John Rann, better known as "Sixteen-string Jack," was born in the neighbourhood of Bath, midway in the eighteenth century. As a boy he earned a meagre but honest living by peddling articles of everyday household consumption in the villages round about. He and his donkey were well remembered in after years, and aroused the envious anticipations of other small boys who, reckless of the appointed end of highwaymen, looked forward to some happy day when they too might perhaps blossom out from such obscure beginnings into such fame as his. He was but twelve years of age when his handsome face attracted the attention of a lady prominent in the neighbourhood. She offered him a situation, and he gratefully accepted. A little later we find him in London, occupied as a stable-helper in Brooke's Mews. From that he became a postilion, and then an officer's servant. About the year 1770 he was coachman to a gentleman living in the neighbourhood of Portman Square, and was at one time in the service of the Earl of Sandwich. In this situation he obtained the nickname of "Sixteen-string Jack," from the bunches of eight parti-coloured ribbons he gaily wore at the knees of his breeches; but by some intimates it was supposed that these "sixteen strings" were a covert allusion to his having been sixteen times arrested and charged, but on as many occasions acquitted. Such were the legends that enwrapped the career of him whom Dr. Johnson described as "above the common mark" in his line.

It was this love of finery that led to the undoing of Jack Rann, but before it sent him down into the company of those who lived by their wits, employed in unlawful enterprises, it raised him to better situations. For Rann was a tall, smart fellow, and good clothes well became him.

But flowered-satin waistcoats, and full-skirted damasked coats of silk, elaborately embroidered, are not paid for out of a coachman's wages, and Rann soon found himself deeply in debt. And, moreover, of what possible use are brave costumes, but to flaunt and flourish about in? And when you do so flourish, you must needs go the pace altogether. There were excellent companions in those places to which Rann most resorted, as a gentleman of fashion, at Vauxhall, and elsewhere; and there were the card-tables, where he had a passing run of luck; and there were the women. In spite of being pitted somewhat with the small-pox, he was still a handsome fellow, and he played the very Cupid with the girls.

All these items totted up to a very costly sum-total, and the gaming-tables did not long stand him in good stead. At the moment when he was in the sorest straits, he became acquainted with three men: Jones, Clayton, and Colledge (this last known as "Eight-string Jack"), in whose company he very speedily grew more and more reckless, and at last was dismissed from his situation with a long-suffering nobleman, and refused a character. Thus turned adrift upon the world, he began, with those three companions, a career of pocket-picking, and thence drifted by easy stages into the society of highwaymen and of receivers of stolen goods.

In these circles there moved at that time a certain Eleanor Roche, originally a milliner's apprentice, but who, from a somewhat unfortunate friendship with an officer of the Guards, had declined upon the condition of "fence," and generally, the fair friend and ally of the nimble-fingered, and the speakers with travellers on the highways. Jack Rann was a free-lover. Pretty faces, rosy lips, infallibly attracted him, and although he loved his Nelly best, he scarce knew the meaning of faithfulness.

But to Ellen Roche, "Sixteen-string Jack" was her own Jack, her hero; and when once she had met him, she had eyes for none other.

Rann was first in custody in April 1774, at the Old Bailey, in company with two others, named Clayton and Shepherd, on a charge of robbing William Somers and Mr. Langford on the highway. All three were acquitted, but on May 30th Rann was at Bow Street, charged with robbing Mr. John Devall of his watch and money, near the ninth milestone on the Hounslow Road. It was the watch brought him there. The gallant Rann had brought it back with him from the road—just as the hunter, home from the hill, returns with the day's spoil to his domestic circle. He handed it to Ellen, who in turn sent out a certain Catherine Smith to offer it in pledge with the nearest pawnbroker. The pawnbroker, distrustful man, sent for the police, who, seeing at once that Catherine Smith was merely an intermediary, apprehended Rann and Ellen.

"Sixteen-string Jack" made a proud, defiant figure in the dock before Sir John Fielding. He was dressed not only in, but in advance of the fashion. He was in irons, but the grimness of those fetters was disguised in the blue satin bows in which they were tricked out, and in his fine coat he carried a nosegay as big as a birch-broom. Beside him, but not so collected as he, stood Ellen, charged with receiving.

Ellen Roche had, indeed, lost her nerve altogether when Catherine Smith deposed to having been told by her how Rann was expected home that evening with some money; that he returned about ten o'clock, when Roche told her he had brought ten guineas and a watch, and that she was sent out to pawn the watch. Crying, and hardly aware of what she was doing, Ellen at the first hearing owned that Rann had given her the watch, and the two were thereupon committed.

At the trial, after having had plenty of time for reflection, she stoutly declared that she never before had set eyes upon him, and that her former evidence was a mistake!

Jack himself carried it off bravely, and, indeed, insolently. "I know no more of the matter than you do," he replied to Sir John Fielding, and added impudently, "nor half so much, neither."

The prosecution, on some technicality, broke down, and the pair were released. They celebrated the happy occasion by dining extravagantly and then spending the evening at Vauxhall, where Rann was the gayest of the gay, and returned home with two watches and three purses.

An absurd burglary charge brought him into the dock again, that July. The watch discovered him half-way through the window of a house in which lodged one Doll Frampton, and not only hauled him out, but marched him off to prison; but it appeared that he was only keeping an appointment to supper with the weary Doll, who, tired of waiting for him, had gone to bed. The Bench, assured of as much by the shameless minx herself, dismissed the charge, and, in addition to some pertinent remarks about this unconventional method of entry, gave him some excellent advice on conduct. Although Rann had escaped so far, Sir John Fielding said, his profession was perfectly well known, and he urged the prisoner to leave his evil courses while yet there was time.

So far from paying attention to this well-meant discourse, Rann put in an appearance the next Sunday, not with Doll, but with Ellen, at Bagnigge Wells, then a famous place for dining and drinking. They drove thither in a carriage and dressed—in the slang phrase—"up to the nines." Jack was splendid in a scarlet coat, tambour waistcoat, white silk stockings, and a laced hat. Of course there flew at his knees the already famous sixteen strings.

He was by nature boastful, and when the drink was in him bragged without restraint or ordinary prudence. On this occasion he drank freely, and, with an oath, declared himself a highwayman. Rather more of a pickpocket, perhaps. The company trembled: some sought the way out. "No fear, my friends," quoth he, "this is a holiday." Then he fell to quarrelling, and presently lost a ring from his finger, and declared those present had stolen it. Then again his mood changed. "'Tis no matter," he exclaimed; "'tis but a hundred guineas gone, and one evening's work will replace it." Then, growing more drunken and incapable, they threw him out, and he was not in a fit condition to resist. So, Ellen—the gentle Ellen—scratching the faces of the foremost, as they were put out, they drove back to their lodgings near Covent Garden.

"Fine treatment for a gentleman!" he hiccupped; and indeed a gentleman he considered himself. But his highwayman's takings, large though they occasionally were, did not keep pace with his gentlemanly expenses. Debts accumulated, and sheriff's officers dogged his footsteps. He was arrested for a debt of £50, and thrown into the Marshalsea prison; but so much of a hero had he already become among those of his calling that they clubbed together and liquidated the debt; and handsome Jack was again free.

The sheriff's officers he affected to regard as low, churlish fellows, but they would not be denied. His creditors were soon after him again, and he was arrested when drinking in an alehouse in the then suburban Tottenham Court Road. He shrank with horror from the touch of the two "vulgar" bailiffs, but there was little help for it. He must pay up, or be taken up. His drinking-companions found between them three guineas, and he gave up his watch. Together, these involuntary contributions made up more than the amount due. The bailiffs, on their part, agreed to refund the balance when Rann was sufficiently in funds to redeem the ticker; and cordiality then reigned. "Lend me five shillings," said Rann to the bailiffs, "and I will treat you to a bowl of punch." They fell in with the proposal, and a merry carouse ensued. Such were the manners and customs of about a hundred and forty years ago.

Still, in the course of this merry evening, the subject of the manner peculiar to bailiffs recurred to our Jack and rankled. "You have not," he grumbled, "treated me like a gentleman. When Sir John Fielding's people come after me, they only hold up a finger, beckon, and I follow like a lamb. There's your proper civility!"

It was soon after this that he visited Barnet races, fashionably dressed; with waistcoat of blue satin trimmed with silver, and other finery to match. Crowds followed him, eager to set eyes upon so famous a person. Shortly afterwards, with perhaps some melancholic foreshadowing of approaching doom, he attended a public execution at Tyburn. In spite of opposition, he thrust through the ring formed by the constables round the gallows. "For," said he, "perhaps it is very proper I should be a spectator on this occasion." Why, he did not say, but the inference was understood by some of the crowd.

In September 1774 he was arrested, together with one William Collier, for a robbery on the Uxbridge road, and brought the next Wednesday before Sir John Fielding, when Dr. Bell, chaplain to the Princess Amelia, gave evidence that, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon of Monday, when taking horse-exercise near Ealing, he observed two men of mean (!) appearance and suspicious looks, who rode past him. Presently, one of them—he thought it was Rann—turned his horse's head and demanded his money. "Give it me," he said, "and take no notice, or I'll blow your brains out!"

Dr. Bell handed over one shilling and sixpence, all he had about him, and a common watch in a tortoiseshell case. So much tremendous bluster, so paltry a booty: so poor a thing for which to throw away a life. For that day's doings served to bring Rann to the gallows.

That evening, Ellen Roche and her servant took the watch to pawn with one "Mr. Cordy," in the Oxford Road, or, as we should now say, Oxford Street. Cordy was a suspicious man. He communicated with the watchmaker, Grigman by name, of Russell Street, Covent Garden, who had made it for Dr. Bell, who, when called upon, told how he had parted with it.

The next day, Jack Rann and his doxy were arrested, and with them Collier and Ellen Roche's servant, Christian Stewart. They all figured in Bow Street dock, and later appeared on trial at the Old Bailey.

Handsome Jack was no less a dandy on this occasion than he had been on others, and he took the centre of the stage in his drama with a fine air. To be sure, there were none who envied him the principal part. He was dressed in pea-green coat and waistcoat, with unblemished white buckskin breeches, and again his hat was silver-laced. He stood there with every assurance of acquittal, and had taken thought to order a splendid supper, wherewith to entertain his friends that evening, to celebrate his release. But, as the grey day wore on, he grew less confident. Dr. Bell's evidence was again taken, and a Mr. Clarke told how, going to Miss Roche's lodging on that Monday night of the robbery, he found two pairs of men's boots there, in a wet and dirty condition, having evidently been worn that day. A Mr. Haliburton also swore that he had waited at Miss Roche's lodgings that night until Rann and Collier arrived.

William Hills deposed that he was servant to the Princess Amelia. He had observed Rann, whom he knew well by sight, ascend the hill at Acton, about twenty minutes before the robbery was committed.

This spot would be about where the Police Station now stands, in the main road: less troubled nowadays with highwaymen than with electric tram-cars.

In the end, Rann was found guilty and sentenced to die. Collier was also found guilty, but recommended to mercy, and was afterwards respited. Ellen Roche was sentenced to fourteen years' transportation, and her servant was acquitted.

Thus the supper grew cold and was not eaten. The brave figure moved in pea-green glory to his prison cell, and hoped there for a rescue that never came. His last days were full-packed with the revelry the lax prison regulations of the age permitted, and on Sunday, October 23rd, he had seven girls to dine with him in gaol; and he the gayest of the party. "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die." Or, at any rate, in a month's time. So, with an air and a jest, behold him on the fatal day, November 30th, 1774, the most admired figure in the three-miles' journey from Newgate to Tyburn. Was it the cold November air made him shiver, or the shadow of death, as, ladies' man to the last, he raised his hat to the crowded windows lining Holborn and thought how he would never come back? Whatever it was, it was no more than involuntary: for, arrived at the fatal tree, he ended manfully in his finery and his famous sixteen strings.