PART II

Colonel Jacque and the lady

Colonel Jacque’s arrival is announced

INTRODUCTION

Smollett bears witness to the popularity of Defoe’s _Colonel Jacque_.

In the sixty-second chapter of _Roderick Random_, the hero of that

novel is profoundly impressed by the genius of the disappointed poet,

Melopoyn, the story of whose tragedy is Smollett’s acrimonious version

of the fate of his own first literary effort, _The Regicide_. Melopoyn

tells Random that while waiting in vain for his tragedy to be produced,

he wrote some pastorals which were rejected by one bookseller after

another. A first said merely that the pastorals would not serve; a

second advised Melopoyn to offer in their place something “satirical or

luscious;” and a third asked if he “had got never a piece of secret

history, thrown into a series of letters, or a volume of adventures,

such as those of Robinson Crusoe and Colonel Jack, or a collection of

conundrums, wherewith to entertain the plantations?” Smollett probably

wrote this passage some time in the year 1747, for _Roderick Random_

was published in January, 1748. It was twenty-four years

earlier—December twentieth, 1722—that _Colonel Jacque_ had been

published, or, to give it the name set forth by its flaunting

title-page:—_The History and Remarkable Life of the truly Honourable

Colonel Jacque, vulgarly called Col. Jack, who was born a Gentleman;

put ’Prentice to a Pickpocket; was six and twenty years a Thief, and

then kidnapped to Virginia; came back a Merchant; was five times

married to four Whores; went into the Wars, behaved bravely, got

Preferment, was made Colonel of a Regiment; came over, and fled with

the Chevalier, is still abroad Completing a Life of Wonders, and

resolves to die a General_. Surely a book for servants, readers of our

time will be apt to think on looking at this title-page; and yet

_Colonel Jacque_ is found to-day in many a gentleman’s library. This is

no reason, though, why it should still retain considerable popularity

in Smollett’s day. In less time after their appearance, some books

which live forever in literature have been forgotten by the great mass

of readers. What was it now that kept _Colonel Jacque_ popular a

quarter of a century after its publication?

It can hardly be the story which maintained its popularity, for the

inorganic tale is of the simplest kind. Jacque, like Captain Singleton,

and Moll Flanders in her childhood, had almost no knowledge of his

parents. He was brought up by a woman who was well paid for taking the

child off his parents’ hands—a woman who, though seemingly an abandoned

character, nevertheless showed the boy kindness. When he was about ten,

she died. Then followed the chequered career sketched in the title

given above. Jacque, trained by a comrade as a pickpocket, became in

time a thief on a larger scale, but not a thief quite destitute of good

feeling. After he had robbed a poor woman of Kentish Town of 22_s_.

6½_d_., his conscience was never easy till he paid her back the money,

a year later; and through all his criminal life, he remembered that his

foster-mother had told him he came of gentle blood, and accordingly

should remember always to be a gentleman. The hope of being a gentleman

was before him, even when he was kidnapped to Virginia and sold into

bondage. There he became such a favourite of his master that in time he

was able to set up as a planter on his own account. From Virginia he

returned to England, and thence, after the unhappy matrimonial ventures

mentioned in the title, he went back to Virginia, where at last he

married the wife whom he had previously divorced.

Nor could the character of the hero have had much to do in keeping

_Colonel Jacque_ popular. In spite of his matrimonial achievements, in

spite of the affection which he rouses in his American employer and his

slaves both, Colonel Jacque is without any attraction which a reader

can perceive to-day. Like most of Defoe’s characters, he is without

fine feeling; he is always looking out for the main chance. His chief

interest is commerce; he is a typical “Anglo-Saxon” trader. There are

thousands and thousands of such clever, prosy, cold-blooded

business-men in the United States to-day, and in the British colonies,

and in the United Kingdom. Though Defoe’s biographers are divided as to

whether or not he shared their mercantile cleverness, there is no doubt

that Defoe was heartily in sympathy with such men; and his interest in

recounting Colonel Jacque’s commercial ventures shows him to have been

what I have already called him—the Yankee trader of the Queen Anne

writers.

It was the story of Colonel Jacque’s successful trading, no doubt,

which had a large part in sustaining the popularity of his _History_.

But even more important in this respect, was that which we have seen to

be the vital force in all Defoe’s fiction—circumstantial vividness.

This is less striking in the later pages than in the earlier. The

vividness ceases to a large extent after Jacque goes to America, for

Defoe did not know America so well as he knew his England. Yet even

when the scene shifts to the further side of the ocean, Defoe makes no

blunders; nothing impossible occurs; his geography is correct. In

_Colonel Jacque_, perhaps more than anywhere else, we see that interest

of Defoe’s in distant British possessions which made him, as I have

said, one of the “imperialists” of his time. Even so, what vividness

there is in the American scenes is too largely commercial. Not many

people, other than small traders or would-be traders, could ever have

read with interest such a paragraph as the following:—

“With the sloop I sent letters to my wife and to my chief manager with

orders to load her back, as I there directed, viz., that she should

have two hundred barrels of flour, fifty barrels of pease; and, to

answer my other views, I ordered a hundred bales to be made up of all

sorts of European goods, such as not my own warehouses only would

supply, but such as they could be supplied with in other warehouses

where I knew they had credit for anything.”

Very different are the earlier pages which deal with Jacque’s

adventures as a poor criminal boy in England. Here Defoe was on ground

that he knew thoroughly. Sir Leslie Stephen[1] has observed that Defoe

passed beyond the bounds of probability when he made his hero, an

almost elderly man writing his memoirs in Mexico, remember the details

of his boyish thieving with marvellous exactness. Barring this

improbability—one by the way which you are not aware of while you read

the scenes in question, for you do not know how long a time will elapse

before the hero begins to record his experiences—the verisimilitude of

the first part of _Colonel Jacque_ could not be surpassed. Moreover, in

picturing the life of the poor, neglected boy, Defoe is unusually

sympathetic. And so in the early pages of _Colonel Jacque_, more than

anywhere else, is found the power of the story, the secret of its

popularity when Smollett was writing _Roderick Random_, and the secret

of its appeal to readers to-day. Lamb was hardly overstating the case

when he declared, “The beginning of ‘Colonel Jack’ is the most

affecting, natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn.”[2]

At the end of the second volume of _Colonel Jacque_ will be found two

of Defoe’s earlier political satires:—_The True-Born Englishman_ and

_The Shortest Way with the Dissenters_. The former, the most celebrated

piece of verse which Defoe wrote, was published in January, 1701. The

circumstances which led to its publication are set forth by the author

himself in his autobiographical sketch of 1715, _An Appeal to Honour

and Justice_.

On the first of August, 1700, according to his statement, there

appeared “a vile abhorred pamphlet, in very ill verse, written by one

Mr. Tutchin, and called _The Foreigners_; in which the author . . .

fell personally upon the King himself, and then upon the Dutch Nation.

And after having reproached his Majesty with crimes that his worst

enemy could not think of without horror, he sums up all in the odious

name of _Foreigner_. This filled me with a kind of rage against the

book, and gave birth to a trifle which I never could hope should have

met with so general an acceptance as it did; I mean _The True-Born

Englishman_.”

The reason for Tutchin’s pamphlet was that William III., never loved by

the English, became less and less popular after the death of Queen

Mary. A Dutchman, he was supposed to have the interests of Holland more

at heart than those of England. This supposition was strengthened by

the fact that he took no Englishmen into his confidence as he did his

old and trusted Dutch friends. These, naturally, shared his

unpopularity, especially the Duke of Schomberg and the King’s favourite

minister, William Bentinck, created Earl of Portland, both of whom are

mentioned by Defoe in his _True-Born Englishman_.

Defoe, in this reply to Tutchin’s pamphlet, sought to prove that the

king and his foreign friends had as good right to the esteem of the

English as any patriots in the history of the country. In the first

part of the “poem,” as Defoe called his satire, he showed that William,

with his Dutch blood, was as much entitled to the name of Englishman as

any of his subjects, who came of mixed British, Pictish, Roman, Saxon,

Danish, and Norman blood. In short, Defoe made the English out a hybrid

race, and with excellent good sense showed that their national vigour

was due largely to their being so. Much of what he said might well be

said to-day of the people of the United States, as for instance, the

following from Defoe’s explanatory preface:—

“The multitudes of foreign nations who have taken sanctuary here, have

been the greatest additions to the wealth and strength of the nation;

the essential whereof is the number of its inhabitants. Nor would this

nation ever have arrived to the degree of wealth and glory it now

boasts of, if the addition of foreign nations . . . had not been

helpful to it. This is so plain, that he who is ignorant of it is too

dull to be talked with.”

The other side to Defoe’s picture (and there was another side then as

now) is shown in verses which, with a few changes, would likewise be

applicable to the United States to-day. Defoe is trying to prove that

even with lapse of years the English race remains hybrid.

“And lest by length of time it be pretended

The climate may this modern breed have mended,

Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,

Mixes us daily with exceeding care.

We have been Europe’s sink, the jakes where she

Voids all her offal outcast progeny.

From our fifth Henry’s time, the strolling bands

Of banish’d fugitives from neighb’ring lands

Have here a certain sanctuary found:

Th’ eternal refuge of the vagabond,

Where, in but half a common age of time,

Borr’wing new blood and manners from the clime,

Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn,

And all their race are true-born Englishmen.”

In the second part of the satire, Defoe tries to describe the nature of

the English, their pride, and their ingratitude to their benefactors.

Among the stanzas in which he hits off the faults of his countrymen,

the following, more true than grammatical, is among the most forcible:—

“Surly to strangers, froward to their friend;

Submit to love with a reluctant mind;

Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind.

If by necessity reduced to ask,

The giver has the difficultest task;

For what’s bestow’d they awkwardly receive,

And always take less freely than they give.

The obligation is their highest grief;

And never love, where they accept relief.

So sullen in their sorrows, that ’tis known,

They’ll rather die than their afflictions own:

And if relieved, it is too often true,

That they’ll abuse their benefactors too;

For in distress their haughty stomach’s such,

They hate to see themselves obliged too much,

Seldom contented, often in the wrong;

Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.”

Defoe’s satire was a success. Written, as it is, in rough verse, at

times little better than doggerel, it is yet always vigorous and

interesting. To-day, after a lapse of two hundred years, no verse from

Defoe’s pen is so readable. That it was effective in accomplishing the

purpose for which it was composed, is proved by the fact that the

people, taking the satire good-naturedly, experienced a revulsion of

feeling towards the king and his Dutch friends. It was natural that the

piece should bring Defoe the increased regard of the king, whose favour

he had already to some extent enjoyed. “This poem was the occasion of

my being known to His Majesty,” Defoe wrote in his _Appeal to Honour

and Justice_; and “I was afterwards received by him.”

Concluding the second volume of _Colonel Jacque_ will be found the

ironical _Shortest Way with the Dissenters_, which placed Defoe in the

pillory and in prison. It was written in 1702, the first year of Anne’s

reign, when the strong Tory influence in the government seemed likely

to bring back the persecution of Nonconformists which had ceased in the

time of William. From the early summer, when Dr. Sacheverell preached

at Oxford a most inflammatory sermon against the Dissenters, High

Church feeling against them grew stronger and stronger. Finally Defoe

decided that the best service he could render them was to show the

views of the High Church party in all their extreme savageness. The

result was the pamphlet, _The Shortest Way with the Dissenters; or,

Proposals for the Establishment of the Church_, which appeared on the

first of December, 1702.

Defoe was so successful in imagining High Tory sentiments in his

pamphlet, that it was received with indignation by the Dissenters

themselves and with acclaim by the extreme Churchmen. “I join with” the

author “in all he says,” wrote one of them,[3] to a friend who had sent

him the pamphlet, “and have such a value for the book, that, next to

the Holy Bible and the sacred Comments, I take it for the most valuable

piece I have.” Naturally there was a storm when the truth was

discovered and the High Tories found out that what they had praised was

ironical. They were immediately shamed into declaring the pamphlet a

dangerous libel, intended to stir up the Dissenters to civil war.

Defoe’s bookseller and printer were accordingly arrested, and a reward

was offered for his apprehension. He gave himself up, was tried, and

sentenced to pay a fine of two hundred marks, to stand three times in

the pillory, and to go to prison for the Queen’s pleasure. How Defoe

converted his punishment in the pillory into a triumph, and how

profitably he employed his time during his imprisonment, have been

already told in the introduction to _Robinson Crusoe_.

G. H. Maynadier.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Sir,—It is so customary to write prefaces to all books of this kind, to

introduce them with the more advantage into the world, that I cannot

omit it, though on that account ’tis thought this work needs a preface

less than any that ever went before it. The pleasant and delightful

part speaks for itself; the useful and instructive is so large, and

capable of so many improvements, that it would employ a book large as

itself to make improvements suitable to the vast variety of the

subject.

Here’s room for just and copious observations on the blessings and

advantages of a sober and well-governed education, and the ruin of so

many thousands of youths of all kinds in this nation for want of it;

also, how much public schools and charities might be improved to

prevent the destruction of so, many unhappy children as in this town

are every year bred up for the gallows.

The miserable condition of unhappy children, many of whose natural

tempers are docible, and would lead them to learn the best things

rather than the worst, is truly deplorable, and is abundantly seen in

the history of this man’s childhood; where, though circumstances formed

him by necessity to be a thief, a strange rectitude of principles

remained with him, and made him early abhor the worst part of his

trade, and at last wholly leave it off. If he had come into the world

with the advantage of education, and been well instructed how to

improve the generous principles he had in him, what a man might he not

have been!

The various turns of his fortunes in the world make a delightful field

for the reader to wander in; a garden where he may gather wholesome and

medicinal fruits, none noxious or poisonous; where he will see virtue

and the ways of wisdom everywhere applauded, honoured, encouraged,

rewarded; vice and all kinds of wickedness attended with misery, many

kinds of infelicities; and at last, sin and shame going together, the

persons meeting with reproof and reproach, and the crimes with

abhorrence.

Every wicked reader will here be encouraged to a change, and it will

appear that the best and only good end of an impious, misspent life is

repentance; that in this there is comfort, peace, and oftentimes hope,

and that the penitent shall be returned like the prodigal, _and his

latter end be better than his beginning_.

While these things, and such as these, are the ends and designs of the

whole book, I think I need not say one word more as an apology for any

part of the rest—no, nor for the whole. If discouraging everything that

is evil, and encouraging everything that is virtuous and good—I say, if

these appear to be the whole scope and design of the publishing this

story, no objection can lie against it; neither is it of the least

moment to inquire whether the Colonel hath told his own story true or

not; if he has made it a History or a Parable, it will be equally

useful, and capable of doing good; and in that it recommends itself

without any introduction.—Your humble servant,

The Editor.

THE LIFE OF

COLONEL JACQUE

Seeing my life has been such a chequer-work of nature, and that I am

able now to look back upon it from a safer distance than is ordinarily

the fate of the clan to which I once belonged, I think my history may

find a place in the world as well as some who I see are every day read

with pleasure, though they have in them nothing so diverting or

instructing as I believe mine will appear to be.

My original may be as high as anybody’s for aught I know, for my mother

kept very good company; but that part belongs to her story more than to

mine. All I know of it is by oral tradition, thus: My nurse told me my

mother was a gentlewoman, that my father was a man of quality, and she

(my nurse) had a good piece of money given her to take me off his

hands, and deliver him and my mother from the importunities that

usually attend the misfortune of having a child to keep that should not

be seen or heard of.

My father, it seems, gave my nurse something more than was agreed for,

at my mother’s request, upon her solemn promise that she would use me

well and let me be put to school; and charged her, that if I lived to

come to any bigness, capable to understand the meaning of it, she

should always take care to bid me remember that I was a gentleman; and

this, he said, was all the education he would desire of her for me; for

he did not doubt, he said, but that, some time or other, the very hint

would inspire me with thoughts suitable to my birth, and that I would

certainly act like a gentleman, if I believed myself to be so.

But my disasters were not directed to end as soon as they began. It is

very seldom that the unfortunate are so but for a day; as the great

rise by degrees of greatness to the pitch of glory in which they shine,

so the miserable sink to the depth of their misery by a continued

series of disasters, and are long in the tortures and agonies of their

distressed circumstances, before a turn of fortune, if ever such a

thing happens to them, gives them a prospect of deliverance.

My nurse was as honest to the engagement she had entered into as could

be expected from one of her employment, and particularly as honest as

her circumstances would give her leave to be; for she bred me up very

carefully with her own son, and with another son of shame like me, whom

she had taken upon the same terms.

My name was John, as she told me, but neither she or I knew anything of

a surname that belonged to me; so I was left to call myself Mr.

Anything, what I pleased, as fortune and better circumstances should

give occasion.

It happened that her own son (for she had a little boy of her own,

about one year older than I) was called John too; and about two years

after she took another son of shame, as I called it above, to keep as

she did me, and his name was John too.

As we were all Johns, we were all Jacques, and soon came to be called

so; for at that part of the town where we had our breeding, viz., near

Goodman’s Fields, the Johns are generally called Jacque; but my nurse,

who may be allowed to distinguish her own son a little from the rest,

would have him called captain, because, forsooth, he was the eldest.

I was provoked at having this boy called captain, and I cried, and told

my nurse I would be called captain; for she told me I was a gentleman,

and I would be a captain, that I would. The good woman, to keep the

peace, told me, ay, ay, I was a gentleman, and therefore I should be

above a captain, for I should be a colonel, and that was a great deal

better than a captain; “for, my dear,” says she, “every tarpauling, if

he gets but to be lieutenant of a press smack, is called captain, but

colonels are soldiers, and none but gentlemen are ever made colonels.

Besides,” says she, “I have known colonels come to be lords and

generals, though they were bastards at first, and therefore you shall

be called colonel.”

Well, I was hushed indeed with this for the present, but not thoroughly

pleased, till, a little while after, I heard her tell her own boy that

I was a gentleman, and therefore he must call me colonel; at which her

boy fell a-crying, and he would be called colonel. That part pleased me

to the life, that he should cry to be called colonel, for then I was

satisfied that it was above a captain: so universally is ambition

seated in the minds of men that not a beggar-boy but has his share of

it.

So here was Colonel Jacque and Captain Jacque. As for the third boy, he

was only plain Jacque for some years after, till he came to preferment

by the merit of his birth, as you shall hear in its place.

We were hopeful boys, all three of us, and promised very early, by many

repeated circumstances of our lives, that we would be all rogues; and

yet I cannot say, if what I have heard of my nurse’s character be true,

but the honest woman did what she could to prevent it.

Before I tell you much more of our story, it would be very proper to

give you something of our several characters, as I have gathered them

up in my memory, as far back as I can recover things, either of myself

or my brother Jacques, and they shall be brief and impartial.

Captain Jacque was the eldest of us all, by a whole year. He was a

squat, big, strong-made boy, and promised to be stout when grown up to

be a man, but not to be tall. His temper was sly, sullen, reserved,

malicious, revengeful; and, withal, he was brutish, bloody, and cruel

in his disposition. He was, as to manners, a mere boor, or clown, of a

carman-like breed; sharp as a street-bred boy must be, but ignorant and

unteachable from a child. He had much the nature of a bull-dog, bold

and desperate, but not generous at all. All the schoolmistresses we

went to could never make him learn—no, not so much as to make him know

his letters; and as if he was born a thief, he would steal everything

that came near him, even as soon almost as he could speak; and that not

from his mother only, but from anybody else, and from us too that were

his brethren and companions. He was an original rogue, for he would do

the foulest and most villainous things, even by his own inclination; he

had no taste or sense of being honest—no, not, I say, to his brother

rogues, which is what other thieves make a point of honour of; I mean

that of being honest to one another.

The other, that is to say, the youngest of us Johns, was called Major

Jacque, by the accident following: The lady that had deposited him with

our nurse had owned to her that it was a major of the Guards that was

the father of the child, but that she was obliged to conceal his name,

and that was enough. So he was at first called John the Major, and

afterwards the Major; and at last, when we came to rove together, Major

Jacque, according to the rest, for his name was John, as I have

observed already.

Major Jacque was a merry, facetious, pleasant boy, had a good share of

wit, especially off-hand-wit, as they call it; was full of jests and

good humour, and, as I often said, had something of a gentleman in him.

He had a true manly courage, feared nothing, and could look death in

the face without any hesitation; and yet, if he had the advantage, was

the most generous and most compassionate creature alive. He had native

principles of gallantry in him, without anything of the brutal or

terrible part that the captain had; and, in a word, he wanted nothing

but honesty to have made him an excellent man. He had learned to read,

as I had done; and as he talked very well, so he wrote good sense and

very handsome language, as you will see in the process of his story.

As for your humble servant, Colonel Jacque, he was a poor, unhappy,

tractable dog, willing enough, and capable too, to learn anything, if

he had had any but the devil for his schoolmaster. He set out into the

world so early, that when he began to do evil, he understood nothing of

the wickedness of it, nor what he had to expect for it. I remember very

well that when I was once carried before a justice, for a theft which

indeed I was not guilty of, and defended myself by argument, proving

the mistakes of my accusers, and how they contradicted themselves, the

justice told me it was a pity I had not been better employed, for I was

certainly better taught; in which, however, his worship was mistaken,

for I had never been taught anything but to be a thief; except, as I

said, to read and write, and that was all, before I was ten years old;

but I had a natural talent of talking, and could say as much to the

purpose as most people that had been taught no more than I.

I passed among my comrades for a bold, resolute boy, and one that durst

fight anything; but I had a different opinion of myself, and therefore

shunned fighting as much as I could, though sometimes I ventured too,

and came off well, being very strong made and nimble withal. However, I

many times brought myself off with my tongue, where my hands would not

have been sufficient, and this as well after I was a man as while I was

a boy.

I was wary and dexterous at my trade, and was not so often catched as

my fellow-rogues—I mean while I was a boy, and never after I came to be

a man; no, not once for twenty-six years, being so old in the trade,

and still unhanged, as you shall hear.

As for my person, while I was a dirty glass-bottle-house boy, sleeping

in the ashes, and dealing always in the street dirt, it cannot be

expected but that I looked like what I was, and so we did all; that is

to say, like a “black-your-shoes-your-honour,” a beggar-boy, a

blackguard-boy, or what you please, despicable and miserable to the

last degree; and yet I remember the people would say of me, “That boy

has a good face; if he was washed and well dressed, he would be a good,

pretty boy. Do but look; what eyes he has; what a pleasant, smiling

countenance! ’Tis a pity. I wonder what the rogue’s father and mother

was,” and the like. Then they would call me, and ask me my name, and I

would tell them my name was Jacque. “But what’s your surname, sirrah?”

says they. “I don’t know,” says I. “Who is your father and mother?” “I

have none,” said I. “What, and never had you any?” said they. “No,”

says I, “not that I know of.” Then they would shake their heads and

cry, “Poor boy!” and “’Tis a pity,” and the like; and so let me go. But

I laid up all these things in my heart.

I was almost ten years old, the captain eleven, and the major about

eight, when the good woman my nurse died. Her husband was a seaman, and

had been drowned a little before in the _Gloucester_ frigate, one of

the king’s ships which was cast away going to Scotland with the Duke of

York in the time of King Charles II., and the honest woman dying very

poor, the parish was obliged to bury her; when the three young Jacques

attended her corpse, and I, the colonel (for we all passed for her own

children), was chief mourner; the captain, who was the eldest son,

going back very sick.

The good woman being dead, we, the three Jacques, were turned loose to

the world. As to the parish providing for us, we did not trouble

ourselves much about that; we rambled about all three together, and the

people in Rosemary Lane and Ratcliff, and that way, knowing us pretty

well, we got victuals easily enough and without much begging.

For my particular part, I got some reputation for a mighty civil,

honest boy; for if I was sent off an errand, I always did it punctually

and carefully, and made haste again; and if I was trusted with any

thing, I never touched it to diminish it, but made it a point of honour

to be punctual to whatever was committed to me, though I was as arrant

a thief as any of them in all other cases.

In like case, some of the poorer shopkeepers would often leave me at

their door, to look after their shops till they went up to dinner, or

till they went over the way to an alehouse, and the like, and I always

did it freely and cheerfully, and with the utmost honesty.

Captain Jacque, on the contrary, a surly, ill-looking, rough boy, had

not a word in his mouth that savoured either of good manners or good

humour; he would say “Yes” and “No,” just as he was asked a question,

and that was all, but nobody got any thing from him that was obliging

in the least. If he was sent off an errand he would forget half of it,

and it may be go to play, if he met any boys, and never go at all, or

if he went, never come back with an answer, which was such a

regardless, disobliging way that nobody had a good word for him, and

everybody said he had the very look of a rogue, and would come to be

hanged. In a word, he got nothing of anybody for goodwill, but was, as

it were, obliged to turn thief for the mere necessity of bread to eat;

for if he begged, he did it with so ill a tone, rather like bidding

folks give him victuals than entreating them, that one man, of whom he

had something given, and knew him, told him one day, “Captain Jacque,”

says he, “thou art but an awkward, ugly sort of a beggar, now thou art

a boy; I doubt thou wilt be fitter to ask a man for his purse than for

a penny when thou comest to be a man.”

The major was a merry, thoughtless fellow, always cheerful; whether he

had any victuals or no, he never complained; and he recommended himself

so well by his good carriage that the neighbours loved him, and he got

victuals enough, one where or other. Thus we all made a shift, though

we were so little, to keep from starving; and as for lodging, we lay in

the summer-time about the watch-houses and on bulkheads and shop-doors,

where we were known. As for a bed, we knew nothing what belonged to it

for many years after my nurse died; and in winter we got into the

ash-holes and nealing-arches in the glass-house, called Dallow’s

Glass-house, in Rosemary Lane, or at another glass-house in Ratcliff

Highway.

In this manner we lived for some years; and here we failed not to fall

among a gang of naked, ragged rogues like ourselves, wicked as the

devil could desire to have them be at so early an age, and ripe for all

the other parts of mischief that suited them as they advanced in years.

I remember that one cold winter night we were disturbed in our rest

with a constable and his watch crying out for one Wry-neck, who, it

seems, had done some roguery, and required a hue-and-cry of that kind;

and the watch were informed he was to be found among the beggar-boys

under the nealing-arches in the glass-house.

The alarm being given, we were awakened in the dead of the night with

“Come out here, ye crew of young devils; come out and show yourselves;”

so we were all produced. Some came out rubbing their eyes and

scratching their heads, and others were dragged out; and I think there

was about seventeen of us in all, but Wry-neck as they called him, was

not among them. It seems this was a good big boy, that used to be among

the inhabitants of that place, and had been concerned in a robbery the

night before, in which his comrade, who was taken, in hopes of escaping

punishment, had discovered him, and informed where he usually

harboured; but he was aware, it seems, and had secured himself, at

least for that time. So we were allowed to return to our warm apartment

among the coal-ashes, where I slept many a cold winter night; nay, I

may say, many a winter, as sound and as comfortably as ever I did

since, though in better lodgings.

In this manner of living we went on a good while, I believe two years,

and neither did or meant any harm. We generally went all three

together; for, in short, the captain, for want of address, and for

something disagreeable in him, would have starved if we had not kept

him with us. As we were always together, we were generally known by the

name of the three Jacques; but Colonel Jacque had always the

preference, upon many accounts. The major, as I have said, was merry

and pleasant, but the colonel always held talk with the better sort—I

mean the better sort of those that would converse with a beggar-boy. In

this way of talk I was always upon the inquiry, asking questions of

things done in public, as well as in private; particularly, I loved to

talk with seamen and soldiers about the war, and about the great

sea-fights or battles on shore that any of them had been in; and, as I

never forgot anything they told me, I could soon, that is to say, in a

few years, give almost as good an account of the Dutch war, and of the

fights at sea, the battles in Flanders, the taking of Maestricht, and

the like, as any of those that had been there; and this made those old

soldiers and tars love to talk with me too, and to tell me all the

stories they could think of, and that not only of the wars then going

on, but also of the wars in Oliver’s time, the death of King Charles

I., and the like.

By this means, as young as I was, I was a kind of an historian; and

though I had read no books, and never had any books to read, yet I

could give a tolerable account of what had been done and of what was

then a-doing in the world, especially in those things that our own

people were concerned in. I knew the names of every ship in the navy,

and who commanded them too, and all this before I was fourteen years

old, or but very soon after.

Captain Jacque in this time fell into bad company, and went away from

us, and it was a good while before we ever heard tale or tidings of

him, till about half a year, I think, or thereabouts. I understood he

was got among a gang of kidnappers, as they were then called, being a

sort of wicked fellows that used to spirit people’s children away; that

is, snatch them up in the dark, and, stopping their mouths, carry them

to such houses where they had rogues ready to receive them, and so

carry them on board ships bound to Virginia, and sell them.

This was a trade that horrid Jacque, for so I called him when we were

grown up, was very fit for, especially the violent part; for if a

little child got into his clutches, he would stop the breath of it,

instead of stopping its mouth, and never troubled his head with the

child’s being almost strangled, so he did but keep it from making a

noise. There was, it seems, some villainous thing done by this gang

about that time, whether a child was murdered among them, or a child

otherwise abused; but it seems it was a child of an eminent citizen,

and the parent somehow or other got a scent of the thing, so that they

recovered their child, though in a sad condition, and almost killed. I

was too young, and it was too long ago, for me to remember the whole

story, but they were all taken up and sent to Newgate, and Captain

Jacque among the rest, though he was but young, for he was not then

much above thirteen years old.

What punishment was inflicted upon the rogues of that gang I cannot

tell now, but the captain, being but a lad, was ordered to be three

times soundly whipped at Bridewell, my Lord Mayor, or the Recorder,

telling him it was done in pity to him, to keep him from the gallows,

not forgetting to tell him that he had a hanging look, and bid him have

a care on that very account; so remarkable was the captain’s

countenance, even so young, and which he heard of afterwards on many

occasions. When he was in Bridewell I heard of his misfortune, and the

major and I went to see him; for this was the first news we heard of

what became of him.

The very day that we went he was called out to be corrected, as they

called it, according to his sentence; and as it was ordered to be done

soundly, so indeed they were true to the sentence; for the alderman who

was the president of Bridewell, and whom I think they called Sir

William Turner, held preaching to him about how young he was, and what

pity it was such a youth should come to be hanged, and a great deal

more; how he should take warning by it, and how wicked a thing it was

that they should steal away poor innocent children, and the like; and

all this while the man with a blue badge on lashed him most

unmercifully, for he was not to leave off till Sir William knocked with

a little hammer on the table.

The poor captain stamped and danced, and roared out like a mad boy; and

I must confess I was frighted almost to death; for though I could not

come near enough, being but a poor boy, to see how he was handled, yet

I saw him afterwards with his back all wealed with the lashes, and in

several places bloody, and thought I should have died with the sight of

it; but I grew better acquainted with those things afterwards.

I did what I could to comfort the poor captain when I got leave to come

to him. But the worst was not over with him, for he was to have two

more such whippings before they had done with him; and indeed they

scourged him so severely that they made him sick of the kidnapping

trade for a great while; but he fell in among them again, and kept

among them as long as that trade lasted, for it ceased in a few years

afterwards.

The major and I, though very young, had sensible impressions made upon

us for some time by the severe usage of the captain, and it might be

very well said we were corrected as well as he, though not concerned in

the crime; but it was within the year that the major, a

good-conditioned, easy boy, was wheedled away by a couple of young

rogues that frequented the glass-house apartments, to take a walk with

them, as they were pleased to call it. The gentlemen were very well

matched; the major was about twelve years old, and the oldest of the

two that led him out was not above fourteen. The business was to go to

Bartholomew Fair, and the end of going to Bartholomew Fair was, in

short, to pick pockets.

The major knew nothing of the trade, and therefore was to do nothing;

but they promised him a share with them for all that, as if he had been

as expert as themselves. So away they went. The two dexterous young

rogues managed it so well that by eight o’clock at night they came back

to our dusty quarters at the glass-house, and, sitting them down in a

corner, they began to share their spoil, by the light of the

glass-house fire. The major lugged out the goods, for as fast as they

made any purchase they unloaded themselves, and gave all to him, that,

if they had been taken, nothing might be found about them.

It was a devilish lucky day to them, the devil certainly assisting them

to find their prey, that he might draw in a young gamester, and

encourage him to the undertaking, who had been made backward before by

the misfortune of the captain. The list of their purchase the first

night was as follows:—

1. A white handkerchief from a country wench, as she was staring up at

a jack-pudding; there was 3s. 6d. and a row of pins tied up in one end

of it.

2. A coloured handkerchief, out of a young country fellow’s pocket as

he was buying a china orange.

3. A riband purse with 11s. 3d. and a silver thimble in it, out of a

young woman’s pocket, just as a fellow offered to pick her up.

_N.B_.—She missed her purse presently, but, not seeing the thief,

charged the man with it that would have picked her up, and cried out,

“A pickpocket!” and he fell into the hands of the mob, but, being known

in the street, he got off with great difficulty.

4. A knife and fork, that a couple of boys had just bought and were

going home with; the young rogue that took it got it within the minute

after the boy had put it in his pocket.

5. A little silver box with 7s. in it, all in small silver, 1d., 2d.,

3d., 4d. pieces.

_N.B_.—This, it seems, a maid pulled out of her pocket, to pay at her

going into the booth to see a show, and the little rogue got his hand

in and fetched it off, just as she put it up again.

6. Another silk handkerchief, out of a gentleman’s pocket.

7. Another.

8. A jointed baby and a little looking-glass, stolen off a toy-seller’s

stall in the fair.

All this cargo to be brought home clear in one afternoon, or evening

rather, and by only two little rogues so young, was, it must be

confessed, extraordinary; and the major was elevated the next day to a

strange degree.

He came very early to me, who lay not far from him, and said to me,

“Colonel Jacque, I want to speak with you.” “Well,” said I, “what do

you say?” “Nay,” said he, “it is business of consequence; I cannot talk

here;” so we walked out. As soon as we were come out into a narrow lane

by the glass-house, “Look here,” says he, and pulls out his little hand

almost full of money.

I was surprised at the sight, when he puts it up again, and, bringing

his hand out, “Here,” says he, “you shall have some of it;” and gives

me a sixpence and a shilling’s worth of the small silver pieces. This

was very welcome to me, who, as much as I was of a gentleman, and as

much as I thought of myself upon that account, never had a shilling of

money together before in all my life, not that I could call my own.

I was very earnest then to know how he came by this wealth, for he had

for his share 7s. 6d. in money, the silver thimble, and a silk

handkerchief, which was, in short, an estate to him, that never had, as

I said of myself, a shilling together in his life.

“And what will you do with it now, Jacque?” said I. “I do?” says he.

“The first thing I do I’ll go into Rag Fair and buy me a pair of shoes

and stockings.” “That’s right,” says I, “and so will I too;” so away we

went together, and we bought each of us a pair of Rag Fair stockings in

the first place for fivepence; not fivepence a pair, but fivepence

together; and good stockings they were too, much above our wear, I

assure you.

We found it more difficult to fit ourselves with shoes; but at last,

having looked a great while before we could find any good enough for

us, we found a shop very well stored, and of these we bought two pair

for sixteenpence.

We put them on immediately, to our great comfort, for we had neither of

us had any stockings to our legs that had any feet to them for a long

time. I found myself so refreshed with having a pair of warm stockings

on, and a pair of dry shoes—things, I say, which I had not been

acquainted with a great while—that I began to call to my mind my being

a gentleman, and now I thought it began to come to pass. When we had

thus fitted ourselves I said, “Hark ye, Major Jacque, you and I never

had any money in our lives before, and we never had a good dinner in

all our lives. What if we should go somewhere and get some victuals? I

am very hungry.”

“So we will, then,” says the major; “I am hungry too.” So we went to a

boiling cook’s in Rosemary Lane, where we treated ourselves nobly, and,

as I thought with myself, we began to live like gentlemen, for we had

three pennyworth of boiled beef, two pennyworth of pudding, a penny

brick (as they call it, or loaf), and a whole pint of strong beer,

which was sevenpence in all.

_N.B_.—We had each of us a good mess of charming beef-broth into the

bargain; and, which cheered my heart wonderfully, all the while we were

at dinner, the maid and the boy in the house, every time they passed by

the open box where we sat at our dinner, would look in and cry,

“Gentlemen, do you call?” and “Do ye call, gentlemen?” I say, this was

as good to me as all my dinner.

Not the best housekeeper in Stepney parish, not my Lord Mayor of

London, no, not the greatest man on earth, could be more happy in their

own imagination, and with less mixture of grief or reflection, than I

was at this new piece of felicity; though mine was but a small part of

it, for Major Jacque had an estate compared to me, as I had an estate

compared to what I had before; in a word, nothing but an utter

ignorance of greater felicity, which was my case, could make anybody

think himself so exalted as I did, though I had no share of this booty

but eighteenpence.

That night the major and I triumphed in our new enjoyment, and slept

with an undisturbed repose in the usual place, surrounded with the

warmth of the glass-house fires above, which was a full amends for all

the ashes and cinders which we rolled in below.

Those who know the position of the glass-houses, and the arches where

they neal the bottles after they are made, know that those places where

the ashes are cast, and where the poor boys lie, are cavities in the

brickwork, perfectly close, except at the entrance, and consequently

warm as the dressing-room of a bagnio, that it is impossible they can

feel any cold there, were it in Greenland or Nova Zembla, and that

therefore the boys lie there not only safe, but very comfortably, the

ashes excepted, which are no grievance at all to them.

The next day the major and his comrades went abroad again, and were

still successful; nor did any disaster attend them, for I know not how

many months; and, by frequent imitation and direction, Major Jacque

became as dexterous a pickpocket as any of them, and went on through a

long variety of fortunes, too long to enter upon now, because I am

hastening to my own story, which at present is the main thing I have to

set down.

The major failed not to let me see every day the effects of his new

prosperity, and was so bountiful as frequently to throw me a tester,

sometimes a shilling; and I might perceive that he began to have

clothes on his back, to leave the ash-hole, having gotten a society

lodging (of which I may give an explanation by itself on another

occasion); and which was more, he took upon him to wear a shirt, which

was what neither he or I had ventured to do for three years before, and

upward.

But I observed all this while, that though Major Jacque was so

prosperous and had thriven so well, and notwithstanding he was very

kind, and even generous, to me, in giving me money upon many occasions,

yet he never invited me to enter myself into the society or to embark

with him, whereby I might have been made as happy as he; no, nor did he

recommend the employment to me at all.

I was not very well pleased with his being thus reserved to me. I had

learned from him in general that the business was picking of pockets,

and I fancied that though the ingenuity of the trade consisted very

much in sleight-of-hand, a good address, and being very nimble, yet

that it was not at all difficult to learn; and, especially, I thought

the opportunities were so many, the country people that come to London

so foolish, so gaping, and so engaged in looking about them, that it

was a trade with no great hazard annexed to it, and might be easily

learned, if I did but know in general the manner of it, and how they

went about it.

The subtle devil, never absent from his business, but ready at all

occasions to encourage his servants, removed all these difficulties,

and brought him into an intimacy with one of the most exquisite divers,

or pickpockets, in the town; and this, our intimacy, was of no less a

kind than that, as I had an inclination to be as wicked as any of them,

he was for taking care that I should not be disappointed.

He was above the little fellows who went about stealing trifles and

baubles in Bartholomew Fair, and ran the risk of being mobbed for three

or four shillings. His aim was at higher things, even at no less than

considerable sums of money, and bills for more.

He solicited me earnestly to go and take a walk with him as above,

adding that after he had shown me my trade a little, he would let me be

as wicked as I would; that is, as he expressed it, that after he had

made me capable, I should set up for myself, if I pleased, and he would

only wish me good luck.

Accordingly, as Major Jacque went with his gentlemen only to see the

manner, and receive the purchase, and yet come in for a share; so he

told me, if he had success, I should have my share as much as if I had

been principal; and this he assured me was a custom of the trade, in

order to encourage young beginners, and bring them into the trade with

courage, for that nothing was to be done if a man had not the heart of

the lion.

I hesitated at the matter a great while, objecting the hazard, and

telling the story of Captain Jacque, my elder brother, as I might call

him. “Well, colonel,” says he, “I find you are faint-hearted, and to be

faint-hearted is indeed to be unfit for our trade, for nothing but a

bold heart can go through stitch with this work; but, however, as there

is nothing for you to do, so there is no risk for you to run in these

things the first time. If I am taken,” says he, “you have nothing to do

in it; they will let you go free; for it shall easily be made appear,

that whatever I have done, you had no hand in it.”

Upon these persuasions I ventured out with him; but I soon found that

my new friend was a thief of quality, and a pickpocket above the

ordinary rank, and that aimed higher abundantly than my brother Jacque.

He was a bigger boy than I a great deal; for though I was now near

fifteen years old, I was not big of my age; and as to the nature of the

thing, I was perfectly a stranger to it. I knew indeed what at first I

did not, for it was a good while before I understood the thing as an

offence. I looked on picking pockets as a kind of trade, and thought I

was to go apprentice to it. It is true this was when I was young in the

society, as well as younger in years, but even now I understood it to

be only a thing for which, if we were catched, we ran the risk of being

ducked or pumped, which we call soaking, and then all was over; and we

made nothing of having our rags wetted a little; but I never

understood, till a great while after, that the crime was capital, and

that we might be sent to Newgate for it, till a great fellow, almost a

man, one of our society, was hanged for it; and then I was terribly

frighted, as you shall hear by-and-by.

Well, upon the persuasions of this lad, I walked out with him; a poor

innocent boy, and (as I remember my very thoughts perfectly well) I had

no evil in my intentions. I had never stolen anything in my life; and

if a goldsmith had left me in his shop, with heaps of money strewed all

round me, and bade me look after it, I should not have touched it, I

was so honest; but the subtle tempter baited his hook for me, as I was

a child, in a manner suited to my childishness, for I never took this

picking of pockets to be dishonesty, but, as I have said above, I

looked on it as a kind of trade that I was to be bred up to, and so I

entered upon it, till I became hardened in it beyond the power of

retreating. And thus I was made a thief involuntarily, and went on a

length that few boys do, without coming to the common period of that

kind of life—I mean to the transport-ship, or to the gallows.

The first day I went abroad with my new instructor, he carried me

directly into the city, and as we went first to the water-side, he led

me into the long-room at the custom-house. We were but a couple of

ragged boys at best, but I was much the worse. My leader had a hat on,

a shirt, and a neckcloth; as for me, I had neither of the three, nor

had I spoiled my manners so much as to have a hat on my head since my

nurse died, which was now some years. His orders to me were to keep

always in sight, and near him, but not close to him, nor to take any

notice of him at any time till he came to me; and if any hurly-burly

happened, I should by no means know him, or pretend to have anything to

do with him.

I observed my orders to a tittle. While he peered into every corner and

had his eye upon everybody, I kept my eye directly upon him, but went

always at a distance, and on the other side of the long-room, looking

as it were for pins, and picking them up out of the dust as I could

find them, and then sticking them on my sleeve, where I had at last

gotten forty or fifty good pins; but still my eye was upon my comrade,

who, I observed, was very busy among the crowds of people that stood at

the board doing business with the officers who pass the entries and

make the cockets, &c.

At length he comes over to me, and stooping as if he would take up a

pin close to me, he put some thing into my hand, and said, “Put that

up, and follow me downstairs quickly.” He did not run, but shuffled

along apace through the crowd, and went down, not the great stairs

which we came in at, but a little narrow staircase at the other end of

the long-room. I followed, and he found I did, and so went on, not

stopping below, as I expected, nor speaking one word to me, till,

through innumerable narrow passages, alleys, and dark ways, we were got

up into Fenchurch Street, and through Billiter Lane into Leadenhall

Street, and from thence into Leadenhall Market.

It was not a meat-market day, so we had room to sit down upon one of

the butchers’ stalls, and he bid me lug out. What he had given me was a

little leather letter-case, with a French almanac stuck in the inside

of it, and a great many papers in it of several kinds.

We looked them over, and found there was several valuable bills in it,

such as bills of exchange and other notes, things I did not understand;

but among the rest was a goldsmith’s note, as he called it, of one Sir

Stephen Evans, for £300, payable to the bearer, and at demand. Besides

this, there was another note for £12, 10s., being a goldsmith’s bill

too, but I forget the name. There was a bill or two also written in

French, which neither of us understood, but which, it seems, were

things of value, being called foreign bills accepted.

The rogue, my master, knew what belonged to the goldsmiths’ bills well

enough, and I observed, when he read the bill of Sir Stephen, he said,

“This is too big for me to meddle with;” but when he came to the bill

£12, 10s., he said to me, “This will do. Come hither, Jacque;” so away

he runs to Lombard Street, and I after him, huddling the other papers

into the letter-case. As he went along he inquired the name out

immediately, and went directly to the shop, put on a good, grave

countenance, and had the money paid him without any stop or question

asked. I stood on the other side the way looking about the street, as

not at all concerned with anybody that way, but observed that when he

presented the bill he pulled out the letter-case, as if he had been a

merchant’s boy, acquainted with business, and had other bills about

him.

They paid him the money in gold, and he made haste enough in telling it

over, and came away, passing by me, and going into Three King Court, on

the other side of the way; then we crossed back into Clement’s Lane,

made the best of our way to Cole Harbour, at the water-side, and got a

sculler for a penny to carry us over the water to St. Mary Overy’s

stairs, where we landed, and were safe enough.

Here he turns to me; “Colonel Jacque,” says he, “I believe you are a

lucky boy; this is a good job. We’ll go away to St. George’s Fields and

share our booty.” Away we went to the Fields, and sitting down in the

grass, far enough out of the path, he pulled out the money. “Look here,

Jacque,” says he, “did you ever see the like before in your life?” “No,

never,” says I; and added very innocently, “Must we have it all?” “We

have it!” says he, “who should have it?” “Why,” says I, “must the man

have none of it again that lost it?” “He have it again!” says he. “What

d’ye mean by that?” “Nay, I don’t know,” says I. “Why, you said just

now you would let him have the t’other bill again, that you said was

too big for you.”

He laughed at me. “You are but a little boy,” says he, “that’s true,

but I thought you had not been such a child neither;” so he mighty

gravely explained the thing to me thus: that the bill of Sir Stephen

Evans was a great bill for £300, “and if I,” says he, “that am but a

poor lad, should venture to go for the money, they will presently say,

how should I come by such a bill, and that I certainly found it or

stole it; so they will stop me,” says he, “and take it away from me,

and it may bring me into trouble for it too; so,” says he, “I did say

it was too big for me to meddle with, and that I would let the man have

it again, if I could tell how. But for the money, Jacque, the money

that we have got, I warrant you he should have none of that. Besides,”

says he, “whoever he be that has lost this letter-case, to be sure, as

soon as he missed it, he would run to the goldsmith and give notice

that if anybody came for the money they would be stopped; but I am too

old for him there,” says he.

“Why,” says I, “and what will you do with the bill? Will you throw it

away? If you do, somebody else will find it,” says I, “and they will go

and take the money.” “No, no,” says he; “then they will be stopped and

examined, as I tell you I should be.” I did not know well what all this

meant, so I talked no more about that; but we fell to handling the

money. As for me, I had never seen so much together in all my life, nor

did I know what in the world to do with it, and once or twice I was

a-going to bid him keep it for me, which would have been done like a

child indeed, for, to be sure, I had never heard a word more of it,

though nothing had befallen him.

However, as I happened to hold my tongue as to that part, he shared the

money very honestly with me; only at the end he told me, that though it

was true he promised me half, yet as it was the first time, and I had

done nothing but look on, so he thought it was very well if I took a

little less than he did; so he divided the money, which was £12, 10s.,

into two exact parts, viz., £6, 5s. in each part; then he took £1, 5s.

from my part, and told me I should give him that for hansel. “Well,”

says I, “take it, then, for I think you deserve it all:” so, however, I

took up the rest, and “What shall I do with this now,” says I, “for I

have nowhere to put it?” “Why, have you no pockets?” says he. “Yes,”

says I; “but they are full of holes.” I have often thought since that,

and with some mirth too, how I had really more wealth than I knew what

to do with; for lodging I had none, nor any box or drawer to hide my

money in; nor had I any pocket, but such as I say was full of holes. I

knew nobody in the world that I could go and desire them to lay it up

for me; for, being a poor naked, ragged boy, they would presently say I

had robbed somebody, and perhaps lay hold of me, and my money would be

my crime, as they say it often is in foreign countries. And now, as I

was full of wealth, behold I was full of care, for what to do to secure

my money I could not tell; and this held me so long, and was so

vexatious to me the next day, that I truly sat down and cried.

Nothing could be more perplexing than this money was to me all that

night. I carried it in my hand a good while, for it was in gold, all

but 14s.; and that is to say, it was in four guineas, and that 14s. was

more difficult to carry than the four guineas. At last I sat down and

pulled off one of my shoes, and put the four guineas into that; but

after I had gone a while, my shoe hurt me so I could not go, so I was

fain to sit down again and take it out of my shoe, and carry it in my

hand. Then I found a dirty linen rag in the street, and I took that up

and wrapped it all together, and carried it in that a good way. I have

often since heard people say, when they have been talking of money that

they could not get in, “I wish I had it in a foul clout;” in truth, I

had mine in a foul clout; for it was foul, according to the letter of

that saying, but it served me till I came to a convenient place, and

then I sat down and washed the cloth in the kennel, and so then put my

money in again.

Well, I carried it home with me to my lodging in the glass-house, and

when I went to go to sleep I knew not what to do with it. If I had let

any of the black crew I was with know of it, I should have been

smothered in the ashes for it, or robbed of it, or some trick or other

put upon me for it; so I knew not what to do, but lay with it in my

hand, and my hand in my bosom. But then sleep went from my eyes. Oh,

the weight of human care! I, a poor beggar-boy, could not sleep so soon

as I had but a little money to keep, who before that could have slept

upon a heap of brick-bats, or stones, or cinders, or anywhere, as sound

as a rich man does on his down bed, and sounder too.

Every now and then dropping asleep, I should dream that my money was

lost, and start like one frighted; then, finding it fast in my hand,

try to go to sleep again, but could not for a long while; then drop and

start again. At last a fancy came into my head that if I fell asleep I

should dream of the money, and talk of it in my sleep, and tell that I

had money, which if I should do, and one of the rogues should hear me,

they would pick it out of my bosom, and of my hand too, without waking

me; and after that thought I could not sleep a wink more; so that I

passed that night over in care and anxiety enough; and this, I may

safely say, was the first night’s rest that I lost by the cares of this

life and the deceitfulness of riches.

As soon as it was day I got out of the hole we lay in, and rambled

abroad in the fields towards Stepney, and there I mused and considered

what I should do with this money, and many a time I wished that I had

not had it; for, after all my ruminating upon it, and what course I

should take with it, or where I should put it, I could not hit upon any

one thing, or any possible method to secure it, and it perplexed me so

that at last, as I said just now, I sat down and cried heartily.

When my crying was over the case was the same; I had the money still,

and what to do with it I could not tell. At last it came into my head

that I would look out for some hole in a tree, and seek to hide it

there till I should have occasion for it. Big was this discovery, as I

then thought it. I began to look about me for a tree; but there were no

trees in the fields about Stepney or Mile End that looked fit for my

purpose; and if there were any that I began to look narrowly at, the

fields were so full of people that they would see if I went to hide any

thing there; and I thought the people eyed me as it was, and that two

men in particular followed me to see what I intended to do.

This drove me farther off, and I crossed the road at Mile End, and in

the middle of the town went down a lane that goes away to the Blind

Beggar’s at Bethnal Green. When I came a little way in the lane I found

a footpath over the fields, and in those fields several trees for my

turn, as I thought. At last one tree had a little hole in it, pretty

high out of my reach, and I climbed up the tree to get it, and when I

came there I put my hand in, and found (as I thought) a place very fit,

so I placed my treasure there, and was mighty well satisfied with it;

but, behold, putting my hand in again to lay it more commodiously, as I

thought, of a sudden it slipped away from me, and I found the tree was

hollow, and my little parcel was fallen in quite out of my reach, and

how far it might go in I knew not; so that, in a word, my money was

quite gone, irrecoverably lost. There could be no room so much as to

hope ever to see it again, for ’twas a vast great tree.

As young as I was, I was now sensible what a fool I was before, that I

could not think of ways to keep my money, but I must come thus far to

throw it into a hole where I could not reach it. Well, I thrust my hand

quite up to my elbow, but no bottom was to be found, or any end of the

hole or cavity. I got a stick of the tree, and thrust it in a great

way, but all was one. Then I cried, nay, roared out, I was in such a

passion. Then I got down the tree again, then up again, and thrust in

my hand again till I scratched my arm and made it bleed, and cried all

the while most violently. Then I began to think I had not so much as a

halfpenny of it left for a halfpenny roll, and I was hungry, and then I

cried again. Then I came away in despair, crying and roaring like a

little boy that had been whipped; then I went back again to the tree,

and up the tree again, and thus I did several times. The last time I

had gotten up the tree I happened to come down not on the same side

that I went up and came down before, but on the other side of the tree,

and on the side of the bank also; and, behold, the tree had a great

open place in the side of it close to the ground, as old hollow trees

often have; and looking into the open place, to my inexpressible joy,

there lay my money and my linen rag, all wrapped up just as I had put

it into the hole; for the tree being hollow all the way up, there had

been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judgment enough to know

was not firm, and had given way when it came to drop out of my hand,

and so it had slipped quite down at once.

I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I halloed quite out

loud when I saw it; then I ran to it, and snatched it up, hugged and

kissed the dirty rag a hundred times; then danced and jumped about, ran

from one end of the field to the other, and, in short, I knew not what;

much less do I know now what I did, though I shall never forget the

thing, either what a sinking grief it was to my heart when I thought I

had lost it, or what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it

again.

While I was in the first transport of my joy, as I have said, I ran

about, and knew not what I did; but when that was over I sat down,

opened the foul clout the money was in, looked at it, told it, found it

was all there, and then I fell a-crying as savourly as I did before,

when I thought I had lost it.

It would tire the reader should I dwell on all the little boyish tricks

that I played in the ecstasy of my joy and satisfaction when I had

found my money; so I break off here. Joy is as extravagant as grief,

and since I have been a man I have often thought, that had such a thing

befallen a man, so to have lost all he had, and not have a bit of bread

to eat, and then so strangely to find it again, after having given it

so effectually over—I say, had it been so with a man, it might have

hazarded his using some violence upon himself.

Well, I came away with my money, and having taken sixpence out of it,

before I made it up again I went to a chandler’s shop in Mile End and

bought a halfpenny roll and a halfpenny worth of cheese, and sat down

at the door after I bought it, and ate it very heartily, and begged

some beer to drink with it, which the good woman gave me very freely.

Away I went then for the town, to see if I could find any of my

companions, and resolved I would try no more hollow trees for my

treasure. As I came along Whitechapel I came by a broker’s shop over

against the church, where they sold old clothes, for I had nothing on

but the worst of rags; so I stopped at the shop, and stood looking at

the clothes which hung at the door.

“Well, young gentleman,” says a man that stood at the door, “you look

wishfully. Do you see any thing you like, and will your pocket compass

a good coat now, for you look as if you belonged to the ragged

regiment?” I was affronted at the fellow. “What’s that to you,” says I,

“how ragged I am? If I had seen anything I liked, I have money to pay

for it; but I can go where I shan’t be huffed at for looking.”

While I said thus pretty boldly to the fellow comes a woman out. “What

ails you,” says she to the man, “to bully away our customers so? A poor

boy’s money is as good as my Lord Mayor’s. If poor people did not buy

old clothes, what would become of our business?” And then turning to

me, “Come hither, child,” says she; “if thou hast a mind to anything I

have, you shan’t be hectored by him. The boy is a pretty boy, I assure

you,” says she to another woman that was by this time come to her.

“Ay,” says the t’other, “so he is, a very well-looking child, if he was

clean and well dressed, and may be as good a gentleman’s son, for

anything we know, as any of those that are well dressed. Come, my

dear,” says she, “tell me what is it you would have.” She pleased me

mightily to hear her talk of my being a gentleman’s son, and it brought

former things to my mind; but when she talked of my being not clean and

in rags, then I cried.

She pressed me to tell her if I saw anything that I wanted. I told her

no, all the clothes I saw there were too big for me. “Come, child,”

says she, “I have two things here that will fit you, and I am sure you

want them both; that is, first, a little hat, and there,” says she

(tossing it to me), “I’ll give you that for nothing. And here is a good

warm pair of breeches; I dare say,” says she, “they will fit you, and

they are very tight and good; and,” says she, “if you should ever come

to have so much money that you don’t know what to do with it, here are

excellent good pockets,” says she, “and a little fob to put your gold

in, or your watch in, when you get it.”

It struck me with a strange kind of joy that I should have a place to

put my money in, and need not go to hide it again in a hollow tree,

that I was ready to snatch the breeches out of her hands, and wondered

that I should be such a fool never to think of buying me a pair of

breeches before, that I might have a pocket to put my money in, and not

carry it about two days together in my hand, and in my shoes and I knew

not how; so, in a word, I gave her two shillings for the breeches, and

went over into the churchyard and put them on, put my money into my new

pockets, and was as pleased as a prince is with his coach and six

horses. I thanked the good woman too for the hat, and told her I would

come again when I got more money, and buy some other things I wanted;

and so I came away.

I was but a boy, ’tis true, but I thought myself a man, now I had got a

pocket to put my money in, and I went directly to find out my companion

by whose means I got it; but I was frighted out of my wits when I heard

that he was carried to Bridewell. I made no question but it was for the

letter-case, and that I should be carried there too; and then my poor

brother Captain Jacque’s case came into my head, and that I should be

whipped there as cruelly as he was, and I was in such a fright that I

knew not what to do.

But in the afternoon I met him; he had been carried to Bridewell, it

seems, upon that very affair, but was got out again. The case was thus:

having had such good luck at the custom-house the day before, he takes

his walk thither again, and as he was in the long-room, gaping and

staring about him, a fellow lays hold of him, and calls to one of the

clerks that sat behind, “Here,” says he, “is the same young rogue that

I told you I saw loitering about t’other day, when the gentleman lost

his letter-case and his goldsmiths’ bills; I dare say it was he that

stole them.” Immediately the whole crowd of people gathered about the

boy, and charged him point-blank; but he was too well used to such

things to be frighted into a confession of what he knew they could not

prove, for he had nothing about him belonging to it, nor had any money

but six pence and a few dirty farthings.

They threatened him, and pulled and hauled him, till they almost pulled

the clothes off his back, and the commissioners examined him; but all

was one; he would own nothing, but said he walked up through the room,

only to see the place, both then and the time before, for he had owned

he was there before; so, as there was no proof against him of any fact,

no, nor of any circumstances relating to the letter-case, they were

forced at last to let him go. However, they made a show of carrying him

to Bridewell, and they did carry him to the gate to see if they could

make him confess anything; but he would confess nothing, and they had

no mittimus; so they durst not carry him into the house; nor would the

people have received him, I suppose, if they had, they having no

warrant for putting him in prison.

Well, when they could get nothing out of him, they carried him into an

alehouse, and there they told him that the letter-case had bills in it

of a very great value; that they would be of no use to the rogue that

had them, but they would be of infinite damage to the gentleman that

had lost them; and that he had left word with the clerk, whom the man

that stopped this boy had called to, and who was there with him, that

he would give £30 to any one that would bring them again, and give all

the security that could be desired that he would give them no trouble,

whoever it was.

He was just come from out of their hands when I met with him, and so he

told me all the story. “But,” says he, “I would confess nothing, and so

I got off, and am come away clear.” “Well,” says I, “and what will you

do with the letter-case and the bills? Will you not let the poor man

have his bills again?” “No, not I,” says he; “I won’t trust them. What

care I for their bills?” It came into my head, as young as I was, that

it was a sad thing indeed to take a man’s bills away for so much money,

and not have any advantage by it neither; for I concluded that the

gentleman who owned the bills must lose all the money, and it was

strange he should keep the bills, and make a gentleman lose so much

money for nothing. I remember that I ruminated very much about it, and

though I did not understand it very well, yet it lay upon my mind, and

I said every now and then to him, “Do let the gentleman have his bills

again; do, pray do;” and so I teased him, with “Do” and “Pray do,” till

at last I cried about them. He said, “What, would you have me be found

out and sent to Bridewell, and be whipped, as your brother Captain

Jacque was?” I said, “No, I would not have you whipped, but I would

have the man have his bills, for they will do you no good, but the

gentleman will be undone, it may be.” And then I added again, “Do let

him have them.” He snapped me short. “Why,” says he, “how shall I get

them to him? Who dare carry them? I dare not, to be sure, for they will

stop me, and bring the goldsmith to see if he does not know me, and

that I received the money, and so they will prove the robbery, and I

shall be hanged. Would you have me be hanged, Jacque?”

I was silenced a good while with that, for when he said, “Would you

have me be hanged, Jacque?” I had no more to say. But one day after

this he called to me. “Colonel Jacque,” says he, “I have thought of a

way how the gentleman shall have his bills again; and you and I shall

get a good deal of money by it, if you will be honest to me, as I was

to you.” “Indeed,” says I, “Robin”—that was his name—“I will be very

honest; let me know how it is, for I would fain have him have his

bills.”

“Why,” says he, “they told me that he had left word at the clerk’s

place in the long-room that he would give £30 to any one that had the

bills, and would restore them, and would ask no questions. Now, if you

will go, like a poor innocent boy, as you are, into the long-room and

speak to the clerk, it may do. Tell him if the gentleman will do as he

promised, you believe you can tell him who has it; and if they are

civil to you, and willing to be as good as their words, you shall have

the letter-case, and give it them.”

I told him ay, I would go with all my heart. “But, Colonel Jacque,”

says he, “what if they should take hold of you and threaten to have you

whipped? Won’t you discover me to them?” “No,” says I; “if they would

whip me to death I won’t.” “Well, then,” says he, “there’s the

letter-case; do you go.” So he gave me directions how to act and what

to say; but I would not take the letter-case with me, lest they should

prove false, and take hold of me, thinking to find it upon me, and so

charge me with the fact; so I left it with him. And the next morning I

went to the custom-house, as was agreed. What my directions were will,

to avoid repetition, appear in what happened; it was an errand of too

much consequence indeed to be entrusted to a boy, not only so young as

I was, but so little of a rogue as I was yet arrived to the degree of.

Two things I was particularly armed with, which I resolved upon: 1.

That the man should have his bills again; for it seemed a horrible

thing to me that he should be made to lose his money, which I supposed

he must, purely because we would not carry the letter-case home. 2.

That whatever happened to me, I was never to tell the name of my

comrade Robin, who had been the principal. With these two pieces of

honesty, for such they were both in themselves, and with a manly heart,

though a boy’s head, I went up into the long-room in the custom-house

the next day.

As soon as I came to the place where the thing was done, I saw the man

sit just where he had sat before, and it ran in my head that he had sat

there ever since; but I knew no better; so I went up, and stood just at

that side of the writing-board that goes upon that side of the room,

and which I was but just tall enough to lay my arms upon.

While I stood there one thrust me this way, and another thrust me that

way, and the man that sat behind began to look at me. At last he called

out to me, “What does that boy do there? Get you gone, sirrah! Are you

one of the rogues that stole the gentleman’s letter-case a Monday

last?” Then he turns his tale to a gentleman that was doing business

with him, and goes on thus: “Here was Mr. —— had a very unlucky chance

on Monday last. Did not you hear of it?” “No, not I,” says the

gentleman. “Why, standing just there, where you do,” says he, “making

his entries, he pulled out his letter-case, and laid it down, as he

says, but just at his hand, while he reached over to the standish there

for a penful of ink, and somebody stole away his letter-case.”

“His letter-case!” says t’other. “What, and was there any bills in it?”

“Ay,” says he, “there was Sir Stephen Evans’s note in it for £300, and

another goldsmith’s bill for about £12; and which is worse still for

the gentleman, he had two foreign accepted bills in it for a great

sum—I know not how much. I think one was a French bill for 1200

crowns.”

“And who could it be?” says the gentleman.

“Nobody knows,” says he; “but one of our room-keepers says he saw a

couple of young rogues like that,” pointing at me, “hanging about here,

and that on a sudden they were both gone.”

“Villains!” says he again. “Why, what can they do with them? They will

be of no use to them. I suppose he went immediately and gave notice to

prevent the payment.”

“Yes,” says the clerk, “he did; but the rogues were too nimble for him

with the little bill of £12 odd money; they went and got the money for

that, but all the rest are stopped. However, ’tis an unspeakable damage

to him for want of his money.”

“Why, he should publish a reward for the encouragement of those that

have them to bring them again; they would be glad to bring them, I

warrant you.”

“He has posted it up at the door that he will give £30 for them.”

“Ay; but he should add that he will promise not to stop or give any

trouble to the person that brings them.”

“He has done that too,” says he; “but I fear they won’t trust

themselves to be honest, for fear he should break his word.”

“Why? It is true he may break his word in that case, but no man should

do so; for then no rogue will venture to bring home anything that is

stolen, and so he would do an injury to others after him.”

“I durst pawn my life for him, he would scorn it.”

Thus far they discoursed of it, and then went off to something else. I

heard it all, but did not know what to do a great while; but at last,

watching the gentleman that went away, when he was gone I ran after him

to have spoken to him, intending to have broke it to him, but he went

hastily into a room or two full of people at the hither end of the

long-room; and when I went to follow, the doorkeepers turned me back,

and told me I must not go in there; so I went back, and loitered about

near the man that sat behind the board, and hung about there till I

found the clock struck twelve, and the room began to be thin of people;

and at last he sat there writing, but nobody stood at the board before

him, as there had all the rest of the morning. Then I came a little

nearer, and stood close to the board, as I did before; when, looking up

from his paper, and seeing me, says he to me, “You have been up and

down here all this morning, sirrah! What do you want? You have some

business that is not very good, I doubt.”

“No, I han’t,” said I.

“No? It is well if you han’t,” says he. “Pray, what business can you

have in the long-room, sir? You are no merchant.”

“I would speak with you,” said I.

“With me!” says he. “What have you to say to me?”

“I have something to say,” said I, “if you will do me no harm for it.”

“I do thee harm, child! What harm should I do thee?” and spoke very

kindly.

“Won’t you indeed, sir?” said I.

“No, not I, child; I’ll do thee no harm. What is it? Do you know

anything of the gentleman’s letter-case?”

I answered, but spoke softly that he could not hear me; so he gets over

presently into the seat next him, and opens a place that was made to

come out, and bade me come in to him; and I did.

Then he asked me again if I knew anything of the letter-case.

I spoke softly again, and said folks would hear him.

Then he whispered softly, and asked me again.

I told him I believed I did, but that, indeed, I had it not, nor had no

hand in stealing it, but it was gotten into the hands of a boy that

would have burned it, if it had not been for me; and that I heard him

say that the gentleman would be glad to have them again, and give a

good deal of money for them.

“I did say so, child,” said he; “and if you can get them for him, he

shall give you a good reward, no less than £30, as he has promised.”

“But you said too, sir, to the gentleman just now,” said I, “that you

was sure he would not bring them into any harm that should bring them.”

“No, you shall come to no harm. I will pass my word for it.”

_Boy_. Nor shan’t they make me bring other people into trouble?

_Gent_. No; you shall not be asked the name of anybody, nor to tell who

they are.

_Boy_. I am but a poor boy, and I would fain have the gentleman have

his bills; and indeed I did not take them away, nor I han’t got them.

_Gent_. But can you tell how the gentleman shall have them?

_Boy_. If I can get them, I will bring them to you to-morrow morning.

_Gent_. Can you not do it to-night?

_Boy_. I believe I may if I knew where to come.

_Gent_. Come to my house, child.

_Boy_. I don’t know where you live.

_Gent_. Go along with me now, and you shall see.

So he carried me up into Tower Street, and showed me his house, and

ordered me to come there at five o’clock at night; which accordingly I

did, and carried the letter-case with me.

When I came the gentleman asked me if I had brought the book, as he

called it.

“It is not a book,” said I.

“No, the letter-case; that’s all one,” says he.

“You promised me,” said I, “you would not hurt me,” and cried.

“Don’t be afraid, child,” says he. “I will not hurt thee, poor boy;

nobody shall hurt thee.”

“Here it is,” said I, and pulled it out.

He then brought in another gentleman, who, it seems, owned the

letter-case, and asked him if that was it, and he said, “Yes.”

Then he asked me if all the bills were in it.

I told him I heard him say there was one gone, but I believed there was

all the rest.

“Why do you believe so?” says he.

“Because I heard the boy that I believe stole them say they were too

big for him to meddle with.”

The gentleman then that owned them said, “Where is the boy?”

Then the other gentleman put in, and said, “No, you must not ask him

that; I passed my word that you should not, and that he should not be

obliged to tell it to anybody.”

“Well, child,” says he, “you will let us see the letter-case opened,

and whether the bills are in it?”

“Yes,” says I.

Then the first gentleman said, “How many bills were there in it?”

“Only three,” says he. “Besides the bill of £12, 10s., there was Sir

Stephen Evans’s note for £300 and two foreign bills.”

“Well, then, if they are in the letter-case, the boy shall have £30,

shall he not?” “Yes,” says the gentleman; “he shall have it very

freely.”

“Come, then, child,” says he, “let me open it.”

So I gave it him, and he opened it, and there were all three bills, and

several other papers, fair and safe, nothing defaced or diminished; and

the gentleman said, “All is right.”

Then said the first man, “Then I am security to the poor boy for the

money.” “Well, but,” says the gentleman, “the rogues have got the £12,

10s.; they ought to reckon that as part of the £30.” Had he asked me, I

should have consented to it at first word; but the first man stood my

friend. “Nay,” says he, “it was since you knew that the £12, 10s. was

received that you offered £30 for the other bills, and published it by

the crier, and posted it up at the custom-house door, and I promised

him the £30 this morning.” They argued long, and I thought would have

quarrelled about it.

However, at last they both yielded a little, and the gentleman gave me

£25 in good guineas. When he gave it me he bade me hold out my hand,

and he told the money into my hand; and when he had done he asked me if

it was right. I said I did not know, but I believed it was. “Why,” says

he, “can’t you tell it?” I told him no; I never saw so much money in my

life, nor I did not know how to tell money. “Why,” says he, “don’t you

know that they are guineas?” No, I told him, I did not know how much a

guinea was.

“Why, then,” says he, “did you tell me you believed it was right?” I

told him, because I believed he would not give it me wrong.

“Poor child,” says he, “thou knowest little of the world, indeed. What

art thou?”

“I am a poor boy,” says I, and cried.

“What is your name?” says he. “But hold, I forgot,” said he; “I

promised I would not ask your name, so you need not tell me.”

“My name is Jacque,” said I.

“Why, have you no surname?” said he.

“What is that?” said I.

“You have some other name besides Jacque,” says he, “han’t you?”

“Yes,” says I; “they call me Colonel Jacque.”

“But have you no other name?”

“No,” said I.

“How came you to be Colonel Jacque, pray?”

“They say,” said I, “my father’s name was Colonel.”

“Is your father or mother alive?” said he.

“No,” said I; “my father is dead.”

“Where is your mother, then?” said he.

“I never had e’er a mother,” said I.

This made him laugh. “What,” said he, “had you never a mother? What,

then?”

“I had a nurse,” said I; “but she was not my mother.”

“Well,” says he to the gentleman, “I dare say this boy was not the

thief that stole your bills.”

“Indeed, sir, I did not steal them,” said I, and cried again.

“No, no, child,” said he, “we don’t believe you did. This is a very

clever boy,” says he to the other gentleman, “and yet very ignorant and

honest; ’tis pity some care should not be taken of him, and something

done for him. Let us talk a little more with him.” So they sat down and

drank wine, and gave me some, and then the first gentleman talked to me

again.

“Well,” says he, “what wilt thou do with this money now thou hast it?”

“I don’t know,” said I.

“Where will you put it?” said he,

“In my pocket,” said I.

“In your pocket!” said he. “Is your pocket whole? Shan’t you lose it?”

“Yes,” said I, “my pocket is whole.”

“And where will you put it when you get home?”

“I have no home,” said I, and cried again.

“Poor child!” said he. “Then what dost thou do for thy living?”

“I go of errands,” said I, “for the folks in Rosemary Lane.”

“And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?”

“I lie at the glass-house,” said I, “at night.”

“How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?” says he.

“I never lay in a bed in my life,” said I, “as I remember.”

“Why,” says he, “what do you lie on at the glass-house?”

“The ground,” says I; “and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm

ashes.”

Here the gentleman that lost the bills said, “This poor child is enough

to make a man weep for the miseries of human nature, and be thankful

for himself; he puts tears into my eyes.” “And into mine too,” says the

other.

“Well, but hark ye, Jacque,” says the first gentleman, “do they give

you no money when they send you of errands?”

“They give me victuals,” said I, “and that’s better.”

“But what,” says he, “do you do for clothes?”

“They give me sometimes old things,” said I, “such as they have to

spare.”

“Why, you have never a shirt on, I believe,” said he, “have you?”

“No; I never had a shirt,” said I, “since my nurse died.”

“How long ago is that?” said he.

“Six winters, when this is out,” said I.

“Why, how old are you?” said he.

“I can’t tell,” said I.

“Well,” says the gentleman, “now you have this money, won’t you buy

some clothes and a shirt with some of it?”

“Yes,” said I, “I would buy some clothes.”

“And what will you do with the rest?”

“I can’t tell,” said I, and cried.

“What dost cry for, Jacque?” said he.

“I am afraid,” said I, and cried still.

“What art afraid of?”

“They will know I have money.”

“Well, and what then?”

“Then I must sleep no more in the warm glass house, and I shall be

starved with cold. They will take away my money.”

“But why must you sleep there no more?”

Here the gentlemen observed to one another how naturally anxiety and

perplexity attend those that have money. “I warrant you,” says the

clerk, “when this poor boy had no money he slept all night in the

straw, or on the warm ashes in the glass-house, as soundly and as void

of care as it would be possible for any creature to do; but now, as

soon as he has gotten money, the care of preserving it brings tears

into his eyes and fear into his heart.”

They asked me a great many questions more, to which I answered in my

childish way as well as I could, but so as pleased them well enough. At

last I was going away with a heavy pocket, and I assure you not a light

heart, for I was so frighted with having so much money that I knew not

what in the earth to do with myself. I went away, however, and walked a

little way, but I could not tell what to do; so, after rambling two

hours or thereabout, I went back again, and sat down at the gentleman’s

door, and there I cried as long as I had any moisture in my head to

make tears of, but never knocked at the door.

I had not sat long, I suppose, but somebody belonging to the family got

knowledge of it, and a maid came and talked to me, but I said little to

her, only cried still. At length it came to the gentleman’s ears. As

for the merchant, he was gone. When the gentleman heard of me he called

me in, and began to talk with me again, and asked me what I stayed for.

I told him I had not stayed there all that while, for I had been gone a

great while, and was come again.

“Well,” says he, “but what did you come again for?”

“I can’t tell,” says I.

“And what do you cry so for?” said he. “I hope you have not lost your

money, have you?”

No, I told him, I had not lost it yet, but was afraid I should.

“And does that make you cry?” says he.

I told him yes, for I knew I should not be able to keep it, but they

would cheat me of it, or they would kill me and take it away from me

too.

“They?” says he. “Who? What sort of gangs of people art thou with?”

I told him they were all boys, but very wicked boys; “thieves and

pickpockets,” said I, “such as stole this letter-case—a sad pack; I

can’t abide them.”

“Well, Jacque,” said he, “what shall be done for thee? Will you leave

it with me? Shall I keep it for you?”

“Yes,” said I, “with all my heart, if you please.”

“Come, then,” says he, “give it me; and that you may be sure that I

have it, and you shall have it honestly again, I’ll give you a bill for

it, and for the interest of it, and that you may keep safe enough.

Nay,” added he, “and if you lose it, or anybody takes it from you, none

shall receive the money but yourself, or any part of it.”

I presently pulled out all the money, and gave it to him, only keeping

about 15s. for myself to buy some clothes; and thus ended the

conference between us on the first occasion, at least for the first

time. Having thus secured my money to my full satisfaction, I was then

perfectly easy, and accordingly the sad thoughts that afflicted my mind

before began to vanish away.

This was enough to let any one see how all the sorrows and anxieties of

men’s lives come about; how they rise from their restless pushing at

getting of money, and the restless cares of keeping it when they have

got it. I that had nothing, and had not known what it was to have had

anything, knew nothing of the care, either of getting or of keeping it;

I wanted nothing, who wanted everything; I had no care, no concern

about where I should get my victuals or how I should lodge; I knew not

what money was, or what to do with it; and never knew what it was not

to sleep till I had money to keep, and was afraid of losing it.

I had, without doubt, an opportunity at this time, if I had not been

too foolish, and too much a child to speak for myself—I had an

opportunity, I say, to have got into the service, or perhaps to be

under some of the care and concern, of these gentlemen; for they seemed

to be very fond of doing some thing for me, and were surprised at the

innocence of my talk to them, as well as at the misery (as they thought

it) of my condition.

But I acted indeed like a child; and leaving my money, as I have said,

I never went near them for several years after. What course I took, and

what befell me in that interval, has so much variety in it, and carries

so much instruction in it, that it requires an account of it by itself.

The first happy chance that offered itself to me in the world was now

over. I had got money, but I neither knew the value of it or the use of

it; the way of living I had begun was so natural to me, I had no notion

of bettering it; I had not so much as any desire of buying me any

clothes—no, not so much as a shirt; and much less had I any thought of

getting any other lodging than in the glass-house, and loitering about

the streets, as I had done; for I knew no good, and had tasted no evil;

that is to say, the life I had led being not evil in my account.

In this state of ignorance I returned to my really miserable life; so

it was in itself, and was only not so to me because I did not

understand how to judge of it, and had known no better.

My comrade that gave me back the bills, and who, if I had not pressed

him, designed never to have restored them, never asked me what I had

given me, but told me if they gave me anything it should be my own;

for, as he said he would not run the venture of being seen in the

restoring them, I deserved the reward if there was any; neither did he

trouble his head with inquiring what I had, or whether I had anything

or no; so my title to what I had got was clear.

I went now up and down just as I did before. I had money indeed in my

pocket, but I let nobody know it. I went of errands cheerfully as

before, and accepted of what anybody gave me with as much thankfulness

as ever. The only difference that I made with myself was, that if I was

hungry, and nobody employed me, or gave me anything to eat, I did not

beg from door to door, as I did at first, but went to a boiling-house,

as I said once before, and got a mess of broth and a piece of bread,

price a halfpenny; very seldom any meat; or if I treated myself, it was

a halfpennyworth of cheese; all which expense did not amount to above

twopence or three pence a week; for, contrary to the usage of the rest

of the tribe, I was extremely frugal, and I had not disposed of any of

the guineas which I had at first; neither, as I said to the

custom-house gentleman, could I tell what a guinea was made of, or what

it was worth.

After I had been about a month thus, and had done nothing, my comrade,

as I called him, came to me one morning. “Colonel Jacque,” says he,

“when shall you and I take a walk again?” “When you will,” said I.

“Have you got no business yet?” says he. “No,” says I; and so one thing

bringing on another, he told me I was a fortunate wretch, and he

believed I would be so again, but that he must make a new bargain with

me now; “for,” says he, “colonel, the first time we always let a raw

brother come in for full share to encourage him; but afterwards, except

it be when he puts himself forward well and runs equal hazard, he

stands to courtesy; but as we are gentlemen, we always do very

honourably by one another; and if you are willing to trust it or leave

it to me, I shall do handsomely by you, that you may depend upon.” I

told him I was not able to do anything, that was certain, for I did not

understand it, and therefore I could not expect to get anything, but I

would do as he bade me; so we walked abroad together.

We went no more to the custom-house; it was too bold a venture.

Besides, I did not care to show myself again, especially with him in

company. But we went directly to the Exchange, and we hankered about in

Castle Alley, and in Swithin’s Alley, and at the coffee-house doors. It

was a very unlucky day, for we got nothing all day but two or three

handkerchiefs, and came home to the old lodgings at the glass-house;

nor had I had anything to eat or drink all day but a piece of bread

which he gave me, and some water at the conduit at the Exchange Gate.

So when he was gone from me, for he did not lie in the glass-house, as

I did, I went to my old broth-house for my usual bait, and refreshed

myself, and the next day early went to meet him again, as he appointed

me.

Being early in the morning, he took his walk to Billingsgate, where it

seems two sorts of people make a great crowd as soon as it is light,

and at that time a-year rather before daylight; that is to say, crimps

and the masters of coal-ships, whom they call collier-masters; and,

secondly, fishmongers, fish-sellers, and buyers of fish.

It was the first of these people that he had his eye upon. So he gives

me my orders, which was thus: “Go you,” says he, “into all the

alehouses as we go along, and observe where any people are telling of

money; and when you find any, come and tell me.” So he stood at the

door, and I went into the houses. As the collier-masters generally sell

their coals at the gate, as they call it, so they generally receive

their money in those alehouses; and it was not long before I brought

him word of several. Upon this he went in and made his observations,

but found nothing to his purpose. At length I brought him word that

there was a man in such a house who had received a great deal of money

of somebody, I believed of several people, and that it lay all upon the

table in heaps, and he was very busy writing down the sums and putting

it up in several bags. “Is he?” says he; “I’ll warrant him I will have

some of it;” and in he goes. He walks up and down the house, which had

several open tables and boxes in it, and he listened to hear, if he

could, what the man’s name was; and he heard somebody call him Cullum,

or some such name. Then he watches his opportunity, and steps up to

him, and tells him a long story, that there was two gentlemen at the

Gun tavern sent him to inquire for him, and to tell him they desired to

speak with him.

The collier-master had his money lay before him, just as I had told

him, and had two or three small payments of money, which he had put up

in little black dirty bags, and lay by themselves; and as it was hardly

broad day, he found means in delivering his message to lay his hands

upon one of those bags, and carry it off perfectly undiscovered.

When we had got it he came out to me, who stood but at the door, and

pulling me by the sleeve, “Run, Jacque,” says he, “for our lives;” and

away he scours, and I after him, never resting, or scarce looking about

me, till we got quite up into Fenchurch Street, through Lime Street

into Leadenhall Street, down St. Mary Axe to London Wall, then through

Bishopsgate Street and down Old Bedlam into Moorfields. By this time we

were neither of us able to run very fast; nor need we have gone so far,

for I never found that anybody pursued us. When we got into Moorfields

and began to take breath, I asked him what it was frighted him so.

“Fright me, you fool!” says he; “I have got a devilish great bag of

money.” “A bag!” said I. “Ay, ay,” said he; “let us get out into the

fields where nobody can see us, and I’ll show it you.” So away he had

me through Long Alley, and cross Hog Lane and Holloway Lane, into the

middle of the great field, which since that has been called the

Farthing Pie-House Fields. There we would have sat down, but it was all

full of water; so we went on, crossed the road at Anniseed Cleer, and

went into the field where now the great hospital stands; and finding a

by-place, we sat down, and he pulls out the bag. “Thou art a lucky boy,

Jacque,” says he; “thou deservest a good share of this job, truly; for

it is all along of thy lucky news.” So he pours it all out into my hat;

for, as I told you, I now wore a hat.

How he did to whip away such a bag of money from any man that was awake

and in his senses I cannot tell; but there was a great deal in it, and

among it a paperful by itself. When the paper dropped out of the bag,

“Hold,” says he, “that is gold!” and began to crow and hollow like a

mad boy. But there he was baulked; for it was a paper of old

thirteenpence-halfpenny pieces, half and quarter pieces, with

ninepences and fourpence-halfpennies—all old crooked money, Scotch and

Irish coin; so he was disappointed in that. But as it was there was

about £17 or £18 in the bag, as I understood by him; for I could not

tell money, not I.

Well, he parted this money into three; that is to say, into three

shares—two for himself and one for me, and asked if I was content. I

told him yes, I had reason to be contented. Besides, it was so much

money added to that I had left of his former adventure that I knew not

what to do with it, or with myself, while I had so much about me.

This was a most exquisite fellow for a thief; for he had the greatest

dexterity at conveying anything away that he scarce ever pitched upon

anything in his eye but he carried it off with his hands, and never

that I know of missed his aim or was caught in the fact.

He was an eminent pickpocket, and very dexterous at ladies’ gold

watches; but he generally pushed higher at such desperate things as

these; and he came off the cleanest and with the greatest success

imaginable; and it was in these kinds of the wicked art of thieving

that I became his scholar.

As we were now so rich, he would not let me lie any longer in the

glass-house, or go naked and ragged as I had done, but obliged me to

buy two shirts, a waistcoat, and a greatcoat; for a greatcoat was more

for our purpose in the business we was upon than any other. So I

clothed myself as he directed, and he took me a lodging in the same

house with him, and we lodged together in a little garret fit for our

quality.

Soon after this we walked out again, and then we tried our fortune in

the places by the Exchange a second time. Here we began to act

separately, and I undertook to walk by myself; and the first thing I

did accurately was a trick I played that argued some skill for a new

beginner; for I had never seen any business of that kind done before. I

saw two gentlemen mighty eager in talk, and one pulled out a

pocket-book two or three times, and then slipt it into his coat-pocket

again, and then out it came again, and papers were taken out and others

were put in; and then in it went again, and so several times; the man

being still warmly engaged with another man, and two or three others

standing hard by them. The last time he put his pocket-book into his

pocket, he might be said to throw it in rather than put it in with his

hand, and the book lay end-way, resting upon some other book or

something else in his pocket; so that it did not go quite down, but one

corner of it was seen above his pocket.