Kitabı oku: «Notes and Queries, Number 48, September 28, 1850»
NOTES
RIOTS OF LONDON
Seventy years having passed away since the riots of London, there cannot be many living who remember them, and still fewer who were personally in contact with the tumultuous throng. Under such circumstances, I venture to offer for introduction into your useful and entertaining miscellany some incidents connected with that event in which I was either personally an actor or spectator—things not in themselves important, yet which may be to some of your readers acceptable and interesting as records of bygone days.
The events of 1780, in themselves so terrific, were well adapted to be written indelibly on the memory of a young, and ardent boy. At any age they would have been engraved as with an iron pen; but their occurrence at the first age of my early boyhood, when no previous event had claimed particular attention, fixed them as a lasting memorial.
The awful conflagrations had not taken place when I arrived in London from a large school in one of the midland counties in England, for the Midsummer vacation. So many of my school-fellows resided in the metropolis, or in a part of the country requiring a passage through London, that three or four closely-packed post-chaises were necessary; and to accomplish the journey in good time for the youngsters to be met by their friends, the journey was begun as near to four o'clock A.M. as was possible.
The chaises, well crowned with boxes, and filled with joyous youth, were received at the Castle and Falcon, then kept by a Mr. Dupont, a celebrated wine merchant, and the friend of our estimable tutor. The whole of my schoolmates had been met by their respective friends, and my brother and I alone remained at the inn, when at length my mother arrived in a hackney-coach to fetch us, and from her we learned that the streets were so crowded that she could hardly make her way to us. No time was lost, and we were soon on our way homewards. We passed through Newgate Street and the Old Bailey without interruption or delay; but when we came into Ludgate Hill the case was far different; the street was full and the people noisy, permitting no carriage to pass unless the coachman took off his hat and acknowledged his respect for them and the object for which they had congregated. "Hat off, coachee!" was their cry. Our coachman would not obey their noisy calls, and there we were fixed. Long might we have remained in that unpleasant predicament had not my foreseeing parent sagaciously provided herself with a piece of ribbon of the popular colour, which she used to good effect by making it up into a bow with a long, streamer and pinning it to a white handkerchief, which she courageously flourished out of the window of the hackney-coach. Huzzas and "Go on, coachee!" were shouted from the crowd and with no other obstruction than the full streets presented, we reached Beaufort Buildings, in the Strand, the street in which we resided.
There a new scene presented itself, which was very impressive to our young minds. The street was full of soldiers, and the coachman said to my mother, "I cannot go down." A soldier addressed my mother: "No one, ma'am, can go down this street:" to whom my mother replied, "I live here, and am going to my own home." An officer then gave permission for us, and the coachman with our box, to proceed, and we were soon at our own door. The coachman, ignorant of the passport which the handkerchief and ribbon had proved, said, on setting the box down, "You see, ma'am, we got on without my taking off my hat: for who would take off his hat to such a set of fellows? I would rather have sat there all the day long."
The assembling of the military in this street was to defend the dwellings of Mr. Kitchener and Mr. Heron, both these gentlemen being Roman Catholics. Mr. Kitchener (who was the father of Dr. Kitchener, the author of the Cook's Oracle) was an eminent coal merchant, whose wharf was by the river-side southward, behind Beaufort Buildings, then called Worcester Grounds1, as the lane leading to it was called Worcester Lane: but Mr. Kitchener, or his successor Mr. Cox, endeavoured to change it by having "Beaufort Wharf" painted on their wagons. Thus the name "Worcester Grounds" got lost; but the lane which bore the same name got no advantage by the change, for it received the appropriate title of "Dirty Lane," used only for carts and horses, foot passengers reaching the wharf by the steps at the bottom of Fountain Court and Beaufort Buildings.
But to return to my narrative. My parents soon removed us out of this scene of public confusion, to the house of a relative residing at St. Pancras: and well do I remember the painful interest with which, as soon as it got dark, the whole family of my uncle used to go on the roof of the house and count the number of fires, guessing the place of each. The alarm was so great, though at a distance, that it was always late before the family retired to rest. I remained at St. Pancras until the riots had been subdued and peace restored; and now, though very many matters crowd my mind, as report after report then reached us, I will leave them to record only what I personally saw and heard.
Before the vacation was ended, the trials of the prisoners had proceeded, and I went to a friend's house to see some condemned ones pass to execution. The house from which I had this painful view has been removed; the site is now the road to Waterloo Bridge. I believe it was because a lad was to be executed that I was allowed to go. The mournful procession passed up St. Catherine's Street, and from the distance I was, I could only see that the lad in height did not reach above the shoulders of the two men between whom he sat, who, with him, were to be executed in Russell Street. Universal and deep was the sympathy expressed towards the youth from the throng of people, which was considerable. As it was long before the street was sufficiently cleared to allow us to return home, the report came that the execution was over, and that the boy was so light that the executioner jumped on him to break his neck: and such was the effect of previous sympathy, that a feeling of horror was excited at the brutality (as they called it) of the action; but, viewing it calmly, it was wise, and intended kindly to shorten the time of suffering. While thus waiting, I heard an account of this boy's trial. A censure was expressed on the government for hanging one so young, when it was stated that this boy was the only one executed, though so many were guilty, as an example, as the proof of his guilt was unquestionable. A witness against him on the trial said, "I will swear that I have seen that boy actively engaged at several conflagrations." He was rebuked for thus positively speaking by the opposite counsel, when he said, "I am quite sure it is the active boy I have seen so often for I was so impressed with his flagrant conduct that I cut a piece out of his clothes:" and putting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the piece which he had cut off, which exactly fitted to the boy's jacket. This decided his execution: yet justice was not vindictive, for very few persons were executed.
I will trespass yet further on your pages to recite one other incident of the riots that occurred in connexion with the attack on the King's Bench prison, and the death of Allen, which made a great stir at the time. The incident I refer to happened thus:—At the gate of the prison two sentinels were placed. One of these was a fine-built young man, full six feet high: he had been servant to my father. On the day Allen was shot, or a day or two after, he came to my father for protection: my father having a high opinion of his veracity and moral goodness, took him in and sheltered him until quiet was restored. His name was M'Phin, or some such name; but as he was always called "Mac" by us, I do not remember his name perfectly. He stated that he and his fellow-soldier, while standing as sentries at the prison, were attacked by an uproarious mob, and were assailed with stones and brickbats;—that his companion called loudly to the mob, and said, "I will not fire until I see and mark a man that throws at us, and then he shall die. I don't want to kill the innocent, or any one; but he that flings at us shall surely die." Young Allen threw a brick-bat, and ran off; but Mac said, his fellow-soldier had seen it, and marked him. The crowd gave way; off went Allen and the soldier after him. Young Allen ran on, the soldier pursuing him, till he entered his father's premises, who was a cow-keeper, and there the soldier shot him. Popular fury turned upon poor Mac; and so completely was he thought to be the "murderer" of young Allen that 500l. was offered by the mob for his discovery. But my good father was faithful to honest Mac, and he lay secure in one of our upper rooms until the excitement was over.
Allen's funeral was attended by myriads, and a monument was erected to his memory (which yet remains, I believe) in Newington churchyard, speaking lies in the face of the sun. If it were important enough, it deserves erasure as much as the false inscription on London's monument.
As soon as the public blood was cool, "Mac" surrendered himself, was tried at the Old Bailey, and acquitted.
Should it be in the power of any of the readers of your interesting miscellany, by reference to the Session Papers, to give me the actual name of poor "Mac," I shall feel obliged.
SENEX.
September 9. 1850.
SATIRICAL POEMS ON WILLIAM III
Some years since I copied from a MS. vol., compiled before 1708, the following effusions of a Jacobite poet, who seems to have been "a good hater" of King William. I have made ineffectual efforts to discover the witty author, or to ascertain if these compositions have ever been printed. My friend, in whose waste-book I found them,—a beneficed clergyman in Worcestershire, who has been several years dead,—obtained them from a college friend during the last century.
"UPON KING WILLIAM'S TWO FIRST CAMPAGNES
"'Twill puzzle much the author's brains,
That is to write your story,
To know in which of these campagnes
You have acquired most glory:
For when you march'd the foe to fight,
Like Heroe, nothing fearing,
Namur was taken in your sight,
And Mons within your hearing."
"ON THE OBSERVING THE 30TH OF JANUARY, 1691
"Cease, Hippocrites, to trouble heaven
How can ye think to be forgiven
The dismall deed you've done?
When to the martyr's sacred blood,
This very moment, if you could,
You'd sacrifice his son."
"ON KING WILLIAM'S RETURN OUT OF FLANDERS
"Rejoice, yee fops, yo'r idoll's come agen
To pick yo'r pocketts, and to slay yo'r men;
Give him yo'r millions, and his Dutch yo'r lands:
Don't ring yo'r bells, yee fools, but wring yo'r hands."
GRENDON.
