was the descent.  At the first grip of adversity, he forgot his cherished principles, and two years later the loftiest and most elegant gentlemen that ever picked a pocket was at the Hulks—­for robbing a harlot at Drury Lane!  Henceforth, his insolence and artistry declined, and, though to the last there were intervals of grandeur, he spent the better part of fifteen years in the commission of crimes, whose very littleness condemned them.  At last an exile from St. James’s and Ranelagh, he was forced into a society which still further degraded him.  Hitherto he had shunned the society of professed thieves; in his golden youth he had scorned to shelter him in the flash kens, which were the natural harbours of pickpockets.  But now, says his biographer, he began to seek evil company, and, the victim of his own fame, found safety only in obscene concealment.

At the Hulks he recovered something of his dignity, and discretion rendered his first visit brief enough.  Even when he was committed on a second offence, and had attempted suicide, he was still irresistible, and he was discharged with several years of imprisonment to run.  But, in truth, he was born for honour and distinction, and common actions, common criminals, were in the end distasteful to him.  In his heyday he stooped no further than to employ such fences as might profitably dispose of his booty, and the two partners of his misdeeds were both remarkable.

James, the earlier accomplice affected clerical attire, and in 1791 ’was living in a Westphalian monastery, to which he some years ago retired, in an enviable state of peace and penitence, respected for his talents, and loved for his amiable manners, by which he is distinguished in an eminent degree.’  The other ruffian, Lowe by name, was known to his own Bloomsbury Square for a philanthropic and cultured gentleman, yet only suicide saved him from the gallows.  And while Barrington was wise in the choice of his servants, his manners drove even strangers to admiration.  Policemen and prisoners were alike anxious to do him honour.  Once when he needed money for his own defence, his brother thieves, whom he had ever shunned and despised, collected L100 for the captain of their guild.  Nor did gaoler and judge ever forget the respect due to a gentleman.  When Barrington was tried and condemned for the theft of Mr. Townsend’s watch at Enfield Races—­September 15, 1790, was the day of his last transgression—­one knows not which was the more eloquent in his respect, the judge or the culprit.

But it was not until the pickpocket set out for Botany Bay that he took full advantage of his gentlemanly bearing.  To thrust ‘Mr.’  Barrington into the hold was plainly impossible, even though transportation for seven years was his punishment.  Wherefore he was admitted to the boatswain’s mess, was allowed as much baggage as a first-class passenger, and doubtless beguiled the voyage (for others) with the information of a well-stored mind.  By an