part i. pp. 359, 443; part ii. pp. 626, 710, 714; (1808), part i. p. 87.

2. _The European Magazine_ (1783), part ii. pp. 158, 172-173.

3. _The Morning Post_, April-August 1783.

4. _The Morning Chronicle_, do.

5. _The Morning Herald_, do.

6. _The London Chronicle_, do.

7. _The Public Advertiser_, do.

8. _The Daily Advertiser_, do.

9. _The General Advertiser_, do.

10. _The Whitehall Evening Post_, do.

11. _The London Recorder_, do.

12. _Ayre’s Sunday London Gazette_, do.

13. _The Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser_, do.

14. _Lloyds Evening Post_, do.

The most complete account of the trial will be found in the _Morning Post_, Monday, July 28, 1783. Those who are interested in the much-debated question whether the site of the ‘Tyburn Tree’ was in Connaught Square, Bryanston Street, or Upper Seymour Street, would do well to remember that on August 29, 1783 (so the papers tell us), the gallows were placed fifty yards nearer the park wall than usual. Naturally, its position was changed from time to time.

NOTES

NOTE I.--_Dic. Nat. Biog._ The date of Ryland’s birth is given as July 1732! Nor was he the eldest, but the _third_ son of his father.

NOTE II.--_Eighteenth Century Colour Prints._ Mrs Julia Frankau. Macmillan (1900).

Mrs Frankau’s explanation of the flight of Ryland is scarcely plausible. It is not credible that a man who is engaged in a frantic search for a lost mistress would remain in close hiding, posing as an invalid, only venturing abroad after dark. Nor is it a tenable assumption that he attempted to commit suicide in a fit of despair because he fancied that he was being arrested for debt, and thus might lose all chance of finding his _chère amie_. One of the strongest pleas in his defence was that his fortune was ‘princely’ and he protested that he fled because he could not find the man from whom he had received the fatal bill. It is a strange coincidence that the discovery of the fraud upon the East India Company should have taken place on the eve of his disappearance. Moreover, he was not arrested for the forgery that secured his conviction. The warrant charged him with counterfeiting two other bills of exchange to the value of £7114 (as reference to the advertisement columns of the daily papers of April 3 will show), and it was not until this publicity that Mr Moreland, the banker, examined the bill for £210, which Ryland had deposited with his house. Thus the accusation of one crime led to the discovery of another! And it is still more strange that the artist should have cashed an East India Company bill of the value of £210 on September 19, 1782, while on November 4 he should have handed to his banker another bill--an exact copy of the first--bearing a similar date, denomination, and acceptances. Although these two identical bills came into Ryland’s possession within the space of a few weeks, he did not seek an explanation of the remarkable coincidence. A careful survey of all the facts must convince everyone of the guilt of the unfortunate engraver, but it is a pleasure to be able to agree with Mrs Frankau--except in some minor details--in her contention that the evidence was not conclusive. Ryland was convicted because he failed to show that he had received the forged bill from another person, and to cast thus the burden of proof from the prosecution to the defence is quite foreign to the methods of a modern tribunal.

Since the Catholic has become the spoilt child of contemporary literature, it is not surprising to find Wynne Ryland hailed as the victim of Protestant persecution. Yet there appears to be no evidence to support this assumption. There is not a line in the newspapers of the day to indicate that any anti-Romanist feeling was aroused, and had such been the case, the _Public Advertiser_, at all events, whose animosity towards ‘Popery’ is sufficiently evident, would have trumpeted loudly. It is significant that the mob never behaved with greater propriety--very unusual conduct in the howling Tyburn crowd--than on August 29, 1783. How different would it have been if the word had been whispered that a Papist was going to the gallows! Strutt and Angelo, who write so sympathetically of their friend, have nothing to say on this subject, and, indeed, accept his guilt as proved. Although the former, who wrote in 1785, might have reason for reticence, yet the latter, whose book was published a year before the Emancipation Act, could have no reason to suppress such evidence. Indeed, we have only the doubtful authority of the _Authentic Memoires_ for the statement that Ryland was a ‘supposed’ Catholic in his early youth. With this very ambiguous suggestion we must reconcile the strange fact that he was buried in a graveyard of the Established Church, and that the last rites were performed by an Anglican clergyman. There are one or two slips of the pen in Mrs Frankau’s interesting memoir. As the catalogue of the Royal Academy shows that Ryland contributed his first drawing in 1772--four years after the institution was established--he was not “one of the earliest exhibitors.” From the same catalogue it appears that the print-shop in the Strand was opened in 1774. The date of the publication of the _Authentic Memoires_, given as 1794, is, of course, a clerical error. Owing to the footnote attached to Ryland’s letter to Francis Donaldson of Liverpool, printed in the _Morning Post_, September 2, 1783, the document must be regarded with suspicion. No trivial disagreement with the conclusions of Mrs Frankau can diminish the interest of her delightful account of the great engraver, which must remain the most valuable of recent monographs.

NOTE III.--There are references to W. W. Ryland in the innumerable dictionaries of painters and engravers, French, German, and English, such as Basan, Le Blanc, Portalis and Beraldi, Andreas Andrescen, Redgrave, Bryan, etc. One of the best of modern notices will be found in the _Print Collectors’ Handbook_, by Alfred Whitman.

A LIST OF WILLIAM WYNNE RYLAND’S ENGRAVINGS.

(By RUTH BLEACKLEY.)

1. Les Grâces au Bain, after Boucher. } 2. La Belle Dormeuse, do. } 3. Le Repose Champêtre, do. } 4. Vue d’un pont, do. } 5. Berger passant une rivière, do. } 1757-60 6. La petite Repose, do. } 7. La Bonne Mère, do. } 8. La Marchande d’Oiseaux, do. } 9. I. and II. Vue de Fronville, do. } 10. Jupiter and Leda, do. }

11. George III., King of Great Britain. Published April 1762.

12. John Stuart, 3rd Earl of Bute--after Allan Ramsay. Published February 1763.

13. George III. in State Robes--after Allan Ramsay. Published 1767.

14. George III. (bust).

15. Queen Charlotte with infant (Princess Royal)--after Cotes. Published 1769.

16. Diogenes--after Salvator Rosa. Published 1771.

17. Antiochus and Stratonice--after P. da Cortona. Published 1772.

18. General Stanwix’s Daughter--after Angelica Kauffman (called also “The Pensive Muse”). Published in colours 1774.

19. Hope--after A. Kauffman--(a portrait of herself). Published in colours, February 7, 1775.

20. A Lady in a Turkish Dress--after A. Kauffman. Oval in colours. Published May 1, 1775.

21. A Lady in a Greek Dress--(the Duchess of Richmond)--after A. Kauffman. Published November 20, 1775.

22. Narcissus. Drawn and engraved by Ryland. Published January 12, 1775.

23. Domestick Employment. Drawn and engraved by Ryland, in colours. Published September 13, 1775.

24. Faith--after A. Kauffman. Published 1776.

25. Dormio Innocuus--after A. Kauffman. Circle in colours. Published May 21, 1776.

26. Olim Truncus--after A. Kauffman. Circle in colours and red. Published, first state, April 3; second state, May 1, 1776.

27. Juno cestum a Venere Postulat--after A. Kauffman. Circle in colours and red. Published January 1, 1777.

28. Achilles lamenting the Death of his friend Patroclus--after A. Kauffman. Published December 4, 1777, in colours and red.

29. Patience--after A. Kauffman. Published May 27, 1777.

30. Perseverance--after A. Kauffman. Published June 24, 1777.

31. Cupid Bound, with Nymphs breaking his Bow--after A. Kauffman. Published March 17, 1777.

32. Telemachus returns to Penelope--after A. Kauffman, in colours. Published December 4, 1777.

33. Venus in her Triumphal Chariot--after A. Kauffman, in colours and red. Published September 7, 1778.

34. Charles Rogers--mezzotint after Sir Joshua Reynolds. Published 1778.

35. Cleopatra decorating the Tomb of Mark Antony--after A. Kauffman. Published March 25, 1778, in colours.

36. Telemachus at the Court of Sparta--after A. Kauffman, in colours. Published 1778.

37. The Judgment of Paris--after A. Kauffman, in colours and red. Published January 17, 1778.

38. Maria Moulins--after A. Kauffman. Published 1779, in colours and red.

39. Eloisa--after A. Kauffman. Oval in colours and red. Published 1779.

40. Britannia directing Painting, Sculpture and Architecture to address themselves to Royal Munificence, etc.--after Cipriani, in colours and red. Published August 18, 1779.

41. Marianne. Drawn and engraved by Ryland. In colours and red. Published January 3, 1780.

42. Eleanor sucking the poison from the wound of King Edward--after A. Kauffman. Published March 1, 1780, in colours.

43. Lady Elizabeth Grey imploring pardon for her husband--after A. Kauffman. Published 1780, in colours and red.

44. The Flight of Paris and Helen--after A. Kauffman. Published 1781.

45. Venus presenting Helen to Paris--after A. Kauffman. Published 1781.

46. Cymon and Iphigenia--after A. Kauffman. Circle in colours. Published January 15, 1782.

47. Morning Amusement--after A. Kauffman. Published March 1, 1784.

48. King John signing the Magna Charta--after Mortimer. Published 1785. This plate was finished after Ryland’s death by Bartolozzi and published by the widow.

49. Interview between Edgar and Elfrida--after A. Kauffman. Published 1786. According to Bryan’s _Dictionary_ this plate was finished by W. Sharp and published by the widow.

50. Donald MacLeod, aged 102--after W. R. Bigg. Published 1790.

The following I am unable to date:--

51. John, Duke of Lauderdale.

52. Henry, 7th Baron Digby.

53. Churchill, Duke of Marlborough.

54. Charity--after Van Dyck.

55. The Muse Erato--after Joseph Zucchi.

56. Les Muses (Urania, Clio, Thalia, and Erato)--after Cipriani.

57. Sir John Falstaff raising Recruits--after F. Hayman.

58. Interior of a Dutch Cabaret with peasants dancing--after R. Brackenberg.

59. Penelope awakened by Euryclea--after A. Kauffman.

60. Religion--after A. Kauffman.

61. Ludit Amabiliter--after A. Kauffman. Circle in colours.

62. Penelope hanging up the Bow of Ulysses--after A. Kauffman.

63. Achilles discovered by Ulysses in the disguise of a Virgin--after A. Kauffman.

64. Andromache weeping over the ashes of Hector--after A. Kauffman.

65. Samma at Benoni’s Grave--after A. Kauffman.

_Note._--The _Morning Herald_, May 5, and the _Morning Post_, August 28, 1783, state that Ryland left unfinished a plate of the Battle of Agincourt, after Mortimer.

BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS

1. The Book of Common Prayer. Published by Edward Ryland, May 1, 1755. Nine plates by Ryland--after S. Wale.

2. The Book of Common Prayer in Welsh (1770), with the same plates as in former edition.

3. The Complete Angler, by Isaac Walton, edited by Sir John Hawkins. With fourteen plates, dated 1759, by Ryland--after S. Wale. First edition 1760.

4. “Les Fables choisies de la Fontaine.” Illustrated by J. B. Oudry (1755-59). Seven plates by Ryland in vols. ii., iii., and iv.

5. L’Ecole Des Armes. Par M. Angelo. A Londres: chez R. & J. Dodsley, Pall Mall. February 1763. Second edition 1765. With forty-seven plates. A few copies in colours. Ryland engraved fourteen of these plates. Hall, Grignion, Elliot, and Chamber did the rest--all after drawings by John Gwynn. Thus Henry Angelo’s account of this work is inaccurate.

6. A Collection of Prints in Imitation of Drawings. Edited by Charles Rogers. Published London 1778. Contains fifty-seven plates by Ryland in addition to the mezzotint portrait of Rogers.

7. The School of Fencing, by D. Angelo, edited by Henry Angelo. 1787. With forty-seven plates, the same as in the first edition. This book is not well edited, as the letterpress does not always agree with the pictures.

_Note._--In every case the date of the engraving has been copied from an existing impression. Possibly there are earlier and later states.

A SOP TO CERBERUS

THE CASE OF GOVERNOR WALL, 1782-1802

“He wandered here, he wandered there, A fugitive like Cain, And mourned, like him, in dark despair A brother rashly slain.”

--_A Tale without a Name._ JAMES MONTGOMERY.

On the 26th of August 1782, a captain in the army, named Joseph Wall, just come home from foreign service, sat down to compose his report to the Secretary of State. A glance would tell that he was one of those chosen by destiny to rule man and enslave woman. Although the swift, hot courage of the Celt shone in his fearless eyes and slumbered in his rough-hewn features, the beetling brow, resolute jaw, and fierce, mobile mouth were softened by the gentle mesmeric charm that marks all of his race. In stature he was a giant; while his sweeping shoulders, which towered above the heads of most, the thick, gnarled fingers and stalwart limbs, indicated a mighty strength. For the rest, he was a clean-looking man, with light brown hair and a fresh complexion. Yet the dull grey lines in his face told that the tropics had levied that tax upon his physique which the British soldier is ever eager to pay.

There was nothing of moment in the officer’s report to Secretary Townshend. It was merely a rough account of the termination of his stewardship while Governor for eighteen months at the island of Goree. Mere chance had thrown this tiny sun-baked rock once more into the possession of Great Britain. Three years previously the French fleet under de Vaudreuil, _en route_ to the West Indies, sweeping down upon Senegal, had seized the English posts at Fort Lewis and Fort James. The victory of Sir Edward Hughes had reversed the position. By the capture of the island of Goree, which nestles south of Cape Verde scarcely three miles from the mainland, the approach to the enemies’ settlements on the opposite shore was placed in the hands of England. Being a station of some importance for trading purposes, owing to its proximity to two great rivers of West Africa, a British garrison remained there during the course of the war. Though deemed less unhealthy than the coast, its climate was deadly. Not a mile in length, and scarcely more than a quarter in breadth, the men had little scope for exercise. All ranks detested the place. The regiment was composed of the riff-raff of the army; the officers were those who could get no other appointment.

Joseph Wall was worthy of better things. Nature had made him one of those soldiers of fortune whom his native land has sent forth unceasingly year by year into the armies of every country in the world. About the time of George III.’s accession he had flung aside the religion of his fathers to obtain a commission, and two years later, at the age of twenty-five, the young Irishman saw his first fight in the West Indies. His fiery valour during the storming of Fort Moro gained him promotion, and he returned home from Havannah in 1762 with the rank of captain. Fate, however, robbed him of his birthright, for twelve years of weary peace laid their rust upon his restless soul. Soon an appointment under Company John took him to Bombay, but opportunity never came to draw his sword in a war of nations. At the close of his residence in India he returned to his father’s home, Abbeyleix, in Queen’s County, a sad example of him whom fortune welcomes with a smile and then turns away her face for ever. The keen spirit that could find no outlet under arms was ill fitted for the civilian’s life. Joseph Wall, the soldier of fortune, possessed none of the grace of humour which might have softened his red, untamable temper. Broils innumerable led to many a bloody duel, and on one occasion--so tradition relates--he crossed swords with ‘Fighting Fitzgerald’ Rumour credits him also with the death of a faithful friend, and, ’tis said, _dux femina facti_. Indeed, several affairs of gallantry stain his record, and once he was called upon to answer an insult to a lady in a court of justice.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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;