at Calais at the Rate of Fifty Livres a Month & upon the 6th Sept.
returned in the same Packet to Dover. That upon his passage back the
Capt. of the Packet said he believed the person who went with the
Examt. to Calais was very glad to be landed, for that he seemed very
uneasy; The Examt. answered may be so, & no other discourse happened
upon the subject.
That the Capt. of the Packet observed that he thought he had seen the
Examt. at Harwych, the Examt. said very likely for that he had passed
from thence to Holland with his master Lord Home during the War.
The Examt. absolutely denies that he passed or attempted to pass for a
King's Messenger, or that he mentioned the name of his Grace the Duke
of Newcastle, nor was his Grace's name mentioned; nor did any
Discourse what so ever pass about Messengers.
That upon his return to London he waited upon Mr. Home to acquaint him
that he had landed Capt. Cranston safe at Calais. Mr. Home expressed
himself very much obliged & assured the Examt. he would represent to
his Brother & Lord Cranston the trouble he had had, & did not doubt
but they would be equally obliged & reward him very well. The Examt.
said he did not expect any reward, that what he had done was out of
gratitude to Lord Home & his family & was very glad he had had it in
his power to oblige them: & the Examt. said the same to Capt. Hamilton
& never kept it a secret from any body, but talked of his having gone
over with Capt. Cranston in common discourse & before anybody.
That the Examt. made out an Acct. of the Expences he had been at &
delivered it to Capt. Hamilton, which amounted, with the money lent,
to eighteen pounds, for which sum Capt. Hamilton gave him a Bill of
exchange upon Ld. Cranston, which Bill the Examt. sent to Scotland to
Lord Cranston, who having kept it near six weeks return'd it unpaid;
and the Examt. has not yet recd. the money.
And lastly the Examt. says that he arrived in England with his Master
at the end of the late War, & has not been out of England since that
time except to Calais with Capt. Cranston as aforesaid.
FRANCIS GROPPTTY
this 3rd Feb., 1752.
Taken upon Oath; before L. Stanhope.
APPENDIX III.
A LETTER FROM A CLERGYMAN TO MISS MARY BLANDY, NOW A PRISONER IN
OXFORD CASTLE; WITH HER ANSWER THERETO. AS ALSO MISS BLANDY'S OWN
NARRATIVE OF THE CRIME FOR WHICH SHE IS CONDEMNED TO DIE.
(No. 3 of Bibliography, Appendix XII.)
(The original copy of this letter, in Miss Blandy's own handwriting,
for the satisfaction of the public, is left with the publisher.)
March 14, 1752.
Reader,--Condemn no person rashly. Thou has already, perhaps, passed
sentence upon this unfortunate. But remember, that God alone knows the
secrets of the heart; and that circumstances spring many times from
motives which it is impossible for man to discover.
The following letter was written to this unhappy lady by a clergyman,[21]
after her receiving sentence of death.
A LETTER TO MISS BLANDY.
March 7, 1752.
Dear Miss,--Had it been at my own option, I never would have chose
to be the least concerned in your unhappy affair; but since divine
providence, without my own seeking, has thought fit to order it
otherwise, I shall, from obligations of compassion and humanity,
offer some things to your serious consideration. Your power of
receiving benefit from my advice, is but of short duration; may God
grant that you may rightly use this. That you believe in God, in the
immortal nature of the soul, in Jesus Christ, and in a future state
of rewards and punishments, I am willing to persuade myself. As to
the unworthy man who has tempted you to your ruin, I have good
grounds to believe him to be an infidel. If he has communicated such
principles to you, to render you more capable of executing his
wicked purposes, your persisting therein will ruin your poor soul
for ever. The moment you enter into that awful state of separation,
you will be eternally convinced of your error. The very devils
believe a God, and tremble.
You will, perhaps, express surprise at my entertaining a doubt of
this nature. What? You that have been so constant at public worship,
that have so frequently participated of the most sacred rite of the
Christian religion, to be thought an infidel? Alas! Miss, externals
are but the husks of piety; they are easy to the hypocrite. The body
may bow down in the house of God, yet the soul do homage to Belial.
God forbid, that this should touch you.
And indeed to be sincere, when on the one hand I view the arguments
of your guilt, and, on the other, behold your strong assertions of
innocence, to the hazarding of the soul, if untrue, I am greatly
perplexed, I know not what to say or believe. The alternative, I
presume, is, you are either a believer and innocent, or an infidel
and guilty. But that holy religion which I profess, obliging me, in
all cases of doubt, to incline to the most charitable construction;
I say, that I am willingly persuaded, that you believe in the above
mentioned truths, and are in some degree innocent.
You have, dear Miss, applied to temporal counsel, with regard to the
determination of your body. They have failed. Your life is forfeited
to justice. You are already dead in the eye of the law. Oh! Miss,
the counsels which my poor understanding gives, is spiritual; may
they be more successful: May God grant that the fate of your soul
may not resemble the fate of your body! May it not perish and die
for ever!
Now, Miss, you must necessarily be in one of these two situations;
you must either be innocent, by not designing to hurt your father;
or you designed to kill your father, and are guilty, and conceal
your guilt for private reasons. Permit me to offer something upon
each of these heads.
If it should be the case, that you are innocently the cause of Mr.
Blandy's death, which Heaven grant! if you harboured not a thought
of injuring your unhappy father, you have the greatest of all
comforts to support you. You may think upon that last and awful
tribunal, before which all the sons of Adam shall appear, and from
which no secret is hid. There will be no injustice. Innocence will
be vindicated. The scheme of Providence will be then unfolded. There
your patience under your sufferings and resignation to the decrees
of Heaven will be rewarded. Your errors and failings God will pity
and have mercy upon; for he remembers whereof we are made. You may
face the ignominious tree with calmness. Death has no stings to
wound innocence. Guilt alone clothes him with terrors (to the guilty
wretch he is terrible indeed!). And at the resurrection, and at the
last day, you will joyfully behold Jesus Christ your Saviour, join
the triumphant multitudes of the blessed, and follow them into the
everlasting mansions of glory.
The other point I am about to speak to, is upon a supposition of
your guilt. God direct me what to say! If you repent, you will be
saved. But what repentance can be adequate to such crimes? O Miss!
your infamous end is a satisfaction due to human laws. But there is
another satisfaction which God expects to be made for such a
dreadful violation of laws divine. Once, Miss, you had two fathers
to provide for and protect you; one by the ties of Nature, the other
by the bonds of grace and religion. And now your earthly parent is
your accuser, and your heavenly one your judge. Both are become your
enemies. Good God! what deep distress is this! where can misery like
this find comfort and relief? O Miss! the only anchor which can
preserve your soul from perishing, is your blessed Saviour. Believe
in Him; whatsoever you ask in His name, believing, God will grant.
For to them that believe, all things are possible. Unburthen your
whole soul. Pour out your fervent prayers to God. Remember, that
infinite mercy is glorified in the vilest sinners. If there are any
accessaries to this horrid crime, discover them. Make all possible
reparation for injuries you have done. Heartily forgive, and pray
for your enemies and more particularly for all concerned in the
Prosecution against you. Detest your sins truly, and resolve to do
so for the time to come, and be in charity with all men. If you
perform these things truly and sincerely, your life, which sets in
gloomy clouds, shame and darkness, may, by the mercies of God, rise
in glory, honour and brightness.
But perhaps, Miss, to your everlasting hazard, you will not confess
your guilt, for some private reasons. And what must these be?
You may possibly then imagine, that if you confess your crime to
God, you are not obliged to confess to the world. Generally speaking
God is the sole confessor of mankind; but your case is a particular
exception to this rule. You will want the assistance of God's
ministers. But how is it possible for you to receive any benefit
from them, if you do not represent to them the true state of your
soul without any disguise? A secret of this nature, smothered in the
breast, is a fire which preys upon, and consumes all quietness and
repose. Consider too the imminent danger of a lie of this nature;
consider the justice due to your accusers, to your judges, and to
the world.
But you will say, confession of my crime cuts off all hope of Royal
Mercy. Dear Miss, do not indulge yourself in such a thought. Prepare
for the worst. Consider how pernicious flattery of this nature is.
Remember that God is only a God of mercy in this; in another life,
he is a God of justice.
I can hardly think that shame has any share in the concealment of
your guilt; for no shame can exceed that which you have already
suffered. Besides, confession is all the amends you can make; and
mankind know experimentally how frail and imperfect human nature is,
and will allow for it accordingly.
And thus, dear Miss, have I wrote to you, with a sincere view to
your everlasting happiness. If during this dismal twilight, this
interval between life and death, I can serve you, command me. The
world generally flies the unfortunate, rejoices in evil, triumphs
over distress; believe me glad to deviate from such inhumanity. As
the offices of friendship which you can receive from me are confined
to such a short period, let them be such as concern your everlasting
welfare. The greatest pleasure I can receive (if pleasure can arise
from such sad potions), will be to hear that you entertain a
comfortable assurance of being happy for ever. Which that you may
be, is the fervent prayer of, etc.
Whether or no this gentleman, in the above letter, has not urged
the matter home to Miss Blandy, is submitted to the judgment of the
public.
Here follows _verbatim_ her answer.
Monday, March 9, 1752.
Reverend Sir,--I did not receive your's till Sunday night late; and
now so ill in body, that nothing but my gratitude to you for all
your goodness could have enabled me to write. I have with great care
and thought often read over your kind advice; and will, as well as
the sad condition I am in will give me leave, speak the truth.
The first and most material to my poor soul is, that I believe in
God the Father, and in His blessed Son Jesus Christ, who, I verily
believe, came into the world to save sinners; and that He will come
again to judge the world; and that we must all give an account in
our own bodies, and receive the reward of a good or ill spent life;
that God is a God of Justice, but of mercy too; and that by
repentance all may be saved.
As to the unworthy man you mention, I never heard finer lessons come
from any one. Had he, Sir, shewn really what he may be (an infidel),
I never should have been so deceived; for of all crimes, that ever
shocked me most. No, Sir, I owe all my miseries to the appearances
of virtue; by that deceived and ruined in this world, but hope
through Christ to be pardoned. I was, and never denied it, the fatal
instrument; but knew not the nature of, nor had a thought those
powders could hurt. Had I not destroyed his letters, all must have
been convinced; but, like all the rest, he commanded, and I obeyed
and burnt them. There is an account, as well as I was able to write,
which I sent to my Uncle in London. That I here send you. God knows
never poor soul wrote in more pain, and I now am not able hardly to
hold my pen. But will not conclude this without explaining the true
state of my mind. As I did not give this fatal powder to kill or
hurt my poor father; I hope God will forgive me, with repentance for
the ill use I have made of that sense he gave me, and not be for
ever angry with me. Death I deserve, for not being better on my
guard against my grand enemy; for loving and relying too much on the
human part. I hope (when all is done that friends can do for me to
save that life which God has given me, and which if to last these
hundred years, would be too short for me to repent, and make amends
for the follies I have committed) I shall have such help from my
God, as to convince my poor friends I die a Christian, and with
hopes of forgiveness through the merits of our Advocate and Mediator
Jesus Christ.
I beg, my dear sir, you will excuse my writing more, and will
believe I am truly sensible of your goodness to me. May God bless
you, sir, and send you happiness here and hereafter. I beg my duty
to my poor uncle; pray him to forgive, and pity, and pray for me. I
beg my tenderest wishes to Mrs. Mounteney; and if she can serve me
with the Bishop of W----[22] or any other, I know she will do it.
Pray comfort poor Ned Hearne, and tell him I have the same
friendship for him as ever. And pray, sir, continue your friendship
and good wishes to,
Reverend Sir,
Your truly affected, Much obliged humble Servant,
MARY BLANDY.
_P.S._--I beg, for very just reasons to myself and friends, that
this letter and papers may soon be returned to me; that is, as soon
as you have done with them. You will oblige me, if you keep a copy
of the letter; but the real letter I would have back, and the real
papers, as being my own handwriting, and may be of service to me, to
my character after my death, and to my family.
There is no occasion of hinting to the judicious reader that in this
letter it is plain that Miss Blandy twice solemnly declares her
innocence.
But let us now proceed to Miss Blandy's own relation of an affair
which has so much engrossed the attention of the public.
Miss Blandy's narrative referred to in the foregoing letter:--
O! Christian Reader!
My misfortunes have been, and are such, as never woman felt before. O!
let the tears of the wretched move human minds to pity, and give ear
to my sad case, here wrote with greatest truth. It is impossible
indeed, in my unhappy circumstances, to recollect half of my
misfortunes, so as to place them in a proper light. Let some generous
breast then do that for the miserable, and God will reward goodness
towards an unhappy, deceived, ruined woman. Think what power man has
over our sex, when we truly love! And what woman, let her have what
sense she will, can stand the arguments and persuasions men will make
use of? Don't think that by this I mean, that I ever was, or could
have been persuaded to hurt one hair of my poor father's head. No;
what I mean is Cranstoun's baseness and art, in making me believe that
those powders were innocent, and would make my father love him. He
gave my father some himself more than a year before he died, and said,
when he gave it him, that he (Cranstoun) had took several papers of it
himself. I saw nothing of any ill effects from these powders on my
father; nor did he complain of any one disorder, more than what he has
ever been subject to above these ten years, the gravel and the
heartburn; but never complained of the heartburn, except when he had
the gravel coming on him; and he never was less afflicted with those
disorders than during the last year of his life, in which he never
took one medicine from his apothecary, as he made oath in Court.
Mr. Cranstoun, soon after he gave these powders to my father, said to
me, do you not see that your father is kinder to me? I now will
venture to tell him, that I cannot get the appeal lodged this Sessions
(meaning his affair in Scotland); upon which he went to my father's
study, and told him. They both came out together in great good humour,
and my father said not one word against my waiting another Sessions.
Mr. Cranstoun came to our house in the beginning of August, or latter
end of July, staid with us some months, and then he said he was
obliged to go for Scotland. My father seemed not pleased with him at
first, but they parted in great friendship, I thought; and I received
a letter from Cranstoun (which is now among my papers) full of respect
and tenderness for my father. But soon after he was gone my father,
who had either heard some ill of him, or was tired of so long an
affair, told me to let Mr. Cranstoun know, that I should wait the next
Sessions; but he must not come to his house till his affairs in
Scotland were settled. I obeyed his commands, and had a letter full of
love, and seeming misery, back in answer to mine; that he found that
he had lost my father's love, and feared he should mine too. He got
his mother and sisters to write to my father, and seemed to do all in
his power to force him to love him.
Some time after this he sent me word, that he had met with his old
friend Mrs. Morgan in Scotland, and that he would get some of those
powders he had before; and begged of me, if I loved him, to give them
to my father; for that they would make him kind to us again in this
affair, and make him stay with patience till the next Sessions; when,
upon his word, the appeal should be lodged. I wrote him back word, I
did not care for doing it, lest it should hurt my father's health. He
wrote me word, that it was quite innocent, and could not hurt him; and
how could I think that he would send any thing to hurt a father of
mine? and that self-interest would be reason enough lor him to take
care of his health.
Now, in this place, I must beg to clear up one thing, that I imagined
my poor father rich, and that Mr. Cranstoun did the same. As to
myself, it is, by all that's good, false. I have often told Mr.
Cranstoun, I knew my father was not worth what the world said; but
that if he lived I did not doubt but he would provide for us and ours,
as his business was so great, and life retired. I then supposed that
Mr. Cranstoun meant, by saying, that his own interests would make him
careful, to refer to such discourse.
Mr. Cranstoun's having then such strong reasons to know how necessary
my father's life must be, and I believing his honour to be so great,
and that his love was still greater; these were the reasons of my not
mistrusting that the powder would hurt my father, if I mixed it with
his tea. It not mixing well, I threw it away, and wrote him word, I
would not try it again, for it would be discovered. This they bring
against me. But is it not, reasonable to imagine, that if any person
was to discover that a powder had been given them, to force them to
love anyone, would not a discovery of this nature produce a very
different effect? Would it not fix resentment? This would have been,
at that time death to me; such was my opinion of Cranstoun, and for
this reason I used the aforesaid words.
But to proceed. On my writing to Mr. Cranstoun, that it would not mix
in tea, he told me to mix it in gruel. I received the powders in June;
but did not put any into his gruel till the 5th of August; when I
fatally obeyed Mr. Cranstoun's orders, and was innocently the
instrument of death, as they say, to the best of fathers; brought
disgrace to my family, and shameful death to myself, unless my hard
case, here truly repented, recommends me to Royal pity, clemency and
compassion. And as I here declare, and as I look upon myself as a
dying woman, I never did design to hurt my father, but thought the
powder innocent, as Cranstoun told me it was. Let me be punished for
my follies, but not lose my life. Sure, it is hard to die for
ignorance, and too good an opinion of a villain! Must the falsities
and malice which I have been pursued with, prevail so far as to take
away my life? O consider my misfortunes, and indeed it will fill your
eyes with tears; you must pity me, and say, never was poor soul so
hardly used. But peace, my heart. I gave my father the powder on
Monday night; on Tuesday he complained. I sent for the apothecary; who
came, and said he would send him some physic. In the evening my father
said he would have some water gruel. I never went out to order this,
and knew not whether it was the same or no as he had on Monday, as
that he drank on Monday was made either on Saturday or Sunday.
However, on the Wednesday my father took physic, and was better; came
all Thursday down into the parlour, as also on Friday; Mr. Norton, by
my desire, all this time attending him very often. And Mr. Norton did
in the Court declare, that I was the person that did send for a
physician, and would have sent before, if thought necessary. When I
found my father so ill, I sent, unknown to him, for Dr. Addington. The
doctor said, he believed he was in great danger. I desired Dr.
Addington to attend him, and come the next day; which he did. On
Monday morning going into my father's room early (for though I never
from his first disorder left him long in the day, yet his tenderness
would not let me sit up all night with him), I was denied to see him.
This so surprised and frightened me, that I cried out, What? Not see
my father? On which I heard my father reply, My dear Polly, you shall
presently; and some time after I did. That meeting and parting, and
the mutual love, sorrow, and grief, is truly described by Susanna
Gunnel; though poor soul she is mistaken in some other respects.
I was after this confined in my room by Dr. Addington's own orders;
during which confinement, as I am informed, my father wanted to see
some body, and it was imagined to be me. But, alas! I was not
suffered. The night before he died, my father sent his blessing to me,
with his commands to bring that villain to justice. I sent him answer
back, I would do all in my power to hang that villain, as he rightly
called him.
But the usage which I received in my father's house, unknown to him I
am sure, is shocking to relate. My going to listen at his door, the
only comfort left me, to hear if he was asleep was denied me. All my
keys were taken from, me--my letters--my very garters. My maid-servant
never came near me, helpless as I was by grief and fits. This I bore
patiently, being fearful of disturbing my father, as our rooms joined.
The man who was with me can witness to my sufferings, how often I
wished for instant death to take me, and spare my dear father, whom
never child loved better; whose death alone, unattended with these
misfortunes, would have been an excessive shock to me.
When Dr. Addington, and Dr. Lewis (who was called in it seems) came
into the room, and told me, that nothing could save my ever dear
father; for a considerable time I sat like a stone image; and then
told them, that I had given my poor father some powders which
Cranstoun had given me, and feared those had hurt my father, though
Cranstoun assured me that they would not.
It is not in human nature to declare what I suffered at that time. God
grant that no one ever may again.
When my father was dead, though mistress of myself, my keys, servants,
two horses in the stable, all my own; yet I never quitted my room.
Though none dared to molest me, I never stirred. They say, that I
walked about my room for hours; but I hardly remember anything. Much
is now said of my trying to bribe my servants. How contrary to truth!
As for bribing Betty my cook; of all my servants she was my greatest
enemy throughout my misfortunes; and an attempt to bribe her must
surely be the strongest instance of lunacy, of one not in her right
mind. I own I should have been glad not to have gone to jail; as who
would not? But then I would with pleasure have resigned myself up at
the Assizes, and stood the chance of life or death. I did not at that
time imagine, that I had such enemies, or that human nature could be
so wicked and abandoned. On the Thursday my father was to be opened.
In the morning Suzanna Gunnel sent for me, being indisposed: When I
saw her, she begged that I would bring Mr. Cranstoun to justice, which
was the request and command of her dying master; and that if anything
gave him concern in his last moments, it was an apprehension of his
escaping, being a man of quality, and interest among the great. I
replied that I would do all in my power, and went down into my room
again.