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A FASHIONABLE LADY’S LIFE

There is a little poem by Dean Swift, published by him in Dublin, in 1728, and reprinted in London, in 1729. Its price was only fourpence, and it is called, ‘The Journal of a Modern Lady, in a Letter to a Person of Quality.’ It is so small, that it is absolutely lost in the Dean’s voluminous works, yet it is very amusing, and, as far as I can judge (having made an especial study of the Social Life of the Eighteenth Century), it is not at all exaggerated; and for this reason I have ventured to reproduce it. It is borne out in similar descriptions both in the early and latter portions of the century; as, for instance, in ‘The English Lady’s Catechism,’ 1703, of which the following is a portion:

HOW DO YOU EMPLOY YOUR TIME NOW?

‘I lie in Bed till Noon, dress all the Afternoon, Dine in the Evening, and Play at Cards till Midnight.’

‘How do you spend the Sabbath?’

‘In Chit-Chat.’

‘What do you talk of?’

‘New Fashions and New Plays.’

‘How often do you go to Church?’

‘Twice a year or oftener, according as my Husband gives me new Cloaths.’

‘Why do you go to Church when you have new Cloaths?’

‘To see other People’s Finery, and to show my own, and to laugh at those scurvy, out-of-fashion Creatures that come there for Devotion.’

‘Pray, Madam, what Books do you read?’

‘I read lewd Plays and winning Romances.’

‘Who is it you love?’

‘Myself.’

‘What! nobody else?’

‘My Page, my Monkey, and my Lap Dog.’

‘Why do you love them?’

‘Why, because I am an English lady, and they are Foreign Creatures: my Page from Genoa, my Monkey from the East Indies, and my Lap Dog from Vigo.’

‘Would they not have pleased you as well if they had been English?’

‘No, for I hate everything that Old England brings forth, except it be the temper of an English Husband, and the liberty of an English Wife. I love the French Bread, French Wines, French Sauces, and a French Cook; in short, I have all about me French or Foreign, from my Waiting Woman to my Parrot.’

‘How do you pay your debts?’

‘Some with money, and some with fair promises. I seldom pay anybody’s bills, but run more into their debt. I give poor Tradesmen ill words, and the rich I treat civilly, in hopes to get further in their debt.’

Addison, in the Spectator (No. 323, March 11th, 1712), gives Clarinda’s Journal for a week, from which I will only extract one day as a sample.

‘Wednesday. From Eight to Ten. Drank two Dishes of Chocolate in Bed, and fell asleep after ’em.

‘From Ten to Eleven. Eat a Slice of Bread and Butter, drank a Dish of Bohea, read the Spectator.

‘From Eleven to One. At my Toilet, try’d a new Head.⁷ Gave orders for Veney⁸ to be combed and washed. Mem. I look best in Blue.

‘From One till Half an Hour after Two. Drove to the Change. Cheapened a couple of Fans.

‘Till Four. At Dinner. Mem. Mr. Frost passed by in his new Liveries.

‘From Four to Six. Dressed, paid a visit to old Lady Blithe and her Sister, having heard they were gone out of Town that Day.

‘From Six to Eleven. At Basset.⁹ Mem. Never sit again upon the Ace of Diamond.’

Gambling was one of the curses of the Eighteenth Century. From Royalty downwards, all played Cards – the men, perhaps, preferred dice, and ‘Casting a Main’ – but the women were inveterate card-players, until, in the latter part of the century, it became a national scandal, owing to the number of ladies who, from their social position, should have acted better, who kept Faro-tables, and to whom the nickname of Faro’s Daughters was applied. There were Ladies Buckinghamshire and Archer, Mrs. Concannon, Mrs. Hobart, Mrs. Sturt, and others, whose houses were neither more nor less than gaming-houses. The evil was so great, that Lord Kenyon, in delivering judgment in a trial to recover £15 won at card-playing, said that the higher classes set a bad example in this matter to the lower, and, he added, ‘They think they are too great for the law; I wish they could be punished. If any prosecutions of this kind are fairly brought before me, and the parties are justly convicted, whatever be their rank or station in the country – though they be the first ladies in the land – they shall certainly exhibit themselves in the pillory.’

The caricaturists got hold of his Lordship’s speech, and depicted Lady Archer and others in the pillory, and Lady Buckinghamshire being whipped at a cart’s-tail by Lord Kenyon. With the century this kind of play died out; but some mention of it was necessary in order to show that Swift’s description of ladies gambling was not exaggerated.

THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY

 
Sir,
It was a most unfriendly Part
In you who ought to know my Heart;
And well acquainted with my Zeal
For all the Females’ Common-weal.
How cou’d it come into your Mind
To pitch on me of all Mankind,
Against the Sex to write a Satire,
And brand me for a Woman-Hater?
On me, who think them all so fair,
They rival Venus to a Hair:
Their Virtues never ceas’d to sing,
Since first I learn’d to tune a String.
Methinks I hear the Ladies cry,
Will he his Character belye?
Must never our Misfortunes end?
And have we lost our only Friend?
Ah! lovely Nymph, remove your Fears,
No more let fall those precious Tears,
Sooner shall, etc.
 

(Here several verses are omitted.)

 
The Hound be hunted by the Hare,
Than I turn Rebel to the Fair.
 
 
’Twas you engaged me first to write,
Then gave the Subject out of Spite.
The Journal of a Modern Dame,
Is by my Promise what you claim;
My Word is past, I must submit,
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but transcribe, for not a Line
Of all the Satire shall be mine.
Compell’d by you to tag in Rhimes
The common Slanders of the Times,
Of modern Times, the Guilt is yours
And me my Innocence secures:
Unwilling Muse, begin thy Lay,
The Annals of a Female Day.
By Nature turn’d to play the Rake well,
As we shall shew you in the Sequel;
The modern Dame is wak’d by Noon,
Some authors say not quite so soon;
Because, though sore against her Will,
She sat all Night up at Quadrill.¹⁰
She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes,
And asks if it be time to rise.
Of Head-ach and the Spleen complains;
And then to cool her heated Brains,
Her Night-gown!¹¹ and her Slippers brought her,
Takes a large Dram of Citron Water.
Then to her Glass; and, Betty, pray
Don’t I look frightfully to-Day?
But, was it not confounded hard?
Well, if I ever touch a Card;
Four Mattadores, and lose Codill;
Depend upon’t I never will!
But run to Tom, and bid him fix
The Ladies here to-Night by Six.
Madam, the Goldsmith waits below,
He says his Business is to know
If you’ll redeem the Silver Cup
You pawn’d to him. First, shew him up.
Your Dressing Plate he’ll be content
To take for Interest Cent. per Cent.
And, Madam, there’s my Lady Spade
Hath sent this Letter by her Maid.
Well, I remember what she won;
And hath she sent so soon to dun?
Here, carry down those ten Pistoles
My Husband left to pay for Coals:
I thank my Stars they are all light;
And I may have Revenge to-Night.
Now, loitering o’er her Tea and Cream,
She enters on her usual Theme;
Her last Night’s ill Success repeats,
Calls Lady Spade a hundred Cheats.
She slipt Spadillo in her Breast,
Then thought to turn it to a Jest.
There’s Mrs. Cut and she combine,
And to each other give the Sign.
Through ev’ry Game pursues her Tale,
Like Hunters o’er their Evening Ale.
Now to another Scene give Place,
Enter the Folks with Silks and Lace;
Fresh Matter for a World of Chat,
Right Indian this, right Macklin that;
Observe this Pattern; there’s a Stuff,
I can have Customers enough.
Dear Madam, you are grown so hard,
This Lace is worth twelve Pounds a Yard
Madam, if there be Truth in Man,
I never sold so cheap a Fan.
This Business of Importance o’er,
And Madam, almost dress’d by Four;
The Footman, in his usual Phrase,
Comes up with: Madam, Dinner stays;
She answers in her usual Style,
The Cook must keep it back a while;
I never can have time to Dress,
No Woman breathing takes up less;
I’m hurried so, it makes me sick,
I wish the dinner at Old Nick.
At Table now she acts her part,
Has all the Dinner Cant by Heart:
I thought we were to Dine alone,
My Dear, for sure if I had known
This Company would come to-Day,
But really ’tis my Spouse’s Way;
He’s so unkind, he never sends
To tell, when he invites his Friends:
I wish ye may but have enough;
And while, with all this paultry Stuff,
She sits tormenting every Guest,
Nor gives her Tongue one Moment’s Rest,
In Phrases batter’d stale and trite,
Which modern Ladies call polite;
You see the Booby Husband sit
In Admiration at her Wit.
But let me now a while Survey
Our Madam o’er her Ev’ning Tea;
Surrounded with her Noisy Clans
Of Prudes, Coquets, and Harridans;
When frighted at the clamorous Crew,
Away the God of Silence flew;
And fair Discretion left the Place,
And Modesty with blushing Face;
Now enters over-weening Pride,
And Scandal ever gaping wide,
Hypocrisy with Frown severe,
Scurrility with gibing Air;
Rude Laughter seeming like to burst,
And Malice always judging worst;
And Vanity with Pocket-Glass,
And Impudence, with Front of Brass;
And studied Affectation came,
Each Limb and Feature out of Frame;
While Ignorance, with Brain of Lead,
Flew hov’ring o’er each Female Head.
Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,
An Hundred Tongues, as Poets use,
When, to give ev’ry Dame her due,
An Hundred Thousand were too few!
Or how should I, alas! relate,
The Sum of all their Senseless Prate,
Their Inuendo’s, Hints, and Slanders,
Their Meanings lewd, and double Entanders.¹²
Now comes the general Scandal Charge,
What some invent, the rest enlarge;
And, Madam, if it he a Lye,
You have the tale as cheap as I:
I must conceal my Author’s Name,
But now ’tis known to common Fame.
Say, foolish Females, Old and Blind,
Say, by what fatal Turn of Mind,
Are you on Vices most severe,
Wherein yourselves have greatest Share?
Thus every Fool herself deludes,
The Prudes condemn the absent Prudes.
Mopsa who stinks her Spouse to Death,
Accuses Chloe’s tainted Breath:
Hircina, rank with Sweat, presumes
To censure Phillis for Perfumes:
While crooked Cynthia swearing, says,
That Florimel wears Iron Stays.
Chloe’s of ev’ry Coxcomb jealous,
Admires¹³ how Girls can talk with Fellows,
And, full of Indignation, frets
That Women should be such Coquets.
Iris, for Scandal most notorious,
Cries, Lord, the world is so censorious;
And Rufa, with her Combs of Lead,¹⁴
Whispers that Sappho’s Hair is Red.
Aura, whose Tongue you hear a Mile hence,
Talks half a day in Praise of Silence:
And Silvia, full of inward Guilt,
Calls Amoret an arrant Jilt.
Now Voices over Voices rise;
While each to be the loudest vies,
They contradict, affirm, dispute,
No single Tongue one Moment mute;
All mad to speak, and none to hearken,
They set the very Lap-Dog barking;
Their Chattering makes a louder Din
Than Fish-Wives o’er a Cup of Gin;
Not School-boys at a Barring-out,
Raised ever such incessant Rout:
The Shumbling (sic) Particles of Matter
In Chaos make not such a Clatter;
Far less the Rabble roar and rail,
When Drunk with sour Election Ale.
Nor do they trust their Tongue alone,
To speak a Language of their own;
Can read a Nod, a Shrug, a Look;
Far better than a printed Book;
Convey a Libel in a Frown,
And wink a Reputation down;
Or, by the tossing of the Fan,
Describe the Lady and the Man.
But, see the Female Club disbands,
Each, twenty Visits on her Hands:
Now, all alone, poor Madam sits,
In Vapours and Hysterick Fits;
And was not Tom this Morning sent?
I’d lay my Life he never went:
Past Six, and not a living Soul!
I might by this have won a Vole.
A dreadful Interval of Spleen!
How shall we pass the Time between?
Here, Betty, let me take my Drops,
And feel my Pulse, I know it stops:
This Head of mine, Lord, how it Swims!
And such a Pain in all my Limbs!
Dear Madam, try to take a Nap:
But now they hear a Foot-Man’s Rap;
Go, run, and light the Ladies up;
It must be One before we Sup.
The Table, Cards, and Counters set,
And all the Gamester Ladies met,
Her Spleen and Fits recover’d quite,
Our Madam can sit up all Night;
Whoever comes, I’m not within,
Quadrill the Word, and so begin.
How can the Muse her Aid impart,
Unskill’d in all the Terms of Art?
Or, in harmonious Numbers, put
The Deal, the Shuffle, and the Cut?
The Superfluous Whims relate,
That fill a Female Gamester’s Pate:
What Agony of Soul she feels
To see a Knave’s inverted Heels;
She draws up Card by Card, to find
Good Fortune peeping from behind;
With panting Heart and earnest Eyes,
In hope to see Spadillo rise;
In vain, alas! her Hope is fed,
She draws an Ace, and sees it red.
In ready Counters never pays,
But pawns her Snuff-Box, Rings, and Keys.
Ever with some new Fancy struck,
Tries twenty Charms to mend her Luck.
This Morning when the Parson came,
I said I could not win a Game.
This odious Chair, how came I stuck in’t?
I think I’ve never had good Luck in’t.
I’m so uneasy in my Stays:
Your Fan, a Moment, if you please.
Stand further, Girl, or get you gone,
I always lose when you look on.
Lord! Madam, you have lost Codill;
I never saw you play so ill.
Nay, Madam, give me leave to say
’Twas you that threw the game away;
When Lady Tricksy play’d a Four,
You took it with a Matadore;
I saw you touch your Wedding-Ring
Before my Lady call’d a King.
You spoke a Word began with H,
And I know whom you mean to teach,
Because you held the King of Hearts;
Fie, Madam, leave these little Arts.
That’s not so bad as one that rubs
Her Chair to call the King of Clubs,
And makes her Partner understand
A Matadore is in her Hand.
Madam, you have no Cause to flounce,
I swear I saw you twice renounce.
And truly, Madam, I know when
Instead of Five you scor’d me Ten.
Spadillo here has got a Mark,
A Child may know it in the Dark:
I Guess the Hand, it seldom fails,
I wish some Folks would pare their Nails.
While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,
It passes but for common Form;
Are conscious that they all speak true,
And give each other but their due;
It never interrupts the Game,
Or makes ’em sensible of Shame.
Time too precious now to waste,
The Supper gobbled up in haste:
Again a-fresh to Cards they run,
As if they had but just begun;
Yet shall I not again repeat
How oft they Squabble, Snarl, and Cheat:
At last they hear the Watchman Knock,
A frosty Morn … Past Four a-clock.
The Chair-men are not to be found,
Come, let us play the t’other Round.
Now all in haste they huddle on
Their Hoods, their Cloaks, and get them gone;
But first, the Winner must invite
The Company to-morrow Night.
Unlucky Madam left in Tears,
Who now again Quadrill forswears,
With empty Purse and aching Head,
Steals to her sleeping Spouse to Bed.
 

GEORGE BARRINGTON

There is much and curious food for reflection, in the tendency that mankind has ever shown to sympathise with the daring and ingenious depredators who relieve the rich of their superfluity, which may possibly be owing to the romantic adventures and hair-breadth escapes which the robbers, in their career, have undergone. But, be the cause what it may, it is certain that the populace of all nations view with admiration great and successful thieves: for instance, what greater popular hero, and one that has been popular for centuries, could be found than Robin Hood?

Almost every country in Europe has its traditional thief, whose exploits are recorded both in prose and poetry. In England, Claude Duval, Captain Hind, Dick Turpin, Jonathan Wild, and Jack Sheppard have each in their turn occupied a prominent place in the annals of crime; whilst in France, amongst the light-fingered heroes that have, from time to time, extorted respect from the multitude, Cartouche and Vidocq take first rank. Germany is proud of its Schinderhannes, the Robber of the Rhine, the stories of whose generosity and courage still render his memory a favourite on the banks of that river, the travellers on which he so long kept in awe. In Italy and Spain, those homes of brigands and banditti, the inhabitants have ever-ready sympathy for the men whose names and exploits are as familiar among them as ‘household words.’

Cartouche, however, is the only rival to Barrington in their particular line, and Barrington, certainly, was no mere common pick-pocket, only fit to figure in the ‘Newgate Calendar,’ but he possessed talents which, had they been properly directed on his first setting out in life, might have enabled him to have played a distinguished part either in literature or in business. But, unfortunately, very early in his youth, poverty led him to adopt theft as his professed vocation; and, by his ingenuity and constant practice, he contrived to render himself so expert, as almost to have conducted his depredations on systematic rules, and elevated his crime into a ‘high art.’ Barrington, too, by his winning manners, gentlemanly address, and the fair education he contrived to pick up, was a man eminently fitted (if such an expression may be allowed) for his profession! his personal appearance was almost sufficient to disarm suspicion, and this, in all probability, contributed greatly to the success which he met with in his career.

George Barrington, or Waldron (for it is not known which was his right name), was born on the 14th of May, 1755, at the village of Maynooth, county Kildare, in Ireland, now famous for the Royal College of St. Patrick, which is there situated. His reputed father was Henry Waldron, who was a working silversmith, and his mother, whose maiden name was Naish, was a dressmaker, or mantua-maker, as it was then called (also occasionally acting as midwife), in the same village; but, whether they had ever been legally united, is a matter open to doubt.

To have their parentage disputed is a fate which the great ones of the earth have frequently to undergo, and George Barrington, or Waldron, is an instance of this, for more than one of his historians assert that he was the son of a Captain Barrington, an officer in a marching regiment quartered at Rush, and the date of his birth is given as 1758; but the most trustworthy evidence places it on record as above stated.

His parents’ characters stood high among their neighbours for integrity and industry, but they were, unfortunately, always behindhand with the world, and never able to extricate themselves from the state of abject poverty in which they were sunk, in consequence of unsuccessful litigation with a wealthy relation. This want of means prevented them from giving George any education until he was seven years of age, when he was sent to the village school, and there was taught to read and write. A benevolent surgeon in the neighbourhood afterwards instructed him in arithmetic, geography, and grammar; but, if the anecdote related of him is true, he repaid the kindness by the blackest ingratitude in stealing some coins from his benefactor’s daughter.

Young Waldron was lucky enough to attract the notice of the Rev. Dr. Westropp, a dignitary of the Church of Ireland, who placed him, when he was sixteen years of age, at a grammar-school in Dublin, and this patron proposed that he should fit himself for the university. But fate had decreed otherwise and he enjoyed the benefits of this gentleman’s kindness but a short time, for, in a moment of passion, when quarrelling with another boy, he stabbed his antagonist with a pen-knife, wounding him severely. Instead of making the matter one for legal investigation, the boy received a thorough good flogging, a degradation he could by no means forgive, and he resolved to run away from school, and leave family, friends, and all his fair prospects behind him. But, previous to carrying his plan of escape into action, he found means to appropriate ten or twelve guineas belonging to the master of the school, and a gold repeating-watch, which was the property of his master’s sister. Not content with this booty, he took a few shirts and pairs of stockings, and safely effected his retreat, one still night in 1771, starting off for Drogheda.

There happened to be staying at the obscure inn at which he put up, on his arrival at Drogheda, a set of strolling players, whose manager was one John Price, who had once been a lawyer’s clerk, and had been convicted of some fraud at the Old Bailey. He soon wormed the boy’s whole story out of him, and persuaded him to join the theatrical company, which he did, and he applied himself to study so diligently that he was cast for the part, and played, four days after his enrolment, Jaffier in Otway’s tragedy of ‘Venice Preserved,’ in a barn in the suburbs of Drogheda. Both he and Price were of opinion that it would be dangerous for him to remain so near the scene of his late depredations, but were unable to move for want of money. To overcome this difficulty, Waldron, who had assumed the name of Barrington, gave Price the gold repeater he had stolen, which was sold for the benefit of the company, and they set out for Londonderry.

But it was found that the expenses of travelling for so numerous a body, with their impedimenta, were too great to be balanced by the receipts of rural audiences, and, on their arrival at Londonderry, their finances were found to be at a very low ebb indeed. Under these circumstances, Price insinuated that Barrington, with his good address and appearance, could easily introduce himself to the chief places of resort in the city, and, by picking pockets, might refill their empty exchequer. This scheme he at once put into practice, with such success that, at the close of the evening, he was the possessor of about forty guineas in cash, and one hundred and fifty pounds in Irish bank-notes.

The picking of pockets being a crime almost unknown in that part of Ireland, the town took the alarm, and a great stir was made over the matter; but it being fair-time, and many strangers in the city, neither Barrington nor Price were suspected; still they thought it but prudent to leave as soon as they could with propriety, and, after playing a few more nights, they moved to Ballyshannon. For some time he continued this vagabond life, travelling about the North of Ireland, acting every Tuesday and Saturday, and picking pockets every day in the week, a business which he found more lucrative and entertaining than that of the theatre, where his fame was by no means equal to the expectation he had raised.

At Cork, Price and he came to the conclusion never to think any more of the stage, a resolution which was the more easily executed, as the company to which they originally belonged was now broken up and dispersed. It was settled between them that Price should pass for Barrington’s servant, and that Barrington should act the part of a young gentleman of large fortune and of noble family, who was not yet quite of age, travelling for his amusement. They carried out their scheme well, purchasing horses and dressing up to their parts, and, during the summer and autumn of 1772, they visited all the race-courses in the South of Ireland, making a remarkably successful campaign. Pocket-picking was a novel experience to the Irish gentry, and their unsuspicious ways made them an easy prey to Barrington’s skill and nimble fingers; so much so that when, at the setting-in of winter, they returned to Cork, they found themselves in possession of a large sum of money (over £1,000), having been fortunate enough to have escaped detection or even suspicion.

At length their partnership was rudely dissolved, as, at the close of winter, Price was detected in the very act of picking a gentleman’s pocket at Cork, and for this offence he was sentenced to be transported to America (as was customary then) for seven years. Barrington immediately converted all his moveable property into cash, and beat a precipitate flight to Dublin, where, for a time, he lived a very private and retired life, only stealing out occasionally of a dark night to visit some gaming-house, where he might pick up a few guineas, or a watch, etc., a mode of life which was by no means congenial to his ambitious nature, and he again frequented the race-courses. He met with his first check at Carlow, where he was detected in picking a nobleman’s pocket. It was a clear case; the stolen property was found on his person, and immediately restored to its owner, who did not prosecute, preferring to let the rascal receive the treatment known as ‘the discipline of the course,’ a punishment very similar to that meted out to ‘Welchers’ at the present day. But Ireland was getting too warm for him, and, having realised his property, he set sail for London, where he arrived in the summer of 1773, a remarkably precocious youth of eighteen.

On his voyage across the Channel, he became acquainted with several persons of respectability, with one of whom he travelled post to London, having gulled him with a specious tale about his family and fortune; and, having gained his confidence, he procured by his means introductions into the politest circles, from whom, for a long time, he extracted abundant plunder. But, in order to do this, he had to dress well, and live extravagantly, so that he very soon had to cast about for the means wherewith to supply his needs. Among the earliest visits he paid, after his arrival in London, and in his friend’s company, was, of course, Ranelagh, where he found two of his acquaintance on the Irish packet talking to the Duke of Leinster. Bowing to them, and stationing himself near them, he soon eased the duke of above eighty pounds, a baronet of five-and-thirty guineas, and one of the ladies of her watch; and, with this plunder, he rejoined his party as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary course of things.

But his proceedings had been watched by another member of the thieving fraternity, who was in the gardens, and who took a speedy opportunity of letting Barrington know that he had witnessed his crime, and threatened to denounce him to the plundered parties, unless a division of the spoil was made between them. His manner being very impressive, left Barrington no alternative but to comply; and the lady’s watch and chain, with a ten-pound note, fell to his share. The two supped together, and it ended with their entering into a mutual alliance, which, for the time, suited Barrington well, as his companion knew town much better than he did, and was especially well-informed in the knowledge of those places where the plunder could be disposed of: but this partnership only continued for a short time, in consequence of their quarrels, there being nothing in common to bind these two rogues together save their crime.

In the course of his depredations, he visited Brighton, or, as it was then called, Brighthelmstone, which was beginning to be the resort of the wealthier classes, but, as yet, had not dreamed of the rise it was to take under George the Magnificent – and no conception could have been formed of the present ‘London-on-the-Sea.’ Here, thanks to his pleasant manners and address, as well as to the company he frequented, he became acquainted, and intimate, with the Duke of Ancaster, Lord Ferrers, Lord Lyttleton, and many other noblemen, who all considered him as a man of genius and ability (which he certainly was), and were under the impression that he was a gentleman of fortune and family.

His manners were good, and he had a pleasant wit – so that it is not difficult to imagine that his society was welcome. As a specimen of his wit, I may relate an anecdote told of him when on a visit to Chichester from Brighton. In company of several noblemen, he was shown the curiosities and notable things in the town and cathedral. In the latter, their attention was directed to a family vault for the interment of the Dukes of Richmond, which had been erected by the late duke, and which was inscribed ‘Domus ultima’ (the last house). On this inscription he is said to have written the following epigram:

 
‘Did he, who thus inscribed this wall,
Not read, or not believe, St. Paul?
Who says, “There is, where e’er it stands,
Another house, not made with hands;”
Or shall we gather, from the words,
That House is not a House of Lords.’
 

After living at the expense of the pockets of his new-found friends as long as he deemed it prudent, he returned to London, and began a dissolute and profligate career; but, though his time was pretty well employed between his infamous occupation and his amusements, he yet found opportunity for intervals of study and literary pursuits, and composed several odes and poems, which are said to have been not devoid of merit.

As before stated, he broke with his partner, who retired to a monastery, where, in all probability, he ended his days in penitence and peace. But, in the winter of 1775, Barrington became acquainted with one Lowe, whom he first employed in the useful capacity of receiver of stolen goods, and afterwards went into partnership with. This Lowe was a singular character. Originally he had been a livery-servant, and after that he kept a public-house for some time, when, having saved some money, he turned usurer or money-lender, in which business he accumulated a small fortune, when he assumed the character of a gentleman, and lived in a genteel house near Bloomsbury Square, then a fashionable neighbourhood. Here he passed for a very charitable and benevolent person, and was appointed treasurer or manager of a new hospital for the blind in Kentish Town, in which capacity, it is said, he contrived to become possessed of some five thousand pounds, when he set fire to the institution. Being suspected thereof, he was apprehended at Liverpool, in 1779, when he committed suicide by taking poison, and was buried at a cross-road, in the neighbourhood of Prescott in Lancashire.

On forming his partnership with Lowe, it was resolved on between them that Barrington should repair to Court on the Queen’s birthday, disguised as a clergyman, and there endeavour not only to pick the pockets of the company, but, what was a far bolder and more novel attempt, to cut off the diamond stars of the Knights of the Garter, Bath, or Thistle, who on such days generally wore the ribands of their respective orders over their coats. In this enterprise he succeeded beyond the most sanguine expectations that could have been formed, either by himself or his partner; for he managed to take a diamond star from a nobleman, and to get away from St. James’s unsuspected. But this prize was too valuable to dispose of in England, and it is said to have been sold to a Dutch Jew, who came over from Holland twice a year on purpose to buy stolen goods, for eight hundred pounds. This haul only whetted his appetite for yet more profitable plunder, and a chance of his skill shortly presented itself.