The Life of George Barnwell; or, the London apprentice of the last century

Chapter I

Maria. — Barnwell! Ah, what of Barnwell ? say what of him? Speak! Trueman. — Listen, and you shall hear. Lillo's Tragedy of George Barnwell. Oh. all ye gentles, now draw near, And listen to the tale I tell : Of Barnwell's history you shall hear. And what strange fortunes him befell. The true and affecting Ballad of the London Apprentice, 1735. " And wilt thou prove constant to me, George ?'* " Constant ! aye verily, as the bee is to the flower, the sun to the earth, or the battered coin transfixed by a rusty nail to one of these same mer chant's counters that you've heard me speak of." " And thou wilt not forsake me when you return to London, for one of its fair daughters, that are said to dazzle the eyes of all beholders with their beauty, and make no light comparison with us poor country maids?"

"Never !" replied the other: "trust me, dearest, ere I forget thee I shall forget myself, and all I hold most dear ; thine image, wherever I may roam, will still be here ;" — and, as the youth addressed these words to his fair companion, he placed one hand with energy on bis heart, and with the other pressed the yielding form of her he spoke to nearer to his own. The charms, indeed, of the maiden thus addressed might have extorted constancy from one more prone to change than he to whom she spoke. There was a. softness of expression in her countenance that gave warrant for believing her mind to be as pure as her features were lovely. Barnwell — for he was the speaker whom we have already introduced to the reader — was, at the time of which we write, upon the verge of nine teen, and had the advantage of one year's seniority over his female companion.

His person and appearance were rather prepossessing ; his figure over than under the middle size ; and his features such as betokened considerable abilities on the part of their possessor : but with all this a physiognomist might have detected those lines in the upper portion of the face, said, by those skilled in Lavater's art, to mark the owner's want of firmness. No. 1. As if impressed with a sense of the importance of the dialogue, some portion of whicli we have given above, the lovers walked on for some time in silence, gazing with feelings of admiration akin to awe upon the beauteous prospect that the rising eminence now opened to them. They had been hitherto wending their way through narrow green lanes over hung with branching elm trees, that seemed to curtain out the very light of day, and had now arrived at the summit of a hill, that repaid them with a view that few counties besides Staffordshire could exhibit ; whilst, as the setting sun threw its refulgent rays upon the scene, lighting up each spire and turret, and throwing the smaller objects into darker shadow, both the young wanderers felt the influence of the time and season, and yielded to the impressions that the place conveyed.

" Dearest Alice," murmured Barnwell, " thy looks are sadder than they were wont to be, thine eyes are dimmed with tears, and thy steps falter : why this dejection ? Are my vows once more thought false, or has some new idea filled thy breast, to make thee seem thus sorrowful ?" " Nay, George," answered the other, " if I appear sadder than my wont, it was to think that on this gorgeous scene of Nature's painting we look, perhaps, for the last time." " Tush, girl ! away with these idle fears : I shall soon return from town, rich and happy, to claim thee as my bride ; and then — " "Ah! would to Heaven it might prove so; but I have a foreboding, a presentiment — call it what you will — tbat from this day we shall ne'er meet again. You smile, and deem my weakness credulous folly ; but, trust me, 'tis an omen worth regarding."

" Nay," answered her lover, with a laugh ; " if thou lettest thy tongue run on in this fashion, Alice, I shall think that thou hast caught somewhat of the spirit of Dame Hanson here of Lichfield, who sees an augury in every flight of crows, and prophesies the downfall of an empire for every upset ting of the salt-cellar. Come ! these October nights feel somewhat chilly; we will descend, — the last time! Marry! if 'the fell sergeant Death' were as far off as that, we should live a goodly time, I reckon." Endeavouring to disperse her fears by badinage such as this, Barnwell led his fair companion to the spot at which they had arrived when our narrative commenced. And here crossing into that wild but beautiful region, then known as now by the appellation of Stow Fields, they pro ceeded towards the church-yard, where the bright green grass, that waved over the tombs that were thickly scattered around them, formed a melancholy contrast, in its verdant freshness, to the remnants of frail humanity that were crumbling into dust beneath.

Singling out one upon which the corroding hand of Time had been apparently less busy than on the rest, Barnwell paused, and, pointing to the inscription that appeared below, read as follows : — To the Memory of Geokce Barnwell, Late of thia City, Who Died June 25th, 1697, Aged 70. " Here, Alice,'' he at length exclaimed, whilst the tribute of a tear to his parent's memory bedewed his cheek, " do I plight my vows of constancy to thee. On my father's tomb do I swear that I am wholly and only thine ; and as he, who rests beneath, while living breathed nought but truth, so, when dead, may his avenging spirit punish my falsehood with his vengeance, if I prove false to thee 1" The enthusiasm with which this was said may be imagined, but cannot be described. Alice ceased to feel, or at least to express, those doubts that had before environed her ; whilst Barnwell, rising from the devotional attitude he had assumed, progressed onwards with his fair companion ; and here, leaving them to retrace their steps back again to the city, we shall give some account of the hero of our story.

George Barnwell was born of a good family in Staffordshire. His father, who died, as above stated, some years antecedent to our narrative, gave him the best education that the time and his means afforded, with a view of intending him for the Church ; but dying before his wishes coujd be carried into effect, the widow determined upon sending him to a merchant's establishment in London, where a relative of his, an uncle by his father's side, was already residing. He had been there for some time, when, from the high opinion Mr. Thorogood — the merchant just mentioned — entertained of his conduct, and five years of his apprenticeship having already expired, permission had been given him to revisit for a month the place of his birth, and the time having on that day expired, his departure was regarded with much regret, his affectionate disposition and amiable qualities endearing him to every body.

One of Barnwell's earliest and most favoured associates was Alice Travers, the only daughter of Colonel Travers, a descendant from one of those high-spirited adherents to Charles, who had in that very city kept the Parliamentary forces at bay during the long and turbulent period of the civil wars. The friendship that in childhood subsisted between them had now ripened into love ; and the time was anxiously looked forward to by all parties when a happy union might unite them for ever. Whilst these events were going on, at her own cottage sat Mrs. Rachel Barnwell, a once handsome and still good-looking woman, of about forty. Around her were gathered a few friends, whose presence had been by her deemed needful upon the occasion. "Where can George be loitering all this while?" at length exclaimed his mother; "the flying waggon sets off at nine within a moment, and there is but an hour now wanting for it to take its departure."

Two loud knocks bere interrupted the speaker. " Here's George at last !'' exclaimed a dozen voices at once, as the owners of each pressed forward to greet the new-comer with a hearty salutation. " Ah ! and Alice too," continued the mother ; " now, then, can the delay be accounted for in good sooth." " Nay, mother,- thy jest is somewhat misplaced here : Alice and I did but linger on the brow of yonder hill to take a parting glance at the spires of our old-fashioned city — a scene I shall not see again, perhaps, for some time — vthen Alice, forsooth, must ascribe some mystic power to it, and make that view our last !" The clear, blue eyes of Alice became for a moment filled with tears, as she gazed reproachfully upon her lover ; but it was only for a moment ; the glance that followed restored her previously assumed cheerfulness.

It were but of small advantage to the reader to describe, in detail, all the minute circumstances attending Barnwell's "departure. Let it suffice to say that the time having been chiefly taken up with parting admonitions and remembered oversights, it appeared as if the anxiety of the last few days had been concentrated into tbe one last moment. The low, rumbling sound of the waggon was now heard, slowly increasing in loudness as the heavy wheels, rolling down the High Street, approached the cottage. " Farewell, George ! May God Almighty bless and prosper you in all your undertakings !" exclaimed his mother, as for the hundredth time the affectionate parent, witb tears in her eyes, flung her arms round her son's neck, and impressed a dozen kisses on his lips. " You will write, George, as often as you promised you would !" faltered Alice, as Barnwell was crossing the threshold.

The youth addressed caught her in his arms once more, and imprinted a kiss upon her brow as he made a faint reply. Barnwell hastily stepped into the lumbering vehicle that was now waiting to receive him, and when, at a little distance, he turned back to take a last lingering look of his native home, he beheld, or fancied he beheld, a handkerchief of smaller size than the rest waved amongst others at the cottage door. " Heaven bless her !" he ejaculated, and in a faltering voice inwardly commended Alice to his mother's protection. It was a fine clear night ; the moon was at the full, and flung down its pale white radiance o'er the earth with two-fold lustre. The town had by this time been left some miles behind, and the open country was now gained. The world seemed hushed to sleep, and all was quiet, save tbe creaking of the wheels as they jolted along over some frost-hardened rut, and the harsh jingling of the bells affixed to the head of the fore-horse.

Occasionally the stealthy steps of the waggoner were heard, mingled with the suppressed bark of the dogs that accompanied him ; but, with the exception of these sounds, there was nought to disturb the reverie into which Barnwell, almost immediately upon his entrance into the vehicle, had fallen. They were now winding round an eminence to the right. Below, appeared to Barnwell his native city wrapped in slumber. The lofty towers of the cathedral stood out in bold relief against the horizon, seeminoeven at that distance to veil their summits in the clouds. At intervals, a glimmering red light was seen peering from the windows of such of the houses whose inhabitants had not yet retired to rest, whilst beyond, light o-ossamer clouds flitted athwart the sky, seeming to the eyes of the imaginative like fairy cars wafted by the breath of heaven over the earth, and conveying the disembodied spirits of the departed to their final destination.

The closely-matted boughs that now spread across the road entirely shut out the moon-lit prospect, and so darkened the way that it was only with difficulty the guide preserved his path in a forward direction : they soon, however emerged from here to the open heath, where the bleak wind that rushed across its surface threatened every instant to overturn the crazy vehicle in which our adventurer was seated. The rustling of the leaves as a startled hare or rabbit rose in tremor at the sound, and darted across the waste to nestle in some less exposed spot, served only to mark more strongly the loneliness of the road on which they were travelling ; and Barnwell, tired of imagining evils that had no real existence, yielded at length his senses to repose, and sank into a feverish and unrefreshing slumber.

Chapter II

Waggoner. — How goes the enemy 1 Allspice. Marry, 'tis nearly five. The sun has now been working at his trade For full an hour ; and yet the sons of earth Have not so much as thought of their day's labour. Waggoner. — Wliat trade's the sun? Allspice. — Marry, a carver and gilder! For he carves his way first, and gilds it afterwards. Old Play. Whilst our hero is thus forgetting his cares in sleep, let us turn the reader's attention for a moment to the state of travelling in England at that time. It must be recollected that no other communication existed, at the period we write of, from one end of England to the other, than by waggon. The merchant to gather in his accounts ; the lover to unite himself with his mistress ; the soldier to join his regiment ; and the ma riner to reach his vessel ; found no other mode of travelling open to them than by throwing themselves upon the tender mercies of a country wag goner, whose clumsy machine was equally well-adapted for the carriage of goods and the conveyance of their owners.

The daring highwaymen by whom London and its high roads were infested, at this time rendered tra velling to the capital an expedition of an equally important and dangerous nature. " Flying waggons," as they were termed, set out from Liverpool, then a comparatively obscure town compared with its present state of affluence, with the expectation of never reaching London under ten or eleven days after their departure, at the soonest — an assertion that mav perhaps create a smile, when the present " coach travelling to Liverpool in four-and-twenty hours" is taken into consideration. But we must proceed to take charge of our hero's fortunes, from the period when we left him dozing away at the conclusion of the last chapter. The morning's dawn awoke Barnwell to a sense of his situation. The jolting motion he had endured throughout the night, combined with the confined position in which he had slept, had caused the blood to stagnate within him; and now, taking advantage of the stoppage of the waggon for the purpose of changing horses, he gazed around to look at his fellow passengers previous to invigorating his cramped frame by a brisk walk up the hill that was before them.

The first person that his eyes encountered was a tall, stalwart personage, of the Quaker persuasion, who, witli his eyes apparently fixed upon vacancy, and with clasped hands supported by his chest, seemed awaiting what scrutiny Barnwell was pleased to bestow upon his attenuated form. Turning from this corner to the opposite, a strange contrast presented itself in the person of a man attired in a military coat. This was no other than Major Mullins, of the Tamworth Militia, who, having been on the previous night in a most decided state of intox ication, had been taking his rest during the morning with his legs carefully perched upon a large hamper at one end of the waggon, whilst his face at the other was smothered under a heavy weight of straw. As Barnwell now rose with the intention of pursuing his original deter mination, of walking a short distance, for the double purpose of giving a stimulus to the circulation of his blood, and relieving the jaded horses of a portion of their burden, he felt his garment plucked forcibly from behind, and, turning round, saw the Quaker endeavouring with all possible speed to follow his example.

From the little conversation that passed between them, he learned that his companion was one Aminadab Cotton, a hosier in Cheapside, who had been to Liverpool and Manchester, for the purpose of procuring some winter goods, and that he then had in his possession a vast amount of money, received on his journey from some of his customers ; a circumstance that gave rise to several quaintly-expressed fears lest, owing j^.the then dangerous state of the roads, he should be deprived of the hard-earned profits of his tour. " Yea," continued the alarmist, " these sturdy rogues care not whom they pilfer, so they obtain a booty. Not longer ago than Thursday week a cousin of mine, a reverend prebendary, was waylaid on the Bath road by two men, who left him not even a Queen Anne's farthing to bless himself withal, or pursue his journey with.

Thou must surely have heard, friend, of the exploits of these daring ruffians ?" "Every one of course must have heard of such deeds as those you speak of," replied Barnwell ; " but I have been happily not as yet an eye-witness to any of them. Here," added our hero, " would be a somewhat fitting place for such an exploit as that you have but now related." " And what wouldst thou do in such an emergency ?" inquired the Quaker. " Do !" echoed Barnwell ; " why, guard what little I have to lose to the death." "Indeed!" energetically exclaimed the other ; "then put thy courage to the test now. Come, your money, or you die !" and suiting the action to the word, the self-styled Quaker plucked from his sable suit a blunder buss of formidable dimensions, and grasped the astonished youth by the collar, who, astounded by the suddenness of the attack, was incapable of giving the slightest resistance.

" Come !" impatiently cried the robber, changing his hitherto peaceable demeanour and whining tone for the bold bearing of a Turpin and the voice of a Stentor ; " no parleying — your purse ! Hesitate for one moment, and the next brings with it your destruction !" " Never !" cried Barnwell, endeavouring to release himself from the tight hold maintained by his opponent ; "never will I tamely submit to an outrage like this !" " Nay, then,'" thundered the other, " this must decide." A struggle brief but desperate immediately ensued ; but it required little powers of discrimination to prophesy which would be the victor. The slight though muscular form of Barnwell was no match for the power ful grasp of his adversary, and the contest, unequal as it was, would soon have been decided, had not the foot of the robber slipped as they approached a ditch by the road-side, and left him prostrate at Barnwell's feet — and thus entirely at his mercy.

" I spare your life," said Barnwell, seeing that his foe had fully prepared himself for receiving in his head the contents of the blunderbuss that had been wrested from his hand ; " but I will keep your weapon as a remembrance of the contest." " Well, you are a brave-hearted fellow," replied the footpad, rising, " and you shall find that I am not ungrateful. The time may come when I may be of service to you ; when it does, ask for Jack Meggott, at the Almonry in Westminster, and you will find that he will keep his word. Of what is past, let not a word be said ; although my attack upon you was more in jest than earnest, egad .' it was likely to turn out no child's play. Your hand, young man; we are now, I trust, friends : be cautious, and be silent." As the last words were uttered, the low-covered top of the waggon was seen rising over the brow of the hill, and as it approached, Meggott waved his hand to Barnwell, and disappeared behind the hedge that skirted the road they were now pursuing.

Our hero, not sorry to be rid of his late companion, now joined the waggoner, who was carefully guiding his team up the declivity, and again took up his station in the vehicle. Slowly aud heavily the old waggon pursued its path, now jolting over the stones that marked the High Street of Nottingham, and anon wending its way through oak-sheltered lanes and marshy thoroughfares. The second evening at length began to draw her crimson curtains over the earth, and as the night advanced, the propriety of putting up the waggon was decided on. In the morning, how ever, they were again in motion, and passing through the beautifully an tique town of St. Alban's, and stealing a peep occasionally at its noble abbey, with its ivy-crowned turrets and mullioned windows, the travellers found themselves by nightfall not far from their destination.

As they traversed onwards, lights could be perceived glimmering afar off, which, as they approached, gave warrant that the metropolis was at hand. The "Angel," a low and dirty public house, standing upon the site of the inn at present known by that name, was at length reached ; and here the journey was said to have terminated. As Barnwell, elated with the pleasure he experienced in finding himself once more in town, was de scending from the waggon, and preparing to defray the expenses of the journey, a figure, clad in a long, dark cloak, that effectually preserved its wearer from observation, darted behind him, and uttered his name in a voice that might have belonged for its tone to a tenant of the tomb. Startled at the circumstance, Barnwell hastily turned round ; but before he could trace the figure of the speaker, the mysterious visitor had been enabled by the darkness of the night to elude the vigilance of those around him.

Leaving ample directions with the carrier for the transmission of his luggage, Barnwell alighted from the waggon, and turning down one of the bye streets, proceeded towards the city, Leaving Major Mullins anxiously searching for his purse, which Barnwell imagined, and with some truth, that Meggott had ingeniously contrived to convey away with him. Crossing by Shoreditch church, then just erected, and leaving Aide rsgatestreet to the right, our hero pursued his path in a forward direction for some time, until, turning into " the noble square of Finsburie," and by that means getting into Cheapside, he paused before a house, the extent and splendour of which betokened the master to be a merchant of some trade and opulence. Gently raising the knocker, and administering a few successive taps to the street-door, a light appeared soon after through the fan-light above, and the withdrawal of a bolt proved but a prelude to the appearance of a smartly-dressed young damsel, who, opening the door in some trepidation, greeted Barnwell most warmly on his return.

Preceding him up stairs to his apartment, and revealing to his view a room, the neatness and order of which proved evidently to him that he bad been expected, Barn well betook himself to rest, and, if the reader be curious respecting the nature of his dreams, we can enlighten him, by stating that they formed a curious combination of contrasted images in which waggons, Quakers, foot pads, and the slight form of Alice Travers were all blended together into one heterogeneous mass. The worthy merchant, whose name was singularly corroborative of the goodness of his character, received Barnwell on the following day with every expression of kindness and good feeling. His friend Trueman, too, who had long maintained a high position in Mr. Thorogood's office, for his blandness of manner and sincerity of disposition, returned Barnwell's warm pressure of the hand with a cordiality which showed that the only rivalry existing between them was in who should endeavour to be foremost in their employer's service.

Clara Thorogood, the merchant's daughter, had long engrossed Trueman's attention, but, fearful that an open avowal of his passion might displease her father, he preferred crushing the feeling of love in his breast altogether, rather than allow it to exist with the disapprobation of her parent. True it was, that if the returned pressure of the hand, and glance of the eye, might be taken as a criterion, the heart of Clara glowed with a love as ardent and as pure as his own ; and it was also true that he had not even hinted to him the possibility of such an attachment existing, for, aware that her father had designed her for the bride ofa wealthy peer, and knowing that he had but little to bring her for a dower besides a fond heart and a willing pair of hands, he, with a resolution worthy of a hero, deterrstined to stifle the passion in its birth, ere it had attaiued the mastery over his reason.

With this view he sedulously avoided all further intercourse than was absolutely necessary, with the object of his adoration ; and aware that the shafts of Cupid are as dangerous as those tipped, according to the Indian tradition, with the poison of the rattle snake, he devoted the whole of his attention to business, and was thus enabled, by his assiduity, to make Barnwell's temporary absence a matter of less moment to his employer than it otherwise would have been. The important event that, at this period, so strongly influenced Barn well's career, must be deferred to the next chapter. CHAPTER IU. I know a cunning man who reads the stars. And tells from them what things will come to pass; His counsuil will we seek in this sore strait. i'ayre Mayde of Latnby the, 1673. Here never shines the sun— here nothing breeds, Except the night-owl and the fatal raven.

And when they showed me this accursed place, They told me here at dead-time of the night A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes. Ten thousand swelling toads and gibbering urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries, That any mortal body heariug them Would straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. Titus Andronicus. Such was the position of affairs when Barnwell returned. Clara he had not seen before, as it was during his visit to Lichfield she had returned to London, from a convent at Paris, where, as was customary at tbat period, she had been sent for the purpose of completing her education. His first interview with her, however, convinced him that the enthusiastic descrip tion he had received from his friend Trueman had not been over-charged. Clara was one of those sunny beauties (if we may be allowed what seems to us the only expression capable of conveying our meaning,) whose charms make an impression on the hearts even of those who are least sensible of the power of female attractions.

Her long residence in France had imparted to her that grace and freedom of motion which harmonises so exquisitely with the female form ; and her features, when either animated by conversation or softened by repose, were equally remarkable for their faultless symmetry and expressive regularity. " Of a verity," exclaimed Barnwell, the day after bis first interview, " thou art a happy fellow, Ned, to monopolise the love of a girl like Clara. Your portraiture was as exact as if you had been a limner by profession." " Nay, George," answered Trueman, " a truce to your jesting — Clara is no fit subject for it. That I love her, madly love her, I cannot disguise from myself; but, rather than cause her father's heart one pang of uneasiness by my conduct, I would resign her for ever : aye, even though with her departs my happiness for ever."

" Psha _" retorted Barnwell, " what have you to fear in at> once decla ring yourself? Are not you, in preference to the rest of us, her father's special favourite ? If any business of importance has to be transacted, to whom is it entrusted but to Trueman ? In short, should our worthy master perchance require in his' old age a partner in his profits and his toils, who would be the one selected but my very modest and diffident friend here, Ned Trueman V " Aye, but you know not, George," responded the other, " how dearly he prizes— and well he. may— his daughter Clara I She is his only child— the sole object he has cherished through life, to be the solace of his declining days. I should indeed be unworthy of the confidence reposed in me were I, by winning the affections of his daughter, to repay with unkindness and treachery the favours I have at his hand received."

No. 2. " But why not endeavour," inquired Barnwell, " to fathom his intentions upon the point of his daughter's marriage ?" i " It would be useless," answered Trueman ; " I know them too well already. The entertainment that takes place here to-morrow evening, and to which all the young peers and wealthy citizens who have honoured our worthy master with their intimacy have been invited, is one given for the purpose of enabling Clara to choose, in accordance with her father's wish, a husband from the list of suitors who have already proffered her their hand and fortunes." " And will sbe so V eagerly inquired Barnwell. " Would to Heaven Aat I knew," exclaimed the other : " of Clara's constancy, and open, generous spirit, I entertain not a doubt. The gewgaws of wealth and splendour possess but little interest in her eyes when com pared with the hours of wretchedness and misery by which they are often too dearly purchased ; but an anxious wish to obey her father's behest may, alas! indues her to wed another, and thus blight my hopes of happiness for ever.