At last he sought active service once more. The British colony

that borders the river Gambia in North-West Africa offered him

employment, and Fort James, a station on the estuary, became his home.

Unfortunately, Colonel Macnamara, the Lieutenant-Governor, was a man

of similar disposition to his young officer, and during August 1776

the inevitable encounter took place. Wall, on the plea of ill-health,

happening to disregard one of the orders of his superior, was cast

into prison without trial, and was immured for nine months. An action

at law, which appears to have been heard during the year 1779, was the

result, and the jury, who, guided by Lord Mansfield, held the opinion

that Colonel Macnamara had acted with unnecessary severity, ordered him

to pay the sum of a thousand pounds to the victim of his tyranny.

Previously, having returned to England, the Irishman had become

fortune-hunter, and cut a dash at Bath or Harrogate, searching in vain

for his rich heiress. Such a precarious existence could not endure, and

during the year 1780, Joseph Wall, whose finances were at a low ebb,

again was compelled to seek employment. The command of the recently

captured island of Goree was going a-begging--two Governors having

succumbed to the climate in a space of eighteen months--and he accepted

the post. Its perquisites were considerable; for as the control of the

vast trade along the coast of Senegambia was in his hands, there were

endless chances of lucrative commissions and levying extortion upon the

native chiefs. Huge inflammable Wall was just the man to tame and cow

the rebellious gaol-birds who formed his garrison, and he ruled them

with a hand of steel. Neither men nor officers loved his methods. As

ships touched but seldom at this far-distant port, the soldiers were

called upon often to submit to short commons. A glance from the fiery

Governor quelled the murmurs, for a merciless flogging was the fate of

the unlucky one upon whom his eye rested for a second time. Even the

iron frame of Joseph Wall was soon conquered by the deadly climate. In

less than two years he was compelled to send in his resignation. On the

11th of July 1782 he quitted the arid rock, and, his ship being lucky

enough to avoid the cruisers of France and Spain, he landed safely

at Portsmouth before the end of August. Thus it came about that this

soured and disappointed man sent his report to Mr Townshend.

Joseph Wall was only in his forty-sixth year. Although his health had

broken down temporarily, he was capable still of a long period of

active service. But the unkind fate that had offered his only chance at

the close of the Seven Years’ War, and had kept him styed in Senegambia

during the struggle with the American colonies, was smoothing the way

for the younger Pitt and his ten years’ peace. Thus fortune sports

with nations, giving to one Frederick, to another Daun, working

miracles with Chatham, or assisting Choiseul to open the flood-gates

of a deluge. Lucky, indeed, for humanity that every man has not his

opportunity. Valour was not lacking in the British officers who fought

at Lexington, at Bunker’s Hill or Saratoga, but theirs was no mate to

the courage of those who did battle against them beneath the shadow of

the rope. During the early years of the American War a hundred Joseph

Wall might have erected a forest of gibbets and have made the colony

a second Poland, but the United States never would have survived its

birth. It is far better as it is. Truly, there were giants in those

days--cruel, untamable giants, but capable of superhuman achievements;

and though from time to time we cast off their chains, bidding them

stalk through a world of slaughter, yet, to the credit of our race, the

spirit even of that robust age kept them mostly in their dungeons of

obscurity.

For only ten months did the Irish soldier of fortune enjoy his

retirement undisturbed. Dark rumours had been whispered of his bloody

régime in West Africa, and one Captain Roberts made grave accusations,

of which, however, a court-martial at the Horse Guards took little

heed--merely censuring the giant tenderly in minor matters, as the

beating of a sentry, with a humorous rider that the man got what he

deserved. They are tedious complaints, such as rise to the lips of the

slack and spiteful when a strenuous commander insists upon a rattle of

bones. It was not until the troopship _Willington_ brought home the

remainder of the garrison of Goree--now ceded to the French--that a

more substantial charge was laid against the ex-Governor. In a few days

the newspapers announced that the surgeon and a couple of officers, who

had been examined before the Privy Council, had presented a terrible

indictment of cruelty against their late commander. Towards the end

of February 1784, two men set out for Bath to take Joseph Wall into

custody. Although distressed by the warrant, he submitted quietly,

merely asking that a lady friend should be allowed to accompany him

to London. The ‘Castle Inn,’ Marlborough, was the first halting-place

on the journey along the most famous of coach-roads, and on the 1st

of March, the next evening, they rested at the old ‘Brown Bear’ in

Reading. Here Captain Wall protested that his custodians should not

occupy the same bedroom as himself; and to humour him, as ordinary

mortals are in the habit of humouring a restive giant, they agreed to

remain in an adjoining chamber. A drop to the ground from a first-floor

window was not the obstacle to deter the untamable soldier, and the

next morning the police-officers found that their captive had vanished.

A reward of £200 was offered for his apprehension on the 8th of March,

the day on which he is believed to have set foot on French soil. It

is understood that he wrote to a friend, stating he should surrender

for trial as soon as the popular clamour against him had died away,

and it is certain that he sent a letter containing a similar promise

to Secretary Townshend, now Lord Sydney, on the 15th of October

of the same year. This intention, however, was not fulfilled, and

gradually the case of Governor Wall, whose cruelty had excited so much

indignation, faded from public memory.

The cause of his arrest was an incident that occurred on the eve of

his departure from Goree in 1782. For some time the felon soldiers

under his command had been muttering low growls of discontent. Short

allowance had been their lot for a long period, and the fear arose

that the usual compensation would not be paid unless they received it

before the Governor left the island. On the 10th of July preparations

were hastened for Wall’s departure. All was bustle at the storekeeper’s

office, where a servant was packing the commander’s luggage. No doubt

it was whispered among the men that the home-bound vessel would carry a

wealth of merchandise, which by right should be left for the garrison.

Early in the morning the Governor observed a body of soldiers, twenty

or more, marching across the hot sand towards his residence, where

they had no right to intrude. Though enraged at this evidence of

insubordination, he merely gave an order that they should retire. Two

hours later, a still larger number was seen approaching Government

House. Wall went out into the blazing tropical sunlight to meet them.

So determined were they to vent their grievances that they did not

pause to consider that this act was flagrant mutiny. Since their

commanding officer had forbidden a similar gathering, the right course

was to send a deputation to the Governor, explaining their demands

through the proper channels.

That Wall considered the situation was serious, is proved by the fact

that he temporised with the men, dismissing them without any threat

of serious punishment. In later days he protested--which version was

endorsed by several eye-witnesses--that the conduct of the soldiers

who spoke to him was insolent and menacing, and that he induced them

to disperse by a promise to consider their claims. At all events, he

came to no decision until he had taken counsel with his officers, whom

he met, as usual, at the two o’clock dinner. The methods adopted show

that elaborate precautions were deemed necessary in order to avoid

a grave disturbance. Roll-call was sounded about an hour before the

proper time, and as the pink flush of evening was stealing over the

burning rock the soldiers assembled on parade. Unaware that reprisals

were contemplated, the corps was drawn up in a half-circle within

the ramparts, in the centre of which stood the Governor and his four

available officers. As the men were falling in, or perhaps a little

while before, another case of insubordination arose. Word was brought

that there was a mutiny in the main guard. Away hurried the intrepid

commander to the scene of the disturbance. Snatching a bayonet from the

hands of a drunken sentry, the angry giant belaboured the man lustily,

and thrust back an excited soldier named George Paterson, one of the

ringleaders of the morning, who was about to break from the guard-room.

Having thus smothered this miniature rebellion, the Governor, whose

inflammable temper had burst its bonds, hastened back to the parade

ground. In those robust times a commanding officer had rude methods

of dealing with disobedient soldiers, and Wall had no tender scruples

against straining to the utmost all the power that martial law had

given him. Yet in spite of his bloody tyranny, it is impossible not to

admire the courage of the stout-hearted Irishman. The whole regiment,

two-thirds of which was composed of civil or military convicts who had

exchanged prison life for servitude on the deadly island, loathed his

authority. A few miles off on the coast lay the French settlements,

where English rebels would be sure of an eager welcome. There were

but seven officers to support the Governor, and one of these, who

sympathised with the claims of the soldiers, was under arrest. Except

half a dozen artillery-men and some blacks, the remainder of the

garrison belonged to the ill-conditioned African corps--a hundred and

fifty strong. One bold leader might have raised a swift mutiny. There

was a ship in the harbour, and in a few hours the rebels would have

been safe within Gallic territory in Senegal.

But the courage of Joseph Wall, which had borne him across the rocky

slopes of Moro amidst the hail of Spanish bullets, did not quail before

the scowling faces of his own men. Calling two of them from the ranks

of the circle--Benjamin Armstrong, sergeant, and George Robinson,

private--he charged them with disorderly conduct during the morning,

and commanded his officers to try them by drumhead court-martial.

As the penalty had been decided previously, the proceedings were

brief. After a few moments’ discussion the little tribunal announced

the sentence--eight hundred lashes apiece for the two mutineers. A

gun-carriage having been dragged forward, the men in turn were ordered

to strip. The mode of punishment struck terror into every heart. No

cat-o’-nine-tails could be found; nor was it thought safe to trust a

white man with the flogging. When the victim was bound to the cannon,

one of the blacks was called up, a rope put into his hand, and he was

ordered in military formula to “do his duty.” After twenty-five lashes

a new operator took his turn in the usual way. During the whole time

the garrison surgeon looked on, but made no comment. A thousand strokes

of the ‘cat’ was a common punishment in those Draconic days, and it

seemed immaterial whether the flagellation was inflicted with a bunch

of knotted leathern thongs or with a rope’s-end. When at last the long

agony was over, the two poor soldiers were taken to nurse their bruised

and swollen backs in the hospital.

On the following morning, the 11th of July, the bloody work was

continued. Drastic Wall thought fit to leave an imperishable record

of his mode of government. Beneath the flaming blue sky the soldiers

were marshalled upon the parade ground once more, and four of their

number were selected for punishment in the same informal manner. George

Paterson, the guard-room rebel, was sentenced to eight hundred lashes;

Corporal Thomas Upton, a ringleader of the deputation, and Private

William Evans, were condemned to receive three hundred and fifty and

eight hundred strokes respectively; while Henry Fawcett, the drunken

sentry, was let off with forty-seven. Having thus vindicated his

authority, the terrible Governor proceeded to his ship, which, to the

great joy of the awestruck garrison, weighed anchor the same day.

Soon after his departure the drama became a tragedy. A poisonous

climate and scanty rations had undermined the physique of the soldiers;

besides which, the sickly season was at hand. The ignorance of the

medical attendants was supplemented by an immoderate use of brandy.

Since the first occupation of the island, men had dropped like flies,

while to the sick and wounded a visit to the hospital was almost

equivalent to a sentence of death. Corporal Thomas Upton died two days

after his punishment; Sergeant Armstrong succumbed on the 15th of the

month; George Paterson only survived until the 19th of July. Meanwhile,

Joseph Wall, on the high seas, knew none of these things.

Cruel, wanton, reckless as was the deed of the Governor of Goree,

such things were of everyday occurrence in the army of his time. Sir

Charles Napier has left record of the merciless floggings of which

he was an eye-witness a decade later. Forty years after the Peace of

Versailles a court-martial had no hesitation in passing a sentence of

a thousand lashes. Although the rope’s-end employed in the punishment

of Armstrong and his fellows was probably a more formidable instrument

than the regimental ‘cat’ it was no more dangerous than the bunch of

knotted cords used in the navy. A social system that permitted women

and children to be hanged for petty larceny had a Spartan code for its

soldiers on active service.

Moreover, any lack of firmness on the part of Joseph Wall might have

brought him face to face with a serious mutiny. Riot was the sole means

of expression of the inarticulate mob, both civil and military. A few

months after the disturbance at Goree, General Conway, Governor of

Jersey, was called upon to quell a fierce rebellion among his troops.

About the same time wild insubordination was rife in the regiments

quartered at Wakefield and Rotherham. The danger of a similar outbreak

in a far-off island, garrisoned for the most part by gaol-birds, and

close to the French possessions, was multiplied a hundredfold. Severe

as were the methods of Wall, had such a man been in command at the

Nore the nation would have been spared the terror and ignominy of

‘Admiral’ Parker. Unfortunately for himself, the discipline of the

Irish giant was exerted to punish a personal affront. Had his soldiers

refused to cheer the birthday of some German princeling, he might have

flogged to death a whole company with impunity. Yet, relatively, the

ways and means of inflammable Wall were tame. On the 4th of August

1782, Captain Kenneth Mackenzie, who ruled over a similar regiment

of convicts at Fort Morea on the coast of Africa, blew to atoms a

mutinous fellow-Scot, a private under his command, from the mouth of a

cannon. For this deed, being brought to trial two years later, he was

condemned to death, but subsequently granted a free pardon. At the time

of his escape from the ‘Brown Bear’ at Reading, there were rumours (so

Wall alleges) that the Governor of Goree had put to death soldiers in

Mackenzie fashion. In which case he bore the stigma of another’s sin.

For twenty years after his flight from England Joseph Wall remained

a fugitive from justice, being an exile for the greater proportion

of the time. Paris was his principal abode, where he was able to

meet many compatriots, who held commissions in the French army. Yet,

although poor and in disgrace, he was never tempted to swerve from his

allegiance to his king. To have joined the colours of France would have

raised him from comparative poverty to affluence, but he kept loyal,

treasuring the hope that some day he would be able to return to his

country a free man. There is evidence of his presence in Paris at the

time of the flight to Varennes in 1792; but previously he paid a visit

to Scotland, and had married the fifth daughter of Baron Fortrose,

Frances Mackenzie, who gave birth to a son in 1791. At one time he

resided in Italy, where he wandered as far as Naples. All these years

his crime lay heavy upon his conscience, and it is said that several

times he meditated surrender. There is a legend that once he went as

far as Calais with this intention, but, his resolution failing at the

last moment, he remained on shore. By a strange chance, the boat in

which he should have reached the packet was swamped in the harbour

before his eyes--a noteworthy fact, like the drowning-escape of

immortal Catherine Hayes, for all who credit the old adage.

About the year 1797--so the _European Magazine_ tells us, although the

date seems premature by three years--he came over to London incognito,

where he lived with his wife in Upper Thornhaugh Street, Bedford

Square, under the name of Thompson. One day, while some workmen were

painting the house, he happened to express a few words of sympathy for

a sickly apprentice lad, who he had been told was in a decline. “Yes,

poor little fellow,” observed the foreman; “his father was flogged to

death by that inhuman scoundrel, Governor Wall.” Sometimes in real life

poetic justice will assert its power.

For a long while the outlaw was undecided whether to run the risk of

surrender. Under the shield of oblivion he might have continued to live

in the metropolis without danger, for his crime was almost forgotten.

Yet there were urgent reasons why he should vindicate his character, as

his wife was entitled to property which she could not receive unless

her husband appeared in person in a court of law. Before such a step

could be taken it was necessary for him to stand his trial. In his

dilemma he consulted Mr Alley, the famous counsel, who, in the face

of his flight from justice, could give him only cold comfort. However,

Joseph Wall was not the man to shirk risk in pursuit of a definite

object. On the 5th of October 1801 he sent a letter to Lord Pelham,

Secretary of State, announcing his presence in England; while on the

2nd of November he appeared before the Privy Council, and was committed

to Newgate.

The Special Commission appointed to judge the case of Governor Wall

met on the 20th of January 1802. At nine o’clock in the morning the

Court assembled in all the majesty of a State trial. Its president was

Sir Archibald Macdonald, Chief Baron of the Exchequer, a political

Scot who, like many of his betters, owed his position to a wife.

Sir Giles Rooke of Common Pleas, and Sir Soulden Lawrence of King’s

Bench, two merciful and kind-hearted judges, sat on either side to

give assistance. Never was there a more formidable array of counsel

for the Crown. Grim and spiteful Attorney-General Edward Law; the

urbane and much-underrated Spencer Perceval, Solicitor-General; Thomas

Plumer, George Wood, and Charles Abbott, all three destined to hold

distinguished positions on the Bench; and lastly, William Fielding,

who, like his more famous father, became a London magistrate. Nor were

the three barristers for the defence less illustrious: Newman Knowlys

was appointed Recorder of London; John Gurney, one of the greatest of

criminal advocates, rose to be a judge; and Alley, defender number

three, was as astute a lawyer as any of the rest.

No shudder of sympathy sweeps through the crowded court as the figure

of the crimson giant passes into the dock. Outside swell the low

growls of a gutter-wallowing mob; within, every heart cries aloud for

vengeance upon the grim tyrant. Joseph Wall faces his accusers, as he

faced all enemies, with fearless eyes and undaunted soul. From the

firm, martial tread and high, unbent brow, none would judge that this

is an old man, who has lived for sixty-five years. At the close of the

indictment the voice of the prisoner rings through the court, to the

surprise of all.

“My lord,” he exclaims, “I cannot hear in this place. I hope your

lordship will permit me to sit near my counsel.”

“It is perfectly impossible,” stammers the scandalised scion of the

Lords of the Isles. “There is a regular place appointed by law. I can

make no invidious distinction.”

Jaundice-souled Law opens the attack in most persuasive cut-throat

manner, compelled to be fair in spite of his opportunity by reason

of instinctive tolerance for all savouring of bloodthirsty tyranny.

Pinning the jury down to the first indictment, he bids them think only

of the fustigation of Armstrong. “Can the prisoner prove a mutiny?” is

Law’s reiterated demand. “You cannot flay soldiers alive, unless they

deserve it!”

Law-logic is a marvellous thing. “Wall left island day after flogging,”

it persists; “_ergo_, no mutiny.” The jury suck in this eloquence

open-mouthed--visions of neatly-plaited halters hover before their

retinas. “Governors never turn their backs directly mutiny is quelled,”

argues Law, and the myriad black-and-white sprites, who, invisible

and in silence, weave their gossamer threads of passion into the webs

of poor human nature, hear and tremble. Yet their handicraft still

sparkles with the hues of Iris, for not even British law-giver can

paint the spirits of the soul in the dull self-colour of his own dreary

brain. “Generals never desert their beaten army,” we can hear Law

thunder at Judges’ dinner ten years later; “Napoleon is still with his

troops on the Beresina!” Wonderful logic, wonderful Law! Pity, for the

sake of cocksuredom, that hearts do not beat as he bade them.

“Prisoner did not report this rope’s-end business to Secretary

Townshend,” cries the logician. “Why not? Because mutiny plea was an

after-thought to cloak his crime.” One wonders of what fashion were

the accounts of his stewardship, if any, that this stalwart pillar

of Church and State made in daily confession to his God. Did he omit

naught? Or did he report all cruel lashes for which he had given

sentence, and did he speak of his savage opposition to a change of the

bloody code? Kind forgetfulness given by Providence to those who need

it most! “Prisoner did not report flogging, because he did not know the

man was dead.” Jury mouths open wider upon this marvellous Law, for

reason whispers in their ears, “Then prisoner did not intend that the

man should die.” But reason is dinned out of their tradesmen pates.

“After-thought--after-thought!” clangs ding-dong Law, and echo comes to

the true and bewildered twelve: “Away with him to the gallows!”

First witness appears--Evan Lewis--Cambrian bred; a race of man for

the most part having no mean, superlative, or unspeakable. Lewis was,

or says he was, orderly sergeant on the day of the Goree flagellation;

now he is Bow Street runner, brave in scarlet waistcoat. “No mutiny!”

declares this Lewis. “Men were as good as gold. They couldn’t have been

bad if they’d tried.” Perceval gently leads the witness along, and much

is communicated. “Flogged to death without trial”--such is the meaning

of Taffy’s testimony. In due course, other soldiers of the precious

garrison follow--one, two, three, four, five--and the parrot cry, “No

mutiny,” smites the ears of the tradesmen in the jury-box. The Scotch

lip of the Lord-of-Isles grows more attenuated, and he sees the man in

the dock crowned with halo of crimson. His busy pencil scribbles notes

for the edification--at the proper time--of the luckless twelve men,

good and true. “Witnesses each say different things,” writes Caledonian

pencil. “But what else can you expect? The thing happened twenty years

ago!” And this Caledonian tongue repeats--at the great and proper time.

A gentleman and officer--for things are not what they seem--is produced

by Law in due course, one Thomas Poplett, a lieutenant under untamable

Wall. This estimable Poplett confesses the Governor had him safely

under lock and key--for disobedience--on the day of flagellation, which

shows that the red Irishman was not a bad judge of some men’s deserts.

From his prison Poplett witnessed the thrashing of Armstrong, and he

produces rope with which it was done, or rather someone told him, who

had it from one of its nigger wielders, that this was the very same.

The Caledonian pencil scribbles industriously. Hearsay evidence? not

a bit of it. Nor proof of malice neither, for the nice Poplett may be

a collector of curios. But the nice Poplett had done some odd things

in his time; had been sacked from Lord George Germaine’s office for

telling tales out of school--a dabbling-in-Funds speculation--such

things as disgrace men still. The name of Poplett, too, had been posted

in the Stock Exchange, with a footnote, ‘Lame-duck’ or some equivalent

compliment. A most estimable witness, indeed, this nice Poplett.

Splendid material for Caledonian pencil.

There was yet another of similar breed--Peter Ferrick, surgeon of

Goree. The rope’s-end business was well in hand when he arrived.

Peter takes much credit for this unpunctuality, and the Lord of Isles

jots it down a black mark against the prisoner--the why is not clear.

“The Armstrong back-slashing did not seem more severe than usual to

Doctor Ferrick, but the man is dead.” Doctor Ferrick was amazed at the

time, but he knows now that the rope’s-end killed him--a marvellous

pair of eyes in the skull of this Ferrick! “Brandy-drinking in the

tropics after such fustigation would not be wholesome, and would be

done contrary to leech-Ferrick’s orders.” Corollary, note by Scotch

pencil--if there was brandy-drinking, the treatment was unskilful, and

prisoner must answer for the leech-folly. Query--“Why didn’t Ferrick

stop the flogging?” Great wrangling among counsel on account of this

same query. “Improper question--the twelve honest tradesmen must not

be prejudiced against the man in the dock.” Still, innuendo remains:

_i.e._ leech-Ferrick did not interfere, because he was afraid of Wall!

The Scotch lip lengthens, and its owner pats the timid leech on the

back approvingly. What a grim, bloodthirsty tyrant, this Governor Wall!

think the honest twelve. Leech-Ferrick steps down, proud and satisfied

that Caledonian pencil has wrote him down an ass. To hang Wall is all

he cares. Better a live donkey than a dead giant. Going home, he comes

to the bad end of many fools--he writes a letter, which is printed by

_The Times_.

Then the tyrant is called upon for his defence. It is simple and

straightforward, for he knows nothing of Law-logic. “The soldiers were

turbulent; Armstrong was disobedient; every cat-o’-nine-tails was

destroyed, so he did the thrashing with a rope; he had no intention

of killing the man, who might not have died but for brandy-soaking in

hospital; he ran away from Reading twenty years ago, because the mob

was howling for his blood, believing that he, like Kenneth Mackenzie,

had blown men from cannons.” _N.B._--The red soldier must have

remembered how successfully the ’57 mob had howled for the death of

kid-gloved Byng.

Witnesses for the crimson tyrant follow--a poor lot. Number one,

mincing Mrs Lacy, wife of late second in command at Goree. This

lady gets angry with magnificent Law, to the great scandalisation

of the Lord of Isles, and tries to put everyone right, for they

are all wrong. Contradictions annoy the Court. When there has been

plain sailing--though close to the wind, no matter--it is annoying

to think out new and perplexing tracks. “Welshman Lewis was not

orderly-sergeant,” persists Mrs Lacy. “The deputation to the Governor

was eighty strong. Her husband’s brain was turned by the sun in 1784,

so he would have been no use as witness to the arrested Governor.”

All this borders on the superfluous, shocking the Chief Baron, upon

whom the honest twelve glue their round and honest eyes. “The soldiers

threatened the Governor--upon my oath, they did,” vociferates Mrs Lacy,

while the Lord-of-Isles, no doubt, thinks sadly of another such shrill

voice that assails his ears at home. Then magnificent Law--a naughty

Attorney-General now--plies witness with searching questions about

solitary visits to imprisoned giant, here in Old Bailey; and though

the military widow makes wrathful repudiation, this thin-ice skating

exhibition sinks deep into the pious souls of the virtuous twelve. A

wicked profligate also, think they, is this cruel red Irishman!

Mary Faulkner, gunner’s wife, comes next, and says similar things, and

more; she even heard the men discuss the killing of Governor Wall. Her

husband, gunner Faulkner, corroborates. Agrees with the two last that

Armstrong was mutinous and threatening. Admits, however, he had little

trial. Great excitement among Crown counsel, and learned Plumer presses

the point. “Very little trial” is the conclusion sought, and Caledonian

pencil records it. No matter that consistent Law has laid it down

that if there was a mutiny he will not press for proof of elaborate

court-martial. A prisoners witness has scored a point for the other

side, and they record it--“Scarcely any trial at all.”

What matters the rest, while the prim Scotsman, in full-bottomed wig,

brandishes his pencil! Peter Williams, soldier, endorses all said by

women Lacy and Faulkner, but clever Plumer shows him up, on the word

of an officer, as “a lying, shuffling fellow.” Private Charles Timbs

swears that ‘cats’ were all destroyed by the men, but no one heeds

him. Deputy-Advocate Oldham instructs the tribunal that drum-head

court-martials are never reported to Government Department. Thus, why

should Wall report his small explosion to Secretary Townshend, why----?

But what does this signify in face of what Law had laid down--“Never

mind trial! Can prisoner prove the mutiny?” No need to press Deputy

Oldham, for there is no chance of scoring another point at the expense

of prisoner’s witness.

Then arrives the great and proper time. The pencil has done its

work, and Caledonian tongue now speaks, and Caledonian lip, having

arrived at full tension, trembles. Important comments are delivered--a

general ripping-up of the Wall witnesses. Chief Baron reads the

report to Secretary Townshend, and adds footnote: “No mention of

mutiny”--suspicious. Again: “Two officers returned from Goree at same

time as the Governor. This,” he echoes Law-logic, “does not indicate

existence of mutiny.” Further: “Prisoner made his escape when all

witnesses who could prove his innocence were alive”--still more

suspicious. Twelve good and honest brows grow still darker and more

vengeful. The rope-ending is contrasted with the birching of children;

marvellous parallel--as though the maternal heart bore resemblance

to the provisions of Mutiny Acts! Back-slapping of leech-Ferrick

is long and loud. “Be careful not to hurt a toss-pot,” declares

the Lord-of-Isles, “for if he drinks himself to death, you are his

murderer!” Wonderful Caledonian pencil that is able to out-logic

wonderful Law.

It is ten o’clock at night. For thirteen hours the unfortunate twelve

have been box-fast. Within twelve honest waistcoats lies a dull and

aching vacuum. The Laws, Plumers, and Lords-of-Isles have similar

sensations, in spite of the adjournment-gorge in an upper chamber.

Yet, when they retire, the good tradesmen debate this military cause

sedulously for the space of sixty minutes. They have sons and brothers

in the army, and doubtless much suppressed eloquence to explode. At

last, an hour before midnight, they return into Court, faces stern and

dark. The deaf giant receives the verdict with a start of surprise, but

without tremor of limb. To him the proceedings have been a long, dreary

mumble, and he longs for repose. In good set terms, for the benefit of

reporters and the junior bar, the Recorder passes sentence, and, as the

curtain falls, the gaol-bird mob outside growls forth its plaudits.

Till Friday morning, only thirty-two hours, has been allowed the

prisoner to prepare for death. Before trial, Keeper Kirby had given him

a spacious and comfortable room, but a cell in the Press Yard wing must

now be his portion. With a cry of impotent rage the weary giant flings

himself upon his bed, and declares he will not rise till the fatal

hour. During the black winter night the felons in other cells hear

his voice, for the poor crushed giant is singing hymns to his Maker.

Next day there is much wear and tear of good cloth in the seats of the

mighty. Government officials sit long over case, and a respite till the

Monday following is the result of their labours. The love of the noble

and devoted wife, given long ago to him whom she knew as one of the

world’s pariahs, shines brighter and more beautiful amidst the dreadful

darkness, and she toils without ceasing for a reprieve. All the

influence of Clan Mackenzie--such as it be--is summoned to the aid of

the condemned soldier, for the second daughter of the house had married

Henry Howard, and their kinsman, his scapegrace of Norfolk, is induced

to take up the cudgels on behalf of the chained giant. Unfortunately,

the senior peer is not a favourite at headquarters. Still, Secretary

Pelham gives heed so far as to send down another respite to Newgate on

Sunday eve. Wall’s hanging-day is now settled for Thursday, the 28th

of January, and the Monday morning mob of gallows-birds howls fiercely

when discovery is made that it has been baulked of its prey for a few

dozen of hours; which same howls, penetrating in ministerial mind’s-ear

to the purlieus of Whitehall, set ministerial hearts palpitating with

apprehension. For the Pilot who weathered the Storm no longer has a

home in Downing Street, and the hearts of ministerial successors lack

tissue.

Not all the wealth of woman’s tears can move authority to greater

mercy on behalf of the red giant. The smug and closet-petted doctor,

who cares naught for military matters, is bent on his French peace in

spite of all that patron Pitt may say, and it seems a small matter to

hang a mob-detested officer. “Soldiers a drug in the market--we are

going to be friends with the good Buonaparte,” think Farmer George

and his Council when they confabulate on Wednesday afternoon. The

Caledonian pencil-notes are consulted, and cobwebs gather fast around

the bewildered royal brain. Kingly thoughts dwell lovingly upon the

royal prerogative of the gallows--a truly English pastime, worthy of

a British prince whose blood has run itself clear of all Hanoverian

coagulations. Chancellor Eldon, being interrogated, finds his load of

learned lumber ill-digested for the moment, and doubts, and doubts, and

doubts. Then some brave and discreet statesman--oblivion shrouds his

illustrious name--mentions the mutineers of the ‘Fighting Téméraire’

a dozen or so of whom a few days before had ornamented the yard-arms

at Spithead, and King and Council ponder deeply. Newgate howls have

been ominous, Newgate cries have been eloquent, and the time-honoured

platitude, “One law for rich, another law for poor,” has often ended in

window--sometimes royal window--smashing. Mercy seems a great risk,

far greater because of the ‘Téméraire’ yard-arm business than the

unpopular pardon of Kenneth Mackenzie. On the other side there is the

alluring picture of the great triumph of British equity--the balance

of justice--‘Téméraire’ rebels hanging on one side of the scale, and

mob-hated Joseph Wall on the other. “Foreign nations please observe and

copy!” A notable triumph for an English-born German prince. Like the

peace that was to be, it seemed an experiment worth the while. Farmer

George and Doctor Henry prove to have most forcible willpower in the

Council, and when his Gracious Majesty posts off to Windsor at five

o’clock, to drink tea with his Princesses, the Governor of Goree has

been left for execution.

In the condemned cell that same evening the devoted wife and husband

hope still for the reprieve that never comes. Keeper Kirby has promised

the grief-stricken woman that she shall remain in the gaol till the

last possible moment, and while the clock slowly beats its march to the

hour of eleven the heart-rending tragedy unfolds its agonies.

“God bless you, my dear,” cries the giant in their last embrace. “Take

care of the children. Let them think as well of me as you can.”

Then, while the Governor of the prison escorts the poor lady along the

cold, dark corridors, she sobs forth her one piteous question for the

hundredth time:

“Is there no hope?”

“Madam, I trust your wishes may be fulfilled,” replies Kirby. “But it

is now a late hour, and I have received no orders.”

Sister Howard, who also has borne this terrible vigil, supports the

fainting woman from the portals of the charnel-house, and their

carriage rumbles away over the stones of Old Bailey. Even these loving

friends have failed him, and the red giant must bear his last dismal

journey alone. Two turnkeys watch over him, lest he may do himself

injury, for he wears no fetters.

“It is a long night,” he exclaims about two o’clock, as he tosses

wearily upon his couch.

Still, his voice is strong and resonant with its military ring, though

his mighty form has sunk beneath a weight of torture into a mere

gaunt framework of bones. Bread-and-water has been his diet since the

sentence, and Sheriff Cox, although assiduous in his visits to the

unhappy man, will not relax his stern rules. In a little while, as if

he looked for sleep, he asks whether the scaffold will make a noise

when it is dragged out into the street. With compassionate lie, they

answer that it will not, but his thoughts dwell morbidly upon his

destiny.

“I most earnestly request,” he tells his attendants, “that I may not be

pulled by the heels when I am suffering.”

They attempt to appease him by the promise that it shall be done as

he wishes, but he has seen hangings in plenty, and he knows what may

happen.

“I hope that the fatal cord may be placed properly,” he persists, “and

that I may be allowed to depart as fairly and easily as my sentence

will allow.”

At last he falls asleep, and when the huge wooden machine lumbers

between the prison doors with a sound that reverberates through the

whole building, he is unconscious of what has happened. Also, it is not

recorded that he heard the dread chaunt of the bellman outside in the

Old Bailey:

“You that in the condemned hole do lie,

Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;

Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near,

That you before the Almighty must appear.”

About half-past five he awakes with a start as a mail-coach rumbles

along Newgate Street.

“Is that the scaffold?” he demands, and they tell him no.

Once more he makes anxious inquiries about the methods of the hangman,

and they satisfy him as well as they can. Shortly before seven he is

led to the day-room of the Press Yard, where he is joined by Ordinary

Forde, who, robed in full canonicals, with a great nosegay beneath

his chin, seems prepared for a wedding day. A fire is smouldering on

the hearth, and a nauseating smell of green twigs fills the chill

stone chamber. Gaunt and terrible is the aspect of the red, untamable

giant, who is meek and penitent, but with soul still unbowed. A yellow

parchment-like texture is drawn tightly over his sunken features, and

through their hollow sockets the piercing eyes shine as though in

ghastly reflection to the glance of death--not the triumphant glitter

thrown back by Death Magnificent, but the stony, frightful stare

imparted by the Medusa of Shame. A suit of threads and patches hangs

loosely upon his emaciated limbs--an old brown coat, swansdown vest,

and blue pantaloons--a sorry garb for one who has worn a colonel’s

uniform in his Majesty’s army. For a moment his piercing gaze falls

upon Ordinary Forde.

“Is the morning fine?” is the strange, eager question. “Time hangs

heavily,” the hollow far-away voice continues. “I am anxious for the

close of this scene.”

As if in response to the wish, Jack Ketch’s lackey, a dwarf with face

of a demon, draws near with his cords and binds the giant’s wrists.

“You have tied me very tight,” is the weary complaint.

“Loosen the knot,” commands absolute Forde, and the sulky wretch obeys

with low mutterings.

“Thank you, sir,” murmurs the giant. “It is of little moment.” The

green twigs upon the hearth crackle in a shower of sparks up the wide

chimney, and a shovelful of coals is thrown upon the burning mass.

Death’s piercing glitter flashes from the eyes of the dying man while

his brain paints pictures in the flames. Then his lips move slowly:

“Ay, in an hour that will be a blazing fire.”

Ay, and you are thinking that in an hour, you poor, red, untamable

giant will have finished your long torture, and be lying cold and

still--while that fire blazes merrily. In an hour one loving,

great-hearted woman will have entered upon the agony-penance that she

must endure to the grave. In an hour your little ones will be children

of a father upon whom his country has seared the brand of infamy--and

these green twigs will have become a blazing fire! Sad--yea, saddest of

words that could fall from human lips!

Then the demon of suspense torments the poor giant once again, and he

turns to the Ordinary appealingly:

“Do tell me, sir--I am informed that I shall go down with great force;

is that so?”

Ordinary’s thoughts cease for a moment to dwell lovingly upon his

breakfast-gorge with the Sheriff--the epilogue to every hanging--and

professional pride swells his portly soul. With reverent unction he

explains the machinery of the gallows, speaking of ‘nooses and knots’

with all the mastery of expert, for Jim Botting and his second fiddle

‘Old Cheese’ are no better handicraftsmen than Ordinary hangman Forde.

Presently he in his turn grows curious.

“Colonel Wall,” he inquires, “what kind of men were those under you at

Goree?”

The haunting glance of death-shame fades from the piercing eyes, and

through the portholes of his soul there flashes the living spirit of

defiance.

“Sir,” he cries, “they sent me the very riff-raff!”

Suddenly the reverend Ordinary bethinks himself of his holy office,

and plunges headlong into prayer; a contrast that must compel the

tear of recording angel--smoke-reeking, unctuous, ale-fed Forde and

contrite, half-starved, but invincible giant. Sheriff Cox and his

myrmidons enter as the clock is striking eight. A look of eagerness

passes over the cadaverous lineaments, a gaunt figure steps forward,

and a firm, hollow voice murmurs:

“I attend you, sir.”

Although his head is bowed, his tread is that of the soldier on

parade as they pass out into the keen winter air. A crowd of felons,

destined soon for the gallows, is huddled in groups, here and there,

within their courtyard den, and as the procession passes through the

quadrangle they hurl forth curses of hell against the man who is

marching to his death. The giant head falls lower, and the martial

tread beats faster. “The clock has struck,” he cries, as he quickens

his step. There is a halt in another chamber beyond the Press Yard. An

ingenious law-torment is demanded--the Sheriff’s receipt for a living

corpse. A legal wrangle follows; the red giant’s body is not described

in good set terms, and there is much quill-scratching, while the giant

gazes calmly. Then the march is resumed down the loathsome passages,

and the soul of Greatheart warms as eternity draws nearer.

In another moment, the most wondrous prospect of his life opens before

his eyes. High upon the stage, with back turned to the towering wall,

as befits a soldier, his vision ranges over a tossing sea of savage

faces, a human torrent that fills the wide estuary, surging full and

fierce to the limits of its boundaries. Then a mighty tumult rises

from the depths of the living whirlpool, the exultant roar of a

myriad demons thirsting for blood. At last the giant limbs tremble,

as the shouts swell fiercer and louder still--three distinct terrific

huzzas--unmistakable to trained ears; they come from the angry throats

of a thousand British soldiers, the fierce war-cry learnt from the

cruel Cossack long ago. The red tyrant is delivered to the mob at last.

Some say it is the shout of punters delighted to have won their bets,

and loudly press the strange apology; but reason, giving preference to

comparative methods, calls to mind the savage exultation that hailed

the atonement of skipper Lowry and Mother Brownrigg, of Burke and

Palmer, and muses thoughtfully upon this balance of justice.

The gnarled, bony fingers of the red giant grasp the hand of Sheriff

Cox, while the foul-odoured beast fumbles with the halter around his

neck, withdrawing the noose and slipping it once more over his head.

The victim turns to the plump Ordinary with a last request:

“I do not wish to be pulled by the heels.”

The priest deftly draws the cap over the gleaming, shrivelled face,

and mumbles from his book. No clanging bell disturbs the peace of the

sufferer, for he is a murderer, and this blessed torture is not for

those of his class. The bareheaded crowd gazes with rapture upon the

wooden scaffold, shorn of its appalling garb of black--another mercy

vouchsafed to him who dies guilty of a brother’s blood. Suddenly there

is a second mighty shout of triumph. The rope hangs plump between the

two posts, and the tall, gaunt form is swaying in empty air. In another

moment there are cries of horror, but of horror mingled with applause.

The noose has formed an even collar around the giant’s neck, while the

knot has slipped to the back of his head, which is still upright and

unbent. Horrible convulsions seize the huge, struggling frame. It is a

terrific scene--most glorious spectacle of suffering that a delighted

crowd has ever gazed upon--Jack Ketch has bungled! Minutes pass, and

still the hanging man battles fiercely for breath. Minutes pass, and

not a hand is stretched forth to give him relief. Sheriff’s eyes meet

eyes of Ordinary in mutual horror. Sheriff’s watch is dragged from its

fob, and when the little steel hands have stretched to a right angle,

at last a hasty signal is made to the expectant hangman. Two butchers

beneath the scaffold seize upon the sufferer’s legs, and soon his agony

of more than a fourth of an hour is brought to a close. A fierce shock,

indeed, to reason and the balance of justice argument--a fiercer shock

still to those that cling lovingly to the tenets of Hebrew mythology.

With a sigh of relief Sheriff and Ordinary hurry away to coffee and

grilled kidneys in Mr Kirby’s breakfast-room, leaving the crowd to

watch the victim hanging--which crowd does with gusto, scrambling

fiercely a little later for a bit of the rope, which Rosy Emma,

worthy helpmate of Jack Ketch, retails at twelvepence an inch, and,

furthermore, gloating with delight upon the cart that presently takes

the wasted form of the dead giant to the saws and cleavers of Surgeons’

Hall dissecting-room, Saffron Hill. Tight hands at a bargain, these

bloodletting, clyster-loving old leeches! They demand fifty, some say a

hundred, guineas from the giant’s friends, and they pocket the ransom

before they surrender their corpse. Devoted old leeches: _sic vos non

vobis_--we are the learned legatees of your dabblings in anatomy. A

few days later--it is a Thursday morning, numbered the 4th of February

in the calendar--a few merciful friends bear the giant’s coffin to a

resting-place in St Pancras Churchyard. Epitaph does not appear, for

cant refuses to superscribe the true one--“England did not expect him

to do his duty!”

As we look back upon the glowing perspective of our history, there are

few scenes that stand out in fiercer grandeur than the flogging of

Goree. Foul-smelling, Lilliputian picture, it shines, nevertheless,

with the same unconquerable spirit of genius that clapped a telescope

to the blind eye at Copenhagen. One untamable hero, armed merely with

a crimson rope, faces a hundred cut-throats, and, within view of the

ramparts of the enemy, cows them into licking his shoes, declaring

that an insult to himself is an insult to his King. Truly a David and

Goliath picture.

“Wrong,” cry Farmer George and Doctor Henry, glancing timidly, as with

mystical prescience, down the vista of ages to Board School days, and

quaking at swish of cat and clank of triangles, guilty of as deep

anachronism as he who hurled a shell at the tomb of the Mahdi, to

the great disturbance of bread-and-milk nerves. For birch twigs and

cat--essential forerunners of Standards Six--had much Peninsular and

Waterloo work in front of them, and it was just as easy to chain red

giants as to hang them.

“Wrong,” cry Farmer Merciful and Doctor Justice, busy with knife and

steel, getting ready a keen edge for the grey, gallant head of poor

crazy Despard, and eager to paste the town with balance of justice

placards--“‘Téméraire’ insubordinates, and red giant of Goree--both

hanged. Let foreign nations please copy.” And, doubtless, a burst of

inordinate Gallic laughter hailed this _jeu d’esprit_, for Gallic

neighbours had other things for the encouragement of red giants--a

field-marshal’s baton and the like.

There is no place for the musings of modern milksop. The deeds of the

parents of his grandfather are for him merely a tale that is told, and

as he closes the family record his bread-and-milk soul must only give

thanks that his lot is cast in more pleasant places. Modern eye can

but discern the red giants of a bygone world through a glass darkly.

Cruel, crimson, unscrupulous--they were all that: children of murkiness

even as we are children of light, and thus let comparison end. One

hundred years--as great a barrier as a million miles of ether--has

divided our ages, _et nos mutamur_. A thousand pencils--Saxon and

Caledonian--have banished with Dunciad scorn the birchen wand that used

to betwig merrily the tender fifteen-year-old flesh of ribald lad and

saucy maiden. Triangle and cat, rope’s-end and grating, ceased years

ago to terrify the hearts of rolling Jack and swaggering Tommy. Good

Mr Fairchild no longer takes little Harry and little Emily to view the

carrion of the gibbet, _exempli gratiâ_, for the modern Mr Fairchild

does not remember that such instruments ever had their proper places

in the land. Red giants, too--only to be let loose when occasion

required--had their proper places in the good old times of birch-rod

and gibbet, of Farmer George and Doctor Henry, who found much use for

them in the taming of the Corsican ogre. Modern milksop, however,

will scarcely concede that such times were good, or, at least, most

wrong when inconsistent! Be that as it may, the cat and rope’s-end of

the crimson giant were a portion of Britain’s bulwarks, in spite of

inconsistent headshakings of Farmer George and Doctor Henry, of Brother

Bragge and Brother Hiley--all of which, fortunately, is as repulsive to

the soul of modern milksop as the dice and women of Charles Fox, or the

two-bottle thirst of the Pilot who weathered the Storm. Lucky, perhaps,

for bread-and-milk gentleman that he had fathers before him.

No other case bears the same resemblance to that of Joseph Wall as the

incident of Kenneth Mackenzie and his cannon-ball execution. Some,

indeed, have a certain affinity, and exhibit the national conscience

overwhelmed by periodical fits of morality--a hysterical turning-over

of new leaves. A few days before the red giant of Goree passed through

the debtor’s door, Sir Edward Hamilton of the ‘Trent’ frigate was

dismissed from the navy for an act of cruel tyranny, only to be

reinstated in a few months. Thomas Picton, England’s “bravest of the

brave,” was shaken by the same wave of humanity. Yet, after all, the

guilt of the Admiral or the innocence of the hero of Waterloo were

of little moment to a nation that continued to mutilate its enemies

in the fashion of a dervish of the desert, under the sacred name of

high treason. For, years later, the bloody heads of Brandreth and

Thistlewood stained an English scaffold. Luckily for their oppressors,

the victims of Hamilton and Picton--officers who did not stand in

the desperate position of the Governor of Goree--survived their

punishments, not having a leech-Ferrick to reckon with, else Farmer

George and Doctor Henry, in the face of those dangling ‘Téméraire’

seamen, would have been in an awkward dilemma.

The case of George Robert Fitzgerald, often held forth as a parallel

by contemporary pressmen, has little similarity to that of Wall. Both

belonged to the 69th Foot, they were antagonists in a Galway duel in

’69, and both ended their days on the scaffold; but here comparison

ends. The retribution that overtook ‘Fighting Fitzgerald’ at Castlebar

was the fitting penalty of a vendetta murder, brutal and premeditated,

and wrought without a semblance of authority.

Fifty years before the death of Joseph Wall, the London mob was able

to indulge its fury in like fashion against another black-beast of its

own choosing, one James Lowry, skipper of the merchant ship ‘Molly’

compared to whom the Governor of Goree appears to have been a mild

and merciful commander. At different times, three sailors expired

beneath the terrible floggings of Captain Lowry, who was wont to

salute his dying victim with the cry, “He is only shamming Abraham.”

And as the cruel seaman was carried in the cart to Execution Dock, the

furious mob howled forth this ghastly catchword, just as they saluted

Wall with the echo of the phrase which they supposed he had uttered

while Benjamim Armstrong was being flogged to death, “Cut him to the

heart--cut him to the liver.”

Nor was the cruel tyrant only to be found in the merchantman, or

was Edward Hamilton a solitary exception. Captain Oakham of the

British navy is more than a creature of fiction, as is shown by the

trials of Edward Harvey in August 1742, and of William Henry Turton

in August 1780, which cast a lurid light upon the conditions of

life in our ships of war. Midshipman Turton was a butcherly young

gentleman, who turned his sword against a disobedient sailor in a sort

of Captain-Sutherland-and-negro-cabin-boy fashion, but, owing to a

Maidstone grand-jury petition and the absence of ‘Téméraire’ mutineers,

there was no hempen collar for him.

The story of Joseph Wall has no exact parallel in our history, for

the Mackenzie incident differs in two essential particulars--the dour

Kenneth meant murder from the first, and did not pay the penalty of

his crime. Lowry, Turton, and Sutherland were guilty, like ‘Fighting

Fitzgerald,’ of common homicide, and the _malice prepense_, as

law-givers understand the phrase, was clear and unmistakable. Even the

lax morality of Doctor Henry’s days was compelled to take cognisance

of giant Wall’s offence, just as it punished very properly--or tried

to do--the sins of Picton and Hamilton; and a verdict of manslaughter,

though delivered by a tradesman jury, would not have been an illogical

conclusion. However, it remains a judicial murder--one of the most

disgraceful that stains the pages of our history during the reign of

George III.

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE WALL CASE

I. CONTEMPORARY TRACTS

1. _An Authentic Narrative of Joseph Wall Esqr._ By a Military

Gentleman. J. Roach, Britannia Printing Office. Russell Court, Drury

Lane (1802). Brit. Mus.

Except in the tract published by A. Young--a transparent

plagiarism--there is no corroboration of the statement that

Wall flogged to death a man named Paterson on the voyage out to

Goree. As no reference is made in any contemporary newspapers,

it seems probable that the ‘Military Gentleman’ has confused

his materials. George Paterson, a soldier, received eight

hundred lashes the day after the punishment of Armstrong, and

died soon afterwards, which may have caused the mistake. If

Wall had done another such deed in 1780, it is probable that it

would have obtained greater publicity.

2. _The Life, Trial and Execution of Joseph Wall Esqre._ By a

Gentleman. A. Young, Vera Street, Clare Market (1802). Brit. Mus.

3. _The Trial at Large of Joseph Wall Esqre._ Also an Account of his

escape in 1784. John Fairburn, 146 Minories.

4. _The Trial of Lieut. Col. Joseph Wall._ Taken in shorthand by Messrs

Blanchard and Ramsey. London (1802). Brit. Mus.

5. _Life, Trial and Execution of Joseph Wall Esqre._ (with a full

length portrait). E. Lawrence, C. Chapple, and H. D. Symonds.

This tract is advertised in the _Morning Chronicle_, February 9, 1802.

6. _The Trial of Governor Wall._ With particulars of his escape at

Reading in 1784 and his subsequent surrender in 1802. Fred Farrah,

282 Strand, (The Only Edition Extant). Brit. Mus. Copied from earlier

accounts.

II. CONTEMPORARY NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

1. _The Public Advertiser_, March 1784.

2. _The Gazetteer and New Advertiser_, August 14, 1783, and March

1784.

3. _The General Evening Post_, March 1784.

4. _The Bath Chronicle_, do.

5. _The Bristol Journal_, do.

6. _The London Gazette_, March 9, 1784.

7. _The Times_, March 1784, January 1802.

8. _Morning Post_, July 21 and August 12 and 13, 1783, March 1784,

January 1802.

9. _Morning Chronicle_, March 1784, January 1802.

10. _Morning Herald_, do. do.

11. _St James’ Chronicle_, do. do.

12. _Lloyd’s Evening Post_, do.

13. _The True Briton and Porcupine_, do.

14. _The Star_, do.

In the _Morning Post_ of August 13, 1783, there appears the

report of the court-martial held at the Horse Guards on July

7 and following days, which practically acquitted Wall of the

charges brought against him by Captain Roberts. The _Gazette_

of March 9, 1784, contains the King’s Proclamation, dated March

8, describing the personal appearance of the escaped prisoner,

and offering a reward of £200 for his apprehension. To those

who consult contemporary journals for a first time there will

come a surprise, for they will learn that Governor Wall on July

10 and 11, 1782, flogged to death not _one_ man but _three_.

No account later than the Espriella Papers, and not one of

the many _Newgate Calendars_, gives this information. Surgeon

Ferrick’s letter appeared in _The Times_, February 5, 1802.

15. _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ (1784), part i. p. 227; (1802), part i.

p. 81.

The January number, 1802, endorses the statement that Augustine

Wall, the brother of the Governor of Goree, was “the first

person, who presumed to publish Parliamentary Reports with

the real names of the speakers prefixed.” This evidence

is important, as Sylvanus Urban might have grudged such

an admission. His own claims, however, are set forth very

modestly. “Dr Johnston (in our magazine) dressed them (_i.e._

the speakers in Parliament) in Roman characters. Others gave

them as orators in the senate of Lilliput. Mr Wall laid the

foundation of a practice which, we trust for the sake of

Parliament, and the nation, will never be abandoned.”

16. _The European Magazine_ (1802), pp. 74, 154-157.

17. _The Annual Register._ Appendix to Chronicle, pp. 560-568.

NOTES

NOTE I.--_Dict. Nat. Biog._

Although reference is made to the dubious case of the flogging

of the man Paterson during Wall’s outward voyage to Goree,

there is no mention of the fact that four other soldiers were

flogged by the Governor’s order on the same day and the day

following the punishment of Benj. Armstrong, and that two of

these also died of their wounds. There seems to be no authority

for the statement that Wall “appears to have been in liquor”

when he passed sentence on the men, and as such a presumption,

which was never put forward by the prosecution, sweeps away

all defence, and proves that the act was murder, it should not

be accepted without the most trustworthy evidence. Mrs Wall’s

father, Kenneth Mackenzie, Lord Fortrose, never became Lord

Seaforth; her brother did. Since Wall did not remain at Goree

for more than two years, and left the island on July 11, 1782,

it is evident that he did not become Governor in 1779. His

letter to Lord Pelham, offering to stand his trial, was written

on October 5, 1801, not on October 28. _State Trials_, vol.

xxviii. p. 99.

NOTE II.--_State Trials of the Nineteenth Century._ By G. Latham Brown

(Sampson Low, 1882). Vol. i. pp. 28-42.

On page 31 the author states that he has searched the records

of the Privy Council in vain for a report of the charges

brought against Wall by Captain Roberts in 1783. As stated

previously, he would have found what he required in the columns

of the _Morning Post_ of August 13, or the _Gazetteer_, August

14, 1783. It is strange that he is unaware that Wall flogged to

death two other soldiers besides Benj. Armstrong.

NOTE III.--_Edinburgh Review_, January 1883, _vide_ criticism of G. L.

Brown’s book, p. 81.

To the writer of this review belongs the credit of being the

first to hint a doubt as to the justice of Wall’s conviction.

NOTE IV.--_A Tale without a Name_--a tribute to Joseph Wall’s noble

wife--will be found in the works of James Montgomery, Longman (1841),

vol. iii. p. 278. _Vide_ also _Life of Montgomery_, by Holland and

Everett. Longman (1855), vol. iii. p. 253.

NOTE V.--Other contemporary authorities are _Letters from England by

Don Alvarez Espriella_, Robert Southey, vol. i. pp. 97, 108, and the

familiar _Book for a Rainy Day_, by J. T. Smith, pp. 165-173.

THE KESWICK IMPOSTOR

THE CASE OF JOHN HADFIELD, 1802-3

“... a story drawn

From our own ground,--the Maid of Buttermere,--

And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife

Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came,

And woo’d the artless daughter of the hills,

And wedded her, in cruel mockery

Of love and marriage bonds....

Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth

Her new-born infant....

... Happy are they both,

Mother and child!...”

--_The Prelude_, Book vii. WORDSWORTH.

During the late autumn of 1792, a retired military man of amiable

disposition and poetic temperament, who had made a recent tour through

Cumberland and Westmoreland, published his impressions in a small

volume which bore the title _A Fortnight’s Ramble to the Lakes_.

The book displays the literary stamp of its period just as clearly

as a coin indicates the reign in which it is moulded. Fashion had

banished the rigour of the pedant in favour of idyllic simplicity. The

well-groomed poet, who for so long had recited his marble-work epistle

to Belinda of satin brocade, now spoke to deaf ears; while the unkempt

bard, who sang a ballad of some muslin-clad rustic maid, caught the

newly-awakened sympathies of the artistic world.

[Illustration: _Etched by J. Chapman_

JOHN HATFIELD.

_Published J. Cundee Ivy Lane_]

The author of _A Fortnight’s Ramble_, having the instinct of a good

literary salesman, was not backward in sentiment, and among his

thumb-nail sketches of rural life he was careful not to omit the

portrait of a village damsel. There is certainly much charm in the

impression of his humble heroine, whom he discovered in a tiny hamlet

on the shores of Lake Buttermere, where, according to the laws of

romance, she was the maid of the inn. No doubt the child of fourteen

was as beautiful as he describes her--with her long brown curls, big

blue eyes, rosy lips, and clear complexion, and with a grace of figure

matured beyond her years. The pity is that the picture was ever drawn.

Before the close of the year the charms of ‘Sally of Buttermere’ had

been quoted in a London magazine, and henceforth the tourist was as

eager to catch a glimpse of the famous young beauty as to visit Scale

Force or Lodore. Very soon the inn where she lived--“a poor little

pot-house, with the sign of the Char”--became a place of popular

resort. Verses in her praise began to cover the white-washed walls; and

while she was in the full bloom of youth, wandering artists, who have

handed down to us her likeness, took the opportunity of persuading her

to sit for them. That Mary Robinson was a modest and attractive girl

is shown by the testimony of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and there is

evidence that she remained unspoilt in spite of her celebrity.

Six years after the publication of _A Fortnight’s Ramble_, its author,

Joseph Budworth, paid a second visit to the home of his ‘Sally of

Buttermere’ Mary, who was nineteen, and still charming, seemed destined

(after the fashion of village maidens) to become a buxom beauty, and it

is said, indeed, that she had been most lovely at the age of sixteen.

Budworth, however, saw that she was quite pretty enough to attract

hosts of admirers, and conscience told him that he had not done well

in making her famous. There was Christmas merrymaking at the little

inn, and she reigned as queen of the rustic ball. Next morning he

confessed to her that he had written the book which had brought her

into public notice.

“Strangers will come and have come,” said he, “purposely to see you,

and some of them with very bad intentions. We hope you will never

suffer from them, but never cease to be on your guard.”

Mary listened quietly to this tardy advice, and thanked him politely.

“You really are not so handsome as you promised to be,” Budworth

continued. “I have long wished by conversation like this to do away

what mischief the flattering character I gave of you may expose you to.

Be merry and wise.”

Then, taking advantage of his seniority of twenty-three years, the

good-natured traveller “gave her a hearty salute,” and bade her

farewell. Unfortunately, he repeated his previous indiscretion by

publishing another long account of the Buttermere Beauty in the

_Gentleman’s Magazine_, and, like Wordsworth, who in similar manner

paraded the charms of ‘little Barbara Lewthwaite’ he lived to regret

what he had written.

Two years later, a handsome middle-aged gentleman of fine presence

and gallant manners paid a visit to the Lake District, bearing the

name of Alexander Augustus Hope (brother to the third Earl Hopetoun),

who, after a successful military career, had represented the burgh of

Dumfries, and now sat in Parliament as member for Linlithgowshire. An

active, strong-limbed fellow, with courtly demeanour and an insinuating

Irish brogue, the contrast between his thick black brows and his fair

hair, between the patch of grey over his right temple and the fresh

colour of his face, added to an appearance of singular attractiveness.

These were the days of the dandies, when young Mr George Brummell was

teaching the Prince of Wales how a gentleman should be attired; and

Colonel Hope was distinguished by the neatness and simplicity of a

well-dressed man of fashion.

The new-comer reached Keswick about the third week in July, travelling

in his own carriage without ostentation, having hired horses and

no servant. Soon after his arrival he went over to Buttermere, and

remained there for two or three days. Towards the end of the month he

visited Grassmere, where he became acquainted with a genial merchant

from Liverpool, whose name was John Crump. Being a most entertaining

companion--for he was a great traveller, had fought in the American

War, and, as might be expected of one so gallant and handsome, had been

engaged in numerous duels--Colonel Hope had the knack of fascinating

all whom he met. With Mr Crump, who for some reason was not in favour

with the young poet at Greta Hall, he struck up a great friendship

during his three weeks’ stay at Grassmere, and a little later the

merchant showed his appreciation by christening one of his children

‘Augustus Hope’ as a compliment to his new acquaintance.

About the end of the third week in August the member of Parliament,

whose passion, we are told, was a rod and fly, left Grassmere, and, for

the sake of the char-fishing, took up his quarters at the little inn at

Buttermere. So pleased was he with the district, that he contemplated

the purchase of an estate, and Mr Skelton, a neighbouring landowner,

went with him to inspect a property near Loweswater. During his sojourn

at the Char Inn he paid frequent visits to Keswick to meet his friend

John Crump. Although wishing, for the sake of quiet and seclusion,

to travel incognito, Colonel Hope seems to have been a gregarious

person, and could not help extending the number of his acquaintances.

At the ‘Queen’s Head’ Keswick, where his Liverpool friend was in the

habit of stopping, he came across a kindred spirit in Colonel Nathaniel

Montgomery Moore, who had represented the town of Strabane in the

recently extinct Irish Parliament.

Since the two had much in common, a close intimacy ensued; but there

was another reason for Colonel Hope’s friendly advances. A pretty young

lady of fortune, to whom Mr Moore was guardian, was one of his party,

and the new acquaintance began to pay her the most evident attention.

Colonel Hope, in fact, always had been remarkable for his insinuating

behaviour in the society of women, and since his arrival in the Lake

District he had been concerned in an affair of gallantry with at least

two local maidens far beneath him in station. However, this was a

pardonable weakness, for the Prince himself, and his brothers of York

and Clarence, did not disdain to stoop to conquer. But on the present

occasion the gay Colonel apparently had fallen in love, and when,

before very long, he asked the lady to be his wife, he was accepted.

It is not strange that a man of his power of fascination and

handsome appearance should have met with success even on so short an

acquaintance. The match seemed a most suitable one in every respect,

and Mr Moore would have been well satisfied that his ward should be

engaged to a man of Alexander Hope’s rank and position. Yet the lover

did not hasten to take the guardian into his confidence. Remaining at

the little inn on the shores of Buttermere, only occasionally he made

the fourteen miles’ drive to visit his _fiancée_ at Keswick. Colonel

Moore, who could not remain blind to the flirtation, became anxious

lest his ward should place herself in a false position. It was evident

that the two behaved to each other as lovers, and the Irishman was

impatient for the announcement of the betrothal. Still, the love affair

ran a smooth course until the close of the third week in September;

but as the time went on, and the engagement remained a secret, the

suspicions of the lady’s guardian began to be aroused. Since it was

apparent that his friend had committed himself, his duty was plain.

There were only three explanations of his reticence. Colonel Hope

was not the man he pretended to be, or he had quarrelled with his

relatives, or else his passion was beginning to cool.

The first proposition already had been whispered among a few. Although

his _bonhomie_ and air of distinction had made him a great favourite

with his inferiors, yet the fact that the reputed Colonel Hope was

travelling without servants, and had selected a woman of fortune as

his conquest, prejudiced critical minds. Coleridge, who was engaged in

basting the succulent humour of the gentle Elia before a roasting fire,

seems to have cast the eye of a sceptic upon the popular tourist from

the day of his arrival. However, no open rupture took place between the

Irishman and Alexander Hope, but towards the close of September they

met less frequently.

On Friday, the 1st of October, Colonel Hope sent over a letter to his

friend at Keswick, explaining that business called him to Scotland, and

enclosing a draft for thirty pounds, drawn on Mr Crump of Liverpool,

which he asked him to cash. Pleased, no doubt, at this mark of

confidence, which may have appeared a favourable augury of his ward’s

happiness, Colonel Moore at once obeyed the request, and forwarded ten

pounds in addition, so that his friend might not be short of funds on

his journey. On the next day, the sensation of a lifetime burst upon

the people of Keswick. At noon, the landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’

returning from the country, brought with him the great intelligence

that the Hon. Colonel Hope had married the Beauty of Buttermere!

It was obvious to everyone--aye, even to the sceptic of Greta

Hall--that the mystery was at an end. Alexander Hope was no impostor.

Avarice had not led him to attempt the capture of a lady of fortune.

Torn between love and honour, he had doubted whether to give his hand

when his heart was disposed elsewhere, or to break his word. Thus,

obeying the impulse of love, he had married a girl of the people.

Native pride in the Beauty of Buttermere was strong in every breast,

and the next mail conveyed to London the news of her great triumph.

But Colonel Moore, who had the right to be wroth and suspicious, would

not be appeased by the explanations which satisfied the multitude.

Since he could not believe that a gentleman would behave in such a

fashion, he made haste to test the credentials of his late friend. The

bill of exchange was forwarded to Mr Crump, who, delighted to be of

service to Colonel Hope, from whom he had received an affectionate note

requesting the favour, at once accepted it! Still the Irishman refused

to be convinced, and he sent a letter to the bridegroom, informing him

that he should write to his brother, Lord Hopetoun. Moreover, he told

all friends of his intentions.

[Illustration: _J. Smith, sculp._

THE BEAUTY OF BUTTERMERE.

_Published in the Act directs. June 25-1803._]

During his five or six weeks’ residence at the Char Inn, the amorous

tourist must have had full opportunity of forming a contrast between

the Irish girl and Mary Robinson. The Beauty of Buttermere was now in

her twenty-fifth year. A healthy outdoor life had matured her robust

physique, and her figure, though graceful still, had lost the lines of

perfect symmetry. The keen mountain air had robbed her complexion of

its former delicacy, and with the advance of womanhood her features

had not retained their refined, girlish prettiness. Still, her face

was comely and pleasant to look upon. The charm of her kind and modest

nature was felt by all who met her, and she seems to have possessed

culture and distinction far in advance of her lowly station. Indeed,

one of her most celebrated admirers hints plainly that a mystery

surrounded her parentage, and that her breadth of mind and her polished

manners were the result of gentle birth. However, there appears no

warrant for such a surmise.

So, at last, Colonel Hope had begun to waver in his ardour for the

Irish girl. Naturally, she was not content to remain under a secret

engagement, and her inclinations favoured a brilliant wedding, which

her husband’s noble relatives should honour with their presence. Such

delay had not pleased the lover, who wished the announcement of the

betrothal to be followed by a speedy marriage. In this respect his

other inamorata had been less exacting. Poor Mary expected no pomp

or ceremony, and had never imagined that a peer and his people would

come to her wedding. All the odium that can attach to the man who pays

his addresses to two women at the same time is certainly his, for it

is stated on good authority that he made his first proposal to the

Cumberland girl before he commenced the courtship of Colonel Moore’s

rich ward.

Then, when the heiress refused to fall in with his wishes, he

made the final choice. On the 25th of September he went over to

Whitehaven--about twelve miles as the crow flies from Buttermere--with

the Rev. John Nicholson, chaplain of Loweswater, a friend of two

weeks’ standing, to obtain a special licence for his marriage with

Mary Robinson. Naturally, no opposition was raised by the parents;

and although it has been said that the reluctant girl was overruled

by their persuasions, it is certain--as far as any judgment of human

nature can be certain--that she was a willing bride. Nor--since his

record shows that each woman whom he cared to fascinate was unable to

resist him--is it difficult to believe that Mary was in love with her

handsome suitor.

On the morning of Saturday, the 2nd of October, the wedding took place

in the picturesque old church at Loweswater, in the beautiful vale of

Lorton, about seven miles from Buttermere. The ceremony was performed

by Mr Nicholson, who had become as firm a friend of the bridegroom as

Crump himself. Immediately after the service the newly married pair

posted off north to visit Colonel Hope’s Scotch estate. Their first

day’s journey was a remarkable one. Passing through Cockermouth and

Carlisle, they reached Longtown, near Gretna Green, at eight o’clock in

the evening, a distance of over forty miles. The next day being Sunday,

the bridegroom, who on occasions could affect much religious zeal, is

careful to record, in a letter to the chaplain of Loweswater, that they

made two appearances in church. On Tuesday or Wednesday they continued

their tour across the Border, but on the following Friday, owing

to Mary’s anxiety to receive news from her parents (so her husband

alleged), they retraced their steps to Longtown. Here, two days later,

important communications reached Colonel Hope, which made him resolve

to return to Buttermere without delay.

Friend Nicholson wrote that scandalous reports concerning his honour

had been spread in the neighbourhood since his departure, and that

his wife’s parents had been much disturbed by the rumours that had

reached their ears--informing him also of Colonel Moore’s opinion of

his behaviour. This latter news was superfluous, for there was a letter

from the Irishman himself. Its contents may be gathered from the reply

that the traveller despatched to Nicholson on the 10th of October. With

amazing effrontery he tells his friend that his attentions to the Irish

heiress had never been serious, and expresses his astonishment that

Colonel Moore should censure his conduct. Yet he shows his concern for

the attacks on his integrity, declaring that he will come back at once

to meet his calumniators face to face. Moreover, he was as good as his

word. Probably he left Longtown for Carlisle, according to promise,

the next morning, and arrived at Buttermere on Tuesday, the 12th of

October. Thus Mary’s brief honeymoon came to an end.

As luck would have it, a somewhat remarkable person, who happened to

be acquainted with Colonel Hope, was now staying at Keswick. This was

George Hardinge, senior justice of Brecon, the late Horace Walpole’s

friend and neighbour, the ‘waggish Welsh judge’ of whom Lord Byron

has sung. Having heard of the romantic marriage, and being anxious

to meet Colonel Hope, he sent a letter to Buttermere requesting a

visit. Early on Wednesday morning the newly married man drove over

to Keswick in a carriage and four, accompanied by his factotum, the

Rev. John Nicholson, to answer the summons in person. The meeting,

which took place at the ‘Queen’s Head’ Hotel, was an embarrassing one.

Pertinacious Nathaniel Moore, who no doubt had kindled in Justice

Hardinge’s mind the suspicions which had caused him to solicit the

interview, was present at the encounter. The Welsh judge found that

Colonel Hope of Buttermere renown was an entire stranger to him!

However, the other was in no way abashed, but pointed out pleasantly

that the mistake had arisen through the coincidence of names. Mr

Hardinge persisted that it was remarkable that he should be Alexander

Augustus Hope, M.P. for Linlithgowshire, when the name of the

representative of that county was Alexander Hope. The reply was a

flat denial that these names and titles had been assumed, and we are

told that the credulous clergyman bore witness to the truth of this

statement. Nevertheless, other testimony against the accused man

had more weight with the astute George Hardinge. Not only was there

Colonel Moore’s declaration that the stranger had always passed as Lord

Hopetoun’s brother, but the Keswick postmaster was able to prove that

he had franked letters as a member of Parliament. The result was an

appeal for a warrant of arrest to a neighbouring magistrate, and the

suspected Mr Hope was placed in charge of a constable.

Still, he did not appear disconcerted, but treated the whole matter as

a joke. Others, too, were of the same opinion, for during the course

of the day he presented a bill of exchange for twenty pounds, drawn

once more on John Crump, to the landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’ which

that individual cashed without hesitation. The stranger at once sent

£10 to Colonel Moore to cancel the gratuitous loan received before

his departure to Scotland. Faithful Nicholson, too, retained full

confidence in his genial friend, who ordered dinner to be prepared for

both at the hotel, and continued to bear him company.

Presently, the prisoner, chafing at the thought of being kept in

durance, asked permission to sail on the lake. As this appeared a

reasonable request, the wise constable gave his consent. The clergyman

accompanied his companion to the water’s edge, while he made fervent

protests of innocence.

“If he were conscious of any crime,” he told his trusting friend, “a

hair would hold him.”

Since, however, he declared that he was guiltless, as a natural

corollary he had no intention of being held by the whole force of the

Keswick constabulary, and Nicholson must have been aware of his design.

For not only did he give his friend a guinea to pay for the dinner

at the ‘Queen’s Head’ which was a plain hint that he did not mean to

return, but he told him that, as his carriage had been seized by his

accusers, his only chance of rejoining his wife at Buttermere was by

rowing down the lake.

Luck favoured him. A fisherman named Burkett, who had been his

companion on many previous expeditions, had a boat ready for him, and

soon he was far across Derwentwater. A crowd of sympathisers, full of

wrath against his enemies, for they were sure he was a great man (as

an impostor would have had no motive in marrying poor Mary), stood on

the shore with Nicholson and the intelligent constable to watch his

departure. Soon the short October day drew to a close, and darkness

fell upon the waters, but ‘Colonel Hope’ did not return. Keswick never

saw his face again.

The conduct of the Rev. John Nicholson has been the subject of

keen censure. Although the province of a parson is not that of the

detective, it is unfortunate that he did not suggest to the parents of

Mary of Buttermere that it would be wise to verify the statements of

their daughter’s suitor. On the other hand, it must be admitted that

everyone was infatuated by the splendid impostor, and it is evident

that the clergyman was not aware of the flirtation with the Irish

heiress. It is more difficult to defend Nicholson’s conduct at the

interview between Judge Hardinge and the swindler; for although we have

no precise details of the conversation, it is plain that the chaplain

of Loweswater was guilty of a strange reticence. Naturally, he knew

that his mysterious friend had passed under the name of Colonel Hope,

and had franked letters as a member of Parliament. Still, not only did

he refrain from exposing, but even continued to trust him, though he

must have perceived him to be a liar. However, charity may suggest the

conclusion that the clergyman was full of compassion for Mary Robinson;

and since he believed that her husband would join her at the little

Char Inn, he was determined, whether felon or not, that he should have

the chance of escape.

The first announcement of the marriage of the celebrated Buttermere

Beauty with the brother of the Earl of Hopetoun was printed in the

_Morning Post_ on the 11th of October. Yet, three days later--the

morning after the remarkable escape at Derwentwater--a letter, written

on the highest authority, appeared in the same journal, denying the

previous report and stating that the real Colonel Alexander Hope was

travelling on the Continent. Thus, by chance, London and Keswick became

aware almost simultaneously that Mary Robinson had been the victim of a

cruel fraud.

Although his flight had made it evident that the pretended member of

Parliament was an impostor, it was not until the last day of October

that his identity was discovered. Meanwhile, the most strange rumours

had been aroused. The fact that all his plate and linen were found

packed in his travelling carriage, which was retained by the landlord

in pledge for his twenty pounds, gave rise to the suspicion that he had

meant to desert his poor young bride. On the other hand, his admirers

persisted that he was an Irish gentleman, hiding from the authorities

because of his share in the recent rebellion. A costly dressing-case,

which he had left behind, was examined under warrant from a magistrate,

but nothing turned up to reveal his true name. In the end this

discovery was made by Mary herself. While looking over the dressing-box

more carefully, she disclosed a secret hiding-place containing a number

of letters addressed to him who had forsaken her. Alas for the Beauty

of Buttermere! No anticipation could have exceeded the cruel reality.

The handsome bridegroom was a married man, and these letters had been

written by the heart-broken wife whom he had deserted. ‘Colonel Hope’

her supposed rich and noble husband, was a notorious swindler--guilty

of a capital felony--whose real name was John Hadfield!

[Illustration: _Mary of Buttermere._]

Since the days of ‘Old Patch’ no impostor had reached the eminence

of Hadfield. Born of well-to-do parents at Cradden-brook,

Mottram-in-Longdendale, Cheshire--where a neighbouring village may have

lent his family its surname--forty-three years before the adventure at

Keswick, his habits and disposition had always been superior to his

station in life. As a youth he was apprenticed to the woollen trade,

but proved too fond of adventure to succeed in business. Though much

of his career is wrapped in mystery, we know that he was in America

between the years 1775-1781, during the War of Independence, and that

he married a natural daughter of a younger brother of that famous

warrior the Marquis of Granby.

Having squandered the small fortune he had received with her, the

elegant Hadfield left his wife and their children to take care of

themselves, and by means of credit managed for a short time to

enjoy a career of dissipation in London. By his favourite device of

extortion--passing drafts or bills of exchange upon persons of wealth,

who would be unlikely to prefer a charge against him--he was enabled to

continue his impositions without any more serious consequence than an

occasional visit to gaol.

The King’s Bench Prison, where in 1782 he was confined for a debt

of £160, appears as the next grim landmark in his life. By a lucky

chance he was able to lay his case before the Duke of Rutland, who,

having discovered that the prisoner had married a daughter of his

late uncle, but being ignorant that the wife had died of a broken

heart in consequence of her husband’s desertion, generously paid the

sum necessary to obtain his release. For many years the impostor’s

dexterity in obtaining money under false pretences from credulous

strangers, who believed him to be a connection of the Manners family,

made it possible for him to associate with those far above his rank.

During 1784, after a brief career of fraud in Dublin, where he posed as

a relative of the Viceroy, and by means of this falsehood contracted a

host of fraudulent debts, he was lodged in the Marshalsea Prison. With

unblushing impudence he appealed to the Lord Lieutenant--his previous

benefactor, the Duke of Rutland--who agreed to pay his debts on the

understanding that he should leave Ireland immediately.

In the year 1792 Scarborough became the scene of his depredations.

Staying at one of the principal hotels, he announced his intention of

representing the town in Parliament in the interest of the Manners

family. A portrait of poor Captain Lord Robert caused him to burst into

tears, which evidence of feeling won the sympathy of all who witnessed

it. As usual, his sparkling conversation and distinguished appearance

disarmed suspicion, and for several weeks he lived in princely style at

the expense of his landlord. When pressed for money he did not hesitate

to offer bills of exchange, which the local tradesmen accepted without

demur. Yet the day of reckoning, which this remarkable man never seemed

to anticipate, could not be postponed. On the 25th of April he was

arrested for the hotel debt, and, not being able to find bail, was

cast into prison. Some weeks later, a detainer was lodged against him

by a London creditor, and for eight years he remained an inmate of the

Scarborough Gaol.

During his long confinement he maintained his favourite pose as a

luckless aristocrat, writing poetry, and publishing much abuse against

the authorities. At last fortune smiled upon the interesting captive.

Neither Faublas nor Casanova ruled with more success over the female

heart, and it was to a woman that he owed his release. A Devonshire

lady, named Nation, who, it is said, occupied rooms facing the

prison, took compassion upon him, and paid his debts. On the 13th of

September 1800 the impostor became a free man, and the next morning,

notwithstanding that hitherto they had been strangers, he married his

benefactress. The pair made their home at Hele Bridge, near Dulverton,

on the borders of Somerset and Devon, where the bride’s father was

steward to a neighbouring landowner, and before very long Hadfield

plunged once more into a career of fraud.

A marvellous _aplomb_, his previous commercial experience, and a

deposit of £3000 which he contributed towards the firm, induced Messrs

Dennis and Company, merchants of repute in the neighbouring town

of Tiverton, to admit him as a partner. In consequence of this new

enterprise, he removed during the summer of 1801 with his wife and

child to a cottage at the village of Washfield to be near his business.

As before, the utter lack of prescience and sagacity characteristic

of the man prevented him from reaping the fruits of his perverted

genius, as a less clever but more prudent would have done. The whole

transaction was a smartly conceived but clumsily arranged swindle.

Since the money for the partnership had been obtained by inducing a Mr

Nucella, merchant of London, to transfer Government stock, which soon

would have to be replaced, to the credit of Messrs Dennis, Hadfield was

compelled to realise his winnings without delay. For the sake of a few

hundred pounds of ready cash, he seems to have been eager to sacrifice

all that a man usually holds dear, and to have become a lawless

adventurer once again.

In April 1802 he was obliged to decamp from Devonshire, leaving his

wife and children as before, while his partners in Tiverton, who soon

discovered that they had been defrauded by a swindler, proceeded

to strike his name off the books of the firm. During the following

June he was declared a bankrupt. Meanwhile he had proceeded to cut

a dash in London, and it is said that he came forward as candidate

for Queenborough, with the object of obtaining immunity from arrest

as a member of Parliament. Being still provided with funds, he made

no attempt to surrender to the commission issued against him; but

compelled, through fear of exposure, to relinquish his political

ambitions, he went on a leisurely tour through Scotland and Ireland,

and in the month of July appeared at Keswick as ‘Colonel Hope’ to work

the crowning mischief of his life.

There has been much conjecture with regard to the motives of Hadfield

in his conduct to poor Mary Robinson. The explanation that he was

actuated by pure animalism cannot be reconciled with our knowledge of

his temperament or his methods, setting aside the initial objection

that the sensualist, already cloyed by innumerable conquests, does

not usually play a heavy stake to gratify a passing fancy. Nor is it

credible that a man who had the heart to forsake two wives and five

children could have been influenced by love. At first sight it seems

probable that, just as the most reckless speculator often cuts a

desperate loss, he wished to quit a hazardous career of fraud, and to

live a life of quiet and seclusion in the humble home of the Beauty of

Buttermere. Such foresight, however, was wholly inconsistent with the

nature of the man; and even had he been capable of this reasoning, a

moment’s reflection must have taught him that his recent ostentation

had made retirement impossible. No; like that of every gambler, John

Hadfield’s destiny was ruled by chance. Each stake he played was

determined by the exigency of the moment; win or lose, he could not

draw back nor rest, but must follow blindly the fortunes of the day

to cover the losses of the past. Although not able to possess his

Irish heiress, the tiny dowry of Mary Robinson, the poor little inn

at Buttermere, seemed to lie at his mercy, and so he seized upon it

and threw it--as he would have thrown his winnings of any shape or

kind--into the pool. John Hadfield was a fatalist, and his motto, _Quam

minimum credula postero_.

After the interview with Judge Hardinge, the adventurer became the

sport of chance once more. When he took boat from Keswick on the

evening of his clever escape, he steered his course to the southern

extremity of Derwentwater. The cluster of little islands soon must have

hid him from view, and no one thought of pursuit. Whatever may have

been his impulse, there was no time to bid adieu to his bride. The path

to safety lay far ahead over the high mountains. Having left the lake

under the guidance of his faithful friend Burkett the fisherman, his

course for a few miles was a comparatively easy one; but twilight must

have fallen before he had traversed the gorge of Borrowdale, and his

flight up the desolate Langstrath valley, which cleaves its way between

Glaramara and Langdale Pike, was made in the darkness. By night the

journey was a terrible one--over rocks and boulders, along a broken

path winding its course beside the mountain torrent, up the face of

the precipitous crags, and across the Stake, a tremendous pass high up

in the hills, dividing northern lakeland from the south. From Langdale

he struck west towards the coast, and after a journey of some fourteen

miles reached the seaport of Ravenglass, on the estuary of the Esk. In

this place he borrowed a seaman’s dress, and took refuge in a little

sloop moored near the shore, and here he was recognised on the 25th

of October. With a hue and cry against him, it was not safe to remain

near the scene of his latest crime. Going by coach to Ulverstone, he

continued his flight thence to Chester, where early in November he was

seen at the theatre by an old acquaintance. Then he appears to have

walked on to Northwich, and there for some time all trace of him was

lost. An advertisement, describing his appearance and offering a reward

of fifty pounds for his arrest, was published on the 8th of November

and scattered broadcast over the country.

The next tidings of him came from Builth in Wales, where, on the

11th of November, he is said to have swindled a friend, who had no

knowledge that he was the Keswick impostor, by the usual device of a

bill of exchange. On the day following this performance, the London

post brought the newspapers containing the description of his person,

and he hurried away from the little town on the banks of the Wye in

his flight towards the south. For a time he still baffled capture, but

the pursuers steadily closed upon his track. On the 22nd of November

the authorities at Swansea were informed that a man resembling the

published account of the impostor had been seen in the mountains beyond

Neath, and the next day Hadfield was run to earth at the ‘Lamb and

Flag’ an old coaching inn about seventeen miles from the seaport town.

At once he was lodged in Brecon Gaol, and in about a fortnight’s time

the newspapers inform us that he was brought up to town by one Pearkes,

robin-redbreast.

The romance of the case attracted a great crowd to Bow Street when

the notorious swindler was brought up for examination by Sir Richard

Ford on the 6th of December, and the investigation appears to have

been difficult and tedious, for he appeared before the magistrate each

Monday morning during the next three weeks. On one of these occasions

his attire is described as “respectable, though he was quite _en

déshabillé_,” his dress being a black coat and waistcoat, fustian

breeches, and boots, while his hair was worn tied behind without

powder, and he was permitted to appear unfettered by irons. Among other

requests he asked for a private room at Tothill Fields Prison, as he

objected to herd with common pickpockets, and he desired also to be

sent as soon as possible to Newgate. Although his wishes were not

granted, the solicitor for his bankruptcy made him an allowance of a

guinea a week.

Most pathetic was the loyalty of the wife and benefactress whom he had

used so cruelly. The poor woman, who was the mother of two children,

travelled from Devonshire--a journey occupying a couple of days and a

night--to spend Christmas Day in prison with her unfaithful husband.

Numerous celebrities visited the court during the examination of the

impostor. Amongst those who were noticed more than once was the Duke

of Cumberland, drawn possibly by a fellow-feeling for the culprit,

and Monk Lewis, on the look-out for fresh melodrama. At last all the

charges against him were proved to the hilt--his offence against the

law of bankruptcy, his repeated frauds on the Post Office, the two

bills of exchange forged at Keswick. Still, although the iniquities of

his past were fully revealed, and although a shoal of unpaid debts,

fraudulently contracted, stood against his name, one circumstance

alone was responsible for the great popular interest, and aroused also

universal abhorrence. John Hadfield had been damned to everlasting fame

as the seducer of Mary of Buttermere.

The extent of his baseness was disclosed in the course of the

proceedings at Bow Street. It was found that the poor girl was destined

to become the mother of his child, and that he was in debt to her

father for a sum of £180. Indeed, the motive of his mock marriage

became apparent, for he had endeavoured to persuade the trusting

parents to allow him to sell the little inn on their behalf, and

possibly, but for the interference of Justice Hardinge, he might have

succeeded. Mary refused to prosecute him for bigamy, but she was

induced to send a letter to Sir Richard Ford, which was read in court

at Hadfield’s fourth examination.

“Sir,” she wrote, in the first agony of her cruel disenchantment, “the

man whom I had the misfortune to marry, and who has ruined me and my

aged and unhappy parents, always told me that he was the Honourable

Colonel Hope, the next brother to the Earl of Hopetoun.”

Contemporary newspapers show that the Beauty of Buttermere became the

heroine of the hour--she was the theme of ballads in the streets; her

sad story was upon every lip; never was there so much sympathy for one

of her humble birth.

Early in the new year, Hadfield, who received as much notice from

the journals as Madame Récamier’s wonderful new bed, was committed

to Newgate. With cool effrontery he dictated a letter to the press,

asking the public to reserve judgment until his case was heard, and,

as a wanton Tory newspaper declared, like Mr Fox and Mr Windham, he

complained bitterly of misrepresentation. A long interval elapsed

before he was sent north to stand his trial, and he did not reach

Carlisle Gaol until the 25th of May, whither he was conveyed by an

officer from Bow Street, who bore the appropriate name of Rivett.

At the next assizes, on the 15th of August, he was arraigned before

Sir Alexander Thomson, nicknamed the ‘Staymaker’ owing to his habit

of checking voluble witnesses--a figure to be held in dread by

law-breakers of the northern counties, as the Luddite riots in a few

years were to show. Hadfield was not lucky in his judge, for the man

who, at a later date, could be harsh enough to consign to the hangman

the poor little cripple boy Abraham Charlson, was not likely to extend

mercy to a forger.

The prisoner stood charged upon three indictments:--

(_a_) With having drawn a bill of exchange upon John Gregory Crump

for the sum of £20, under the false and fictitious name of the Hon.

Alexander Augustus Hope.

(_b_) With having forged a bill of exchange for £30, drawn upon John

Gregory Crump, and payable to Colonel Nathaniel Montgomery Moore.

(_c_) With having defrauded the Post Office by franking letters as a

member of Parliament.

Only the first two were capital offences.

James Scarlett, afterwards Baron Abinger, was counsel for the Crown,

and Hadfield was defended by George Holroyd, who, as a judge, displayed

masterly strength fourteen years later in directing the acquittal of

Abraham Thornton. It is recorded by some aggrieved journalist that the

crowd was so great it was difficult to take notes. Such odium had been

aroused against the betrayer by the sad story of Mary of Buttermere,

that ladies and gentlemen are said to have travelled twenty miles to

be present at his condemnation. At eleven o’clock in the morning the

prisoner was placed in the dock. The principal witnesses for the Crown

were George Wood, landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’ Keswick; the Rev. John

Nicholson; and good-natured Mr Crump, who proved conclusively that he

had assumed a false name and had forged a bill of exchange. A clerk in

the house of Heathfield, Lardner and Co. (late Dennis), of Tiverton,

called Quick, and a Colonel Parke, a friend of the real Colonel

Alexander Hope, supplied other necessary evidence. One witness only--a

lawyer named Newton, who had been employed by Hadfield in the summer

of 1800 to recover an estate worth £100 a year, which he had inherited

from his late wife--was summoned by the defence.

The prisoner bore himself in a calm and dignified manner, taking

copious notes, and offering suggestions to his counsel. But his speech

to the jury--for still, and for many years afterwards, a barrister

was not allowed to address the court on behalf of his client, except

on some technical point of law--shows that he anticipated his doom.

“I feel some degree of satisfaction,” he declared, “in having my

sufferings terminated, as I know they must be, by your verdict. For

the space of nine months I have been dragged from prison to prison,

and torn from place to place, subject to all the misrepresentation of

calumny. Whatever will be my fate, I am content. It is the award of

justice, impartially and virtuously administered. But I will solemnly

declare that in all transactions I never intended to defraud or injure

those persons whose names have appeared in the prosecution. This I will

maintain to the last of my life.”

Very properly the judge would not accept the plea set up by the

defence, that the financial position of the prisoner was a guarantee

that no fraud had been meditated. At seven o’clock in the evening,

after a consultation of ten minutes, the jury returned a verdict of

guilty. Hadfield received the announcement with composure, and when he

was brought up for sentence the next day--as was the barbarous custom

of those times--he displayed equal coolness. Kneeling down, and looking

steadily at the judge--who began to roll out a stream of sonorous

platitudes--he did not speak a word.

From the first he seems to have been resigned to his fate, and gave no

trouble to his gaolers, but spent his time quietly in writing letters

and reading the Bible. Indeed, his whole behaviour was that of one

utterly weary of existence, and he does not appear to have desired or

expected a reprieve. All his life he had posed as a religious man,

and he lent an eager ear to the ministrations of two local clergymen

who attended him. Since there is no evidence that he was penitent,

we may adopt the more rational supposition that he was playing for

popular sympathy. It was seldom that he spoke of himself, and the

only reference he made to his own case was that he had never sought

to defraud either John Crump or Colonel Moore. A contemporary report

states that “he was in considerable distress before he received a

supply of money from his father. Afterwards he lived in great style,

frequently making presents to his fellow-felons. In the gaol he was

considered as a kind of emperor, being allowed to do what he pleased,

and no one took offence at the air of superiority which he assumed.”

Some days before his death he sent for an undertaker to measure him for

a coffin, and gave his instructions to the man without any signs of

agitation.

On the day of his sentence, Wordsworth and Coleridge, who were passing

through Carlisle, sought an interview with him. While he received the

former, as he received all who wished to see him, he denied himself

to Coleridge, which makes it clear that he had read and resented the

articles written by the latter to the _Morning Post_. Neither his

father (said to have been an honest man in a small way of business) nor

his sisters visited him. Also his faithful wife, since probably the

state of her health or her poverty would not allow her to make the long

journey from Devonshire to Carlisle, was unable to bid him farewell.

There has been much idle gossip concerning the conduct of Mary of

Buttermere after her betrayer was condemned to die. Some have said that

she was overwhelmed with grief, that she supplied him with money to

make his prison life more comfortable, and that she was dissuaded with

difficulty from coming to see him. Without accepting the alternative

suggested, among others, by De Quincey, that she was quite indifferent

to his fate, there are reasons for rejecting the other suppositions. It

is impossible that the most amiable of women would continue to love a

man who had shown so little affection towards her, and whose hard heart

did not shrink from crowning her betrayal by the ruin of her parents.

The story of the gift of money, also, seems unlikely, as her father

had been impoverished by the swindler, and the fund for his relief,

raised by a subscription in London--which did not receive too generous

support--had not yet been sent to Buttermere. And, finally--alas!

for romance--since the moral code even of the dawn of the nineteenth

century did not allow Mary Robinson to usurp the duties, more than

the name, of wife to the prisoner, it is incredible that a modest

woman would wish to renew the memories of her unhallowed union by an

interview with the man whose association with her had brought only

dishonour.

The execution of John Hadfield took place on Saturday, the 3rd of

September. Rising at six, he spent half an hour in the prison chapel.

At ten o’clock his fetters were removed, and he was occupied most of

the morning in prayer with the two clergymen, who, we are told, drank

coffee with him. The authorities do not seem to have had any fear that

he would attempt his life, for they allowed him the use of a razor.

About the hour of three he made a hearty meal, at which his gaoler

kept him company. In those times there was a tradition in Carlisle

that a reprieve had once arrived in the afternoon for a criminal who

was hanged in the morning. Thus, nearly three weeks had been allowed

to elapse between Hadfield’s trial and execution--in order that there

might be plenty of time for a communication from London--and even on

the last day the fatal hour was postponed until the mail from the south

was delivered.

Although it had been the opinion of the town that he would not suffer

the extreme penalty, the Saturday post, which arrived early in the

afternoon, brought no pardon. At half-past three he was taken to

the turnkey’s lodge, where he was pinioned, his bonds being tied

loosely at his request. Here he showed a great desire to see the

executioner--who, oddly enough, hailed from Dumfries, the town which

the real Colonel Hope had represented in Parliament--and gave him

half a crown, the only money he possessed. It was four o’clock when

the procession started from the prison, in the midst of an immense

concourse of spectators. Hadfield occupied a post-chaise, ordered from

a local inn, and a body of yeomanry surrounded the carriage. Without

avail he petitioned for the windows to be closed. The gallows--two

posts fixed in the ground, about six feet apart, with a bar laid across

them--had been erected during the previous night on an island, known

locally as the Sands, formed by the river Eden on the south side of

the town beyond the Scotch gate, and between the two bridges. A small

dung-cart, boarded over, stood beneath the cross-bar, Tyburn fashion,

in lieu of the new drop. As soon as it met his eyes, the condemned man

asked if this was where he was to die, and upon being answered in the

affirmative, he exclaimed, “Oh, happy sight! I see it with pleasure!”

John Hadfield met his fate with the heroism which great criminals

invariably exhibit. Aged since his arrest, for he had been in prison

nearly ten months, he looked at least fifty. In every respect he had

become very different from the sprightly ‘Colonel Hope’ of the previous

summer. When he alighted from the carriage at the shambles he seemed

faint and exhausted, but this weakness was due to physical infirmity

and not to fear. A feeble and piteous smile occasionally played over

his white face. Yet none of the arrogance of pseudo-martyrdom marked

his bearing, but his quiet resignation and reverent aspect won the pity

of the vast crowd, bitterly hostile to him a short while before. It

was remarked that he had still an air of distinction, and was neatly

dressed; his jacket and silk waistcoat were black, and he wore fustian

breeches and white thread stockings. Just before he was turned off he

was heard to murmur, “My spirit is strong, though my body is weak.” We

are told that he seemed to die in a moment without any struggle, and

did not even raise his hands. An hour and a half later he was lying

in a grave in St Mary’s Churchyard, for his request that he should be

buried at Burgh-on-Sands was disregarded out of consideration for the

pious memory of Edward I.

Were it not for his dastardly treatment of the women who gave him their

love, the fate of John Hadfield would seem hard. He was not hanged

for swindling John Crump out of £50--which indeed the value of his

carriage and its contents, left behind at Keswick, would have more

than cancelled--but for attempting to swindle him under the fictitious

name of Colonel Hope. Thus by assuming the character of another man he

became entangled in one of the fine-spun meshes of the law, and was

held guilty of an intention to defraud. Our great-grandfathers, who,

with the assistance of Sir Alexander Thomson, could hang an old woman

for stealing a few potatoes in a bread riot, thought it expedient also

to kill a man who obtained £50 by telling a lie.

There is much truth in the proposition, which has been stated with

such inaccuracy by De Quincey, that, but for his heartless conduct to

Mary of Buttermere, John Hadfield might have escaped the gallows. It

is probable that Mr Crump would have been loth to advertise himself as

a credulous dupe, unless he had thought that it was his duty to give

evidence against a heartless seducer. Parson Nicholson, also, would

have had no reason to depart from the attitude he had taken up before

he was aware that he had officiated at a bigamous marriage.

[Illustration: MARY of BUTTERMERE.

_Sketched from Life July 1800_]

Notwithstanding that his career was marked by so many villainies, John

Hadfield is in many respects an admirable rascal. Setting aside his

behaviour towards women--if that is possible even for a moment--he

played a part which required infinite tact and magnificent courage.

Although occasionally he robbed a man who was not rich, yet until

the crime of Buttermere such an occurrence was in the nature of an

accident, and was rather the fault of the wronged one for putting

himself in the path. Like Claude Duval, the Keswick impostor was in the

main merciful towards the impecunious; not indeed for conscience sake,

but because he believed that his rightful place was among the wealthy.

A hunter of big game, dukes, members of Parliament, and prosperous

merchants were his proper prey! And the man who could maintain a decent

social position for twenty years, in spite of the heavy handicaps of

poverty and lowly birth, and could compel those whom one of his class

should have met only as a lackey to receive him on equal terms, was

more than a common trickster. An insatiable love of pleasure robbed him

of all foresight and prudence, or such a consummate liar might have

climbed high. Even as he was--had an earl been his father--he might

have gone down to posterity as one of the greatest diplomats the world

has ever seen.

The career of Samuel Denmore Hayward, hanged at the Old Bailey for

forgery on the 27th of November 1821, a picture of whom, dancing with

‘a lady of quality’ ornaments one version of the _Newgate Calendar_,

is similar to that of the Keswick impostor. Both men seem to have had

culture and address; each was distinguished for his social ambition,

and both were famous for gallantry. With the exception of James

Maclean, illustrious as the friend of Lady Caroline Petersham and

little Miss Ashe, none of our rogues--not even William Parsons, the

baronet’s son--have been such fine gentlemen.

Mary Robinson’s child was born early in June 1803, but did not survive

its birth. Who can tell whether she wept over it; or if the words that

came from the lips of her parents, when they heard of the death of her

betrayer, did not seem a fitting epitaph--“God be thanked!” To avoid

the gaze of curious travellers the unhappy girl was obliged for a

period to leave her native place, and the shadow that had fallen upon

her young life was not lifted for many years. Yet, brighter days were

in store for the Maid of Buttermere. In the course of time she was

wooed and won by a Cumberland ‘statesman’ named Richard Harrison, to

whom she was married at Brigham Church in the May of 1808. Two of her

sons, born at Buttermere, where she resided for a period after her

marriage, died in infancy; but when her husband took her to his farm

at ‘Todcrofts’ Caldbeck, beyond Skiddaw--where the Harrison family

had been ‘statesmen’ for generations--she became the mother of five

more children, three daughters and two sons, all of whom grew up and

married. In later years it was remarked that her girls were as pretty

as Mary had been herself when she was the Maid of the Inn. There is

reason to believe that the rest of her career was happy and prosperous,

and she lived tranquilly in her home at ‘Todcrofts’ where she died in

her fifty-ninth year. The tombstone records that she passed away on the

7th of February 1837, while her husband survived her for sixteen years.

Both rest in the churchyard that holds the ashes of immortal John Peel,

who followed Richard Harrison to ‘the happy hunting-fields’ within a

few months.

* * * * *

(I am indebted to the kindness of Mr Richard Greenup, of Beckstones,

Caldbeck, one of Mary Robinson’s few surviving grandchildren, for much

interesting information.)

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE HADFIELD CASE

I. CONTEMPORARY TRACTS, ETC.

1. _Report of the Proceedings on the Trial of John Hatfield_, London.

Printed for A. H. Nairne and B. Mace. Sold by Crosby and Company price

6d. 1803. Brit. Mus.

Although always spoken of as John Hatfield, the proper name of

the ‘Keswick Impostor’ if the register of his baptism is an

authority, was Hadfield.

2. _The Life of Mary Robinson_, the celebrated Beauty of Buttermere,

Embellished with an elegant coloured Print. London. Printed by John

Rhynd, 21 Ray Street, Cold Bath Fields. Sold by Crosby and Company,

Paternoster Row. Price 1/. 1803. Brit. Mus.

3. _The Life of John Hatfield_, Printed and Published by Scott and

Benson. Keswick. James Ivison, Market Place 1846. Brit. Mus.

II. CONTEMPORARY NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

1. _The Times_, Oct., Nov., Dec. 1802; Jan., Aug., Sept. 1803.

2. _The Morning Post_, do. do.

3. _The St James’s Chronicle_, do. do.

4. _The Morning Herald_, do. do.

5. _The Morning Chronicle_, do. do.

6. _The True Briton_, do. do.

7. _Lloyd’s Evening Post_, do. do.

8. _The Carlisle Journal_, do. do.

9. _The Leeds Mercury_, do. do.

10. _The Gentleman’s Magazine_, part ii. 1792, pp. 1114-16;

part i. 1800, p. 18-24; part ii. 1802, pp. 1013, 1062, 1063,

1157; part ii. 1803, pp. 779, 876, 983.

11. _The European Magazine_, part ii. 1792, p. 436; part ii.

1802, pp. 316, 477; part ii. 1803, pp. 157, 242.

_Coleridge and the “Morning Post.”_

Three accounts from the pen of Coleridge, which appeared in

the _Morning Post_ of October 11, October 22, and November 5

respectively, under the titles “Romantic Marriage” and “The

Fraudulent Marriage,” find a place in Coleridge’s “Essays

on His Own Times,” edited by his daughter. The late Mr H.

D. Traill, in his monograph in the “English Men of Letters”

series, has pointed out (note, p. 80) that “it is impossible

to believe that this collection, forming as it does but two

small volumes, and a portion of a third, is anything like

complete.” It is not an unwarrantable assumption that two

subsequent articles in the _Morning Post_, which appeared on

November 20 and December 31, were written from Greta Hall, and

that Coleridge therefore was responsible for the sobriquet “The

Keswick Impostor.”

Sir Alexander Hope, brother of the third Earl Hopetoun, whom

Hadfield impersonated, was not (as stated in the _Dic. Nat.

Biog._) the second but the _eighth_ son of the second earl

(_vide Gentleman’s Magazine_, 1837, part ii. p. 423).

NOTES.

NOTE I.--_A Fortnight’s Ramble to the Lakes in Westmorland_, Lancashire

and Cumberland.

This book is reviewed at full length in the _Gentleman’s

Magazine_, December 1792, pt. ii. pp. 1114-16, and in the

_European Magazine_, December 1892, pt. ii. p. 436. The author,

Joseph Budworth, who afterwards adopted his wife’s surname,

Palmer, was a contributor to the former journal. Mary Robinson

is described under the pseudonym ‘Sally of Buttermere’ The

second edition of the _Fortnight’s Ramble_ is reviewed in

_Gentleman’s Magazine_, vol. lxvi. pt. i. p. 132, February 1796.

NOTE II.--_A Revisit to Buttermere._ Letter from a rambler to ‘Mr.

Urban’ dated Buttermere, January 2 (_vide Gentleman’s Magazine_,

January 1800, pp. 18-24).

This account was inserted in the third edition of _A

Fortnight’s Ramble_, published in 1810. Joseph Budworth tells

us that his second visit to Buttermere took place in January

1798.

NOTE III.--_The Prelude_, or Growth of a Poet’s Mind, by Wm.

Wordsworth. Commenced 1799, finished 1805, published 1850. The

Centenary edition of the works of Wm. Wordsworth. Six vols. Edited by

E. Moxon, 1870.