All that could be obtained was some little knowledge of "Old Patch's" proceedings. It appeared that he carried on his paper coining entirely by himself. His only confidant was his mistress. He was his own engraver. He even made his own ink. He manufactured his own paper. With a private press he worked his own notes; and counterfeited the signatures of the cashiers, completely. But these discoveries had no effect; for it became evident that Mr. Patch had set up a press elsewhere. Although his secret continued as impenetrable, his notes became as plentiful as ever. Five years of unbounded prosperity ought to have satisfied him; but it did not. Success seemed to pall him. His genius was of that insatiable order which demands new excitements, and a constant succession of new flights. The following paragraph from a newspaper of 1786 relates to the same individual:
"On the 17th of December, ten pounds were paid into the Bank, for which the clerk, as usual, gave a ticket to receive a Bank note of equal value. This ticket ought to have been carried immediately to the cashier, instead of which the bearer took it home, and curiously added an 0 to the original sum, and returning, presented it so altered to the cashier, for which he received a note of one hundred pounds. In the evening, the clerks found a deficiency in the accounts; and on examining the tickets of the day, not only that but two others were discovered to have been obtained in the same manner. In the one, the figure 1 was altered to 4, and in another to 5, by which the artist received, upon the whole, nearly one thousand pounds."
To that princely felony, Old Patch, as will be seen in the sequel, added smaller misdemeanors which one would think were far beneath his notice; except to convince himself and his mistress of the unbounded facility of his genius for fraud.
At that period, the affluent public were saddled with a tax on plate; and many experiments were made to evade it. Among others, one was invented by a Mr. Charles Price, a stock-jobber and lottery-office keeper, which, for a time, puzzled the tax-gatherer. Mr. Charles Price lived in great style, gave splendid dinners, and did every thing on the grandest scale. Yet Mr. Charles Price had no plate! The authorities could not find so much as a silver tooth-pick on his magnificent premises. In truth, what he was too cunning to possess, he borrowed. For one of his sumptuous entertainments, he hired the plate of a silversmith in Cornhill, and left the value in bank notes as security for its safe return. One of these notes having proved a forgery, was traced to Mr. Charles Price; and Mr. Charles Price was not to be found at that particular juncture. Although this excited no surprise – for he was often an absentee from his office for short periods – yet in due course, and as a formal matter of business, an officer was set to find him, and to ask his explanation regarding the false note. After tracing a man, who he had a strong notion was Mr. Charles Price, through countless lodgings and innumerable disguises, the officer (to use his own expression) "nabbed" Mr. Charles Price. But, as Mr. Clarke observed, his prisoner and his prisoner's lady were even then "too many" for him; for, although he lost not a moment in trying to secure the forging implements, after he had discovered that Mr. Charles Price, and Mr. Brank, and Old Patch, were all concentrated in the person of his prisoner, he found the lady had destroyed every trace of evidence. Not a vestige of the forging factory was left. Not the point of a graver, nor a single spot of ink, nor a shred of silver paper, nor a scrap of any body's handwriting, was to be met with. Despite, however, this paucity of evidence to convict him, Mr. Charles Price had not the courage to face a jury, and eventually he saved the judicature and the Tyburn executive much trouble and expense, by hanging himself in Bridewell.
The success of Mr. Charles Price has never been surpassed; and even after the darkest era in the history of Bank forgeries – which dates from the suspension of cash payments, in February, 1797 – "Old Patch" was still remembered as the Cæsar of Forgers.
THE OLDEST INHABITANT OF THE PLACE DE GREVE
The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and peculiar humor occurs in the Police tribuneaux of Paris. We will proceed to give the reader a "taste of their quality."
An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in the streets, and the Police having good-naturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took place between the President and the old woman.
President.– Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging.
Old Woman (in a humble, quavering tone). – Ah, Monsieur le President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very old woman.
Pres.– Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged to punish you.
Old W.– But, Monsieur le President, I can not live without – I must beg – pardon me, Monsieur – I am obliged to beg.
Pres.– But I say you must not. Can you do no work?
Old W.– Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.
Pres.– Can't you sell something – little cakes – bonbons?
Old W.– No, Monsieur, I can't get any little stock to begin with; and, if I could, I should be robbed by the gamins, or the little girls, for I'm not very quick, and can't see well.
Pres.– Your relations must support you, then. You can not be allowed to beg. Have you no son – no daughter – no grandchildren?
Old W.– No, Monsieur; none – none – all my relations are dead.
Pres.– Well then, your friends must give you assistance.
Old W.– Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone.
Pres.– And who was he?
Old W.– Monsieur de Robespierre —le pauvre, cher homme! (The poor, dear man!)
Pres.– Robespierre! – why what did you know of him?
Old W.– Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the tricoteurs (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) la belle Marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme!
We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the tricoteurs, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the "Furies;" but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the spectacle.
Pres.– Well, Goody; finish your history.
Old W.– I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat as a tricoteur among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me —le pauvre, cher homme. I used then to be called la belle tricoteuse, but now – now, I am called la vielle radoteuse (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all come to!
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