of repentance! Burst asunder the fetters of your beloved
lusts!--mount the chimney of hope!--take from thence the bar of good
resolution!--break through the stone wall of despair, and all the
strongholds in the dark entry of the valley of the shadow of death!
Raise yourselves to the leads of divine meditation!--fix the blanket of
faith with the spike of the church! let yourselves down to the turner's
house of resignation, and descend the stairs of humility! So shall you
come to the door of deliverance from the prison of iniquity, and escape
the clutches of that old executioner the Devil!"
But popular as the name of Jack Sheppard was immediately after he had
suffered the last penalty of his crimes, it was as nothing compared to
the vast renown which he has acquired in these latter days, after
the lapse of a century and a quarter. Poets too often, are not fully
appreciated till they have been dead a hundred years, and thieves, it
would appear, share the disadvantage. But posterity is grateful if our
contemporaries are not; and Jack Sheppard, faintly praised in his own
day, shines out in ours the hero of heroes, preeminent above all his
fellows. Thornhill made but one picture of the illustrious robber, but
Cruikshank has made dozens, and the art of the engraver has multiplied
them into thousands and tens of thousands, until the populace of England
have become as familiar with Jack's features as they are with their own.
Jack, the romantic, is the hero of three goodly volumes, and the delight
of the circulating libraries; and the theatres have been smitten with
the universal enthusiasm. Managers have set their playmongers at work,
and Jack's story has been reproduced in the shape of drama, melodrama,
and farce, at half a dozen places of entertainment at once. Never was
such a display of popular regard for a hero as was exhibited in London
in 1840 for the renowned Jack Sheppard: robbery acquired additional
lustre in the popular eye, and not only Englishmen, but foreigners,
caught the contagion; and one of the latter, fired by the example,
robbed and murdered a venerable, unoffending, and too confiding
nobleman, whom it was his especial duty to have obeyed and protected.
But he was a coward and a wretch;--it was a solitary crime--he had not
made a daring escape from dungeon walls, or ridden from London to York,
and he died amid the execrations of the people, affording a melancholy
exemplification of the trite remark, that every man is not great who is
desirous of being so.
Jonathan Wild, whose name has been immortalised by Fielding, was no
favourite with the people. He had none of the virtues which, combined
with crimes, make up the character of the great thief. He was a pitiful
fellow, who informed against his comrades, and was afraid of death. This
meanness was not to be forgiven by the crowd, and they pelted him with
dirt and stones on his way to Tyburn, and expressed their contempt by
every possible means. How different was their conduct to Turpin and
Jack Sheppard, who died in their neatest attire, with nosegays in
their button-holes, and with the courage that a crowd expects! It was
anticipated that the body of Turpin would have been delivered up to
the surgeons for dissection, and the people seeing some men very busily
employed in removing it, suddenly set upon them, rescued the body, bore
it about the town in triumph, and then buried it in a very deep grave,
filled with quick-lime, to hasten the progress of decomposition. They
would not suffer the corpse of their hero, of the man who had ridden
from London to York in four-and-twenty hours to be mangled by the rude
hands of unmannerly surgeons.
The death of Claude Duval would appear to have been no less triumphant.
Claude was a gentlemanly thief. According to Butler, in the famous ode
to his memory, he
"Taught the wild Arabs of the road
To rob in a more gentle mode;
Take prizes more obligingly than those
Who never had breen bred filous;
And how to hang in a more graceful fashion
Than e'er was known before to the dull English nation."
In fact, he was the pink of politeness, and his gallantry to the fair
sex was proverbial. When he was caught at last, pent in "stone walls
and chains and iron grates,"--their grief was in proportion to his rare
merits and his great fame. Butler says, that to his dungeon
"--came ladies from all parts,
To offer up close prisoners their hearts,
Which he received as tribute due--
* * * *
Never did bold knight, to relieve
Distressed dames, such dreadful feats achieve,
As feeble damsels, for his sake,
Would have been proud to undertake,
And, bravely ambitious to redeem
The world's loss and their own,
Strove who should have the honour to lay down,
And change a life with him."
Among the noted thieves of France, there is none to compare with the
famous Aimerigot Tetenoire, who flourished in the reign of Charles VI.
This fellow was at the head of four or five hundred men, and possessed
two very strong castles in Limousin and Auvergne. There was a good deal
of the feudal baron about him, although he possessed no revenues but
such as the road afforded him. At his death he left a singular will. "I
give and bequeath," said the robber, "one thousand five hundred francs
to St. George's Chapel, for such repairs as it may need. To my sweet
girl who so tenderly loved me, I give two thousand five hundred; and the
surplus I give to my companions. I hope they will all live as brothers,
and divide it amicably among them. If they cannot agree, and the devil
of contention gets among them, it is no fault of mine; and I advise them
to get a good strong, sharp axe, and break open my strong box. Let them
scramble for what it contains, and the Devil seize the hindmost." The
people of Auvergne still recount with admiration the daring feats of
this brigand.
Of later years, the French thieves have been such unmitigated scoundrels
as to have left but little room for popular admiration. The famous
Cartouche, whose name has become synonymous with ruffian in their
language, had none of the generosity, courtesy, and devoted bravery
which are so requisite to make a robber-hero. He was born at Paris,
towards the end of the seventeenth century, and broken alive on the
wheel in November 1727. He was, however, sufficiently popular to have
been pitied at his death, and afterwards to have formed the subject of
a much admired drama, which bore his name, and was played with great
success in all the theatres of France during the years 1734, 5, and 6.
In our own day the French have been more fortunate in a robber; Vidocq
bids fair to rival the fame of Turpin and Jack Sheppard. Already he
has become the hero of many an apocryphal tale--already his compatriots
boast of his manifold achievements, and express their doubts whether
any other country in Europe could produce a thief so clever, so
accomplished, so gentlemanly, as Vidocq.
Germany has its Schinderhannes, Hungary its Schubry, and Italy and
Spain a whole host of brigands, whose names and exploits are familiar
as household words in the mouths of the children and populace of those
countries. The Italian banditti are renowned over the world; and many of
them are not only very religious (after a fashion), but very charitable.
Charity from such a source is so unexpected, that the people dote upon
them for it. One of them, when he fell into the hands of the police,
exclaimed, as they led him away, "Ho fatto pitt carita!"--"I have given
away more in charity than any three convents in these provinces." And
the fellow spoke truth.
In Lombardy, the people cherish the memory of two notorious robbers, who
flourished about two centuries ago under the Spanish government. Their
story, according to Macfarlane, is contained in a little book well known
to all the children of the province, and read by them with much more
gusto than their Bibles.
Schinderhannes, the robber of the Rhine, is a great favourite on the
banks of the river which he so long kept in awe. Many amusing stories
are related by the peasantry of the scurvy tricks he played off upon
rich Jews, or too-presuming officers of justice--of his princely
generosity, and undaunted courage. In short, they are proud of him, and
would no more consent to have the memory of his achievements dissociated
from their river than they would to have the rock of Ehrenbreitstein
blown to atoms by gunpowder.
There is another robber-hero, of whose character and exploits the people
of Germany speak admiringly. Mausch Nadel was captain of a considerable
band that infested the Rhine, Switzerland, Alsatia, and Lorraine during
the years 1824, 5, and 6. Like Jack Sheppard, he endeared himself to the
populace by his most hazardous escape from prison. Being confined, at
Bremen, in a dungeon, on the third story of the prison of that town,
he contrived to let himself down without exciting the vigilance of
the sentinels, and to swim across the Weser, though heavily laden with
irons. When about half way over, he was espied by a sentinel, who fired
at him, and shot him in the calf of the leg: but the undaunted robber
struck out manfully, reached the shore, and was out of sight before the
officers of justice could get ready their boats to follow him. He was
captured again in 1826, tried at Mayence, and sentenced to death. He was
a tall, strong, handsome man, and his fate, villain as he was, excited
much sympathy all over Germany. The ladies especially were loud in their
regret that nothing could be done to save a hero so good-looking, and of
adventures so romantic, from the knife of the headsman.
Mr. Macfarlane, in speaking of Italian banditti, remarks, that the
abuses of the Catholic religion, with its confessions and absolutions,
have tended to promote crime of this description. But, he adds, more
truly, that priests and monks have not done half the mischief which has
been perpetrated by ballad-mongers and story-tellers. If he had said
play-wrights also, the list would have been complete. In fact, the
theatre, which can only expect to prosper, in a pecuniary sense, by
pandering to the tastes of the people, continually recurs to the annals
of thieves and banditti for its most favourite heroes. These theatrical
robbers; with their picturesque attire, wild haunts, jolly, reckless,
devil-may-care manners, take a wonderful hold upon the imagination,
and, whatever their advocates may say to the contrary, exercise a very
pernicious influence upon public morals. In the Memoirs of the Duke of
Guise upon the Revolution of Naples in 1647 and 1648, it is stated, that
the manners, dress, and mode of life of the Neapolitan banditti were
rendered so captivating upon the stage, that the authorities found it
absolutely necessary to forbid the representation of dramas in which
they figured, and even to prohibit their costume at the masquerades.
So numerous were the banditti at this time, that the Duke found no
difficulty in raising an army of them, to aid him in his endeavours
to seize on the throne of Naples. He thus describes them; [See also
"Foreign Quarterly Review," vol. iv. p. 398.]
"They were three thousand five hundred men, of whom the oldest came
short of five and forty years, and the youngest was above twenty. They
were all tall and well made, with long black hair, for the most part
curled, coats of black Spanish leather, with sleeves of velvet, or cloth
of gold, cloth breeches with gold lace, most of them scarlet; girdles
of velvet, laced with gold, with two pistols on each side; a cutlass
hanging at a belt, suitably trimmed, three fingers broad and two feet
long; a hawking-bag at their girdle, and a powder-flask hung about
their neck with a great silk riband. Some of them carried firelocks, and
others blunder-busses; they had all good shoes, with silk stockings,
and every one a cap of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, of different
colours, on his head, which was very delightful to the eye."
"The Beggars' Opera," in our own country, is another instance of the
admiration that thieves excite upon the stage. Of the extraordinary
success of this piece, when first produced, the following account is
given in the notes to "The Dunciad," and quoted by Johnson in his "Lives
of the Poets." "This piece was received with greater applause than
was ever known. Besides being acted in London sixty-three days without
interruption, and renewed the next season with equal applause, it spread
into all the great towns of England; was played in many places to the
thirtieth and fortieth time; at Bath and Bristol, &c. fifty. It made
its progress into Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, where it was performed
twenty-four days successively. The ladies carried about with them the
favourite songs of it in fans, and houses were furnished with it in
screens. The fame of it was not confined to the author only. The person
who acted Polly, till then obscure, became all at once the favourite of
the town; [Lavinia Fenton, afterwards Duchess of Bolton.] her pictures
were engraved and sold in great numbers; her life written, books of
letters and verses to her published, and pamphlets made even of her
sayings and jests. Furthermore, it drove out of England, for that
season, the Italian Opera, which had carried all before it for ten
years." Dr. Johnson, in his Life of the Author, says, that Herring,
afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, censured the opera, as giving
encouragement, not only to vice, but to crimes, by making the highwayman
the hero, and dismissing him at last unpunished; and adds, that it was
even said, that after the exhibition the gangs of robbers were evidently
multiplied. The Doctor doubts the assertion, giving as his reason that
highwaymen and housebreakers seldom frequent the playhouse, and that it
was not possible for any one to imagine that he might rob with safety,
because he saw Macheath reprieved upon the stage. But if Johnson had
wished to be convinced, he might very easily have discovered that
highwaymen and housebreakers did frequent the theatre, and that nothing
was more probable than that a laughable representation of successful
villany should induce the young and the already vicious to imitate it.
Besides, there is the weighty authority of Sir John Fielding, the
chief magistrate of Bow Street, who asserted positively, and proved his
assertion by the records of his office, that the number of thieves was
greatly increased at the time when that opera was so popular.
We have another instance of the same result much nearer our own times.
Schiller's "Rauber," that wonderful play, written by a green youth,
perverted the taste and imagination of all the young men in Germany. An
accomplished critic of our own country (Hazlitt), speaking of this play,
says it was the first he ever read, and such was the effect it
produced on him, that "it stunned him, like a blow." After the lapse of
five-and-twenty years he could not forget it; it was still, to use his
own words, "an old dweller in the chambers of his brain," and he had
not even then recovered enough from it, to describe how it was. The
high-minded, metaphysical thief, its hero, was so warmly admired, that
several raw students, longing to imitate a character they thought so
noble, actually abandoned their homes and their colleges, and betook
themselves to the forests and wilds to levy contributions upon
travellers. They thought they would, like Moor, plunder the rich, and
deliver eloquent soliloquies to the setting sun or the rising moon;
relieve the poor when they met them, and drink flasks of Rhenish with
their free companions in rugged mountain passes, or in tents in the
thicknesses of the forests. But a little experience wonderfully cooled
their courage; they found that real, every-day robbers were very unlike
the conventional banditti of the stage, and that three months in prison,
with bread and water for their fare, and damp straw to lie upon, was
very well to read about by their own fire sides, but not very agreeable
to undergo in their own proper persons.
Lord Byron, with his soliloquising, high-souled thieves, has, in a
slight degree, perverted the taste of the greenhorns and incipient
rhymesters of his country. As yet, however, they have shown more good
sense than their fellows of Germany, and have not taken to the woods or
the highways. Much as they admire Conrad the Corsair, they will not go
to sea, and hoist the black flag in emulation of him. By words only, and
not by deeds, they testify their admiration, and deluge the periodicals
and music shops of the hand with verses describing pirates' and bandits'
brides, and robber adventures of every kind.
But it is the play-wright who does most harm; and Byron has fewer
sins of this nature to answer for than Gay or Schiller, and the modern
dramatizers of Jack Sheppard. With the aid of scenery, fine dresses, and
music, and the very false notions they convey, they vitiate the public
taste, not knowing,
"-----------vulgaires rimeurs
Quelle force ont les arts pour demolir les moeurs."
In the penny theatres that abound in the poor and populous districts
of London, and which are chiefly frequented by striplings of idle and
dissolute habits, tales of thieves and murderers are more admired, and
draw more crowded audiences, than any other species of representation.
There the footpad, the burglar, and the highwayman are portrayed in
unnatural colours, and give pleasant lessons in crime to their delighted
listeners. There the deepest tragedy and the broadest farce are
represented in the career of the murderer and the thief, and are
applauded in proportion to their depth and their breadth. There,
whenever a crime of unusual atrocity is committed, it is brought out
afresh, with all its disgusting incidents copied from the life, for the
amusement of those who will one day become its imitators.
With the mere reader the case is widely different; and most people have
a partiality for knowing the adventures of noted rogues. Even in
fiction they are delightful: witness the eventful story of Gil Blas de
Santillane, and of that great rascal Don Guzman d'Alfarache. Here there
is no fear of imitation. Poets, too, without doing mischief, may sing of
such heroes when they please, wakening our sympathies for the sad fate
of Gilderoy, or Macpherson the Dauntless; or celebrating in undying
verse the wrongs and the revenge of the great thief of Scotland, Rob
Roy. If, by the music of their sweet rhymes, they can convince the world
that such heroes are but mistaken philosophers, born a few ages too
late, and having both a theoretical and practical love for
"The good old rule, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
That they should keep who can,"
the world may, perhaps, become wiser, and consent to some better
distribution of its good things, by means of which thieves may become
reconciled to the age, and the age to them. The probability, however,
seems to be, that the charmers will charm in vain, charm they ever so
wisely.
INFLUENCE OF POLITICS AND RELIGION ON THE HAIR AND BEARD.
Speak with respect and honour
Both of the beard and the beard's owner.
HUDIBRAS,
The famous declaration of St. Paul, "that long hair was a shame unto
a man" has been made the pretext for many singular enactments, both of
civil and ecclesiastical governments. The fashion of the hair and the
cut of the beard were state questions in France and England from the
establishment of Christianity until the fifteenth century.
We find, too, that in much earlier times men were not permitted to do
as they liked with their own hair. Alexander the Great thought that the
beards of his soldiery afforded convenient handles for the enemy to lay
hold of, preparatory to cutting off their heads; and, with the view of
depriving them of this advantage, he ordered the whole of his army to
be closely shaven. His notions of courtesy towards an enemy were quite
different from those entertained by the North American Indians, amongst
whom it is held a point of honour to allow one "chivalrous lock" to
grow, that the foe, in taking the scalp, may have something to catch
hold of.
At one time, long hair was the symbol of sovereignty in Europe. We learn
from Gregory of Tours that, among the successors of Clovis, it was the
exclusive privilege of the royal family to have their hair long,
and curled. The nobles, equal to kings in power, would not show any
inferiority in this respect, and wore not only their hair, but their
beards, of an enormous length. This fashion lasted, with but slight
changes, till the time of Louis the Debonnaire, but his successors, up
to Hugh Capet, wore their hair short, by way of distinction. Even the
serfs had set all regulation at defiance, and allowed their locks and
beards to grow.
At the time of the invasion of England by William the Conqueror, the
Normans wore their hair very short. Harold, in his progress towards
Hastings, sent forward spies to view the strength and number of the
enemy. They reported, amongst other things, on their return, that "the
host did almost seem to be priests, because they had all their face and
both their lips shaven." The fashion among the English at the time was
to wear the hair long upon the head and the upper lip, but to shave the
chin. When the haughty victors had divided the broad lands of the Saxon
thanes and franklins among them, when tyranny of every kind was employed
to make the English feel that they were indeed a subdued and broken
nation, the latter encouraged the growth of their hair, that they might
resemble as little as possible their cropped and shaven masters.
This fashion was exceedingly displeasing to the clergy, and prevailed
to a considerable extent in France and Germany. Towards the end of the
eleventh century, it was decreed by the Pope, and zealously supported
by the ecclesiastical authorities all over Europe, that such persons as
wore long hair should be excommunicated while living, and not be prayed
for when dead. William of Malmesbury relates, that the famous St.
Wulstan, Bishop of Worcester, was peculiarly indignant whenever he saw
a man with long hair. He declaimed against the practice as one highly
immoral, criminal, and beastly. He continually carried a small knife
in his pocket, and whenever anybody, offending in this respect, knelt
before him to receive his blessing, he would whip it out slily, and cut
off a handful, and then, throwing it in his face, tell him to cut off
all the rest, or he would go to hell.
But fashion, which at times it is possible to move with a wisp, stands
firm against a lever; and men preferred to run the risk of damnation
to parting with the superfluity of their hair. In the time of Henry I,
Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, found it necessary to republish the
famous decree of excommunication and outlawry against the offenders;
but, as the court itself had begun to patronize curls, the fulminations
of the church were unavailing. Henry I and his nobles wore their hair
in long ringlets down their backs and shoulders, and became a scandalum
magnatum in the eyes of the godly. One Serlo, the King's chaplain, was
so grieved in spirit at the impiety of his master, that he preached a
sermon from the well-known text of St. Paul, before the assembled court,
in which he drew so dreadful a picture of the torments that awaited them
in the other world, that several of them burst into tears, and wrung
their hair, as if they would have pulled it out by the roots. Henry
himself was observed to weep. The priest, seeing the impression he had
made, determined to strike while the iron was hot, and, pulling a pair
of scissors from his pocket, cut the king's hair in presence of them
all. Several of the principal courtiers consented to do the like, and,
for a short time, long hair appeared to be going out of fashion. But
the courtiers thought, after the first glow of their penitence had been
cooled by reflection, that the clerical Dalilah had shorn them of their
strength, and, in less than six months, they were as great sinners as
ever.