Bound hand and foot, the wounded man was taken to the "King's Arms,"

where, to the astonishment of all, he was recognised as the "Golden

Farmer."

Fact and fiction are so intermingled in these stories of the "Golden

Farmer's" exploits, that it would be almost as easy to unravel the

real history of Robin Hood himself, as to present a biography of him

that should have much pretence to truth in detail. It seems we are

not even on sure ground when we set his name down as William Davis,

for in a collection of old printed trials at the British Museum we

find a William Davis, identified with the "Golden Farmer," executed

in September, 1685, for being the principal figure in a burglary and

felony committed in company with one John Holland and Agnes Wearing at

the house of a minister, one Lionel Gatford, in Lime Street, City of

London. Agnes Wearing suffered with him, but Holland was reprieved.

Yet, although this Davis was turned off in 1685, we find, by the

_London Gazette_ of September 9th, 1689, that there were then in

custody at Newgate two persons suspected of being housebreakers and

robbers, several instruments for breaking into houses having been taken

with them: "one calling himself William Freeman, whose right name is

William Hill, commonly called the 'Golden Farmer,' an indifferent,

tall, black Man, well set, with black hair, has a shaking in his Head,

and is between 50 and 60 years of age." This advertisement proceeds to

notify that "those robbed may have a sight of them at Newgate."[5]

[Illustration: EXECUTION OF THE GOLDEN FARMER.

_From a contemporary woodcut._]

Another story tells how he was pursued in Whitefriars, London, the

old-time Alsatia of rogues and vagabonds behind Fleet Street. He shot

dead a butcher who tried to stop him, but was tripped up and secured,

at the corner of Salisbury Court and Fleet Street, where he was

afterwards hanged, December 20th, 1689, in his sixty-fourth year: or,

by another account, December 20th, 1690. His body was afterwards hanged

in chains on the threshold of his own house at Bagshot.

On a broadsheet ballad, published on the occasion of his execution,

entitled _The Golden Farmer's Last Farewell_, a rude woodcut appears

at the head of the verses, in which you see a very small figure

hanging most comfortably from a gallows-tree, with a thoroughly

happy expression upon his face, while a small crowd (assorted sizes)

contemplates his sad end with a variety of emotions, ranging from

amusement to contempt. The verses are typical of the penny literature

of the age, and do not necessarily follow his career with any slavish

regard to truth:

Unto you all this day,

my faults I do declare,

Alas! I have not long to stay,

I must for Death prepare;

A most notorious Wretch,

I many years have been,

For which I now at length must stretch,

a just Reward for Sin:

No Tongue nor Pen can tell

what sorrows I conceive;

Your Golden Farmer's last Farewell,

unto the World I leave.

A Gang of Robbers then

my self did entertain;

Notorious hardy Highwaymen,

Who did like Ruffians reign:

We'd rob, we'd laugh, and joke,

and revel night and day;

But now the knot of us is broke,

'tis I that leads the way:

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

We houses did beset,

and robb'd them night and day,

Making all Fish that came to Net,

for still we clear'd the way;

Five Hundred Pounds and more,

in Money, Gold, and Plate,

From the right Owner we have bore,

but now my wretched State,

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

We always gagg'd and bound

most of the Family,

That we might search until we found

their hidden Treasury;

A sword-point at their throat,

a Pistol cock'd straightway,

Presented at their Breast, to make

them show us where it lay:

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

I having run my Race,

I now at last do see,

That in much shame and sad disgrace,

my Life will ended be:

I took delight to rob,

and rifle rich and poor,

But now at last, my Friend, Old Mob,

I ne'er shall see thee more:

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc,

The Blood which I have spilt

now on my Conscience lies,

The heavy, dreadfull thought of Guilt,

my Senses do's surprize;

The thoughts of Death I fear,

although a just Reward,

As knowing that I must appear,

before the living Lord.

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

I solemnly declare,

who am to Justice brought,

All kind of wicked Sins that are,

I eagerly have wrought;

No Villains are more rife

than those which I have bred,

And thus a most perfidious Life

I in this World have led:

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

Long have I liv'd, you see,

by this unlawful Trade,

And at the length am brought to be,

a just Example made;

Good God, my Sins forgive,

whose Laws I did offend,

For here I may no longer live,

my Life is at an end.

No Tongue nor Pen can tell, etc.

THOMAS SIMPSON: "OLD MOB"

The name of Thomas Simpson arouses no emotions of love or hate,

of fear or of admiration. He is just "Thomas Simpson," plebeian,

undistinguished amid the other hundreds of Thomas Simpsons who have

worn a commonplace name throughout a commonplace career, and so ended;

the world appreciably no better for their existence, and certainly

not noticeably worse. There have been perhaps thousands of Thomas

Simpsons, but there has been only one "Old Mob." The Thomas Simpson,

who rose to fame with that picturesque nickname, was born at Romsey, in

the New Forest, in the first half of the seventeenth century. We are

told little of his early life, and merely learn that he continued to

live at Romsey as his only home, "until he had five children and some

grandchildren." His education, we further learn, without surprise—for

it was the seventeenth century, you know—"appears to have been greatly

neglected." It was impudence, however, more than anything, more even

than courage, that ever made the successful highwayman: the 'ologies

were useless on the hard high road, under stars, when a carriage worth

robbing drew nigh; nor even would the elementary three R's help a man

any the better to thrust a pistol through a window and cry "Stand!"

Old Mob had little education and less manners. Your Du Valls and

Captain Hinds might bring the manners of society and the refinements

of the ball-room into the keen air of the highway; for him there was

but the rasping tongue of command and the contact of the cold muzzle of

his pistol with your nose. He ranged the south and west of England very

freely, and is found on one occasion in the Eastern Counties.

Accounts of his career generally open with his encountering a certain

Sir Bartholomew Shower, between Honiton and Exeter. The road in the

neighbourhood of Honiton Clyst is still little frequented, and at that

time must have been singularly lonely. Old Mob called upon the knight

to "stand and deliver," and Sir Bartholomew delivered accordingly, and

with a pleasing readiness because he had the merest trifle on him, and

thought to have thus escaped easily. But Old Mob was disappointed, and

proportionably wroth: "My demands, sir, are very large and pressing,"

he said, "and therefore you must instantly draw a bill for one hundred

and fifty pounds and remain in the next field for security till I have

received the money."

The knight vainly protested that there was no one in Exeter who had

so large a sum by him, but Old Mob would take no denial and led him a

long distance away from the road, tied him to a tree, and compelled

him to draw a bill for the amount on a goldsmith in the city. Then he

rode into Exeter, duly cashed it and, returning, released his prisoner.

"Sir," his biographer reports him as saying, "I am come with a _habeas

corpus_ to remove you out of your present captivity"; which he did,

leaving him to walk home the distance of three miles.

This last remark attributed to Old Mob, the uneducated, is no doubt

a biographical frill, inserted to fitly round off the incident. What

should he know of _habeas corpus_? This was a vice of which the

biographer of the knights of the road could by no means rid themselves.

It was upon the road between Newmarket and London that Old Mob halted

the carriage of no less a personage than Louise de la Kérouaille, the

notorious Frenchwoman, favourite of Charles the Second, whom that

monarch had created Duchess of Portsmouth.

[Illustration: "OLD MOB" ROBS THE DUCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH.]

"Do you know who I am, fellow?" demanded that haughty lady, indignant

at being stopped by so mean-looking an object.

Now, for such as the Duchess of Portsmouth and her kind to ask such a

question of a highwayman was singularly rash. Captain Alexander Smith

and "Captain" Charles Johnson, in their folio volumes of the _Lives of

the Highwaymen_, published in 1719 and 1742, respectively, describe Old

Mob's reply, either in his own words, or excogitated out of their own

inner consciousness, according to their own ideas of probability; but

these present pages are in octavo volumes and this is the twentieth

century, and for one of these reasons, or both—as you please—it is

really not possible to reprint the vigorous reply of Old Mob to the

Duchess's request. He not only told her who she was, but also, in the

sheerest unornamental language, _what_ she was, as well. Among other

things: "You are maintained at the public expense. I know that all

the courtiers depend upon your smiles, and that even the King is your

slave. But what of all that? A gentleman-collector upon the road is a

greater man, and more absolute than His Majesty is at Court. You may

now say, madam, that a single highwayman has exercised his authority

where Charles the Second of England has often begged a favour."

Her grace continued to gaze upon him with a lofty air, and told him he

was a very insolent fellow: that she would give him nothing, and that

he should certainly suffer for his insolence. "Touch me if you dare!"

she exclaimed.

"Madame," rejoined the highwayman, "that haughty French spirit will do

you no good here. I am an English freebooter, and I insist upon it, as

my native right, to seize all foreign commodities! Your money is indeed

English, but it is forfeited, as being the fruit of English folly. All

you possess is confiscated, as being bestowed upon one so worthless.

_I_ am King _here_, madame! I have use for money, as well as he. The

public pay for his follies, and so they must for mine." And Old Mob

thereupon gathered in two hundred pounds in gold, "a very rich necklace

which her Royal paramour had lately given her," a gold watch, and two

diamond rings.

You will observe an intolerable tendency in Old Mob to moral

reflections: as though he were one who had missed his vocation, and

would have been more legitimately employed in improving the occasion

from the pulpit. And not only Old Mob held forth in this manner. His

contemporaries—if we may believe Messrs. Smith and Johnson—did the

like: in very unclerical fashion, it is true, for they sandwiched

their preaching with the most horrible oaths and blasphemies: all duly

printed at length by those authorities, without the decent veil of the

blushing "——," or the discreet "*." It was a singularly mixed method;

but the preachments are all of so singular a likeness that we may

shrewdly suspect them to be the inventions of their biographers. The

cursings and revilings we may take as being the highwayman's very own.

They were instinctively employed to strike terror into the hearts of

unfortunate wayfarers, just as in olden Chinese warfare the pig-tailed

warriors came on with grimaces and with shields pictured with hideous

masks.

"Old Mob" then met "Old Gadbury, the Astrologer," and stopping him and

demanding his money, "the Starry Prophet began to plead Poverty, but

this did not move him at all to Compassion."

"You lying Rogue," quoth he, "can you that possess all the Seven

Planets of Free-hold, and let them out on Lease to the Stationers'

Company, plead Poverty to me. No, no, you must not sham Poverty to me;

come, come, your Money presently, or this Pistol, shall be worse to

you than the raging Dog Star that threatens Death and Diseases to a

Country."

And "Old Gadbury" had thereupon to make a speedy delivery.

The next most outstanding enterprise of Old Mob was the halting

of Judge Jeffreys in his coach, some time later than that Judge's

assize of blood in the West. The highwayman, setting suddenly upon

the equipage, disabled the two servants who accompanied it, and then

demanded his lordship's money.

"I am Sir George Jeffreys," quietly remarked the judge, with a world of

meaning, as he severely eyed the pistol presented at him. That plain

statement was designed to send a pang of apprehension through the

aggressor; and, indeed, the lowering presence of the judge had made

many a prisoner brought before him quail; but Old Mob, by the best

accounts, does not appear to have been greatly impressed. He was ready

as ever with his moral remarks.

Jeffreys reminding him that a Providence existed which governed the

world, and that he might therefore expect to be duly punished for his

iniquities, he held forth in his best pulpit style: "When justice has

overtaken us both, I hope to stand as good a chance as your lordship,

you, who have written your name in indelible characters of blood and

deprived many thousands of their lives, for no other reason than their

appearing in defence of their just rights and liberties. It is enough

for you to preach morality upon the Bench, when no person can venture

to contradict you; but your words can have no effect upon me. I know

you too well not to perceive that they are only lavished upon me to

save your ill-gotten wealth." Then, his eloquence in this vein being

exhausted, thundering forth a volley of oaths, and presenting a pistol

to his breast, he threatened the judge with instant death, unless

he surrendered his money. Perceiving that his authority was of no

consequence to him upon the road, Judge Jeffreys thereupon handed over

the gold he had about him, amounting to fifty-six guineas.

To recount the many improbable stories told of Old Mob, singly, or in

conjunction with his sometime ally, the "Golden Farmer," would be to

tell many stupid tales, and to convict oneself of credulity. He was

caught at last, and, being convicted on thirty-four out of thirty-six

indictments, was duly hanged, with nine others, September 12th, 1691.

He declared, on the scaffold, that "while he continued to Rob on the

Highway, he pray'd at the same Time that God would forgive it, and that

it eas'd his mind something." It was added that "though he had wounded

several Persons, yet he affirm'd he never murder'd any; which, to be

sure, was very forbearing and obliging of him."

CLAUDE DU VALL

Claude Du Vall ranks among his brother highwaymen as high as Rembrandt

or Raphael among artists. He was, indeed, no less an artist in his own

profession than they. He might not, and probably did not, acquire as

much of other people's property on the road as did Hind or Whitney; but

artists are not necessarily money-makers. Such as were his takings, he

took them with a finished grace and a considerate courtesy, that not

even the Prince of Prigs, in his best moment, ever quite attained. We

do not learn, for example, that Hind, the "Gentleman Thief," footed it

on the heath in a graceful dance with one of his victims, as did Du

Vall; but Hind had not the advantage of that foreign blood which made

Claude skip for gladness in the midst of alarms.

In the _Memoires of Monsieur Du Vall_, published in 1670, only a few

days after the hero's death from the effect of a hempen cravat, we have

the sole authority for the merry tales told of him. It is a curious

production. From it we learn that:

"Claude Du Vall was born Anno 1643 at Domfront, in Normandy, a place

very famous for the excellency and beautifulness of the air, and for

the production of mercurial wits. At the time of his birth there

was a conjunction of Venus and Mercury, certain presages of very

good fortune, but of a very short continuance. His father was Pierre

Du Vall, a miller, his mother, Marguerite De la Roche, a tailor's

daughter."

The author of these remarkable memoirs then proceeds to say, in surely

a very cynical manner: "They lived in as much reputation and honesty

as their conditions and occupations would permit." This, of course, is

a sly fling at both the business of a miller and that of a tailor; for

honest millers have from the earliest times been proverbially as scarce

as honest lawyers; while for tailors to "cabbage" the cloth entrusted

to them has always been expected.

Du Vall's biographer then ranges from sarcasm to an indignant defence

of his birth and parentage.

"There are some," he says, "that confidently aver he was born in Smock

Alley, without Bishopsgate, that his father was a cook, and sold boiled

beef and porridge; but their report is as false as it is defamatory and

malicious."

"It was easy," he continues, "to disprove this in several ways, but the

chief argument against it was this: If he had been born in Smock Alley,

he would not have been a Frenchman, but if he had not been a Frenchman,

it was quite impossible he should have been so much beloved in life

and lamented in death by the English ladies."

Early in life, a wandering priest who happened upon his parents'

humble dwelling, found a mark upon his head as of two crowns: a sure

sign, said the priest, that he was to be a traveller. Then, adopting

something of the _rôle_ of a fortune-teller, he declared the boy would

never be long without money; and, wherever he went, "he would always

have the exceeding favour of women of the highest condition."

The rustic miller and his wife looked upon the priest as an oracle,

but wondered how such fortune would come to pass. Nothing visible

on the horizon of their lives warranted any such expectations. They

were miserably poor, and kept themselves but little warmed by that

comparative honesty of which we have already read. So when Claude grew

to the age of thirteen or fourteen, he was turned adrift from the old

home, to fend for himself. His parents did what they could, but that

did not amount to much. A little less unexpected honesty on their part

would have enabled him, no doubt, to enter upon the world under better

circumstances: but as it was, the best they could do was to buy him

shoes and stockings—things he had never before known—and a second-hand

suit of clothes. This outfit, and twenty sous given him at parting, was

all his property. As he went they threw an old shoe after him for luck,

and bid him go seek his fortune.

The boy made his way to Rouen in the first instance. There he was

promised a ride to Paris on one of the post-horses he saw in the

courtyard of an inn, if he would earn that lift by helping stable

them for the night. He willingly agreed, and was fortunate to meet at

the same inn a number of English youths, who, with their tutors, were

returning by way of Paris to England. In return for such use as he

could be to them in practising their insufficient French, they employed

and fed him for the few days they remained in the country.

In Paris, according to our admiring but discriminating biographer, "he

lived unblameably during this time, unless you esteem it a fault to

be scabby, and a little given to filching; qualities very frequent in

persons of his nation and condition." So, employed about stables and

inn-yards in Paris, he continued until the Restoration of the monarchy

in England in 1660 brought about the return of many exiles. In the

service of one of the many "persons of Quality" who then crossed the

Channel, went Claude Du Vall, who by this time was seventeen years of

age.

The joy that expressed itself all over England at the return of

Charles the Second degenerated into riotous excess. Dissipation and

every species of profligacy abounded among upper and middle classes,

and the servants of the wealthy were apt pupils of their masters in

these excesses. Highwaymen, whose profession had languished miserably

under the Commonwealth's later rule, reappeared on every road, and

were drawn from all classes. Footmen and lackeys found a singular

fascination in the occupation of the high-toby crack, and early among

them was Du Vall, who in a short time became so dexterous in his new

employment, that he had the honour of being the first named in a long

list of highwaymen proclaimed in the _London Gazette_.

It has already been acknowledged that violence had no part in the

methods of this artist, and he would have scorned, you may be sure,

the ruffianly, and even murderous acts of a later generation of the

craft, who not only despoiled travellers of their goods, but rendered

the roads dangerous to life and limb. His chief exploit, upon Hampstead

Heath, is classical, and is set forth so eloquently, and with such

an engaging profusion of capital letters, in the _Memoires_ that one

cannot do better than quote it. By this account it would appear that he

was the captain of a gang:

"He, with his Squadron, overtakes a Coach, which they had set over

Night, having Intelligence of a Booty of four hundred Pounds in it.

In the Coach was a Knight, his Lady, and only one Serving-maid, who,

perceiving five Horsemen making up to them, presently imagined that

they were beset; and they were confirmed in this Apprehension by seeing

them whisper to one another, and ride backwards and forwards. The Lady,

to shew that she was not afraid, takes a Flageolet out of her pocket

and plays. Du Vall takes the Hint, plays also, and excellently well,

upon a Flageolet of his own, and in this Posture he rides up to the

Coachside. 'Sir,' says he to the Person in the Coach, 'your Lady plays

excellently, and I doubt not but that she dances as well. Will you

please to walk out of the Coach and let me have the Honour to dance one

Currant with her upon the Heath? 'Sir,' said the Person in the Coach,

'I dare not deny anything to one of your Quality and good Mind. You

seem a Gentleman, and your Request is very reasonable.' Which said the

Lacquey opens the Boot, out comes the knight, Du Vall leaps lightly off

his horse and hands the Lady out of the Coach. They danced, and here it

was that Du Vall performed Marvels; the best Masters in London, except

those that are French, not being able to shew such footing as he did

in his great French Riding Boots. The Dancing being over (there being

no violins, Du Vall sung the Currant himself) he waits on the Lady to

her Coach. As the knight was going in, says Du Vall to him, 'Sir, you

have forgot to pay the Musick.' 'No, I have not,' replied the knight,

and, putting his Hand under the Seat of the Coach, pulls out a hundred

Pounds in a Bag, and delivers it to him, which Du Vall took with a very

good grace, and courteously answered, 'Sir, you are liberal, and shall

have no cause to repent your being so; this Liberality of yours shall

excuse you the other Three Hundred Pounds,' and giving the Word, that

if he met with any more of the Crew, he might pass undisturbed, he

civilly takes his leave of him. He manifested his agility of body by

lightly dismounting off his horse, and with Ease and Freedom getting

up again when he took his Leave; his excellent Deportment by his

incomparable Dancing and his graceful manner of taking the hundred

pounds."

[Illustration: CLAUDE DU VALL DANCING THE CORANTO ON HOUNSLOW HEATH.]

Our own times are more sordid, and it is to be feared that not the

extremest display of grace in the robber would find any one ready to

excuse the loss of a hundred sovereigns.

As the old priest had foretold, years before, Du Vall became the

ladies' favourite. "Maids, widows, and wives," we learn, "the rich,

the poor, the noble, the vulgar, all submitted to him," and he led the

gayest of lives in London.

He knew Blackheath as well as Hounslow, and there, with his companions,

met a coach full of ladies and a child with a feeding-bottle. Rudely,

one of the gang rode up, violently robbed the ladies of their watches

and rings, and did not scruple even to steal the child's silver bottle.

The air resounded with the shrieks of the cheated infant and the cries

of the ladies. Up rode our gallant hero, with threats to instantly

shoot the man unless he returned the bottle. "Sirrah!" he exclaimed,

"cannot you behave like a gentleman and raise a contribution without

stripping people. But perhaps you yourself have some occasion for the

sucking bottle, for by your actions one would imagine you were hardly

weaned."

Soon after this Du Vall thought it politic to retire for a while to

France. A humorous story was told of his fooling an eminent Jesuit

confessor, known less for his piety than for his political meddling and

his avariciousness. He was a very wealthy man, and Du Vall, hearing

of his hoards, was anxious to have a share in them. He made the

confessor's acquaintance in the guise of a scholar, and said he was one

who had studied the sciences and only wanted a patron as eminent as

himself, through whose introductions he desired to serve his country by

applying the knowledge he had acquired.

"And of what special branch does your knowledge consist?" asked

the Jesuit. "If you can and will communicate anything that may be

beneficial to France, I assure you no proper encouragement shall be

wanting on my side."

Du Vall, growing bolder, said: "Sir, I have spent most of my time in

the study of alchemy, or the transmutation of base metals into gold,

and have profited so greatly at Rome and Venice, from association with

men learned in that science, that I can change several metals into

gold by the help of a philosophical powder, which I can prepare very

speedily."

The prospect of immense riches that might be his, if only he cultivated

the acquaintance of this man of science, dazzled the confessor.

"Friend," he said, "such a thing as this will indeed be a service to

the State, and particularly grateful to His Majesty the King, who,

as his affairs stand at present, is in great need of such a curious

invention. But," he added, with some remains of cunning criticism,

"before I credit what you say, so far as to communicate it to His

Majesty, I must see some proof of your skill."

Du Vall agreed; but said, as only a poor student of these things,

he had not the appliances necessary. These the confessor agreed

to provide, and fitted up a laboratory for him in his own house.

Everything being complete, Du Vall gave a demonstration of his alchemic

science. He took several metals of the baser sort, and put them into a

crucible, the confessor watching him the while. Du Vall had prepared

a hollow stick, into which he had introduced several inlays of real

gold; and with this stick he stirred the white-hot crucible, until the

base metals were in a flux, and the stick itself was almost entirely

consumed. On the crucible being cooled, and its contents examined, it

was duly found that a considerable amount of gold was mixed with what

had been base metals.

The Jesuit was delighted with the success of the experiment, and a

series of equally satisfactory tests was entered upon. Du Vall at last

fully acquired his confidence, and a complete knowledge of where his

treasure was deposited, and, finding him one evening in a heavy sleep

(to which he had perhaps contributed by drugging his wine), gently

stole his reverence's keys, earned off as much of his hoarded wealth as

he conveniently could, and hastened to England.

It was, for several reasons, high time he returned to our shores. There

was, his biographer tells us, no room in France for a highwayman. "In

truth, the air of France is not good for persons of his constitution,

it being the custom there to travel in great companies, well armed,

and with little money. The danger of being resisted, and the danger of

being taken, are much greater there; and the quarry much lesser than

in England. And if, by chance, a dapper fellow, with fine black eyes,

and a white peruke be taken there, and found guilty of robbing, all the

women in the town don't presently take the alarm, and run to the King

to beg his life."

So we see that the narrator of Du Vall's life, certainly did not

approve of the hero-worship accorded him.

But Du Vall's career was now fast drawing to a close. His exploits as

a highway chevalier had grown too notorious for him to be allowed to

range any longer at will on the roads around London. At times, perhaps

fully informed of his exceeding danger, he would employ himself in

another art, in which he was an expert—the art of cheating at cards, in

which an exceptional sleight-of-hand served him in good stead. Apart

from these qualities, a handsome personal appearance, and a skill in

dancing and playing the flageolet, he seems to have been as ignorant

as any other ex-stable-boy, or page-boy of his era; for in a curious

notice of him in the _London Gazette_ of January 1670, he is described

as a man "of singular parts and learning, though he could neither read

nor write." The different clauses of this eulogy seem at first sight

quite irreconcileable; but the "learning," no doubt, refers rather to

social graces, than to ordinary education.

He was captured when the worse for drink, at a tavern called the "Hole

in the Wall," in Chandos Street, Covent Garden. He had three pistols in

his pocket at the time, one of them "which would shoot twice," and had

a sword at his side. "If he'd been sober, it was impossible he could

have killed less than ten," says the author of the _Memoires_; adding,

"He would have been cut as small as herbs for the pot, before he would

have yielded to the bailey of Westminster," only the drink he had taken

did not permit him the use of his legs.

He was executed at Tyburn, on January 21st, 1670, in spite of the many

efforts made to secure a reprieve. After the hanging, he was given a

lying-in-state at the "Tangier" tavern, St. Giles's, the room being

draped in black, relieved with escutcheons. Eight candles burnt around

him, and eight tall gentlemen in long cloaks kept watch. Many ladies of

fashion and beauty went, masked, with tear-stained faces, to see him; a

thing which seems incredible to ourselves, and was in fact considered

extraordinary at the time. The author of the _Memoires_ himself

realised this, for we find him declaring the truth of it; although he

says he expected to be accounted by his readers "A Notorious Lyer."

The Judge who had tried Du Vall regarded the exhibition as scandalous,

and caused the room to be cleared; but the highwayman was given a

splendid funeral in St. Paul's church, Covent Garden. He was but

twenty-seven years of age at his death. A handsome stone, decorated

with heraldic achievements (not his own, for he boasted none), was

placed over his grave, and on it this epitaph:

Here lies Du Vall: Reader, if Male thou art,

Look to thy purse; if Female, to thy heart.

Much havoc has he made of both; for all

Men he made stand, and woman he made fall.

The second Conqueror of the Norman race,

Knights to his arms did yield, and Ladies to his face.

Old Tyburn's Glory; England's illustrious thief,

Du Vall, the Ladies' Joy; Du Vall, the Ladies' grief.

This was destroyed when the original church was burnt in 1759.

FRANCIS JACKSON, AND HIS "RECANTATION"

We know little of this highwayman, however notorious he may have been

at the time of his execution, April 14th, 1674. The exceedingly rare

tract entitled _Jackson's Recantation_, gives no trace of his Christian

name; nor does it, although professing to be a "Life," tell us when or

where he was born, or the position his parents occupied. The tract is

by way of an autobiography, but it is couched in such general terms

that very few facts are to be extracted from it. It is in this, and

in some other particulars, not unlike John Clavel's "Recantation" of

forty-seven years earlier; only Jackson writes in ambiguous prose,

while the other exercises himself in verse.

The title-page of Jackson's repudiation of his wicked ways may with

advantage be given here, as a specimen of the type of chapbook then in

vogue.

But although Jackson's own autobiography affords no satisfaction to the

enquirer, hungry for facts, and although the Old Bailey Sessions Papers

of the period are not preserved, a clue is found to

Jackson's Recantation

OR, THE

LIFE & DEATH

OF THE

NOTORIOUS HIGHWAYMAN

NOW

HANGING in CHAINS

AT

HAMPSTEAD

DELIVERED

To a Friend, a little before Execution; Wherein

is truly discovered the whole Mystery of

that Wicked and Fatal Profession

Of PADDING on the ROAD

[Illustration: [++] Printer's Mark.]

_LONDON_,

Printed for I. B. in the Year 1674

the last adventure of himself and his associates in another tract

entitled as under:

The

CONFESSION

Of the Four

HIGH-WAY-MEN

As it was Written by One of them, and

Allowed by the Rest the 14th of this

Instant _April_ (being the Day before

their Appointed Execution).

{ John Williams, alias Tho Matchet

{ Francis Jackson, alias Dixie

Viz:—{ John White, alias Fowler

{ Walter Parkhurst.

* * * * *

This being desired to be made Publick by the Persons themselves,

to prevent false reports of them when they are Dead.

* * * * *

With Allowance

* * * * *

London. Printed for D. M. 1674.

By this it appears that Jackson's Christian name was Francis, and

that the robbery, in which he and his associates (so anxious that

their reputations should not be fouled by false reports) were finally

surprised and taken, was committed on the Exeter Road, between

Hounslow and Staines, early in the morning of March 18th. The gang had

already, on March 16th, impudently robbed the Windsor coach in broad

daylight, between Cranford and Hounslow, and actually in sight of about

a dozen gentlemen, well armed and mounted, who pursued them for five or

six miles before they were lost sight of.

The country was thoroughly aroused, and the hue-and-cry out for them;

and it therefore argues great rashness, or impudence, that they should,

two days later, and in the same neighbourhood, rob other coaches.

The gang engaged that day comprised James Slader, Walter Parkhurst,

John Williams, John White, and Francis Jackson. After robbing two

coaches in Bedfont Lane, supposing themselves observed by a gentleman's

servant out hunting in a green livery, they struck off across country

for Acton; the liveried servant hurrying after them. They then made

in the direction of Harrow-on-the-Hill, suspecting themselves pursued

all the way, but seeing no one until they reached that little town,

where they found forty or fifty men, ready to receive them with guns,

pitchforks, and all sorts of weapons.

The inference at this point is that the gang had made much slower

progress across country than the hue-and-cry had done.

Turning from this embattled front, they made their way down the hill

and at the bottom found "a great number" of horse and foot ready to

receive them. Although these horse and foot were so numerous, the

highwaymen, in their "Confession," claim to have compelled them to

fly into the houses for shelter; and so rode on to Paddington, and

thence to Kilburn and Hendon, and from Hendon to Hampstead Heath, hotly

engaged all the way. It was between ten and eleven o'clock in the

morning when they had reached Harrow, and six o'clock by the time they

were come upon Hampstead Heath, and the daylight was then fading out of

the March evening. Their powder and shot had nearly all been expended

about two o'clock, and some of their swords lost or broken, and most of

them sorely wounded or bruised. Prominent among the combatants in this

extraordinary running fight was a Lifeguardsman, "who fought with a

great deal of courage most part of that day."

On Hampstead Heath there were two hundred men arrayed against these

five exhausted highwaymen, who stood at bay in the grim hollow road at

North End as night fell, and fought the contest out to the inevitable

end. They fought an hour there, some with swords, and others with

pistols. Slader, with a last shot, killed one Edward Kemp, and was then

himself mortally wounded; and Jackson ran one Henry Miller through the

left side with his rapier, so that he died immediately.

[Illustration: THE FIGHT IN THE HOLLOW ROAD.]

At last, overpowered, four of the defeated highwaymen were conveyed to

Newgate. Slader soon afterwards died of his many wounds, and the others

were found guilty on various counts at their trial at the Old Bailey

on April 10th and 11th, and hanged with remarkable despatch on the

15th; Jackson being gibbeted on the scene of that last stand, opposite

the spot now occupied by the house called "Wildwoods."

His body long swung and gyrated in the wind, suspended there from a

beam stretched between two elms: the "Gibbet Elms," as they were long

known. One was blown down in 1850, and the other survived until so

recently as March 1907, when it, too, was uprooted in a storm. The

trunk, at this time of writing, still lies on the ground.

This, then, is the short story of Jackson's life. Let us now see of

what his "Recantation" consists. It affords curious reading, but cannot

be more than paraphrased here. It is, however, in spite of its breadth

and freedom of language, extremely moral in its teaching.

How vain, he moralises, are the thoughts of those who, while they

enjoy youth and strength, never consider they are mere statues of

dust, kneaded with tears and moved by the hidden engines of restless

passions; clods of earth, which the shortest fever can burn to ashes,

or a complication of miseries dissolve into nothingness!

He had once thought himself one of Heaven's favourites, and had

persuaded himself that the machinations of his brain were able to

unhinge the poles. (Any reader conversant with twentieth-century slang

phrases will at this point consider the youthful seventeenth-century

Jackson himself at that time "up the pole.")

But Heaven, continued Jackson, thought fit to deliver him into

the terrestrial hell of the condemned cell at Newgate, where, in

imagination surrounded by the howls and hollow groans of damned souls,

conscience started out of her dead sleep, and he was thrown into the

greatest agony imaginable. At this time a charitable physician for his

sin-sick soul came to visit him, and to that pious man he laid open the

whole course of his life, much to his amazement and wonder. This wonder

was soon changed to pity and commiseration that one so young should be

thus weeded out of the world just as he had entered into the blooming

springtime of his age. He then acquainted him with the benefit of true

repentance, so that the obduracy of his heart was able to hold out no

longer, and, melting into tears, he was willing to have its flintiness

broken by the hammer of sacred Scripture.

Then, to give the holy man some real testimony of his unfeigned

repentance, he produced an abstract of his life, which, he tells us, he

had prepared before his apprehension, intending to have published it

and then to have abandoned his evil courses. But a reformed highwayman

was so very rare a thing, if even not altogether so unheard-of a

curiosity, that we may take leave to doubt that detail. He probably

wrote his life in prison, and there occasionally peep out such

tell-tale passages of real enjoyment in the telling of his misdeeds,

that the flowery moral passages wear a strong suspicion of insincerity.

The "holy man" of the foregoing remarks was apparently none other

than the Ordinary of Newgate, the Reverend Samuel Smith, for the

"Recantation" is followed by a postscript, signed "S. S.," which says:

"Reader, let me assure thee this is no fiction, but a true relation

of Mr. Jackson's life and conversation. Penned by his own hand, and

delivered unto mine to be made public for his countrymen's good, in

compensation of the many injuries he hath done them. The introduction

he made in Newgate, after sentence of condemnation, and desired me

to apologise for it, fearing he had neither wrote large enough for

his true penitence, nor had laid down sufficient exhortations from

the commission of the like offences; the disorder he was in, lying

under the horror of a speedy and more than common execution, may

plead his excuse: the plainness of his style may admit of this plea,

that he aimed at (as he confessed to me) nothing but the good of his

countrymen, and that as he had picked their pockets, he thought it

needless to tickle their ears with the gilded straws of rhetorical

expressions. God, I hope, hath forgiven him his sins, and may we all

amend by his errors, for which he now hangs in chains at Hamstead,

a sad and dreadful spectacle to all beholders, and hoping you will

pass by the faults of his writing and the press, I subscribe myself a

well-willer to all."

"S. S."

Jackson's own method of telling his story is of the parabolic moral

kind, in which the facts lie hidden amid a mass of verbiage. He said

little of his parents, except that they were too indulgent to him,

supplying his youthful extravagances with so much money that he was

often puzzled to find ways to spend it. As a result, these prodigal

parents impoverished themselves, and then died, and their hopeful

son had already so distinguished himself by his wild and extravagant

courses, that none of his relatives would help, and refused even to see

him. He at once sank from plenty into poverty and rags, his backside

hung in tatters, and his coat had as many holes as a colander.

Although so miserable an object, no one would help him. He thought

himself unfit for one of the plantations, and such a scarecrow that not

even a kidnapper would take any notice of him.

At last, walking the streets of London in this miserable condition, he

found a purse lying in the street. Trembling with excitement at his

good fortune, he hastily slipped it into his pocket, forgetting that

all his pockets were so full of holes, that they would contain nothing.

It fell to the ground again, but he snatched it up, and hurried with

beating heart into the fields, and there found the purse contained ten

pounds in silver, and fifty guineas. He cautiously buried all this

money but fifty shillings in the hedgeside, and then went and bought an

ordinary ready-made suit of clothes, being afraid to at once purchase

better, in case awkward questions might be asked, as to how so shabby a

wretch became possessed of such means.

Thus decently attired, he thought he might venture to remove from the

squalid lodging he occupied, and, taking rooms at a cautious distance,

he gave out that he was the son of a country gentleman, come to London

on law business. For a time he lived quietly, but growing discontented

with the dulness of his quiet life, went and bespoke a fine suit

of clothes and all necessary appurtenances befitting a person of

quality, such as a silver-hilted sword, etc., saying he had received a

considerable sum of money on account of the affairs that had brought

him to town.

Being thus gallantly equipped, he soon made acquaintances, who were

intimately versed in the ways of town, but more especially in cards and

dice, at which they laboured with greater pains than a seven-years'

student with the classics. With one of these he established a close

friendship; and this new-found friend, undertaking to be his tutor in

gambling and sharping, he was soon on the direct way to becoming a

rogue, fully equipped in all the arts and subterfuges of those who live

on their wits. At playhouses, ordinaries, cockpits, and bowling-greens,

he was soon on the track of dupes whose pockets were to be dipped into,

and he tells us how his tackling was so good and his hooks so well

barbed that, after he had struck a gudgeon, he was sure to hold him,

though he suffered him to play a little in the stream.

When at any time they fell into the company of any young country

gentleman, sent up by his father to learn something of the polished

ways of London, they fastened themselves upon him, introduced him into

the fast life of town, and in the end plundered him and used his credit

to obtain goods from confiding tradespeople. These two associates

shared their fortunes in this manner for a year, varying their evil

practices by now and then robbing a coach. They were unlucky enough to

be several times flung into gaol and Jackson came near to losing his

life for robbing a coach near Barnet; but he was fortunate in being

able to get in touch with the person whom he had robbed, and to appease

him by restoring the greater part of what he had taken, on condition

that he should bring no evidence against him. He was accordingly

acquitted. So easy was it, he says, to buy acquittals that it had

become a proverbial saying that no man, unless he had committed treason

or murder, need be hanged while he had five hundred pounds at command.

Soon after he was so triumphantly enlarged from prison his companion

died, leaving behind him little but his wench, whom he bequeathed,

enjoining him to have a special care of her whom he had so highly

prized. It was a pity, continues Jackson, she was a whore, for he might

impartially declare her beauty to be scarcely paralleled.

To supply her extravagances was a difficult matter, and he grew so

busy at rooking people in the coffee-houses that his face became too

well known, and folk fought shy of him. He accordingly bethought him

of a way of noting those who had won heavily, and then following them

in the dark and robbing them. Although this was for some time a highly

remunerative plan, it also was worn threadbare, all too soon, and he

was now such a marked man that he was obliged, like a bat, never to

stir abroad until dusk; except with the greatest caution imaginable.

His woman, seeing what straits he was put to, deserted him.

He then met with three or four old acquaintances, knights of the road,

with whom he adjourned to a tavern. They asked him how he had spent his

time since his first gaol-delivery, and when he told them, declared no

bold, generous soul would stoop to such petty pilfering. They condemned

him further, not for keeping his woman, but for not keeping her more

under. "It is laudable," said one, "to have a Miss, even though he had

a very handsome wife of his own, and it is agreeable to the custom and

honour of the times, and if we were to throw any opprobrium upon it, it

would reflect upon ourselves."

"Come," said another, "we trifle away time. Let us fall to business. It

is a good while since we shared a booty: let us no longer lie idle, and

if our brother will accompany us, instead of picking up here and there

crowns and angels—a thing beneath us—let us resolve to 'Have at all.' A

five hours' adventure may make us possessors of five hundred pounds."

He told them he was not provided with a horse and other things

necessary, but they promised to supply him, and soon did so, and he was

then as well-equipped as any.

Four of them then set out for Maidenhead, reconnoitring for plunder.

At Maidenhead they dined, and then, in the summer afternoon, went on

towards Reading, halting an hour or so at Maidenhead Thicket, expecting

some prize; but to no purpose. They then planned to distribute

themselves and to ride into Reading singly: two to lie at one inn, and

two at another.

Jackson's other two comrades lay at an inn where they were well known,

and their occupation winked at by host and servants; who gave them to

understand that there was a gentleman in the house, who, with his man,

would next morning set out for Marlborough. It was thought, they added,

by the weight of his small portmanteau, that it must be filled with

money.

Jackson and one other found an attorney at the inn of their choice, who

said he was on his way to London, for the opening of term. He asked the

landlord if he could serve him in any way in London.

"I am sorry I have not the happiness to have your company to-morrow,"

said Jackson; "I have to go a contrary way, to Bristol."

"You seem a civil gentleman," returned the attorney, "and I am

sorry too. Have a care as you go by Marlborough Downs: a parcel of

whipper-snappers have been very busy there of late."

Jackson affected to be very much concerned at this news, and the

attorney, noticing his apparent alarm, told him if he carried any

considerable sum he must conceal it, or he would certainly lose all.

Jackson then pretended to thank him coldly, as if suspecting him of

being some subtle insinuating spy; whereupon, the lawyer, to prove

his own good faith, put his hand in his pocket and drew out a bag

containing a hundred and fifty guineas. "These," said he, "I will so

conceal in the saddle I ride upon that I will defy all the damned

highwaymen in England to find them out. I have passed them several

times in this manner, with good sums about me, and, for your further

belief, I will show you in what way."

He then exhibited his hiding-place in the saddle, for which Jackson

thanked him more genuinely than he suspected.

At that moment there came a note from his confederates at the other

inn, to meet them at a certain place, and so, pretending he had

business in the town, he left, and, meeting them, arranged that he and

his fellow should change places with the other couple: that he should

go forward and rob the traveller bound for Marlborough, while the

others should turn about and relieve the attorney journeying to London.

The cunning scheme was neatly performed; but Jackson and his associate

did not come off quite so well, the Marlborough traveller and his man

making a stout resistance. Jackson was shot in the arm, and had the

gentleman's horse not then been shot dead, they had very likely been

taken prisoners. As it was, they captured a hundred and twenty guineas.

The next adventure entailed a great deal of work, and they were

shamefully robbed of all their spoils, at the end of it, to the tune of

over £180.

Hearing that a ship was to be paid off at Chatham on such a day, and

well aware that the sailors would then be coming, post-haste, to

London, to spend their money, they went to Shooter's Hill and hovered

about there until evening, with very poor results. Next day they picked

up a great many stragglers, and robbed them of their all; but always

avoiding groups of travellers. A parson with very shabby clothes, and

riding a sorry horse, then came on the hill. He looked so poor that

they judged him to be worth hardly an attorney's retaining-fee; but,

with time hanging heavy on their hands, they thought to have some sport

with him, and stopped him and began to search his pockets for fun.

But when he roared out, like a town bull, that he was undone, they

suspected he carried more than they had thought, and searched more

thoroughly; with the result that his pockets yielded fifteen pounds.

They were good enough to return him twenty shillings, on his swearing

he would not set the hue-and-cry upon them, or inform any person he

might meet upon the road, and then let him proceed; but it so chanced

that he fell in with a sailor and advised him, if he had any money

about him, to turn back, for there was a parcel of rogues up yonder on

the hill who had but now robbed him and would do the like to any one

else.

The sailor, however, would not believe the parson, or thought himself a

match for any highwaymen he was likely to meet, and so continued on his

way. Presently he was bidden "Stand!"

"What do you want?" he asked.

"What do we want?" we in imagination hear those highwaymen repeating,

in tones of contempt: "what do you think we want, you——, * * *, you:

to ask after your health, or to know the time o' day? No, we want your

money."

"Alas! gentlemen," said the sailor, "it is true I have some, which I

received for my pay in His Majesty's service. It is a pity to take that

from me which I am carrying home for the maintenance of my wife and

children."

But if he had engaged an angel to plead for him it would have been

useless, for they would have had his money, anyway; and so, seeing

there was no remedy, he delivered all he had, which was sixty-five

pounds.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "let me beg one favour of you, and that is,

as I dare not go home to my wife with empty pockets, and at present

know not what course to steer, pray admit me into your company. You see

I am strong-limbed, and I have courage enough to qualify me for your

occupation."

They asked if he were in earnest, and he swore a hundred sailor oaths

that he was, and ready to be put to the proof that instant: declaring

himself to be greatly in love with a trade that could in six minutes

get as much money as he could in three years.

Jackson was at that time treasurer, and was given charge of the day's

takings; and then, finding they had done sufficient for the day, they

agreed to separate, and to meet at a given rendezvous the next day.

Jackson was also detailed to take charge of the new recruit, who was

wretchedly mounted. As they rode along, he bound the sailor, over and

over again, by many oaths, to stand to his new resolution. At length,

in a solitary lane, while Jackson was innocently discoursing upon the

new life that lay before him, the sailor pulled his miserable horse

suddenly against the other, and, as suddenly drawing a pistol and

seizing his companion's bridle, clapped the ugly brass-barrelled weapon

against his breast, and swore as bloodily as if he had been one of the

trade for more than twenty years that he would send a bullet into his

heart if he did not instantly dismount.

Jackson saw by his companion's frightful countenance that there was

no dallying possible, so he dismounted and was obliged to give up his

horse in exchange for the sorry nag that was hardly able to carry him,

and, in addition, to hand over all the day's takings of the fraternity.

"Should I enumerate all the rogueries and robberies I committed,"

continues our autobiographer, "either singly, or with others, relating

in what manner they were done, I should waste too much time, and miss

that design which I purposed to myself, which is the general good of

my countrymen; wherefore I shall pass them all by, not so much as

mentioning the last robbery I was guilty of, near Colnbrook, when

pursued by the country, opposed and apprehended by them, to the loss

of our own, and the blood of some of them, the manner whereof is too

generally known to be again repeated."

That is exceedingly disappointing: for what was then "generally known"

is now almost forgotten, and only to be recovered with much trouble.

He then, omitting all reference to the killing for which he was hanged

and gibbeted, proceeds to enlarge upon the ways, manners, and customs

of the highwaymen, "those devouring caterpillars of a corrupt and

polluted nation," as he styles them.

"I shall insist upon what is more profitable," he declares, "and

discover, first, what a highwayman is; how bound by oath; what order

is prescribed; in what manner they assault; and how they behave

themselves, in and after the action. In the next place my best

endeavour shall be to dissuade these desperadoes to desist robbing on

the highway, by showing them the certainty of their apprehension one

time or other; and though they may a long time prosper in that vile

course of life, spending high and faring deliciously, yet every bit is

attended with fear; neither is their sleep less unquiet, starting ever

and anon by some horrid dream; so that I cannot say when they go to bed

they go to take their rest, but only to slumber out the tedious minutes

of the gloomy night in horror and affrightment. I shall insist on

other dissuasions, by showing them the misery of a prison; by putting

them in mind of their wretched and cursed ends, which they vainly jest

at, by presuming on some examples of grace; and the reward of their

wickedness in the world to come. Lastly, instructions, not only for the

honest traveller that he may pass in safety, but for the innkeeper to

distinguish highwaymen from guests that are honest; all these I shall

with sincerity run over particularly."

"Highwaymen for the most part are such that were never acquainted with

an honest trade, whom either want of money or employment prompted them

to undertake these dangerous designs; and to make their persons appear

more formidable, and to gain respect, they dub one another 'colonel,'

'major,' or at least a captain, who never arrived to a greater height

than a trooper disbanded, or at the utmost a lifeguards-man cashiered

for misdemeanour.

"Having made up a party, ere they proceed to act their villainies, they

make a solemn vow to each other, that, if by misfortune any one should

be apprehended, he shall not discover his complices: and that if he

be pressed hard to particularise his companions, he must then devise

names for men that never were, describing their persons, features, and

discovering their habitations, but so remote one from another, that the

danger of the trial may be over ere sufficient inquiry can be made.

"And further, to procure mercy from the bench, there must be a

plausible account given, how you fell into this course of life:

fetching a deep sigh, saying that you were well born, but by reason

of your family falling to decay you were exposed to great want, and

rather than shamefully beg (for you knew not how to labour), you were

constrained to take this course as a subsistence; that it is your first

fault, which you are heartily sorry for, and will never attempt the

like again.

"Having taken a solemn oath to be true one to another, their next

business is to acquaint themselves, by means of the tapsters, ostlers,

chamberlains, or others, what booties are stirring, how contained,

and whither bound. But before they attempt the seizure, if there be

any novices in the company, then they are instructed by the more

experienced, as I was at first, after this manner.

"In the first place, you must have a variety of periwigs in your

lodgings, and the like you must carry with you, if occasion require

the necessity of changing the colour of the hair: neither must you be

without your false beards of several colours. For want of them, you may

cross your locks athwart your mouth, which is a good disguise: patches

also contribute much thereto. And lest your voice should be known

another time by him that is robbed, put into your mouth a pebble, or

any suchlike thing, which will alter your tone advantageously to your

purpose.

"Being thus provided, a watchword must be framed, wrapped up in some

common question, as 'What's o'clock?' or 'Jack, what shall we have

for supper?' As soon as these words are used, you must instantly fall

to work, seizing with your left hand the traveller's bridle, and with

your right presenting a pistol. This so terrifies that he delivers

instantly, for who will trust a pistol at his breast loaded with a

brace of bullets, and a mouth discharging at the same time volleys of

oaths, that if he deliver not instantly he is a dead man? But here

you may please yourself whether you believe him, for a highwayman

will be very cautious of murder, for fear of provoking the law to an

implacability, unless it be when he is beset, when, rather than run the

risk of being seized, he will endeavour to escape by killing one or

more of his assailants.

"Having o'ermastered them you set upon, do you carry them into some

covert, where you search so severely that nothing can be hidden from

you. If in this strict enquiry, gold be found privily quilted in a

doublet, or in the waistband of his breeches, I can hardly forbear

smiling when I think in what manner the rogues will rate the poor man

with 'villain,' or 'cheating rascal,' for endeavouring to preserve

his own, whilst he has nothing else to say but that he is 'undone,'

which they regard as little as the hangman will them at the place of

execution. Having then changed your horse for theirs, if better than

your own, the next thing to do is to make them swear neither to follow

you, nor to raise the country with a hue-and-cry upon you. Thus,

leaving the poor traveller forlorn, you ride to some strange place, or

else where you are known and winked at, and there you share that which

you unlawfully have got, not without cheating one another.

"Now here, by the way, give me leave to descant on their prodigality,

after a successful attempt. London, the more is the pity, is their

best sanctuary, and therefore, after any robbery, they commonly repair

thither; having as many names as lodgings. Their next care is to buy

a variety of splendid apparel, and, having bought their wenches new

gowns, and furnished their pockets with guineas, they then prosecute

all manner of debaucheries. Their hosts must also participate in their

gains, else all the fat's in the fire; for the vintners, innkeepers,

etc., knowing very well what they are, and how easily they get their

money, will be sure to enlarge their reckoning and make it swell

prodigiously; neither must this be complained of, lest they refuse to

keep their own counsel any longer.

"All the time they can spare from robbing and undoing poor men is spent

in wine and women; so that the sunshine of their prosperity lasts but

a moment, not so long as to warm their hands by the blazing fire of

their prodigality, before cold death comes and seizeth them. And how

can it be otherwise expected? the pitcher goes not so often to the well

but it comes broken home at last.

"But before death takes them from this, to carry them before a higher

tribunal, there to answer for all they have enacted here on earth,

there is a punishment preceding this: it is a prison wherein are

contained so many tortures, woes, and pains that I do think were enough

to punish, without death, the greatest of offences.

"Having thus endeavoured to fright highwaymen, by showing them

the intolerable torments of a prison, besides the certainty and

shamefulness of hanging, and hazard of eternal death hereafter, I shall

here take another course to scare them, if possible, and therefore in

the first place I shall lay down directions how to know them as they

ride on the road, with rules how to shun them, or, if robbed, how to

pursue and apprehend them when they think themselves most secure.

"In the first place, when at any time you intend to travel, and cannot

avoid carrying a sum of money with you, let no person know what charge

you have, or when you will set forward. It is the custom, I confess

(but let me assure you, it is dangerous), for men the day before they

begin their journey, to take leave of their relations and friends,

drinking healths round to the happy return of the traveller, who

suspects not the least harm in all this; whereas, it hath been known

that a father hath this way been betrayed by his own son; a brother by

a brother; nay, one pretendedly dear friend by another, by discovering

to highwaymen when and which way he rides; and so for the plot he goes

his share.

"Another way they have. The gang shall ride in advance, out of sight,

leaving one lusty fellow of their company behind, who shall ride very

slowly, expecting some one or other will overtake him. If overtaken by

three or four, he will single out the one he thinks hath most money;

and, pretending much friendliness, will whisper, he likes not those

other men, and ask if he knows them. If not, he adviseth him to slacken

his pace, for certainly they are dangerous fellows. The timorous

and credulous traveller will thank him for his advice; and not long

afterwards, by parting company with honest men, he will be brought

alone to the place where the confederates lie in ambuscade. The decoy

will then draw his weapon, bidding the traveller do the like, and now

begins a dangerous fight, as the traveller imagines. Fearing bloodshed,

he delivers his money, and persuades his champion to do the like, who,

with much ado, at length condescends thereunto. The gang, having given

him a private indication of the way they intend to ride, then set spurs

to their horses, and are out of sight in an instant.

"Hereupon, this pretender to honesty will straight persuade you to

assist him in making a hue-and-cry, in the carrying on of which he

will seemingly be foremost, but to no other end than to lead you

quite another way, till his brethren be out of all danger. I knew

one notorious rogue, who by his sly and crafty deportment was looked

upon to be a very honest gentleman, who suffered himself to be robbed

with three more, by his own confederates. The robbery being committed

between sun and sun, he, with those three honest men, sued the county,

and recovered the money they had lost.

"Whensoever the traveller designs a journey, let him consider that

the Sabbath day is a time not only unlawful, but more dangerous for

robbing than any other. I need not expatiate on the illegality of the

act, since there is a special command forbidding the breach of that

holy day of rest, the violation whereof hath been frequently punished

by being robbed; for, to speak the truth, that day hath been, and still

is, chosen by highwaymen for the best and fittest time to commit their

robberies; first because they are sensible that few travel then, except

those who ride on some important concern, and who they suppose carry a

considerable sum about them.

"In the next place, on that day the roads are most quiet, being

undisturbed with great quantities of people, and therefore they rob

with more ease and greater security. Lastly, they know the county will

not be so forward to pursue them with a hue-and-cry, and are quite

convinced that a judge will hardly be induced to make the county pay

the reparation of a loss sustained by him who ought to have stayed at

home, to perform those duties required from him, proper to the day; and

not wander abroad and leave his Creator's business undone, that he may

do his own. If you must needs travel, you have days enough in the week

to follow your urgent and important affairs, and with more security,

the roads being then full of good company, if you will but make choice

of a convenient time, and be cautious whom you entertain into your

society.

"The first caution is this: be shy of those who are ever prone of

pressing into your company. It is more safe to entertain such as

are unwilling to associate themselves with you. Now, that you may

distinguish an honest man from a thief, take these informations and

directions: first, if you suspect your company, halt a little, and in

your halting observe whether they still hold on their course, or slack

their pace, or, it may be, alight and walk with their horses in their

hands. If you observe any of these, you may conclude them the justly

suspected marks of a highwayman."

Travellers were also warned of men dressed like countrymen, with

hay-bands round their legs, and rough, russet clothes, who might

perhaps even carry a goad instead of a whip, as they rode on horseback.

These were often merely highwaymen in disguise, and although they might

affect a country brogue and ask silly questions, they were to be

suspected. In fact, it appears that every one was to be eyed askance;

and it seems likely that, with this advice duly digested, over-cautious

or nervous travellers occasionally turned upon quite innocent and

inoffensive people and shot them in mere squittering terror.

"It is now high time," continues Jackson, "to inform the innkeeper how

he shall distinguish highwaymen from honest travellers. In the first

place, observe their curiosity about their horses, in dressing and

feeding them: next you will find them asking questions; such as, "Who

owns that horse?" and who the other; what their masters are; whither

travelling; and when they will set out. These are infallible signs of

a highwayman. Nor must I omit this remark: let the ostler lift their

cloak-bags, and he will find them empty; for they carry them only for

show, and not to burden their horses.

"Next, let the chamberlain take notice when he shows them to a room,

that they will soon dismiss him, and after that, let him listen awhile

and he shall hear the jingling of money; and if he can but get a

peep-hole for his eyes, he shall see them sharing their booty.

"It will be very requisite to enquire severally each one's particular

name, and let your servants do the like. By this means you will find

them tripping, for they may easily forget a name they borrowed that

very day.

"At supper-time let some one knock furiously and hastily at the gate;

then mark them well, and you shall see them start, their countenances

change, and nothing but fear and amazement appearing on each face; by

which you may positively conclude them to be what you did before but

imagine and suspect.

"If in the day-time they come into your inn, you may guess what they

are by their trifling away their time, and staying somewhat longer than

is necessary for baiting. You shall observe them sometimes looking out

of the window, sometimes standing at the gate, for no other purpose but

to mark what passengers ride by. If they see any person of quality ride

that way, or the costume hints at the likelihood of a booty, you shall

have them to horse and mount in all haste, as if some dear friend or

near relation was just rid by, whom they must endeavour to overtake.

"At night they will come dropping into an inn severally, in divided

companies, thereby to falsify the number given in the hue-and-cry; and

will, when met, artfully take no notice of one another; nay, they will

even, to allay suspicion, enquire of the host what 'country gentleman'

their own companions are; whether he knows them or not, and if it be

convenient to join in company with them. They will, like strangers,

while they are under observation, compliment one another; but withdraw,

and watch them well, and you shall find them fall into their usual

familiarity.

"Much more might be written on this subject, but since it is impossible

to discover the whole art and mystery of the highway trade, let this

suffice; for, according to the proverb, new lords, new laws; so all new

gangs have new orders, plots and designs, to rob and purloin from the

honest traveller."

CAPTAIN RICHARD DUDLEY

Richard Dudley, born in 1635, was, says Alexander Smith, "a gentleman

of old descent in Northamptonshire." His father, a man of considerable

estate in that shire of squires, spires, pride, and poverty, was ruined

in the war between King and Parliament, and his son Robert was glad to

accept the help that Charles the Second gave him, in presenting him

with a commission in a foot regiment that was presently ordered to

Tangier. It was a poor return for the loyalty in which his father was

brought so low.

Captain Dudley soon earned the reputation of a martinet with his

regiment; and perhaps something over and above that, if the story

of his horrible treatment of a soldier on parade be true. It seems

that one of the men stood a little in advance of his comrades as they

were drawn up on the parade-ground, and this annoyed our Captain, who

desired a sergeant to knock him down. The sergeant was not so violent

about it as Dudley wished, and, in a fury he exclaimed, "When I command

you to knock a man down, knock him down thus." Suiting the action to

the word, he snatched the sergeant's halberd, and, striking the man

on the head with it, cleft his skull in two; "of which," adds Smith,

rather unnecessarily, "he immediately died."

We are not surprised, after this, to learn that Dudley's military

career was not successful, and that it shortly came to an end.

Returning to England, his unbridled extravagance left him no choice

but to work or take to the road; and what gentleman of the merry and

inglorious reign of Charles the Second would hesitate a moment in such

a pass, before choosing the road as the better and more gentlemanly

way? Work! Perish the thought!

[Illustration: CAPTAIN DUDLEY ON HOUNSLOW HEATH.]

So he resorted to Hounslow Heath, where he robbed the Duke of Monmouth,

and was captured in so doing and was conveyed to the prison then called

the Poultry Compter, from which mansion of sorrow and tribulation he

broke out; and, resuming the road, met the Earl of Rochester coming

from his seat at Woodstock, accompanied by his chaplain, two footmen,

and a groom. The association of the riotous Earl of Rochester, the

wittiest and most dissolute nobleman of the age, with a chaplain is a

distinctly humorous touch. Dudley robbed my lord of a hundred guineas.

What the footman and the groom—to say nothing of the chaplain—were

doing while he committed the robbery, we do not learn. They appear, for

all we know to the contrary, to have looked on. But the chaplain, at

any rate, improved the occasion by soundly rating him. "I don't think I

commit any sin in robbing a person of quality," said Dudley, "because

I keep generally pretty close to the text, 'Feed the hungry, and

send the rich empty away.'" To which Captain Alexander Smith, Dudley's

biographer, adds, "This was pretty true in the main, for whenever

he had got any considerable booty from great people, he would very

generously extend his charity to such whom he really knew to be poor."

After this adventure, Dudley had the impudence to rob Captain

Richardson, the Governor of Newgate prison, whom he met on the road to

Tonbridge. He had already been in the Governor's clutches on three or

four occasions, and so felt a glow of satisfaction when he robbed him.

But he did not succeed in doing so without considerable trouble, and

the Governor told him pretty plainly that he would fare ill if ever he

came again within the walls of Newgate, which would not be long hence,

he suspected.

Dudley had his ready answer. "I expect," he said, "no favour from the

hands of a gaoler, who comes of the race of those angels that fell with

Lucifer from Heaven, whither _you'll_ never return again. Of all your

bunches of keys, not one hath wards to open that door, for a gaoler's

soul stands not upon those two pillars that support Heaven: Justice

and Mercy. It rather sits upon those two footstools of Hell, Wrong

and Cruelty So"—changing his didactic manner for a more business-like

attitude—"make no more words about your purse, for have it I will, or

else your life."

There was no help for it, and "Richardson was obliged to grant his

request, and between Dudley and taking the waters at Tonbridge, went

home as well purged and cleansed as a man could desire."

Dudley often robbed, it appears, with Swiftnicks, but their joint

adventures are not recorded. With some other companions, he on one

occasion robbed a clergyman travelling on the Exeter Road, near Hartley

Row, but his pocket was not well-lined, and Dudley made him preach a

sermon in praise of thieving, swearing to shoot him if he did not. This

he performed with such humour and eloquence that Dudley assured him Old

Nick would certainly soon make him Archbishop: "Meanwhile," said he,

"here is your money back, and if you will take up a collection, my fine

fellows here shall contribute to it."

[Illustration: CAPTAIN DUDLEY AND THE CLERGYMAN.]

It may, however, be suspected that the congregation of "fine fellows"

were not quite so satisfied with the sermon as their Captain, or

perhaps did not appreciate their leader's humour; for the collection

when taken up did not amount to more than four shillings. It was not a

profitable day for the band.

The accounts, given severally by Smith and Johnson, of Dudley's

adventures differ very widely. According to Johnson, Dudley's earliest

effort was in a different line altogether, and was a burglary committed

at Blackheath, where he broke into a house and carried off a large

quantity of plate. The story well illustrates the peculiar ideas of

honesty these seventeenth-century scoundrels pretended to hold. It

seems he had sold most of the plate he had taken at Blackheath to a

refiner, but was shortly afterwards apprehended and committed to

Newgate. While there, he sent for the refiner who had bought of him,

and angrily reproached him. "It is a hard thing," he said, "to find

an honest man or a fair dealer. You cursed rogue, there was, among

the plate you bought of me, a cup with a cover. You told me it was

only silver-gilt, and bought it at the same price with the rest; but

it plainly appears, by the advertisement in the _Gazette_, that it

was a gold cup and cover. I see you are a rogue, and that there is no

trusting anybody."

After robbing General Monk, under impudent circumstances, Dudley found

his native land dangerous, and so crossed the Channel, and by easy

stages traversed France and arrived at Rome, where he appeared in the

garb of a pilgrim. He afterwards travelled to Jerusalem and returned to

Rome, and endeavoured to obtain audience of the Pope.

But His Holiness would not receive him, said the Cardinal he

approached, unless he came with a relic. Dudley then procured a very

singular one, cut from the dead body of a criminal who had just been

executed, and, returning to the Vatican, pretended he had come with

no less a relic than the beard of St. Peter, which he said he had

purchased at a great price from the fathers at the Holy Sepulchre. The

Cardinal to whom he first showed the "relic" admired it, said that, if

true, it was a jewel worth a kingdom, and admitted Dudley to audience

with the Pope, who, kissing the object, said they had the skull of St.

Peter already, but he had no idea his beard was preserved. What he

could not understand, however, was why there should be so much hair on

one side, and so little on the other.

"Oh," said our sham pilgrim, "your Holiness well knows St. Peter was a

Jew by birth, and used to play much on the Jews' Harp, so that by often

rubbing and twanging it with his fingers, he rubbed off the hair from

the right side of his face."

This explanation being deemed satisfactory, the "beard of St.

Peter"—that priceless relic—was purchased for one hundred ducats: a

bargain, and if the story be true, it is probably in the Vatican still.

Soon after his return, Dudley met a Justice of the Peace on the road to

Horsham, and requested his purse. But the courageous magistrate made

a very stout resistance, and shot Dudley's horse under him, being, in

return, wounded in the arm. Obliged at last to surrender, his pockets

yielded twenty-eight guineas, a gold watch, and a silver tobacco-box.

Dudley, then securing his horse, said, "Since your Worship has

grievously broken the peace, in committing a most horrid and barbarous

murder on my prancer, which with my assistance was able to get his

living in any ground in England, I must make bold to take your horse,

by way of reprisal. However, I'll not be so uncivil as to let a man

of your character go home on foot. I'll make one Justice of the Peace

carry another."

So, stepping into a field where an ass was grazing, he brought the

animal into the road, and seated the Justice on his back, tying his

legs under.

"I know I offend against the laws of heraldry," he said, "in putting

metal upon metal, but as there is no general rule without an exception,

I doubt not but all the heralds will excuse this solecism committed

in their art, which I look upon to be as great a bite and cheat as

astrology."

He then whipped up the animal, and it carried the magistrate into the

streets of Petworth, where his worship attracted as much attention as

though he had been a royal procession.

At last, Dick Dudley, as he is familiarly styled by Alexander Smith,

attempting to rob the Duke of Lauderdale, as he was riding over

Hounslow Heath, was captured instead, and committed to Newgate. No

fewer than eighty indictments were preferred against him, and, being

found guilty on some of these, he was executed at Tyburn, February

22nd, 1681, aged forty-six.

[Illustration: Pistol and Mask.]

PRINTED AND BOUND BY

HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,

LONDON AND AYLESBURY.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See the _Exeter Road_, pp. 215-233.

[2] Historians of Paddington and Bayswater contend that "Elms Lane,"

existing until about 1840, adjoining Lancaster Gate, marked the spot:

so there is a choice of three "Elms."

[3] Probably John Dudley, Duke of Norfolk, who was granted the old

hospital property in 1553.

[4] See the _Manchester and Glasgow Road_, Vol. I., pp. 236-238.

[5] His name at the Old Bailey trial was stated to be "John Bennet,

alias Freeman."

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