Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions - Chapters 13-14



      Chapter 13 - Popular Follies of Great Cities

La faridondaine—la faridondon,
   Vive la faridondaine!—BERANGER.

The popular humours of a great city are a never-failing source of
amusement to the man whose sympathies are hospitable enough to
embrace all his kind, and who, refined though he may be himself,
will not sneer at the humble wit or grotesque peculiarities of the
boozing mechanic, the squalid beggar, the vicious urchin, and all
the motley group of the idle, the reckless, and the imitative that
swarm in the alleys and broadways of a metropolis. He who walks
through a great city to find subjects for weeping, may, God knows,
find plenty at every corner to wring his heart; but let such a man
walk on his course, and enjoy his grief alone — we are not of
those who would accompany him. The miseries of us poor
earthdwellers gain no alleviation from the sympathy of those who
merely hunt them out to be pathetic over them. The weeping
philosopher too often impairs his eyesight by his woe, and becomes
unable from his tears to see the remedies for the evils which he
deplores. Thus it will often be found that the man of no tears is
the truest philanthropist, as he is the best physician who wears a
cheerful face, even in the worst of cases.

So many pens have been employed to point out the miseries, and so
many to condemn the crimes and vices, and more serious follies of
the multitude, that our's shall not increase the number, at least
in this chapter. Our present task shall be less ungracious, and
wandering through the busy haunts of great cities, we shall seek
only for amusement, and note as we pass a few of the harmless
follies and whimsies of the poor.

And, first of all, walk where we will, we cannot help hearing from
every side a phrase repeated with delight, and received with
laughter, by men with hard hands and dirty faces — by saucy
butcher lads and errand-boys — by loose women — by hackney
coachmen, cabriolet drivers, and idle fellows who loiter at the
corners of streets. Not one utters this phrase without producing a
laugh from all within hearing. It seems applicable to every
circumstance, and is the universal answer to every question; in
short, it is the favourite slang phrase of the day, a phrase that,
while its brief season of popularity lasts, throws a dash of fun
and frolicsomeness over the existence of squalid poverty and
ill-requited labour, and gives them reason to laugh as well as
their more fortunate fellows in a higher stage of society.

London is peculiarly fertile in this sort of phrases, which spring
up suddenly, no one knows exactly in what spot, and pervade the
whole population in a few hours, no one knows how. Many years ago
the favourite phrase (for, though but a monosyllable, it was a
phrase in itself) was QUOZ. This odd word took the fancy of the
multitude in an extraordinary degree, and very soon acquired an
almost boundless meaning. When vulgar wit wished to mark its
incredulity and raise a laugh at the same time, there was no
resource so sure as this popular piece of slang. When a man was
asked a favour which he did not choose to grant, he marked his
sense of the suitor's unparalleled presumption by exclaiming Quoz!
When a mischievous urchin wished to annoy a passenger, and create
mirth for his chums, he looked him in the face, and cried out
Quoz! and the exclamation never failed in its object. When a
disputant was desirous of throwing a doubt upon the veracity of
his opponent, and getting summarily rid of an argument which he
could not overturn, he uttered the word Quoz, with a contemptuous
curl of his lip and an impatient shrug of his shoulders. The
universal monosyllable conveyed all his meaning, and not only told
his opponent that he lied, but that he erred egregiously if he
thought that any one was such a nincompoop as to believe him.
Every alehouse resounded with Quoz; every street corner was noisy
with it, and every wall for miles around was chalked with it.

But, like all other earthly things, Quoz had its season, and
passed away as suddenly as it arose, never again to be the pet and
the idol of the populace. A new claimant drove it from its place,
and held undisputed sway till, in its turn, it was hurled from its
pre-eminence, and a successor appointed in its stead.

"What a shocking bad hat!" was the phrase that was next in vogue.
No sooner had it become universal, than thousands of idle but
sharp eyes were on the watch for the passenger whose hat showed
any signs, however slight, of ancient service. Immediately the cry
arose, and, like the what-whoop of the Indians, was repeated by a
hundred discordant throats. He was a wise man who, finding himself
under these circumstances “the observed of all observers,” bore
his honours meekly. He who showed symptoms of ill-feeling at the
imputations cast upon his hat, only brought upon himself redoubled
notice. The mob soon perceive whether a man is irritable, and, if
of their own class, they love to make sport of him. When such a
man, and with such a hat, passed in those days through a crowded
neighbourhood, he might think himself fortunate if his annoyances
were confined to the shouts and cries of the populace. The
obnoxious hat was often snatched from his head, and thrown into
the gutter by some practical joker, and then raised, covered with
mud, upon the end of a stick, for the admiration of the
spectators, who held their sides with laughter, and exclaimed in
the pauses of their mirth, “Oh! what a shocking bad hat!” “What a
shocking bad hat!” Many a nervous, poor man, whose purse could but
ill spare the outlay, doubtless purchased a new hat before the
time, in order to avoid exposure in this manner.

The origin of this singular saying, which made fun for the
metropolis for months, is not involved in the same obscurity as
that which shrouds the origin of Quoz and some others. There had
been a hotly-contested election for the borough of Southwark, and
one of the candidates was an eminent hatter. This gentleman, in
canvassing the electors, adopted a somewhat professional mode of
conciliating their good-will, and of bribing them without letting
them perceive that they were bribed. Whenever he called upon or
met a voter whose hat was not of the best material, or, being so,
had seen its best days, he invariably said, "What a shocking bad
hat you have got; call at my warehouse, and you shall have a new
one!" Upon the day of election this circumstance was remembered,
and his opponents made the most of it, by inciting the crowd to
keep up an incessant cry of “What a shocking bad hat!” all the
time the honourable candidate was addressing them. From Southwark
the phrase spread over all London, and reigned, for a time, the
supreme slang of the season.

Hookey Walker, derived from the chorus of a popular ballad, was
also high in favour at one time, and served, like its predecessor,
Quoz, to answer all questions. In the course of time the latter
word alone became the favourite, and was uttered with a peculiar
drawl upon the first syllable, and a sharp turn upon the last. If
a lively servant girl was importuned for a kiss by a fellow she
did not care about, she cocked her little nose, and cried
"Walker!" If a dustman asked his friend for the loan of a
shilling, and his friend was either unable or unwilling to
accommodate him, the probable answer he would receive was
“Walker!” If a drunken man was reeling along the streets, and a
boy pulled his coat-tails, or a man knocked his hat over his eyes
to make fun of him, the joke was always accompanied by the same
exclamation. This lasted for two or three months, and “Walker!”
walked off the stage, never more to be revived for the
entertainment of that or any future generation.

The next phrase was a most preposterous one. Who invented it, how
it arose, or where it was first heard, are alike unknown. Nothing
about it is certain, but that for months it was the slang par
excellence of the Londoners, and afforded them a vast
gratification. "There he goes with his eye out!" or “There she
goes with her eye out!” as the sex of the party alluded to might
be, was in the mouth of everybody who knew the town. The sober
part of the community were as much puzzled by this unaccountable
saying as the vulgar were delighted with it. The wise thought it
very foolish, but the many thought it very funny, and the idle
amused themselves by chalking it upon walls, or scribbling it upon
monuments. But, “all that's bright must fade,” even in slang. The
people grew tired of their hobby, and “There he goes with his eye
out!” was heard no more in its accustomed haunts.

Another very odd phrase came into repute in a brief space
afterwards, in the form of the impertinent and not universally
apposite query, "Has your mother sold her mangle?" But its
popularity was not of that boisterous and cordial kind which
ensures a long continuance of favour. What tended to impede its
progress was, that it could not be well applied to the older
portions of society. It consequently ran but a brief career, and
then sank into oblivion. Its successor enjoyed a more extended
fame, and laid its foundations so deep, that years and changing
fashions have not sufficed to eradicate it. This phrase was “Flare
up!” and it is, even now, a colloquialism in common use. It took
its rise in the time of the Reform riots, when Bristol was nearly
half burned by the infuriated populace. The flames were said to
have flared up in the devoted city. Whether there was anything
peculiarly captivating in the sound, or in the idea of these
words, is hard to say; but whatever was the reason, it tickled the
mob-fancy mightily, and drove all other slang out of the field
before it. Nothing was to be heard all over London but “flare up!”
It answered all questions, settled all disputes, was applied to
all persons, all things, and all circumstances, and became
suddenly the most comprehensive phrase in the English language.
The man who had overstepped the bounds of decorum in his speech
was said to have flared up; he who had paid visits too repeated to
the gin-shop, and got damaged in consequence, had flared up. To
put one's-self into a passion; to stroll out on a nocturnal
frolic, and alarm a neighbourhood, or to create a disturbance in
any shape, was to flare up. A lovers’ quarrel was a fare up; so
was a boxing-match between two blackguards in the streets, and the
preachers of sedition and revolution recommended the English
nation to flare up, like the French. So great a favourite was the
word, that people loved to repeat it for its very sound. They
delighted apparently in hearing their own organs articulate it;
and labouring men, when none who could respond to the call were
within hearing, would often startle the aristocratic echoes of the
West by the well-known slang phrase of the East. Even in the dead
hours of the night, the ears of those who watched late, or who
could not sleep, were saluted with the same sound. The drunkard
reeling home showed that he was still a man and a citizen, by
calling “flare up” in the pauses of his hiccough. Drink had
deprived him of the power of arranging all other ideas; his
intellect was sunk to the level of the brute’s; but he clung to
humanity by the one last link of the popular cry. While he could
vociferate that sound, he had rights as an Englishman, and would
not sleep in a gutter, like a dog! Onwards he went, disturbing
quiet streets and comfortable people by his whoop, till exhausted
nature could support him no more, and he rolled powerless into the
road. When, in due time afterwards, the policeman stumbled upon
him as he lay, that guardian of the peace turned the full light of
his lantern on his face, and exclaimed, “Here’s a poor devil who’s
been flaring up!” Then came the stretcher, on which the victim of
deep potations was carried to the watchhouse, and pitched into a
dirty cell, among a score of wretches about as far gone as
himself, who saluted their new comrade by a loud, long shout of
“flare up!”

So universal was this phrase, and so enduring seemed its
popularity, that a speculator, who knew not the evanescence of
slang, established a weekly newspaper under its name. But he was
like the man who built his house upon the sand; his foundation
gave way under him, and the phrase and the newspaper were washed
into the mighty sea of the things that were. The people grew at
last weary of the monotony, and "flare up" became vulgar even
among them. Gradually it was left to little boys who did not know
the world, and in process of time sank altogether into neglect. It
is now heard no more as a piece of popular slang; but the words
are still used to signify any sudden outburst either of fire,
disturbance, or ill-nature.

The next phrase that enjoyed the favour of the million was less
concise, and seems to have been originally aimed against
precocious youths who gave themselves the airs of manhood before
their time. "Does your mother know you're out?" was the provoking
query addressed to young men of more than reasonable swagger, who
smoked cigars in the streets, and wore false whiskers to look
irresistible. We have seen many a conceited fellow who could not
suffer a woman to pass him without staring her out of countenance,
reduced at once into his natural insignificance by the mere
utterance of this phrase. Apprentice lads and shopmen in their
Sunday clothes held the words in abhorrence, and looked fierce
when they were applied to them. Altogether the phrase had a very
salutary effect, and in a thousand instances showed young Vanity,
that it was not half so pretty and engaging as it thought itself.
What rendered it so provoking was the doubt it implied as to the
capability of self-guidance possessed by the individual to whom it
was addressed. “Does your mother know you’re out?” was a query of
mock concern and solicitude, implying regret and concern that one
so young and inexperienced in the ways of a great city should be
allowed to wander abroad without the guidance of a parent. Hence
the great wrath of those who verged on manhood, but had not
reached it, whenever they were made the subject of it. Even older
heads did not like it; and the heir of a ducal house, and
inheritor of a warrior’s name, to whom they were applied by a
cabriolet driver, who was ignorant of his rank, was so indignant
at the affront, that he summoned the offender before the
magisterial bench. The fellow had wished to impose upon his
Lordship by asking double the fare he was entitled to, and when
his Lordship resisted the demand, he was insultingly asked “if his
mother knew he was out?” All the drivers on the stand joined in
the query, and his Lordship was fain to escape their laughter by
walking away with as much haste as his dignity would allow. The
man pleaded ignorance that his customer was a Lord, but offended
justice fined him for his mistake.

When this phrase had numbered its appointed days, it died away,
like its predecessors, and "Who are you?" reigned in its stead.
This new favourite, like a mushroom, seems to have sprung up in a
night, or, like a frog in Cheapside, to have come down in a sudden
shower. One day it was unheard, unknown, uninvented; the next it
pervaded London; every alley resounded with it; every highway was
musical with it,

"And street to street, and lane to lane flung back
  The one unvarying cry."

The phrase was uttered quickly, and with a sharp sound upon the
first and last words, leaving the middle one little more than an
aspiration. Like all its compeers which had been extensively
popular, it was applicable to almost every variety of
circumstance. The lovers of a plain answer to a plain question did
not like it at all. Insolence made use of it to give offence;
ignorance, to avoid exposing itself; and waggery, to create
laughter. Every new comer into an alehouse tap-room was asked
unceremoniously, "Who are you?" and if he looked foolish,
scratched his head, and did not know what to reply, shouts of
boisterous merriment resounded on every side. An authoritative
disputant was not unfrequently put down, and presumption of every
kind checked by the same query. When its popularity was at its
height, a gentleman, feeling the hand of a thief in his pocket,
turned suddenly round, and caught him in the act, exclaiming, “Who
are you?” The mob which gathered round applauded to the very echo,
and thought it the most capital joke they had ever heard — the
very acme of wit — the very essence of humour. Another
circumstance, of a similar kind, gave an additional fillip to the
phrase, and infused new life and vigour into it, just as it was
dying away. The scene occurred in the chief criminal court of the
kingdom. A prisoner stood at the bar; the offence with which he
had been charged was clearly proved against him; his counsel had
been heard, not in his defence, but in extenuation, insisting upon
his previous good life and character, as reasons for the lenity of
the court. “And where are your witnesses?” inquired the learned
judge who presided. “Please you, my Lord, I knows the prisoner at
the bar, and a more honester feller never breathed,” said a rough
voice in the gallery. The officers of the court looked aghast, and
the strangers tittered with ill-suppressed laughter. “Who are
you?” said the Judge, looking suddenly up, but with imperturbable
gravity. The court was convulsed; the titter broke out into a
laugh, and it was several minutes before silence and decorum could
be restored. When the Ushers recovered their self-possession, they
made diligent search for the profane transgressor; but he was not
to be found. Nobody knew him; nobody had seen him. After a while
the business of the court again proceeded. The next prisoner
brought up for trial augured favourably of his prospects when he
learned that the solemn lips of the representative of justice had
uttered the popular phrase as if he felt and appreciated it. There
was no fear that such a judge would use undue severity; his heart
was with the people; he understood their language and their
manners, and would make allowances for the temptations which drove
them into crime. So thought many of the prisoners, if we may infer
it from the fact, that the learned judge suddenly acquired an
immense increase of popularity. The praise of his wit was in every
mouth, and “Who are you?” renewed its lease, and remained in
possession of public favour for another term in consequence.

But it must not be supposed that there were no interregni between
the dominion of one slang phrase and another. They did not arise
in one long line of unbroken succession, but shared with song the
possession of popular favour. Thus, when the people were in the
mood for music, slang advanced its claims to no purpose, and, when
they were inclined for slang, the sweet voice of music wooed them
in vain. About twenty years ago London resounded with one chorus,
with the love of which everybody seemed to be smitten. Girls and
boys, young men and old, maidens and wives, and widows, were all
alike musical. There was an absolute mania for singing, and the
worst of it was, that, like good Father Philip, in the romance of
"The Monastery," they seemed utterly unable to change their tune.
“Cherry ripe!” “Cherry ripe!” was the universal cry of all the
idle in the town. Every unmelodious voice gave utterance to it;
every crazy fiddle, every cracked flute, every wheezy pipe, every
street organ was heard in the same strain, until studious and
quiet men stopped their ears in desperation, or fled miles away
into the fields or woodlands, to be at peace. This plague lasted
for a twelvemonth, until the very name of cherries became an
abomination in the land. At last the excitement wore itself away,
and the tide of favour set in a new direction. Whether it was
another song or a slang phrase, is difficult to determine at this
distance of time; but certain it is, that very shortly afterwards,
people went mad upon a dramatic subject, and nothing was to be
heard of but “Tom and Jerry.” Verbal wit had amused the multitude
long enough, and they became more practical in their recreation.
Every youth on the town was seized with the fierce desire of
distinguishing himself, by knocking down the “charlies,” being
locked up all night in a watchhouse, or kicking up a row among
loose women and blackguard men in the low dens of St. Giles's.
Imitative boys vied with their elders in similar exploits, until
this unworthy passion, for such it was, had lasted, like other
follies, its appointed time, and the town became merry after
another fashion. It was next thought the height of vulgar wit to
answer all questions by placing the point of the thumb upon the
tip of the nose, and twirling the fingers in the air. If one man
wished to insult or annoy another, he had only to make use of this
cabalistic sign in his face, and his object was accomplished. At
every street corner where a group was assem- bled, the spectator
who was curious enough to observe their movements, would be sure
to see the fingers of some of them at their noses, either as a
mark of incredulity, surprise, refusal, or mockery, before he had
watched two minutes. There is some remnant of this absurd custom
to be seen to this day; but it is thought low, even among the
vulgar.

About sixteen years ago, London became again most preposterously
musical. The vox populi wore itself hoarse by singing the praises
of "The Sea, the Sea!" If a stranger (and a philosopher) had
walked through London, and listened to the universal chorus, he
might have constructed a very pretty theory upon the love of the
English for the sea-service, and our acknowledged superiority over
all other nations upon that element. “No wonder,” he might have
said, “that this people is invincible upon the ocean. The love of
it mixes with their daily thoughts: they celebrate it even in the
market-place: their street-minstrels excite charity by it; and
high and low, young and old, male and female, chant Io pœans in
its praise. Love is not honoured in the national songs of this
warlike race — Bacchus is no god to them; they are men of sterner
mould, and think only of ‘the Sea, the Sea!' and the means of
conquering upon it.”

Such would, doubtless, have been his impression if he had taken
the evidence only of his ears. Alas! in those days for the refined
ears that were musical! great was their torture when discord, with
its thousand diversities of tone, struck up this appalling anthem
— there was no escape from it. The migratory minstrels of Savoy
caught the strain, and pealed it down the long vistas of quiet
streets, till their innermost and snuggest apartments re-echoed
with the sound. Men were obliged to endure this crying evil for
full six months, wearied to desperation, and made sea-sick on the
dry land.

Several other songs sprang up in due succession afterwards, but
none of them, with the exception of one, entitled "All round my
Hat," enjoyed any extraordinary share of favour, until an American
actor introduced a vile song called “Jim Crow.” The singer sang
his verses in appropriate costume, with grotesque gesticulations,
and a sudden whirl of his body at the close of each verse. It took
the taste of the town immediately, and for months the ears of
orderly people were stunned by the senseless chorus-

"Turn about and wheel about,
   And do just so—
Turn about and wheel about,
   And jump, Jim Crow!"

Street-minstrels blackened their faces in order to give proper
effect to the verses; and fatherless urchins, who had to choose
between thieving and singing for their livelihood, took the latter
course, as likely to be the more profitable, as long as the public
taste remained in that direction. The uncouth dance, its
accompaniment, might be seen in its full perfection on market
nights in any great thoroughfare; and the words of the song might
be heard, piercing above all the din and buzz of the ever-moving
multitude. He, the calm observer, who during the hey-day
popularity of this doggrel,

"Sate beside the public way,
Thick strewn with summer dust, and saw the stream
Of people there was hurrying to and fro,
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,"

might have exclaimed with Shelley, whose fine lines we quote, that

"The million, with fierce song and maniac dance,
Did rage around."

The philosophic theorist we have already supposed soliloquising
upon the English character, and forming his opinion of it from
their exceeding love for a sea-song, might, if he had again
dropped suddenly into London, have formed another very plausible
theory to account for our unremitting efforts for the abolition of
the Slave Trade. "Benevolent people!" he might have said, “how
unbounded are your sympathies! Your unhappy brethren of Africa,
differing from you only in the colour of their skins, are so dear
to you, and you begrudge so little the twenty millions you have
paid on their behalf, that you love to have a memento of them
continually in your sight. Jim Crow is the representative of that
injured race, and as such is the idol of your populace! See how
they all sing his praises! — how they imitate his peculiarities! —
how they repeat his name in their moments of leisure and
relaxation! They even carve images of him to adorn their hearths,
that his cause and his sufferings may never be forgotten ! Oh,
philanthropic England! — oh, vanguard of civilization!”

Such are a few of the peculiarities of the London multitude, when
no riot, no execution, no murder, no balloon, disturbs the even
current of their thoughts. These are the whimseys of the mass -
the harmless follies by which they unconsciously endeavour to
lighten the load of care which presses upon their existence. The
wise man, even though he smile at them, will not altogether
withhold his sympathy, and will say, "Let them enjoy their slang
phrases and their choruses if they will; and if they cannot be
happy, at least let them be merry." To the Englishman, as well as
to the Frenchman of whom Beranger sings, there may be some comfort
in so small a thing as a song, and we may, own with him that

  "Au peuple attriste
Ce qui rendra la gaîté,
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!
O gué!
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!"



      Chapter 14 - Popular Admiration of Great Thieves

Jack. Where shall we find such another set of practical
philosophers who, to a man, are above the fear of death?
Wat. Sound men and true!
Robin. Of tried courage and indefatigable industry!
Ned. Who is there here that would not die for his friend?
Harry. Who is there here that would betray him for his interest?
Mat. Show me a gang of courtiers that could say as much!
Dialogue of thieves in the Beggars' Opera.

Whether it be that the multitude, feeling the pangs of poverty,
sympathise with the daring and ingenious depredators who take away
the rich man's superfluity, or whether it be the interest that
mankind in general feel for the records of perilous adventures, it
is certain that the populace of all countries look with admiration
upon great and successful thieves. Perhaps both these causes
combine to invest their career with charms in the popular eye.
Almost every country in Europe has its traditional thief, whose
exploits are recorded with all the graces of poetry, and whose
trespasses

"Are cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times." 1

Those travellers who have made national manners and
characteristics their peculiar study, have often observed and
remarked upon this feeling. The learned Abbé le Blanc, who resided
for some time in England at the commencement of the eighteenth
century, says, in his amusing letters on the English and French
nations, that he continually met with Englishmen who were not less
vain in boasting of the success of their highwaymen than of the
bravery of their troops. Tales of their address, their cunning, or
their generosity, were in the mouths of everybody, and a noted
thief was a kind of hero in high repute. He adds that the mob, in
all countries, being easily moved, look in general with concern
upon criminals going to the gallows; but an English mob looked
upon such scenes with 'extraordinary interest: they delighted to
see them go through their last trials with resolution, and
applauded those who were insensible enough to die as they had
lived, braving the justice both of God and men: such, he might
have added, as the noted robber Macpherson, of whom the old ballad
says:

"Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
    Sae dauntingly gaed he:
  He played a spring, and danced it round
    Beneath the gallows tree."

Among these traditional thieves the most noted in England, or
perhaps in any country, is Robin Hood, a name which popular
affection has encircled with a peculiar halo. "He robbed the rich
to give to the poor;" and his reward has been an immortality of
fame, a tithe of which would be thought more than sufficient to
recompense a benefactor of his species. Romance and poetry have
been emulous to make him all their own; and the forest of
Sherwood, in which he roamed with his merry men, armed with their
long bows, and clad in Lincoln green, has become the resort of
pilgrims, and a classic spot sacred to his memory. The few virtues
he had, which would have ensured him no praise if he had been an
honest man, have been blazoned forth by popular renown during
seven successive centuries, and will never be forgotten while the
English tongue endures. His charity to the poor, and his gallantry
and respect for women, have made him the pre-eminent thief of all
the world.

Among English thieves of a later date, who has not heard of Claude
Duval, Dick Turpin, Jonathan Wild, and Jack Sheppard, those
knights of the road and of the town, whose peculiar chivalry
formed at once the dread and the delight of England during the
eighteenth century ? Turpin's fame is unknown to no portion of the
male population of England after they have attained the age of
ten. His wondrous ride from London to York has endeared him to the
imagination of millions; his cruelty in placing an old woman upon
a fire, to force her to tell him where she had hidden her money,
is regarded as a good joke; and his proud bearing upon the
scaffold is looked upon as a virtuous action. The Abbé le Blanc,
writing in 1747, says he was continually entertained with stories
of Turpin˜how, when he robbed gentlemen, he would generously leave
them enough to continue their journey, and exact a pledge from
them never to inform against him, and how scrupulous such
gentlemen were in keeping their word. He was one day told a story
with which the relator was he the highest degree delighted.
Turpin, or some other noted robber, stopped a man whom he knew to
be very rich, with the usual salutation˜" Your money or your
life!" but not finding more than five or six guineas about him, he
took the liberty of entreating him, in the most affable manner,
never to come out so ill provided; adding that, if he fell in with
him, and he had no more than such a paltry sum, he would give him
a good licking. Another story, told by one of Turpin's admirers,
was of a robbery he had committed upon a Mr. C. near Cambridge. He
took from this gentleman his watch, his snuff-box, and all his
money but two shillings, and, before he left him, required his
word of honour that he would not cause him to be pursued or
brought before a justice. The promise being given, they both
parted very courteously. They afterwards met at Newmarket, and
renewed their acquaintance. Mr. C. kept his word religiously; he
not only refrained from giving Turpin into custody, but made a
boast that he had fairly won some of his money back again in an
honest way. Turpin offered to bet with him on some favourite
horse, and Mr. C. accepted the wager with as good a grace as he
could have done from the best gentleman in England. Turpin lost
his bet and paid it immediately, and was so smitten with the
generous behaviour of Mr. C. that he told him how deeply he
regretted that the trifling affair which had happened between them
did not permit them to drink together. The narrator of this
anecdote was quite proud that England was the birthplace of such a
highwayman.2

Not less familiar to the people of England is the career of Jack
Sheppard, as brutal a ruffian as ever disgraced his country, but
who has claims upon the popular admiration which are very
generally acknowledged. He did not, like Robin Hood, plunder the
rich to relieve the poor, nor rob with an uncouth sort of
courtesy, like Turpin; but he escaped from Newgate with the
fetters on his limbs. This achievement, more than once repeated,
has encircled his felon brow with the wreath of immortality, and
made him quite a pattern thief among the populace. He was no more
than twenty-three years of age at the time of his execution, and
he died much pitied by the crowd. His adventures were the sole
topics of conversation for months; the print-shops were filled
with his effigies, and a fine painting of him was made by Sir
Richard Thornhill. The following complimentary verses to the
artist appeared in the British Journal of November 28th, 1724.

"Thornhill! 'tis thine to gild with fame
Th' obscure, and raise the humble name;
To make the form elude the grave,
And Sheppard from oblivion save!

Apelles Alexander drew—
Cesar is to Aurelius due;
Cromwell in Lilly's works doth shine,
And Sheppard, Thornhill, lives in thine!"

So high was Jack's fame that a pantomime entertainment, called
Harlequin Jack Sheppard, was devised by one Thurmond, and brought
out with great success at Drury Lane Theatre. All the scenes were
painted from nature, including the public-house that the robber
frequented in Claremarket, and the condemned cell from which he
had made his escape in Newgate.

The Rev. Mr. Villette, the editor of the Annals of Newgate,
published in 1754, relates a curious sermon which, he says, a
friend of his heard delivered by a street-preacher about the time
of Jack's execution. The orator, after animadverting on the great
care men took of their bodies, and the little care they bestowed
upon their souls, continued as follows, by way of exemplifying the
position:—"We have a remarkable instance of this in a notorious
malefactor, well known by the name of Jack Sheppard. What amazing
difficulties has he overcome! what astonishing things has he
performed! and all for the sake of a stinking, miserable carcass;
hardly worth the hanging! How dexterously did he pick the chain of
his padlock with a crooked nail! how manfully he burst his fetters
asunder!—climb up the chimney!—wrench out an iron bar!—break his
way through a stone wall!—make the strong door of a dark entry fly
before him, till he got upon the leads of the prison! then, fixing
a blanket to the wall with a spike, he stole out of the chapel.
How intrepidly did he descend to the top of the turner's
house!—how cautiously pass down the stair, and make his escape to
the street door!

"Oh! that ye were all like Jack Sheppard! Mistake me not, my
brethren; I don't mean in a carnal, but in a spiritual sense, for
I propose to spiritualise these things. What a shame it would be
if we should not think it worth our while to take as much pains,
and employ as many deep thoughts, to save our souls as he has done
to preserve his body!

"Let me exhort ye, then, to open the locks of your hearts with the
nail of repentance! Burst asunder the fetters of your beloved
lusts!—mount the chimney of hope!—take from thence the bar of good
resolution!—break through the stone wall of despair, and all the
strongholds in the dark entry of the valley of the shadow of
death! Raise yourselves to the leads of divine meditation!—fix the
blanket of faith with the spike of the church! let yourselves down
to the turner's house of re signation, and descend the stairs of
humility! So shall you come to the door of deliverance from the
prison of iniquity, and escape the clutches of that old
executioner the Devil!"

Jonathan Wild, whose name has been immortalised by Fielding, was
no favourite with the people. He had none of the virtues which,
combined with crimes, make up the character of the great thief. He
was a pitiful fellow, who informed against his comrades, and was
afraid of death. This meanness was not to be forgiven by the
crowd, and they pelted him with dirt and stones on his way to
Tyburn, and expressed their contempt by every possible means. How
different was their conduct to Turpin and Jack Sheppard, who died
in their neatest attire, with nosegays in their button-holes, and
with the courage that a crowd expects! It was anticipated that the
body of Turpin would have been delivered up to the surgeons for
dissection, and the people seeing some men very busily employed in
removing it, suddenly set upon them, rescued the body, bore it
about the town in triumph, and then buried it in a very deep
grave, filled with quick-lime, to hasten the progress of
decomposition. They would not suffer the corpse of their hero, of
the man who had ridden from London to York in four-and-twenty
hours to be mangled by the rude hands of unmannerly surgeons.

The death of Claude Duval would appear to have been no less
triumphant. Claude was a gentlemanly thief. According to Butler,
in the famous ode to his memory, he

"Taught the wild Arabs of the road
To rob in a more gentle mode;
Take prizes more obligingly than those
Who never had breen bred filous;
And how to hang in a more graceful fashion
Than e'er was known before to the dull English nation."

In fact, he was the pink of politeness, and his gallantry to the
fair sex was proverbial. When he was caught at last, pent in
"stone walls and chains and iron grates,"—their grief was in
proportion to his rare merits and his great fame. Butler says,
that to his dungeon

"Came ladies from all parts,
To offer up close prisoners their hearts,
Which he received as tribute due—
*          *          *          *         *
Never did bold knight, to relieve
Distressed dames, such dreadful feats achieve,
As feeble damsels, for his sake,
Would have been proud to undertake,
And, bravely ambitious to redeem
The world's loss and their own,
Strove who should have the honour to lay down,
And change a life with him."

Among the noted thieves of France, there is none to compare with
the famous Aimerigot Têtenoire, who flourished in the reign of
Charles VI. This fellow was at the head of four or five hundred
men, and possessed two very strong castles in Limousin and
Auvergne. There was a good deal of the feudal baron about him,
although he possessed no revenues but such as the road afforded
him. At his death he left a singular will. "I give and bequeath,"
said the robber, "one thousand five hundred francs to St. George's
Chapel, for such repairs as it may need. To my sweet girl who so
tenderly loved me, I give two thousand five hundred; and the
surplus I give to my companions. I hope they will all live as
brothers, and divide it amicably among them. If they cannot agree,
and the devil of contention gets among them, it is no fault of
mine; and I advise them to get a good strong, sharp axe, and break
open my strong box. Let them scramble for what it contains, and
the Devil seize the hindmost." The people of Auvergne still
recount with admiration the daring feats of this brigand.

Of later years, the French thieves have been such unmitigated
scoundrels as to have left but little room for popular admiration.
The famous Cartouche, whose name has become synonymous with
ruffian in their language, had none of the generosity, courtesy,
and devoted bravery which are so requisite to make a robber-hero.
He was born at Paris, towards the end of the seventeenth century,
and broken alive on the wheel in November 1727. He was, however,
sufficiently popular to have been pitied at his death, and
afterwards to have formed the subject of a much admired drama,
which bore his name, and was played with great success in all the
theatres of France during the years 1734, 5, and 6. In our own day
the French have been more fortunate in a robber; Vidocq bids fair
to rival the fame of Turpin and Jack Sheppard. Already he has
become the hero of many an apocryphal tale—already his compatriots
boast of his manifold achievements, and express their doubts
whether any other country in Europe could produce a thief so
clever, so accomplished, so gentlemanly, as Vidocq.

Germany has its Schinderhannes, Hungary its Schubry, and Italy and
Spain a whole host of brigands, whose names and exploits are
familiar as household words in the mouths of the children and
populace of those countries.

The Italian banditti are renowned over the world; and many of them
are not only very religious (after a fashion), but very
charitable. Charity from such a source is so unexpected, that the
people dote upon them for it. One of them, when he fell into the
hands of the police, exclaimed, as they led him away, "Ho fatto
pitt carita!"—" I have given away more in charity than any three
convents in these provinces." And the fellow spoke truth.

In Lombardy, the people cherish the memory of two notorious
robbers, who flourished about two centuries ago under the Spanish
government. Their story, according to Macfarlane, is contained in
a little book well known to all the children of the province, and
read by them with much more gusto than their Bibles.

Schinderhannes, the robber of the Rhine, is a great favourite on
the banks of the river which he so long kept in awe. Many amusing
stories are related by the peasantry of the scurvy tricks he
played off upon rich Jews, or too-presuming officers of justice—of
his princely generosity, and undaunted courage. In short, they are
proud of him, and would no more consent to have the memory of his
achievements dissociated from their river than they would to have
the rock of Ehrenbreitstein blown to atoms by gunpowder.

There is another robber-hero, of whose character and exploits the
people of Germany speak admiringly. Mausch Nadel was captain of a
considerable band that infested the Rhine, Switzerland, Alsatia,
and Lorraine during the years 1824, 5, and 6. Like Jack Sheppard,
he endeared himself to the populace by his most hazardous escape
from prison. Being confined, at Bremen, in a dungeon, on the third
story of the prison of that town, he contrived to let himself down
without exciting the vigilance of the sentinels, and to swim
across the Weser, though heavily laden with irons. When about half
way over, he was espied by a sentinel, who fired at him, and shot
him in the calf of the leg: but the undaunted robber struck out
manfully, reached the shore, and was out of sight before the
officers of justice could get ready their boats to follow him. He
was captured again in 1826, tried at Mayence, and sentenced to
death. He was a tall, strong, handsome man, and his fate, villain
as he was, excited much sympathy all over Germany. The ladies
especially were loud in their regret that nothing could be done to
save a hero so good-looking, and of adventures so romantic, from
the knife of the headsman.

Mr. Charles Macfarlane, in speaking of Italian banditti, remarks,
that the abuses of the Catholic religion, with its confessions and
absolutions, have tended to promote crime of this description.
But, he adds, more truly, that priests and monks have not done
half the mischief which has been perpetrated by ballad-mongers and
story-tellers. If he had said play-wrights also, the list would
have been complete. In fact, the theatre, which can only expect to
prosper, in a pecuniary sense, by pandering to the tastes of the
people, continually recurs to the annals of thieves and banditti
for its most favourite heroes. These theatrical robbers; with
their picturesque attire, wild haunts, jolly, reckless,
devil-may-care manners, take a wonderful hold upon the
imagination, and, whatever their advocates may say to the
contrary, exercise a very pernicious influence upon public morals.
In the Memoirs of the Duke of Guise upon the Revolution of Naples
in 1657 and 1658, it is stated, that the manners, dress, and mode
of life of the Neapolitan banditti were rendered so captivating
upon the stage, that the authorities found it absolutely necessary
to forbid the representation of dramas in which they figured, and
even to prohibit their costume at the masquerades. So numerous
were the banditti at this time, that the Duke found no difficulty
in raising an army of. them, to aid him in his endeavours to seize
on the throne of Naples. He thus describes them: 3 "They were
three thousand five hundred men, of whom the oldest came short of
five and forty years, and the youngest was above twenty. They were
all tall and well made, with long black hair, for the most part
curled, coats of black Spanish leather, with sleeves of velvet, or
cloth of gold, cloth breeches with gold lace, most of them
scarlet; girdles of velvet, laced with gold, with two pistols on
each side; a cutlass hanging at a belt, suitably trimmed, three
fingers broad and two feet long; a hawking-bag at their girdle,
and a powder-flask hung about their neck with a great silk riband.
Some of them carried firelocks, and others blunder-busses; they
had all good shoes, with silk stockings, and every one a cap of
cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, of different colours, on his
head, which was very delightful to the eye."

The Beggars' Opera, in our own country, is another instance of the
admiration that thieves excite upon the stage. Of the
extraordinary success of this piece, when first produced, the
following account is given in the notes to The Dunciad, and quoted
by Johnson in his Lives of the Poets. "This piece was received
with greater applause than was ever known. Besides being acted in
London sixty-three days without interruption, and renewed the next
season with equal applause, it spread into all the great towns of
England; was played in many places to the thirtieth and fortieth
time; at Bath and Bristol, &c. fifty. It made its progress into
Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, where it was performed twenty-four
days successively. The ladies carried about with them the
favourite songs of it in fans, and houses were furnished with it
in screens. The fame of it was not confined to the author only.
The person who acted Polly, till then obscure, became all at once
the favourite of the town; 4 her pictures were engraved and sold
in great numbers; her life written, books of letters and verses to
her published, and pamphlets made even of her sayings and jests.
Furthermore, it drove out of England, for that season, the Italian
Opera, which had carried all before it for ten years." Dr.
Johnson, in his Life of the Author, says, that Herring, afterwards
Archbishop of Canterbury, censured the opera, as giving
encouragement, not only to vice, but to crimes, by making the
highwayman the hero, and dismissing him at last unpunished; and
adds, that it was even said, that after the exhibition the gangs
of robbers were evidently multiplied. The Doctor doubts the
assertion, giving as his reason that highwaymen and housebreakers
seldom frequent the playhouse, and that it was not possible for
any one to imagine that he might rob with safety, because he saw
Macheath reprieved upon the stage. But if Johnson had wished to be
convinced, he might very easily have discovered that highwaymen
and housebreakers did frequent the theatre, and that nothing was
more probable than that a laughable representation of successful
villany should induce the young and the already vicious to imitate
it. Besides, there is the weighty authority of Sir John Fielding,
the chief magistrate of Bow Street, who asserted positively, and
proved his assertion by the records of his office, that the number
of thieves was greatly increased at the time when that opera was
so popular.

We have another instance of the same result much nearer our own
times. Schiller's Räuber, that wonderful play, written by a green
youth, perverted the taste and imagination of all the young men in
Germany. An accomplished critic of our own country (Hazlitt),
speaking of this play, says it was the first he ever read, and
such was the effect it produced on him, that "it stunned him, like
a blow." After the lapse of five-and-twenty years he could not
forget it; it was still, to use his own words, "an old dweller in
the chambers of his brain," and he had not even then recovered
enough from it, to describe how it was. The high-minded,
metaphysical thief, its hero, was so warmly admired, that several
raw students, longing to imitate a character they thought so
noble, actually abandoned their homes and their colleges, and
betook themselves to the forests and wilds to levy contributions
upon travellers. They thought they would, like Moor, plunder the
rich, and deliver eloquent soliloquies to the setting sun or the
rising moon; relieve the poor when they met them, and drink flasks
of Rhenish with their free companions in rugged mountain passes,
or in tents in the thicknesses of the forests. But a little
experience wonderfully cooled their courage; they found that real,
every-day robbers were very unlike the conventional banditti of
the stage, and that three months in prison, with bread and water
for their fare, and damp straw to lie upon, was very well to read
about by their own fire sides, but not very agreeable to undergo
in their own proper persons.

Lord Byron, with his soliloquising, high-souled thieves, has, in a
slight degree, perverted the taste of the greenhorns and incipient
rhymesters of his country. As yet, however, they have shown more
good sense than their fellows of Germany, and have not taken to
the woods or the highways. Much as they admire Conrad the Corsair,
they will not go to sea, and hoist the black flag in emulation of
him. By words only, and not by deeds, they testify their
admiration, and deluge the periodicals and music shops of the hand
with verses describing pirates' and bandits' brides, and robber
adventures of every kind.

But it is the play-wright who does most harm; and Byron has fewer
sins of this nature to answer for than Gay or Schiller, and the
modern dramatizers of Jack Sheppard. With the aid of scenery, fine
dresses, and music, and the very false notions they convey, they
vitiate the public taste, not knowing,

"vulgaires rimeurs
Quelle force ont les arts pour demolir les mœurs."

In the penny theatres that abound in the poor and populous
districts of London, and which are chiefly frequented by
striplings of idle and dissolute habits, tales of thieves and
murderers are more admired, and draw more crowded audiences, than
any other species of representation. There the footpad, the
burglar, and the highwayman are portrayed in unnatural colours,
and give pleasant lessons in crime to their delighted listeners.
There the deepest tragedy and the broadest farce are represented
in the career of the murderer and the thief, and are applauded in
proportion to their depth and their breadth. There, whenever a
crime of unusual atrocity is committed, it is brought out afresh,
with all its disgusting incidents copied from the life, for the
amusement of those who will one day become its imitators.

With the mere reader the case is widely different; and most people
have a partiality for knowing the adventures of noted rogues. Even
in fiction they are delightful: witness the eventful story of Gil
Blas de Santillane, and of that great rascal Don Guzman
d'Alfarache. Here there is no fear of imitation. Poets, too,
without doing mischief, may sing of such heroes when they please,
wakening our sympathies for the sad fate of Gilderoy, or
Macpherson the Dauntless; or celebrating in undying verse the
wrongs and the revenge of the great thief of Scotland, Rob Roy.
If, by the music of their sweet rhymes, they can convince the
world that such heroes are but mistaken philosophers, born a few
ages too late, and having both a theoretical and practical love
for

"The good old rule, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
That they should keep who can,"

the world may, perhaps, become wiser, and consent to some better
distribution of its good things, by means of which thieves may
become reconciled to the age, and the age to them. The
probability, however, seems to be, that the charmers will charm in
vain, charm they ever so wisely.