Within a chapel in the Old Jewry, the congregation rises as the sermon draws to its close. Mary Young, whom her confederates call Jenny Diver, sits between two elderly gentlewomen. She presents the outward appearance of advanced pregnancy, while false arms and hands rest conspicuously over her skirts, her real limbs remaining hidden beneath her garments. In the moment the two women stand upright, she slips their gold watches from their waists and passes them to an accomplice stationed in the adjoining pew. This theft was no solitary improvisation: one man had secured a place among the worshippers, another played the part of a liveried footman, and Jenny had thoroughly rehearsed her design.
The relation of George Borrow begins her history long before this exploit. Born in the north of Ireland, Mary lost her parents in early childhood. An aged woman took her in and brought her up. Arrived at maturity, she travelled to London to seek out a countrywoman named Anne Murphy, who offered to share her lodgings in Long Acre. Mary sought at first to earn her bread with her needle; but work proved scarce and her earnings meager. Murphy soon opened her eyes to another means of subsistence, upon the strict condition of secrecy.
One evening, Murphy conducted her to an assembly near St. Giles. The fraternity subsisted upon picking pockets in the thronged avenues of the playhouses and other public resorts. On that first night, the thieves assembled eighty pounds in coin and a valuable gold watch. Mary had not yet acquired the art of subtilizing property; she was allotted ten guineas, an amount less than an equal dividend. She submitted to the rule and enrolled herself in a confederacy wherein patient apprenticeship counted for as much as brazen daring.
For two hours each day, the senior members instructed her in the sleights and manual dexterity of the trade. Borrow relates that within a few months she became one of the most accomplished hands in the company. The sobriquet Jenny Diver bore witness to this renown. The chronicle depicts her advancement as a triumph of technique, dissimulation, and concerted action: an accomplice diverted the victim’s attention, another hand secured the plunder, and the confederates instantly dispersed into the crowd.
At the entrance of a meeting-house in the Old Jewry, a great multitude had gathered to hear a celebrated divine. Jenny reached out her hand toward a gentleman, who took it courteously to assist her through the press. Under cover of this civil gesture, she stripped a diamond ring from his finger. The gentleman discovered his loss only after quitting the assembly, recollecting that a gentlewoman whom he had just assisted might have taken it; but the press of people rendered all pursuit impossible. This achievement persuaded her associates to grant her henceforth a full share of every prize, even when she took no direct part in the theft.
In time, notice in the public prints rendered these depredations too conspicuous. Rather than repeating the same manoeuvres through London, the gang resolved to repair to Bristol during the summer fair. Mary and Anne Murphy presented themselves there as merchants’ wives; Mary’s paramour sustained the character of their footman. The confederates engaged apartments in several separate inns, agreeing that should any among them be apprehended, the others would procure their release by vouching for them as persons of unblemished credit. Thus the troop moved with a concerted history ever ready to serve as an alibi.
Returning to London, Mary hired a bona fide servant, whilst her favourite assumed the air and dress of a gentleman of quality. She took lodgings near Covent Garden, in close proximity to the playhouses. The thieves carried out their depredations in sundry provincial towns, only to return once more to the capital, where the hazard of recognition daily mounted. Mary was at length taken upon an accusation of pocket-picking. She was committed to Newgate, where she lay for nearly four months awaiting transportation. Even within those walls, Borrow reports that she laid out a considerable sum in purchasing stolen goods. When she embarked for Virginia, her cargo of merchandise was nearly sufficient to load a wagon.
In Virginia, she disposed of her wares and for a season lived in easy circumstances. Yet she soon perceived that the practices which had enriched her in England yielded but slender profits in the plantation. She attached herself to a young man preparing to return to London and took passage in his company. While the vessel lay yet at Gravesend, she laid hands upon such valuables as were within her reach. Feigning sudden indisposition, she begged leave to be set ashore; the moment her feet touched land, she made off with all speed. The chronicle makes no further mention of the youth; the liaison is recorded merely as an occasion for plunder and flight.
Mary then traversed the country, resuming her ancient trade. Upon her return to London, her former associates were nowhere to be found. She thenceforth frequented the Royal Exchange, the theatres, London Bridge, and other crowded thoroughfares. Upon the Bridge, she was taken in the act of robbing a gentleman and gave her name to the magistrate as Jane Webb. The witness who had seized her testified that an unknown person had offered him fifty pounds not to appear against her. A gentlewoman declared she had seen Mary pick the pockets of more than twenty persons in a single day. Yet the record of her prior conviction was not produced at the bar: she was indicted solely for the theft at hand, valued at less than a shilling, and sentenced a second time to transportation.
From this exile, Mary returned in less than a year. Borrow’s narrative does not dwell upon her passage or the means by which it was accomplished; it finds her once more in London, actively plying her trade in the most frequented quarters. In Sherborne Lane, a gentlewoman was walking upon the boards laid across the kennel. A man took her by the hand under pretext of aiding her across, squeezing her fingers with great violence. During this distraction, Mary robbed her of thirteen shillings and a penny. This time, the victim instantly perceived that she had been despoiled, seized the thief by her gown, and conveyed her to the watch-house.
On the morrow, the Lord Mayor committed her to Newgate to take her trial at the Old Bailey. The jury found her guilty of privately stealing from the person. She was condemned to die. Borrow relates that on the morning of execution she appeared composed, yet lost her firmness as the executioner approached to fit the halter about her neck. Recovering some measure of countenance, she set forth for Tyburn in a mourning coach, attended by an ordinary. She prayed at great length before suffering the sentence of the law, on March 18, 1741 (Borrow’s relation prints 1740). According to the chronicle, her remains were interred at St. Pancras, in accordance with her dying request.
The false arms had once presented the spectacle of a tranquil gentlewoman while her living hands were at their work. Assumed names had long severed Jenny from her former convictions. In Sherborne Lane, there was need neither to recognize a countenance nor to retrace her voyages across the sea: a woman felt the theft, and held the culprit fast by her gown. After the gold watches, the diamond ring, and the cargoes borne across the Atlantic, the ledger of justice was closed for thirteen shillings and a penny.