The Life of JOHN YOUNG, a Highwayman




I have more than once remarked in the course of these memoirs that of
all crimes, cruelty makes men the most generally hated, and that from
this reasonable cause, that they seem to have taken up an aversion to
their own kind. This was remarkably the case of the unhappy man of whom
we are now speaking.

He was, it seems, the son of very honest and industrious parents, his
father being a gardener at Kensington. From him he received as good an
education as it was in his power to give him, and was treated with all
the indulgence that could be expected from a tender parent; and it seems
that after five years' stay at school, he was qualified for any business
whatsoever. So after consulting his own inclinations he was put out
apprentice to a coach-maker in Long Acre, where he stayed not long; but
finding all work disagreeable to him, he therefore resolved to be gone,
let the consequence be what it would. When this resolve was once taken,
it was but a very short time before it was put into execution. Living
now at large, and not knowing how to gain money enough to support
himself, and therefore being in very great straits, he complied with the
solicitations of some hackney-coachmen, who advised him to learn their
trade. They took some pains to instruct him, employed him often, and in
about six months time he became perfect master of his business, and
drove for Mr. Blunt, in Piccadilly. His behaviour here was so honest
that Mr. Blunt gave him a good character, and he thereby obtained the
place of a gentleman's coachmen. In a short time he saved money and
began to have some relish for an honest life; and continuing
industriously to hoard up what he received either in wages or vales
[tips] at last by these methods he drew together a very considerable sum
of money.

And then it came into his head to settle himself in an honest way of
life, in which design his father gave him all the encouragement that was
in his power, telling him in order to do it, he should marry an honest,
virtuous woman. Whereupon, with the advice and consent of his parents,
he married a young woman of a reputable family from Kentish Town, who,
as to fortune, brought him a pretty little addition to his own savings,
so that altogether he had, according to his own account, a very pretty
competency wherewith to begin the world.

For some time after his marriage he indulged himself in living without
employment, but finding such a course wasted his little stock very fast,
he began to apply his thoughts to the consideration of what course was
the most likely to get his bread in. After beating his brains for some
little time on this subject he at last resolved on keeping a
public-house; which agreeing very well with his father's and relations'
notions, he thereupon immediately took the King's Arms, in Red Lion
Street, where for some time he continued to have very good business. In
all, he remained there about five years, and might in that time have got
a very pretty sum of money if he had not been so unhappy as to grow
proud, as soon as he had anything in his pocket. It was not long,
therefore, before he gave way to his own roving disposition, going over
to Ireland, where he remained for a considerable space, living by his
wits as he expresses it, or, in the language of honest people, by
defrauding others.

But Ireland is a country where such sort of people are not likely to
support themselves long; money is far from being plentiful, and though
the common people are credulous in their nature, yet tradesmen and the
folks of middling ranks are as suspicious as any nation in the world.
The county of West Meath was the place where he had fixed his residence
for the greatest part of the time he continued in the island, but at
last it grew too hot for him. The inhabitants became sensible of his way
of living, and gave him such disturbance that he found himself under an
indispensable necessity of quitting that place as soon as possibly he
could; and so having picked up as much money as would pay for his
passage, he came over again into England, out of humour with rambling
while he felt the uneasiness it had brought upon him, but ready to take
it up again as soon as ever his circumstances were made a little easy,
which in his present condition was not likely to happen in haste.

His friends received him very coldly, his parents had it not in their
power to do more for him. In a word, the countenance of the world
frowned upon him, and everybody treated him with that disdain and
contempt which his foolish behaviour deserved. However, instead of
reclaiming him, this forced him upon worse courses. His wife, it seems,
either died in his absence, or was dead before he went abroad, and soon
after his return he contracted an acquaintance with a woman, who was at
that time cook in the family of a certain bishop; her he courted and a
short time after, married. She brought him not only some ready money,
but also goods to a pretty large value. Young being not a bit mended by
his misfortunes, squandered away the first in a very short time, and
turned the last into ready money. However, these supplies were of not
very long continuance, and with much importunity his friends, in order,
if it were possible, to keep him honest, got him in a small place in
the Revenue, and he was put in as one of the officers to survey
candles. In this post he continued for about a twelvemonth, and then
relapsing into his former idle and profligate courses, he was quickly
suspected and thereby put to his shifts again, though his wife at that
time was in place, and helped him very frequently with money.

This, it seems, was too servile a course for a man of Mr. Young's spirit
to take, so that he picked up as much as bought him a pair of pistols,
and then went upon the highway, to which it seems the foolish pride of
not being dependant upon his wife did at that time not a little
contribute. In his first adventure in this new employment, he got
fifteen guineas, but being in a very great apprehension of a pursuit,
his fears engaged him to fly down to Bristol, in order, if it were
possible, to avoid them. After staying there some considerable time, he
began at last to take heart, and to fancy he might be forgotten. Upon
these hopes he resolved with himself to come up towards London again;
and taking advantage of a person travelling with him to Uxbridge, he
made use of every method in his power to insinuate himself into his
fellow traveller's good graces. This he effected, insomuch that at High
Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire, as Young himself told the story, he
prevailed on him to lend him three half-crowns to defray his expenses,
pretending that he had some friend or relation hard by who would repay
him. But unfortunately for the man, he had talked too freely of a sum of
money which he pretended to have about him. It thereupon raised an
inclination in Young to strip him and rob him of this supposed great
prize; for which purpose he attacked him in a lone place, and not only
threatened him with shooting him, but as he pretended, by his hand
shaking, was as good as his word, and actually wounded him in such a
manner as he in all probability at that time took to be mortal; but
taking advantage of the condition in which the poor man was, he made the
best of his way off, and was so lucky as to escape for the present,
although that crime brought him afterwards to his execution.

When he had considered a little the nature of the fact which he had
committed, it appeared even to himself of so black and barbarous a
nature that he resolved to fly to the West of England, in order to
remain there for some time. But from this he was deterred by looking
into a newspaper and finding himself advertised there; the man whom he
had shot being also said to be dead, this put him into such a
consternation that he returned directly to London, and going to a place
hard by where his wife lived, he sent for her, and told her that he was
threatened with an unfortunate affair which might be of the greatest
ill-consequence to him if he should be discovered. She seemed to be
extremely moved at his misfortunes, and gave him what money she could
spare, which was not a little, insomuch that Young at last began to
suspect she made bold now and then to borrow of her mistress; but if she
did, that was a practice he could forgive her. At last he proposed
taking a lodging for himself at Horsely Down,[101] as a place the
likeliest for him to be concealed in. There his wife continued to supply
him, until one Sunday morning she came in a great hurry and brought with
her a pretty handsome parcel of guineas. Young could not help suspecting
she did not come very honestly by them. However, if he had the money he
troubled not his head much which way he came by it, and he had so good a
knack of wheedling her that he got twenty pounds out of her that Sunday.

A very few days after, intelligence was got of his retreat, and the man
whom he had robbed and shot made so indefatigable a search after him,
that he was taken up and committed to the New Gaol, and his wife, a very
little time after, was committed to Newgate for breaking open her lady's
escrutoire, and robbing her of a hundred guineas. This was what Young
said himself and I repeat it because I have his memoirs before me. Yet
in respect to truth, I shall be obliged to say something of another
nature in its due place; but to go on with our narration according to
the time in which facts happened.

A _Habeas Corpus_ was directed to the sheriff of Surrey, whereupon Young
was brought to Newgate, and at the next sessions of the Old Bailey was
indicted for the aforesaid robbery, which was committed in the county of
Middlesex. The charge against him was for assaulting Thomas Stinton, in
a field or open place near the Highway, and taking from him a mare of
the value of seven pounds, a bridle value one shilling and sixpence, a
saddle value twelve shillings, three broad-pieces of gold and nine
shillings in silver, at the same time putting the said Thomas Stinton in
fear of his life.

Upon this indictment the prosecutor deposed that meeting with the
prisoner about seven miles on this side of Bristol, and being glad of
each other's company, they continued and lodged together till they came
to Oxford; where the prisoner complaining that he was short of money,
the prosecutor lent him a crown out of his pocket, and at Loudwater, the
place where they lodged next night, he lent him half a crown more. The
next morning they came for London, and being a little on this side of
Uxbridge, Young said he had a friend in Hounslow who would advance him
the money which he had borrowed from the prosecutor, and thereupon
desired Mr. Stinton to go with him thither, to which he agreed; and
Young thereupon persuaded him to go by a nearer way, and under that
pretence after making him leap hedges and ditches, at last brought him
to a place by the river side, where on a sudden he knocked him off his
horse, and that with such force that he made the blood gush out of his
nose and mouth.

As soon as Young perceived that the prosecutor had recovered his senses
a little, he demanded his money, to which Mr. Stinton replied, _Is this
the manner in which you treat your friend? You see, I have not strength
to give you anything._ Whereupon Young took from him his pocket-book and
money. And Mr. Stinton earnestly entreating that he would give him
somewhat to bear his expenses home, in answer thereto Young said, _Ay,
I'll give you what shall carry you home straight_, and then shot him in
the neck, and pushing him down into the ditch, said, _Lie there._ Some
time after with much ado, Mr. Stinton crawled out and got to a house,
but saw no more of the prisoner, or of either of their mares.

George Hartwell deposed that he helped both the prisoner and the
prosecutor to the inn where they lay at Oxford. Sarah Howard deposed
that she kept the inn or house where they lodged at Loudwater the night
before the robbery was committed. And all the witnesses, as well as the
prosecutor being positive to the person of the prisoner, the charge
seemed to be as fully proved as it was possible for a thing of that
nature to admit.

The prisoner in his defence did not pretend to deny the fact, but as
much as he was able endeavoured to extenuate it. He said, that for his
part he did not know anything of the mare; that the going off the pistol
was merely accidental; that he did, indeed, take the money, and
therefore, did not expect any other than to suffer death, but that it
would be a great satisfaction to him, even in his last moments, that he
neither had or ever intended to commit any murder. But those words in
the prosecutor's evidence, _I'll give you something to carry you home_,
and _Lie there_ (that is in the ditch) being mentioned in summing up the
evidence to the jury, Young, with great warmth and many asseverations,
denied that he made use of them. The jury, after a very short
consideration, being full satisfied with the evidence which had been
offered, found him guilty.

The very same day his wife was indicted for the robbery of her mistress,
when the fact was charged upon her thus: that she on a Sunday, conveyed
Young secretly upstairs in her mistress's house, where she passed for a
single woman; that he took an opportunity to break open a closet and to
steal from thence ninety guineas, and ten pounds in silver; a satin
petticoat value thirty shillings, and an orange crepe petticoat were
also carried off; and she asking leave of her lady to go out in the
afternoon, took that opportunity to go quite away, not being heard of
for a long time. Upon her husband being apprehended for the fact for
which he died, somebody remembered her and the story of her robbing her
mistress, caused her thereupon to be apprehended. Not being able to
prove her marriage at the time of her trial, she was convicted, and
ordered for transportation. This was a very different story from that
which Young told in his relations of his wife's adventure, but when it
came to be mentioned to that unhappy man and pressed upon him, though he
could not be brought to acknowledge it, yet he never denied it; which
the Ordinary says, was a method of proceeding he took up, because
unwilling to confess the truth, and afraid when so near death to tell a
lie.

When under sentence of death, this unfortunate person began to have a
true sense of his own miserable condition; he was very far from denying
the crime for which he suffered, although he still continued to deny
some of the circumstances of it. The judgment which had been pronounced
upon him, he acknowledged to be very just and reasonable, and was so far
from being either angry or affrighted at the death he was to die that on
the contrary he said it was the only thing that gave his thoughts ease.
To say truth, the force of religion was never more visible in any man
than it was in this unfortunate malefactor. He was sensible of his
repentance being both forced and late, which made him attend to the
duties thereof with an extraordinary fervour and application. He said
that the thoughts of his dissolution had no other effect upon him than
to quicken his diligence in imploring God for pardon. To all those who
visited him either from their knowledge of him in former circumstances,
or, as too many do, from the curiosity of observing how he would behave
under those melancholy circumstances in which he then was, he discoursed
of nothing but death, eternity, and future judgment. The gravity of his
temper and the serious turn of his thoughts was never interrupted in any
respect throughout the whole space of time in which he lay under
condemnation; on the contrary, he every day appeared to have more and
more improved from his meditations and almost continual devotions,
appearing frequently when at chapel wrapped up as it were in ecstasy at
the thoughts of heaven and future felicity, humbling himself, however,
for the numberless sins he had committed, and omitting nothing which
could serve to show the greatness of his sorrow and the sincerity of his
contrition.

The day he was to die, the unfortunate old man his father, then upwards
of seventy years of age, came to visit him, and saw him haltered as he
went out to execution. Words are too feeble to express that impetuosity
of grief which overwhelmed both the miserable father and the dying son.
However, the old man, bedewing him with a flood of tears, exhorted him
not to let go on his hopes in Christ, even in that miserable
conjuncture; but that he should remember the mercy of God was over all
his works, and in an especial manner was promised to those who were
penitent for their sins, which Christ had especially confirmed in
sealing the pardon of the repenting thief, even upon the cross.

At the place of execution he appeared scarce without any appearance of
terror, much less of obstinacy or contempt of death. Being asked what he
did with the pocket-book which he took from Mr. Stinton, and which
contained in it things of very great use to him, Young replied
ingeniously that he had burnt it, for which he was heartily sorry, but
that he did not look into or make himself acquainted with its contents.
Just before the cart drew away, he arose and spoke to the people, and
said, _The love of idleness, being too much addicted to company, and a
too greedy love of strong liquors has brought me to this unhappy end.
The Law intends my death for an example unto others; let it be so, let
my follies prevent others from falling into the like, and let the shame
which you see me suffer, deter all of you from the commission of such
sins as may bring you to the like fatal end. My sentence is just, but
pray, ye good people, for my soul, that though I die ignominiously here,
I may not perish everlastingly._

He was executed the first of June, 1730, being at the time about
thirty-nine years of age.

FOOTNOTES:

[101] This district, at the Dockhead end of Tooley Street, was
at that time a sort of No Man's Land, where horses were grazed
and a few poverty-stricken wretches lived in sheds and holes in
the ground.




The Life of THOMAS POLSON, _alias_ HITCHIN, a Footpad and Highwayman


Habit is the most dangerous of all evils. The transports of passion are
sometimes prevented from having fatal effects, either by the precautions
of those with whom we quarrel, or because a sudden reflection of our own
minds checks our hand. But where men have abandoned themselves to
wickedness, and given themselves up to the commission of every kind of
evil without restraint, there is little hope to be entertained of their
ever mending; and if the fear of a sudden death work a true repentance,
it is all that can be hoped.

As for this unfortunate man of whose actions the course of our memoirs
obliges us to treat, he was descended from parents who lived at Marlow,
in the county of Salop, who were equally honest in their reputations,
and easy in their circumstances. They spared nothing in the education of
their son, and it is hard to say whether their care of him was more or
his application was less. Even while a child and at school he gave too
evident symptoms of that lazy, indolent disposition which attended him
so flagrantly and was justly the occasion of all the misfortunes of his
succeeding life. Learning was of all things his aversion. It was with
difficulty that he was taught to read and write. As to employment, his
father brought him up to husbandry and the business of a rural life.

When he was of age his father gave him an estate of twenty pounds _per
annum_, freehold, and got him into a very good farm. He procured for him
also a wife, who had ten pounds a year more of her own, and settled him
in such a manner that no young man in the country had a better prospect
of doing well than himself. But, alas! to what purpose are the
endeavours of others, where a man studies nothing so much as to compass
his own ruin? On a sudden he took a love to card-playing, and addicted
himself to it with such earnestness that he neglected his business and
squandered his money. Want was what of all things he hated, except work,
and therefore rather than labour to retrieve, he bethought himself of an
easier way of getting money, and that was to steal.

His first attempt was upon his father, whom he robbed of a considerable
sum of money. He not being in the least suspected, a poor maid who lived
in the house bore the blame for about six months, and nobody in all that
time being charged with it but her, there was at last a design in the
old man's head to prosecute her. This reaching young Polson's ear, he
resolved not to let an innocent person suffer, which was indeed a very
just and honourable act, whereupon he wrote an humble letter to his
father, acknowledging his fault, begging pardon for his offences, and
desiring that he would not prosecute the poor woman, or suffer her to be
any longer under the odium of a fact of which she had not the least
knowledge. This, to be sure, had its effect on his father, who was a
very honest and considerate man. He took care to restore the wench to
her good character and his favour, though for a while he with just
reason continued to frown upon his son. At last paternal tenderness
prevailed, and after giving him several cautions and much good advice,
he promised, on his good behaviour, to forgive him what had past. The
young man promised fairly, but falling quickly into necessities, want of
money had its old effect upon him again, that is, impatient to be at his
old practices, tired with work, and yet not knowing how to get money,
he at length resolved to go into Wales and steal horses.

This project he executed, and took one from one Mr. Lewis of a
considerable value. He sold it to a London butcher for about sixteen
pounds, at a village not far from Shrewsbury. That money did him a
little good, and therefore the next time he was in a strait he readily
bethought himself of Wales. Accordingly he equipped himself with a
little pad, and out he set in quest of purchase. At a little inn in
Wales be met with a gentleman whom he had reason to suppose had money
about him, whereupon our highwayman was very industrious first to make
him drink, and then to get him for a bed-fellow, both of which designs
he in the end brought to pass, and by that means robbed him of six
pounds odd money, taking care to go in the morning a different road from
what he had talked of, and by that means easily escaped what pursuit was
made after him.

When he had committed this fact he retired towards Canterbury, giving
himself over entirely to thieving or cheating, on which design he
traversed the whole county of Kent, but found the people so cautious
that he did it with very little advantage; until at last coming near
Maidstone, he observed a parcel of fine linen hanging upon a hedge. He
immediately bethought himself that though the people were wise, yet
their hedges might be otherwise, upon which stepping up to it, he fairly
stripped it of ten fine shirts, and so left the people who had washed
them to account for it. After this exploit, he made the best of his way
to London, where he speedily sold the stolen linen for five pounds to a
Life Guardsman; and when he had spent a good part of it, down he went
into Norfolk. And being afraid that the inhabitants would take notice of
a stranger setting up his abode there for any considerable time, he
thought fit to pretend to be very lame. Having continued as long as he
thought proper in this place, he took his opportunity to carry off a
fine mare out of the grounds of Sir John Habbard, Baronet, now the Right
Honourable the Lord Blickling. This was one of the most dangerous feats
he ever committed in his life, for the scent was so strong upon him, and
so quickly followed, that he was forced to take a multitude of byways to
get to London, where he set her up in the Haymarket. However he quickly
found there was no possibility of disposing of her here, information
having been given of her to all the great jockeys; so that for present
money he was obliged to borrow four guineas of the man at the inn, and
to leave her in his hands by way of security, which was making but a
poor hand of what he had hazarded his life for.

By this time his father had received some intelligence of his way of
living, and out of tenderness of its consequences, wrote to him assuring
him of forgiveness for all that was past, if he would come down into the
country and live honestly. Such undeserved tenderness had some weight
even with our criminal himself, and he at last began to frame his mind
to comply with the request of so good a father. Accordingly, down he
came, and for a little space, behaved himself honestly and as he should
do; but his old distemper, laziness quickly came in his way, and finding
money not to come in so fast as he would have it, he began to think of
his old practice again, and prepared himself once more to sally out upon
his illegal adventures. For this purpose taking with him a little mare
of his brothers, for at that time he had no horse proper for the designs
he went on, forth he rode in search of prey.

Wales was the place he first visited, and after riding up and down for a
good while without meeting with any purchase worth taking, he at last
unluckily stumbled upon a poor old man in Flintshire, who had one foot
already in the grave. From him he took a silver watch, worth about five
pounds, and five shillings in money, which was all the poor man had, and
making thereupon the greatest haste he could out of the country, he got
clear away before it was discovered. After this he came again to London,
where what little money he had he lavished away upon women of the town.

It was not long before want overtook him again, upon which he determined
to visit Yorkshire, in hopes of raising some considerable booty there.
All the way down, according to his common practice, he bilked the
public-houses, and at last arriving at Doncaster, began to set heartily
about the work for which he came down. On a market day, he robbed an old
farmer of forty shillings and a pair of silver buckles, taking his horse
also from him, which, when he had ridden about fifteen miles across
country, he turned loose. He rambled from thence on foot, as well as he
could, in order to get into his native country of Shropshire, where
after the commission of a multitude of such actions, none of which
afforded him any great booty, he arrived.

His father took him home again, and he lived for eleven months tolerably
honest. However, to keep his hand in use, he now and then stole a
shoulder of mutton, a joint which he particularly loved; but sometimes
to please his father he would work a little, though it always went much
against the grain. At last he quarrelled with his wife, and thereupon
threatened to go away again, which very quickly after he did, turning
his course, notwithstanding his former ill-success into Yorkshire once
more. He was at several of the races in that county, and having no
particular business at any place, did nothing but course the country
round, pilfering and stealing whatever came in his way; insomuch that at
one inn, finding nothing else to lay his hands on, he stole the people's
sheets off the bed he lay in, and marched off in the morning so early,
that he was out of danger before they perceived the theft.

But finding that he could not do any considerable matter amongst the
people, who are cunning to a proverb, he bethought himself of returning
to London, and the society of those strumpets in which he took a
delight. However, all the way on the road he made a shift to pick up as
much as kept him pretty well all the way. On his arrival in town he set
up his place of residence in an inn near Leather Lane, Holborn, where he
remained one whole day to rest himself after the fatigue of his northern
journey. There he reflected on the sad state in which his affairs were,
being without money and without friends, justly disregarded by his
friends in the country, and hated and despised by all his neighbours.
His debts, too, amounted there to near a hundred and forty pounds, so
that there was no hopes in going back. The result of these cogitations
was that the next day he would go out on the road towards Hampstead, and
see what might be made there. He accordingly did so, but with very ill
success. However, he returned a second time and had no better; the third
day, towards evening, he observed an old gentleman in a chaise by
himself, whom he robbed of six guineas, a watch, a mourning-ring, and
nine and sixpence in silver, and then making over the fields got home
very safe.

For three days he thought fit to remain within doors, under pretence of
sickness, fearing lest he should be advertised and described in the
public prints; but finding nothing of that happened, he grew bold, and
for about fourteen nights continued the same trade constantly, getting,
sometimes, two or three pieces, and sometimes losing his labour and
getting nothing at all. At length, waiting pretty late for an old man,
who, as he was informed, was to come that night with eight hundred
pounds about him, although he was so feeble that a child might be able
to take it from him, he at length grew impatient, and resolved to rob
the first man he met. This proved to be one Mr. Andrews, who raised so
quick a pursuit upon him that he never lost sight of him until the time
of his being apprehended, when he was carried to Newgate and prosecuted
the next sessions for the aforesaid robbery.

He was then indicted for taking from the said Thomas Andrews, after
putting him in fear, six or seven shillings in money, a bay mare, bridle
and saddle, and a cane, on the 23rd of July, 1730. The evidence was
exceedingly clear, he having, as I have said, never gone out of sight,
from the time of the robbery to the time he was taken. Under sentence of
death the prisoner behaved with great piety and resignation. He showed
great concern for the offences of his former life, and testified the
utmost sorrow for having blemished an honest family by the shame of his
vices and their just punishment. The night before his execution he wrote
a letter to his parents in the country, which though it be written in a
very uncouth style, yet I have thought fit to insert it _verbatim_,
because there is a strain in it of unusual confusion and concern,
expressing the agony of a dying man with more truth and tenderness than
the best penned epistle could have done.

Honoured Parents,

My duty to both, my love to my brother-in-law. I wish to God I had
been ruled by you, for now I see the evil of my sin, but I freely
die, only the disgrace I have brought on you, my wife and children.
I wrote to my wife last Saturday was seven night but had no answer,
for I should have been glad to have heard from you before I die,
which will be on Wednesday the seventh of this instant October,
hoping I have made my peace with God Almighty. I freely forgive all
the world, and die in charity with all people. Had it not been for
Joyce Hite's sister and Mr. Howel, I might have starved, he told me
it has cost him fifteen shillings on my account, and he gave me four
more. I desire Thomas Mason will give my wife that locket for my
son.

I have nothing more to say, but my prayers to God for you all day
and night, and for God's sake, be as kind to my poor wife and
children as in your power lies. I desire there might be some care
taken of that Estate at Minton for my son. Mr. Botfield hath the old
writings, and I beg you will get them and give them to my wife, and
pray show her this letter and my love to her, and my blessing to my
children, begging of her as I am a dying man to be good to them, and
not make any difference in them, but be as kind to one as the other,
and if she is able to put the boy to some trade. Mr. Waring and
Thomas Tomlings have each of them a book of mine, pray ask for them,
which is all I have to say, but my prayers to God for you all, which
is all from your

Dying Son,
Richard Polson.
In my Cell.
October the 6th.

P.S. My love to all my friends. Pray show this letter to my wife as
soon as you can, and desire of her to bring up my children in the
fear of the Lord, and to make my son a scholar if she is able. There
is five of us to die.

In this disposition of mind, and without adding anything to his former
confessions he suffered on the seventh of October, 1730, being then in
the thirty-third year of his age.




The Life of SAMUEL ARMSTRONG, a Housebreaker


I have heretofore remarked the great danger there is in having a bad
character, and keeping ill-company, from the probability of truth which
it gives to every accusation that either malice or interest may induce
men to bring against one.

This malefactor was the son of parents in tolerable circumstances, who
were careful of his education, and when he grew up bound him apprentice
to Captain Matthews, commander of a vessel which traded to Guinea and
the West Indies. He behaved at sea very well, and had not the least
objection made to his character when he came home. Happy had it been for
him if he had gone to sea again, without suffering himself to be tainted
with the vices of this great city.

Unfortunately for him, he fell in love with a young woman, and lived
with her for some time as his wife. His fondness for this creature drew
him to be guilty of those base actions which first brought him to
Newgate and the bar at the Old Bailey, and so far blasted his character
and unfortunately betrayed him to his death. In the company of this
female he quickly lavished what little money he had, and not knowing how
to get more, he fell into the persuasions of some wicked young fellows
who advised him to take to robbing in the streets. Certain it is that he
had not made many attempts (he himself said none) before he was
apprehended, and that the first fact he was ever concerned in was
stealing a man's hat and tobacco box in Thames Street. This was
committed by his companion, who gave them to him, and then running away,
left him to be answerable for the fact, for which being indicted at the
next sessions at the Old Bailey, he was found guilty, but it being a
single felony only it did not affect his life.

However, having been seen there by one Holland, who turned evidence, he
thought fit to save his own life by swearing him into the commission of
a burglary which himself and one Thomas Griffith actually committed.
However, his oath being positive, and the character of this unhappy lad
so bad, the people who were robbed were induced to prosecute him with
great vehemence, and the jury, on the same presumptions, found him
guilty. Griffith, who received sentence with him but afterwards had a
pardon, acknowledged that he himself was guilty, but declared at the
same time that this unhappy young man was absolutely clear of what was
laid to his charge, Holland and himself being the only persons who
committed that burglary, and took away the kitchen things which were
sworn against him. Moreover, that Armstrong coming to Newgate, and
seeing Holland and speaking to him about something, Holland took that
opportunity of asking who Armstrong was, and what he came there for,
being told the story of his conviction for the hat and wig, he thought
fit to add him to his former information against Griffith, and so by
swearing against two, effectually secured himself. In this story both
the unhappy person of whom we are speaking and Thomas Griffith, who was
condemned for and confessed the fact agreed, and Armstrong went to death
absolutely denying the fact for which he was to suffer.

At the place of execution his colour changed, and though at other times
he appeared to be a bold young man, yet now his courage failed him, he
trembled and turned pale, besought the people to pray for his soul, and
in great agony and confusion, submitted to death on the seventh day of
October, 1730, being at the time of his death about twenty-two years of
age.




The Life of NICHOLAS GILBURN, a Most Notorious Highwayman


This unfortunate person was born at Ballingary, near Limerick, in the
west of Ireland, of parents in very tolerable circumstances, who gave
him a very good education; but perceiving that he had a martial
disposition, they resolved not to cross it, and therefore, though he was
not above fourteen years of age, got him recommended to an officer, who
received him as a dragoon. He served about four years with a very good
reputation in the army; but he had a brother who then rode in a regiment
of horse, who wrote to him from London, and encouraged him to come over
into England, which occasioned his writing to his officer to desire his
discharge. To this his officer readily agreed.

He went thereupon from the north of Ireland to the west, to his friend,
where having equipped himself with clothing, linen and other
necessaries, he then came to London, expecting to meet his brother. But
on his arrival here he was disappointed, and that disappointment,
together with his want of money, made him very uneasy. At last, in order
to procure bread, he resolved to list himself in the Foot Guards. He did
so, and continued in them for about two years, during which time, he
says in his dying declaration, that he did duty as well, and appeared as
clean as any man in the company; nay, in all that time, he avers that he
never neglected his guard but once, which was very fatal to him, for it
brought him into the acquaintance of those who betrayed him to measures
which cost him his life. For being taken up and carried to the Savoy for
the afore-mentioned offence, he had not been long in prison before
Wilson, who had been concerned with Burnworth, _alias_ Frazier, and the
rest in the murder of Mr. Ball in the Mint; and one Mr. G----, an old
highwayman, though he had never conversed with him before, came to pay
him a visit.

They treated him both with meat and drink, seemed to commiserate his
condition very much, and promised him that he should not want
twelvepence a day, during the time in confinement. This promise was very
well kept, and Gilburn in a few days obtained his liberty. The next day
he met Wilson in St. James's Park, who after complimenting him upon his
happy deliverance, invited him to a house in Spring Gardens to drink and
make merry together. Gilburn readily consented, and after discoursing of
courage, want of money, the miseries of poverty, and some other
preparatory articles, Wilson parted with him for that time, appointing
another meeting with him at eleven o'clock the next morning. There
Wilson pursued his former topic, and at last told him plainly that the
best and shortest method to relieve their wants was to go on the
highway; and when he had once made this step, he scrupled not to make a
further, telling Gilburn that there was no such danger in those
practices as was generally apprehended, for that with a little care and
circumspection the gallows might be well enough avoided, which he said
was plain enough from his own adventures, since he had lived several
years in the profession, and by being cautious enough to look about him,
had escaped any confinement.

Gilburn heard this account with terror. He had never committed anything
of this kind hitherto, and knew very well that if he once engaged he
could never afterwards go back. Wilson seemed not at all uneasy at his
pause, but artfully introducing discourse on other subjects, plied him
in the meanwhile with liquor, until he saw him pretty warm, and then
resumed the story of his own adventures and of the facility of acquiring
money when a man is but well stored with courage and has ever so little
conduct. This artifice unfortunately had its effect, Wilson's
conversation and the fumes of liquor prevailing so far upon Gilburn
that, as he himself phrased it, he resolved at last upon business.

The day following, Gilburn provided himself with pistols, and removed
his quarters to go and live with Wilson, who encouraged him with all the
arguments he was able to stick to his new profession, and Gilburn in
return swore he would live and die with him. So at night they went out
together in quest of adventures. The road they took was towards
Paddington. A little after they were come into the fields, they attacked
a gentleman and took from him eight shillings, with which Gilburn was
very much pleased, though they had little luck after, so that they
returned at last to their lodgings, weary and fatigued, and were obliged
to mount guard the next morning. When their guard was over, they were,
as Mr. Gilburn expresses it in his last speech, as bare as a bird's
arse, so no time was to be lost, and accordingly that very night they
made their second expedition. Nobody coming in their way, Gilburn began
to fret, and at last falling into a downright passion, swore he would
rob the first man he met. He was as good as his word, and the booty he
got proved a tolerable provision for some days.

But guard-day drawing nigh again, Wilson told him there was no mounting
without money, and the same methods were taken as formerly; but as the
leagues by which men are united in villainy are liable to a thousand
inconveniencies which are uneasily born, and yet hard to be remedied, so
Wilson's humours being very different from that of Gilburn, they soon
began to differ about the money they acquired by plunder. At last,
coming one night very much tired and fatigued to a public-house where
Wilson was acquainted, they called for some drink to refresh themselves,
which when they had done, Gilburn was for dividing the money, himself
standing in need of linen and other necessaries. Wilson, on the other
hand, was for having a bowl of punch, and words thereupon arose to such
a height that at last they fell to fighting. This quarrel was
irreconcilable, and they absolutely parted company, though Gilburn
unfortunately pursued the same road; and having robbed a gentleman on
horseback of several yards of fine padusoy, he was shortly after
apprehended and committed to Newgate.

At first he absolutely denied the fact, but when he was convicted, and
saw no hopes of pardon, he acknowledged what had been sworn against him
by the prosecutor to be true, attended with much gravity at chapel, and
seemed to be greatly afflicted through a due sense of those many sins
which he had committed. Wilson, his companion, had a little before been
executed at Kingston, and Gilburn with all outward signs of contrition,
suffered the same death at Tyburn, at the same time with the
before-mentioned malefactor, being at the time of his death about
twenty-two years of age.




The Lives of JAMES O'BRYAN, HUGH MORRIS and ROBERT JOHNSON, Highwaymen
and Street-Robbers


Amongst the many flagrant vices of the present age, there is none more
remarkable than the strange property we see in young people to commit
the most notorious crimes, provided they may thereby furnish themselves
with money enough to support their lavish expenses in vices which in
former times were scarce heard of by lads of that age, at which our
boldest highwaymen begin to exert themselves now.

The first of these unfortunate lads, James O'Bryan, was born at Dublin,
was brought over hither young, and had a good education given him which
he had very little inclination to make a proper use of. Nothing could
persuade him to go out to a trade; on the contrary, he pretended he