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 {274} 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 Grounds[1], 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, {275} 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.