Chapter VI: Part 6

The letter was not prepaid, and the recipient, not recognising the handwriting of the address, refused to receive it and pay the sixpence demanded. As it happened, Mr. Smith, the schoolmaster who had taught Turpin to write, saw the letter, and recognising the handwriting, carried it to the magistrates, so that it might legally be opened, and perhaps the very much wanted Turpin be arrested from the information it possibly contained. Perhaps this public-spirited person really thought he saw a chance of obtaining the £200 reward offered; but, however that may be, the letter disclosed the fact that Turpin was lying in prison at York, and Smith eventually appeared at the trial and identified him. It is not known who, if indeed any one, received the reward.

The rumour that Turpin had been taken, and was a prisoner in York Castle, was no sooner circulated than people flocked from all parts to get a sight of him, and debates ran very high whether he was the real person or not. This making a holiday show of a prisoner in his cell seems odd to us moderns; but it was then, as we see constantly in these pages, the usual thing, and a practice that greatly enriched the turnkeys; or the warders, as we should call them.

(_Skelt._)]

Among others who visited Turpin was a young fellow who pretended to know the famous highwayman. After having looked for a considerable time at the prisoner, he turned to the warder on duty, and said he would bet him half a guinea this was not Turpin; whereupon Turpin, in his turn inclining to the warder, whispered, with cynical humour, "Lay him the wager, you fool, and I'll go you halves!"

The trial of "John Palmer, _alias_ Paumer, _alias_ Richard Turpin," as the official account of the proceedings has it, took place at the York Assizes, March 22nd, 1739, "before the Hon. Sir William Chapple, one of His Majesty's Justices of the Court of King's Bench, for stealing a black gelding, the property of Thomas Creasy."

Thomas Creasy deposed that in the August of 1738 he was owner of the black gelding, and missed it on the eighteenth of the month. He had hired men and horses, and had ridden some forty miles to try and obtain news of its whereabouts, and had paid criers to cry it in different market towns. He had also told one Richard Grasby of his loss, and described the animal to him, and at a later date Grasby told him his horse was at an inn called the "Blue Bell" at Beverley. He then went to Beverley and saw the landlord of the "Blue Bell," and described the horse to him as a black gelding, with a little star on his forehead. The landlord then took him to the stable and showed him the horse.

James Smith was then called, and asked if he knew the prisoner at the bar. He said he did. He had known him at Hempstead, in Essex, where he was born. He had known him since he was a child. His name was Richard Turpin, and his father kept the "Bell" inn in that village. Richard Turpin had married one of his maids. It was about five years since he had last seen him. He had taught him at school, and there was no doubt whatever that this was the same man.

Asked how it happened that, living so far distant as Essex, he came to be present as a witness at this trial, he said that at the Hempstead post-office one day he observed a letter directed to Turpin's brother-in-law, who had refused to pay the postage on it. Looking narrowly at the handwriting, he thought he recognised it as that of Richard Turpin, whom he had taught to write. Turpin then being very much in demand by the magistrates, he took the letter forthwith to a local Justice of the Peace, who opened it, and found it was sent from York Castle, and purported to come from one "John Palmer."

The justices had sent him a subpœna to appear for the prosecution at York. He had been shown into the prison yard, and there he had seen and recognised Turpin, who was there under the name of Palmer.

"Palmer," then informed that he might ask Mr. Smith any questions he desired, merely replied he did not know him.

Mr. Edward Saward, of Hempstead, then called and asked if he knew prisoner, said he did. He was born and brought up at the "Bell," kept by his father, John Turpin. He had known him twenty-two years. ("Upon my soul, I have," he added; to which counsel rejoined, "My friend, you have sworn once already; you need not swear again.") "I knew him ever since he was a boy and lived at the 'Bell.' He lived with his father there, and I was friendly with him. I knew him also after he had set up for himself, and I have bought a great many good joints of meat from him." The prisoner had at first affected not to know him; but afterwards had acknowledged the acquaintance, and had added: "Let's bung our eyes up with drink."

The prisoner's sole defence was that he had bought the horse; but he could produce no evidence to show he had actually done so, and could not mention the name of the person from whom he had bought him, nor the place where the transaction had been completed.

The jury had no difficulty in returning a verdict of "guilty," and, indeed, did so without leaving the court. Turpin was then formally sentenced to death.

He wrote to his father, and made great efforts to obtain a reduction of his sentence to transportation; but without result. A letter received from his father was a feature of a pamphlet, detailing his trial and adventures, published at York in April 1739. There is no reason to doubt its genuine character:

_March 29, 1739._

"DEAR CHILD,

"I received you Letter this Instant, with a great deal of grief;
according to your Request, I have writ to your Brother John, and
Madam Peek, to make what intercession can be made to Col. Watson,
in order to obtain Transportation for your Misfortune; which, had
I £100 I would freely part with it to do you good; and for God's
Sake, give your whole Mind to beg of God to pardon your many
Transgressions, which the Thief upon the Cross received Pardon
for at the last Hour, tho' a very great Offender. The Lord be
your Comfort, and receive you into his eternal Kingdom.

"I am yours Distress'd,

"Yet Loving Father,

"JOHN TURPIN.

"HEMSTEAD.

"All our Loves to you, who are in much Grief to subscribe
ourselves your distressed Brother and Sister, with Relations."

Turpin principally concerned himself in those twenty-six days that bridged the distance between sentence and execution in joking, drinking with the many visitors who came to see him, and telling stories of his adventures. He turned a deaf ear to the ministrations of the Ordinary, and was infinitely more concerned that he should make a last "respectable" appearance in this world, on the scaffold, than for his welfare in the next. Nothing would satisfy him but new clothes, a brand-new fustian frock, and a smart pair of pumps to die in. On the morning before the fatal April 17th he gave the hangman £3 10_s._ 0_d._, to be divided among five men, who were to follow him as mourners, and were to be furnished with black hat-bands and mourning gloves. When the time came, and he went in the tumbril to be turned off upon York's place of execution at Knavesmire, he bowed to the ladies and flourished his hat like a hero. It is true that when he had arrived at the tragic place his leg trembled, but he stamped it down impatiently. He talked for half an hour with the hangman, until the crowd began to grow impatient, but then mounted the ladder provided, and threw himself off in the most resolute fashion. He had the reward of his courage, for he died in a moment.

It should here be explained that hanging in those old times, before the drop had been introduced, was generally a cruel and clumsy method. As a rule, the culprit was driven up in the cart immediately under the gallows, and the noose then adjusted round his neck. When all was ready, the cart was simply drawn away and the victim left hanging, to be slowly and agonisingly suffocated. Thus the horrible spectacle was often witnessed of compassionate persons—and sometimes the relations of the hanging man—pulling his legs to more speedily end his sufferings. In the museum at Dorchester there may to this day be seen two heavy weights made for the purpose of thus shortening the misery of criminals hanged at the gaol there, and bearing the word MERCY.

It sometimes happened, in those days, that a criminal would be ineffectually hanged, and afterwards cut down and revived. "Half-hanged Smith" was a burglar who obtained his nickname in this manner at Tyburn; but he was convicted, a few years later, of a similar crime, and effectually hanged on that occasion. Another, cut down and revived, declared the sensation of being hanged was sufficiently bad, but that of being restored to life was indescribably agonising, and said he wished those hanged who had cut him down.

(_Skelt._)]

The shocking old alternative to being slowly hanged when the cart was withdrawn was the method by which criminals with sufficient courage were enabled to anticipate the modern drop, by throwing themselves off the ladder, and so securing an instant and practically painless death. But this was making the condemned their own executioners, and, to all intents and purposes, suicides. It also required a considerable amount of resolution.

Turpin's body lay in state for a day and a night at the "Blue Boar" inn, Castlegate, York, and was buried the following morning in the churchyard of St. George's, Fishergate Postern. That evening it was disinterred by some of the city surgeons, for dissection, but the mob, with whom Turpin had already become a hero, determined that his remains should not be dishonoured, rescued the body and reinterred it in lime, so as to effectually prevent any other attempts.

The Ride to York and Black Bess are alike myths, but the spot was long pointed out upon the racecourse at York (perhaps it still is), where that gallant mare sank down exhausted and died. So strong a hold have myths upon the imagination, that it is hardly possible the most painstaking historian will succeed in popularly discrediting the _bona fides_ of that ride, invented and so stirringly described by Harrison Ainsworth in 1834, in his _Rookwood_.

Ainsworth was the unconscious predisposing cause of much of _Skelt's Juvenile Drama_, that singular collection of remarkably mild plays for toy theatres, allied with terrific scenes and the most picturesque figures conceived, drawn and engraved in the wildest spirit of melodrama, and in the most extravagant attitudes. No such scenery ever existed as that drawn by Skelt's anonymous artists. It was a decided improvement upon Nature; and no heroes so heroic and no villains so villainous could possibly have lived and moved as those imagined by his staff of draughtsmen. _Dick Turpin_ was of course in the forefront of the thirty-three plays published by Skelt, and the pictured characters do full justice—and perhaps a trifle over—to the entirely illegitimate fame Turpin has acquired. You see them reproduced here, engraved line for line from Skelt, scattered over the pages of this reconsideration of Turpin. Firstly, you have the great brethren, Turpin and Tom King, themselves, mounted on noble steeds that stretch themselves gallantly in their stride; and then you have Sir Ralph Rookwood and that intelligent officer, Simon Sharpscent, also on horseback, hurrying off in company, but upon the trail of the highwaymen. Simon Sharpscent, you will observe, has in his hand a something that looks not unlike a Field Marshal's bâton. It is the police-officer's crown-tipped staff of office; and producing it he will presently say, dramatically: "I arrest you in the King's name!"

Always, with the remarkable exception of the group of "Highwaymen Carousing," these characters are intensely dramatic in their attitudes; but the carousing highwaymen are unexpectedly wooden; although they look capable of being daredevil fellows when the generous wine, or the old ale—whichever it may be—has done its work. Even the "Maid of the Inn" is a creature of romance.

(_Skelt._)]

(_Skelt._)]

Although Ainsworth invented Turpin's Ride to York, he certainly did not invent Black Bess, nor did he conceive the ride as an attempt to establish an _alibi_; for he shows him hotly pursued by the officers of the law, nearly all the way. In Ainsworth's pages you find no reason why the ride should have been undertaken. I have elsewhere remarked that Ainsworth invented Black Bess, as well as robbed Swiftnicks of the glory of the ride; but a further acquaintance with the literature of the early part of the nineteenth century discloses the curious fact that Horace Smith in 1825, in a volume entitled _Gaieties and Gravities_, included a story called "Harry Halter," in which that highwayman hero is represented as sitting at the "Wig and Water Spaniel," in Monmouth Street, with his friends of the same persuasion, Ned Noose, and Old Charley Crape, and singing the ballad of

TURPIN AND THE BISHOP

Bold Turpin upon Hounslow Heath
His black mare Bess bestrode,
When he saw a Bishop's coach and four
Sweeping along the road;
He bade the coachman stop, but he,
Suspecting of the job,
His horses lash'd—but soon roll'd off,
With a brace of slugs in his nob.

Galloping to the carriage-door,
He thrust his face within,
When the Chaplain said—"Sure as eggs is eggs,
That is the bold Turpin."
Quoth Turpin, "You shall eat your words
With sauce of leaden bullet";
So he clapp'd his pistol to his mouth,
And fired it down his gullet.

The Bishop fell upon his knees,
When Turpin bade him stand,
And gave him his watch, a bag of gold,
And six bright rings from his hand.
Rolling with laughter, Turpin pluck'd
The Bishop's wig from his head,
And popp'd it on the Chaplain's poll,
As he sate in the corner dead.

Upon the box he tied him then,
With the reins behind his back,
Put a pipe in his mouth, the whip in his hand,
And set off the horses, smack!
Then whisper'd in his black mare's ear,
Who luckily wasn't fagg'd,
"You must gallop fast and far, my dear,
Or I shall be surely scragg'd."

He never drew bit, nor stopp'd to bait,
Nor walk'd up hill or down,
Until he came to Gloucester's gate,
Which is the Assizes town.
Full eighty miles in one dark night,
He made his black mare fly,
And walk'd into Court at nine o'clock
To swear an Alibi.

A hue and cry the Bishop raised,
And so did Sheriff Foster,
But stared to hear that Turpin was
By nine o'clock at Gloucester.
So all agreed it couldn't be him,
Neither by hook nor crook;
And said that the Bishop and Chaplain was
Most certainly mistook.

Here we certainly find Black Bess, not treated to two capital letters, and only referred to as "his black mare Bess" (it was reserved for Ainsworth to discover the worth of the alliteration and the demand it made for two capital B's), but we thus have traced the invention of that coal-black steed one remove further back, and there it must rest, for a time, at any rate.

It seems pretty clear that Smith was acquainted with the exploit of Swiftnicks, but why he transferred the ride to Turpin, and the purpose of establishing an _alibi_ to Gloucester, does not appear, unless indeed he wanted a rhyme to "Foster."

(_Skelt._)]

Dickens, who wrote _Pickwick_ in 1836, eleven years after _Gaieties and Gravities_ was published, had evidently read Smith's book, for in Chapter XLIII. we find Sam Weller represented as singing to the coachman a condensed and greatly altered version, beginning:

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath
His bold mare Bess bestrode—er;
Ven there he see'd the Bishop's coach
A-coming along the road—er.

That Swiftnicks actually performed the famous ride was generally believed, as elsewhere described in these pages; and unless any later evidence can be adduced to deprive him of the credit, he must continue to enjoy it. But it is curious to note that riding horseback between York and London under exceptional circumstances has often been mentioned. A prominent instance is the wager accepted by John Lepton, esquire to James the First, that he would ride six times between London and York on six consecutive days. Fuller, in his _Worthies_, tells us all about it. He first set out on May 20th, 1606, from Aldersgate, London, and completed the journey before nightfall, returning the next day; and so on until he had won the wager, "to the great praise of his strength in acting, than to his discretion in undertaking it," says Fuller, with an unwonted sneer.

Turpin was certainly described in his own lifetime as "the noted," "the renowned," "the famous," but those were merely newspaper phrases, and the notability, the renown, or the fame commented upon in to-day's paper is, we are by way of seeing in our own age, the oblivion of next week. The _London Magazine_, commenting briefly on his execution, styles him a "mean and stupid wretch," and that estimate of him is little likely ever to be revised, although it may readily and justly be amplified by the epithets "brutal" and "cowardly." The brutalities of himself and his associates kept the suburbs of London for a while in terror, but he evidently had made little impression on the mind of Captain Charles Johnson, whose book on _The General History of Highwaymen_, published in 1742, three years after Turpin's execution, has no mention of him.

Yet, side by side with these facts, we are confronted with the undoubted immediate ballad fame he acquired in the north, of which here are two pitiful specimen verses:

For shooting of a dunghill cock
Poor Turpin he at last was took;
And carried straight into a jail,
Where his misfortune he does bewail,
O rare Turpin hero,
O rare Turpin O!
Now some do say that he will hang—
Turpin the last of all the gang;
I wish the cock had ne'er been hatched,
For like a fish in the net he's catched.

Pedlars hawked these untutored productions widely over the country, and it will be noticed with some amusement that, just as Robin Hood had been made a popular ballad hero, robbing the rich to give to the poor, and succouring the widow and the orphan, and just as Nevison had been similarly enshrined, so Turpin, who would have been mean enough to rob a poor man of his beer, a poor widow of her last groat, or to steal a penny out of a blind man's pannikin (the worst of crimes), was instantly converted into a blameless martyr. We may, however, readily imagine the ill-treated Mr. Lawrence of Edgewarebury, rubbing his roasted posteriors and vehemently dissenting from that estimate of Turpin.

But the ballad-writers did not pretend to historical accuracy, or to grammar, scansion, or anything but a rude way of appealing to the feelings of the rustics, whose lives of unremitting toil for poor wages embittered them more than they knew against the rich; to this extent, that they imagined virtue resided solely in the lowly cot, and vice and oppressive feelings exclusively in the lordly hall. Those who were poor were virtuous, and the highwayman who emptied the pockets of the rich performed a meritorious service. Hence ballads like the following grievous example, in which Turpin appears, in spite of well-ascertained facts, to have been executed at Salisbury:

TURPEN'S APPEAL TO THE JUDGE IN HIS DEFENCE; OR THE GEN'ROUS ROBBER

Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6, Great St. Andrew Street, Seven
Dials

Come all you wild and wicked young men
A warning take by me,
A story now to you I'll tell
Of Turpen of Salisbury.
He was a wild and wicked blade
On the High road did he hie,
But at last was tried, and cast,
And condemn'd he was to die.
When before the Judge he came
And at the Bar he did stand,
For no pardon he did ask,
But boldly he held up his hand,
Declared the truth before the Judge
Who was to try him then:—
"I hope, my Lord, you'll pardon me,
I'm not the worst of men,
I the Scripture have fulfilled,
Tho' a wicked life I led,
When the naked I've beheld,
I've cloathed them and fed;
Sometimes in a Coat of Winter's pride,
Sometimes in a russet grey,
The naked I've cloathed, the hungry fed,
And the Rich I've sent empty away.
As I was riding out one day,
I saw a Prisoner going to Jail,
Because his debts he could not pay,
Or yet sufficient bail.
A true and faithful friend he found
In me that very day;
I paid the Creditor forty pounds
Which set the Prisoner free.
When he had my guineas bright,
He told them into his purse,
But I could not be satisfied:
To have 'em again I must.
Boldly I mounted my prancing steed,
And crossing a point of land,
There I met the Creditor,
And boldly bade him stand.
Sir, the debt you owe to me
Amounts to Forty pounds
Which I am resolved to have
Before I quit this ground.
I search'd his pockets all around,
And robb'd him of his store,
Wherein I found my forty pounds
And Twenty Guineas more.
What harm, my Lord Judge, he said,
What harm was there in this,
To Rob a Miser of his store,
By my stout heartedness.
I never rob'd or wrong'd the poor,
As it plainly does appear;
So I hope you'll pardon me
And be not too severe."
Then the Judge unto bold Turpen said
"Your stories are but in vain,
For by our laws you are condemn'd,
And must receive your pain.
Repent, repent, young man, he said,
For what is done and past,
You say the hungry you've cloathed and fed,
But you must die at last."

It is of course possible that this ballad was not meant for Dick Turpin at all; for, so widespread in rural districts had his fame early grown, that "Turpin" became almost a generic name for local highwaymen, just as after Julius Cæsar all the Emperors of Rome were Cæsars. It was a name to conjure with: and this no doubt goes some way to explain the infinitely many alleged "Turpin's haunts" in widely separated districts: places Turpin could not have found time to haunt, unless he had been a syndicate.

Away down in Wiltshire, in the neighbourhood of Trowbridge, between Keevil and Bulkington, and in a soggy level plain watered by an affluent of the Wiltshire Avon, there stands in a wayside ditch a hoary object called "Turpin's Stone," inscribed, in letters now almost entirely obliterated,

Dick Turpin's dead and gone,
This Stone's set up to think upon.

This curious wayside relic may be found on the boundary-line of the parishes of Bulkington and Keevil, near a spot oddly named Brass Pan Bridge, and standing in an evil-smelling ditch that receives the drainage of the neighbouring pigsties. It is a battered and moss-grown object, and its inscription, despite the local version of it given above, is not really decipherable, as a whole. "Turpin" may be read, easily enough, but if the word above it is meant for "Dick," why then the sculptor of it spelled the name "Dicq," a feat of illiterate ingenuity that rather staggers belief. Brake-loads of Wiltshire archæologists have visited the spot in summer, when county antiquaries mostly archælogise, and, braving typhoid fever, have descended into the ditch and sought to unravel the mystery of this Sphinx: without result.

The village of Poulshot, birthplace of Thomas Boulter, a once-dreaded highwayman, is not far off, and it is possible that Boulter, who had a very busy and distinguished career on the highways of England in general, and of Salisbury Plain in particular,[2] may have been named locally "Dick Turpin," after the hero who died at York under tragical circumstances, with the aid of a rope, in 1739. Boulter himself ended in that way in 1778, at Winchester, and so the transference of names was quite possible. He, it is significant to note, had a mare named "Black Bess," which he stole in 1736 from Mr. Peter Delmé's stables at Erle Stoke.

[2] See the "Exeter Road," pp. 217-228.

There are Turpin "relics" and associations at the "Spaniards," on Hampstead Heath, and we find the _Times_ of August 22nd, 1838, saying: "The rear of the houses on Holborn Bridge has for many years been the receptacle for characters of the most daring and desperate condition. There, in a secret _manège_ (now a slaughter-house for her species), did Turpin suffer his favourite Black Bess to repose for many a night previously to her disastrous journey to York." The _Times_ had evidently swallowed the Ride to York story whole, and relished it.

Another, and more cautious commentator says, "He shot people like partridges. Many wild and improbable stories are told of him, such as his rapid ride to York, his horse chewing a beef-steak on the way; but, setting these aside, he was hardy and cruel enough to shine as a mighty malefactor. He seems, to quote the Newgate jest, to have been booked, at his very birth, for the _Gravesend Coach_ that leaves at eight in the morning."

"Many years ago," we read in Pink's _History of Clerkenwell_, "a small leather portmanteau was found at the 'Coach and Horses' tavern, at Hockley-in-the-Hole, with the ends of wood, large enough to contain a change of linen, besides other little _etceteras_. On the inner side of the lid, lightly cut in the surface of the leather, is the name, 'R. TVRPIN.' Whether or no this portmanteau (such an one as horsemen formerly carried behind them, strapped to the saddle), belonged to that famous highwayman," says Pink, "we will not attempt to decide."

But here there should not be much room for doubt. The relic was probably genuine. It was illustrated in Pink's book, but the whereabouts of it are not now known.

The irons worn by Turpin in his cell at York Castle are now preserved in the York Museum, together with those used for Nevison. They have a total weight of 28 lb.

WILLIAM PARSONS, THE BARONET'S SON

William Parsons, born in 1717, was the youngest son of a respectable baronet, Sir William Parsons, of Nottingham; and was so well connected that he could claim no less a personage than the Duchess of Northumberland for aunt. Sent to Eton, to complete his education, he left "Henry's holy shade" in considerable disfavour, and on a visit to an uncle at Epsom so misconducted himself, that he was bidden never show his face there again. His behaviour was no better at Cheshunt, where another relative had the misfortune to receive him for a time. He was then packed off to sea, as midshipman, aboard the _Drake_. Returning at the end of a cruise to England, he continued in the gaming habits he had early learnt, and, to provide funds for his amusements, called upon his highly-placed aunt and stole a gold-mounted miniature from her dressing-room. This he was obliged to sell for one-fourth its value. We next find him at Buxton, stealing a gold-buckled pair of shoes in the assembly-room belonging to a Mr. Graham, and realising on them while the owner, vainly seeking, lost all his dances.

A cruise aboard the _Romney_ then took him to Newfoundland. He played cards and cheated aboard ship, and acquired so bad a character that it was plainly intimated the Navy was not his vocation and he had better leave it. He accordingly left the service and soon found himself deserted by his friends and without a stiver in his breeches pockets.

Realising his wild nature, his father thought it best to secure him some post that should take him abroad for at least a few years, by which time his hot blood might have cooled down. To this end, he procured him a billet with the Royal African Company, on the West Coast of that then very Dark Continent; but the scapegrace was soon back in England, having quarrelled with the governor of James Fort on the Gambia River, to whom he had been accredited. He landed even more destitute, if possible, than before, and of necessity lived the simple life, by existing for four whole days on three half-penny worth of bread. The public fountains supplied him freely with water, wherewith to wash down those frugal meals.

He dared make no more applications to his father for assistance, for that father was then smarting at having paid £70 to redeem his honour over a discreditable affair that had taken place in Africa, where the reckless youth had forged a letter purporting to come from his aunt, the Duchess, saying she would be answerable for any debts her nephew might incur, up to that amount. It was folly of the worst, and most unremunerative, kind, for that aunt, with whom he had originally been a favourite, revoked the will she had made in his favour, and left the £25,000, that would have come to him, to his sister.

It is evident that William Parsons was what would be called in modern times a "degenerate." In 1740 he borrowed a large sum of money by a pretence that he was his elder brother, who was the prospective owner of a considerable legacy. He then succeeded in making a respectable appearance for a time, and married a young lady of good family and fortune. By that marriage he acquired a sum of £4,000, but his wife's trustees, being not quite satisfied with him, took care to secure the bulk of her property in such a manner that he could not touch it. Entering the Army in 1741, as an ensign in a foot regiment, he embarked upon an extravagant manner of living: obtained a quantity of gold and silver plate from confiding tradesmen, and kept a large number of servants. He could never resist the gaming-tables, and although himself a rogue and a swindler, always found others there who proved more finished than himself, and thoroughly fleeced him.

He would then turn to forgery, and successfully negotiate forged bills under well-known names. The Duke of Cumberland's signature was used for £500. Nothing came amiss to his perverse ingenuity; and he would even, as an army officer, call upon tailors and pretend to having a contract for the supply of uniforms. He would pocket a handsome commission and receive the goods and sell them for what they would fetch. To be his friend was to be marked down for being defrauded, and often to be placed in the most embarrassing situations. Thus in 1745, when the Jacobite rebellion was disturbing the country, he borrowed a horse of a brother officer and rode away with it, intending to desert to the rebels. But, thinking better of it, he went no further than Clerkenwell, where he sold the horse. The late owner was, in consequence, arrested on charges of desertion and high treason, and things might quite conceivably have gone hard with him.

Accounts of Parsons' next doings do not quite agree. By one of them we learn that he went to Florida as a lieutenant, but according to another and a more probable version, he was shipped to the plantations in Virginia as a convict, who had been found guilty of forgery at Maidstone Assizes, and sentenced to be transported. Family influence had no doubt prevented his being hanged.

Working as a slave in the plantations belonging to Lord Fairfax, he attracted the attention of that nobleman, who took him from the gang of convicted malefactors, with whom, under strict supervision, he hoed and delved under the blazing sun, and befriended him. It did not pay to befriend William Parsons. He stole one of the best horses belonging to his benefactor, and, going upon those early colonial roads, soon accumulated, as a highwayman, a sufficient sum to buy himself a passage back to old England.

By fraud, backed up with consummate assurance, he obtained £70 at his port of landing, and came at once to London. A scheme for plundering his sister, who by this time had succeeded to her aunt's legacy of £25,000, then engaged his attention. He hatched a plot with a discharged footman, for that man to pose as a gentleman of fortune, and to make advances to her, and even to forcibly carry her off and marry her against her will, if needs were. Some women servants were also in the plot, and were even given duly signed bonds in £500 and lesser sums, to lend their aid. The footman and Parsons were, in the event of this scheme proving successful, to share the £25,000 in equal parts.

By a mere accident, the plot was discovered in a milliner's shop in the West End, where a lady friend of Miss Parsons had pointed out to her a finely dressed gentleman, "who was going to marry Miss Parsons." This led to enquiries, and an exposure of the whole affair.

The last resource of this thorough-paced scoundrel was the road. He chiefly affected the western suburbs and Hounslow Heath, and it was in a robbery on that widespreading waste that he was captured. He had obtained information that a servant, with a valise containing a large sum in notes and gold, was to leave town and meet his master at Windsor; and so set out to lie in wait for him. But he had already been so active on the Heath that his face was too well known, and he was recognised at Brentford by a traveller who had suffered from him before. Following him into Hounslow Town, this former victim suddenly raised an alarm and caused him to be seized. Taken to the "Rose and Crown" inn, Parsons was recognised by the landlord and others, as one who had for some time scoured the Heath and committed robberies. His pistols were taken from him, and he was committed to Newgate, and in the fulness of time tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. The efforts of his family connections were again used to save him from the gallows, and themselves from the stigma of it; but his career was too notorious for further leniency, and he was hanged at Tyburn on February 11th, 1751.

WILLIAM PAGE

"There is always room on top" has long been the conclusive reply to complaints of overcrowding in the professions. However many duffers may already be struggling for a bare livelihood in them, there yet remains an excellent career for the recruit with energy and new methods. The profession of highwayman aptly illustrates the truth of these remarks. It was shockingly over-crowded in the middle of the eighteenth century, even though the duffers were generally caught in their initial efforts and hanged; and really it is wonderful where all the wealth came from, to keep such an army of "money-changers" in funds.

William Page, who for twelve years carried on a flourishing practice in the "Stand and Deliver!" profession, was one of those few who lived very near the top of it. His name is not so familiar as those of Du Vall, Hind, Maclean, or Turpin, but not always do the really eminent come down to us with their eminence properly acknowledged. He was born about 1730, the son of a bargeman to a coal merchant at Hampton-on-Thames. The bargeman was unfortunately drowned at Putney in 1740, and his widow was reduced to eking out a meagre livelihood by the distilling of waters from medicinal herbs. She is described as "a notable industrious woman," and certainly it was not from her example that William learned the haughty and offensive ways that would not permit him long to keep any of the numerous situations he took, after leaving the Charity School at Hampton, where he acquired what small education he had. He started life as tapster's boy at the "Bell" alehouse, in his native town, and thence changed to errand-boy in the employment of "Mr. Mackenzie," apothecary. Soon his youthful ambition took him to London, where he obtained a situation in the printing-office of Woodfall, in Little Britain, who became in after-years notorious as printer of the "Letters of Junius"; but "that business being too great a confinement for his rambling temper, he left it, and went footboy to Mr. Dalrymple, Scots Holland warehouse in London."

He rapidly filled the situations of footman to one Mr. Hodges, in Lincoln's Inn Fields; porter to a gentleman in Cork Street, and footman to Mr. Macartney in Argyle Buildings. He then entered the service of the Earl of Glencairn, but left that situation to become valet to a certain Captain Jasper. Frequently discharged for "his proud and haughty spirit, which would not brook orders from his masters," and prevented him, on the other hand, being on good terms with his fellow-servants, he at last found himself unable to obtain another place. This was a sad time for William Page. In service he had learned extravagant habits, the love of fine clothes and the fascination of gambling; but his arrogant ways had brought him low indeed.

"Being by such means as these extremely reduced in his circumstances, without money, without friends, and without character, he could think of no better method of supplying his wants, and freeing himself from a servile dependency, than by turning Collector on the Highway. This he imagined would not only take off that badge of slavery, the livery he had always worn with regret, but would set him on a level with gentlemen, a figure he was ever ambitious of making."

His first steps were attended with some difficulty, for he laboured under the disadvantage, at the moment of coming to this decision, of having no money in his pockets; and to commence highwayman, as to begin any other business or profession, it was necessary to have a small capital, for preliminary expenses. But a little ingenuity showed him the way. Pistols and a horse were the tools of his trade, and pistols, of course, first. A servant of his acquaintance knew a person who had a brace of pistols to sell, and Page took them, "to show a friend on approval." He then hired a horse for deferred payment, and with the pistols went out and immediately and successfully robbed the Highgate coach. Thus, with the £4 he in this manner obtained, he paid for the pistols and settled with the livery-stable keeper for his horse-hire. In another day or two he had touched the wayfaring public for a sum sufficient to purchase a horse of his own; and thus commenced his twelve-years' spell of highway adventure, in which, although he had many exciting experiences, he was arrested only once before the final escapade that brought him to the gallows.

An early freak of his was the robbing of his former master, Captain Jasper, on Hounslow Heath. The Captain was crossing the ill-omened place with a lady in a post-chaise, when Page rode up, bade the postilion stop, and ordered the Captain to deliver.

"That may be, sir," retorted the Captain angrily, "but not yet," and, pulling out a pistol, fired at him. His aim was not good, but he hit somebody: none other, indeed, than his own postilion, who was struck in the back, "and wounded very much."

Then said Page, "Consider, sir, what a rash action you have been guilty of. You have killed this poor fellow, which I would not have done for the world. And now, sir, I repeat my orders, and if you refuse any longer to comply, I will actually fire upon you."

The Captain then snapped his second pistol at him, but it missed fire. Page then swore he would shoot the lady; intending to do nothing of the kind, but only to alarm the Captain the more. But in Captain Jasper our highwayman had met sterner stuff than common, and the gallant soldier, the better to protect her, forthwith sat himself in her lap. On Page continuing to declare he would shoot him, the Captain leapt out of the chaise at him, and at that moment Page fired, but with intention to miss, and the shot passed harmlessly by. Again the Captain pulled the trigger of his pistol, and again it missed fire.

Then Page declared his ultimatum: "You must now surrender, or I absolutely will shoot you." Whereupon the Captain, having done all he possibly could, delivered up his gold watch and ten or eleven guineas. Page then demanded his sword, but he quite rightly, as a soldier, demurred to such a humiliation.

"You may see by my cockade I am an officer, and I would sooner part with my life and soul than with my sword," he bravely declared.

Page generously acknowledged his spirit. "I think myself," he said, "thou art the bravest fellow that ever crossed these plains, but thou art an obstinate fellow; and so, go about your business."

He introduced some interesting novelties into the well-worn business. The chief of these was the distinctly bright idea of driving from London in a phaeton with a pair of horses and at some lonely spot disguising himself with a wig and another suit of clothes. Then, saddling one of the horses and leaving the phaeton, he would carefully emerge upon the high road and hold up coaches, post-chaises, or solitary equestrians. This accomplished, he returned to his phaeton, harnessed the horse again, resumed his former attire, and drove back to town, like the gentleman of fashion and leisure he pretended to be. One day, pursuing this highly successful programme, he was nearly undone by the action of some countryfolk who, finding an abandoned phaeton and one horse strangely left in a coppice, went off with it. The simple people, making along the road with this singular treasure-trove, were themselves followed by some unlucky travellers whom Page had just robbed, and violently denounced as confederates. Page was fully equal to the occasion. Nearly stripping himself, and casting his clothes down a convenient well, he returned to London in that plight and declared himself to have been treated like the man in the Scriptures, who "fell among thieves"; although it does not appear that the traveller in question had a carriage. His phaeton had been stolen, and himself robbed and left almost naked.

This precious story was fully believed, and the country people themselves stood in some considerable danger. They were flung into prison and would no doubt have been convicted had Page appeared against them. This he, for obvious reasons, refused to do, and they found themselves at liberty once more, resolved to leave any other derelict carriages they might chance to see severely alone.

Page, in course of time, married a girl of his native town. She could not long remain ignorant of his means of livelihood, and earnestly begged him to leave the road and take to honest work. Few, however, quitted the highway except for the "three-legged mare" at Tyburn, and the one- or two-legged mares of other places; and he held on his way. Now and again he would disappear for a time, after some particularly audacious exploit, to reappear when the excitement it had caused was over. On one of these occasions he shipped to Barbados and Antigua, stayed there for seven or eight months, and then returned to England, desperately in want of money. The line of least resistance indicated the road once more.

His first exploit after this reappearance was the robbing of one Mr. Cuffe, north of Barnet. The traveller, being driven along the road alone and unarmed in a post-chaise, had no choice but to surrender his purse, and held it out from the window at arm's length. But Page's horse, not being used to this kind of business, shied violently, and Page thereupon ordered the postilion to dismount and hand it him, which he did, and he then gracefully and at leisure retired.

On his return to town, leading this high-mettled horse down Highgate Hill, Page was followed by three men on horseback, who, having heard of this robbery down the road, suspected he might be the man. They immediately planned how they were to take him, and then, one of them riding quietly up, said, "Sir, I have often walked my horse up Highgate Hill, but never down; but since you do, I will also, and bear you company."

Page readily agreed, without the least suspicion of any design against him, and so they entered into a very friendly conversation. After walking in this manner some little distance, the gentleman finding a fit opportunity, keeping a little behind, suddenly laid hold of his arms and pinioned them so tightly behind him that he was not able to stir; seeing which, the other two, then on the opposite side of the road, crossed over and secured him beyond any possibility of escape. They found in his pockets four loaded pistols, a powder-horn, and some bullets, a crape mask, and a curious and ingenious map himself had drawn, showing all the main roads and cross roads for twenty miles round London.

They then took him before a Justice of the Peace at Highgate, who put many searching questions, without gaining any information. He was, however, committed to Clerkenwell Bridewell, and was afterwards examined by none other than Henry Fielding, magistrate and novelist. Sent from the Old Bailey to stand his trial at Hertford Assizes, he was acquitted for lack of exact evidence, although every one was fully satisfied of his guilt, for, however strange the times, they were not so strange that honest gentlemen carried such a compromising collection of things about with them on the roads.

His narrow escape did not disturb him, and he was soon again on his lawless prowls. On Hounslow Heath he robbed a Captain of one of the Guards regiments, and was pursued into Hounslow town by that officer, shouting "Highwayman!" after him. No one took any notice. Page got clear away, and afterwards boasted of having, the following night at a theatre in London, sat next the officer, who did not recognise him.

An interlude followed in the activities of our high-spirited highwayman. He and an old acquaintance struck up a more intimate friendship over the tables of billiard-rooms in London, and there they entered into an alliance, with the object of rooking frequenters of those places. But their returns were small and precarious, and did not even remotely compare with the rich harvest to be gathered on the road, to which he accordingly returned.

It was Page's ill-fortune to meet with several plucky travellers, who, like Captain Jasper, would not tamely submit to be robbed, and resisted by force of arms. Among them was Lord Downe, whose post-chaise he, with a companion, one day stopped at Barnet. Presenting his pistol, he issued the customary orders, but, to his surprise, Lord Downe himself drew a pistol, and discharged it with such excellent aim, that Page was shot in the body, and bled very copiously. His companion's horse, alarmed at the shot, grew restive, and thus his friend was for a while unable to come to his aid. Page, however, again advanced to the attack; but my lord was ready with another pistol, and so the highwaymen thought it best to make off. They hurried to London, and Page sought a doctor, who found the wound so dangerous, that he refused to treat him without consultation. The other doctor, immediately on arriving, recognised Page, and asked him how he came by the wound; to which Page replied, that he had received it in a duel he had just fought.

"I will extract the ball," replied the doctor; "but," he added significantly, "I do not wish to see your face again, for I believe you fought that duel near Barnet."

Shortly after his recovery from this untoward incident, he and one ally, Darwell, by name, an old schoolfellow, waiting upon chance on Shooter's Hill, met two post-chaises, in one of which was a "supercargo" belonging to the East India Company, and in the other a person, who is simply described as a "gentleman."

Page's accomplice opened the encounter by firing a pistol, to which the supercargo replied in like manner; but with a better aim, for the bullet tore away a portion of his coat, under the armpit. A second shot from the highwayman was also ineffective. Then Page rode up and attacked the other chaise. A desperate fusillade followed; but the only damage done was that Page's horse was slightly wounded. At last, the post-chaise travellers having expended all their ammunition, the two highwaymen compelled them to alight, and the postilions to dismount; and then, having bound the hands of all of them with rope, they ordered these unfortunate persons, on peril of their lives, to remain on that spot for one hour. They then returned to the chaises, removed the travelling trunks, and, carrying them off on horseback, hid them securely.

Then they hastened back to London. The next morning, in two chaises, they returned to the spot, and in security brought back the trunks, which contained, not only a large amount of money, but a mass of important documents belonging to the East India Company.

A reward of forty guineas was offered, by advertisement in the newspapers of the time, for the return of the documents, "and no questions asked." The advertisers themselves, by so doing, risked a fine of £50 for compounding a felony; but, in any case, the reward was never claimed, although Page carefully returned the papers anonymously.

The fact which at last cut the knot of William Page's existence was the robbing of Captain Farrington in 1757, on Blackheath. Among other things the Captain was compelled to render to this Cæsar of the roads was a gold repeater watch. Hotly pursued, Page gave the hue-and-cry a long chase for it, and finally, arriving at Richmond, had himself and his exhausted horse ferried across to Twickenham.

Soon after, finding the south of England ringing uncomfortably with the fame of his doings, he took ship for Scotland, but landed at Scarborough, where, at the fashionable spa, he gambled heavily and strutted awhile as a man of considerable fortune. But he must have been at last really alarmed and prepared to consider turning over a new leaf, for he went north to see his former master, the Earl of Glencairn, who, he thought, would be able to recommend him to employment in the plantations. The Earl, however, received him coldly, and he came south again, to resume his chosen profession, in company with Darwell, whom he had by constant alternate threats and persuasions seduced from the reformed life he was leading and the respectable situation he held, to take up again this hazardous calling.

Together they scoured the road to Tonbridge, Darwell forming, as it were, a rearguard. Page was pursued beyond Sevenoaks by five mounted men armed with pistols, and a blunderbuss, who dashed past Darwell, and after a struggle seized his leader, who presently escaped again. In their return, disappointed, they made a prisoner of Darwell, who, suspecting something of the kind would happen, had already thrown away his pistols. In spite of his indignant protestations that he was a private gentleman, and would not endure such an outrage, he was searched and a part of Captain Farrington's watch was found upon him, with the maker's name and most of the distinguishing marks more or less carefully obliterated. Questioned closely, he declared he had picked it up upon the road. As for the highwayman they had just now nearly captured, he knew nothing of him: had never set eyes on him before.

But, in spite of these denials, Darwell was taken off in custody and examined before a magistrate, who so plied him with questions, threats of what would happen to him if he continued obstinate, and promises of clemency if he would make discovery of his companion, that he at last turned King's evidence. During the interval, he was lodged in Maidstone gaol.

A fortnight later, Page was arrested in one of their old haunts in London, the "Golden Lion," near Grosvenor Square. He was at first taken to Newgate, but afterwards remitted to Maidstone, and tried there for the robbery of Captain Farrington. Convicted and sentenced to death, he was hanged on Penenden Heath, April 6th, 1758.

ISAAC DARKIN, _ALIAS_ DUMAS