This careless way of men putting their pocket-books into a coat-pocket,

which is so easily dived into by the least boy that has been used to

the trade, can never be too much blamed. The gentlemen are in great

hurries, their heads and thoughts entirely taken up, and it is

impossible they should be guarded enough against such little

hawk’s-eyed creatures as we were; and, therefore, they ought either

never to put their pocket-books up at all, or to put them up more

secure, or to put nothing of value into them. I happened to be just

opposite to this gentleman in that they call Swithin’s Alley, or that

alley rather which is between Swithin’s Alley and the Exchange, just by

a passage that goes out of the alley into the Exchange, when, seeing

the book pass and repass into the pocket and out of the pocket as

above, it came immediately into my head, certainly I might get that

pocket-book out if I were nimble, and I warrant Will would have it, if

he saw it go and come to and again as I did. But when I saw it hang by

the way, as I have said, “Now it is mine,” said I to myself, and,

crossing the alley, I brushed smoothly but closely by the man, with my

hand down flat to my own side, and, taking hold of it by the corner

that appeared, the book came so light into my hand, it was impossible

the gentleman should feel the least motion, or anybody else see me take

it away. I went directly forward into the broad place on the north side

of the Exchange, then scoured down Bartholomew Lane, so into Tokenhouse

Yard, into the alleys which pass through from thence to London Wall, so

through Moorgate, and sat down on the grass in the second of the

quarters of Moorfields, towards the middle field; which was the place

that Will and I had appointed to meet at if either of us got any booty.

When I came thither Will was not come; but I saw him coming in about

half-an-hour.

As soon as Will came to me I asked him what booty he had gotten. He

looked pale, and, as I thought, frighted; but he returned, “I have got

nothing, not I; but, you lucky young dog,” says he, “what have you got?

Have not you got the gentleman’s pocket-book in Swithin’s Alley?”

“Yes,” says I, and laughed at him; “why, how did you know it?” “Know

it!” says he. “Why, the gentleman is raving and half distracted; he

stamps and cries and tears his very clothes. He says he is utterly

undone and ruined, and the folks in the alley say there is I know not

how many thousand pounds in it. What can be in it?” says Will. “Come,

let us see.”

Well, we lay close in the grass in the middle of the quarter, so that

nobody minded us; and so we opened the pocket-book, and there was a

great many bills and notes under men’s hands; some goldsmiths’, and

some belonging to insurance offices, as they call them, and the like.

But that which was, it seems, worth all the rest was that, in one of

the folds of the cover of the book, where there was a case with several

partitions, there was a paper full of loose diamonds. The man, as we

understood afterward, was a Jew, who dealt in such goods, and who

indeed ought to have taken more care of the keeping of them.

Now was this booty too great, even for Will himself, to manage; for

though by this time I was come to understand things better than I did

formerly, when I knew not what belonged to money, yet Will was better

skilled by far in those things than I. But this puzzled him too, as

well as me. Now were we something like the cock in the fable; for all

these bills, and I think there was one bill of Sir Henry Furness’s for

£1200, and all these diamonds, which were worth about £150, as they

said—I say, all these things were of no value to us: one little purse

of gold would have been better to us than all of it. “But come,” says

Will, “let us look over the bills for a little one.”

We looked over all the bills, and among them we found a bill under a

man’s hand for £32. “Come,” says Will, “let us go and inquire where

this man lives.” So he went into the City again, and Will went to the

post-house, and asked there. They told him he lived at Temple Bar.

“Well,” says Will, “I will venture. I’ll go and receive the money; it

may be he has not remembered to send to stop the payment there.”

But it came into his thoughts to take another course. “Come,” says

Will, “I’ll go back to the alley, and see if I can hear anything of

what has happened, for I believe the hurry is not over yet.” It seems

the man who lost the book was carried into the King’s Head tavern at

the end of that alley, and a great crowd was about the door.

Away goes Will, and watches and waits about the place; and then, seeing

several people together, for they were not all dispersed, he asks one

or two what was the matter. They tell him a long story of a gentleman

who had lost his pocket-book, with a great bag of diamonds in it, and

bills for a great many thousand pounds, and I know not what; and that

they had been just crying it, and had offered £100 reward to any one

who would discover and restore it.

“I wish,” said he to one of them that parleyed with him, “I did but

know who has it; I don’t doubt but I could help him to it again. Does

he remember nothing of anybody, boy or fellow, that was near him? If he

could but describe him, it might do.” Somebody that overheard him was

so forward to assist the poor gentleman that they went up and let him

know what a young fellow, meaning Will, had been talking at the door;

and down comes another gentleman from him, and, taking Will aside,

asked him what he had said about it. Will was a grave sort of a young

man, that, though he was an old soldier at the trade, had yet nothing

of it in his countenance; and he answered that he was concerned in

business where a great many of the gangs of little pickpockets haunted,

and if he had but the least description of the person they suspected,

he durst say he could find him out, and might perhaps get the things

again for him. Upon this he desired him to go up with him to the

gentleman, which he did accordingly; and there, he said, he sat leaning

his head back to the chair, pale as a cloth, disconsolate to a strange

degree, and, as Will described him, just like one under a sentence.

When they came to ask him whether he had seen no boy or shabby fellow

lurking near where he stood, or passing, or repassing, and the like, he

answered, “No, not any.” Neither could he remember that anybody had

come near him. “Then,” said Will, “it will be very hard, if not

impossible, to find them out. However,” said Will, “if you think it

worth while, I will put myself among those rogues, though,” says he, “I

care not for being seen among them. But I will put in among them, and

if it be in any of those gangs, it is ten to one but I shall hear

something of it.”

They asked him then if he had heard what terms the gentleman had

offered to have it restored; he answered, “No” (though he had been told

at the door). They answered, he had offered £100. “That is too much,”

says Will; “but if you please to leave it to me, I shall either get it

for you for less than that, or not be able to get it for you at all.”

Then the losing gentleman said to one of the other, “Tell him that if

he can get it lower, the overplus shall be to himself.” William said he

would be very glad to do the gentleman such a service, and would leave

the reward to himself. “Well, young man,” says one of the gentlemen,

“whatever you appoint to the young artist that has done this roguery

(for I warrant he is an artist, let it be who it will), he shall be

paid, if it be within the £100, and the gentleman is willing to give

you £50 besides for your pains.”

“Truly, sir,” says Will very gravely, “it was by mere chance that,

coming by the door, and seeing the crowd, I asked what the matter was.

But if I should be instrumental to get the unfortunate gentleman his

pocket-book and the things in it again, I shall be very glad; nor am I

so rich neither, sir, but £50 is very well worth my while too.” Then he

took directions who to come to, and who to give his account to if he

learned anything, and the like.

Will stayed so long that, as he and I agreed, I went home, and he did

not come to me till night; for we had considered before that it would

not be proper to come from them directly to me, lest they should follow

him and apprehend me. If he had made no advances towards a treaty, he

would have come back in half-an-hour, as we agreed; but staying late,

we met at our night rendezvous, which was in Rosemary Lane.

When he came he gave an account of all the discourse, and particularly

what a consternation the gentleman was in who lost the pocket-book, and

that he did not doubt but we should get a good round sum for the

recovery of it.

We consulted all the evening about it, and concluded he should let them

hear nothing of them the next day at all; and that the third day he

should go, but should make no discovery; only that he had got a scent

of it, and that he believed he should have it, and make it appear as

difficult as possible, and to start as many objections as he could.

Accordingly, the third day after he met with the gentleman, who, he

found, had been uneasy at his long stay, and told him they were afraid

that he only flattered them to get from them, and that they had been

too easy in letting him go without a further examination.

He took upon him to be very grave with them, and told them that if that

was what he was like to have for being so free as to tell them he

thought he might serve them, they might see that they had wronged him,

and were mistaken by his coming again to them; that if they thought

they could do any thing by examining him, they might go about it, if

they pleased, now; that all he had to say to them was, that he knew

where some of the young rogues haunted who were famous for such things;

and that by some inquiries, offering them money, and the like, he

believed they would be brought to betray one another, and that so he

might pick it out for them; and this he would say before a justice of

peace, if they thought fit; and then all that he had to say further to

them was to tell them he had lost a day or two in their service, and

had got nothing but to be suspected for his pains, and that after that

he had done, and they might seek their goods where they could find

them.

They began to listen a little upon that, and asked him if he could give

them any hopes of recovering their loss. He told them that he was not

afraid to tell them that he believed he had heard some news of them,

and that what he had done had prevented all the bills being burnt, book

and all; but that now he ought not to be asked any more questions till

they should be pleased to answer him a question or two. They told him

they would give him any satisfaction they could, and bid him tell what

he desired.

“Why, sir,” says he, “how can you expect any thief that had robbed you

to such a considerable value as this would come and put himself into

your hands, confess he had your goods, and restore them to you, if you

do not give them assurance that you will not only give them the reward

you agreed to, but also give assurance that they shall not be stopped,

questioned, or called to account before a magistrate?”

They said they would give all possible assurance of it. “Nay,” says he,

“I do not know what assurance you are able to give; for when a poor

fellow is in your clutches and has shown you your goods, you may seize

upon him for a thief, and it is plain he must be so. Then you go, take

away your goods, send him to prison, and what amends can he have of you

afterward?”

They were entirely confounded with the difficulty; they asked him to

try if he could get the things into his hands, and they would pay him

the money before he let them go out of his hand, and he should go away

half-an-hour before they went out of the room.

“No, gentlemen,” says he, “that won’t do now. If you had talked so

before you had talked of apprehending me for nothing, I should have

taken your words; but now it is plain you have had such a thought in

your heads, and how can I, or any one else, be assured of safety?”

Well, they thought of a great many particulars, but nothing would do.

At length the other people who were present put in, that they should

give security to him, by a bond of £1000, that they would not give the

person any trouble whatsoever. He pretended they could not be bound,

nor could their obligation be of any value, and that their own goods

being once seen, they might seize them. “And what would it signify,”

said he, “to put a poor pick pocket to sue for his reward?” They could

not tell what to say, but told him that he should take the things of

the boy, if it was a boy, and they would be bound to pay him the money

promised. He laughed at them, and said, “No, gentlemen; as I am not the

thief, so I shall be very loth to put myself in the thief’s stead and

lie at your mercy.”

They told him they knew not what to do then, and that it would be very

hard he would not trust them at all. He said he was very willing to

trust them and to serve them, but that it would be very hard to be

ruined and charged with the theft for endeavouring to serve them.

They then offered to give it him under their hands that they did not in

the least suspect him; that they would never charge him with anything

about it; that they acknowledged he went about to inquire after the

goods at their request; and that if he produced them, they would pay

him so much money, at or before the delivery of them, without obliging

him to name or produce that person he had them from.

Upon this writing, signed by three gentlemen who were present, and by

the person in particular who lost the things, the young gentleman told

them he would go and do his utmost to get the pocket-book and all that

was in it.

Then he desired that they would in writing, beforehand, give him a

particular of all the several things that were in the book, that he

might not have it said, when he produced it, that there was not all;

and he would have the said writing sealed up, and he would make the

book be sealed up when it was given to him. This they agreed to; and

the gentleman accordingly drew up a particular of all the bills that he

remembered, as he said, was in the book, and also of the diamonds, as

follows:—

One bill under Sir Henry Furness’s hand for £1200.

One bill under Sir Charles Duncomb’s hand for £800, £250 endorsed off =

£550.

One bill under the hand of J. Tassel, goldsmith, £165.

One bill of Sir Francis Child, £39.

One bill of one Stewart, that kept a wager-office and insurance, £350.

A paper containing thirty-seven loose diamonds, value about £250.

A little paper containing three large rough diamonds, and one large one

polished and cut, value £185.

For all these things they promised, first, to give him whatever he

agreed with the thief to give him, not exceeding £50, and to give him

£50 more for himself for procuring them.

Now he had his cue, and now he came to me, and told me honestly the

whole story as above. So I delivered him the book, and he told me that

he thought it was reasonable we should not take the full sum, because

he would seem to have done them some service, and so make them the

easier. All this I agreed to; so he went the next day to the place, and

the gentlemen met him very punctually.

He told them at the first word he had done their work, and, as he

hoped, to their mind; and told them, if it had not been for the

diamonds, he could have got all for £10; but that the diamonds had

shone so bright in the boy’s imagination that he talked of running away

to France or Holland, and living there all his days like a gentleman;

at which they laughed. “However, gentlemen,” said he, “here is the

book;” and so pulled it out, wrapt up in a dirty piece of a coloured

handkerchief, as black as the street could make it, and sealed with a

piece of sorry wax, and the impression of a farthing for a seal.

Upon this, the note being also unsealed, at the same time he pulled

open the dirty rag, and showed the gentleman his pocket-book; at which

he was so over-surprised with joy, notwithstanding all the preparatory

discourse, that he was fain to call for a glass of wine or brandy to

drink, to keep him from fainting.

The book being opened, the paper of diamonds was first taken out, and

there they were every one; only the little paper was by itself; and the

rough diamonds that were in it were loose among the rest, but he owned

they were all there safe.

Then the bills were called over one by one, and they found one bill for

£80 more than the account mentioned, besides several papers which were

not for money, though of consequence to the gentleman; and he

acknowledged that all was very honestly returned. “And now, young man,”

said they, “you shall see we will deal as honestly by you;” and so, in

the first place, they gave him £50 for himself, and then they told out

the £50 for me.

He took the £50 for himself, and put it up in his pocket, wrapping it

in paper, it being all in gold; then he began to tell over the other

£50. But when he had told out £30, “Hold, gentlemen,” said he, “as I

have acted fairly for you, so you shall have no reason to say I do not

do so to the end. I have taken £30, and for so much I agreed with the

boy; and so there is £20 of your money again.”

They stood looking one at another a good while, as surprised at the

honesty of it; for till that time they were not quite without a secret

suspicion that he was the thief; but that piece of policy cleared up

his reputation to them. The gentleman that had got his bills said

softly to one of them, “Give it him all.” But the other said (softly

too), “No, no; as long as he has got it abated, and is satisfied with

the £50 you have given him, ’tis very well; let it go as it ’tis.” This

was not spoke so softly but he heard it, and said, “No,” too; “I am

very well satisfied; I am glad I have got them for you;” and so they

began to part.

But just before they were going away one of the gentlemen said to him,

“Young man, come, you see we are just to you, and have done fairly, as

you have also; and we will not desire you to tell us who this cunning

fellow is that got such a prize from this gentleman; but as you have

talked with him, prithee, can you tell us nothing of how he did it,

that we may beware of such sparks again?”

“Sir,” says Will, “when I shall tell you what they say, and how the

particular case stood, the gentleman would blame himself more than

anybody else, or as much at least. The young rogue that catched this

prize was out, it seems, with a comrade, who is a nimble, experienced

pickpocket as most in London; but at that time the artist was somewhere

at a distance, and this boy never had picked a pocket in his life

before; but he says he stood over against the passage into the

Exchange, on the east side, and the gentleman stood just by the

passage; that he was very earnest in talking with some other gentleman,

and often pulled out this book and opened it, and took papers out and

put others in, and returned it into his coat-pocket; that the last time

it hitched at the pocket-hole, or stopt at something that was in the

pocket, and hung a little out, which the boy, who had watched it a good

while perceiving, he passes by close to the gentleman, and carried it

smoothly off, without the gentleman’s perceiving it at all.”

He went on, and said, “’Tis very strange gentlemen should put

pocket-books which have such things in them into those loose pockets,

and in so careless a manner.” “That’s very true,” says the gentleman;

and so, with some other discourse of no great signification, he came

away to me.

We were now so rich that we scarce knew what to do with our money; at

least I did not, for I had no relations, no friends, nowhere to put

anything I had but in my pocket. As for Will, he had a poor mother, but

wicked as himself, and he made her rich and glad with his good success.

We divided this booty equally; for though the gaining it was mine, yet

the improving of it was his, and his management brought the money; for

neither he or I could have made anything proportionable of the thing

any other way. As for the bills, there was no room to doubt but unless

they had been carried that minute to the goldsmith’s for the money, he

would have come with notice to stop the payment, and perhaps have come

while the money was receiving, and have taken hold of the person. And

then as to the diamonds, there had been no offering them to sale by us

poor boys to anybody but those who were our known receivers, and they

would have given us nothing for them compared to what they were worth;

for, as I understood afterwards, those who made a trade of buying

stolen goods took care to have false weights, and cheat the poor devil

that stole them at least an ounce in three.

Upon the whole, we made the best of it many ways besides. I had a

strange kind of uninstructed conscience at that time; for though I made

no scruple of getting anything in this manner from anybody, yet I could

not bear destroying their bills and papers, which were things that

would do them a great deal of hurt, and do me no good; and I was so

tormented about it that I could not rest night or day while I made the

people easy from whom the things were taken.

I was now rich, so rich that I knew not what to do with my money or

with myself. I had lived so near and so close, that although, as I

said, I did now and then lay out twopence or threepence for mere

hunger, yet I had so many people who, as I said, employed me, and who

gave me victuals and sometimes clothes, that in a whole year I had not

quite spent the 15s. which I had saved of the custom-house gentleman’s

money; and I had the four guineas which was of the first booty before

that still in my pocket—I mean the money that I let fall into the tree.

But now I began to look higher; and though Will and I went abroad

several times together, yet, when small things offered, as

handkerchiefs and such trifles, we would not meddle with them, not

caring to run the risk for small matters. It fell out one day that, as

we were strolling about in West Smithfield on a Friday, there happened

to be an ancient country gentleman in the market, selling some very

large bullocks. It seems they came out of Sussex, for we heard him say

there were no such bullocks in the whole county of Suffolk. His

worship, for so they called him, had received the money for these

bullocks at a tavern, whose sign I forget now, and having some of it in

a bag, and the bag in his hand, he was taken with a sudden fit of

coughing, and stands to cough, resting his hand with the bag of money

in it upon the bulk-head of a shop just by the Cloister Gate in

Smithfield; that is to say, within three or four doors of it. We were

both just behind him. Says Will to me, “Stand ready.” Upon this he

makes an artificial stumble, and falls with his head just against the

old gentleman in the very moment when he was coughing, ready to be

strangled, and quite spent for want of breath.

The violence of the blow beat the old gentleman quite down. The bag of

money did not immediately fly out of his hand, but I ran to get hold of

it, and gave it a quick snatch, pulled it clean away, and ran like the

wind down the Cloisters with it; turned on the left hand, as soon as I

was through, and cut into Little Britain, so into Bartholomew Close,

then across Aldersgate Street, through Paul’s Alley into Redcross

Street, and so across all the streets, through innumerable alleys, and

never stopped till I got into the second quarter of Moorfields, our old

agreed rendezvous.

Will, in the meantime, fell down with the old gentleman, but soon got

up. The old knight, for such, it seems, he was, was frighted with the

fall, and his breath so stopped with his cough that he could not

recover himself to speak till some time; during which nimble Will was

got up again, and walked off. Nor could he call out, “Stop thief,” or

tell anybody he had lost anything for a good while; but, coughing

vehemently and looking red, till he was almost black in the face, he

cried, “The ro—hegh, hegh, hegh—the rogues—hegh—have got—hegh, hegh,

hegh, hegh, hegh, hegh;” then he would get a little breath, and at it

again: “The rogues—hegh, hegh;” and, after a great many heghs and

rogues, he brought it out—“have got away my bag of money!”

All this while the people understood nothing of the matter; and as for

the rogues indeed, they had time enough to get clear away, and in about

an hour Will came to the rendezvous. There we sat down in the grass

again, and turned out the money, which proved to be eight guineas, and

£5, 12s. in silver, so that it made just £14 together. This we shared

upon the spot, and went to work the same day for more; but whether it

was that, being flushed with our success, we were not so vigilant, or

that no other opportunity offered, I know not, but we got nothing more

that night, nor so much as anything offered itself for an attempt.

We took many walks of this kind, sometimes together, at a little

distance from one another, and several small hits we made; but we were

so flushed with our success that truly we were above meddling with

trifles, as I said before—no, not such things that others would have

been glad of; nothing but pocket-books, letter-cases, or sums of money

would move us.

The next adventure was in the dusk of the evening, in a court which

goes out of Gracechurch Street into Lombard Street, where the Quakers’

meeting house is. There was a young fellow who, as we learned

afterward, was a woollen-draper’s apprentice in Gracechurch Street. It

seems he had been receiving a sum of money which was very considerable,

and he comes to a goldsmith’s shop in Lombard Street with it; paid in

the most of it there; insomuch that it grew dark, and the goldsmith

began to be shutting in shop, and candles to be lighted. We watched him

in there, and stood on the other side of the way to see what he did.

When he had paid in all the money he intended, he stayed still some

time longer, to take notes, as I supposed, for what he had paid; and by

this time it was still darker than before. At last he comes out of the

shop, with still a pretty large bag under his arm, and walks over into

the court, which was then very dark. In the middle of the court is a

boarded entry, and farther, at the end of it, a threshold; and as soon

as he had set his foot over the threshold, he was to turn on his left

hand into Gracechurch Street.

“Keep up,” says Will to me; “be nimble;” and as soon as he had said so

he flies at the young man, and gives him such a violent thrust that

pushed him forward with too great a force for him to stand; and as he

strove to recover, the threshold took his feet, and he fell forward

into the other part of the court, as if he had flown in the air, with

his head lying towards the Quakers’ meeting-house. I stood ready, and

presently felt out the bag of money, which I heard fall; for it flew

out of his hand, he having his life to save, not his money. I went

forward with the money, and Will, that threw him down, finding I had

it, run backward, and as I made along Fenchurch Street, Will overtook

me, and we scoured home together. The poor young man was hurt a little

with the fall, and reported to his master, as we heard afterward, that

he was knocked down, which was not true, for neither Will or I had any

stick in our hands; but the master of the youth was, it seems, so very

thankful that his young man was not knocked down before he paid the

rest of the money (which was above £100 more) to the goldsmith, who was

Sir John Sweetapple, that he made no great noise at the loss he had,

and, as we heard afterward, only warned his apprentice to be more

careful and come no more through such places in the dark; whereas the

man had really no such deliverance as he imagined, for we saw him

before, when he had all the money about him; but it was no time of day

for such work as we had to do, so that he was in no danger before.

This booty amounted to £29, 16s., which was £14 18s. apiece, and added

exceedingly to my store, which began now to be very much too big for my

management; and indeed I began to be now full of care for the

preservation of what I had got. I wanted a trusty friend to commit it

to; but where was such a one to be found by a poor boy bred up among

thieves? If I should have let any honest body know that I had so much

money, they would have asked me how I came by it, and would have been

afraid to take it into their hands, lest I being some time or other

catched in my rogueries, they should be counted the receivers of stolen

goods and the encouragers of a thief.

We had, however, in the meantime a great many other successful

enterprises, some of one kind, some of another, and were never so much

as in danger of being apprehended; but my companion Will, who was now

grown a man, and encouraged by these advantages, fell into quite

another vein of wickedness, getting acquainted with a wretched gang of

fellows that turned their hands to everything that was vile.

Will was a lusty, strong fellow, and withal very bold and daring, would

fight anybody and venture upon anything; and I found he began to be

above the mean rank of a poor pickpocket, so I saw him but seldom.

However, once coming to me in a very friendly manner, and asking me how

I went on, I told him that I used the old trade still, that I had had

two or three good jobs: one with a young woman, whose pocket I had

picked of eleven guineas; and another, a countrywoman, just come out of

a stage-coach, seeing her pull out her bag to pay the coachman; and

that I followed her till I got an opportunity, and slipped it out so

neatly that though there was £8, 17s. in it, yet she never felt it go.

And several other jobs I told him of, by which I made pretty good

purchase. “I always said you were a lucky boy, Colonel Jacque,” says

he; “but, come, you are grown almost a man now, and you shall not be

always at play at push-pin. I am got into better business, I assure

you, and you shall come into it too. I’ll bring you into a brave gang,

Jacque,” says he, “where you shall see we shall be all gentlemen.”

Then he told me the trade itself, in short, which was with a set of

fellows that had two of the most desperate works upon their hands that

belonged to the whole art of thieving; that is to say, in the evening

they were footpads, and in the night they were housebreakers. Will told

me so many plausible stories, and talked of such great things, that, in

short, I, who had been always used to do anything he bid me do, went

with him without any hesitation.

Nothing is more certain than that hitherto, being partly from the gross

ignorance of my untaught childhood, as I observed before, partly from

the hardness and wickedness of the company I kept; and add to these

that it was the business I might be said to be brought up to—I had, I

say, all the way hitherto, no manner of thoughts about the good or evil

of what I was embarked in; consequently I had no sense of conscience,

no reproaches upon my mind for having done amiss.

Yet I had something in me, by what secret influence I knew not, kept me

from the other degrees of raking and vice, and, in short, from the

general wickedness of the rest of my companions. For example, I never

used any ill words, nobody ever heard me swear, nor was I given to

drink, or to love strong drink; and I cannot omit a circumstance that

very much served to prevent it. I had a strange original notion, as I

have mentioned in its place, of my being a gentleman; and several

things had casually happened in my way to increase this fancy of mine.

It happened one day, that being in the Glass-house Yard, between

Rosemary Lane and Ratcliff Highway, there came a man dressed very well,

and with a coach attending him, and he came (as I suppose) to buy

glass-bottles, or some other goods, as they sold; and in bargaining for

his goods, he swore most horrid oaths at every two or three words. At

length the master of the glass-house, an ancient, grave gentleman, took

the liberty to reprove him, which at first made him swear the worse.

After a while the gentleman was a little calmer, but still he swore

very much, though not so bad as at first. After some time the master of

the glass-house turned from him—“Really, sir,” says the good old

gentleman, “you swear so, and take God’s name in vain so, that I cannot

bear to stay with you. I would rather you would let my goods alone and

go somewhere else. I hope you won’t take it ill, but I don’t desire to

deal with anybody that does so. I am afraid my glass-house should fall

on your head while you stay in it.”

The gentleman grew good-humoured at the reproof, and said, “Well, come,

don’t go away; I won’t swear any more,” says he, “if I can help it; for

I own,” says he, “I should not do it.”

With that the old gentleman looked up at him, and, returning, “Really,

sir,” says he, “’tis pity you, that seem to be a fine gentleman,

well-bred and good-humoured, should accustom yourself to such a hateful

practice. Why, ’tis not like a gentleman to swear; ’tis enough for my

black wretches that work there at the furnace, or for these ragged,

naked, blackguard boys,” pointing at me, and some others of the dirty

crew that lay in the ashes. “’Tis bad enough for them,” says he, “and

they ought to be corrected for it, too; but for a man of breeding,

sir,” says he, “a gentleman, it ought to be looked upon as below them.

Gentlemen know better, and are taught better, and it is plain you know

better. I beseech you, sir, when you are tempted to swear, always ask

yourself, ‘Is this like a gentleman? Does this become me as a

gentleman?’ Do but ask yourself that question, and your reason will

prevail—you will soon leave it off.”

I heard all this, and it made the blood run chill in my veins when he

said swearing was only fit for such as we were. In short, it made as

great an impression upon me as it did upon the gentleman; and yet he

took it very kindly too, and thanked the old gentleman for his advice.

But from that time forward I never had the least inclination to

swearing or ill words, and abhorred it when I heard other boys do it.

As to drinking, I had no opportunity; for I had nothing to drink but

water, or small-beer that anybody gave me in charity, for they seldom

gave away strong beer; and after I had money, I neither desired strong

beer or cared to part with my money to buy it.

Then as to principle, ’tis true I had no foundation laid in me by

education; and being early led by my fate into evil, I had the less

sense of its being evil left upon my mind. But when I began to grow to

an age of understanding, and to know that I was a thief, growing up in

all manner of villainy, and ripening apace for the gallows, it came

often into my thoughts that I was going wrong, that I was in the

high-road to the devil; and several times I would stop short, and ask

myself if this was the life of a gentleman.

But these little things wore off again as often as they came on, and I

followed the old trade again, especially when Will came to prompt me,

as I have observed, for he was a kind of a guide to me in all these

things; and I had, by custom and application, together with seeing his

way, learned to be as acute a workman as my master.

But to go back where I left off. Will came to me, as I have said, and

telling me how much better business he was fallen into, would have me

go along with him, and I should be a gentleman. Will, it seems,

understood that word in a quite different manner from me; for his

gentleman was nothing more or less than a gentleman thief, a villain of

a higher degree than a pickpocket, and one that might do something more

wicked, and better entitling him to the gallows, than could be done in

our way. But my gentleman that I had my eye upon was another thing

quite, though I could not really tell how to describe it either.

However, the word took with me, and I went with him. We were neither of

us old. Will was about twenty-four; and as for me, I was now about

eighteen, and pretty tall of my age.

The first time I went with him, he brought me into the company only of

two more young fellows. We met at the lower part of Gray’s Inn Lane,

about an hour before sunset, and went out into the fields toward a

place called Pindar of Wakefield, where are abundance of brick-kilns.

Here it was agreed to spread from the field-path to the roadway, all

the way towards Pancras Church, to observe any chance game, as they

called it, which they might shoot flying. Upon the path within the bank

on the side of the road going towards Kentish Town, two of our gang,

Will and one of the others, met a single gentleman walking apace

towards the town. Being almost dark, Will cried, “Mark, ho!” which, it

seems, was the word at which we were all to stand still at a distance,

come in if he wanted help, and give a signal if anything appeared that

was dangerous.

Will steps up to the gentleman, stops him, and put the question; that

is, “Sir, your money?” The gentleman, seeing he was alone, struck at

him with his cane; but Will, a nimble, strong fellow, flew in upon him,

and with struggling got him down. Then he begged for his life, Will

having told him with an oath that he would cut his throat. In that

moment, while this was doing, comes a hackney-coach along the road, and

the fourth man, who was that way, cries, “Mark, ho!” which was to

intimate that it was a prize, not a surprise. And accordingly the next

man went up to assist him, where they stopped the coach, which had a

doctor of physic and a surgeon in it, who had been to visit some

considerable patient, and, I suppose, had had considerable fees. For

here they got two good purses, one with eleven or twelve guineas, the

other six with some pocket-money, two watches, one diamond ring, and

the surgeon’s plaster-box, which was most of it full of silver

instruments.

While they were at this work, Will kept the man down who was under him;

and though he promised not to kill him, unless he offered to make a

noise, yet he would not let him stir till he heard the noise of the

coach going on again, by which he knew the job was over on that side.

Then he carried him a little out of the way, tied his hands behind him,

and bade him lie still and make no noise, and he would come back in

half-an-hour and untie him, upon his word; but if he cried out, he

would come back and kill him.

The poor man promised to lie still and make no noise, and did so; and

had not above 11s. 6d. in his pocket, which Will took, and came back to

the rest; but while they were together, I, who was on the side of the

Pindar of Wakefield, cried, “Mark, ho!” too.

What I saw was a couple of poor women, one a kind of a nurse, and the

other a maid-servant, going for Kentish Town. As Will knew that I was

but young at the work, he came flying to me, and seeing how easy a

bargain it was, he said, “Go, colonel, fall to work.” I went up to

them, and speaking to the elderly woman, “Nurse,” said I, “don’t be in

such haste. I want to speak with you;” at which they both stopped, and

looked a little frighted. “Don’t be frighted, sweetheart,” said I to

the maid; “a little of that money in the bottom of your pocket will

make all easy, and I will do you no harm.” By this time Will came up to

us, for they did not see him before; then they began to scream out.

“Hold!” says I; “make no noise, unless you have a mind to force us to

murder you whether we will or no. Give me your money presently, and

make no words, and we shan’t hurt you.” Upon this the poor maid pulled

out 5s. 6d., and the old woman a guinea and a shilling, crying heartily

for her money, and said it was all she had left in the world. Well, we

took it for all that, though it made my very heart bleed to see what

agony the poor woman was in at parting with it, and I asked her where

she lived. She said her name was Smith, and she lived at Kentish Town.

I said nothing to her, but bid them go on about their business, and I

gave Will the money. So in a few minutes we were all together again.

Says one of the other rogues, “Come, this is well enough for one road;

it’s time to be gone.” So we jogged away, crossing the fields, out of

the path towards Tottenham Court. “But hold!” says Will; “I must go and

untie the man.” “D—n him,” says one of them, “let him lie.” “No,” says

Will, “I won’t be worse than my word; I will untie him.” So he went to

the place, but the man was gone. Either he had untied himself, or

somebody had passed by, and he had called for help, and so was untied;

for he could not find him, nor make him hear, though he ventured to

call twice for him aloud.

This made us hasten away the faster, and getting into Tottenham Court

Road, they thought it was a little too near, so they made into the town

at St. Giles’s, and crossing to Piccadilly, went to Hyde Park gate.

Here they ventured to rob another coach; that is to say, one of the two

other rogues and Will did it, between the Park gate and Knightsbridge.

There was in it only a gentleman and a whore that he had picked up, it

seems, at the Spring Garden, a little farther. They took the

gentleman’s money, his watch, and his silver-hilted sword; but when

they come to the slut, she damned and cursed them for robbing the

gentleman of his money and leaving him none for her. As for herself,

she had not one sixpenny piece about her, though she was indeed well

enough dressed too.

Having made this adventure, we left that road too, and went over the

fields to Chelsea. In the way from Westminster to Chelsea we met three

gentlemen, but they were too strong for us to meddle with. They had

been afraid to come over the fields so late (for by this time it was

eight o’clock, and though the moon gave some light, yet it was too late

and too dark to be safe); so they hired three men at Chelsea, two with

pitchforks, and the third, a waterman, with a boathook staff to guard

them. We would have steered clear of them, and cared not to have them

see us, if we could help it. But they did see us, and cried, “Who comes

there?” We answered, “Friends;” and so they went on, to our great

satisfaction.

When we came to Chelsea, it seems we had other work to do, which I had

not been made privy to; and this was a house to be robbed. They had

some intelligence, it seems, with a servant in the house, who was of

their gang. This rogue was a waiting-man, or footman, and he had a

watchword to let them in by; but this fellow, not for want of being a

villain, but by getting drunk and not minding his part of the work,

disappointed us. For he had promised to rise at two o’clock in the

morning and let us all in; but, being very drunk, and not come in at

eleven o’clock, his master ordered him to be shut out and the doors

locked up, and charged the other servants not to let him in upon any

terms whatsoever.

We came about the house at one o’clock to make our observations,

intending to go and lie under Beaufort House wall till the clock struck

two, and then to come again; but, behold! when we came to the house,

there lay the fellow at the door fast asleep, and very drunk. Will,

who, I found, was the leader in all these things, waked the fellow,

who, as he had had about two hours’ sleep, was a little come to

himself, and told them the misfortune, as he called it, and that he

could not get in. They had some instruments about them, by which they

could have broken in by force; but Will considered that as it was but

waiting till another time, and they should be let in quietly, they

resolved to give it over for that time.

But this was a happy drunken bout for the family; for the fellow having

let fall some words in his drink (for he was a saucy one as well as a

drunken one, and talked oddly), as that it had been better they had let

him in, and he would make them pay dear for it, or some such thing, the

master hearing of it, turned him away in the morning, and never let him

come into his house again. So, I say, it was a happy drunkenness to the

family, for it saved them from being robbed, and perhaps murdered; for

they were a cursed, bloody crew, and, as I found, were about thirteen

of them in all, whereof three of them made it their business to get

into gentlemen’s services, and so to open doors in the night, and let

the other rogues in upon them to rob and destroy them.

I rambled this whole night with them. They went from Chelsea, being

disappointed there as above, to Kensington. There they broke into a

brewhouse and washhouse, and by that means into an out-kitchen of a

gentleman’s house, where they unhanged a small copper, and brought it

off, and stole about a hundredweight of pewter, and went clear off with

that too. And every one going their own by-ways, they found means to

get safe to their several receptacles where they used to dispose of

such things.

We lay still the next day, and shared the effects stolen that night, of

which my share came to £8, 19s. The copper and pewter being weighed,

and cast up, a person was at hand to take it as money, at about half

value, and in the afternoon Will and I came away together. Will was

mighty full of the success we had had, and how we might be sure of the

like this way every day. But he observed that I did not seem so

elevated at the success of that night’s ramble as I used to be, and

also that I did not take any great notice of the expectations he was in

of what was to come. Yet I had said little to him at that time.

But my heart was full of the poor woman’s case at Kentish Town, and I

resolved, if possible, to find her out and give her her money. With the

abhorrence that filled my mind at the cruelty of that act, there

necessarily followed a little distaste for the thing itself; and now it

came into my head with a double force that this was the high road to

the devil, and that certainly this was not the life of a gentleman.

Will and I parted for that time; but next morning we met again, and

Will was mighty brisk and merry. “And now, Colonel Jacque,” says he,

“we shall be rich very quickly.” “Well,” says I, “and what shall we do

when we are rich?” “Do!” says he; “we will buy a couple of good horses,

and go farther afield.”

“What do you mean by farther afield?” says I. “Why,” says he, “we will

take the highway like gentlemen, and then we shall get a great deal of

money indeed.” “Well,” says I, “what then?” “Why, then,” says he, “we

shall live like gentlemen.”

“But, Will,” says I, “if we get a great deal of money, shan’t we leave

this trade off, and sit down, and be safe and quiet?”

“Ay,” says Will; “when we have got a great estate, we shall be willing

to lay it down.” “But where,” says I, “shall we be before that time

comes, if we should drive on this cursed kind of trade?”

“Prithee never think of that,” says Will; “if you think of those

things, you will never be fit to be a gentleman.” He touched me there

indeed, for it ran much in my mind still that I was to be a gentleman,

and it made me dumb for a while; but I came to myself after a little

while, and I said to him, pretty tartly, “Why, Will, do you call this

way of living the life of a gentleman?”

“Why,” says Will, “why not?”

“Why,” says I, “was it like a gentleman for me to take that 22s. from a

poor ancient woman, when she begged of me upon her knees not to take

it, and told me it was all she had in the world to buy her bread for

herself and a sick child which she had at home? Do you think I could be

so cruel, if you had not stood by and made me do it? Why, I cried at

doing it as much as the poor woman did, though I did not let you see

me.”

“You fool you,” says Will; “you will never be fit for our business,

indeed, if you mind such things as those. I shall bring you off those

things quickly. Why, if you will be fit for business, you must learn to

fight when they resist, and cut their throats when they submit; you

must learn to stop their breath that they may beg and pray no more.

What signifies pity? Prithee, who will pity us when we come to the Old

Bailey? I warrant you that whining old woman, that begged so heartily

for her 22s., would let you and I beg upon our knees, and would not

save our lives by not coming in for an evidence against us. Did you

ever see any of them cry when they see gentlemen go to the gallows?”

“Well, Will,” says I, “you had better let us keep to the business we

were in before. There were no such cruel doings in that, and yet we got

more money by it than I believe we shall get at this.”

“No, no,” says Will, “you are a fool; you don’t know what fine things

we shall do in a little while.”

Upon this discourse we parted for that time; but I resolved with myself

that I would never be concerned with him that way any more. The truth

is, they were such a dreadful gang, such horrid barbarous villains,

that even that little while that I was among them my very blood run

cold in my veins at what I heard, particularly the continued raving and

damning one another and themselves at every word they spoke; and then

the horrid resolutions of murder, and cutting throats, which I

perceived was in their minds upon any occasion that should present.

This appeared first in their discourse upon the disappointment they met

with at Chelsea, where the two rogues that were with us, ay, and Will

too, damned and raged that they could not get into the house, and swore

they would have cut the gentleman’s throat if they had got in, and

shook hands, damning and cursing themselves if they did not murder the

whole family as soon as Tom (that was the manservant) could get an

opportunity to let them in.

Two days after this Will came to my lodging; for I had now got a room

by myself, had bought me tolerable good clothes and some shirts, and

began to look like other folks. But, as it happened, I was abroad upon

the scout in another way; for though I was not hardened enough for so

black a villain as Will would have had me be, yet I had not arrived to

any principle sufficient to keep me from a life, in its degree wicked

enough, which tended to the same destruction, though not in so violent

and precipitant degrees. I had his message delivered to me, which was

to meet him the next evening at such a place, and as I came in time

enough to meet, so I went to the place, but resolved beforehand that I

would not go any more with him among the gang.

However, to my great satisfaction, I missed him; for he did not come at

all to the place, but met with the gang at another place, they having

sent for him in haste upon the notice of some booty; and so they went

all away together. This was a summons, it seems, from one of the

creatures which they had abroad in a family, where an opportunity

offered them to commit a notorious robbery, down almost as far as

Hounslow, and where they wounded a gentleman’s gardener so that I think

he died, and robbed the house of a very considerable sum of money and

plate.

This, however, was not so clean carried, nor did they get in so easy,

but by the resistance they met with the neighbours were all alarmed,

and the gentlemen rogues were pursued, and being at London with the

booty, one of them was taken. Will, a dexterous fellow and head of the

gang, made his escape, and though in his clothes, with a great weight

about him of both money and plate, plunged into the Thames and swam

over where there was no path or road leading to the river; so that

nobody suspected any one’s going that way. Being got over, he made his

way, wet as he was, into some woods adjacent, and, as he told me

afterwards, not far from Chertsey, and stayed lurking about in the

woods or fields thereabouts till his clothes were dry; then, in the

night, got down to Kingston, and so to Mortlake, where he got a boat to

London.

He knew nothing that one of his comrades was taken; only he knew that

they were all so closely pursued that they were obliged to disperse,

and every one to shift for himself. He happened to come home in the

evening, as good luck then directed him, just after search had been

made for him by the constables; his companion, who was taken, having,

upon promise of favour, and of saving him from the gallows, discovered

his companions, and Will among the rest, as the principal party in the

whole undertaking.

Will got notice of this just time enough to run for it and not to be

taken; and away he came to look for me; but, as my good fate still

directed, I was not at home neither. However, he left all his booty at

my lodging, and hid it in an old coat that lay under my bedding, and

left word that my brother Will had been there, and had left his coat

that he borrowed of me, and that it was under my bed.

I knew not what to make of it, but went up to go to bed; and, finding

the parcel, was perfectly frighted to see, wrapped up in it, above one

hundred pound in plate and money, and yet knew nothing of brother Will,

as he called himself, nor did I hear of him for three or four days.

At the end of four days I heard, by great accident, that Will, who used

to be seen with me, and who called me brother, was taken, and would be

hanged. Next day a poor man, a shoemaker, that used formerly to have a

kindness for me, and to send me of errands, and gave me sometimes some

victuals, seeing me accidentally in Rosemary Lane, going by him,

clasped me fast hold by the arm. “Hark ye, young man,” says he, “have I

catched you?” and hauled me along as if I had been a thief apprehended,

and he the constable. “Hark ye, Colonel Jacque,” says he again, “come

along with me. I must speak with you. What, are you got into this gang

too? What, are you turned housebreaker? Come, I’ll have you hanged, to

be sure.”

These were dreadful words to me, who, though not guilty of the

particular thing in question, yet was frighted heartily before, and did

not know what I might be charged with by Will, if he was taken, as I

heard that very morning he was. With these words, the shoemaker began

to hale and drag me along as he used to do when I was a boy.

However, recovering my spirits, and provoked to the highest degree, I

said to him again, “What do you mean, Mr. ——? Let me alone, or you will

oblige me to make you do it;” and with that I stopped short, and soon

let him see I was grown a little too big to be haled about as I used to

be when I run of his errands, and made a motion with my other hand as

if I would strike him in the face.

“How, Jacque!” says he; “will you strike me? Will you strike your old

friend?” and then he let go my arm, and laughed. “Well, but hark ye,

colonel,” says he, “I am in earnest. I hear bad news of you. They say

you are gotten into bad company, and that this Will calls you brother.

He is a great villain, and I hear he is charged with a bloody robbery,

and will be hanged if he is taken. I hope you are not concerned with

him. If you are, I would advise you to shift for yourself, for the

constable and the headborough are after him to-day, and if he can lay

any thing to you he will do it, you may be sure. He will certainly hang

you to save himself.”

This was kind, and I thanked him, but told him this was a thing too

serious, and that had too much weight in it, to be jested with, as he

had done before; and that some ignorant stranger might have seized upon

me as a person guilty, who had no further concern in it than just

knowing the man, and so I might have been brought into trouble for

nothing. At least people might have thought I was among them, whether I

was or no, and it would have rendered me suspected, though I was

innocent.

He acknowledged that; told me he was but in jest, and that he talked to

me just as he used to do.

“However, colonel,” says he, “I won’t jest any more with you in a thing

of such a dangerous consequence; I only advise you to keep the fellow

company no more.”

I thanked him, and went away, but in the greatest perplexity

imaginable. And now, not knowing what to do with myself, or with the

little ill-gotten wealth which I had, I went musing and alone into the

fields towards Stepney, my usual walk, and there began to consider what

to do. And as this creature had left his prize in my garret, I began to

think that if he should be taken, and should confess and send the

officers to search there for the goods, and they should find them, I

should be undone, and should be taken up for a confederate; whereas I

knew nothing of the matter, and had no hand in it.

While I was thus musing, and in great perplexity, I heard somebody

halloo to me; and, looking about, I saw Will running after me. I knew

not what to think at first, but seeing him alone, was the more

encouraged, and I stood still for him. When he came up to me I said to

him, “What is the matter, Will?” “Matter!” says Will. “Matter enough; I

am undone. When was you at home?”

“I saw what you left there,” says I. “What is the meaning of it, and

where got you all that? Is that your being undone?”

“Ay,” says Will, “I am undone for all that; for the officers are after

me; and I am a dead dog if I am taken, for George is in custody, and he

has peached on me and all the others to save his life.”

“Life!” says I; “why should you lose your life if they should take you?

Pray what would they do to you?”

“Do to me!” says he; “they would hang me, if the king had ne’er another

soldier in his guards. I shall certainly be hanged as I am now alive.”

This frighted me terribly, and I said, “And what will you do then?”

“Nay,” says he, “I know not. I would get out of the nation, if I knew

how; but I am a stranger to all those things, and I know not what to

do, not I. Advise me, Jacque,” says he; “prithee tell me whither shall

I go. I have a good mind to go to sea.”

“You talk of going away,” says I; “what will you do with all you have

hid in my garret? It must not lie there,” said I; “for if I should be

taken up for it, and it be found to be the money you stole, I shall be

ruined.”

“I care not what becomes of it, not I,” says Will. “I’ll be gone. Do

you take it, if you will, and do what you will with it. I must fly, and

I cannot take it with me.” “I won’t have it, not I,” says I to him.

“I’ll go and fetch it to you if you will take it,” says I; “but I won’t

meddle with it. Besides, there is plate. What shall I do with plate?”

said I. “If I should offer to sell it anywhere,” said I, “they will

stop me.”

“As for that,” says Will, “I could sell it well enough, if I had it;

but I must not be seen anywhere among my old acquaintance; for I am

blown, and they will all betray me. But I will tell you where you shall

go and sell it, if you will, and they will ask you no questions, if you

give them the word that I will give you.” So he gave me the word, and

directions to a pawnbroker near Cloth Fair. The word was _Good tower

standard_. Having these instructions, he said to me, “Colonel Jacque, I

am sure you won’t betray me; and I promise you, if I am taken, and

should be hanged, I won’t name you. I will go to such a house” (naming

a house at Bromley, by Bow, where he and I had often been), “and

there,” says he, “I’ll stay till it is dark. At night I will come near

the streets, and I will lay under such a haystack all night” (a place

we both knew also very well); “and if you cannot finish to come to me

there, I will go back to Bow.”

I went back and took the cargo, went to the place by Cloth Fair, and

gave the word _Good tower standard_; and without any words, they took

the plate, weighed it, and paid me after the rate of 2s. per ounce for

it. So I came away and went to meet him, but it was too late to meet

him at the first place; but I went to the haystack, and there I found

him fast asleep.

I delivered him his cargo. What it really amounted to I knew not, for I

never told it; but I went home to my quarters very late and tired. I

went to sleep at first, but, notwithstanding I was so weary, I slept

little or none for several hours. At last, being overcome with sleep, I

dropped, but was immediately roused with noise of people knocking at

the door, as if they would beat it down, and crying and calling out to

the people of the house, “Rise, and let in the constable here. We come

for your lodger in the garret.”

I was frighted to the last degree, and started up in my bed; but when I

was awaked I heard no noise at all, but of two watchmen thumping at the

doors with their staves, and giving the hour, “Past three o’clock, and

a rainy, wet morning”—for such it was. I was very glad when I found it

was but a dream, and went to bed again, but was soon roused a second

time with the same, very same noise and words. Then, being sooner

awaked than I was before, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window,

and found it was just an hour more, and the watchmen were come about:

“Past four o’clock,” and they went away again very quietly; so I lay me

down again, and slept the rest of the night quietly enough.

I laid no stress upon the thing called a dream, neither till now did I

understand that dreams were of any importance; but getting up the next

day, and going out with a resolution to meet brother Will, who should I

meet but my former brother, Captain Jacque. When he saw me, he came

close to me in his blunt way, and says, “Do you hear the news?” “No,

not I,” said I; “what news?” “Your old comrade and teacher is taken

this morning and carried to Newgate.” “How,” says I, “this morning?”

“Yes,” says he, “this morning at four o’clock. He is charged with a

robbery and murder somewhere beyond Brentford; and that which is worse

is, that he is impeached by one of the gang, who, to save his own life,

has turned evidence; and therefore you had best consider,” says the

captain, “what you have to do.” “What I have to do!” says I; “and what

do you mean by that?” “Nay, colonel,” says he, “don’t be angry; you

know best. If you are not in danger, I am glad of it, but I doubt not

but you were with them.” “No, not I,” said I again; “I assure you I was

not.” “Well,” says he, “but if you were not with them this bout, you

have been with them at other times; and ’twill be all one.” “Not I,”

says I; “you are quite mistaken. I am none of their gang; they are

above my quality.” With such, and a little more talk of that kind, we

parted, and Captain Jacque went away; but as he went I observed he

shook his head, seemed to have more concern upon him than he could be

supposed to have merely on my account, of which we shall hear more very

quickly.

I was extremely alarmed when I heard Will was in Newgate, and, had I

known where to have gone, would certainly have fled as far as legs

would have carried me. My very joints trembled, and I was ready to sink

into the ground; and all that evening, and that night following, I was

in the uttermost consternation. My head ran upon nothing but Newgate

and the gallows, and being hanged; which, I said, I deserved, if it

were for nothing but taking that two-and-twenty shillings from the poor

old nurse.

The first thing my perplexed thoughts allowed me to take care of was my

money. This indeed lay in a little compass, and I carried it generally

all about me. I had got together, as you will perceive by the past

account, above £60 (for I spent nothing), and what to do with it I knew

not. At last it came into my head that I would go to my benefactor, the

clerk at the custom-house, if he was to be found, and see if I could

get him to take the rest of my money. The only business was to make a

plausible story to him, that he might not wonder how I came by so much

money.

But my invention quickly supplied that want. There was a suit of

clothes at one of our houses of rendezvous, which was left there for

any of the gang to put on, upon particular occasions, as a disguise.

This was a green livery, laced with pink-coloured galloon, and lined

with the same; an edged hat, a pair of boots, and a whip. I went and

dressed myself up in this livery, and went to my gentleman, to his

house in Tower Street, and there I found him in health and well, just

the same honest gentleman as ever.

He stared at me when first I came to him, for I met him just at his

door; I say, he stared at me, and seeing me bow and bow to him several

times, with my laced hat under my arm, at last, not knowing me in the

least, says he to me, “Dost thou want to speak with me, young man?” And

I said, “Yes, sir; I believe your worship” (I had learnt some manners

now) “does not know me. I am the poor boy Jacque.” He looked hard at

me, and then recollecting me presently, says he, “Who—Colonel Jacque!

Why, where hast thou been all this while? Why, ’tis five or six years

since I saw you.” “’Tis above six years, and please your worship,” says

I.

“Well, and where hast thou been all this while?” says he.

“I have been in the country, sir,” says I, “at service.”

“Well, Colonel Jacque,” says he, “you give long credit; what’s the

reason you han’t fetched your money all this while, nor the interest?

Why, you will grow so rich in time by the interest of your money, you

won’t know what to do with it.”

To that I said nothing, but bowed and scraped a great many times.

“Well, come, Colonel Jacque,” said he, “come in and I will give you

your money, and the interest of it too.”

I cringed and bowed, and told him I did not come to him for my money;

for I had had a good place or two, and I did not want my money.

“Well, Colonel Jacque,” said he, “and who do you live with?”

“Sir Jonathan Loxham,” said I, “sir, in Somersetshire, and please your

worship.” This was a name I had heard of, but knew nothing of any such

gentleman, or of the country.

“Well,” says he, “but won’t you have your money, Jacque?”

“No, sir,” said I, “if your worship would please, for I have had a good

place.”

“If I would please to do what, prithee? Your money is ready, I tell

thee.”

“No, sir,” said I; “but I have had a good place.”

“Well, and what dost thou mean, Jacque? I do not understand thee.”

“Why, and please your worship, my old master, Sir Jonathan’s father,

left me £30 when he died, and a suit of mourning, and——”

“And what, prithee, Jacque? What, hast thou brought me more money?” For

then he began to understand what I meant.

“Yes, sir,” said I; “and your worship would be so good to take it, and

put it all together. I have saved some, too, out of my wages.”

“I told you, Jacque,” says he, “you would be rich. And how much hast

thou saved? Come, let me see it.”

To shorten the story, I pulled it out, and he was content to take it,

giving me his note, with interest, for the whole sum, which amounted to

£94; that is to say,

£25 The first money.

9 For six years’ interest.

60 Now paid him.

———

£94

I came away exceeding joyful, made him abundance of bows and scrapes,

and went immediately to shift my clothes again, with a resolution to

run away from London and see it no more for a great while. But I was

surprised the very next morning, when, going cross Rosemary Lane, by

the end of the place which is called Rag Fair, I heard one call

“Jacque.” He had said something before, which I did not hear, but upon

hearing the name Jacque I looked about me, immediately saw three men,

and after them a constable coming towards me with great fury. I was in

a great surprise, and started to run, but one of them clapped in upon

me, and got hold of me, and in a moment the rest surrounded me, and I

was taken. I asked them what they wanted, and what I had done. They

told me it was no place to talk of that there, but showed me their

warrant, and bade me read it, and I should know the rest when I came

before the justice; so they hurried me away.

I took the warrant, but, to my great affliction, I could know nothing

by that, for I could not read; so I desired them to read it, and they

read it, that they were to apprehend a known thief, that went by the

name of one of the three Jacques of Rag Fair; for that he was charged

upon oath with having been a party in a notorious robbery, burglary,

and murder, committed so and so, in such a place, and on such a day.

It was to no purpose for me to deny it, or to say I knew nothing of it;

that was none of their business, they said; that must be disputed, they

told me, before the justice, where I would find that it was sworn

positively against me, and then, perhaps, I might be better satisfied.

I had no remedy but patience; and as my heart was full of terror and

guilt, so I was ready to die with the weight of it as they carried me

along. For as I very well knew that I was guilty of the first day’s

work, though I was not of the last, so I did not doubt but I should be

sent to Newgate, and then I took it for granted I must be hanged; for

to go to Newgate and to be hanged were to me as things which

necessarily followed one another.

But I had a sharp conflict to go through before it came to that part;

and that was before the justice; where, when I was come, and the

constable brought me in, the justice asked me my name. “But hold,” says

he, “young man; before I ask you your name, let me do you justice. You

are not bound to answer till your accusers come;” so, turning to the

constable, he asked for his warrant.

“Well,” says the justice, “you have brought this young man here by

virtue of this warrant. Is this young man the person for whom this

warrant is granted?”

_Con_. I believe so, and please your worship.

_Just_. Believe so! Why, are you not sure of it?

_Con_. An’t please your worship, the people said so where I took him.

_Just_. It is a very particular kind of warrant; it is to apprehend a

young man who goes by the name of Jacque, but no surname, only that it

is said he is called Captain Jacque, or some other such name. Now,

young man, pray is your name Captain Jacque? or are you usually called

so?

I presently found that the men that took me knew nothing of me, and the

constable had taken me up by hearsay; so I took heart, and told the

justice that I thought, with submission, that it was not the present

question what my name was, but what these men, or any one else, had to

lay to my charge; whether I was the person who the warrant empowered

them to apprehend or no.

He smiled. “’Tis very true, young man,” says he, “it is very true; and,

on my word, if they have taken you up, and do not know you, and there

is nobody to charge you, they will be mistaken to their own damage.”

Then I told his worship I hoped I should not be obliged to tell my name

till my accuser was brought to charge me, and then I should not conceal

my name.

“It is but reason,” said his good worship. “Mr. Constable,” turning to

the officers, “are you sure this is the person that is intended in your

warrant? If you are not, you must fetch the person that accuses him,

and on whose oath the warrant was granted.” They used many words to

insinuate that I was the person, and that I knew it well enough, and

that I should be obliged to tell my name.

I insisted on the unreasonableness of it, and that I should not be

obliged to accuse myself: and the justice told them in so many words

that he could not force me to it, that I might do it if I would,

indeed; “but you see,” says the justice, “he understood too well to be

imposed upon in that case.” So that, in short, after an hour’s debating

before his worship, in which time I pleaded against four of them, the

justice told them they must produce the accuser, or he must discharge

me.

I was greatly encouraged at this, and argued with the more vigour for

myself. At length the accuser was brought, fettered as he was, from the

gaol, and glad I was when I saw him, and found that I knew him not;

that is to say, that it was not one of the two rogues that I went out

with that night that we robbed the poor old woman.

When the prisoner was brought into the room he was set right against

me.

“Do you know this young man?” says the justice.

“No, sir,” says the prisoner; “I never saw him in my life.”

“Hum!” says the justice; “did not you charge one that goes by the name

of Jacque, or Captain Jacque, as concerned in the robbery and murder

which you are in custody for?”

_Pris_. Yes, an’t please your worship.

_Just_. And is this the man, or is he not?

_Pris_. This is not the man, sir; I never saw this man before.

“Very good, Mr. Constable,” says the justice, “what must we do now?”

“I am surprised,” says the constable. “I was at such a house” (naming

the house), “and this young man went by. The people cried out, ’There’s

Jacque; that’s your man;’ and these people ran after him, and

apprehended him.”

“Well,” says the justice, “and have these people anything to say to

him? Can they prove that he is the person?”

One said no, and the other said no; and, in short, they all said no.

“Why, then,” said the justice, “what can be done? The young man must be

discharged; and I must tell you, Mr. Constable, and you gentlemen that

have brought him hither, he may give you trouble, if he thinks fit, for

your being so rash. But look you, young man,” says the justice, “you

have no great damage done you, and the constable, though he has been

mistaken, had no ill design, but to be faithful to his office. I think

you may pass it by.”

I told his worship I would readily pass it by at his direction, but I

thought the constable and the rest could do no less than to go back to

the place where they had insulted me, and declare publicly there that I

was honourably acquitted, and that I was not the man. This his worship

said was very reasonable, and the constable and his assistants promised

to do it, and so we came all away good friends, and I was cleared with

triumph.

_Note_.—This was the time that, as I mentioned above, the justice

talked to me, and told me I was born to better things, and that by my

well managing of my own defence, he did not question but I had been

well educated; and that he was sorry I should fall into such a

misfortune as this, which he hoped, however, would be no dishonour to

me, since I was so handsomely acquitted.

Though his worship was mistaken in the matter of my education, yet it

had this good effect upon me, that I resolved, if possible, I would

learn to read and write, that I would not be such an uncapable

creature, that I should not be able to read a warrant, and see whether

I was the person to be apprehended or not.

But there was something more in all this than what I have taken notice

of; for, in a word, it appeared plainly that my brother, Captain

Jacque, who had the forwardness to put it to me whether I was among

them or no, when in truth he was there himself, had the only reason to

be afraid to fly, at the same time that he advised me to shift for

myself.

As this presently occurred to my thoughts, so I made it my business to

inquire and find him out, and to give him notice of it.

In the meantime, being now confident of my own safety, I had no more

concern upon my mind about myself; but now I began to be anxious for

poor Will, my master and tutor in wickedness, who was now fast by the

heels in Newgate, while I was happily at liberty; and I wanted very

much to go and see him, and accordingly did so.

I found him in a sad condition, loaden with heavy irons, and had

himself no prospect or hope of escaping. He told me he should die, but

bid me be easy; for, as it would do him no good to accuse me, who never

was out with any of them but that once, so I might depend upon it he

would not bring me into the trouble. As for the rogue who had betrayed

them all, he was not able to hurt me, for I might be satisfied he had

never seen me in his life. “But, Colonel Jacque,” says he, “I will tell

you who was with us, and that is, your brother the captain, and the

villain has certainly named him; and, therefore,” says he, “if you can

give him timely notice of it, do, that he may make his escape.”

He said a great many things to warn me off following the steps he had

led me. “I was far out, Jacque,” said he, “when I told you, to be a

notorious thief was to live like a gentleman.” He chiefly discovered

his concern that they had, as he feared, killed the gentleman’s

gardener, and that he in particular had given him a wound in the neck,

of which he was afraid he would die.

He had a great sum of money in gold about him, being the same that I

had carried back to him at the haystack; and he had concealed it so

well that those who took him had not found it, and he gave me the

greatest part of it to carry to his mother, which I very honestly

delivered, and came away with a heavy heart. Nor did I ever see him

since, for he was executed in about three weeks’ time after, being

condemned that very next sessions.

I had nothing to do now but to find the captain, who, though not

without some trouble, I at last got news of, and told him the whole

story, and how I had been taken up for him by mistake, and was come

off, but that the warrant was still out for him, and very strict search

after him; I say, telling him all this, he presently discovered by his

surprise that he was guilty, and after a few words more, told me

plainly it was all true, that he was in the robbery, and that he had

the greatest part of the booty in keeping, but what to do with it, or

himself, he did not know; and wanted me to tell him, which I was very

unfit to do, for I knew nothing of the world. Then he told me he had a

mind to fly into Scotland, which was easy to be done, and asked me if I

would go with him. I told him I would, with all my heart, if I had

money enough to bear the charge. He had the trade still in his eyes by

his answer. “I warrant you,” says he, “we will make the journey pay our

charge.” “I dare not think of going any more upon the adventure,” says

I. “Besides, if we meet with any misfortune out of our knowledge, we

shall never get out of it; we shall be undone.” “Nay,” says he; “we

shall find no mercy here, if they can catch us, and they can do no

worse abroad. I am for venturing at all events.”

“Well, but, captain,” says I, “have you husbanded your time so ill that

you have no money to supply you in such a time as this?” “I have very

little indeed,” said he, “for I have had bad luck lately.” But he lied,

for he had a great share of the booty they had got at their last

adventure, as above; and, as the rest complained, he and Will had got

almost all of it, and kept the rest out of their shares, which made

them the willinger to discover them.

However it was, he owned he had about £22 in money, and something that

would yield money—I suppose it was plate; but he would not tell me what

it was, or where it was. But he said he durst not go to fetch it, for

he should be betrayed and seized, so he would venture without it.

“Sure,” says he, “we shall come back again some time or other.”

I honestly produced all the money I had, which was £16 and some odd

shillings. “Now,” says I, “if we are good husbands, and travel

frugally, this will carry us quite out of danger.” For we had both been

assured that when we came out of England we should be both safe, and

nobody could hurt us, though they had known us; but we neither of us

thought it was so many weary steps to Scotland as we found it.

I speak of myself as in the same circumstances of danger with brother

Jacque; but it was only thus: I was in as much fear as he, but not in

quite as much danger.

I cannot omit that, in the interval of these things, and a few days

before I carried my money to the gentleman in Tower Street, I took a

walk all alone into the fields, in order to go to Kentish Town and do

justice to the poor old nurse. It happened that, before I was aware, I

crossed a field that came to the very spot where I robbed the poor old

woman and the maid, or where, I should say, Will made me rob them. My

heart had reproached me many a time with that cruel action, and many a

time I promised to myself that I would find a way to make her

satisfaction and restore her money, and that day I had set apart for

the work, but was a little surprised that I was so suddenly upon the

unhappy spot.

The place brought to my mind the villainy I had committed there, and

something struck me with a kind of wish—I cannot say prayer, for I knew

not what that meant—that I might leave off that cursed trade, and said

to myself, “Oh that I had some trade to live by! I would never rob no

more, for sure ’tis a wicked, abominable thing.”

Here indeed I felt the loss of what just parents do, and ought to do,

by all their children—I mean, being bred to some trade or employment;

and I wept many times that I knew not what to do or what to turn my

hand to, though, I resolved to leave off the wicked course I was in.

But to return to my journey. I asked my way to Kentish Town, and it

happened to be of a poor woman that said she lived there; upon which

intelligence I asked if she knew a woman that lived there whose name

was Smith. She answered yes, very well; that she was not a settled

inhabitant, only a lodger in the town, but that she was an honest,

poor, industrious woman, and by her labour and pains maintained a poor

diseased husband, that had been unable to help himself some years.

“What a villain have I been,” said I to myself, “that I should rob such

a poor woman as this, and add grief and tears to her misery, and to the

sorrows of her house!” This quickened my resolution to restore her

money; and not only so, but I resolved I would give her something over

and above her loss. So I went forward, and by the direction I had

received, found her lodging with very little trouble. Then asking for

the woman, she came to the door immediately; for she heard me ask for

her by her name of a little girl that came first to the door. I

presently spoke to her: “Dame,” said I, “was not you robbed about a

year ago, as you was coming home from London, about Pindar of

Wakefield?” “Yes, indeed I was,” says she; “and sadly frighted into the

bargain.” “And how much did you lose?” said I. “Indeed,” says she, “I

lost all the money I had in the world. I am sure I worked hard for it;

it was money for keeping a nurse-child that I had then, and I had been

at London to receive it.” “But how much was it, dame?” said I. “Why,”

says she, “it was 22s. 6½d.; 21s. I had been to fetch, and the odd

money was my own before.”

“Well, look you, good woman, what will you say if I should put you in a

way to get your money again? for I believe the fellow that took it is

fast enough now, and perhaps I may do you a kindness in it, and for

that I came to see you.” “Oh dear!” says the old woman, “I understand

you, but indeed I cannot swear to the man’s face again, for it was

dark; and, besides, I would not hang the poor wretch for my money; let

him live and repent.” “That is very kind,” says I—“more than he

deserves from you; but you need not be concerned about that, for he

will be hanged whether you appear against him or not; but are you

willing to have your money again that you lost?” “Yes, indeed,” says

the woman, “I should be glad of that; for I have not been so hard put

to it for money a great while as I am now; I have much ado to find us

bread to eat, though I work hard early and late;” and with that she

cried.

I thought it would have broken my very heart, to think how this poor

creature worked and was a slave at near threescore, and that I, a young

fellow of hardly twenty, should rob her of her bread to support my

idleness and wicked life; and the tears came from my eyes in spite of

all my struggling to prevent it, and the woman perceived it too. “Poor

woman,” said I, “’tis a sad thing such creatures as these should

plunder and strip such a poor object as thou art. Well, he is at

leisure now to repent it, I assure you.” “I perceive, sir,” says she,

“you are very compassionate indeed. I wish he may improve the time God

has spared him, and that he may repent, and I pray God give him

repentance. Whoever he is, I forgive him, whether he can make me

recompense or not, and I pray God forgive him. I won’t do him any

prejudice, not I.” And with that she went on praying for me.

“Well, dame, come hither to me,” says I; and with that I put my hand

into my pocket, and she came to me. “Hold up your hand,” said I; which

she did, and I told her nine half-crowns into her hand. “There, dame,”

said I, “is your 22s. 6d. you lost. I assure you, dame,” said I, “I

have been the chief instrument to get it off him for you; for, ever

since he told me the story of it among the rest of his wicked exploits,

I never gave him any rest till I made him promise me to make you

restitution.” All the while I held her hand and put the money into it I

looked in her face, and I perceived her colour come and go, and that

she was under the greatest surprise of joy imaginable.

“Well, God bless him,” says she, “and spare him from the disaster he is

afraid of, if it be His will. For sure this is an act of so much

justice, and so honest, that I never expected the like.” She run on a

great while so, and wept for him when I told her I doubted there was no

room to expect his life. “Well,” says she, “then pray God give him

repentance and bring him to heaven; for sure he must have something

that is good at the bottom; he has a principle of honesty at bottom to

be sure, however he may have been brought into bad courses by bad

company or evil example, or other temptations; but I daresay he will be

brought to repentance one time or other before he dies.”

All this touched me nearer than she imagined; for I was the man that

she prayed for all this while, though she did not know it, and in my

heart I said amen to it. For I was sensible that I had done one of the

vilest actions in the world in attacking a poor creature in such a

condition, and not listening to her entreaties when she begged so

heartily for that little money we took from her.

In a word, the good woman so moved me with her charitable prayers that

I put my hand in my pocket again for her: “Dame,” said I, “you are so

charitable in your petitions for this miserable creature that it puts

me in mind of one thing more which I will do for him, whether he

ordered me or not; and that is, to ask your forgiveness for the thief

in robbing you. For it was an offence and a trespass against you, as

well as an injury to you; and therefore I ask your pardon for him. Will

you sincerely and heartily forgive him, dame? I do desire it of you;”

and with that I stood up, and, with my hat off, asked her pardon. “O

sir!” says she, “do not stand up, and with your hat off to me. I am a

poor woman; I forgive him, and all that were with him; for there was

one or more with him. I forgive them with all my heart, and I pray God

to forgive them.”

“Well, dame, then,” said I, “to make you some recompense for your

charity, there is something for you more than your loss;” and with that

I gave her a crown more.

Then I asked her who that was who was robbed with her. She said it was

a servant-maid that lived then in the town, but she was gone from her

place, and she did not know where she lived now. “Well, dame,” says I,

“if ever you do hear of her, let her leave word where she may be found;

and if I live to come and see you again, I will get the money off him

for her too. I think that was but little, was it?” “No,” says she; “it

was but 5s. 6d.,” which I knew as well as she. “Well,” says I, “dame,

inquire her out if you have an opportunity;” so she promised me she

would, and away I came.

The satisfaction this gave me was very much; but then a natural

consequence attended it, which filled me with reflection afterwards;

and this was, that, by the same rule, I ought to make restitution to

all that I had wronged in the like manner; and what could I do as to

that? To this I knew not what to say, and so the thought in time wore

off; for, in short, it was impossible to be done. I had not ability,

neither did I know any of the people whom I had so injured; and that

satisfying me for the present, I let it drop.

I come now to my journey with Captain Jacque, my supposed brother. We

set out from London on foot, and travelled the first day to Ware; for

we had learnt so much of our road that the way lay through that town.

We were weary enough the first day, having not been used at all to

travelling; but we made shift to walk once up and down the town after

we came into it.

I soon found that his walking out to see the town was not to satisfy

his curiosity in viewing the place, for he had no notion of anything of

that kind, but to see if he could light of any purchase. For he was so

natural a thief that he could see nothing on the road but it occurred

to him how easily that might be taken, and how cleverly this might be

carried off, and the like.

Nothing offered in Ware to his mind, it not being market-day; and as

for me, though I made no great scruple of eating and drinking at the

cost of his roguery, yet I resolved not to enter upon anything, as they

called it, nor to take the least thing from anybody.

When the captain found me resolved upon the negative, he asked me how I

thought to travel. I asked him what he thought of himself, that was

sure to be hanged if he was taken, how small soever the crime was that

he should be taken for. “How can that be?” says he; “they don’t know me

in the country.” “Ay,” says I; “but do you think they do not send up

word to Newgate as soon as any thief is taken in the country, and so

inquire who is escaped from them, or who is fled, that they may be

stopped? Assure yourself,” says I, “the gaolers correspond with one

another, with the greatest exactness imaginable; and if you were taken

here but for stealing a basket of eggs, you shall have your accuser

sent down to see if he knows you.”

This terrified him a little for a while, and kept him honest for three

or four days; but it was but for a few days indeed, for he played a

great many rogue’s tricks without me; till at last he came to his end

without me too, though it was not till many years after, as you shall

hear in its order. But as these exploits are no part of my story, but

of his, whose life and exploits are sufficient to make a volume larger

than this by itself, so I shall omit every thing but what I was

particularly concerned in during this tedious journey.

From Ware we travelled to Cambridge, though that was not our direct

road. The occasion was this: in our way, going through a village called

Puckeridge, we baited at an inn, at the sign of the Falcon, and while

we were there a countryman comes to the inn, and hangs his horse at the

door while he goes in to drink. We sat in the gateway, having called

for a mug of beer, and drank it up. We had been talking with the

hostler about the way to Scotland, and he had bid us ask the road to

Royston. “But,” says he, “there is a turning just here a little

farther. You must not go that way, for that goes to Cambridge.”

We had paid for our beer, and sat at the door only to rest us, when on

the sudden comes a gentleman’s coach to the door, and three or four

horsemen. The horsemen rode into the yard, and the hostler was obliged

to go in with them. Says he to the captain, “Young man, pray take hold

of the horse” (meaning the countryman’s horse I mentioned above), “and

take him out of the way, that the coach may come up.” He did so, and

beckoned me to follow him. We walked together to the turning. Says he

to me, “Do you step before and turn up the lane. I’ll overtake you.” So

I went on up the lane, and in a few minutes he was got up upon the

horse and at my heels. “Come, get up,” says he; “we will have a lift,

if we don’t get the horse by the bargain.”

I made no difficulty to get up behind him, and away we went at a good

round rate, it being a good strong horse. We lost no time for an hour’s

riding and more, by which time we thought we were out of the reach of

being pursued. And as the country man, when he should miss his horse,

would hear that we inquired the way to Royston, he would certainly

pursue us that way, and not towards Cambridge. We went easier after the

first hour’s riding, and coming through a town or two, we alighted by

turns, and did not ride double through the villages.

escaping

Escaping with the purloined horse.

Now, as it was impossible for the captain to pass by anything that he

could lay his hand on and not take it, so now, having a horse to carry

it off too, the temptation was the stronger. Going through a village

where a good housewife of the house had been washing, and hung her

clothes out upon a hedge near the road, he could not help it, but got

hold of a couple of good shirts that were but about half dry, and

overtook me upon the spur; for I walked on before. I immediately got up

behind, and away we galloped together as fast as the horse would well

go. In this part of our expedition his good luck or mine carried us

quite out of the road, and having seen nobody to ask the way of, we

lost ourselves, and wandered I know not how many miles to the right

hand, till, partly by that means and partly by the occasion following,

we came quite into the coach-road to Cambridge from London by

Bishop-Stortford. The particular occasion that made me wander on was

thus: the country was all open cornfields, no enclosures; when, being

upon a little rising ground, I bade him stop the horse, for I would get

down and walk a little to ease my legs, being tired with riding so long

behind without stirrups. When I was down and looked a little about me,

I saw plainly the great white road, which we should have gone, at near

two miles from us.

On a sudden looking a little back to my left, upon that road, I saw

four or five horsemen riding full speed, some a good way before the

others, and hurrying on, as people in a full pursuit.

It immediately struck me: “Ha! brother Jacque,” says I, “get off the

horse this moment, and ask why afterwards.” So he jumps off. “What is

the matter?” says he. “The matter!” says I. “Look yonder; it is well we

have lost our way. Do you see how they ride? They are pursuing us, you

may depend upon it. Either,” says I, “you are pursued from the last

village for the two shirts, or from Puckeridge for the horse.” He had

so much presence of mind that, without my mentioning it to him, he puts

back the horse behind a great white thorn-bush, which grew just by him;

so they could by no means see the horse, which, we being just at the

top of the hill, they might otherwise have done, and so have pursued

that way at a venture.

But as it was impossible for them to see the horse, so was it as

impossible for them to see us at that distance, who sat down on the

ground to look at them the more securely.

The road winding about, we saw them a great way, and they rode as fast

as they could make their horses go. When we found they were gone quite

out of sight, we mounted and made the best of our way also; and indeed,

though we were two upon one horse, yet we abated no speed where the way

would admit of it, not inquiring of anybody the way to anywhere till,

after about two hours’ riding, we came to a town, which, upon inquiry,

they called Chesterford. And here we stopped, and asked not our way to

any place, but whither that road went, and were told it was the

coach-road to Cambridge; also that it was the way to Newmarket, to St.

Edmund’s Bury, to Norwich and Yarmouth, to Lynn, and to Ely, and the

like.

We stayed here a good while, believing ourselves secure; and

afterwards, towards evening, went forward to a place called

Bournbridge, where the road to Cambridge turns away out of the road to

Newmarket, and where there are but two houses only, both of them being

inns. Here the captain says to me, “Hark ye, you see we are pursued

towards Cambridge, and shall be stopped if we go thither. Now Newmarket

is but ten miles off, and there we may be safe, and perhaps get an

opportunity to do some business.”

“Look ye, Jacque,” said I, “talk no more of doing business, for I will

not join with you in anything of that kind. I would fain get you to

Scotland before you get a halter about your neck. I will not have you

hanged in England, if I can help it; and therefore I won’t go to

Newmarket, unless you will promise me to take no false steps there.”

“Well,” says he, “if I must not, then I won’t; but I hope you will let

us get another horse, won’t you, that we may travel faster?” “No,” says

I, “I won’t agree to that; but if you will let me send this horse back

fairly, I will tell you how we shall hire horses afterwards, for one

stage, or two, and then take them as far as we please: it is only

sending a letter to the owner to send for him, and then, if we are

stopped, it can do us but little hurt.”

“You are a wary, politic gentleman,” says the captain, “but I say we

are better as we are; for we are out of all danger of being stopped on

the way after we are gone from this place.”

We had not parleyed thus long, but, though in the dead of the night,

came a man to the other inn door—for, as I said above, there are two

inns at that place—and called for a pot of beer; but the people were

all in bed, and would not rise. He asked them if they had seen two

fellows come that way upon one horse. The man said he had, that they

went by in the afternoon, and asked the way to Cambridge, but did not

stop only to drink one mug. “Oh!” says he, “are they gone to Cambridge?

Then I’ll be with them quickly.” I was awake in a little garret of the

next inn, where we lodged, and hearing the fellow call at the door, got

up and went to the window, having some uneasiness at every noise I

heard; and by that means heard the whole story. Now, the case is plain,

our hour was not come, our fate had determined other things for us, and

we were to be reserved for it. The matter was thus. When we first came

to Bournbridge, we called at the first house, and asked the way to

Cambridge, drank a mug of beer and went on, and they might see to turn

off to go the way they directed. But night coming on, and we being very

weary, we thought we should not find the way; and we came back in the

dusk of the evening, and went into the other house, being the first as

we came back, as that where we called before was the first as we went

forward.

You may be sure I was alarmed now, as indeed I had reason to be. The

captain was in bed and fast asleep, but I wakened him, and roused him

with a noise that frighted him enough. “Rise, Jacque,” said I; “we are

both ruined; they are come after us hither.” Indeed, I was wrong to

terrify him at that rate; for he started, and jumped out of bed, and

ran directly to the window, not knowing where he was, and, not quite

awake, was just going to jump out of the window, but I laid hold of

him. “What are you going to do?” says I. “I won’t be taken,” says he.

“Let me alone. Where are they?”

This was all confusion; and he was so out of himself with the fright,

and being overcome with sleep, that I had much to do to prevent his

jumping out of the window. However, I held him fast, and thoroughly

wakened him, and then all was well again, and he was presently

composed.

Then I told him the story, and we sat together upon the bedside,

considering what we should do. Upon the whole, as the fellow that

called was apparently gone to Cambridge, we had nothing to fear, but to

be quiet till daybreak, and then to mount and be gone.

Accordingly, as soon as day peeped we were up; and having happily

informed ourselves of the road at the other house, and being told that

the road to Cambridge turned off on the left hand, and that the road to

Newmarket lay straight forward—I say, having learnt this, the captain

told me he would walk away on foot towards Newmarket; and so, when I

came to go out, I should appear as a single traveller. And accordingly

he went out immediately, and away he walked; and he travelled so hard

that when I came to follow, I thought once that he had dropped me; for

though I rode hard, I got no sight of him for an hour. At length,

having passed the great bank called the Devil’s Ditch, I found him, and

took him up behind me, and we rode double till we came almost to the

end of Newmarket town. Just at the hither house in the town stood a

horse at a door, just as it was at Puckeridge. “Now,” says Jack, “if

the horse was at the other end of the town I would have him, as sure as

we had the other at Puckeridge;” but it would not do; so he got down

and walked through the town on the right-hand side of the way.

He had not got half through the town but the horse, having somehow or

other got loose, came trotting gently on by himself, and nobody

following him. The captain, an old soldier at such work, as soon as the

horse was got a pretty way before him, and that he saw nobody followed,

sets up a run after the horse, and the horse, hearing him follow, ran

the faster. Then the captain calls out, “Stop the horse!” and by this

time the horse was got almost to the farther end of the town, the

people of the house where he stood not missing him all the while.

Upon his calling out, “Stop the horse!” the poor people of the town,

such as were next at hand, ran from both sides the way and stopped the

horse for him, as readily as could be, and held him for him till he

came up. He very gravely comes up to the horse, hits him a blow or two,

and calls him dog for running away, gives the man twopence that catched

him for him, mounts, and away he comes after me.

This was the oddest adventure that could have happened, for the horse

stole the captain, the captain did not steal the horse. When he came up

to me, “Now, Colonel Jacque,” says he, “what say you to good luck?

Would you have had me refuse the horse, when he came so civilly to ask

me to ride?” “No, no,” said I; “you have got this horse by your wit,

not by design; and you may go on now, I think. You are in a safer

condition than I am, if we are taken.”

The next question was what road we should take. Here were four ways

before us, and we were alike strangers to them all. First, on the right

hand, and at about a little mile from the town, a great road went off

to St. Edmund’s Bury; straight on, but inclining afterwards to the

right, lay the great road to Barton Mills and Thetford, and so to

Norwich; and full before us lay a great road, also, to Brandon and

Lynn; and on the left lay a less road to the city of Ely, and into the

fens.

In short, as we knew not which road to take, nor which way to get into

the great north road, which we had left, so we, by mere unguided

chance, took the way to Brandon, and so to Lynn. At Brand, or Brandon,

we were told that, passing over at a place called Downham Bridge, we

might cross the fen country to Wisbeach, and from thence go along that

bank of the river Nene to Peterborough, and from thence to Stamford,

where we were in the northern road again; and likewise, that at Lynn we

might go by the Washes into Lincolnshire, and so might travel north.

But, upon the whole, this was my rule, that, when we inquired the way

to any particular place, to be sure we never took that road, but some

other which the accidental discourse we might have should bring in. And

thus we did here; for, having chiefly asked our way into the northern

road, we resolved to go directly for Lynn.

We arrived here very easy and safe, and while we was considering of

what way we should travel next we found we were got to a point, and

that there was no way now left but that by the Washes into

Lincolnshire, and that was represented as very dangerous; so an

opportunity offering of a man that was travelling over the fens, we

took him for our guide, and went with him to Spalding, and from thence

to a town called Deeping, and so to Stamford in Lincolnshire.

This is a large, populous town, and it was market-day when we came to

it; so we put in at a little house at the hither end of the town, and

walked into the town.

Here it was not possible to restrain my captain from playing his feats

of art, and my heart ached for him. I told him I would not go with him,

for he would not promise, and I was so terribly concerned at the

apprehensions of his venturous humour that I would not so much as stir

out of my lodging; but it was in vain to persuade him. He went into the

market, and found a mountebank there, which was what he wanted. How he

picked two pockets there in one quarter of an hour, and brought to our

quarters a piece of new holland of eight or nine ells, a piece of

stuff, and played three or four pranks more in less than two hours; and

how afterward he robbed a doctor of physic, and yet came off clear in

them all—this, I say, as above, belongs to his story, not mine.

I scolded heartily at him when he came back, and told him he would

certainly ruin himself, and me too, before he left off, and threatened

in so many words that I would leave him, and go back and carry the

horse to Puckeridge where we borrowed it, and so go to London by

myself.

He promised amendment; but as we resolved (now we were in the great

road) to travel by night, so it being not yet night, he gives me the

slip again, and was not gone half-an-hour but he comes back with a gold

watch in his hand: “Come,” says he, “why ain’t you ready to go? I am

ready to go as soon as you will;” and with that he pulls out the gold

watch. I was amazed at such a thing as that in a country town; but it

seems there was prayers at one of the churches in the evening, and he,

placing himself as the occasion directed, found the way to be so near

the lady as to get it from her side, and walked off with it

unperceived.

The same night we went away by moonlight, after having the satisfaction

to hear the watch cried, and ten guineas offered for it again. He would

have been glad of the ten guineas instead of the watch, but durst not

venture carry it home. “Well,” says I, “you are afraid, and you have

reason. Give it me; I will venture to carry it again.” But he would not

let me, but told me that when he came into Scotland we might sell

anything there without danger; which was true indeed, for there they

asked us no questions.

We set out, as I said, in the evening by moon light, and travelled

hard, the road being very plain and large, till we came to Grantham, by

which time it was about two in the morning, and all the town, as it

were, dead asleep. So we went on for Newark, where we reached about

eight in the morning, and there we lay down and slept most of the day;

and by this sleeping so continually in the day-time I kept him from

doing a great deal of mischief, which he would otherwise have done.

From Newark we took advice of one that was accidentally comparing the

roads, and we concluded that the road by Nottingham would be the best

for us; so we turned out of the great road, and went up the side of the

Trent to Nottingham. Here he played his pranks again in a manner that

it was the greatest wonder imaginable to me that he was not surprised,

and yet he came off clear. And now he had got so many bulky goods that

he bought him a portmanteau to carry them in. It was in vain for me to

offer to restrain him any more; so after this he went on his own way.

At Nottingham, I say, he had such success that made us the hastier to

be going than otherwise we would have been, lest we would have been

baulked, and should be laid hold of. From thence we left the road,

which leads to the north again, and went away by Mansfield into

Scarsdale, in Yorkshire.

I shall take up no more of my own story with his pranks; they very well

merit to be told by themselves. But I shall observe only what relates

to our journey. In a word, I dragged him along as fast as I could, till

I came to Leeds, in Yorkshire. Here, though it be a large and populous

town, yet he could make nothing of it; neither had he any success at

Wakefield; and he told me, in short, that the north-country people were

certainly all thieves. “Why so?” said I. “The people seem to be just as

other people are.” “No, no,” says he; “they have their eyes so about

them, and are all so sharp, they look upon everybody that comes near

them to be a pickpocket, or else they would never stand so upon their

guard. And then again,” says he, “they are so poor, there is but little

to be got; and I am afraid,” says he, “the farther we go north, we

shall find it worse.” “Well,” says I, “what do you infer from thence?”

“I argue from thence,” says he, “that we shall do nothing there, and I

had as good go back into the south and be hanged as into the north to

be starved.”

Well, we came at length to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here, on a market-day,

was a great throng of people, and several of the townspeople going to

market to buy provisions; and here he played his pranks, cheated a

shopkeeper of £15 or £16 in goods, and got clear away with them; stole

a horse, and sold that he came upon, and played so many pranks that I

was quite frighted for him. I say for him, for I was not concerned for

myself, having never stirred out of the house where I lodged—at least

not with him, nor without some or other with me belonging to the inn

that might give an account of me.

Nor did I use this caution in vain; for he had made himself so public

by his rogueries that he was waylaid everywhere to be taken, and had he

not artfully at first given out that he was come from Scotland and was

going toward London, inquiring that road, and the like, which amused

his pursuers for the first day, he had been taken, and in all

probability had been hanged there. But by that artifice he got half a

day’s time of them; and yet, as it was, he was put so to it that he was

fain to plunge, horse and all, into the river Tweed, and swim over, and

thereby made his escape. It was true that he was before upon Scots

ground (as they call it), and consequently they had no power to have

carried him off, if anybody had opposed them; yet, as they were in a

full chase after him, could they have come up with him they would have

run the risk of the rest, and they could but have delivered him up if

they had been questioned about it. However, as he got over the Tweed,

and was landed safe, they could neither follow him, the water being too

high at the usual place of going over, nor could they have attempted to

have brought him away if they had taken him. The place where he took

the river was where there is a ford below Kelso, but the water being

up, the ford was not passable, and he had no time to go to the

ferry-boat, which is about a furlong off, opposite to the town.

Having thus made his escape, he went to Kelso, where he had appointed

me to come after him. I followed with a heavy heart, expecting every

hour to meet him upon the road in the custody of the constables and

such people, or to hear of him in the gaol; but when I came to a place

on the border called Woller-haugh-head, there I understood how he had

been chased, and how he made his escape.

When I came to Kelso he was easy enough to be found; for his having

desperately swam the Tweed, a rapid and large river, made him much

talked of, though it seems they had not heard of the occasion of it,

nor anything of his character; for he had wit enough to conceal all

that, and live as retired as he could till I came to him.

I was not so much rejoiced at his safety as I was provoked at his

conduct; and the more, for that I could not find he had yet the least

notion of his having been void of common-sense with respect to his

circumstances, as well as contrary to what he promised me. However, as

there was no beating anything into his head by words, I only told him

that I was glad he was at last gotten into a place of safety, and I

asked him then how he intended to manage himself in that country. He

said in few words he did not know yet. He doubted the people were very

poor; but if they had any money he was resolved to have some of it.

“But do you know, too,” says I, “that they are the severest people upon

criminals of your kind in the world?” He did not value that, he said,

in his blunt, short way; he would venture it. Upon this I told him

that, seeing it was so, and he would run such ventures, I would take my

leave of him and be gone back to England. He seemed sullen, or rather

it was the roughness of his untractable disposition. He said I might do

what I would, he would do as he found opportunity. However, we did not

part immediately, but went on towards the capital city. On the road we

found too much poverty and too few people to give him room to expect

any advantage in his way; and though he had his eyes about him as sharp

as a hawk, yet he saw plainly there was nothing to be done; for as to

the men, they did not seem to have much money about them; and for the

women, their dress was such that, had they any money, or indeed any

pockets, it was impossible to come at them; for, wearing large plaids

about them and down to their knees, they were wrapped up so close that

there was no coming to make the least attempt of that kind.

Kelso was indeed a good town, and had abundance of people in it; and

yet, though he stayed one Sunday there, and saw the church, which is

very large and thronged with people, yet, as he told me, there was not

one woman to be seen in all the church with any other dress than a

plaid, except in two pews, which belonged to some nobleman, and who,

when they came out, were so surrounded with footmen and servants that

there was no coming near them, any more than there was any coming near

the king surrounded by his guards.

We set out, therefore, with this discouragement, which I was secretly

glad of, and went forward to Edinburgh. All the way thither we went

through no considerable town, and it was but very coarse travelling for

us, who were strangers; for we met with waters which were very

dangerous to pass, by reason of hasty rains, at a place called

Lauderdale, and where my captain was really in danger of drowning, his

horse being driven down by the stream, and fell under him, by which he

wetted and spoiled his stolen goods that he brought from Newcastle, and

which he had kept dry strangely, by holding them up in his arms when he

swam the Tweed. But here it wanted but little that he and his horse had

been lost, not so much by the depth of the water as the fury of the

current. But he had a proverb in his favour, and he got out of the

water, though with difficulty enough, not being born to be drowned, as

I shall observe afterwards in its place.

We came to Edinburgh the third day from Kelso, having stopped at an inn

one whole day, at a place called Soutrahill, to dry our goods and

refresh ourselves. We were oddly saluted at Edinburgh. The next day

after we came thither, my captain having a desire to walk and look

about him, asked me if I would go and see the town. I told him yes; so

we went out, and coming through a gate that they call the Nether Bow,

into the great High Street, which went up to the Cross, we were

surprised to see it thronged with an infinite number of people. “Ay,”

says my captain, “this will do.” However, as I had made him promise to

make no adventures that day, otherwise I told him I would not go out

with him, so I held him by the sleeve, and would not let him stir from

me.