Between the Lines Behind the Bars

So, from the Newgate Calendar I read the story of Thomas Dun, who was the “Head of a Gang of Outlaws, on Account of whom King Henry I. is credibly supposed to have built Dunstable. Executed Piecemeal.” Reminiscent of the long title to Moll Flanders, but there is something infinitely more intriguing about the phrase executed piecemeal than anything Defoe’s book has to offer. But anyway, the audience for this calendar seems not to have been of such a wide variety and such a common sort as the broadsheets or even the proceedings, because there does not, at least with this story, the constant attempts at preachy moralizing, and Mr. Dun is even painted, despite the whole piecemeal ending detail, as a kind of hero.  

Even the narrative standpoint that is taken at the beginning, with the words “It is said,” put this account more into the realm of a legend than an objective, or even remotely journalistic one. Furthermore, the description of his life of thievery begins with the claims that “everything he touched stuck to his fingers like birdlime, and that, the better to carry on his villainies, he changed himself into as many shapes as Proteus.” This use of figurative language and a classical allusion gives Thomas a poetic beauty and establishes his position as a kind of hero, and almost something to aspire to. Also, he is portrayed as a capable and talented leader of his outlaw gang, who, before going out on a spree “read to them some few comments on the art and mystery of robbing on the highway.” He is not in this instance a crude man, but a kind of beloved teacher and keeper, not of evils, but of a mystic knowledge, on which he takes the time to discourse intelligently.  

In a twist much like Richardson’s Miss Andrews, Dun also has amazing peace of mind in the midst of panic, as he can outrun an angry mob and bridle his horse along the way, or outrun them all on foot before escaping all pursuit by swimming after “resuming his courage, he pushed valiantly through them.” Because these efforts come to at least the temporary fruition for which they are employed, it does not seem possible that the ‘courageous’ and ‘valiant’ attributes are applied out of an attempt to be ironic, and his bravery and skill really are acknowledged as remarkable. Finally, even as his death, by a slow removal of limbs (leaving him rather like that Knight from Monty Python’s The Holy Grail) adds to his legendary status, and the fact that the members of this one lowly man, are “a terror to such villains as survived him” drives home is legendary status, and although it ends on this note of fear, so that his entire life becomes a didactic tale against evil, his life is still shown as one full of grandeur and power. 

Now, in contrast to this, perhaps because it was a woman, or perhaps the audience for whom it was desired was one of a lower class, for whom the author felt it necessary to moralize more heavily, but Amy Hutchinson, executed in 1750 for the murder of her husband, is not a woman to idolize. She gets no figurative language to describe her situation and offers of course the token “advice to her own sex.” In this generic confession I found it interesting the emphasis that is placed upon walking a fine line between public and private affairs. Her first wise words she imparts instruct young women “to acquaint their friends when any addresses are made to them” and yet, once those addresses have been accepted, it becomes imperative that they solve disputes between them so that they “afford no room for busy meddlers to raise and foment jealousy between two who should be one.” I also think it is a bit ironic that her ‘parting words’ emphasise the danger in meddlers when she was only caught for the poisoning as a result of her  neighbours who thought it strange she should devote herself to another man (her accomplice) so soon after her husband’s death. Just like one cannot blame a man for his indecent addresses unless she has found witnesses in the friends to whom she decides to tell of it, poisoning your husband is only truly wrong if someone finds out. 

Finally, I have to say I enjoyed the newspaper stories, with their chronological unfolding of the criminal and victim’s lives, the very best of all. Always one to be done in by a snazzy title, I looked at the criminal journey of “The Rape-Master General of Britain” and I must say I like him. It left me, these reports, a little confused as to what to think of the man. I mean, yes, he was convicted of having raped Anne Bond, his serving girl, but his other servants “made a vigorous defence” when authorities came to seize his property, and one of his (non-raped…I assume…) serving girls even “fired a pistol from a window.” And yes, as the stories progress, it becomes evident that he has paid off everyone in any position of authority and so bought himself out of trouble, but I get a kick out of Anne Bond getting 1. Media attention 2. A husband and 3. A tavern outside of which the couple posts a sign with the Rape-Master’s head on it all because of this crime. She is no Pamela for whom virtue is all, and it seems as though he has more than made up for his transgression on practical terms. So, imagine my surprise when the final report of this man declares that “he died on 24 February 1732, and the London crowds threw dead cats into his grave.”