the wine would work its full effect upon the deluded pair, he revisited the bedchamber, waited some time, and extracted what property he could most conveniently carry away; by the dawn of day dressed himself in the best suit of clothes which his bottle companions could afford, called for the horse of the person whose clothes he now wore, left two guineas with the waiter to pay his bill, gave half-a-crown to the ostler, and rode off for London.

His first enterprise after his arrival was attacking an Italian merchant upon the Exchange. He took him aside, eagerly inquired what goods he had to dispose of, and, entering into conversation, one of Chambers’ accomplices approaching, joined the conversation. Meanwhile, our adventurer found means to extract from his pocket a large purse of gold and his gold watch, which he delivered to his accomplice. Not satisfied with his first success, and observing a silk handkerchief suspended from his pocket, he walked behind him to seize it, but was detected in the act, and kept fast hold of by the merchant, who cried out lustily, “Thief! thief!” In this dilemma, Chambers’ accomplice ran to the crier, and requested him to give public proclamation, that if any body had lost a purse of gold, upon giving proper information it would be restored. With the expectation of finding his money again, the merchant let go his hold; and, in the crowd, Chambers and his friends retired with their booty.

But Chambers was now resolved to perform an action worthy of his talents. He hired the first floor of a house, and agreed with the landlord for 14_s._ a week. Having, in the first instance, been mistaken for a man of fortune, both from his appearance and style of living, a mutual confidence was gradually established. When his plot was matured, he one day entered with a very pensive and sorrowful look the apartment of his landlord, who anxiously inquired the cause of his great uneasiness; when Chambers, with tears in his eyes, informed him, that he had just returned from Hampstead, where he had witnessed the death of a beloved brother, who had left him sole heir, with an express injunction to convey his dear remains to Westminster Abbey. He therefore entreated the favor of being allowed to bring his brother’s remains at a certain hour to his house, that from thence they might be conveyed to the place of their destination, which very reasonable request was readily granted by his unsuspecting landlord.

Chambers went off the next morning, leaving word, that the corpse would be there at six o’clock in the evening. At the appointed hour, the hearse, with six horses, arrived at the door. An elegant coffin, with six gilded handles, was carried up stairs, and placed upon the dining-room table, and the horses were conveyed by the men to a stable in the neighborhood. They informed the landlord, that Chambers was detained on business, and would probably sleep that night in the Strand.

That artful rogue was, however, confined in the coffin, in which air-holes had been made, the screw-nails left unfixed, his clothes all on, with a winding-sheet wrapped over them, and his face blanched with flour. All the family were now gone to bed, except the maid-servants. Chambers arose from his confinement, went down stairs to the kitchen wrapped in his winding-sheet, sat down, and stared the maid in the face, who, overwhelmed with fear, cried out, “A ghost! a ghost!” and ran up stairs to her master’s room, who chid her unreasonable fears, and requested her to return to bed, and compose herself. She, however, obstinately refused, and remained in the room.

In a short time, however, in stalked the stately ghost, took his seat, and conferred a complete sweat and a mortal fright upon all three who were present. Retiring from his station when he deemed it convenient, he continued, by the moving of the doors, and the noise raised through the house, to conceal his design: in the mean time, he went down stairs, opened the doors to his accomplices, who assisted in carrying off the plate, and every thing which could be removed, not even sparing the kitchen utensils. The maid was the first to venture from her room in the morning, and to inform her master and mistress of what had happened, who, more than the night before, chid her credulity in believing that a ghost could rob a house, or carry away any article out of it. In a little time, however, the landlord was induced to rise from his bed, and to move down stairs, and found, to his astonishment and chagrin, that the whole of his plate, and almost the whole of his movables, were gone, for which he had only received in return an empty coffin.

A great many other stories of the like nature are told of Chambers; and it is well known, that for the few years he was permitted, by singular good fortune, to go at large, he committed as many artful and daring actions as were ever accomplished by one man.

At length, however, one Jack Hall, a chimney-sweeper, being apprehended, to save his own life, made himself an evidence against Chambers, who, being cast upon that information, was, with two other notorious offenders, executed at Tyburn, in 1703, in the twenty-eighth year of his age.

STEPHEN BUNCE.

In the plain but strong phrase, this man was born a thief. Scarcely could his hand carry away the property of others, when he engaged in this nefarious trade. While yet a child, he was frequently amusing himself with the children of a charcoal man who lived in the neighborhood, and would even then fill his pockets with the charcoal, and sell it to a woman that kept an apple-stall for codlings. One day he wished to try his ingenuity upon the good woman, and requested to have some codlings beforehand, promising to pay them with his next charcoal. But though she could purchase from him that which she knew he had stolen, yet she was not disposed to give him any credit.

Stephen was highly enraged that his fidelity should be called in question by the old woman, and determined upon revenge; so stealing a larger quantity of charcoal than usual, he filled the empty parts with powder, and sealed them with black wax. The old woman kindled a fire of them, and it being a very cold frosty night, sat down before the fire in the usual manner, to warm her starving body. But scarcely had the heat begun to operate, when the powder catching fire, off flew the kettle from the grate, the codlings and the water sprang about the old woman’s ears, and, in the midst of fire and smoke, she cried out in the most piteous manner, which brought a great mob about her to assist her in the hour of misfortune and distress. Fortunately, however, the chief injury that the old woman received was a hole burnt in her gown, a scalding to her chin, and the trouble of picking up her codlings.

But Stephen was not long to remain in correspondence with apple wives and such low gentry. Arrived at the years of a stripling, he went into a coffee-house, and called for a dish of tea. Meanwhile, rustling among the newspapers, he picked up the lid of a silver box, and paying for his tea, went and instantly got his own initials engraven upon it. Then, with the greatest assurance, he went back, saying, “Gentlemen, have not I left the bottom of my tobacco-box?” Thereupon rummaging among the papers, he found it, exclaiming, as he put the lid on, “Oh, here it is!” Upon this the owner claimed it as his property, but Stephen impudently showing his cipher upon it, claimed and retained it as his own.

At one time Bunce was benighted at Branyard in Hertfordshire, and being destitute of money, was at infinite loss how to proceed. But a fertile invention is a necessary qualification in a deceiver, and Stephen’s was acquiring considerable strength. He called at the parson’s door, and requested the maid to tell her master that a stranger wished to have the honor of speaking with him. When the clergyman made his appearance, Stephen, in an eloquent and affecting tone, informed him that he was a poor student from Oxford, going home to his friends, and as he was benighted, he entreated that he would afford him the friendly aid of his roof for one night. The generous-hearted parson, pleased with his appearance and pitying his distress, kindly received him and entertained him according to the best of his household.

When Stephen was taking his leave for the night, he, with no small degree of modesty and respect, requested that he might be permitted to give the parson a sermon in the morning, the next day being Sunday. As, in general, no clergyman has any great objection to a day of rest, the parson willingly accepted of his offered services. The morning came, and the hour of divine service being arrived, the young student was equipped in the parson’s gown and cassock, and as it was about a mile to the church, he was mounted on the parson’s horse, while the latter, with his wife and family, went a nearer path through the fields. When his reverence came to the church, every one was scraping and bowing, and inquiring why he was without his canonical robes on the day of sacred duty. He soon relieved their anxiety, by informing them that a young gentleman of the university of Oxford would be there presently, and would preach for him that day. They waited for some time, then commenced divine service; the prayers were now ended, and the last psalm sung, but no preacher appeared. In short, not to detain our readers with a long narrative, they waited until noon,--the congregation went home without a sermon,--and the parson without his robes and horse, while Bunce was by this time far advanced on his journey, employing the horse to carry a thief instead of a clergyman.

Upon another day, as Stephen was going about seeking whom he might render lighter on their journey, he saw a gentleman well mounted upon a gelding, and going into the road along where he was to ride, he laid himself all along the ground, with his ear to it. When the gentleman came up to him, he asked the reason of such unusual conduct. Stephen held up his hand to him, signifying his desire that he should be silent; but the gentleman, being of a hasty temper, cried, “What the plague are you listening to?” Upon this Stephen sat up, saying, “Oh, dear sir, I have often heard great talk of the fairies, but I could never have the faith to believe that there was ever any such thing in nature, till now, in this very place, I hear such a ravishing and melodious harmony of all kinds of music, that it is enough to charm me to sit here, if possible, to all eternity.”

Curiosity, that active principle in the human mind, inclined the gentleman to alight from his horse to hear the enchanting music. Having reached the ground, he gave his gelding to Stephen to hold during his interview with the fairies. Then, applying his ear to the ground, he said, “I can hear nothing.” Bunce desired him to turn the other ear. This being done, and his face averted from him, Bunce leaped into his saddle, and rode off with his gelding at full speed, until he came to Romford. Supposing that the owner would have some particular inn where he put up his horse, and therefore that the horse would know that place, he went after the horse at a small distance.

He no sooner appeared than the ostler, who was standing at the door, exclaimed, “Master! master! here’s Mr. Bartlet’s horse come without him.” Stephen, having discovered the name of the owner of the gelding, said to the innkeeper, “Mr. Bartlet being engaged with some gentlemen at play in Ingatestone, he requests you to send him fifteen guineas, and to keep his horse in pledge in the mean time, until he comes himself in the evening.” “Ay, ay,” replied the innkeeper, “a hundred guineas, if he stood in need of them.” So Bunce, having received the fifteen guineas, prosecuted his journey to London. In a few hours, Mr. Bartlet came puffing and blowing, and covered with perspiration and dust. The innkeeper accosted him, saying, “Oh! dear sir, why need you have sent your gelding, and so put yourself to the trouble of coming in this sultry weather on foot, for the small sum of fifteen guineas, when you might have commanded ten times as much without a pledge?”--“What!” cried the gentleman, “has the fellow, then, brought my gelding hither? A villain! he was pretty honest in that; but I find the rogue has made me pay fifteen guineas for hearing one tune of the fairies.”

Bunce was an industrious man, and frequented the billiard-tables, the cockpits, and every place where he thought that a penny would come in his way. Though his funds often afforded him the means of reformation, he naturally hated virtue and honesty; he, therefore, with redoubled keenness, pursued his depredations. Once, upon foot, he met with a butcher between Paddington and London, who, being a strong, lusty fellow, was not disposed to give his contribution to Bunce without an exchange of blows. The cudgelling commenced, and, though the butcher acted his part well, yet Bunce was victorious. The conqueror, on searching for his spoil, found the immense sum of fourpence in his pockets. “Is this all you have got?” “And too much to lose,” said the butcher. “You villain!” cried Bunce, “if you’d fight at this rate for a groat, what a plague would you have done if you’d had more money?”

This was rather an unfortunate adventure, to have lost so much time and given so many blows for so little; but, returning home, he observed a goldsmith, who was a far richer prize than a butcher, telling a large sum of money in his shop. His eyes instantly sparkled, and his invention awoke. He went into an old shop in the vicinity, and purchased one farthing’s worth of salt. Then, hastening into the goldsmith’s shop, he threw the whole in his eyes; so that while he was rubbing his peepers, and stamping with rage, Bunce went off with about fifty pounds--a tolerable return for the outlay of a farthing.

It is an old proverb, “Lightly come, lightly go.” The same evening, having gone to recreate himself in the company of certain females, he was robbed of twenty pounds, when, in the most furious manner, though to no purpose, he vented his imprecations against all the sex, asserting, that “every woman was a crocodile at ten, a fury at thirty, and a witch at four-score.”

Under the influence of vexatious disappointment, Bunce soon spent the remainder of his fifty pounds, and stern necessity again impelled him to action. Along with one of his trusty companions, he went into a wollen-draper’s shop, just as the good man was about to shut up; and, while he was cheapening a remnant of cloth, his companion stole the key of the shop from its usual resting place; upon which they both went off without making a purchase. Favored by the darkness of the night, they returned, and, without interruption or difficulty, extracted from the shop cloth to the amount of eighty pounds.

Bunce having been afterwards, by an order of the court, sent a soldier into Spain, while there, he and his comrades were one day in great want of victuals, and, having loitered all day about the market-place of Barcelona without finding any thing to remove their hunger, they discovered, in the evening, a countryman returning home on an ass. They followed him, and, having to ascend a steep hill, he alighted and led the ass. Bunce, with his companion, slipped quietly forward, and dexterously removing the bridle from the ass’s head to his own, his comrade went off with the ass, and Bunce trudged after the man upon all-fours. Arrived at the top of the hill, he looked around, and, to his great consternation and amazement, saw his ass transformed into a man.

Stephen, observing his surprise, said, “Dear master, don’t be troubled at this strange alteration that you see in your beast; for, indeed, I was no ass, as you supposed me, but a man, real flesh and blood, as you yourself are: but you must know, that it being my misfortune to commit a sin against the Virgin Mary, she resented it so heinously, that she transformed me into the likeness of an ass for seven years; and now, the time being expired, I resume my proper shape again, and am at my own disposal. However, sir, I return you many thanks for your goodness towards me; for since I have been in your custody, you have put me to no more labor than what I, you, or any other ass, might be able to bear.”

The countryman was greatly surprised at the relation, but was well satisfied, on receiving the grateful thanks of his former ass for the kind treatment he had given him during the period of his degradation. Stephen returned to his comrade, who had made the ass undergo another transmigration into money, so that these two hungry sharks hastened to set their teeth at work, lest they should lose the power of action by long disuse. Meanwhile, the countryman returned to town to purchase another ass to carry him home. But, to his astonishment, the first thing he met with was his own individual ass. Stepping up to the animal, he said, “Oh! I see that you have committed another sin against the Virgin Mary, but I shall take care how I buy you again.”

Bunce was married to a victualler’s daughter in Plymouth, and for some time lived with her with tolerable regularity, making the table roar, and the bowl to foam, and entertaining all the merry beaux of the town, until one of the tars offended Bunce by his politeness. Upon this, he left his young wife, and plunged into all those scenes of debauchery which are the usual attendants of the acquisition of money by unlawful means. In the progress of time his manners became so abandoned and profligate, and his conversation so loose, that he was the abhorrence of all decent persons, and a disgrace to human nature. He was at last detected in his wickedness, and suffered at Tyburn in the year 1707, in company with Dick Low and Jack Hall, whose histories are not of sufficient interest to warrant their insertion in these pages.

JACK OVET.

Jack Ovet was born at Nottingham, and, after serving an apprenticeship to a shoemaker, for some time gained his bread by that industrious and useful employment: but his licentious dispositions inclining him to profligate and abandoned company, he soon took to the highway.

After having purchased a horse, pistols, and every necessary utensil proper to his projected profession, he rode towards London, and on the way robbed a gentleman of twenty pounds. That gentleman, however, not destitute of courage, and unwilling to part with his money, told Ovet, that if he had not taken him unawares, he would not so easily have plundered him of his property. The son of Crispin was not destitute of the essential qualifications of his new profession; he, therefore, replied, that he had already ventured his life for his twenty pounds; “but,” continued he, “here’s your money again, and whoever is the better man, let him win it and wear it.” The proposal being agreed to, and both employing their swords, the gentleman fell, and Ovet had the money.

But having now stained his hands with blood, it was not long before he killed another man in a quarrel. He, however, escaped from justice, and continued his depredations. One day, being greatly in want of money, and meeting one Rogers with some pack-horses, he turned one of them off the way, opened the pack, and extracted about two hundred and eighty guineas, with three dozen of silver knives, forks, and spoons. Then, tying the horse to a tree, he made off with the spoil.

Another time, Jack Ovet, drinking at the Star inn, in the Strand, overheard a soap-boiler contriving with a carrier how he should send a hundred pounds to a friend in the country. At length, it was concluded upon to put the money into a barrel of soap; which project was mightily approved of by the carrier, who answered, “If any rogues should rob my wagon, (which they never did but once,) the devil must be in them if they look for any money in the soap-barrel.” Accordingly, the money and soap were brought to the inn, and next morning the carrier going out of town, Jack overtook him in the afternoon, and commanding him to stop, or otherwise he would shoot him and his horses too, he was obliged to obey the word of command. Then cried the honest highwayman, “I must make bold to borrow a little money out of your wagon; therefore, if you have any, direct me to it, that I may not lose any time, which you know is always precious.” The carrier told him, he had nothing but cumbersome goods in his wagon, that he knew of; however, if he would not believe him, he might search every box and bundle there, if he pleased.

Ovet soon got into the wagon, and threw all the boxes and bundles about, till, at last, he came to the soap-barrel, which feeling somewhat heavy, said he to the carrier, “What do you do with this nasty commodity in your wagon? I’ll fling it away.” So throwing it on the ground, the hoops burst, out flew the head, and the soap spreading abroad, the bag appeared: then jumping out of the wagon and taking it up, said he again, “Is not he that sells this soap a cheating rascal, to put a bag of lead into it to make the barrel weigh heavy? If I knew where he lived, I’d go and tell him my mind. However, that he may not succeed in his roguery, I’ll take it and sell it at the next house I come to, for it will wet one’s whistle to the tune of two or three shillings.”

He was going to ride away, when the carrier cried after him, “Hold, hold, sir! that is not lead in the bag; it is a hundred pounds, for which (if you take it away) I must be accountable.” “No, no!” replied Jack Ovet, “this cannot be money; but if it is, tell the owner that I will be answerable for it if he will come to me.” “Where, sir,” said the carrier, “may one find you?” “Why, truly,” replied Jack, “that is a question soon asked, but not so easily to be answered; the best direction I can give is, it is likely that you may find me in a gaol before night, and then, perhaps, you may have again what I have taken from you, and forty pounds to boot.”

Another time Jack Ovet, meeting with the Worcester stage-coach on the road, in which were several young gentlewomen, he robbed them all; but one of them being a very handsome person, he was struck with admiration, and when he took her money from her, said, “Madam, cast not your eyes down, neither cover your face with those modest blushes; your charms have softened my temper, and I am no longer the man I was; what I have taken from you (through mere necessity at present) is only borrowed; for as no object on earth ever had such an effect on me as you, assure yourself, that, if you please to tell me where I may direct to you, I will, upon honor, make good your loss to the very utmost.” The young gentlewoman told him where he might send to her; and then parting, it was not above a week after that Jack sent a letter to the young lady, who had gained such an absolute conquest over his soul that his mind now ran as much upon love as robbery.