Time would fail to narrate the picturesque and even jovial exits of those “curled darlings” of the _Tyburn Calendar or Malefactors’ Bloody Register_ (or any other form of the _Newgate Chronicle_), those idols of the popular imagination, the Caroline and Georgian highwaymen. Swift pictures the very ideal in _Clever Tom Clinch_, who-- ... while the rabble was bawling, Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling; He stopped at the George for a bottle of sack, And promised to pay for it--when he came back. His waistcoat and stockings and breeches were white. His cap had a new cherry-ribbon to tie’t; And the maids to the doors and the balconies ran, And cried “Lack-a-day! he’s a proper young man!” But how to summarise the infinite variety of detail? To tell how, when Claude Duval swung (January 21, 1670) Ladies of Quality looked on in tears and masks; how he lay in more than royal state in Tangier Tavern, St. Giles’s; and how they carved on his stone “in the centre aisle of Covent Garden Church,” the pattern of a highwayman’s epitaph: Here lies Du Vall: reader, if male thou art, Look to thy purse; if female, to thy heart. How the mob bolted with Jack Sheppard’s body (November 16, 1724) to save the “bonny corp” from the surgeon’s knife! How Jonathan Wild, “the Great” (May 24, 1725), during the finishing touches picked the Ordinary’s pocket of his corkscrew, and was turned off with it still in his hand (thus Fielding: Purney was the ordinary. _His_ account is quite different), to the unspeakable delight of that enormous body of spectators, to which Sheppard’s two hundred thousand onlookers were (Defoe assures us) no more to be compared than is a regiment to an army. How Sixteen-string Jack (November 30, 1774), his “bright pea-green coat” and “immense nosegay” were almost _too_ magnificent even for so noble an occasion. Alas! not ours to dwell on such details; let the brave rogues go! I cull one instance from the peerage. Earl Ferrers suffered at Tyburn (May 5, 1760) for the death of Johnson, his land steward. He dressed in his wedding clothes, “a suit of white and silver”: “as good an occasion,” he observed, “for putting them on, as that for which they were first made” (his treatment of his wife had indirectly brought about the murder). Every consideration was paid to my Lord’s feelings: “A landau with six horses” was _his_ Tyburn cart, and a silk rope _his_ “anodyne necklace”; and yet things did not go smoothly. The mob was so enormous that the journey took three hours. It was far worse than hanging, he protested to the sheriffs. His very handsome tip of five guineas was handed by mistake to the Hangman’s man, and an unseemly altercation ensued. My Lord toed the line with anxious care. “Am I right?” were his last words. The accurate fall of the drop must have satisfied him that he was.