Fauntleroy and the Newspapers 220
Notes on the Fauntleroy Case 224
INDEX 227
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. The Execution of the Idle Apprentice at Tyburn,
_by Hogarth_ _Frontispiece_
PAGE
2. Mary Blandy. _Mezzotint by T. Ryley after L. Wilson_ _to face_ 1
3. The Divinity School, Oxford, where Miss Blandy was
tried ” 23
4. The Execution of Miss Blandy. _From an engraving
by John Cole_ 35
5. Messrs Robert and Daniel Perreau in the Dock ” 39
6. Margaret Caroline Rudd. _Line engraving by G.
Sibelius after D. Dodd_ ” 47
7. Mrs Margaret Rudd in the Dock. _Drawn and
engraved by G. Bartolozzi_ ” 61
8. William Wynne Ryland. _Drawn and engraved
by P. Falconet_ ” 74
9. His Majesty King George III. _Line engraving by
W. W. Ryland after Allan Ramsay_ ” 84
10. Charles Rogers. _Mezzotint by W. W. Ryland after
Sir Joshua Reynolds_ ” 87
11. General Stanwix’s Daughter. _Stipple engraving by
W. W. Ryland after Angelica Kauffman_ (an
example of the famous ‘red-chalk’ manner) ” 90
12. Angelica Kauffman. _Stipple engraving by T. Burke
after Sir Joshua Reynolds_ ” 110
13. Governor Wall. _An etching by J. Chapman_ ” 112
14. John Hadfield. _Etched by J. Chapman_ ” 146
15. The Beauty of Buttermere. _Coloured engraving
after John Smith_ ” 152
16. Mary of Buttermere. _Stipple engraving by Mackenzie
from a drawing by W. M. Bennet_ ” 158
17. Mary of Buttermere. _Etched by James Gillray_ ” 173
18. Henry Fauntleroy. _From a sketch by “A. V.”_ ” 178
19. James Harmer. _Line engraving by T. Wright from
a drawing by A. Wivell_ ” 192
20. Fauntleroy’s Trial at the Old Bailey. _By W. Read_ ” 195
21. Catnach’s Broadside of Fauntleroy’s Execution ” 204
[Illustration:
_F. Wilson Pinxᵗ._ _T. Riley Fecit._
_Miss Blandy_
_Now confined in Oxford Gaol on Suspicion of Poisoning her Father._]
Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold
THE LOVE PHILTRE
THE CASE OF MARY BLANDY, 1751-2
“Who hath not heard of Blandy’s fatal fame,
Deplored her fate, and sorrowed o’er her shame?”
--_Henley_, a poem, 1827.
During the reign of George II.--when the gallant Young Pretender was
leading Jenny Cameron toward Derby, and flabby, gin-besotted England,
dismayed by a rabble of half-famished Highlanders, was ready to take
its thrashing lying-down--a prosperous attorney, named Francis Blandy,
was living at Henley-upon-Thames. For nine years he had held the post
of town clerk, and was reckoned a person of skill in his profession.
A dour, needle-witted man of law, whose social position was more
considerable than his means or his lineage, old Mr Blandy, like others
wiser than himself, had a foible. His pride was just great enough to
make him a tuft-hunter. In those times, a solicitor in a country town
had many chances of meeting his betters on equal terms, and when the
attorney of Henley pretended that he had saved the large sum of ten
thousand pounds, county society esteemed him at his supposed value.
There lived with him--in an old-world home surrounded by gardens and
close to the bridge on the London road--his wife and daughter, an only
child, who at this period was twenty-five years of age.
Mrs Blandy, as consequential an old dame as ever flaunted _sacque_
or nodded her little bugle over a dish of tea, seems to have spent
a weary existence in wringing from her tight-fisted lord the funds
to support the small frivolities which her social ambition deemed
essential to their prestige. A feminine mind seldom appreciates the
reputation without the utility of wealth, and the lawyer’s wife had
strong opinions with regard to the propriety of living up to their
ten-thousand-pound celebrity. While he was content with the barren
honour that came to him by reason of the reputed _dot_ which his
daughter one day must enjoy--pluming himself, no doubt, that his Molly
had as good a chance of winning a coronet as the penniless daughter of
an Irish squireen--his lady, with more worldly wisdom, knew the value
of an occasional jaunt to town, and was fully alive to the chances of
rout or assembly hard-by at Reading. Thus in the pretty little home
near the beautiful reach of river, domestic storms--sad object-lesson
to an only child--raged frequently over the parental truck and barter
at the booths of Vanity Fair.
Though not a beauty--for the smallpox, that stole the bloom from the
cheeks of many a sparkling belle in hoop and brocade, had set its seal
upon her face--the portrait of Mary Blandy shows that she was comely.
Still, it is a picture in which there is a full contrast between the
light and shadows. Those fine glistening black eyes of hers--like the
beam of sunshine that illumines a sombre chamber--made one forget the
absence of winsome charm in her features; yet their radiance appeared
to come through dark unfathomable depths rather than as the reflection
of an unclouded soul. With warmth all blood may glow, with softness
every heart can beat, but some, like hers, must be compelled by
reciprocal power. Such, in her empty home, was not possible. Even the
love and devotion of her parents gave merely a portion of their own
essence. From a greedy father she acquired the sacred lust, and learnt
from infancy to dream, with morbid longing, of her future dower; while
her mother encouraged a hunger for vain and giddy pleasure, teaching
unwittingly that these must be bought at the expense of peace, or by
the sacrifice of truth. To a girl of wit and intelligence in whose
heart nature had not sown the seeds of kindness, these lessons came as
a crop of tares upon a fruitful soil. But, as in the case of all women,
there was one hope of salvation. Indeed, since the passion of her soul
cried out with imperious command that she should fulfil the destiny
of her sex, the love of husband and children would have found her a
strong but pliable material that could be fashioned into more gentle
form. Without such influence she was one of those to whom womanhood
was insufferable--a mortal shape where lay encaged one of the fiercest
demons of discontent.
Molly Blandy did not lack admirers. Being pleasant and vivacious--while
her powers of attraction were enhanced by the rumour of her
fortune--not a few of the beaux in the fashionable world of Bath, and
county society at Reading, gave homage and made her their toast. In
the eyes of her parents it was imperative that a suitor should be able
to offer to their daughter a station of life befitting an heiress.
On this account two worthy swains, who were agreeable to the maiden
but could not provide the expected dower, received a quick dismissal.
Although there was nothing exorbitant in the ambition of the attorney
and his dame, it is clear that the girl learnt an evil lesson from
these mercenary transactions. Still, her crosses in love do not seem
to have sunk very deeply into her heart, but henceforth her conduct
lost a little of its maidenly reserve. The freedom of the coquette
took the place of the earnestness and sincerity that had been the
mark of her ardent nature, and her conduct towards the officers of
the regiment stationed at Henley was deemed too forward. However, the
father, whose reception into military circles no doubt made the desired
impression upon his mayor and aldermen, was well satisfied that his
daughter should be on familiar terms with her soldier friends. Even
when she became betrothed to a captain of no great fortune, he offered
small objection on account of the position of the young man. Yet,
although the prospect of a son-in-law who held the king’s commission
had satisfied his vanity, the old lawyer, who foolishly had allowed
the world to believe him richer than he was, could not, or (as he
pretended) would not, provide a sufficient dowry. Thus the engagement
promised to be a long one. Fate, however, decided otherwise. Very
soon her suitor was ordered abroad on active service, and the hope of
marriage faded away for the third time.
In the summer of 1746, while no doubt she was sighing for her soldier
across the seas, the man destined to work the tragic mischief of her
life appeared on the scene. William Henry Cranstoun, a younger son
of the fifth Lord Cranstoun, a Scottish baron, was a lieutenant of
marines, who, since his regiment had suffered severely during the late
Jacobite rebellion, had come to Henley on a recruiting expedition. At
first his attentions to Miss Blandy bore no fruit, but he returned the
following summer, and while staying with his grand-uncle, General Lord
Mark Kerr, who was an acquaintance of the lawyer and his family, he
found that Mary was off with the old love and willing to welcome him
as the new. All were amazed that the fastidious girl should forsake
her gallant captain for this little sprig from North Britain--an
undersized spindleshanks, built after Beau Diddapper pattern--in whose
weak eyes and pock-fretten features love must vainly seek her mirror.
Still greater was the astonishment when ten-thousand-pound Blandy,
swollen with importance, began to babble of “my Lord of Crailing,”
and the little bugle cap of his dame quivered with pride as she told
her gossips of “my Lady Cranstoun, my daughter’s new mamma.” For it
was common knowledge that the small Scot was the fifth son of a needy
house, with little more than his pay to support his many vicious and
extravagant habits. Such details seem to have been overlooked by the
vain parents in their delight at the honour and glory of an alliance
with a family of title. In the late autumn of 1747 they invited their
prospective son-in-law to their home, where, as no one was fonder of
free quarters, he remained for six months. But the cruel fate that
presided over the destinies of the unfortunate Mary intervened once
more. Honest Lord Mark Kerr (whose prowess as a duellist is chronicled
in many a page), perceiving the intentions of his unscrupulous
relative, made haste to give his lawyer friend the startling news that
Cranstoun was a married man.
This information was correct. Yet, although wedded since the year
before the rebellion, the vicious little Scot was seeking to put away
the charming lady who was his wife and the mother of his child. Plain
enough were the motives. A visit to England had taught him that the
title which courtesy permitted him to bear was a commercial asset
that, south of the Tweed, would enable him to sell himself in a better
market. As one of his biographers tells us, “he saw young sparklers
every day running off with rich prizes,” for the chapels of Wilkinson
and Keith were always ready to assist the abductor of an heiress.
Indeed, before his arrival at Henley, he had almost succeeded in
capturing the daughter of a Leicestershire squire, when the father, who
suddenly learnt his past history, sent him about his business. Still,
he persisted in his attempts to get the Scotch marriage annulled, and
his chances seemed favourable. Most of the relatives of his wife, who
had espoused the losing side in the late rebellion, were fled in exile
to France or Flanders. Moreover, she belonged to the Catholic Church,
which at that time in stern Presbyterian Scotland had fallen upon evil
days. Believing that she was alone and friendless, and relying, no
doubt, upon the sectarian prejudices of the law courts, he set forth
the base lie that he had promised to marry her only on condition she
became Protestant. His explanation to the Blandys, in answer to Lord
Mark’s imputation, was the same as his defence before the Scottish
Commissaries. The lady was his mistress, not his wife!
Miss Blandy took the same view of the case that Sophy Western did under
similar circumstances. Human nature was little different in those days,
but men wore their hearts on their sleeve instead of exhibiting them
only in the Courts, and women preferred to be deemed complacent rather
than stupid. Doubtless old lawyer Blandy grunted many Saxon sarcasms
at the expense of Scotch jurisprudence, and trembled lest son-in-law
Diddapper had been entangled beyond redemption. Still, father, mother,
and daughter believed the word of their guest, waiting anxiously for
the result of the litigation that was to make him a free man. During
the year 1748 the Commissaries at Edinburgh decided that Captain
Cranstoun and the ill-used Miss Murray were man and wife. Then the
latter, being aware of the flirtation at Henley, wrote to warn Miss
Blandy, and provided her with a copy of the Court’s decree. Great
was the consternation at the house on the London road. Visions of
tea-gossip over the best set of china in the long parlour at Crailing
with my Lady Cranstoun vanished from the old mother’s eyes, while the
town clerk forgot his dreams of the baby whose two grand-fathers were
himself and a live lord. Nevertheless, the young Scotsman protested
that the marriage was invalid, declared that he would appeal to the
highest tribunal, and swore eternal fidelity to his Mary. Alas, she
trusted him! Within the sombre depths of her soul there dwelt a fierce
resolve to make this man her own. In her sight he was no graceless
creature from the barrack-room, but with a great impersonal love she
sought in him merely the fulfilment of her destiny.
“In her first passion, woman loves her lover:
In all the others, all she loves is love.”
At this time Cranstoun’s fortunes were in a parlous state. More than
half of his slender patrimony had been sequestered for the maintenance
of his wife and child, and shortly after the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle,
his regiment being disbanded, he was left on half-pay. Still, he did
not waver in his purpose to win the heiress of Henley.
On the 30th of September 1749, the poor frivolous old head, which
had sported its cap so bravely amidst the worries of pretentious
poverty, lay still upon the pillow, and Mary Blandy looked upon the
face of her dead mother. It was the turning-point in her career. While
his wife was alive, the old lawyer had never lost all faith in his
would-be son-in-law during the two years that he had been affianced
to his daughter, in spite of the rude shocks which had staggered his
credulity. Cranstoun had been allowed to sponge on him for another six
months in the previous summer, and had pursued his womenfolk when they
paid a visit to Mary’s uncle, Serjeant Stevens, of Doctors’ Commons.
However, soon after the death of his wife the patience of Mr Blandy,
who must have perceived that the case of the pretender was hopeless,
seems to have become worn out. All idea of the baron’s grandchild faded
from his mind; the blear-eyed lover was forbidden the house, and for
nearly twelve months did not meet his trusting sweetheart.
Although a woman of her intelligence must have perceived that, but
for some untoward event, her relationship with her betrothed could
never be one of honour, her fidelity remained unshaken. Having passed
her thirtieth birthday, the dreadful stigma of spinsterhood was
fast falling upon her. If the methods of analogy are of any avail,
it is clear that she had become a creature of lust--not the lust
of sensuality, but that far more insatiable greed, the craving for
conquest, possession, the attainment of the unattainable, calling
forth not one but all the emotions of body and soul. A sacrifice of
honour--a paltry thing in the face of such mighty passion--would have
been no victory, for such in itself was powerless to accomplish the
essential metamorphosis of her life. In mutual existence with a lover
and slave the destiny of this rare woman alone could be achieved. Thus
came the harvest of the tempest. It was not the criminal negligence
of the father in encouraging for nearly three years the pretensions
of a suitor, who--so a trustworthy gentleman had told him--was a
married man, that had planted the seeds of storm. Nor did the filial
love of the daughter begin to fade and wither because she had been
taught that the affections, like anything which has a price, should
be subject to barter and exchange. Deeper far lay the roots of the
malignant disease--growing as a portion of her being--a part and
principle of life itself. Environment and education merely had
inclined into its stunted form the twig, which could never bear fruit
unless grafted upon a new stalk! And while the sombre girl brooded over
her strange impersonal passion, there rang in her ears the voice of
demon-conscience, unceasingly--a taunting, frightful whisper, “When the
old man is in his grave you shall be happy.”
The esteem of posterity for the eighteenth century, to which belong
so many noble lives and great minds, has been influenced by the
well-deserved censure bestowed upon a particular epoch. The year 1750
marks a period of transition when all the worst characteristics of the
Georgian era were predominant. For nearly a quarter of a century the
scornful glance that the boorish little king threw at any book had been
reflected in the national taste for literature. Art had hobbled along
bravely on the crutches of caricature, tolerated on account of its
deformity, and not for its worth. The drama, which had drifted to the
lowest ebb in the days of Rich and Heidegger, was just rising from its
mudbank, under the leadership of Garrick, with the turn of the tide.
Religion, outside the pale of Methodism, was as dead as the influence
of the Church of England and its plurality divines. The prostitution
of the marriage laws in the Fleet and Savoy had grown to be a menace
to the social fabric. London reeked of gin; and although the business
of Jack Ketch has been seldom more flourishing, property, until
magistrate Fielding came forward, was never less secure from the thief
and highwayman. Our second George, who flaunted his mistresses before
the public gaze, was a worthy leader of a coarse and vicious society.
Female dress took its form from the vulgarity of the times, and was
never uglier and more indecent simultaneously. Not only was the ‘modern
fine lady,’ who wept when a handsome thief was hung, a common type, but
the Boobys and Bellastons were fashionable women of the day, quite as
much alive as Elizabeth Chudleigh or Caroline Fitzroy. Such was the age
of Miss Blandy, and she proved a worthy daughter of it.
In the late summer of 1750 the fickle attorney, who had become weary
of opposition, consented to withdraw the sentence of banishment he
had pronounced against his daughter’s lover. Possibly he fancied that
there was a chance, after all, of the Scotch lieutenant’s success in
the curious law-courts of the North, and perhaps a present of salmon,
received from Lady Cranstoun, appeared to him as a favourable augury.
Consequently the needy fortune-hunter, who was only too ready to return
to his free quarters, paid another lengthy visit to Henley. As the
weeks passed, it was evident that the temper of the host and father,
whose senile humours were swayed by gravel and heartburn, could not
support the new ménage. Fearful lest the devotion of his Molly had
caused her to lose all regard for her fair fame, wroth that the clumsy
little soldier should have disturbed the peace of his household, the
old man received every mention of “the tiresome affair in Scotland”
with sneers and gibes. Vanished was the flunkey-optimism that had led
him to welcome once more the pertinacious slip of Scottish baronage.
Naught would have appeased him but prompt evidence that the suitor was
free to lead his daughter to the altar. Nothing could be plainer than
that the querulous widower had lost all confidence in his unwelcome
guest.
The faithful lovers were filled with dismay. A few strokes of the pen
might rob them for ever of their ten thousand pounds. Their wishes
were the same, their minds worked as one. A deep, cruel soul-blot,
transmitted perhaps by some cut-throat borderer through the blood
of generations, would have led William Cranstoun to commit, without
scruple, the vilest of crimes. Those base attempts to put away his
wife, and to cast the stigma of bastardy upon his child, added to his
endeavour to entrap one heiress after another into a bigamous marriage,
make him guilty of offences less only than murder. In his present
position he had cause for desperation. Yet, although utterly broken in
fortune, there was a rich treasure at his hand if he dared to seize
it. Were her father dead, Molly Blandy, whether as wife or mistress,
would be his--body, soul, and wealth. Within the veins of the woman
a like heart-stain spread its poison. All the lawless passion of her
nature cried out against her parent’s rule, which, to her mind, was
seeking to banish what had become more precious than her life. Knowing
that her own fierce will had its mate in his, she believed that his
obduracy could not be conquered, and she lived in dread lest she should
be disinherited. And all this time, day after day, the demon-tempter
whispered, “When the old man is in his grave you shall be happy.”
Which of the guilty pair was the first to suggest the heartless crime
it is impossible to ascertain, but there is evidence, apart from Miss
Blandy’s statement, that Cranstoun was the leading spirit. Possibly,
nay probably, the deed was never mentioned in brutal plainness in so
many words. The history of crime affords many indications that the
blackest criminals are obliged to soothe a neurotic conscience with
the anodyne of make-belief. It is quite credible that the two spoke of
the projected murder from the first (as indeed Miss Blandy explained
it later) as an attempt to conciliate the old lawyer by administering
a supernatural love philtre, having magical qualities like Oberon’s
flower in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, which would make him consent to
their marriage. Presently a reign of mystic terror seemed to invade the
little house in the London road. With fear ever present in her eyes,
the figure of the sombre woman glided from room to room, whispering
to the frightened servants ghostly tales of things supernatural--of
unearthly music that she had heard during the misty autumn nights, of
noises that had awakened her from sleep, of the ghastly apparitions
that had appeared to her lover. And to all these stories she had
but one dismal interpretation--saying it had come to her from a
wizard-woman in Scotland--they were signs and tokens that her father
would die within a year! Those who heard her listened and trembled,
and the words sank deep into their memory. So the winter crept on;
but while all slunk through the house with bated breath, shrinking at
each mysterious sound, the old man, doomed by the sorceress, remained
unsuspicious of what was going on around him.
Not long before Christmas, to the great relief of his churlish host,
the little Scotsman’s clumsy legs passed through the front door for
the last time, and he set out for his brother’s seat at Crailing in
the shire of Roxburgh. Yet, though his lengthy visit had come to an
end, his spirit remained to rule the brain of the woman who loved
him. Early in the year 1751 she received a box, containing a present
from Cranstoun, a set of table linen, and some ‘Scotch pebbles.’
Lawyer Blandy viewed the stones with suspicious eyes, for he hated all
things beyond the Cheviot Hills, but did not make any comment. The
relationship between father and daughter had become cold and distant.
Quarrels were constant in the unhappy home. Often in the midst of
her passion she was heard to mutter deep curses against the old man.
Indeed, so banished was her love that she talked without emotion to the
servants of the likelihood of his death, in fulfilment of the witch’s
prophecy.
Some weeks later, when another consignment of the mysterious ‘Scotch
pebbles’ had arrived for Miss Blandy, it was noticed that her conduct
became still more dark and strange. Slinking through the house with
slow and stealthy tread, she appeared to shun all eyes, as though bent
upon some hidden purpose. A glance within the box from the North would
have revealed the secret. When the crafty accomplice found that she was
unable to procure the means of taking her father’s life, he had been
forced to supply her with the weapons. During the spring, the health
of the old lawyer, who suffered more or less from chronic ailments,
began to grow more feeble. His garments hung loosely upon his shrunken
limbs, while the teeth dropped from his palsied jaws. The old witch’s
curse seemed to have fallen upon the home, and, to those who looked
with apprehension for every sign and portent, it was fulfilled in many
direful ways. Early in June, Ann Emmet, an old charwoman employed
about the house, was seized with a violent illness after drinking from
a half-emptied cup left at Mr Blandy’s breakfast. A little later,
Susan Gunnel, one of the maid-servants, was affected in a similar way
through taking some tea prepared for her master. One August morning,
in the secrecy of her own chamber, trembling at every footfall beyond
the locked door, Mary Blandy gazed with eager, awestruck eyes upon a
message sent by her lover.
“I am sorry there are such occasions to clean your pebbles,” wrote the
murderous little Scotsman. “You must make use of the powder to them, by
putting it into anything of substance, wherein it will not swim a-top
of the water, of which I wrote to you in one of my last. I am afraid it
will be too weak to take off their rust, or at least it will take too
long a time.”
From the language of metaphor it is easy to translate the ghastly
meaning. She must have told Cranstoun that the white arsenic, which he
had sent to her under the pseudonym of ‘powder to clean the pebbles,’
remained floating on the surface of the tea. Possibly her father had
noticed this phenomenon, and, not caring to drink the liquid, had
escaped the painful sickness which had attacked the less cautious
servants. But now she had found a remedy--‘anything of substance!’--a
safe and sure vehicle that could not fail. Louder still in the ears of
the lost woman rang the mocking words, “When the old man is dead you
shall be happy.”
During the forenoon of Monday, the 5th of August, Susan Gunnel, the
maid, met her young mistress coming from the pantry.
“Oh, Susan,” she exclaimed, “I have been stirring my papa’s water
gruel”; and then, perceiving other servants through the half-open door
of the laundry, she added gaily, “If I was ever to take to eating
anything in particular it would be oatmeal.”
No response came from the discreet Susan, but she marvelled, calling to
mind that Miss Blandy had said to her some time previously, noticing
that she appeared unwell:
“Have you been eating any water gruel? for I am told that water gruel
hurts me, and it may hurt you.”
Later in the day, her wonder was increased when she saw her mistress
stirring the gruel in a half-pint mug, putting her fingers into the
spoon, and then rubbing them together. In the evening the same mug
was taken as usual to the old man’s bedroom. On Tuesday night Miss
Blandy sent down in haste to order gruel for her father, who had been
indisposed all day, and such was her solicitude that she met the
footman on the stairs, and taking the basin from his hands, carried
it herself into the parlour. Early the next morning, while Ann Emmet,
the old charwoman, was busy at her wash-tub, Susan Gunnel came from
upstairs.
“Dame,” she observed, “you used to be fond of water gruel. Here is a
very fine mess my master left last night, and I believe it will do you
good.”
Sitting down upon a bench, this most unfortunate old lady proceeded to
consume the contents of the basin, and for a second time was seized
with a strange and violent illness. Soon afterwards Miss Blandy came
into the kitchen.
“Susan, as your master has taken physic, he may want some more water
gruel,” said she. “As there is some in the house you need not make
fresh, for you are ironing.”
“Madam, it will be stale,” replied the servant. “It will not hinder me
much to make fresh.”
A little later, while tasting the stuff, Susan noticed a white sediment
at the bottom of the pan. Greatly excited, she ran to show Betty
Binfield, the cook, who bore no good-will towards her young mistress.
“What oatmeal is this?” asked Betty, significantly. “It looks like
flour.”
“I have never seen oatmeal as white before,” said the maid.
Carefully and thoroughly the suspicious servants examined the contents
of the saucepan, taking it out of doors to view it in the light. And
while they looked at the white gritty sediment they told each other in
low whispers that this must be poison. Locking up the pan, they showed
it next day to the local apothecary, who, as usual in those times, was
the sick man’s medical attendant.
Nothing occurred to alarm the guilty woman until Saturday. On that
morning, in the homely fashion of middle-class manners, the lawyer, who
wanted to shave, came into the kitchen, where hot water and a good fire
were ready for him. Accustomed to his habits, the servants went about
their work as usual. Some trouble seemed to be preying upon his mind.
“I was like to have been poisoned once,” piped the feeble old man,
turning his bloodshot eyes upon his daughter, who was in the room.
“It was on this same day, the tenth of August,” he continued, in his
weak, trembling voice, for his frame had become shattered during the
last week. “It was at the coffee-house or at the Lyon, and two other
gentlemen were like to have been poisoned by what they drank.”
“Sir, I remember it very well,” replied the imperturbable woman, and
then fell to arguing with her querulous father at which tavern the
adventure had taken place.
“One of the gentlemen died immediately,” he resumed, looking at her
with a long, reproachful glance. “The other is dead now, and I have
survived them both. But”--his piteous gaze grew more intense--“it is my
fortune to be poisoned at last.”
A similar ordeal took place in a little while. At breakfast Mr Blandy
seemed in great pain, making many complaints. As he sipped his tea, he
declared that it had a gritty, bad taste, and would not drink it.
“Have you not put too much of the black stuff into it?” he demanded
suddenly of his daughter, referring to the canister of Bohea.
This time she was unable to meet his searching eyes.
“It is as usual,” she stammered in confusion.
A moment later she rose, trembling and distressed, and hurriedly left
the room.
There was reason for the old man’s suspicion. Before he had risen from
his bed, the faithful Susan Gunnel told him of the discovery in the pan
of water gruel, and both agreed that the mysterious powder had been
sent by Cranstoun. Yet, beyond what he had said at breakfast, and in
the kitchen, he questioned his daughter no more! Still, although no
direct charge had been made, alarmed by her father’s hints she hastened
to destroy all evidence that could be used against her. During the
afternoon, stealing into the kitchen under pretence of drying a letter
before the fire, she crushed a paper among the coals. As soon as she
was gone the watchful spies--servants Gunnel and Binfield--snatched it
away before it had been destroyed by the flames. This paper contained a
white substance, and on it was written ‘powder to clean the pebbles.’
Towards evening famous Dr Addington arrived from Reading, summoned by
Miss Blandy, who was driven on account of her fears to show a great
concern. After seeing his patient the shrewd old leech had no doubt as
to the symptoms. With habitual directness he told the daughter that her
father had been poisoned.
“It is impossible,” she replied.
On Sunday morning the doctor found the sick man a little better, but
ordered him to keep his bed. Startling proofs of the accuracy of his
diagnosis were forthcoming. One of the maids put into his hands the
packet of arsenic found in the fire; while Norton the apothecary
produced the powder from the pan of gruel. Addington at once took the
guilty woman to task.
“If your father dies,” he told her sternly, “you will inevitably be
ruined.”
Nevertheless she appears to have brazened the matter out, but desired
the doctor to come again the next day. When she was alone, her first
task was to scribble a note to Cranstoun, which she gave to her
father’s clerk to “put into the post.” Having heard dark rumours
whispered by the servants that Mr Blandy had been poisoned by his
daughter, the man had no hesitation in opening the letter, which he
handed over to the apothecary. It ran as follows:--
“DEAR WILLY,--My father is so bad that I have only time to
tell you that if you do not hear from me soon again, don’t be
frightened. I am better myself. Lest any accident should happen
to your letters be careful what you write.
“My sincere compliments.--I am ever, yours.”
That evening Norton ordered Miss Blandy from her father’s room,
telling Susan Gunnel to remain on the watch, and admit no one. At
last the heartless daughter must have seen that some other defence
was needed than blind denial. Still, the poor old sufferer persisted
that Cranstoun was the sole author of the mischief. On Monday morning,
although sick almost to death, he sent the maid with a message to his
daughter.
“Tell her,” said he, “that I will forgive her if she will bring that
villain to justice.”
In answer to his words, Miss Blandy came to her father’s bedroom in
tears, and a suppliant. Susan Gunnel, who was present, thus reports the
interview.
“Sir, how do you do?” said she.
“I am very ill,” he replied.
Falling upon her knees, she said to him:
“Banish me or send me to any remote part of the world. As to Mr
Cranstoun, I will never see him, speak to him, as long as I live, so as
you will forgive me.”
“I forgive thee, my dear,” he answered. “And I hope God will forgive
thee, but thee should have considered better than to have attempted
anything against thy father. Thee shouldst have considered I was thy
own father.”
“Sir,” she protested, “as to your illness I am entirely innocent.”
“Madam,” interrupted old Susan Gunnel, “I believe you must not say you
are entirely innocent, for the powder that was taken out of the water
gruel, and the paper of powder that was taken out of the fire, are now
in such hands that they must be publicly produced. I believe I had one
dose prepared for my master in a dish of tea about six weeks ago.”
“I have put no powder into tea,” replied Miss Blandy. “I have put
powder into water gruel, and if you are injured,” she assured her
father, “I am entirely innocent, for it was given me with another
intent.”
The dying man did not wait for further explanation, but, turning in his
bed, he cried:
“Oh, such a villain! To come to my house, eat of the best, drink of
the best that my house could afford--to take away my life, and ruin my
daughter! Oh, my dear,” he continued, “thee must hate that man, thee
must hate the ground he treads on. Thee canst not help it.”
“Oh, sir, your tenderness towards me is like a sword to my heart,” she
answered. “Every word you say is like swords piercing my heart--much
worse than if you were to be ever so angry. I must down on my knees and
beg you will not curse me.”
“I curse thee, my dear!” he replied. “How couldst thou think I could
curse thee? I bless thee, and hope that God will bless thee and amend
thy life. Go, my dear, go out of my room.... Say no more, lest thou
shouldst say anything to thy own prejudice.... Go to thy uncle Stevens;
take him for thy friend. Poor man,--I am sorry for him.”
The memory of the old servant, who repeated the above conversation
in her evidence at Miss Blandy’s trial, would seem remarkable did
we not bear in mind that she went through various rehearsals before
the coroner and magistrates, and possibly with the lawyers for the
prosecution. Some embellishments also must be credited to the taste
and fancy of Mr Rivington’s reporters. Still, the gist must be true,
and certainly has much pathos. Yet the father’s forgiveness of his
daughter, when he must have known that her conduct was wilful, although
piteous and noble, may not have been the result of pure altruism.
Naturally, the wish that Cranstoun alone was guilty was parent to the
thought. Whether the approach of eternity brought a softening influence
upon him, and he saw his follies and errors in the light of repentance,
or whether the ruling passion strong in death made the vain old man
struggle to avert the black disgrace that threatened his good name, and
the keen legal intellect, which could counsel his daughter so well,
foresaw the coming escheatment of his small estate to the lord of the
manor, are problems for the student of psychology.
During the course of the day brother leech Lewis of Oxford--a
master-builder of pharmacopœia--was summoned by the sturdy begetter of
statesmen, and there was much bobbing of learned wigs and nice conduct
of medical canes. Addington asked the dying man whom he suspected to be
the giver of the poison.
“A poor love-sick girl,” murmured the old lawyer, smiling through his
tears. “I forgive her--I always thought there was mischief in those
cursed Scotch pebbles.”
In the evening a drastic step was taken. Acting on the principle of
‘thorough,’ which made his son’s occupancy of the Home Office so
memorable at a later period, the stern doctor accused Miss Blandy
of the crime, and secured her keys and papers. Conquered by fear,
the stealthy woman for a while lost all self-possession. In an agony
of shame and terror she sought to shield herself by the pretence of
superstitious folly. Wringing her hands in a seeming agony of remorse,
she declared that her lover had ruined her.
“I received the powder from Mr Cranstoun,” she cried, “with a present
of Scotch pebbles. He had wrote on the paper that held it, ‘The powder
to clean the pebbles with.’ He assured me that it was harmless, and
that if I would give my father some of it now and then, a little and a
little at a time, in any liquid, it would make him kind to him and to
me.”
In a few scathing questions the worldly-wise Addington cast ridicule
upon this weird story of a love philtre. Taking the law into his own
resolute hands, with the consent of colleague Lewis he locked the
wretched woman in her room and placed a guard over her. Little could be
done to relieve the sufferings of poor ten-thousand-pound Blandy--who
proved to be a mere four-thousand-pound attorney when it came to the
test--and on Wednesday afternoon, the 14th of August, he closed his
proud old eyes for ever. In her desperation the guilty daughter could
think of naught but escape. On the evening of her fathers death,
impelled by an irresistible frenzy to flee from the scene of her
butchery, she begged the footman in vain to assist her to get away.
During Thursday morning--for it was not possible to keep her in custody
without legal warrant--a little group of children saw a dishevelled
figure coming swiftly along the High Street towards the river. At once
there arose the cry of ‘Murderess!’ and, surrounded by an angry mob,
she was driven to take refuge in a neighbouring inn. It was vain to
battle against fate. That same afternoon the coroner’s inquest was
held, and the verdict pronounced her a parricide. On the following
Saturday, in charge of two constables, she was driven in her father’s
carriage to Oxford Castle. An enraged populace, thinking that she was
trying again to escape, surrounded the vehicle, and sought to prevent
her from leaving the town.
Owing to the social position of the accused, and the enormity of her
offence, the eyes of the whole nation were turned to the tragedy at
Henley. Gossips of the day, such as Horace Walpole and Tate Wilkinson,
tell us that the story of Miss Blandy was upon every lip. In spite of
the noble irony of ‘Drawcansir’ Fielding, journalists and pamphleteers
had no scruple in referring to the prisoner as a wicked murderess or a
cruel parricide. Yet the case of Henry Coleman, who, during the August
of this year, had been proved innocent of a crime for which he had
suffered death, should have warned the public against hasty assumption.
For six months the dark woman was waiting for her trial. Although it
was the custom for a jailor to make an exhibition of his captive to
anyone who would pay the entrance fee, nobody was allowed to see Miss
Blandy without her consent. Two comfortable rooms were set apart for
her in the keeper’s house; she was free to take walks in the garden,
and to have her own maid. At last, when stories of a premeditated
escape were noised abroad, Secretary Newcastle, in a usual state of
fuss, fearing that she might repeat the achievement of Queen Maud, gave
orders that she must be put in irons. At first Thomas Newell, who had
succeeded her father as town clerk of Henley four years previously, was
employed in her defence, but he offended her by speaking of Cranstoun
as “a mean-looking, little, ugly fellow,” and so she dismissed him in
favour of Mr Rives, a lawyer from Woodstock. Her old invincible courage
had returned, and only once--when she learnt the paltry value of her
father’s fortune--did she lose self-possession. For a dismal echo must
have come back in the mocking words, “When the old man is in his grave
you shall be happy.”
At last the magistrates--Lords Cadogan and ‘New-Style’ Macclesfield,
who had undertaken duties which in later days Mr Newton or Mr
Montagu Williams would have shared with Scotland Yard--finish their
much-praised detective work, and on Tuesday, the 3rd of March 1752,
Mary Blandy is brought to the bar. The Court meets in the divinity
school, since the town-hall is in the hands of the British workman,
and because the University, so ‘Sir Alexander Drawcansir’ tells his
readers, will not allow the use of the Sheldonian Theatre. Why the most
beautiful room in Oxford should be deemed a fitter place of desecration
than the archbishop’s monstrosity is not made clear. An accident
delays the trial--this second ‘Great Oyer of Poisoning!’ There is a
small stone or other obstruction in the lock--can some sentimental,
wry-brained undergraduate think to aid the gallows-heroine of his
fancy?--and while it is being removed, Judges Legge and Smythe return
to their lodgings.
[Illustration: _THE DIVINITY SCHOOL, OXFORD._]
At eight o’clock, Mary Blandy, calm and stately, stands beneath the
graceful fretted ceiling, facing the tribunal. From wall to wall an
eager crowd has filled the long chamber, surging through the doorway,
flowing in at the open windows, jostling even against the prisoner.
A chair is placed for her in case of fatigue, and her maid is by
her side. A plain and neat dress befits her serene manner--a black
bombazine short _sacque_ (the garb of mourning), white linen kerchief,
and a thick crape shade and hood. From the memory of those present
her countenance can never fade. A broad high forehead, above which
her thick jet hair is smoothed under a cap; a pair of fine black
sparkling eyes; the colouring almost of a gipsy; cheeks with scarce
a curve; mouth full, but showing no softness; nose large, straight,
determined--it is the face of one of those rare women who command, not
the love, but the obedience of mankind. Still it is intelligent, not
unseductive, compelling; and yet, in spite of the deep, flashing eyes,
without radiance of soul--the face of a sombre-hearted woman.
Black, indeed, is the indictment that Bathurst, a venerable young
barrister who represents the Crown, unfolds against her, but only once
during his burst of carefully-matured eloquence is there any change in
her serenity. When the future Lord Chancellor declares that the base
Cranstoun “had fallen in love, not with her, but with her fortune,” the
woman’s instinct cannot tolerate the reflection upon her charms, and
she darts a look of bitterest scorn upon the speaker. And only once
does she show a trace of human softness. When her godmother, old Mrs
Mountenay, is leaving the witness-box, she repeats the curtsey which
the prisoner had previously disregarded, and then, in an impulse of
pity, presses forward, and, seizing Miss Blandy’s hand, exclaims, “God
bless you!” At last, and for the first time, the tears gather in the
accused woman’s eyes.
Many abuses, handed down from a previous century, still render
barbarous the procedure of criminal trials. The case is hurried over in
one day; counsel for the prisoner can only examine witnesses, but not
address the jury; the prosecution is accustomed to put forward evidence
of which the defence has been kept in ignorance. Yet no injustice is
done to Mary Blandy. Thirteen hours is enough to tear the veil from her
sombre heart; the tongue of Nestor would fail to show her innocent; of
all that her accusers can say of her she is well aware. Never for one
moment is the issue in doubt. What can her scoffing, sceptic age, with
its cold-blooded sentiment and tame romance, think of a credulity that
employed a love-potion in the guise of affection but with the result
of death! How is it possible to judge a daughter who persisted in her
black art, although its dire effects were visible, not once, but many
times! Her defence, when at last it comes, is spoken bravely, but
better had been left unsaid.
“My lords,” she begins, “it is morally impossible for me to lay down
the hardships I have received. I have been aspersed in my character. In
the first place, it has been said that I have spoke ill of my father;
that I have cursed him and wished him at hell; which is extremely
false. Sometimes little family affairs have happened, and he did not
speak to me so kind as I could wish. I own I am passionate, my lords,
and in those passions some hasty expressions might have dropt. But
great care has been taken to recollect every word I have spoken at
different times, and to apply them to such particular purposes as my
enemies knew would do me the greatest injury. These are hardships, my
lords, extreme hardships!--such as you yourselves must allow to be
so. It was said, too, my lords, that I endeavoured to make my escape.
Your lordships will judge from the difficulties I laboured under. I
had lost my father--I was accused of being his murderer--I was not
permitted to go near him--I was forsaken by my friends--affronted
by the mob--insulted by my servants. Although I begged to have the
liberty to listen at the door where he died, I was not allowed it. My
keys were taken from me, my shoe-buckles and garters too--to prevent
me from making away with myself, as though I was the most abandoned
creature. What could I do, my lords? I verily believe I was out of my
senses. When I heard my father was dead and the door open, I ran out
of the house, and over the bridge, and had nothing on but a half sack
and petticoat, without a hoop, my petticoats hanging about me. The mob
gathered about me. Was this a condition, my lords, to make my escape
in? A good woman beyond the bridge, seeing me in this distress, desired
me to walk in till the mob was dispersed. The town sergeant was there.
I begged he would take me under his protection to have me home. The
woman said it was not proper, the mob was very great, and that I had
better stay a little. When I came home they said I used the constable
ill. I was locked up for fifteen hours, with only an old servant of the
family to attend me. I was not allowed a maid for the common decencies
of my sex. I was sent to gaol, and was in hopes, there, at least, this
usage would have ended, but was told it was reported I was frequently
drunk--that I attempted to make my escape--that I never attended the
chapel. A more abstemious woman, my lords, I believe, does not live.
“Upon the report of my making my escape, the gentleman who was High
Sheriff last year (not the present) came and told me, by order of the
higher powers, he must put an iron on me. I submitted, as I always
do to the higher powers. Some time after, he came again, and said he
must put a heavier upon me, which I have worn, my lords, till I came
hither. I asked the Sheriff why I was so ironed? He said he did it by
command of some noble peer, on his hearing that I intended to make my
escape. I told them I never had such a thought, and I would bear it
with the other cruel usage I had received on my character. The Rev. Mr.
Swinton, the worthy clergyman who attended me in prison, can testify
that I was very regular at the chapel when I was well. Sometimes I
really was not able to come out, and then he attended me in my room.
They likewise published papers and depositions which ought not to have
been published, in order to represent me as the most abandoned of my
sex, and to prejudice the world against me. I submit myself to your
lordships, and to the worthy jury. I can assure your lordships, as I
am to answer it before that Grand Tribunal where I must appear, I am
as innocent as the child unborn of the death of my father. I would not
endeavour to save my life at the expense of truth. I really thought
the powder an innocent, inoffensive thing, and I gave it to procure
his love. It was mentioned, I should say, I was ruined. My lords,
when a young woman loses her character, is not that her ruin? Why,
then, should this expression be construed in so wide a sense? Is it
not ruining my character to have such a thing laid to my charge? And
whatever may be the event of this trial, I am ruined most effectually.”
A strange apology--amazing in its effrontery!
Gentle Heneage Legge speaks long and tenderly, while the listeners
shudder with horror as they hear the dismal history unfolded in all
entirety for the first time. No innocent heart could have penned that
last brief warning to her lover--none but an accomplice would have
received his cryptic message. Every word in the testimony of the stern
doctor seems to hail her parricide--every action of her stealthy career
has been noted by the watchful eyes of her servants. And, as if in
damning confirmation of her guilt, there is the black record of her
flight from the scene of crime. Eight o’clock has sounded when the
judge has finished. For a few moments the jury converse in hurried
whispers. It is ominous that they make no attempt to leave the court,
but merely draw closer together. Then, after the space of five minutes
they turn, and the harsh tones of the clerk of arraigns sound through
the chamber.
“Mary Blandy, hold up thy hand.... Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the
prisoner. How say you: Is Mary Blandy guilty of the felony and murder
whereof she stands indicted, or not guilty?”
“Guilty!” comes the low, reluctant answer.
Never has more piteous drama been played within the cold fair walls
of the divinity school than that revealed by the guttering candles on
this chill March night. Amidst the long black shadows, through which
gleam countless rows of pallid faces, in the deep silence, broken at
intervals by hushed sobs, the invincible woman stands with unruffled
mien to receive her sentence. As the verdict is declared, a smile seems
to play upon her lips. While the judge, with tearful eyes and broken
voice, pronounces her doom, she listens without a sign of fear. There
is a brief, breathless pause, while all wait with fierce-beating hearts
for her reply. No trace of terror impedes her utterance. Thanking the
judge for his candour and impartiality, she turns to her counsel, among
whom only Richard Aston rose to eminence, and, with a touch of pretty
forethought, wishes them better success in their other causes. Then,
and her voice grows more solemn, she begs for a little time to settle
her affairs and to make her peace with God. To which his lordship
replies with great emotion:
“To be sure, you shall have proper time allowed you.”
When she is conducted from the court she steps into her coach with the
air of a belle whose chair is to take her to a fashionable rout. The
fatal news has reached the prison before her arrival. As she enters
the keeper’s house, which for so long has been her home, she finds the
family overcome with grief and the children all in tears.
“Don’t mind it,” she cries, cheerfully. “What does it matter? I am very
hungry. Pray let me have something for supper as soon as possible.”
That sombre heart of hers is a brave one also.
All this time William Cranstoun, worthy brother in all respects of
Simon Tappertit, had been in hiding--in Scotland perhaps, or, as some
say, in Northumberland--watching with fearful quakings for the result
of the trial. Shortly after the conviction of his accomplice he managed
to take ship to the Continent, and luckily for his country he never
polluted its soil again. There are several contemporary accounts of
his adventures in France and in the Netherlands, to which the curious
may refer. All agree that he confessed his share in the murder when
he was safe from justice. With unaccustomed propriety, our Lady Fate
soon hastened to snap the thread of his existence, and on the 3rd of
December of this same year, at the little town of Furnes in Flanders,
aged thirty-eight, he drew his last breath. A short time before, being
seized with remorse for his sins, he had given the Catholic Church the
honour of enrolling him a proselyte. Indeed the conversion of so great
a ruffian was regarded as such a feather in their cap that the good
monks and friars advertised the event by means of a sumptuous funeral.
Worthy Judge Legge fulfils his promise to the unhappy Miss Blandy, and
she is given six weeks in which to prepare herself for death. Meek
and more softened is the sombre woman, who, like a devoted penitent,
submits herself day after day to the vulgar gaze of a hundred eyes,
while she bows in all humility before the altar of her God. Yet her
busy brain is aware that those to whom she looks for intercession
are keeping a careful watch upon her demeanour. For she has begged
her godmother Mrs Mountenay to ask one of the bishops to speak for
her; she is said to entertain the hope that the recently-bereaved
Princess will endeavour to obtain a reprieve. In the fierce war of
pamphleteers, inevitable in those days, she takes her share, playing
with incomparable tact to the folly of the credulous. Although the
majority, perhaps, believe her guilty, she knows that a considerable
party is in her favour. On the 20th of March is published “A Letter
from a Clergyman to Miss Blandy, with her Answer,” in which she tells
the story of her share in the tragedy. During the remainder of her
imprisonment she extends this narrative into a long account of the
whole case--assisted, it is believed, by her spiritual adviser, the
Rev. John Swinton, who, afflicted possibly by one of his famous fits
of woolgathering, seems convinced of her innocence. No human effort,
however, is of any avail. Both the second and third George, knowing
their duty as public entertainers, seldom cheated the gallows of a
victim of distinction.
Originally the execution had been fixed for Saturday, the 4th of April,
but is postponed until the following Monday, because the University
authorities do not think it seemly that the sentence shall be carried
out during Holy Week. A great crowd collects in the early morning
outside the prison walls before the announcement of the short reprieve,
and it speaks marvels for the discipline of the gaol that Miss Blandy
is allowed to go up into rooms facing the Castle Green so that she can
view the throng. Gazing upon the assembly without a tremor, she says
merely that she will not balk their expectations much longer. On Sunday
she takes sacrament for the last time, and signs a declaration in which
she denies once more all knowledge that the powder was poisonous. In
the evening, hearing that the Sheriff has arrived in the town, she
sends a request that she may not be disturbed until eight o’clock the
next morning.
It was half-past the hour she had named when the dismal procession
reached the door of her chamber. The Under-Sheriff was accompanied by
the Rev. John Swinton, and by her friend Mr Rives, the lawyer. Although
her courage did not falter, she appeared meek and repentant, and spoke
with anxiety of her future state, in doubt whether she would obtain
pardon for her sins. This penitent mood encouraged the clergyman to beg
her declare the whole truth, to which she replied that she must persist
in asserting her innocence to the end. No entreaty would induce her to
retract the solemn avowal.
At nine o’clock she was conducted from her room, dressed in the same
black gown that she had worn at the trial, with her hands and arms
tied by strong black silk ribbons. A crowd of five thousand persons,
hushed and expectant, was waiting on the Castle Green to witness her
sufferings. Thirty yards from the door of the gaol, whence she was led
into the open air, stood the gallows--a beam placed across the arms
of two trees. Against it lay a step-ladder covered with black cloth.
The horror of her crime must have been forgotten by all who gazed upon
the calm and brave woman. For truly she died like a queen. Serene and
fearless she walked to the fatal spot, and joined most fervently with
the clergyman in prayer. After this was ended they told her that if she
wished she might speak to the spectators.
“Good people,” she cried, in a clear, audible voice, “give me leave
to declare to you that I am perfectly innocent as to any intention
to destroy or even hurt my dear father; that I did not know, or even
suspect, that there was any poisonous quality in the fatal powder
I gave him; though I can never be too much punished for being the
innocent cause of his death. As to my mother’s and Mrs Pocock’s deaths,
that have been unjustly laid to my charge, I am not even the innocent
cause of them, nor did I in the least contribute to them. So help
me, God, in these my last moments. And may I not meet with eternal
salvation, nor be acquitted by Almighty God, in whose awful presence I
am instantly to appear hereafter, if the whole of what is here asserted
is not true. I from the bottom of my soul forgive all those concerned
in my prosecution; and particularly the jury, notwithstanding their
fatal verdict.”
Then, having ascended five steps of the ladder, she turned to the
officials. “Gentlemen,” she requested, with a show of modesty, “do
not hang me high.” The humanity of those whose task it was to put her
to death, forced them to ask her to go a little higher. Climbing two
steps more, she then looked round, and trembling, said, “I am afraid
I shall fall.” Still, her invincible courage enabled her to address
the crowd once again. “Good people,” she said, “take warning by me
to be on your guard against the sallies of any irregular passion, and
pray for me that I may be accepted at the Throne of Grace.” While the
rope was being placed around her neck it touched her face, and she
gave a deep sigh. Then with her own fingers she moved it to one side.
A white handkerchief had been bound across her forehead, and she drew
it over her features. As it did not come low enough, a woman, who had
attended her and who had fixed the noose around her throat, stepped up
and pulled it down. For a while she stood in prayer, and then gave the
signal by thrusting out a little book which she held in her hand. The
ladder was moved from under her feet, and in obedience to the laws of
her country she was suspended in the air, swaying and convulsed, until
the grip of the rope choked the breath from her body.
Horrible! Yet only in degree are our own methods different from those
employed a hundred and fifty years ago.
During the whole of the sad tragedy, the crowd, unlike the howling mob
at Tyburn, maintained an awestruck silence. There were few dry eyes,
though the sufferer did not shed a tear, and hundreds of those who
witnessed her death went away convinced of her innocence. An elegant
young man named Edward Gibbon, with brain wrapped in the mists of
theology, who for three days had been gentleman commoner at Magdalen,
does not appear to have been attracted to the scene. Surely George
Selwyn must be maligned, else he would have posted to Oxford to witness
this spectacle. It would have been his only opportunity of seeing a
gentlewoman in the hands of the executioner.
After hanging for half an hour with the feet, in consequence of her
request, almost touching the ground, the body was carried upon the
shoulders of one of the sheriff’s men to a neighbouring house. At five
o’clock in the afternoon the coffin containing her remains was taken
in a hearse to Henley, where, in the dead of night, amidst a vast
concourse, it was interred in the chancel of the parish church between
the graves of her father and mother.
So died ‘the unfortunate Miss Blandy’ in the thirty-second year of her
age--with a grace and valour which no scene on the scaffold has ever
excelled. If, as the authors of _The Beggars Opera_ and _The History
of Jonathan Wild_ have sought to show, in playful irony, the greatness
of the criminal is comparable with the greatness of the statesman,
then she must rank with Mary of Scotland and Catherine of Russia among
the queens of crime. Hers was the soul of steel, theirs also the
opportunity.
In every period the enormity of a sin can be estimated only by its
relation to the spirit of the age; and in spite of cant and sophistry,
the contemporaries of Miss Blandy made no legal distinction between
the crimes of parricide and petty larceny. Nay, the same rope that
strangled the brutal cut-throat in a few moments might prolong the
agony of a poor thief for a quarter of an hour. Had the doctors
succeeded in saving the life of the old attorney, the strange law which
in later times put to death Elizabeth Fenning would have been powerless
to demand the life of Mary Blandy for a similar offence. The protests
of Johnson and Fielding against the iniquity of the criminal code fell
on idle ears.
Thus we may not judge Mary Blandy from the standpoint of our own
moral grandeur, for she is a being of another world--one of the vain,
wilful, selfish children to whom an early Guelph was king--merely
one of the blackest sheep in a flock for the most part ill-favoured.
As we gaze upon her portrait there comes a feeling that we do not
know this sombre woman after all, for though the artist has produced
a faithful resemblance, we perceive there is something lacking.
We look into part, not into her whole soul. None but one of the
immortals--Rembrandt, or his peer--could have shown this queen among
criminals as she was: an iron-hearted, remorseless, demon-woman, her
fair, cruel visage raised mockingly amidst a chiaroscuro of crime and
murkiness unspeakable.
“a narrow, foxy face,
Heart-hiding smile, and gay persistent eye.”
In our own country the women of gentle birth who have been convicted
of murder since the beginning of the eighteenth century may be
counted on the fingers of one hand. Mary Blandy, Constance Kent,
Florence Maybrick--for that unsavoury person, Elizabeth Jefferies,
has no claim to be numbered in the roll, and the verdict against
beautiful Madeleine Smith was ‘Not proven’--these names exhaust the
list. And of them, the first alone paid the penalty at the gallows.
The annals of crime contain the records of many parricides, some
that have been premeditated with devilish art, but scarce one that a
daughter has wrought by the most loathsome of coward’s weapons. In
comparison with the murderess of Henley, even Frances Howard and Anne
Turner were guilty of a venial crime. Mary Blandy stands alone and
incomparable--pilloried to all ages among the basest of her sex.
Yet the world soon forgot her. “Since the two misses were hanged,”
chats Horace Walpole on the 23rd of June, coupling irreverently the
names of Blandy and Jefferies with the beautiful Gunnings--“since the
two misses were hanged, and the two misses were married, there is
nothing at all talked of.” Society, however, soon found a new thrill in
the adventures of the young woman Elizabeth Canning.
[Illustration: Miss MARY BLANDY
_B. Cole Sculp_
_Aged 33 and Executed at OXFORD April 6, 1752, for poisoning her
Father._]
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE BLANDY CASE
I. CONTEMPORARY TRACTS
1. _An Authentic Narrative of that Most Horrid Parricide._ (Printed in
the year 1751. Name of publisher in second edition, M. Cooper.)
2. _A Genuine and Full Account of the Parricide_ committed by Mary
Blandy, Oxford; Printed for, and sold by C. Goddard in the High St, and
sold by R. Walker in the little Old Bailey, and by all booksellers and
pamphlet Shops. (Published November 9, 1751.)
3. _A Letter from a Clergyman to Miss Mary Blandy with her Answer
thereto_.... As also Miss Blandy’s Own Narrative. London; Printed for
M. Cooper at the Globe in Paternoster Row. 1752. Price four pence.
Brit. Mus. (March 20, 1752.)
4. _An Answer to Miss Blandy’s Narrative._ London; Printed for W. Owen,
near Temple Bar. 1752. Price 3d. Brit. Mus. (March 27, 1752.)
5. _The Case of Miss Blandy considered_ as a Daughter, as a
Gentlewoman, and as a Christian. Oxford; Printed for R. Baldwin, at the
Rose in Paternoster Row. Brit. Mus. (April 6, 1752.)
6. _Original Letters to and from Miss Blandy and C---- C----_, London.
Printed for S. Johnson, near the Haymarket, Charing Cross. 1752. Brit.
Mus. (April 8, 1752.)
7. _A Genuine and Impartial Account of the Life of Miss M. Blandy._ W.
Jackson and R. Walker. (April 9, 1752.)
8. _Miss Mary Blandy’s Own Account._ London; Printed for A. Millar in
the Strand. 1752 (price one shilling and sixpence). N.B. The Original
Account authenticated by Miss Blandy in a proper manner may be seen
at the above A. Millar’s. Brit. Mus. (April 10, 1752. The most famous
apologia in criminal literature.)
9. _A Candid Appeal to the Public, by a Gentleman of Oxford._ London.
Printed for J. Clifford in the Old Bailey, and sold at the Pamphleteer
Shops. 1752. Price 6d. Brit. Mus. (April 15, 1752.)
10. _The Tryal of Mary Blandy._ Published by Permission of the Judges.
London. Printed for John and James Rivington at the Bible and Crown and
in St Paul’s Churchyard. 1752. In folio price two shillings. 8vo. one
shilling. Brit. Mus. (April 24, 1752.)
11. _The Genuine Histories_ of the Life and Transactions of John Swan
and Eliz. Jeffries, ... and Miss Mary Blandy, London. Printed and
sold by T. Bailey opposite the Pewter-Pot-Inn in Leadenhall Street.
(Published after April 10, 1752.)
12. _An Authentic and full History of all the Circumstances of the
Cruel Poisoning of Mr. Francis Blandy_, printed only for Mr. Wm. Owen,
Bookseller at Temple Bar, London, and R. Goadby in Sherborne. Brit.
Mus. (Without date. From pp. 113-132 the pamphlet resembles the “Answer
to Miss Blandy’s Narrative,” published also by Wm. Owen.)
13. _The Authentic Tryals of John Swan and Elizabeth Jeffryes_.... With
the Tryal of Miss Mary Blandy, London. Printed by R. Walker for W.
Richards, near the East Gate, Oxford. 1752. Brit. Mus. (Published later
than the “Candid Appeal.”)
14. _The Fair Parricide._ A Tragedy in three acts. Founded on a late
melancholy event. London. Printed for T. Waller, opp. Fetter Lane.
Fleet Street (price 1/). Brit. Mus. (May 5, 1752.)
15. _The Genuine Speech of the Hon. Mr ----_, at the late Trial of Miss
Blandy, London; Printed for J. Roberts in Warwick Lane. 1752. (Price
sixpence.) Brit. Mus. (May 15, 1752.)
16. _The x x x x Packet Broke Open_, or a letter from Miss Blandy in
the Shades below to Capt. Cranstoun in his exile above. London. Printed
for M. Cooper at the Globe in Paternoster Row. 1752. Price 6d. Brit.
Mus. (May 16, 1752.)
17. _The Secret History of Miss Blandy._ London. Printed for Henry
Williams, and sold by the booksellers at the Exchange, in Ludgate St,
at Charing Cross, and St. James. Price 1s. 6d. Brit. Mus. (June 11,
1752. A sane and well-written account of the whole story.)
18. _Memoires of the Life of Wm. Henry Cranstoun Esqre._ London.
Printed for J. Bouquet, at the White Hart, in Paternoster Row; 1752.
Price one shilling. Brit. Mus. (June 18, 1752.)
19. _The Genuine Lives of Capt. Cranstoun and Miss Mary Blandy._
London. Printed for M. Cooper, Paternoster Row, and C. Sympson at the
Bible Warehouse, Chancery Lane. 1753. Price one shilling. Brit. Mus.
20. _Capt. Cranstoun’s Account of the poisoning of the Late Mr. Francis
Blandy._ London. Printed for R. Richards, the Corner of Bernard’s-Inn,
near the Black Swan, Holborn. Brit. Mus. (March 1-3, 1753.)
21. _Memories of the life and most remarkable transactions of Capt.
William Henry Cranstoun._ Containing an account of his conduct in his
younger years. His letter to his wife to persuade her to disown him as
her husband. His trial in Scotland, and the Court’s decree thereto. His
courtship of Miss Blandy; his success therein, and the tragical issue
of that affair. His voluntary exile abroad with the several accidents
that befel him from his flight to his death. His reconciliation to the
Church of Rome, with the Conversation he had with a Rev. Father of the
Church at the time of his conversion. His miserable death, and pompous
funeral. Printed for M. Cooper in Paternoster Row; W. Reeve in Fleet
Street; and C. Sympson in Chancery Lane. Price 6d. With a curious print
of Capt. Cranstoun. Brit. Mus. (March 10-13, 1753. As the title-page of
this pamphlet is torn out of the copy in the Brit. Mus., it is given in
full. From pp. 3-21 the tract is identical with “The Genuine Lives,”
also published by M. Cooper.)
22. _Parricides!_ The trial of Philip Stansfield, Gt, for the murder of
his father in Scotland, 1688. Also the trial of Miss Mary Blandy, for
the murder of her Father, at Oxford 1752. London (1810). Printed by J.
Dean, 57 Wardour St, Soho for T. Brown, 154 Drury Lane and W. Evans, 14
Market St, St James’s. Brit. Mus.
23. _The Female Parricide_, or the History of Mary-Margaret d’Aubray,
Marchioness of Brinvillier.... In which a parallel is drawn between
the Marchioness and Miss Blandy. C. Micklewright, Reading. Sold by J.
Newbery. Price 1/. (March 5, 1752.)
Lowndes mentions also:--
24. _An Impartial Inquiry into the Case of Miss Blandy._ With
reflections on her Trial, Defence, Repentance, Denial, Death. 1753. 8vo.
25. _The Female Parricide._ A Tragedy, by Edward Crane, of Manchester.
1761. 8vo.
26. _A Letter from a Gentleman to Miss Blandy_ with her answer thereto.
1752. 8vo. (Possibly the same as “A Letter from a Clergyman.”)
The two following are advertised in the newspapers of the day:--
27. _Case of Miss Blandy and Miss Jeffreys_ fairly stated, and
compared.... R. Robinson, Golden Lion, Ludgate Street. (March 26, 1752.)
28. _Genuine Letters between Miss Blandy and Miss Jeffries_ before and
after their Conviction. J. Scott Exchange Alley; W. Owen, Temple Bar;
G. Woodfall, Charing Cross. (April 21, 1752.)
29. Broadside. _Execution of Miss Blandy._ Pitts, Printer, Toy and
Marble Warehouse, 6 Great St. Andrew’s St. Seven Dials. Brit. Mus.
30. _The Addl. MSS._, 15930. Manuscript Department in the Brit. Mus.
II. CONTEMPORARY NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES
1. _Read’s Weekly Journal_, March and April (1752), February 3 (1753).
2. _The General Advertiser_, August-November (1751), March and April
(1752).
3. _The London Evening Post_, March and April (1752).
4. _The Covent Garden Journal_ (Sir Alexander Drawcansir), February,
March, and April (1752).
5. _The London Morning Penny Post_, August and September (1751).
6. _Gentleman’s Magazine_, pp. 376, 486-88 (1751), pp. 108-17, 152,
188, 195 (1752), pp. 47, 151 (1753), p. 803, pt. II. (1783).
7. _Universal Magazine_, pp. 114-124, 187, 281 (1752).
8. _London Magazine_, pp. 379, 475, 512(1751), pp. 127, 180, 189(1752),
p. 89 (1753).
NOTES
NOTE I.--In recent years the guilt of Cranstoun has been questioned.
Yet a supposition that does not explain two damning circumstances must
be baseless:
(_a_) In the first place, one of his letters to Miss Blandy,
dated July 18, 1751, was read by Bathurst in his opening
speech. Although the reports of the trial do not tell us that
the note was produced in court, or that the handwriting was
verified, it cannot be presumed that the Crown lawyers were
guilty of wilful fabrication. However strange it may appear
that this letter alone escaped destruction, it is improbable
that Miss Blandy invented it. Had she done so its contents
would have been more consistent with her defence. As it stands
it is most unfavourable to her. Therefore, in the absence of
further evidence, we must conclude that the letter is genuine,
and if genuine Cranstoun was an accomplice.
(_b_) In the second place, the paper containing the poison
which was rescued from the fire, is said by the prosecution to
have borne the inscription in Cranstoun’s handwriting, ‘Powder
to clean the pebbles’ If this had been counterfeit, Miss Blandy
would have had no object in destroying it, but would have kept
it for her purpose.
At any cost Lord Cranstoun must have been anxious to remove the black
stain from his scutcheon. That this was impossible the fact that it was
not done seems to prove. Indeed, if Captain Cranstoun had been ignorant
of the crime, he could have proved his innocence as soon as Miss Blandy
was arrested by producing her letters, which, granting this hypothesis,
would have contained no reference that would have incriminated him.
That she had written a great deal to him was shown in evidence at the
trial by the clerk Lyttleton.
For these reasons it is impossible to accept the conclusion of the
writer of Cranstoun’s life in the _Dic. Nat. Biog._ (who has adopted
the assertion in Anderson’s _Scottish Nation_, vol. i. p. 698), that
“apart from Miss Blandy’s statement there is nothing to convict him of
the murder.”
NOTE II.--Anderson’s statement that “there does not appear to be any
grounds for supposing that Captain Cranstoun was in any way accessory
to the murder,” shows that he had not a complete knowledge of the facts
at his disposal, or that he did not weigh them with precision. Miss
Blandy’s intercepted letter to her lover affords a strong presumption
of his connivance, and her destruction of his correspondence suggests
that it contained incriminating details. That these two actions were
subtle devices to cast suspicion upon Cranstoun cannot be maintained
with any show of plausibility, for in this case Miss Blandy, if
dexterous enough to weave such a crafty plot, must have foreseen its
exposure, and with such exposure her own inevitable ruin, when to
prove that he was not an accomplice her lover had produced the letters
she had written to him. Thus to support such an assumption it must be
shown that Cranstoun had previously destroyed every particle of her
handwriting, and that she was aware of the fact. Of such an improbable
circumstance there is, of course, no evidence.
NOTE III.--“Old Benchers of the Middle Temple,” _Essays of Elia_. The
relative of Miss Blandy, with whom Mr Samuel Salt was dining when
he made the unfortunate remark which Lamb repeats, may have been Mr
Serjeant Henry Stephens of Doctors’ Commons, who was her maternal uncle.
NOTE IV.--The date of Miss Blandy’s birth is not given in the _Dic.
Nat. Biog._ From the register of Henley Parish Church it appears that
she was baptized on July 15, 1720.
[Illustration: _Mess. Robert and Daniel_
PERREAU.
_London. Publish’d Janʸ 22ᵈ 1776. According to Act of Parliament._]
THE UNFORTUNATE BROTHERS
THE CASE OF ROBERT AND DANIEL PERREAU AND MRS MARGARET CAROLINE RUDD,
1775-6
“What’s this dull town to me?
Robin’s not near;
He whom I wish to see,
Wish for to hear.
Where’s all the joy and mirth,
Made life a heaven on earth?
Oh! they’re all fled with thee,
Robin Adair.”
When tenor Braham sent his plaintive air ringing through the town,
few were alive who could recall the two previous occasions on which
also the name of Adair was upon every lip. One day in February 1758
all London had been stirred by the elopement of Lady Caroline Keppel,
daughter of second Earl Albemarle, with a rollicking Irish physician
who may have been the Robert of the ballad; while during the summer of
1775 the whole world was wondering whether a man or a most beautiful
woman must go to Tyburn for using the signature of Mr William Adair,
the rich army agent, cousin to Dr Robin of wedding and song. In the
first romance the hero received the just title of ‘the fortunate
Irishman’: in the latter the chief personages were ‘the unfortunate
brothers’ Messrs Robert and Daniel Perreau. Their disaster happened
thus:--
On a Tuesday morning, the 7th of March 1775, a slender, middle-aged
gentleman walked into the counting-house of Messrs Drummond, the great
bankers of Charing Cross. Garbed in a trim snuff-coloured suit, and
betraying none of the macaroni eccentricities with the exception of a
gold-laced hat, his dress suited the rôle that he played in life--a
sleek and prosperous apothecary. This Mr Robert Perreau of Golden
Square was welcomed cordially by Henry Drummond, one of the partners
in the firm, for an apothecary was almost as eminent as a doctor, and
the men had met and known each other at such houses as my Lord Egmont’s
or that of my Lady Lyttelton. Producing as security a bond for £7500,
bearing a signature that should have been honoured by any house in
London, the visitor requested a loan of £5000. However, strange to
say, banker Henry, who had been joined by his brother Robert, seemed
dissatisfied.
“This bond is made payable to you,” he remarked. “Was you present when
it was executed?”
“No, I was not present,” was Mr Perreau’s reply.
“It is not the signature of William Adair, the late army agent of Pall
Mall,” was the startling comment of Robert Drummond. “I have seen his
drafts many a time!”
The prim countenance of the apothecary remained unperturbed.
“There is no doubt but it is his hand,” he answered, with perfect
composure, “for it is witnessed by Mr Arthur Jones, his solicitor, and
by Thomas Stark, his servant.”
“It is very odd,” replied the incredulous Robert Drummond. “I have seen
his hand formerly, and this does not appear to be the least like it.”
Brother Henry Drummond echoed the same sentiment, whereupon Mr Robert
Perreau waxed mysterious and emphatic.
“Mr Adair is my particular friend,” he declared. “There are family
connections between us.... Mr Adair has money of mine in his hands, and
allows me interest.”
“Come to-morrow, Mr Perreau,” said Henry Drummond, “and we will give
you an answer.”
Having received this promise the apothecary departed, but after the
lapse of two hours he returned, and was seen by banker Henry once more.
Without the least reserve he confessed that he had been much concerned
by what the Messrs Drummond had told him.
“I could not be easy in my mind till I had called on Mr Adair,” he
explained. “Luckily I catched him in his boots before he went to take
his ride.”
Naturally, the good banker listened with interest, noting the words,
for it seemed odd that Mr William Adair, the rich squire of Flixton
Hall in Suffolk, whose son was carrying on the army agency, should
raise money in such a style.
“I produced the bond to Mr Adair,” Robert Perreau continued. “It was
his signature, he said, but he might possibly have altered his hand
from the time you had seen him write.... You might let me have the
£5000, Mr Adair said, and he would pay the bond in May, though it is
not payable till June.”
The astute banker, who had talked the matter over with his brother in
the interim, did not express his doubts so strongly.
“Leave the bond with me,” he suggested to his visitor, “in order that
we may get an assignment of it.”
Which proposal Mr Robert Perreau assented to readily, believing, no
doubt, that it was a preface to the payment of his money. In the
course of the day the document was shown to a friend of Mr Adair,
and finally exhibited to the agent himself. Attentive to the hour
of his appointment, Mr Perreau left his gallipots in Golden Square,
and reached the Charing Cross bank at eleven o’clock on the following
morning. Both partners were ready for him, and suggested that to clear
up all doubts it would be wise to call upon Mr William Adair without
delay. To this the apothecary assented very readily--indeed, in any
case a refusal would have aroused the worst suspicions. As it was a
wet morning, he had come in his elegant town coach, and he drove off
immediately with one of the bankers to the house of the late agent in
Pall Mall. Upon their entrance the squire of Flixton took Mr Henry
Drummond by the hand, but, to the surprise of the worthy banker,
made a bow merely to the man who had boasted him as his ‘particular
friend’ Then, the bond being produced, Mr Adair at once repudiated the
signature. For the first time Robert Perreau betrayed astonishment.
“Surely, sir,” cried he, “you are jocular!”
A haughty glance was the sole response of the wealthy agent.
“It is no time to be jocular when a man’s life is at stake,” retorted
the indignant Henry Drummond. “What can all this mean? The person you
pretend to be intimate with does not know you.”
“Why, ’tis evident this is not Mr Adair’s hand,” added his brother, who
had just arrived, with similar warmth, pointing to the forged name.
“I know nothing at all of it,” protested the confused apothecary.
“You are either the greatest fool or the greatest knave I ever saw,”
the angry banker continued. “I do not know what to make of you.... You
must account for this.... How came you by the bond?”
Then there was a hint that a constable had been summoned, and it would
be best to name his accomplices.
“How came you by the bond?” repeated Mr Drummond.
At last the bewildered Mr Perreau seemed to realise the gravity of his
position.
“That will appear,” he replied, in answer to the last remark, “if you
will send for my sister.”
“Who may she be?”
“Why, my brother Mr Daniel Perreau’s wife.”
Calling his servant, the apothecary bade him take the coach for his
sister-in-law, who, he said, might be at her home in Harley Street, but
most likely with his wife at his own house in Golden Square. It was
evident that the carriage did not go farther than the latter direction,
for in a short time it brought back the lady, who was ushered into the
room. Then indeed the hearts of those three hard-pated men of finance
must have been softened, for their eyes could have rested upon no more
dazzling vision of feminine loveliness within the British Isles. Of
medium height, her figure was shaped in the robust lines of graceful
womanhood, but the face, which beamed with an expression of childish
innocence, seemed the daintiest of miniatures, with tiny, shell-like
features, and the clearest and fairest skin. In the fashion of the
time her hair was combed upward, revealing a high forehead, and the
ample curls which fell on either side towards her neck nestled beneath
the smallest of ears. Without a tinge of colour, her complexion was
relieved only by her red lips, but the healthy pallor served to
heighten her radiant beauty. A thin tight ribbon encircled her slender
neck. Below the elbow the close sleeves of her polonese terminated in
little tufts of lace, while long gloves concealed her round, plump
arms. Dress, under the influence of art, was beginning to cast off its
squalor.
Grasping the situation in a moment, this lovely Mrs Daniel Perreau
asked if she might speak with her brother-in-law alone, but the
request was refused. Then the beauty, making full use of her shining
blue eyes, besought Mr Adair to grant her a private interview. But the
old man--not such a gay dog as kinsman Robin--was proof against these
blandishments.
“You are quite a stranger to me,” he answered, “and you can have no
conversation that does not pass before these gentlemen.”
For a short time the beautiful woman appeared incapable of reason. At
last she seemed to make a sudden decision.
“My brother Mr Perreau is innocent,” she cried, in an agony of
distress. “I gave him the bond.... I forged it!... For God’s sake, have
mercy on an innocent man. Consider his wife and children.... Nobody was
meant to be injured. All will be repaid.”
“It is a man’s signature,” objected one of the bankers. “How could you
forge it?”
Seizing a pen and sheet of paper, she imitated the name on the bond
with such amazing fidelity that all were convinced. Then, according to
promise, Robert Drummond destroyed the writing, for he, at least, was
determined that no advantage should be taken of her confidence.
Little information was gained from Daniel Perreau--twin brother of the
apothecary--who had been summoned from his spacious home in Harley
Street, save shrugs of shoulders and words of surprise. Between him
and Robert there was a striking likeness. Both were handsome and
well-proportioned men, but a full flavour of macaroni distinguished the
newcomer--a ‘fine puss gentleman’ of the adventurous type. To him dress
was as sacred as to his great predecessor, Mr John Rann of the Sixteen
Strings, who only a few months previously had met with a fatal accident
near the Tyburn turnpike. Indeed, the macaroni was as great an autocrat
as the dandy of later days, and princes, parsons, and highwaymen
alike became members of his cult. So the gentleman from Harley Street,
flourishing his big stick, and shaking the curled chignon at the back
of his neck, tried with success to look a great fool.
Quite appropriately, it was the woman who determined the result. Less
dour than the squire of Flixton, the two bankers had no objection to
accompany her into an adjacent room, where they listened with sympathy
to her prayers. Being younger men than Mr Adair, they were full of
respect for her brave deed of self-accusation, moved by the piteous
spectacle of beauty in tears. In the end, confident that she spoke the
truth, they began to regard Robert Perreau as her innocent dupe. So the
constable was sent away, for macaroni Daniel seemed too great an idiot
to arrest, and it was preposterous to dream of locking up his lovely
wife. Thus the three grave financiers promised that the adventure
should be forgotten, and the Messrs Perreau drove away from the house
in Pall Mall in Robert’s coach, assured that they had escaped from a
position which might have cost them their lives. Almost as clever as
she was beautiful was this charming Mrs Daniel Perreau.
Surely, all but a fool would have tried to blot the incident from his
mind, content that the gentlemen concerned believed his honour to be
unsullied, too humane to betray a pretty sister into the bloody hands
of justice--all but a fool, or a _criminal_ seeking to escape by
sacrificing an accomplice! Yet Mr Robert Perreau, although anything but
a fool, would not rest. Without delay he sought advice from a barrister
friend, one Henry Dagge, with the amazing result that on the following
Saturday forenoon, the 11th of March, he appeared before Messrs Wright
and Addington at the office in Bow Street to lay information against
‘the female forger’ Luckily, the magistrates took the measure of
the treacherous apothecary, and committed him as well as the lady to
the Bridewell at Tothill Fields. On the next day, fop Daniel--a base
fellow, who had acted as decoy while his brother was effecting the
betrayal--was sent to keep them company. It was a rueful hour for the
two Perreaus when they tried to pit their wits against a woman.
On Wednesday morning, the 15th of March, in expectation that the three
distinguished prisoners would appear before Sir John Fielding, the
Bow Street court was besieged by so large a crowd that it was deemed
prudent to adjourn to more commodious quarters in the Guildhall,
Westminster. Surprising revelations were forthcoming. It was found that
the forgery discovered seven days ago was only one of many. Two other
persons--Dr Brooke and Admiral Sir Thomas Frankland--less cautious than
the Drummonds, came forward to declare that they had obliged their
friend Mr Perreau by discounting similar bonds, all of which bore the
signature of William Adair! Plain indeed was the motive of Robert’s
betrayal. It was not enough that the bankers should forgive him--it was
needful that the woman must answer as scapegoat for much more.
Never had a fairer prisoner stood before the blind magistrate than
the intended victim. Above a striped silk gown she wore a pink cloak
trimmed with ermine, and a small black bonnet--as usual, daintiest of
the dainty, in spite of her tears and shame. Hitherto, she had given
splendid proofs of courage and loyalty, but treachery had changed her
heart to stone, and she lent herself to a cunning revenge. A youthful
barrister named Bailey, who was hovering around Bow Street soon after
her arrest, had been lucky enough to be accepted as her counsel.
Clever almost as his client--in spite of contemporary libels from Grub
Street, that repute him more intimate with Ovid’s _Art of Love_
than Glanvill or Bracton--he came forward with the naïve suggestion
that she should be admitted as evidence for the Crown! And a witness
she was made there and then, two days later being let loose on bail,
which created a very pretty legal causerie in a little while. On the
other hand, the unhappy brothers were committed to the New Prison,
Clerkenwell, on the capital charge of forgery. All this was very
welcome entertainment for the fashionable mob that crushed into the
Westminster Guildhall.
[Illustration: MARGARET CAROLINE RUDD]
The repartee of one of Sir John’s myrmidons, often quoted by wags of
the time as an excellent joke, is not without its moral. One of the
doorkeepers refused entrance to a certain person on the ground that he
had been told to admit only gentlemen.
“That is Mr ----, the great apothecary,” quoth a bystander.
“Oh!” returns the doorkeeper, “if that’s the case, he must on no
account go in, for my orders extend only to gentlemen, and the whole
room is filled with apothecaries already.”
It would have been well for Robert Perreau had he held no more exalted
opinion of his station in life than the Bow Street officer.
To the delight of all the _bon ton_, the scent of scandal rose hot
into the air. The charming lady who had passed as the wife of Daniel
Perreau proved to be his mistress. Although she had lived with him for
five years, bearing him no less than three children, her real name was
Margaret Caroline Rudd, whose lawful husband was still alive. Being the
daughter of an apothecary in the North of Ireland, by his marriage with
the love-child of a major of dragoons, who was a member of the Scottish
house of Galloway, her boast that the blood of Bruce ran in her veins
was strictly true, in spite of the scoffs and jeers with which it was
hailed by her enemies. Early in the year 1762, when only seventeen, she
had married a dissolute lieutenant of foot, named Valentine Rudd, the
son of a grocer at St Albans. Soon his society proved distasteful, and
the fair Margaret Caroline eloped with a more congenial partner. During
the next few years she lived the life of a Kitty Fisher or a Fanny
Murray--a gilt-edged Cyprian--selling her favours, like Danae, for
no less than a shower of gold. Of all her patrons, the most faithful
and generous by far was a rich Jew moneylender named Salvadore, whose
name remains still as a landmark in the purlieus of the metropolis.
Good Lord Granby is said to have visited her out of mere affection.
Among others, it was whispered that Henry Frederick, a gentleman of
easy virtue, like all Dukes of Cumberland, became one of her intimate
friends. Possibly she may have listened to couplets from the _Essay on
Women_, for patriot Wilkes, the member of Parliament for the county of
Middlesex, is believed to have cultivated her society, going to the
extent of finding her a home at Lambeth. Peers flocked to Hollen Street
or Meard’s Court to pay her homage. A favourite device of hers was to
impersonate a boarding-school miss or a lady of quality. Few women
of pleasure have possessed the fertile imagination of Mrs Margaret
Caroline Rudd.
In May 1770 she met the foolish Daniel Perreau--not stupid from the
woman’s point of view, since he was a dashing dog with a taste for all
the pleasant things in life--and in an unlucky moment she accepted
him as her protector. However, in other respects, although he had
travelled far over the world, his intellect was no mate for hers. In
business he had been a failure both at home and abroad. Three times, it
is recorded, he was obliged to make composition with his creditors.
Only a fortnight before his alliance with the bewitching Irishwoman
his certificate of bankruptcy had been signed. Still, he was a man
suited to the fair Margaret’s taste, handsome, gay, and genteel, with
a complacency that paid no regard to her methods of raising money--a
partner, in short, who gave her back the status in society that she had
forfeited.
Naturally, Daniel was more than satisfied with his beautiful companion,
allowing her to pass as his lawful wife, forming an establishment
for her in Pall Mall Court--the cost of which, since Salvadore and
others were as lavish as ever, she appears to have provided. Golden
dreams had captured his silly brain, and he believed that Exchange
Alley would bring a more propitious fortune than vulgar trade. Funds
could be obtained from his dear Mrs Rudd. Secret news from the French
Embassy was furnished by his confederate, one Colonel Kinder--an Irish
soldier. It would be easy to cut a brilliant figure at Jonathan’s, and
restore his shattered credit. Thus, relying upon certain information,
he insured the chances of war with Spain; but the Falkland Island
convention happened to bring peace, and Daniel Perreau suffered his
first big loss in the Alley.
Still, this did not deter him, for the finances of Mrs Rudd seemed
inexhaustible, and sometimes he made a lucky stroke himself. In
addition to her pretended fortune, which Daniel knew was not bequeathed
by any relative, she declared to her friends that a windfall had come
to her in the shape of an annuity of £800 a year from Mr James Adair,
the wealthy linen-factor of Soho Square. This kinsman of the Pall Mall
agent chanced to be acquainted with the maternal uncle of Margaret
Caroline Youngson--a tenant farmer of Balimoran, County Down, John
Stewart by name, another unlawful offspring, possibly, of the amorous
major of the house of Galloway--and, after the custom of a man of the
world, as he is described, he became even more interested than the
royal duke in the fortunes of the pretty niece. It is doubtful whether
his generosity reached the sum named, but with so many sources of
income strict accuracy in detail may have been difficult to Mrs Rudd.
Indeed, the despicable Daniel Perreau did not require them. It was a
great thing to boast at Jonathan’s that his wife was a connection of
one of the great Adairs. With such a surety funds might be borrowed
easily.
Apparently, being much attached to her protector, Margaret Rudd was
quite content to live with him in their humble quarters in Pall Mall
Court, and to present him at appropriate intervals with pledges of
their mutual ardour. Probably she shared his golden visions, hoping for
future affluence. At all events, she gained no monetary advantage from
the connection. Moreover, it was not until the beginning of the fatal
year that she was mistress even of a house of her own, for the elegant
residence on the west side of Harley Street was purchased on the 31st
of December 1774.
Brother Robert watched with amazement the progress of the fortunes of
his twin, for it was wonderful that bankrupt Daniel should be able to
live in decent lodgings with a stylish lady, to pursue fashion in all
its vagaries, and to throw about money in the Alley. A different man
this Robert--solemn, laborious, and intelligent, making a hard-earned
income of a thousand pounds a year. Nevertheless, his soul soared above
his gallipots. It was his ambition to make a figure in the world, so
that his wife could woo society with drums, routs, hurricanes. When he
looked around he saw that fortunes were being won on every side. A wave
of prosperity was bearing the empire on its crest. The Great Commoner
had wrenched America and India from the hereditary enemy. To these vast
markets British seamen were carrying the exports of their country. At
home, the clever inventors of the North, Watt and Arkwright, Hargreaves
and Brindley, had increased the powers of production a thousandfold.
England was setting up shop on a scale undreamt of hitherto in the
world’s philosophy. Why spend one’s life in dispensing pukes and
boluses, thought apothecary Robert, when the Alley is open to all who
dare take advantage of this golden age?
Since this was his character, brother Daniel and his pretty _chère
amie_ soon tempted the misguided man to share their fortunes, glad to
seek the cover of his reputable name to fashion new and more desperate
schemes. For earls and bishops were clients of the apothecary, and
‘honest Perreau’ was one of his appellations. Yet to preserve the
co-operation of such respectability a pleasant little piece of fiction
had to be maintained. Brother Robert, not a fool by any means, was
willing to assist their plans, but only in the character of an
ingenuous agent; a method--as, no doubt, he pointed out--that must
disarm all suspicion. Thus, when he canvassed his friends to advance
money on bonds in pursuance of the new policy, he would be able to pose
as the emissary of his sister-in-law Mrs Daniel Perreau and her doting
relatives Messrs James and William Adair. Indeed, there was a letter
in his pocket, authorising some such scheme, which, not being penned
by the Pall Mall agent, probably was the work of the clever woman who
could give imitations of other people’s handwriting. Such a letter
would be useful in case his possession of an Adair bond was questioned,
but most useful of all--and this most certainly Mr Robert Perreau would
not point out to his confederates--in making him appear a guileless
dupe in the hands of an artful woman. Very cleverly had he arranged
the saving of his own skin, this sly, precise apothecary.
For no game could be more hazardous than the one which the guilty trio
continued to pursue. Forgery was needful to cover forgery. As one bond
became payable another had to be discounted to provide the money. A
couple of bonds to the value of nearly £8000 were cashed by banker
Mills in the City. On two others the large sums of £4000 and £5000 had
been advanced by Sir Thomas Frankland. In this way more than a dozen
were negotiated during the twelve months that preceded the discovery.
All were signed with the name of the army agent--the pretended
benefactor of Daniel’s wife--and their total value reached the huge
sum of £70,000. Thus the Perreaus had been able to continue their
speculations in Exchange Alley. Their sole chance of coming out of the
mischief scot free was a lucky stroke at Jonathan’s, or the death of
one of their victims.
Public interest in the case was aroused no less by the personality of
the prisoners than by the mystery surrounding the actual criminal.
For the brothers on one side, and Mrs Rudd on the other, told two
wonderful and contradictory stories. This most artful of women, whined
the Messrs Perreau, using consummate guile, had revealed to them
gradually a dazzling and enticing prospect. First Mr James and then
Mr William Adair was represented as the lavish benefactor of their
beautiful relative. Yet such was the modesty of these capitalists,
that although they declared their intention of procuring a baronetcy
for Daniel, and an estate in the country for Robert, besides setting
up the twins as West-End bankers, they would communicate with Mrs
Rudd alone! Moreover, such was the impecuniosity of these wealthy men
that they were able to carry out their benevolent intentions only by
the aid of notes of hand! However, the brothers protested that these
assurances had been given to them by the lady, and that all the forged
bonds had been received from the fair Margaret Caroline by innocent
Daniel or ingenuous Robert, in the belief that the Messrs Adair, who
had signed them, intended a gratuitous present. A most happy stroke of
luck, coinciding fortunately with the period of their bold speculations
at Jonathan’s! Yet what was Mrs Rudd’s motive in running these risks
to provide funds from which she received little benefit, was not made
clear.
Even more wondrous was the other story. Although her conduct at the
house in Pall Mall--whether we deem her guilty or innocent--showed
something of nobility, she had no mercy for her confederates after they
had played her false. While confessing once more that she had forged
the bond which the Drummonds had rejected, she declared that her keeper
Daniel had forced her to do so by standing over her with an open knife,
threatening to cut her throat unless she obeyed. An incredible story,
but no more improbable than the other! With the exception of this
compulsory forgery, Mrs Rudd avowed that she was innocent. Amidst all
this publicity it is likely that poor Mr James Adair, who had been very
much the lady’s friend in former days, would have an unpleasant time
with Mrs James Adair, and with his son, young Mr Serjeant James, M.P.,
the rising barrister!
Such an entertainment was a novel and delightful experience for the
British public. Since the wonderful time (fourteen summers ago) when
mad Earl Ferrers had made his exit at Tyburn in a gorgeous wedding
dress, and amidst funereal pomp, the triple tree seldom had been graced
by the appearance of gentlefolk. Broker Rice, whose shady tricks at
the Alley made him the victim of Jack Ketch three years after his
lordship, was almost the only respectable criminal who had been hanged
for more than a decade. Indeed, except Mother Brownrigg and Jack of the
Sixteen Strings, no criminal of note had dangled from a London scaffold
since the days of Theodore Gardelle. Yet a glorious era was dawning
for the metropolitan mob, when, in quick succession, Dodd, Hackman,
and Ryland were to journey down the Oxford Road--the golden age of the
gallows, when George III. was king!
On Friday, the Ist of June, Robert Perreau was put to the bar at the
Old Bailey. Owing to ill-health he had been allowed to remain in the
Clerkenwell prison, and was not taken to Newgate until the morning of
his trial--a privilege shared also by his brother. The President of the
Court was Sir Richard Aston, who, as a junior of the Oxford circuit,
had helped to defend the unfortunate Miss Blandy. By his side sat the
Right Honourable John Wilkes, Lord Mayor of London, a quite tame City
patriot now almost ready for the royal embraces, very different from
the Wilkes winged by pistol-practising Martin, M.P., and hounded by
renegade Jemmy Twitcher. This same City patriot--if we may credit one
of Dame Rumour’s quite credible stories--whispered into the ear of the
judge the most important words spoken during the trial:--“My lord, you
can convict these men without the woman’s evidence.... It is a shocking
thing that she should escape unpunished, as she must if you call her as
a witness!” Which advice--if the lady had been as kind to ‘squinting
Jacky’ as the world believed--shows that he was rising on stepping
stones of Medmenham Abbey to higher things. At all events, instead
of summoning Mrs Rudd into the box, the judge startled the world by
ordering her to be detained in Newgate.
In spite of the efforts of his counsel and his friends, the Court
did not put the least faith in the wily apothecary, refusing to
believe that he had been ignorant of his brother’s relationship to his
mistress, or, if this were true, that an innocent man would obtain
cash for a succession of huge bonds, drawn on the well-known house
of Adair, at the bidding of a woman without making inquiries. Even
granting that he was so credulous as to remain silent when he saw that
suspicion was aroused, it was clear that no man of honour would strive
to stifle mistrust by telling lies. Then there were other compromising
circumstances. It was apparent that the Perreaus needed money to repay
certain bonds that were falling due. Robert had antedated the latest
forgery to make it agree with one of his falsehoods to the Messrs
Drummond, for in the previous January he had endeavoured to obtain
money from them by a fictitious story. Not only did the employment of a
scrivener have no weight in his favour, but pointed to premeditation.
In the face of these facts his guilt seemed clear. Notwithstanding an
eloquent defence written for him by Hugh M’Auley Boyd, in which he
protested that he had received the bonds from Mrs Rudd in good faith,
the jury required no more than five minutes to return a hostile verdict.
At nine o’clock on the following morning there were similar dealings
with brother Daniel. Seeing that his case was hopeless, he did not
deliver the elaborate address that had been prepared, choosing to print
it, like Pope’s playwright. Naturally, his expectations were fulfilled,
and he was found guilty of forging one of the bonds in the name of
William Adair, on which his friend Dr Brooke had lent him £1500. On the
6th of June, at the close of the Old Bailey sessions, he was sentenced
to death along with Robert by Recorder Glynn, while on the same day Mrs
Rudd was told that as bail could not be granted, she must remain in
prison. In spite of their dishonesty, and still baser treachery, it is
impossible to think of the cruel sentence of the unfortunate Perreaus
without a thrill of horror. Yet no qualms disturbed the tranquil
conscience of King George, who believed he was doing the Lord’s work in
hanging men and women for a paltry theft.
The charming Mrs Rudd was not disposed of so easily as her unlucky
confederates. From April onwards she had attracted more attention
than the skirmishes with our rebellious colonists at Bunker’s Hill
and Lexington. While she was at large and the brothers were under
lock and key, public sympathy had remained on their side. Moreover,
her tactics were not too reputable, and until it was evident that she
was struggling in her prison with the valour of desperation against
overwhelming odds, popular compassion did not condone her shifty
methods. Still, whatever her guilt, she waged her long battle with
surpassing dexterity.
One of the foremost of her foes, and not the least dangerous, was
George Kinder, the Irish colonel--Daniel’s emissary in the unlucky
touting at the back stairs of the French Embassy--a gentleman who had
sought vainly to win the good graces of Miss Polly Wilkes. There was no
false delicacy about this warrior, as the letters in the _Morning Post_
under pseudonyms ‘Jack Spry’ and ‘No Puffer’ bear ample testimony, and
soon he had made the whole world familiar with the amatory history of
Margaret Youngson. Yet Colonel Kinder was too reckless in the delivery
of his attacks, and, like many another dashing soldier, he found
himself often outflanked. For Mrs Rudd wielded her pen brilliantly, and
her replies to critics of the press were not unworthy--both in style
and context--of a novelist of later days. At all events, the vulgar
diatribes of Colonel Kinder helped to bring popular sympathy to the
side of his fair antagonist, and this is precisely what the clever lady
must have foreseen.
Another enemy, as inveterate as the Irishman himself, appeared in
the person of a rough-and-ready sea-dog, ex-Admiral Sir Thomas
Frankland--whom the Perreaus had swindled out of thousands of pounds--a
lineal descendant of Protector Cromwell. More truculent even than his
great ancestor--for surely Oliver never confiscated ruff or farthingale
belonging to Henrietta Maria--he pounced upon Mrs Rudd’s clothes, and
indeed upon all property that might help to repay his loans. Remaining
loyal to his old friend the Golden Square apothecary--for the choleric
gentleman was convinced that he was an innocent instrument in the
hands of the woman--he seized anything that Daniel and his mistress
happened to possess. In consequence of this brigandage there was a
pitched battle between the employees of the admiral and the sheriff’s
officers for the possession of the house in Harley Street, in which
the former got the worst of the tussle. Running amuck at all who
took the other side--Barrister Bailey, Uncle Stewart, the Keeper of
the Lyon Records--each in turn received a broadside from the fiery
old salt. Shiver-me-timbers Frankland--this Paul Pry of a lady’s
wardrobe--wrought more good out of evil to the cause of Margaret Rudd
than any other man, and his fair enemy was nothing loth to let him run
to the top of his bent.
Nowhere was the diplomacy of Daniel Perreau’s mistress more remarkable
than in the negotiations with her old servant, Mrs Christian Hart.
Early in July there was an interview between the pair in Newgate:
the handmaid compassionate and pliable; the prisoner full of subtle
schemes against her enemies. Barrister Bailey was present, and a
lengthy document was drawn up--a paper of instructions in the form of a
narrative for the guidance of the faithful ‘Christy’--wherein was set
forth the details of a wicked conspiracy, which the servant was to
pretend that she had overheard, between old sea-dog Frankland and Mrs
Robert Perreau to swear away Mrs Rudd’s life. Promising to learn her
story and stick to the text, Mrs Hart went away with her manuscript;
but, frightened by her husband or bribed by the admiral, in a little
while she deserted to the other side. In no wise dismayed, Margaret
Rudd retorted that ‘Christy’ had volunteered the story, and that the
instructive document was a faithful copy of the woman’s narrative as
dictated by herself, another copy of which she produced, attested by
the faithful Bailey. Moreover, she alleged that the whole business
was a thing devised by the Perreaus for the purpose of compromising
their enemy, a most dexterous plot to make it appear that Mrs Rudd
was endeavouring to create false evidence! Thus, even when the first
scheme failed, she gained the effect desired by its very failure. Poor,
persecuted woman, thought the big-hearted British public, and what a
shocking old admiral!
A little later, the fair captive in Newgate triumphed over another
enemy, one Hannah Dalboux, a second domestic. This Hannah had been
nurse to the youngest of Daniel Perreau’s children since the mother
had been put in prison. One morning in August the newspapers announced
that the woman had refused to surrender the child, and that the woman’s
husband had tried to thrash the inevitable Mr Bailey when he paid a
visit with his client’s request. “The baby shall be given up when I am
paid for its board and lodging,” was the sum and substance of Hannah’s
ultimatum. All the same the child had to be delivered to its rightful
owner, and husband Dalboux was locked up for the assault. A great
opportunity, indeed, which Mrs Rudd did not neglect. All the journals
were full of hints concerning the horrid old admiral, who had employed
people to steal the lady’s baby as well as her petticoats--about the
last two things in the world a swell mobsman would choose, unless they
were accompanied by the proprietress. Yet the salient fact, remembered
by the British public in a little while, was that this inveterate
sea-dog was the prosecutor at Mrs Rudd’s trial.
The well-known anecdote told of her by Horace Walpole, must, if true,
have reference to an incident that occurred during her imprisonment in
Newgate.
“Preparatory to her trial, she sent for some brocaded silks to a
mercer. She pitched on a rich one, and ordered him to cut off the
proper quantity, but the mercer, reflecting that if she was hanged, as
was probable, he should never be paid, pretended he had no scissors.
She saw his apprehensions, pulled out her pocket-book, and giving him a
bank-note for £20, said, ‘There is a pair of scissors.’ Such quickness
is worth a hundred screams. We have no Joans of Arc nor Catherines de
Medici, but this age has heroines after its own fashion.”
Whenever a Gordian knot presented itself the undaunted Mrs Rudd was
always ready with a pair of scissors!
Like all other popular entertainers, the fair Margaret Caroline had
rivals in the public favour. On the nineteenth of August, “one of the
prettiest young women in England,” Jane Butterfield by name, was tried
for her life at Croydon on a charge of poisoning a foully-diseased
old man for whom she kept house. Paramour also to this rotten William
Scawen was Miss Jane, debauched by him when a child. Although the poor
girl was acquitted amidst tears and huzzas, she lost the fortune that
should have come to her, for her protector, who had listened to the
accusations of his Dr Sanxy--the instigator of all the proceedings
against the innocent Jane--lived long enough, unhappily, to cross her
out of his will. For a while all England forgot Margaret Rudd in its
generous sympathy for the beautiful heroine of Croydon. Soon also
the ubiquitous Elizabeth Chudleigh monopolised public attention, to
the exclusion of everyone else, under her new rôle as Her Grace of
Kingston; while the sex of the mysterious Chevalier D’Eon continued to
be the subject of many wagers.
For six months Mrs Rudd remained a prisoner in Newgate--from the day of
Robert Perreau’s condemnation on the 1st of June until the morning of
her own trial on the 8th of December--using every endeavour so that she
should not be brought to the judgment-seat. A few weeks after the close
of the summer sessions--on the fourth day of July--she was summoned to
Westminster Hall to listen to the ruling of Chief-Justice Mansfield,
an unrivalled exponent of amazing decisions, with regard to her status
as king’s evidence. Superfine, indeed, was the quality of Mansfield’s
red tape:--“The woman did not confess that she was an accomplice,
but an assistant by compulsion, therefore she may be presumed to be
innocent, consequently there is no reason why she should not be tried!
Only a _guilty_ person can be admitted as a witness for the Crown!”
Yet the great Chief-Justice had a more cogent reason still--one that
is irrefutable: “Since the lady did not disclose _all_ she knew, she
has forfeited indulgence!” Quite proper, no doubt, in a legal sense,
but foreign to the eternal ethics of British equity, that has permitted
‘burker’ Hare to escape the halter, believing that it is monstrous to
ask a jury to try a prisoner from whom a confession has been extorted
under promise of pardon. There was no false delicacy about the learned
Mansfield’s interpretation of the law.