VAUX
TO Haggart, who babbled on the Castle Rock of Willie Wallace
and was only nineteen when he danced without the music; to Simms,
alias Gentleman Harry, who showed at Tyburn how a hero
could die; to George Barrington, the incomparably witty and
adroit—to these a full meed of honour has been paid. Even the
coarse and dastardly Freney has achieved, with Thackeray's aid
(and Lever's) something of a reputation. But James Hardy Vaux,
despite his eloquent bid for fame, has not found his rhapsodist.
Yet a more consistent ruffian never pleaded for mercy. From his
early youth until in 1819 he sent forth his Memoirs to the
world, he lived industriously upon the cross. There was no
racket but he worked it with energy and address. Though he
practised the more glorious crafts of pickpocket and shoplifter,
he did not despise the begging-letter, and he suffered his last
punishment for receiving what another's courage had conveyed.
His enterprise was not seldom rewarded with success, and for a
decade of years he continued to preserve an appearance of
gentility; but it is
plain, even from his own narrative, that he was scarce an artist,
and we shall best understand him if we recognise that he was a
Philistine among thieves. He lived in an age of pocket-picking,
and skill in this branch is the true test of his time. A
contemporary of Barrington, he had before him the most brilliant of
examples, which might properly have enforced the worth of a
simple method. But, though he constantly brags of his success at
Drury Lane, we take not his generalities for gospel, and the one
exploit whose credibility is enforced with circumstance was
pitiful both in conception and performance. A meeting of
freeholders at the `Mermaid Tavern,' Hackney, was the occasion,
and after drawing blank upon blank, Vaux succeeded at last in
extracting a silver snuff-box. Now, his clumsiness had suggested
the use of the scissors, and the victim not only discovered the
scission in his coat, but caught the thief with the implements of
his art upon him. By a miracle of impudence Vaux escaped
conviction, but he deserved the gallows for his want of
principle, and not even sympathy could have let drop a tear, had
justice seized her due. On the straight or on the cross the
canons of art deserve respect; and a thief is great, not because
he is a thief, but because, in filling his own pocket, he
preserves from violence the legitimate traditions of his craft.
But it was in conflict with the jewellers that Vaux best
proved his mettle. It was his wont to
clothe himself `in the most elegant attire,' and on the pretence
of purchase to rifle the shops of Piccadilly. For this offence—
`pinching' the Cant Dictionary calls it—he did his longest
stretch of time, and here his admirable qualities of cunning and
coolness found their most generous scope. A love of fine clothes
he shared with all the best of his kind, and he visited Mr
Bilger—the jeweller who arrested him—magnificently arrayed. He
wore a black coat and waistcoat, blue pantaloons, Hessian boots,
and a hat `in the extreme of the newest fashion.' He was also
resplendent with gold watch and eye-glass. His hair was
powdered, and a fawney sparkled on his dexter fam. The booty was
enormous, and a week later he revisited the shop on another
errand. This second visit was the one flash of genius in a
somewhat drab career: the jeweller was so completely dumfounded,
that Vaux might have got clean away. But though he kept
discreetly out of sight for a while, at last he drifted back to
his ancient boozing-ken, and was there betrayed to a notorious
thief-catcher. The inevitable sentence of death followed. It
was commuted after the fashion of the time, and Vaux, having
sojourned a while at the Hulks, sought for a second time the
genial airs of Botany Bay.
His vanity and his laziness were alike invincible. He
believed himself a miracle of learning as well as a perfect
thief, and physical toil was the sole `lay' for which he
professed no capacity. For a while he
corrected the press for a printer, and he roundly asserts that
his knowledge of literature and of foreign tongues rendered him
invaluable. It was vanity again that induced him to assert his
innocence when he was lagged for so vulgar a crime as stealing a
wipe from a tradesman in Chancery Lane. At the moment of arrest
he was on his way to purchase base coin from a Whitechapel bit-faker: but, despite his nefarious errand, he is righteously
wrathful at what he asserts was an unjust conviction, and hence-forth he assumed the crown of martyrdom. His first and last
ambition during the intervals of freedom was gentility, and so
long as he was not at work he lived the life of a respectable
grocer. Although the casual Cyprian flits across his page, he
pursued the one flame of his life for the good motive, and he
affects to be a very model of domesticity. The sentiment of
piety also was strong upon him, and if he did not, like the
illustrious Peace, pray for his jailer, he rivalled the Prison
Ordinary in comforting the condemned. Had it only been his fate
to die on the gallows, how unctuous had been his croak!
The text of his `Memoirs' having been edited, it is scarce
possible to define his literary talent. The book, as it stands,
is an excellent piece of narrative, but it loses somewhat by the
pretence of style. The man's invulnerable conceit prevented an
absolute frankness, and there is little enough hilarity to
correct the acid sentiment and the intolerable vows of
repentance. Again, though he knows his subject,
and can patter flash with the best, his incorrigible
respectability leads him to ape the manner of a Grub Street hack,
and to banish to a vocabulary those pearls of slang which might
have added vigour and lustre to his somewhat tiresome page.
However, the thief cannot escape his inevitable defects. The
vanity, the weakness, the sentimentality of those who are born
beasts of prey, yet have the faculty of depredation only half-developed, are the foes of truth, and it is well to remember that
the autobiography of a rascal is tainted at its source. A
congenial pickpocket, equipped with the self-knowledge and the
candour which would enable him to recognise himself an outlaw and
justice his enemy rather than an instrument of malice, would
prove a Napoleon rather than a Vaux. So that we must e'en accept
our
Newgate Calendar with its many faults upon its head,
and be content. For it takes a man of genius to write a book,
and the thief who turns author commonly inhabits a paradise of
the second-rate.
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