NOTES.

Riots of London.

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.