Leicester gaol, put in irons, and strictly guarded; but, in spite of
all the precautions of the county, he effected his escape. One day,
two or three of his trusty friends visited him, one of whom, being a
physician, gave out that he was infected with the plague, and that,
unless he was removed to a larger room, where he might enjoy free air,
he should not only himself perish, but communicate the infection to all
the inhabitants of the gaol. He was instantly removed, and the gaoler’s
wife would not allow her husband to go farther then the door of his
room, for fear of the infection, which afforded Nevison and his friends
time to perfect their scheme. The physician came twice or thrice every
day to see him, and continued to declare his case hopeless. At last a
painter was brought in, who painted all his body with spots, similar
to those that appear upon a person infected with the pestilence. In a
few days after, he received a sleeping draught, and was declared to be
dead. The inquest who sat upon his body were afraid to approach in
order to make a minute inspection, and thus a verdict was returned that
he had died of the plague. His friends now demanded his body, and he
was carried out of prison in a coffin.
This insertion into a coffin only rendered him more callous and daring
in vice. He, with redoubled vigor, renewed his depredations, and,
meeting his carriers and drovers, informed them, that it was necessary
to increase their rents, in order to refund his expenses while in gaol
and his loss of time. It was at first supposed, that it was his ghost,
who carried on the same pranks that he had done in his lifetime. The
truth of this, however, came to be suspected, and the gaoler offered
a reward of 20_l._ to any person who would restore him to his former
domicile.
Resolved to visit the capital, he upon his journey met a company of
canting beggars, pilgrims, and idle vagabonds. Continuing in their
company for some time, and observing the merry life that they pursued,
he took an opportunity to propose himself as a candidate for admission
into their honorable fraternity. Their leader applauded his resolution,
and addressed him in these words:--“Do not we come into the world
arrant beggars, without a rag upon us? And do we not all go out of
the world like beggars, saving only an old sheet over us? Shall we,
then, be ashamed to walk up and down the world like beggars, with old
blankets pinned about us? No! no! that would be a shame to us, indeed.
Have we not the whole kingdom to walk in at our pleasure? Are we
afraid of the approach of quarter-day? Do we walk in fear of sheriffs,
bailiffs, and catchpoles? Who ever knew an arrant beggar arrested for
debt? Is not our meat dressed in every man’s kitchen? Does not every
man’s cellar afford us beer? And the best men’s purses keep a penny for
us to spend?” Having, by these words, as he thought, fully fixed him
in love with begging, he then acquainted the company with Nevison’s
desire, in consequence of which they were all very joyful, being as
glad to add one to their society, as a Mussulman to obtain a proselyte.
The first question they asked him was, if he had any _loure_ in his
_bung_. Nevison stared on them, not knowing what they meant; till at
last, one informed him it was money in his purse. He told them he had
but eighteen pence, which he gave them freely. This, by a general vote,
was condemned to be spent in a booze for his initiation. They then
commanded him to kneel down, which being done, one of the chief of them
took a _gage_ of _booze_, which is a quart of drink, and poured the
same on his head, saying, “I do, by virtue of this sovereign liquor,
install thee in the Roage, and make thee a free denizen of our ragged
regiment. So that henceforth it shall be lawful for thee to cant, only
observing these rules:--First, that thou art not to wander up and down
all countries, but to keep to that quarter that is allotted thee; and,
secondly, thou art to give way to any of us that have borne all the
offices of the wallet before; and, upon holding up a finger, to avoid
any town or country village, where thou seest we are foraging for
victuals for our army that march along with us. Observing these two
rules, we take thee into our protection, and adopt thee a brother of
our numerous society.”
The leader having ended his oration, Nevison rose up, and was
congratulated by all the company’s hanging about him, like so
many dogs about a bear, and making such a hideous noise, that the
chief, commanding silence, addressed him as follows:--“Now that
thou art entered into our fraternity, thou must not scruple to act
any villanies, whether it be to cut a purse, steal a cloak-bag,
or portmanteau, convey all manner of things, whether a chicken,
sucking-pig, duck, goose, or hen, or to steal a shirt from the
hedge; for he that will be a _quier cove_, (a professed rogue) must
observe these rules. And because thou art but a novice in begging,
and understandest not the mysteries of the canting language, thou
shalt have a wife to be thy companion, by whom thou mayest receive
instructions.” And thereupon, he singled him out a girl of about
seventeen years of age, which tickled his fancy very much: but he must
presently be married to her after the fashion of their _patrico_, who,
amongst beggars, is their priest. Whereupon the ceremony was performed
after this manner:--
They took a hen, and, having cut off the head of it, laid the dead body
on the ground, placing Nevison on the one side, and his intended on the
other; this being done, the priest, standing by, with a loud voice bade
them live together till death did them part; then shaking hands, and
kissing each other, the ceremony of the wedding was over, and the whole
group appeared intoxicated with joy. Night approaching, and all their
money being spent, they betook themselves to a barn not far off, where
they broached a hogshead, and went to sleep.
Nevison, having met with this odd piece of diversion in his journey,
slipped out of the barn when all were asleep, took a horse, and posted
directly away. But, coming to London, he found there was too much noise
about him to permit him to tarry there: he therefore returned into
the country, and fell to his old pranks again. Several who had been
formerly robbed by him, happening to meet him, imagined that his ghost
walked abroad, having heard the report of his pestilential death in
Leicester gaol. In short, his crimes became so notorious, that a reward
was offered to any that would apprehend him: this made many waylay him,
especially two brothers, named Fletcher, one of whom Nevison shot dead;
but, going into a little village about thirteen miles from York, he was
taken by captain Hardcastle, and sent to York gaol, where, on the 15th
March 1684, he was tried, condemned, and executed, aged forty-five.
[Illustration: _The Golden Farmer._ P. 99.]
THE GOLDEN FARMER.
This man’s real name was William Davis, a native of North Wales, but
he obtained the title of _Golden Farmer_ from his custom of paying any
considerable sum in gold. He was born in the year 1626. At an early
period of life he removed to Sudbury, in Gloucestershire, where he took
a farm, married the daughter of a wealthy innkeeper, by whom he had
eighteen children, and followed that industrious employment merely to
disguise the real character of a robber, which he sustained without
suspicion for the space of forty-two years. He usually robbed alone.
One day, meeting some stage-coaches, he stopped one of them, full of
ladies, all of whom complied with his demands, except a Quaker, who
vowed she had no money, nor any thing valuable about her: upon which,
fearing lest he should lose the booty of the other coaches, he told
her he would go and see what they could afford him, and return to her
again. Having rifled the other three coaches, he was as good as his
word; and the Quaker, persisting in her former statement, enraged
the Farmer to such a degree, that, seizing her by the shoulder, and
employing language which it would be hardly proper here to set down,
he so scared the poor Quaker, as to cause her to produce a purse of
guineas, a gold watch, and a diamond ring. Whereupon, they parted as
good friends as when they were first introduced to each other.
Upon another occasion, our desperado met the duchess of Albemarle in
her coach, as she was riding over Salisbury Plain; but he encountered
greater difficulty in this case than he had contemplated. Before he
could assault the lady he was compelled to engage a postilion, the
coachman, and two footmen; but, having disabled them all by discharging
several pistols, he approached his prey, whom he found more refractory
than the female Quaker. Perceiving another person of quality’s coach
approaching, with a retinue of servants, he was fain to content himself
by pulling three diamond rings from her fingers by force, snatching a
rich gold watch from her side, and venting a portion of abuse upon her
obstinate ladyship.
It was not very long after this exploit, that our adventurer met with
Sir Thomas Day, a justice of the peace, living at Bristol. They fell
into discourse, and, riding along, the Golden Farmer informed his new
acquaintance, that a little while before, he had narrowly escaped
being robbed by a couple of highwaymen, but, luckily, his horse having
better heels than theirs, he had got clear of them. “Truly,” said Sir
Thomas, “that had been very hard: but, nevertheless, as you would have
been robbed between sun and sun, the county, upon suing it, would
have been obliged to make your loss good.” Thus, chatting together,
and coming to a convenient place, the Golden Farmer shot Sir Thomas’s
man’s horse under him, and, compelling him to retire to a distance,
presented a pistol to the knight’s heart, and demanded his money. “I
thought, sir,” said Sir Thomas, “that you had been an honest man.”
“Your worship is mistaken,” cried the Farmer; “and if you had had any
skill in physiognomy, you might have perceived that my countenance is
the very picture of necessity; so deliver me presently, for I’m in
haste.” Sir Thomas, therefore, being constrained to give him the money
he had about him, which was about 60_l._ in gold and silver, the other
humbly thanked his worship, and told him, that what he had parted with
was not lost, because he had been robbed between sun and sun, and could
therefore come upon the county.
One Mr. Hart, a young gentleman of Enfield, who, it appears, possessed
a good estate, but was not overburdened with brains, riding one day
over Finchley Common, where the Golden Farmer had been for some hours
hunting for prey, was met by him, and saluted with a smart slap with
the flat of his drawn hanger upon his shoulders: “A plague on you!”
said the Farmer; “how slow you are, to make a man wait upon you all the
morning: come, deliver what you have, and go to the devil for orders!”
The young gentleman, rather surprised at this novel greeting, began
to make several excuses, saying he had no money about him: but his
incredulous antagonist took the liberty of searching him, and, finding
about him above a hundred guineas, he bestowed upon him two or three
farther slaps on the shoulders, telling him, at the same time, not to
give his mind to lying in future, when an honest gentleman required a
small gratuity from him.
Another time, this notorious robber having paid his landlord about
80_l._ for rent, the latter, going home with it, was accosted by his
goodly tenant in disguise, who, bidding him stand, said:--“Come, Mr.
Gravity, deliver what you have in a trice!” The old gentleman, fetching
a deep sigh, to the hazard of displacing several buttons from his
waistcoat, told him, that he had not above two shillings about him,
and hoped, therefore, he was more a gentleman than to take so small a
matter from a poor man. “I have no faith,” replied the Farmer; “for
you seem, by your habit to be a man of better circumstances than you
pretend; therefore, open your budget, or I shall fall foul of you.”
“Dear sir,” cried the landlord, “you can’t be so barbarous to an old
man. What! have you no religion, pity, or compassion in you? Have you
no conscience? Have you no respect for your body or soul?” “Don’t talk
of age or barbarity to me,” said the tenant, “for I show neither pity
nor compassion to any body. Talk of conscience to me! I have no more of
that dull commodity than you have; therefore, deliver every thing you
have about you, before this pistol makes you repent your obstinacy.”
The landlord being thus threatened, delivered his money, without
receiving a receipt for it, although he had given one to the Farmer.
An old grazier at Putney Heath was the next victim to the avaricious
Farmer. Having accosted him on the road, he informed him that there
were some suspicious persons behind them, whom he suspected to be
highwaymen; and, if that should be the case, he begged that he would
conceal ten guineas for him, which would be safer with him, from the
meanness of his apparel. He accepted the charge, and said, that as
he himself had fifty guineas bound in the lappet of his shirt, he
would deposit them along with his own. In a short time, the Farmer
said,--“It does not appear that any person will run the risk of his
neck by robbing you to-day; it will, therefore, be as well that I do so
myself.” Without any farther preamble, therefore, he demanded of him,
instead of delivering up his purse, to cut off the lappet of his shirt;
but, declining to comply with his request, the Farmer put himself to
the trouble of lightening the fore-garment of the grazier.
Squire Broughton, a gentleman of the Middle Temple, was the succeeding
prey of the Golden Farmer. Happening to meet at an inn upon the road,
the Farmer pretended to be on his way to the capital, concerning
an offence that a neighboring farmer had committed against him, by
allowing his cattle to break into his grounds. Meanwhile, he requested
that squire Broughton would recommend him to an expert and faithful
agent to conduct his cause. Like every other lawyer, Broughton was
desirous to have him for a client, and proceeded to explain the nature
of his cause. Having spent the night at the inn, they proceeded next
morning on their journey, when the Farmer addressed the counsellor,
saying, “Pray, sir, what is meant by trover and conversion in the law
of England?” He replied, that it signified, in our common law, an
action which one man has against another, who, having found any of his
goods, refuses to deliver them up on demand, and perhaps converts them
to his own use.
The Golden Farmer being now at a place convenient for his purpose,
“Very well, then, sir,” said he, “should I find any money about you,
and convert it to my use, it is only actionable, I find.” “That is a
robbery,” said the barrister, “which requires no less a satisfaction
than a man’s life.” “A robbery!” replied the Golden Farmer; “why,
then, I must commit _one_ in my time:” and presenting his pistol, he
instantly demanded his money or his life. Surprised at his client’s
rough behavior, the lawyer began to remonstrate in strong terms upon
the impropriety of his conduct, urging, that it was both contrary
to law and to conscience. His eloquent pleading, however, made no
impression upon the mind of the Farmer, who, putting a pistol to his
breast, compelled the lawyer to deliver his money, amounting to the sum
of 40_l._, some large pieces of gold, and a gold watch.
One day, accosting a tinker upon the road, whom he knew to have 7_l._
or 8_l._ upon him, he said, “Well, brother tinker, you seem to be very
decent, for your life is a continual pilgrimage, and, in humility, you
go almost barefooted, making necessity a virtue.” “Ay, master,” replied
the tinker, “necessity compels when the devil drives, and, had you
no more than I, you would do the same.” “That might be,” replied the
Farmer, “and I suppose you march all over England.” “Yes,” said the
tinker, “I go a great deal of ground, but not so much as you ride.”
“Be this as it will. I suppose that your conversation is unblamable,
because you are continually mending.” “I wish,” replied the tinker,
“that as much could be said in commendation of your character.” The
Farmer replied, that he was not like him, who would rather steal than
beg, in defiance of whips or imprisonment. Determined to have the
last word of the Farmer, the tinker rejoined, “I would have you to
know, that I take a great deal of pains for a livelihood.” The Farmer,
equally loquacious, replied, “I know that you are such an enemy to
idleness, that, rather than want work, you will make three holes in
mending one.” “That may be,” said the honest tinker, “but I begin to
wish that there were a greater distance between us, as I do neither
love your conversation nor appearance.” “I am equally ready to say the
same of you; for, though you are entertained in every place, yet you
are seldom permitted to enter the door of any dwelling.” The tinker
repeated his strong suspicions of the Farmer. “Nor shall it be without
cause!” exclaimed he; “therefore, open your wallet, and deliver the
money that is there.” Here their dialogue being about to close, the
tinker entreated that he would not rob him, as he was above a hundred
miles from home: but the Golden Farmer, being indifferent to all the
consequences of the loss of the other’s property, seized both his
wallet and his money, and left the poor tinker to renew his journey and
his toils.
This famous highwayman had only a few more acts of violence to
perform. His actions and character being now universally known, many
a hue-and-cry was sent after him, and conspired to his overthrow. He
was seized and imprisoned, tried, and condemned. He spent his time in
prison in the same merry way in which his former life had been passed,
and a violent death terminated his wicked course on the 20th December
1689.
JONATHAN SIMPSON.
This man was the son of a respectable gentleman in Launceston, in
Cornwall, and put an apprentice to a linen-draper. After serving his
time with great approbation, his father gave him 1500_l._ to commence
business for himself.
He had not been a year in business when he married a merchant’s
daughter, and received with her 2000_l._ of portion. Such an accession
to his wealth enabled him to extend his business, and to conduct it
with ease. But money cannot procure happiness. The affections of the
young lady had been gained by a man of less fortune, and, to please
her father, she had given her hand where she could not bestow her
heart; and, though married to another, she continued in a degree of
familiarity with her former lover that excited her husband’s jealousy,
the most violent of all the passions.
In a short time, after having lived in a very unhappy manner, Simpson
took the opportunity to sell all off, and, having shut up shop, went
away with what money he could raise, determined no longer to remain in
Bristol. He was now possessed of about 5000_l._ but his expenses were
so extravagant, that this large sum was soon exhausted. He then went to
the highway, committed a robbery, was apprehended, and would certainly
have been hanged, had not some of his rich relations procured a
reprieve. The difficulty of obtaining it may be guessed from the fact,
that it arrived at Tyburn just when the rope was about his neck. Such
was his obduracy, that, when returning to Newgate behind one of the
sheriff’s men, the latter asked him what he thought of a reprieve when
he was come to the gallows. “No more than I thought of my dying day.”
When he came to the prison-door, the turnkey refused to receive him,
saying, that he was sent to be executed, and that he was discharged
of him, and would not permit him to enter without a new warrant. Upon
which Simpson exclaimed, “What an unhappy cast-off dog am I, that both
Tyburn and Newgate should in one day refuse to entertain me! Well,
I’ll mend my manners for the future, and try whether I can’t merit a
reception at them both, next time I am brought thither.”
He immediately recommenced his operations, and one day robbed a
gentleman of a purse full of counters, which he supposed were gold.
He kept them in his pockets, always anxiously looking out for his
benefactor. About four months after, he met him upon Bagshot heath,
riding in a coach: “Sir,” said he, “I believe you made a mistake the
last time I had the happiness of seeing you, in giving these pieces.
I have been troubled ever since, lest you should have wanted them at
cards, and am glad of this opportunity to return them; only, for my
care, I require you to come this moment out of your coach, and give
me your breeches, that I may search them at leisure, and not trust
any more to your generosity, lest you should mistake again.” A pistol
enforced his demand, and Simpson found a gold watch, a gold snuff-box,
and ninety-eight guineas, with five jacobuses.
At another time, he robbed lord Delamere of three hundred and fifty
guineas. He was almost unequalled in his depredations: in one day he
robbed nineteen different people, and took above 200_l._; and, in
the space of six weeks, committed forty robberies in the county of
Middlesex. He even ventured to attack the duke of Berwick, and took
from him articles to a very great value.
But wickedness has a boundary over which it cannot pass. Simpson
attacked two captains of the guards: a strong struggle ensued: his
horse was shot under him, and he was wounded in both arms and one of
his legs before he was taken. He was sent to Newgate, and now found
that he was not refused entrance: and he soon also discovered, that
Tyburn was equally ready to receive him. His execution took place on
the 8th September 1686.
WILLIAM CADY.
This gentleman was a native of Norfolk county, and the son of an
eminent surgeon. After the preparatory steps of education, William went
to the University of Cambridge, and was tutor to lord Townshend. He was
during that time made bachelor of arts, and continued to pursue his
studies until deprived of his father by death.
The loss of a prudent father to a young man, forms a remarkable era in
his life. If he is left with an ample fortune, he has then the means of
gratifying his wishes, whether in the field of benevolence or in that
of dissipation: and though left with no fortune, yet he is then at full
liberty to follow his ruling inclination. Upon the intelligence of his
father’s death, William went to London and began to practise medicine.
His first patient was his own uncle, who, being dangerously affected
with an imposthume, was cured by him in the following manner:--
When he entered his uncle’s bedchamber, his first care was to examine
the state of the old gentleman’s stomach: for this purpose he ranged
about the room, overturning every plate and dish, to discover what had
been given him to eat. He at last discovered an old saddle, which he
thought would answer for the intended experiment. Upon seeing this he
cried out, “Uncle, your case is very desperate!”--“Not so bad, I hope,”
said the uncle, “as to make me past remedy.”--“Heaven knows that,”
cried Cady, “but a surfeit is a terrible thing, and I perceive that you
have got a violent one.”--“A surfeit!” said the old gentleman; “you
mistake, nephew; it is an imposthume that I am affected with.”--“The
deuce it is!” replied Cady; “why, I could have sworn it had been a
surfeit, for I perceive you have eaten a whole horse, and left us only
the saddle!” At this he held up the saddle; and the old gentleman fell
into such a fit of laughter as instantly broke his imposthume, so that
he became quite well in less than a fortnight.
This is not the only instance of a disease of this nature being cured
by a fit of laughter; and it is certainly an agreeable mode of being
relieved of a painful and dangerous malady.
A cardinal at Padua, who was at the point of death, under the influence
of this distemper, being past all hopes of recovery, his servants had
begun to pillage his house, and even to make free with the hangings of
his own bed. An ape, in the midst of this bustle, seized a nightcap
that lay near, fixed it upon his head, and made so many and such
curious tricks, that his reverence fell into a fit of laughter, and
broke the imposthume, to the preservation of his life and property.