Roger Kyffin's Ward

Kingston William Henry Giles

Roger Kyffin's Ward

Chapter One.

A Panic in the City

London was in commotion. On a certain afternoon in the early part of the year 1797, vast numbers of persons of all ranks of society, wealthy merchants, sober shopkeepers, eager barristers, country squires, men of pleasure, dandies, and beaus, and many others of even more doubtful position, might have been seen hurrying up through lanes and alleys towards the chief centre of British commerce – the Bank of England, that mighty heart, in and out of which the golden stream flows to and fro along its numberless arteries. Numerous carriages, also, some with coronets on their panels, and powdered footmen behind, rolled up from Cheapside. Among their occupants were ministers of state, foreign ambassadors, earls and barons of the realm, members of parliament, wealthy country gentlemen, and other persons of distinction. While in not a few were widows and spinster ladies, dowager duchesses and maids of honour, and other dames with money in the funds. On the countenances of the larger portion of the moving throng might be traced a word of uncomfortable import – “Panic.”

It was an eventful period. Seldom during that or the present century have English patriots had greater cause for anxiety. Never, certainly, from the day of the explosion of the South Sea Bubble up to that period, had the mercantile atmosphere been more agitated. The larger portion of the motley crowd turned on one side to the Bank of England, where the ladies, descending from their carriages, pressed eagerly forward amidst the people on foot, one behind the other, to reach the counters. Another portion entered the Royal Exchange, while a considerable number of the carriages proceeded along Cornhill.

The appearance of the surrounding edifices was, however, different from that of the present day. The old Mansion House was there, and the new Bank of England had been erected, but all else has been altered. The then existing Royal Exchange was greatly inferior to the fine structure at present to be seen between the Mansion House and the Bank. It stood in a confined space, surrounded by tall blocks of buildings, dark and dingy, though not altogether unpicturesque. Whatever were its defects, it served its purpose, and would have been serving it still, probably, had it not been burnt down.

Numerous excited groups of men now filled the greater part of the interior area; some were bending eagerly forward, either more forcibly to express an opinion, or to hear what was said by the speaker on the opposite side of the circle. Others were whispering into their neighbours’ ears, with hands lifted up, listening attentively to the remarks bestowed upon them, while others were hurrying to and fro gathering the opinion of their acquaintances, and then quickly again putting it forth as their own, or hastening away to act on the information they had received.

“Terrible news! The country will be ruined to a certainty! The French will be here within a week! Fearful disaster! The fleet has mutinied! The army will follow their example! Ireland is in open rebellion! The bank is drained of specie! Failures in every direction! The funds at fifty-seven!”

Such were some of the remarks flying about, and which formed the subject matter of the addresses delivered by the various speakers. Many persons then collected were sober-minded citizens, merchants of good repute, trading with the West Indian Sugar Islands, Africa, the Colonies of North America, or the Baltic, East India directors, or others, whose transactions compelled them to assemble, for the negotiation of their bills on ’change.

A considerable number, however, of those who came into the city from the West End did not stop at the Exchange, but continued their course a short distance farther, along Cornhill, where turning on one side they found themselves in the precincts of Change Alley. An old writer describes that region: “The limits are easily surrounded in a minute and a half. Step out of Jonathan’s into the alley, turn your face due east, move on a few paces to Garraway’s. From thence go out at the other door, and go on still east, into Birchin Lane, and then halting at the Sword-blade bank, and facing the north, you will enter Cornhill, and visit two or three petty provinces there to the west, and thus having boxed your compass, and sailed round the stock-jobbing globe, you turn into Jonathan’s again.”

In Jonathan’s well-known coffee-house, and in its immediate neighbourhood, was assembled a large number of persons, varying in rank and appearance far more than those who were inside the Exchange. To this point the coroneted carriages had been directing their course. The occupants of some had got out and entered the coffee-house. Others remained with their brokers at the door, eager to gain certain intelligence, which was to raise or depress the market. Here too were to be seen persons in Eastern costume, and others in English dress, both however with the unmistakable features of the Jew. There were courtiers and gentlemen from the fashionable parts of the metropolis, in silk stockings and diamond-buckled shoes, with powdered wigs, frilled shirts, and swords by their sides, or quakers in broad-brimmed hats and garments of sombre hue, such as were worn by our puritan ancestors of the previous century. Here too were portly citizens with gold-headed canes and well-brushed beavers, their countenances anxious, but honest and straightforward, though many other persons were there, some in shabby-genteel costume, others in threadbare and almost ragged coats, and again, many whose sharp eager eyes and pale features showed that they had been long accustomed to the transactions of the place. The two great parties in the State might in most cases have been distinguished by the difference of their costume. The Tories, the supporters of the war, determined foes of the men then in power in France, generally retained the gay and handsome costume of their fathers, while the Whigs and Jacobinical party affected a republican simplicity, and dressed in straight-cut coats and low-crowned hats, which had been introduced in France.

We shall have to return to Jonathan’s by-and-bye, and will in the meantime go back to the Royal Exchange. Among those who were making their way towards it from the lanes which led up from the banks of the river was a person not unworthy of notice. He was a man past the meridian of life, of tall and commanding figure. The leather-like skin of his colourless face, though free from spot or blemish, was slightly wrinkled, and his somewhat massive features wore a calm and unmoved expression, which might have surprised those who could have defined the feelings agitating his bosom. No wonder that his mind was troubled. Those were anxious times for men engaged even in very limited transactions. Stephen Coppinger’s were extensive and complex. There was scarcely a pie baked in those days in which he had not a finger. He walked at a dignified pace, with a smile on his lips, and his bright eyes calm, though watchful. His dark-coloured suit of fine cloth with brass buttons was carefully brushed, a small quantity of powder only shaken on his hair, which was fastened behind in a long queue, resting on his collar. The folds of his white neck-cloth, and the frill of fine lace which appeared beneath his waistcoat, were scrupulously clean and well arranged. Silk stockings with knee breeches, and shoes with steel buttons, encased his legs and feet. In his hand he carried a thick gold-headed walking-stick, though scarcely requiring it to support his steps, while a plain cocked hat, and a spencer, for the weather was cold, completed his costume. His step was firm, his head erect, as he walked along with a dignified air, bowing to one acquaintance, nodding to another, and returning with condescension the salutations of his inferiors. He observed many other persons proceeding in the same direction, several of whom he knew, the countenances of not a few wearing that expression of anxiety which he took care his own should not exhibit. Several of them did not notice him, as, lost in thought, with their heads cast down, they picked their way over the uneven pavement.

Stephen Coppinger had scarcely reached his accustomed “walk” in the Exchange, when his acquaintance, Alderman Bycroft, bustled up to him.

“Well, friend Coppinger, you look as calm as if nothing had happened!” exclaimed the alderman; “have you not heard the news?”

“Which news?” asked the merchant in a quiet voice, without the slightest change of countenance; “so many reports are flying about that I believe none of them.”

“You could not have heard the news, or you would not look so abominably unconcerned,” exclaimed the alderman, who was a somewhat fussy excitable gentleman. “Why, the news is positively fearful! A mutiny has broken out on board the channel fleet at Spithead! They have murdered Lord Bridport and most of their officers, and threatened, if they have not everything their own way, to carry the ships over to the French. The enemy’s fleets are mustering in great force, and may be across the Channel, for what we can tell, at this moment. The Irish are in rebellion, and are certain to join them and cut all our throats.”

“Terrible, if true,” answered Mr Coppinger, with a smile, which he could afford to bestow on his excitable friend; “but I think, my dear alderman, I can correct you. The crews of the Channel fleet have undoubtedly refused to proceed to sea unless their very reasonable demands are agreed to, and I know for certain that they have treated the admiral and their officers with every respect. They will, I have no fear, therefore, when their petition is granted, return to their duty. If the French come we will give them a warm reception. In the meantime, however, I acknowledge we are likely to suffer by having our merchantmen exposed to the depredations of the enemy’s ships, and this is about the worst danger I apprehend.”

“You take things too calmly, my friend!” exclaimed the alderman. “Suppose the fleet refuses to obey orders, what are we to do? There’s the question. I am of opinion that we should call out the train-bands, the volunteers, and the militia, and man every vessel in the Thames, and sail down and capture the mutineers.”

“I suspect, my friend, that your proposed flotilla would very soon be sent to the right-about, if not to the bottom. It would be wiser to inquire into the complaints of the seamen, and to redress their grievances. Their pay was small enough at first during Charles the Second’s reign, and since then all necessary articles of subsistence have advanced fully fifty per cent, and all the men require is, that their wages may be proportionably increased. They ask also that the naval pensions may be augmented, as have those of Chelsea, to 13 pounds a year. The Greenwich pensions still remain at 7 pounds. They also beg that while in harbour they may have more liberty to go on shore, and that when seamen are wounded they may receive their pay till cured or discharged. Their other requests are really as moderate, and though I, for one, would never countenance mutiny, from my heart I believe that their demands are just.”

“Can’t see that,” answered the alderman. “In my opinion the country is going to rack and ruin. What are we to do without gold? Then we are to have more loans. We have already lent Prussia, Sardinia, and the Emperor of Austria some seven or eight millions, and are now going to make a further loan to Portugal, and for all I know to the contrary we shall soon be subsidising all the rest of Europe.”

“If this war with France is to continue, I, for my part, shall be glad if we have so many friends on our side,” observed Mr Coppinger, whose great object at the moment was to tranquillise the minds of his City friends. “We are not likely to pay money away without getting something for it.”

“Not so sure of that,” replied the alderman; “John Bull is apt to throw his cash away with his eyes shut, and that is what we have been doing for some time past. Had Lord Malmesbury been successful in his negotiation for peace, things might have been different, but what can be worse with consols down to fifty-seven, a fearful run on the Bank of England, and now a suspension of payment in specie altogether, with this dangerous mutiny of the fleet as a climax! Then look at Ireland – half the country in a state of rebellion; the people shrieking out for the assistance of the French, and cutting each other’s throats in the meantime. Then these Jacobin clubs in London and throughout all our large towns, doing their utmost to bring about a republic in England. If they could imitate the French and cut off our king’s head, they would do it. And as to the army, I am not certain that we can put confidence in it. Ah! my dear sir, the sun of England’s glory has set; that is my opinion. I may be wrong – I hope so – but that is my opinion.”

“You take too gloomy a view of the state of affairs, alderman,” said Mr Coppinger. “Things are very bad, I’ll own, but they may improve. Lord Duncan’s late victory should give us confidence. The fate of the French who landed in Pembrokeshire the other day, shows that even though our enemies may set foot on our shores, they may not gain much by their impudence. No fear about our army, that is staunch, and the navy will soon return to its duty, and then Old England will be well able to hold her own against all her enemies.”

Stephen Coppinger was anxious to get rid of the alderman without rudeness, and that worthy finding he could not frighten his friend, soon bustled off to communicate his alarm to some more excitable listener.

The merchant, however, was very far from feeling the tranquillity he exhibited. He well knew the desperate state of affairs, but at the same time it was important that the public mind should be tranquillised. He had also several bills to negotiate and other business to transact, which required his own mind to be peculiarly calm and collected. Many other persons addressed him, most of them as agitated as Alderman Bycroft. He had to get rid of them one after the other, and having despatched his own business, maintaining his usual composed manner, he quitted the Exchange.

He proceeded along Cornhill to the narrow passage which led into Change Alley, and with deliberate steps entered Jonathan’s. Every room in that once celebrated coffee-house was full. Some persons were transacting private business in the smaller rooms, while in the larger, stood eager groups of brokers and dealers, with their books in their hands, noting the various transactions in which they were engaged.

The news flying about had caused the funds to fall yet lower than on the previous day, and brokers were hurrying to and fro, receiving orders from their various constituents, some to buy, others to sell forthwith. Stephen Coppinger gave certain directions to his broker in a subdued tone. It was even with greater difficulty than in the morning that he could command his voice, then bowing to his acquaintance as he passed, he took his way back to Idol Lane.

He preserved his calm and dignified air, during his walk to his counting-house. Passing through the public office to his private room, he closed the door, and throwing himself back into his arm-chair, pressed his hands on his brow for some minutes, lost in thought. At length turning round towards his large black writing-table, and referring to some letters and other papers, he seized a pen which he mechanically mended, almost in so doing cutting through his thumb nail, and made some rapid calculations. They were not apparently satisfactory. He rang sharply a hand-bell by his side. Scarcely had the silvery sounds died away when the heavy door of the oak-panelled room slowly opened, and a clerk, with a ponderous volume under his arm, entered. He was dressed as became the managing clerk of a large establishment, with great neatness and precision, his hair being carefully powdered, though his side curls were somewhat smaller than those of his employer. His complexion was clear, with a good colour on his cheeks, which betokened sound health, while his countenance wore a peculiarly calm expression, calculated to gain the confidence of those with whom he had dealings. Roger Kyffin was highly esteemed by his principal as well as by all his subordinates. His word was, in truth, as good as Stephen Coppinger’s bond. What Roger Kyffin said Stephen Coppinger would do, was done. On the day and hour Roger Kyffin promised that cash should be paid, it was paid without fail. Stephen Coppinger had no partner. He scorned to throw responsibility on an unknown company, while, with only one exception, to no other breast than his own would he confide the secrets of his transactions. That exception was the breast of Roger Kyffin. Roger Kyffin placed the open folio before his principal, and produced a paper with the remarks he had made respecting certain entries.

“Bad!” observed Stephen Coppinger, as he ran his eye over the book and paper; “but see, these letters bring worse news. The ‘Belmont Castle’ has been taken by the enemy. The ‘Tiger’ has foundered during a hurricane in the West Indies. Jecks Tarbett and Simmons have failed; their debt is a large one. Hunter and Dove’s affairs are in an unsatisfactory condition. I don’t like Joseph Hudson’s proceedings in Change Alley; he yesterday begged that I would renew his bill. In truth, Roger Kyffin, unless matters improve…” A groan escaped from Stephen Coppinger’s bosom.

“The amount you require must be raised,” observed Roger Kyffin, taking half a turn across the room. “Leave that to me. You have so often aided friends in need, that I anticipate no difficulty in obtaining help.”

“It will be from no want of exertion on your part if you fail,” said Stephen Coppinger, brightening up slightly.

“Keep up your spirits, sir,” said Roger Kyffin. “The credit of your firm will not suffer, depend on that. I will now set out and see what can be done. I hope to bring satisfactory intelligence before evening.”

Saying this, Roger Kyffin left the room, carefully closing the door behind him. While putting on his spencer and hat, he intimated to his principal subordinate, Mr Silas Sleech, that he should probably be absent for some hours. Mr Sleech glanced after him with a pair of meaningless eyes, set in an immovable countenance, and saying, “Oh, very well,” went on with his work.

More respecting Mr Silas Sleech and his doings may possibly be mentioned.

Chapter Two.

In which Several Personages are Introduced

Roger Kyffin took his way westward. As soon as he had got out of the crowded thoroughfares, he called a coach, for in those days walking in London was a more fatiguing operation than at present. The progress of the vehicle, however, in which he took his seat was not very rapid. It was a large and lumbering affair, drawn by a pair of broken-down hacks, the asthmatic cough of one keeping in countenance the shattered knees of the other. At length he reached the door of a substantial mansion in the middle of Clifford Street. The bell was answered by a servant in sober livery.

“Is Mr Thornborough at home?” he asked, at the same time presenting a card with his name in a bold hand written on it. The servant was absent but a short time, when he returned, saying that his master would be glad to see Mr Roger Kyffin. The visitor was shown into a handsome parlour, where, seated before a fire with his buckled shoes on a footstool, was a venerable-looking gentleman, with his silvery locks slightly powdered hanging down over his shoulders. A richly-embroidered waistcoat, a plum-coloured coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, knee breeches, and black silk stockings with clocks, completed his costume. By his side sat a lady dressed in rich garments, though of somewhat sombre hue.

The white curls which appeared under her high cap showed that she was advanced in life, and the pleasant smile on her comely features betokened a kind and genial disposition. She rose from her seat, and kindly welcomed Roger Kyffin, directing the servant to place a chair for him before the fire. The old gentleman shook his hand, but pleaded age as an excuse for not rising.

“You have given us but little of your company for many a day, Mr Kyffin,” said the lady in a kind tone. “We thought you must have left London altogether.”

“No, Mrs Barbara, I have scarcely been beyond the sound of Bow Bells; but I must plead business as an excuse for my negligence. These are anxious times, and mercantile men must needs pay more than double attention to their affairs.”

“If they demand more time, undoubtedly we should give it; if not, we are robbing other matters of their due attention,” observed Mr Thornborough.

“I agree with you, sir,” answered Mr Kyffin; “I must confess, indeed, that a matter of business of great importance to a friend brought me to the west. I would ask you to allow me a few minutes that I may explain the matter to you clearly.”

“Speak on, friend, I keep no secrets from Barbara, and if she does not know all my affairs, it is through no wish on my part to hide them from her. My sister is a discreet woman, Mr Kyffin, and that’s more perhaps than can be said of all her sex.”

Mr Kyffin bowed his acquiescence in this opinion. He, then turning to the old gentleman, explained clearly the difficulties which surrounded his friend and principal, Mr Stephen Coppinger. Mr Thornborough uttered two or three exclamations as Roger Kyffin went on in his account.

“I thought that my friend Stephen had been a more prudent man,” he observed. “How could he enter into such a speculation? How could he trust such people as Hunter and Dove? Why, Roger Kyffin, you yourself should have been better informed about them. However, if we were only to undertake to assist the wise and prudent we might keep our money chests locked and our pockets buttoned up. Stephen Coppinger is an honest man, and has shown himself a kind and generous one, albeit he might not always have exhibited as much prudence, as was desirable. The amount you mention shall, however, be at his disposal. We must not let a breath of suspicion rest on his name. I have a regard for him, and his six fair daughters, and it would be cruel to allow the maidens to go out into the world without sufficient dowers or means of maintenance, whereas if Stephen Coppinger tides over the present crisis, he may leave them all well off.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Mrs Barbara, looking approvingly at her brother. “He gives good advice, and acts it, too, eh, Mr Kyffin? And now my brother has had his say I must have mine. What about the negro slave trade? We have not seen Mr Wilberforce nor any of his friends for several weeks, and my brother cannot help on the cause as he used to do.”

“It is a good cause, that will ultimately be successful,” answered Roger Kyffin; “but, my dear Mrs Barbara, like other good causes, we may have a long fight for it before we gain the day. Just now men’s minds are so engaged with our national affairs that the poor blacks are very little thought of.”

“Too true,” answered Mistress Barbara; “I wish, however, that Mr Wilberforce would call here. I want to tell him how delighted I am with his new book, which I got a few days ago – his ‘Practical View of Christianity.’ It will open the eyes, I hope, of some of the upper classes, to the hollow and unsatisfying nature of the forms to which they cling. I think, and my brother agrees with me, it’s one of the finest books on theology that has ever been written; that is to say, it is more likely to bring people to a knowledge of the truth than all the works of the greatest divines of the past and present age. Get the book and judge for yourself.”

Mr Kyffin promised to do so, and after some further conversation, he rose to take his departure. Mrs Barbara did not fail to press him to come again as soon as his occupations would allow.

“The money shall be ready for you before noon to-morrow,” said Mr Thornborough, shaking his hand. Roger Kyffin hastened back to Idol Lane. Mr Coppinger had not risen from his arm-chair since he quitted the house. The belief that his liabilities would be met without further difficulty, greatly relieved the merchant’s mind, and he thanked Roger Kyffin again and again for the important assistance afforded him.

“Say not a word about it,” answered the clerk; “if I have been useful to you, it was my duty. You found me in distress, and I shall never be able to repay the long-standing debt I owe you. Still I wish to place myself under a further obligation. I would rather have deferred speaking on the matter, but it will allow of no delay. I have to plead for a friend, ay, more than a friend – that unhappy young man – your nephew. You are mistaken as to his character. However appearances are against him. I am certain that Harry Tryon is not guilty of the crime imputed to him. Some day I shall be able to unravel the mystery. In the meantime I am ready to answer for his conduct, if you will reinstate him in the position which he so unwisely left. He has no natural love for business, I grant, but he is high-spirited and excessively sensitive, and I am therefore sure that he will not rest satisfied unless he is restored to his former position, and enabled to establish his innocence.”