Part 2

Nevison was arrested on one occasion and lodged in Wakefield prison, but he broke out, and was again holding up the lieges. At another time he was released on giving a promise that he would volunteer to serve in our newly acquired colony, Tangier; but he promptly deserted. Once he was thrown into Leicester gaol, heavily ironed, and strictly guarded; so well-advised were the authorities of his slippery character. Among those who visited him in his cell was a friend in the disguise of a doctor. This person, affecting to be struck with horror at the sight of him, declared he was infected with the plague; and added that, so far as the prisoner himself was concerned, he might die and be d——d for a rogue, and welcome; but a more serious thing was that, unless he were removed to a larger room, not only would he die, but he would also spread the infection over the entire prison.

Nevison was very speedily removed to another room, and the gaoler, implored by his wife, went no further than the door. The physician, meanwhile, came twice or thrice a day to see the patient, and at last declared his case to be hopeless. The highwayman's body was then artfully painted over with blue spots, and he was given a powerful sleeping draught. The physician was shocked, the next time he called, to find him dead. An inquest was hurriedly held: the jury keeping a considerable distance away, with vinegar-saturated handkerchiefs to noses. "Dead of the plague," they declared; and hurried home to make their wills.

The friends of the dead highwayman proved to the local world the strength and fearlessness of their friendship by claiming the body, and were allowed to coffin it and remove it. The coffin was duly interred, but not Nevison, for he stepped out at the first opportunity, and that very night, in the character of his own ghost, was robbing wayfarers, doubly terrified at this "supernatural" reappearance.

It was not long before the whole story leaked out. Then ensued perhaps the busiest period of his career. The drovers and farmers of Yorkshire were put under regular contribution by him and his gang: the carriers paid a recognised toll, in the form of a quarterly allowance, which at one and the same time cleared the road for them, and offered protection against any other highway marauders. Indeed, Nevison was in this respect almost a counterpart of those old German barons of the Rhine who levied dues on travellers, or in default hanged or imprisoned them. The parallel goes no greater distance than that, for those picturesque nobles were anything but the idols of the people; while Nevison was sufficiently popular to have become the hero of a rural ballad, still occasionally to be heard in the neighbourhood of his haunts at Knaresborough, Ferrybridge, York, or Newark. Here are two verses of it, not perhaps distinguished by wealth of fancy or resourcefulness of rhyme:

Did you ever hear tell of that hero, Bold Nevison, that was his name? He rode about like a bold hero, And with that he gained great fame.

He maintained himself like a gentleman, Besides, he was good to the poor; He rode about like a great hero, And he gained himself favour therefor.

A curious pamphlet survives, entitled _Bloody News from Yorkshire_, dated 1674, and telling how Nevison and twenty of his men attacked fifteen butchers, who were riding to Northallerton Fair, and engaged in a furious battle with them.

As an interlude to these more serious affairs, there is the story of how Nevison alone, going on a southerly expedition, met a company of canting beggars, mumpers, and idle vagrants, and proposed to join their "merry" life. Their leader welcomed his proposal, and indicated their course of life. "Do we not come into the world arrant beggars, without a rag upon us? And do we not all go out of the world like beggars, saving only an old sheet over us? Very well, then: shall we be ashamed to walk up and down the world like beggars, with old blankets pinned about us? No, no: that would be a shame to us indeed. Have we not the whole kingdom to walk in, at our pleasure? Are we afraid of the approach of quarter-day? Do we walk in fear of sheriffs, sergeants, and catchpoles? Who ever knew an arrant beggar arrested for debt? Is not our meat dressed in every man's kitchen? Does not every man's cellar afford us beer? And the best men's purses keep a penny for us to spend."

As a preliminary to electing him of their band, they asked him if he had any _loure_ in his _bung_. Seeing his ignorance of their cant phrases, they said the question was, "Had he any money in his purse?"

"Eighteenpence," said he, "and you're welcome to it."

This modest sum was, by unanimous vote, allocated for the purpose of a general booze, in celebration of his admission. The ceremony, the "gage of booze," as the historian of these things terms it, consisted in pouring a quart of beer over the head of the initiate, and the captain saying, "I do, by virtue of this sovereign liquor, install thee in the Roage, and make thee a free denizen of our ragged regiment, so that henceforth it shall be lawful for thee to cant, and to carry a doxy, or mort, along with thee, only observing these rules: first, that thou art not to wander up and down all countries, but to keep to that quarter which is allotted to thee; and, secondly, thou art to give way to any of us that have borne all the offices of the wallet before; and, upon holding up a finger, to avoid any town or country village where thou seest we are foraging for victuals for our army that march along with us. Observing these two rules, we take thee into our protection, and adopt thee a brother of our numerous society."

Having ended his oration, the captain bade Nevison rise, when he was congratulated by all the company hanging about him, like so many dogs about a bear, and making a hideous noise. The chief, silencing them, continued: "Now that thou art entered into our fraternity, thou must not scruple to act any villainies, whether it be to cut a purse, steal a cloak-bag or portmanteau, convey all manner of things, whether a chicken, sucking-pig, duck, goose, hen, or steal a shirt from the hedge; for he that will be a _quier cove_ (a professed rogue) must observe these rules. And because thou art but a novice in begging, and understandest not the mysteries of the canting language, thou shalt have a doxy to be thy companion, by whom thou mayest receive instructions."

Thereupon, he singled out a girl of about fourteen years of age, which tickled his fancy very much; but he must presently be married to her, after the fashion of their _patrico_, the priest of the beggars. The ceremony consisted of taking a hen, and having cut off the head, laying the dead body on the ground; placing him on one side and his doxy on the other. This being done, the "priest," standing by, with a loud voice bade them live together till death did them part. Then, shaking hands and kissing each other, the ceremony of the wedding was over, and the whole group appeared intoxicated with joy. They could hardly, at any rate, be intoxicated with booze, if eighteenpence had been all they had to spend on liquor, and a quart of that wasted.

Night approaching, they all resorted to a neighbouring barn, where they slept: Nevison slipping out secretly before morning, and continuing his journey.

Butchers and Nevison were antipathetic, and he and his gang had levied much tribute in Yorkshire upon their kind. In 1684, two butchers, brothers, Fletcher by name, tried to capture him near Howley Hall, Morley.

He shot one dead, and escaped. The spot is still marked by a stone near Howley Farm. Not long after this he was arrested at the "Three Houses" inn, at Sandal, near Wakefield.

He was at the time, and for long after, a popular hero. The butchers, the graziers, the farmers, the carriers might owe him a grudge, but the peasantry dwelt upon his real or his fancied generosity to the poor, and ballads about him always commanded a ready sale. According to a very popular example, entitled _Nevison's Garland_, he pleaded "Not Guilty":

And when then he came to the Bench, "Guilty or not Guilty," they to him did cry, "Not Guilty," then Nevison said, "I'm clear e'er since the same Day, That the King did my Pardon Grant, I ne'er did rob anyone, nor kill But that Fletcher in all my life, 'Twas in my Defence, I say still."

To commit murder in endeavouring to escape arrest was ever regarded by the highwaymen as a venial sin: a view not shared by the law, and he was found guilty, sentenced to death, and hanged within a week from his trial. He suffered at Knavesmire, York, May 4th, 1685, in the forty-fifth year of his age.

[Illustration: NEVISON'S LEG-IRONS, IN YORK MUSEUM.]

"He was something stupid at the gallows," says the old chronicler ("probably drunk," adds a later commentator), "yet he confess'd everything."

The older Nevison ballads, which had some little literary merit, as well as quaintness, to recommend them, have given place to vilely re-written verses that have not the merit of truth or of rhyme. This is how a typical example goes:

Oh! the Twenty-first day of last month, Proved an unfortunate day; Captain Milton was riding to London, And by mischance he rode out of his way.

He call'd at a house by the roadside, It was the sign of the Magpie, Where Nevison had been drinking, And the captain soon did he espy.

Then a constable very soon was sent for, And a constable very soon came; With three or four more in attendance, With pistols charged in the King's name.

They demanded the name of this hero, "My name it is Johnson," said he, When the captain laid hold of his shoulder, Saying "Nevison, thou goeth with me."

Oh! then in this very same speech, They hastened him fast away, To a place called Swinnington Bridge, A place where he used for to stay.

They call'd for a quart of good liquor, It was the sign of the Black Horse, Where there was all sorts of attendance, But for Nevison it was the worst.

He called for a pen, ink, and paper, And these were the words that he said, "I will write for some boots, shoes, and stockings, For of them I have very great need."

'Tis now before my lord judge, Oh! guilty or not do you plead; He smiled into the judge and jury, And these were the words that he said:

"I've now robbed a gentleman of two pence, I've neither done murder nor kill'd, But guilty I've been all my life time, So, gentlemen, do as you will.

"It's when that I rode on the highway, I've always had money in great store; And whatever I took from the rich I freely gave it to the poor.

"But my peace I have made with my Maker, And with you I'm quite ready to go; So here's adieu! to this world and its vanities, For I'm ready to suffer the law."

JOHN COTTINGTON, _alias_ "MULLED SACK"

John Cottington, commonly known as "Mulled Sack," was the son of a drunken haberdasher in Cheapside, who wasted his substance to such an extent in drinking with fellow-tradesmen of like tastes, that he died in poverty and was buried by the parish. He seems to have been in every way an improvident person, for it is recorded that he left fifteen daughters and four sons. John, our present hero, was the youngest of these. At eight years of age he was bound apprentice by the overseers of the poor of the parish of St. Mary-le-Bow to a chimney-sweep, and served his master in the chimney-sweeping for five years. He then ran away, for he was by this time thirteen years of age, and considered himself grown up, and as fully informed in the art and mystery of chimney-sweeping as his instructor.

He soon acquired the nickname by which he is best known, from his fondness for mulled sack, morning, noon, and night. His earlier

## activities were exercised in that inferior branch of robbery known

as pocket-picking, which does not, however, demand less skill and nerve (perhaps, indeed, it requires more) than was necessary in the nobler art of collecting upon the roads. He was one of the most expert cly-fakers and bung-snatchers in London, frequenting Cheapside and Ludgate Hill by preference; and is said to have been so successful that he stole "almost enough to have built St. Paul's Cathedral." This is, of course, an amiable, but extravagant exaggeration; but the exploits of all heroes, in all ages, have been similarly magnified, and why not those of "Mulled Sack"?

Among the most robust and uncompromising of the Royalists, he remained in England to war with the usurpers in his own way, while the Cavaliers had fled across the Channel. His warfare was happy, inasmuch as it emptied the pockets of the Commonwealth leaders, while it filled those of himself and his confederates. If he could not meet the enemies of the monarchy on the field, he could, and did, slip a sly hand into their pockets, and lighten them by many a gold watch and a guinea. One of his greatest achievements was the robbing of Lady Fairfax as she—wife of the famous general—was stepping from her carriage into the church of St. Martin, Ludgate, come to hear a famous preacher of that age.

"Mulled Sack" was that day dressed as a gentleman. He did not often affect the part, being a homespun fellow, and subdued from essaying fine flights by those easy experiences of swarming up the chimney-flues. But on this day he was unrecognisable for himself, in quiet, but rich dress. His associates were working with him, and had removed the pin out of the axle of her ladyship's coach, so that the heavy vehicle fell as it neared the church door. "Mulled Sack" pressed forward politely, to help her alight, and at the moment of her setting foot to pavement cut her watch-chain with a sharp pair of scissors, and gently removing the watch itself—a handsome gold one, set with diamonds—escorted her to the church door, raised his hat as gracefully as he could, and then disappeared in the crowd.

It was not until, wearied with an inordinately long sermon, she sought to discover the time, that she missed the watch.

"Mulled Sack" was less fortunate in an attempt he made to pick the august pocket of the Lord Protector, His Highness, Oliver, by the Grace of God—Oliver Cromwell, none other—as he was leaving the House of Parliament. He was caught in the attempt, and came near to being hanged for it. This put him so sadly out of conceit with the art to which he had given his best time, that he determined to forsake it for the sister craft of highway robbery, where a man was under no craven necessity to sneak, and crawl, and cringe, but boldly confronted his quarry, and with an oath, or with a jest—entirely according to temperament—rode up and demanded or "requested," or even, as was the fashion among the most flamboyantly politeful, "begged the favour of," the traveller's purse.

He at first worked the roads in company with one Tom Cheney, with whom, robbing upon Hounslow Heath, he encountered Colonel Hewson, a warrior of those times who had by his military genius raised himself from the humble station of a cobbler. The Colonel was upon the Heath with his regiment, riding some considerable distance away, but still within sight of his men, when the two highwaymen robbed him. A troop instantly gave chase; Cheney desperately defended himself, against eighteen, and was then overpowered and captured, but "Mulled Sack," flying like the wind upon his trusty horse, escaped. Cheney was severely wounded in the affray, and begged that his trial might be postponed on that account, but, as it was feared he might die of his wounds, and so escape hanging after all, he was hurriedly—and no doubt also illegally—condemned on the spot, and hanged there that same evening.

A certain Captain Horne was the next partner "Mulled Sack" took, and he too was similarly unfortunate in a like affair with that already described. An early and ignominious fate seemed to be the inevitable lot of those who worked with our heroic pickpocket turned highwayman, and either because the survivors grew shy of him in consequence, or because he thought it best to play a lone hand, he ever afterwards pursued a solitary career.

It was a successful career, so long as it was continued, and affords an example to the young of the substantial advantages to be derived from an industrious disposition, enthusiasm in the profession of one's adoption, and that thoroughness in leaving no stone unturned which should bring even only a moderately-equipped young man to the front rank of his profession. "Mulled Sack" left no unturned stone, no pocket (that was likely to contain anything worth having) unpicked, and no promising wayfarer unchallenged within the marches of the districts he affected. And what was the result of this early and late application to to business? Why, nothing less than the proud admission made by his admiring biographer, that "he constantly wore a watchmaker's and jeweller's shop in his pocket, and could at any time command a thousand pounds." How few are those who, in our own slack times, could say as much!

He wore the watches and jewellery he had taken on his rides just as old soldiers display the medals won in their arduous campaigns, and they implied not only the energy of the business man, but the pluck of the soldier on the battlefield. As the soldier fights for his medals, so "Mulled Sack" warred for his—or, rather, other people's—watches.

His greatest deed as a highwayman is that told by Johnson, of his waylaying the Army pay-waggon on Shotover Hill. Fully advised of the approach of this treasure-laden wain, he lurked on the scrubby side of that ill-omened hill over-looking Oxford—it was ever a place for robbers—and, just as the waggon started to toil painfully up, rose from his ambuscade with pistols presented to the head of the waggoner and to those of the three soldiers acting as escort.

[Illustration: "MULLED SACK" ROBS THE ARMY PAY-WAGGON.]

It seems that there were also two or three passengers in the waggon, but "Mulled Sack" was as generous as the liquor whence he obtained his name, for he "told them he had no design upon them."

"'This,' says he, 'that I have taken, is as much mine as theirs who own it, being all extorted from the Publick by the rapacious Members of our Commonwealth to enrich themselves, maintain their Janizaries, and keep honest people in subjection.'"

The escort, never for a moment thinking it possible that one highwayman would have the daring to act thus, and dreading the onset of others, bolted like rabbits.

The Republican treasure thus secured by the enterprising "Mulled Sack" totalled £4000, and by so much the expectant garrison of Gloucester, for whom it was intended, for a while went short. Cottington was at this time but twenty years of age. Youth will be served!

It is sad to record a vulgar declension in the practice of "Mulled Sack." He stooped to shed blood, and murdered, as well as robbed a gentleman. With the guilt of Cain heavy on him, he fled to the Continent, and, by some specious pretence gaining access to the Court held by the fugitive Charles the Second, stole a quantity of valuable plate. Returning to England, a little later, he fell into the hands of the sheriff's officers who were keenly awaiting his reappearance, and he was executed at Smithfield Rounds in 1656, for the crime of murder, aged forty-five.

[Illustration: [++] MAN BEING HANGED.]

THOMAS RUMBOLD

Thomas Rumbold, born about 1643, at Ipswich, was the son of the usual "poor but honest" parents, and was early apprenticed to a bricklayer in that town. But highly coloured stories of the wonders of London fired his imagination and set him to run away from home before little more than a quarter of his time had been served. He entered upon another kind of apprenticeship in London: nothing less than a voluntary pupilage with a thieves' fraternity; but very shortly left that also and set up for himself as a highwayman. He would seem to have had a career of about twenty-six years in this craft, before the gallows claimed him; so it is quite evident he had found his true vocation. A complete account of his transactions would doubtless make a goodly volume, but they are not recorded at proper length. The earlier years of his highway career seem to be completely lost, and the painstaking Smith, instead of showing us how he advanced from small and timid successes to larger and bolder issues, is obliged to plunge into the midst of his life and begin with an adventure which, if it is not indeed entirely apocryphal, can only have been the extravagant and stupid whim of a very impudent and ingenious fellow, long used to wayside escapades.

Rumbold travelled, says Smith, from London towards Canterbury, along the Dover Road, with the intention of waylaying no less a personage than Dr. Sancroft, the Archbishop, who was coming to London, as Rumbold had been advised, in his travelling chariot. Between Rochester and Sittingbourne he espied the carriage and its attendant servants in the distance, and, tying his horse to a tree, and spreading a tablecloth on the grass of a field open to the road, he sat himself down and began playing hazard with dice-box and dice, all by himself, for some heaps of gold and silver he placed conspicuously on the cloth. Presently the Archbishop's carriage creaked and rumbled ponderously by, in the manner of the clumsy vehicles of that time; and His Grace, curiously observing a man acting so strangely as to play hazard by himself, sent a servant to see what could be the meaning of it.

The servant, coming near, could hear Rumbold swearing at every cast of the dice, about his losses, and asked him what was the meaning of it. To this Rumbold made no reply, and the servant returned to the Right Reverend and informed him the man must surely be out of his wits.

Then the Archbishop himself alighted, and, looking curiously around, and seeing none but Rumbold, asked him whom he played with.

"D——n it, sir!" exclaimed the player, "there's five hundred pounds gone." Then, as His Grace was about to speak again, casting the dice once more, "There goes a hundred more."

"Pr'ythee," exclaimed the Archbishop, "do tell me whom you play with?"

"With the devil," replied Rumbold.

"And how will you send the money to him?"

"By his ambassadors, and considering your Grace as one of them extraordinary, I shall beg the favour of you to carry it to him." He rose, and walking to the carriage, placed six hundred guineas in it, mounted his horse, and rode off along the way he knew the Archbishop had to travel; and, both he and His Grace having refreshed at Sittingbourne, in different houses of entertainment, Rumbold afterwards took the road to London a little in advance of the carriage.