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:
It being in the contemplation of some persons to bestow a considerable
sum of money in erecting a monument, in the parish church of _St.
Giles_, Cripplegate, to the memory of _Milton_, and the particular
spot of his interment in that church having for many years past been
ascertained only by tradition, several of the principal parishioners
have, at their meetings, frequently expressed a wish that his coffin
should be dug for, that incontestable evidence of its exact situation
might be established, before the said monument should be erected. The
entry, among the burials, in the register-book, 12th of November,
1674, is ‘_John Milton_, Gentleman, consumption, _chancell_.’ The
church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, was built in 1030, was burnt down
(except the steeple) and rebuilt in 1545; was repaired in 1682; and
again in 1710. In the repair of 1782, an alteration took place in the
disposition of the inside of the church; the pulpit was removed from
the second pillar, against which it stood, north of the chancel, to
the south side of the present chancel, which was then formed, and
pews were built over the old chancel. The tradition has always been
that _Milton_ was buried in the chancel, under the clerk’s desk; but
the circumstance of the alteration in the church, not having, of late
years, been attended to, the clerk, sexton, and other officers of the
parish have misguided inquirers, by showing the spot under the clerk’s
desk, in the present chancel, as the place of _Milton’s_ interment.
I have twice, at different periods, been shown that spot as the place
where _Milton_ lay. Even Mr. _Baskerville_, who died a few years
ago, and who had requested, in his will, to be buried by _Milton_,
was deposited in the above-mentioned spot of the present chancel, in
pious intention of compliance with his request. The church is now,
August, 1790, under a general repair, by contract, for £1,350, and Mr.
_Strong_, Mr. _Cole_, and other parishioners, having very prudently
judged that the search would be made with much less inconvenience to
the parish at this time, when the church is under repair, than at any
period after the said repair should be completed, Mr. _Cole_, in the
last days of July, ordered the workmen to dig in search of the coffin.
Mr. _Ascough_, his father, and grandfather, have been parish clerks
of _St. Giles_ for upwards of ninety years past. His grandfather,
who died in February, 1759-60, aged eighty-four, used often to say
that _Milton_ had been buried under the clerk’s desk in the chancel.
John _Poole_, aged seventy, used to hear his father talk of Milton’s
person, from those who had seen him; and also, that he lay under the
common-councilmen’s pew. The common-councilmen’s pew is built over
that very part of the old chancel, where the former clerk’s desk
stood. These traditions in the parish reported to Mr. _Strong_ and
Mr. _Cole_ readily directed them to dig from the present chancel,
northwards, towards the pillar, against which the former pulpit and
desk had stood. On Tuesday afternoon, August 3rd, notice was brought
to Messrs. _Strong_ and _Cole_ that the coffin was discovered. They
went immediately to the church, and, by help of a candle, proceeded
under the common-councilmen’s pew to the place where the coffin lay.
It was in a chalky soil, and directly over a wooden coffin, supposed
to be that of _Milton’s_ father; tradition having always reported that
_Milton_ was buried next to his father. The registry of the father of
_Milton_, among the burials, in the parish-book, is ‘_John Melton_,
Gentleman, 15th of March, 1646-7.’ In digging through the whole space
from the present chancel, where the ground was opened, to the situation
of the former clerk’s desk, there was not found any other coffin, which
could raise the smallest doubt of this being _Milton’s_. The two oldest
found in the ground had inscriptions, which Mr. _Strong_ copied; they
were of as late dates as 1727 and 1739. When he and Mr. _Cole_ had
examined the coffin, they ordered water and a brush to be brought, that
they might wash it, in search of an inscription, or initials, or date;
but, upon its being carefully cleansed, none was found.
The following particulars were given me in writing by Mr. _Strong_, and
they contain the admeasurement of the coffin, as taken by him, with a
rule. ‘A leaden coffin, found under the common-councilmen’s pew, on
the north side of the chancel, nearly under the place where the old
pulpit and clerk’s desk stood. The coffin appeared to be old, much
corroded, and without any inscription or plate upon it. It was, in
length, five feet ten inches, and in width, at the broadest part, over
the shoulders, one foot four inches.’ Conjecture naturally pointed out,
both to Mr. _Strong_ and Mr. _Cole_, that, by moving the leaden coffin,
there would be a great chance of finding some inscription on the wooden
one underneath; but, with a just and laudable piety, they disdained to
disturb the sacred ashes, after a requiem of one hundred and sixteen
years; and having satisfied their curiosity, and ascertained the fact,
which was the subject of it, Mr. _Cole_ ordered the ground to be
closed. This was on the afternoon of Tuesday, August the 3rd; and, when
I waited on Mr. _Strong_, on Saturday morning, the 7th, he informed
me that the coffin had been found on the Tuesday, had been examined,
washed, and measured by him and Mr. _Cole_; but that the ground had
been immediately closed, when they left the church;--not doubting that
Mr. _Cole’s_ order had been punctually obeyed. But the direct contrary
appears to have been the fact.