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.
[Illustration: _Arthur Chambers._ P. 151.]
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?”