Even if this warning voice struck a momentary terror into their offending souls,they were up betimes in the morning,eager to pay their final debt.Their journey from Newgate to Tyburn was a triumph,and their vanity was unabashed at the droning menaces of the Ordinary.At one point a chorus of maidens cast wreaths upon their way,or pinned nosegays in their coats,that they might not face the executioner unadorned.At the Crown Tavern they quaffed their last glass of ale,and told the landlord with many a leer and smirk that they would pay him on their way back.Though gravity was asked,it was not always given;but in the Eighteenth Century courage was seldom wanting.To the common citizen a violent death was (and is)the worst of horrors;to the ancient highwayman it was the odd trick lost in the game of life.And the highwayman endured the rope,as the practised gambler loses his estate,without blenching.One there was,who felt his leg tremble in his own despite:wherefore he stamped it upon the ground so violently,that in other circumstances he would have roared with pain,and he left the world without a tremor.In this spirit Cranmer burnt his recreant right hand,and in either case the glamour of a unique occasion was a stimulus to courage.
But not even this brilliant treatment of accessories availed to save the highway from disrepute;indeed,it had become the profitless pursuit of braggarts and loafers,long before the abolition of the stagecoach destroyed its opportunity.In the meantime,however,the pickpocket was master of his trade.His strategy was perfect,his sleight of hand as delicate as long,lithe fingers and nimble brains could make it.He had discarded for ever those clumsy instruments whose use had barred the progress of the Primitives.The breastpocket behind the tightest buttoned coat presented no difficulty to his love of research,and he would penetrate the stoutest frieze or the lightest satin,as easily as Jack Sheppard made a hole through Newgate.His trick of robbery was so simple and yet so successful,that ever since it has remained a tradition.The collision,the victim's murmured apology,the hasty scuffle,the booty handed to the aidedecamp,who is out of sight before the hue and cry can be raisedsuch was the policy advocated two hundred years ago;such is the policy pursued to day by the few artists that remain.
Throughout the eighteenth century the art of clyfaking held its own,though its reputation paled in the glamour of the highway.
It culminated in George Barrington,whose vivid genius persuaded him to work alone and to carry off his own booty;it still flourished (in a silver age)when the incomparable Haggart performed his prodigies of skill;even in our prosaic time some flashes of the ancient glory have been seen.Now and again circumstances have driven it into eclipse.When the facile sentiment of the Early Victorian Era poised the tear of sympathy upon every trembling eyelid,the most obdurate was forced to provide himself with a silk handkerchief of equal size and value.
Now,a wipe is the easiest booty in the world,and the Artful Dodger might grow rich without the exercise of the smallest skill.But wipes dwindled,with dwindling sensibility;and once more the pickpocket was forced upon cleverness or extinction.
At the same time the more truculent trade of housebreaking was winning a lesser triumph of its own.Never,save in the hands of one or two distinguished practitioners,has this clumsy,brutal pursuit taken on the refinement of an art.Essentially modern,it has generally been pursued in the meanest spirit of gain.
Deacon Brodie clung to it as to a diversion,but he was an amateur,without a clear understanding of his craft's possibilities.The sole monarch of housebreakers was Charles Peace.At a single stride he surpassed his predecessors;nor has the greatest of his imitators been worthy to hand on the candle which he left at the gallows.For the rest,there is small distinction in breaking windows,wielding crowbars,and battering the brains of defenceless old gentlemen.And it is to such miserable tricks as this that he who two centuries since rode abroad in all the glory of the Hightobysplice descends in these days of avarice and stupidity.The legislators who decreed that henceforth the rope should be reserved for the ultimate crime of murder were inspired with a proper sense of humour and proportion.It would be ignoble to dignify that ugly enterprise of today,the cracking of suburban cribs,with the same punishment which was meted out to Claude Duval and the immortal Switcher.Better for the churl the disgrace of Portland than the chance of heroism and respect given at the Tree!
And where are the heroes whose art was as glorious as their intrepidity?One and all they have climbed the ascent of Tyburn.
One and all,they have leaped resplendent from the cart.The world,which was the joyous playground of highwaymen and pickpockets,is now the Arcadia of swindlers.The man who once went forth to meet his equal on the road,now plunders the defenceless widow or the foolish clergyman from the security of an office.He has changed Black Bess for a brougham,his pistol for a cigar;a sleek chimneypot sits upon the head,which once carried a jaunty hat,threecornered;spats have replaced the tops of ancient times;and a heavy fur coat advertises at once the wealth and inaction of the modern brigand.No longer does he roam the heaths of Hounslow or Bagshot;no longer does he track the grazier to a country fair.Fearful of an encounter,he chooses for the fields of his enterprise the byways of the City,and the advertisement columns of the smugly Christian Press.He steals without risking his skin or losing his respectability.The suburb,wherein he brings up a blameless,flatfooted family,regards him as its most renowned benefactor.
