Second Thoughts are Best: Or a Further Improvement of a Late Scheme to Prevent Street Robberies

In Short

This book is a provocative, early eighteenth-century tract advocating for radical urban reform to curb a wave of violent street robberies. Written with the sharp, pragmatic voice of a self-appointed public defender, it dissects the failures of the existing night watch and proposes a rigorous system of surveillance, lighting, and social regulation. It serves as a fascinating window into the anxieties of Georgian London, capturing a moment when the city’s rapid growth and shifting social habits—from the popularity of the Beggar’s Opera to the rise of gin consumption—seemed to threaten the very fabric of public order.

The Story

The argument begins with an appeal to the King, setting the stage for a desperate struggle between a virtuous public and an encroaching army of villains. The author, writing under the pseudonym Andrew Moreton, immediately declares war on a rival schemer who he claims has plagiarized his earlier, superior ideas for city safety. Having established his authority, he turns his gaze to the streets of London, which he perceives as having descended into chaos. The current watchmen, he argues, are decrepit, elderly men incapable of stopping even the most amateurish thief.

The author traces this criminality back to its roots, identifying a “radix” of moral and social decay. He blames the popular Beggar’s Opera and similar dramas for glamorizing the criminal life, turning low-level thieves into folk heroes in the eyes of the impressionable lower classes. He further indicts “accursed Geneva”—cheap, potent gin—as the fuel for this downward spiral, arguing that it destroys the industry and health of the laboring poor, turning honest tradesmen into desperate criminals.

With the diagnosis complete, the author lays out his detailed, multifaceted cure. He proposes a professionalized night watch, composed of stout, well-armed, and properly paid individuals, stationed at regular intervals with clear lines of sight. He demands that the city be “gloriously illuminated” with better lanterns, arguing that visibility is the greatest enemy of the thief. He goes further, calling for the regulation of servants, the suppression of night-houses, and the strict monitoring of hackney coach drivers, whom he suspects of acting as accomplices to robbers.

Moving beyond the city walls, the author addresses the danger of the open roads. He suggests a system of military escorts—a “convoy” service—to protect travelers, financed by moderate fees. He concludes by attacking the economic structures he believes facilitate poverty: the coal merchants, bakers, and tallow-chandlers whose price-gouging he views as a direct contributor to the desperation that leads men to crime. By the end, he presents a vision of a perfectly ordered society, one where the state, the church, and the individual work in concert to ensure that, as he puts it, “any part of London will be as safe and pleasant at Midnight as at Noonday.” His final plea is for the government to take the responsibility for prosecution out of the hands of overburdened victims, making the safety of the public a state-mandated priority.

How It Unfolds

The appeal to authority The author opens by positioning himself as a loyal, humble servant of the King, attempting to cut through the “crowds of courtiers” to offer his solution for the public good. He frames his proposal as a patriotic duty, contrasting his own transparent intentions with the “venal” motives of unnamed rivals.

The anatomy of the crime wave He shifts to a diagnostic mode, describing the current night watch as a collection of “decrepit, superannuated wretches” who are more likely to be robbed than to prevent a crime. He identifies cultural triggers, such as theater and alcohol, which he believes have eroded the traditional English spirit of industry and courage.

The concrete proposal The core of the book details the logistical overhaul of the city’s night watch, specifying the number of houses per beat and the necessary salary for a competent man. He provides precise technical requirements for lighting, dismissing current lamps as “ignis fatui” that blind the innocent while shielding the guilty.

The moral and social cleanup Expanding his reach, the author suggests sweeping social controls, including the restriction of vagrants, the regulation of servants’ leisure time, and the licensing of gin-shops. He treats these as necessary, interconnected steps to eliminate the “nests” where criminal activity is incubated.

The systemic correction Finally, he addresses the economic drivers of crime, calling for parliamentary intervention in the pricing of essential goods like bread and fuel. He ends with a call for a robust system of road safety and a streamlined, state-funded process for the prosecution of offenders.

The People

Andrew Moreton, the author’s persona, acts as the central figure and voice of the text. He is a man who sees himself as a clear-sighted, neglected genius, driven by a genuine concern for his country but also by a thin-skinned competitiveness regarding his intellectual property. He is deeply skeptical of the "hireling projectors" and "sordid wretches" who surround him, viewing them as obstacles to a orderly, prosperous nation.

Opposing him are the "lurking villains" of London—a broad, amorphous category that includes everyone from organized street thieves to corrupt hackney coachmen and exploitative coal merchants. To the author, these figures are not merely individuals making bad choices; they are symptoms of a larger, systemic failure caused by lax discipline, the abandonment of "manly" sports, and an obsession with luxury. He also targets the "weak-minded" public, whose susceptibility to the charms of stage-robbers like Macheath makes them complicit in the city’s crime. Throughout the work, the author constantly pits his own proposed "stout and able-bodied" watchmen against the "poor, crazy mortals" currently patrolling the streets, creating a dichotomy between the weak, decaying status quo and the disciplined, efficient future he wishes to build.

In Its Own Voice

The author highlights the pathetic state of the current night watchmen, whose presence provides no real security.

The principal encouragement and opportunity given to our street robbers is, that our streets are so poorly watched; the watchmen, for the most part, being decrepit, superannuated wretches, with one foot in the grave and the other ready to follow.

He connects the rise of crime to the cultural influence of the theater, specifically pointing to the popularity of the Beggar’s Opera.

There was some cessation of street robberies, from the time of Bunworth and Blewitt's execution, until the introduction of this pious opera.

He argues that the current lighting in London is ineffective and actually serves to disorient rather than help the citizenry.

Let a convenient number of lamps be set up, and those not of the convex kind, which blind the eyes, and are of no manner of use; they dazzle, but give no distinct light, and further, rather than prevent robberies.

What It's Really About

At its heart, the book is a study in the intersection of urban planning and social morality. It argues that the safety of a city is not merely a matter of policing, but a result of a well-ordered society where commerce is fair, leisure is disciplined, and the physical environment is designed to exclude criminality. It asks deep questions about the role of the state in regulating the habits of its citizens, from what they drink to what they watch on the stage. The author essentially posits that when a society allows the "common people" to succumb to idleness and vice, they forfeit their right to safety, and that the only remedy is a top-down enforcement of virtue, efficiency, and clarity.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the history of crime, urban development, or the evolution of the English language will find this text deeply compelling. Reading it feels like stepping directly into the bustling, anxiety-ridden streets of 1720s London; you can almost hear the author’s indignant tone as he argues against the "effeminacy" of powdered wigs and the dangerous influence of the stage. The text is rich with the flavor of its time, full of specific, vivid complaints—the price of coals, the behavior of link-boys, the failures of the hackney coach office—that bring the period to life more effectively than any dry history book.

However, readers should be prepared for the author’s uncompromising, top-down perspective. His attitudes toward the poor, his disdain for the "lower class," and his firm belief in the necessity of strict, near-authoritarian social controls can be jarring to modern sensibilities. The prose is dense, occasionally repetitive, and carries the heavy, formal weight of 18th-century political pamphleteering. It is not an easy, breezy read, but it is an essential one for those who wish to understand the origins of modern urban policing and the long, fraught history of the "law and order" debate. It remains a powerful testament to the human desire to impose order upon chaos.