_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.