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.
In the course of the winter of 1775, Prince Orloff, a Russian nobleman
of the first rank and consequence, visited England. The splendour in
which he lived, and the stories of his immense wealth, were frequently
noticed and commented on in the public prints, and attention was
particularly drawn to a gold snuff-box, set with brilliants, which was
one of the many marks of favour showered upon him by Catherine, Empress
of Russia, and which was generally valued at the enormous sum of
between thirty and forty thousand pounds. This precious trinket excited
Barrington’s cupidity in an extraordinary degree, and he determined to
exert himself, in order, by some means or other, to get it into his
possession.
A favourable opportunity occurred one night at Covent Garden Theatre,
where he contrived to get near the prince, and dexterously conveyed
the treasure from his excellency’s waistcoat pocket (in which,
according to Russian custom, it was usually carried) into his own.
This operation was not, however, performed with sufficient delicacy to
escape detection, for the prince felt the attack that was so impudently
made upon his property, and, having reason to entertain some suspicion
of Barrington, he immediately seized him by the collar. During the
confusion that naturally ensued upon such an unusual scene, Barrington
slipped the box into the hand of the prince, who, doubtless, was only
too rejoiced to recover it with so much ease. The thief, however, was
secured, and committed to Tothill Fields Bridewell.[15]
When examined before Sir John Fielding, Barrington trumped up a story
that he was a native of Ireland, of an affluent and respectable family;
that he had been educated for the medical profession, and had come to
England to improve himself by means of his connections. This story,
which was told with extreme modesty and many tears, induced the prince
to think of him more as an unfortunate gentleman than a guilty culprit,
and he declined to proceed against him, so that he was dismissed,
with an admonition from Sir John to amend his future conduct; and he
must have left the court congratulating himself on his narrow, but
lucky, escape. The publicity which was given to this attempt lost him
the society of most of his friends, as he was held up to view in the
disgraceful light of an impostor; and it also was the means of giving
him a further taste of prison discipline.
In the pursuit of his peculiar industry, he frequented both Houses of
Parliament, where he acquired considerable plunder. Some weeks after
the Covent Garden affair, he was in the House of Lords during an
interesting debate that attracted a great number of people, amongst
whom was a gentleman who recognised Barrington, and who informed the
Deputy Usher of the Black Rod of his probable business there. That
official promptly ejected him, though, perhaps, not with the gentleness
that he considered his due, and he uttered such threats of vengeance
against his accuser that the latter made application to a magistrate,
who granted a warrant to take Barrington into custody, and to bind him
over to keep the peace. But his credit was now sunk so low that none of
his former companions would come forward with the necessary sureties,
and Barrington, in default, was relegated to his former place of
detention, Tothill Fields Bridewell, where he remained a considerable
time before he was released.
During his incarceration, the story of his misdeeds was industriously
circulated, and his character as _bon camarade_ was completely
destroyed, so that the entry to all decent company was absolutely shut
against him, and from this time forward he was obliged to abandon
the _rôle_ of a ‘gentleman’ pickpocket, and descend to all the mean
artifices of a common pilferer. Even in this humble branch of his
infamous industry, his good fortune seems to have deserted him, for he
was detected in picking the pocket of a low woman at Drury Lane Theatre
in December, 1776, and, though he made a remarkably clever speech in
his defence, he was sentenced to three years of ballast-heaving, or
hard labour in the hulks at Woolwich. Here, herded with the vilest
of the vile, he kept as much as possible from them, and, by his good
conduct, attracted the attention of the superintendents of convicts,
and by their intervention he was set free, after having sustained an
imprisonment of somewhat less than twelve months.
On his liberation, he lost no time in re-commencing his vicious
occupation, under various disguises, sometimes as a quack doctor, or
as a clergyman; or he would assume the character of a grave commercial
traveller, only to appear, a few days later on, as the keeper of a
gambling-house, and he had many a narrow escape from capture.
Justice, however, again laid her hands upon him, for, less than six
months after his liberation, he was detected in picking the pocket of
one, Elizabeth Ironmonger, of a watch, was convicted on the clearest
evidence, and, in spite of the very eloquent and skilful defence he
made, he was a second time sentenced to the hulks with hard labour,
this time for five years. His speeches to the court, which were
remarked in the public prints, as well as the letters that he wrote
seeking mitigation of his punishment, display such talent that it is a
matter of great regret that it was not turned to more honest account.
On one occasion, when tried for stealing Sir G. Webster’s purse at the
opera, in February, 1784, he was able, by his eloquence, to influence
the jury to return a verdict of not guilty; and a similar piece of good
fortune was vouchsafed to him a year after, when arraigned for the
robbery of a gentleman’s watch at Drury Lane Theatre, when his most
ingenious and well-chosen address to the jury resulted in his acquittal.
He could not stand his second imprisonment on the hulks, and to end
it he attempted suicide by stabbing himself in the breast with a
pen-knife. Medical aid was at hand, and the wound slowly healed, but
he still continued to linger in a miserable state, until he came
under the notice of a gentleman of position, who used his influence
with the government so successfully that he obtained Barrington’s
release, subject to the condition that he should leave the country.
His benefactor also gave him money for that purpose, and he was
soon on the Chester coach, _en route_ for Ireland. When he arrived
in Dublin, he found his character had preceded him, and he was so
closely watched that it was not long before he was again arrested,
and acquitted only from want of evidence. The judge admonished him
most seriously, which gave Barrington an opportunity of airing his
eloquence, and he delivered an oration on the unaccountable force of
prejudice that existed against him; but, when once he got away, he came
to the conclusion that the Irish capital was not a desirable place of
residence for him, so he travelled northwards, and ultimately reached
Edinburgh.
However, the police of that city knew all about him, and were more
vigilant than their _confrères_ in London and Dublin, so that
Barrington, finding himself both suspected and watched, came to the
conclusion that the air of Scotland was not good for him, and turned
his face southward. Unmindful of the terms of his liberation, or
careless as to the result of his return, he again sought London,
where, once more, he frequented the theatres, the opera-house, and the
Pantheon, for some little time, with tolerable success--but he was now
too notorious to be long secure; he was closely watched, and well-nigh
detected at the latter of these places; and, such strong suspicions of
his behaviour were entertained by the magistrates, he was committed to
Newgate, though on his trial he was acquitted.
But he only escaped Scylla to be engulphed in Charybdis, for one of
the superintendents of convicts had him detained for violating the
conditions under which he was liberated, and the consequence was that
he was made what was called ‘a fine in Newgate,’ that is, he had to
serve out his unexpired term of imprisonment there. This punishment
he duly suffered, and when he was once more set free, he at once
re-commenced his old practices, and lived a life of shifts and roguery,
until, in January, 1787, he was detected in picking the pocket of a
Mrs. Le Mesurier, at Drury Lane Theatre, and was at once apprehended.
He was given in charge of a constable named Blandy, but by some means,
either by negligence of his custodian, or by bribing him, he made his
escape.
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.’