smaller matter of pilfering. In the dress of a porter he one evening
went into the house of a doctor of medicine, took down a rich bed, and
packed it up. In carrying it off he fell down stairs, and had almost
broken his neck. The noise alarming the old doctor and his son, they
came running to see what was the matter; whereupon Gettings, puffing
and blowing as if he was quite out of breath, perceiving them nearer
than they should be, said to the doctor, “Is not your name so and
so?”--“Yes,” replied the doctor; “and what then?”--“Why, then, sir,”
said Gettings, “there’s one Mr. Hugh Hen and Penhenribus has ordered
me to bring these goods hither (which have almost broken my back,)
and carry them away to a new lodging, which he has taken somewhere
hereabouts.”--“Mr. Hugh Hen and Penhenribus!” replied the doctor again:
“pray, who’s he? for, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t know such a
gentleman.”--“I can’t tell,” said Gettings, “but, indeed, the gentleman
knows you, and ordered me to leave the goods here.” “I don’t care,”
said the doctor, “how well he knows me! I tell you I’ll not take the
people’s goods, unless they were here themselves; therefore, I say,
carry them away!”--“Nay, pray sir,” said Gettings, “let me leave the
goods here, for I am quite weary already in bringing them hither.”--“I
tell you,” replied the doctor, “there shall none be left here;
therefore take them away, or I’ll throw them into the street!”--“Well,
well,” said Gettings, “I’ll take the goods away then; but I’m sure
the gentleman will be very angry, because he ordered me to leave them
here.”--“I don’t care,” replied the doctor, “for his anger, nor your’s
either! I tell you, I’ll take no charge of other people’s goods, unless
they are here themselves to put them into my custody!”--“Very well,
sir,” said Gettings, “since I must carry them away, I beg the favor of
you and the gentleman there to lift them on my back.”--“Ay, ay, with
all my heart,” replied the doctor. “Come, son, and lend a hand to lift
them on the fellow’s back.”
Scarcely was William gone, when the doctor’s wife coming home from
the market, and going into the room, saw the bed taken down, and came
running in a great passion to her husband, exclaiming, “Why, truly,
this is a most strange business, that I can never stir out of doors,
but you must be making some whimsical alteration or other in the
house!”--“What’s the matter,” replied the doctor, “with the woman? Are
you beside yourself?”--“No,” said the wife, “but truly you are, in thus
altering things as you do, almost every moment!” “Certainly, my dear,”
replied the doctor, “you must have been spending your market-penny, or
else you would not talk at this rate, as you do, of alterations, when
not the smallest have been made since you have gone out.”--“I am not
blind, I think,” retorted the wife, “for I am sure the bed is taken out
of the two-pair-of-stairs back room; and pray, husband, where do you
design to put it now?” The doctor and his son then went up-stairs, and
not only found that the bed was stolen, but that they had assisted the
thief to carry it off.
Our hero next resolved to try his fortune upon the highway, and
meeting with a sharper on the road, commanded him to “stand and
deliver!” He robbed him of two pence half-penny, when the sharper
remarked, that “the world was come indeed to a very sad pass, when one
rogue must prey upon another.”
He next robbed a man of twelve shillings and a pair of silver buckles.
From thence he proceeded to rifle a stage-coach, and took away some
money and a silver watch. Not long after, he robbed Mr. Dashwood and
his lady of a gold watch and money.
These, however, were only smaller exhibitions of his dexterity. One
evening, well mounted, he passed through Richmond, and perceiving a
gentleman walking in his gardens, inquired of the gardener if he might
be permitted to view the gardens, of which he had heard so much.
The gardener, well acquainted with the harmless vanity and benevolence
of his master, granted his request. Giving his horse to the gardener,
Gettings walked forward, and in a very respectful manner accosted
the gentleman, who received him very courteously; when, sitting down
together in an arbor, Gettings said, “Your worship has got a fine
diamond ring upon your finger.”--“Yes,” replied the owner, “it ought to
be a very fine one, for it cost me a very fine price.”--“Why, then,”
said Gettings, “it is the fitter to bestow on a friend; therefore, if
your worship pleases, I must make bold to take it and wear it for your
sake.” The gentleman stared at his impudence, but Gettings presenting
a pistol, made a short process of the matter. Having taken the ring,
the villain added, “I am sure you do not go without a good watch too.”
Making free with that also, and some guineas, he bound the gentleman,
and went off with his booty, after requesting him to be patient, and he
would send some person to set him at liberty. When he came to the gate,
he gave the gardener a shilling, informing him that Sir James wanted to
speak to him. The botanical retainer accordingly went and untied his
master, who with a grim smile returned him thanks for sending a man
into his own garden to rob him.
Upon another day, Gettings undertook a long journey, for the express
purpose of robbing the house of a friend; and being well acquainted
with all parts of the house, was successful, and brought off money,
plate, and goods, to a considerable amount. He at last, in an unlucky
moment, robbed a Mr. Harrison of four guineas, some silver, and a
watch; and being detected, was tried, condemned, and executed, on the
25th September, 1713, in the twenty-second year of his age.
NED BONNET.
Edward Bonnet was born of respectable parents in the isle of Ely,
in Cambridgeshire, received an education superior to many of his
companions, and when he was only ten years old, gave the following
proof of his promising genius. He was sent to the parson with the
present of a sparerib of pork, wrapped up in a cloth in a basket. Ned
knocked with some degree of importance at the door, which a servant
answered, inquiring his business. “I want to speak with your master.”
The master came. “Well, my dear, what is your business?” “Why, only my
father has sent you this,” said young Ned; and gave him the basket,
without moving his hat. “O fie! fie! child, have you no manners? you
should pull off your hat, and say,--Sir, my father gives his service to
you, and desires you to accept this small token. Come, go you out again
with the basket, and knock at the door, and I’ll let you in, and see
how prettily you can perform it.” The parson waited within until his
impatience to receive and examine the contents of the basket incited
him to open the door. But Ned was at a considerable distance, walking
off with the present. “So ho! so ho, sirrah! where are you going?”
“Home, sir,” replied Ned, in an equally loud voice. “Hey, but you must
come back and do as I bade you first.” “Thank you for that, sir, I know
better than that; and if you teach me manners, I’ll teach you wit.” The
father smiled at the story, and retained his sparerib.
At the age of fifteen, Bonnet was sent apprentice to a grocer, served
his time with credit, was afterwards married to a young woman in the
neighborhood, and continued in business until he had acquired about
six hundred pounds. Unfortunately, however, he was reduced to poverty
by an accidental fire. Unable to answer the pressing demands of his
creditors, he left the place, and came up to London. Here he soon
became acquainted with a band of highwaymen, and began with them to
seek from the highway what had been lost by fire.
Nor did he long continue in the inferior walks of his new profession,
but providing himself with a horse which he taught to leap over ditch,
hedge, or toll-bar, and to know all the roads in the country, whether
by day or by night, he quickly became the terror of Cambridgeshire.
Upon this horse, he one day met a Cantabrigian, who was possessed
of more money than good sense, morality, or wit, in a calash with a
dashing courtesan. Ned commanded the student to “stand and deliver.”
Unwilling to show his cowardice before his companion, he refused.
Without any respect for the venerable university to which he belonged,
Ned by violence took from him about six pounds, and presenting a
pair of pistols, constrained the hopeful pair to strip themselves,
then bound them together, and giving the horse a lashing, the animal
went off at full trot with them to the inn to which he belonged. But
no sooner did these Adamites enter the town, than men, women, and
children, came hallooing, shouting, and collecting the whole town
to behold such an uncommon spectacle. The student was expelled for
disgracing the university, and the courtesan was sent to the house of
correction.
Humorous Ned next met with a tailor and his son, who had arrested
him for five pounds. He commanded him to surrender, and received
thirty-five in place of his five. “I wonder,” said the innocent son,
“what these fellows think of themselves? Surely they must go to the
place below for committing these notorious actions.” “God forbid,”
replied the tailor, “for to have the conversation of such rogues there,
would be worse than all the rest.”
Ned’s next adventure was with an anabaptist preacher, whom he commanded
to deliver up his purse and scrip. The latter began by reasonings,
ejaculations, and texts, to avert the impending evil. Ned instantly put
himself in a great passion, and replied, “Pray, sir, keep your breath
to cool your porridge, and don’t talk of religious matters to me, for
I’ll have you to know, that, like all other true-bred gentlemen, I
believe nothing at all of religion; therefore deliver me your money,
and bestow your laborious cant upon your female auditors, who never
scold with their maids without cudgelling them with broken pieces of
scripture.” Whereupon, taking a watch and eight guineas, he tied his
legs under his horse, and let him depart.
On another occasion, Bonnet and a few associates met a nobleman and
four servants in a narrow pass, one side of which was enclosed by a
craggy and shattered rock, and the other by an almost impenetrable
wood, rising gradually considerably higher than the road, and accosted
them in his usual style. The nobleman pretended that he supposed they
were only in jest, and said, “that if they would accompany him to the
next inn, he would give them a handsome treat.” He was soon informed
that they preferred the present to the future. A sharp dispute ensued,
but the nobleman and his men were conquered; and the lord was robbed of
a purse of gold, a gold watch, a gold snuff-box, and a diamond ring.
Being conducted into the adjacent wood, and bound hand and foot, the
robbers left them, saying, “that they would bring them more company
presently.” Accordingly, they were as good as their word, for in less
than two hours they contrived to increase the number to twelve, on
which Ned cried, “There are now twelve of you, all good men and true;
so bidding you farewell, you may give in your verdict against us as
you please, when we are gone, though it will be none of the best; but
to give us as little trouble as possible, we shall not now stay to
challenge any of you. So, once more, farewell.”
Ned Bonnet and his comrades now going to the place of rendezvous, to
make merry with what they had got, which was at a by sort of an inn
standing somewhat out of the high-road between Stamford and Grantham,
it happened at night to rain very hard, so that one Mr. Randal, a
pewterer, living near Marygold alley in the Strand, before it was burnt
down, was obliged to put in there for shelter. Calling for a pot of
ale, on which was the innkeeper’s name, which was also Randal, the
pewterer asked him, being his namesake, to sit and bear him company.
They had not been long chatting, before Ned and one of his comrades
came down stairs and placed themselves at the same table; and
understanding the name of the stranger, one of the rogues, fixing his
eyes more intently than ordinary upon him, in a fit of seeming joy
leaped over the table, and embracing the pewterer, exclaimed, “Dear Mr.
Randal! who would have thought to have seen you here? it is ten years,
I think, since I had the happiness to be acquainted with you.”
Whilst the pewterer was recollecting whether he could call this spark
to mind or not, for it came not into his memory that he had ever
seen him in his life, the highwayman again cried out, “Alas! Mr.
Randal, I see now I am much altered, since you have forgotten me.”
Here, being arrived at a _ne plus ultra_, up started Ned, and with as
great apparent joy said to his companion, “Is this, Harry, the honest
gentleman in London, whom you so often used to praise for his great
civility and liberality to all people? Surely then we are very happy
in meeting thus accidentally with him.”
By this discourse they would almost have persuaded Mr. Randal that
they perfectly knew him; but being sensible of the contrary, he very
seriously assured them that he could not remember that he had ever
seen any of them in his life. “No!” said they, struck with seeming
astonishment; “it is strange we should be altered so much within these
few years.”
But to evade further ill-timed questions, the rogues insisted upon
Mr. Randal’s supping with them, which invitation he was by no means
permitted to decline.
By the time they had supped, in came four more of Ned’s comrades, who
were invited also to sit down, and more provisions were called for,
which were quickly brought, and as rapidly devoured.
When the fury of consuming half a dozen good fowls and other victuals
was over, besides several flasks of wine, there was not less than three
pounds odd money to pay. At this they stared on each other, and held a
profound silence, whilst Mr. Randal was fumbling in his pocket. When
they saw that he only brought forth a mouse from the mountain of money
the thieves hoped to find piled in his pocket, which was only as much
as his share, he that pretended to know him started up, and protested
he should be excused for old acquaintance sake; but the pewterer, not
willing to be beholden, as indeed they never intended he should, to
such companions, lest for this civility they should expect greater
obligations from him, pressed them to accept his dividend of the
reckoning, saying, if they thought it equitable he would pay more.
At last one of them, tipping the wink, said, “Come, come, what needs
all this ado? Let the gentleman, if he so pleases, present us with this
small treat, and do you give him a larger at his taking his farewell in
the morning.” Mr. Randal not liking this proposal, it was started that
he and Ned should throw dice to end the controversy; and fearing he had
got into ill company, to avoid mischief, Randal acquiesced to throw a
main who should pay the whole shot, which was so managed that the lot
fell upon Randal. By this means Randal, having the voice of the whole
board against him, was deputed to pay the whole reckoning; though the
dissembling villains vowed and protested they had rather it had fallen
to any of them, that they might have had the honor of treating him.
Mr. Randal concealed his discontent at these shirking tricks as well
as he could; and they perceiving he would not engage in gaming, but
counterfeited drowsiness, and desired to be abed, the company broke
up, and he was shown to his lodgings, which he barricaded as well as
he could, by putting old chairs, stools, and tables against the door.
Going to bed and putting the candle out, he fell asleep; but was soon
awaked by a strange walking up and down the room, and an outcry of
murder and thieves.
At this surprising noise he leaped out of bed, and ran to the door, to
see whether it was fast or not: and finding nothing removed, (for the
highwaymen came into his chamber by a trap-door which was behind the
hangings,) he wondered how the noise should be there in his apartment,
unless it was enchanted; but as he was about to remove the barricade
to run and raise the house, he was surrounded by a crew, who, tying
and gagging him, took away all his clothes, and left him to shift for
himself as well as he could.
One day having the misfortune to have his horse shot under him, Bonnet
embraced the first opportunity to take a good gelding from the grounds
of the man who kept the Red Lion inn. Being again equipped like a
gentleman, he rode into Cambridgeshire, and met with a gentleman, who
informed him that he had well nigh been robbed, and requested him to
ride along with him for protection. As a highwayman is never out of his
way, he complied, and, at a convenient place, levied a contribution, as
protector of the gentleman, by emptying his pockets of eighty guineas.
He, however, had the generosity to give him half-a-crown to carry him
to the next town.
After having, according to computation, committed three hundred
robberies, another thief, being apprehended, in order to save his
own life, informed against Bonnet, who was apprehended, not upon the
highway, but in his own lodgings, and sent to Newgate, and at the next
assizes carried down to Cambridge, sentenced and executed before the
castle, on the 28th March, 1713, to the great joy of the county, which
had suffered severely by his depredations.
WILL OGDEN AND TOM REYNOLDS.
The first of these was a waterman, and born in Southwark. The second
was a dung-bargeman, and born in Barnaby street. Entering into
company, they robbed shops and ships, during the space of two years,
with considerable success: they then ascended to the second degree of
robbery, and broke several houses in Southwark. Associating themselves
with another, they broke into a watchmaker’s shop, and extracted
twenty-six watches; but the stranger becoming evidence, our two trusty
friends were lodged in Newgate, tried, and condemned, but received a
pardon, in consequence of which they were again let loose upon the
community. Ogden one evening met a parson walking home under the light
of the moon, and approached him in the character of a seaman in great
poverty and distress. His dismal narrative excited the compassion of
the parson, who gave him a sixpence. The parson had not proceeded far
when Ogden met him again, and renewed his request. “You are the most
impudent beggar that ever I met with,” cried the reverend gentleman.
Ogden told him that he was in very great want, and that the sixpence he
had received would not supply his necessities. He then gave him half
a crown. Ogden said, “These are very sad times, for there’s horrid
robbing abroad, therefore, if you have any more money about you, you
may as well let me have it as another, who perhaps may abuse you, and
binding you hand and foot, make you lie in the cold all night; but if
you’ll give me your money, I’ll take care of you, and conduct you very
safely home.”
The parson made a virtue of necessity, and gave him all his money,
which was about forty shillings. Ogden then said, “I see you have a
watch, sir; you may as well let me have that too.” The parson complied,
and as they were plodding along, two or three fellows came out upon
them, to whom Ogden cried, “The moon shines bright,” and they let
them proceed. They had only gone a short way, when the same scene was
repeated, but at last the parson was brought safely to his own door. He
requested his guide to go in, assuring him that he should receive no
injury; but the latter declined his offer. The good parson then brought
a bottle of wine, and drinking to Ogden, gave him the bottle and the
glass to help himself, upon which he ran off with both.
Upon another day, meeting Beau Medlicote, he was commanded to “stand
and deliver.” The beau pretended to make some resistance with his
sword, but pistols being produced, he was constrained to yield. There
were only two half-crowns found in his pocket, and one of them was
bad. Upon this he received a complete caning for presuming to carry
counterfeit money.
Some time after this, Ogden and Reynolds, in company with one Bradshaw,
the grandson of serjeant Bradshaw, who condemned king Charles the First
to death, were watching in a wood for some booty. A poor servant girl
was returning home from her service, with a box upon her head. Bradshaw
was deemed a sufficient match for her; accordingly, he alone rushed out
of the wood and seized her box, in which were her clothes and fifteen
shillings, being all her wages for three months’ service. When he had
broken up her box and was rifling it, there happening to be a hammer
in it, she suddenly seized the hammer, and gave him a blow upon the
temples, which was followed by another equally well directed, with the
claw of the hammer, into his windpipe, on which the villain instantly
expired.
In a short time a gentleman came up, to whom she related the whole
adventure; he went up to the deceased, and found in his pockets
eighty guineas, with a whistle. Perceiving its use, he immediately
whistled, when Ogden and Reynolds in a moment rushed from the wood;
but discovering that it was a wrong person who gave the signal, they
with equal speed ran back. The gentleman carried the girl before a
magistrate, became bail for her appearance; and being tried, she was
acquitted.
At another time, these two men met a tallyman, well known for his
commerce of two kinds with the hawkers of St. Giles’-in-the-Fields.
They employed the common phrase “Stand and deliver!” In a piteous tone
the victim entreated them to spare a poor man who was at great pains to
acquire his daily bread. In a violent passion Ogden exclaimed, “Thou
spawn of hell! have pity on thee? No, sirrah! I know you too well, and
I would almost as soon be kind to a bailiff or an informing constable.
A tallyman and a rogue are terms of similar import. Every Friday you
set up a tenter in the Marshalsea court, upon which you rack and
stretch poor prisoners, like English broadcloth, beyond the staple of
the wool, till the threads crack, which causes them upon the least wet
to shrink, and presently wear threadbare. I say that you and all your
calling are worse rogues than ever were hanged at Tyburn.” After this
eloquent harangue, he took whatever he found upon him, stripped him
naked, bound him hand and foot, and left him under a hedge to ruminate
on his former villanies.
These rogues were great cronies of Thomas Jones and John Richardson,
the one butler, the other footman, to a gentleman living at Eltham.
These fellows having one day robbed a gentleman on Blackheath, left
him bound by the roadside. Their master coming past a few hours after,
relieved the unfortunate gentleman, took him to his own house, and
gave him a glass of wine to recruit his spirits. The butler no sooner
appeared, than the gentleman knew him, and instantly charged him with
the robbery. His master was astonished, and could scarcely credit the
report; but the other describing the horse upon which he rode, and the
person who was along with him, he found that he was one of his footmen.
The two servants being examined, and acknowledging the fact, were
committed, tried, and suffered the punishment due to their crimes.
Ogden and Reynolds continued their depredations until justice at length
overtook them, and at Kingston-upon-Thames they were sentenced. They
were unsuccessful in attempting to break out of the Stock-house; and
such was the indifference of Ogden, that when he was going to the place
of execution, he threw a handful of money among the crowd, saying,
“Gentlemen, here is poor Will’s farewell.”
They were executed on the 2d of April, 1714.
JOHN PRICE.
The depravity of human nature was exemplified in its full extent in the
character of John Price. The indigence and profligacy of his parents
were such, that he received no education, and he was sent into the
world to shift for himself at the age of seven. Before this period, he
was a proficient both in cursing and lying. It is rather a singular
fact, that his habitual lying was once a means of saving his life.
About the age of eighteen he was serving a gentleman in the country,
who turned him off for his notorious falsehoods. In going to London,
he robbed a woman of eighteen shillings, was apprehended in the act,
and convicted; but his late master, who was sheriff, took pity upon
his situation, and saved his life. Informed of this, the judges at
the next assizes blamed the gentleman’s conduct for allowing a man to
escape who had pleaded guilty. The sheriff acknowledged that such a man
had been condemned at the last assizes; but then, he knew the fellow
to be such an unaccountable liar, that there was no believing one word
he said; so his pleading guilty to what was laid to his charge, was in
his opinion a sufficient reason for his being believed innocent of the
fact, and he would not hang an innocent man for the world. This reply
made the judges smile, and he was dismissed with a severe reprimand,
and cautioned not to come before them again.