Part 4

For this he was outlawed, and, whilst the offended majesty of the law was thus seeking to vindicate itself, he was making a progress of the northern counties under various disguises, sometimes appearing as a quack doctor, or a clergyman, then in connection with a gaming-table, and occasionally playing the _rôle_ of a rider (as commercial travellers were then called) for some manufacturing firm. Although frequently meeting with people who knew him, he was never molested by them, until he was recognised at Newcastle (whilst being examined in the justice-room there, regarding a theft he had committed) by a gentleman from London as being ‘wanted’ for the robbery at Drury Lane Theatre, and he was promptly despatched to Bow Street once more. On his arrival, he was committed to Newgate as an outlaw, and, miserable and dejected, his spirits sank within him. His friends, however (for even he had friends) made up a purse of a hundred guineas for his defence. His trial took place in November, 1789, when he conducted his own defence, as usual, with extraordinary ability, arguing the various points of law with the judge with surprising acuteness and elegant language, till, eventually, being aided by the absence of a material witness, he made such an impression upon the court that a verdict of acquittal was recorded.

All these escapes, however, seem to have had no deterrent effect upon him, and he again set off for Ireland, where he joined an accomplice named Hubert, who was speedily apprehended, in the act of picking a pocket, and sentenced to seven years transportation. Dublin after this was far too hot for Barrington, so he adroitly made his escape to England, where, after rambling about the country for some time, he re-appeared in London. But he had not been in the metropolis very long before he was apprehended, as his indictment says, for ‘stealing on the 1st of September, 1780, in the parish of Enfield, in the county of Middlesex, a gold watch, chain, seals, and a metal key, the property of Henry Hare Townsend.’ The case was very clear, but Barrington defended himself very ingeniously, and with a certain amount of oratory, of which the following is a sample:

‘I am well convinced of the noble nature of a British Court of Justice; the dignified and benign principles of its judges, and the liberal and candid spirit of its jurors.

‘Gentlemen, life is the gift of God, and liberty its greatest blessing; the power of disposing of both or either is the greatest man can enjoy. It is also adventitious that, great as that power is, it cannot be better placed than in the hands of an English jury; for they will not exercise it like tyrants, who delight in blood, but like generous and brave men, who delight to spare rather than destroy; and who, forgetting they are men themselves, lean, when they can, to the side of compassion. It may be thought, gentlemen of the jury, that I am appealing to your passions, and, if I had the power to do it, I would not fail to employ it. The passions animate the heart, and to the passions we are indebted for the noblest actions, and to the passions we owe our dearest and finest feelings; and, when it is considered, the mighty power you now possess, whatever leads to a cautious and tender discharge of it, must be thought of great consequence: as long as the passions conduct us on the side of benevolence, they are our best, our safest, and our most friendly guides.’

But all his eloquence was thrown away on a jury of practical men, and they found him guilty. His trial took place on the 15th of September, 1790, and on the 22nd of September he received his sentence, which was seven years’ transportation. He took his leave dramatically, and made a speech lamenting his hard fate throughout life.

‘The world, my Lord, has given me credit for abilities, indeed much greater than I possess, and, therefore, much more than I deserved; but I have never found any kind hand to foster those abilities.

‘I might ask, where was the generous and powerful hand that was ever stretched forth to rescue George Barrington from infamy? In an age like this, which, in several respects, is so justly famed for liberal sentiments, it was my severe lot that no nobleminded gentleman stepped forward and said to me, “Barrington, you are possessed of talents which may be useful to society. I feel for your situation, and, as long as you act the part of a good citizen, I will be your protector; you will then have time and opportunity to rescue yourself from the obloquy of your former conduct.”

‘Alas, my Lord, George Barrington had never the supreme felicity of having such comfort administered to his wounded spirit. As matters have unfortunately turned out, the die is cast; and, as it is, I bend, resigned to my fate, without one murmur or complaint.’

Thus ended his life in England, which he was never to see again, and it is with pleasure that we can turn to a brighter page in his history.

In his account of his voyage to New South Wales, he says that it was with unspeakable satisfaction that he received orders to embark, agreeably to his sentence; and it is pleasing to observe that, under his adverse circumstances, the friends he had made in his prosperity did not forsake him in his adversity, for many of them came to bid him adieu, and not one of them came empty-handed; in fact, their generosity was so great, that he had difficulty in getting permission to take all their gifts on board.

His account of their embarkation gives us an extremely graphic description not only of the treatment of convicts, but of the unhappy wretches themselves.

‘About a quarter before five, a general muster took place, and, having bid farewell to my fellow-prisoners, we were escorted from the prison to Blackfriars Bridge by the City Guard, where two lighters were waiting to receive us. This procession, though early, and but few spectators, made a deep impression on my mind, and the ignominy of being thus mingled with felons of all descriptions, many scarce a degree above the brute creation, intoxicated with liquor, and shocking the ears of those they passed with blasphemy, oaths, and songs, the most offensive to modesty, inflicted a punishment more severe than the sentence of my country, and fully avenged that society I had so much wronged.’

And there is little doubt but that the moral repugnance to his miserable, and vicious companions was mainly the cause of the reformation which took place in him.

The condition of convicts at that day was not enviable. There were two hundred and fifty of them in the ship with Barrington, all packed in the hold, their hammocks being slung within seventeen inches of each other: being encumbered with their irons, and deprived of fresh air, their condition was soon rendered deplorable. To alleviate their sufferings as much as possible, they were permitted to walk the deck (as much as was consistent with the safety of the ship), ten at a time; and the women, of whom there were six on board, had a snug berth to themselves. But, in spite of this humane and considerate treatment, thirty-six of them died on the voyage.

Barrington, however, was not in such evil case, for a friend had accompanied him on board, and, by his influence and exertions, had not only procured stowage for his packages, but also liberty to walk the deck unencumbered with irons. Nor did his help stop here, for he prevailed upon the boatswain to admit him into his mess, which consisted of the second mate, carpenter, and gunner, on condition that he paid his proportion towards defraying the extra requisites for the mess during the voyage. The boatswain, too, had his hammock slung next to his own, so that his life was made as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances, and he had not to herd with the convicts.

Soon after leaving the Bay of Biscay, these gentlemen began to give trouble. The captain, very humanely, had released many of the weaker convicts of their galling chains, and allowed them to walk on deck, ten at a time. Two of them, who were Americans, and had some knowledge of navigation, prevailed upon the majority of their comrades to attempt to seize the ship, impressing upon them that it would be an easy task, and that when captured, they would sail to America, where every man would not only obtain his liberty, but receive a tract of land from Congress, besides a share of the money arising from the sale of the ship and cargo.

The poor dupes swallowed the bait, and the mutineers determined that on the first opportunity, whilst the officers were at dinner, those convicts who were on deck should force the arm-chest, which was kept on the quarter-deck, and, at the same time, would make a signal to two of them to attack the sentinels, and obtain possession of their arms, while word was passed for those below to come on deck. And, as they planned, so they carried out the mutiny: when the captain and officers were below examining the stowage of some wine--a cask, in the spirit-room, being leaky--and the only persons on deck were Barrington and the man at the helm.

Barrington was going forward, but was stopped by one of the Americans, followed by another convict, who struck at him with a sword, which luckily hit against a pistol that the American had pointed at him. Barrington snatched up a handspike, and felled one of them, and the steersman left his wheel and called up the captain and crew. For a few moments Barrington kept the mutineers at bay, when assistance came--and a blunderbuss being fired amongst the convicts, wounding several, they retreated, and were all driven into the hold. An attempt of this kind required the most exemplary punishment; and two of the ring-leaders, with very short shrift, were soon dangling at the yard-arm, whilst others were tasting the cat-o’-nine-tails at the gangway.

The mutiny having been thus quelled, and the convicts re-ironed, the captain had leisure to thank Barrington, and to compliment him on his gallant behaviour in the emergency. He assured Barrington that, when they arrived at the Cape, he would reward him, and that, meanwhile, he was to have every liberty; and orders were given to the steward to supply him with anything he might have occasion for during the voyage. As Barrington observes:

‘I soon experienced the good effects of my late behaviour; as seldom a day passed but some fresh meat or poultry was sent to me by the captain, which considerably raised me in the estimation of my messmates, who were no ways displeased at the substitution of a sea-pie of fowl or fresh meat to a dish of lobscouse, or a piece of salt-junk.’

On the ship’s arrival at the Cape, the captain gave Barrington an order on a merchant there for one hundred dollars, telling him he might at any time avail himself of the ship’s boat going ashore, and visit the town as often as he pleased, if he would only tell the officers when he felt so inclined. It is needless to say he fully availed himself of his privilege, and laid out his money in the purchase of goods most in demand in New South Wales.

On reaching Port Jackson, in consequence of the captain’s report, he had a most gracious reception from the governor, who, finding him a man of ability and intelligence, almost immediately appointed him superintendent of the convicts at Paramatta: his business being chiefly to report the progress made in the different works that were carried on there. Here he had ample leisure and opportunities of studying the natives and their habits and customs, and in his ‘History of New South Wales,’ he gives an interesting account of the aborigines of Australia, now so rapidly approaching extinction. The governor, Philip, made unceasing efforts to win their friendship, and even went to the extent of forcing his acquaintance on them, by the summary method of capturing a few, and keeping them in friendly durance; hoping thus to gain their good-will, so that, on their release, they might report to their friends that the white man was not so bad as he was represented. But it was all in vain; for, beyond a very few converts to civilisation, the savage remained untameable.

By the purchases which Barrington had made at the Cape, as well as the presents he had brought from England, he was enabled to furnish his house in a rather better style than his neighbours, and, moreover, he managed to collect around him a few farm-yard animals, which, together with his great love for horticulture, made his life far from unendurable. His position, as peace-officer of the district, was no sinecure; for the criminal population over whom he had jurisdiction gave him very considerable trouble, more especially after the introduction into the settlement, by some American vessels, of New England rum, the baneful effects of which were very soon apparent: the partiality of the convicts for it being incredible, for they preferred receiving it as the price of their labour to any other article, either of provisions or clothing.

Barrington’s tact and good management in the numerous disturbances that arose, as more convicts were poured into the station, were very conspicuous, and his conduct was altogether such as compensated, in a great measure, for his former misdeeds. His domestic matters improved by degrees, so that his situation was equal, if not preferable, to that of most of the settlers there, and, to crown all, in September, 1799, the Governor--Hunter--presented him with an absolute pardon, complimenting him on his faithful discharge of the duties which had been entrusted to him, and the integrity and uniform uprightness of his conduct, and, furthermore, said that his general behaviour, during his whole residence, perfectly obliterated every trace of his former indiscretions.

Barrington was further appointed a principal superintendent of the district of Paramatta, with a permanent salary of £50 per annum (his situation having been, hitherto, only provisional) and, eventually, the confidence he inspired was such that he was raised to the office of Chief of the constabulary force of the Colony, on the principle, it may be presumed, of ‘setting a thief to catch a thief.’ In this post he gave great satisfaction, and died, much respected by all who knew him, at Botany Bay.

He wrote ‘The History of New South Wales,’ &c. London, 1802; a most valuable and interesting book. ‘An Account of a Voyage to New South Wales,’ London, 1803. ‘The History of New Holland,’ London, 1808; and a book was published with his name as author, ‘The London Spy,’ which went through several editions.

MILTON’S BONES.

In the first series of _Notes and Queries_, vol. v. p. 369 (April 17, 1852), is a note from which the following is an extract: ‘In vol. v, p. 275, mention is made of Cromwell’s skull; so it may not be out of place to tell you that I have handled one of Milton’s ribs. Cowper speaks indignantly of the desecration of our divine poet’s grave, on which shameful occurrence some of the bones were clandestinely distributed. One fell to the lot of an old and esteemed friend, and between forty-five and fifty years ago, at his house, not many miles from London, I have often examined the said rib-bone.’

The lines of Cowper’s to which he refers were written in August, 1790, and are entitled

STANZAS

_On the late indecent Liberties taken with the remains of the great Milton. Anno 1790._

‘Me too, perchance, in future days, The sculptured stone shall show, With Paphian myrtle or with bays Parnassian on my brow.

But I, or ere that season come, Escaped from every care, Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, And sleep securely there.’[16]

So sang, in Roman tone and style, The youthful bard, ere long Ordain’d to grace his native isle With her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain, Hearing the deed unblest, Of wretches who have dared profane His dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones Where Milton’s ashes lay, That trembled not to grasp his bones And steal his dust away!

O ill-requited bard! neglect Thy living worth repaid, And blind idolatrous respect As much affronts thee dead.

Leigh Hunt possessed a lock of Milton’s hair which had been given to him by a physician--and over which he went into such rhapsodies that he composed no less than three sonnets addressed to the donor--which may be found in his ‘Foliage,’ ed. 1818, pp. 131, 132, 133. The following is the best:--

TO ---- ---- MD.,

_On his giving me a lock of Milton’s hair_.

It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honoured pride, Talking of lovely things that conquered death. Perhaps he pressed it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-eyed, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their heaped locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant--a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk;--as if it said, Patience and Gentleness is Power. In me Behold affectionate eternity.

How were these personal relics obtained? By rifling his tomb. Shakespeare solemnly cursed anyone who should dare to meddle with his dead body, and his remains are believed to be intact.

‘Good friend, for Jesus’ sake, forbear To dig the dust inclosed here: Blest be the man who spares these stones, And cursed be he who moves my bones.’

But Milton laid no such interdict upon his poor dead body--and it was not very long after his burial, which took place in 1674, that the stone which covered it, and indicated his resting-place, was removed, as Aubrey tells us in his ‘Lives’ (vol. iii, p. 450). ‘His stone is now removed. About two years since (1681) the two steppes to the communion-table were raysed, Ighesse, Jo. Speed,[17] and he lie together.’ And so it came to pass that, in the church of St. Giles’, Cripplegate, where he was buried, there was no memorial of the place where he was laid, nor, indeed, anything to mark the fact of his burial in that church until, in 1793, Samuel Whitbread set up a fine marble bust of the poet, by Bacon, with an inscription giving the dates of his birth and death, and recording the fact that his father was also interred there.

It is probable that Mr. Whitbread was moved thereto by the alleged desecration of Milton’s tomb in 1790, of which there is a good account written by Philip Neve, of Furnival’s Inn, which is entitled, ‘A NARRATIVE of the DISINTERMENT of MILTON’S coffin, in the Parish-Church of ST. GILES, Cripplegate, on Wednesday, August 4th, 1790; and the TREATMENT OF THE CORPSE during that and the following day.’

As this narrative is not long, I propose to give it in its entirety, because to condense it would be to spoil it, and, by giving it _in extenso_, the reader will be better able to judge whether it was really Milton’s body which was exhumed.

A NARRATIVE, &c.

Having read in the _Public Advertiser_, on Saturday, the 7th of August, 1790, that _Milton’s_ coffin had been dug up in the parish church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, and was there to be seen, I went immediately to the church, and found the latter part of the information to be untrue; but, from conversations on that day, on Monday, the 9th, and on Tuesday, the 10th of August, with Mr. Thomas _Strong_, Solicitor and F.A.S., Red Cross Street, _Vestry-Clerk_; Mr. John _Cole_, Barbican, Silversmith, _Churchwarden_; Mr. John _Laming_, Barbican, _Pawnbroker_; and Mr. _Fountain_, Beech Lane, Publican, _Overseers_; Mr. _Taylor_, of Stanton, Derbyshire, _Surgeon_; a friend of Mr. _Laming_, and a visitor in his house; Mr. William _Ascough_, Coffin-maker, Fore Street, _Parish Clerk_; Benjamin _Holmes_ and Thomas _Hawkesworth_, journeymen to Mr. Ascough; Mrs. _Hoppey_, Fore Street, _Sexton_; Mr. _Ellis_, No. 9, Lamb’s Chapel, comedian of the Royalty-theatre; and John _Poole_ (son of Rowland Poole), Watch-spring maker, Jacob’s Passage, Barbican, the following facts are established: