in a very pretty little house on the edge of Red Lion Fields. On the
morning Tim made this discovery, his cash was reduced to a single crown.
It is true he had abundance of things of value, but when once they began
to go, he was conscious to himself that starving would be quickly their
lot, and what added more to his misfortunes was that his mistress,
amidst all her sighs and afflictions, declared she would rather continue
with him than go home to her relations, though from the indulgence of a
mother she did not doubt of meeting with a good reception.

However, they came to this resolution, that Jenny should go and raise
five guineas upon a diamond ring of his, and while she was gone on this
errand, poor Benson sat leaning with his head upon his arm in a window
that looked towards the fields. Casting up his eyes by chance, he saw a
gentleman walking up and down as if for his diversion, whereupon a
thought immediately struck him, that it would be an easy matter to rob
him, and by his appearance it was not unlikely but that he might prove a
good prize. Without reflecting, he resolved upon the thing, and putting
on over his nightgown an old great coat which he had in his closet and
with a case of pistols in his breast, he slipped out at the garden gate
without being perceived, and was up with him in an instant. Then, taking
the button of his hat in his teeth, he mumbled out, _Deliver or you're a
dead man._ The gentleman in great confusion gave him a green purse of
gold, and was going to pull his ring off from his finger, and his watch
out of his pocket, but Tim stopped him and said he had enough, only
commanded him to turn his back towards him, and not to alter his
position for fifteen minutes by his own watch. This the gentleman
religiously observed, and Tim made all the haste he could through the
garden into his own chamber, where having hid the cloak at the back of
the bed, he began to examine the value of the plunder, and found that
the purse contained seventy guineas and two diamond rings, one a single
stone and a very fine one, the other consisting of seven, but small and
of no great value. These he went down and buried in the garden, having
first burnt the purse in the fire.

The hurry of the fact being over, he sat down once again in his own
room, and had leisure to reflect a little on what he had done, which
threw him into such an agony that he was scarce able to sit upon the
chair. Shame at the villainy he had committed, the fear of being
apprehended, and the apprehensions of Tyburn, gave so many wounds to his
imagination that he thought his former uneasiness a state of quiet to
the pangs which he now felt, which were much more bitter, as well as of
a very different nature from anything he had known before.

In the midst of these terrors, he heard the voices of a great deal of
company in his landlady's parlour. The hopes of being a little easy
where he had not so much opportunity of affrighting himself with his own
thoughts, occasioned his going downstairs, and without well knowing what
he did, he knocked at the parlour door, which when opened, the first
thing which struck his eyes was the gentleman whom he had robbed,
drinking a glass of water. This gave him such a shock that he had much
ado to collect spirits enough to tell the gentlewoman of the house that
he perceived she had company, and therefore would not intrude. But she,
laying her hand upon his arm, said, _Pray, Mr. Benson, walk in; here's
nobody but a gentleman who has had the misfortune to be robbed in the
field, the fright of which has put him into such a disorder that he
desired to step in here that he might have leisure to come a little to
himself._ Tim saw it was impossible for him to retreat, and so putting
on the best face he was able, he came in and sat down.

The landlady began then to enquire the circumstances of the robbery.
_Why, madam_, replied he, _I was walking there, as I generally do of a
fine afternoon, in order to get a little fresh air, when a man came up
all of a sudden to me, close muffled up in a green or blue great-coat,
in truth I cannot say which. He clapped a pistol to my breast, and I
gave him my purse, and my niece's two rings, one of which cost me
fourscore guineas, but three weeks ago. And as I was afraid he would
murder me, I was going to give him this off my finger, and my watch out
of my pocket, but that the fellow said he had enough, and his leaving
these, surprised me almost as much as taking the rest. But what sort of
a man was he?_ said she. _Why, I think he was about that gentleman's
height_, added he; _but I am so short-sighted that I question whether I
should have known his face, even had it not been covered with his hat.
Besides I am so much taken with the rogue's generosity that I would not
prosecute him if I had him in the room._

This set Tim's heart so much at rest that he began to come to himself a
little, and asked the strange gentleman if he would not be so good as to
drink a glass of wine. A bottle was sent for, and during the time they
were drinking it, Jenny came in, and it being quite dark before they had
finished it, a coach was called, and Mr. Benson offered to see the
gentleman home, in order to which he was going upstairs to put on his
clothes. But this the stranger would not permit, begging him to go as he
was, upon which Jenny said, _Then, my dear, I'll fetch your great-coat._
He had much ado to desire the gentleman to walk to the coach and he'd go
as he was, which he did accordingly, and after drinking a glass of
citron water with the lady whose rings he had stolen, he came home again
as fast as the coach could carry him.

Jenny was very melancholy at his return, and giving him three guineas,
told him that it was all the pawnbroker would lend, and she had much ado
to get that, as she was not known. Tim bid her be of good cheer, and
said he hoped things would mend, and so they went to bed. Two or three
days after, he took an opportunity of going out pretty early, and
returning about dinner time, told her, with much seeming joy, that he
had met with a gentleman whom he had been acquainted with at Leyden, and
who hearing of his father's death, had begged him to accept of twenty
guineas as a mark to his esteem. Jenny was in raptures at their good
fortune, and went that afternoon and fetched the ring home, returning,
poor creature, with as much satisfaction as if she had received ever so
much money; for the hopes of living quietly a month or two with the man
she loved, dispelled all the apprehensions of poverty which she was
before under.

Tim considering that this supply would not last always, and resolving
with himself never to run such a hazard again, he began to beat his
brains about the best method to be taken of getting money in an honest
way. As he had been bred to no profession, notwithstanding the excellent
education he had had, never was a man more at his wits' end. After a
thousand schemes had offered themselves to his mind, and were rejected,
it came at last into his head that as he was tolerably versed in physic,
it might not be impossible for him to get his bread by that. But how to
get into practice, there was the difficulty. A little recollection
helped him here. He had seen a quack doctor exhibit his medicines, with
a panegyric on their good qualities, on his journey to London; he
resolved, scandalous as the profession was, to venture upon it, rather
than run the risk he had done before.

This scheme doubtless cost him some trouble before he brought it to bear
so as to give him any hopes of his putting it into execution, but having
at last settled it as well as he could, he determined with himself to go
down into some distant county and undertake it. In order to have his
thoughts at greater liberty to resolve about it, he took a walk into the
fields, and being very dry after his perambulation, he stepped into a
little alehouse, and called for a mug of drink. While he sat there he
heard two men discoursing upon the vast sums of money that was got by
one Smith, a practitioner in the very art which he was going to set up,
and he found by them that the chief scene of Smith's adventures had lain
in Lincolnshire and thereabouts; so without more ado, as all places were
alike to him, he settled his intentions to go down to the same place,
where he understood by the man that his _quondam_ doctor had done some
great cures and got a tolerable reputation.

When he came home, he could not avoid appearing very thoughtful, and
Jenny fearful of some new disaster, would not let him rest until he had
acquainted her fully with his design, which he would not consent to do
until she promised to comply with a proposal he was to make her, after
he had revealed the secret she was so desirous to know. When he had told
her his project, she next demanded what the condition was to which she
had bound herself to yield. Benson replied that it was to remain at some
place thirty or forty miles distant from where he intended to go, that
she might not be exposed to any inconveniences from that unhappy figure
he saw himself obliged to make. It was with great reluctance that she
ratified the consent he had given, but at length, after much persuasion,
she again acknowledged he was in the right, and promised to do as he
would have her. Things being thus adjusted, nothing remained for him to
do but to get ready for his journey, and that his mate might be the less
timorous of the event, he told her he had procured another supply of
twenty-five guineas.

His cloak-bag was soon stored with such medicines as he thought proper,
and having packed up a few practical books he thought he might have
occasion for, he took a place for himself and Jenny, who passed for his
wife, in the stage coach for Huntingdon, at a village near which, paying
the people for a month's board, he left his consort, and having hired
horses to Boston, he took a young fellow from Huntingdon with him
thither.

As Benson had a very smooth tongue, so he set off the wonderful
properties of his drugs in so artful a manner that in the space of a
fortnight he had cleared £10 besides his expenses. As he had left Jenny
five guineas in her pocket, he wrote to her to pay the people another
month's board, and assured her that he would return within that space.
Hiring accordingly visited Sleaford, and some other great towns
thereabouts, in seven weeks' time he set out for his return into
Huntingdonshire, with fifty guineas, all clear gain, in his pockets.
This good luck encouraged him to run through the greatest part of the
North of England in the same manner, and within the compass of three
years he cleared upwards of £500. At the time of his making this
calculation he was set down at Bristol, in order to exercise his talent
in that great city; but an unexpected accident broke all his measures.
Just as his stage was set up, and he mounted, and opening his harangue
which was now become familiar to him, a constable stepped up upon the
stage, and told him that a gentleman had sworn a robbery directly
against him, and he must go immediately before the mayor. This put him
into a lamentable confusion. He knew himself innocent, but the character
of a mountebank was sufficient to make the thing believed at first, and
therefore he could not be blamed for his apprehensions, especially
considering he took it as a just return for that robbery which he had
committed in town, and for which he made no satisfaction when it was so
fully in his power.

Upon his prosecutor's appearing before the mayor, and swearing flatly to
his face as to his robbing him of seven guineas, a silver watch, and a
snuff box, Tim had his _Mittimus_ made for Newgate; but upon his
desiring the mayor that his effects might be searched, but not
plundered, he had leave given him to return with the officer and see
them looked over at the inn. As many of them were valuable of
themselves, as the drugs were of the best sorts, and as he had several
letters from persons of good character, in the several counties through
which he had passed, and bank notes and bills to the value of £400, they
thought fit to report all this to the mayor, before they did anything.
The mayor thereupon resolved to act very cautiously, and having first
looked over everything himself, he then ordered the effects to be
delivered up to Mr. Benson, himself, who, however, was obliged to
undergo a confinement of eight weeks, till the assizes. The prosecutor
not appearing, and Mr. Benson, by permission of the Court, examining two
gentlemen of undoubted credit, who proved to his being at the time when
the robbery was sworn in another place, he was acquitted, and a copy of
his indictment ordered him. It seems a person under condemnation at
Hertford acknowledged the fact for which Tim had been committed, and
produced both the snuff-box and watch; which though the gentleman who
lost them got again, yet it proved an affair of very ill-consequence to
him, for he was obliged to give Benson one hundred guineas to obtain a
general release, and Tim fearing the noise of the thing had undone his
reputation, resolved to go over to America and settle there.

A gentleman at Bristol who traded largely to the plantations offered him
his assistance in the affair, and matters being quickly adjusted between
them, Tim, to show himself grateful, and a man of honour, was married
privately to Jenny, whom he resolved should be the companion of his
future fortunes, as she had hitherto been the constant solace of all his
sorrows. But before they set out, he thought it proper to make a journey
to London, as well as to provide some necessary articles in the
profession he intended to follow, as to make an end of a little affair
which we have before related, and which lay very hard upon his
conscience. To town then came Jenny and he, and took a lodging near
Tower Street, where in about a fortnight's time, Mr. Benson had put
everything in order for his voyage. The day before he sat out on his
return for Bristol, he wrote the following letter to the old gentleman
he had robbed, and who as he informed himself, was still living at the
same place.

Sir,

Under the pressure of severe necessity my misfortunes tempted me to
commit so great a piece of villainy as the robbing you in Red Lion
Fields. You may remember, sir, that I took from you a green purse,
in which was seventy guineas, and two diamond rings, the one of a
large, the other of a less value. The first comes to you enclosed in
this, the latter, the same necessity which urged me so far as to
take them, obliged me some months after to dispose of, which I did
for fourteen pounds. As a satisfaction for the injury I did you, be
so good, sir, as to accept of the enclosed note of one hundred
pounds, which I hope will amount to the whole value of those things
I took from you, and may I flatter myself, procure your pardon, the
only thing wanting to making him easy, who is,

Sir,
Your most obedient
Humble Servant.

This he took care to convey by a ticket-porter of whose fidelity he was
well assured, and having despatched this affair, he let slip nothing to
make his intended voyage successful. His skill in his profession was
such that he soon had as much business in the plantation where he
settled, as he knew what to do with, and in seven or eight years'
practice, acquired such an estate as was sufficient to furnish him with
all the necessaries of life, upon which he lived when he gave this
account to the gentleman who communicated it to me. And as it is an
instance of a return of virtue not often to be met with, I thought it
might be as useful as any other relation which hitherto had a place in
this confession.




The Life of JOSEPH SHREWSBERRY, _alias_ SMITH, a Robber, etc.


This unhappy criminal of whom we are now to speak was the son of parents
in so mean circumstances that they were not able to give him any
education at all; yet they were careful in carrying him constantly to
church with them, and instructing him as far as they were able in the
principles of the Christian faith, and did everything that narrow
capacity would give them leave, in order to enable him to get his bread
in some honest employment. Then they put him out apprentice to a tanner
in the neighbourhood, a very honest, considerate man, who treated him
with all the indulgence and kindness he could have wished throughout the
time of his apprenticeship. But he was so unfortunate as to fall into
the company of a set of giddy young people who were totally addicted to
merry-making and dancing, which when he had once got into the road of,
he so neglected his business that his master, after abundance of
reproofs, was obliged to part with him.

He had not at that time any designs of doing anything like the fact for
which he afterwards suffered, but continuing still to frequent his
dancing-mates' company, they promised to put him into a road to supply
him with money enough to live without working, provided he had courage
to do as they would have him; and he, without considering what he did,
giving consent to their motions, went out one evening with David
Anderson, Country Will and Jenny Austin, and after a while they stripped
one Thomas Collier, and robbed him of his coat and waistcoat, hat, and a
pair of silver buckles and other things, with a half guinea in gold, and
twenty-five shillings in silver. For this offence he was quickly after
committed, apprehended, and sent to Newgate, where, upon a plain proof
of the fact, he was convicted and ordered for execution.

When the poor man was under sentence of death, he sufficiently repented
those idle hours he had consumed in dancing, and in the other merriments
into which he had been led by his companions. He was now sensible how
easily he might have lived if he had taken the advice of his kind
master, who with so much pains endeavoured not only to instruct him in
his profession, but also to reclaim him from those follies in which he
saw him engaged. The thoughts of death threw him into violent agonies
from whence his natural sense (of which he had a great deal) at last in
some measure recovered him; and when upon the coming down of the death
warrant, he saw there were no hopes left for him in this life, he
applied himself with very great ardency to secure happiness in the next.

He declared that the fact for which he died was the first he ever
committed, and that the depositions against him were not exactly
conformable to truth. A day or two before his death, he appeared to be
very calm and very cheerful, submitted with a perfect resignation to the
lot which had befallen him, and at the place of execution exhorted the
people not to let their curiosity only be satisfied in the sight of his
wretched death, but he warned them also from the commission of such
crimes as might bring them to a like fate. He suffered on the 3rd of
November, 1726, at Tyburn, being then about twenty-two years of age.




The Life of ANTHONY DRURY, a Highwayman


This unfortunate man, whose fate made a great noise in the town at the
time it happened, was born of parents neither mean in family nor
fortune, in the county of Norfolk, where he received his education, on
which no little pains and expense were bestowed. As to the particular
circumstances of his life in his most early years, as no exact accounts
have come to my hands, so I do not think myself obliged to frame any
adventures for the entertainment of my readers, a practice very common,
yet I think unjustifiable in itself. All that I can is that it appears
he lived at Oxford and Bicester before he came to Wendover, at which
place he had a house and family at the time of his death.

He was not, as far as I am able to learn, bred up to any particular
profession whatever, his parents leaving him in circumstances capable of
supporting himself. However, whether he arrived at it after some
misfortunes, or had it discovered to him before, certain it is that he
gained some knowledge in the act of curing smoking chimneys, by which
he got very considerably, and from whence be derived the name of the
Smoky Chimney Doctor, by which he was commonly known in the county of
Bucks.

Some few years before his death, he married a widow gentlewoman at
Oxford, of a considerable fortune. The world (though something too
largely) reported that she had fifteen hundred pounds. However it were,
he still addicted himself to women, and in all probability made her but
an indifferent husband, since she took so little care about him, when in
the midst of so great calamities. However it were, he maintained a
tolerable character in the neighbourhood, and his credit had not been
impeached in any degree when he committed the fact I am going to relate.

On the twenty-fifth of September, 1726, he attacked the Bicester wagon
as it was coming from London, and committed the following robberies
therein, viz., he took from Thomas Eldridge, fifteen moidores, two
hundred and ten guineas, eighty half-guineas, and the goods and money of
Mr. Burrows. He was likewise indicted and found guilty for assaulting
Sarah, the wife of Robert King, on the highway, and robbing her of two
shillings and sixpence. As likewise on a third indictment, for
assaulting the aforesaid Thomas Eldridge, and taking from him a calico
gown and petticoat, value twenty shillings, the goods of Giles Betts.
There was a fourth indictment against him for assaulting Mary, the wife
of Joseph Page, and taking from her two shillings and sixpence, but the
three former being all capital, the court did not think proper to try
him upon this.

While he lay under sentence of death he did not discover any signs of
excessive fear, but appeared rather perplexed and confused than
dispirited or dejected. He entertained at first great hopes of a
reprieve, at least in order to be transported, and for obtaining it he
spent a great deal of time writing to several friends who he thought
might be instrumental in procuring it. However, he was far from
neglecting the concerns of his soul, but read daily with much seeming
diligence several little books proper for a man in his condition, and
whenever he attended at chapel behaved with the utmost gravity, praying,
if we may guess from exterior signs, with much fervour and devotion. He
was a man very well acquainted with the principles of the Christian
religion, and was in all appearance better persuaded of the merit and
efficacy of his Saviour's passion than people often are in his
condition.

As to his capacity, it appeared to have been very tolerable in itself,
and to have received many advantages from education. How he acquired
the art of curing smoky chimneys is not very well known, he having been
bred up to no trade whatsoever, but coming into the world with a little
fortune left him by his parents, he lived thereupon with a tolerable
reputation, until the time of his marriage.

When he was first under sentence he was very desirous of having his wife
come to town, and for that purpose wrote her several pressing letters,
to which he received no answer. This gave him great disturbance. He
thereupon wrote to a friend in the country, who lived near her, on whom
also he had a strong dependance, entreating him to go to his wife and
solicit her not absolutely to desert him in his extreme calamity, but to
come up to town with him, in order to make their last efforts for his
preservation. This epistle, however, proved in the main as unsuccessful
as the rest, though it procured him an answer, wherein the person he
wrote to informed him that his wife was extremely lame, insomuch that
she could not put on her own clothes; that her servant was gone; that
she had no money wherewith to defray the expenses of a journey to town,
much less to assist him in his distress. As for himself, his friend
excused his coming by reason of a great cold which he had caught in
London when he came up before to attend Mr. Drury's affairs.

Hereupon the unfortunate criminal bethought himself of another
expedient, which he imagined would not fail of engaging Mrs. Drury to
come to London. He informed her by letter, that in the beginning of his
troubles he had pawned some silver plate in town for four-and-twenty
pounds, that it was more than double the value, and might probably be
lost on his death. To this his friend wrote him back that if anybody
would take the plate out, and give advice thereof to Mrs. Drury, she
would repay them, and gratify them also for their trouble. When this
letter came to the poor man's hand he said he was satisfied that his
wife did not desire he should live, however he heartily forgave her.

He constantly denied that he had ever been concerned in any act of a
like kind with that for which he died. He acknowledged that with what
his wife had, and the business he followed, he might have lived very
genteelly in the country; that he had not indeed, been very prudent in
the management of his affairs; however, it was no necessity that forced
him on the base and wicked act for which he died, the sole cause of his
committing which was, as he solemnly protested, the repeated
solicitations of King, the wagoner, who for a considerable time before
represented the attempt to him as a thing no way dangerous in itself,
and which would bring him a very large sum of ready money. As soon as
King perceived that his insinuations begun to make some impression, he
opened himself more fully as to the facility of robbing the Bicester
wagon, _Wherein_, says he, _you will find generally a pretty handsome
sum of money; and as to opposition, depend on it you shall meet with
none._ At last these speeches prevailed on him, and it was agreed that
the wagoner should have half the booty for his advice and assistance;
and the better to conceal it, Drury, was directed to rob King's wife of
about four pounds, which was all she had about her.

A minister of the Church of England, who was either acquainted with Mr.
Drury, or out of charitable intention, attended him at the request of
his friends, took abundance of pains to give him just notions of his
duty in that unfortunate slate into which his folly had brought him; he
repeated to him the reasons which render a public confession necessary
from those who die by judgment of the Law; he exhorted him not to
equivocate, or even extenuate in his declarations concerning his
offence. Mr. Drury heard him with great patience, seemed to be much
affected with the remonstrances which were made to him, and finally
promised that he would act sincerely in the confessions he made to the
public; adding that he had none in whom to trust but God alone, and
therefore he would not offend him. The reverend divine to whom he spoke
approved his resolution, and promised to afford him all the assistance
in his power till death.

As soon as the criminal was satisfied that all applications that had
been made for mercy were ineffectual, and that there was not the least
probability of a pardon, he immediately sent for the clergyman
before-mentioned, and desired to receive the Sacrament at his hands, to
which the gentleman readily assented, uttering only a short previous
exhortation unto a true repentance, open and genuine confession, and
full and free forgiveness unto all who had ever injured him, or unto
whom he bore any ill will. Mr. Drury, therefore, before he received the
Elements, owned in express terms his being guilty of the fact for which
he died, affirmed the truth of what he had formerly said concerning the
wagoner, declared that he forgave both him and his own wife sincerely,
and that having now in some measure eased his mind, he was no longer
afraid of death.

Mr. Drury, even after receiving sentence, was indulged by the keepers of
Newgate in having a room to himself in the Press Yard, which afforded
him leisure and privacy for his devotions; and he seemed, especially for
the last days of his life, to make proper use of those conveniences by
excluding himself from all company and applying earnestly to God in
prayer for the forgiveness of his sins. During the two or three days
succeeding that whereon he received sentence, a gentlewoman attended
pretty constantly upon him. Who she was we can neither say, nor is it
very material; but Mr. Drury appealing to her in the presence of some
persons, as to the truth of what he alleged concerning King, the
wagoner, she desired to relate what she knew as to that point. The
account she gave was to this purpose. _Mr. Drury carried me out of town
with him in a chaise to Wendover. On the road we were met by the wagoner
he speaks on, who desired Mr. Drury to step out, for he wanted to speak
with him. Thereupon he complying with the wagoner's request, they walked
together to a considerable distance, and there stopping talked to each
other very earnestly for some time._ As to the subject of their
discourse she declared she could say nothing, but as they came back to
the chaise, the wagoner said, _You need not be afraid, you will be sure
to get what you want._ To say truth, it was very odd for a single man to
rob a wagon to which so many people belonged, in company with several
other wagons, without any opposition, though it be likewise true that he
did not attempt any of the rest.

Some persons of quality were prevailed on by his earnest solicitations
and the circumstances we have before mentioned to endeavour the
procuring him a pardon, but it was in vain; and it would have certainly
have been much better for the man if he never had any hopes given him,
for though he did not depend as much on promises as men in his miserable
condition frequently do, yet the desire of life, sometimes excited the
hopes of it, and thereby took off his thoughts from more weighty
concerns, or at least made him more languid and confused than otherways
he would have been, for the very day before his death he still
entertained some expectations of mercy.

The evening before he suffered a woman knocked at his chamber door, and
earnestly desired to speak a few words to him. He accordingly came
towards the door and asked her what it was she would have to say to him.
The woman, after expressing much sorrow for his misfortunes, told him
she was desired by a person to whom she had been servant, if the thing
were possible, to learn from his own mouth what he had to say against
the wagoner. Mr. Drury replied that he had never had any thought of
robbing wagons, or any such thing, if the wagoner had not advised and
pressed him to it; so that his blood, the loss of his life, and all he
had in the world lay upon that man. Then shutting the door he returned
to his devotions, and continued to them all the evening and until the
night was considerably spent.

As death drew near it seemed not to affect him so much as might be
expected. On the morning of his execution he appeared not only easy, but
cheerful, attended at the prayers at chapel with much composure, and
went out of Newgate without any sign of fright or disturbance of mind.
On the road to Tyburn he appeared serious but melancholy, spoke a good
deal concerning the errors of his former life, said he had never bees
addicted to drinking, but had conversed too much with bad women, which
had made his wife jealous, and caused home to be very uneasy. He seemed
truly penitent for these offences, as he confessed them without any
questions being asked by those about him.

At the place of execution his courage did not forsake him. He still
preserved a great deal of serenity in his countenance, and when he was
desired to acquaint the people with anything he had to say concerning
the crime for which he died, he spoke with a strong voice, and repeated
what he had formerly alleged about King, the wagoner, adding that he
advised him also to rob the Banbury wagon; and that notwithstanding he
talked of his wife's having four pounds about her, yet he took but three
shillings, whereon the third indictment was founded, on which he was
convicted. He then complained of his wife's unkindness, and both prayed
for the spectators, and desired their prayers for him. As he was leaning
on the side of the cart, the Ordinary told him that a man had charged
him the day before with having married a man's daughter at Norwich, who
is still living. Mr. Drury answered, he was reproached by many people,
and he forgave them all, he then called to a gentleman who was near the
gallows and spoke to him about his estate, which he had before settled.
Afterwards he exhorted the people to live virtuously, and be warned by
his example, and then submitted patiently to his fate, on Thursday, the
third of November, 1726, being at that time of his decease about
twenty-eight years of age.




The Life of WILLIAM MILLER, a Highwayman, etc.


As necessary correction is often a method by which, when young people
begin to stray into the paths of vice, they are deterred and brought
back again into the road of virtue; yet when this is incautiously
inflicted or done in a violent manner, it frequently excites worse
thoughts than would otherwise probably have entered the breasts of young
people thus punished; and instead of hindering them from committing
trivial offences, puts them on doing the worst things imaginable in
order to deliver them from a state more hateful to them than death
itself.

This criminal William Miller, was the son of very honest parents who
lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, who took care to give him a good
education, and what was much more commendable, a good example. They put
him out apprentice to a tradesman at Alnwick, with whom he might have
lived tolerably well had it not been for the churlishness of his
master's temper, who was continually picking quarrels with him, and
thereupon beating him inhumanly. At last an accident happened which
supplied a continual fund of anger and resentment and this was on
account of William's losing a horse, which, though his friends paid for,
yet every time it came into his masters head there was a battle between
them; for Miller being now grown pretty big made resistance when he
struck him, and not seldom got the better of him, and beat him in his
turn. This occasioned such disturbances and falling out between them
that at last Miller took a resolution for leaving him for good and all,
and determined to live as he could, up and down the country.

At first he was so lucky as to meet with a man who employed him readily,
treated him with kindness, and gave him good advice, without
accompanying his reproofs with blows; but upon discovering that his man
William had not served out his time, but had only five years and a half
with his master, he absolutely refused to suffer him to work any longer.
It was with great reluctancy that Miller parted with this master, and he
became every day after more and more uneasy, because he found no other
master would let him work with them, upon the same account; so that by
degrees he was reduced to the great necessity in the country, and though
he was willing to work, yet could not tell which way to turn his hand.

In the midst of these perplexities, he bethought himself of coming up to
London, which he put in execution. On his arrival there he listed
himself as a soldier in one of the regiments of Guards, and as it is no
very hard matter in this town, got abundance of amorous affairs upon his
hands. With one woman he lived a short time after his coming up to
London, but her he soon turned off for the sake of another, who was a
blacksmith's wife, and whom he married, notwithstanding her first
husband was then to his acknowledge alive. This was, indeed, the source
of a great part of his misfortunes, since what between the woman's
drinking and the money which the husband got out of him for permitting
him to live quietly with her, he was (notwithstanding he had learnt a
new employment, viz., that of a basket maker) miserably poor; and the
woman having brought him a child to increase his expenses, he was at
last forced, whether he would or no, to leave her and it both. After
this he associated with another woman, and at length married her also,
with whom he lived quietly enough until the time of his death. These
numerous intrigues drew him in consequence into a multitude of other
vices, which both lost him his reputation, and damaged his
understanding, especially when he came to drink hard, which he at last
did to such a degree that he was seldom or never sober, or if he were,
the reflecting on his misfortunes pushed him on getting drunk as fast as
he could--a case but too common amongst the meaner sort of people, who
as they have no philosophy of learning to support them, endeavour to
drown all care by sotting.

Whether Miller really intended to go a-robbing at the time he committed
the fact for which he died, or whether drunkenness and the sense, even
in that condition which he retained of his misfortune, on a sudden
suggested to him the stripping of the old man Nicholas Bourn under the
favour of the night, certain it is (though from motives we cannot
determine) that he attacked the man and took from him his coat and hat.
On the injured person's crying out a watchman ran immediately to his
assistance, and with his pole, notwithstanding Miller drew his bayonet,
knocked him down, and so seized him and delivered him up to Justice. At
the next sessions at the Old Bailey he was indicted for this fact, and
the same was very fully and clearly proved against him; yet though he
had no friends capable of procuring him either a reprieve or pardon, he
had the good luck to remain a considerable space under condemnation,
viz., from one sessions to another, before the report was made, and so
had the greater leisure left him for repentance.

During the space he lay in the condemned hold he expressed a very hearty
sorrow for all his offences and particularly regretted his having
addicted himself so much to the company of women, which, as it at first
led him into expenses, naturally brought him into narrow circumstances;
and his necessities unfortunately put him upon taking the fatal method
of supplying himself. Yet in the midst of these tokens of penitence and
contrition several women came still about him, so he resolved to send
the child he had by the second down to his friends in the country, not
doubting, as he said, but that they would take care of it. And for the
last of those who went for his wife, he really looked upon her as such,
and therefore treated her with more kindness and affection than he did
any of the rest. However, doubtless they were no great help to him in
his preparations for death. And amongst the other miseries produced, to
our view, this is not a small one, that they continue to pursue us even
to the last, and fasten so strongly about our thoughts and inclinations
that as at first, they defeated all consideration, so in the end they
are in danger of preventing a hearty and sincere repentance.

As to the particular fact for which he was to die, he acknowledged
himself guilty thereof, but for all that objected to the several
circumstances that were sworn against him at his trial; nor could all
the arguments that were used towards him persuade him that those
trifling variations (for as he himself represented them they were no
more) were not now at all material to him, but that as he justly
deserved to die according to his own confession, it signified little to
him whether the particular steps taken in his apprehension were exactly
stated by the Court or not. As the day of his execution drew near, he
receded a little from these objections, and began to set himself in
earnest to acquire that calmness with which every reasonable man would
desire to meet death. The women he forbid visiting him, refused to eat
or drink anything but what was absolutely necessary to support Nature,
plied himself regularly and constantly to his devotions, and seemed to
have nothing at heart but to reconcile himself to that Divine Being, who
by the multitude of his crimes he had so much offended. To say truth, it
was not a little wonderful that a person after continuing for such a
length of time in the practice of wickedness and debauchery, should at
last be capable of applying himself with such zeal and attention to the
duties of a dying man. He yielded up his life the 13th of February,
1727, at Tyburn, being then twenty-six years of age.




The Life of ROBERT HAYNES, a Murderer, etc.


As from a multitude of instances in the course of these memoirs it has
been shown how great a misfortune it is to be destitute of education, so
from the following life it will appear that an improper education is as
dangerous as none at all.

Robert Haynes, the criminal whose history we are to give at present, was
the son of persons in Ireland, of none of the best circumstances, who
yet afforded him a very good education, causing him to be instructed not
only in the Latin, but also in the Greek tongue, in both of which to the
day of his death he attained a tolerable knowledge. His father, it
seems, though he had done everything for his son in breeding him a
scholar, though when he grew up to man's estate he had nothing to give
him, and was forced to let him come over to England to list himself in
the Foot Guards. His officers gave him always the character of a quiet,
inoffensive lad, who injured nobody, nor was himself addicted to those
vices which are common to the men of his profession. On the contrary, he
retained yet strong notions of those religious principles in which he
had been educated. He addicted himself much to reading, and though his
spirit was not a little broken by the consideration of that low life by
which he was obliged to stoop, yet he preserved a becoming spirit and a
very gentleman-like behaviour upon all occasions; so that the officers
of his regiment very much regretted that misfortune which brought him to
an untimely end. Of the occasion of this we come next to speak, since
his youth and the regularity of his life prevented any other of his
adventures coming to our notice.

It happened one Sunday evening, as he was walking along St. James's
Park, with two other soldiers, they met two men and two women. Haynes
unluckily kissed one of the women, upon which one of the men turned and
broke his head. As was insisted even to the time of the death of this
unfortunate person, the swords of both were drawn; however that were, he
gave his antagonist a wound in the breast of which he died. For this he
was apprehended and committed prisoner to Newgate. At the ensuing
sessions of the Old Bailey he was indicted for wilfully murdering Edward
Perry, by giving him a wound on the left part of the right breast near
the short ribs, of the depth of twelve inches, and of the length of one.
He was also indicted a second time on the Statute of Stabbing, and a
third time upon the coroner's inquest for wilful murder. On all three of
which, notwithstanding his defence, and the witnesses he called, he was
found guilty; and although some honourable persons took a great deal of
pains to procure a pardon or reprieve for him, yet it proved of no
purpose, but he and the afore-mentioned malefactor were put into the
death warrant and ordered for execution.

For himself he had little hopes from the endeavours of his friends and
therefore behaved himself as if he had had none, being not only constant
and devout at the public exercises in the chapel, but also ardent in his
devotions in private and by himself. As the youth wanted not good sense,
and had not forgot the education he had received in Ireland, so in every
respect while under sentence of death he performed what could be
expected from a man of courage, and a Christian, under his
circumstances. A minister, out of charity, visited him several times and
prayed with him, exhorting him always to make a dear and candid
confession of the fact, and, since there were no hopes, not to go to
death with a lie between his lips. Yet he persisted still in what he
had at first declared, and continued to assert the truth of that
declaration, until the gaol sickness brought him so low, that he was
scarce able to speak at all. In this low slate of health he continued
until within two or three days of his death, when he began to pick up
strength a little; and as soon as he was able to go up the stairs, he
attended as usual the devotions of the chapel. In this frame and
disposition of heart he remained until the day of his execution came,
upon which he appeared not only calm but cheerful, received the
Sacrament as is usual with malefactors at the day of their death, and
behaved at it in a very pious and religious manner.

When he came to Tyburn he stood up, and intended to have spoken to the