Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold

by Horace Bleackley

II. Contemporary Newspapers and Magazines

1.	The Times,	Oct., Nov., Dec. 1802;	Jan., Aug., Sept. 1803.
2.	The Morning Post,	do.	do.
3.	The St James’s Chronicle,	do.	do.
4.	The Morning Herald,	do.	do.
5.	The Morning Chronicle,	do.	do.
6.	The True Briton,	do.	do.
7.	Lloyd’s Evening Post,	do.	do.
8.	The Carlisle Journal,	do.	do.
9.	The Leeds Mercury,	do.	do.
10.	The Gentleman’s Magazine, part ii. 1792, pp. 1114-16; part i. 1800, p. 18-24; part ii. 1802, pp. 1013, 1062, 1063, 1157; part ii. 1803, pp. 779, 876, 983.
11.	The European Magazine, part ii. 1792, p. 436; part ii. 1802, pp. 316, 477; part ii. 1803, pp. 157, 242.

Coleridge and the “Morning Post.”

Three accounts from the pen of Coleridge, which appeared in the Morning Post of October 11, October 22, and November 5 respectively, under the titles “Romantic Marriage” and “The Fraudulent Marriage,” find a place in Coleridge’s “Essays on His Own Times,” edited by his daughter. The late Mr H. D. Traill, in his monograph in the “English Men of Letters” series, has pointed out (note, p. 80) that “it is impossible to believe that this collection, forming as it does but two small volumes, and a portion of a third, is anything like complete.” It is not an unwarrantable assumption that two subsequent articles in the Morning Post, which appeared on November 20 and December 31, were written from Greta Hall, and that Coleridge therefore was responsible for the sobriquet “The Keswick Impostor.”

Sir Alexander Hope, brother of the third Earl Hopetoun, whom Hadfield impersonated, was not (as stated in the Dic. Nat. Biog.) the second but the eighth son of the second earl (vide Gentleman’s Magazine, 1837, part ii. p. 423).

Notes.

Note I.—A Fortnight’s Ramble to the Lakes in Westmorland, Lancashire and Cumberland.

This book is reviewed at full length in the Gentleman’s Magazine, December 1792, pt. ii. pp. 1114-16, and in the European Magazine, December 1892, pt. ii. p. 436. The author, Joseph Budworth, who afterwards adopted his wife’s surname, Palmer, was a contributor to the former journal. Mary Robinson is described under the pseudonym ‘Sally of Buttermere’ The second edition of the Fortnight’s Ramble is reviewed in Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. lxvi. pt. i. p. 132, February 1796.

Note II.—A Revisit to Buttermere. Letter from a rambler to ‘Mr. Urban’ dated Buttermere, January 2 (vide Gentleman’s Magazine, January 1800, pp. 18-24).

This account was inserted in the third edition of A Fortnight’s Ramble, published in 1810. Joseph Budworth tells us that his second visit to Buttermere took place in January 1798.

Note III.—The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet’s Mind, by Wm. Wordsworth. Commenced 1799, finished 1805, published 1850. The Centenary edition of the works of Wm. Wordsworth. Six vols. Edited by E. Moxon, 1870.

Book VII., “Residence in London,” contains the famous reference to Mary of Buttermere and her story. Describing various dramas he has seen at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, the poet mentions one written around the story of Mary of Buttermere. Notes and Queries, Tenth Series, i. pp. 7, 70, 96.

Note IV.—The Collected Writings of Thomas De Quincey. Edited by David Masson. A. & C. Black (1889-90); vide Literary Reminiscences, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, vol. ii. pp. 138-225.

The description of ‘The Hadfield Affair’ occupies pp. 174-184, and its numerous errors were the subject of a smart attack by a correspondent in Notes and Queries (First Series, vol. viii. p. 26), July 9, 1853.

Note V.—The Tourist’s New Guide. By William Green. In two volumes. Kendal (1819), vol. ii. pp. 180-5, 221. Seventy-eight Studies from Nature. By William Green. Longman (1809) p. 7.

The various descriptions of Mary Robinson are so conflicting that it is difficult, until one reads the impressions recorded from year to year by Wm. Green, to form an estimate of her personal appearance. It has been shown that Joseph Budworth, who first saw her in 1792, when she was fourteen, raves of her charms, and his second visit to Buttermere six years later did not disillusionise him. De Quincey, however, denies that she was beautiful, and does not praise even her figure. Yet he seems to be unconscious that he is describing, not the world-renowned ‘Maiden of Buttermere’ but a matron of thirty-five, who was now the wife of a prosperous farmer, and who had drank deeply of life’s sorrows. Mr Frederick Reed of Hassness, Buttermere, writing in August 1874 (Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, ii. 175), thirty-seven years after her death, states that “she was not the beauty she is represented to have been. She carried herself well, but got to be coarse-featured.” Still, as it is improbable that Mr Reed saw her till she was past her prime, his criticism is of little value. Sara Nelson, too, who was born during the year of Mary’s great trouble, did not meet her till her good looks had vanished. The Morning Post of October 11, 1802, contains the following description from the pen of Coleridge:—“To beauty in the strict sense of the word she has small pretensions, being rather gap-toothed and somewhat pock-fretten. But her face is very expressive, and the expression extremely interesting, and her figure and movements are graceful to a miracle. She ought indeed to be called the Grace of Buttermere rather than the Beauty.”

William Green tells us that he first saw Mary Robinson in 1791, the year before she was noticed by Captain Budworth. “At that time,” says he, “she was thirteen; and to an open, honest, and pleasant-looking face, then in the bloom of health, was added the promise of a good figure. Her garb, though neat, was rustic; but through it, even while so young, appeared indications of that mild dignity which was afterwards so peculiarly attractive.” He saw her next in 1794. “The infantine prettiness of thirteen was now matured into beauty; her countenance beamed with an indescribable sweetness, and the commanding graces of her fine person were equalled only by her innate good sense and excellent disposition.” After remarking that Captain Budworth’s panegyric seemed to have had no ill effect upon her mind, he proceeds: “Like some other mountain rustics, observed by the writer during his residence amongst these thinly populated wilds, Mary’s beauty was ripened at an early period; for this was, probably, the period of its perfection.” Green did not see her again till 1801. “She was then twenty-three, and though greatly admired for her general appearance and deportment, was on the whole infinitely less interesting than seven years before that time.” In 1805, the date of his next visit to Buttermere, he noted a further change. “Her features were pervaded by a melancholy meekness, but her beauty was fled, and with it, that peculiar elegance of person, for which she was formerly celebrated.” The next time the artist saw her was in 1810. “She was no longer the Beauty of Buttermere, but Mrs. Harrison, the bulky wife of a farmer, blessed with much good humour, and a ready utterance.” This was about the time when De Quincey saw her. Gillray’s sketch, November 15, 1802, corroborates Green’s description.

The Dictionary of National Biography gives the date of publication of The Tourist’s Guide as 1822. This is an error. It was published in 1819. The same monograph does not mention Green’s Survey of Manchester.

Note VI.—East Cheshire. By J. P. Earwaker, 1880, vol. ii. p. 136.

Gives the following extract from the register of baptisms at the parish church of Mottram-in-Longdendale:—

“1759. May 24, John, son of William Hadfield, and Betty, his Wife.” The church register confirms this reference.

John Hadfield’s father, who lived at Crodenbrook or Craddenbrook, Longden, must have been a man of means, for in 1760 he gave £20 to the poor.

Note VII.—Dic. Nat. Biog. This excellent sketch is only marred by the misspelling of Hadfield’s name, and the error in the date of his birth.

A FAMOUS FORGERY
THE CASE OF HENRY FAUNTLEROY, 1824

Part I.—The Criminal and his Crime.

“Then, list, ingenuous youth....
And once forego your joy,
For your 176 instruction I display
The life of Fauntleroy.”
The Dirge of Fauntleroy, James Usher, 1824.

In the year 1792—not one of the least disastrous in our annals of commerce—a small party of capitalists established a private bank under the name of Marsh, Sibbald & Company of Berners Street. The chief promoters—William Marsh, a naval agent, and James Sibbald of Sittwood Park, Berkshire, a retired official of Company John—were gentlemen of substance and position; while their managing partner, William Fauntleroy (previously employed at the famous house of Barclay), was a man of ability and business experience. Four years later, a younger son of Sir Edward Stracey, a Norfolk baronet, who married eventually the niece of Sir James Sibbald, was admitted into the firm.

HENRY FAUNTLEROY.

Although never a bank of great resources, it appears to have made a fair return to its proprietors, and because of its connection with two baronets—one of whom became Sheriff of his county—it was regarded as a house of repute. In the spring of 1807 the firm received a severe blow through the death, when only in his fifty-eighth year, of the active partner, William Fauntleroy, in whom his colleagues placed implicit trust. Luckily, however, it was possible to fill his place, for his second son Henry, who had been employed as a clerk for seven years, although only twenty-two, was fit and eager for the post. None of the members of the firm were able to devote much attention to their bank, and thus, by a strange chance, the sole control was left in the hands of young Fauntleroy.

A remarkable man in every respect, this youthful manager, who carried with ease the burden of a great business on his shoulders. During the second decade of last century no figure was better known to those familiar with the west end of Oxford Street. Neat and elegant as Brummell, grave and industrious as Henry Addington, he seemed a model for all young men of commerce. Each morning at the same hour, the front door of No. 7 Berners Street, where he lived with his mother and sister, was thrown open, and the banker would step briskly into the adjoining premises—the counting-house of Messrs Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham. For he was a partner, also, as well as absolute manager, this solemn young gentleman whose air of ponderous respectability won the confidence of all.

At first sight, his cleanly-chiselled features seemed to express merely gentleness and simplicity, but a second glance would reveal a picture of resolution and strength. In fact, the massive brow, the broad cheekbones, and the firm, bold contour of the chin suggested a strange likeness—one that he sought to emphasise by the close-cropped hair made to droop over his forehead. It was his foible, this belief that he bore a resemblance to the great Buonaparte—whose bust adorned his mantelpiece—and the final catastrophe that overwhelmed him should discourage any latter-day egoist who prides himself upon a similar likeness.

Springing from an industrious Nonconformist stock (for his father had been the architect of his own fortunes, while his elder brother William, who fell a victim to consumption at an early age, was a youth full of the promise of genius), the temperament of Henry Fauntleroy appears to have been as complex a piece of mechanism as Nature ever enclosed within a human tenement. The love of toil, and an indomitable perseverance, seemed to be the guiding principles of his life. Not only did his fine courage never waver amidst the terrors of the financial tempest, through which he stood at the helm of his frail bark, but he gave no sign to his colleagues of the misgivings that must have lurked within his mind. For commerce had fallen upon evil days. On every side he beheld the crash and wreckage of his fellows, but, inspired by the confidence which only the knowledge of power can bestow, he resolved to continue his struggle against the storm. With a brain capable of grappling with huge balance-sheets, an almost superhuman dexterity in figures being his natural gift, the work of three men was the daily task of this Napoleon of commerce. Although the members of his firm were compelled to dive deeply into their pockets during these hazardous years, to meet losses occasioned by the failure of clients engaged in building speculations, the Berners Street Bank was handled so skilfully that it managed to weather the storm.

In spite of his vast abilities, there was nothing of bombast in Fauntleroy’s nature, nor did external evidence show that he was engaged in deadly warfare against the unpropitious fates. A gentle, unassuming man, with a quiet charm of address, he won universal regard from all with whom he came into contact. The gift of friendship, the infectious knack of social intercourse, was part of his character. Naturally, the circle in which he moved was composed of persons of refinement and, in some cases, of eminence in the commercial world. While his hand was ever open to the cry of distress, his board always had a place for those who had gained his esteem. All the leisure he could snatch seemed devoted to simple pleasures—a choice little dinner to a few kindred spirits, a holiday at his suburban villa, or a week-end visit to his house in Brighton. Though his earnest, florid face might be seen often beneath the hood of his smart cabriolet, this carriage was used principally in journeys between Berners Street and the City. In short, few business men in London were held in greater respect than this hard-working young banker, who was so like the Emperor Napoleon.

Yet there was another side to the picture. Although ostensibly he lived this simple and strenuous existence, a few bosom companions knew him in another guise. Unknown to the world, those week-end parties at his villa in the suburbs were tainted and ungodly. The sweet girl who sat at the head of his table as mistress of his home had lost her maiden innocence while her fresh young beauty was in its bud, lured by the sensuous Fauntleroy almost from school. All her pretty friends belonged to the same frail sisterhood, Cyprians beyond question, though modest perhaps in demeanour and speech. And with these ‘Kates and Sues’ of the town came Fauntleroy’s intimates, ‘Toms and Jerries’ unmistakably, though possibly only in travesty, becoming sober men once more in business hours.

Or one might have seen him driving past the fetid Pavilion at Brighton in his smart carriage, with its fawn-coloured lining, and have recognised in the shameless features of the flashy lady at his side the notorious ‘Corinthian Kate’ herself—in real life Mrs ‘Bang’ most ‘slap-up of ladybirds’ Then, again, at his luxurious seaside home in Western Place, with its conservatories and sumptuous billiard-room-draped as a facsimile of Napoleon’s travelling tent—his Kate’s dear friend Harriet Wilson, or other illustrious fair ones, would come to amuse his bachelor companions. Thus, in his leisure moments, the industrious Fauntleroy enjoyed secretly the life of an epicure and sensualist. Deep-buried in his soul the love of vice was ever present. “There only needed one thing to complete your equipage,” he writes, in plain double entente that indicates his ruling passion, to his friend Sheriff Parkins, “instead of the man at your side, a beautiful angel!”

Marriage had meant no sowing of wild oats to Henry Fauntleroy. A mystery surrounds his union to the daughter of a naval captain named John Young. It is known only that, although a son was born, the match from the first was an unhappy one, and an early separation took place. During the year of Waterloo a liaison with a married lady, who had a complacent or shortsighted husband, increased the habits of extravagance which in the end brought the banker to ruin. Later, the pretty young girl Maria Fox, who had been educated at a convent in France, consented to become the mistress of his suburban home. Thus the double life continued; while to those who knew him only in Berners Street, Mr Fauntleroy appeared the most righteous and respectable of men.

What was the nominal income of the young bank manager it is impossible to ascertain; but whatever the sum, it is certain that before very long his expenditure began to exceed his means. Probably he took the first step on his downward march during the year of the hejira to Elba. The strength and weakness of his character combined to make the position of Tantalus unendurable. Nothing seemed more certain than that the Berners Street house, which had never recovered from its unfortunate speculations, would return large profits if its capital was sufficient to meet all claims. Thus Fauntleroy decided not to take his colleagues into his confidence. Such a step would have caused the business to be wound up, and he would have lost his handsome salary. As one of his most severe critics has pointed out, “he had not enough moral courage to face the world in honest, brave poverty.” On the contrary, his courage took another form. Confident that he must conquer evil fortune, the self-reliant man resolved to commence a life-and-death battle with fate, alone and unaided. And his choice was the frightful expedient of forgery!

The methods of Fauntleroy were of unparalleled audacity. Then, as now, clients were in the habit of placing the certificates of their securities in the hands of their bankers for safe custody. So, by boldly forging the signature of the proprietor upon a power of attorney, he was able to sell any particular investment that he desired. Naturally, his depredations were confined to Government securities—Consols, Long Annuities, Exchequer Bills—and thus in effecting the fraudulent transfers his negotiations were with the Bank of England. For a period of almost ten years this incomparable swindler maintained the credit of his house in this manner, selling stocks belonging to his clients to the value of hundreds of thousands of pounds. As the proprietors received their dividends as regularly as ever—for Fauntleroy took care that their pass-books were credited with the half-yearly payments—they never knew that their investments had been abstracted. On the death of an owner the stolen stock was replaced, and thus the trustees were unaware of the theft. So the frauds went on, each forgery being shrouded by another, until the total deficit of the Berners Street Bank exceeded half a million!

Narrow escapes were inevitable. On one occasion he was handing over a power of attorney for the transfer of stock to one of the clerks in the Consols Office at the Bank of England, when the person whose name he had forged entered the room. Yet Fauntleroy’s aplomb did not fail him. As soon as he perceived the new-comer, he requested the clerk to return the document, with the excuse that he wished to correct an omission. Then, having secured the paper, he went to greet the friend whom he was about to rob, and they strolled out of the bank together. Another day, one of his lady clients instructed a London broker to sell some stock for her. Finding no such investment registered in her name, the man called at Berners Street to make inquiries. To his surprise the plausible banker informed him that the lady had already desired him to effect the sale. “And here,” continued the smiling Fauntleroy, producing a number of Exchequer bills, “are the proceeds.” Although his customer protested that she had never authorised the transaction, the matter was allowed to drop. While a friend was chatting in his private office he is said to have been imitating his signature, which he took out to the counting-house before his companion had departed. One of the last occasions when he visited the Bank of England was on the 5th of January, the day on which Thurtell and Hunt were tried for the Gillshill murder. While the clerk was crediting the dividend warrants due to his firm, the banker conversed about the crime. It was noted as a strange coincidence that the same clerk was one of the witnesses against him.

One day in September 1824, Mr J. D. Hulme, an official of the Custom House, wishing to examine a list of investments belonging to an estate of which he had become a trustee, paid a visit to the Bank of England. To his amazement he found that a sum of £10,000 in Consols was missing, and inquiry proved that the stock had been sold by the Berners Street manager under a power of attorney. On the advice of Mr Freshfield, solicitor of the bank, an application was made to Mr Conant of Marlborough Street, who was induced to grant a warrant for the arrest of the suspected man. At last the wily Fauntleroy had been caught napping; for although he was aware that there was a risk of exposure, and had made preparations to reinvest the stolen Consols, he had not yet been able to complete the transaction.

During the whole of Thursday night, Samuel Plank, chief-officer of Marlborough Street, finding that the banker was away from home, paraded Berners Street watching for his return. On the next morning, the 10th of September, at his usual hour, the grave, neatly dressed forger walked into his place of business. A mean trick marked the arrest. Mr Goodchild, the other co-trustee of the plundered estate, entered the counting-house a few moments before Plank, and proceeded into the private office, while the constable, pretending to cash a cheque, remained at the counter. When through the half-closed door of the inner room he saw that the victim and decoy were closeted together, the police-officer pushed past the astonished clerks, explaining that he wanted to speak to their employer. As Fauntleroy raised his eyes from his desk, and saw a warrant in the intruder’s hand, he realised that the visit of his friend was merely a device to place him in the hand of the law.

“Good God!” exclaimed the doomed man. “Cannot this business be settled?”

And tradition relates that he offered Plank a bribe of ten thousand pounds to allow him to escape. But the officer proved incorruptible, and soon the banker was standing in the presence of his astonished friend, Magistrate John Conant, who, though sore distressed, was compelled to commit him to Coldbath Fields prison.

“I alone am guilty,” cried the wretched Fauntleroy, in a burst of penitence. “My colleagues did not know!”

Like the great model whom he had striven to emulate, the vain man had found his Moscow. No longer was he the dandy banker of Berners Street, whose friendship had been sought by so many rich men from the City. The days of the lavish Corinthian, the associate of ‘bang-up pinks and bloods’ had passed away for ever, and he had become a criminal, standing beneath the shadow of the gallows!

While Mr Freshfield, with the aid of the constable, proceeded to execute his right of search, the members of the firm were summoned to town. At first the catastrophe was not appreciated to the full extent. On the following morning the bank opened its doors, and customers paid and drew their cheques as usual. However, before the close of the day the proprietors sent an announcement to the press that “in consequence of the extraordinary conduct of their partner,” they had determined for the present to suspend payment.

During the whole of Monday, the 13th of September, an excited throng took possession of Berners Street—neighbouring tradesmen trembling for their deposits; men from the City dismayed by the wildest rumours. A force of police was deemed necessary to prevent a riot. “Arrest of Mr Fauntleroy, the well-known banker!” The amazing tidings was upon every lip. A similar sensation had not been experienced in the memory of man. Since the days of Dr Dodd, half a century before, none so high in the social scale had been accused of such a crime. All the week, panic reigned in business houses. It was whispered that the defalcations would reach half a million pounds: that the greatest commercial scandal of the age would be disclosed. One day, it was said that Fauntleroy had arranged a plan of escape; on another, that he had cut his throat with a razor.

In the presence of a crowd of his creditors, the forger—crushed, despairing, overwhelmed with the deepest shame—was brought up for his first examination at Marlborough Street on the following Saturday. Although not more than forty, his hair, prematurely grey, made him look much older. During ten long years of torture the slow fires of suspense must have burnt deep into his soul, and the reality of this fatal hour would seem less cruel than the dreaded expectation. One observer states that “his expression is of pure John Bull good-nature”; another declares that he had “a mild Roman contour of visage”; while his dress was the inevitable blue tail-coat and trousers, with half-boots and a light-coloured waistcoat—the morning attire of all gentlemen of the period from Lord Alvanley and Ball Hughes down to Corinthian Tom.

On the Friday week following his first examination, the forger stood once more in the dock at Marlborough Street. Two maiden ladies, Miss Frances and Miss Elizabeth Young, whose small fortune had been stolen, gave testimony against the prisoner. Pained to see the man whom they had honoured and trusted in this terrible position, the tender-hearted women were tearful and distressed. Since the maiden name of Mrs Henry Fauntleroy was the same as theirs, rumour leapt to the conclusion that these witnesses were the sisters of the prisoner’s wife. When the unfortunate banker was seen to flush deeply as Miss Young appeared in the witness-box, the error was confirmed.

It was not until the 19th of October that the accused went through his third and last examination. Although well-groomed and immaculate as ever, he was a mere shadow of the placid, inscrutable man of business who had borne his guilty secret so boldly and so long. There was “rather a ghastly than a living hue upon his countenance,” remarks the stylist who reports for The Times. All the necessary charges being proved, he was committed to Newgate, his removal being postponed until Thursday, the 21st of October, on the application of his solicitor.

Meanwhile the London press had revelled in the case. Scarcely a day passed without a reference to the forger or to the forgery, and there was the greatest strife among the various newspapers to secure the most lurid reports. Many times we have the amusing spectacle of two journals belabouring each other like the envious editors in Pickwick. Even the recent crime of John Thurtell—for in this wonderful fourth year of his Gracious Majesty King George IV. the lucky public was satiated with melodrama, while Jemmy Catnach’s pockets were overflowing with gold—did not offer such chances of sensational reports. It was announced to an amazed public that Fauntleroy had squandered the proceeds of his forgeries in riot and dissipation. One-half of his private life was disclosed to public ears; and though some of the newspapers were merciful, just as others were hostile to the prisoner, one and all, with very few exceptions, probed deep into his murky past.

Happily, there is no evidence to justify the supposition that the partners in the Berners Street bank—and in particular Mr J. H. Stracey, who thirty years later succeeded to the baronetcy held in turn by his father and his two brothers—were responsible for the dastardly attacks upon the defenceless man. Even had he given no public denial to the charge, such an assumption is impossible in the case of an honourable man like the late Sir Josias Stracey. Moreover, the identity of the person who inspired the disgraceful accounts in The Times and other journals is easy to discern.

This spiteful enemy bursts upon the stage of the sad tragedy of Fauntleroy like the comic villain of melodrama—too contemptible to hate, but with a humour too crapulous for whole-hearted laughter. Joseph Wilfred Parkins—elected Sheriff of London on the 24th of June 1819—appears to have been one of the most blatant humbugs that ever belonged to the objectionable family of Bumble. Tradition relates that he was the son of a blacksmith who lived on the borders of Inglewood Forest in Cumberland; but Parkins, too proud to know from whence he came, preferred to pass as a bastard of the Duke of Norfolk. In his early youth, we are told that “he was apprenticed to a breeches-maker in Carlisle, but his dexterity as a workman not being commensurate with his powers of digestion, a separation took place.” Afterwards he sailed to Calcutta, where, assisted by letters of introduction from his patron the Duke, he established a lucrative business. In other ways, according to account, he was a success in India, where he became famous for hunting tigers with English greyhounds, and once shot a coolie for disobeying his orders, two miles and a half distant, right through the head, across the Ganges, and through an impenetrable jungle! On another occasion he claimed to have ridden stark naked in mid-day, on a barebacked horse without bridle, fifty miles in six hours, for a wager, and to have trotted back for pleasure without even a drink of water. When he returned to his native land with the treasures of the East, it was inevitable that such a man should win notoriety. Having failed to gain the affections of Queen Caroline, who preferred Alderman Wood for a beau, he devoted himself to Olive Serres, ‘Princess of Cumberland’ and became her champion and literary collaborator. One of the achievements on which he most prided himself was the refusal to marry a daughter of Lord Sidmouth, who was most eager to become his father-in-law. Sometimes we behold him fawning upon Lord Mayor Waithman and Orator Hunt. At others, no one excels him in hurling abuse at these same celebrities. During a portion of his career a charmer named Hannah White caused him much trouble. Probably he enjoys the unique honour of being the only Sheriff of London upon whom the Court of Common Council has passed a vote of censure for his conduct while in office.

For some years this great Parkins was a familiar friend of Henry Fauntleroy. “I have been looking out for you in town these three or four days,” the banker writes to him in May 1816, “as we have a dance this evening, and lots of pretty girls, and I know you are an admirer of them.” However, just after the arrest, the ex-Sheriff suspected his former associate unjustly of a breach of faith, and thus became his most deadly enemy, placing his intimate knowledge of his friend’s habits at the service of the hostile press. In order to exhibit the bankers depravity, he published a communication from the fair but frail Corinthian Kate, known in real life as ‘Mother Bang’ but the context chiefly serves to indicate that Parkins treasured a grudge because his friend had never introduced him to the lady. Even after the criminal had received sentence his animosity did not cease. “The penalty for forgery should be the gallows,” he declared at a meeting of the Berners Street creditors, “until the law discovered a worse punishment.” When the only son of the condemned man, a youth of fifteen, wrote to the papers, pleading that mercy should be shown to his father, the vindictive ex-Sheriff declared in the columns of the Morning Chronicle (as it proved, falsely) that the boy was not the author of the appeal. Nor did he scruple to print private letters from Mrs Fauntleroy to her husband in order to show that she was an ill-used wife.

Great indulgence was shown to the banker—for a forger always was treated with lenience—during his term of imprisonment at the Old Bailey. The same consideration—which aroused the ire of Parkins to boiling point—had been paid to him while he was under the care of Mr Vickery, ex-Bow Street runner, at that time the Governor of Coldbath Fields bridewell. On this account there arose a very pretty quarrel, at which, of course, the newspapers assisted, between John Edward Conant of Marlborough Street and an elderly magistrate of Hammersmith named John Hanson. The latter was accused of intruding into Fauntleroy’s room at the House of Correction, when the following conversation is said to have taken place:

“You are the banker from Berners Street, aren’t you?” demanded the visitor.

“Yes, I am that unfortunate person, sir,” answered the prisoner.

“Oh, then you’d better look to your soul,” was the reply. “Look to your Bible. Read your Bible.”

Although poor old Hanson, who was struck off the list of visiting justices in consequence of his officiousness, made many earnest protests that he had been misrepresented, and although Fauntleroy acquitted him of all intent to offend, it would appear that his observations were superfluous, whatever their precise form.

At Newgate the kind-hearted Mr Wontner—keeper of the gaol from 1822 till his premature death at the age of fifty in 1833—allowed the unfortunate banker every privilege that lay in his power. Thus his prison was no gloomy dungeon, but a large and well-furnished room, occupied by a turnkey named Harris, who removed into an adjacent apartment, and who, together with his wife, watched over and attended to the wants of his charge. Convinced that his case was hopeless, it is said that Fauntleroy resolved to plead guilty; but, urged by his friends, and by his solicitors, Messrs Forbes & Harmer, he was induced at last to abandon the intention.

James Harmer, who conducted his defence, was the great criminal lawyer of his day—a prototype of Mr Jaggers—the prince of Old Bailey attorneys. Among his clients were such diametrically opposite characters as Joseph Hunt of Gillshill fame, and lusty Sam Bamford of Middleton. The incidents of Mr Fauntleroy’s case offered many opportunities for his versatile talents; and although he failed to teach good manners to The Times newspaper, he did much service to his age, by means of a side issue, in getting Joseph Parkins indicted for perjury. Yet the greatest abilities could do little to extenuate the Berners Street forgeries. Still, whether or not he had a weakness for scented soap, Harmer never fought in kid gloves, as the unfortunate Messrs Marsh, Stracey, & Graham—whom he was compelled to damage in the interests of the man he defended—found to their cost. Those inclined to accuse Charles Dickens of exaggeration should bear in mind that murderer Hunt, who chose Jaggers Harmer as his solicitor, escaped the hangman’s rope, while Thurtell, who employed another lawyer, was handed over to Thomas Cheshire.

The trial of Fauntleroy on Saturday, the 30th of October, did not attract the mob of respectables that officialdom had anticipated. A guinea entrance-fee proved prohibitive. Press and law students alone furnished their crowds, and the private galleries were patronised but poorly. Joseph Parkins, eager to witness the humiliation of the man whom he had chosen to regard as an enemy, was an early arrival, taking his place at the barristers’ table in front of the dock, where, in full view of the prisoner, he could gloat over his misery. Luckily, Sheriff Brown, whose humanity—like that of his colleague John Key—was in advance of the age, witnessed the manœuvre, and, appreciating the motive of the truculent nabob, sent an officer of the court to tell him that his seat was engaged. Parkins, whose fierce eyes, glaring from beneath bushy, overhanging brows, seemed to inflame his combative features and fiery locks, turned in outraged dignity upon the official.

James Harmer, Esq^r.
Solicitor.

Engraved by T. Wright from a Drawing by A. Wivell.

London, Published August 1^st, 1820, by A. WIVELL, 105, Great Titchfield Street.

“Do you know to whom you speak, sir?” he articulated.

“Know you?” was the reply. “To be sure I do. Come, be off!”

So the ‘XXX Sheriff’ was forced to make his exit by climbing ignominiously over seats and benches, to the infinite mirth and advantage of the gentlemen of the press.

At ten o’clock Justice Park and Baron Garrow come into court, followed by the Attorney-General, the great Sir John Copley, soon to be Lord Lyndhurst, who, instructed by Mr Freshfield, solicitor to the bank, has charge of the prosecution. John Gurney, afterwards a judge, who, like Scarlett and Adolphus, is one of the great criminal barristers of his day, defends the prisoner. The buzz of many voices is hushed into silence as Fauntleroy is placed at the bar. Jaggers Harmer accompanies him. For a moment he is dazzled by the glare from the inverted mirror above the dock. Making a feeble attempt to bow to his judges, he almost falls back into the arms of the attendants. With closed eyes and bent head, shrinking from the universal gaze, he stands with trembling fingers resting on the bar—a picture of unutterable shame. Thin and worn are his features, and his face is pale as death, while his hair, thrown into contrast by his full suit of black, has become white as though sprinkled with powder.

The Attorney-General proceeds with the first indictment, that which charges the prisoner with transferring under a forged deed £5450 Three per cent. Consols, belonging to Miss Frances Young. During the speech there comes a disclosure amazing to everyone in court save the man in the dock and those who defend him. In a private box found at Berners Street after his arrest, a document has been discovered containing a list of stolen securities. Upon this paper, written and signed by the hand of Fauntleroy, and dated the 7th of May 1816, are these words, which, as Sir John Copley reads them, bewilder all his hearers:—

“In order to keep up the credit of our house I have forged powers of attorney, and have thereupon sold out all these sums, without the knowledge of my partners. I have given credit in the accounts for the interest when it became due. The Bank (of England) began first to refuse our acceptances, and thereby to destroy the credit of our house; they shall smart for it.”

Attorney-General and rest of the world are much puzzled, concluding that but for unaccountable negligence the prisoner would have destroyed this seemingly incriminating document; as though a forger would not prefer that his frauds should be thought to have been actuated rather by devotion to his business and revenge against the unpopular Old Lady of Threadneedle Street than merely for the sake of self-aggrandisement. “The Bank of England shall smart for it!” Were the story credible—were Fauntleroy, in fact, a small defaulter—we may well believe that another fierce outcry would have arisen against the wicked old harridan of the City.

There is little difficulty in proving the indictment, while the poor wretch in the dock sits huddled in his chair, trying vainly to conceal his face with his handkerchief. A couple of his own clerks swear that the signature to the deed is a forgery. Tear-stained Miss Young, whom most regard as the sister-in-law of the accused man, proves that her slender store of investments has been pilfered. Officials of the Bank show that the unhappy prisoner was the thief. There crops up a curious instance of the naïveté of British jurisprudence. For Threadneedle Street has been obliged to refund the stocks belonging to Miss Young in order to make her ‘a competent witness’ lest it might seem that she has a motive in affirming or denying the forgery of the power of attorney. Thus the Old Lady confesses that she has bribed a witness in order that this witness may not be suspected of trying to obtain a bribe!

FAUNTLEROY’S TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.

When Fauntleroy is called upon for his defence, he manages to stagger to his feet. The law of England will not allow his counsel to speak for him. Drawing a paper from his bosom, and wiping away the tears that stream from his eyes, he adjusts his glasses. Then, in a clumsy, insincere manner, like a schoolboy’s recitation, he begins to read a long apology. It is apparent that he has not written the speech himself, and it makes no impression. Commencing with a complaint against the false and libellous accounts in the press, he sketches the history of the Berners Street Bank in order to show that it has received the benefit of the whole of his forgeries; describing how he alone has borne the burden of the business and the anxiety of perilous speculations, while his partners have given him no assistance. All his frauds were accomplished to cover commercial losses, the withdrawal of borrowed capital, and the overdrafts of two of his colleagues. To every one of the charges of prodigality he offers an emphatic denial. In conclusion, he makes a pathetic vindication of his conduct towards his wife, declaring that not only are the statements published in the newspapers false, but that she has had always the best of feeling towards him.

Although just and merciful, the address of the judge is hostile to the prisoner, and the jury, who retire at ten minutes to three, return in less than a quarter of an hour with a verdict of guilty. Exhausted with his long ordeal, poor Fauntleroy is incapable of exhibiting emotion. A vacant expression is stamped on his pallid features, and when Justice Park tells him that the trial is over he sinks listlessly into his chair. Raising him in his arms, Governor Wontner supports him from the dock.

On the following Tuesday, when the convict is brought up to hear his doom in the New Court, Messrs Broderick and Alley move an arrest of judgment on certain technical points of law. Justice Park, who is said to have been acquainted with the prisoner, does not attend, but neither Baron Garrow nor the Recorder will accept the empty but ingenuous arguments of counsel. The prisoner reads a paper, stating that when he committed the forgeries he had expected to repay the money when his house prospered. Thus he begs for mercy from the Crown. Sentence of death is the reply.

After the publication of Fauntleroy’s defence, the press attacks—as no doubt Jaggers Harmer had foreseen—are turned against the unlucky partners. All the statements of the condemned man find acceptance, like the protests of every criminal, and it is believed that his colleagues must be guilty of complicity in the frauds. From The Times comes a demand that Messrs Marsh, Stracey, and Graham shall be examined before the Privy Council! A petition for reprieve is promoted by the creditors of the Berners Street house, on the plea that Fauntleroy’s evidence is necessary to elucidate the intricate accounts. Another lies at the office of Harmer’s paper, the Weekly Dispatch.

Condemned convicts are quartered still, and for many years afterwards, in the part of the prison known as the Press Yard—a walled quadrangle, where they are allowed to herd together indiscriminately during certain hours, adjacent to a three-storied building containing a day-room and the cells in which they are locked at night. Being a person of consequence, the miserable banker does not share this ignominy, but returns to the same apartment that he had occupied before his trial. Since the use of fetters had been abolished in Newgate, he is not required to endure even the ‘light manacles’ which some of the papers state he is wearing.

Remaining faithful to the end, although so deeply wronged, his poor wife is a constant visitor. His brother John, a London solicitor, and his fifteen-year-old son, reported variously as being educated at Winchester and Westminster (afterwards at Skinner’s, Tonbridge), come frequently to the prison. The beautiful Maria Fox, a mere schoolgirl when first she became his mistress, and who appears to be deeply attached to her protector, brings her two baby daughters to Newgate. Few men in their last hours have witnessed more terrible examples of the ruin they have wrought than the weak and self-indulgent Henry Fauntleroy.

Gentle Mr Baker, the white-haired layman of the map office in the Tower, whose work in the foul dungeon was scarcely less admirable than that of Elizabeth Fry, seems to be more successful in winning the affections of the condemned man than Ordinary Cotton; and the efforts of this good Samaritan are aided by a clergyman from Peckham, named Springett, to whom Fauntleroy had been introduced by a friend. These two are his constant companions during the remainder of his imprisonment. Most of his old associates prove loyal, in spite of his infamy and disgrace, for the fearful penalty of the forger is thought to atone for the greatest of frauds.

Meanwhile, exertions for a reprieve continue. The condemned banker is not included in the Recorder’s report on the 20th of November at a meeting of the Council, over which the King is said to have presided, and the case is argued twice before the Judges on the 23rd and 24th of the month. George IV., the only one of the four who was a gentleman, a scholar, or a man of artistic taste, the only one whose foolish egotism did not embroil the country in a costly and bloody war, was also the only one with a merciful heart. His first great fault, for which neither contemporaries nor posterity have forgiven him, was infidelity to a dull, silly, uncleanly wife, whom he was compelled to marry against his will, and who was nothing loth to pay him back in his own coin. His next, that, like the Duke of Wellington and his brother William, he was a lion among the ladies. George IV. is inclined to save Fauntleroy from the scaffold, just as he wished to save all except the murderer.

Every effort fails, however, and on Wednesday night, after a meeting of the Privy Council, the Recorder sends his report to Newgate. At half-past six the Rev. Cotton, whose duty it is to break the news of their fate to the prisoners, proceeds to Fauntleroy’s room. The banker, who is reading, looks up as the Ordinary enters, and, observing that he is deeply affected, “Ah, Mr Cotton, I see how it is,” he exclaims. “I expected nothing less than death, and, thank God, I am resigned to my fate.” During the rest of the day he seems more concerned for the doom of Joseph Harwood—a lad of eighteen, condemned to die the next morning for stealing half a crown from the pocket of a drunken Irishman—than for his own dismal situation. Worn out with suspense, he does not awake until a late hour on Thursday, and thus sleep spares him the anguish of hearing the awful bell that is added to the torments of those who go to the scaffold innocent of murder.

On Friday, Miss Fox comes to bid him farewell, bringing with her, so The Times reports, “two lovely babes, both girls, of the ages of eighteen months and three years, and both also in deep mourning.” Another occasion, indeed, for the modern reader to exclaim—“Cruel, like the grinding of human hearts under millstones.” One of that time thinks so—Edmund Angelini, a crazy teacher of languages, who the same day makes application to the Lord Mayor that he may be allowed to mount the scaffold instead of Fauntleroy.

On Saturday, the miserable wife pays her last visit. Previously she has made a desperate attempt to reach implacable Peel—fainting in his hall—which brings from the Home Secretary “a kind message.” Afterwards she strives to speak with Lady Conyngham, who pleads inability to assist, conscious, no doubt, that although she can mould divine right, her charms are powerless against the incorruptible calico-printer. Angelini, still filled with lust for the rope, but whose logic has made no impression on the Lord Mayor, comes hammering at Newgate door, and succeeds in gaining an interview with Ordinary Cotton, whom, perhaps, he regards—judging by appearances—as Jack Ketch’s commanding officer.

With the Sabbath comes gala-day and the ‘condemned sermon’ The partners of Jaggers Harmer, by name Forbes and Mayhew, are humane enough to sit with Fauntleroy in the ostentatious sable pew reserved for doomed convicts, and the good Samaritans Baker and Springett, supporting their charge with kind hands, take their seats with the dismal company. Abductor Wakefield has left a graphic picture of an entertainment similar to this. The rude, unsightly chapel, near akin in more than appearance to the dissecting-room in Old Surgeons’ Hall, and with no more semblance of holiness than the court at Bow Street, is packed with prisoners, gay and careless sight-seers, the pomp of sheriffdom and attendant lackeys. Hymns are bellowed, in hideous blasphemy, beseeching divine mercy to show good example to the creatures it has moulded in its own image. Prayers are mumbled, and heeded as little by the gallows-gazing throng as the showman’s horn by children who pant eagerly for the puppet-show. The hangman’s prologue—the sermon—is what all desire, and everything else is of no account. At last the Rev. Cotton, smug and resolute in white gown, mounts the lofty pulpit, and the Sheriffs attempt to screw their courage to face the ordeal. The Ordinary is in his finest form. On the previous Sunday he had shattered the nerves of the boy Harwood, and had sent ‘a female’—condemned to die for a paltry theft—into hysterics a fortnight ago. Scenes like these make the condemned sermon attractive. To-day the discourse is a stupid plagiarism of the Jacobite doctrine of passive resistance, but the bank’s charter, and not divine right, is Cotton’s fetish. While lauding the humanity of “the greatest commercial establishment in the world,” he displays his want of accuracy and legal knowledge by praising the directors for having replaced the stolen investments, as they had not yet done, but were bound by law to do. “I deprecate that feeling,” he declaims, “which is artfully and improperly excited in favour of those who have no extraordinary claim to mercy. When monstrous crimes have been committed we have a right to call for judgment on criminals, and to consign them to the fate the law demands. Offences are sometimes brought to light which require the most severe chastisement the law can inflict, and discoveries of such a nature have been made in reference to the unhappy individual to whom I shall more particularly address myself,” etc., etc. Upon the limp, shrinking figure in the large black pew, whose poor throbbing brain is pierced through and through by the barbed words of the holy man, all eyes are turned, save a few blinded with tears, or those wretches of both sexes who testify by sobs and howls that a like fate is their portion. Even in the leathern faces and soulless eyes of the grim turnkeys there glimmers a tiny spark of emotion. It is pleasant to remember that the Rev. Cotton, harmless and worthy gentleman in other respects, received strong censure from those in authority for his eloquence at the expense of Fauntleroy, and was accused of “harrowing the feelings of the prisoner unnecessarily.” Still, it would have been wiser to have attacked the system rather than the man.

Less gruesome even than the loathsome chapel is the condemned cell on the fatal night. All day the doomed banker has been calm and resigned, bidding adieu to his brother and his son, and explaining to his solicitors intricate details in the books of the bank. Late in the evening Mr Wontner comes to visit him as usual, and tries to persuade him to take something to eat, but the wretched man protests he ‘loathed food’ For hours he continues to pace the room, leaning on the arm of Mr Springett. Although he declares that he shall never sleep until after that ‘awful moment’ about three o’clock he is induced to lie upon the bed. The clergyman, who leaves the chamber for a few moments, finds him, when he returns, sitting by the fire and greatly terrified. Early in the morning he is able to accept a cup of tea and a biscuit. Before six o’clock Baker has resumed his work of mercy, and a little later conscientious Ordinary Cotton joins the sad company. Neat and precise as ever, the forger has made as careful a toilet as if he was to attend a social gathering, attired in a suit of black, with knee-breeches, silk stockings and dress shoes, and a white handkerchief around his neck. To Mr Baker he gives a few pounds to distribute among the needy people in the prison, and leaves a ring for Mrs Harris, the wife of the turnkey, to whom, and also to her husband, he gives thanks for their kindness.

Fauntleroy is spared a visit to the Press Yard, or to the adjacent apartment, where the manacles of prisoners are knocked off previous to the march to the scaffold. About 7.30 they conduct him to the ‘Upper Condemned Room’ and here his favourite hymn is sung—“God moves in a mysterious way”—and he partakes of the sacrament. From the numerous conflicting reports it may be gathered that Sheriff Brown and his ghastly train—for Alderman Key did not care to be present—attend their victim at a quarter to eight. At the end of the long stone chamber, dimly lighted by two candles, a small group is huddled before the fire—the Rev. Cotton administering platitudes, Baker and Springett on each side of the prisoner with their arms linked in his. Fauntleroy is standing firmly in easy pose, although his senses seem benumbed as if under the influence of a narcotic, and he bows slightly to the Sheriff, who addresses him in a few kindly words. The Ordinary—clever stage-manager—seizes the opportunity to draw the criminal a pace or two apart, and the officers, taking the signal, come behind, and commence to place their ropes around his arms. For a moment he seems terrified, and like a hunted animal shrinks for refuge to his two faithful friends, who gently place his hands across his breast, while the attendants pinion his elbows with their cords.

The clock of St Sepulchre—ominous name!—strikes the hour. With a solemn inclination of his head towards the convict the Sheriff moves forward, followed by the white-robed Cotton. Then comes the hapless banker, supported by Baker and Springett. With tightly closed eyes and mechanical steps, as though his nerves were dead and his senses steeped in torpor, he moves almost as an automaton. Through the long vaulted passages, where the tread of footsteps seem to beat a funeral march to the grave, down cold, steep stairs and along damp, cavernous windings, amidst a gloom made more fearful by the red glare of scanty lamps, the procession crawls onward. As it reaches the gate of the long corridor leading into the high, square lobby, from whence the Debtors’ Door opens upon the street, the Ordinary commences the service for the dead. At the sound of the harsh words the wretched sufferer starts, and clasps and unclasps his hands. No other sign of emotion marks his bearing; and even when the boom of the passing bell smites the startled ears of his companions, and their footsteps, as though stayed, pause for a moment involuntarily, he shows no sign of consciousness.

Across the lofty stone hall, and under the gate of the slaughter-house, the Sheriff and the Ordinary pass onward. There is a rush of chill, moist air through the open door, the bare wooden stairs reverberate with the tread of feet, and in another moment Fauntleroy, still supported by his friends, is standing upon the platform in the open street beneath the frowning wall of Old Bailey. Instantly every head in the dense crowd is uncovered. Yet this is not a token of respect for a dying man, but a time-honoured custom, so that the view of those in the rear may not be obscured. With eyes still closed, and his face turned towards Newgate Street, Fauntleroy moves under the cross-bar. Physical exhaustion is fast conquering him, and the officials hasten their task. In a moment the cap is slipped over his head, while Baker, accustomed to these scenes, speaks to him in earnest prayer. The halter is placed round his neck, and the loathly creature, whose expert hands have finished pawing their victim, glides swiftly from the scaffold. The Rev. Cotton continues to read from his book, but his eyes steal sideways furtively, and he throws a glance of meaning upon the man who has descended. An instant later, the Ordinary passes a handkerchief across his lips. It is the signal! There is a crash of falling timber, and to those in the street Fauntleroy appears to drop through the platform as far as his knees, and hangs swaying from the strong black beam which holds the cord that is gripping him by the throat. The bowstring of the unspeakable Turk is a more artistic but not a more cruel death.

The performance was an immense success, for a more stupendous throng had never gathered round the black walls of Newgate. Over one hundred thousand persons were said to have witnessed the entertainment, and reserved seats in the houses commanding a view of Debtors’ Door had been booked far in advance. At the ‘King of Denmark’ in the Old Bailey the sum of fourteen shillings was charged for a place; while at Wingrave’s eating-house and at Luttman’s, which were exactly opposite ‘the drop’ the price was as high as one pound. “Many respectable-looking females,” says the Morning Post, “were present at the windows, all attired in deep black.” A line of large waggons, hackney-coaches and cabriolets, all of which reaped a rich harvest, stretched from the corner of Giltspur Street and Newgate to Skinner’s Street, Snowhill, and every housetop was overflowing with holiday-makers.

It was a bitterly cold morning, with icy rain-storms and a chill mist, so the resolute thousands thoroughly deserved the enjoyment for which they set at defiance all the ills of the flesh. Most careful precautions were taken to avoid a repetition of the Haggerty-Holloway tragedy, when the mob saved James Botting—that worthy soul whose latter days were distressed by visions of ‘parties’ in nightcaps with their heads on one side—an infinite deal of trouble by trampling to death some fifty of its fellows. Six huge barriers stretched across Newgate Street at the corner of the prison, and there were two intermediate ones, to break the press, between that place and the scaffold; more were erected at the Ludgate Hill termination of Old Bailey, and within the barricade around the fatal platform were four hundred constables.

CATNACH’S BROADSIDE OF FAUNTLEROY’S EXECUTION.

Sad to relate, the object-lesson was a failure in one instance, for Henry Norman, a fine-looking lad of fifteen, was charged at the Guildhall the next morning with picking a pocket, the owner of which was gloating over the spectacle of the strangled banker. It speaks highly for the integrity of our modern police force that, in these days of exclusive hangings, a nimble-fingered Robert has never tried to filch the watch of an impressionable Under-Sheriff. Or if he has, the public has not heard of it.

In these record-breaking times it is a common occurrence for a trusted attorney to embezzle half a million pounds, but before the achievements of Henry Fauntleroy all previous forgeries sink into insignificance. Poor Dodd surrendered all he stole, and Wynne Ryland’s fraud was, in its way, as artistic a performance as those of Thomas Chatterton, while a brief career of crime—as in the case of Henry Savary of Bristol, who was lucky enough to escape the gallows—ruined the brothers Perreau. James Bolland and John Rouvelett were low-born fellows; and although the public welcomed each as a first-class criminal, neither gained the same prestige as a forger of gentle birth. In a small way, Henry Cock, the lawyer, anticipated the Berners Street frauds, and two other cases bear some resemblance. Henry Weston, a man of good family and social position, who was hanged at the Old Bailey on the 6th of June 1796, disposed of stocks amounting to twenty-five thousand pounds in a similar manner to Fauntleroy; and Joseph Blackburn, one of the most respected of Leeds attorneys, who suffered a lingering death at York on the 8th of April 1815, committed innumerable frauds for a great number of years by transferring and altering the denominations of the old familiar blue stamps.

“Fauntleroy’s doom was so thoroughly recognised as well merited,” writes Mr Thornbury, sternly, about forty years after the event, “that although in 1832 every other kind of forger was exempted by law from the gallows, the hands of the hangman still hovered over the forger of wills and powers of attorney to transfer stock.” Yet, since the penalty was never inflicted, this argument appears superfluous.

Fauntleroy certainly is the prince of forgers, as truly as Jack Sheppard is the greatest of prison-breakers and George Barrington the finest genius among pickpockets. Although driven to crime in the first instance by moral cowardice and craving for self-indulgence, he must have possessed an almost Napoleonic confidence that his abilities would conquer misfortune. Too proud to surrender the terrible struggle, he refused to adopt the easy alternative of flight to France with his ill-gotten gains. When one tries to realise the stupendous task of manipulating figures of such magnitude for so many years, the brain reels. The regular payment of huge dividends lest the victims should become aware of their loss, the constant replacement of stock when discovery seemed to threaten, the repeated buying and selling in order to rob Peter to-day to pay Paul to-morrow, the daily juggling with the books, and adjustment of balances, added to the incessant vigilance lest the errors of a few figures should mean betrayal to partners or clerks—all these wonderful transactions show an example of mathematical legerdemain such as the world has seldom seen. When it is borne in mind that the man was playing for nearly ten years with sums amounting in the aggregate to half a million sterling, his title to the incomparable forger of all time cannot be challenged. But like many another who has contributed to the public amusement, his memory soon faded from the minds of all save his creditors. Scarcely had the curtain been rung down on the tragedy of Fauntleroy, when it rose again upon the entrancing drama of accommodating Miss Foote and wayward Mr ‘Pea-green’ Hayne.

Occasionally, but not often, we hear mention of the banker’s name, and there was a recent reference to it in one of the delightful novels of Anthony Hope.

“It is no longer a capital offence,” declares ribald Arty Kane, referring to forgery, and addressing charming Peggy Ryle; “you won’t be hanged in silk knee-breeches like Mr Fauntleroy.”

Part II.—Some Details of the Forgeries.

The Berners Street bankruptcy.

No complete balance-sheet of the Marsh-Stracey bankruptcy appears to exist. The books of the firm seem to have baffled both the Commissioners and the assignees; and so artfully had Fauntleroy concealed his frauds, that even skilled accountants did not succeed in unravelling the whole of their mysteries. Contemporary newspapers furnish many important clues, but their statements, when not conflicting, are neither lucid nor exhaustive. Yet, although many details must remain obscure, it is possible to form a rough conception of the result.

The position of the bankrupts.

Since we know that the first dividend of 3s. 4d. in the pound (distributed to the creditors on the 7th of February 1825) absorbed a sum of £92,486, it is clear that Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company required a grand total of £554,916 to pay twenty shillings in the pound. Practically these figures are substantiated by the preliminary accounts presented at the meeting of the Commissioners on the 18th of December 1824, which state that the claims against the firm—excluding any liability to the Bank of England—amount to £554,148.

This estimate, however, is the only one of any accuracy made at the time, for the assets expected to be realised fell very short of the original calculation. A second dividend of 3s. 4d. was received by the creditors on the 30th of August 1825, and between that date and the appointment of the official assignee a further sum of £46,243 was distributed. Thus the total of the first three dividends—which were equivalent to 8s. 4d. in the pound—amounts to £231,215.

The bankruptcy return of Patrick Johnson (official assignee), published in 1839, shows that assets were collected subsequently amounting to £160,930, and thus the creditor side of the Berners Street ledger appears to have reached a total of £392,150.

From this balance of £160,930—realised by the official assignee after the payment of the first three dividends—further distributions of 5d. and 1s. (being 9s. 9d. in the pound in all) were made respectively on the 23rd of December 1833 and the 9th of September 1835, and absorbed further sums of £11,560, 15s. and £27,745, 16s.

During September 1835 the claim of the Bank of England against Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company was compromised for a payment of £95,000 in cash; and a further sum of £11,000 for the expenses of working the Commission of Bankruptcy from the 16th of September 1824 to the end of the year 1833 must also be deducted. Therefore a balance of £15,628—less any further costs—appears to have remained for payment of a final dividend. Although many of the newspapers state that this was made on the 7th of October 1837, unfortunately none of them give any particulars. Yet it may be conjectured that the unfortunate customers of the Berners Street Bank, after waiting for thirteen years, could not have received more than 10s. 6d. in the pound.

The following rough balance-sheet will explain the above account:—

Dr.			Cr.
First div. 3s. 4d., Feb. 7, 1825,	£92,486	0	First div.,	£92,486	0
Second div. 3s. 4d., Aug. 30, 1825,	92,486	0	Second div.,	92,486	0
Third div. 1s. 8d., (paid before Dec. 28, 1832),	46,243	0	Third div.,	46,243	0
Fourth div. 5d., Dec. 23, 1833,	11,560	15	Received by the official assignee at 84 Basinghall Street from Dec. 28, 1832, to Oct 7, 1837,	160,930	0
Fifth div. 1s., Sept. 9, 1835,	27,745 16	0
Bank of England, Sept. 1835,	95,000	0
Expenses of Administration up to Dec. 24, 1833,	11,000	0
Balance (including all costs from Dec. 24, 1833, to Oct. 7, 1837, and out of which the final dividend was made on Oct. 7, 1837,)	15,628	9
	———————			———————
	£392,150	0		£392,150	0
	———————			———————

The private estates of the partners.

The private estates of Messrs Stracey and Graham paid twenty shillings in the pound before the end of 1833; and upon that of Mr Marsh, the senior partner, who appears to have been indebted to the firm for a loan of £73,000, excluding his overdraft on his private account, a distribution of 17s. 6d. had been made before 1834. Little was received on Fauntleroy’s estate, as it was claimed almost entirely by the creditors of the Berners Street Bank.

Losses under Fauntleroy’s management.

It is now possible to form an estimate of the extent to which Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company were defaulters, and what were the losses under the Fauntleroy régime. The total receipts set against the claims of the creditors and the money stolen from the Bank of England, show a deficiency of £522,980. Thus:—

Dr.		Cr.
Claims of the creditors (to pay 20s. in the £)	£554,916	Total receipts	£392,150
Gross loss of the Bank	360,214	Deficiency	522,980
	————		————
	£915,130		£915,130
	————		————

How the losses were incurred.

Although it would be difficult, with any degree of accuracy, to apportion under the separate charges this adverse balance of over half a million pounds, and although much must be left to conjecture, it is possible to explain some of the ways in which this vast sum was dissipated. At the outset, the suggestion—arising out of one of the pleas of Fauntleroy, and believed at the time—that the overdraft on loans to two of the partners was responsible for a deficit of £100,000, is refuted by the fact that both Messrs Marsh and Graham refunded eventually their obligations to the full extent. In like manner, the belief that large sums were lost owing to the necessity of reinvesting constantly the various stocks sold by Fauntleroy in order to avoid detection, overlooks the fact that, on the other hand, these transactions must have afforded similar opportunities for making a profit. It is probable that many such losses did occur; but since we may believe that the Berners Street Bank prior to the forgeries was earning an income of £7000 a year, it is likely that such an astute manager as Henry Fauntleroy would be able to cancel many of these losses through reinvestment by the profits he earned on the immense capital he had secretly appropriated.

(a) Loss of £160,000 in building speculations.

(b) £90,000 lost by paying dividends on the stolen stocks.

Although the forger’s estimate of the result of his building speculations is extravagant, the newspapers of the 20th of December 1824 make it clear that the Berners Street house must have lost in this manner £160,000. It is certain also that immense sums were absorbed by the payment of dividends to the proprietors whose stocks had been stolen. Nearly £7000 per annum must have been required for this purpose from the year 1816, and the sum would accumulate at compound interest, until, as some say, an annual fund of £16,000 was required. Setting aside all excessive calculations, we have the great authority of the historian of the Bank of England that £9000 to £10,000 a year was thus expended during the progress of the forgeries. Further than this, notwithstanding that the partners in the bankrupt firm were not entitled to any fraction of profit, the testimony of almost the entire press credits each of them with receiving an income of over £3000. At the examination of William Marsh, reported in the newspapers of the 1st of March 1825, it was proved that he was indebted on his private account for an overdraft of £26,000. As there is no reason to believe that Mr Stracey or Mr Graham had enjoyed a smaller income, a further deficit of nearly £80,000 is the result. And finally, as will be shown, there is an overwhelming weight of evidence to prove that the iniquitous Henry Fauntleroy, during the nineteen years he was a partner, dissipated at least £100,000. In addition, the repayment of the capital of Sir James Sibbald (who died the 17th of September 1819), which formed a large portion of £64,000—the capital of the firm in 1814—would swell the adverse balance still further. Leaving this out of the question, the facts stated above explain the deficit of £430,000; and with the material at our disposal any further solution would involve a more elaborate use of the methods of conjecture.

(c) Loss of £80,000 through payments to Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Graham.

(d) Fauntleroy spent £100,000.

To what extent did Fauntleroy participate in the proceeds of his forgeries?

When Fauntleroy made his famous declaration from the dock, he was endeavouring to refute the extravagant assertion that he had spent a sum of over four hundred thousand pounds in riotous living; and thus, led to the opposite extreme, he made the mistake of attempting to convey an erroneous impression of his frugality. Thus the statement that he had never enjoyed any advantage beyond that in which all his partners had participated seems to hint economy; but as Mr Marsh had overdrawn his loan account by £70,000, the proposition is irrelevant to the argument. Then, again, he confesses that the Brighton villa cost £400, but he is not candid enough to admit the expenses of his other establishments. The stern reality—that a thief cannot justify the expenditure of one pennyworth of stolen property—never entered his mind. Utterly false, however, is his answer to the charges of profligacy—outrageous though they were.

“It has been cruelly asserted,” he declares, “that I fraudulently invested money in the Funds to answer the payment of annuities amounting to £2200 settled upon females. I never did make such investment.”

No single tenet in Father Garnet’s doctrine of equivocation puts greater stress upon the truth. Whoever made the necessary investments—and the forger was shrewd enough not to let the transaction appear in his own name—there is certain evidence that he provided lavishly for his mistress Maria Fox. The lie is merely concealed in subtle language.

“Neither at home nor abroad,” continues Fauntleroy, “have I any investment, nor is there one shilling secretly deposited by me in the hands of any human being.”

Such an assertion goes far beyond the sophistry of the most misguided seventeenth-century Jesuit, for the Commissioners of Bankruptcy were soon to discover that he had squandered thousands on his friend Mrs Disney. His one denial in unequivocal terms is a deliberate falsehood.

“Equally ungenerous and untrue it is,” the forger proceeds, “to charge me with having lent to loose and disorderly persons large sums of money which never have and never will be repaid. I lent no sums but to a very trifling amount, and those were advanced to valued friends.”

No doubt this last declaration had reference to the rumour that he had squandered money upon the notorious Mary Ann Kent, ‘Mother Bang’—who figures as ‘Corinthian Kate’ in Life in London—and its truth or falsehood must depend upon the exact definition of the term ‘large sums’ The criminal who had dealings with huge balance-sheets, naturally had a magnificent sense of proportion.

Fauntleroy’s expenditure.

Fortunately, there is evidence of some of the ‘prodigal extravagance’ that was laid at his door. The total loss of the Bank of England owing to the forgeries was £360,214, and the original claim of the directors against the Berners Street establishment was £250,000. So it seems that the balance was believed to have been spent wholly by Fauntleroy, and not placed to the credit of the partnership. The sworn testimony of Mr Wilkinson, an accountant employed by the assignees to examine the books of the bankrupts—although inclined to favour Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company—supports this assumption in the most decisive manner. Thus, in spite of his defence, it would appear that during his management the forger appropriated for himself a sum of over £100,000. These figures, moreover, are endorsed by the fair-minded James Scarlett, who made the same statement as Wilkinson in his speech for the defendants in the case of Stone and Others v. Marsh, Stracey & Company, which was heard on the 2nd of March 1826. To disregard such unanimous testimony is impossible.

How did Fauntleroy spend the money?

(a) Domestic expenditure £2000 a year.

It is quite credible that for a period of seventeen years (from 1807 to 1824) a man of Fauntleroy’s habits should expend an average income of £5000. Had each of his three establishments—in Berners Street, in Brighton, and at Lambeth—cost him as much as his moderate estimate of one—and none of them could have been less expensive—the total reaches £1200 a year. In addition to this, it is known that he allowed an annuity of £400 to his wife. Thus, as he kept horses and carriages both at London and the seaside, his lowest annual domestic expenditure must have been at least £2000, or £34,000 over the period. Although the house at Fulham was one of his later extravagances, there were others that had taken its place previously.

(b) Freehold property £10,000.

The villa, land and furniture at Brighton, sold after his death, realised nearly £7000—the residence alone is said to have cost him this amount; and since he was the owner of a mews and six houses in Bryanston Square, and two other houses in York Street, his freehold property, on a moderate estimate, must have been worth £10,000.

(c) Maria Fox £10,000.

From the reports of the trial of Maria Fox at the Lewes Assizes in April 1827, we gather that Fauntleroy settled on his youthful mistress £6000, besides an annuity of £150, “of which the assignees,” said John Adolphus, her counsel, “through the advice of a worthy gentleman, Mr Bolland, were not so cruel as to deprive her.” Thus another £10,000 is added to the banker’s debt.

(d) Mrs J. C. Disney, £10,000.

During the month of December 1824 the London papers are full of insinuations with regard to Fauntleroy’s improper connection with a Mrs James C. Disney, and the letter from the lady’s husband, which appeared in the New Times on the 24th of December, substantiates unwittingly much of the truth of the story. It is certain that the creditors of Marsh, Stracey & Company recovered large sums from this Mrs Disney, who had been the recipient of Fauntleroy’s bounty to an extent exceeding the limits of platonic love, and according to The Times the amount refunded was £10,000. Although many reports state that she received twice this sum, it is sufficient for the purpose to accept the lesser figures.

Thus there is almost complete evidence that Fauntleroy’s expenditure under three heads—domestic expenses, freehold property, and the two mistresses above mentioned—absorbed a sum of £64,000. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the man who could squander this money in less than seventeen years, while his firm was in so dire a plight, was capable of spending double the amount. It is improbable that his various establishments cost him no more than £2000 a year; and if The Times of the 1st of December is to be believed, he confessed that he had enjoyed a very much larger income. The age of pinks and bloods was as extravagant as our own, and many luxuries of life were more expensive. Fauntleroy was a patron of ‘Corinthian Kate’; and if Pierce Egan is an authority, we may conjecture—in spite of her denial to Joseph Parkins—that the unfortunate banker found her an expensive luxury. Like the great man whom he took a pride in fancying he resembled, it is notorious that the forger had a weakness for what his contemporaries termed ‘ladybirds’ and was in this respect a dissipated and worthless fellow. Moreover, he was celebrated for his costly dinners and rare wines—there is the grisly story of the friend who urged him as a last request to tell where he purchased his exquisite curaçoa—and he seems to have denied himself no luxury. Although it is not possible to give a complete explanation of Fauntleroy’s expenditure during the years of his race to ruin, it is satisfactory to know some portion of the details, and they show, through all possible coats of whitewash, that he was guilty of the most prodigal extravagance.

The conduct of the partners.

Since the partners of the Berners Street Bank were censured for gross negligence in two courts of law, it is not surprising that their creditors should have treated them with intolerance. At first the public had regarded them as unfortunate dupes, and it was not until Fauntleroy had made his defence that a popular outcry arose. It seemed incredible that three men of the world should have thrown the heavy burden of managing a firm, weighed down by embarrassments, upon the shoulders of a youth of twenty-two, and equally preposterous that, in the face of losses reaching into hundreds of thousands, the young man’s colleagues should have remained easy, trusting, asleep. Yet, in spite of the onslaught of the London press, and the clamour of the noisy creditors, headed by Joseph Parkins and his fellows, beneath the roof of the ‘Boar and Castle’ and the ‘Freemasons’ Tavern,’ it is certain that Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Graham were innocent of all guilty complicity in their partner’s frauds. The statements that had aroused the storm against them proved to be baseless or exaggerated. It has been shown that the Berners Street Bank did not lose £270,000 in building speculations between 1810 and 1816, as Fauntleroy suggested, and to meet the loss that did occur a large sum was raised by the supporters of the firm, to which William Marsh contributed £40,000. Thus, considering the reticence of their manager, there was good reason why the partners should believe that they had weathered the financial panic which brought to ruin so many of their contemporaries.

Modern commerce estimates more accurately the value of youth than the age of Mr Walter the Second; and as young Fauntleroy, who was one of the smartest bank managers in London, accepted his responsibilities with zest and cheerfulness, it is not surprising that he became the autocrat of the firm. Moreover, the juggler who could deceive the clerks working at his elbow day by day would have no difficulty in satisfying the periodical curiosity of sleeping-partners. Fat profits rolled into their coffers, and, like many another good easy man, they did not pause to look a gift horse in the mouth. Fools they were, and must remain, but in the end the world ceased to suspect their honour.

Still, their credulity was remarkable. All three of them appear to have been the instruments of most of the frauds, attending at the Bank of England to make the transfer under the forged powers of attorney, and instructing brokers to dispose of the stolen stocks and bonds. In one particular, however, the conduct of Marsh and Stracey appeared dubious. On the day of Fauntleroy’s arrest the daughter of the former cashed a cheque for £5000, while the latter drew out over £4000 in the name of his father. The trick was discovered, and restitution made to the creditors.

The Bank of England’s claim.

As might be supposed, the Bank of England received little sympathy either from the press or from the people. The directors never disputed their obligation—as managers of the public debt—to refund to the rightful proprietors the whole of the stocks that had been stolen, but they made every effort to enforce their claim against the Berners Street firm—amounting to a quarter of a million—which they contended that Fauntleroy had placed to the credit of his house. It was soon made clear by law that Messrs Marsh, Stracey & Company were responsible to the stockholders, who had been defrauded by their managing partner, and thus were equally responsible to the Bank, whose debt was similar to that of the stockholders. The chief obstacle to the enforcement of the Bank’s claim lay in the fact that the proprietors of the stolen stocks were clients, and, as a natural consequence, creditors also of Marsh, Stracey & Company. Being aware that the directors were legally compelled to replace their missing Consols and Exchequer Bills, they raised a great clamour against the claim of the Bank, for naturally they perceived that if it was enforced the cash balances in their Berners Street pass-books would be diminished. This difficulty compelled the Bank to seek the consent of the Courts to permit them to claim from the bankrupts the lump sum that had been restored to the stockholders, so that it would not be necessary to bring forward reluctant persons to prove each separate debt. Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst ruled, however, that each transaction must be established to the satisfaction of the Commissioners of Bankruptcy in the usual way, and thus the Bank was driven to depend upon the stockholders. Since the claim of half a million was compromised for a payment of £95,000, we may conclude that the majority of the Berners Street creditors were not disposed to assist the rival claimant to a share of their dividends.

The transfer of stock.

Much has been written of the lax methods of transferring stock in vogue at the Bank of England. As the frauds were so slovenly that Fauntleroy’s clerks had no difficulty in detecting their employer’s handwriting in the signature attached to the forged power of attorney produced at the trial, it is plain that the crimes could not have continued for so many years unless a most careless system had prevailed. The Berners Street swindle showed that it was possible for any applicant with whom the clerks at the Consols Office were acquainted to complete the transfer of another person’s securities, provided only that he possessed a knowledge of the exact value of the particular stock he wished to appropriate. A power of attorney seems to have been as readily acted upon as obtained, and no comparison of the real owner’s signature appears to have been made. This danger was pointed out subsequently at a meeting of the Court of Proprietors, and a shareholder made the wise suggestion that when any transfer was made immediate notice should be sent to the proprietor of the stock.

Yet checks and precautions did exist at the Bank of England in the days of Henry Fauntleroy. The purchasers of securities were recommended to protect themselves from fraud by accepting themselves—that is to say, by signing—all transfers of stock made to them, thus giving the officials of the Bank the opportunity of comparing the handwriting of the proprietor whenever necessary. Still, the investing public rarely complied with this regulation, and Fauntleroy must have been aware that there was no danger of detection on this account.

Although forgery of such a description is more difficult in these days, yet prudence should neglect no safeguard that does not impede the business of everyday life. A signature, however much resemblance it has to its original, may still be a forgery, and personal attendance might be simulated by a bold and plausible scoundrel. The most sure precaution is the one suggested on the 17th of September 1824 by the nameless proprietor, that whenever a transfer is lodged immediate notice shall be sent to the holder of the stock.