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.
[Illustration]
WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.
HARTFORD:
PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Claude Du Vall, 7
Sawney Beane, 14
Thomas Wynne, 18
Thomas Witherington, 22
James Batson, 34
Mulled Sack, _alias_ John Cottington, 47
Capt. James Hind, 50
The German Princess, 61
Capt. Dudley, 76
William Nevison, 89
The Golden Farmer, 99
Jonathan Simpson, 104
William Cady, 107
Patrick O’Brian, 114
Thomas Rumbold, 117
Whitney, 134
Tim Buckeley, 144
Tom Jones, 147
Arthur Chambers, 151
Stephen Bunce, 157
Jack Ovet, 164
Tom Dorbel, 169
Dick Adams, 172
William Gettings, 176
Ned Bonnet, 181
Will Ogden and Tom Reynolds, 187
John Price, 190
Jack Shepherd, 194
Richard Turpin, 201
Henry Simms, 216
James Maclaine, 229
Eugene Aram, 245
George Barrington, 260
James Porter, 281
[Illustration: _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 400_l._ 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 200_l._
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 2500_l._; 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
700_l._ 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.