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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-03-25 11:33:58 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78297-0.txt b/78297-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..463b354 --- /dev/null +++ b/78297-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5087 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78297 *** + + + + + The Love Letters + of + Mr. H. & Miss R. + + + + + The Love-Letters of + Mr. H. & Miss R. + + 1775-1779 + + EDITED BY + + GILBERT BURGESS + +[Illustration] + + CHICAGO + + STONE & KIMBALL + + MDCCCXCV + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +The strange and pathetic story that is told in the love letters that +passed between Mr. Hackman and Miss Reay, excited widespread attention +and sympathy during the spring of the year 1779, and interest in the +affair was revived in the following year by the publication of an +anonymous book in which some of these letters, in a garbled form, were +inserted. + +The originals, or copies of the originals—for Hackman was sufficiently +romantic to have kept copies of his own letters—were given to Kearsly, +the publisher, by Mr. Frederick Booth, Hackman’s brother-in-law, +in consequence of Kearsly having issued a pamphlet, on the 24th of +April, 1779, called “The Case and Memoirs of the late Revd. Mr. James +Hackman,” which was full of errors. In the _Public Advertiser_ of the +24th of April, 1779, Booth, in view of the advertised publication +of the “Case and Memoirs” by Kearsly, announced positively that no +materials for a life of Hackman could possibly be obtained except +through him, as all the necessary letters and documents were in his +possession. Croft’s edition of the letters was issued by the same +publisher in the spring of the following year. It is not quite clear +whether Booth was approached by Kearsly or by Croft; but that he +(Booth) was satisfied with the latter’s work is evident from the fact +that it elicited no further protest from him. + +Sir Herbert Croft, Bart., was born at Dunster Park, Berkshire, on +November 1, 1751. In March, 1771, he matriculated at University +College, Oxford,[1] where Scott—afterwards Lord Stowell—was his +tutor.[2] He then entered Lincoln’s Inn, but want of means did not +allow him to continue in the profession of the law, so in 1782 he +returned to Oxford, and decided for the Church. In April, 1785, he +took the degree of B.C.L., and in 1786 he received the vicarage of +Prittlewell,[3] in Essex. During his sojourn at Lincoln’s Inn, he +wrote many tracts and pamphlets; he also tried to compile an English +dictionary, but he found that £100 a year—the amount he had available +for that purpose—was hardly sufficient. + +[1] Nichols’ “Literary Illustrations,” v. 202. + +[2] “Dict. Nat. Biog.” (Stephen.) + +[3] _Gentleman’s Magazine_, 1816, pt. i. 470. + +He also wrote the life of Young for Johnson’s series of the Lives +of the Poets.[4] Croft was somewhat eccentric in the management of +his finances, and was always begging money or preferment from his +friends; there is a letter in the British Museum[5] from him to Bishop +Douglas,[6] in which he complains of having been cold-shouldered by +Pitt, whose favour he had tried to gain by offering to insert verses +in favour of that politician in a book he was writing. There is also +a letter,[7] dated 13th of October, 1796, to Bishop Douglas’ son, the +Rev. W. Douglas, written from Exeter Gaol, “the common prison—_pudet +hoc approbria_!” as Croft says, where he was imprisoned for a debt of +£40, which he hopes Mr. Douglas will send at once. Croft subsequently +lived in France with the eccentric Lady Mary Hamilton. + +[4] Among Croft’s other works were: “A Brother’s Advice to his +Sisters,” 1775. “Fanaticism and Treason,” “The Literary Fly,” 1780. +“The Abbey of Kilhampton,” 1780—a series of anticipatory epitaphs +upon prominent living personages. “Sunday Evenings,” 1784, religious +discourses, which Dr. Johnson disapproved of on account of their levity +of style (Boswell’s Johnson, Morley’s edition, iv. 231), and a curious +French work, “Horace éclairci par la ponctuation,” Paris, 1810. + +[5] Egerton MSS. 2185, fol. 172. + +[6] John Douglas, Bishop of Salisbury. (_Gent. Mag._ 1807, pt. i. 475.) + +[7] Egerton MSS. 2186, fol. 88-93. + +On the death of Chatterton, Croft obtained from the poet’s sister, +Mrs. Newton, his letters and manuscripts, and, foreseeing that the +Hackman-Reay correspondence would have a large sale, he decided to +include the Chatterton matter in the volume, which he entitled “Love +and Madness.” He clumsily put his papers into the form of a letter from +Hackman, which was marked No. 49 in the original book, and is included +in the Appendix to the present volume. The difference in the style of +this letter from that of all the others was so apparent that suspicion +fell upon the authenticity of other parts of the volume. + +John Nichols[8] mentions “Love and Madness” as having passed through +seven editions. “These letters,” he continues, “are given as the +correspondence of Mr. Hackman and Miss Reay.... They are enlivened +with a variety of anecdotes, chiefly of a literary kind. Among other +miscellaneous matters, the story of that extraordinary genius, Thomas +Chatterton, is introduced at great length, with critical observations +on his writings; an account of his publication of ‘Poems,’ said to +have been written by one Rowley, a monk, about 300 years ago; of his +other schemes of authorship, and, finally, of his unhappy exit, in the +eighteenth year of his age.... If this be all ‘borrowed personage,’ as +Mr. Walpole expressed it, it is so ingenious a fiction, that the author +will be praised, perhaps, for his abilities even by those who may find +themselves inclined to impeach his honesty.” + +[8] “Literary Illustrations,” v. 203. + +In the _Monthly Magazine_ for November, 1799, Robert Southey brought a +charge against Croft of having obtained the papers and letters relating +to Chatterton from the unfortunate poet’s sister, Mrs. Newton, under +false pretences. Croft, who was at that time in Denmark, sent a very +foolish and evasive reply to the same Magazine,[9] in which he said +that he must first arrange Southey’s abuse, for that gentleman wrote +prose somewhat like bad poetry, and poetry somewhat like bad prose. He +entirely ignored the main charge brought against him, and his vulgar +attack upon Southey brought him justly into contempt among the literary +men of the day. + +[9] _Gentleman’s Magazine_, February, March and April, 1800. + +The Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, who edited his father’s “Life and +Correspondence,” writes to Grosvenor C. Bedford, upon this subject. + +“Sir Herbert Croft had obtained possession from Mrs. Newton +(Chatterton’s sister) of all her brother’s letters and MSS. under +promise of speedily returning them; instead of which, some months +afterwards, he incorporated and published them in a pamphlet, entitled +‘Love and Madness.’ + +“At the use thus surreptitiously made of her brother’s writings, Mrs. +Newton more than once remonstrated; but, beyond the sum of £10, she +could obtain no redress. Mr. Cottle[10] and my father now took the +matter up, and the former wrote to Sir H. Croft, pointing out to him +Mrs. Newton’s reasonable claim, and urging him by a timely concession +to prevent that publicity which otherwise would follow. + +[10] A well-known Bristol bookseller. + +“He received no answer; and my father then determined to print by +subscription all Chatterton’s works, including those ascribed to +Rowley, for the benefit of Mrs. Newton and her daughter. He accordingly +sent proposals to the _Monthly Magazine_, in which he detailed the +whole case between Mrs. Newton and Sir Herbert Croft, and published +their respective letters. The public sympathised rightly on the +occasion, for a handsome subscription followed. Sir Herbert Croft was +residing in Denmark at the time these proposals were published, and he +replied to my father’s statement by a pamphlet full of much personal +abuse.” + +However, Mr. Cottle and Southey published the edition in three volumes +8vo, and the editors had the satisfaction of paying over to Mrs. +Newton and her daughter upwards of £300. + +Southey again brought charges against Croft in the _Gentlemen’s +Magazine_ for March 1800. He says “Sir Herbert does not deny his +promises to the family of after assistance, nor that when Mrs. Newton +applied for it, he required a certificate of her character from the +Clergyman of the Parish.” + +In a note to the ninth edition of “Love and Madness,” Croft excuses +himself for having pretended that Mr. Hackman had visited Bristol to +find out facts about Chatterton, by referring to an extract from the +fourteenth letter in “Love and Madness.” + +The passage he mentions is as follows: + +“Robinson Crusoe now—what nature! It affects us throughout, exactly in +the way you mentioned. But, shall I finish my dissertation? come—as +writing to you gives me so much pleasure, and as I cannot do anything +to you but write this morning, I know you will excuse me. Did you +ever hear to what Crusoe owed his existence? You remember Alexander +Selkirk’s strange sequestration at Juan Fernandez. It is mentioned, I +believe, in Walter’s account of Anson’s voyage, when Captain Woodes +Rogers met with him and brought him to England, he employed the famous +Daniel de Foe to revise his papers. That fertile genius improved upon +the materials, and composed the celebrated story of Robinson Crusoe. +The consequence was that Selkirk, who soon after made his appearance +in print, was considered as a bastard of Crusoe, with which spurious +offspring the press too often teems. In De Foe, undoubtedly, this was +not honest. Had Selkirk given him his papers, there could have been no +harm in working them up his own way. I can easily conceive a writer +making his own use of a known fact, and filling up the outlines which +have been sketched by the bold and hasty hand of fate. A moral may +be added, by such means, to a particular incident; characters may be +placed in their just and proper lights; mankind may be amused (and +amusements, sometimes, prevent crimes), or, if the story be criminal, +mankind may be bettered, through the channel of their curiosity. But I +would not be dishonest, like De Foe; nor would I pain the breast of a +single individual connected with this story.” + +Yet Croft, who thus denounces Defoe, announced subsequently that he +himself had acted with precisely the same dishonesty in the matter of +Mr. Hackman’s correspondence. A further light is thrown upon the matter +by an advertisement to the eighth edition of “The Case and Memoirs;” +the author, who, on the evidence of a rhymed lampoon in one of the +papers of the day, was one Manasseh Dawes,[11] a barrister and literary +hack, says that, being a gentleman, he wishes to keep that character +inviolate; consequently, he thinks it necessary to declare that all the +facts are genuine, as he will testify and explain, if necessary, on +an application to him at Mr. Kearsly’s (the publisher), and he hopes +that, therefore, his numerous readers will not now suppose that he has +“intruded anything on the public with intent to catch the penny of +curiosity, at the expense of truth and candour.” + +[11] _Public Advertiser_, June 3, 1779. + +When this was written Kearsly had possession of the real facts of the +case, and was able to invite investigation. + +The enormous success of “Love and Madness” tempted Croft to declare +himself the author of the Chatterton excerpt, and also to hint that +of the entire work only the outline was true. The word outline is +easily expansible, and, considering that the letter about Chatterton, +and two or three other obvious additions, formed half the volume, +he was, perhaps, justified in claiming his portion. Croft says that +he dedicates the ninth edition to Johnson, because the Doctor had +expressed his appreciation of the work. But Boswell records[12] +that Johnson censured and much disapproved of “Love and Madness,” +on account of the mingling of the fact with the fiction—that is to +say, the inclusion of the Chatterton papers among the Hackman-Reay +correspondence. + +[12] Boswell’s Johnson (Henry Morley), iv. 134. + +As several of the connecting links in the narrative are missing, I +have endeavoured to weave the letters into a coherent narrative; in +one or two instances I have been obliged to suppress certain passages, +by reason of their having been written at a time when there was a +greater license of expression than is permissible nowadays. I have +also omitted, in two of the letters, references to Chatterton which +Croft introduced to give verisimilitude to his assertion that the long +letter containing the life of the poet was written by Hackman. + +No record of Croft’s own work tallies at all with the idea that he +created such a romance. But, apart from the controversy, the story and +the letters seem to me to be a veritable “human document” of strong +interest. And, after exhaustive investigation, I am convinced that +such a document is only explainable on the grounds of a real living +correspondence and that these letters are, without doubt, those that +passed between Hackman and Miss Reay. + + _April_, 1895. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PART I + + PAGE + + +At Hinchinbrook+ 19 + + + PART II + + +In Ireland+ 75 + + + PART III + + +In London+ 117 + + +Appendix+ 183 + + + + + PART I + + _AT HINCHINBROOK_ + + +James Hackman, who figures as Mr. H. in this collection of letters, +was born at Gosport, in the year 1752. His father was a retired Naval +Lieutenant, with a modest income, which, however, was large enough to +enable him to give his son a good general education, and to send him +subsequently to St. John’s College, Cambridge. + +On leaving the University, James Hackman was apprenticed to a mercer +in his native town but soon tiring of trade, he persuaded his father +to buy him an ensigncy in the 68th Regiment of Foot. He was then +quartered upon a recruiting party at Huntingdon, where he first made +the acquaintance of the famous (or infamous) Earl of Sandwich, who +was the First Lord of the Admiralty at that time. Cradock, in his +“Memoirs,” writes that a friend of Lord Sandwich’s was a candidate for +the Chemistry Professorship at Cambridge, and that, as Cradock had been +solicited for his vote and interest, the Earl invited him to travel +in his coach, and to stay with him at his seat, Hinchinbrook, on his +return journey to London. Cradock continues: + +“We went together and passed a very pleasant evening with a numerous +party at the Rose Tavern, and having voted next morning, we returned to +Hinchinbrook. Lord Sandwich, on meeting his neighbour, Major Reynolds, +in the gateway with another officer, insisted on their alighting, and +taking a family dinner at his house. The Major apologised for his +intrusion, hoped his Lordship would excuse the liberty he had taken in +bringing a brother officer with him, and then introduced his friend, +Captain Hackman. The party merely consisted of Lord Sandwich, Miss Ray, +and a lady with her, the two gentlemen, and myself. Dinner was soon +served, and coffee called for. We played two rubbers at whist. Lord +Sandwich held with Miss Ray, against Major Reynolds and myself; Captain +Hackman requesting that he might only look over the cards.” + +The Miss Ray (or Reay, as the name should be written) mentioned by +Cradock, was living at Hinchinbrook, under the protection of Lord +Sandwich, to the easily imaginable distress of Lady Sandwich. + +At the age of fourteen, Miss Reay had been apprenticed to a +mantua-maker in Clerkenwell, and was subsequently introduced by her +father, a stay-maker, to a customer of his, a woman of infamous +profession, who, thinking that the girl was exceedingly pretty and +intelligent, mentioned her to the dissolute Lord Sandwich. The Earl +fell in love with Miss Reay the moment he saw her, and immediately took +her under his protection. He gave her a good education, and had her +thoroughly trained in music, of which art he was passionately fond; he +himself, Cradock tells us, was no mean performer upon the kettle-drums! +Oratorios and concerts were frequently given at Hinchinbrook, in which +Miss Reay, owing to her beautiful voice, took part; her personal charm +and manner must have been exceptionally attractive, for it is related +that she even captivated a Bishop’s lady, who was terribly exercised +at finding herself seated directly opposite to her at a dinner-party. +Hackman was so fascinated by Miss Reay that he could not keep away +from the neighbourhood of Hinchinbrook, and, being a handsome, +high-spirited young fellow, he soon became a welcome and frequent guest +at the house. The result was that he fell desperately in love with his +host’s mistress, and it was not long before his love was reciprocated, +and a clandestine correspondence ensued. The first two letters he sent +to Miss Reay are written from Huntingdon. + + * * * * * + + _Dec. 4, 1775._ + ++Dear Martha+, + +Ten thousand thanks for your billet by my corporal Trim yesterday. The +fellow seemed happy to have been the bearer of it, because he saw it +made _me_ happy. He will be as good a soldier to Cupid as to Mars, I +dare say. And Mars and Cupid are not now to begin their acquaintance, +you know. Whichever he serve, you may command him of course, without a +compliment; for Venus, I need not tell _you_, is the mother of Cupid, +and mistress of Mars. + +At present the drum is beating up under my window for volunteers to +Bacchus. In plain English, the drum tells me dinner is ready; for a +drum gives us bloody-minded heroes an appetite for eating, as well as +for fighting; nay, we get up by the beat of it, and it every night +sends, or ought to send, us to bed and to sleep. To-night it will be +late before I get to one or the other, I fancy—indeed, the thoughts +of you would prevent the latter. But the next disgrace to refusing a +challenge, is refusing a toast. The merit of a jolly fellow and of a +sponge is much about the same. For my part, no glass of any liquor +tastes as it should to me, but when I kiss my Martha on the rim. + +Adieu—whatever hard service I may have after dinner, no quantity +of wine shall make me let drop or forget my appointment with you +to-morrow. We certainly were not seen yesterday, for reasons I will +give you. + +Though you should persist in never being mine, + + Ever, ever + + Yours. + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec._ 6th, 1775. + ++My Dearest Martha+, + +No, I will not take advantage of the sweet, reluctant, amorous +confession which your candour gave me yesterday. If to make me happy be +to make my Martha otherwise; then, happiness, I’ll none of thee. + +And yet I _could_ argue. Suppose he _has_ bred you up—suppose you +_do_ owe your numerous accomplishments, under genius, to him—are you +therefore his property? Is it as if a horse that he has bred up should +refuse to carry him? Suppose you therefore _are_ his property—will the +fidelity of so many years weigh nothing in the scale of gratitude? + +Years—why, can obligations (suppose they had _not_ been repaid an +hundred fold) do away the unnatural disparity of years? Can they bid +five-and-fifty stand still (the least that you could ask), and wait for +five-and-twenty? Many women have the same obligations (if indeed there +be many of the _same_ accomplishments) to their fathers. They have the +additional obligation to them (if, indeed, it be an obligation) of +existence. The disparity of years is sometimes even less. But, must +they therefore take their fathers to their bosoms? Must the jessamine +fling its tender arms around the dying elm? + +To my little fortunes you are no stranger. Will you share them with me? +And you shall tell his Lordship that gratitude taught you to pay every +duty to him, till love taught you there were other duties which you +owed to H. + +Gracious heaven, that you _would_ pay them! + +But, did I not say I would not take advantage? I will not. I will +even remind you of your children; to whom I, alas! could only show at +present the _affection_ of a father. + +Martha weighs us in the scales. If gratitude out-balance love—so. + +If you command it, I swear by love, I’ll join my regiment to-morrow. + +If love prevail, and insist upon his dues, you shall declare the +victory and the prize. I _will_ take no advantage. + +Think over this. Neither will I take you by surprise. Sleep upon +it, before you return your answer. Trim shall make the old excuse +to-morrow. And, thank heaven! to-night you sleep alone. + +Why did you sing that sweet song yesterday, though I so pressed you? +Those words and your voice were too much. + +No words can say how much I am yours. + + * * * * * + +Omiah, who is mentioned by Miss Reay in the following letter was a +native of Otaheite, who was brought to England in 1775 by Captain +Ferneaux in the _Adventure_, the consort of Captain Cook’s ship the +_Resolution_. Lord Sandwich took him up, and showed him all the sights. +He went to Court and was introduced to George III., with whom he shook +hands and said “How do you do?” + + * * * * * + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Dec. 7, 1775_. + ++My Dear H.+ + +Here has been a sad piece of work ever since I received yours +yesterday. But don’t be alarmed. We are not discovered to the prophane. +Our tender tale is only known to—(whom does your fear suggest?)—to love +and gratitude, my H. And they ought both, for twenty reasons, to be +_your_ friends, I am sure. + +They have been trying your cause, ever since the departure of honest +Trim yesterday. Love, though in my opinion not so blind, is as good +a justice as Sir John Fielding. I argued the matter stoutly, my head +on his lordship’s side of the question, my heart on yours. At last +they seemed to say, as if the oath of allegiance, which I had taken to +gratitude, at a time when, Heaven knows, I had never heard of love, +should be void, and I should be at full liberty to devote myself, body +and soul, to—but call on me to-morrow before dinner, and I’ll tell +you their final judgment. This I will tell you now—love sent you the +tenderest wishes, and gratitude said I could never pay you all I owe +you for your noble letter of yesterday. + +Yet—oh, my H. think not meanly of me ever for this. Do not _you_ turn +advocate against me. I will not pain you—’tis impossible you ever +should. + +Come then to-morrow: and surely Omiah will not murder love! Yet I +thought the other day he caught our eyes conversing. Eyes speak a +language all can understand. But is a child of Nature to nip in the +bud that favourite passion which his mother Nature planted, and still +tends? What will Oberea and her coterie say to this, Omiah, when you +return from making the tour of the globe? They’ll blackball you, depend +on it. + +What would Rousseau say to it, my H.? + +You shall tell me to-morrow. I will not write another word, lest +conscience, who is just now looking over my left shoulder, should +snatch my pen, and scratch out _to-morrow_. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec. 7, 1775_. + ++My Dearest Soul+, + +I hope to heaven Trim will be able to get this to you to-night. Not I +only, but my whole future life, shall thank you for the dear sheet of +paper I have just received. Blessings, blessings! But I could write and +explain and offer up vows and prayers till the happy hour arrives. + +Yet, hear me, Martha. If I have thus far deserved your love, I will +deserve it still. As a proof I have not hitherto pressed you for +anything conscience disapproves: you shall not do to-morrow what +conscience disapproves. You shall not make me happy (oh, how supremely +blest!) under the roof of your benefactor and my host. It were not +honourable. Our love, the inexorable tyrant of our hearts, claims his +sacrifices, but does not bid us insult his Lordship’s walls with it. +How civilly did he invite me to Hinchinbrook in October last, though an +unknown recruiting officer! How politely himself first introduced me to +himself! Often has the recollection made me struggle with my passion. +Still it shall restrain it on this side honour. + +So far from triumphing or insulting, heaven knows—if Lord Sandwich +indeed love you, if indeed it be aught beside the natural preference +which age gives to youth—heaven knows how much I pity him. Yet, as I +have either said or written before, it is only the pity I should feel +for a father whose affections were unfortunately and unnaturally fixed +upon his own daughter. + +Were I your seducer, Martha, and not your lover, I should not write +thus, nor should I have talked or acted, or written as I have. Tell +it not in Gath, nor publish it in the streets of Askalon, lest the +Philistines should be upon me. I should be drummed out of my regiment +for a traitor to intrigue. And can you really imagine I think so +meanly of your sex? Surely you cannot imagine I think so meanly of you. +Why, then, the conclusion of your last letter but one? A word thereon. + +Take men and women in the lump, the villany of those and the weakness +of these—I maintain it to be less wonderful that an hundred or so +should fall in the world, than that even one should stand. Is it +strange the serpent conquered Eve? The devil against a woman is fearful +odds. He has conquered men, women’s conquerors; he has made even angels +fall. + +Oh, then, ye parents, be merciful in your wrath. Join not the base +betrayers of your children, drive not your children to the bottom of +the precipice, because the villains have driven them half way down, +where (see, see!) many have stopped themselves from falling further +by catching hold of some straggling virtue or another which decks the +steep-down rock. Oh, do not force their weak hands from their hold, +their last, last hold! The descent from crime to crime is natural, +perpendicular, headlong enough of itself; do not increase it. + +“Can women, then, no way but backward fall?” + +Shall I ask your pardon for all this, Martha? No, there is no occasion, +you say. + +But to-morrow, for _to-morrow_ led me out of my strait path over this +fearful precipice, where I, for my part, trembled every step I took +lest I should topple down headlong. Glad am I to be once more on +_plain_ ground again with my Martha. + +To-morrow, about eleven, I’ll be with you; but let me find you in +your riding-dress and your mare ready. I have laid a plan, to which +neither honour nor delicacy (and I always consult both before I propose +anything to _you_) can make the least objection. This once, trust to +me: I’ll explain all to-morrow. Pray be ready in your _riding-dress_. +Need I add, in that you know I think becomes you most? No, love would +have whispered that. + +Love shall be of our party. He shall not suffer the cold to approach +you; he shall spread his wings over your bosom; he shall nestle in your +dear arms, he shall. + +When will to-morrow come? What torturing dreams must I not bear +to-night? + +I send you some lines which I picked up somewhere, I forget where. But +I don’t think them much amiss. + + + CELIA’S PICTURE. + + To paint my Celia, I’d devise + Two summer suns in place of eyes; + Two lunar orbs should then be laid + Upon the bosom of the maid; + Bright Berenice’s auburn hair + Should, where it ought, adorn my fair; + Nay, all the signs in heaven should prove + But tokens of my wond’rous love. + All, did I say? Yes, all, save one; + Her yielding waist should want a zone. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec. 8, 1775_. + +Then I release my dearest soul from her promise about to-day. If you +do not see that all which _he_ can claim by gratitude, I doubly claim +by love, I have done, and will for ever have done. I would purchase my +happiness at any price, but at the expense of yours. + +Look over my letters, think over my conduct, consult your own heart, +and read these two long letters of your writing, which I return you. +Then, tell me whether we love or not. And, if we love (as witness +both our hearts), shall gratitude, _cold_ gratitude, bear away the +heavenly prize that’s only due to love like ours? Shall my right be +acknowledged, and must he possess the casket? Shall I have your soul, +and shall he have your hand, your eyes, your bosom, your lips, your—— + +Gracious God of Love! I can neither write nor think. Send one line, +half a line to + + Your own, own + + H. + + * * * * * + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Dec. 10, 1775_. + +Your two letters of the day before yesterday, and what you said to me +yesterday in my dressing-room, have drove me mad. To offer to sell +out, and take the other step to get money for us both, was not kind. +You know how such tenderness distracts me. As to marrying me, that you +should not do upon any account. Shall the man I value be pointed at +and hooted for selling himself to a Lord, for a commission, or some +such thing, to marry his cast mistress? My soul is above my situation. +Besides, I will not take advantage, Mr. Hackman, of what may be +only perhaps (excuse me) a youthful passion. After a more intimate +acquaintance with me of a week or ten days, your opinion of me might +very much change. And yet, you _may_ love as sincerely as I—— + +But I will transcribe you a song which I do not believe you ever heard +me sing, though it is my favourite. It is said to be an old Scots +ballad, nor is it generally known that Lady A. L. wrote it. Since we +have understood each other, I have never sung it before you, because it +is so descriptive of our situation, how much more so since your cruelly +kind proposal of yesterday! I wept, like an infant over it this morning. + + + AULD ROBIN GRAY. + + When the sheep are in fold, and the cows are at home, + And all the weary world to rest is gone, + The woes of my heart fall in showers from mine e’e + While my good man lays sound by me. + + Young Jamie lov’d me well, and he sought me for his bride, + He had but a crown, he had no more beside; + To make the crown a pound, young Jamie went to sea, + And the crown and the pound were both for me, + He had na been gone but a year and a day, + When my father broke his arm, and our cow was stole away; + When my mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea, + And auld Robin Gray came wooing to me. + + My father could na work, and my mother could na spin, + I toiled night and day, but their bread I could na win; + Auld Rob maintain’d them both, and, with tears in his e’e, + Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, oh! marry me.” + + My heart it said no, and I wish’d for Jamie back, + But the wind it blew sore, and his ship prov’d a wreck; + His ship prov’d a wreck: Ah! why did not Jenny dee! + Why was she left to cry “Woe is me!” + + My father argu’d sore, though my mother did na speak; + She look’d in my face till my heart was fit to break; + So auld Robin got my hand, but my heart was in the sea, + And now Robin Gray is good man to me. + + I had na been a wife but of weeks only four, + When sitting right mournfully at my own door, + I saw my Jamie’s ghost, for I could not think ’twas he, + Till he said, “Jenny, I’m come home to marry thee.” + + Sore did we weep, and little did we say, + We took but one kiss, then tore ourselves away; + I wish I was dead, but I am not like to dee, + But long shall be left to cry “Woe is me!” + + I gang like a ghost, and I do not care to spin, + I fain would think on Jamie, but that would be a sin; + must e’en do my best a good wife to be, + For auld Robin Gray has been kind to me. + +My poor eyes will only suffer me to add, for God’s sake, let me see my +_Jamie_ to-morrow. Your name also is Jamie. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec. 13, 1775_. + ++My Life and Soul!+ + +But I will never more use any preface of this sort, and I beg you will +not. A correspondence begins with dear, then my dear, dearest, my +dearest, and so on, till at last panting language toils after us in +vain. + +No language can explain my feelings. Oh, M. yesterday, yesterday! +Language, thou liest; there is no such word as _satiety_, positively +no such word. Oh thou, beyond my warmest dreams bewitching! What +charms! What—— + +But words would poorly paint our joys. When, when?—yet _you_ shall +order, govern everything. Only remember, I am _sure_ of those we trust. + +Are you now convinced that Heaven made us for each other? By that +Heaven, by the paradise of your dear arms, I will be only yours! + +Have I written sense? I know not what I write. This scrap of paper (it +is all I can find) will hold a line or two more. I must fill it up to +say that, whatever evils envious fate designed me, after those few +hours of yesterday, I never will complain nor murmur. + +Misfortune, I defy thee now. M. loves me, and H.’s soul has its content +most absolute. No other joy like this succeeds in unknown fate. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec. 24, 1775_. + +Talk not to me of the new year. I am a new man. I will be sworn to it I +am not the same identical James Hackman that I was three months ago. +You have created me—yes, I know what I say—created me anew. + +As to thanking you for the bliss I taste with you, to attempt it would +be idle. What thanks can express the Heaven of Heavens!—— + +But I will obey you in not giving such a loose to my pen as I gave the +day before yesterday. That letter, and the verses it contained, which +were certainly too highly coloured, pray commit to the flames. Yet, +pray too, as I begged you yesterday, do not imagine I thought less +chastely of you because I wrote them. By Heaven! I believe your mind as +chaste as the snow which, while I write, is driving against my window. +You know not _what_ I think of you. One time, perhaps, you may. + +The lines I repeated to you this morning are not mine. I think of them +quite as you do. Surely an additional merit in them is, that to the +uninitiated, in whom they might, perhaps, raise improper ideas, they +are _totally unintelligible_. + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Christmas Day, 1775_. + +My old friend the Corporal looked as if he had been tarred and +feathered yesterday, when he arrived with your _dear_ billet. Omiah +took up the sugar-caster, when he saw him through the parlour window, +and powdered a fresh slice of pudding, by way of _painting_ the snowy +Corporal. Omiah’s simplicity is certainly very diverting, but I should +like him better, and take more pains with him, if I did not think +he suspected something. The other day I am sure he came to spy the +nakedness of the land. Thank heaven! our caution prevented him. + +Respecting the poetry which you repeated to me the other day, I know +not whether, as you say, those to whom it could do any harm could +possibly understand it. For _uninitiated_ means, I believe, not yet +admitted into the mysteries, those who have not yet taken the veil; +or, _I_ should rather say, those who have not yet thrown off the veil. +Why was I not permitted by my destiny to keep on mine, till my H., my +_Mars_, _seized me in his ardent arms_? How gladly _to his_ arms would +I have given up my very soul! + +Cruel fortune, that it cannot be so to-day! But we forgot, when we +fixed on to-day, that it would be Christmas Day. I must do penance at +a most _unpleasant_ dinner, as indeed is every meal and every scene +when you are absent, and that, without the consolation of having first +enjoyed your company. To-morrow, however, at the usual time and place. + +Your discontinuing your visits here, since the first day of our +happiness, gratifies the delicacy of us both. Yet, may it not, my +H., raise suspicions elsewhere? Your agreeable qualities were too +conspicuous not to make you missed. Yet, you are the best judge. + +My poor, innocent, helpless babes! Were it not on your account, +your mother would not _act_ the part she does. What is Mrs. Yates’s +sustaining a character well for _one_ evening? Is it so trying as to +play a part, and a base one too, morning, noon, and night? _Night!_ But +I will not make my H. uneasy. + +At least, allow that I have written you a long scrawl. Behold, I have +sent you a tolerable good substitute for myself. It is reckoned very +like. I need not beg you not to show it. Only remember, the painter’s +Martha is not to rob your own Martha of a certain quantity of things +called and known by the name of kisses, which I humbly conceive to be +her due, though she has been disappointed of them to-day. + +So, having nothing further to add at present, and the post being just +going out, I remain with all truth, + + Dear Sir, + Your most humble servant, + +Martha+. + +There is a pretty conclusion for you. Am I not a good girl? I shall +become a most elegant correspondent in time, I see. This paragraph is +the postscript, you know, and should therefore have been introduced by +a well-flourished P.S., the Sir Clement Cottrel upon these occasions. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Dec. 28, 1775_. + +Your condescension in removing my most _groundless_ cause of jealousy +yesterday was more than I deserved. How I exposed myself by my violence +with you! But, I tell you, my passions are all gunpowder. Though, +thank God! no Othello yet am I. + + One not easily jealous; but, being wrought, + Perplex’d in the extreme. + +and that God knows how I love you, worship you, idolise you. + +How _could_ I think you particular to such a thing as B.? You said you +forgave me to-day, and I hope you did. Let me have it again from your +own dear lips to-morrow, instead of the next day. Everything shall be +ready, and the guitar, which I wrote for, is come down, and I will +bring the song and you shall sing it, and play it, and I will beg you +to forgive me, and you shall forgive me, and five hundred ands besides. + +Why, I would be jealous of this sheet of paper, if you kissed it with +too much rapture. + +What a fool! No, my Martha, rather say what a lover! + +Many thanks for your picture. It _is_ like. Accept this proof that I +have examined it. + + ’Tis true, creative man, thine art can teach + The living picture every thing but speech! + True, thou hast drawn her, as she is, all fair, + Divinely fair! her lips, her eyes, her hair! + Full well I know the smile upon that face, + Full well I know those features’ every grace! + But, what is this, my Martha’s mortal part, + There _is_ a subject beggars all thine art; + Paint but her _mind_, by Heav’n! and thou shalt be, + Shalt be my more than pagan deity. + Nature may possibly have cast, of _old_, + Some other beauty in as fair a mould; + But all in vain you’ll search the world to find + Another beauty with so fair a mind. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Jan. 1, 1776_. + +Lest I should not see you this morning, I will scribble this before I +mount honest Crop, that I may leave it for you. + +This is a new year. May every day of it be happy to my Martha. May—but +do not you know there is not a wish of bliss I do not wish you? + +A _new_ year, I like not this word. There may be new lovers. I lie, +there may not. Martha will never change her H., I am sure she will +never change him for a truer lover. + +A new year—’76. Where shall we be in ’77? Where in ’78? Where in ’79? +Where in ’80? + +In misery or bliss, in life or death, in heaven or hell, wherever +_you_ are, there may H. be also! + +The soldier whom you desired me to beg off, returns thanks to his +unknown benefactress. Discipline must be kept up in our way; but I am +sure you will do me the justice to believe I am no otherwise a friend +to it. + + * * * * * + +The closing paragraph of this letter contains an instance of Miss +Reay’s kindness of heart. She was never liked in London, owing to her +connection with the unpopular Lord Sandwich, and she was accused of +selling appointments in the Navy. In 1773, Lord Sandwich brought an +action against the _Evening Post_, for having made a similar accusation +against him, and obtained £2000 damages. In a contemporary pamphlet +there is a story bearing on this point, told about Miss Reay’s kindly +intercession with the Earl on behalf of a much neglected naval officer. +This unfortunate gentleman had been a lieutenant for over thirty years, +and was complaining one day to a friend about the little prospect he +had of promotion. His friend advised him to write to Miss Reay, which +he accordingly did, with the result that she placed his letter before +the Earl, with the emphatic remark that thirty years’ service, in her +apprehension, gave an officer a better title to promotion than his +being the son of a Duke. + + * * * * * + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Feb. 8, 1776_. + +Since the thaw sent me from Hinchinbrook the day before yesterday, +I have written four times to you, and believe verily I shall write +four-and-forty times to you in the next four days. The bliss I have +enjoyed with you these three weeks has increased not diminished my +affection. Three weeks and more in the same house with my Martha!—it +was more than I deserved. And yet to be obliged to resign you every +night to another! By these eyes, by your still dearer eyes, I do not +think I slept three hours during the whole three weeks. Yet, yet, ’twas +bliss. How lucky that I was pressed to stay at Hinchinbrook the night +the snow set in! Would it had snowed till doomsday! But then you must +have been _his_ every night till doomsday. Now my happy time may come. + +Though I had not strength to resist when under the same roof with you, +ever since we parted the recollection that it was _his_ roof has made +me miserable. Whimsical that he should bid _you_ press me, when I at +first refused his solicitation. Is H. guilty of a breach of hospitality? + +I must not question. I must not think. I must not write. But we will +meet, as we fixed. + +Does Robin Gray suspect? Suspect! And is H. a subject for suspicion? + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Feb. 16, 1776_. + +Every time I see you I discover some new charm, some new +accomplishment. Before heaven, there was not a tittle of flattery in +what I told you yesterday. Nothing _can_ be flattery which I say of +you, for no invention, no poetry, no anything can come up to what I +_think_ of you. + +One of our kings said of the citizens of his good city of London, +that when he considered their riches, he was in admiration at their +understandings; when he considered their understandings, he was in +admiration at their riches. Just so do I with regard to your person +and your mind, but for a different reason. Nature was in one of her +extravagant moods when she put you together. She might have made two +captivating women out of you—by my soul, half-a-dozen! Your turn for +music and excellence in it would be a sufficient stock of charms for +the most disagreeable woman to set up with in life. Music has charms to +do things most incredible; music—— + +Now shall I, with the good-humoured, digressive pen of our favourite +Montaigne in his entertaining Essays, begin with love, and end with a +treatise upon the gamut? + +Yet to talk of music is to talk of you. Martha and music are the same. +What is music _without_ you? And harmony has tuned your mind, your +person, your every look and word and action. + +Observe, when I write to you I never pretend to write sense. I have no +head; you have made me all heart from top to bottom. Sense—why, I am +out of my senses, and have been these six weeks. Were it possible my +scrawls to you could ever be read by any one but you I should be called +a madman. I certainly am either curst or blest (I know not which) with +passions wild as the torrent’s roar. Notwithstanding I take this simile +from water, the element out of which I am formed is fire. Swift had +water in his brain. I have a burning coal of fire; your hand can light +it up to rapture, rage, or madness. Men, real men, have never been +wild enough for my admiration; it has wandered into the ideal world +of fancy. Othello (but he should have put _himself_ to death in his +wife’s sight, _not_ his wife), Zanga, are _my_ heroes. Milk-and-water +passions are like sentimental comedy. Give me (you see how, like your +friend Montaigne, I strip myself of my skin, and show you all my veins +and arteries, even the playing of my heart), give _me_, I say, tragedy, +affecting tragedy, in the world, as well as in the theatre. I would +massacre all mankind sooner than lose you. + + This is mere madness; + And thus awhile the fit will work on him; + Anon, as patient as the female dove + When that her golden couplets are disclosed, + His silence will sit drooping. + +Inconsistent being! While I am ranting thus about tragedy and blood +and murder, behold, I am as weak as a woman. My tears flow at but the +idea of losing you; yes, they do not drop only, they pour. I sob like +a child. Is this Othello? Is this Zanga? We know not what we are, nor +what we may become. + +This I know, that I am and ever will be yours and only yours. + +I send you Ossian. You will see what a favourite he is with me by some +drawings and pieces of (what your partiality will call) poetry, which +accompany the bard of other times. Should you quit this world before +me, which fate forbid, often shall I hear your spirit (if I can be weak +enough to survive you) calling me from the low-sailing cloud of night. +They abuse Macpherson for calling them translations. If he alone be the +author of them, why does he not say so, and claim the prize of fame; +I protest _I_ would. They who do not refuse their admiration to the +compositions, still think themselves justified to abuse Macpherson, for +pretending _not_ to be the author of what they still admire. Is not +this strange? + +As we could not meet this morning (how long must our meetings depend on +others, and not on ourselves?) I was determined, you see, to have a +long conversation with you. + +Pray seal, in future, with better wax, and more care. Something colder +than one of my kisses might have thawed the seal of yesterday. But I +will not talk of _thawing_. Had the frost and snow continued, I had +still been with you at Hinchinbrook. + +The remainder of this (my second sheet of paper, observe) shall be +filled with what I think a valuable curiosity. The officer whom you +saw with me on Sunday, is lately come from America. He gave it me, and +assures me it is original. It will explain itself. Would I might be in +your dear, little, enchanted dressing-room, while you read it!— + + + _A Speech of a Shawanese Chief to Lord Dunmore._ + +“I appeal to any white man to-day, if ever he entered Logan’s cabin +hungry, and he gave him not meat; if he ever came cold or naked, and +I gave him not clothing. During the last long and bloody war, Logan +remained idle, ignominious, in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such +was my love of the whites, that those of mine own country pointed at +me as they passed by, and said ‘Logan is the friend of white men.’ I +had even thought to live with you. But the injuries of one among you +did away that thought, and dragged me from my cabin of peace. Colonel +Cressop, the last spring, in cold blood, cut off all the relations of +Logan, sparing neither women nor children. There runs not a drop of +the blood of Logan in the veins of any human creature. This called on +me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. Revenge has been +fully glutted. + +“For my country—I rejoice at the beams of peace. But, harbour not the +thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will +not turn his heel to save his life. + +“Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one.” + + * * * * * + +In the following letter there was an obvious addition by Croft, which I +have already noticed in the Introduction. + + * * * * * + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Feb. 22, 1776_. + +How silly we were, both of us, not to recollect your favourite Jenny? +and did not Jamie think of her either? + + ... Though my mother did na speak, + She look’d in my face, till my heart was fit to break. + +Was not this exactly the instance we wanted? + +Something more has occurred to me on the same subject. Rather than not +write to you, or than write to you as _descriptively_ as recollection +sometimes tempts me, I know you would have me write nonsense. + +In Hervey’s “Meditations” are two passages as fine as they are simple +and natural. + +“A beam or two finds its way through the grates, and reflects a feeble +glimmer from the nails of the coffins.” “Should the haggard skeleton +lift a clattering hand.” In the latter I know not whether the epithet +_haggard_ might not be spared. + +Governor Holwell, in the account of the sufferings at the black hole at +Calcutta, when he speaks of the length of time he supported Nature by +catching the drops, occasioned by the heat, which fell from his head +and face, adds these words—“You cannot imagine how unhappy I was when +any one of them escaped my tongue!” What a scene! The happiness, the +existence of a fellow-creature, dependent upon being able to catch +a drop of his own sweat! Shakspeare’s fancy could not have invented, +nor ever did invent, any thing more sublime; for this is Nature, and +Nature itself is sublimity. People write _upon_ a particular situation; +they do not put themselves _in_ the situation. We only see the writer, +sitting in his study, and working up a story to amuse or to frighten; +not the identical Tom Jones, not Macbeth himself. + +Can you become the very being you describe? Can you look round, and +mark only that which strikes in your new character, and forget all +which struck in your own? Can you bid your comfortable study be the +prison of innocence, or the house of mourning? Can you transform your +garret of indigence into the palace of pleasure? If you cannot, you +had better clean shoes than endeavour by writings to interest the +imagination. We cannot even bear to see an author only peeping over the +top of every page to observe how we like him. The player I would call a +corporal actor, the writer a mental actor. Garrick would in vain have +put his face and his body in all the situations of Lear, if Shakspeare +had not before put his mind in them all. In a thousand instances we +have nothing to do but to copy Nature, if we can only get her to sit +to our pencil. And yet how few of the most eminent masters are happy +enough to hit off her difficult face exactly! + +Every person of taste would have been certain that Mr. Holwell was one +of the sufferers in the black hole, only from the short passage I have +noticed. + + * * * * * + +Faldoni and Teresa might have been prevented from making proselytes, if +they ever have made any, by working up their most affecting story so +as to take off the edge of the dangerous example. But not in the way +Mr. Jerningham has done it, who tells us, not less intelligibly than +pathetically. + + All-ruling love, the god of youth, possess’d + Entire dominion of Faldoni’s breast; + An equal flame did sympathy impart + (A flame destructive) to Teresa’s heart: + As on one stem two opening flowers respire, + So grew their life (entwin’d) on one desire. + +Are you not charmed? Perhaps you never saw the poem. I have it here, +and will bring it you as a curiosity. The melancholy tale will +not take up three words, though Mr. J. has bestowed upon it 335 +melancholy lines. The catastrophe happened near Lyons, in the month of +June, 1770. Two lovers (Faldoni and Teresa Meunier) meeting with an +invincible obstacle to their union, determined to put an end to their +existence with pistols. The place they chose for the execution of their +terrible project was a chapel that stood at a little distance from the +house. They even decorated the altar for the occasion. They paid a +particular attention to their own dress. Teresa was dressed in white, +with rose-coloured ribbands. The same coloured ribbands were tied to +the pistols. Each held the ribband that was fastened to the other’s +trigger, which they drew at a certain signal. + +Arria and Pætus (says Voltaire) set the example; but then it must be +considered they were condemned to death by a tyrant. Whereas love was +the only inventor and perpetrator of this deed. + +Yet, while I talk of taking off the dangerous edge of their example, +they have almost listed me under their bloody banners. + +On looking over the sermon I have written, I recollect a curious +anecdote of Selkirk. + +(By-the-bye, Wilkes, I suppose, would say that none but a Scotchman +could have lived so many years upon a desert island.) + +He tamed a great number of kids for society, and with them and the +numerous offspring of two or three cats that had been left with him, he +used often to dance. From all which my inference is this—Martha will +not surely deprive herself of H.’s society, but will let him find her +_there_ to-morrow, especially since, in Mr. J.’s _expressive_ language: + + As on one stem two opening flowers respire, + So grow our lives (entwin’d) on one desire. + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Feb. 23, 1776_. + +Where were you this morning, my life? I should have been froze to death +I believe with the cold, if I had not been waiting for _you_. I am +uneasy, very uneasy. What could prevent you? You own appointment, too. +Why not write, if you could not come? Then, I had a dream last night, a +sad dream, my H. + + ... For thee I fear, my love; + Such ghastly dreams last night surprised my soul. + +You may reply, perhaps, with my favourite Iphis— + + Heed not these black illusions of the night, + The mockings of unquiet slumbers. + +Alas! I cannot help it. I am a weak woman, not a soldier. + +I thought you had a duel with a person whom we have agreed never to +mention. I thought you killed each other. I not only saw his sword, I +_heard_ it pass through my H.’s body. I saw you both die; and with you +love and gratitude. Who is there, thought I, to mourn for Martha! Not +one! + +You may call me foolish; but I am uneasy, miserable, wretched! Indeed, +indeed I am. For God’s sake, let me hear from you! + + + _To MR. HACKMAN_. + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Feb. 24, 1776_. + +That business, as I told you it would last night, obliges him (Lord +Sandwich) to go to town. I am to follow for the winter. Now, my H. for +the royal black bob and the bit of chalk; or for any better scheme you +will plan. Let me know, to-morrow, where you think Lady Grosvenor’s +scheme will be most practicable on the road, and there I will take +care to stop. I take my Bible oath I would not deceive you, and more +welcome shall you be to my longing arms than all the Dukes or Princes +in Christendom. If I am not happy for one whole night in my life, it +will now be your fault. + +Is not this kind and thoughtful? Why did it never occur to you, so +often as we have talked of my being obliged to leave this dear place—to +me _most_ dear, since it has been the scene of my acquaintance, my +happiness, with H. + +But, am I to leave behind me that dearest H.? Surely your recruiting +business must be nearly over now. You _must_ go to town. Though things +cannot often be contrived at the Admiralty, they may, they _may_—they +_shall_ happen elsewhere. + +Fail not to-morrow, and do not laugh at me any more about my dream. If +it was a proof of my weakness, it was a proof also of my love. + +I wish the day on which I am to set out from hence could be conjured +about a month further back or so. Now, you ask _why_? Look in your last +year’s almanack. Was not the _shortest day_ somewhere about that time? +Come give me a kiss for that, I am sure I deserve it. Oh! fye, Mr. H., +not twenty. You are too generous in your payments. I must insist upon +returning you the overplus the next time we meet—that is to-morrow, you +know. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Huntingdon+, _Feb. 26, 1776_. + +Why will not the wished-for day, or rather night, arrive? And here, I +have not seen you since I know not when, not for two whole days. + +But I wrote you a long letter yesterday why it would be dangerous to +meet; and all in rhyme. The beginning, I assure you, was not poetry, +but truth. If the conclusion was coloured too highly, you must excuse +it. The pencil of love executed it, and the sly rogue will indulge +himself sometimes. Let the time come, I will convince you his pencil +did not much exaggerate. + +Just now I was thinking of your birthday, about which I asked you the +other day. It is droll that yours and mine should be so near together. +And thus I observe thereon: + + Your poets, cunning rogues, pretend + That men are made of clay; + And that the heavenly potters make + Some five or six a day. + + No wonder, Martha, I and you + Don’t quite detest each other; + Or that my soul is link’d to yours, + As if it were its brother: + + For in one year we both were made, + Nay almost in one day + So, ten to one, we both came from + One common heap of clay. + + What? If I were not cast in near + So fine a mould as you, + My heart (or rather, Martha, yours) + Is tender, fond and true. + +Corporal Trim sets off to-day for our head-quarters. My plan is laid +so that no discovery _can_ take place. Gods, that two such souls as +yours and mine should be obliged to descend to arts and plans! Were it +not for your dear sake, I’d scorn to do anything I would not wished +discovered. + + + _To MR. HACKMAN_, + + +Hinchinbrook+, _Feb. 27, 1776_. + +All your plans are useless. The corporal has made his forced march to +no purpose. The fates are unkind. It is determined that I am to go up +_post_. So, we cannot possibly be happy together, as we hoped to have +been had our own horses drawn me up, in which case I must have _slept_ +upon the road. I am not clear old Robin Grey will not stay and attend +me. Why cannot my Jamie? Cruel fortune! But in town we _will_ be happy. +When, again, shall I enjoy your dear society, as I did during that, to +me at least, blessed snow? Nothing but my dear children could prevent +our going with Cook to seek for happiness in worlds unknown. There must +be some corner of the globe where mutual affection is respected. + +Do not forget to meet me. Scratch out _forget_. I know how much you +think of me: too much for your peace, nay, for your health. Indeed, my +H., you do not look well. Pray be careful. + + Whatever wound thy tender health, + Will kill thy Martha’s, too. + +Omiah is in good humour with me again. What kind of animal should a +naturalist expect from a native of Otaheite and a Huntingdonshire +dairymaid? If my eyes do not deceive me, Mr. Omiah will give us a +specimen. Will you bring me some book to-morrow to divert me, as I post +it to town, that I may forget, if it be possible, I am posting from you? + + * * * * * + +But the lovers contrived to meet after all, for Hackman’s next letter +is written from the inn at Hockerill, where they had spent the night +together. + + * * * * * + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Hockerill+, _March 1, 1776_. + +It is your strict injunction that I do not offend you by suffering +my pen to speak of last night. I will not, my M., nor should I, had +you not enjoined it. You once said a nearer acquaintance would make +me change my opinion of you. It has. I _have_ changed my opinion. The +more I know you, the more chastely I think of you. Notwithstanding last +night (what a night!) and our first, too, I protest to God, I think of +you with as much purity as if we were going to be married. You take my +meaning, I am sure, because they are the thoughts which I know you wish +me to entertain of you. + +You got to town safe, I hope. _One_ letter may find me before I shall +be able to leave Huntingdon, whither I return to-day, or, at least, to +Cambridge. I am a fool about Crop, you know; and I am now more tender +of him because he has carried _you_. How little did we think that +morning we should ever make each other so happy! + +Do not forget to write, and don’t forget the key against I come to +town. As far as seeing you, I will use it sometimes, but never for +an opportunity to indulge our passion. That positively shall never +again happen under _his_ roof. How did we applaud each other for not +suffering his walls at Hinchinbrook to be insulted with the first scene +of it! And how happy were we both, after we waked from our dream of +bliss, to think how often we had acted otherwise during the time the +snow shut me up at Hinchinbrook!—a snow as dear to me as to yourself. + +My mind is torn, rent, with ten thousand thoughts and resolutions about +you and about myself. + +When we meet, which shall be as we fixed, I may perhaps mention _one_ +idea to you. + +Pray let us contrive to be together some evening that your favourite +“Jephtha” is performed. + +Enclosed is a song which came into my hands by an accident since we +parted. Neither the words nor the music, I take it, will displease you. +Adieu. + + + SONG. + + When your beauty appears + In its graces and airs, + All bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky; + At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, + So strangely you dazzle my eye! + + But when, without art, + Your kind thoughts you impart, + When your love runs in blushes thro’ every vein; + When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, + Then I know you’re a woman again. + + “There’s a passion and pride + In our sex,” she replied, + “And thus, might I gratify both, I would do; + As an angel appear to each lover beside, + But still be a woman to you.” + + * * * * * + +However, Hackman found the temptation to follow Miss Reay to London +too great to resist; and the two impassioned notes that follow were +written in the course of the same day from a coffee house near Charing +Cross: + + * * * * * + + +Cannon Coffee House, Charing cross+, _March 17, 1776_. + +No further than this can I get from you, before I assure you that every +word I said just now came from the bottom of my heart. I never shall be +happy, never shall be in my senses, till you consent to marry me. And +notwithstanding the dear night at Hockerill, and the other which your +ingenuity procured me last week in D. Street, I swear, by the bliss of +blisses, I never will taste it again till you are my wife. + + + _To MISS REAY_, + + +Cannon Coffee House+, _March 17, 1776_. + +Though you can hardly have read my last scrawl, I must pester you with +another. I had ordered some dinner; but I can neither eat, nor do +anything else. “Mad!” I may be mad, for what I know. I am sure I am +wretched. + +For God’s sake, for my life and soul’s sake, if you love me, write +directly hither, or at least to-night to my lodgings, and say what is +that _insuperable_ reason on which you dwelt so much. “Torture shall +not force you to marry me.” Did you not say so! Then you hate me; and +what is life worth? + +Suppose you had not the dear inducement of loving me (_if_ you love me! +Damnation blot out that _if!_) and being adored by me, still, do you +not wish to relieve yourself and me from the wretched parts we act? My +soul was not formed for such meanness. To steal in at a back door, to +deceive, to plot, to lie—Perdition! the thought of it makes me despise +myself. + +Your children—Lord Sandwich—(if we have not been ashamed of our +conduct, why have we cheated conscience all along by “he” and “his,” +and “Old Robin Gray?” Oh! how we have descended, Martha!)—Lord +Sandwich, I say, cannot but provide for your dear boys. As to your +sweet little girl, I will be a father to her, as well as a husband +to you. Every farthing I have I will settle on you both. I will, God +knows, and you shall find what I will do for you both, when I am able. +Good God, what would I _not_ do! + +Write, write; I say, write. By the living God, I will have this +_insuperable reason_ from you, or I will not believe you love me. + + * * * * * + +Miss Reay answered his notes immediately; but it is evident from the +tone of her reply that she was afraid lest Hackman’s presence in +London should awaken the suspicions of Lord Sandwich, even if they +had not already been aroused by the hints of the faithful Omiah, who +seems to have suspected the existence of the intrigue from its very +commencement. Croker, in his “Memoirs,” says that Miss Reay was, at +this period, in a very nervous and unsettled frame of mind. + +“Miss Reay, towards the latter part of the time that I frequented +the Admiralty, did not continue to speak of her situation as before, +complained of greatly being alarmed by ballads that had been sung, or +cries that had been made directly under the windows that look into the +Park, and that such was the fury of the mob, that she did not think +either Lord Sandwich or herself were safe whenever they went out; and +I must own that I heard some strange insults offered, and that I, with +some of the servants suddenly rushed out, but the offenders instantly +ran away and escaped. One evening afterwards when sitting with Miss +Reay in the great room above stairs, she appeared to be much agitated, +and at last said, ‘she had a particular favour to ask of me; that as +her situation was very precarious, and no settlement had been made upon +her, she wished I would hint something of the kind to Lord Sandwich.’ I +need not express my surprise, but I instantly assured her, ‘that no one +but herself could make such a proposal, as I knew Lord Sandwich never +gave any one an opportunity of interfering with him on so delicate a +subject.’ She urged that her wish was merely to relieve Lord Sandwich +as to great expense about her, for as her voice was then at the +best, and Italian musick was particularly her _forte_ she was given +to understand that she might succeed at the Opera House, and as Mr. +Giardini then led, and I was intimate with Mrs. Brooke, and Mrs. Yates, +she was certain of a most advantageous engagement. I then instantly +conjectured who one of the advisers must have been; and afterwards +found that three thousand pounds and a free benefit had been absolutely +held out to her; though not by the two ladies, who managed the stage +department.” + + * * * * * + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Admiralty+, _March 17, 1776_. + +And does my H. think I wanted such a letter as this to finish my +affliction? Oh, my dear Jamie, you know not how you distress me. + +And do you imagine that I have _willingly_ submitted to the artifices +to which I have been obliged, for your sake, to descend? What has been +_your_ part, from the beginning of the piece, to _mine?_ I was obliged +to act even to _you_. It was my business not to let you see how unhappy +the artifices to which I have submitted made me; and that they did +embitter even our happiest moments. + +But fate stands between us. We are doomed to be wretched. And I, every +now and then, think some terrible catastrophe will be the consequence +of our connection. “Some dire event,” as Storgé prophetically says in +Jephtha, “hangs over our heads;”— + + Some woeful song we have to sing + In misery extreme—O never, never + Was my forboding mind distress’d before + With such incessant pangs! + +Oh, that it were no crime to quit this world like Faldoni and Teresa, +and that we might be happy together in some other world, where gold and +silver are unknown! By your hand I could even die with pleasure. I know +I could. + +“Insuperable reason.” Yes, my H., there is, and you force it from me. +Yet, better to tell you than to have you doubt my love, that love which +is now my religion. I have hardly any God but you. I almost offer up my +prayers _to_ you, as well as _for_ you. + +Know, then, if you were to marry me, you would marry some hundred +pounds’ worth of debts; and _that_ you never shall do. + +Do you remember a solemn oath which you took in one of your letters, +when I was down at Hinchinbrook? and how you told me afterwards it +_must_ be so, because you had so solemnly sworn it? + +In the same solemn and dreadful words I swear that I never will marry +you, happy as it would make me, while I owe a shilling in the world. +Jephtha’s vow is past. + +What your letter says about my poor children made me weep; but it shall +not make me change my resolution. + +It is a further reason why I should not. “If I do not marry you, I do +not love you!” Gracious powers of love! Does my H. say so? My _not_ +marrying you is the strongest proof I can give you of my love. And +Heaven, you know, has heard my vow. Do _you_ respect it, and never +tempt me to break it—for not even _you_ will _ever_ succeed. Till I +have some better portion than debts, I _never_ will be yours. + +Then what is to be done? you ask. Why, I will tell you, H. Your +determination to drop all particular intercourse till marriage has made +us one, flatters me more than I can tell you, because it shows the +opinion you entertain of me in the strongest light; it almost restores +me to _my own_ good opinion. The copy of verses you brought me on that +subject is superior to anything I ever read. They shall be thy Martha’s +morning prayer, and her evening song. While you are in Ireland—— + +Yes, my love, in Ireland. Be ruled by me. You shall immediately join +your regiment there. You know it is your duty. In the meantime, +something may happen: Heaven will not desert two faithful hearts that +love like yours and mine. There are joys; there is happiness in store +for us yet. I feel there is. And (as I said just now) _while you are +in Ireland_, I will write to you _every_ post, _twice_ by _one_ post, +and I will think of you, and I will dream of you, and I will kiss your +picture, and I will wipe my eyes, and I will kiss it again, and then I +will weep again. And—— + +Can I give a stronger instance of my regard for you, or a stronger +proof that you ought to take my advice, than by thus begging my only +joy to leave me? I will not swear I shall survive it; but, I beseech +you, go! + +Fool that I am! I undo with one hand all that I do with the other. My +tears, which drop between every word I write, prevent the effect of my +reasoning; which, I am sure, is just. + +Be a man, I say—you _are_ an angel. Join your regiment; and, as sure as +I love you (nothing can be _more_ sure), I will recall you from what +will be banishment as much to me as to you, the first moment that I can +marry you with honour to myself, and happiness to my H. + +But, I must not write thus. Adieu! + + Ill suits the voice of love when glory calls, + And bids thee follow Jephtha to the field. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Cannon Coffee House+, + _March 17, 1776_. + +And I will respect the vow of Jephtha, and I will follow to the field. +At least, I will think of it all to-night, for I am sure I shall not +sleep, and will let you know the success of my struggle, for a struggle +it will be to-morrow. I will wait for you at the same place in the +Park, where I shall see you open the Admiralty door. Should it rain, I +will write. It was my intention to have endeavoured to see you now, but +I changed my mind, and wrote this, and I am glad I did. We are not in a +condition to see each other. Cruel debts! Rather, cruel vow! for, would +you but have let me, I would have contrived some scheme about your +debts. I _could_ form a plan. My Gosport matters—my commission. + +Alas! you frown, and I must stop. Why would not fortune smile upon my +two lottery tickets? Heaven knows I bought them on your account. Upon +the back of one of them I wrote, in case of my sudden death, “This +is the property of Miss _Reay_.” On the back of the other, that it +belonged to your daughter. For what am I still reserved? + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Admiralty+, _March 17, 1776_. + +Why, why do you write to me so often? Why do you see me so often? when +you acknowledge the necessity of complying with my advice. + +You tell me, if I bid you, you will go. I have bid you, begged you to +go.—I _do_ bid you go. Go, I conjure you, go! But let us not have any +more partings. The last was too, too much. I did not recover myself all +day. And your goodness to my little white-headed boy! He made me burst +into tears this morning by talking of the good-natured gentleman, and +producing your present. + +Either stay, and let our affection discover and ruin us—or go. + +On the bended knees of love I entreat you, H., my dearest H., to go. + + * * * * * + +This earnest appeal induced Hackman to obey her wishes, and he departed +for Ireland immediately. + + + + + PART II + + _IN IRELAND_ + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _March 26, 1776_. + +Ireland! England! good heavens! that Martha should be in one part of +the world and her H. in another! Will not our destinies suffer us to +breathe the same air? Mine will not, I most firmly believe, let me +rest, till they have hunted me to death. + +Will you not give me your approbation for obeying you thus? +Approbation! And is that the coin to pass between _us?_ + +Yet, I will obey you further. I will restrain my pen as much as +possible. I will scratch the word love out of my dictionary. I will +forget: I lie—I never _can_, nor ever _will_ forget you, or any thing +which belongs to you. But I will, as you wisely advise, and kindly +desire me, write as much as possible on other subjects. Everything +entertaining that I can procure I will. I will _Twissify_, and write +Tours—or anything but love-letters. This morning pardon me: I am unable +to trifle; I _must_ be allowed to talk of love, of Martha. + +And, when I _am_ able, you must allow me to put in a word or two +sometimes for myself. To-day, however, I will not make _you_ unhappy by +telling you how truly so _I_ am. + +The truth is—my heart is full; and though I thought, when I took up +my pen, I could have filled a quire of paper with it, I now have not +a word to say. Were I sitting by your side now (oh, that I were!) I +should only have power to recline my cheek upon your shoulder, and to +wet your handkerchief with my tears. + +My own safety, but for your sake, is the last of my considerations. +Our passage was rather boisterous, but not dangerous. Mrs. F. (whom I +mentioned to you, I believe, in the letter that I wrote just before +we embarked) has enabled me to make you laugh with an account of her +behaviour, were either of us in a humour to laugh. + +Why did you cheat me so about that box? + +Had I known I should find, upon opening it, that the things were for +me, I would never have brought it. But that _you_ knew. Was it kind, my +Martha, to give me so many _daily_ memorandums of you, when I was to +be at such a distance from you? Oh, yes, it was, it was, _most_ kind. +And that, and you, and all your thousand and ten thousand kindnesses I +never will forget. The purse shall be my constant companion, the shirts +I will wear by night, one of the handkerchiefs I was obliged to use in +drying my eyes as soon as I opened the box, the—— + +God, God bless you in this world—that is, give you your H., and grant +you an easy passage to eternal blessings in a better. + +If you go before me, may the stroke be so instantaneous that you may +not have time to cast one longing, lingering look on H.! + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _April 8, 1776_. + +Yours, dated April the first, would have diverted me had I been some +leagues nearer to you. It contained true wit and humour. I truly thank +you for it, because I know with how much difficulty you study for any +thing like wit or humour in the present situation of your mind. But +you do it to divert me; and it is done for one, who, though he cannot +laugh at it, as he ought, will remember it, as he ought. Yet, with what +a melancholy tenderness it concluded! _There_ spoke your heart. + +Your situation, when you wrote it, was something like that of an +actress, who should be obliged to play a part in a comedy, on the +evening of a day, which, by some real catastrophe, had marked her out +for the capital figure of a _real_ tragedy. + +Perhaps I have said something like this in the long letter that I have +written since. Never mind. + +Pray be careful how you seal your letters. The wax always robs me of +five or six words. Leave a space for your seal. Suppose that should +be the part of your letter which tells me you still love me. If the +wax cover it, I see it not—I find no such expression in your letter—I +grow distracted—and immediately set out for Charing Cross, to ask you +whether you do indeed still love me. + +In the hospitality of this country I was not deceived. They have a +curse in their language, strongly descriptive of it—“May the grass +grow at your door!” The women, if I knew not _you_, I should find +sensible and pretty. But I am deaf, dumb, blind, to everything, and +to every person but _you_. If I write any more this morning, I shall +certainly sin against your commands. + +Why do you say nothing of your dear children? I insist upon it that you +buy my friend a taw, and two dozen of marbles; and place them to the +account of + + Your humble servant. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _May 3, 1776_. + +My last, I hope, did not offend you. The bank note I was obliged to +return; although I thank you for it, more than words can tell. + +Shall I, whom you will not marry, because you will not load me with +your debts, increase those debts; at least prevent you from diminishing +them, by robbing you of fifty pounds? Were I capable of it, I should be +unworthy of your love. But be not offended that I returned it. Heaven +knows how willingly a quire of such things should have accompanied it, +had heaven made me so rich. + +Be not anxious about me. Talk not of the postage which your dear +letters cost me. Will you refuse to make your H. happy? And think you +that I can pay too dear for happiness? + +But, Lord! you rave. I am rich—as rich as a Jew; and without taking +into the calculation the treasure I possess in your love. Why, you talk +of what I allow _that relation_, poor soul! That does not swallow up +all my lands and hereditaments at Gosport. Then there’s my pay, and +twenty other ways and means besides, I dare say, could I but recollect +them. Go to—I tell you I _am_ rich. So, let me know you got the silver +paper safe, and that I am a good boy. + +Rich! To be sure I am; why, I can afford to go to plays. I saw Catley +last night, in your favourite character. By the way, I will tell you a +story of her, when she was on your side the water. + +Names do not immortalise praiseworthy anecdotes; _they_ immortalise +names. Some difference had arisen between Miss Catley and the managers, +concerning the terms upon which she was to be engaged for the season. +One of the managers called upon her, at her little lodgings in Drury +Lane, to settle them. The maid was going to show the gentleman +upstairs, and to call her mistress. “No, no,” cries the actress, +who was in the kitchen, and heard the manager’s voice, “there is no +occasion to show the gentleman into a room. I am busy below [to the +manager] making apple-dumplings for my brats. You know whether you +have a mind to give me the money I ask, or not. I am none of your fine +ladies, who get a cold or the tooth-ache, and cannot sing. If you have +a mind to give me the money, say so; my mouth shall not open for a +farthing less. So good morning to you, and do not keep the girl there +in the passage; for I want her to put the dumplings in the pot, while +I nurse the child.” The turnips of Fabricius, and Andrew Marvel’s cold +leg of mutton are worthy to be served up on the same day with Nan +Catley’s apple-dumplings. + +Come; I am not unhappy, or I could not talk of other people and write +thus gaily. Nothing can make me truly unhappy but a change in your +sentiments of me. By the Almighty God of heaven, I know my own feeling +so thoroughly, that I do not think I could survive such a thing. + +As you love me, scold me not about the poplin which you will receive +next week. It cost me nothing; I may surely give what was given to me! + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _May 29, 1776_. + +Do you think that to make such proposals, as your last contained, is +the way to reconcile me to this worse than banishment? You refused to +come into my scheme of marriage. Nothing shall tempt me to come into +_your_ scheme. Persist in your idea of going on the stage, and, as I +live, I will come over and make a party to damn you the first night of +your appearance. Since you will not share my fortunes, I will not share +your earnings. + +The story which you mention at Flamborough, of Boardingham, who was +murdered by his wife and her lover, is most shocking. The reflections +you draw from it are most just, and what you say of our situation most +true. The woman must have been beyond a savage. Yet their feelings, +when she and Aikney were at the gallows together (supposing anything +like love remained), must have been exquisite. I protest I would +willingly embrace with M. the cruellest death which torture could +invent (provided she were on a bed of roses) than lead the happiest +life without her. What visions have I conjured up! My pen drops from my +hand. Well, I must not think. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _June 18, 1776_. + +My Laura is not angry with me, I hope, for the three or four _tender_ +letters I have written to her since the beginning of this month. And +yet, yours of yesterday seems to say you are. If I bear my situation +like a man, will you not allow me to feel it like a man? + + Misfortune, like a creditor severe, + But rises in demand for her delay. + She makes a scourge of past prosperity, + To sting me more and double my distress. + +But you say I must not write thus. If I can help it, I will not. + +Shall I write about the weather or politics? The sun shines to-day, +yesterday it rained. If you wish to appear learned, tell the next +company you go into that the distresses of this country will soon +oblige England to grant her a free trade or something very much like +it; and add, that her grievances are more real now than when in 1601 +she complained to Elizabeth of the introduction of trials by jury. +Another slice of politics. Assert boldly that “Junius” was written by +Grenville’s secretary. This is a _fact_, notwithstanding what Wilkes +relates of Lord Germaine’s bishop. + +Is this the style of letter-writing you allow me? Try again, then. + +The favours I have received from the worthy man I mentioned in a letter +or two ago are by his goodness every day increased. Some superior souls +have affected to hate mankind. Here is one who, with an understanding +and an experience inferior to none, never loses an opportunity of +befriending a fellow-creature. I am afraid sometimes that misfortune +will one day or other play him some confounded dog’s trick, because he +takes such pleasure in thwarting every scheme that she lays for any +one’s ruin. + +Yet even this amiable character is not without his defects. The +following lines I sent him this morning after playing at vingtun in +company with him last night: + + To Hackman, says a certain friend + (Both idle, rhyming bards), + “——, with good manners and best sense, + Can’t bear to lose at cards. + + With such a head”—“And such a heart,” + Adds Hackman, “’tis high treason. + But I, who knew that heart so well, + Have found, I think, the reason. + + Friend to the poor, his purse their box, + He always would be winner; + For then they win. But, should he lose, + The poor, too, lose a dinner.” + +This country’s facetious Dean said, that his friend Arbuthnot could do +everything but walk. My friend can do everything but lose at cards. + +Feeling, and all the commanding powers of the mind, were never perhaps +before so mixed together. A tale of sorrow will make his little eyes +wink, wink, wink, like a green girl’s. Before the company came last +night, I showed him “Auld Robin Gray,” and, though he had seen it +before, he could not get over “My mother could na speak,” without +winking For the credit of your side of the water, he is an Englishman. +His agreeable wife, by her beauty and accomplishments, does credit +to this country. She is remarkable also for her feeling, though in +a different way. You shall relate an anecdote of distress, or read +a story of ill-usage, and while his eyes are winking for the object +of ill-usage or the distress, hers shall be striking fire with rage +against the author of it. “Good God!” she exclaims, “if that villain +was but in my power!” And I sometimes think she is going to ring for +her hat and cloak, that she may sally forth, and pull his house about +his ears. Bound up together (as they are, and as I hope they will long +continue) they form a complete system of humanity. + +It would have gratified me much to have been with you when Garrick +took his farewell of the stage. Do you remember the last paper in the +_Idler_ upon its being the _last?_ The reflection that it was the +_last_ time Garrick would ever play, was, in itself, painful. How, my +Laura, my Martha, my life, shall I bear it, if I ever should be doomed +to take my last leave, my last look of you! + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +England+, _June 25, 1776_. + +Let me give you joy of having found such kind and agreeable friends +in a strange land. The account you sent of the gentleman and lady, +especially of the latter, quite charmed me. Neither am I without my +friends. A lady, from whom I have received particular favours, is +uncommonly kind to me. _For the credit of your side of the water, +she is an Irishwoman. Her agreeable husband, by his beauty and +accomplishments, does credit to this country. He is remarkable also for +his feelings._ + +Adieu! This will affect you, I dare say, in the same manner your +account affected me. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _July 1, 1776_. + +Your little billet, of the 25th of last month, was a proper reproof for +the contents of one of mine. Until I saw the joke I was truly unhappy. +If you had not written the long and kind letter the next day, which +came in the same packet, I should have been miserable. Yet, I wish you +happy, _most_ happy; but I cannot bear the thoughts of your receiving +happiness from any hands (man, woman, or child) but mine. Had my +affections not been fixed, as they are unalterably elsewhere, the wife +of my _friend_, with all her charms, would never fix them. I have but +two masters, Love and Honour. If I did not consider you as my wife, I +would add, you know I have but _one_ mistress. + +A friend of mine is going to England (happy fellow I shall think +him, to be in the same country with you). He will call at the Cannon +Coffee House for me. Do send me, thither, the French book you mention, +_Werther_. If you do not, I positively never will forgive you. +Nonsense, to say it will make me unhappy, or that I shall not be able +to read it! Must I pistol myself, because a thick-blooded German has +been fool enough to set the example, or because a German novelist has +feigned such a story? If _you_ do not lend it me, I will most assuredly +procure it some time or another; so, you may as well have the merit of +obliging me. My friend will send a small parcel for you to D. Street. +The books I send you, because I know you have not got them, and because +they are so much cheaper here. If you are afraid of emptying my purse +(which, by the way, is almost worn out), you shall be my debtor for +them. So send me a note of hand, _value received_. The other things are +surely not worth mentioning. + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +England+, _August 20, 1776_. + +For God’s sake! where are you? What is the matter? Why don’t you write? +Are you ill? God forbid! Am I not with you to nurse you? If you are, +why don’t you let somebody else write to me? Better that all should be +discovered, than suffer what I suffer. It is more than a month since I +heard from you. A month used to bring me eight or ten letters. When I +grew uneasy, it was in vain, as I said in my last, that I endeavoured +to find your friend who brought the parcel (for I would certainly have +seen him, and asked him about you). What is become of all my letters +for this last month? Did you get what I returned by your friend? Do +you like the purse? The book you mentioned is just the only book you +should never read. On my knees I beg that you will never, never read +it! Perhaps you _have_ read it. Perhaps!—I am distracted. Heaven only +knows to whom I may be writing this letter! + + Madam, or Sir, + +If you are a woman, I _think_ you will, if you are a man, and ever +loved, I am _sure_ you will, oblige me with one line to say what is +become of Mr. Hackman, of the 68th Regiment. Direct to Mrs. ——, D. +Street, London. Any person whose hands my letter may fall into, will +not think this much trouble; and, if they send me good news, heaven +knows how a woman, who loves, if possible, too well, will thank them. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _Sept. 10, 1776_. + +As I am no sportsman, there is no merit, you may think, in devoting a +morning to this employment. Nor do I claim any merit. It is only making +myself happy. + +Now, I hope, you are quite at ease about me. My health, upon my honour, +upon our love, is almost re-established. Were I not determined to keep +on _this_ side the truth, I would say _quite_. The four letters I have +written to you, since I received your frantic sheet of paper, have +explained and made up everything. How can I sufficiently thank you for +all your letters? Especially for that of this week? Never did you pen a +better. Did I know anybody employed in a work, where that letter could +properly appear, he should insert it in your own words. + +Excuse me, I am unwillingly called away. + +What I said this morning about your letter, brings to my recollection +something of that sort. Shall I tell it you? I will. + +James Hirst, in the year 1711, lived servant with the Honourable Edward +Wortley. It happened, one day, in re-delivering a parcel of letters +to his master, by mistake he gave him one which he had written to his +sweetheart, and kept back one of Mr. Wortley’s. He soon discovered +the mistake, and hurried back to his master; but unfortunately for +poor James, it happened to be the first that presented itself to Mr. +Wortley, and, before James returned, he had given way to a curiosity +which led him to open it, and read the love-told story of an enamoured +footman. It was in vain that James begged to have it returned. “No,” +says Mr. Wortley, “James, you shall be a great man, this letter shall +appear in the _Spectator_.” + +Mr. Wortley communicated the letter to his friend, Sir Richard Steel. +It was accordingly published in his own words, and is that letter, No. +71, volume the first of the _Spectator_, beginning “Dear Betty.” + +James found means to remove that unkindness of which he complains in +his letter; but, alas! before their wishes were completed, a speedy end +was put to a passion, which would not discredit much superior rank, by +the unexpected death of Betty. James, out of the great regard and love +of Betty, after her death, married the sister. He dies, not many years +since, in the neighbourhood of Wortley, near Leeds, Yorkshire. + +To marry you is the utmost of my wishes; but, remember, I do not engage +to marry your sister, in case of your death.... Death! How can I think +of such a thing, though it be but in joke. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _September 15, 1776_. + +The commands of your last letter, for the reasons you give, I have +immediately obeyed. My enquiries about the young Englishman you +mention amount to this. He is liked tolerably well here. He would be +liked more, if he took more pains to be liked. His contempt for some +people in the world, whom others despise perhaps as well as himself, +is sometimes too conspicuous. Accident has given me an opportunity to +see and know a great deal of him; and with certainty. His heart is +certainly not bad. His abilities are as certainly not equal to what he +once confesses to have thought them; perhaps they are superior to the +opinion he now entertains of them. He has ambition and emulation enough +to have almost supplied any want of genius, and to have made him almost +anything, had he fallen into proper hands. But his schoolmasters knew +nothing of his human heart, nor over much of the head. Though indolent +to a degree, a keen eye might have discovered, may still discover, +industry at the bottom; a good cultivator might have turned it, may +still turn it, to good account. His friendships are warm, sincere, +decided—his enmities the same. He complains now and then, that some of +his friends will pretend to know him better than they know themselves, +and better than they know anything else. “They would play upon him; +they would seem to know his stops; they pretend to be able to sound +him from his lowest note to the top of his compass; and there is much +music, excellent voice, in a little pipe, yet cannot they make it +speak. Do they think,” he demands, “that he is easier to be played upon +than a pipe?” Why, really, I do not think this is the case at present, +whatever it may have been. Secrecy is not brought _into_ the world, +it is acquired _in_ the world. An honest heart can only acquire it by +experience. The character which he had certainly gotten among some of +his intimates has been of service both to them and to himself. They +made a point of secrecy, after they chose to discover a want of it +in him; and now he has made a point of it himself. My dearest secret +(_you_ know what that is) should now sooner be trusted to him than to +any of his former accusers. The loudest of them, to my knowledge, was +little calculated to judge; for though he might not absolutely think +him a coward, he certainly did not suspect his friend of courage, +till sufficient proof of it was given under his own eye. Now, in my +opinion, true courage and resolution are this gentleman’s marking +characteristics. This is no great compliment; for, without them, I +would not give a farthing for any man. + +Such, in my judgment, is the young gentleman about whom you wished me +to inquire, and with whom I have happened to live a good deal. His +principal merit is that my amiable friend (the mention of whose wife +just jogged your jealousy) sincerely loves him. That worthy man seldom +threw away his attachment where it is not deserved. Nor do I know +anything in the gentleman whose character I have been sketching which +gives me more pleasure, or which it would give him more pleasure to +have noticed, than the love and respect which I am sure he feels for my +friend; unless perhaps, his affectionate sense of the obligations which +I believe I have told you he lies under to a Mr. B——. + +So much for business. Now for an article of news. The latter end of +last month a lady and her servant, as they were riding in Phœnix Park, +were stopped by a man on foot, very genteelly dressed in white clothes +and a gold-laced hat. He demanded the lady’s money, which she gave +him, amounting to twenty-six guineas. The person put the cash into one +of his pockets, and took from the other a small diamond hoop-ring, +which he presented to the lady, desiring her to wear it for the sake +of an extraordinary robber who made it a point of honour to take no +more from a beautiful lady than he could make a return for in value. He +then, with great agility, vaulted over the wall and disappeared. + +This you may perhaps call an Irish way of robbing. There certainly was +something original in it. The gentleman seems clearly to imagine that +an exchange is no robbery. + +As to your threat, I will answer it in the same style. “I _will_ love +you—and, if——!” But neither my answer, nor your threat is original. +Reading this morning a history of this country, I found the following +anecdote: In 1487, a dreadful war was carried on in Ulster, between the +chieftain O’Neal, and the neighbouring chieftain of Tirconnel. This war +had nothing more considerable for its immediate cause than the pride +of O’Neal, who demanded that his enemy should recognise his authority +by paying tribute. The laconic style, in which the demand was made +and rejected, would not have disgraced a nobler contest. “Send me +tribute—or _else!_——” was the message of O’Neal. To which was returned, +with the same princely brevity, “I owe you none—and _if——!_” But I talk +nonsense, this does not prove _your threat_ to have been borrowed; for +I dare say, you never heard of O’Neal till this moment. It only proves +that two people may express themselves alike. + +Should any man who loved like me (if any man ever did love like me) +have spoke of his love in terms like those I used to speak of mine, +follows it therefore that I have borrowed either his passion or his +language? Were it possible for you to think so, I never would forgive +you. Pray copy the music you mention in your next. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _September 18, 1776_. + +How happens it that I have not sooner noticed what you say, in a letter +the beginning of last month, about the new punishment of working upon +the Thames? Politicians may write more learnedly upon the matter, +but I will defy Beccaria to write more feelingly or humanely. There +certainly is much truth in what you say. Experience, however, will be +the best test. Perhaps my true reason for noticing your sensible letter +thus late, was to introduce a scene which passed in the quicksilver +mines of Idra, a still more unpleasant abode than Mr. Campbell’s +academy. This used to be Colonel G.’s method, you remember, of +introducing his home-made jokes. Not that my story is home-made. I take +it from some Italian letters which a brother officer lent me, written +by Mr. Everard, and I give it you almost in his own words, except +in one or two passages, where I think he has lost an opportunity of +surprising the reader. + +“The pleasure I always take in writing to you, wherever I am, and +whatever I am doing, in some measure dispels my present uneasiness, +and uneasiness caused at once by the disagreeable aspect of everything +around me, and the more disagreeable scene to which I have been witness. + +“Something, too, I have to tell you of Count Alberti. You remember him +one of the gayest, most agreeable persons at the Court of Vienna, at +once the example of the men and the favourite of the fair sex. I often +heard you repeat his name with esteem as one of the few that did honour +to the present age; as possessed of generosity and pity in the highest +degree; as one who made no other use of fortune but to alleviate the +distress of mankind. But first of all, the scene I mentioned. + +“After passing several parts of the Alps, and having visited Germany, I +thought I could not well return home without visiting the quicksilver +mines at Idra, and seeing those dreadful subterranean caverns where +thousands are condemned to reside, shut out from all hopes of ever +again beholding the cheerful light of the sun, and obliged to toil out +a miserable life under the whips of imperious taskmasters. Imagine to +yourself a hole in the side of a mountain of about five yards over. +Down this you are let in a kind of a bucket more than an hundred +fathom, the prospect growing still more gloomy, yet still widening, as +you descend. At length, after swinging in terrible suspense for some +time in this precarious situation you at length reach the bottom and +tread on the ground, which, by its hollow sound under your feet and +the reverberations of the echo, seems thundering at every step you +take. In this gloomy and frightful solitude you are enlightened by the +feeble gleam of lamps here and there disposed, so that the wretched +inhabitants of these mansions cannot go from one part to another +without a guide. And yet, let me assure you, that though they by custom +could see objects very distinctly by these lights, I could scarce +discern for some time anything, not even the person who came with me to +show me these scenes of horror. + +“From this description, I suppose, you have but a disagreeable idea +of the place; yet let me assure you that it is a palace if we compare +the habitation with the inhabitants. Such wretches mine eyes never yet +beheld. The blackness of their visages only serves to cover an horrid +paleness caused by the noxious qualities of the mineral which they +are employed to procure. As they in general consist of malefactors +condemned for life to this task, they are fed at the public expense, +but they seldom consume much provision. They lose their appetites in +a short time, and commonly, in about two years, expire from a total +contraction of the joints of the body. + +“In this horrid mansion I walked after my guide for some time, +pondering on the strange tyranny and avarice of mankind, when I was +accosted by a voice behind me, calling me by name, and enquiring after +my health with the most cordial affection. I turned and saw a creature +all black and hideous, who approached me with a most piteous accent, +demanding, ‘Ah! Mr. Everard, do not you know me?’ Good God! what was +my surprise, when, through the veil of his wretchedness, I discovered +the features of my old and dear friend, Count Alberti! I flew to him +with affection, and, after a tear of condolence, asked how he came +there? To this he replied that, having fought a duel with a General of +the Austrian infantry against the Emperor’s command, and having left +him for dead, he was obliged to fly into one of the forests of Istria, +where he was first taken, and afterwards sheltered by some banditti, +who had long infested that quarter. With these he had lived nine +months, till, by a close investiture of the place in which they were +concealed, and after a very obstinate resistance, in which the greatest +part of them fell, he was secured and carried to Vienna, in order to +be broken alive on the wheel. When he arrived at the capital, he was +quickly known, and several of the associates of his accusation and +danger witnessing his innocence, his punishment of the rack was changed +into that of perpetual confinement and labour in the mines of Idra. A +sentence, in my opinion, a thousand times worse than death. + +“As Alberti was giving me this account, a young woman came up to him, +who, at once I saw, had been born for better fortune. The dreadful +situation of the place was not able to destroy her beauty, and even in +this scene of wretchedness she seemed to have charms to grace the most +brilliant assembly. + +“This lady was daughter to one of the first families in Germany, +and, having tried every means to procure her lover’s pardon without +effect, was at last resolved to share his miseries, as she could not +relieve them. With him she accordingly descended into these mansions, +from which few ever return; and with him she is contented to live, +forgetting the gaieties of life; with him to toil, despising the +splendours of opulence, and contented with the consciousness of her own +constancy. + + “I am, dear Sir, + + “Yours, &c.” + +Now can I tell all the feelings of your dear heart. Now see I your +fancy busy with her magic pencil; and affecting is the picture it has +begun. Begun; for your weeping eyes will not suffer you to finish it. +Can not you, through all your tears, distinguish Alberti and his wife +dying in each other’s arms after about half a year? What a scene! + +Is there any sum of money you would not give to have this tragedy end +happily? That, of course, is impossible. But Everard speaks of the poor +souls in his next letter, which I may perhaps send you in _my next_. + +Come, Martha, be a good girl, and you shall have it now, though it will +not give you _much_ consolation. + +“My last to you was expressive, and perhaps too much so, of the gloomy +situation of my mind. I own the deplorable condition of the worthy +man described in it was enough to add double severity to the hideous +mansions. At present, however, I have the happiness to inform you, +that I was spectator of the most affecting scene I ever yet beheld. +Nine days after I had written my last a person came post from Vienna +to the little village near the mouth of the greater shaft. He was also +followed by a second, and he by a third. The first enquiry was after +the unfortunate Count; and I, happening to overhear the demand, gave +them the best information. Two of these were the brother and cousin +of the lady, the third was an intimate friend and fellow-soldier of +the Count. They came with his pardon, which had been procured by the +General with whom the duel had been fought, who was perfectly recovered +from his wounds. I led them with all the expedition of joy down to +his dreary abode, and presented to him his friends, and informed him +of the happy change in his circumstances. It would be impossible to +describe the joy that brightened up his grief-worn countenance; nor +was the young lady’s emotion less vivid at seeing her friends, and +hearing of her husband’s freedom: some hours were employed in mending +the appearance of this faithful couple, nor could I without a tear +behold him taking leave of the former wretched companions of his toil. +To one he left his mattock; to another his working clothes; to a third +his little household utensils, such as were necessary for him in that +situation. We soon emerged from the mine, and he once again revisited +the sight of the sun, which he had totally despaired of ever seeing. A +post-chaise was ready the next morning to take them to Vienna, whither, +I am since informed by a letter from himself, they are returned. The +Empress has taken them into favour; his fortune and rank are restored; +and he and his fair partner now have the pleasing satisfaction of +feeling happiness with double relish, because they once knew what it +was to be miserable.” + +Says not our friend Sterne, that the circumstance of his being at +Rennes at the very time the Marquis reclaimed his forfeited nobility +and his sword, was an incident of good fortune which will never happen +to any traveller but a sentimental one? I believe it; and may every +other incident of good fortune befall all such travellers. + +Did I not say this second part of the story would not afford you +_much_ consolation? Excuse me for such a falsity. That was only to +surprise you. Well I knew what would be my Martha’s feelings. + +Are you as deep in astrology as when you wrote last to me? On the page +I have to spare I will send you some hasty lines which I scribbled +the other day to ridicule the weakness of a Dr. W., who is as great +a—fool at least as Dryden, and never fails to cast the nativity of his +children: + + Kind heaven has heard the parent’s prayer, + Each gossip hails the son and heir. + “Pray let the Doctor see,” + “My master, ma’am? Your labour past; + He’s got among the stars, to cast + His son’s nativity.” + + Three hours elaps’d, our sage descends, + With “Well, and how’s the child, my friend?” + “He’s happy, sir, ere this.” + “Happy! why yonder stars ne’er shed + Benigner influence on the head + Of happier, I guess. + + “Worth, virtue, wisdom, honour, wealth, + Man’s best and only riches, health, + Assuredly await + Heav’n’s favour’d child—or never more + Say I have knowledge to explore + The secret page of fate. + + “’Twas there I read my happy boy + Full seventy summers should enjoy, + “Ere”—when nurse sobb’d and said, + “Good lack! the babe to whom kind heaven + So many bounteous gifts hath given, + _These two hours hath been—Dead_.” + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _January 26, 1777_. + +One of Lord Harcourt’s suite will carry this to England. His lordship +was relieved from guard yesterday by the arrival of a new Lord +Lieutenant. As politics have not much to do with love, I shall not +trouble you with a history of the late reign, or with a prophecy of +what will be the present. Only let our great actors take care they do +not play the farce of America in Ireland. My spirits, I thank you, are +now tolerable well. But you know I am, at least I know I have been ever +since you have known me, a strange comical fellow. Neither one thing +nor t’other. Sometimes in the garret, but, much oftener, down in the +cellar. If Salvator Rosa, or Rousseau, wanted to draw a particular +character, I am their man. But you and I shall yet be happy together, +I know; and then my spirits and passions will return into their usual +channels. Why do you complain of the language of my letters? Suppose +they were not tender. What would you say, what would you think, then? +Must not love speak the language of love? Nay, do not we see every day +that love and religion have mutual obligations, and continually borrow +phrases from each other? Put Jamie or Jenny, instead of Christ, and see +what you will make of Mr. Rowe’s most solemn poems, or of Dr. Watts’ +hymns. Let me transcribe you a letter written by another person to a +lady. + +“Sir Benjamin telling me you were not come to town at three o’clock +makes me in pain to know how your son does, and I can’t help inquiring +after him and dear Mrs. Freeman. The Bishop of Worcester was with me +this morning before I was dressed. I gave him my letter to the Queen, +and he has promised to second it, and seemed to undertake it very +willingly: though, by all the discourse I had with him (of which I will +give you a particular account when I see you) I find him very partial +to her. The last time he was here, I told him you had several times +desired you might go from me, and I have repeated the same thing again +to him. For you may easily imagine I would not neglect doing you right +on all occasions. But I beg it again, for Christ Jesus’s sake, that +you would never name it any more to me; for, be assured, if you should +ever do so cruel a thing as to leave me, from that moment I shall never +enjoy one quiet hour. And, should you do it without asking my consent +(which if I ever give you, may I never see the face of heaven) I will +shut myself up, and never see the world more, but live where I may be +forgotten by human kind.” + +What think you of this letter? If it should have been written by a +woman to a woman, surely you will allow H. to write a little tenderly +to his own Martha! This was really the case. It is transcribed from +“An Account of the Conduct of the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough,” +printed for W. Smith, Dame Street, Dublin, 1742, which I bought at +Wilson’s in Dane Street yesterday. This pamphlet contains others as +loving. This I find, page 40. It was written to Lady Marlborough by her +mistress (one would have thought the word _mistress_ in one sense did +belong to one of the parties) when she was only Princess of Denmark. +It refers to the quarrel between the Princess and her royal sister and +brother-in-law, because she would not part with her favourite, upon +Lord Marlborough’s having displeased the king. These two female lovers +always corresponded, under the names of Mrs. Freeman and Mrs. Morley, +at the particular desire of the Princess, who fixed upon the names. And +this, after she was Queen Anne. Be assured, my Martha, that, although +I write to you with almost the same madness of affection, I will never +imitate her example, for all its royalty, and exchange you for a +mushroom of your own raising. + + * * * * * + +From this date Hackman’s letters have a morbid vein running through +them. He mentions that he has received several letters from Miss Reay, +but none of them, however, seem to have been preserved. + + * * * * * + + + _To MISS REAY_, + + +Ireland+, _Feb. 6, 1777_. + +_My_ last was merry, you know. I cannot say as much for _your_ last. +To-day you must suffer me to indulge my present turn of mind in +transcribing something which was left behind her by a Mrs. Dixon, who +poisoned herself not long since at Inniskillen. It was communicated to +me by a gentleman, after a dinner yesterday, who is come hither about +business, and lives in the neighbourhood of Inniskillen. + +The unhappy woman was not above nineteen years of age. She had been +married about two years, and lived with her husband all that time with +seeming ease and cheerfulness. + +She was remarkably cheerful all the fatal day, had company to dine with +her, made tea for them, in the evening set them down to cards, retired +to her chamber, and drank her cup of arsenic. + +She left a writing on her table, in which is obscurely hinted the sad +circumstance which urged her impatience to this desperate act. + +Enclosed is an exact copy even to the spelling. + +“This is to let all the world know, that hears of me, that it is no +crime I ever committed occasions this my untimely end; but despair of +ever being happy in this world, as I have sufficient reasons to think +so. I own it is a sinful remedy, and very uncertain to seek happiness, +but I hope that God will forgive my poor soul; Lord have mercy on it! +But all I beg is to let none reproach my friends with it, or suspect my +virtue or my honour in the least, though I am to be no more. + +“Comfort my poor unhappy mother, and brothers and sisters, and let +all mothers take care, and never force a child as mine did me; but I +forgive her, and hopes God will forgive me, as I believe she meant my +good by my marriage. + +“Oh! that unfortunate day I gave my hand to one, whilst my heart was +another’s, but hoping that time and prudence would at length return my +former peace and tranquillity of mind, which I wanted for a long time; +but oh, it grieves me to think of the length of eternity; and the Lord +save me from eternal damnation! Let no one blame Martin Dixon (her +husband), for he is in no fault of it. + +“I have a few articles which I have a greater regard for than anything +else that’s mine, on account of him that gave them to me (but _he_ is +not to be mentioned), and I have some well-wishers that I think proper +to give them to. + +“First, to Betty Balfour, my silver buckles; to Polly Deeryn, my +diamond ring; to Betty Mulligan, my laced suit, cap, handkerchief, and +ruffles; to Peggy Delap, a new muslin handkerchief not yet hemmed, +which is in my drawer, and hope for my sake those persons will accept +of these trifles as a testimony of my regard for them. + +“I would advise Jack Watson [her brother] to behave himself in an +honest and obedient manner in respect to his mother and family, as he +is all she has to depend upon now. + +“I now go in God’s name, though against His commands, without wrath or +spleen to any one upon earth. The very person I die for, I love him +more than ever, and forgive him. I pray God grant him more content +and happiness than he ever had, and hope he will forgive me, only to +remember such a one died for him. + +“There was, not long ago, some persons pleased to talk something +against my reputation, as to a man in this town; but now, when I ought +to tell the truth, I may be believed. If ever I knew him, or any other +but my husband, may I never enter into glory; and them I forgive who +said so; but let that man’s wife take care of them that told her so; +for they meant her no good by it. + +“With love to one, friendship to few, and goodwill to all the world, I +die, saying, Lord have mercy on my soul; with _an advice to all people +never to suffer a passion of any sort to command them as mine did in +spite of me_. I pray God to bless all my friends and acquaintance, +and begs them all to comfort my mother, who is unhappy in having such +a child as I, who is ashamed to subscribe myself an unworthy and +disgraceful member of the Church of Scotland. + + “+Jane Watson+, otherwise +Dixon+.” + +My pen shall not interrupt your meditations hereon by making a single +reflection. We both of us have made, I dare say, too many on it. She, +too, was _Jenny_ and had her _Robin Gray_. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Ireland+, _April 20, 1777_. + +Now you see there is something in dreams. But why is not your alarming +letter more particular about your complaint? Do they nurse you as +tenderly as I would? Are they careful about your medicines? For God’s +sake tell them all round what happened lately here to Sir William +Yorke, the Chief Justice. + +Sir William was grievously afflicted with the stone. In his severe fits +he used to take a certain quantity of laudanum drops. On calling for +his usual remedy, during the most racking pains of his distemper, the +drops could not be found. The servant was despatched to his apothecary; +but, instead of laudanum drops, he asked for laudanum. A quantity of +laudanum was accordingly sent, with a special charge not to give Sir +William more than twenty-four drops. But the fellow, forgetting the +caution, gave the bottle into his master’s hand, who, in his agony, +drank up the whole contents, and expired in less than an hour. + +Why, my dearest love, did you conceal your illness from me so long? +Now, you may have revealed the situation of your health to me too late. +God forbid! If I write more, I shall write like a madman. A gentleman +takes this who sails for England to-day. To-morrow or next day the +Colonel will be here. If Lord Sandwich, as I have reason to expect, has +influenced him to refuse me leave of absence, I will most certainly +sell out directly, which I have an opportunity to do. At any rate, I +will be with you in a few days. If I come without a commission you must +not be angry. To find you both displeased and ill, will be too much +for your poor H. For my sake, be careful. Dr. —— I insist upon your +not having any longer. His experience and humanity are upon a par. +Positively you must contrive some method for me to see you. How can +love like mine support existence if you should be ill, and I should not +be permitted to see you. But I can neither think nor write any more. + + * * * * * + +Hackman then sold out and left at once for England, arriving in London +in the beginning of May 1777. + + + + + PART III + + _IN LONDON_ + + + _To MISS REAY_, + + +Cannon Coffee House+, _May 4, 1777_. + +Did you get the incoherent scrawls I wrote you yesterday and the day +before? Yours I have this instant read and wept over. Your feeble +writing speaks you weaker than you own. Heavens, am I come hither only +to find I must not see you! Better I had staid in Ireland. Yet, do I +now breathe the air with you. Nothing but your note last night could +have prevented me, at all hazards, from forcing my way to your bedside. +In vain did I watch the windows afterwards, to gather information +from the passing lights whether you were better or worse. For God of +heaven’s sake send me an answer to this! + + + _To MR. HACKMAN._ + + +Admiralty+, _May 4, 1774_.—3 o’clock. + +My dear mistress bids me write this from her mouth: “These are the +last words I speak. My last thoughts will be upon you, my dearest, dear +H. In the next world we shall meet. Live and cherish my memory. Accept +the contents of this little box. Be a friend to my children. My little +girl.” + + + _TO THE SAME._ + + +Admiralty+, _May 4, 1777_.—5 o’clock. + ++My Dear Soul+, + +At the hazard of my life I write this to tell you Heaven has spared my +life to your prayers. The unfinished note, which my hasty maid—I cannot +go on. + + “Sir, + +My dear Mistress bids me say, Sir, that her disorder has taken a turn +within this hour, and the physicians have pronounced her out of all +danger. Honoured Sir, I humbly crave your pardon for sending away my +scribble just now, which I am afraid has made you uneasy; but indeed, +Honoured Sir, I thought it was all over with my poor dear mistress; +and then, I am sure I should have broke my heart. For, to be sure, no +servant ever had a better, nor a kinder mistress. Sir, I presume to see +your honour to-morrow. My mistress fainted away as she began this, but +is now better. + + “_Admiralty.—6 o’clock._” + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Cannon Coffee House+, _June 27, 1777_. + 5 o’clock. + +As I want both appetite and spirit to touch my dinner, though it +has been standing before me these ten minutes, I can claim no merit +in writing to you. May you enjoy that pleasure in your delightful +situation on the banks of the Thames, which no situation, no thing upon +earth, can in your absence afford me! + +Do you ask me what has lowered my spirits to-day? I will tell you. Do +not be angry, but I have been to see the last of poor Dodd. Yes, “poor +Dodd!” though his life was justly forfeited to the laws of his country. +The scene was affecting—it was the first of the kind I had ever seen, +and shall certainly be the last. Though, had I been in England when +Peter Tolosa was deservedly executed in February, for killing Duarzey, +a young French woman with whom he lived, I believe I should have +attended the last moments of a man, who could murder the object of his +love. For the credit of my country, this man (does he deserve the name +of _man?_) was a Spaniard. + +Do not think I want tenderness because I was present this morning. Will +you allow yourself to want tenderness, because you have been present +at Lear’s madness, or Ophelia’s? Certainly not. Believe me (you _will_ +believe me, I am sure) I do not make a profession of it, like George +S. Your H. is neither _artiste_ nor _amateur_, nor do I, like Paoli’s +friend and historian, hire a window by the year, which looks upon the +Grassmarket at Edinburgh. + +Raynal’s book you have read, and admire. For its humanity it merits +admiration. The Abbé does not countenance an attendant on scenes at +this sort by his writings, but he does by his conduct. And I would +sooner take Practice’s word than Theory’s. Upon my honour Raynal and +Charles Fox, notwithstanding the rain, beheld the whole from the top of +an unfinished house, close by the stand in which I had a place. + +However meanly Dodd behaved formerly, in throwing the blame of his +application to the chancellor on his wife, he certainly died with +resolution. More than once to-day I have heard that resolution ascribed +to his hope that his friend Hawes, the humane founder of the Humane +Society, would be able to restore him to life. But I give him more +credit. Besides, Voltaire observes that the courage of a dying man is +in proportion to the number of those who are present, and St. Everemond +(the friend of the French M.) discovered that _les Anglais surpassent +toutes les nations à mourir_. Let me surpass all mankind in happiness, +by possessing my _Ninon_ for life, and I care not how I die. + +Some little circumstances struck me this morning, which, however you +may refuse to forgive me for so spending my morning, I am sure you +would not forgive me were I to omit. Before the melancholy procession +arrived, a sow was driven into the space left for the sad ceremony, +nor could the idea of the approaching scene, which had brought the +spectators together, prevent too many from laughing, and shouting, and +enjoying the poor animal’s distress, as if they had only come to Tyburn +to see a sow baited. + +After the arrival of the procession, the preparation of the unhappy +victim mixed something disagreeably ludicrous with the solemnity. The +tenderest could not but feel it, though they might be sorry that they +_did_ feel it. The poor man’s wig was to be taken off, and the nightcap +brought for the purpose was too little, and could not be pulled on +without force. _Valets de chambre_ are the greatest enemies to heroes. +Every guinea in my pocket would I have given that he had not worn a +wig, or that (wearing one) the cap had been bigger. + +At last arrived the moment of death. The driving away of the cart was +accompanied with a noise which best explained the feelings of the +spectators for the sufferer. Did you never observe, at the sight or +relation of anything shocking, that you closed your teeth hard, and +drew in your breath hard through them, so as to make a sort of hissing +sound? This was done so universally at the fatal moment that I am +persuaded the noise might have been heard at a considerable distance. +For my own part, I detected myself, in a certain manner, accompanying +his body with the motion of my own. + +Not all the resuscitating powers of Mr. Hawes can, I fear, have any +effect; it was so long before the mob would suffer the hearse to drive +away with his body. + +Thus ended the life of Dr. Dodd. How shocking, that a man, with whom +I have eaten and drunk, should leave the world in such a manner! A +manner which, from familiarity, has almost ceased to shock us, except +when our attention is called to a Perreau or a Dodd. How many men, +how many women, how many young, and, as they fancy, tender females, +with all their sensibilities about them, hear the sounds, by which at +this moment I am disturbed, with as much indifference as they hear +muffins and matches cried along the street! _The last dying speech +and confession, birth, parentage, and education._ Familiarity has +even annexed a kind of humour to the cry. We forget that it always +announces the death (and what a death!) of one fellow being; sometimes +of half-a-dozen, or even _more_. + +A lady talks with greater concern of cattle-day than of hanging-day. +And her maid contemplates the mournful engraving at the top of a dying +speech with more indifference than she regards the honest tar hugging +his sweetheart at the top of “Black-eyed Susan.” All that strikes +us is the ridiculous tone in which the halfpenny balladmonger singer +chants the _requiem_. We little recollect that, while we are smiling +at the voice of the charmer, wives or husbands (charm she never so +wisely), children, parents, or friends, perhaps all these and more than +these, as pure from crimes as we, and purer still, perhaps, are weeping +over the crime and punishment of the darling and support of their +lives. Still less do we at this moment (for the printer always gets the +start of the hangman, and many a man has bought his own dying speech +on his return to Newgate by virtue of a reprieve)—still less do we ask +ourselves, whether the wretch, who, at the moment we hear this (which +ought to strike us as an) awful sound, finds the halter of death about +his neck, and now takes the longing farewell, and now hears the horses +whipped and encouraged to draw from under him for ever the cart which +he now, now, now feels depart from his lingering feet—whether this +wretch really deserved to die more than we. Alas! were no spectators +to attend executions but those who deserve to live, Tyburn would be +honoured with much thinner congregations. + + * * * * * + +Well, I have made an uncomfortable sort of a meal on tea, and now +I will continue my conversation with you. _Conversation_—a plague +on words, they will bring along with them ideas. This is all the +conversation we must have together for some days. Have I deserved the +misery of being absent from my M.? To bring proofs of my love would be +to bring proofs of my existence. They must end together. Oh, Martha, +does the chaste resolution which I have so religiously observed ever +since I offered you marriage deserve no smiles from fortune? Is then +my evil genius never to relent? Had I not determined to deserve that +success which it is not for mortals to command, I should never have +struggled with my passions as I did the first time we met after your +recovery. What a struggle! The time of year, the time of day, the +situation, the danger from which you were hardly recovered, the number +of months since we had met, the languor of your mind and body, the bed, +the everything. Ye cold-blooded, white-livered sons and daughters of +chastity, have ye no praises to bestow on such a forbearance as that? +Yet, when your strength failed you, and grief and tenderness dissolved +you in my arms; when you reclined your cheek upon my shoulder, and your +warm tears dropt into my bosom, then who could refrain? then—— + +What then, ye clay-cold hypercritics in morality? + +Then, even then, “I took but one kiss, and I tore myself away.” + +Oh that I could take only one look at this moment! + +Your last says _the sun will shine_. Alas! I see no signs of it. Our +prospects seem shut up for ever. + +With regard to the stage, we will talk of it. My objections are +not because I doubt your success. They are of a different kind—the +objections of love and delicacy. Be not uneasy about my selling out. +The step was not so imprudent. What think you of orders? More than once +you know you have told me I have too much religion for a soldier. Will +you condescend to be a poor parson’s wife? + +But I shall write to-morrow at this rate. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + _July 7, 1777._ + +Since last night I have changed my mind, totally changed it. I charge +you not to see Mrs. Yates this morning. Write her word that your mind +is changed. Never will I consent to be supported by your labours. +Never, never shall your face, your person, your accomplishments be +exposed for so much an hour. By heaven! I will not forgive you if you +do not give up all thoughts of such a thing. + + * * * * * + +Miss Reay seems, after all, to have abandoned her intention of going on +the stage, although she was studying at the time with Signora Galli, an +Italian opera-singer, who had been appointed companion to Miss Reay by +Lord Sandwich. It is probable that Galli was also instructed to play +the part of spy over Miss Reay’s actions. The following four letters +from Hackman cover a period of twelve months, during which time he was +preparing to enter the Church. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Croydon+, _Sept. 20, 1777_. + +That you have taken to drawing gives me particular pleasure. Depend +upon it, you will find it suit your genius. But, in truth, your genius +seizes everything. While your old friend is eating his corn I sit down +to tell you this, which I would not say to your face lest you should +call it flattery, though you well know flattery is a thing in which +_we_ never deal. My opinion of the great man’s style of painting who +condescends to improve you in drawing is exactly yours. Posterity will +agree with us. The subjects you recommended to his pencil are such as I +should have expected from my M.’s fancy. While I walked my horse hither +this morning two or three subjects of different sorts occurred to me. +All of them would not suit his style. But I know one or two of them +would not displease you if well executed. Some of them I will send you. + +Louis XIV. when a boy, viewing the battle of St. Anthony from the top +of Charonne. In 1650, I think. + +Richard Cromwell, when the Prince de Conti, Condé’s brother, told him +in conversation, at Montpelier, without knowing him, that Oliver was a +great man, but that Oliver’s son was a miscreant for not knowing how to +profit by his father’s crimes. + +Milton, when the idea first struck him of changing his mystery into an +epic poem. + +Demosthenes declaiming in a storm. + +William the Conqueror and his rebellious son Robert discovering each +other in a battle, after they had encountered hand to hand for some +time. + +Charles XII. tearing the Vizir’s robe with his spur. + +And again, after lying in bed ten months at Demotica. + + ... Though my mother could na speak, + She look’d in my face till my heart was like to break. + +The Abra of Prior’s Solomon. + + When she, with modest scorn, the wreath return’d, + Reclin’d her beauteous neck, and inward mourn’d. + +Our Elizabeth, when she gave her Essex a box on the ear. + +Chatterton’s Sir Charles Bawdin parting from his wife. + + Then tir’d out with raving loud, + She fell upon the floor; + Sir Charles exerted all his might, + And _march’d_ from out the door. + +The Conference of Augustus, Anthony and Lepidus (you are deep in +Goldsmith, I know). Do you remember the scene? Equally suspicious of +treachery, they agreed to meet on a little island near Mutina. Lepidus +first past over. Finding every thing safe, he made the signal. Behold +them, yonder, seated on the ground, on the highest part of a desolate +island, unattended, fearful of one another, marking out cities and +nations, dividing the whole world between them, and mutually resigning +to destruction, agreeably to lists which each presented, their dearest +friends and nearest relations. Salvator Rosa would not make me quarrel +with him for doing the background. Your friend, if any one living, +could execute the figures. + +Let me suggest one more subject. Monmouth’s decapitation, in the +time of James II. History speaks well of his face and person. The +circumstances of his death are these: He desired the executioner to +dispatch him with more skill than he had dispatched Russel. This only +added to the poor fellow’s confusion, who struck an ineffectual blow. +Monmouth raised his face from the block, and with a look (which I +cannot describe, but the painter must give) reproached his failure. By +the turn of the head, the effect of the blow might be concealed, and +left to fancy; which might collect it from the faces of the nearest +spectators. The remainder of the scene is too shocking for the eye, +almost for the ear. But, I know not how, whenever I am away from you, +nothing is too shocking for _me_. Monmouth again laid down his head. +The executioner struck again _and again_, to as little purpose; and, at +last, threw down the axe. The sheriff obliged the man, whose feelings +all must pity and respect, to renew his attempt. Two strokes more +finished the butchery. + +Were it possible to tear off this last subject without destroying half +my letter, I really would. It will make you shudder too much. But, +you see, it is not possible; and you prefer such a letter as this, I +know, to none. The paper only affords me room to say my horse is ready. +Every step he carries me from you will be a step from happiness. My +imagination _would_ busy herself just now about the manner in which I +should behave, if I were to die as ignominiously as Monmouth. But, as I +feel no inclination for rebellion, fancy threw away her pains. + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + _Feb. 5, 1778._ + +Oh! my dearest Martha, what I have gone through since I wrote to you +last night it is impossible for me to describe. Thank God, you were +not in town! Suffice it that my honour and life are both as you wish +them. Now, mine of last night is more intelligible. How strange, that +the kindest letter that you almost ever wrote me, should come to me +precisely at the time I was obliged to make up my mind to quit the +world, or, what is more, _much more_, to quit you! Yet, so it was. + +The story my letter mentioned, of a friend who had received such an +affront as no human being could away with, was my own. Your feelings +agreed with me, I am sure. Duelling is not what I defend. In general, +almost always, it may be avoided. But cases may be put, in which it +can be avoided only by worse than death, by everlasting disgrace +and infamy. Had I fallen, I know where my last thoughts would have +lingered; and you and your children would have had some tokens of my +regard. Be assured the matter is for ever at an end, and at an end as +properly as even you can wish. How happy shall we be in ’79 or ’80 (for +before that time we shall surely be blest with each other!), to have +those friends about us who where privy to this day, and to talk over +the possibility of it! + +H., in all thy future life, sacred be every fifth of February! + +My mind is too much agitated to write any more this evening. To-morrow +I will be more particular. My last I am sure could not alarm you; +though, had anything happened, it would have prepared you. Do not be +alarmed by this. Upon my honour (with which you know I never preface +a falsity) I am not hurt; nor, as it since turns out, is the other +gentleman, at least, not materially. + +One trifling circumstance I must mention. As I was determined either to +kill or be killed (unless sufficient apologies should be made), _the +only proper and least pernicious idea of duelling_, I did not see why +I should not recruit my strength as much as possible. So, about three +o’clock, I took some cold saddle of mutton and brandy and water at my +friend’s. After which I went home to seal up some things for you, where +my friend was to call for me. When I saw him coming to my door between +four and five, I had just wrung the affectionate hand of the man I +most value, and committed to his care you and your dear little girl, +and my dear sister, &c. &c. Love, honour, revenge, and all my various +feelings would, in spite of myself, parch my tongue. As I took my hat +out of my dressing-room, I filled a wineglass of water, and drank half +of it, to moisten my mouth. When I saw that glass again, about an hour +ago, on returning to that home, which I never again thought to see, in +order to write to her of whom I thought I had taken my last leave in +this world—when I took that glass again into my hand, recollected my +feelings on setting it down, and emptied the remainder of its contents, +a libation of gratitude to the superintending Providence of Heaven, oh! +M., no pen, not even yours, can paint my feelings! + +Only remember, in all our future life, each fifth of February be ever +sacred! + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + _March 2, 1778._ + +Your going out of town so suddenly has not served to mend my spirits. +But I will be as merry as I can. Were I to be _very_ miserable after +my late miraculous adventure, I should be guilty of _sullenness_ +against Providence. The minute account I gave you of it last week, +was, I assure you, dictated by my feelings before they had forgotten +the affecting circumstances. Your observations are truly just and +striking. Unpardonable as the affront which I had received appears to +mortal eyes, I should not readily, I fear, have found an answer to the +question of the enquiring angel, on entering the world of spirits, +“What brings you hither?” + +Did I not tell you on Saturday the particulars of the poor fellow who +suffered this day se’nnight for murdering Mrs. Knightly? They are +singular. He was an Italian, I understand. Such a thing is not credible +but of an Italian. + +Mrs. Knightly’s account was, that on the 18th of January Ceppi +came into her room (she being in bed), locked the door, sat himself +in a chair, and told her he was come to do her business. She, not +understanding this, asked him to let her get out of bed, which he did. +He then took from his pocket two pistols. She went towards the door +in order to get out, but he set his back against it. She, to appease +him, told him he might stay to breakfast. He answered he would have +none, but would give her a good one. She then called out to alarm the +house, ran towards the bed, and said, “Pray do not shoot me!” and drew +up close to the curtains. He followed, and discharged the pistol, +after which he threw himself across the bed and fired the other pistol +at himself, which did not take effect. During this a washerwoman ran +upstairs, and with a poker broke the bottom panel of the door, through +which Mrs. Knightly was drawn half naked, and Ceppi, following, ran +downstairs, but was pursued and taken. In his defence, he said he had +proposed honourable terms of marriage to her, but that she had refused +and deserted him; that he was overcome with grief and love, and that +his design was not to hurt her, but to shoot himself in her presence. + +It appears, I am afraid, from all the circumstances, that, whatever his +despair meant with regard to his own life, he certainly was determined +to take away hers. How unaccountably must Nature have formed him. +Besides the criminality and brutality of the business, the folly of +it strikes _me_. What! because the person, on whom I have fixed _my_ +affections, has robbed me of happiness by withdrawing _hers_, shall I +let her add to the injury by depriving me of existence also in this +world, and of everything in the next? In my opinion, to run the chance +of being murdered by the new object of her affections or of murdering +him, is as little reconcileable to common sense as to common religion. +How much less so to commit complicated murder, which must cut off all +hopes in other worlds. + +Yet, could I believe (which I own I cannot, from the evidence in this +case) that the idea of destroying her never struck him till his finger +was at the trigger; that his only intention was to lay the breathless +body of an injured lover at her feet—had this been the fact, however +I might have condemned the deed, I certainly should have wept over the +momentary phrenzy which committed it. But, as nothing appears to have +past which could at all make him change his plan, I must (impossible as +it seems) suppose him to have deliberately formed so diabolical a plan; +and must rejoice that he was not of the same country, while I lament +that he was of the same order of beings with myself. + + * * * * * + +If the favour I mentioned to you on Saturday be at all out of course, +pray do not ask it. Yet the worthy veteran I want to serve has now and +then seen things happen not altogether _in_ course. When he called this +morning to learn how I had succeeded, I observed to him, while we were +talking, that he was bald. “Yes,” said he, shaking his grey hairs, “it +will happen so by people’s continually stepping over one’s head.” + +He little suspected the channel of my application, but he asked me this +morning whether £50, if he could scrape it together, properly slid into +Miss Reay’s hand, might not forward his views. My answer was, that I +had no acquaintance with the lady, but I knew _for certain_ that she +had never in her life soiled her fingers with the smallest present of +this sort. + +Happy, blest, to know you, to love you, and be loved by you! + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Hockerill+, _September 5, 1778_. + +Here did I sit, more than two years ago, in this very room, perhaps in +this very chair, thanking you for bliss, for paradise, all claim to +which I soon after voluntarily resigned, because I hoped they would +soon be mine by claims more just, if possible, than those of love. +Two years—how have I borne existence all the while! But delicacy and +respect for you enjoined forbearance; and Hope led me on from day to +day, deceiving Time with distant prospects which I thought at hand. +When will the tedious journey end? When will my weary feet find rest? +When shall I sleep away my fatigues on the down-soft pillow of the +bosom of love? Should hope continue to deceive me, you never shall +make me happy, till you make me your husband. Yet, as we sate upon the +grass, under the trees near the water, just before you returned me +my stick, because you thought the gentleman coming along the path by +the mill was a certain person—yet, had I then loosened another button +or two of my favourite habit which was already opened by the heat; +had I then (you remember, my Laura, the conversation and the scene) +forgotten my resolution, forgotten everything, and rioted in all your +glowing charms, which only love like mine could withstand—who is he +that would dare to blame me? Who would dare to say I had done what he +would not have done? But the scene must be shifted. Sally Harris, you +know, arrived only at the dignity of Pomona at Hockerill. Had my Martha +her due, mankind at large would admit her double claim to the titles of +Minerva and of Venus. + +To sleep _here_ is impossible. As well expect the miser to sleep in a +place where he once hung in raptures over a hidden treasure which is +now lost. This letter I have an opportunity to send to our old friend, +for you, without taking it to town. Let me fill up the remainder of my +paper with an almost incredible anecdote I learned from a gentleman +who joined me on the road this morning and travelled some miles with +me. It happened last week, I think. Peter Ceppi you remember. Surely +that Providence which prevents the propagation of monsters, does not +suffer such _monstrous_ examples as these to propagate. + +One Empson, a footman to Dr. Bell, having in vain courted for some +time a servant belonging to Lord Spencer, at last caused the banns to +be put up at church, without her consent, which she forbad. Being thus +disappointed, he meditated revenge; and having got a person to write a +letter to her, appointing a meeting, he contrived to waylay her, and +surprise her in Lord Spencer’s park. On her screaming, he discharged +a pistol at her, and made his escape. The ball wounded her, but not +mortally. + +Oh love, love, canst thou not be content to make fools of thy slaves, +to make them miserable, to make them what thou pleasest! Must thou +also goad them on to crimes! Must thou also convert them into devils, +hell-hounds! + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + +Craven Street+, _Jan. 28, 1779_. + +The short note I wrote to you last night, immediately on my reaching +town, you received. But why no answer to it? Why do you not say when +we shall meet? I have ten thousand things to tell you. My situation +in Norfolk is lovely. Exactly what you like. The parsonage-house may +be made very comfortable at a trifling expense. How happily shall we +spend our time there! How glad am I that I have taken orders, and +what obligations have I to my dear B. to Mr. H. and Dr. V.! Now, my +happiness can be deferred no longer. My character and profession are, +now, additional weights in the scale. Oh, then, consent to marry me +directly. The day I lead you to the altar will be the happiest day of +my existence. + +Thanks, a thousand thanks for your tender and affectionate letters +while I was in Norfolk. Be assured Galli could mean nothing by what +she said. She is our firm friend, I am persuaded. About an hour ago I +called there; but she was out. Presently, I shall go again with this, +in the hope of hearing something about you. + +Oh, Martha! every day I live I do but discover more and more how +impossible it is for me to live without you. + +Do not forget the 5th of next month. We _must_ keep that day sacred +together. + + * * * * * + +There seems to be a mistake in the date of this letter, as Hackman was +not ordained deacon until Wednesday, February 24, 1779; he became a +priest at a general ordination on the following Sunday, and received +the living of Wiveton, in Norfolk, on March 1 of the same year, the +day on which he wrote the last letter he ever sent to Miss Reay. Full +of hope and happiness he looks forward to the new life that is before +them, and he expresses his thankfulness for Signora Galli’s kindness. +But there is no doubt that this woman, whose conduct throughout was +sinister, is morally responsible for the events that followed. + + * * * * * + + + _To MISS REAY._ + + _March 1, 1779._ + +Though we meet to-morrow, I must write you two words to-night, just to +say that I have all the hopes in the world that ten days at the utmost +will complete the business. When that is done, your only objection is +removed along with your debts; and we may, surely, then be happy, and +be so _soon_. In a month, or _six weeks at furthest_, from this time, I +might certainly call you mine. Only remember that my _character_, now +I have taken orders, makes expedition necessary. By to-night’s post +I shall write into Norfolk about the alterations at _our_ parsonage. +To-morrow! Galli’s friendship is more than I can ever return. + + * * * * * + +But Miss Reay, either out of consideration for the future welfare of +her children, or because she found that she was no longer in love with +Hackman, gave him to understand, through the agency of Signora Galli, +that, after all, she could not consent to marry him. Hackman, almost +crazy with disappointed love, wrote immediately to a friend in the +country, who replied advising Hackman not to believe anything that +Galli had said; he also offered to come to town if he could be of any +assistance. Hackman then wrote, in answer, the following letter. + + _March 20, 1779._ + +Your coming to town, my dear friend, will answer no end. Galli has been +such a friend to me, it is not possible to doubt her information. What +interest has she to serve? Certainly none. Look over the letters, with +which I have so pestered you for these two years, about this business. +Look at what I have written to you about Galli since I returned from +Ireland. She can only mean _well_ to me. Be not apprehensive. Your +friend will take no step to disgrace himself. What I shall do I know +not. Without her I do not think I can exist. Yet I will be, you shall +see, _a man_, as well as a lover. Should there be a rival, and should +he merit chastisement, I know you will be my friend. But I will have +ocular proof of everything before I believe. + + Yours ever. + + * * * * * + +A fortnight later Hackman wrote again to the same friend. + + * * * * * + +It signifies not. Your reasoning I admit. Despair goads me on. Death +only can relieve me. By what I wrote yesterday you must see my +resolution was taken. Often have I made use of my key to let myself +into the Admiralty, that I might die at her feet. She gave it me as the +key of love; little did she think it would ever prove the key of death. +But the loss of Lady Hinchinbrook keeps Lord Sandwich within. + +My dear Charles, is it possible for me to doubt Galli’s information? +Even _you_ were staggered by the account I gave you of what passed +between us in the Park. What then have I to do, who only lived when she +loved me, but to cease to live now she ceases to love? The propriety of +suicide, its cowardice, its crime, I have nothing to do with them. All +I pretend to prove or to disprove is my misery, and the possibility of +my existing under it. + +Till within this month, till Galli’s information, I thought of +self-murder as you think of it. Nothing now is left for me but to +leap the world to come. If it be a crime, as I too much fear, and +we are accountable for our passions, I must stand the trial and the +punishment. My invention can paint no punishment equal to what I suffer +here. + +Think of those passions, my friend; those passions of which you have +so often, since I knew Miss Reay, spoken to me and written to me. If +you will not let me fly from my misery, will you not let me fly from my +passions? They are a pack of bloodhounds which will inevitably tear me +to pieces. My carelessness has suffered them to overtake me, and now +there is no possibility, but this, of escaping them. The hand of Nature +heaped upon every species of combustible in my bosom. The torch of +love has set the heap on fire. I must perish in the flames. At first I +might perhaps have extinguished them; now they rage too fiercely. _If_ +they can be smothered, they can never be got under. Suppose they should +consume any other person beside myself? And who is he, that will answer +for passions such as mine? At present, I am innocent.... + + * * * * * + +Hackman dined the next day with Mr. Frederick Booth and his sister. +He went afterwards to the Admiralty in the hope of catching a glimpse +of Miss Reay, and, seeing Lord Sandwich’s carriage standing there, he +guessed that she was going out in it and would probably call on Signora +Galli, who had rooms in the Haymarket. So he walked to the Cannon +Coffee House, in order that he might see the carriage pass. Miss Reay +soon drove up and he followed the carriage from the Haymarket to Covent +Garden Theatre, where “Love in a Village” was being performed. The +moment Miss Reay and Galli alighted, the handsome Lord Coleraine came +forward to meet them, whereupon Hackman, mad with jealousy, decided to +commit suicide. He went away and, having bought a brace of pistols (in +case one should miss fire) he returned to the Opera House. Croker says: +“The ladies sat in a front box, and three gentlemen, all connected with +the Admiralty, occasionally paid their compliments to them. Mr. Hackman +was sometimes in the lobby, sometimes in an upper side-box, and more +than once at the Bedford Coffee House to take brandy and water, but +still seemed unable to gain any information.” When the opera was over, +Miss Reay was standing in the vestibule waiting for the carriage to be +announced, and it is related, in the “Life and Correspondence of M. G. +Lewis,” that “Mrs. Lewis happened to make some remark on a beautiful +rose which Miss Reay wore in her bosom. Just as the words were uttered +the flower fell to the ground. The poor girl, who had been depressed +in spirits before, was evidently affected by this incident, and said, +in a slightly faltering voice, ‘I trust I am not to consider this as an +evil omen!’” + +Hackman, who was watching her, tried to push his way through the crowd, +but was unable to do so, until Lord Sandwich’s carriage being called, +Miss Reay tried to get to the door. A Mr. Macnamara, of Lincoln’s Inn, +seeing the difficulty she was in, offered his arm to her and led her +towards her carriage. + +This seems to have added fresh fuel to the jealousy which was consuming +Hackman, so forcing his way up to Miss Reay, he drew one pistol out +of his pocket and shot her in the forehead, shooting himself with +the other the instant after, and they fell together on the pavement. +Hackman, to his infinite despair, found that he had not inflicted a +mortal wound upon himself, so he beat his head frantically with the +butt-end of the pistol as he lay upon the ground, crying out the while +“Kill me! Kill me!” He was prevented from doing himself any further +injury by Mr. Mahon, an apothecary, of Russell Street, and both he and +his unfortunate victim were removed to the Shakespeare Tavern, where, a +medical examination having been made, it was found that Miss Reay was +dead. A letter to Mr. Booth, Hackman’s brother-in-law, was found in one +of his pockets, which shows that Hackman’s original intention was to +kill himself, and that the murder was only the result of a momentary +impulse. + + * * * * * + + _April 7, 1779._ + ++My Dear Frederick+, + +When this reaches you I shall be no more, but do not let my unhappy +fate distress you too much. I strove against it as long as possible, +but it now overpowers me. You know where my affections were placed; +my having by some means or other lost hers (an idea which I could not +support) has driven me to madness. The world will condemn, but your +heart will pity me. God bless you, my dear Frederick! Would I had a +sum of money to leave you to convince you of my great regard. You were +almost my only friend. I have hid one circumstance from you which gives +me great pain. I owe Mr. W. of Gosport one hundred pounds, for which he +has the writings of my houses; but I hope in God, when they are sold, +and all other matters collected, there will be nearly enough to settle +your account. May Almighty God bless you and _yours_ with comfort and +happiness, and may you ever be a stranger to the pangs I now feel! May +Heaven protect my beloved woman and forgive this act, which alone could +relieve me from a world of misery I have long endured! Oh, if it should +be in your power to do her any act of friendship remember your faithful +friend, + + +James Hackman.+ + + * * * * * + +When Hackman had so far recovered as to be able to speak he inquired +anxiously of Mr. Bond the surgeon as to the condition of Miss Reay. +Being informed that she was dead he earnestly implored him to prevent +her corpse being exposed to the gaze of the public. + +The news of the tragedy was at once carried to the Admiralty, and +Croker says that Lord Sandwich “stood, as it were, petrified, till +suddenly seizing a candle, he ran upstairs and threw himself on the +bed, and in an agony exclaimed, ‘Leave me for awhile to myself; I +could have borne anything but this.’ The attendants remained for a +considerable time at the top of the staircase, till his lordship rang +the bell and ordered that they should all go to bed.” + +Sir John Fielding, the magistrate, was sent for, about three o’clock +the next morning, from Brompton. He arrived two hours later, and +finding that Hackman’s wounds were not dangerous, he ordered the +surgeon to take him to Tothill Fields prison. The corpse of Miss +Reay was removed to an undertaker’s in Leicester Square, and she was +subsequently buried near her mother in the parish church of her native +village, Elstree, in Hertfordshire, where, says Leigh Hunt, “she had +been a lowly and happy child, running about with her blooming face, and +little thinking what trouble it was to cost her.” + +On the following day there was an article in the _Morning Post_ upon +the tragedy, which contained a eulogistic reference to Miss Reay: + +“There was scarce any polite art at which she was not an adept, nor +any part of female literature with which she was not conversant. All +the world are acquainted with the universal sweetness of her vocal +powers; but it was the peculiar pleasure of a few only to know that +her conversation, her feelings, and indeed her general deportment, all +participated of an unparalleled delicacy which had characterised her +through life.” + +Miss Reay’s personality must have been singularly fascinating, as +otherwise she could never have kept her hold upon her dissipated +“protector” for so many years. Croker relates that Lord Sandwich after +her death went away into the country, “but, after a great length of +time, he was persuaded by our open-hearted friend, Admiral Walsingham, +to meet a select party at his house. All passed off exceedingly well +for a while, and his lordship appeared more cheerful than could have +been expected; but, after coffee, as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were present, +something was mentioned about music, and one of the company requested +that Mrs. Bates would favour them with “Shepherds, I have lost my +love.” This was unfortunately the very air that had been introduced +by Miss Reay at Hinchinbrook and had been always called for by Lord +Sandwich. Mr. Bates immediately endeavoured to prevent its being sung, +and by his anxiety increased his distress; but it was too late to +pause. Lord Sandwich struggled for a while to overcome his feelings, +but they were so apparent that at last he went up to Mrs. Walsingham +and in a very confused manner said he hoped she would excuse his not +staying longer at that time, but that he had just recollected some +pressing business which required his return to the Admiralty, and +bowing to all the company, rather hastily left the room.” + +Unpopular as the Earl was, there was general sympathy felt for him as +the following quatrain from the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ shows: + + Britannia weeps, since S——’s heart can feel, + That heart long tempered of the hardest steel! + These tears most generous—we may all aver + To weep for him who never felt for her. + +On the morning of April 8, Hackman wrote to his friend, the Rev. +Charles Porter, of Clapham, to whom he afterwards entrusted these +letters and the fragments of manuscript, which he wrote while in +Newgate, asking him to bring him some poison. + + * * * * * + + +Tothill Fields+, _April 8, 1779_. + +I am alive—and she is dead. I shot her and not myself. Some of her +blood and brains is still upon my clothes. I do not ask you to speak +to me. Only come hither, and bring me a little poison; such as is +strong enough. Upon my knees, I beg, if your friendship for me ever was +sincere, do, _do_, bring me some poison. + + * * * * * + +On Friday, April 9, at half-past nine in the morning, Mr. Hackman was +brought up to Sir John Fielding’s private office, by the governor +of Tothill Fields prison. A contemporary account says that “the +surgeons, constables, and witnesses attended, and were severally +sworn to their depositions taken on Thursday last. Mr. Bond read over +these depositions to the prisoner, who wept very much, and was quite +convulsed each time the name of the deceased was mentioned. He did +not attempt to palliate his offence; but said he eagerly wished to +die. Upon the whole, it was impossible to behold him without pity, +notwithstanding the enormity of his offence. He was committed to +Newgate, and Sir John Fielding desired that a person might be set over +the prisoner to prevent him destroying himself. Lord Essex and several +other noblemen and gentlemen were present at the above examination.” + +The same day he wrote to Mr. Porter, who had refused, at first, to +visit him. + + * * * * * + + _April 9, 1779._ + +Your note just now, and the long letter I received at the same time, +which should have found me the day before yesterday, have changed my +resolution. The promise you desire, I most solemnly give you. I will +make no attempt upon my life. Had I received your comfortable letter +when you meant I should, I verily do not think this would have happened. + +Pardon what I wrote to you about the poison. Indeed, I am too composed +for any such thing now. Nothing should tempt me. My death is all the +recompense I can make to the laws of my country. Dr. V. has sent me +some excellent advice, and Mr. H. has refuted all my false arguments. +Even such a being as I find friends. + +Oh, that my feelings and his feeling would let me see my _dearest_ +friend. Then I would tell you how this happened. + + * * * * * + +Two days before his trial, he wrote again. + + + _To THE SAME._ + + +Newgate+, _April 14, 1779_. + +My best thanks for all your goodness since this day se’nnight. Oh, +Charles, this is about the time. I cannot write. + + * * * * * + +My trial comes on either Friday or Saturday. It will be indeed a trial. +God (whom I have so outraged) can alone tell how I shall go through it. +My resolution is not fixed as yet about pleading guilty. The arguments +by which they tell me I may escape that death which is so much my due, +I certainly will not suffer to be used. + + * * * * * + +Whatever the world may think, you, I know, believe that I had no +intention against her till the _very instant_. The account I wrote to +you of the shocking business since it happened, was the real truth. +All Tuesday, after I had finished my letter to you, I, in vain sought +for an opportunity to destroy myself in her presence. So, again, on +the Wednesday, all the morning. In the afternoon, after dining at +poor Booth’s, I saw Lord Sandwich’s coach pass by the Cannon Coffee +House, where I was watching for it. I followed it to Galli’s (inhuman, +and yet not guilty, Galli!) From her house I saw it take them to the +play. Now, I was determined; and went to my lodgings for my pistols, +where I wrote a letter to Booth which I put into my pocket, intending +to send it; but, as I forgot it, the letter was found there. When I +returned to Covent Garden, I waited for the conclusion of the play, +in the Bedford Coffee House. What a figure must I have been! Indeed, +I overheard one gentleman say to a friend, that I looked as if I was +out of my senses. Oh, how I wished for the play to be over! I had +charged my pistols with the kindest letter she ever wrote me, a letter +which made me the happiest of mortals, and which had ever since been +my talisman. At last, arrived the end of the play, and the beginning +of my tragedy. I met them in the stone passage, and had then got the +pistol to my forehead, but she did not see me (nor did any one, I +suppose). And the crowd separated us. This accident I considered as the +immediate intervention of Providence. I put up my pistol, turned about, +and should (I most firmly believe) have gone out the other way, and +have laid aside my horrid resolution, had I not looked round and seen +Mr. Macnamara (whom I immediately construed into the favoured lover +described by Galli) offer her a hand, which I thought was received +with particular pleasure. The stream of my passions, which had been +stopped, now overwhelmed me with redoubled violence. It hurried me +after them. Jealousy suggested a new crime; and nerved anew the arm of +despair. I overtook them at the carriage, and—and, at about the time I +am now writing this, felt more than all the tortures of all the damned +together. + +What shall I not feel at the necessary recital of the tragedy at my +trial! + + * * * * * + +On Friday, April 16, Hackman’s trial came on before Judge Blackstone, +“for feloniously, wilfully, and with malice aforethought, shooting Miss +Reay in the forehead.” Mr. Fielding and Mr. Howarth prosecuted for the +Crown; Hackman was defended by Mr. Davenport. After all the witnesses +had been heard, Judge Blackstone called upon Hackman to make his +defence. In a nervous and affecting manner, which produced a painful +impression on all present, he made the following speech: + ++My Lord+, + +I should not have troubled the Court with the examination of witnesses +to support the charge against me, had I not thought that the pleading +guilty to the indictment would give an indication of contemning death, +not suitable to my present condition; and would, in some measure, make +me accessary to a second peril of my life. And I likewise thought that +the justice of my country ought to be satisfied by suffering my offence +to be proved, and the fact to be established by evidence. + +I stand here the most wretched of human beings, and confess myself +criminal in a high degree. I acknowledge _with shame and repentence_ +that my determination against my own life was formal and complete. I +protest, with that regard to truth which becomes my situation, that the +will to destroy her, who was ever dearer to me than life, was never +mine until a momentary frenzy overcame me, and induced me to commit the +deed I deplore. The letter which I meant for my brother-in-law, after +my decease, will have its due weight, as to this point, with good men. + +Before this dreadful act, I trust nothing will be found in the tenor +of my life which the common charity of mankind will not readily +excuse. I have no wish to avoid the punishment which the laws of my +country appoint for my crime; but, being already too unhappy to feel a +punishment in death, or a satisfaction in life, I submit myself to the +disposal and judgment of Almighty God, and to the consequences of this +enquiry into my conduct and intention. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Davenport urged Hackman’s acquittal on a point of law—that of +insanity, and also pleaded that the letter to Mr. Booth, which was +found in Hackman’s pocket, proved that it was not his previous +intention to kill Miss Reay. Judge Blackstone, in the course of his +summing-up, said that to constitute murder it was not necessary that +there should be a long form of deliberation; that the bare wilfully +shooting at one man and killing another was wilful murder; that it was +also wilful murder if a man, in attempting to shoot himself, should +kill another; that the prisoner had rested his defence on the ground +of insanity, but it was not every fit or start of passion that would +justify the killing of another, but it must be the total loss of +reason, and incapability of reason in every part of life. With regard +to the letter found in the prisoner’s pocket, his lordship said he was +sorry to say that it argued a coolness and deliberation which in no way +accorded with the ideas of insanity. On the whole, he left it to the +jury to consider of the fact and not the point of law, adding that, +if in discharge of their consciences, they were convinced that the +prisoner was totally dispossessed of his reason and understanding, they +would acquit; if not, they must find him guilty. The jury consulted +for a few minutes, then brought in a verdict of guilty; and Baron +Massieres, the Recorder’s assistant, immediately pronounced sentence of +death. Hackman behaved with perfect fortitude, and, bowing to the court +and jury, retired. Lord Sandwich, who had great personal influence with +George III., wrote to Hackman, that if he wished to live, “the man whom +he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his life.” + +But Hackman replied that “the murderer of her whom he preferred, far +preferred, to life, suspects the hand from which he has just received +such an offer as he neither desires nor deserves. His wishes are for +death, not for life. One wish he has. Could he be pardoned in this +world by the man he has most injured—oh, my Lord, when I meet her in +another world, enable me to tell her (if departed spirits are ignorant +of earthly things) that you forgive us both, that you will be a father +to her dear infants!” + + J.H. + + * * * * * + +During the trial, Hackman’s brother-in-law, Mr. Booth, who was too +agitated to remain in court, waited outside until the verdict should +be delivered. The officious Boswell was the first person to inform him +that the death sentence had been passed upon his relative. “How did +Hackman behave?” asked Booth, eagerly. + +“As well, sir,” answered Boswell, with an echo of the Johnsonian +pomposity in his words, “as you or any of his friends could wish; with +decency, propriety, and in such a manner as to interest every one +present. He might have pleaded that he shot Miss Reay by accident, but +he fairly told the truth, that in a moment of frenzy he did intend it.” + +“Well,” said Booth, “I would rather have found him guilty with truth +and honour, than escape by a mean evasion.” + +“Which” (says the chronicler of the above conversation, the author of a +pamphlet containing a full report of the trial) “was a sentiment truly +noble, bursting from a heart rent with anguish!” + +Boswell says, in his “Life of Johnson,” that “the Doctor was much +interested by my account of what passed, and particularly with his +prayer for the mercy of heaven. He said, in a solemn, fervid tone, ‘I +hope he _shall_ find mercy.’” + +Horace Walpole wrote the same day to the Rev. Mr. Cole: + +“I do not know whether our clergy are growing Mahometans or not: they +certainly are not what they profess themselves; but as you and I should +not agree, perhaps, in assigning the same defects to them, I will not +enter on a subject which I have promised you to drop. All I allude to +now is the shocking murder of Miss Reay by a divine. In my own opinion +we are growing more fit for Bedlam than for Mahomet’s paradise. The +poor criminal, I am persuaded, is mad, and the misfortune is the law +does not know how to define the shades of madness; and thus there are +twenty out-pensioners of Bedlam, for one that is confined.” + +The Countess of Upper Ossory, in a letter to George Selwyn, mentions +that Hackman and Miss Reay were the sole topic of the town. She adds +that Hackman’s behaviour during his trial was wonderfully touching. + +The following disconnected papers, which were written by Hackman in the +condemned cell, show that as the date of his execution grew nearer, he +became resigned to his fate, and earnestly desired to die. + + * * * * * + + +Newgate+, Saturday Night. + _April 17, 1779_. + ++My Dear Charles+, + +The clock has just struck eleven. All has, for some time, been quiet +within this sad abode. Would that all were so within my sadder breast! + +That gloominess of my favourite, Young’s “Night Thoughts” which was +always so congenial to my soul, would have been still heightened had +he ever been wretched enough to hear St. Paul’s clock thunder through +the still ear of night in the condemned walls of Newgate. The sound is +truly solemn, it seems the sound of death. + +Oh that it were death’s sound! How greedily would my impatient ears +devour it! + +And yet, but one day more. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit, till then. + +And then! + +My God, my creator, my first father! Thou who madest me as I am, with +these feelings, these passions, this heart! Thou who art all might, and +all mercy! Well Thou knowest I did not, like too many of Thy creatures, +persuade myself there was no God before I persuaded myself I had a +right over my life. Oh, then, my Father, put me not eternally from Thy +paternal presence! It is not punishments, nor pains, nor hell I fear: +what man can bear, I can. My fear is to be deemed ungrateful to Thy +goodness, to be thought unworthy of Thy presence, to be driven from the +light of Thy countenance. + +Well Thou knowest I could not brook the thoughts of wanting gratitude +to things beneath me in Thy creation, to a dog, a horse, almost to +things inanimate, a tree, a book, and thinkest Thou that I could bear +the charge of want of gratitude to _Thee!_ + +And might, oh might I resign the joys of the other world, which neither +eye can see, nor tongue can speak, nor imagination dream, for an +eternal existence of love and bliss with her, whom—— + +Presumptuous murderer! The bliss you ask were paradise. + +My Father who art in heaven, I bow before Thy mercy, and patiently +abide my sentence. + +These papers, which will be delivered to you after my death, my dear +friend, are not letters. Nor know I what to call them. They will +exhibit, however, the picture of a heart which has ever been yours more +than any other man’s. + + + +Newgate+, Sunday, _April 18, 1779_. + Four in the Morning. + +O, Charles, Charles—torments, tortures! Hell, and worse than hell! + +When I finished my last scrap of paper, I thought I felt myself +composed, resigned. Indeed I was so—I am so now. + +I threw my wearied body—wearied, Heaven knows, more than any +labourer’s, with the workings of my mind—upon the floor of my dungeon. + +Sleep came uncalled, but only came to make me more completely cursed. + +The world was past, the next was come; but, after that, no other world. +All was revealed to me. My eternal sentence of mental misery (from +which there was no flight), of banishment from the presence of my +Father, or more than poetry ever feigned or weakness feared, was past, +irrevocably past. + +Her verdict, too, of punishment was pronounced. Yes, Charles—she, she +was punished—and by whose means punished? + +Even in her angel mind were failings, which it is not wonderful I +never saw, since Omniscience, it seemed, could hardly discern them. O, +Charles, these foibles, so few, so undiscernible, were still, I thought +in my dream, to be expiated. For my hand sent her to heaven before her +time, with all her few foibles on her head. + +Charles, I saw the expiation—these eyes beheld her undergo the heavenly +punishment. + +That past, she was called, I thought, to the reward of her ten thousand +virtues. + +Then, in very deed, began my hell, my worse than woman ever dreamed +of hell. Charles, I saw her, as plainly as I see the bars of my +dungeon, through which the eye of day looks upon me now for almost the +last time. Her face, her person were still more divine than when on +earth—they were cast anew, in angel moulds. Her mind, too, I beheld as +plainly as her face, and all its features. That was the same—that was +not capable of alteration for the better. + +But, what saw I else? That mind, that person, that face, that +angel—was in the bosom of another angel. Between us was a gulf, a gulf +impassible! I could not get to her, neither could she come to me. + +Nor did she wish it. There was the curse. + +Charles, she saw me, where I was, steeped to the lips in misery. She +saw me; but without a tear, without one sigh. + +One sigh from her, I thought, and I could have borne all my sufferings. + +A sigh, a tear! She smiled at all my sufferings. Yes, she, even she, +enjoyed the tortures, the wrackings of my soul. She bade her companion +angel, too, enjoy them. She seemed to feast upon my griefs; and only +turned away her more than damning eyes to turn them on her more than +blest companion. + +Flames and brimstone, corporeal sufferance, were paradise to such +eternal mental hell as this. + +Oh! how I rejoiced, how I wept, sobbed with joy, when I awoke, and +discovered it was only a dream, and found myself _in the condemned cell +of Newgate_. + + * * * * * + +Mr. H. and Dr. V., neither of whom you know, I believe, are exceedingly +kind to me. The latter writes to me, the former sees me, continually. +Your poor Hackman finds more friends than he merits. + + + +Newgate+, Sunday, _April 18, 1779_. + Five o’clock in the afternoon. + +Since I wrote to you this morning I have more than once taken up my +pen. For what can I do, that affords me more pleasure than writing to +such a friend as you are, and have been, to me? + +_Pleasure!_ Alas! what business has such a wretch as I with such a +word as that? However, pouring myself out to you thus upon paper is, in +some measure, drawing off my sorrows; it is not thinking. + +Cruel Galli! And yet I can excuse her. She knew not of what materials +I was made. Lord Sandwich wished to preserve a treasure which any one +would have prized. Galli was employed to preserve the treasure. And she +suspected not that my soul, my existence were wrapped up in it. + +O, my dear Charles, that you could prevail upon yourself to visit this +sad place! And yet, our mutual feelings would render the visit useless. +So it is better thus. + +Now, perhaps, you are enjoying a comfortable and happy meal. There, +again, my misfortunes! Of happiness and comfort, for the present, I +have robbed you. H. has murdered happiness. + +But this is the hour of dinner. How many are now comfortable and happy? +While I—— + +How many, again, with everything to make them otherwise, are at this +moment miserable! + +The meat is done too little, or too much. (Should the pen of fancy +ever take the trouble to invent letters for me, I should not be +suffered to write to you thus, because it would seem _unnatural_. +Alas! they know not how gladly a wretch like me forgets himself). +The servant, I say, has broken something—some friend (as the phrase +is) does not make his promised appearance, and, consequently, is not +eye-witness of the unnecessary dishes which the family pretends to +be able to afford—or some _friend_ (again) drops in unexpectedly, +and surprises the family with no more dishes upon the table than are +necessary. + +Ye home-made wretches, ye ingenious inventors of ills, before ye suffer +yourselves to be soured and made miserable, for the whole remainder +of this Sunday, by some trifle or another, which does not deserve the +name of accident, look here—behold, indeed, that misery of which your +discontentedness complains! + +Peep through the grate of this my only habitation, ye who have +town-houses and country-houses. Look into my soul—recollect in how few +hours I am to die, die in what manner, die for what offence! + +I was obliged to lay down my pen. Such a picture as this, in which +myself made the principal figure, was rather too much. + + * * * * * + +Good God! to look back over the dreadful interval between to-day and +last October two years. What a tale would it make of woe! Take warning +from me, my fellow-creatures, and do not love like H. + + + Still +Sunday+. 7 o’clock. + +When these loose, incoherent papers shall come into your hands, after +my death, it will afford you some consolation to know my temper of mind +at last. + +Charles, as the awful moment approaches, I feel myself more and more +and more composed, and calm and resigned. + +It always, you know, was my opinion that man could bear a great load of +affliction better than a small one. I thought so then—now I am sure of +it. This day se’nnight, I was mad, perfectly mad. This afternoon I am +all mildness. + +This day se’nnight! To look back is death, is hell. It is almost worse +than to look forward. + +But—is there not a God? Did not that God create me? Does not that God +know my heart, my whole heart? Oh! yes, yes, yes! + +To-morrow, then. And let to-morrow come. I am prepared. + +God (who knows my heart, and will judge me, I trust, by that heart) +knows it is not with a view to diminish my own guilt, the magnitude and +enormity whereof I acknowledge—but let those, who survive me, flatter +themselves that all the guilt of mankind goes to the grave, to the +gallows (gracious Heaven!) with H. + +I shall leave behind me culprits _of the same kind as myself_—culprits +who will not make my trifling atonement of an ignominious death. +Oh, may they see their crimes, and weep over them before they are +confronted with the injured parties at the footstool of the throne of +the God of heaven! + +These are crimes (as indeed are all the crimes of men, however +noiseless or inaudible) with which the listening angel flies up to +Heaven’s chancery, but these are not they upon which the recording +angel drops a tear as he notes them down. The pencil of eternity +engraves such crimes as these on adamantine tablets, which shall +endure to the end of time. Mine, mine, perhaps may head the list. + +Be merciful, O God! be merciful! + +Reflection in this world is almost worst than the worst which offended +Omnipotence can inflict upon me in the next. I must fly from it. + +And are there not crimes as bad as mine? It is far from my intention to +argue away the badness of my crime; but there surely are, and worse. + +Let that gallant, gay, young gentleman yonder hold up his hand. Yes, +sir; you I first arraign. Not for breach of friendship, not for false +oaths to credulous virgins, not for innocence betrayed—these are no +longer crimes; these are the accomplishments of our age. Sir, you are +indicted for slow and deliberate murder. Put not on that confident +air, that arrogant smile of contempt and defiance. Demand not with a +sneer to have the witnesses produced, who were present when you struck +the stroke of death. Call not aloud for the blood-stained dagger, +the dry-drawn bowl, the brain-splashed pistol—are these the only +instruments of death? You know they are not. Murder is never at a loss +for weapons. + +Sir, produce your wife. See, see! what indignation flashes in his +eyes! A murderer, and the murderer of his wife! May the calumniator—— +Sir, no imprecations, no oaths; those are what betrayed that wife. You +did not plant a dagger in her breast; but you planted there grief, +disease, death. She, sir, who gave you all, was destroyed, was murdered +by your ill-usage. And not suddenly, not without giving her time to +know what was to happen. She saw the lingering stroke, she perceived +the impossibility to avoid it; she felt it tenfold from the hands of a +much-loved husband. + + * * * * * + +Were these scraps of paper to be seen by any other eye than yours, +common people would wonder that, in proportion as the moment drew +nearer, I got further and further from myself. It may be contrary +to the rules of critics, but so it is. To think, or to write about +myself, is death, is hell. My feelings will not suffer me to date these +different papers any more. + +Let me pay a small tribute of praise. How often have you and I +complained of familiarity’s blunting the edge of every sense on which +she lays her hand? At her bidding, beauty fades even in the eye of +love; and the son of pity smiles at sorrow’s bleeding breast. In +her presence, who is he that still continues to behold the scene of +delight, or that still hears the voice of mourning? What, then, is the +praise of that gaoler, who in the midst of misery, and crimes, and +death, sets familiarity at defiance, and still preserves the feelings +of a man? The author of the life of Savage gives celebrity to the +Bristol gaoler, by whose humanity the latter part of that strange man’s +life was rendered more comfortable. Shall no one give celebrity to the +present keeper of Newgate? Mr. Akerman marks every day of his existence +by more than one such deed as this. Know, ye rich and powerful, ye +who might save hundreds of your fellow-creatures from starving by the +sweepings of your tables—know that, among the various feelings of +almost every wretch who quits Newgate for Tyburn, a concern neither +last nor least is that which he feels upon leaving the gaol of which +_this man_ is the keeper. + +But I can now no longer fly from myself. In a few short hours, the hand +which is now writing to you, the hand which—— + +I will not distress either you or myself. My life I owe to the laws of +my country, and I will pay the debt. How I felt for poor Dodd! Well, +you shall hear that I died like a man and a Christian. I cannot have +a better trust than in the mercy of an all-just God. And, in your +letters, when you shall these unhappy deeds relate, tell of me as I am. +I forget the passage, it is in Othello. + +You must suffer me to mention the tenderness and greatness of mind of +my dear Booth. The last moments of my life cannot be better spent than +in recording this complicated act of friendship and humanity. When we +parted, a task too much for us both, he asked me if there was anything +for which I wished to live. Upon his pressing me, I acknowledged I was +uneasy, very uneasy, lest Lord Sandwich might withdraw an allowance of +fifty pounds a year, which I knew he made to her father. “Then,” said +Booth, squeezing my hand, bursting into tears, and hurrying out of the +room, “I will allow it him.” The affectionate manner in which he spoke +of my sister would have charmed you. God for ever bless and prosper +him! And my sister and you! + + * * * * * + +While he was in Newgate he received, says the author of Hackman’s “Case +and Memoirs,” many anonymous letters, one, as the handwriting showed, +was from Galli, saying: + +“O! Mr. Hackman, for God’s sake, die in the Roman Catholick faith!” + +He also had a letter from a woman he did not know, saying that she had +long privately loved him, but that her love was hopeless because she +was poor, without beauty, and had nothing to boast of. The author of +the “Case and Memoirs” goes on to say that Hackman also received many +letters from “those superabundant good Christians called Methodists, +who, negligent of themselves, affect the highest concern for the future +welfare of others.... Bedlam is the place for such men to rave in, +rather than the chamber of an invalid, or the apartments of a condemned +prisoner.” + +Hackman spent the evening preceding his execution with his friend, +Mr. Porter; he went to bed at eleven, and slept for some hours. At +five he arose, and after he was dressed, drank a “bason of tea” and +remained in prayer until half-past seven. Mr. Porter and Mr. Vilette, +the prison chaplain, then went to him, and led him to the chapel, where +they remained until nine. By this time the sheriffs were waiting, +and Hackman was taken to the press-yard, where a rope was fastened +round his shoulders and under his arms. He was, however, spared the +additional degradation of having a rope put round his neck, and his +hands were not tied at the wrists. He was then brought out and put into +a coach, and, accompanied by the two clergymen and a sheriff’s officer, +the dreary progress to Tyburn commenced. Owing to the enormous crowds +that blocked the streets he did not arrive there until eleven o’clock. +In a second coach were seated the Earl of Carlisle and Boswell—the +latter, however, did not deem it expedient to mention this fact to +Dr. Johnson. As soon as he was in the cart, which in those days took +the place of a fixed platform, he spent some time in prayer, kneeling +down with his face towards Paddington. His friends then took leave of +him, and it is recorded that he behaved with the utmost fortitude, +although Mr. Porter was so moved by his emotions that he had to be +supported. Hackman, desiring that he might drop his handkerchief as a +signal when he was ready, kneeled down again, and, amid the silence +and suspense of the largest crowd that had ever witnessed an execution +at Tyburn, prayed for five minutes. When he dropped the handkerchief +it fell underneath the cart, causing a delay of half a minute while +the executioner and his assistants scrambled for it. Then the horses +were whipped up, and James Hackman paid the last earthly penalty for +the crime of having loved Martha Reay so passionately that he was +irresistibly impelled to murder her. In his last moments he scribbled a +few words in pencil to his friend, Mr. Porter: + +“Farewell for ever in this world! I die a sincere Christian and +penitent, and everything I hope that you can wish me. Would it prevent +my example’s having any bad effect if the world should know how I abhor +my former ideas of suicide, my crime ... will be the best judge. Of her +fame I charge you to be careful. My poor sister will....” + + + + + APPENDIX + + +The following account of the life of Chatterton, which Croft prefaces +with a few sentences in clumsy imitation of Hackman’s style, is copied +from a reprint of “Love and Madness,” which was issued by an Ipswich +bookseller in 1810. It is more connected and concise than the versions +in the earlier editions. + + * * * * * + +The task you have set me about Chatterton is only a further proof of +your regard for me. You know the warmth of my passions, and you think +that if I do not employ myself they may flame out and consume me. Well, +then, I will spend a morning or two in arranging what I have collected +respecting the author of Rowley’s poems. Every syllable you will read I +assure you shall be _authentic_. + +Did you start at “The author of Rowley’s poems?” My mind does not now +harbour a doubt that Chatterton wrote the whole, whatever I thought +when we read them together at H. The internal evidence of the matter +shall not puzzle you, but you shall tell me whether you do not think +it easier for Chatterton to have imitated the style of Rowley’s age +(which he has not done exactly, if you believe those who think as I +think), than for Rowley to write in a style which did not exist till +so many ages after his time. To suppose him to have found half, and to +have added to them, or to consider him as a cat’s paw in the business +to some contemporary Rowley, in order to extricate a fictitious Rowley +from oblivion, would in my humble opinion be nonsense. For my own +part, though he might find some old MSS., I cannot believe he found +a syllable which he has attributed to Rowley. Who will engage to +prove from internal evidence the antiquity of _any one_ of Rowley’s +compositions? What he did find certainly suggested to him the idea of +pretending to have found more; but how shall we persuade credulity to +believe that all Rowley’s poems were copied from old MSS., when the +only MSS. produced in confirmation of the story are indisputably proved +to be modern? Is any one fool enough to believe C. was the only blind, +subterraneous channel through which these things were to emerge to-day, +and float for ever down the stream of fame? This (without mentioning +other objections to such a ridiculous belief) were to suppose two +people to determine on the same strange conduct, and two people (the +real and the foster father) to keep with equal fidelity the same +secret. And would the foster father have been as fond and careful of +another’s secret, as of the offspring of his own invention? + +It is not clear to me that C.’s life (if such a scrap of existence +can be called a life) does not exhibit circumstances still more +extraordinary, if possible, than his being the author of Rowley’s +poems. But I possess not the abilities which Johnson displayed in his +famous life of Savage, nor is this a formal life of Chatterton; though +such a thing might well employ even the pen of Johnson. This is only an +idle letter to my dear M. Oh, my M., you, who contributed so liberally +last year to extricate from distress the abilities of a——; what would +you not have done for Chatterton! + +Thomas Chatterton, destined to puzzle at least, if not to impose upon, +the ablest critics and antiquarians which the most polished age of +England has produced, was born at Bristol, Nov. 20, 1752. His father +had been master of the free school in Pile Street in that city, and +was sexton of St. Mary Redcliffe Church. History condescends not to +relate anything more of such an ignoble family, than that they had been +sextons of the same church for near a century and a half. + +It seems to have been determined by fortune that this poor lad—I ought +rather to say this extraordinary human being—should have no obligation +but to genius and himself. His father, as he was a schoolmaster, and +reported to have been a tolerable poet for a sexton, might perhaps have +given his son a free-school education, had he lived to see him old +enough for instruction. The sexton died very soon after, if not before, +the birth of his son; who indisputably received no other education than +what he picked up at a charity school at a place called St. Augustine’s +Back in Bristol. Reading, writing, and accounts, composed the whole +circle of sciences which were taught at this university of our Bristol +Shakespeare. + +On July 1, 1767, he was articled clerk to an attorney of Bristol, whom +I have not been able to find out. From him, I understand, has been +procured a strange, mad MS. of Chatterton, which he called his _will_. + +When the new bridge at Bristol was finished, there appeared, in +Farly’s _Bristol Journal_, an account of the ceremonies on opening +the old bridge (the piece is prefixed to the volume of Chatterton’s +“Miscellanies”), preceded by these words: “To the Printer. Oct. 1, +1768. The following description of the ‘fryars’ first passing over the +old bridge, taken from an old MS., may not at this time be unacceptable +to the generality of your readers. Yours, Dunhelmus Bristoliensis.” +Curiosity at last traced the insertion of this curious memoir to +Chatterton. To the threats of those who treated him (agreeably to his +age and appearance) as a child, he returned nothing but haughtiness +and a refusal to give any account. To milder usages and many promises, +the boy, after some time, confessed that he had received that and +other MSS. from his father, which he had found in an iron chest +placed by William Canynge (the founder of the church of which C.’s +family had so long been sextons) in a muniment room over the northern +portico of St. Mary Redcliffe. Warton (in his history of English +poetry) says when this appeared he was about seventeen. Days are more +material in C.’s life than years in the lives of others. He wanted, +you see, something of sixteen. One fact is curious, that, though +it was not possible for him to have picked up Latin at a charity +school where Latin was not taught, his note to the printer has, for +no apparent reason, a Latin signature, Dunhelmus Bristoliensis. This +Latin certainly was not Rowley’s. It must have been C.’s. The memoir +procured C. the acquaintance of some gentlemen of Bristol, who, +because they condescended to receive from him the compositions which +he brought them, without giving him much, if anything, in return, +fondly imagined themselves the patrons of genius. Mr. Catcott and Mr. +Barrett, a pewterer and a surgeon, of his obligations to whom he speaks +in his letters, were his principal, if not his only, patrons. To these +gentlemen he produced, between October 1768 and April 1770 (besides +many things which he confessed to be his own, and many which, in the +interval, appeared in the _Town and Country Magazine_), all Rowley’s +poems, except the “Ballad of Charitie.” Of these only two, I think, and +those the shortest, he pretended to be the original MSS. The rest were +transcripts, in his own hand, of some of which he acknowledged himself +the author. Concerning these curiosities no distinct or satisfactory +account, by friend or enemy, by threat or promise, could ever be +drawn from him. For these curiosities how much he received from his +Bristol patrons does not appear. His patrons do not boast of their +generosity to him. They (Catcott at least) received no inconsiderable +sum for Rowley’s poems; nor has the sale of them turned out badly. +In consequence of the money got by poems which Chatterton certainly +brought to light, and which I firmly believe C. to have written, his +mother acknowledges to have received the immense sum of five guineas, +by the hands of Mr. Catcott; and Mr. Barrett, without fee or reward, +cured the whitlowed finger of the sister. Talk no more of the neglect +of genius in any age or country, when _in this age and country_ +Rowley’s poems have produced such fortunes to the author and his +family. Should I ever appear in print on this subject, I would publicly +call upon the gentlemen concerned in this transaction to state their +accounts. + +Has not the world a right to know what Catcott fairly bought of +Chatterton (he does not pretend to have bought all), and what was the +fair purchase-money of these inestimable treasures? Let us know what +the editors of Rowley’s poems gave and received for them, and what the +sale of them has produced? Is the son to be declared guilty of forgery? +Are his forgeries to be converted into (I believe, no inconsiderable +sums of) money? And is the mother and sister’s share to be five guineas? + +Either mean envy of C.’s extraordinary genius, or manly abhorrence of +his detestable death, leads almost every person, who talks or writes +about this boy, to tell you of his shocking profligacy and his total +want of principle. + +When C. left this world in August, 1770, he wanted as many months as +intervene between August and November to complete his eighteenth year. +If into so small a space he had contrived to crowd much profligacy and +much want of principle, some perhaps may be ascribed to his youth, +and to want of friends. Johnson, I remember, defends even the life of +Savage, which differed from Chatterton’s in more circumstances than its +length, by some such observation as this: that the sons of affluence +are improper judges of his conduct, and that few wise men will venture +to affirm they should have lived better than Savage in Savage’s +situation. Do _profligate_ and _unprincipled_, some of the tenderest +epithets vouchsafed unto poor Chatterton, mean dishonest or undutiful, +an unkind brother or an unfeeling child? The dullest enemies of his +genius can produce no proofs of any such crime. Some of the papers that +I shall send you will contain the fullest proof of the negative. Do +they mean that, being a young man, he was addicted to women, like all +youths of strong imaginations? Do the epithets mean that he exhibited +those damnable proofs of his crimes which Bougainville exported into +the country of Omiah? The proofs (if there were any, which his +bedfellow at his first lodging in town denies) only show that he was +unlucky. The crimes must be admitted. Do they mean that, writing to +procure bread for himself, his mother, and his sister, he wrote on any +side and on any subject which would afford bread? + +Let me now make you acquainted with the indisputable history of this +boy till he left Bristol. As he says, in his “Story of Canynge.” + + In all his sheepen gambols, and child’s play, + At every merry-making, fair or wake, + I kenn a purpled light of wisdom’s ray; + He ate down learning with the wastle cake, + As wise as any of the aldermen, + He’d wit enough to make a mayor at ten. + +Beattie has hardly been able to invent a more striking picture of his +minstrel than is exhibited of Chatterton in a letter written by his +sister, last year, to a gentleman who desired her to recollect every +circumstance concerning him, however trifling it might seem to her. The +letter is lent to me, with many charges of care. Pray be careful of it. +In transcribing it, you will naturally preserve the false spelling and +stops. Let Chatterton’s sister tell her own story in her own way. The +anxiety shown in this letter to prove “he was a lover of truth from the +earliest dawn of reason,” is owing to what these two poor women (the +mother and sister) have heard about deceit, imposter and _forgery_. +For Chatterton’s sake the English language should add another word +to its dictionary; and should not suffer the same term to signify a +crime for which a man suffers the most ignominious punishment, and the +deception of ascribing a false antiquity of two or three centuries to +compositions, for which the author’s name deserves to live for ever. +Suffer me to ask what the prudery of our critics would have said +had the song to Ælla, or the chorus to Godwin, been produced by Mr. +Warton’s nephew, or by a relation of Mr. Walpole? Should we then have +been stunned in this manner with repetitions of imposter and forgery? +The sins of the forgery and the imposter would then have been boasted +by the child’s most distant relations, unto the third and fourth +generations. Is lady A. L. accused of _forgery_ for her “Auld Robin +Gray?” Is Macpherson’s name mentioned in the same sentence with this +unfeeling word _forgery_, even by those who believe Macpherson and +Ossian to be the same? “When a rich man speaketh,” says the son of +Sirach (you see I have not taken orders in vain), “every man holdeth +his tongue: and lo! what he says is extolled to the clouds: but if a +poor man speak, they say, ‘What fellow is this?’” + +A gentleman, who saw these two women last year, declares that, in his +opinion, they might easily have been persuaded that injured justice +demanded their lives at Tyburn, for being the mother and sister of him +who was suspected to have _forged_ the poems of Rowley. Such terror had +the humanity of certain curious enquirers impressed upon their minds, +by worrying them to declare the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but +the truth about the _forgery_. Strange-fated Chatterton! Hadst thou +possessed fewer and less eminent abilities, the world would now give +thee credit for more and for greater. + +With regard to the fact, the mother and sister, either believe, or +pretend to believe, that all Rowley’s poems came out of the old chest +in the church. The case is, not one of the three knows anything of +the matter. Most readily I admit that, if Chatterton be an impostor +(_i.e._, the wonderful human being I firmly believe him), he imposed +upon every soul who knew him. This, with me, is one trait of his +greatness. + +It has been thought that murders and other crimes are pointed out to +discovery by the finger of Providence. But “God’s revenge against +murder” is, in fact, only the sociableness of man’s disposition. That +we may have been wisely formed for this purpose, among others, I do not +deny. But Tyburn would see fewer executions were man a less sociable +animal. It is not good for him to be alone. Joy or sorrow, villainy +or otherwise, _we must have society, we must communicate it_. Man, in +spite of grammar, is a noun adjective. Does any one admire Junius for +saying that his secret should die with him, and for keeping his word? +But this was only saying he would not enlarge the circle of those to +whom his secret was already known, for that he was, as he says, “the +sole depositary of his own secret,” I cannot think. + +The original letters are clearly written in a female hand. But Junius +is now known. + +Let any man, at any time of life, make an experiment of not +communicating to a single individual, during twelve months, a single +scheme, a single prospect, a single circumstance respecting himself. +Let him try how it is to lock up everything, trifling or serious, sad +or merry, within his own solitary breast. There are easier tasks. This +boy did it during his whole life. + +Very few such men as John the Painter[13] have appeared in the world, +from whom his secret was only stolen by the traitorous hand of +friendship. No such human being as this boy, at any period of life, +has ever been known, or possibly ever will be known. The Spartan lad +was far inferior, and that was the effect of education. Psalmanazar +and D’Eon are not to be compared with him. That, at his timid and +sociable age, when other children are almost afraid to be left alone, +Chatterton should wrap his arms round him, stand aloof from the whole +world, and never lean upon a single individual for society in his +schemes (in schemes, too, neither odious nor criminal), is with me +almost more wonderful than the schemes which I firmly believe him, +without any assistance, to have planned and executed. It shall make +a trait in the character of a general, if he have strength of mind +enough not to communicate his plans to his first favourite, till the +communication is no longer dangerous. Shall not a boy of eighteen, of +seventeen, of _sixteen_, have merit for secrecy much more singular? + +[13] Do not smile at my lugging in John the Painter till you consider +how it applies. His secrecy was wonderful, yet less wonderful that +Chatterton’s in exact proportion as his secret was more criminal, and +more nearly concerned his life. But you will not deny it to be _odd_, +what I know for a fact, that among his papers were some observations +on Rowley’s poems. If they have not been destroyed, they might surely +be published. They could not endanger our dockyards, though written by +John the Painter. Cannot you give a hint of this kind, some day, at +your house? Most probably _he_ has them. + +In one part of the sister’s letter, you will not fail to recollect +Dryden, who speaks of the alliance between understanding and madness. I +am sure that “Love and Madness” are near relations. + + * * * * * + +“Conscious, of my own inability’s to write to a man of letters. And +reluctant to engage in the painful recollection of the particulars of +the life of my poor deceased brother. Together with the ill-state of +health I’ve enjoyed since it has been required of me, are Sir, the +real causes of my not writing sooner. But I am invited to write as to a +friend, inspired with the sacred name, I will forget the incorrectness +of my epistle and proceed. + +“My brother very early discover’d a thurst for preheminence, I remember +before he was 5 years old he would always preside over his play mates +as their master and they his hired servants. He was dull in learning +not knowing many letters at 4 years old, and always objected to read in +a small book. He learnt the Alphabet from an old Folio musick book of +father’s my mother was then tearing up for waste paper, the capitals at +the beginning of the verses. I assisted in teaching him. I recollect +nothing remarkable till he went into the school, which was in his 8th +year. Excepting his promising my mother and me a deal of finery when +he grew up as a reward of her care. About his 10th year he began (with +the trifle my mother allowed him for pocket money) to hire books from +the circulating library and we were informed by the usher made rapid +progress in arithmetick. Between his 11th and 12th year he wrote a +caterlogue of the books he had read to the number of 70. History and +divinity were the chief subjects, his school mates informed us he +retired to read at the hours allotted for play. At 12 years old he was +confirmed by the bishop, he made very sencible serious remarks on the +awfullness of the ceremony and his own feelings and convictions during +it. Soon after this in the week he was door-keeper he made some verses +on the last day, I think about 18 lines, paraphrased the 9 chapter of +Job and not long after some chapters in Isaiah. He had been gloomy from +the time he began to learn, but we remark’d he was more cheerfull after +he began to write poetry. Some saterical peicis we saw soon after. His +intimates in the school were but few and they solid lads and except the +next neighbour’s sons I know of none acquaintance he had out. He was 14 +the 20th of Novr. and bound apprentice the 1st of July following. Soon +after his apprenticeship he corresponded with one of his school mates +that had been his bedfellow, and was I believe bound to a merchant +at New York. He read a letter at home that he wrote to his friend, a +collection of all the hard words in the English language, and requested +him to answer it. He was a lover of truth from the earlyest dawn of +reason, and nothing would move him so much as being bely’d. When in +the school we were informed by the usher, his master depended on his +verasity on all occations. Till this time he was remarkably indifferent +to females, one day he was remarking to me the tendency sever study +had to sour the temper and declared he had always seen all the sex +with equal indifference but those that nature made dear, he thought of +makeing an acquaintance with a girl in the neighbourhood, supposeing it +might soften the austerity of temper study had ocationed, he wrote a +poem to her and they commenced corrisponding acquaintance. About this +time the parchments belonging to my father that was left of covering +his boys books, my brother carried to the office. He would often speak +in great raptures of the undoubted success of his plan for future life. +He was introduced to Mr. Barret, Mr. Catcot, his ambition increas’d +daily. His spirits was rather uneven. Some time so gloom’d that for +many days together he would say very little and that by constraint. At +other times exceeding chearfull. When in spirits he would injoy his +rising fame. Confident of advancement he would promise my mother and me +should be partakers of his success. Mr. Barret lent him many books on +surgery and I believe he bought many more as I remember to have packt +them up to send to him when in London and no demand was ever made for +them. About this time he wrote several saterical poems. One in the +papers of Mr. Catcot’s putting the pewter plates in St. Nicholas tower. +He began to be universally known among the young men. He had many cap +acquaintance but I am confident but few intimates. At about 17, he +became acquainted with Mr. Clayfield, distiller in Castle-street, who +lent him many books on astronomy. Mr. Cator likewise assisted him with +books on that subject, from thence he applyd himself to that study. His +hours in the office was from 8 in the morning to 8 in the evening. He +had little of his masters business to do. Sometimes not 2 hours in the +day, which gave him an opportunity to pursue his genius. He boarded at +Mr. Lambert’s, but we saw him most evenings before 9 o’clock and would +in general stay to the limits of his time which was 10 o’clock. He was +seldom 2 evenings together without seeing us. I had almost forgotten +to add, we had heard him frequently say that he found he studied best +towards the full of the moon and would often sit up all night and write +by moon light. A few months before he left Bristol he wrote letters +to several booksellers in London I believe to learn if there was any +probability of his getting an employment there but that I cannot affirm +as the subject was a secret at home. He wrote one letter to Sir Horace +Warpool, and except his corrispondence with Miss Rumsey, the girl I +before mentioned, I know of no other. He would frequently walk the +colledge green with the young girls that statedly paraded there to +show their finery. But I really believe he was no debauchee (tho some +have reported it), the dear unhappy boy had faults enough I saw with +concern. He was proud and exceedingly impetious but that of venality he +could not be accused justly with. Mrs. Lambert informed me not 2 months +before he left Bristol, he had never been once found out of the office +in the stated hours as they frequently sent the footman and other +servants there to see. Nor but once stayd out till 11 o’clock; then he +had leave, as we entertained some friends at our house at Christmas. + +“Thus Sir have I given you, as before the great searcher of hearts the +whole truth as far as my memory have been faithful the particulars of +my dear brother. The task have been painfull, and for want of earlier +recollection much have been nay the greatest part have been lost. My +mother joins with me in best respects which conclude me. + + “Sir, + “Your very humble servant, + “+Mary Newton+. + “+Bristol, Somersetshire Square+, + “_Sept. 22, 1778_.” + +Chatterton remained in the attorney’s office at Bristol till April +1770. The life he led there you may collect from Mrs. Newton’s letter. +In addition to that, she and her mother relate that his Sundays were +generally spent in walking alone into the country round Bristol, as far +as the day would allow his return before night. From these excursions +he never failed to bring home with him drawings of churches, or of +something which had struck him. That he had a turn of drawing you will +see by the figure of a warrior (perhaps Ælla) presenting a church on +his knee, which shall accompany this letter (and you are now a judge of +drawing, you know). It was one of his first attempts. + +But any single self-acquired accomplishment ceases to surprise, when +we recollect his other acquisitions of heraldry, architecture, music, +astronomy, surgery, &c. Our surprise has been long since called +forth. Had Chatterton, without any instruction but reading, writing, +and accounts, _before he was 18_, arrived at the ability of _only_ +putting together, in prose or in verse, something which was deemed +worth insertion in the most worthless magazine, it would have been +surprising. What master would not be astonished to discover such a +talent in a servant (grown grey in the acquisition of it) who had only +learnt to read and write? Stephen Duck, and others, have been lifted to +independence, to wealth, for little more. The author of our existence +can alone determine to what He has made his creatures equal. + +That Chatterton should acquire particular things, without instruction, +is not singular, since it was with him a favourite maxim that man +was equal to _anything_ and that _everything_ might be acquired by +diligence and abstinence. Was anything of this sort mentioned in his +hearing? All boy as he was, he would only observe that the person in +question merited praise; but that God had sent His creatures into the +world with arms long enough to reach anything, if they would be at the +trouble of extending them. This idea he could not but feel confirmed +by what he knew of a Mr. Burgum (I think), Mr. Catcott’s partner, who +taught himself Latin and Greek. + +How very strongly the idea, that a human being may accomplish anything, +had taken possession of Chatterton. He desires his sister to improve +herself in copying music, drawing, and _everything which requires +genius_; as if genius were no less common to man and woman than a pair +of eyes or a nose. He gave all his fellow-creatures credit for what he +felt so plainly himself. + +When Voltaire tells us, in his history of Charles XII., that on such +a day he quitted Stockholm, _to which he never returned_, we are +interested enough, even in such a savage, to feel something like +concern. In April 1770 Chatterton quitted Bristol (from which place +he never had before been absent further than he could walk in half a +Sunday, and to which place _he never returned_), to try his fortune in +London. + +He lodged first at Shoreditch, afterwards (when his employment made +it necessary for him to frequent public places, I suppose) in Brook +Street, Holborn. The man and woman where he first lodged are still +living in the same house. He is a plaisterer. They and their nephew, +niece, and Mrs. Ballance, who lodged in the house, and desired them to +let Chatterton (her relation) lodge there also. The little collected +from them you shall have in their own words. But the life he led did +not afford them any opportunities to observe him, could they have +imagined that such a being was under the same roof with them, or that +they would be asked for their observations upon him, after an interval +of so many years. Mrs. Ballance says he was as proud as Lucifer. He +very soon quarrelled with her for calling him “Cousin _Tommy_,” and +asked her if she ever heard of a poet’s being called _Tommy?_ But she +assured him she knew nothing of poets, and only wished he would not set +up for a gentleman. Upon her recommending it to him to get into some +office, when he had been in town two or three weeks, he stormed about +the room like a madman, and frightened her not a little by telling +her, he hoped, with the blessing of God, very soon to be sent prisoner +to the Tower, which would make his fortune. He would often look +steadfastly in a person’s face without speaking, or seeming to see the +person, for a quarter of an hour or more, till it was quite frightful, +during all which time (she supposes, from what she has since heard) +that his thoughts _were gone about something else_. When Beckford died, +he was perfectly frantic, and out of his mind, and said he was ruined. +He frequently said he should settle the nation before he had done; but +how could she think her poor cousin Tommy was so great a man as she now +finds he was? His mother should have written word of his greatness, and +then, to be sure, she would have humoured the gentleman accordingly. +Mr. Walmsley saw nothing of him, but that there was something manly +and pleasing about him, and that he did not dislike the wenches. Mrs. +Walmsley’s account is that she never saw any harm of him, that he +never _mislisted_ her; but was always very civil whenever they met in +the house by accident; that he would never suffer the room, in which +he used to read and write, to be swept, because, he said, poets hated +brooms; that she told him she did not anything that _poet folks_ were +good for, but to sit in a dirty cap and gown in a garret, and at last +to be starved; that, during the nine weeks he was at her house, he +never stayed out after the family hours, except once, when he did not +come home all night, and had been, she heard, _poeting_ a song about +the streets. The night, Mrs. Ballance says, she knows he lodged at a +relation’s; Mr. Walmsley’s house was shut up when he came home. + +The niece says, for her part, she always took him more for a mad boy +than anything else, he would have such flights and _vagaries_; that, +but for his face, and her knowledge of his age, she should never have +thought him a boy, he was so manly, _and so much himself_; that no +women came after him, nor did she know of any connection; but still +that he was a sad rake, and terribly fond of women, and would sometimes +be saucy to her; that he ate what he chose to have with his relation +(Mrs. B.) who lodged in the house, but he never touched meat, and drank +only water and seemed to live on the air. + +The niece adds that he was good-tempered, and agreeable, and obliging, +but sadly proud and haughty; nothing was too good for him, nor was +anything too good for his grandmother, &c., at a time when she (the +niece) knew he was almost in want; that he used to sit up almost all +night, reading and writing, and that her brother said he was afraid to +lie with him; for, to be sure, he was a _spirit_, and never slept; for +he never came to bed until it was morning, and then, for what he saw, +never closed his eyes. + +The nephew (Chatterton’s bedfellow, during the first six weeks he +lodged there) says, that, notwithstanding his pride and haughtiness, +it was impossible to help liking him; that he lived chiefly upon a bit +of bread, or a tart, and some water, but he once or twice saw him take +a sheep’s tongue out of his pocket; that Chatterton, to his knowledge, +never slept while they lay together; that he never came to bed until +very late, sometimes three or four o’clock, and was always awake when +he (the nephew) waked, and got up at the same time, about five or +six; that almost every morning the floor was covered with pieces of +paper not so big as sixpences, into which he had torn what he had been +writing before he came to bed. In short, they all agree that no one +would have taken him, from his behaviour, &c., to have been a poor boy +of seventeen, and a sexton’s son: they never saw such another person +before nor since—he appeared to have something wonderful about him. +They say he gave no reason for quitting their house. They found the +floor of his room covered with little pieces of paper, the remains of +his _poeting_, as they term it. + + And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; + Deep thought oft seem’d to fix his infant eye. + Dainties he heeded not, not gaude, nor toy, + Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy. + Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy: + And now his look was most demurely sad; + And now he laugh’d aloud, yet none knew why. + The neighbours stared and sigh’d, yet bless’d the lad + _Some deem’d him wondrous wise, and some believ’d him mad._ + +Mrs. Angel, to whose house he removed from Shoreditch, I have in +vain endeavoured repeatedly to find out. A person in distressed +circumstances, as I understand her to be, is slow to believe that an +inquiry after her hiding-place is only set on foot by the curiosity of +honest enthusiasm. Little versed in the history of mankind, she cannot +imagine how any one can be curious or concerned about a person, so +many years after his death, for whom in his lifetime no one cared a +farthing. Every stranger is to her imagination a bailiff in disguise. +In every hasty tread she hears “the monster Bumbailiano, keeper of +the dark and black cave.” Poor hunted animal! If thou wert kind to +Chatterton; if, by thy charitable means, his young hairs were brought +down with somewhat less of sorrow to the grave, never may the monster +lay his cruel paw upon thy shoulder! + +Could Mrs. Angel be found, much might not be learnt from her short +knowledge of Chatterton, for he remained nine weeks in Shoreditch—at +least, not much more, perhaps, than has been gotten from Mrs. Walmsley +and her family. Mrs. Wolfe, a barber’s wife, within a few doors of the +house in which Mrs. Angel lived, remembers him, and remembers his +death. She speaks also of his proud and haughty spirit, and adds, that +he appeared both to her and Mrs. Angel as if he were born for something +great. Mrs. Angel told her, after his death, that, as she knew he had +not eaten anything for two or three days, she begged he would take +some dinner with her on the 24th of August; but he was offended at her +expressions, which seemed to hint that he was in want, and assured her +he was not hungry. + + Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb + The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar! + Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime + Hath felt the influence of malignant star, + And wag’d with fortune an eternal war! + Check’d by the scoff of pride, and envy’s frown, + And poverty’s unconquerable bar, + In life’s low vale remote hath pin’d alone, + _Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown_! + +Such was the short and incredible life of Thomas Chatterton. Over +his death, for the sake of the world (he is out of the reach of our +pity or concern), I would willingly draw a veil. But this must not +be. They who are in a condition to patronise merit, and they who +feel a consciousness of merit which is not patronised, may form their +own resolutions from the catastrophe of his tale: those, to lose no +opportunity of befriending genius; these, to seize every opportunity +of befriending themselves; and, upon no account, to harbour the most +distant idea of quitting the world, however it may be unworthy of them, +lest despondency should at last deceive them into so unpardonable +a step. Chatterton, as appears by the coroner’s inquest, swallowed +arsenic in water on the 24th of August, 1770, and died in consequence +thereof the next day. He was buried in a shell in the burying-ground +of Shoe-land workhouse. His taking such a rash and unjustifiable step +is almost as strange as his fathering his poems upon Rowley. That he +should have been driven to it by _absolute_ want (though I do not say +it was _not_ so) is not very possible, since he never indulged himself +in meat and drank nothing but water. The coroner has no minutes of the +melancholy business, and is unable to recall any of the circumstances +at this distance of time to his memory. The witnesses before the +inquest, as appears by his memorandum, were Frederick Angel, Mary +Foster, and William Hamsley, none of whom I have been able to find +out. That his despair should fix on August, that it should not have +staid at least till the gloomier months of winter, must surprise +those who are sensible of the influence of such a climate as ours. +Recollecting what Mrs. Newton says of the effect which the moon had +upon her brother, I searched for the moon’s changes in August 1770. +Much cannot be presumed from them. The moon was at the full on the +6th, and in the last quarter the 14th. The 20th, at eleven at night, +there was a new moon. The fatal day was the 24th. But who can bear to +dwell upon, or argue about, the self-destruction of such a being as +Chatterton? The motives for everything he did are past finding out. + +His room, when it was broke open after his death, was found, like +the room he quitted at Mrs. Walmsley’s, covered with little scraps +of paper. What a picture he would have made, with the fatal cup by +his bedside, destroying plans of future Ællas and Godwins, and of +unfinished books of The Battle of Hastings? M. I have had the (call +it what you will) to spend half an hour in the room. It was half an +hour of most exquisite sensations. My visit of devotion was paid in +the morning, I remember; but I was not myself again all day. To look +round the room; to say to myself, here stood his bed; there the poison +was set; in that window he loitered for some hours before he retired +to his last rest, envying the meanest passenger, and wishing he could +exchange his own feelings and intellects for their manual powers and +insensibility! Then, abhorrence of his death, abhorrence of the world, +and I know not how many different and contradictory but all distracting +ideas! Nothing should tempt me to undergo such another half-hour. + + Bristol, stand forth! Too just are even these rhymes + Without a trial to condemn thy crimes. + Come forward, answer to thy cursed name; + Stand, if thou dare, before the bar of fame. + Bristol, hold up thine hand, that damned hand + Which scatters misery over half the land, + The land of Genius! + +We come now to the question of most difficulty, but of least +consequence. What could induce Chatterton to lay such a plan? Was it +the credit of imposing upon the world, which he was determined never +to claim, since he never owned the imposition? My answer is, that I +neither know nor care; and the conjectures of the _rustiest fellow_ of +the Antiquarian Society cannot give an answer much more to the purpose. +Are the motives of men’s and women’s conduct so plain that he who runs +may read them? How much less obvious are we to expect the motives of +a boy’s conduct? Chatterton, with some, with many things about him, +superior to most, to all men, was still but a boy. Though he did see +seventeen before his death, he must have been _literally_ a boy when he +laid the foundation of his plans. If Macpherson and Ossian be the same, +if Chatterton thought them to be the same, Chatterton is an original +in poetry only, not in suppositiousness. Good men are satisfied with +the applause of their own consciences, and scatter charity with the +invisible hand of bounty. May not great men be formed in the same +mould? May not obscurity appear to enlarge an ideal as well as a real +object? God would, perhaps, be something less of God were He visible. +But, as I said, I neither know nor care what was Chatterton’s motive. + +Am I still asked for it? Like many a man in conversation, I will +get off by telling a story. D’Alembert, in his pamphlet upon the +destruction of the Jesuits, relates that one of the Order, who had +spent twenty years upon a mission in Canada, did not believe even the +existence of a God. Notwithstanding this, he had, numerous times run +the hazard of his life in defence of that religion which he preached +with success among the savages. To a friend, who expressed surprise at +the warmth of his zeal, the missionary observed: “Ah, you have no idea +of the pleasure there is in having 20,000 men to listen to you, and in +persuading them what you do not believe yourself.” + +By what was the scheme suggested to Chatterton’s invention? This +question, it is, perhaps, still more impossible to answer, nor do I +pretend to answer it. If you can ground any conjecture on a few facts I +will mention, so: Psalmanazar died about the time Chatterton’s scheme +was born, and bequeathed his methodistical memoirs to the world. +Walpole, about the same time, endeavoured to turn a whole national +current of belief with respect to Richard III., and not long before, +acknowledged the imposition he had put upon the public in the preface +to “Otranto.” The Douglas cause was, about the same time, in high +agitation. Ossian, with Blair’s dissertation, in which the name of +_Ælla_ is mentioned, had not long made its appearance. “The Concubine,” +in Spenser’s manner, appeared in 1767. Percy’s “Reliques” had not long +been published. Page xxiv. of the first volume (second edition, 1767), +mention is made of “Colgrin, son of that _Ælla_ who was elected King +of the Saxons in the room of Hengist.” Chatterton must have admired +“Hardyknute” (vol. ii. p. 94), which Mrs. Wardlaw _pretended_ to have +found on “shreds of paper employed for what is called the bottoms of +clues,” and must have seen through the _pretended_ extract of a letter +from _Canton_ to James Carland, Esq., at the end of the third volume, +which vouches for the _truth_ of Percy’s _Hau Kiou Choaau_, there +advertised as _translated from the Chinese_. On the 21st of January, +1769, the _invisible_ Junius printed his first letter. In May 1769, +Mrs. Montague published her Essay on Shakespeare, from which it is not +impossible that Chatterton’s _tindery_ ambition might catch the fire +of rivalry. Farrer’s Essay on the learning of Shakespeare had appeared +about a twelvemonth. In the wonderful extent of his reading, Chatterton +could not be ignorant of Parnell’s imposition on Pope, by means of +a pretended Leonine translation of some of his lines in the Rape of +the Lock, or of Parnell’s Fairy Tale, _in the Ancient English style_. +Better memories may, perhaps, recollect other things of this kind. That +Chatterton had Walpole and Ossian in some measure present to his mind, +is manifest from his fixing upon the same person (Mr. W.) to introduce +Rowley to the world, whom Macpherson chose for Ossian. And, surely, to +prove Earl Godwin a good man and true, in spite of history, is much +such an attempt as Mr. Walpole’s concerning Richard. The first stanza +of Canynge’s prologue to Godwin, is little more than a versification of +the ingenious supposition in the article _Godwin_, in the “Biographia +Britannica,” and is rather the language of our _distant_ age, than of +a man writing _three hundred years nearer_ Godwin, who was not then +_ungently_ treated in _so many_ histories as now. + + Whilomme, by pensmen, much ungentle name + Has upon Godwin Earl of Kent been laid, + Thereby bereaving him of faith and fame. + The unforgiving clergymen have said, + That he was known to no holy wurche, + But this was all his fault, he gifted not the church. + +It may be said that hardly one of the schemes which I have mentioned +succeeded. Let me, in my turn, tell what Fontenelle, in his +“Dialogues,” puts into the mouth of the Russian Pretender. When he is +asked how he dared to assert a claim, for which two or three impostors +had suffered the cruellest death, he answers, it was upon that very +circumstance he grounded the probability of passing for a true man and +no impostor. + +Of the impossibility to prove imitation I am well aware. But for +intentional imitation I do not here contend. The originality of his +sublime genius would not have stooped from its height to imitate any +man that ever existed. By the nature of his plan, the folding-doors +of imitation were effectually shut against Chatterton. His hands were +tied up from picking and stealing. What other poet, ancient or modern, +except Homer (and even Homer had his ancients, perhaps), can produce +an octavo volume, in the whole course of which, after a search of +some years, the best and oldest heads are not able to detect him with +certainty more than six or eight times? And those coincidences must of +course have been the effect more of memory than design. + +If Chatterton did endeavour to catch the public by other baits besides +genius who can blame him? + +Ill-fated Chatterton! Why didst thou not attend to _Orestes_ “On the +Poverty of Authors”? (_Town and Country Magazine_, Aug. 1769, p. +399.) How couldst thou imagine that even thy parts would prevent thy +adding one to his long but faithful list of the starved children of +genius? Could thy penetrating sight discover no truth in his borrowed +observation, that “We more readily assist the lame and the blind than +a poor man of genius; for every one is sensibly affected with the +apprehension of blindness or lameness; but who is in the least dread of +the accidents which attend on genius?” + +Here let me stop a moment to rescue the world from blame it does not +merit. The world is not accountable for the death of every man of +abilities who has perished, however miserably, in an alehouse, or a +prison. Profligacy and genius, ability and prodigality, are not, as +many imagine, the same things. But genius too often thinks it necessary +to be profligate, and profligacy often demands to pass for genius. +To behold genius confined in a prison, or skulking in an alehouse, +and not to lend relief, were infamous, provided the spectator could +be sure he was lending _effectual relief_. But if to rescue from one +prison, be only to give an opportunity to visit another—whose humanity +is sturdy enough to bear such insults even from a friend or from a +child? Churchill reproached the world with suffering Lloyd to pine in +the Fleet, and Johnson has moistened many an eye with the sufferings of +Savage. But the world, if it be ever accountable, is only accountable +for the death of such a being as Chatterton, who (let his enemies +or enviers persist, as they choose, in asserting what they cannot +prove) was not extravagant, was not profligate, was not unprincipled. +All his profligacy consisted in quitting the attorney’s office, and +penning Ælla—“when he should have engrossed.” His only extravagance +was lavishing unnecessary presents upon his grandmother, mother, +and sister, a few shillings, the earnings of his genius, which might +otherwise, perhaps, have saved him from starving. Unprinciples belongs +to those who accuse him of crimes without a shadow of proof. + +One other question remains to be answered. It may be asked why +Chatterton’s own “Miscellanies” are inferior to Rowley? Let me ask +another question. _Are_ they inferior? Genius, abilities, application, +we _may_ bring into the world with us; these rare ingredients _may_ be +mixed up in our compositions by the hand of Nature; but Nature herself +cannot create a human being possest of a complete knowledge of the +world almost the moment he is born into it. Is the knowledge of the +world, which his “Miscellanies” contain, no proof of his astonishing +quickness in seizing everything he chose? Is it remembered when, and at +what age, Chatterton for the first time quitted Bristol, and how few +weeks he lived afterwards? Chatterton’s “Letters” and “Miscellanies” +exhibit an insight into men, manners, and things, for the want of +which in their writings, authors who have died old men, with more +opportunities to know the world (who could have fewer than Chatterton?) +have been thought to make amends by other merits. + +Again, in his own character, he painted for booksellers and bread; in +Rowley’s, for fame and eternity. Why are a boy’s _tasks_ at school +inferior to what he writes for his amusement? Then it is not impossible +that he might designedly underwrite himself. He certainly did when he +wrote “Ladgate’s answer to the Song of Ælla.” After all, he was no +modern; the boy was born an ancient; and he knew mankind well enough to +see that, in the present age, there was a greater facility of emergence +from obscurity to fame, through the channel of curiosity, for a monk +of the fifteenth century than for a sexton’s son of the eighteenth. +Shame upon that age, which still persists in bearing testimony to his +knowledge of it! + +With regard to Chatterton’s face and person, all agree that he was +a manly, good-looking boy, that there was something about him which +instantaneously prepossessed you in his favour. Mr. Barrett and Mr. +Catcott, as well as all who remember him, speak particularly of his +eye. Catcott says he could never look at it long enough to see what +sort of an eye it was; but it seemed to be a kind of hawk’s eye, he +thinks; you could see his soul through it. Mr. Barrett says he took +particular notice of his eyes from the nature of his profession. He +never saw such. One was still more remarkable than the other. You might +see the fire roll at the bottom of them, as you sometimes do in a black +eye, but never in grey ones, which his were. Mr. Barrett adds, that +he used often to send for him from the charity school (which is close +to his house) and differ from him in opinion on purpose to make him +earnest, and to see how wonderfully his eye would strike fire, kindle, +and blaze up.... + +So ends what I have to say about Chatterton, when I shall have just +observed that his _innocent_ imposition on the world is exactly the +story of M. Angelo’s buried statue of Cupid; and, finally, that Miss +More is oftener boasted of by Bristol, and has acquired more fame and +wealth for an “Ode to Garrick’s Dog” than Chatterton for all Rowley’s +poems. Prefix to this letter, if you please, the _comforting_ discovery +of Lord Shaftesbury in his “Characteristics,” that “an ingenious man +never starves unknown.” Such a being as Chatterton should not have been +suffered to starve at all. But _comfort_ like this is to be expected +from “Knights and Barons.” + + Bards may be Lords, but ’tis not in the cards, + Play as you will, to turn Lords into Bards. + +The employment has been of the service to me that you meant it should. +In some measure I have forgotten myself, and, as much as it was +possible, forgotten my M. during the hours I have spent upon this +business. If the story be not told as regularly as it might, the +situation of my mind with regard to you must be my excuse. Besides, +were I cold enough to tell such a tale as Chatterton’s with as much +regularity as I put a common occurrence upon paper I should despise +myself. All I shall further add is, that I do not hold out Chatterton +as the first character in the world. An army of Macedonian and Swedish +butchers, indeed, fly before him; nor does my memory supply me with +any human being who, at such an age, with such disadvantages, has +produced such compositions. Under the heathen mythology superstition +and admiration would have explained all by bringing Apollo upon earth. +Nor would the god ever have descended with more credit to himself. +But, after all, the world is only indebted to Chatterton for a few +inimitable poems. If barbarity and fanaticism be suffered to destroy +mankind, genius will write in vain, when there is none to read. To +preserve our fellow-creatures is still a greater praise than to +instruct or amuse them. Perhaps, all circumstances considered, the +first character that ever existed was Bartholomew las Casas. + +Let me conclude these tedious sheets of paper with a most capital +subject for a painter, from Chatterton’s _tournament_, which you +may add to the subjects I have before suggested to you. It will +surprise you to find how _very_ modern it is. The advocates to Rowley +must explain this to you, if they can, and if Rowley has still any +advocates; for I do assure you, as you will find by turning to the +poem, that I have only altered _four_ words, and those _only_ by +changing them for Chatterton’s words of explanation in his notes to the +poem. + + When battle, steaming with new-quicken’d gore, + Bending with spoils and bloody dropping head, + Did the dark wood of ease and rest explore, + Seeking to lie on pleasure’s downy bed— + Pleasure, dancing from her wood, + Wreath’d with flowers of eglantine, + From his visage wash’d the blood, + Hid his sword and gaberdine. + +The manner in which you account for the self-destruction of that most +wonderful boy, Chatterton, is physical, I assure you, as well as +sensible. Tissot, in his “Essay on the Diseases Incident to Literary +Persons,” starts some ideas very much like yours, only they are wrapped +up in harder words. You shall see: + + * * * * * + +“When the mind, long time occupied, has forcibly impressed an action +upon the brain, she is unable to repress that forcible action. The +shock continues after its cause; and, re-acting upon the mind, makes it +experience ideas which are truly delirious: for they no longer answer +to the external impressions of objects, but to the internal disposition +of the brain, some parts of which are now become incapable to receive +new movements transmitted to it by the senses.” + +“The brain of Pascal was so vitiated by passing his life in the +laborious exercises of study, thought, and imagination, that certain +fibres, agitated by incessant motion, made him perpetually feel a +sensation which seemed to be excited by a gulph of fire situated on one +side of him; and his reason, overpowered by the disorder of his nerves, +could never banish the idea of this fiery abyss. Spinello painted the +fall of the rebel angels, and gave so fierce a countenance to Lucifer, +that he was struck with horror himself; and during the remainder of his +life, his imagination was continually haunted by the figure of that +dæmon, upbraiding him with having made his portrait so hideous. Gasper +Barlæis, the orator, poet, and physician, was not ignorant of these +dangers. He warned his friend Hughens against them: but, blind with +regard to himself, by immoderate studies he so weakened his brain, that +he thought his body was made of butter, and carefully shunned the fire, +lest it should melt him; till at last, worn out with his continual +fears, he leapt into a well. Peter Jurieu, so famous in theological +dispute, and for his “Commentary on the Apocalypse,” disordered his +brain in such a manner that, though he thought like a man of sense in +other respects, he was firmly persuaded his frequent fits of the cholic +were occasioned by a constant engagement between seven horsemen, who +were shut up in his belly. There have been many instances of literature +persons who thought themselves metamorphosed into lanterns; and who +complained of having lost their thighs.” + + * * * * * + +No one can deny that Chatterton must have gone through as much wear +and tear of the imagination as any person whom Tissot mentions. But I +would give a good deal, were it possible for me never again to think +about Chatterton, or about his death, as long as I live, for I never do +without being miserable. + +What you let fall about the propensity of the English to suicide, is +not true; though a very popular idea. And yet I will relate to you, in +the words of another person, an instance of English suicide much more +cool and deliberate than any you ever heard, I daresay. It is a fact, +and happened in 1732. + +Richard Smith, a bookbinder, and prisoner for debt within the +liberties of the King’s Bench, persuaded his wife to follow his +example, in making away with herself, after they had murdered their +little infant. This wretched pair were, in the month of April, found +hanging in their bedchamber at about a yard’s distance from each +other; and in a separate apartment the child lay dead in a cradle. +They left two papers inclosed in a short letter to their landlord, +whose kindness they implored in favour of their dog and cat. They even +left money to the porter, who should carry the inclosed papers to +the person to whom they were addressed. In one of these the husband +thanked that person for the marks of friendship he had received at +his hands; and complained of the ill-offices he had undergone from a +different quarter. The other papers, subscribed by the husband and +wife, contained the reasons which induced them to act such a tragedy on +themselves and their offspring. This letter was altogether surprising +for the calm resolution, the good humour, and the propriety, with +which it was written. They declared that they withdrew themselves from +poverty and rags; evils that, through a train of unlucky accidents, +were become inevitable. They appealed to their neighbours for the +industry with which they had endeavoured to earn a livelihood. They +justified the murder of their child by saying, it was less cruelty to +take her with them, than to leave her friendless in the world, exposed +to ignorance and misery. They professed their belief and confidence +in an Almighty God, the fountain of goodness and beneficence, who +could not possibly take delight in the misery of His creatures: +they therefore, resigned up their lives to Him without any terrible +apprehensions; submitting themselves to those ways, which, in His +goodness, He should appoint after death. These unfortunate suicides had +been always industrious and frugal, invincibly honest, and remarkable +for conjugal affection. + + * * * * * + +This tragedy I have shown you, because I think France, lively France, +in whose language suicide is an _Anglicism_, can supply me with an +anecdote as authentic of something still more cool and more deliberate, +since the motives to the crime (to which no motive can be sufficiently +strong) were so much weaker. + +On the day before Christmas Day, 1773, about eleven o’clock, two +soldiers came to the Cross-Bow Inn, at St. Dennis, and ordered a +dinner. Bordeaux, one of the soldiers, went out and bought a little +paper of powder and a couple of bullets, observing to the person +who sold them to him, that as St. Dennis seemed to be so pleasant a +place, he should not dislike to spend the remainder of his life there. +Returning to the inn, he and his companion passed the day together +very merrily. On Christmas Day they again dined as merrily, ordered +wine, and about five o’clock in the afternoon were found at the fire, +on breaking open the door, sitting on the opposite sides of a table, +whereon were three empty champaign bottles, the following will and +letter, and a half-crown. They were both shot through the head; two +pistols lay upon the floor. The noise of the pistols brought up the +people of the house, who immediately sent for M. de Rouilleres, the +Commandant of the _Maréchaussée_ at St. Dennis. + +The will I translated myself from a formal copy, which was taken for a +friend of mine at St. Dennis in 1774. + + + +The Will.+ + +A man, who knows he is to die, should take care to do everything which +his survivors can wish him to have done. We are more particularly in +that situation. Our intention is to prevent uneasiness to our host, as +well as to lighten the labours of those whom curiosity, under pretence +of form and order, will bring hither to pay us visits. + +Humain is the bigger, and I, Bourdeaux, am the lesser of the two. + +He is drum-major of _mestre de camp des dragons_, and I am simply a +dragoon of Belzunce. + +Death is a passage I address to the gentleman of the law of St. Dennis +(who, with his first clerk as assistant, must come hither for the +sake of justice) the principle; which, joined to the reflexion that +everything must have an end, put these pistols into our hands. The +future presents nothing to us but what is agreeable. Yet that future is +short and must end. + +Humain is but twenty-four years of age; as for me, I have not yet +completed four lustres. No particular reason forces us to interrupt our +career, except the disgust we feel at existing for a moment under the +continual apprehension of ceasing to exist. An eternity is the point of +re-union; a longing-after which leads us to prevent the despotic act of +fate. In fine, disgust of life is our sole inducement to quit it. + +If all those who are wretched would dare to divest themselves of +prejudice, and to look their destruction in the face, they would see +it is as easy to lay aside existence as to throw off an old coat, the +colour of which displeases. The proof of this may be referred to our +experience. + +We have enjoyed every gratification in life, even that of obliging our +fellow-creatures. We could still procure to ourselves gratifications: +but all gratifications must have a period. That period is our poison. +We are disgusted at the perpetual sameness of the scene. The curtain is +dropped: and we leave our parts to those who are weak enough to feel an +inclination to play them a few hours longer. + +Two or three grains of powder will soon break the springs of this +moving mass of flesh, which our haughty fellow-creatures stile the King +of Beings. + +Messrs. the officers of justice, our carcases are at your discretion! +We despise them too much to give ourselves any trouble about what +becomes of them. + +As to what we shall leave behind, for myself, Bordeaux, I give to M. +de Rouilleres, commandant of the _maréchaussée_ at St. Dennis, my +steel-mounted sword. He will recollect, that, last year, about this +very day, as he was conducting a recruit, he had the civility to grant +me a favour for a person of the name of St. Germain, who had offended +him. + +The maid of the inn will take my pocket and neck handkerchiefs, as well +as the silk stockings which I now have on, and all my other linen. + +The rest of our effects will be sufficient to pay the expense of the +useless law proceedings of which we shall be the subject. + +The half crown upon the table will pay for the last bottle of wine +which we are going to drink. + + +Bourdeaux. + Humain.+ + + At +St. Dennis+, _Christmas Day, 1773_. + +Of the following letter from Bordeaux to his lieutenant in the regiment +of Belzunce, I have not seen the French; I cannot therefore answer for +the translation, which does not appear to have been done carefully. +Another friend supplied me with it. You shall have it as I had it from +him. + + * * * * * + + “+Sir+, + +“During my residence at Guise, you honoured me with your friendship. It +is time that I thank you. You have often told me I appeared displeased +with my situation. It was sincere, but not absolutely true. I have +since examined myself more seriously, and acknowledge myself entirely +disgusted with every state of man, the whole world, and myself. From +these discoveries a consequence should be drawn: if disgusted with the +whole, renounce the whole. The calculation is not long. I have made it +without the aid of geometry. In short, I am on the point of putting an +end to the existence that I have possessed for nearly twenty years, +fifteen of which it has been a burden to me; and, from the moment that +I write, a few grains of powder will destroy this moving mass of +flesh, which we vain mortals call the King of Beings. + +“I owe no one an excuse. I deserted, that was a crime; but I am going +to punish it; and the law will be satisfied. + +“I asked leave of absence from my superiors, to have the pleasure of +dying at my ease. They never condescended to give me an answer. This +served to hasten my end. + +“I wrote to Bord to send you some detached pieces I left at Guise, +which I beg you to accept. You will find they contain some well-chosen +literature. These pieces will solicit for me a place in your +remembrance. + +“Adieu, my dear lieutenant; continue your esteem for St. Lambert and +Dorat. As for the rest, skip from flower to flower, and acquire the +sweets of all knowledge, and enjoy every pleasure. + + “Pour moi, j’arrivé au trou + Qui n’échappe ni sage ni fou, + Pour aller je ne scais où.” + +“If we exist after this life, and it is forbidden to quit it without +permission, I will endeavour to procure one moment to inform you of it; +if not, I should advise all those who are unhappy, which is by far the +greatest part of mankind, to follow my example. + +“When you receive this letter, I shall have been dead at least +twenty-four hours.” + + “With esteem, &c., + “+Bourdeaux+.” + +Is there any thing like this in English story? + +_If we exist after this life._ Ah, my brave Bourdeaux, that is the +question; and a question which even you could not answer in the +_negative_. + + ... There’s the retrospect + That makes calamity of so long life, + For who would bear the whips and scorns o’ th’ time, + _The pangs of despised love_, + +(Which I could never bear.) + + ... The law’s delay, + The insolence of office, and the spurns + Which patient merit of th’ unworthy takes? + But that the dread of something after death + Puzzles the will, + And makes us rather bear those ills we have, + Than fly to others that we know not of. + +The pains these two poor fellows took (or rather Bourdeaux, for he +seems to have been the principal) to prevent any trouble or uneasiness +to their survivors, lead me to reflect how very uniformly the contrary +is the conduct of suicides with us. One would sometimes almost fancy +that they studied how they might commit the abominable crime so as +to be found by those whom the discovery would most affect. Have they +wives, children? It must be done sometimes in their presence, in bed +with them; often in their hearing; almost always in such a manner that +they may be the first spectators of it. Mr. Y., Lord F., Mr. S., Lord +C., Mr. B., are cruel instances of this. Oh, for Omnipotence, to call +such savages back to life, and chain them to the hardest tasks of +existence! Is not the crime of suicide sufficient, without adding to it +the _murder_, or a heartbroken wife or child? Hence you may, perhaps, +draw an argument that every suicide is a madman. For my part, I have no +doubt of it; and if Humain had fallen into the hands of a friend less +mad than Bourdeaux, he might have lived to have fought another day. + +And here ends a long, dull letter, about a short, entertaining +conversation (on your part at least). + + + _Printed by_ +Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.+ + _London and Edinburgh._ + + + + + Transcriber’s notes + + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public +domain. + +The text contains words in a somewhat strange spelling. This might +be due to it being older, or the use of dialect. In one letter in +particular errors might very well have been made intentionally: e.g. +“sencible”, “ocation”, “corrispondence”, “verasity” and more. These are +not corrected. There are however errors that seem most probably due to +printing errors. These have been corrected. Below is a list. + + +Corrections + + Page 27 “Come then to morrow” changed to “Come then to-morrow”; + Page 29 “t” added to “regimen” in “I should be drummed out of my + regiment”; + Page 32 period instead of comma after “Her yielding waist should want + a zone”; + Page 34 “’ee” changed to “e’e” in “The woes of my heart fall in showers + from mine e’e”; + Page 50 “Had the frost and snow contiued” changed to “Had the frost and + snow continued”; + Page 52 “fellow creature” hyphenated in “The happiness, the existence of + a fellow-creature”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 57 period added after “Hinchinbrook, Feb. 24, 1776”, as customary + in the rest of the text; + Page 65 “Charing-cross” de-hyphenated in “Cannon Coffee House, Charing + cross, March 17, 1776.”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 65 “coffee-house” de-hyphenated in “from a coffee house near + Charing Cross”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 69 “Storgè” changed to “Storgé” in “as Storgé prophetically says + in Jephtha”; + Page 89 “by-the-way” de-hyphenated in “(which, by the way, is almost + worn out)”, as is customary; + Page 99 “afte swinging in terrible suspense” changed to “after swinging + in terrible suspense”; + Page 105 “new” changed to “knew” in “because they once knew what it was + to be miserable”; + Page 106 “some some” changed to “some” in “I will send you some hasty + lines”; + Page 114 comma removed after “April” in “Ireland, April 20, 1777.”; + Page 119 comma changed to period after “I have been to see the last of + poor Dodd”; + Page 122 “might have been heard at a considerable disstance” changed to + “might have been heard at a considerable distance”; + Page 124 “weeeping” changed to “weeping” in “are weeping over the crime + and punishment”; + Page 133 period inserted at the end of the sentence “One trifling + circumstance I must mention”; + Page 135 hyphen assumed missing in “enquiring”; + Page 135 comma added after “on entering the world of spirits”; + Page 147 period added at the end of the sentence “now they rage too + fiercely”; + Page 148 “brandy-and-water” de-hyphenated in “at the Bedford Coffee + House to take brandy and water”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 165 period added after the date in “Newgate, Saturday Night. April + 17, 1779”; + Page 173 “fellow creatures” hyphenated in “Take warning from me, my + fellow-creatures”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 177 “fellow creatures” hyphenated in “ye who might save hundreds of + your fellow-creatures”, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 185 “to day” in “through which these things were to emerge to-day” + hyphenated, as elsewhere in the text; + Page 202 capital “H” at the beginning of the sentence “He was proud and + exceedingly impetious”; + Page 203 period added after “sent the footman and other servants there + to see”; + Page 210 period added at the end of the poem, in the line “and some + believ’d him mad”; + Page 219 period added after “Mr” in “upon the same person (Mr. W.)”; + Page 233 “Commandent of the Maréchaussée at St. Dennis” changed to + “Commandant of the Maréchaussée at St. Dennis”; + Page 236 one of two occurences of “about” removed from “to give + ourselves any trouble about about what becomes of them.”; + Page 238 “and enjoy overy pleasure” changed to “and enjoy every + pleasure”. + + +Formating conventions + + _Word_ means that “Word” is in italic; + +Word+ means that “Word” is in small capitals. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78297 *** diff --git a/78297-h/78297-h.htm b/78297-h/78297-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..106607c --- /dev/null +++ b/78297-h/78297-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7921 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + The Love Letters of Mr. H. & Miss R. | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + + +.salutation { + text-indent: 0; + font-variant: small-caps; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; 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+ margin: 0; + font-size: 100%; + } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78297 ***</div> + + + + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. +<p> +<a href="#The_Love_Letters">The Love Letters of Mr. H. & Miss R.</a><br> +<a href="#INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a><br> +<a href="#CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a><br> +<a href="#PART_I">PART I <i>AT HINCHINBROOK</i></a><br> +<a href="#PART_II">PART II <i>IN IRELAND</i></a><br> +<a href="#PART_III">PART III <i>IN LONDON</i></a><br> +<a href="#APPENDIX">APPENDIX</a> +</p> + End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + +<div class="chapter"> + <h1 class="nobreak" id="The_Love_Letters"> + The Love Letters<br> + of<br> + Mr. H. & Miss R. + </h1> +</div> + + + + +<div class="chapter" + style="border: 1px solid; + outline: 1px solid; + outline-offset: -10px;"> +<p class="center" style="font-size: 200%;">The Love-Letters of</p> +<p class="center" style="font-size: 150%;">Mr. H. & Miss R.</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 130%;">1775-1779</p> +<hr class="full"> +<p class="center" style="font-size: 80%;">EDITED BY</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 170%;">GILBERT BURGESS</p> +<hr class="full"> +<figure class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/i_title_pic.jpg" alt="logo"> +</figure> +<hr class="full"> +<p class="center">CHICAGO</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 120%;">STONE & KIMBALL</p> + +<p class="center" + style="margin-bottom: 1em;"> + MDCCCXCV</p> + +</div> + + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INTRODUCTION"> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="drop-cap-char"><span class="upper">The</span> strange and pathetic story that is +told in the love letters that passed +between Mr. Hackman and Miss Reay, +excited widespread attention and sympathy +during the spring of the year 1779, and +interest in the affair was revived in the +following year by the publication of an +anonymous book in which some of these +letters, in a garbled form, were inserted.</p> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>The originals, or copies of the originals—for +Hackman was sufficiently romantic to +have kept copies of his own letters—were +given to Kearsly, the publisher, by Mr. +Frederick Booth, Hackman’s brother-in-law, +in consequence of Kearsly having issued a +pamphlet, on the 24th of April, 1779, called +“The Case and Memoirs of the late Revd. +Mr. James Hackman,” which was full of +errors. In the <i>Public Advertiser</i> of the 24th of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>April, 1779, Booth, in view of the advertised +publication of the “Case and Memoirs” +by Kearsly, announced positively that no +materials for a life of Hackman could possibly +be obtained except through him, as all the +necessary letters and documents were in his +possession. Croft’s edition of the letters +was issued by the same publisher in the +spring of the following year. It is not quite +clear whether Booth was approached by +Kearsly or by Croft; but that he (Booth) +was satisfied with the latter’s work is evident +from the fact that it elicited no further protest +from him.</p> + +<p>Sir Herbert Croft, Bart., was born at +Dunster Park, Berkshire, on November 1, +1751. In March, 1771, he matriculated at +University College, Oxford,⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> where Scott—afterwards +Lord Stowell—was his tutor.⁠<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> He +then entered Lincoln’s Inn, but want of +means did not allow him to continue in the +profession of the law, so in 1782 he returned +to Oxford, and decided for the Church. In +April, 1785, he took the degree of B.C.L., +and in 1786 he received the vicarage of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>Prittlewell,⁠<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> in Essex. During his sojourn at +Lincoln’s Inn, he wrote many tracts and +pamphlets; he also tried to compile an +English dictionary, but he found that £100 +a year—the amount he had available for +that purpose—was hardly sufficient.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> Nichols’ “Literary Illustrations,” v. 202.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> “Dict. Nat. Biog.” (Stephen.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i>, 1816, pt. i. 470.</p></div> + +<p>He also wrote the life of Young for +Johnson’s series of the Lives of the Poets.⁠<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> +Croft was somewhat eccentric in the management +of his finances, and was always begging +money or preferment from his friends; there +is a letter in the British Museum⁠<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> from him +to Bishop Douglas,⁠<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> in which he complains +of having been cold-shouldered by Pitt, +whose favour he had tried to gain by offering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>to insert verses in favour of that politician in +a book he was writing. There is also a +letter,⁠<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> dated 13th of October, 1796, to +Bishop Douglas’ son, the Rev. W. Douglas, +written from Exeter Gaol, “the common +prison—<i lang="la">pudet hoc approbria</i>!” as Croft +says, where he was imprisoned for a debt of +£40, which he hopes Mr. Douglas will send +at once. Croft subsequently lived in France +with the eccentric Lady Mary Hamilton.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">[4]</a> Among Croft’s other works were: “A Brother’s +Advice to his Sisters,” 1775. “Fanaticism and +Treason,” “The Literary Fly,” 1780. “The +Abbey of Kilhampton,” 1780—a series of anticipatory +epitaphs upon prominent living personages. +“Sunday Evenings,” 1784, religious discourses, +which Dr. Johnson disapproved of on account of +their levity of style (Boswell’s Johnson, Morley’s +edition, iv. 231), and a curious French work, +<span lang="fr">“Horace éclairci par la ponctuation,”</span> Paris, 1810.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">[5]</a> Egerton MSS. 2185, fol. 172.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">[6]</a> John Douglas, Bishop of Salisbury. (<i>Gent. Mag.</i> +1807, pt. i. 475.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">[7]</a> Egerton MSS. 2186, fol. 88-93.</p></div> + +<p>On the death of Chatterton, Croft obtained +from the poet’s sister, Mrs. Newton, +his letters and manuscripts, and, foreseeing +that the Hackman-Reay correspondence +would have a large sale, he decided to include +the Chatterton matter in the volume, +which he entitled “Love and Madness.” +He clumsily put his papers into the form of +a letter from Hackman, which was marked +No. 49 in the original book, and is included +in the Appendix to the present volume. +The difference in the style of this letter +from that of all the others was so apparent +that suspicion fell upon the authenticity of +other parts of the volume.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> + +<p>John Nichols⁠<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> mentions “Love and +Madness” as having passed through seven +editions. “These letters,” he continues, +“are given as the correspondence of Mr. +Hackman and Miss Reay.... They are +enlivened with a variety of anecdotes, +chiefly of a literary kind. Among other +miscellaneous matters, the story of that +extraordinary genius, Thomas Chatterton, is +introduced at great length, with critical observations +on his writings; an account of his +publication of ‘Poems,’ said to have been +written by one Rowley, a monk, about 300 +years ago; of his other schemes of authorship, +and, finally, of his unhappy exit, in +the eighteenth year of his age.... If +this be all ‘borrowed personage,’ as Mr. +Walpole expressed it, it is so ingenious a +fiction, that the author will be praised, +perhaps, for his abilities even by those who +may find themselves inclined to impeach his +honesty.”</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">[8]</a> “Literary Illustrations,” v. 203.</p></div> + +<p>In the <i>Monthly Magazine</i> for November, +1799, Robert Southey brought a charge +against Croft of having obtained the papers +and letters relating to Chatterton from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>unfortunate poet’s sister, Mrs. Newton, under +false pretences. Croft, who was at that time +in Denmark, sent a very foolish and evasive +reply to the same Magazine,⁠<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> in which he +said that he must first arrange Southey’s +abuse, for that gentleman wrote prose somewhat +like bad poetry, and poetry somewhat +like bad prose. He entirely ignored the +main charge brought against him, and his +vulgar attack upon Southey brought him +justly into contempt among the literary men +of the day.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">[9]</a> <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i>, February, March and +April, 1800.</p></div> + +<p>The Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, who +edited his father’s “Life and Correspondence,” +writes to Grosvenor C. Bedford, upon this +subject.</p> + +<p>“Sir Herbert Croft had obtained possession +from Mrs. Newton (Chatterton’s sister) of all +her brother’s letters and MSS. under promise +of speedily returning them; instead of which, +some months afterwards, he incorporated +and published them in a pamphlet, entitled +‘Love and Madness.’</p> + +<p>“At the use thus surreptitiously made of +her brother’s writings, Mrs. Newton more than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>once remonstrated; but, beyond the sum of +£10, she could obtain no redress. Mr. +Cottle⁠<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> and my father now took the matter +up, and the former wrote to Sir H. Croft, +pointing out to him Mrs. Newton’s reasonable +claim, and urging him by a timely concession +to prevent that publicity which otherwise +would follow.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">[10]</a> A well-known Bristol bookseller.</p></div> + +<p>“He received no answer; and my father +then determined to print by subscription +all Chatterton’s works, including those +ascribed to Rowley, for the benefit of Mrs. +Newton and her daughter. He accordingly +sent proposals to the <i>Monthly Magazine</i>, in +which he detailed the whole case between +Mrs. Newton and Sir Herbert Croft, and +published their respective letters. The public +sympathised rightly on the occasion, for a +handsome subscription followed. Sir Herbert +Croft was residing in Denmark at the time +these proposals were published, and he replied +to my father’s statement by a pamphlet +full of much personal abuse.”</p> + +<p>However, Mr. Cottle and Southey published +the edition in three volumes 8vo, and +the editors had the satisfaction of paying over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>to Mrs. Newton and her daughter upwards +of £300.</p> + +<p>Southey again brought charges against +Croft in the <i>Gentlemen’s Magazine</i> for +March 1800. He says “Sir Herbert does +not deny his promises to the family of after +assistance, nor that when Mrs. Newton +applied for it, he required a certificate of her +character from the Clergyman of the Parish.”</p> + +<p>In a note to the ninth edition of “Love +and Madness,” Croft excuses himself for +having pretended that Mr. Hackman had +visited Bristol to find out facts about Chatterton, +by referring to an extract from the +fourteenth letter in “Love and Madness.”</p> + +<p>The passage he mentions is as follows:</p> + +<p>“Robinson Crusoe now—what nature! It +affects us throughout, exactly in the way you +mentioned. But, shall I finish my dissertation? +come—as writing to you gives me so +much pleasure, and as I cannot do anything +to you but write this morning, I know you +will excuse me. Did you ever hear to what +Crusoe owed his existence? You remember +Alexander Selkirk’s strange sequestration at +Juan Fernandez. It is mentioned, I believe, +in Walter’s account of Anson’s voyage, when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>Captain Woodes Rogers met with him and +brought him to England, he employed the +famous Daniel de Foe to revise his papers. +That fertile genius improved upon the +materials, and composed the celebrated story +of Robinson Crusoe. The consequence was +that Selkirk, who soon after made his appearance +in print, was considered as a bastard of +Crusoe, with which spurious offspring the +press too often teems. In De Foe, undoubtedly, +this was not honest. Had Selkirk +given him his papers, there could have been +no harm in working them up his own way. +I can easily conceive a writer making his +own use of a known fact, and filling up the +outlines which have been sketched by the +bold and hasty hand of fate. A moral may +be added, by such means, to a particular +incident; characters may be placed in their +just and proper lights; mankind may be +amused (and amusements, sometimes, prevent +crimes), or, if the story be criminal, +mankind may be bettered, through the channel +of their curiosity. But I would not be dishonest, +like De Foe; nor would I pain the +breast of a single individual connected with +this story.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> + +<p>Yet Croft, who thus denounces Defoe, +announced subsequently that he himself had +acted with precisely the same dishonesty in +the matter of Mr. Hackman’s correspondence. +A further light is thrown upon the matter +by an advertisement to the eighth edition +of “The Case and Memoirs;” the author, +who, on the evidence of a rhymed lampoon +in one of the papers of the day, was one +Manasseh Dawes,⁠<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> a barrister and literary +hack, says that, being a gentleman, he wishes +to keep that character inviolate; consequently, +he thinks it necessary to declare +that all the facts are genuine, as he will testify +and explain, if necessary, on an application +to him at Mr. Kearsly’s (the publisher), and +he hopes that, therefore, his numerous +readers will not now suppose that he has +“intruded anything on the public with intent +to catch the penny of curiosity, at the +expense of truth and candour.”</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">[11]</a> <i>Public Advertiser</i>, June 3, 1779.</p></div> + +<p>When this was written Kearsly had possession +of the real facts of the case, and +was able to invite investigation.</p> + +<p>The enormous success of “Love and +Madness” tempted Croft to declare himself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>the author of the Chatterton excerpt, +and also to hint that of the entire work +only the outline was true. The word outline +is easily expansible, and, considering +that the letter about Chatterton, and two +or three other obvious additions, formed +half the volume, he was, perhaps, justified in +claiming his portion. Croft says that he +dedicates the ninth edition to Johnson, +because the Doctor had expressed his appreciation +of the work. But Boswell records⁠<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> +that Johnson censured and much disapproved +of “Love and Madness,” on account of the +mingling of the fact with the fiction—that is +to say, the inclusion of the Chatterton papers +among the Hackman-Reay correspondence.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">[12]</a> Boswell’s Johnson (Henry Morley), iv. 134.</p></div> + +<p>As several of the connecting links in the +narrative are missing, I have endeavoured to +weave the letters into a coherent narrative; +in one or two instances I have been obliged +to suppress certain passages, by reason of +their having been written at a time when +there was a greater license of expression +than is permissible nowadays. I have also +omitted, in two of the letters, references to +Chatterton which Croft introduced to give +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>verisimilitude to his assertion that the long +letter containing the life of the poet was +written by Hackman.</p> + +<p>No record of Croft’s own work tallies at all +with the idea that he created such a romance. +But, apart from the controversy, the story +and the letters seem to me to be a veritable +“human document” of strong interest. And, +after exhaustive investigation, I am convinced +that such a document is only explainable on +the grounds of a real living correspondence +and that these letters are, without doubt, +those that passed between Hackman and +Miss Reay.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;"> + <i>April</i>, 1895. +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> +<div class="center"> +<table> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc"> + PART I + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdr"> + <span style="font-size:70%;">PAGE</span> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <span class="smcap">At Hinchinbrook</span> + </td> + <td class="tdr"> + <a href="#Page_19">19</a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc"> + PART II + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <span class="smcap">In Ireland</span> + </td> + <td class="tdr"> + <a href="#Page_75">75</a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc"> + PART III + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <span class="smcap">In London</span> + </td> + <td class="tdr"> + <a href="#Page_117">117</a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <span class="smcap">Appendix</span> + </td> + <td class="tdr"> + <a href="#Page_183">183</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[Pg 19]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_I"> + PART I + <br> + <i>AT HINCHINBROOK</i> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="drop-cap-char"><span class="upper">James Hackman</span>, who figures as Mr. +H. in this collection of letters, was +born at Gosport, in the year 1752. His +father was a retired Naval Lieutenant, with a +modest income, which, however, was large +enough to enable him to give his son a good +general education, and to send him subsequently +to St. John’s College, Cambridge.</p> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>On leaving the University, James Hackman +was apprenticed to a mercer in his native +town but soon tiring of trade, he persuaded +his father to buy him an ensigncy in the 68th +Regiment of Foot. He was then quartered +upon a recruiting party at Huntingdon, where +he first made the acquaintance of the famous +(or infamous) Earl of Sandwich, who was the +First Lord of the Admiralty at that time. +Cradock, in his “Memoirs,” writes that a +friend of Lord Sandwich’s was a candidate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>for the Chemistry Professorship at Cambridge, +and that, as Cradock had been solicited for +his vote and interest, the Earl invited him to +travel in his coach, and to stay with him at +his seat, Hinchinbrook, on his return journey +to London. Cradock continues:</p> + +<p>“We went together and passed a very +pleasant evening with a numerous party at +the Rose Tavern, and having voted next +morning, we returned to Hinchinbrook. Lord +Sandwich, on meeting his neighbour, Major +Reynolds, in the gateway with another officer, +insisted on their alighting, and taking a family +dinner at his house. The Major apologised +for his intrusion, hoped his Lordship would +excuse the liberty he had taken in bringing a +brother officer with him, and then introduced +his friend, Captain Hackman. The party +merely consisted of Lord Sandwich, Miss +Ray, and a lady with her, the two gentlemen, +and myself. Dinner was soon served, and +coffee called for. We played two rubbers at +whist. Lord Sandwich held with Miss Ray, +against Major Reynolds and myself; Captain +Hackman requesting that he might only look +over the cards.”</p> + +<p>The Miss Ray (or Reay, as the name +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>should be written) mentioned by Cradock, +was living at Hinchinbrook, under the protection +of Lord Sandwich, to the easily +imaginable distress of Lady Sandwich.</p> + +<p>At the age of fourteen, Miss Reay had been +apprenticed to a mantua-maker in Clerkenwell, +and was subsequently introduced by +her father, a stay-maker, to a customer of +his, a woman of infamous profession, who, +thinking that the girl was exceedingly pretty +and intelligent, mentioned her to the dissolute +Lord Sandwich. The Earl fell in love with +Miss Reay the moment he saw her, and immediately +took her under his protection. He +gave her a good education, and had her +thoroughly trained in music, of which art he +was passionately fond; he himself, Cradock +tells us, was no mean performer upon the +kettle-drums! Oratorios and concerts were +frequently given at Hinchinbrook, in which +Miss Reay, owing to her beautiful voice, took +part; her personal charm and manner must +have been exceptionally attractive, for it is +related that she even captivated a Bishop’s +lady, who was terribly exercised at finding +herself seated directly opposite to her at a +dinner-party. Hackman was so fascinated +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>by Miss Reay that he could not keep away +from the neighbourhood of Hinchinbrook, +and, being a handsome, high-spirited young +fellow, he soon became a welcome and frequent +guest at the house. The result was +that he fell desperately in love with his host’s +mistress, and it was not long before his +love was reciprocated, and a clandestine +correspondence ensued. The first two +letters he sent to Miss Reay are written from +Huntingdon.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> + <i>Dec. 4, 1775.</i> +</p> + +<p class="salutation">Dear Martha,</p> + +<p class="indent3">Ten thousand thanks for your billet by +my corporal Trim yesterday. The fellow +seemed happy to have been the bearer of it, +because he saw it made <i>me</i> happy. He will +be as good a soldier to Cupid as to Mars, I +dare say. And Mars and Cupid are not +now to begin their acquaintance, you know. +Whichever he serve, you may command him +of course, without a compliment; for Venus, +I need not tell <i>you</i>, is the mother of Cupid, +and mistress of Mars.</p> + +<p>At present the drum is beating up under +my window for volunteers to Bacchus. In +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>plain English, the drum tells me dinner is +ready; for a drum gives us bloody-minded +heroes an appetite for eating, as well as for +fighting; nay, we get up by the beat of it, +and it every night sends, or ought to send, us +to bed and to sleep. To-night it will be late +before I get to one or the other, I fancy—indeed, +the thoughts of you would prevent +the latter. But the next disgrace to refusing +a challenge, is refusing a toast. The merit +of a jolly fellow and of a sponge is much +about the same. For my part, no glass of +any liquor tastes as it should to me, but +when I kiss my Martha on the rim.</p> + +<p>Adieu—whatever hard service I may have +after dinner, no quantity of wine shall make +me let drop or forget my appointment with +you to-morrow. We certainly were not seen +yesterday, for reasons I will give you.</p> + +<p>Though you should persist in never being +mine,</p> + +<p class="center"> +Ever, ever +</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-bottom: 3em;"> + Yours. +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec.</i> 6th, 1775. +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dearest Martha,</p> + +<p class="indent3">No, I will not take advantage of the +sweet, reluctant, amorous confession which +your candour gave me yesterday. If to +make me happy be to make my Martha +otherwise; then, happiness, I’ll none of thee.</p> + +<p>And yet I <i>could</i> argue. Suppose he <i>has</i> +bred you up—suppose you <i>do</i> owe your +numerous accomplishments, under genius, to +him—are you therefore his property? Is it +as if a horse that he has bred up should +refuse to carry him? Suppose you therefore +<i>are</i> his property—will the fidelity of so many +years weigh nothing in the scale of gratitude?</p> + +<p>Years—why, can obligations (suppose they +had <i>not</i> been repaid an hundred fold) do +away the unnatural disparity of years? Can +they bid five-and-fifty stand still (the least +that you could ask), and wait for five-and-twenty? +Many women have the same +obligations (if indeed there be many of the +<i>same</i> accomplishments) to their fathers. They +have the additional obligation to them (if, +indeed, it be an obligation) of existence. +The disparity of years is sometimes even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>less. But, must they therefore take their +fathers to their bosoms? Must the jessamine +fling its tender arms around the dying elm?</p> + +<p>To my little fortunes you are no stranger. +Will you share them with me? And you +shall tell his Lordship that gratitude taught +you to pay every duty to him, till love taught +you there were other duties which you owed +to H.</p> + +<p>Gracious heaven, that you <i>would</i> pay them!</p> + +<p>But, did I not say I would not take advantage? +I will not. I will even remind +you of your children; to whom I, alas! +could only show at present the <i>affection</i> of a +father.</p> + +<p>Martha weighs us in the scales. If gratitude +out-balance love—so.</p> + +<p>If you command it, I swear by love, I’ll +join my regiment to-morrow.</p> + +<p>If love prevail, and insist upon his dues, +you shall declare the victory and the prize. +I <i>will</i> take no advantage.</p> + +<p>Think over this. Neither will I take you +by surprise. Sleep upon it, before you return +your answer. Trim shall make the old +excuse to-morrow. And, thank heaven! to-night +you sleep alone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>Why did you sing that sweet song yesterday, +though I so pressed you? Those words +and your voice were too much.</p> + +<p>No words can say how much I am yours.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Omiah, who is mentioned by Miss Reay in +the following letter was a native of Otaheite, +who was brought to England in 1775 by +Captain Ferneaux in the <i>Adventure</i>, the consort +of Captain Cook’s ship the <i>Resolution</i>. +Lord Sandwich took him up, and showed +him all the sights. He went to Court and +was introduced to George III., with whom +he shook hands and said “How do you do?”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Dec. 7, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dear H.</p> + +<p class="indent3">Here has been a sad piece of work +ever since I received yours yesterday. But +don’t be alarmed. We are not discovered +to the prophane. Our tender tale is only +known to—(whom does your fear suggest?)—to +love and gratitude, my H. And they +ought both, for twenty reasons, to be <i>your</i> +friends, I am sure.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> + +<p>They have been trying your cause, ever +since the departure of honest Trim yesterday. +Love, though in my opinion not so +blind, is as good a justice as Sir John +Fielding. I argued the matter stoutly, my +head on his lordship’s side of the question, +my heart on yours. At last they seemed to +say, as if the oath of allegiance, which I had +taken to gratitude, at a time when, Heaven +knows, I had never heard of love, should be +void, and I should be at full liberty to devote +myself, body and soul, to—but call on me +to-morrow before dinner, and I’ll tell you +their final judgment. This I will tell you now—love +sent you the tenderest wishes, and +gratitude said I could never pay you all I +owe you for your noble letter of yesterday.</p> + +<p>Yet—oh, my H. think not meanly of me +ever for this. Do not <i>you</i> turn advocate +against me. I will not pain you—’tis impossible +you ever should.</p> + +<p>Come then to-morrow<a id="tn-007"></a>: and surely Omiah +will not murder love! Yet I thought the +other day he caught our eyes conversing. +Eyes speak a language all can understand. +But is a child of Nature to nip in the bud +that favourite passion which his mother +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>Nature planted, and still tends? What will +Oberea and her coterie say to this, Omiah, +when you return from making the tour of the +globe? They’ll blackball you, depend on it.</p> + +<p>What would Rousseau say to it, my H.?</p> + +<p>You shall tell me to-morrow. I will not +write another word, lest conscience, who +is just now looking over my left shoulder, +should snatch my pen, and scratch out <i>to-morrow</i>.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec. 7, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dearest Soul</p> + +<p class="indent3">I hope to heaven Trim will be able to +get this to you to-night. Not I only, but +my whole future life, shall thank you for the +dear sheet of paper I have just received. +Blessings, blessings! But I could write and +explain and offer up vows and prayers till the +happy hour arrives.</p> + +<p>Yet, hear me, Martha. If I have thus far +deserved your love, I will deserve it still. As +a proof I have not hitherto pressed you for +anything conscience disapproves: you shall not +do to-morrow what conscience disapproves. +You shall not make me happy (oh, how +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>supremely blest!) under the roof of your benefactor +and my host. It were not honourable. +Our love, the inexorable tyrant of our hearts, +claims his sacrifices, but does not bid us insult +his Lordship’s walls with it. How civilly did +he invite me to Hinchinbrook in October +last, though an unknown recruiting officer! +How politely himself first introduced me to +himself! Often has the recollection made +me struggle with my passion. Still it shall +restrain it on this side honour.</p> + +<p>So far from triumphing or insulting, heaven +knows—if Lord Sandwich indeed love you, +if indeed it be aught beside the natural +preference which age gives to youth—heaven +knows how much I pity him. Yet, as I +have either said or written before, it is only +the pity I should feel for a father whose +affections were unfortunately and unnaturally +fixed upon his own daughter.</p> + +<p>Were I your seducer, Martha, and not +your lover, I should not write thus, nor +should I have talked or acted, or written as +I have. Tell it not in Gath, nor publish it +in the streets of Askalon, lest the Philistines +should be upon me. I should be drummed +out of my regiment<a id="tn-008"></a> for a traitor to intrigue. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>And can you really imagine I think so +meanly of your sex? Surely you cannot +imagine I think so meanly of you. Why, +then, the conclusion of your last letter but +one? A word thereon.</p> + +<p>Take men and women in the lump, the +villany of those and the weakness of these—I +maintain it to be less wonderful that an +hundred or so should fall in the world, than +that even one should stand. Is it strange +the serpent conquered Eve? The devil +against a woman is fearful odds. He has +conquered men, women’s conquerors; he +has made even angels fall.</p> + +<p>Oh, then, ye parents, be merciful in your +wrath. Join not the base betrayers of your +children, drive not your children to the bottom +of the precipice, because the villains have +driven them half way down, where (see, see!) +many have stopped themselves from falling +further by catching hold of some straggling +virtue or another which decks the steep-down +rock. Oh, do not force their weak hands +from their hold, their last, last hold! The +descent from crime to crime is natural, perpendicular, +headlong enough of itself; do not +increase it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>“Can women, then, no way but backward +fall?”</p> + +<p>Shall I ask your pardon for all this, Martha? +No, there is no occasion, you say.</p> + +<p>But to-morrow, for <i>to-morrow</i> led me out +of my strait path over this fearful precipice, +where I, for my part, trembled every step I +took lest I should topple down headlong. +Glad am I to be once more on <i>plain</i> ground +again with my Martha.</p> + +<p>To-morrow, about eleven, I’ll be with you; +but let me find you in your riding-dress and +your mare ready. I have laid a plan, to which +neither honour nor delicacy (and I always +consult both before I propose anything to <i>you</i>) +can make the least objection. This once, trust +to me: I’ll explain all to-morrow. Pray be +ready in your <i>riding-dress</i>. Need I add, in +that you know I think becomes you most? +No, love would have whispered that.</p> + +<p>Love shall be of our party. He shall not +suffer the cold to approach you; he shall +spread his wings over your bosom; he shall +nestle in your dear arms, he shall.</p> + +<p>When will to-morrow come? What torturing +dreams must I not bear to-night?</p> + +<p>I send you some lines which I picked up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>somewhere, I forget where. But I don’t think +them much amiss.</p> + + +<p class="center">CELIA’S PICTURE.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To paint my Celia, I’d devise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Two summer suns in place of eyes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Two lunar orbs should then be laid</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon the bosom of the maid;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bright Berenice’s auburn hair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Should, where it ought, adorn my fair;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nay, all the signs in heaven should prove</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But tokens of my wond’rous love.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All, did I say? Yes, all, save one;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her yielding waist should want a zone.<a id="tn-009"></a></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec. 8, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p>Then I release my dearest soul from her +promise about to-day. If you do not see +that all which <i>he</i> can claim by gratitude, I +doubly claim by love, I have done, and will +for ever have done. I would purchase my +happiness at any price, but at the expense of +yours.</p> + +<p>Look over my letters, think over my conduct, +consult your own heart, and read these +two long letters of your writing, which I +return you. Then, tell me whether we love +or not. And, if we love (as witness both +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>our hearts), shall gratitude, <i>cold</i> gratitude, +bear away the heavenly prize that’s only +due to love like ours? Shall my right be +acknowledged, and must he possess the +casket? Shall I have your soul, and shall he +have your hand, your eyes, your bosom, your +lips, your——</p> + +<p>Gracious God of Love! I can neither +write nor think. Send one line, half a line to</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 4em;"> + Your own, own +</p> + +<p class="right"> + H. +</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Dec. 10, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p>Your two letters of the day before yesterday, +and what you said to me yesterday in +my dressing-room, have drove me mad. To +offer to sell out, and take the other step to +get money for us both, was not kind. You +know how such tenderness distracts me. As +to marrying me, that you should not do upon +any account. Shall the man I value be +pointed at and hooted for selling himself to +a Lord, for a commission, or some such thing, +to marry his cast mistress? My soul is above +my situation. Besides, I will not take advantage, +Mr. Hackman, of what may be only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>perhaps (excuse me) a youthful passion. +After a more intimate acquaintance with me +of a week or ten days, your opinion of me +might very much change. And yet, you <i>may</i> +love as sincerely as I——</p> + +<p>But I will transcribe you a song which I +do not believe you ever heard me sing, +though it is my favourite. It is said to be +an old Scots ballad, nor is it generally known +that Lady A. L. wrote it. Since we have +understood each other, I have never sung +it before you, because it is so descriptive of +our situation, how much more so since your +cruelly kind proposal of yesterday! I wept, +like an infant over it this morning.</p> + + +<p class="center">AULD ROBIN GRAY.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When the sheep are in fold, and the cows are at home,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the weary world to rest is gone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The woes of my heart fall in showers from mine e’e<a id="tn-010"></a></div> + <div class="verse indent0">While my good man lays sound by me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Young Jamie lov’d me well, and he sought me for his bride,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He had but a crown, he had no more beside;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To make the crown a pound, young Jamie went to sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the crown and the pound were both for me,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> <div class="verse indent0">He had na been gone but a year and a day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When my father broke his arm, and our cow was stole away;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When my mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And auld Robin Gray came wooing to me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My father could na work, and my mother could na spin,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I toiled night and day, but their bread I could na win;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Auld Rob maintain’d them both, and, with tears in his e’e,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Said, “Jenny, for their sakes, oh! marry me.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart it said no, and I wish’d for Jamie back,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the wind it blew sore, and his ship prov’d a wreck;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His ship prov’d a wreck: Ah! why did not Jenny dee!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why was she left to cry “Woe is me!”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My father argu’d sore, though my mother did na speak;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She look’d in my face till my heart was fit to break;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So auld Robin got my hand, but my heart was in the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And now Robin Gray is good man to me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I had na been a wife but of weeks only four,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When sitting right mournfully at my own door,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I saw my Jamie’s ghost, for I could not think ’twas he,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till he said, “Jenny, I’m come home to marry thee.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sore did we weep, and little did we say,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We took but one kiss, then tore ourselves away;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wish I was dead, but I am not like to dee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But long shall be left to cry “Woe is me!”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I gang like a ghost, and I do not care to spin,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I fain would think on Jamie, but that would be a sin;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">must e’en do my best a good wife to be,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For auld Robin Gray has been kind to me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> +<p>My poor eyes will only suffer me to add, +for God’s sake, let me see my <i>Jamie</i> to-morrow. +Your name also is Jamie.</p> + +<div class="indent1"> +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec. 13, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Life and Soul!</p> + +<p class="indent3">But I will never more use any preface +of this sort, and I beg you will not. A +correspondence begins with dear, then my +dear, dearest, my dearest, and so on, till at +last panting language toils after us in vain.</p> + +<p>No language can explain my feelings. Oh, +M. yesterday, yesterday! Language, thou +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>liest; there is no such word as <i>satiety</i>, positively +no such word. Oh thou, beyond my +warmest dreams bewitching! What charms! +What——</p> + +<p>But words would poorly paint our joys. +When, when?—yet <i>you</i> shall order, govern +everything. Only remember, I am <i>sure</i> of +those we trust.</p> + +<p>Are you now convinced that Heaven made +us for each other? By that Heaven, by the +paradise of your dear arms, I will be only +yours!</p> + +<p>Have I written sense? I know not what I +write. This scrap of paper (it is all I can +find) will hold a line or two more. I must +fill it up to say that, whatever evils envious +fate designed me, after those few hours of +yesterday, I never will complain nor murmur.</p> + +<p>Misfortune, I defy thee now. M. loves +me, and H.’s soul has its content most absolute. +No other joy like this succeeds in +unknown fate.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec. 24, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p>Talk not to me of the new year. I am +a new man. I will be sworn to it I am not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>the same identical James Hackman that I +was three months ago. You have created me—yes, +I know what I say—created me anew.</p> + +<p>As to thanking you for the bliss I taste +with you, to attempt it would be idle. +What thanks can express the Heaven of +Heavens!——</p> + +<p>But I will obey you in not giving such a +loose to my pen as I gave the day before +yesterday. That letter, and the verses it +contained, which were certainly too highly +coloured, pray commit to the flames. Yet, +pray too, as I begged you yesterday, do not +imagine I thought less chastely of you because +I wrote them. By Heaven! I believe your +mind as chaste as the snow which, while I +write, is driving against my window. You +know not <i>what</i> I think of you. One time, +perhaps, you may.</p> + +<p>The lines I repeated to you this morning +are not mine. I think of them quite as you +do. Surely an additional merit in them is, +that to the uninitiated, in whom they might, +perhaps, raise improper ideas, they are <i>totally +unintelligible</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Christmas Day, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p>My old friend the Corporal looked as if +he had been tarred and feathered yesterday, +when he arrived with your <i>dear</i> billet. Omiah +took up the sugar-caster, when he saw him +through the parlour window, and powdered +a fresh slice of pudding, by way of <i>painting</i> +the snowy Corporal. Omiah’s simplicity is +certainly very diverting, but I should like +him better, and take more pains with him, +if I did not think he suspected something. +The other day I am sure he came to spy the +nakedness of the land. Thank heaven! our +caution prevented him.</p> + +<p>Respecting the poetry which you repeated +to me the other day, I know not whether, as +you say, those to whom it could do any harm +could possibly understand it. For <i>uninitiated</i> +means, I believe, not yet admitted into the +mysteries, those who have not yet taken the +veil; or, <i>I</i> should rather say, those who have +not yet thrown off the veil. Why was I not +permitted by my destiny to keep on mine, +till my H., my <i>Mars</i>, <i>seized me in his ardent +arms</i>? How gladly <i>to his</i> arms would I have +given up my very soul!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> + +<p>Cruel fortune, that it cannot be so to-day! +But we forgot, when we fixed on to-day, that +it would be Christmas Day. I must do +penance at a most <i>unpleasant</i> dinner, as +indeed is every meal and every scene when +you are absent, and that, without the consolation +of having first enjoyed your company. +To-morrow, however, at the usual +time and place.</p> + +<p>Your discontinuing your visits here, since +the first day of our happiness, gratifies the +delicacy of us both. Yet, may it not, my H., +raise suspicions elsewhere? Your agreeable +qualities were too conspicuous not to make +you missed. Yet, you are the best judge.</p> + +<p>My poor, innocent, helpless babes! Were +it not on your account, your mother would +not <i>act</i> the part she does. What is Mrs. +Yates’s sustaining a character well for <i>one</i> +evening? Is it so trying as to play a part, +and a base one too, morning, noon, and +night? <i>Night!</i> But I will not make my +H. uneasy.</p> + +<p>At least, allow that I have written you a +long scrawl. Behold, I have sent you a +tolerable good substitute for myself. It +is reckoned very like. I need not beg +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>you not to show it. Only remember, the +painter’s Martha is not to rob your own +Martha of a certain quantity of things called +and known by the name of kisses, which I +humbly conceive to be her due, though she +has been disappointed of them to-day.</p> + +<p>So, having nothing further to add at present, +and the post being just going out, I remain +with all truth,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 19.0em;">Dear Sir,</span><br> + <span style="margin-right: 7.0em;">Your most humble servant,</span><br> + <span class="smcap" style="margin-right: 4.5em;">Martha</span>. +</p> + +<p>There is a pretty conclusion for you. Am +I not a good girl? I shall become a most +elegant correspondent in time, I see. This +paragraph is the postscript, you know, and +should therefore have been introduced by a +well-flourished P.S., the Sir Clement Cottrel +upon these occasions.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top:3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Dec. 28, 1775</i>. +</p> + +<p>Your condescension in removing my most +<i>groundless</i> cause of jealousy yesterday was +more than I deserved. How I exposed myself +by my violence with you! But, I tell +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>you, my passions are all gunpowder. Though, +thank God! no Othello yet am I.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">One not easily jealous; but, being wrought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Perplex’d in the extreme.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>and that God knows how I love you, worship +you, idolise you.</p> + +<p>How <i>could</i> I think you particular to such +a thing as B.? You said you forgave me to-day, +and I hope you did. Let me have it +again from your own dear lips to-morrow, +instead of the next day. Everything shall +be ready, and the guitar, which I wrote for, +is come down, and I will bring the song and +you shall sing it, and play it, and I will beg +you to forgive me, and you shall forgive me, +and five hundred ands besides.</p> + +<p>Why, I would be jealous of this sheet of +paper, if you kissed it with too much +rapture.</p> + +<p>What a fool! No, my Martha, rather say +what a lover!</p> + +<p>Many thanks for your picture. It <i>is</i> like. +Accept this proof that I have examined it.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis true, creative man, thine art can teach</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The living picture every thing but speech!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">True, thou hast drawn her, as she is, all fair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Divinely fair! her lips, her eyes, her hair!</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Full well I know the smile upon that face,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Full well I know those features’ every grace!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But, what is this, my Martha’s mortal part,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There <i>is</i> a subject beggars all thine art;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Paint but her <i>mind</i>, by Heav’n! and thou shalt be,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shalt be my more than pagan deity.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nature may possibly have cast, of <i>old</i>,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some other beauty in as fair a mould;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But all in vain you’ll search the world to find</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Another beauty with so fair a mind.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top:3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Jan. 1, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Lest I should not see you this morning, +I will scribble this before I mount honest +Crop, that I may leave it for you.</p> + +<p>This is a new year. May every day of +it be happy to my Martha. May—but do +not you know there is not a wish of bliss I +do not wish you?</p> + +<p>A <i>new</i> year, I like not this word. There +may be new lovers. I lie, there may not. +Martha will never change her H., I am sure +she will never change him for a truer lover.</p> + +<p>A new year—’76. Where shall we be in +’77? Where in ’78? Where in ’79? Where +in ’80?</p> + +<p>In misery or bliss, in life or death, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>heaven or hell, wherever <i>you</i> are, there may +H. be also!</p> + +<p>The soldier whom you desired me to beg +off, returns thanks to his unknown benefactress. +Discipline must be kept up in our way; +but I am sure you will do me the justice to +believe I am no otherwise a friend to it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The closing paragraph of this letter contains +an instance of Miss Reay’s kindness of +heart. She was never liked in London, +owing to her connection with the unpopular +Lord Sandwich, and she was accused of +selling appointments in the Navy. In 1773, +Lord Sandwich brought an action against the +<i>Evening Post</i>, for having made a similar +accusation against him, and obtained £2000 +damages. In a contemporary pamphlet there +is a story bearing on this point, told about +Miss Reay’s kindly intercession with the +Earl on behalf of a much neglected naval +officer. This unfortunate gentleman had +been a lieutenant for over thirty years, and +was complaining one day to a friend about +the little prospect he had of promotion. +His friend advised him to write to Miss Reay, +which he accordingly did, with the result that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>she placed his letter before the Earl, with the +emphatic remark that thirty years’ service, in +her apprehension, gave an officer a better title +to promotion than his being the son of a Duke.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Feb. 8, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Since the thaw sent me from Hinchinbrook +the day before yesterday, I have written +four times to you, and believe verily I shall +write four-and-forty times to you in the next +four days. The bliss I have enjoyed with +you these three weeks has increased not +diminished my affection. Three weeks and +more in the same house with my Martha!—it +was more than I deserved. And yet to be +obliged to resign you every night to another! +By these eyes, by your still dearer eyes, I do +not think I slept three hours during the whole +three weeks. Yet, yet, ’twas bliss. How lucky +that I was pressed to stay at Hinchinbrook +the night the snow set in! Would it had +snowed till doomsday! But then you must +have been <i>his</i> every night till doomsday. +Now my happy time may come.</p> + +<p>Though I had not strength to resist when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>under the same roof with you, ever since we +parted the recollection that it was <i>his</i> roof +has made me miserable. Whimsical that he +should bid <i>you</i> press me, when I at first +refused his solicitation. Is H. guilty of a +breach of hospitality?</p> + +<p>I must not question. I must not think. +I must not write. But we will meet, as we +fixed.</p> + +<p>Does Robin Gray suspect? Suspect! And +is H. a subject for suspicion?</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top:3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Feb. 16, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Every time I see you I discover some new +charm, some new accomplishment. Before +heaven, there was not a tittle of flattery in +what I told you yesterday. Nothing <i>can</i> be +flattery which I say of you, for no invention, +no poetry, no anything can come up to what +I <i>think</i> of you.</p> + +<p>One of our kings said of the citizens of his +good city of London, that when he considered +their riches, he was in admiration at their +understandings; when he considered their +understandings, he was in admiration at their +riches. Just so do I with regard to your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>person and your mind, but for a different +reason. Nature was in one of her extravagant +moods when she put you together. She +might have made two captivating women out +of you—by my soul, half-a-dozen! Your +turn for music and excellence in it would be +a sufficient stock of charms for the most disagreeable +woman to set up with in life. Music +has charms to do things most incredible; +music——</p> + +<p>Now shall I, with the good-humoured, +digressive pen of our favourite Montaigne in +his entertaining Essays, begin with love, and +end with a treatise upon the gamut?</p> + +<p>Yet to talk of music is to talk of you. +Martha and music are the same. What is +music <i>without</i> you? And harmony has tuned +your mind, your person, your every look and +word and action.</p> + +<p>Observe, when I write to you I never pretend +to write sense. I have no head; you +have made me all heart from top to bottom. +Sense—why, I am out of my senses, and have +been these six weeks. Were it possible my +scrawls to you could ever be read by any one +but you I should be called a madman. I +certainly am either curst or blest (I know not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>which) with passions wild as the torrent’s +roar. Notwithstanding I take this simile +from water, the element out of which I am +formed is fire. Swift had water in his brain. +I have a burning coal of fire; your hand can +light it up to rapture, rage, or madness. Men, +real men, have never been wild enough for +my admiration; it has wandered into the +ideal world of fancy. Othello (but he should +have put <i>himself</i> to death in his wife’s sight, +<i>not</i> his wife), Zanga, are <i>my</i> heroes. Milk-and-water +passions are like sentimental +comedy. Give me (you see how, like your +friend Montaigne, I strip myself of my skin, +and show you all my veins and arteries, even +the playing of my heart), give <i>me</i>, I say, +tragedy, affecting tragedy, in the world, as +well as in the theatre. I would massacre all +mankind sooner than lose you.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">This is mere madness;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And thus awhile the fit will work on him;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Anon, as patient as the female dove</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When that her golden couplets are disclosed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His silence will sit drooping.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Inconsistent being! While I am ranting +thus about tragedy and blood and murder, +behold, I am as weak as a woman. My tears +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>flow at but the idea of losing you; yes, they +do not drop only, they pour. I sob like a +child. Is this Othello? Is this Zanga? We +know not what we are, nor what we may +become.</p> + +<p>This I know, that I am and ever will be +yours and only yours.</p> + +<p>I send you Ossian. You will see what a +favourite he is with me by some drawings +and pieces of (what your partiality will call) +poetry, which accompany the bard of other +times. Should you quit this world before +me, which fate forbid, often shall I hear your +spirit (if I can be weak enough to survive +you) calling me from the low-sailing cloud of +night. They abuse Macpherson for calling +them translations. If he alone be the author +of them, why does he not say so, and claim +the prize of fame; I protest <i>I</i> would. They +who do not refuse their admiration to the +compositions, still think themselves justified +to abuse Macpherson, for pretending <i>not</i> to +be the author of what they still admire. Is +not this strange?</p> + +<p>As we could not meet this morning (how +long must our meetings depend on others, +and not on ourselves?) I was determined, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>you see, to have a long conversation with +you.</p> + +<p>Pray seal, in future, with better wax, and +more care. Something colder than one of +my kisses might have thawed the seal of yesterday. +But I will not talk of <i>thawing</i>. Had +the frost and snow continued<a id="tn-022"></a>, I had still been +with you at Hinchinbrook.</p> + +<p>The remainder of this (my second sheet of +paper, observe) shall be filled with what I +think a valuable curiosity. The officer whom +you saw with me on Sunday, is lately come +from America. He gave it me, and assures +me it is original. It will explain itself. Would +I might be in your dear, little, enchanted +dressing-room, while you read it!—</p> + + +<p class="center"><i>A Speech of a Shawanese Chief to Lord +Dunmore.</i></p> + +<p>“I appeal to any white man to-day, if ever +he entered Logan’s cabin hungry, and he +gave him not meat; if he ever came cold or +naked, and I gave him not clothing. During +the last long and bloody war, Logan remained +idle, ignominious, in his cabin, an advocate +for peace. Such was my love of the whites, +that those of mine own country pointed at +me as they passed by, and said ‘Logan is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>the friend of white men.’ I had even thought +to live with you. But the injuries of one +among you did away that thought, and +dragged me from my cabin of peace. Colonel +Cressop, the last spring, in cold blood, cut +off all the relations of Logan, sparing neither +women nor children. There runs not a drop +of the blood of Logan in the veins of any +human creature. This called on me for revenge. +I have sought it. I have killed many. +Revenge has been fully glutted.</p> + +<p>“For my country—I rejoice at the beams +of peace. But, harbour not the thought that +mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. +He will not turn his heel to save his life.</p> + +<p>“Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not +one.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the following letter there was an obvious +addition by Croft, which I have already +noticed in the Introduction.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Feb. 22, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>How silly we were, both of us, not to recollect +your favourite Jenny? and did not +Jamie think of her either?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 1em; font-size: 90%;"> + <span style="margin-left: 5.0em;">... Though my mother did na speak,</span><br> + She look’d in my face, till my heart was fit to break. +</p> + +<p>Was not this exactly the instance we +wanted?</p> + +<p>Something more has occurred to me on the +same subject. Rather than not write to you, +or than write to you as <i>descriptively</i> as recollection +sometimes tempts me, I know you +would have me write nonsense.</p> + +<p>In Hervey’s “Meditations” are two passages +as fine as they are simple and natural.</p> + +<p>“A beam or two finds its way through the +grates, and reflects a feeble glimmer from the +nails of the coffins.” “Should the haggard +skeleton lift a clattering hand.” In the latter +I know not whether the epithet <i>haggard</i> +might not be spared.</p> + +<p>Governor Holwell, in the account of the +sufferings at the black hole at Calcutta, when +he speaks of the length of time he supported +Nature by catching the drops, occasioned by +the heat, which fell from his head and face, +adds these words—“You cannot imagine +how unhappy I was when any one of them +escaped my tongue!” What a scene! The +happiness, the existence of a fellow-creature<a id="tn-027"></a>, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>dependent upon being able to catch a drop +of his own sweat! Shakspeare’s fancy could +not have invented, nor ever did invent, any +thing more sublime; for this is Nature, and +Nature itself is sublimity. People write <i>upon</i> +a particular situation; they do not put themselves +<i>in</i> the situation. We only see the +writer, sitting in his study, and working up a +story to amuse or to frighten; not the identical +Tom Jones, not Macbeth himself.</p> + +<p>Can you become the very being you describe? +Can you look round, and mark only +that which strikes in your new character, and +forget all which struck in your own? Can +you bid your comfortable study be the prison +of innocence, or the house of mourning? +Can you transform your garret of indigence +into the palace of pleasure? If you cannot, +you had better clean shoes than endeavour +by writings to interest the imagination. We +cannot even bear to see an author only +peeping over the top of every page to observe +how we like him. The player I would call a +corporal actor, the writer a mental actor. +Garrick would in vain have put his face and +his body in all the situations of Lear, if +Shakspeare had not before put his mind in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>them all. In a thousand instances we have +nothing to do but to copy Nature, if we can +only get her to sit to our pencil. And yet +how few of the most eminent masters are +happy enough to hit off her difficult face +exactly!</p> + +<p>Every person of taste would have been +certain that Mr. Holwell was one of the sufferers +in the black hole, only from the short +passage I have noticed.</p> +</div> +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Faldoni and Teresa might have been prevented +from making proselytes, if they ever +have made any, by working up their most +affecting story so as to take off the edge of +the dangerous example. But not in the way +Mr. Jerningham has done it, who tells us, not +less intelligibly than pathetically.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">All-ruling love, the god of youth, possess’d</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Entire dominion of Faldoni’s breast;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An equal flame did sympathy impart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(A flame destructive) to Teresa’s heart:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As on one stem two opening flowers respire,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So grew their life (entwin’d) on one desire.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>Are you not charmed? Perhaps you never +saw the poem. I have it here, and will bring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>it you as a curiosity. The melancholy tale will +not take up three words, though Mr. J. has +bestowed upon it 335 melancholy lines. The +catastrophe happened near Lyons, in the +month of June, 1770. Two lovers (Faldoni +and Teresa Meunier) meeting with an invincible +obstacle to their union, determined +to put an end to their existence with pistols. +The place they chose for the execution of +their terrible project was a chapel that stood +at a little distance from the house. They +even decorated the altar for the occasion. +They paid a particular attention to their own +dress. Teresa was dressed in white, with +rose-coloured ribbands. The same coloured +ribbands were tied to the pistols. Each +held the ribband that was fastened to the +other’s trigger, which they drew at a certain +signal.</p> + +<p>Arria and Pætus (says Voltaire) set the +example; but then it must be considered +they were condemned to death by a tyrant. +Whereas love was the only inventor and +perpetrator of this deed.</p> + +<p>Yet, while I talk of taking off the dangerous +edge of their example, they have almost +listed me under their bloody banners.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<p>On looking over the sermon I have written, +I recollect a curious anecdote of Selkirk.</p> + +<p>(By-the-bye, Wilkes, I suppose, would say +that none but a Scotchman could have lived +so many years upon a desert island.)</p> + +<p>He tamed a great number of kids for +society, and with them and the numerous +offspring of two or three cats that had been +left with him, he used often to dance. From +all which my inference is this—Martha will +not surely deprive herself of H.’s society, +but will let him find her <i>there</i> to-morrow, +especially since, in Mr. J.’s <i>expressive</i> language:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">As on one stem two opening flowers respire,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So grow our lives (entwin’d) on one desire.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Feb. 23, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Where were you this morning, my life? +I should have been froze to death I believe +with the cold, if I had not been waiting for +<i>you</i>. I am uneasy, very uneasy. What could +prevent you? You own appointment, too. +Why not write, if you could not come? +Then, I had a dream last night, a sad dream, +my H.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent4">... For thee I fear, my love;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such ghastly dreams last night surprised my soul.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>You may reply, perhaps, with my favourite +Iphis—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Heed not these black illusions of the night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mockings of unquiet slumbers.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Alas! I cannot help it. I am a weak +woman, not a soldier.</p> + +<p>I thought you had a duel with a person +whom we have agreed never to mention. +I thought you killed each other. I not only +saw his sword, I <i>heard</i> it pass through my +H.’s body. I saw you both die; and with +you love and gratitude. Who is there, +thought I, to mourn for Martha! Not one!</p> + +<p>You may call me foolish; but I am uneasy, +miserable, wretched! Indeed, indeed I am. +For God’s sake, let me hear from you!</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN</i>.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Feb. 24, 1776</i>.<a id="tn-001"></a> +</p> + +<p>That business, as I told you it would last +night, obliges him (Lord Sandwich) to go to +town. I am to follow for the winter. Now, +my H. for the royal black bob and the bit +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>of chalk; or for any better scheme you will +plan. Let me know, to-morrow, where you +think Lady Grosvenor’s scheme will be most +practicable on the road, and there I will +take care to stop. I take my Bible oath I +would not deceive you, and more welcome +shall you be to my longing arms than all +the Dukes or Princes in Christendom. If +I am not happy for one whole night in my +life, it will now be your fault.</p> + +<p>Is not this kind and thoughtful? Why +did it never occur to you, so often as we +have talked of my being obliged to leave this +dear place—to me <i>most</i> dear, since it has +been the scene of my acquaintance, my +happiness, with H.</p> + +<p>But, am I to leave behind me that dearest +H.? Surely your recruiting business must +be nearly over now. You <i>must</i> go to town. +Though things cannot often be contrived at +the Admiralty, they may, they <i>may</i>—they <i>shall</i> +happen elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Fail not to-morrow, and do not laugh at +me any more about my dream. If it was +a proof of my weakness, it was a proof also +of my love.</p> + +<p>I wish the day on which I am to set out +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>from hence could be conjured about a month +further back or so. Now, you ask <i>why</i>? +Look in your last year’s almanack. Was +not the <i>shortest day</i> somewhere about that +time? Come give me a kiss for that, I am +sure I deserve it. Oh! fye, Mr. H., not +twenty. You are too generous in your payments. +I must insist upon returning you +the overplus the next time we meet—that +is to-morrow, you know.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Huntingdon</span>, <i>Feb. 26, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Why will not the wished-for day, or rather +night, arrive? And here, I have not seen +you since I know not when, not for two +whole days.</p> + +<p>But I wrote you a long letter yesterday +why it would be dangerous to meet; and +all in rhyme. The beginning, I assure you, +was not poetry, but truth. If the conclusion +was coloured too highly, you must +excuse it. The pencil of love executed it, +and the sly rogue will indulge himself sometimes. +Let the time come, I will convince +you his pencil did not much exaggerate.</p> + +<p>Just now I was thinking of your birthday, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>about which I asked you the other day. It +is droll that yours and mine should be so +near together. And thus I observe thereon:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Your poets, cunning rogues, pretend</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That men are made of clay;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And that the heavenly potters make</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Some five or six a day.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">No wonder, Martha, I and you</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Don’t quite detest each other;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or that my soul is link’d to yours,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As if it were its brother:</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For in one year we both were made,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Nay almost in one day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So, ten to one, we both came from</div> + <div class="verse indent2">One common heap of clay.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What? If I were not cast in near</div> + <div class="verse indent2">So fine a mould as you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart (or rather, Martha, yours)</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Is tender, fond and true.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Corporal Trim sets off to-day for our head-quarters. +My plan is laid so that no discovery +<i>can</i> take place. Gods, that two such +souls as yours and mine should be obliged +to descend to arts and plans! Were it not +for your dear sake, I’d scorn to do anything +I would not wished discovered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN</i>,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hinchinbrook</span>, <i>Feb. 27, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>All your plans are useless. The corporal +has made his forced march to no purpose. +The fates are unkind. It is determined that +I am to go up <i>post</i>. So, we cannot possibly +be happy together, as we hoped to have +been had our own horses drawn me up, in +which case I must have <i>slept</i> upon the road. +I am not clear old Robin Grey will not stay +and attend me. Why cannot my Jamie? +Cruel fortune! But in town we <i>will</i> be +happy. When, again, shall I enjoy your +dear society, as I did during that, to me at +least, blessed snow? Nothing but my dear +children could prevent our going with Cook +to seek for happiness in worlds unknown. +There must be some corner of the globe +where mutual affection is respected.</p> + +<p>Do not forget to meet me. Scratch out +<i>forget</i>. I know how much you think of me: +too much for your peace, nay, for your health. +Indeed, my H., you do not look well. Pray +be careful.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Whatever wound thy tender health,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will kill thy Martha’s, too.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<p>Omiah is in good humour with me again. +What kind of animal should a naturalist +expect from a native of Otaheite and a +Huntingdonshire dairymaid? If my eyes do +not deceive me, Mr. Omiah will give us a +specimen. Will you bring me some book +to-morrow to divert me, as I post it to town, +that I may forget, if it be possible, I am +posting from you?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But the lovers contrived to meet after all, +for Hackman’s next letter is written from the +inn at Hockerill, where they had spent the +night together.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hockerill</span>, <i>March 1, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>It is your strict injunction that I do not +offend you by suffering my pen to speak of +last night. I will not, my M., nor should I, +had you not enjoined it. You once said a +nearer acquaintance would make me change +my opinion of you. It has. I <i>have</i> changed +my opinion. The more I know you, the +more chastely I think of you. Notwithstanding +last night (what a night!) and our +first, too, I protest to God, I think of you +with as much purity as if we were going to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>be married. You take my meaning, I am +sure, because they are the thoughts which I +know you wish me to entertain of you.</p> + +<p>You got to town safe, I hope. <i>One</i> letter +may find me before I shall be able to leave +Huntingdon, whither I return to-day, or, at +least, to Cambridge. I am a fool about Crop, +you know; and I am now more tender of him +because he has carried <i>you</i>. How little did +we think that morning we should ever make +each other so happy!</p> + +<p>Do not forget to write, and don’t forget the +key against I come to town. As far as seeing +you, I will use it sometimes, but never for an +opportunity to indulge our passion. That +positively shall never again happen under <i>his</i> +roof. How did we applaud each other for +not suffering his walls at Hinchinbrook to be +insulted with the first scene of it! And how +happy were we both, after we waked from our +dream of bliss, to think how often we had +acted otherwise during the time the snow +shut me up at Hinchinbrook!—a snow as dear +to me as to yourself.</p> + +<p>My mind is torn, rent, with ten thousand +thoughts and resolutions about you and about +myself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + +<p>When we meet, which shall be as we fixed, +I may perhaps mention <i>one</i> idea to you.</p> + +<p>Pray let us contrive to be together some +evening that your favourite “Jephtha” is performed.</p> + +<p>Enclosed is a song which came into my +hands by an accident since we parted. +Neither the words nor the music, I take it, +will displease you. Adieu.</p> + + +<p>SONG.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent8">When your beauty appears</div> + <div class="verse indent8">In its graces and airs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So strangely you dazzle my eye!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent8">But when, without art,</div> + <div class="verse indent8">Your kind thoughts you impart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When your love runs in blushes thro’ every vein;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then I know you’re a woman again.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent9">“There’s a passion and pride</div> + <div class="verse indent10">In our sex,” she replied,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">“And thus, might I gratify both, I would do;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As an angel appear to each lover beside,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But still be a woman to you.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>However, Hackman found the temptation +to follow Miss Reay to London too great to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>resist; and the two impassioned notes that +follow were written in the course of the same +day from a coffee house<a id="tn-026"></a> near Charing Cross:</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Cannon Coffee House, Charing cross<a id="tn-025"></a></span>, + <i>March 17, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>No further than this can I get from you, +before I assure you that every word I said +just now came from the bottom of my heart. +I never shall be happy, never shall be in my +senses, till you consent to marry me. And +notwithstanding the dear night at Hockerill, +and the other which your ingenuity procured +me last week in D. Street, I swear, by the bliss +of blisses, I never will taste it again till you +are my wife.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY</i>,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Cannon Coffee House</span>, <i>March 17, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Though you can hardly have read my last +scrawl, I must pester you with another. I +had ordered some dinner; but I can neither +eat, nor do anything else. “Mad!” I may +be mad, for what I know. I am sure I am +wretched.</p> + +<p>For God’s sake, for my life and soul’s +sake, if you love me, write directly hither, or +at least to-night to my lodgings, and say +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>what is that <i>insuperable</i> reason on which you +dwelt so much. “Torture shall not force +you to marry me.” Did you not say so! +Then you hate me; and what is life worth?</p> + +<p>Suppose you had not the dear inducement +of loving me (<i>if</i> you love me! Damnation +blot out that <i>if!</i>) and being adored by me, +still, do you not wish to relieve yourself and +me from the wretched parts we act? My +soul was not formed for such meanness. To +steal in at a back door, to deceive, to plot, +to lie—Perdition! the thought of it makes me +despise myself.</p> + +<p>Your children—Lord Sandwich—(if we +have not been ashamed of our conduct, why +have we cheated conscience all along by +“he” and “his,” and “Old Robin Gray?” +Oh! how we have descended, Martha!)—Lord +Sandwich, I say, cannot but provide +for your dear boys. As to your sweet little +girl, I will be a father to her, as well as a +husband to you. Every farthing I have I +will settle on you both. I will, God knows, +and you shall find what I will do for you both, +when I am able. Good God, what would +I <i>not</i> do!</p> + +<p>Write, write; I say, write. By the living +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>God, I will have this <i>insuperable reason</i> from +you, or I will not believe you love me.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Miss Reay answered his notes immediately; +but it is evident from the tone of her reply +that she was afraid lest Hackman’s presence +in London should awaken the suspicions +of Lord Sandwich, even if they had not +already been aroused by the hints of the +faithful Omiah, who seems to have suspected +the existence of the intrigue from its very +commencement. Croker, in his “Memoirs,” +says that Miss Reay was, at this period, in +a very nervous and unsettled frame of mind.</p> + +<p>“Miss Reay, towards the latter part of +the time that I frequented the Admiralty, +did not continue to speak of her situation +as before, complained of greatly being +alarmed by ballads that had been sung, or +cries that had been made directly under +the windows that look into the Park, and +that such was the fury of the mob, that she +did not think either Lord Sandwich or herself +were safe whenever they went out; and +I must own that I heard some strange +insults offered, and that I, with some of +the servants suddenly rushed out, but the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>offenders instantly ran away and escaped. +One evening afterwards when sitting with +Miss Reay in the great room above stairs, +she appeared to be much agitated, and at last +said, ‘she had a particular favour to ask of +me; that as her situation was very precarious, +and no settlement had been made upon her, +she wished I would hint something of the +kind to Lord Sandwich.’ I need not express +my surprise, but I instantly assured her, ‘that +no one but herself could make such a proposal, +as I knew Lord Sandwich never gave +any one an opportunity of interfering with +him on so delicate a subject.’ She urged +that her wish was merely to relieve Lord +Sandwich as to great expense about her, for +as her voice was then at the best, and Italian +musick was particularly her <i>forte</i> she was +given to understand that she might succeed +at the Opera House, and as Mr. Giardini then +led, and I was intimate with Mrs. Brooke, +and Mrs. Yates, she was certain of a most +advantageous engagement. I then instantly +conjectured who one of the advisers must +have been; and afterwards found that three +thousand pounds and a free benefit had +been absolutely held out to her; though not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>by the two ladies, who managed the stage +department.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Admiralty</span>, <i>March 17, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>And does my H. think I wanted such a +letter as this to finish my affliction? Oh, my +dear Jamie, you know not how you distress me.</p> + +<p>And do you imagine that I have <i>willingly</i> +submitted to the artifices to which I have +been obliged, for your sake, to descend? +What has been <i>your</i> part, from the beginning +of the piece, to <i>mine?</i> I was obliged to act +even to <i>you</i>. It was my business not to let +you see how unhappy the artifices to which +I have submitted made me; and that they +did embitter even our happiest moments.</p> + +<p>But fate stands between us. We are +doomed to be wretched. And I, every now +and then, think some terrible catastrophe +will be the consequence of our connection. +“Some dire event,” as Storgé<a id="tn-032"></a> prophetically +says in Jephtha, “hangs over our heads;”—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Some woeful song we have to sing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In misery extreme—O never, never</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was my forboding mind distress’d before</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With such incessant pangs!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Oh, that it were no crime to quit this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>world like Faldoni and Teresa, and that we +might be happy together in some other world, +where gold and silver are unknown! By +your hand I could even die with pleasure. I +know I could.</p> + +<p>“Insuperable reason.” Yes, my H., there +is, and you force it from me. Yet, better to +tell you than to have you doubt my love, +that love which is now my religion. I have +hardly any God but you. I almost offer up +my prayers <i>to</i> you, as well as <i>for</i> you.</p> + +<p>Know, then, if you were to marry me, you +would marry some hundred pounds’ worth of +debts; and <i>that</i> you never shall do.</p> + +<p>Do you remember a solemn oath which +you took in one of your letters, when I was +down at Hinchinbrook? and how you told +me afterwards it <i>must</i> be so, because you had +so solemnly sworn it?</p> + +<p>In the same solemn and dreadful words I +swear that I never will marry you, happy as +it would make me, while I owe a shilling in +the world. Jephtha’s vow is past.</p> + +<p>What your letter says about my poor +children made me weep; but it shall not +make me change my resolution.</p> + +<p>It is a further reason why I should not. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>“If I do not marry you, I do not love you!” +Gracious powers of love! Does my H. say +so? My <i>not</i> marrying you is the strongest +proof I can give you of my love. And +Heaven, you know, has heard my vow. Do +<i>you</i> respect it, and never tempt me to break +it—for not even <i>you</i> will <i>ever</i> succeed. Till +I have some better portion than debts, I +<i>never</i> will be yours.</p> + +<p>Then what is to be done? you ask. Why, +I will tell you, H. Your determination to +drop all particular intercourse till marriage +has made us one, flatters me more than I +can tell you, because it shows the opinion +you entertain of me in the strongest light; +it almost restores me to <i>my own</i> good opinion. +The copy of verses you brought me on that +subject is superior to anything I ever read. +They shall be thy Martha’s morning prayer, +and her evening song. While you are in +Ireland——</p> + +<p>Yes, my love, in Ireland. Be ruled by me. +You shall immediately join your regiment +there. You know it is your duty. In the +meantime, something may happen: Heaven +will not desert two faithful hearts that love +like yours and mine. There are joys; there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>is happiness in store for us yet. I feel there +is. And (as I said just now) <i>while you are in +Ireland</i>, I will write to you <i>every</i> post, <i>twice</i> +by <i>one</i> post, and I will think of you, and I will +dream of you, and I will kiss your picture, +and I will wipe my eyes, and I will kiss it +again, and then I will weep again. And——</p> + +<p>Can I give a stronger instance of my +regard for you, or a stronger proof that you +ought to take my advice, than by thus begging +my only joy to leave me? I will not swear +I shall survive it; but, I beseech you, go!</p> + +<p>Fool that I am! I undo with one hand +all that I do with the other. My tears, +which drop between every word I write, +prevent the effect of my reasoning; which, I +am sure, is just.</p> + +<p>Be a man, I say—you <i>are</i> an angel. Join +your regiment; and, as sure as I love you +(nothing can be <i>more</i> sure), I will recall you +from what will be banishment as much to me +as to you, the first moment that I can marry +you with honour to myself, and happiness to +my H.</p> + +<p>But, I must not write thus. Adieu!</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ill suits the voice of love when glory calls,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bids thee follow Jephtha to the field.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 5.0em;"><span class="smcap">Cannon Coffee House</span>,</span><br> + <i>March 17, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>And I will respect the vow of Jephtha, +and I will follow to the field. At least, I +will think of it all to-night, for I am sure I +shall not sleep, and will let you know the +success of my struggle, for a struggle it will be +to-morrow. I will wait for you at the same +place in the Park, where I shall see you open +the Admiralty door. Should it rain, I will +write. It was my intention to have endeavoured +to see you now, but I changed my +mind, and wrote this, and I am glad I did. +We are not in a condition to see each other. +Cruel debts! Rather, cruel vow! for, would +you but have let me, I would have contrived +some scheme about your debts. I <i>could</i> +form a plan. My Gosport matters—my +commission.</p> + +<p>Alas! you frown, and I must stop. Why +would not fortune smile upon my two lottery +tickets? Heaven knows I bought them on +your account. Upon the back of one of +them I wrote, in case of my sudden death, +“This is the property of Miss <i>Reay</i>.” On the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>back of the other, that it belonged to your +daughter. For what am I still reserved?</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Admiralty</span>, <i>March 17, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Why, why do you write to me so often? +Why do you see me so often? when you +acknowledge the necessity of complying with +my advice.</p> + +<p>You tell me, if I bid you, you will go. I +have bid you, begged you to go.—I <i>do</i> +bid you go. Go, I conjure you, go! But +let us not have any more partings. The last +was too, too much. I did not recover myself +all day. And your goodness to my little +white-headed boy! He made me burst into +tears this morning by talking of the good-natured +gentleman, and producing your +present.</p> + +<p>Either stay, and let our affection discover +and ruin us—or go.</p> + +<p>On the bended knees of love I entreat +you, H., my dearest H., to go.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>This earnest appeal induced Hackman to +obey her wishes, and he departed for Ireland +immediately.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_II"> + PART II + <br> + <i>IN IRELAND</i> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>March 26, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Ireland! England! good heavens! that +Martha should be in one part of the world +and her H. in another! Will not our destinies +suffer us to breathe the same air? +Mine will not, I most firmly believe, let me +rest, till they have hunted me to death.</p> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>Will you not give me your approbation for +obeying you thus? Approbation! And is +that the coin to pass between <i>us?</i></p> + +<p>Yet, I will obey you further. I will restrain +my pen as much as possible. I will scratch +the word love out of my dictionary. I will +forget: I lie—I never <i>can</i>, nor ever <i>will</i> +forget you, or any thing which belongs to +you. But I will, as you wisely advise, and +kindly desire me, write as much as possible +on other subjects. Everything entertaining +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>that I can procure I will. I will <i>Twissify</i>, +and write Tours—or anything but love-letters. +This morning pardon me: I am unable to +trifle; I <i>must</i> be allowed to talk of love, of +Martha.</p> + +<p>And, when I <i>am</i> able, you must allow me +to put in a word or two sometimes for myself. +To-day, however, I will not make <i>you</i> unhappy +by telling you how truly so <i>I</i> am.</p> + +<p>The truth is—my heart is full; and though +I thought, when I took up my pen, I could +have filled a quire of paper with it, I now +have not a word to say. Were I sitting by +your side now (oh, that I were!) I should +only have power to recline my cheek upon +your shoulder, and to wet your handkerchief +with my tears.</p> + +<p>My own safety, but for your sake, is the +last of my considerations. Our passage was +rather boisterous, but not dangerous. Mrs. +F. (whom I mentioned to you, I believe, in +the letter that I wrote just before we embarked) +has enabled me to make you laugh +with an account of her behaviour, were either +of us in a humour to laugh.</p> + +<p>Why did you cheat me so about that box?</p> + +<p>Had I known I should find, upon opening +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>it, that the things were for me, I would never +have brought it. But that <i>you</i> knew. Was it +kind, my Martha, to give me so many <i>daily</i> +memorandums of you, when I was to be at +such a distance from you? Oh, yes, it was, +it was, <i>most</i> kind. And that, and you, and +all your thousand and ten thousand kindnesses +I never will forget. The purse shall +be my constant companion, the shirts I will +wear by night, one of the handkerchiefs I +was obliged to use in drying my eyes as soon +as I opened the box, the——</p> + +<p>God, God bless you in this world—that is, +give you your H., and grant you an easy +passage to eternal blessings in a better.</p> + +<p>If you go before me, may the stroke be so +instantaneous that you may not have time to +cast one longing, lingering look on H.!</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>April 8, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Yours, dated April the first, would have +diverted me had I been some leagues nearer +to you. It contained true wit and humour. +I truly thank you for it, because I know with +how much difficulty you study for any thing +like wit or humour in the present situation of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>your mind. But you do it to divert me; and +it is done for one, who, though he cannot +laugh at it, as he ought, will remember it, +as he ought. Yet, with what a melancholy +tenderness it concluded! <i>There</i> spoke your +heart.</p> + +<p>Your situation, when you wrote it, was +something like that of an actress, who should +be obliged to play a part in a comedy, on +the evening of a day, which, by some real +catastrophe, had marked her out for the +capital figure of a <i>real</i> tragedy.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I have said something like this +in the long letter that I have written since. +Never mind.</p> + +<p>Pray be careful how you seal your letters. +The wax always robs me of five or six words. +Leave a space for your seal. Suppose that +should be the part of your letter which tells +me you still love me. If the wax cover it, I +see it not—I find no such expression in your +letter—I grow distracted—and immediately +set out for Charing Cross, to ask you whether +you do indeed still love me.</p> + +<p>In the hospitality of this country I was not +deceived. They have a curse in their language, +strongly descriptive of it—“May the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>grass grow at your door!” The women, if I +knew not <i>you</i>, I should find sensible and +pretty. But I am deaf, dumb, blind, to everything, +and to every person but <i>you</i>. If I +write any more this morning, I shall certainly +sin against your commands.</p> + +<p>Why do you say nothing of your dear +children? I insist upon it that you buy my +friend a taw, and two dozen of marbles; +and place them to the account of</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 5em;"> + Your humble servant. +</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>May 3, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>My last, I hope, did not offend you. The +bank note I was obliged to return; although +I thank you for it, more than words can tell.</p> + +<p>Shall I, whom you will not marry, because +you will not load me with your debts, increase +those debts; at least prevent you from +diminishing them, by robbing you of fifty +pounds? Were I capable of it, I should be +unworthy of your love. But be not offended +that I returned it. Heaven knows how +willingly a quire of such things should have +accompanied it, had heaven made me so rich.</p> + +<p>Be not anxious about me. Talk not of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>postage which your dear letters cost me. Will +you refuse to make your H. happy? And think +you that I can pay too dear for happiness?</p> + +<p>But, Lord! you rave. I am rich—as rich +as a Jew; and without taking into the calculation +the treasure I possess in your love. +Why, you talk of what I allow <i>that relation</i>, +poor soul! That does not swallow up all +my lands and hereditaments at Gosport. +Then there’s my pay, and twenty other +ways and means besides, I dare say, +could I but recollect them. Go to—I tell +you I <i>am</i> rich. So, let me know you got the +silver paper safe, and that I am a good boy.</p> + +<p>Rich! To be sure I am; why, I can afford +to go to plays. I saw Catley last night, in +your favourite character. By the way, I will +tell you a story of her, when she was on your +side the water.</p> + +<p>Names do not immortalise praiseworthy +anecdotes; <i>they</i> immortalise names. Some +difference had arisen between Miss Catley +and the managers, concerning the terms upon +which she was to be engaged for the season. +One of the managers called upon her, at her +little lodgings in Drury Lane, to settle them. +The maid was going to show the gentleman +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>upstairs, and to call her mistress. “No, no,” +cries the actress, who was in the kitchen, and +heard the manager’s voice, “there is no +occasion to show the gentleman into a room. +I am busy below [to the manager] making +apple-dumplings for my brats. You know +whether you have a mind to give me the +money I ask, or not. I am none of your +fine ladies, who get a cold or the tooth-ache, +and cannot sing. If you have a mind to +give me the money, say so; my mouth shall +not open for a farthing less. So good morning +to you, and do not keep the girl +there in the passage; for I want her to put +the dumplings in the pot, while I nurse the +child.” The turnips of Fabricius, and Andrew +Marvel’s cold leg of mutton are worthy to be +served up on the same day with Nan Catley’s +apple-dumplings.</p> + +<p>Come; I am not unhappy, or I could not +talk of other people and write thus gaily. +Nothing can make me truly unhappy but a +change in your sentiments of me. By the +Almighty God of heaven, I know my own +feeling so thoroughly, that I do not think I +could survive such a thing.</p> + +<p>As you love me, scold me not about the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>poplin which you will receive next week. It +cost me nothing; I may surely give what was +given to me!</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>May 29, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Do you think that to make such proposals, +as your last contained, is the way to reconcile +me to this worse than banishment? You +refused to come into my scheme of marriage. +Nothing shall tempt me to come into <i>your</i> +scheme. Persist in your idea of going on +the stage, and, as I live, I will come over +and make a party to damn you the first night +of your appearance. Since you will not +share my fortunes, I will not share your +earnings.</p> + +<p>The story which you mention at Flamborough, +of Boardingham, who was murdered +by his wife and her lover, is most shocking. +The reflections you draw from it are most +just, and what you say of our situation most +true. The woman must have been beyond +a savage. Yet their feelings, when she and +Aikney were at the gallows together (supposing +anything like love remained), must +have been exquisite. I protest I would willingly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>embrace with M. the cruellest death +which torture could invent (provided she +were on a bed of roses) than lead the happiest +life without her. What visions have I conjured +up! My pen drops from my hand. +Well, I must not think.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>June 18, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>My Laura is not angry with me, I hope, +for the three or four <i>tender</i> letters I have +written to her since the beginning of this +month. And yet, yours of yesterday seems +to say you are. If I bear my situation like a +man, will you not allow me to feel it like a +man?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Misfortune, like a creditor severe,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But rises in demand for her delay.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She makes a scourge of past prosperity,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To sting me more and double my distress.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>But you say I must not write thus. If I +can help it, I will not.</p> + +<p>Shall I write about the weather or politics? +The sun shines to-day, yesterday it rained. +If you wish to appear learned, tell the next +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>company you go into that the distresses of +this country will soon oblige England to grant +her a free trade or something very much like +it; and add, that her grievances are more +real now than when in 1601 she complained +to Elizabeth of the introduction of trials by +jury. Another slice of politics. Assert boldly +that “Junius” was written by Grenville’s +secretary. This is a <i>fact</i>, notwithstanding +what Wilkes relates of Lord Germaine’s +bishop.</p> + +<p>Is this the style of letter-writing you allow +me? Try again, then.</p> + +<p>The favours I have received from the +worthy man I mentioned in a letter or two +ago are by his goodness every day increased. +Some superior souls have affected to hate +mankind. Here is one who, with an understanding +and an experience inferior to none, +never loses an opportunity of befriending a +fellow-creature. I am afraid sometimes that +misfortune will one day or other play him +some confounded dog’s trick, because he takes +such pleasure in thwarting every scheme that +she lays for any one’s ruin.</p> + +<p>Yet even this amiable character is not +without his defects. The following lines I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>sent him this morning after playing at vingtun +in company with him last night:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To Hackman, says a certain friend</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(Both idle, rhyming bards),</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“——, with good manners and best sense,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Can’t bear to lose at cards.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">With such a head”—“And such a heart,”</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Adds Hackman, “’tis high treason.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I, who knew that heart so well,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Have found, I think, the reason.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Friend to the poor, his purse their box,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He always would be winner;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For then they win. But, should he lose,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The poor, too, lose a dinner.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>This country’s facetious Dean said, that +his friend Arbuthnot could do everything but +walk. My friend can do everything but lose +at cards.</p> + +<p>Feeling, and all the commanding powers of +the mind, were never perhaps before so mixed +together. A tale of sorrow will make his +little eyes wink, wink, wink, like a green girl’s. +Before the company came last night, I showed +him “Auld Robin Gray,” and, though he had +seen it before, he could not get over “My +mother could na speak,” without winking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>For the credit of your side of the water, he +is an Englishman. His agreeable wife, by +her beauty and accomplishments, does credit +to this country. She is remarkable also for +her feeling, though in a different way. You +shall relate an anecdote of distress, or read +a story of ill-usage, and while his eyes are +winking for the object of ill-usage or the +distress, hers shall be striking fire with rage +against the author of it. “Good God!” she +exclaims, “if that villain was but in my +power!” And I sometimes think she is +going to ring for her hat and cloak, that she +may sally forth, and pull his house about his +ears. Bound up together (as they are, and +as I hope they will long continue) they form +a complete system of humanity.</p> + +<p>It would have gratified me much to have +been with you when Garrick took his farewell +of the stage. Do you remember the +last paper in the <i>Idler</i> upon its being the +<i>last?</i> The reflection that it was the <i>last</i> +time Garrick would ever play, was, in itself, +painful. How, my Laura, my Martha, my +life, shall I bear it, if I ever should be +doomed to take my last leave, my last look +of you!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">England</span>, <i>June 25, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Let me give you joy of having found such +kind and agreeable friends in a strange land. +The account you sent of the gentleman and +lady, especially of the latter, quite charmed +me. Neither am I without my friends. A +lady, from whom I have received particular +favours, is uncommonly kind to me. <i>For the +credit of your side of the water, she is an +Irishwoman. Her agreeable husband, by his +beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this +country. He is remarkable also for his feelings.</i></p> + +<p>Adieu! This will affect you, I dare say, in +the same manner your account affected me.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>July 1, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>Your little billet, of the 25th of last month, +was a proper reproof for the contents of one +of mine. Until I saw the joke I was truly +unhappy. If you had not written the long +and kind letter the next day, which came in +the same packet, I should have been miserable. +Yet, I wish you happy, <i>most</i> happy; +but I cannot bear the thoughts of your +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>receiving happiness from any hands (man, +woman, or child) but mine. Had my affections +not been fixed, as they are unalterably +elsewhere, the wife of my <i>friend</i>, with all her +charms, would never fix them. I have but +two masters, Love and Honour. If I did +not consider you as my wife, I would add, +you know I have but <i>one</i> mistress.</p> + +<p>A friend of mine is going to England +(happy fellow I shall think him, to be in the +same country with you). He will call at the +Cannon Coffee House for me. Do send me, +thither, the French book you mention, +<i>Werther</i>. If you do not, I positively never +will forgive you. Nonsense, to say it will +make me unhappy, or that I shall not be able +to read it! Must I pistol myself, because a +thick-blooded German has been fool enough +to set the example, or because a German +novelist has feigned such a story? If <i>you</i> +do not lend it me, I will most assuredly +procure it some time or another; so, you +may as well have the merit of obliging me. +My friend will send a small parcel for you +to D. Street. The books I send you, because +I know you have not got them, and +because they are so much cheaper here. If +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>you are afraid of emptying my purse (which, +by the way<a id="tn-031"></a>, is almost worn out), you shall be +my debtor for them. So send me a note of +hand, <i>value received</i>. The other things are +surely not worth mentioning.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">England</span>, <i>August 20, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>For God’s sake! where are you? What is +the matter? Why don’t you write? Are +you ill? God forbid! Am I not with you +to nurse you? If you are, why don’t you +let somebody else write to me? Better that +all should be discovered, than suffer what I +suffer. It is more than a month since I +heard from you. A month used to bring me +eight or ten letters. When I grew uneasy, +it was in vain, as I said in my last, that I +endeavoured to find your friend who brought +the parcel (for I would certainly have seen +him, and asked him about you). What is +become of all my letters for this last month? +Did you get what I returned by your friend? +Do you like the purse? The book you +mentioned is just the only book you should +never read. On my knees I beg that you +will never, never read it! Perhaps you <i>have</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>read it. Perhaps!—I am distracted. Heaven +only knows to whom I may be writing this +letter!</p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 2.0em;">Madam, or Sir,</span> +</p> + +<p>If you are a woman, I <i>think</i> you will, if +you are a man, and ever loved, I am <i>sure</i> +you will, oblige me with one line to say +what is become of Mr. Hackman, of +the 68th Regiment. Direct to Mrs. ——, D. +Street, London. Any person whose hands +my letter may fall into, will not think this +much trouble; and, if they send me good +news, heaven knows how a woman, who +loves, if possible, too well, will thank them.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>Sept. 10, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>As I am no sportsman, there is no merit, +you may think, in devoting a morning to this +employment. Nor do I claim any merit. +It is only making myself happy.</p> + +<p>Now, I hope, you are quite at ease about +me. My health, upon my honour, upon our +love, is almost re-established. Were I not +determined to keep on <i>this</i> side the truth, I +would say <i>quite</i>. The four letters I have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>written to you, since I received your frantic +sheet of paper, have explained and made up +everything. How can I sufficiently thank +you for all your letters? Especially for that +of this week? Never did you pen a better. +Did I know anybody employed in a work, +where that letter could properly appear, he +should insert it in your own words.</p> + +<p>Excuse me, I am unwillingly called away.</p> + +<p>What I said this morning about your +letter, brings to my recollection something +of that sort. Shall I tell it you? I will.</p> + +<p>James Hirst, in the year 1711, lived servant +with the Honourable Edward Wortley. It +happened, one day, in re-delivering a parcel +of letters to his master, by mistake he gave +him one which he had written to his sweetheart, +and kept back one of Mr. Wortley’s. +He soon discovered the mistake, and hurried +back to his master; but unfortunately for +poor James, it happened to be the first that +presented itself to Mr. Wortley, and, before +James returned, he had given way to a curiosity +which led him to open it, and read the +love-told story of an enamoured footman. +It was in vain that James begged to have it +returned. “No,” says Mr. Wortley, “James, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>you shall be a great man, this letter shall +appear in the <i>Spectator</i>.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Wortley communicated the letter to +his friend, Sir Richard Steel. It was accordingly +published in his own words, and is +that letter, No. 71, volume the first of the +<i>Spectator</i>, beginning “Dear Betty.”</p> + +<p>James found means to remove that unkindness +of which he complains in his letter; +but, alas! before their wishes were completed, +a speedy end was put to a passion, which +would not discredit much superior rank, by +the unexpected death of Betty. James, out +of the great regard and love of Betty, after +her death, married the sister. He dies, not +many years since, in the neighbourhood of +Wortley, near Leeds, Yorkshire.</p> + +<p>To marry you is the utmost of my wishes; +but, remember, I do not engage to marry +your sister, in case of your death.... +Death! How can I think of such a thing, +though it be but in joke.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>September 15, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>The commands of your last letter, for the +reasons you give, I have immediately obeyed. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>My enquiries about the young Englishman +you mention amount to this. He is liked +tolerably well here. He would be liked +more, if he took more pains to be liked. His +contempt for some people in the world, whom +others despise perhaps as well as himself, is +sometimes too conspicuous. Accident has +given me an opportunity to see and know a +great deal of him; and with certainty. His +heart is certainly not bad. His abilities are +as certainly not equal to what he once confesses +to have thought them; perhaps they +are superior to the opinion he now entertains +of them. He has ambition and emulation +enough to have almost supplied any want of +genius, and to have made him almost anything, +had he fallen into proper hands. But +his schoolmasters knew nothing of his +human heart, nor over much of the head. +Though indolent to a degree, a keen eye +might have discovered, may still discover, +industry at the bottom; a good cultivator +might have turned it, may still turn it, to +good account. His friendships are warm, +sincere, decided—his enmities the same. +He complains now and then, that some of +his friends will pretend to know him better +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>than they know themselves, and better than +they know anything else. “They would +play upon him; they would seem to know +his stops; they pretend to be able to sound +him from his lowest note to the top of his +compass; and there is much music, excellent +voice, in a little pipe, yet cannot they make +it speak. Do they think,” he demands, +“that he is easier to be played upon than a +pipe?” Why, really, I do not think this is +the case at present, whatever it may have +been. Secrecy is not brought <i>into</i> the world, +it is acquired <i>in</i> the world. An honest heart +can only acquire it by experience. The +character which he had certainly gotten +among some of his intimates has been of +service both to them and to himself. They +made a point of secrecy, after they chose to +discover a want of it in him; and now he +has made a point of it himself. My dearest +secret (<i>you</i> know what that is) should now +sooner be trusted to him than to any of his +former accusers. The loudest of them, to +my knowledge, was little calculated to judge; +for though he might not absolutely think +him a coward, he certainly did not suspect +his friend of courage, till sufficient proof of it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>was given under his own eye. Now, in my +opinion, true courage and resolution are this +gentleman’s marking characteristics. This is +no great compliment; for, without them, I +would not give a farthing for any man.</p> + +<p>Such, in my judgment, is the young gentleman +about whom you wished me to inquire, +and with whom I have happened to live a +good deal. His principal merit is that my +amiable friend (the mention of whose wife +just jogged your jealousy) sincerely loves +him. That worthy man seldom threw away +his attachment where it is not deserved. Nor +do I know anything in the gentleman whose +character I have been sketching which gives +me more pleasure, or which it would give +him more pleasure to have noticed, than the +love and respect which I am sure he feels for +my friend; unless perhaps, his affectionate +sense of the obligations which I believe I +have told you he lies under to a Mr. B——.</p> + +<p>So much for business. Now for an article +of news. The latter end of last month a +lady and her servant, as they were riding in +Phœnix Park, were stopped by a man on foot, +very genteelly dressed in white clothes and a +gold-laced hat. He demanded the lady’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>money, which she gave him, amounting to +twenty-six guineas. The person put the cash +into one of his pockets, and took from the +other a small diamond hoop-ring, which he +presented to the lady, desiring her to wear it +for the sake of an extraordinary robber who +made it a point of honour to take no more +from a beautiful lady than he could make a +return for in value. He then, with great +agility, vaulted over the wall and disappeared.</p> + +<p>This you may perhaps call an Irish way +of robbing. There certainly was something +original in it. The gentleman seems clearly +to imagine that an exchange is no robbery.</p> + +<p>As to your threat, I will answer it in the +same style. “I <i>will</i> love you—and, if——!” +But neither my answer, nor your threat is original. +Reading this morning a history of this +country, I found the following anecdote: In +1487, a dreadful war was carried on in Ulster, +between the chieftain O’Neal, and the neighbouring +chieftain of Tirconnel. This war +had nothing more considerable for its immediate +cause than the pride of O’Neal, who +demanded that his enemy should recognise +his authority by paying tribute. The laconic +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>style, in which the demand was made and rejected, +would not have disgraced a nobler +contest. “Send me tribute—or <i>else!</i>——” +was the message of O’Neal. To which was returned, +with the same princely brevity, “I owe +you none—and <i>if——!</i>” But I talk nonsense, +this does not prove <i>your threat</i> to have been +borrowed; for I dare say, you never heard +of O’Neal till this moment. It only proves +that two people may express themselves alike.</p> + +<p>Should any man who loved like me (if any +man ever did love like me) have spoke of his +love in terms like those I used to speak of +mine, follows it therefore that I have borrowed +either his passion or his language? +Were it possible for you to think so, I never +would forgive you. Pray copy the music you +mention in your next.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>September 18, 1776</i>. +</p> + +<p>How happens it that I have not sooner +noticed what you say, in a letter the beginning +of last month, about the new punishment +of working upon the Thames? Politicians +may write more learnedly upon the matter, +but I will defy Beccaria to write more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>feelingly or humanely. There certainly is +much truth in what you say. Experience, +however, will be the best test. Perhaps my +true reason for noticing your sensible letter +thus late, was to introduce a scene which +passed in the quicksilver mines of Idra, a +still more unpleasant abode than Mr. Campbell’s +academy. This used to be Colonel +G.’s method, you remember, of introducing +his home-made jokes. Not that my story is +home-made. I take it from some Italian +letters which a brother officer lent me, written +by Mr. Everard, and I give it you almost in +his own words, except in one or two passages, +where I think he has lost an opportunity +of surprising the reader.</p> + +<p>“The pleasure I always take in writing to +you, wherever I am, and whatever I am doing, +in some measure dispels my present uneasiness, +and uneasiness caused at once by the +disagreeable aspect of everything around me, +and the more disagreeable scene to which I +have been witness.</p> + +<p>“Something, too, I have to tell you of +Count Alberti. You remember him one of +the gayest, most agreeable persons at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>Court of Vienna, at once the example of the +men and the favourite of the fair sex. I often +heard you repeat his name with esteem as +one of the few that did honour to the present +age; as possessed of generosity and pity in +the highest degree; as one who made no other +use of fortune but to alleviate the distress of +mankind. But first of all, the scene I mentioned.</p> + +<p>“After passing several parts of the Alps, +and having visited Germany, I thought I +could not well return home without visiting +the quicksilver mines at Idra, and seeing +those dreadful subterranean caverns where +thousands are condemned to reside, shut out +from all hopes of ever again beholding the +cheerful light of the sun, and obliged to toil +out a miserable life under the whips of imperious +taskmasters. Imagine to yourself a +hole in the side of a mountain of about five +yards over. Down this you are let in a kind +of a bucket more than an hundred fathom, the +prospect growing still more gloomy, yet still +widening, as you descend. At length, after<a id="tn-002"></a> +swinging in terrible suspense for some time +in this precarious situation you at length +reach the bottom and tread on the ground, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>which, by its hollow sound under your feet +and the reverberations of the echo, seems +thundering at every step you take. In this +gloomy and frightful solitude you are enlightened +by the feeble gleam of lamps here and +there disposed, so that the wretched inhabitants +of these mansions cannot go from one +part to another without a guide. And yet, +let me assure you, that though they by custom +could see objects very distinctly by these +lights, I could scarce discern for some +time anything, not even the person who +came with me to show me these scenes of +horror.</p> + +<p>“From this description, I suppose, you +have but a disagreeable idea of the place; +yet let me assure you that it is a palace if we +compare the habitation with the inhabitants. +Such wretches mine eyes never yet beheld. +The blackness of their visages only serves to +cover an horrid paleness caused by the noxious +qualities of the mineral which they are +employed to procure. As they in general +consist of malefactors condemned for life to +this task, they are fed at the public expense, +but they seldom consume much provision. +They lose their appetites in a short time, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>and commonly, in about two years, expire +from a total contraction of the joints of the +body.</p> + +<p>“In this horrid mansion I walked after my +guide for some time, pondering on the +strange tyranny and avarice of mankind, +when I was accosted by a voice behind me, +calling me by name, and enquiring after my +health with the most cordial affection. I +turned and saw a creature all black and +hideous, who approached me with a most +piteous accent, demanding, ‘Ah! Mr. +Everard, do not you know me?’ Good +God! what was my surprise, when, through +the veil of his wretchedness, I discovered +the features of my old and dear friend, +Count Alberti! I flew to him with affection, +and, after a tear of condolence, asked how +he came there? To this he replied that, +having fought a duel with a General of the +Austrian infantry against the Emperor’s command, +and having left him for dead, he was +obliged to fly into one of the forests of +Istria, where he was first taken, and afterwards +sheltered by some banditti, who had +long infested that quarter. With these he had +lived nine months, till, by a close investiture +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>of the place in which they were concealed, +and after a very obstinate resistance, in which +the greatest part of them fell, he was secured +and carried to Vienna, in order to be broken +alive on the wheel. When he arrived at the +capital, he was quickly known, and several of +the associates of his accusation and danger +witnessing his innocence, his punishment of +the rack was changed into that of perpetual +confinement and labour in the mines of Idra. +A sentence, in my opinion, a thousand times +worse than death.</p> + +<p>“As Alberti was giving me this account, a +young woman came up to him, who, at once +I saw, had been born for better fortune. The +dreadful situation of the place was not able +to destroy her beauty, and even in this scene +of wretchedness she seemed to have charms +to grace the most brilliant assembly.</p> + +<p>“This lady was daughter to one of the +first families in Germany, and, having tried +every means to procure her lover’s pardon +without effect, was at last resolved to share +his miseries, as she could not relieve them. +With him she accordingly descended into +these mansions, from which few ever return; +and with him she is contented to live, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>forgetting the gaieties of life; with him to +toil, despising the splendours of opulence, +and contented with the consciousness of her +own constancy.</p> + +<p class="center"> +“I am, dear Sir, +</p> + +<p class="right"> + “Yours, &c.” +</p> + +<p>Now can I tell all the feelings of your dear +heart. Now see I your fancy busy with her +magic pencil; and affecting is the picture it +has begun. Begun; for your weeping eyes +will not suffer you to finish it. Can not you, +through all your tears, distinguish Alberti +and his wife dying in each other’s arms after +about half a year? What a scene!</p> + +<p>Is there any sum of money you would not +give to have this tragedy end happily? That, +of course, is impossible. But Everard speaks +of the poor souls in his next letter, which I +may perhaps send you in <i>my next</i>.</p> + +<p>Come, Martha, be a good girl, and you +shall have it now, though it will not give you +<i>much</i> consolation.</p> + +<p>“My last to you was expressive, and perhaps +too much so, of the gloomy situation of +my mind. I own the deplorable condition +of the worthy man described in it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>enough to add double severity to the hideous +mansions. At present, however, I have the +happiness to inform you, that I was spectator +of the most affecting scene I ever yet beheld. +Nine days after I had written my last a +person came post from Vienna to the little +village near the mouth of the greater shaft. +He was also followed by a second, and he +by a third. The first enquiry was after the +unfortunate Count; and I, happening to +overhear the demand, gave them the best +information. Two of these were the brother +and cousin of the lady, the third was an +intimate friend and fellow-soldier of the +Count. They came with his pardon, which +had been procured by the General with whom +the duel had been fought, who was perfectly +recovered from his wounds. I led them with +all the expedition of joy down to his dreary +abode, and presented to him his friends, and +informed him of the happy change in his +circumstances. It would be impossible to +describe the joy that brightened up his grief-worn +countenance; nor was the young lady’s +emotion less vivid at seeing her friends, and +hearing of her husband’s freedom: some hours +were employed in mending the appearance of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>this faithful couple, nor could I without a tear +behold him taking leave of the former wretched +companions of his toil. To one he left his +mattock; to another his working clothes; to +a third his little household utensils, such as +were necessary for him in that situation. We +soon emerged from the mine, and he once +again revisited the sight of the sun, which he +had totally despaired of ever seeing. A post-chaise +was ready the next morning to take them +to Vienna, whither, I am since informed by a +letter from himself, they are returned. The +Empress has taken them into favour; his fortune +and rank are restored; and he and his fair +partner now have the pleasing satisfaction of +feeling happiness with double relish, because +they once knew<a id="tn-003"></a> what it was to be miserable.”</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">Says not our friend Sterne, that the circumstance +of his being at Rennes at the +very time the Marquis reclaimed his forfeited +nobility and his sword, was an incident of +good fortune which will never happen to any +traveller but a sentimental one? I believe +it; and may every other incident of good +fortune befall all such travellers.</p> + +<p>Did I not say this second part of the story +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>would not afford you <i>much</i> consolation? +Excuse me for such a falsity. That was only +to surprise you. Well I knew what would +be my Martha’s feelings.</p> + +<p>Are you as deep in astrology as when you +wrote last to me? On the page I have to +spare I will send you some<a id="tn-033"></a> hasty lines +which I scribbled the other day to ridicule +the weakness of a Dr. W., who is as great +a—fool at least as Dryden, and never fails +to cast the nativity of his children:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Kind heaven has heard the parent’s prayer,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Each gossip hails the son and heir.</div> + <div class="verse indent4">“Pray let the Doctor see,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“My master, ma’am? Your labour past;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He’s got among the stars, to cast</div> + <div class="verse indent4">His son’s nativity.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Three hours elaps’d, our sage descends,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With “Well, and how’s the child, my friend?”</div> + <div class="verse indent4">“He’s happy, sir, ere this.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Happy! why yonder stars ne’er shed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Benigner influence on the head</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Of happier, I guess.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Worth, virtue, wisdom, honour, wealth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Man’s best and only riches, health,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Assuredly await</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Heav’n’s favour’d child—or never more</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Say I have knowledge to explore</div> + <div class="verse indent4">The secret page of fate.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“’Twas there I read my happy boy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Full seventy summers should enjoy,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">“Ere”—when nurse sobb’d and said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Good lack! the babe to whom kind heaven</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So many bounteous gifts hath given,</div> + <div class="verse indent4"><i>These two hours hath been—Dead</i>.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>January 26, 1777</i>. +</p> + +<p>One of Lord Harcourt’s suite will carry +this to England. His lordship was relieved +from guard yesterday by the arrival of a new +Lord Lieutenant. As politics have not much +to do with love, I shall not trouble you with +a history of the late reign, or with a prophecy +of what will be the present. Only let our great +actors take care they do not play the farce of +America in Ireland. My spirits, I thank you, +are now tolerable well. But you know I am, +at least I know I have been ever since you +have known me, a strange comical fellow. +Neither one thing nor t’other. Sometimes in +the garret, but, much oftener, down in the +cellar. If Salvator Rosa, or Rousseau, wanted +to draw a particular character, I am their +man. But you and I shall yet be happy +together, I know; and then my spirits and +passions will return into their usual channels. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>Why do you complain of the language of my +letters? Suppose they were not tender. What +would you say, what would you think, then? +Must not love speak the language of love? +Nay, do not we see every day that love and +religion have mutual obligations, and continually +borrow phrases from each other? +Put Jamie or Jenny, instead of Christ, and +see what you will make of Mr. Rowe’s most +solemn poems, or of Dr. Watts’ hymns. Let +me transcribe you a letter written by another +person to a lady.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">“Sir Benjamin telling me you were not +come to town at three o’clock makes me in +pain to know how your son does, and I +can’t help inquiring after him and dear Mrs. +Freeman. The Bishop of Worcester was with +me this morning before I was dressed. I +gave him my letter to the Queen, and he has +promised to second it, and seemed to undertake +it very willingly: though, by all the +discourse I had with him (of which I will +give you a particular account when I see you) +I find him very partial to her. The last time +he was here, I told him you had several times +desired you might go from me, and I have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>repeated the same thing again to him. For +you may easily imagine I would not neglect +doing you right on all occasions. But I beg +it again, for Christ Jesus’s sake, that you +would never name it any more to me; for, +be assured, if you should ever do so cruel a +thing as to leave me, from that moment I +shall never enjoy one quiet hour. And, +should you do it without asking my consent +(which if I ever give you, may I never see +the face of heaven) I will shut myself up, +and never see the world more, but live where +I may be forgotten by human kind.”</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">What think you of this letter? If it should +have been written by a woman to a woman, +surely you will allow H. to write a little +tenderly to his own Martha! This was really +the case. It is transcribed from “An Account +of the Conduct of the Dowager Duchess of +Marlborough,” printed for W. Smith, Dame +Street, Dublin, 1742, which I bought at +Wilson’s in Dane Street yesterday. This +pamphlet contains others as loving. This I +find, page 40. It was written to Lady Marlborough +by her mistress (one would have +thought the word <i>mistress</i> in one sense did +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>belong to one of the parties) when she +was only Princess of Denmark. It refers to +the quarrel between the Princess and her +royal sister and brother-in-law, because she +would not part with her favourite, upon Lord +Marlborough’s having displeased the king. +These two female lovers always corresponded, +under the names of Mrs. Freeman and Mrs. +Morley, at the particular desire of the +Princess, who fixed upon the names. And +this, after she was Queen Anne. Be assured, +my Martha, that, although I write to you with +almost the same madness of affection, I will +never imitate her example, for all its royalty, +and exchange you for a mushroom of your +own raising.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>From this date Hackman’s letters have +a morbid vein running through them. He +mentions that he has received several letters +from Miss Reay, but none of them, however, +seem to have been preserved.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MISS REAY</i>,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>Feb. 6, 1777</i>. +</p> + +<p><i>My</i> last was merry, you know. I cannot +say as much for <i>your</i> last. To-day you must +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>suffer me to indulge my present turn of mind +in transcribing something which was left +behind her by a Mrs. Dixon, who poisoned +herself not long since at Inniskillen. It was +communicated to me by a gentleman, after +a dinner yesterday, who is come hither about +business, and lives in the neighbourhood of +Inniskillen.</p> + +<p>The unhappy woman was not above nineteen +years of age. She had been married +about two years, and lived with her husband +all that time with seeming ease and cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>She was remarkably cheerful all the fatal +day, had company to dine with her, made +tea for them, in the evening set them down +to cards, retired to her chamber, and drank +her cup of arsenic.</p> + +<p>She left a writing on her table, in which is +obscurely hinted the sad circumstance which +urged her impatience to this desperate act.</p> + +<p>Enclosed is an exact copy even to the +spelling.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 2em;">“This is to let all the world know, that +hears of me, that it is no crime I ever committed +occasions this my untimely end; but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>despair of ever being happy in this world, as +I have sufficient reasons to think so. I own +it is a sinful remedy, and very uncertain to +seek happiness, but I hope that God will +forgive my poor soul; Lord have mercy on +it! But all I beg is to let none reproach my +friends with it, or suspect my virtue or my +honour in the least, though I am to be no +more.</p> + +<p>“Comfort my poor unhappy mother, and +brothers and sisters, and let all mothers take +care, and never force a child as mine did me; +but I forgive her, and hopes God will forgive +me, as I believe she meant my good by my +marriage.</p> + +<p>“Oh! that unfortunate day I gave my hand +to one, whilst my heart was another’s, but +hoping that time and prudence would at +length return my former peace and tranquillity +of mind, which I wanted for a long time; +but oh, it grieves me to think of the length +of eternity; and the Lord save me from +eternal damnation! Let no one blame +Martin Dixon (her husband), for he is in no +fault of it.</p> + +<p>“I have a few articles which I have a greater +regard for than anything else that’s mine, on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>account of him that gave them to me (but +<i>he</i> is not to be mentioned), and I have some +well-wishers that I think proper to give +them to.</p> + +<p>“First, to Betty Balfour, my silver buckles; +to Polly Deeryn, my diamond ring; to Betty +Mulligan, my laced suit, cap, handkerchief, +and ruffles; to Peggy Delap, a new muslin +handkerchief not yet hemmed, which is in +my drawer, and hope for my sake those +persons will accept of these trifles as a testimony +of my regard for them.</p> + +<p>“I would advise Jack Watson [her brother] +to behave himself in an honest and obedient +manner in respect to his mother and family, +as he is all she has to depend upon now.</p> + +<p>“I now go in God’s name, though against +His commands, without wrath or spleen to +any one upon earth. The very person I die +for, I love him more than ever, and forgive +him. I pray God grant him more content +and happiness than he ever had, and hope +he will forgive me, only to remember such a +one died for him.</p> + +<p>“There was, not long ago, some persons +pleased to talk something against my reputation, +as to a man in this town; but now, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>when I ought to tell the truth, I may be +believed. If ever I knew him, or any other +but my husband, may I never enter into +glory; and them I forgive who said so; but +let that man’s wife take care of them that told +her so; for they meant her no good by it.</p> + +<p>“With love to one, friendship to few, and +goodwill to all the world, I die, saying, Lord +have mercy on my soul; with <i>an advice to all +people never to suffer a passion of any sort to +command them as mine did in spite of me</i>. I +pray God to bless all my friends and acquaintance, +and begs them all to comfort my +mother, who is unhappy in having such a +child as I, who is ashamed to subscribe +myself an unworthy and disgraceful member +of the Church of Scotland.</p> + +<p class="center"> + “<span class="smcap">Jane Watson</span>, otherwise <span class="smcap">Dixon</span>.” +</p> + +<p>My pen shall not interrupt your meditations +hereon by making a single reflection. +We both of us have made, I dare say, too +many on it. She, too, was <i>Jenny</i> and had her +<i>Robin Gray</i>.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ireland</span>, <i>April<a id="tn-004"></a> 20, 1777</i>. +</p> + +<p>Now you see there is something in dreams. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>But why is not your alarming letter more +particular about your complaint? Do they +nurse you as tenderly as I would? Are they +careful about your medicines? For God’s +sake tell them all round what happened lately +here to Sir William Yorke, the Chief Justice.</p> + +<p>Sir William was grievously afflicted with +the stone. In his severe fits he used to take +a certain quantity of laudanum drops. On +calling for his usual remedy, during the most +racking pains of his distemper, the drops +could not be found. The servant was despatched +to his apothecary; but, instead of +laudanum drops, he asked for laudanum. A +quantity of laudanum was accordingly sent, +with a special charge not to give Sir William +more than twenty-four drops. But the +fellow, forgetting the caution, gave the bottle +into his master’s hand, who, in his agony, +drank up the whole contents, and expired +in less than an hour.</p> + +<p>Why, my dearest love, did you conceal +your illness from me so long? Now, you +may have revealed the situation of your health +to me too late. God forbid! If I write +more, I shall write like a madman. A +gentleman takes this who sails for England +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>to-day. To-morrow or next day the Colonel +will be here. If Lord Sandwich, as I have +reason to expect, has influenced him to +refuse me leave of absence, I will most +certainly sell out directly, which I have an +opportunity to do. At any rate, I will be +with you in a few days. If I come without +a commission you must not be angry. To +find you both displeased and ill, will be too +much for your poor H. For my sake, be +careful. Dr. —— I insist upon your not +having any longer. His experience and +humanity are upon a par. Positively you +must contrive some method for me to see +you. How can love like mine support existence +if you should be ill, and I should not be +permitted to see you. But I can neither +think nor write any more.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Hackman then sold out and left at once +for England, arriving in London in the beginning +of May 1777.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_III"> + PART III + <br> + <i>IN LONDON</i> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY</i>,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Cannon Coffee House</span>, <i>May 4, 1777</i>. +</p> + +<p>Did you get the incoherent scrawls I wrote +you yesterday and the day before? Yours +I have this instant read and wept over. +Your feeble writing speaks you weaker than +you own. Heavens, am I come hither only +to find I must not see you! Better I had +staid in Ireland. Yet, do I now breathe the +air with you. Nothing but your note last +night could have prevented me, at all hazards, +from forcing my way to your bedside. In +vain did I watch the windows afterwards, to +gather information from the passing lights +whether you were better or worse. For God +of heaven’s sake send me an answer to this!</p> + +<div class="indent1"> +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MR. HACKMAN.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Admiralty</span>, <i>May 4, 1774</i>.—3 o’clock. +</p> + +<p>My dear mistress bids me write this from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>her mouth: “These are the last words I +speak. My last thoughts will be upon you, +my dearest, dear H. In the next world we +shall meet. Live and cherish my memory. +Accept the contents of this little box. Be a +friend to my children. My little girl.”</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To THE SAME.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Admiralty</span>, <i>May 4, 1777</i>.—5 o’clock. +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dear Soul,</p> + +<p class="indent3">At the hazard of my life I write this to +tell you Heaven has spared my life to your +prayers. The unfinished note, which my +hasty maid—I cannot go on.</p> + +<p> + “Sir, +</p> + +<p>My dear Mistress bids me say, Sir, that +her disorder has taken a turn within this +hour, and the physicians have pronounced +her out of all danger. Honoured Sir, I +humbly crave your pardon for sending away +my scribble just now, which I am afraid has +made you uneasy; but indeed, Honoured +Sir, I thought it was all over with my poor +dear mistress; and then, I am sure I should +have broke my heart. For, to be sure, no +servant ever had a better, nor a kinder +mistress. Sir, I presume to see your honour +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>to-morrow. My mistress fainted away as she +began this, but is now better.</p> + +<p> + “<i>Admiralty.—6 o’clock.</i>” +</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Cannon Coffee House</span>, <i>June 27, 1777</i>.<br> + <span style="margin-right: 6.5em;">5 o’clock.</span> +</p> + +<p>As I want both appetite and spirit to touch +my dinner, though it has been standing +before me these ten minutes, I can claim no +merit in writing to you. May you enjoy that +pleasure in your delightful situation on the +banks of the Thames, which no situation, no +thing upon earth, can in your absence afford +me!</p> + +<p>Do you ask me what has lowered my +spirits to-day? I will tell you. Do not be +angry, but I have been to see the last of +poor Dodd.<a id="tn-035"></a> Yes, “poor Dodd!” though +his life was justly forfeited to the laws of his +country. The scene was affecting—it was +the first of the kind I had ever seen, and +shall certainly be the last. Though, had I +been in England when Peter Tolosa was +deservedly executed in February, for killing +Duarzey, a young French woman with whom +he lived, I believe I should have attended +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>the last moments of a man, who could +murder the object of his love. For the +credit of my country, this man (does he +deserve the name of <i>man?</i>) was a Spaniard.</p> + +<p>Do not think I want tenderness because I +was present this morning. Will you allow +yourself to want tenderness, because you +have been present at Lear’s madness, or +Ophelia’s? Certainly not. Believe me (you +<i>will</i> believe me, I am sure) I do not make +a profession of it, like George S. Your H. +is neither <i>artiste</i> nor <i>amateur</i>, nor do I, like +Paoli’s friend and historian, hire a window +by the year, which looks upon the Grassmarket +at Edinburgh.</p> + +<p>Raynal’s book you have read, and admire. +For its humanity it merits admiration. The +Abbé does not countenance an attendant on +scenes at this sort by his writings, but he +does by his conduct. And I would sooner +take Practice’s word than Theory’s. Upon +my honour Raynal and Charles Fox, notwithstanding +the rain, beheld the whole from +the top of an unfinished house, close by the +stand in which I had a place.</p> + +<p>However meanly Dodd behaved formerly, +in throwing the blame of his application to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>the chancellor on his wife, he certainly died +with resolution. More than once to-day +I have heard that resolution ascribed to his +hope that his friend Hawes, the humane +founder of the Humane Society, would be +able to restore him to life. But I give him +more credit. Besides, Voltaire observes that +the courage of a dying man is in proportion +to the number of those who are present, +and St. Everemond (the friend of the French +M.) discovered that <i lang="fr">les Anglais surpassent +toutes les nations à mourir</i>. Let me surpass +all mankind in happiness, by possessing my +<i>Ninon</i> for life, and I care not how I die.</p> + +<p>Some little circumstances struck me this +morning, which, however you may refuse to +forgive me for so spending my morning, I am +sure you would not forgive me were I to omit. +Before the melancholy procession arrived, a +sow was driven into the space left for the +sad ceremony, nor could the idea of the +approaching scene, which had brought the +spectators together, prevent too many from +laughing, and shouting, and enjoying the +poor animal’s distress, as if they had only +come to Tyburn to see a sow baited.</p> + +<p>After the arrival of the procession, the preparation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>of the unhappy victim mixed something +disagreeably ludicrous with the solemnity. +The tenderest could not but feel it, though +they might be sorry that they <i>did</i> feel it. The +poor man’s wig was to be taken off, and the +nightcap brought for the purpose was too +little, and could not be pulled on without +force. <i lang="fr">Valets de chambre</i> are the greatest +enemies to heroes. Every guinea in my +pocket would I have given that he had not +worn a wig, or that (wearing one) the cap +had been bigger.</p> + +<p>At last arrived the moment of death. The +driving away of the cart was accompanied +with a noise which best explained the feelings +of the spectators for the sufferer. Did you +never observe, at the sight or relation of anything +shocking, that you closed your teeth +hard, and drew in your breath hard through +them, so as to make a sort of hissing sound? +This was done so universally at the fatal +moment that I am persuaded the noise +might have been heard at a considerable distance<a id="tn-011"></a>. +For my own part, I detected myself, +in a certain manner, accompanying his body +with the motion of my own.</p> + +<p>Not all the resuscitating powers of Mr. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>Hawes can, I fear, have any effect; it was so +long before the mob would suffer the hearse +to drive away with his body.</p> + +<p>Thus ended the life of Dr. Dodd. How +shocking, that a man, with whom I have +eaten and drunk, should leave the world in +such a manner! A manner which, from +familiarity, has almost ceased to shock us, +except when our attention is called to a +Perreau or a Dodd. How many men, how +many women, how many young, and, as they +fancy, tender females, with all their sensibilities +about them, hear the sounds, by which +at this moment I am disturbed, with as much +indifference as they hear muffins and matches +cried along the street! <i>The last dying speech +and confession, birth, parentage, and education.</i> +Familiarity has even annexed a kind of +humour to the cry. We forget that it always +announces the death (and what a death!) of +one fellow being; sometimes of half-a-dozen, +or even <i>more</i>.</p> + +<p>A lady talks with greater concern of cattle-day +than of hanging-day. And her maid +contemplates the mournful engraving at the +top of a dying speech with more indifference +than she regards the honest tar hugging his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>sweetheart at the top of “Black-eyed Susan.” +All that strikes us is the ridiculous tone in +which the halfpenny balladmonger singer +chants the <i lang="la">requiem</i>. We little recollect that, +while we are smiling at the voice of the +charmer, wives or husbands (charm she never +so wisely), children, parents, or friends, perhaps +all these and more than these, as pure +from crimes as we, and purer still, perhaps, +are weeping<a id="tn-005"></a> over the crime and punishment +of the darling and support of their lives. +Still less do we at this moment (for the +printer always gets the start of the hangman, +and many a man has bought his own dying +speech on his return to Newgate by virtue of +a reprieve)—still less do we ask ourselves, +whether the wretch, who, at the moment we +hear this (which ought to strike us as an) +awful sound, finds the halter of death about +his neck, and now takes the longing farewell, +and now hears the horses whipped and encouraged +to draw from under him for ever +the cart which he now, now, now feels depart +from his lingering feet—whether this wretch +really deserved to die more than we. Alas! +were no spectators to attend executions but +those who deserve to live, Tyburn would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>be honoured with much thinner congregations.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Well, I have made an uncomfortable sort +of a meal on tea, and now I will continue +my conversation with you. <i>Conversation</i>—a +plague on words, they will bring along with +them ideas. This is all the conversation we +must have together for some days. Have I +deserved the misery of being absent from my +M.? To bring proofs of my love would be +to bring proofs of my existence. They must +end together. Oh, Martha, does the chaste +resolution which I have so religiously observed +ever since I offered you marriage deserve no +smiles from fortune? Is then my evil genius +never to relent? Had I not determined to +deserve that success which it is not for mortals +to command, I should never have struggled +with my passions as I did the first time +we met after your recovery. What a struggle! +The time of year, the time of day, the situation, +the danger from which you were hardly +recovered, the number of months since we +had met, the languor of your mind and body, +the bed, the everything. Ye cold-blooded, +white-livered sons and daughters of chastity, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>have ye no praises to bestow on such a forbearance +as that? Yet, when your strength +failed you, and grief and tenderness dissolved +you in my arms; when you reclined your +cheek upon my shoulder, and your warm +tears dropt into my bosom, then who could +refrain? then——</p> + +<p>What then, ye clay-cold hypercritics in +morality?</p> + +<p>Then, even then, “I took but one kiss, +and I tore myself away.”</p> + +<p>Oh that I could take only one look at this +moment!</p> + +<p>Your last says <i>the sun will shine</i>. Alas! I +see no signs of it. Our prospects seem shut +up for ever.</p> + +<p>With regard to the stage, we will talk of it. +My objections are not because I doubt your +success. They are of a different kind—the +objections of love and delicacy. Be not +uneasy about my selling out. The step was +not so imprudent. What think you of orders? +More than once you know you have told me +I have too much religion for a soldier. Will +you condescend to be a poor parson’s wife?</p> + +<p>But I shall write to-morrow at this rate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>July 7, 1777.</i> +</p> + +<p>Since last night I have changed my mind, +totally changed it. I charge you not to see +Mrs. Yates this morning. Write her word +that your mind is changed. Never will I +consent to be supported by your labours. +Never, never shall your face, your person, +your accomplishments be exposed for so +much an hour. By heaven! I will not forgive +you if you do not give up all thoughts +of such a thing.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Miss Reay seems, after all, to have abandoned +her intention of going on the stage, +although she was studying at the time with +Signora Galli, an Italian opera-singer, who +had been appointed companion to Miss Reay +by Lord Sandwich. It is probable that Galli +was also instructed to play the part of spy +over Miss Reay’s actions. The following four +letters from Hackman cover a period of +twelve months, during which time he was +preparing to enter the Church.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Croydon</span>, <i>Sept. 20, 1777</i>. +</p> + +<p>That you have taken to drawing gives me +particular pleasure. Depend upon it, you +will find it suit your genius. But, in truth, +your genius seizes everything. While your +old friend is eating his corn I sit down to tell +you this, which I would not say to your face +lest you should call it flattery, though you +well know flattery is a thing in which <i>we</i> +never deal. My opinion of the great man’s +style of painting who condescends to improve +you in drawing is exactly yours. Posterity +will agree with us. The subjects you recommended +to his pencil are such as I should +have expected from my M.’s fancy. While I +walked my horse hither this morning two or +three subjects of different sorts occurred to +me. All of them would not suit his style. +But I know one or two of them would not +displease you if well executed. Some of +them I will send you.</p> + +<p>Louis XIV. when a boy, viewing the battle +of St. Anthony from the top of Charonne. +In 1650, I think.</p> + +<p>Richard Cromwell, when the Prince de +Conti, Condé’s brother, told him in conversation, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>at Montpelier, without knowing him, +that Oliver was a great man, but that Oliver’s +son was a miscreant for not knowing how to +profit by his father’s crimes.</p> + +<p>Milton, when the idea first struck him of +changing his mystery into an epic poem.</p> + +<p>Demosthenes declaiming in a storm.</p> + +<p>William the Conqueror and his rebellious +son Robert discovering each other in a battle, +after they had encountered hand to hand for +some time.</p> + +<p>Charles XII. tearing the Vizir’s robe with +his spur.</p> + +<p>And again, after lying in bed ten months +at Demotica.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">... Though my mother could na speak,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She look’d in my face till my heart was like to break.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The Abra of Prior’s Solomon.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When she, with modest scorn, the wreath return’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Reclin’d her beauteous neck, and inward mourn’d.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Our Elizabeth, when she gave her Essex a +box on the ear.</p> + +<p>Chatterton’s Sir Charles Bawdin parting +from his wife.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then tir’d out with raving loud,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She fell upon the floor;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sir Charles exerted all his might,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And <i>march’d</i> from out the door.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The Conference of Augustus, Anthony and +Lepidus (you are deep in Goldsmith, I know). +Do you remember the scene? Equally +suspicious of treachery, they agreed to meet +on a little island near Mutina. Lepidus first +past over. Finding every thing safe, he made +the signal. Behold them, yonder, seated on +the ground, on the highest part of a desolate +island, unattended, fearful of one another, +marking out cities and nations, dividing the +whole world between them, and mutually +resigning to destruction, agreeably to lists +which each presented, their dearest friends +and nearest relations. Salvator Rosa would +not make me quarrel with him for doing the +background. Your friend, if any one living, +could execute the figures.</p> + +<p>Let me suggest one more subject. Monmouth’s +decapitation, in the time of James II. +History speaks well of his face and person. +The circumstances of his death are these: +He desired the executioner to dispatch him +with more skill than he had dispatched +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>Russel. This only added to the poor fellow’s +confusion, who struck an ineffectual blow. +Monmouth raised his face from the block, +and with a look (which I cannot describe, +but the painter must give) reproached his +failure. By the turn of the head, the effect +of the blow might be concealed, and left to +fancy; which might collect it from the faces +of the nearest spectators. The remainder of +the scene is too shocking for the eye, almost +for the ear. But, I know not how, whenever +I am away from you, nothing is too shocking +for <i>me</i>. Monmouth again laid down his head. +The executioner struck again <i>and again</i>, to as +little purpose; and, at last, threw down the +axe. The sheriff obliged the man, whose +feelings all must pity and respect, to renew +his attempt. Two strokes more finished the +butchery.</p> + +<p>Were it possible to tear off this last subject +without destroying half my letter, I really +would. It will make you shudder too much. +But, you see, it is not possible; and you +prefer such a letter as this, I know, to none. +The paper only affords me room to say my +horse is ready. Every step he carries me +from you will be a step from happiness. My +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>imagination <i>would</i> busy herself just now +about the manner in which I should behave, +if I were to die as ignominiously as Monmouth. +But, as I feel no inclination for +rebellion, fancy threw away her pains.</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>Feb. 5, 1778.</i> +</p> + +<p>Oh! my dearest Martha, what I have gone +through since I wrote to you last night it is +impossible for me to describe. Thank God, +you were not in town! Suffice it that my +honour and life are both as you wish +them. Now, mine of last night is more intelligible. +How strange, that the kindest +letter that you almost ever wrote me, should +come to me precisely at the time I was +obliged to make up my mind to quit the +world, or, what is more, <i>much more</i>, to quit +you! Yet, so it was.</p> + +<p>The story my letter mentioned, of a friend +who had received such an affront as no human +being could away with, was my own. Your +feelings agreed with me, I am sure. Duelling +is not what I defend. In general, almost +always, it may be avoided. But cases may +be put, in which it can be avoided only by +worse than death, by everlasting disgrace +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>and infamy. Had I fallen, I know where my +last thoughts would have lingered; and you +and your children would have had some tokens +of my regard. Be assured the matter is for +ever at an end, and at an end as properly as +even you can wish. How happy shall we be +in ’79 or ’80 (for before that time we shall +surely be blest with each other!), to have +those friends about us who where privy to +this day, and to talk over the possibility of it!</p> + +<p>H., in all thy future life, sacred be every +fifth of February!</p> + +<p>My mind is too much agitated to write any +more this evening. To-morrow I will be +more particular. My last I am sure could +not alarm you; though, had anything happened, +it would have prepared you. Do not +be alarmed by this. Upon my honour +(with which you know I never preface a +falsity) I am not hurt; nor, as it since turns +out, is the other gentleman, at least, not +materially.</p> + +<p>One trifling circumstance I must mention.<a id="tn-006"></a> +As I was determined either to kill or be +killed (unless sufficient apologies should be +made), <i>the only proper and least pernicious +idea of duelling</i>, I did not see why I should +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>not recruit my strength as much as possible. +So, about three o’clock, I took some cold +saddle of mutton and brandy and water at +my friend’s. After which I went home to +seal up some things for you, where my friend +was to call for me. When I saw him coming +to my door between four and five, I had +just wrung the affectionate hand of the man +I most value, and committed to his care +you and your dear little girl, and my dear +sister, &c. &c. Love, honour, revenge, and +all my various feelings would, in spite of myself, +parch my tongue. As I took my hat +out of my dressing-room, I filled a wineglass +of water, and drank half of it, to moisten +my mouth. When I saw that glass again, +about an hour ago, on returning to that home, +which I never again thought to see, in order +to write to her of whom I thought I had +taken my last leave in this world—when I +took that glass again into my hand, +recollected my feelings on setting it down, +and emptied the remainder of its contents, +a libation of gratitude to the superintending +Providence of Heaven, oh! M., +no pen, not even yours, can paint my +feelings!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> + +<p>Only remember, in all our future life, each +fifth of February be ever sacred!</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>March 2, 1778.</i> +</p> + +<p>Your going out of town so suddenly has +not served to mend my spirits. But I will +be as merry as I can. Were I to be <i>very</i> +miserable after my late miraculous adventure, +I should be guilty of <i>sullenness</i> against Providence. +The minute account I gave you of +it last week, was, I assure you, dictated by my +feelings before they had forgotten the affecting +circumstances. Your observations are +truly just and striking. Unpardonable as +the affront which I had received appears to +mortal eyes, I should not readily, I fear, have +found an answer to the question of the enquiring<a id="tn-012"></a> +angel, on entering the world of spirits,<a id="tn-013"></a> +“What brings you hither?”</p> + +<p>Did I not tell you on Saturday the particulars +of the poor fellow who suffered this +day se’nnight for murdering Mrs. Knightly? +They are singular. He was an Italian, I +understand. Such a thing is not credible +but of an Italian.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Knightly’s account was, that on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>18th of January Ceppi came into her room +(she being in bed), locked the door, sat +himself in a chair, and told her he was come +to do her business. She, not understanding +this, asked him to let her get out of bed, +which he did. He then took from his pocket +two pistols. She went towards the door in +order to get out, but he set his back against +it. She, to appease him, told him he might +stay to breakfast. He answered he would +have none, but would give her a good one. +She then called out to alarm the house, ran +towards the bed, and said, “Pray do not +shoot me!” and drew up close to the +curtains. He followed, and discharged the +pistol, after which he threw himself across +the bed and fired the other pistol at himself, +which did not take effect. During this a +washerwoman ran upstairs, and with a poker +broke the bottom panel of the door, through +which Mrs. Knightly was drawn half naked, +and Ceppi, following, ran downstairs, but +was pursued and taken. In his defence, he +said he had proposed honourable terms of +marriage to her, but that she had refused +and deserted him; that he was overcome +with grief and love, and that his design was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>not to hurt her, but to shoot himself in her +presence.</p> + +<p>It appears, I am afraid, from all the circumstances, +that, whatever his despair meant +with regard to his own life, he certainly +was determined to take away hers. How +unaccountably must Nature have formed +him. Besides the criminality and brutality +of the business, the folly of it strikes <i>me</i>. +What! because the person, on whom I have +fixed <i>my</i> affections, has robbed me of +happiness by withdrawing <i>hers</i>, shall I let +her add to the injury by depriving me of +existence also in this world, and of everything +in the next? In my opinion, to run +the chance of being murdered by the new +object of her affections or of murdering him, +is as little reconcileable to common sense as +to common religion. How much less so to +commit complicated murder, which must cut +off all hopes in other worlds.</p> + +<p>Yet, could I believe (which I own I cannot, +from the evidence in this case) that the idea +of destroying her never struck him till his +finger was at the trigger; that his only +intention was to lay the breathless body of +an injured lover at her feet—had this been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>the fact, however I might have condemned +the deed, I certainly should have wept over +the momentary phrenzy which committed it. +But, as nothing appears to have past which +could at all make him change his plan, I +must (impossible as it seems) suppose him +to have deliberately formed so diabolical a +plan; and must rejoice that he was not of +the same country, while I lament that he was +of the same order of beings with myself.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>If the favour I mentioned to you on +Saturday be at all out of course, pray do not +ask it. Yet the worthy veteran I want to +serve has now and then seen things happen +not altogether <i>in</i> course. When he called +this morning to learn how I had succeeded, +I observed to him, while we were talking, +that he was bald. “Yes,” said he, shaking +his grey hairs, “it will happen so by people’s +continually stepping over one’s head.”</p> + +<p>He little suspected the channel of my +application, but he asked me this morning +whether £50, if he could scrape it together, +properly slid into Miss Reay’s hand, might +not forward his views. My answer was, that +I had no acquaintance with the lady, but I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>knew <i>for certain</i> that she had never in her +life soiled her fingers with the smallest +present of this sort.</p> + +<p>Happy, blest, to know you, to love you, +and be loved by you!</p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Hockerill</span>, <i>September 5, 1778</i>. +</p> + +<p>Here did I sit, more than two years ago, +in this very room, perhaps in this very chair, +thanking you for bliss, for paradise, all claim +to which I soon after voluntarily resigned, +because I hoped they would soon be mine +by claims more just, if possible, than those +of love. Two years—how have I borne +existence all the while! But delicacy and +respect for you enjoined forbearance; and +Hope led me on from day to day, deceiving +Time with distant prospects which I thought +at hand. When will the tedious journey +end? When will my weary feet find rest? +When shall I sleep away my fatigues on +the down-soft pillow of the bosom of love? +Should hope continue to deceive me, you +never shall make me happy, till you make +me your husband. Yet, as we sate upon +the grass, under the trees near the water, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>just before you returned me my stick, +because you thought the gentleman coming +along the path by the mill was a certain +person—yet, had I then loosened another +button or two of my favourite habit which was +already opened by the heat; had I then +(you remember, my Laura, the conversation +and the scene) forgotten my resolution, forgotten +everything, and rioted in all your +glowing charms, which only love like mine +could withstand—who is he that would dare +to blame me? Who would dare to say I +had done what he would not have done? +But the scene must be shifted. Sally +Harris, you know, arrived only at the dignity +of Pomona at Hockerill. Had my Martha +her due, mankind at large would admit her +double claim to the titles of Minerva and of +Venus.</p> + +<p>To sleep <i>here</i> is impossible. As well +expect the miser to sleep in a place where he +once hung in raptures over a hidden treasure +which is now lost. This letter I have an +opportunity to send to our old friend, for +you, without taking it to town. Let me fill +up the remainder of my paper with an almost +incredible anecdote I learned from a gentleman +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>who joined me on the road this morning +and travelled some miles with me. It happened +last week, I think. Peter Ceppi you +remember. Surely that Providence which +prevents the propagation of monsters, does +not suffer such <i>monstrous</i> examples as these +to propagate.</p> + +<p>One Empson, a footman to Dr. Bell, +having in vain courted for some time a +servant belonging to Lord Spencer, at last +caused the banns to be put up at church, +without her consent, which she forbad. +Being thus disappointed, he meditated revenge; +and having got a person to write a +letter to her, appointing a meeting, he contrived +to waylay her, and surprise her in +Lord Spencer’s park. On her screaming, he +discharged a pistol at her, and made his +escape. The ball wounded her, but not +mortally.</p> + +<p>Oh love, love, canst thou not be content +to make fools of thy slaves, to make them +miserable, to make them what thou pleasest! +Must thou also goad them on to crimes! +Must thou also convert them into devils, +hell-hounds!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Craven Street</span>, <i>Jan. 28, 1779</i>. +</p> + +<p>The short note I wrote to you last night, +immediately on my reaching town, you +received. But why no answer to it? Why +do you not say when we shall meet? I have +ten thousand things to tell you. My situation +in Norfolk is lovely. Exactly what you +like. The parsonage-house may be made +very comfortable at a trifling expense. How +happily shall we spend our time there! How +glad am I that I have taken orders, and +what obligations have I to my dear B. to +Mr. H. and Dr. V.! Now, my happiness +can be deferred no longer. My character +and profession are, now, additional weights +in the scale. Oh, then, consent to marry +me directly. The day I lead you to +the altar will be the happiest day of my +existence.</p> + +<p>Thanks, a thousand thanks for your tender +and affectionate letters while I was in +Norfolk. Be assured Galli could mean +nothing by what she said. She is our firm +friend, I am persuaded. About an hour ago +I called there; but she was out. Presently, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>I shall go again with this, in the hope of +hearing something about you.</p> + +<p>Oh, Martha! every day I live I do but discover +more and more how impossible it is +for me to live without you.</p> + +<p>Do not forget the 5th of next month. We +<i>must</i> keep that day sacred together.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>There seems to be a mistake in the date +of this letter, as Hackman was not ordained +deacon until Wednesday, February 24, 1779; +he became a priest at a general ordination +on the following Sunday, and received the +living of Wiveton, in Norfolk, on March 1 +of the same year, the day on which he wrote +the last letter he ever sent to Miss Reay. +Full of hope and happiness he looks forward +to the new life that is before them, and +he expresses his thankfulness for Signora +Galli’s kindness. But there is no doubt that +this woman, whose conduct throughout was +sinister, is morally responsible for the events +that followed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p class="center"><i>To MISS REAY.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>March 1, 1779.</i> +</p> + +<p>Though we meet to-morrow, I must write +you two words to-night, just to say that I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>have all the hopes in the world that ten days +at the utmost will complete the business. +When that is done, your only objection is +removed along with your debts; and we may, +surely, then be happy, and be so <i>soon</i>. In a +month, or <i>six weeks at furthest</i>, from this time, +I might certainly call you mine. Only remember +that my <i>character</i>, now I have taken +orders, makes expedition necessary. By to-night’s +post I shall write into Norfolk about +the alterations at <i>our</i> parsonage. To-morrow! +Galli’s friendship is more than I can ever +return.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But Miss Reay, either out of consideration +for the future welfare of her children, or +because she found that she was no longer in +love with Hackman, gave him to understand, +through the agency of Signora Galli, that, +after all, she could not consent to marry him. +Hackman, almost crazy with disappointed +love, wrote immediately to a friend in the +country, who replied advising Hackman not +to believe anything that Galli had said; he +also offered to come to town if he could be +of any assistance. Hackman then wrote, in +answer, the following letter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>March 20, 1779.</i> +</p> + +<p>Your coming to town, my dear friend, will +answer no end. Galli has been such a friend +to me, it is not possible to doubt her information. +What interest has she to serve? +Certainly none. Look over the letters, with +which I have so pestered you for these two +years, about this business. Look at what I +have written to you about Galli since I +returned from Ireland. She can only mean +<i>well</i> to me. Be not apprehensive. Your +friend will take no step to disgrace himself. +What I shall do I know not. Without her I +do not think I can exist. Yet I will be, you +shall see, <i>a man</i>, as well as a lover. Should +there be a rival, and should he merit chastisement, +I know you will be my friend. But I +will have ocular proof of everything before +I believe.</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 4em;"> + Yours ever. +</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A fortnight later Hackman wrote again +to the same friend.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It signifies not. Your reasoning I admit. +Despair goads me on. Death only can relieve +me. By what I wrote yesterday you must +see my resolution was taken. Often have I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>made use of my key to let myself into the +Admiralty, that I might die at her feet. She +gave it me as the key of love; little did she +think it would ever prove the key of death. +But the loss of Lady Hinchinbrook keeps +Lord Sandwich within.</p> + +<p>My dear Charles, is it possible for me to +doubt Galli’s information? Even <i>you</i> were +staggered by the account I gave you of what +passed between us in the Park. What then +have I to do, who only lived when she loved +me, but to cease to live now she ceases to +love? The propriety of suicide, its cowardice, +its crime, I have nothing to do with them. +All I pretend to prove or to disprove is my +misery, and the possibility of my existing +under it.</p> + +<p>Till within this month, till Galli’s information, +I thought of self-murder as you think +of it. Nothing now is left for me but to leap +the world to come. If it be a crime, as I too +much fear, and we are accountable for our +passions, I must stand the trial and the +punishment. My invention can paint no +punishment equal to what I suffer here.</p> + +<p>Think of those passions, my friend; those +passions of which you have so often, since I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>knew Miss Reay, spoken to me and written +to me. If you will not let me fly from +my misery, will you not let me fly from my +passions? They are a pack of bloodhounds +which will inevitably tear me to pieces. My +carelessness has suffered them to overtake +me, and now there is no possibility, but this, +of escaping them. The hand of Nature +heaped upon every species of combustible +in my bosom. The torch of love has set the +heap on fire. I must perish in the flames. +At first I might perhaps have extinguished +them; now they rage too fiercely.<a id="tn-014"></a> <i>If</i> they +can be smothered, they can never be got +under. Suppose they should consume any +other person beside myself? And who is he, +that will answer for passions such as mine? +At present, I am innocent....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Hackman dined the next day with Mr. +Frederick Booth and his sister. He went +afterwards to the Admiralty in the hope of +catching a glimpse of Miss Reay, and, seeing +Lord Sandwich’s carriage standing there, he +guessed that she was going out in it and +would probably call on Signora Galli, who +had rooms in the Haymarket. So he walked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>to the Cannon Coffee House, in order that he +might see the carriage pass. Miss Reay soon +drove up and he followed the carriage from +the Haymarket to Covent Garden Theatre, +where “Love in a Village” was being performed. +The moment Miss Reay and Galli +alighted, the handsome Lord Coleraine came +forward to meet them, whereupon Hackman, +mad with jealousy, decided to commit suicide. +He went away and, having bought a brace of +pistols (in case one should miss fire) he +returned to the Opera House. Croker says: +“The ladies sat in a front box, and three +gentlemen, all connected with the Admiralty, +occasionally paid their compliments to them. +Mr. Hackman was sometimes in the lobby, +sometimes in an upper side-box, and more +than once at the Bedford Coffee House to +take brandy and water<a id="tn-024"></a>, but still seemed +unable to gain any information.” When the +opera was over, Miss Reay was standing in +the vestibule waiting for the carriage to be +announced, and it is related, in the “Life +and Correspondence of M. G. Lewis,” that +“Mrs. Lewis happened to make some remark +on a beautiful rose which Miss Reay wore in +her bosom. Just as the words were uttered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>the flower fell to the ground. The poor girl, +who had been depressed in spirits before, +was evidently affected by this incident, and +said, in a slightly faltering voice, ‘I trust I am +not to consider this as an evil omen!’”</p> + +<p>Hackman, who was watching her, tried to +push his way through the crowd, but was +unable to do so, until Lord Sandwich’s carriage +being called, Miss Reay tried to get to +the door. A Mr. Macnamara, of Lincoln’s +Inn, seeing the difficulty she was in, offered +his arm to her and led her towards her +carriage.</p> + +<p>This seems to have added fresh fuel to the +jealousy which was consuming Hackman, so +forcing his way up to Miss Reay, he drew +one pistol out of his pocket and shot her in +the forehead, shooting himself with the other +the instant after, and they fell together on the +pavement. Hackman, to his infinite despair, +found that he had not inflicted a mortal +wound upon himself, so he beat his head +frantically with the butt-end of the pistol as +he lay upon the ground, crying out the while +“Kill me! Kill me!” He was prevented +from doing himself any further injury by Mr. +Mahon, an apothecary, of Russell Street, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>both he and his unfortunate victim were +removed to the Shakespeare Tavern, where, +a medical examination having been made, it +was found that Miss Reay was dead. A +letter to Mr. Booth, Hackman’s brother-in-law, +was found in one of his pockets, which +shows that Hackman’s original intention was +to kill himself, and that the murder was only +the result of a momentary impulse.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> + <i>April 7, 1779.</i> +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dear Frederick,</p> + +<p class="indent3">When this reaches you I shall be no +more, but do not let my unhappy fate distress +you too much. I strove against it as long as +possible, but it now overpowers me. You +know where my affections were placed; my +having by some means or other lost hers (an +idea which I could not support) has driven me +to madness. The world will condemn, but your +heart will pity me. God bless you, my dear +Frederick! Would I had a sum of money to +leave you to convince you of my great regard. +You were almost my only friend. I have hid +one circumstance from you which gives me +great pain. I owe Mr. W. of Gosport one +hundred pounds, for which he has the writings +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>of my houses; but I hope in God, when they +are sold, and all other matters collected, +there will be nearly enough to settle your +account. May Almighty God bless you and +<i>yours</i> with comfort and happiness, and may +you ever be a stranger to the pangs I now +feel! May Heaven protect my beloved +woman and forgive this act, which alone +could relieve me from a world of misery I +have long endured! Oh, if it should be in +your power to do her any act of friendship +remember your faithful friend,</p> + +<p class="right" style="margin-right: 2em;"> + <span class="smcap">James Hackman.</span> +</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When Hackman had so far recovered as to +be able to speak he inquired anxiously of +Mr. Bond the surgeon as to the condition of +Miss Reay. Being informed that she was dead +he earnestly implored him to prevent her +corpse being exposed to the gaze of the public.</p> + +<p>The news of the tragedy was at once carried +to the Admiralty, and Croker says that +Lord Sandwich “stood, as it were, petrified, +till suddenly seizing a candle, he ran upstairs +and threw himself on the bed, and in an +agony exclaimed, ‘Leave me for awhile to +myself; I could have borne anything but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>this.’ The attendants remained for a considerable +time at the top of the staircase, till +his lordship rang the bell and ordered that +they should all go to bed.”</p> + +<p>Sir John Fielding, the magistrate, was sent +for, about three o’clock the next morning, +from Brompton. He arrived two hours later, +and finding that Hackman’s wounds were not +dangerous, he ordered the surgeon to take +him to Tothill Fields prison. The corpse of +Miss Reay was removed to an undertaker’s +in Leicester Square, and she was subsequently +buried near her mother in the parish church +of her native village, Elstree, in Hertfordshire, +where, says Leigh Hunt, “she had been a +lowly and happy child, running about with +her blooming face, and little thinking what +trouble it was to cost her.”</p> + +<p>On the following day there was an article +in the <i>Morning Post</i> upon the tragedy, +which contained a eulogistic reference to +Miss Reay:</p> + +<p>“There was scarce any polite art at which +she was not an adept, nor any part of female +literature with which she was not conversant. +All the world are acquainted with the universal +sweetness of her vocal powers; but it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>was the peculiar pleasure of a few only to +know that her conversation, her feelings, and +indeed her general deportment, all participated +of an unparalleled delicacy which had +characterised her through life.”</p> + +<p>Miss Reay’s personality must have been +singularly fascinating, as otherwise she could +never have kept her hold upon her dissipated +“protector” for so many years. Croker +relates that Lord Sandwich after her death +went away into the country, “but, after a +great length of time, he was persuaded by our +open-hearted friend, Admiral Walsingham, +to meet a select party at his house. All +passed off exceedingly well for a while, and +his lordship appeared more cheerful than +could have been expected; but, after coffee, +as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were present, something +was mentioned about music, and one +of the company requested that Mrs. Bates +would favour them with “Shepherds, I have +lost my love.” This was unfortunately the +very air that had been introduced by Miss +Reay at Hinchinbrook and had been always +called for by Lord Sandwich. Mr. Bates +immediately endeavoured to prevent its +being sung, and by his anxiety increased +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>his distress; but it was too late to pause. +Lord Sandwich struggled for a while to overcome +his feelings, but they were so apparent +that at last he went up to Mrs. Walsingham +and in a very confused manner said he hoped +she would excuse his not staying longer at +that time, but that he had just recollected +some pressing business which required his +return to the Admiralty, and bowing to all the +company, rather hastily left the room.”</p> + +<p>Unpopular as the Earl was, there was +general sympathy felt for him as the following +quatrain from the <i>Gentleman’s Magazine</i> +shows:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Britannia weeps, since S——’s heart can feel,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That heart long tempered of the hardest steel!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These tears most generous—we may all aver</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To weep for him who never felt for her.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>On the morning of April 8, Hackman +wrote to his friend, the Rev. Charles Porter, +of Clapham, to whom he afterwards entrusted +these letters and the fragments of manuscript, +which he wrote while in Newgate, asking him +to bring him some poison.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Tothill Fields</span>, <i>April 8, 1779</i>. +</p> + +<p>I am alive—and she is dead. I shot her +and not myself. Some of her blood and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>brains is still upon my clothes. I do not +ask you to speak to me. Only come hither, +and bring me a little poison; such as is +strong enough. Upon my knees, I beg, if +your friendship for me ever was sincere, do, +<i>do</i>, bring me some poison.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On Friday, April 9, at half-past nine in +the morning, Mr. Hackman was brought up +to Sir John Fielding’s private office, by the +governor of Tothill Fields prison. A contemporary +account says that “the surgeons, +constables, and witnesses attended, and were +severally sworn to their depositions taken +on Thursday last. Mr. Bond read over +these depositions to the prisoner, who +wept very much, and was quite convulsed +each time the name of the deceased was +mentioned. He did not attempt to palliate +his offence; but said he eagerly wished to +die. Upon the whole, it was impossible to +behold him without pity, notwithstanding +the enormity of his offence. He was committed +to Newgate, and Sir John Fielding +desired that a person might be set over the +prisoner to prevent him destroying himself. +Lord Essex and several other noblemen and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>gentlemen were present at the above examination.”</p> + +<p>The same day he wrote to Mr. Porter, who +had refused, at first, to visit him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> + <i>April 9, 1779.</i> +</p> + +<p>Your note just now, and the long letter +I received at the same time, which should +have found me the day before yesterday, have +changed my resolution. The promise you desire, +I most solemnly give you. I will make no +attempt upon my life. Had I received your +comfortable letter when you meant I should, I +verily do not think this would have happened.</p> + +<p>Pardon what I wrote to you about the +poison. Indeed, I am too composed for any +such thing now. Nothing should tempt me. +My death is all the recompense I can make to +the laws of my country. Dr. V. has sent me +some excellent advice, and Mr. H. has refuted +all my false arguments. Even such a being +as I find friends.</p> + +<p>Oh, that my feelings and his feeling would +let me see my <i>dearest</i> friend. Then I would +tell you how this happened.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Two days before his trial, he wrote again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"><i>To THE SAME.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Newgate</span>, <i>April 14, 1779</i>. +</p> + +<p>My best thanks for all your goodness since +this day se’nnight. Oh, Charles, this is about +the time. I cannot write.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>My trial comes on either Friday or Saturday. +It will be indeed a trial. God (whom +I have so outraged) can alone tell how I +shall go through it. My resolution is not +fixed as yet about pleading guilty. The +arguments by which they tell me I may +escape that death which is so much my due, +I certainly will not suffer to be used.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Whatever the world may think, you, I +know, believe that I had no intention against +her till the <i>very instant</i>. The account I wrote +to you of the shocking business since it happened, +was the real truth. All Tuesday, after +I had finished my letter to you, I, in vain +sought for an opportunity to destroy myself +in her presence. So, again, on the Wednesday, +all the morning. In the afternoon, after +dining at poor Booth’s, I saw Lord Sandwich’s +coach pass by the Cannon Coffee House, where +I was watching for it. I followed it to Galli’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>(inhuman, and yet not guilty, Galli!) From +her house I saw it take them to the play. +Now, I was determined; and went to my +lodgings for my pistols, where I wrote a +letter to Booth which I put into my pocket, +intending to send it; but, as I forgot it, the +letter was found there. When I returned to +Covent Garden, I waited for the conclusion +of the play, in the Bedford Coffee House. +What a figure must I have been! Indeed, I +overheard one gentleman say to a friend, that +I looked as if I was out of my senses. Oh, +how I wished for the play to be over! I had +charged my pistols with the kindest letter she +ever wrote me, a letter which made me the +happiest of mortals, and which had ever since +been my talisman. At last, arrived the end of +the play, and the beginning of my tragedy. I +met them in the stone passage, and had then +got the pistol to my forehead, but she did not +see me (nor did any one, I suppose). And the +crowd separated us. This accident I considered +as the immediate intervention of Providence. +I put up my pistol, turned about, and +should (I most firmly believe) have gone out +the other way, and have laid aside my horrid +resolution, had I not looked round and seen +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>Mr. Macnamara (whom I immediately construed +into the favoured lover described by +Galli) offer her a hand, which I thought was +received with particular pleasure. The stream +of my passions, which had been stopped, now +overwhelmed me with redoubled violence. It +hurried me after them. Jealousy suggested +a new crime; and nerved anew the arm of +despair. I overtook them at the carriage, and—and, +at about the time I am now writing +this, felt more than all the tortures of all the +damned together.</p> + +<p>What shall I not feel at the necessary +recital of the tragedy at my trial!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On Friday, April 16, Hackman’s trial +came on before Judge Blackstone, “for +feloniously, wilfully, and with malice aforethought, +shooting Miss Reay in the forehead.” +Mr. Fielding and Mr. Howarth prosecuted +for the Crown; Hackman was defended by +Mr. Davenport. After all the witnesses had +been heard, Judge Blackstone called upon +Hackman to make his defence. In a nervous +and affecting manner, which produced a painful +impression on all present, he made the +following speech:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p> + +<p class="salutation">My Lord,</p> + +<p>I should not have troubled the Court with +the examination of witnesses to support the +charge against me, had I not thought that the +pleading guilty to the indictment would give +an indication of contemning death, not suitable +to my present condition; and would, in +some measure, make me accessary to a second +peril of my life. And I likewise thought that +the justice of my country ought to be satisfied +by suffering my offence to be proved, and the +fact to be established by evidence.</p> + +<p>I stand here the most wretched of human +beings, and confess myself criminal in a high +degree. I acknowledge <i>with shame and repentence</i> +that my determination against my +own life was formal and complete. I protest, +with that regard to truth which becomes my +situation, that the will to destroy her, who +was ever dearer to me than life, was never +mine until a momentary frenzy overcame me, +and induced me to commit the deed I deplore. +The letter which I meant for my brother-in-law, +after my decease, will have its due +weight, as to this point, with good men.</p> + +<p>Before this dreadful act, I trust nothing +will be found in the tenor of my life which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>the common charity of mankind will not +readily excuse. I have no wish to avoid the +punishment which the laws of my country +appoint for my crime; but, being already too +unhappy to feel a punishment in death, or a +satisfaction in life, I submit myself to the +disposal and judgment of Almighty God, and +to the consequences of this enquiry into my +conduct and intention.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mr. Davenport urged Hackman’s acquittal +on a point of law—that of insanity, and also +pleaded that the letter to Mr. Booth, which +was found in Hackman’s pocket, proved that +it was not his previous intention to kill Miss +Reay. Judge Blackstone, in the course of his +summing-up, said that to constitute murder +it was not necessary that there should be a +long form of deliberation; that the bare +wilfully shooting at one man and killing +another was wilful murder; that it was also +wilful murder if a man, in attempting to shoot +himself, should kill another; that the prisoner +had rested his defence on the ground of +insanity, but it was not every fit or start +of passion that would justify the killing of +another, but it must be the total loss of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>reason, and incapability of reason in every +part of life. With regard to the letter found +in the prisoner’s pocket, his lordship said he +was sorry to say that it argued a coolness and +deliberation which in no way accorded with +the ideas of insanity. On the whole, he left +it to the jury to consider of the fact and not +the point of law, adding that, if in discharge +of their consciences, they were convinced +that the prisoner was totally dispossessed of +his reason and understanding, they would +acquit; if not, they must find him guilty. +The jury consulted for a few minutes, then +brought in a verdict of guilty; and Baron +Massieres, the Recorder’s assistant, immediately +pronounced sentence of death. Hackman +behaved with perfect fortitude, and, +bowing to the court and jury, retired. Lord +Sandwich, who had great personal influence +with George III., wrote to Hackman, that +if he wished to live, “the man whom he +has most injured will use all his interest to +procure his life.”</p> + +<p>But Hackman replied that “the murderer +of her whom he preferred, far preferred, to +life, suspects the hand from which he has +just received such an offer as he neither +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>desires nor deserves. His wishes are for +death, not for life. One wish he has. Could +he be pardoned in this world by the man he +has most injured—oh, my Lord, when I meet +her in another world, enable me to tell her +(if departed spirits are ignorant of earthly +things) that you forgive us both, that you will +be a father to her dear infants!”</p> + +<p class="right"> + J.H. +</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>During the trial, Hackman’s brother-in-law, +Mr. Booth, who was too agitated to remain in +court, waited outside until the verdict should +be delivered. The officious Boswell was the +first person to inform him that the death +sentence had been passed upon his relative. +“How did Hackman behave?” asked Booth, +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“As well, sir,” answered Boswell, with an +echo of the Johnsonian pomposity in his +words, “as you or any of his friends could +wish; with decency, propriety, and in such a +manner as to interest every one present. He +might have pleaded that he shot Miss Reay +by accident, but he fairly told the truth, that +in a moment of frenzy he did intend it.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Booth, “I would rather have +found him guilty with truth and honour, than +escape by a mean evasion.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + +<p>“Which” (says the chronicler of the above +conversation, the author of a pamphlet containing +a full report of the trial) “was a +sentiment truly noble, bursting from a heart +rent with anguish!”</p> + +<p>Boswell says, in his “Life of Johnson,” +that “the Doctor was much interested by my +account of what passed, and particularly +with his prayer for the mercy of heaven. He +said, in a solemn, fervid tone, ‘I hope he +<i>shall</i> find mercy.’”</p> + +<p>Horace Walpole wrote the same day to +the Rev. Mr. Cole:</p> + +<p>“I do not know whether our clergy are +growing Mahometans or not: they certainly +are not what they profess themselves; but as +you and I should not agree, perhaps, in +assigning the same defects to them, I will +not enter on a subject which I have promised +you to drop. All I allude to now is the +shocking murder of Miss Reay by a divine. +In my own opinion we are growing more fit +for Bedlam than for Mahomet’s paradise. +The poor criminal, I am persuaded, is mad, +and the misfortune is the law does not know +how to define the shades of madness; and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>thus there are twenty out-pensioners of +Bedlam, for one that is confined.”</p> + +<p>The Countess of Upper Ossory, in a letter +to George Selwyn, mentions that Hackman +and Miss Reay were the sole topic of the +town. She adds that Hackman’s behaviour +during his trial was wonderfully touching.</p> + +<p>The following disconnected papers, which +were written by Hackman in the condemned +cell, show that as the date of his execution +grew nearer, he became resigned to his fate, +and earnestly desired to die.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.0em;"><span class="smcap">Newgate</span>, Saturday Night.</span><br> + <i>April 17, 1779</i>.<a id="tn-015"></a> +</p> + +<p class="salutation">My Dear Charles,</p> + +<p class="indent3">The clock has just struck eleven. All +has, for some time, been quiet within this sad +abode. Would that all were so within my +sadder breast!</p> + +<p>That gloominess of my favourite, Young’s +“Night Thoughts” which was always so congenial +to my soul, would have been still +heightened had he ever been wretched +enough to hear St. Paul’s clock thunder +through the still ear of night in the condemned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>walls of Newgate. The sound is +truly solemn, it seems the sound of death.</p> + +<p>Oh that it were death’s sound! How +greedily would my impatient ears devour it!</p> + +<p>And yet, but one day more. Rest, rest, +perturbed spirit, till then.</p> + +<p>And then!</p> + +<p>My God, my creator, my first father! Thou +who madest me as I am, with these feelings, +these passions, this heart! Thou who art all +might, and all mercy! Well Thou knowest +I did not, like too many of Thy creatures, +persuade myself there was no God before I +persuaded myself I had a right over my life. +Oh, then, my Father, put me not eternally +from Thy paternal presence! It is not +punishments, nor pains, nor hell I fear: what +man can bear, I can. My fear is to be +deemed ungrateful to Thy goodness, to be +thought unworthy of Thy presence, to be +driven from the light of Thy countenance.</p> + +<p>Well Thou knowest I could not brook the +thoughts of wanting gratitude to things +beneath me in Thy creation, to a dog, a +horse, almost to things inanimate, a tree, +a book, and thinkest Thou that I could +bear the charge of want of gratitude to <i>Thee!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> + +<p>And might, oh might I resign the joys of +the other world, which neither eye can see, +nor tongue can speak, nor imagination dream, +for an eternal existence of love and bliss +with her, whom——</p> + +<p>Presumptuous murderer! The bliss you +ask were paradise.</p> + +<p>My Father who art in heaven, I bow before +Thy mercy, and patiently abide my sentence.</p> + +<p>These papers, which will be delivered to +you after my death, my dear friend, are not +letters. Nor know I what to call them. +They will exhibit, however, the picture of a +heart which has ever been yours more than +any other man’s.</p> + + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.0em;"><span class="smcap">Newgate</span>, Sunday, <i>April 18, 1779</i>.</span><br> + Four in the Morning. +</p> + +<p>O, Charles, Charles—torments, tortures! +Hell, and worse than hell!</p> + +<p>When I finished my last scrap of paper, I +thought I felt myself composed, resigned. +Indeed I was so—I am so now.</p> + +<p>I threw my wearied body—wearied, Heaven +knows, more than any labourer’s, with the +workings of my mind—upon the floor of my +dungeon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p> + +<p>Sleep came uncalled, but only came to +make me more completely cursed.</p> + +<p>The world was past, the next was come; +but, after that, no other world. All was +revealed to me. My eternal sentence of +mental misery (from which there was no +flight), of banishment from the presence of +my Father, or more than poetry ever feigned +or weakness feared, was past, irrevocably +past.</p> + +<p>Her verdict, too, of punishment was pronounced. +Yes, Charles—she, she was punished—and +by whose means punished?</p> + +<p>Even in her angel mind were failings, +which it is not wonderful I never saw, since +Omniscience, it seemed, could hardly discern +them. O, Charles, these foibles, so few, so +undiscernible, were still, I thought in my +dream, to be expiated. For my hand sent +her to heaven before her time, with all her +few foibles on her head.</p> + +<p>Charles, I saw the expiation—these eyes +beheld her undergo the heavenly punishment.</p> + +<p>That past, she was called, I thought, to +the reward of her ten thousand virtues.</p> + +<p>Then, in very deed, began my hell, my +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>worse than woman ever dreamed of hell. +Charles, I saw her, as plainly as I see the +bars of my dungeon, through which the eye +of day looks upon me now for almost the +last time. Her face, her person were still +more divine than when on earth—they +were cast anew, in angel moulds. Her +mind, too, I beheld as plainly as her face, +and all its features. That was the same—that +was not capable of alteration for the +better.</p> + +<p>But, what saw I else? That mind, that +person, that face, that angel—was in the +bosom of another angel. Between us was a +gulf, a gulf impassible! I could not get to +her, neither could she come to me.</p> + +<p>Nor did she wish it. There was the +curse.</p> + +<p>Charles, she saw me, where I was, steeped +to the lips in misery. She saw me; but +without a tear, without one sigh.</p> + +<p>One sigh from her, I thought, and I could +have borne all my sufferings.</p> + +<p>A sigh, a tear! She smiled at all my +sufferings. Yes, she, even she, enjoyed the +tortures, the wrackings of my soul. She +bade her companion angel, too, enjoy them. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>She seemed to feast upon my griefs; and +only turned away her more than damning +eyes to turn them on her more than blest +companion.</p> + +<p>Flames and brimstone, corporeal sufferance, +were paradise to such eternal mental +hell as this.</p> + +<p>Oh! how I rejoiced, how I wept, sobbed +with joy, when I awoke, and discovered it +was only a dream, and found myself <i>in the +condemned cell of Newgate</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mr. H. and Dr. V., neither of whom you +know, I believe, are exceedingly kind to me. +The latter writes to me, the former sees +me, continually. Your poor Hackman finds +more friends than he merits.</p> + + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.0em;"> + <span class="smcap">Newgate</span>, Sunday, <i>April 18, 1779</i>.</span><br> + Five o’clock in the afternoon. +</p> + +<p>Since I wrote to you this morning I have +more than once taken up my pen. For what +can I do, that affords me more pleasure than +writing to such a friend as you are, and have +been, to me?</p> + +<p><i>Pleasure!</i> Alas! what business has such a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>wretch as I with such a word as that? +However, pouring myself out to you thus +upon paper is, in some measure, drawing off +my sorrows; it is not thinking.</p> + +<p>Cruel Galli! And yet I can excuse her. +She knew not of what materials I was made. +Lord Sandwich wished to preserve a treasure +which any one would have prized. Galli was +employed to preserve the treasure. And +she suspected not that my soul, my existence +were wrapped up in it.</p> + +<p>O, my dear Charles, that you could prevail +upon yourself to visit this sad place! And +yet, our mutual feelings would render the +visit useless. So it is better thus.</p> + +<p>Now, perhaps, you are enjoying a comfortable +and happy meal. There, again, my +misfortunes! Of happiness and comfort, for +the present, I have robbed you. H. has murdered +happiness.</p> + +<p>But this is the hour of dinner. How +many are now comfortable and happy? +While I——</p> + +<p>How many, again, with everything to +make them otherwise, are at this moment +miserable!</p> + +<p>The meat is done too little, or too much. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>(Should the pen of fancy ever take the trouble +to invent letters for me, I should not be +suffered to write to you thus, because it +would seem <i>unnatural</i>. Alas! they know +not how gladly a wretch like me forgets +himself). The servant, I say, has broken +something—some friend (as the phrase is) +does not make his promised appearance, +and, consequently, is not eye-witness of the +unnecessary dishes which the family pretends +to be able to afford—or some <i>friend</i> (again) +drops in unexpectedly, and surprises the +family with no more dishes upon the table +than are necessary.</p> + +<p>Ye home-made wretches, ye ingenious +inventors of ills, before ye suffer yourselves +to be soured and made miserable, for the +whole remainder of this Sunday, by some +trifle or another, which does not deserve the +name of accident, look here—behold, indeed, +that misery of which your discontentedness +complains!</p> + +<p>Peep through the grate of this my only +habitation, ye who have town-houses and +country-houses. Look into my soul—recollect +in how few hours I am to die, die in what +manner, die for what offence!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p> + +<p>I was obliged to lay down my pen. Such +a picture as this, in which myself made the +principal figure, was rather too much.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Good God! to look back over the dreadful +interval between to-day and last October two +years. What a tale would it make of woe! +Take warning from me, my fellow-creatures<a id="tn-028"></a>, +and do not love like H.</p> + + +<p class="right"> + Still <span class="smcap">Sunday</span>. 7 o’clock. +</p> + +<p>When these loose, incoherent papers shall +come into your hands, after my death, it will +afford you some consolation to know my +temper of mind at last.</p> + +<p>Charles, as the awful moment approaches, +I feel myself more and more and more +composed, and calm and resigned.</p> + +<p>It always, you know, was my opinion that +man could bear a great load of affliction +better than a small one. I thought so then—now +I am sure of it. This day se’nnight, I +was mad, perfectly mad. This afternoon I +am all mildness.</p> + +<p>This day se’nnight! To look back is +death, is hell. It is almost worse than to +look forward.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> + +<p>But—is there not a God? Did not that +God create me? Does not that God know my +heart, my whole heart? Oh! yes, yes, yes!</p> + +<p>To-morrow, then. And let to-morrow +come. I am prepared.</p> + +<p>God (who knows my heart, and will judge +me, I trust, by that heart) knows it is not +with a view to diminish my own guilt, the +magnitude and enormity whereof I acknowledge—but +let those, who survive me, flatter +themselves that all the guilt of mankind +goes to the grave, to the gallows (gracious +Heaven!) with H.</p> + +<p>I shall leave behind me culprits <i>of the +same kind as myself</i>—culprits who will not +make my trifling atonement of an ignominious +death. Oh, may they see their crimes, and +weep over them before they are confronted +with the injured parties at the footstool of +the throne of the God of heaven!</p> + +<p>These are crimes (as indeed are all the +crimes of men, however noiseless or inaudible) +with which the listening angel flies +up to Heaven’s chancery, but these are not +they upon which the recording angel drops a +tear as he notes them down. The pencil of +eternity engraves such crimes as these on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>adamantine tablets, which shall endure to the +end of time. Mine, mine, perhaps may head +the list.</p> + +<p>Be merciful, O God! be merciful!</p> + +<p>Reflection in this world is almost worst +than the worst which offended Omnipotence +can inflict upon me in the next. I must +fly from it.</p> + +<p>And are there not crimes as bad as mine? +It is far from my intention to argue away the +badness of my crime; but there surely are, +and worse.</p> + +<p>Let that gallant, gay, young gentleman +yonder hold up his hand. Yes, sir; you I +first arraign. Not for breach of friendship, +not for false oaths to credulous virgins, not +for innocence betrayed—these are no longer +crimes; these are the accomplishments of +our age. Sir, you are indicted for slow and +deliberate murder. Put not on that confident +air, that arrogant smile of contempt and +defiance. Demand not with a sneer to have +the witnesses produced, who were present +when you struck the stroke of death. Call +not aloud for the blood-stained dagger, the +dry-drawn bowl, the brain-splashed pistol—are +these the only instruments of death? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>You know they are not. Murder is never at +a loss for weapons.</p> + +<p>Sir, produce your wife. See, see! what +indignation flashes in his eyes! A murderer, +and the murderer of his wife! May the +calumniator—— Sir, no imprecations, no +oaths; those are what betrayed that wife. +You did not plant a dagger in her breast; but +you planted there grief, disease, death. She, +sir, who gave you all, was destroyed, was +murdered by your ill-usage. And not +suddenly, not without giving her time to +know what was to happen. She saw the +lingering stroke, she perceived the impossibility +to avoid it; she felt it tenfold from the +hands of a much-loved husband.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Were these scraps of paper to be seen by +any other eye than yours, common people +would wonder that, in proportion as the +moment drew nearer, I got further and +further from myself. It may be contrary to +the rules of critics, but so it is. To think, +or to write about myself, is death, is hell. +My feelings will not suffer me to date these +different papers any more.</p> + +<p>Let me pay a small tribute of praise. How +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>often have you and I complained of familiarity’s +blunting the edge of every sense on +which she lays her hand? At her bidding, +beauty fades even in the eye of love; and the +son of pity smiles at sorrow’s bleeding breast. +In her presence, who is he that still continues +to behold the scene of delight, or that still +hears the voice of mourning? What, then, +is the praise of that gaoler, who in the midst +of misery, and crimes, and death, sets familiarity +at defiance, and still preserves the +feelings of a man? The author of the life +of Savage gives celebrity to the Bristol gaoler, +by whose humanity the latter part of that +strange man’s life was rendered more comfortable. +Shall no one give celebrity to the +present keeper of Newgate? Mr. Akerman +marks every day of his existence by more +than one such deed as this. Know, ye rich +and powerful, ye who might save hundreds of +your fellow-creatures<a id="tn-029"></a> from starving by the +sweepings of your tables—know that, among +the various feelings of almost every wretch +who quits Newgate for Tyburn, a concern +neither last nor least is that which he feels +upon leaving the gaol of which <i>this man</i> is +the keeper.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span></p> + +<p>But I can now no longer fly from myself. +In a few short hours, the hand which is now +writing to you, the hand which——</p> + +<p>I will not distress either you or myself. +My life I owe to the laws of my country, and +I will pay the debt. How I felt for poor +Dodd! Well, you shall hear that I died +like a man and a Christian. I cannot have a +better trust than in the mercy of an all-just +God. And, in your letters, when you shall +these unhappy deeds relate, tell of me as I +am. I forget the passage, it is in Othello.</p> + +<p>You must suffer me to mention the tenderness +and greatness of mind of my dear Booth. +The last moments of my life cannot be better +spent than in recording this complicated +act of friendship and humanity. When we +parted, a task too much for us both, he asked +me if there was anything for which I wished +to live. Upon his pressing me, I acknowledged +I was uneasy, very uneasy, lest Lord +Sandwich might withdraw an allowance of fifty +pounds a year, which I knew he made to her +father. “Then,” said Booth, squeezing my +hand, bursting into tears, and hurrying out of +the room, “I will allow it him.” The affectionate +manner in which he spoke of my sister +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>would have charmed you. God for ever bless +and prosper him! And my sister and you!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>While he was in Newgate he received, says +the author of Hackman’s “Case and Memoirs,” +many anonymous letters, one, as the handwriting +showed, was from Galli, saying:</p> + +<p>“O! Mr. Hackman, for God’s sake, die in +the Roman Catholick faith!”</p> + +<p>He also had a letter from a woman he did +not know, saying that she had long privately +loved him, but that her love was hopeless +because she was poor, without beauty, and +had nothing to boast of. The author of the +“Case and Memoirs” goes on to say that +Hackman also received many letters from +“those superabundant good Christians called +Methodists, who, negligent of themselves, +affect the highest concern for the future welfare +of others.... Bedlam is the place +for such men to rave in, rather than the +chamber of an invalid, or the apartments of +a condemned prisoner.”</p> + +<p>Hackman spent the evening preceding his +execution with his friend, Mr. Porter; he +went to bed at eleven, and slept for some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>hours. At five he arose, and after he was +dressed, drank a “bason of tea” and remained +in prayer until half-past seven. Mr. Porter +and Mr. Vilette, the prison chaplain, then +went to him, and led him to the chapel, +where they remained until nine. By this +time the sheriffs were waiting, and Hackman +was taken to the press-yard, where a rope was +fastened round his shoulders and under his +arms. He was, however, spared the additional +degradation of having a rope put +round his neck, and his hands were not tied +at the wrists. He was then brought out and +put into a coach, and, accompanied by the +two clergymen and a sheriff’s officer, the +dreary progress to Tyburn commenced. +Owing to the enormous crowds that blocked +the streets he did not arrive there until eleven +o’clock. In a second coach were seated the +Earl of Carlisle and Boswell—the latter, however, +did not deem it expedient to mention +this fact to Dr. Johnson. As soon as he was in +the cart, which in those days took the place +of a fixed platform, he spent some time in +prayer, kneeling down with his face towards +Paddington. His friends then took leave of +him, and it is recorded that he behaved with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>the utmost fortitude, although Mr. Porter +was so moved by his emotions that he had to +be supported. Hackman, desiring that he +might drop his handkerchief as a signal when +he was ready, kneeled down again, and, amid +the silence and suspense of the largest crowd +that had ever witnessed an execution at +Tyburn, prayed for five minutes. When he +dropped the handkerchief it fell underneath +the cart, causing a delay of half a minute +while the executioner and his assistants +scrambled for it. Then the horses were +whipped up, and James Hackman paid the +last earthly penalty for the crime of having +loved Martha Reay so passionately that he +was irresistibly impelled to murder her. In +his last moments he scribbled a few words in +pencil to his friend, Mr. Porter:</p> + +<p>“Farewell for ever in this world! I die a +sincere Christian and penitent, and everything +I hope that you can wish me. Would +it prevent my example’s having any bad effect +if the world should know how I abhor my +former ideas of suicide, my crime ... will +be the best judge. Of her fame I charge you +to be careful. My poor sister will....”</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[Pg 183]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="APPENDIX"> + APPENDIX + </h2> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following account of the life of +Chatterton, which Croft prefaces with a few +sentences in clumsy imitation of Hackman’s +style, is copied from a reprint of “Love and +Madness,” which was issued by an Ipswich +bookseller in 1810. It is more connected +and concise than the versions in the earlier +editions.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>The task you have set me about Chatterton +is only a further proof of your regard +for me. You know the warmth of my passions, +and you think that if I do not employ +myself they may flame out and consume me. +Well, then, I will spend a morning or two +in arranging what I have collected respecting +the author of Rowley’s poems. Every +syllable you will read I assure you shall be +<i>authentic</i>.</p> + +<p>Did you start at “The author of Rowley’s +poems?” My mind does not now +harbour a doubt that Chatterton wrote the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>whole, whatever I thought when we read +them together at H. The internal evidence +of the matter shall not puzzle you, but you +shall tell me whether you do not think it +easier for Chatterton to have imitated the +style of Rowley’s age (which he has not done +exactly, if you believe those who think as I +think), than for Rowley to write in a style +which did not exist till so many ages after +his time. To suppose him to have found +half, and to have added to them, or to consider +him as a cat’s paw in the business to +some contemporary Rowley, in order to +extricate a fictitious Rowley from oblivion, +would in my humble opinion be nonsense. +For my own part, though he might find +some old MSS., I cannot believe he found a +syllable which he has attributed to Rowley. +Who will engage to prove from internal +evidence the antiquity of <i>any one</i> of Rowley’s +compositions? What he did find certainly +suggested to him the idea of pretending to +have found more; but how shall we persuade +credulity to believe that all Rowley’s poems +were copied from old MSS., when the only +MSS. produced in confirmation of the story +are indisputably proved to be modern? Is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>any one fool enough to believe C. was the +only blind, subterraneous channel through +which these things were to emerge to-day<a id="tn-034"></a>, +and float for ever down the stream of fame? +This (without mentioning other objections +to such a ridiculous belief) were to suppose +two people to determine on the same strange +conduct, and two people (the real and the +foster father) to keep with equal fidelity the +same secret. And would the foster father +have been as fond and careful of another’s +secret, as of the offspring of his own invention?</p> + +<p>It is not clear to me that C.’s life (if such +a scrap of existence can be called a life) +does not exhibit circumstances still more +extraordinary, if possible, than his being the +author of Rowley’s poems. But I possess +not the abilities which Johnson displayed in +his famous life of Savage, nor is this a formal +life of Chatterton; though such a thing +might well employ even the pen of Johnson. +This is only an idle letter to my dear M. +Oh, my M., you, who contributed so liberally +last year to extricate from distress the +abilities of a——; what would you not have +done for Chatterton!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>Thomas Chatterton, destined to puzzle +at least, if not to impose upon, the ablest +critics and antiquarians which the most +polished age of England has produced, was +born at Bristol, Nov. 20, 1752. His father +had been master of the free school in Pile +Street in that city, and was sexton of St. +Mary Redcliffe Church. History condescends +not to relate anything more of such an +ignoble family, than that they had been +sextons of the same church for near a +century and a half.</p> + +<p>It seems to have been determined by fortune +that this poor lad—I ought rather to say +this extraordinary human being—should have +no obligation but to genius and himself. His +father, as he was a schoolmaster, and reported +to have been a tolerable poet for a sexton, +might perhaps have given his son a free-school +education, had he lived to see him old +enough for instruction. The sexton died very +soon after, if not before, the birth of his son; +who indisputably received no other education +than what he picked up at a charity school at +a place called St. Augustine’s Back in Bristol. +Reading, writing, and accounts, composed +the whole circle of sciences which were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>taught at this university of our Bristol Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>On July 1, 1767, he was articled clerk +to an attorney of Bristol, whom I have +not been able to find out. From him, I +understand, has been procured a strange, +mad MS. of Chatterton, which he called +his <i>will</i>.</p> + +<p>When the new bridge at Bristol was +finished, there appeared, in Farly’s <i>Bristol +Journal</i>, an account of the ceremonies on +opening the old bridge (the piece is prefixed to +the volume of Chatterton’s “Miscellanies”), +preceded by these words: “To the Printer. +Oct. 1, 1768. The following description of +the ‘fryars’ first passing over the old bridge, +taken from an old MS., may not at this time +be unacceptable to the generality of your +readers. Yours, Dunhelmus Bristoliensis.” +Curiosity at last traced the insertion of this +curious memoir to Chatterton. To the +threats of those who treated him (agreeably +to his age and appearance) as a child, he +returned nothing but haughtiness and a +refusal to give any account. To milder usages +and many promises, the boy, after some time, +confessed that he had received that and other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>MSS. from his father, which he had found in +an iron chest placed by William Canynge +(the founder of the church of which C.’s +family had so long been sextons) in a muniment +room over the northern portico of St. +Mary Redcliffe. Warton (in his history of +English poetry) says when this appeared he +was about seventeen. Days are more material +in C.’s life than years in the lives of others. +He wanted, you see, something of sixteen. +One fact is curious, that, though it was not +possible for him to have picked up Latin at +a charity school where Latin was not taught, +his note to the printer has, for no apparent +reason, a Latin signature, Dunhelmus Bristoliensis. +This Latin certainly was not +Rowley’s. It must have been C.’s. The +memoir procured C. the acquaintance of +some gentlemen of Bristol, who, because they +condescended to receive from him the compositions +which he brought them, without +giving him much, if anything, in return, +fondly imagined themselves the patrons of +genius. Mr. Catcott and Mr. Barrett, a +pewterer and a surgeon, of his obligations +to whom he speaks in his letters, were his +principal, if not his only, patrons. To these +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>gentlemen he produced, between October +1768 and April 1770 (besides many things +which he confessed to be his own, and +many which, in the interval, appeared in the +<i>Town and Country Magazine</i>), all Rowley’s +poems, except the “Ballad of Charitie.” +Of these only two, I think, and those the +shortest, he pretended to be the original +MSS. The rest were transcripts, in his +own hand, of some of which he acknowledged +himself the author. Concerning these +curiosities no distinct or satisfactory account, +by friend or enemy, by threat or promise, +could ever be drawn from him. For these +curiosities how much he received from his +Bristol patrons does not appear. His patrons +do not boast of their generosity to him. +They (Catcott at least) received no inconsiderable +sum for Rowley’s poems; nor has +the sale of them turned out badly. In consequence +of the money got by poems which +Chatterton certainly brought to light, and +which I firmly believe C. to have written, +his mother acknowledges to have received +the immense sum of five guineas, by the +hands of Mr. Catcott; and Mr. Barrett, +without fee or reward, cured the whitlowed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>finger of the sister. Talk no more of the +neglect of genius in any age or country, when +<i>in this age and country</i> Rowley’s poems have +produced such fortunes to the author and his +family. Should I ever appear in print on +this subject, I would publicly call upon the +gentlemen concerned in this transaction to +state their accounts.</p> + +<p>Has not the world a right to know what +Catcott fairly bought of Chatterton (he does +not pretend to have bought all), and what +was the fair purchase-money of these inestimable +treasures? Let us know what the +editors of Rowley’s poems gave and received +for them, and what the sale of them has +produced? Is the son to be declared guilty +of forgery? Are his forgeries to be converted +into (I believe, no inconsiderable sums of) +money? And is the mother and sister’s +share to be five guineas?</p> + +<p>Either mean envy of C.’s extraordinary +genius, or manly abhorrence of his detestable +death, leads almost every person, who talks or +writes about this boy, to tell you of his shocking +profligacy and his total want of principle.</p> + +<p>When C. left this world in August, 1770, +he wanted as many months as intervene +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>between August and November to complete +his eighteenth year. If into so small a space +he had contrived to crowd much profligacy +and much want of principle, some perhaps +may be ascribed to his youth, and to want of +friends. Johnson, I remember, defends even +the life of Savage, which differed from +Chatterton’s in more circumstances than its +length, by some such observation as this: +that the sons of affluence are improper +judges of his conduct, and that few wise +men will venture to affirm they should have +lived better than Savage in Savage’s situation. +Do <i>profligate</i> and <i>unprincipled</i>, some of the +tenderest epithets vouchsafed unto poor +Chatterton, mean dishonest or undutiful, an +unkind brother or an unfeeling child? The +dullest enemies of his genius can produce no +proofs of any such crime. Some of the +papers that I shall send you will contain the +fullest proof of the negative. Do they mean +that, being a young man, he was addicted to +women, like all youths of strong imaginations? +Do the epithets mean that he exhibited +those damnable proofs of his crimes which +Bougainville exported into the country of +Omiah? The proofs (if there were any, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>which his bedfellow at his first lodging in +town denies) only show that he was unlucky. +The crimes must be admitted. Do they +mean that, writing to procure bread for himself, +his mother, and his sister, he wrote on +any side and on any subject which would +afford bread?</p> + +<p>Let me now make you acquainted with +the indisputable history of this boy till he +left Bristol. As he says, in his “Story +of Canynge.”</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In all his sheepen gambols, and child’s play,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At every merry-making, fair or wake,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I kenn a purpled light of wisdom’s ray;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He ate down learning with the wastle cake,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As wise as any of the aldermen,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He’d wit enough to make a mayor at ten.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Beattie has hardly been able to invent a +more striking picture of his minstrel than is +exhibited of Chatterton in a letter written by +his sister, last year, to a gentleman who +desired her to recollect every circumstance +concerning him, however trifling it might +seem to her. The letter is lent to me, with +many charges of care. Pray be careful of it. +In transcribing it, you will naturally preserve +the false spelling and stops. Let Chatterton’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>sister tell her own story in her own way. The +anxiety shown in this letter to prove “he was +a lover of truth from the earliest dawn of reason,” +is owing to what these two poor women +(the mother and sister) have heard about +deceit, imposter and <i>forgery</i>. For Chatterton’s +sake the English language should add another +word to its dictionary; and should not suffer +the same term to signify a crime for which a +man suffers the most ignominious punishment, +and the deception of ascribing a false antiquity +of two or three centuries to compositions, +for which the author’s name deserves +to live for ever. Suffer me to ask what the +prudery of our critics would have said had +the song to Ælla, or the chorus to Godwin, +been produced by Mr. Warton’s nephew, or +by a relation of Mr. Walpole? Should we +then have been stunned in this manner with +repetitions of imposter and forgery? The +sins of the forgery and the imposter would +then have been boasted by the child’s most +distant relations, unto the third and fourth +generations. Is lady A. L. accused of <i>forgery</i> +for her “Auld Robin Gray?” Is Macpherson’s +name mentioned in the same sentence with +this unfeeling word <i>forgery</i>, even by those +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>who believe Macpherson and Ossian to be +the same? “When a rich man speaketh,” +says the son of Sirach (you see I have not +taken orders in vain), “every man holdeth +his tongue: and lo! what he says is extolled +to the clouds: but if a poor man speak, they +say, ‘What fellow is this?’”</p> + +<p>A gentleman, who saw these two women +last year, declares that, in his opinion, they +might easily have been persuaded that injured +justice demanded their lives at Tyburn, for +being the mother and sister of him who was +suspected to have <i>forged</i> the poems of Rowley. +Such terror had the humanity of certain curious +enquirers impressed upon their minds, +by worrying them to declare the truth, the +whole truth, and nothing but the truth about +the <i>forgery</i>. Strange-fated Chatterton! Hadst +thou possessed fewer and less eminent +abilities, the world would now give thee +credit for more and for greater.</p> + +<p>With regard to the fact, the mother and +sister, either believe, or pretend to believe, +that all Rowley’s poems came out of the old +chest in the church. The case is, not one of +the three knows anything of the matter. Most +readily I admit that, if Chatterton be an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>impostor (<i>i.e.</i>, the wonderful human being I +firmly believe him), he imposed upon every +soul who knew him. This, with me, is one +trait of his greatness.</p> + +<p>It has been thought that murders and other +crimes are pointed out to discovery by the +finger of Providence. But “God’s revenge +against murder” is, in fact, only the sociableness +of man’s disposition. That we may +have been wisely formed for this purpose, +among others, I do not deny. But Tyburn +would see fewer executions were man a less +sociable animal. It is not good for him to +be alone. Joy or sorrow, villainy or otherwise, +<i>we must have society, we must communicate it</i>. +Man, in spite of grammar, is a noun adjective. +Does any one admire Junius for saying that +his secret should die with him, and for keeping +his word? But this was only saying he +would not enlarge the circle of those to whom +his secret was already known, for that he was, +as he says, “the sole depositary of his own +secret,” I cannot think.</p> + +<p>The original letters are clearly written in a +female hand. But Junius is now known.</p> + +<p>Let any man, at any time of life, make an +experiment of not communicating to a single +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>individual, during twelve months, a single +scheme, a single prospect, a single circumstance +respecting himself. Let him try how +it is to lock up everything, trifling or serious, +sad or merry, within his own solitary breast. +There are easier tasks. This boy did it during +his whole life.</p> + +<p>Very few such men as John the Painter⁠<a id="FNanchor_13_13" href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[*]</a> +have appeared in the world, from whom his +secret was only stolen by the traitorous hand +of friendship. No such human being as this +boy, at any period of life, has ever been +known, or possibly ever will be known. The +Spartan lad was far inferior, and that was the +effect of education. Psalmanazar and D’Eon +are not to be compared with him. That, +at his timid and sociable age, when other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>children are almost afraid to be left alone, +Chatterton should wrap his arms round him, +stand aloof from the whole world, and never +lean upon a single individual for society in +his schemes (in schemes, too, neither odious +nor criminal), is with me almost more wonderful +than the schemes which I firmly believe +him, without any assistance, to have planned +and executed. It shall make a trait in the +character of a general, if he have strength of +mind enough not to communicate his plans +to his first favourite, till the communication is +no longer dangerous. Shall not a boy of +eighteen, of seventeen, of <i>sixteen</i>, have merit +for secrecy much more singular?</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_13_13" href="#FNanchor_13_13" class="label">[*]</a> Do not smile at my lugging in John the Painter +till you consider how it applies. His secrecy was +wonderful, yet less wonderful that Chatterton’s in +exact proportion as his secret was more criminal, +and more nearly concerned his life. But you will +not deny it to be <i>odd</i>, what I know for a fact, that +among his papers were some observations on +Rowley’s poems. If they have not been destroyed, +they might surely be published. They could not +endanger our dockyards, though written by John the +Painter. Cannot you give a hint of this kind, some +day, at your house? Most probably <i>he</i> has them.</p></div> + +<p>In one part of the sister’s letter, you will +not fail to recollect Dryden, who speaks of +the alliance between understanding and +madness. I am sure that “Love and Madness” +are near relations.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“Conscious, of my own inability’s to write +to a man of letters. And reluctant to engage +in the painful recollection of the particulars +of the life of my poor deceased brother. +Together with the ill-state of health I’ve +enjoyed since it has been required of me, are +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>Sir, the real causes of my not writing sooner. +But I am invited to write as to a friend, inspired +with the sacred name, I will forget the +incorrectness of my epistle and proceed.</p> + +<p>“My brother very early discover’d a thurst +for preheminence, I remember before he was +5 years old he would always preside over +his play mates as their master and they his +hired servants. He was dull in learning not +knowing many letters at 4 years old, and +always objected to read in a small book. He +learnt the Alphabet from an old Folio musick +book of father’s my mother was then tearing +up for waste paper, the capitals at the beginning +of the verses. I assisted in teaching +him. I recollect nothing remarkable till he +went into the school, which was in his 8th +year. Excepting his promising my mother +and me a deal of finery when he grew up as +a reward of her care. About his 10th year +he began (with the trifle my mother allowed +him for pocket money) to hire books from +the circulating library and we were informed +by the usher made rapid progress in arithmetick. +Between his 11th and 12th year +he wrote a caterlogue of the books he had +read to the number of 70. History and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>divinity were the chief subjects, his school +mates informed us he retired to read at the +hours allotted for play. At 12 years old +he was confirmed by the bishop, he made +very sencible serious remarks on the awfullness +of the ceremony and his own feelings +and convictions during it. Soon after this in +the week he was door-keeper he made some +verses on the last day, I think about 18 +lines, paraphrased the 9 chapter of Job +and not long after some chapters in Isaiah. +He had been gloomy from the time he began +to learn, but we remark’d he was more cheerfull +after he began to write poetry. Some +saterical peicis we saw soon after. His intimates +in the school were but few and they +solid lads and except the next neighbour’s +sons I know of none acquaintance he had +out. He was 14 the 20th of Novr. and +bound apprentice the 1st of July following. +Soon after his apprenticeship he corresponded +with one of his school mates that had +been his bedfellow, and was I believe bound +to a merchant at New York. He read a +letter at home that he wrote to his friend, a +collection of all the hard words in the English +language, and requested him to answer it. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>He was a lover of truth from the earlyest +dawn of reason, and nothing would move +him so much as being bely’d. When in the +school we were informed by the usher, his +master depended on his verasity on all occations. +Till this time he was remarkably +indifferent to females, one day he was remarking +to me the tendency sever study had to +sour the temper and declared he had always +seen all the sex with equal indifference but +those that nature made dear, he thought of +makeing an acquaintance with a girl in the +neighbourhood, supposeing it might soften +the austerity of temper study had ocationed, +he wrote a poem to her and they commenced +corrisponding acquaintance. About this time +the parchments belonging to my father that +was left of covering his boys books, my +brother carried to the office. He would +often speak in great raptures of the undoubted +success of his plan for future life. He was +introduced to Mr. Barret, Mr. Catcot, his +ambition increas’d daily. His spirits was +rather uneven. Some time so gloom’d that +for many days together he would say very +little and that by constraint. At other times +exceeding chearfull. When in spirits he would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>injoy his rising fame. Confident of advancement +he would promise my mother and me +should be partakers of his success. Mr. +Barret lent him many books on surgery and +I believe he bought many more as I remember +to have packt them up to send to him when +in London and no demand was ever made +for them. About this time he wrote several +saterical poems. One in the papers of Mr. +Catcot’s putting the pewter plates in St. +Nicholas tower. He began to be universally +known among the young men. He had +many cap acquaintance but I am confident +but few intimates. At about 17, he +became acquainted with Mr. Clayfield, distiller +in Castle-street, who lent him many books +on astronomy. Mr. Cator likewise assisted +him with books on that subject, from thence +he applyd himself to that study. His hours +in the office was from 8 in the morning to +8 in the evening. He had little of his +masters business to do. Sometimes not 2 +hours in the day, which gave him an opportunity +to pursue his genius. He boarded +at Mr. Lambert’s, but we saw him most +evenings before 9 o’clock and would in +general stay to the limits of his time which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>was 10 o’clock. He was seldom 2 evenings +together without seeing us. I had almost +forgotten to add, we had heard him frequently +say that he found he studied best towards +the full of the moon and would often sit up +all night and write by moon light. A few +months before he left Bristol he wrote letters +to several booksellers in London I believe +to learn if there was any probability of his +getting an employment there but that I +cannot affirm as the subject was a secret at +home. He wrote one letter to Sir Horace +Warpool, and except his corrispondence with +Miss Rumsey, the girl I before mentioned, +I know of no other. He would frequently +walk the colledge green with the young girls +that statedly paraded there to show their +finery. But I really believe he was no +debauchee (tho some have reported it), +the dear unhappy boy had faults enough I +saw with concern. He<a id="tn-016"></a> was proud and exceedingly +impetious but that of venality he could +not be accused justly with. Mrs. Lambert +informed me not 2 months before he left +Bristol, he had never been once found out of +the office in the stated hours as they frequently +sent the footman and other servants +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>there to see.<a id="tn-017"></a> Nor but once stayd out till +11 o’clock; then he had leave, as we +entertained some friends at our house at +Christmas.</p> + +<p>“Thus Sir have I given you, as before +the great searcher of hearts the whole truth +as far as my memory have been faithful the +particulars of my dear brother. The task +have been painfull, and for want of earlier +recollection much have been nay the greatest +part have been lost. My mother joins with +me in best respects which conclude me.</p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 11.5em;">“Sir,</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 9.5em;">“Your very humble servant,</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 15.0em;">“<span class="smcap">Mary Newton</span>.</span><br> + “<span class="smcap">Bristol, Somersetshire Square</span>,<br> + <span style="margin-left: 8.0em;">“<i>Sept. 22, 1778</i>.”</span> +</p> + +<p>Chatterton remained in the attorney’s +office at Bristol till April 1770. The life +he led there you may collect from Mrs. +Newton’s letter. In addition to that, she +and her mother relate that his Sundays were +generally spent in walking alone into the +country round Bristol, as far as the day would +allow his return before night. From these +excursions he never failed to bring home +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>with him drawings of churches, or of something +which had struck him. That he had +a turn of drawing you will see by the figure +of a warrior (perhaps Ælla) presenting a +church on his knee, which shall accompany +this letter (and you are now a judge of +drawing, you know). It was one of his first +attempts.</p> + +<p>But any single self-acquired accomplishment +ceases to surprise, when we recollect +his other acquisitions of heraldry, architecture, +music, astronomy, surgery, &c. Our +surprise has been long since called forth. +Had Chatterton, without any instruction but +reading, writing, and accounts, <i>before he was +18</i>, arrived at the ability of <i>only</i> putting together, +in prose or in verse, something which +was deemed worth insertion in the most +worthless magazine, it would have been surprising. +What master would not be astonished +to discover such a talent in a servant (grown +grey in the acquisition of it) who had only +learnt to read and write? Stephen Duck, +and others, have been lifted to independence, +to wealth, for little more. The author of our +existence can alone determine to what He +has made his creatures equal.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> + +<p>That Chatterton should acquire particular +things, without instruction, is not singular, +since it was with him a favourite maxim that +man was equal to <i>anything</i> and that <i>everything</i> +might be acquired by diligence and +abstinence. Was anything of this sort +mentioned in his hearing? All boy as he +was, he would only observe that the person +in question merited praise; but that God +had sent His creatures into the world with +arms long enough to reach anything, if they +would be at the trouble of extending them. +This idea he could not but feel confirmed by +what he knew of a Mr. Burgum (I think), +Mr. Catcott’s partner, who taught himself +Latin and Greek.</p> + +<p>How very strongly the idea, that a human +being may accomplish anything, had taken +possession of Chatterton. He desires his sister +to improve herself in copying music, drawing, +and <i>everything which requires genius</i>; +as if genius were no less common to man +and woman than a pair of eyes or a nose. +He gave all his fellow-creatures credit for +what he felt so plainly himself.</p> + +<p>When Voltaire tells us, in his history of +Charles XII., that on such a day he quitted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>Stockholm, <i>to which he never returned</i>, we +are interested enough, even in such a savage, +to feel something like concern. In April +1770 Chatterton quitted Bristol (from which +place he never had before been absent +further than he could walk in half a Sunday, +and to which place <i>he never returned</i>), to try +his fortune in London.</p> + +<p>He lodged first at Shoreditch, afterwards +(when his employment made it necessary for +him to frequent public places, I suppose) +in Brook Street, Holborn. The man and +woman where he first lodged are still living +in the same house. He is a plaisterer. They +and their nephew, niece, and Mrs. Ballance, +who lodged in the house, and desired them +to let Chatterton (her relation) lodge there +also. The little collected from them you +shall have in their own words. But the life +he led did not afford them any opportunities +to observe him, could they have imagined +that such a being was under the same roof +with them, or that they would be asked for +their observations upon him, after an interval +of so many years. Mrs. Ballance says he +was as proud as Lucifer. He very soon +quarrelled with her for calling him “Cousin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span><i>Tommy</i>,” and asked her if she ever heard of +a poet’s being called <i>Tommy?</i> But she +assured him she knew nothing of poets, and +only wished he would not set up for a +gentleman. Upon her recommending it to +him to get into some office, when he had +been in town two or three weeks, he stormed +about the room like a madman, and frightened +her not a little by telling her, he hoped, with +the blessing of God, very soon to be sent +prisoner to the Tower, which would make his +fortune. He would often look steadfastly in +a person’s face without speaking, or seeming +to see the person, for a quarter of an hour or +more, till it was quite frightful, during all +which time (she supposes, from what she has +since heard) that his thoughts <i>were gone about +something else</i>. When Beckford died, he was +perfectly frantic, and out of his mind, and +said he was ruined. He frequently said he +should settle the nation before he had done; +but how could she think her poor cousin +Tommy was so great a man as she now finds +he was? His mother should have written +word of his greatness, and then, to be sure, +she would have humoured the gentleman +accordingly. Mr. Walmsley saw nothing of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>him, but that there was something manly +and pleasing about him, and that he did not +dislike the wenches. Mrs. Walmsley’s account +is that she never saw any harm of him, that he +never <i>mislisted</i> her; but was always very +civil whenever they met in the house by +accident; that he would never suffer the +room, in which he used to read and write, to +be swept, because, he said, poets hated +brooms; that she told him she did not anything +that <i>poet folks</i> were good for, but to +sit in a dirty cap and gown in a garret, and +at last to be starved; that, during the nine +weeks he was at her house, he never stayed +out after the family hours, except once, when +he did not come home all night, and had +been, she heard, <i>poeting</i> a song about the +streets. The night, Mrs. Ballance says, she +knows he lodged at a relation’s; Mr. Walmsley’s +house was shut up when he came home.</p> + +<p>The niece says, for her part, she always +took him more for a mad boy than anything +else, he would have such flights and <i>vagaries</i>; +that, but for his face, and her knowledge of +his age, she should never have thought him +a boy, he was so manly, <i>and so much himself</i>; +that no women came after him, nor did she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>know of any connection; but still that he +was a sad rake, and terribly fond of women, +and would sometimes be saucy to her; that +he ate what he chose to have with his relation +(Mrs. B.) who lodged in the house, but he +never touched meat, and drank only water +and seemed to live on the air.</p> + +<p>The niece adds that he was good-tempered, +and agreeable, and obliging, but sadly proud +and haughty; nothing was too good for him, +nor was anything too good for his grandmother, +&c., at a time when she (the niece) +knew he was almost in want; that he used +to sit up almost all night, reading and writing, +and that her brother said he was afraid to lie +with him; for, to be sure, he was a <i>spirit</i>, +and never slept; for he never came to bed +until it was morning, and then, for what he +saw, never closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>The nephew (Chatterton’s bedfellow, during +the first six weeks he lodged there) says, that, +notwithstanding his pride and haughtiness, +it was impossible to help liking him; that he +lived chiefly upon a bit of bread, or a tart, +and some water, but he once or twice saw +him take a sheep’s tongue out of his pocket; +that Chatterton, to his knowledge, never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>slept while they lay together; that he never +came to bed until very late, sometimes three +or four o’clock, and was always awake when +he (the nephew) waked, and got up at the +same time, about five or six; that almost +every morning the floor was covered with +pieces of paper not so big as sixpences, into +which he had torn what he had been writing +before he came to bed. In short, they all +agree that no one would have taken him, +from his behaviour, &c., to have been a poor +boy of seventeen, and a sexton’s son: they +never saw such another person before nor +since—he appeared to have something wonderful +about him. They say he gave no +reason for quitting their house. They found +the floor of his room covered with little +pieces of paper, the remains of his <i>poeting</i>, +as they term it.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Deep thought oft seem’d to fix his infant eye.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dainties he heeded not, not gaude, nor toy,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And now his look was most demurely sad;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And now he laugh’d aloud, yet none knew why.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The neighbours stared and sigh’d, yet bless’d the lad</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Some deem’d him wondrous wise, and some believ’d him mad.<a id="tn-018"></a></i></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Angel, to whose house he removed +from Shoreditch, I have in vain endeavoured +repeatedly to find out. A person in distressed +circumstances, as I understand her to be, is +slow to believe that an inquiry after her hiding-place +is only set on foot by the curiosity of +honest enthusiasm. Little versed in the history +of mankind, she cannot imagine how any one +can be curious or concerned about a person, +so many years after his death, for whom in +his lifetime no one cared a farthing. Every +stranger is to her imagination a bailiff in disguise. +In every hasty tread she hears “the +monster Bumbailiano, keeper of the dark +and black cave.” Poor hunted animal! If +thou wert kind to Chatterton; if, by thy +charitable means, his young hairs were brought +down with somewhat less of sorrow to the +grave, never may the monster lay his cruel +paw upon thy shoulder!</p> + +<p>Could Mrs. Angel be found, much might +not be learnt from her short knowledge of +Chatterton, for he remained nine weeks in +Shoreditch—at least, not much more, perhaps, +than has been gotten from Mrs. Walmsley +and her family. Mrs. Wolfe, a barber’s wife, +within a few doors of the house in which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>Mrs. Angel lived, remembers him, and +remembers his death. She speaks also of +his proud and haughty spirit, and adds, that +he appeared both to her and Mrs. Angel as +if he were born for something great. Mrs. +Angel told her, after his death, that, as she +knew he had not eaten anything for two or +three days, she begged he would take some +dinner with her on the 24th of August; but +he was offended at her expressions, which +seemed to hint that he was in want, and +assured her he was not hungry.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hath felt the influence of malignant star,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wag’d with fortune an eternal war!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Check’d by the scoff of pride, and envy’s frown,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And poverty’s unconquerable bar,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In life’s low vale remote hath pin’d alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown</i>!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Such was the short and incredible life of +Thomas Chatterton. Over his death, for the +sake of the world (he is out of the reach of +our pity or concern), I would willingly draw a +veil. But this must not be. They who are +in a condition to patronise merit, and they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>who feel a consciousness of merit which is +not patronised, may form their own resolutions +from the catastrophe of his tale: those, +to lose no opportunity of befriending genius; +these, to seize every opportunity of befriending +themselves; and, upon no account, to +harbour the most distant idea of quitting the +world, however it may be unworthy of them, +lest despondency should at last deceive them +into so unpardonable a step. Chatterton, as +appears by the coroner’s inquest, swallowed +arsenic in water on the 24th of August, 1770, +and died in consequence thereof the next +day. He was buried in a shell in the burying-ground +of Shoe-land workhouse. His +taking such a rash and unjustifiable step is +almost as strange as his fathering his poems +upon Rowley. That he should have been +driven to it by <i>absolute</i> want (though I do not +say it was <i>not</i> so) is not very possible, since +he never indulged himself in meat and drank +nothing but water. The coroner has no +minutes of the melancholy business, and is +unable to recall any of the circumstances at +this distance of time to his memory. The +witnesses before the inquest, as appears by his +memorandum, were Frederick Angel, Mary +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>Foster, and William Hamsley, none of whom +I have been able to find out. That his +despair should fix on August, that it should +not have staid at least till the gloomier +months of winter, must surprise those who +are sensible of the influence of such a climate +as ours. Recollecting what Mrs. Newton +says of the effect which the moon had upon +her brother, I searched for the moon’s +changes in August 1770. Much cannot be +presumed from them. The moon was at the +full on the 6th, and in the last quarter the +14th. The 20th, at eleven at night, there +was a new moon. The fatal day was the +24th. But who can bear to dwell upon, or +argue about, the self-destruction of such a +being as Chatterton? The motives for everything +he did are past finding out.</p> + +<p>His room, when it was broke open after +his death, was found, like the room he quitted +at Mrs. Walmsley’s, covered with little scraps +of paper. What a picture he would have +made, with the fatal cup by his bedside, +destroying plans of future Ællas and Godwins, +and of unfinished books of The Battle +of Hastings? M. I have had the (call it +what you will) to spend half an hour in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>room. It was half an hour of most exquisite +sensations. My visit of devotion was paid +in the morning, I remember; but I was not +myself again all day. To look round the +room; to say to myself, here stood his bed; +there the poison was set; in that window he +loitered for some hours before he retired to +his last rest, envying the meanest passenger, +and wishing he could exchange his own feelings +and intellects for their manual powers +and insensibility! Then, abhorrence of his +death, abhorrence of the world, and I know +not how many different and contradictory +but all distracting ideas! Nothing should +tempt me to undergo such another half-hour.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Bristol, stand forth! Too just are even these rhymes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Without a trial to condemn thy crimes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come forward, answer to thy cursed name;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stand, if thou dare, before the bar of fame.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bristol, hold up thine hand, that damned hand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which scatters misery over half the land,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The land of Genius!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>We come now to the question of most +difficulty, but of least consequence. What +could induce Chatterton to lay such a plan? +Was it the credit of imposing upon the world, +which he was determined never to claim, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>since he never owned the imposition? My +answer is, that I neither know nor care; and +the conjectures of the <i>rustiest fellow</i> of the +Antiquarian Society cannot give an answer +much more to the purpose. Are the motives +of men’s and women’s conduct so plain that +he who runs may read them? How much +less obvious are we to expect the motives of +a boy’s conduct? Chatterton, with some, +with many things about him, superior to +most, to all men, was still but a boy. +Though he did see seventeen before his +death, he must have been <i>literally</i> a boy +when he laid the foundation of his plans. If +Macpherson and Ossian be the same, if +Chatterton thought them to be the same, +Chatterton is an original in poetry only, not +in suppositiousness. Good men are satisfied +with the applause of their own consciences, +and scatter charity with the invisible hand of +bounty. May not great men be formed in +the same mould? May not obscurity appear +to enlarge an ideal as well as a real object? +God would, perhaps, be something less of +God were He visible. But, as I said, I +neither know nor care what was Chatterton’s +motive.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<p>Am I still asked for it? Like many a +man in conversation, I will get off by telling +a story. D’Alembert, in his pamphlet upon +the destruction of the Jesuits, relates that +one of the Order, who had spent twenty years +upon a mission in Canada, did not believe +even the existence of a God. Notwithstanding +this, he had, numerous times run +the hazard of his life in defence of that +religion which he preached with success +among the savages. To a friend, who expressed +surprise at the warmth of his zeal, +the missionary observed: “Ah, you have no +idea of the pleasure there is in having 20,000 +men to listen to you, and in persuading them +what you do not believe yourself.”</p> + +<p>By what was the scheme suggested to +Chatterton’s invention? This question, it is, +perhaps, still more impossible to answer, nor +do I pretend to answer it. If you can +ground any conjecture on a few facts I will +mention, so: Psalmanazar died about the +time Chatterton’s scheme was born, and +bequeathed his methodistical memoirs to the +world. Walpole, about the same time, +endeavoured to turn a whole national current +of belief with respect to Richard III., and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>not long before, acknowledged the imposition +he had put upon the public in the +preface to “Otranto.” The Douglas cause +was, about the same time, in high agitation. +Ossian, with Blair’s dissertation, in which +the name of <i>Ælla</i> is mentioned, had not +long made its appearance. “The Concubine,” +in Spenser’s manner, appeared in 1767. +Percy’s “Reliques” had not long been +published. Page xxiv. of the first volume +(second edition, 1767), mention is made +of “Colgrin, son of that <i>Ælla</i> who was +elected King of the Saxons in the room of +Hengist.” Chatterton must have admired +“Hardyknute” (vol. ii. p. 94), which Mrs. +Wardlaw <i>pretended</i> to have found on “shreds +of paper employed for what is called the +bottoms of clues,” and must have seen +through the <i>pretended</i> extract of a letter from +<i>Canton</i> to James Carland, Esq., at the end +of the third volume, which vouches for the +<i>truth</i> of Percy’s <i>Hau Kiou Choaau</i>, there +advertised as <i>translated from the Chinese</i>. +On the 21st of January, 1769, the <i>invisible</i> +Junius printed his first letter. In May 1769, +Mrs. Montague published her Essay on +Shakespeare, from which it is not impossible +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>that Chatterton’s <i>tindery</i> ambition might +catch the fire of rivalry. Farrer’s Essay on +the learning of Shakespeare had appeared +about a twelvemonth. In the wonderful +extent of his reading, Chatterton could not +be ignorant of Parnell’s imposition on Pope, +by means of a pretended Leonine translation +of some of his lines in the Rape of the +Lock, or of Parnell’s Fairy Tale, <i>in the +Ancient English style</i>. Better memories may, +perhaps, recollect other things of this kind. +That Chatterton had Walpole and Ossian in +some measure present to his mind, is manifest +from his fixing upon the same person +(Mr.<a id="tn-019"></a> W.) to introduce Rowley to the world, +whom Macpherson chose for Ossian. And, +surely, to prove Earl Godwin a good man +and true, in spite of history, is much such an +attempt as Mr. Walpole’s concerning Richard. +The first stanza of Canynge’s prologue to +Godwin, is little more than a versification of +the ingenious supposition in the article +<i>Godwin</i>, in the “Biographia Britannica,” and +is rather the language of our <i>distant</i> age, +than of a man writing <i>three hundred years +nearer</i> Godwin, who was not then <i>ungently</i> +treated in <i>so many</i> histories as now.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Whilomme, by pensmen, much ungentle name</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Has upon Godwin Earl of Kent been laid,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thereby bereaving him of faith and fame.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The unforgiving clergymen have said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That he was known to no holy wurche,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But this was all his fault, he gifted not the church.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>It may be said that hardly one of the +schemes which I have mentioned succeeded. +Let me, in my turn, tell what Fontenelle, in +his “Dialogues,” puts into the mouth of the +Russian Pretender. When he is asked how +he dared to assert a claim, for which two or +three impostors had suffered the cruellest +death, he answers, it was upon that very circumstance +he grounded the probability of +passing for a true man and no impostor.</p> + +<p>Of the impossibility to prove imitation I +am well aware. But for intentional imitation +I do not here contend. The originality of +his sublime genius would not have stooped +from its height to imitate any man that ever +existed. By the nature of his plan, the +folding-doors of imitation were effectually +shut against Chatterton. His hands were +tied up from picking and stealing. What +other poet, ancient or modern, except Homer +(and even Homer had his ancients, perhaps), +can produce an octavo volume, in the whole +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>course of which, after a search of some years, +the best and oldest heads are not able to +detect him with certainty more than six or +eight times? And those coincidences must of +course have been the effect more of memory +than design.</p> + +<p>If Chatterton did endeavour to catch the +public by other baits besides genius who can +blame him?</p> + +<p>Ill-fated Chatterton! Why didst thou not +attend to <i>Orestes</i> “On the Poverty of +Authors”? (<i>Town and Country Magazine</i>, +Aug. 1769, p. 399.) How couldst thou imagine +that even thy parts would prevent thy +adding one to his long but faithful list of +the starved children of genius? Could thy +penetrating sight discover no truth in his +borrowed observation, that “We more readily +assist the lame and the blind than a poor +man of genius; for every one is sensibly +affected with the apprehension of blindness +or lameness; but who is in the least +dread of the accidents which attend on +genius?”</p> + +<p>Here let me stop a moment to rescue the +world from blame it does not merit. The +world is not accountable for the death of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>every man of abilities who has perished, +however miserably, in an alehouse, or a prison. +Profligacy and genius, ability and prodigality, +are not, as many imagine, the same things. +But genius too often thinks it necessary to be +profligate, and profligacy often demands to +pass for genius. To behold genius confined +in a prison, or skulking in an alehouse, and +not to lend relief, were infamous, provided +the spectator could be sure he was lending +<i>effectual relief</i>. But if to rescue from one +prison, be only to give an opportunity to +visit another—whose humanity is sturdy +enough to bear such insults even from a +friend or from a child? Churchill reproached +the world with suffering Lloyd to pine in the +Fleet, and Johnson has moistened many an +eye with the sufferings of Savage. But the +world, if it be ever accountable, is only accountable +for the death of such a being as +Chatterton, who (let his enemies or enviers +persist, as they choose, in asserting what they +cannot prove) was not extravagant, was not +profligate, was not unprincipled. All his +profligacy consisted in quitting the attorney’s +office, and penning Ælla—“when he should +have engrossed.” His only extravagance was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>lavishing unnecessary presents upon his +grandmother, mother, and sister, a few shillings, +the earnings of his genius, which might +otherwise, perhaps, have saved him from +starving. Unprinciples belongs to those who +accuse him of crimes without a shadow of +proof.</p> + +<p>One other question remains to be answered. +It may be asked why Chatterton’s own +“Miscellanies” are inferior to Rowley? Let +me ask another question. <i>Are</i> they inferior? +Genius, abilities, application, we <i>may</i> bring +into the world with us; these rare ingredients +<i>may</i> be mixed up in our compositions by the +hand of Nature; but Nature herself cannot +create a human being possest of a complete +knowledge of the world almost the moment +he is born into it. Is the knowledge of the +world, which his “Miscellanies” contain, no +proof of his astonishing quickness in seizing +everything he chose? Is it remembered +when, and at what age, Chatterton for the +first time quitted Bristol, and how few weeks +he lived afterwards? Chatterton’s “Letters” +and “Miscellanies” exhibit an insight into +men, manners, and things, for the want of +which in their writings, authors who have died +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>old men, with more opportunities to know the +world (who could have fewer than Chatterton?) +have been thought to make amends +by other merits.</p> + +<p>Again, in his own character, he painted for +booksellers and bread; in Rowley’s, for fame +and eternity. Why are a boy’s <i>tasks</i> at +school inferior to what he writes for his +amusement? Then it is not impossible that +he might designedly underwrite himself. He +certainly did when he wrote “Ladgate’s +answer to the Song of Ælla.” After all, he +was no modern; the boy was born an +ancient; and he knew mankind well enough +to see that, in the present age, there was a +greater facility of emergence from obscurity +to fame, through the channel of curiosity, +for a monk of the fifteenth century than for +a sexton’s son of the eighteenth. Shame +upon that age, which still persists in bearing +testimony to his knowledge of it!</p> + +<p>With regard to Chatterton’s face and +person, all agree that he was a manly, good-looking +boy, that there was something about +him which instantaneously prepossessed you +in his favour. Mr. Barrett and Mr. Catcott, +as well as all who remember him, speak +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>particularly of his eye. Catcott says he could +never look at it long enough to see what sort +of an eye it was; but it seemed to be a kind +of hawk’s eye, he thinks; you could see his +soul through it. Mr. Barrett says he took +particular notice of his eyes from the nature +of his profession. He never saw such. One +was still more remarkable than the other. +You might see the fire roll at the bottom of +them, as you sometimes do in a black eye, +but never in grey ones, which his were. Mr. +Barrett adds, that he used often to send for +him from the charity school (which is close +to his house) and differ from him in opinion +on purpose to make him earnest, and to see +how wonderfully his eye would strike fire, +kindle, and blaze up....</p> + +<p>So ends what I have to say about Chatterton, +when I shall have just observed that his +<i>innocent</i> imposition on the world is exactly +the story of M. Angelo’s buried statue of +Cupid; and, finally, that Miss More is +oftener boasted of by Bristol, and has +acquired more fame and wealth for an “Ode +to Garrick’s Dog” than Chatterton for all +Rowley’s poems. Prefix to this letter, if +you please, the <i>comforting</i> discovery of Lord +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>Shaftesbury in his “Characteristics,” that +“an ingenious man never starves unknown.” +Such a being as Chatterton should not have +been suffered to starve at all. But <i>comfort</i> +like this is to be expected from “Knights +and Barons.”</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Bards may be Lords, but ’tis not in the cards,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Play as you will, to turn Lords into Bards.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The employment has been of the service +to me that you meant it should. In some +measure I have forgotten myself, and, as +much as it was possible, forgotten my M. +during the hours I have spent upon this +business. If the story be not told as regularly +as it might, the situation of my mind with +regard to you must be my excuse. Besides, +were I cold enough to tell such a tale as +Chatterton’s with as much regularity as I put +a common occurrence upon paper I should +despise myself. All I shall further add is, +that I do not hold out Chatterton as the first +character in the world. An army of Macedonian +and Swedish butchers, indeed, fly +before him; nor does my memory supply me +with any human being who, at such an age, +with such disadvantages, has produced such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>compositions. Under the heathen mythology +superstition and admiration would have +explained all by bringing Apollo upon earth. +Nor would the god ever have descended +with more credit to himself. But, after all, +the world is only indebted to Chatterton for +a few inimitable poems. If barbarity and +fanaticism be suffered to destroy mankind, +genius will write in vain, when there is none +to read. To preserve our fellow-creatures is +still a greater praise than to instruct or amuse +them. Perhaps, all circumstances considered, +the first character that ever existed was +Bartholomew las Casas.</p> + +<p>Let me conclude these tedious sheets of +paper with a most capital subject for a painter, +from Chatterton’s <i>tournament</i>, which you may +add to the subjects I have before suggested +to you. It will surprise you to find how <i>very</i> +modern it is. The advocates to Rowley must +explain this to you, if they can, and if Rowley +has still any advocates; for I do assure you, +as you will find by turning to the poem, that +I have only altered <i>four</i> words, and those +<i>only</i> by changing them for Chatterton’s +words of explanation in his notes to the +poem.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When battle, steaming with new-quicken’d gore,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Bending with spoils and bloody dropping head,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Did the dark wood of ease and rest explore,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Seeking to lie on pleasure’s downy bed—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pleasure, dancing from her wood,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Wreath’d with flowers of eglantine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From his visage wash’d the blood,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hid his sword and gaberdine.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The manner in which you account for the +self-destruction of that most wonderful boy, +Chatterton, is physical, I assure you, as well +as sensible. Tissot, in his “Essay on the +Diseases Incident to Literary Persons,” starts +some ideas very much like yours, only they +are wrapped up in harder words. You shall +see:</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“When the mind, long time occupied, has +forcibly impressed an action upon the brain, +she is unable to repress that forcible action. +The shock continues after its cause; and, +re-acting upon the mind, makes it experience +ideas which are truly delirious: for they no +longer answer to the external impressions of +objects, but to the internal disposition of the +brain, some parts of which are now become +incapable to receive new movements transmitted +to it by the senses.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p>“The brain of Pascal was so vitiated by +passing his life in the laborious exercises of +study, thought, and imagination, that certain +fibres, agitated by incessant motion, made +him perpetually feel a sensation which seemed +to be excited by a gulph of fire situated on +one side of him; and his reason, overpowered +by the disorder of his nerves, could never +banish the idea of this fiery abyss. Spinello +painted the fall of the rebel angels, and gave +so fierce a countenance to Lucifer, that he +was struck with horror himself; and during +the remainder of his life, his imagination was +continually haunted by the figure of that +dæmon, upbraiding him with having made +his portrait so hideous. Gasper Barlæis, the +orator, poet, and physician, was not ignorant +of these dangers. He warned his friend +Hughens against them: but, blind with +regard to himself, by immoderate studies he +so weakened his brain, that he thought his +body was made of butter, and carefully +shunned the fire, lest it should melt him; +till at last, worn out with his continual fears, +he leapt into a well. Peter Jurieu, so famous +in theological dispute, and for his “Commentary +on the Apocalypse,” disordered his brain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>in such a manner that, though he thought +like a man of sense in other respects, he was +firmly persuaded his frequent fits of the +cholic were occasioned by a constant engagement +between seven horsemen, who were +shut up in his belly. There have been many +instances of literature persons who thought +themselves metamorphosed into lanterns; +and who complained of having lost their +thighs.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>No one can deny that Chatterton must +have gone through as much wear and tear of +the imagination as any person whom Tissot +mentions. But I would give a good deal, +were it possible for me never again to think +about Chatterton, or about his death, as long +as I live, for I never do without being +miserable.</p> + +<p>What you let fall about the propensity of +the English to suicide, is not true; though a +very popular idea. And yet I will relate to +you, in the words of another person, an +instance of English suicide much more cool +and deliberate than any you ever heard, I +daresay. It is a fact, and happened in 1732.</p> + +<p>Richard Smith, a bookbinder, and prisoner +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>for debt within the liberties of the King’s +Bench, persuaded his wife to follow his +example, in making away with herself, after +they had murdered their little infant. This +wretched pair were, in the month of April, +found hanging in their bedchamber at about +a yard’s distance from each other; and in a +separate apartment the child lay dead in a +cradle. They left two papers inclosed in a +short letter to their landlord, whose kindness +they implored in favour of their dog and cat. +They even left money to the porter, who +should carry the inclosed papers to the person +to whom they were addressed. In one of +these the husband thanked that person for +the marks of friendship he had received at +his hands; and complained of the ill-offices +he had undergone from a different quarter. +The other papers, subscribed by the husband +and wife, contained the reasons which induced +them to act such a tragedy on themselves and +their offspring. This letter was altogether +surprising for the calm resolution, the good +humour, and the propriety, with which it was +written. They declared that they withdrew +themselves from poverty and rags; evils that, +through a train of unlucky accidents, were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>become inevitable. They appealed to their +neighbours for the industry with which they +had endeavoured to earn a livelihood. They +justified the murder of their child by saying, +it was less cruelty to take her with them, than +to leave her friendless in the world, exposed +to ignorance and misery. They professed +their belief and confidence in an Almighty +God, the fountain of goodness and beneficence, +who could not possibly take delight +in the misery of His creatures: they therefore, +resigned up their lives to Him without any +terrible apprehensions; submitting themselves +to those ways, which, in His goodness, He +should appoint after death. These unfortunate +suicides had been always industrious +and frugal, invincibly honest, and remarkable +for conjugal affection.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>This tragedy I have shown you, because +I think France, lively France, in whose +language suicide is an <i>Anglicism</i>, can supply +me with an anecdote as authentic of something +still more cool and more deliberate, +since the motives to the crime (to which no +motive can be sufficiently strong) were so +much weaker.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<p>On the day before Christmas Day, 1773, +about eleven o’clock, two soldiers came to +the Cross-Bow Inn, at St. Dennis, and ordered +a dinner. Bordeaux, one of the soldiers, +went out and bought a little paper of powder +and a couple of bullets, observing to the +person who sold them to him, that as St. +Dennis seemed to be so pleasant a place, he +should not dislike to spend the remainder of +his life there. Returning to the inn, he and +his companion passed the day together very +merrily. On Christmas Day they again dined +as merrily, ordered wine, and about five +o’clock in the afternoon were found at the +fire, on breaking open the door, sitting on +the opposite sides of a table, whereon were +three empty champaign bottles, the following +will and letter, and a half-crown. They were +both shot through the head; two pistols lay +upon the floor. The noise of the pistols +brought up the people of the house, who +immediately sent for M. de Rouilleres, the +Commandant <a id="tn-020"></a> of the <i lang="fr">Maréchaussée</i> at St. +Dennis.</p> + +<p>The will I translated myself from a formal +copy, which was taken for a friend of mine at +St. Dennis in 1774.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p> + + +<p class="salutation center">The Will.</p> + +<p>A man, who knows he is to die, should +take care to do everything which his survivors +can wish him to have done. We are more +particularly in that situation. Our intention +is to prevent uneasiness to our host, as well +as to lighten the labours of those whom +curiosity, under pretence of form and order, +will bring hither to pay us visits.</p> + +<p>Humain is the bigger, and I, Bourdeaux, +am the lesser of the two.</p> + +<p>He is drum-major of <i lang="fr">mestre de camp des +dragons</i>, and I am simply a dragoon of +Belzunce.</p> + +<p>Death is a passage I address to the gentleman +of the law of St. Dennis (who, with his +first clerk as assistant, must come hither for +the sake of justice) the principle; which, +joined to the reflexion that everything must +have an end, put these pistols into our hands. +The future presents nothing to us but what is +agreeable. Yet that future is short and must +end.</p> + +<p>Humain is but twenty-four years of age; +as for me, I have not yet completed four +lustres. No particular reason forces us to +interrupt our career, except the disgust we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>feel at existing for a moment under the continual +apprehension of ceasing to exist. An +eternity is the point of re-union; a longing-after +which leads us to prevent the despotic +act of fate. In fine, disgust of life is our sole +inducement to quit it.</p> + +<p>If all those who are wretched would dare +to divest themselves of prejudice, and to look +their destruction in the face, they would see +it is as easy to lay aside existence as to throw +off an old coat, the colour of which displeases. +The proof of this may be referred to our +experience.</p> + +<p>We have enjoyed every gratification in life, +even that of obliging our fellow-creatures. +We could still procure to ourselves gratifications: +but all gratifications must have a +period. That period is our poison. We are +disgusted at the perpetual sameness of the +scene. The curtain is dropped: and we +leave our parts to those who are weak enough +to feel an inclination to play them a few hours +longer.</p> + +<p>Two or three grains of powder will soon +break the springs of this moving mass of +flesh, which our haughty fellow-creatures stile +the King of Beings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> + +<p>Messrs. the officers of justice, our carcases +are at your discretion! We despise them too +much to give ourselves any trouble about<a id="tn-036"></a> +what becomes of them.</p> + +<p>As to what we shall leave behind, for +myself, Bordeaux, I give to M. de Rouilleres, +commandant of the <i lang="fr">maréchaussée</i> at St. +Dennis, my steel-mounted sword. He will +recollect, that, last year, about this very day, +as he was conducting a recruit, he had the +civility to grant me a favour for a person of +the name of St. Germain, who had offended +him.</p> + +<p>The maid of the inn will take my pocket +and neck handkerchiefs, as well as the silk +stockings which I now have on, and all my +other linen.</p> + +<p>The rest of our effects will be sufficient to +pay the expense of the useless law proceedings +of which we shall be the subject.</p> + +<p>The half crown upon the table will pay for +the last bottle of wine which we are going to +drink.</p> +</div> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 15.5em;"><span class="smcap">Bourdeaux.</span></span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 15.5em;"><span class="smcap">Humain.</span></span><br> + <br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">At <span class="smcap">St. Dennis</span>, <i>Christmas Day, 1773</i>.</span> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> +<div class="indent1"> +<p>Of the following letter from Bordeaux to +his lieutenant in the regiment of Belzunce, I +have not seen the French; I cannot therefore +answer for the translation, which does not +appear to have been done carefully. Another +friend supplied me with it. You shall have +it as I had it from him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="indent3"> + “<span class="smcap">Sir</span>, +</p> + +<p>“During my residence at Guise, you +honoured me with your friendship. It is +time that I thank you. You have often told +me I appeared displeased with my situation. +It was sincere, but not absolutely true. I +have since examined myself more seriously, +and acknowledge myself entirely disgusted +with every state of man, the whole world, +and myself. From these discoveries a consequence +should be drawn: if disgusted with +the whole, renounce the whole. The calculation +is not long. I have made it without +the aid of geometry. In short, I am on the +point of putting an end to the existence that +I have possessed for nearly twenty years, +fifteen of which it has been a burden to me; +and, from the moment that I write, a few +grains of powder will destroy this moving +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>mass of flesh, which we vain mortals call the +King of Beings.</p> + +<p>“I owe no one an excuse. I deserted, +that was a crime; but I am going to punish +it; and the law will be satisfied.</p> + +<p>“I asked leave of absence from my +superiors, to have the pleasure of dying at my +ease. They never condescended to give me +an answer. This served to hasten my end.</p> + +<p>“I wrote to Bord to send you some +detached pieces I left at Guise, which I beg +you to accept. You will find they contain +some well-chosen literature. These pieces will +solicit for me a place in your remembrance.</p> + +<p>“Adieu, my dear lieutenant; continue +your esteem for St. Lambert and Dorat. As +for the rest, skip from flower to flower, and +acquire the sweets of all knowledge, and +enjoy every<a id="tn-021"></a> pleasure.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><span lang="fr">“Pour moi, j’arrivé au trou</span></div> + <div class="verse indent1"><span lang="fr">Qui n’échappe ni sage ni fou,</span></div> + <div class="verse indent1"><span lang="fr">Pour aller je ne scais où.”</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>“If we exist after this life, and it is forbidden +to quit it without permission, I will +endeavour to procure one moment to inform +you of it; if not, I should advise all those +who are unhappy, which is by far the greatest +part of mankind, to follow my example.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span></p> + +<p>“When you receive this letter, I shall have +been dead at least twenty-four hours.”</p> + +<p> + “With esteem, &c.,<br> + <span style="margin-left: 7.0em;">“<span class="smcap">Bourdeaux</span>.”</span> +</p> + +<p>Is there any thing like this in English story?</p> + +<p><i>If we exist after this life.</i> Ah, my brave +Bourdeaux, that is the question; and a +question which even you could not answer +in the <i>negative</i>.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2">... There’s the retrospect</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That makes calamity of so long life,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For who would bear the whips and scorns o’ th’ time,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>The pangs of despised love</i>,</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>(Which I could never bear.)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2">... The law’s delay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The insolence of office, and the spurns</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which patient merit of th’ unworthy takes?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But that the dread of something after death</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Puzzles the will,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And makes us rather bear those ills we have,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Than fly to others that we know not of.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The pains these two poor fellows took (or +rather Bourdeaux, for he seems to have been +the principal) to prevent any trouble or uneasiness +to their survivors, lead me to reflect +how very uniformly the contrary is the conduct +of suicides with us. One would sometimes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>almost fancy that they studied how they +might commit the abominable crime so as to +be found by those whom the discovery would +most affect. Have they wives, children? It +must be done sometimes in their presence, in +bed with them; often in their hearing; almost +always in such a manner that they may be the +first spectators of it. Mr. Y., Lord F., +Mr. S., Lord C., Mr. B., are cruel instances +of this. Oh, for Omnipotence, to call such +savages back to life, and chain them to the +hardest tasks of existence! Is not the crime +of suicide sufficient, without adding to it the +<i>murder</i>, or a heartbroken wife or child? +Hence you may, perhaps, draw an argument +that every suicide is a madman. For my +part, I have no doubt of it; and if Humain +had fallen into the hands of a friend less mad +than Bourdeaux, he might have lived to have +fought another day.</p> + +<p>And here ends a long, dull letter, about a +short, entertaining conversation (on your part +at least).</p> +</div> + +<p class="center" style="font-size:80%; margin-top: 3em;"> +<i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.</span><br> +<i>London and Edinburgh.</i> +</p> + +<div class="chapter transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak"> + Transcriber’s notes + </h2> +<p> +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public +domain. +</p> +<p> +The text contains words in a somewhat strange spelling. This might be due to it +being older, or the use of dialect. In one letter in particular errors might very +well have been made intentionally: e.g. “sencible”, “ocation”, “corrispondence”, +“verasity” and more. These are not corrected. There are however errors that seem +most probably due to printing errors. These have been corrected. Below is a list. +</p> +<h3> +Corrections +</h3> +<ul> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-007">27</a> “Come then to morrow” changed to “Come then +to-morrow”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-008">29</a> “t” added to “regimen” in “I should be drummed +out of my regiment”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-009">32</a> period instead of comma after “Her yielding +waist should want a zone”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-010">34</a> “’ee” changed to “e’e” in “The woes of my +heart fall in showers from mine e’e”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-022">50</a> “Had the frost and snow contiued” changed to +“Had the frost and snow continued”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-027">52</a> “fellow creature” hyphenated in “The happiness, +the existence of a fellow-creature”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-001">57</a> period added after “Hinchinbrook, Feb. 24, 1776”, +as customary in the rest of the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-025">65</a> “Charing-cross” de-hyphenated in “Cannon Coffee +House, Charing cross, March 17, 1776.”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-026">65</a> “coffee-house” de-hyphenated in “from a coffee +house near Charing Cross”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-032">69</a> “Storgè” changed to “Storgé” in “as Storgé +prophetically says in Jephtha”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-031">89</a> “by-the-way” de-hyphenated in “(which, by the +way, is almost worn out)”, as is customary;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-002">99</a> “afte swinging in terrible suspense” changed to +“after swinging in terrible suspense”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-003">105</a> “new” changed to “knew” in “because they once +knew what it was to be miserable”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-033">106</a> “some some” changed to “some” in “I will send +you some hasty lines”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-004">114</a> comma removed after “April” in “Ireland, April +20, 1777.”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-035">119</a> comma changed to period after “I have been to see the last of poor Dodd”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-011">122</a> “might have been heard at a considerable +disstance” changed to “might have been heard at a considerable distance”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-005">124</a> “weeeping” changed to “weeping” in “are +weeping over the crime and punishment”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-006">133</a> period inserted at the end of the sentence +“One trifling circumstance I must mention”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-012">135</a> hyphen assumed missing in “enquiring”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-013">135</a> comma added after “on entering the world of +spirits”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-014">147</a> period added at the end of the sentence “now +they rage too fiercely”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-024">148</a> “brandy-and-water” de-hyphenated in “at the +Bedford Coffee House to take brandy and water”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-015">165</a> period added after the date in +“Newgate, Saturday Night. April 17, 1779”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-028">173</a> “fellow creatures” hyphenated in “Take +warning from me, my fellow-creatures”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-029">177</a> “fellow creatures” hyphenated in “ye who might +save hundreds of your fellow-creatures”, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-034">185</a> “to day” in “through which these things were to emerge to-day” hyphenated, as elsewhere in the text;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-016">202</a> capital “H” at the beginning of the sentence +“He was proud and exceedingly impetious”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-017">203</a> period added after “sent the footman and +other servants there to see”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-018">210</a> period added at the end of the poem, in the +line “and some believ’d him mad”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-019">219</a> period added after “Mr” in “upon the same +person (Mr. W.)”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-020">233</a> “Commandent of the Maréchaussée at St. Dennis” +changed to “Commandant of the Maréchaussée at St. Dennis”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-036">236</a> one of two occurences of “about” removed from +“to give ourselves any trouble about about what becomes of them.”;</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn-021">238</a> “and enjoy overy pleasure” changed to “and +enjoy every pleasure”.</li> +</ul> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78297 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78297-h/images/cover.jpg b/78297-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7832d60 --- /dev/null +++ b/78297-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78297-h/images/i_title_pic.jpg b/78297-h/images/i_title_pic.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3383e32 --- /dev/null +++ b/78297-h/images/i_title_pic.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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