Reynolds’s Miscellany. Vol. 28. No. 720. Saturday, March 29, 1862.
George Barrington; or, Life In London A Hundred Years Ago. By Malcolm J. Errym.
Chapter I.
The Night Kitchen In St. Giles.- Arrival Of Our Hero.- Description Of George Barrington.- Who And What He Is.- The Speech From The Chair.- An Enterprise.- The Ball At Northumberland House.- A Pretty Fellow Of The Year 1795.- Somebody Wanted.- The Bow Street Runners.- A Fight In The Dark.- The Police.
"Bravo ! bravo ! Hurrah for George Barrington ! Here he comes ! Hurrah ! Give him a cheer ! Make way for him ! Barrington for ever ! Look at his gold lace and ruffles. What a beaux is George Barrington ! Clear the way ! Ha ! ha ! Now my lord - you ought to be a lord, George ! Mind the last step - it’s a little bit shaky - almost as bad as the top step of the ladder that gave way under poor Jack the Cracksman, at Tyburn, last week ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! Bravo ! bravo ! One cheer more for George Barrington !"
Such were the cries, shoutings and welcomes, vociferously uttered by a large party assembled in the gloomy kitchen of an ancient home in St. Giles, on the evening of September the 24th, 1775.
That was just eighty-seven years ago.
George the Third was on the throne at those times, and still quite a young man.
George Barrington, the hero of this chronicle, was twenty years of age. Handsome, accomplished, brave and daring, was the young celebrity- for such he even then was- who stepped into the large gloomy-looking night rendezvous of the varied criminality of London.
Highwaymen fresh from their career on Hownslow Heath, Bagshot and the Windsor Road.
Footpads from the by-lanes about Bloomsbury Fields, Edgeware Road, and the new route from Islington to London.
Daring marauders from Birdcage Walk, who were in the habit of lurking among the trees, and pouncing upon the lone pedestrian with a request for his money or his life, or probably both combined.
Cracksmen, who had been asleep all day, and were now arranging the "business" of the coming long night in London.
These, together with a host of the minor larceny thieves, who picked up what they could get from shop doors, or from the pockets of careless passengers, made up the throng in the night cellar, or rather, kitchen, in St. Giles.
The atmosphere was cloudy and laden with tobacco smoke.
The odour of every conceivable spirit was commingled in the air.
A tall set of steps, such as builders use, was placed to a trap-door in the floor above, so that anyone who had the privilege of entrance to the "ken" as it was called, might descend with ease.
It was the appearance of George Barrington above these steps which had produced the loud chorus of welcome we have endeavored to describe.
"Bravo! bravo! A seat for Mr. Barrington!- a chair for his Majesty, the King of the pickpockets! Hurrah! hurrah! On the table, George! That’s right! Bravo! Ain’t he a gentleman! Three cheers for George Barrington!"
Three cheers were given with such a right good will that the old house shook again; and then there was such a hammering of pewter flagons on the table, and such a clattering and crashing of pipes and glasses, that one thing was quite evident- namely, that silence and secrecy were not considered at all necessary by those assembled.
And why should they be silent?
The officers of the police knew them all quite well, and they knew the officers. When any of them were positively "wanted," why then there was no help for it; and the officers would come and say, "Jack so and so, or Bill so and so," as the case might be, "you must come to the Jug,"- that is, to Newgate.
But Jack and Bill both knew that it was only in the last extremity that such a course was adopted.
Did not the officers know that if there were no thieves there would be no officers?
Of course they did.
And so, in those old times, nearly a hundred years ago, the police and the light-fingered fraternity worked harmoniously together.
But let us look at the hero of the night, George Barrington.
In obedience to the general invitation and demand, George had mounted one of the tables and taken possession of an arm-chair.
He sat down for a moment, and then, as those three loud cheers were given for him, he rose gracefully and lifted his hat about six inches from his head, and putting himself into the second position of the dancing academy, he bowed gracefully.
The clatter of flagons and the wild shouts of welcome immediately subsided.
While they are dying away, and while some more enthusiastic spirit than his companions is bursting out into renewed cheers for George Barrington, we will, for your gratification, O reader, now take a glance at his outward man.
Tall, slim, and elegant of figure- a profusion of fine chestnut-coloured hair, which he wore without powder, and very fine eyes, made up at the first glance the appearance of George Barrington.
He was dressed on this occasion in the very height of the reigning mode.
We will begin at his feet in our description, and go upwards to the topmost waves of his luxuriant hair.
A pair of exquisitely-made shoes with diamond buckles- pale lavender-coloured silk stockings- small-clothes of twilled silk of a darkly purple tint-  a waistcoat richly embroidered and edged with gold lace- a coat very ample in the skirts, of that deep crimson which is frequently called maroon- a cravat all lace together- ruffles which nearly hid his hands and the jewelled rings which sparkled on his fingers- a hat wide in the brim, and shaped like a sugar loaf with the top cut off (they had just come into fashion),- completed his attire, and made him what was, in the phraseology of the day, "a very pretty gentleman."
Such was George Barrington as he appeared on that evening of the 24th of September, 1775.
It was his birthday.
George wanted to signalise the evening with some grand exploit.
A smile sat upon his well-turned lips.
"Silence! silence! Be quiet! Knock that fellow down! Push a pint pot down his throat! Break his head! Silence for Mr. Barrington! Silence! silence! Be quiet! Hurrah, for George Barrington! Silence! silence!"
Comparative order was restored.
George Barrington dived two fingers down into his pocket and drew forth a thin, cambric handkerchief that was like a gossamer, and seemed as if it would have floated away but for the heavier border of lace that was around it.
A delicate odour of some fashionable perfume made itself apparent for a moment, even amid the reek of the tobacco smoke.
George patted his lips gently with the handkerchief.
There was a coronet worked in gold thread at the corner of it.
Then he spoke.
His voice was soft and melodious, and the play of his lips as he addressed the assemblage was vivacious and graceful.
"We are thirsty."
Twenty hands were outstretched towards the Prince of the Pickpockets, with pewter flagons, glasses, wooden measures, teacups and every possible variety of drinking vessel.
George Barrington lifted a glass just to his lips, and took a sip.
"Thanks, friends all, thanks! Twenty years on this date- Ah, let me sco- let me see!"
George Barrington took from his fob a massive gold watch, encircled with diamonds, and glanced at it.
"Ah, yes! A quarter to ten o’clock. That is strange!"
"What is strange, Mr. Barrington?" said a huge coarse man, speaking with one half his face in a quart pot from which he was imbibing "purl" at an alarming rate. "What is strange, Mr. Barrington?"
"Why, that I should be interrupted by a common footpad !"
"Down with him! Knock him over! Turn him out!"
George Barrington waved his hand.
"Let the animal be- let the animal be!"
Comparative order was once more restored.
"It is strange," added Barrington, returning the watch to his fob, and taking from one of his pockets an elegant snuff-box, - "it is strange that this should be the precise hour when, twenty years ago, I was presented to the world, to be one of its ornaments and celebrities."
George took a pinch of snuff, and the diamond rings on his fingers glittered, as with a careless air he touched his lace cravat, lest some particle should have fallen on it.
"Gentlemen all," he added, "I was born at this hour, twenty years ago."
"Bravo, George! bravo! You were quite right!" said a voice from the remote end of the kitchen.
There was a laugh at this, and Barrington took another pinch of a few grains of snuff.
"To-night," he said, "there is a ball at Northumberland House."
"Where the lion is with the tail?" asked one.
"My friend, you are right. The lion is with the tail, as you say."
The look with which George Barrington regarded the man who had interrupted him did not encourage anyone else to speak, and after a few moment’s pause he resumed.
"I intend to do something to-night to signalise the happy anniversary of my birthday. I mean to go to the ball!"
"Hurrah! hurrah!"
"You, my friends, or such of you who are at liberty from other engagements, will be so good as to throng the doors- some as Hukmen, some as chairmen, some as hackney coachmen, and some as mere chance spectators of the company as they go in and out. I may come out in a hurry, and then a row at Charing Cross, which may be created by your knocking down right and left anyone you can see will materially aid me."
A general assent, by the knocking of the pewter measures and the other drinking vessels on the tables, was given to the arrangement.
"Good!’ said George Barrington. "At the corner of Northumberland Street, I want a hackney coach."
"You shall have it, Mr. Barrington!"
"I know I shall. A few paces down the street, I want a sedan-chair."
"All right, Mr. Barrington."
George Barrington rose, and lifting his hat again, in the same fashion he had done before, he bowed, and lightly leaping from the table, he rapidly ascended the step-ladder and disappeared.
The meeting in the kitchen broke up, and the lights were about being extinguished, when a heavy knocking on the floor immediately above startled the assemblage.
The tall, powerful man who had interrupted George Barrington, with his mouth in a quart pot, sprang onto the steps as he shouted, "Silence!- silence, pals all! I’ll see to this!"
The stillness was complete.
But the knocking above continued, and seemed, on account of the stillness below, to be more violent than before.
No one, however, ventured down the trap door, although it was open.
"Hulloa!" cried the footpad. "Above there! what is it, eh?"
"Mr. Stapleton!" cried a voice.
"Ah, Stapleton, the Bow Street runner?"
"Yes, and Mr. Godfrey is with me."
"Who is wanted?"
"Joe Nightfly."
The footpad turned and seizing a pewter pot, which was the first object he could lay his hands upon, he flung it at the only candle which remained alight, and the place was in a moment involved in the most intense darkness.
"Hush, pals!" he said. "You hear that they want me, but I don’t intend to go this time. It’s a bad job. I mean to play the shy game. It’s about a little affair in Lincoln’s Inn Fields."
The knocking above sounded again.
It was evident, however, that the Bow Street runners were reluctant to descend.
"Come, Joe, if you are there," cried one, "It’s of no use, my man, taking two bites at a cherry. You are wanted, and you must come."
"Clear away with you all, pals," said the footpad. "This is my affair."
"What do you mean to do, Joe?"
"Make a rush for it."
"There’s two of ‘em."
"I don’t care. I don’t intend to be nabbed this time, however. Look you here, pals! If one of the runners can be coaxed down here, will you take care of him?"
"We will ! we will!"
"Then I’m game for the other."
This short dialogue was conducted in such low tones that it was impossible they could reach the ears of the two officers above; but they were getting impatient, and the one who had before spoken cried out in louder tones, "Come, come, Joe! We must have you and no mistake."
"Here I am!"
"Oh, you are there, are you? Come up, then."
"What’s it about?"
"The affair in Lincoln’s Inn Fields."
"Is that you speaking, Mr. Stapleton?"
"Yes it is, Joe."
"Then sir, if you will keep the ‘darbies’ off my wrists I will give in to you."
"All right, Joe."
"Come down, sir. Mind the last step."
The officer hesitated for a moment, and then he went half-way down the step-ladder, but seeing that all was dark, he paused , and spoke again.
"Show a light! show a light! Don’t be foolish now, Joe Nightfly. I will say and do what I can for you, but you must come."
A faint glimmer from a match lit up the kitchen, and then a candle took the flame and began slowly to burn up.
The footpad darted forward, and seizing the legs of the officer, he gave them a tug, which brought him upon his back in the kitchen.
"Mind him!" he shouted, and then he rushed up the steps.
The officer above made a dash at the footpad, and they encountered each other with a concussion that was enough to knock the breath out of the body of both of them; but the footpad was well prepared for it, and held his arms squared over his chest.
The consequence was that the officer was whirled away as if he had rushed against a post, and he fell headlong down the trap.
Another moment and Joe Flynight was in the street.
There were shouts, oaths, cries of murder, and a terrible conflict in the kitchen. It ended in the escape of every one of the thieves, and the two officers slowly emerged, scarcely able to walk from the mauling they had received.
They were foiled, but they knew they had but to bide their time.
"Godfrey," said Stapleton, who was the senior officer, "I could take my oath that that young fellow in the fine coat we saw come out of this house is one of the ‘family !’"
"I know he is," replied Godfrey.
"You know him?"
"I do."
"He is new on the town?"
"Not very, Mr. Stapleton. He came from Bristol; and  my opinion is that he will make a noise in the world. His will be a short life and a merry one."
"Who is he?"
"His name is George Barrington."
"Ah! I shall take good care to remember him."
"Well, Mr. Stapleton, I can put you up to something. You know I got into that house we have just left before you, and I heard something that makes me think George Barrington is on a game to-night that we might as well hold a hand in."
"What do you mean?"
"He is going to do a cool thing. He means to go to the ball at the Duke of Northumberland’s to-night."
"No!"
"He said so; and he will do it."
"By Jove!"
"He is bold enough for anything; but I fancy this will be too bold to be safe. What do you say, Mr. Stapleton?"
"I say that you and I, Godfrey, will go there too; and the sooner we get to Northumberland House the better. We can speak to the steward, and perhaps find some way of showing ourselves without being known."
"They will lend us suits of liveries no doubt."
"That will be just the thing, Godfrey. Ha! ha! I should rather enjoy handing that fine gentleman a cream tart with one hand, and clapping my hand on his collar with the other. Come on ; the night wears on."
End of Chapter I.