by Daniel Defoe
He seemed to reflect upon himself that he should be the first person to lead me into that which he assured me he never intended to do himself; and it touched him a little, he said, that he should be the cause of his own sin and mine too. He would often make just reflections also upon the crime itself and upon the particular circumstances of it, with respect to himself; how wine introduced the inclinations, how the devil led him to the place and found out an object to tempt him, and he made the moral always himself.
When these thoughts were upon him, he would go away and perhaps not come again in a month’s time or longer; but then as the serious part wore off the lewd part would wear in, and then he came prepared for the wicked part. Thus we lived for some time; though he did not keep, as they call it, yet he never failed doing things that were handsome, and sufficient to maintain me without working, and, which was better, without following my old trade.
But this affair had its end too; for after about a year, I found that he did not come so often as usual, and at last he left it off altogether without any dislike or bidding adieu; and so there was an end of that short scene of life, which added no great store to me, only to make more work for repentance.
During this interval I confined myself pretty much at home; at least, being thus provided for, I made no adventures, no, not for a quarter of a year after; but then, finding the fund fail and being loath to spend upon the main stock, I began to think of my old trade and to look abroad into the street; and my first step was lucky enough.
I had dressed myself up in a very mean habit, for as I had several shapes to appear in, I was now in an ordinary stuff gown, a blue apron, and a straw hat; and I placed myself at the door of the Three Cups Inn in St. John’s Street. There were several carriers used the inn, and the stage-coaches for Barnet, for Totteridge, and other towns that way stood always in the street in the evening, when they prepared to set out, so that I was ready for anything that offered. The meaning was this: people come frequently with bundles and small parcels to those inns, and call for such carriers or coaches as they want to carry them into the country; and there generally attends women, porters’ wives or daughters, ready to take in such things for the people that employ them.
It happened very oddly that I was standing at the inn-gate, and a woman that stood there before, and which was the porter’s wife belonging to the Barnet stage-coach, having observed me, asked if I waited for any of the coaches. I told her yes, I waited for my mistress, that was coming to go to Barnet. She asked me who was my mistress, and I told her any madam’s name that came next me; but it seemed I happened upon a name a family of which name lived at Hadley, near Barnet.
I said no more to her or she to me a good while; but by and by, somebody calling her at a door a little way off, she desired me that if anybody called for the Barnet coach, I would step and call her at the house, which it seems was an ale-house. I said yes very readily, and away she went.
She was no sooner gone but comes a wench and a child, puffing and sweating, and asks for the Barnet coach. I answered presently, “Here.” “Do you belong to the Barnet coach?” says she. “Yes, sweetheart,” said I. “What do you want?” “I want room for two passengers,” says she. “Where are they, sweetheart?” said I. “Here’s this girl; pray let her go into the coach,” says she, “and I’ll go and fetch my mistress.” “Make haste, then, sweetheart,” says I, “for we may be full else.” The maid had a great bundle under her arm; so she put the child into the coach, and I said, “You had best put your bundle into the coach too.” “No,” said she, “I am afraid somebody should slip it away from the child.” “Give it me, then,” said I. “Take it, then,” says she, “and be sure you take care of it.” “I’ll answer for it,” said I, “if it were twenty-pound value.” “There, take it, then,” says she, and away she goes.
As soon as I got the bundle and the maid was out of sight, I goes on towards the ale-house where the porter’s wife was, so that if I met her, I had then only been going to give her the bundle and to call her to her business, as if I was going away and could stay no longer; but as I did not meet her, I walked away, and turning into Charterhouse Lane, made off through Charterhouse Yard into Long Lane, then into Bartholomew Close, so into Little Britain, and through the Bluecoat Hospital to Newgate Street.
To prevent being known, I pulled off my blue apron and wrapt the bundle in it, which was made up in a piece of painted calico; I also wrapt up my straw hat in it, and so put the bundle upon my head; and it was very well that I did thus, for, coming through the Bluecoat Hospital, who should I meet but the wench that had given me the bundle to hold. It seems she was going with her mistress, who she had been to fetch, to the Barnet coaches.
I saw she was in haste, and I had no business to stop her; so away she went, and I brought my bundle safe to my governess. There was no money, plate, or jewels in it, but a very good suit of Indian damask, a gown and petticoat, a laced head and ruffles of very good Flanders lace, and some other things, such as I knew very well the value of.
This was not indeed my own invention, but was given me by one that had practised it with success, and my governess liked it extremely; and indeed I tried it again several times, though never twice near the same place; for the next time I tried in Whitechapel, just by the corner of Petticoat Lane, where the coaches stand that go out to Stratford and Bow and that side of the country; and another time at the Flying Horse, without Bishopsgate, where the Cheston coaches then lay; and I had always the good luck to come off with some booty.
Another time I placed myself at a warehouse by the waterside, where the coasting vessels from the north come, such as Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Sunderland, and other places. Here, the warehouse being shut, comes a young fellow with a letter; and he wanted a box and a hamper that was come from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. I asked him if he had the marks of it; so he shows me the letter by virtue of which he was to ask for it and which gave an account of the contents, the box being full of linen and the hamper full of glass-ware. I read the letter and took care to see the name, and the marks, the name of the person that sent the goods, and the name of the person they were sent to; then I bade the messenger come in the morning, for that the warehouse-keeper would not be there any more that night.
Away went I and wrote a letter from Mr. John Richardson of Newcastle to his dear cousin, Jemmy Cole, in London, with an account that he had sent by such a vessel (for I remembered all the particulars to a tittle) so many pieces of huckaback linen, and so many ells of Dutch holland, and the like, in a box, and a hamper of flintglasses from Mr. Henzill’s glass-house; and that the box was marked I. C. No. 1, and the hamper was directed by a label on the cording.
About an hour after, I came to the warehouse, found the warehouse-keeper, and had the goods delivered me without any scruple, the value of the linen being about £22.
I could fill up this whole discourse with the variety of such adventures which daily invention directed to, and which I managed with the utmost dexterity, and always with success.
At length—as when does the pitcher come safe home that goes so often to the well?—I fell into some broils, which though they could not affect me fatally, yet made me known, which was the worst thing next to being found guilty that could befall me.
I had taken up the disguise of a widow’s dress; it was without any real design in view, but only waiting for anything that might offer, as I often did. It happened that while I was going along a street in Covent Garden there was a great cry of “Stop, thief! Stop, thief!” Some artists had, it seems, put a trick upon a shopkeeper, and being pursued, some of them fled one way and some another; and one of them was, they said, dressed up in widow’s weeds, upon which the mob gathered about me, and some said I was the person, others said no. Immediately came the mercer’s journeyman, and he swore aloud I was the person, and so seized on me. However, when I was brought back by the mob to the mercer’s shop, the master of the house said freely that I was not the woman, and would have let me go immediately
, but another fellow said gravely, “Pray stay till Mr. ——,” meaning the journeyman, “comes back, for he knows her”; so they kept me near half an hour. They had called a constable, and he stood in the shop as my jailer. In talking with the constable I inquired where he lived and what trade he was; the man, not apprehending in the least what happened afterwards, readily told me his name and where he lived, and told me as a jest that I might be sure to hear of his name when I came to the Old Bailey.
The servants likewise used me saucily, and had much ado to keep their hands off me; the master indeed was civiller to me than they, but he would not let me go though he owned I was not in his shop before.
I began to be a little surly with him and told him I hoped he would not take it ill if I made myself amends upon him another time, and desired I might send for friends to see me have right done. No, he said, he could give no such liberty; I might ask it when I came before the justice of peace; and seeing I threatened him, he would take care of me in the meantime and would lodge me safe in Newgate. I told him it was his time now, but it would be mine by and by, and governed my passion as well as I was able. However, I spoke to the constable to call me a porter, which he did, and then I called for pen, ink, and paper, but they would let me have none. I asked the porter his name and where he lived, and the poor man told it me very willingly. I bade him observe and remember how I was treated there; that he saw I was detained there by force. I told him I should want him in another place, and it should not be the worse for him to speak. The porter said he would serve me with all his heart. “But, madam,” says he, “let me hear them refuse to let you go, then I may be able to speak the plainer.”
With that, I spoke aloud to the master of the shop and said, “Sir, you know in your own conscience that I am not the person you look for and that I was not in your shop before; therefore I demand that you detain me here no longer or tell me the reason of your stopping me.” The fellow grew surlier upon this than before and said he would do neither till he thought fit. “Very well,” said I to the constable and to the porter, “you will be pleased to remember this, gentlemen, another time.” The porter said, “Yes, madam”; and the constable began not to like it, and would have persuaded the mercer to dismiss him and let me go, since, as he said, he owned I was not the person. “Good sir,” says the mercer to him tauntingly, “are you a justice of peace or a constable? I charged you with her; pray do your duty.” The constable told him, a little moved, but very handsomely, “I know my duty and what I am, sir; I doubt you know hardly what you are doing.” They had some other hard words, and in the meantime the journeymen, impudent and unmanly to the last degree, used me barbarously, and one of them, the same that first seized upon me, pretended he would search me and began to lay hands on me. I spit in his face, called out to the constable, and bade him take notice of my usage. “And pray, Mr. Constable,” said I, “ask that villain’s name,” pointing to the man. The constable reproved him decently, told him that he did not know what he did, for he knew that his master acknowledged I was not the person; “and,” says the constable, “I am afraid your master is bringing himself and me, too, into trouble if this gentlewoman comes to prove who she is, and where she was, and it appears that she is not the woman you pretend to.” “Damn her,” says the fellow again, with an impudent, hardened face. “She is the lady, you may depend upon it; I’ll swear she is the same body that was in the shop and that I gave the pieces of satin that is lost into her own hand. You shall hear more of it when Mr. William and Mr. Anthony”—those were other journeymen—“come back; they will know her again as well as I.”
Just as the insolent rogue was talking thus to the constable, comes back Mr. William and Mr. Anthony, as he called them, and a great rabble with them, bringing along with them the true widow that I was pretended to be; and they came sweating and blowing into the shop, and with a great deal of triumph dragging the poor creature in a most butcherly manner up towards their master, who was in the back shop; and they cried out aloud, “Here’s the widow, sir; we have catched her at last.” “What do you mean by that?” says the master. “Why, we have her already; there she sits, and Mr. —— says he can swear this is she.” The other man, who they called Mr. Anthony, replied, “Mr. —— may say what he will and swear what he will, but this is the woman, and there’s the remnant of satin she stole; I took it out of her clothes with my own hand.”
I now began to take a better heart, but smiled and said nothing; the master looked pale; the constable turned about and looked at me. “Let ’em alone, Mr. Constable,” said I; “let ’em go on.” The case was plain and could not be denied, so the constable was charged with the right thief, and the mercer told me very civilly he was sorry for the mistake and hoped I would not take it ill; that they had so many things of this nature put upon them every day that they could not be blamed for being very sharp in doing themselves justice. “Not take it ill, sir!” said I. “How can I take it well? If you had dismissed me when your insolent fellow seized on me in the street and brought me to you, and when you yourself acknowledged I was not the person, I would have put it by and not have taken it ill because of the many ill things I believe you have put upon you daily; but your treatment of me since has been insufferable, and especially that of your servant; I must and will have reparation for that.”
Then he began to parley with me, said he would make me any reasonable satisfaction, and would fain have had me told him what it was I expected. I told him I should not be my own judge; the law should decide it for me; and as I was to be carried before a magistrate, I should let him hear there what I had to say. He told me there was no occasion to go before the justice now; I was at liberty to go where I pleased; and calling to the constable, told him he might let me go, for I was discharged. The constable said calmly to him, “Sir, you asked me just now if I knew whether I was a constable or a justice, and bade me do my duty, and charged me with this gentlewoman as a prisoner. Now, sir, I find you do not understand what is my duty, for you would make me a justice indeed; but I must tell you it is not in my power; I may keep a prisoner when I am charged with him, but ’tis the law and the magistrate alone that can discharge that prisoner; therefore ’tis a mistake, sir; I must carry her before a justice now, whether you think well of it or not.” The mercer was very high with the constable at first, but the constable, happening to be not a hired officer, but a good, substantial kind of man (I think he was a corn-chandler) and a man of good sense, stood to his business, would not discharge me without going to a justice of the peace; and I insisted upon it too. When the mercer see that, “Well,” says he to the constable, “you may carry her where you please; I have nothing to say to her.” “But, sir,” says the constable, “you will go with us, I hope, for ’tis you that charged me with her.” “No, not I,” says the mercer; “I tell you I have nothing to say to her.” “But pray, sir, do,” says the constable; “I desire it of you for your own sake, for the justice can do nothing without you.” “Prithee, fellow,” says the mercer, “go about your business; I tell you I have nothing to say to the gentlewoman. I charge you in the king’s name to dismiss her.” “Sir,” says the constable, “I find you don’t know what it is to be a constable; I beg of you, don’t oblige me to be rude to you.” “I think I need not; you are rude enough already,” says the mercer. “No, sir,” says the constable, “I am not rude; you have broken the peace in bringing an honest woman out of the street when she was about her lawful occasions, confining her in your shop, and ill-using her here by your servants. And now can you say I am rude to you? I think I am civil to you in not commanding you in the king’s name to go with me, and charging every man I see that passes your door to aid and assist me in carrying you by force; this you know I have power to do, and yet I forbear it and once more entreat you to go with me.” Well, he would not for all this, and gave the constable ill language. However, the constable kept his temper and would not be provoked; and then I put in and said, “Come, Mr. Constable, let him alone; I shall f
ind ways enough to fetch him before a magistrate—I don’t fear that; but there’s that fellow,” says I, “he was the man that seized on me as I was innocently going along the street, and you are a witness of his violence with me since; give me leave to charge you with him, and carry him before a justice.” “Yes, madam,” says the constable. And turning to the fellow, “Come, young gentleman,” says he to the journeyman, “you must go along with us; I hope you are not above the constable’s power, though your master is.”
The fellow looked like a condemned thief and hung back, then looked at his master as if he could help him; and he, like a fool, encouraged the fellow to be rude, and he truly resisted the constable and pushed him back with a good force when he went to lay hold on him, at which the constable knocked him down and called out for help. Immediately the shop was filled with people, and the constable seized the master and man and all his servants.
The first ill consequence of this fray was that the woman who was really the thief made off and got clear away in the crowd, and two others that they had stopped also; whether they were really guilty or not, that I can say nothing to.
By this time some of his neighbours, having come in and seeing how things went, had endeavoured to bring the mercer to his senses, and he began to be convinced that he was in the wrong; and so at length we went all very quietly before the justice, with a mob of about five hundred people at our heels; and all the way we went I could hear the people ask what was the matter, and others reply and say a mercer had stopped a gentlewoman instead of a thief, and had afterwards taken the thief, and now the gentlewoman had taken the mercer and was carrying him before the justice. This pleased the people strangely and made the crowd increase, and they cried out as they went, “Which is the rogue? Which is the mercer?” and especially the women. Then, when they saw him they cried out, “That’s he, that’s he”; and every now and then came a good dab of dirt at him; and thus we marched a good while till the mercer thought fit to desire the constable to call a coach to protect himself from the rabble; so we rode the rest of the way, the constable and I, and the mercer and his man.