Part 4

"The effect which theft works in the world to come is eternal, and there is no helping it. I shall therefore proceed to the historical part of my text, which will prove, from ancient history, that the art of Theft is of some antiquity, inasmuch as that Paris stole Helen, Theseus stole Ariadne, and Jason stole Medea. However, antiquity ought to be no plea for vice, since laws, both Divine and human, forbid base

## actions, especially theft. For history again informs us that Sciron

was thrown headlong into the sea for thieving: Cacus was killed by Hercules: Sisyphus was cut in pieces; Brunellus was hanged for stealing the ring of Angelicus; and the Emperor Frederick the Third condemned all thieves to the galleys.

"The Exegetical part of my text is a sort of commentary on what was first said, when I set forth that your transgressions were a breach of both divine and humane ordinances, which are utterly repugnant to all manner of theft; wherefore, if ye are resolved to pursue these courses still, note, my respect is such to you, although you have robbed me, that if you can but keep yourselves from being ever taken, I'll engage to keep you always from being hanged.

"The figurative part of my text is still to be set forth. Though I call you 'gentlemen,' yet in my heart I think ye to be all rogues; but I mollify my spleen by a _Charientismus_, which is a figure or form of speech mitigating hard matters with pleasant words. Thus, a certain man being apprehended, and brought before Alexander the Great, King of Macedon, for railing against him, and being demanded by Alexander why he and his company had so done, he made answer: 'Had not the wine been all drunk, we had spoken much worse.' Whereby he signified that those words proceeded rather from wine than malice, by which free and pleasant confession he assuaged Alexander's great displeasure, and obtained remission.

"But now, coming to the Tropological part of my text, which signifies drawing a word from its proper and genuine signification to another sense, as, in calling you most famous thieves; I desire your most serious attention, and that you will embrace this exhortation of St. Paul the apostle. 'Let him that stole, steal no more.' Or else the letters of my text point towards a tragical conclusion; for T, 'take care;' H, 'hanging;' E, 'ends not'; F, 'felony;' T, 'at Tyburn.'"

The parson having ended his sermon, which some of Whitney's gang took down in shorthand, they were so well pleased with what he had preached, that they were contented to pay him tithes; so, counting over the money they had taken from him, and finding it to be just ten pounds, they gave him ten shillings for his pains, and then rode away to seek whom they might next devour.

He then met Lord L—— shortly afterwards, near London, and robbed him single-handed. Knowing that his lordship moved in close attendance upon the King, William the Third, and perhaps being keenly conscious that the many serious robberies committed by himself and his men were drawing the net uncomfortably close around them, he made an offer to compound with the authorities. He said if the King would give him an indemnity for past offences, he would bring in thirty of his gang, for military service in Flanders. So saying, he whistled, and, quite in the Roderick Dhu style, twenty or thirty mounted bandits at once appeared.

Whitney, having thus given proofs of his words, continued that, if the King refused his offer, His Majesty might send a troop of Dutchmen to apprehend him and his, but they would find it a hard task to take any, and that he and his men would stand on their defence, and bid them defiance.

There is little or nothing of the "Jacobite Robber" in the stories told of Whitney; but it seems to have been fully recognised that he was a somewhat belated adherent of James the Second. He gathered around him a gang that varied in numbers according to circumstances, but was occasionally about thirty strong. These he was enabled by his superior courage and resource to captain; and with the imposing mounted force they presented, he laid many important and wealthy personages under contribution near London. It was doubtless his gang that stopped and robbed the great Duke of Marlborough of five hundred guineas near London Colney, on the night of August 23rd, 1692, and as a Jacobite, Whitney would be particularly pleased at the doing of it. It is almost equally certain that the numerous other rich hauls about that time on the St. Albans road were the handiwork of Whitney's party. On December 6th, 1692, there was a pitched battle between Whitney's force and a troop of dragoon patrols, near Barnet. One dragoon was killed, and several wounded, and Whitney is most circumstantially said to have then been captured; but as an even more circumstantial account tells us, with a wealth of detail, how he was finally captured in Bishopsgate Street, on December 31st, this cannot be altogether correct.

Was it, we wonder, his professed Jacobite views that made many travellers so good-humoured with him as they are said to have been when he lightened their pockets? A fellowship in political views does not in our own days necessarily make a stranger free of our purse. Whitney, for example, meeting Sir Richard B—— between Stafford and Newport, accosted him with a "How now? whither away?"

"To London," replied the knight; whereupon Whitney troubled him for £4.

Then, much to our surprise, we read of Sir Richard, who appears to have known Whitney very well by sight, saying, "Captain, I'll give you a breakfast, with a fowl or two." It would have come more naturally to read that he offered to give him in charge!

Whitney politely declined, but said he would drink to the knight's health then and there; and, halting a passing waggon, broached a cask out of it on the spot.

In spite of a conflict of testimony, it seems to be clearly established that Whitney was finally captured on December 31st, 1692. He appears to have at some earlier time been taken, after a desperate fight with a "bagonet," and lodged in Newgate, whence he broke out with a four-pound weight on each leg. On this last occasion he made a determined resistance at the door of the house in which he was beset, fighting for over an hour with the officers and the mob. Most of his gang were afterwards captured; including a livery-stable keeper, a goldsmith, and a man-milliner.

Whitney appears to have been a man of medium height, to have had a scarred face, and to have lost one thumb: sliced off, probably, in one of his encounters with the patrols.

He endeavoured to purchase his liberty by "offering to discover his accomplices, and those that give notice where and when money is conveyed on the road in coaches and waggons." This offer was not accepted, and the order went forth that he was to be hanged at the Maypole in the Strand. Then he shifted his ground to include more startling secrets that he was ready to divulge, "if he may have his pardon." Jacobite plots were the commonplaces of that day. King James was not greatly liked by even the most ardent Jacobite, but King William was detested, and even those who had placed William on the throne did so merely as a political expedient. Thus the personally unpopular King was for ever harassed with plots hatched to assassinate him; and when Whitney hinted, not obscurely, that he could tell terrible tales if he would, it was thought advisable to have the highwayman out in a sedan-chair and to take him to Kensington, under escort, that he might be examined, touching these plots. But it was soon discovered that he really knew nothing and that his idle "confessions" and "revelations" had no basis in fact.

He was not content to remain in Newgate in worn and shabby clothes.

"He had his taylor," says Luttrell, "make him a rich embroidered suit, with perug and hat, worth £100; but the keeper refused to let him wear them, because they would disguise him from being known."

That somewhat obscure phrase seems to mean that Whitney intended, under cover of his fine new suit, to make a dash for liberty.

His execution was finally fixed for February 1st, 1693, at Porter's Block, Smithfield. He made a very proper and a singularly restrained and well-chosen speech at the fatal spot:

"I have been a very great offender, both against God and my country, by transgressing all laws, human and divine. I believe there is not one here present but has often heard my name before my confinement, and have seen a large catalogue of my crimes, which have been made public since. Why should I then pretend to vindicate a life stained with deeds of violence? The sentence passed on me is just, and I can see the footsteps of Providence, which I had before profanely laughed at, in my apprehension and conviction. I hope the sense which I have of these things has enabled me to make my peace with Heaven, the only thing that is now of any concern to me. Join in your prayers with me, my dear countrymen, that God will not forsake me in my last moments."

"He seem to dye very penitent," says the original chronicler of these things: "and was an hour and a halfe in the cart before being turned off."

TWM SHON CATTI

A singular character, half mythical, and his exploits almost wholly so, is Twm Shon Catti; a prankish creature whom, nevertheless, the people of Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire will not willingly let die.

Twm, it need hardly be said, was a Welshman. His name, duly translated from Cymraeg into English, means "Tom John Kate," _i.e._ "Tom, the son of Kate." Who was his other parent remains a matter of uncertainty, but he is thought to have been a local magnate, Sir John Wynne of Gwydir. Kate, his mother, was a country girl, of Tregaron, and Twm himself was born apparently about the third quarter of the seventeenth century; that is to say, if the half sprite and half human being of the legends can be said to belong to any easily-ascertained span of years. Some of his exploits certainly seem to belong to a later period.

But however that may be, he is yet the hero of a very wide countryside, in which any peasant is still able to give a very fair biography of him to the passing stranger, and is also quite competent to show him Twm's cave, in Dinas Hill, or "Llidiard-y-Ffin," overlooking the river Towy, near Ystrad Ffin. Composed in equal parts of Will-o'-Wisp, Dick Turpin (the idealised Turpin of legend, not the cowardly brute of cold-drawn fact), and Robin Hood, his career is one of marvels. Horse-thief, highwayman at one time and out-witter of highwaymen at another, special providence to the deserving, and scourge of the wicked, he always comes successfully out of encounters and difficulties. If for that peculiarity alone, he might reasonably be held mythical.

Starting in life as a farmer's boy, he afterwards found a place in the service of the local lord of the manor, in which his Puck-like pranks were first developed. As the secret of his birth was more or less an open one, these escapades were not often visited with the punishment another would almost certainly have incurred; and, besides, he was generally looked upon as a "natural": as one, that is to say, who is not more than half-witted. Thus, when he would steal the parson's horse in Llandovery and sell it to a squire some twenty miles off, he proved the truth of that old law which says one man may with impunity steal a horse, while another may not safely even look over the fence.

It all depends upon the man. In Twm's case, such an exploit was not the criminal business that would have brought an ordinary man to the gallows, but merely an escapade serving, like Prince Hal and Poins' fooling of Falstaff with the men in buckram, as "argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever."

At the rather uncertain period in which Twm flourished there also flourished a highwayman in the locality, who, from his daring and savage disposition, was known as "Dio the Devil." This terrific person had carried off the young and beautiful wife of Sir John Devereux, lord of Ystrad Ffin, and Twm was successful in rescuing her. The obvious reward for this service was, bearing Twm's almost gentle origin in mind, to receive him in his house on equal terms: or, as some accounts have it, he entered the service of Sir John as jester. But whether he went as such, or not, he certainly acted the part very thoroughly, and kept the establishment always well entertained.

Twm was a perfect centaur of a horseman, and Sir John Devereux was almost as good in the saddle. Twm's custom was to back himself in heavy wagers to perform extraordinary feats of horsemanship, and then proceed, by hair-raising doings, to win the bets. Not only the physical, but the mental agility of these things took strangers at an utterly dumbfoundered disadvantage; but the most astonishing of all was the one now to be related. An English guest who was staying with Sir John happened also to be a remarkable horseman, and had the advantage his Welsh host had not, of owning a thoroughbred. The talk ran high one day on the subject of horses and equitation, and the whimsical Twm promptly wagered twenty pounds he would put his horse to a jump where the Englishman dare not follow. Conversant with the not very fine specimens of horses to be found in his host's stable, the Englishman with contempt accepted the bet, quite easy in his mind that he must win.

A "numerous and distinguished company," as a modern chronicler of fashionable doings might say, assembled on the mountain-side on the appointed day, to see the challenger take this as yet unknown leap, and the stranger follow if he dared. They knew their Twm well enough to be quite convinced he had some mad project in view, to discomfit the Englishman; and what Welshman was there who would not have travelled far, and at much discomfort, to witness the humiliation of the "Saxon."

Twm was last upon the to-be-contested field, and a great shout of laughter went up as he was seen riding along upon a wretched horse, in the last stage of decrepitude. The Englishman did not quite know whether to feel insulted or amused, but Twm, once arrived on the scene, did not linger. Quickly he took a thick cloth and bound it over the head of his horse; and then, bidding the Englishman follow him, put his mount at a rift in the mountain-side some hundreds of feet deep. Over leapt the horse, and was in another half a minute lying dead, shattered in its fall on the rocks below.

Even those of his countrymen who knew the resourcefulness of their hero, and had backed him heavily, now lost heart; but in another minute up rose the head and shoulders of Twm above the edge, and he presently leapt among them unhurt, to receive his winnings from the astounded Englishman. He had adroitly slipped from the horse's back at the moment of his taking off, and leapt into the bushes that grew out of the face of the cliff. The horse itself merely met its end in a different manner from that already ordained for it that day, when it was to have been slaughtered, as being past work.

His friend and patron, Sir John Devereux, perceiving how well able Twm was to take care of himself, and being under the necessity of despatching a considerable amount of money in gold to London, and obliged at the same time to remain at home, he entrusted him with the commission. He would have given Twm an escort of one or two servants, but that worthy, shrewdly remarking that it would be as much worth their while as that of a highwayman to rob him, declined all company, and, in the oldest clothes he could find, set out alone on a shaggy Welsh pony. He had gone two-thirds of his journey without adventure, and put up one night, contentedly enough, at what is described as the "Hop Pole," a "lonely inn on the bleak downs near Marlborough"—although there really seems never to have been a house of that name near: perhaps "Shepherd's Shore," or the "Waggon and Horses" at Beckhampton would serve better. When he retired for the night, and was lying still and wakeful, he overheard the landlady and a strange man discussing him. The landlady was saying she did not suppose a traveller like our Twm, "dressed like a scarecrow and mounted on a piece of animated carrion, for which the rooks cawed as he rode along," was worth robbing.

"I don't know so much about that," he heard the other—obviously a highwayman—reply. "Very often these miserable-looking people you see on the roads disguise their wealth in this way, and are in reality carrying a great deal of money about with them: sometimes half a year's rent of a considerable estate. This fellow seems to be one of that kind. We shall see to-morrow."

Twm remembered having seen a plaguey ill-looking fellow in the house, and lay long awake, wondering what he should be at, and pleased that, anyhow, he was not to be interfered with that night. But he felt sure of being followed as soon as ever he left the house, and bethought him, there and then, of an ingenious plan. Before their very eyes next morning, he rummaged in the peak of his saddle, as if to arrange it more comfortably, and in so doing managed to disclose some gold to their covetous gaze. Then he was soon off; not travelling very fast, as may be supposed, on his laden pony. So soon as he was out of sight of the inn, he hopped off and transferred the money from the saddle to his pockets. Then he resumed his way.

Presently, as he had expected, he heard the highwayman thundering along in his rear. When the pursuer came well in sight, Twm hurriedly dismounted again, and, unloosening the saddle, flung it as far as he was able into a pond that spread by the wayside. Dismounting himself, the highwayman, leaving Twm for the moment, plunged knee-deep into the pond for the treasure, as he supposed, and Twm leapt nimbly on his thoroughbred horse: no highwayman of tradition ever riding a horse that was not thoroughbred, whatever the sorry jades the real ones had often to bestride.

When Twm cantered happily into Marlborough on the highwayman's steed, and told his story, the townspeople, who it appears had suffered much from the knights of the road, welcomed him as a hero, and entertained him at the Town Hall. If he had not been in a hurry, they might perhaps have presented him with the freedom of the borough. Perhaps they did so on his return. He sold his horse for a good round sum, for he thought it dangerous to ride up to London on so fine a mount. Therefore, armed with one pistol, he resumed the journey on foot, and to my mind it seems either a testimony to the honesty or the lack of enterprise among the burgesses of Marlborough, that some one or other of them did not follow him into the secluded glades of Savernake Forest, through which his road lay, and do for him.

But he neared London without other encounters, until he came upon Hounslow Heath. Here the tale of the confiding highwayman and the apparently stupid countryman, often told, but always fresh, had its origin. Twm was duly pulled up on the Heath by a robber, who appears to have been none other than Tom Dorbel, famous in his day. Dorbel was bristling with an armoury of pistols. Our ingenious Twm, affecting to be seized with the abject terror of a country lout, earnestly begged the ruffian, before he robbed him, to put half-a-dozen bullets through his coat, so that his master might easily see how good a fight he had made of it, before yielding his treasure. He took off his coat for the purpose, and the highwayman very obligingly complied with this very reasonable request.

Twm capered about like the idiot he pretended to be. "That wass ferry coot of you—yess, inteet," he said; "and if you wass put another look you, through my hat, it wass pe petter still, whateffer."

The highwayman, wondering what special kind of lunatic he had happened upon, fired his last pistol through the hat as desired, when "Now," said Twm, himself producing a pistol, "it iss my turn. Out with your coin, or I will put a pig hole through your pody." And Twm not only saved his master's coin, but robbed the highwayman as well.

[Illustration: TWM SHON CATTI AND THE HIGHWAYMAN.]

JOHN WITHERS AND WILLIAM EDWARDS

John Withers, one of the most ferocious of those highwaymen who did not scruple to add murder to their crimes, was born in the last quarter of the seventeenth century, at Lichfield. He was the son of a butcher, in so small a way of business that his father could not find employment for him; and so, in order to get a start in life, he set off for London. Arrived there, he was drawn by his natural bent into the company of criminals, and, throwing in his lot with them, was soon arrested and found guilty on charges of larceny, with violence. He escaped punishment by accepting the offer, generally made at that time, of enlisting in the army, and was sent out to the Flanders expedition. Here, perhaps, we see an explanation of the well-known expression, "Our armies swore terribly in Flanders." If it was composed largely of reprieved criminals, there can be no doubt that its language could not have been choice, nor its conduct exemplary. "My blackguards," the Duke of Wellington styled his men, who fought so well and endured so greatly in the Peninsula; for even so lately as that period the rank-and-file were composed of the offscourings of society; but they must have been well-mannered gentlemen, compared with the soldiers of a century earlier.

Sacrilege presently engaged the attention of Withers in Flanders. Entering a church in Ghent during high mass, and observing the people placing money in a box that stood in front of a figure of the Virgin, he awaited a favourable opportunity, picked the lock, and filled his pockets with the contents. "Unfortunately," says his sympathetic biographer, "in haste to carry off his plunder, some of the money fell upon the pavement, ringing out sharply in the stillness of the church; so that he was detected in the act."