Chapter III: Part II: In Ireland

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _March 26, 1776_.

Ireland! England! good heavens! that Martha should be in one part of the world and her H. in another! Will not our destinies suffer us to breathe the same air? Mine will not, I most firmly believe, let me rest, till they have hunted me to death.

Will you not give me your approbation for obeying you thus? Approbation! And is that the coin to pass between _us?_

Yet, I will obey you further. I will restrain my pen as much as possible. I will scratch the word love out of my dictionary. I will forget: I lie—I never _can_, nor ever _will_ forget you, or any thing which belongs to you. But I will, as you wisely advise, and kindly desire me, write as much as possible on other subjects. Everything entertaining that I can procure I will. I will _Twissify_, and write Tours—or anything but love-letters. This morning pardon me: I am unable to trifle; I _must_ be allowed to talk of love, of Martha.

And, when I _am_ able, you must allow me to put in a word or two sometimes for myself. To-day, however, I will not make _you_ unhappy by telling you how truly so _I_ am.

The truth is—my heart is full; and though I thought, when I took up my pen, I could have filled a quire of paper with it, I now have not a word to say. Were I sitting by your side now (oh, that I were!) I should only have power to recline my cheek upon your shoulder, and to wet your handkerchief with my tears.

My own safety, but for your sake, is the last of my considerations. Our passage was rather boisterous, but not dangerous. Mrs. F. (whom I mentioned to you, I believe, in the letter that I wrote just before we embarked) has enabled me to make you laugh with an account of her behaviour, were either of us in a humour to laugh.

Why did you cheat me so about that box?

Had I known I should find, upon opening it, that the things were for me, I would never have brought it. But that _you_ knew. Was it kind, my Martha, to give me so many _daily_ memorandums of you, when I was to be at such a distance from you? Oh, yes, it was, it was, _most_ kind. And that, and you, and all your thousand and ten thousand kindnesses I never will forget. The purse shall be my constant companion, the shirts I will wear by night, one of the handkerchiefs I was obliged to use in drying my eyes as soon as I opened the box, the——

God, God bless you in this world—that is, give you your H., and grant you an easy passage to eternal blessings in a better.

If you go before me, may the stroke be so instantaneous that you may not have time to cast one longing, lingering look on H.!

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _April 8, 1776_.

Yours, dated April the first, would have diverted me had I been some leagues nearer to you. It contained true wit and humour. I truly thank you for it, because I know with how much difficulty you study for any thing like wit or humour in the present situation of your mind. But you do it to divert me; and it is done for one, who, though he cannot laugh at it, as he ought, will remember it, as he ought. Yet, with what a melancholy tenderness it concluded! _There_ spoke your heart.

Your situation, when you wrote it, was something like that of an actress, who should be obliged to play a part in a comedy, on the evening of a day, which, by some real catastrophe, had marked her out for the capital figure of a _real_ tragedy.

Perhaps I have said something like this in the long letter that I have written since. Never mind.

Pray be careful how you seal your letters. The wax always robs me of five or six words. Leave a space for your seal. Suppose that should be the part of your letter which tells me you still love me. If the wax cover it, I see it not—I find no such expression in your letter—I grow distracted—and immediately set out for Charing Cross, to ask you whether you do indeed still love me.

In the hospitality of this country I was not deceived. They have a curse in their language, strongly descriptive of it—“May the grass grow at your door!” The women, if I knew not _you_, I should find sensible and pretty. But I am deaf, dumb, blind, to everything, and to every person but _you_. If I write any more this morning, I shall certainly sin against your commands.

Why do you say nothing of your dear children? I insist upon it that you buy my friend a taw, and two dozen of marbles; and place them to the account of

Your humble servant.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _May 3, 1776_.

My last, I hope, did not offend you. The bank note I was obliged to return; although I thank you for it, more than words can tell.

Shall I, whom you will not marry, because you will not load me with your debts, increase those debts; at least prevent you from diminishing them, by robbing you of fifty pounds? Were I capable of it, I should be unworthy of your love. But be not offended that I returned it. Heaven knows how willingly a quire of such things should have accompanied it, had heaven made me so rich.

Be not anxious about me. Talk not of the postage which your dear letters cost me. Will you refuse to make your H. happy? And think you that I can pay too dear for happiness?

But, Lord! you rave. I am rich—as rich as a Jew; and without taking into the calculation the treasure I possess in your love. Why, you talk of what I allow _that relation_, poor soul! That does not swallow up all my lands and hereditaments at Gosport. Then there’s my pay, and twenty other ways and means besides, I dare say, could I but recollect them. Go to—I tell you I _am_ rich. So, let me know you got the silver paper safe, and that I am a good boy.

Rich! To be sure I am; why, I can afford to go to plays. I saw Catley last night, in your favourite character. By the way, I will tell you a story of her, when she was on your side the water.

Names do not immortalise praiseworthy anecdotes; _they_ immortalise names. Some difference had arisen between Miss Catley and the managers, concerning the terms upon which she was to be engaged for the season. One of the managers called upon her, at her little lodgings in Drury Lane, to settle them. The maid was going to show the gentleman upstairs, and to call her mistress. “No, no,” cries the actress, who was in the kitchen, and heard the manager’s voice, “there is no occasion to show the gentleman into a room. I am busy below [to the manager] making apple-dumplings for my brats. You know whether you have a mind to give me the money I ask, or not. I am none of your fine ladies, who get a cold or the tooth-ache, and cannot sing. If you have a mind to give me the money, say so; my mouth shall not open for a farthing less. So good morning to you, and do not keep the girl there in the passage; for I want her to put the dumplings in the pot, while I nurse the child.” The turnips of Fabricius, and Andrew Marvel’s cold leg of mutton are worthy to be served up on the same day with Nan Catley’s apple-dumplings.

Come; I am not unhappy, or I could not talk of other people and write thus gaily. Nothing can make me truly unhappy but a change in your sentiments of me. By the Almighty God of heaven, I know my own feeling so thoroughly, that I do not think I could survive such a thing.

As you love me, scold me not about the poplin which you will receive next week. It cost me nothing; I may surely give what was given to me!

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _May 29, 1776_.

Do you think that to make such proposals, as your last contained, is the way to reconcile me to this worse than banishment? You refused to come into my scheme of marriage. Nothing shall tempt me to come into _your_ scheme. Persist in your idea of going on the stage, and, as I live, I will come over and make a party to damn you the first night of your appearance. Since you will not share my fortunes, I will not share your earnings.

The story which you mention at Flamborough, of Boardingham, who was murdered by his wife and her lover, is most shocking. The reflections you draw from it are most just, and what you say of our situation most true. The woman must have been beyond a savage. Yet their feelings, when she and Aikney were at the gallows together (supposing anything like love remained), must have been exquisite. I protest I would willingly embrace with M. the cruellest death which torture could invent (provided she were on a bed of roses) than lead the happiest life without her. What visions have I conjured up! My pen drops from my hand. Well, I must not think.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _June 18, 1776_.

My Laura is not angry with me, I hope, for the three or four _tender_ letters I have written to her since the beginning of this month. And yet, yours of yesterday seems to say you are. If I bear my situation like a man, will you not allow me to feel it like a man?

Misfortune, like a creditor severe,
But rises in demand for her delay.
She makes a scourge of past prosperity,
To sting me more and double my distress.

But you say I must not write thus. If I can help it, I will not.

Shall I write about the weather or politics? The sun shines to-day, yesterday it rained. If you wish to appear learned, tell the next company you go into that the distresses of this country will soon oblige England to grant her a free trade or something very much like it; and add, that her grievances are more real now than when in 1601 she complained to Elizabeth of the introduction of trials by jury. Another slice of politics. Assert boldly that “Junius” was written by Grenville’s secretary. This is a _fact_, notwithstanding what Wilkes relates of Lord Germaine’s bishop.

Is this the style of letter-writing you allow me? Try again, then.

The favours I have received from the worthy man I mentioned in a letter or two ago are by his goodness every day increased. Some superior souls have affected to hate mankind. Here is one who, with an understanding and an experience inferior to none, never loses an opportunity of befriending a fellow-creature. I am afraid sometimes that misfortune will one day or other play him some confounded dog’s trick, because he takes such pleasure in thwarting every scheme that she lays for any one’s ruin.

Yet even this amiable character is not without his defects. The following lines I sent him this morning after playing at vingtun in company with him last night:

To Hackman, says a certain friend
(Both idle, rhyming bards),
“——, with good manners and best sense,
Can’t bear to lose at cards.

With such a head”—“And such a heart,”
Adds Hackman, “’tis high treason.
But I, who knew that heart so well,
Have found, I think, the reason.

Friend to the poor, his purse their box,
He always would be winner;
For then they win. But, should he lose,
The poor, too, lose a dinner.”

This country’s facetious Dean said, that his friend Arbuthnot could do everything but walk. My friend can do everything but lose at cards.

Feeling, and all the commanding powers of the mind, were never perhaps before so mixed together. A tale of sorrow will make his little eyes wink, wink, wink, like a green girl’s. Before the company came last night, I showed him “Auld Robin Gray,” and, though he had seen it before, he could not get over “My mother could na speak,” without winking For the credit of your side of the water, he is an Englishman. His agreeable wife, by her beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country. She is remarkable also for her feeling, though in a different way. You shall relate an anecdote of distress, or read a story of ill-usage, and while his eyes are winking for the object of ill-usage or the distress, hers shall be striking fire with rage against the author of it. “Good God!” she exclaims, “if that villain was but in my power!” And I sometimes think she is going to ring for her hat and cloak, that she may sally forth, and pull his house about his ears. Bound up together (as they are, and as I hope they will long continue) they form a complete system of humanity.

It would have gratified me much to have been with you when Garrick took his farewell of the stage. Do you remember the last paper in the _Idler_ upon its being the _last?_ The reflection that it was the _last_ time Garrick would ever play, was, in itself, painful. How, my Laura, my Martha, my life, shall I bear it, if I ever should be doomed to take my last leave, my last look of you!

_To MR. HACKMAN._

+England+, _June 25, 1776_.

Let me give you joy of having found such kind and agreeable friends in a strange land. The account you sent of the gentleman and lady, especially of the latter, quite charmed me. Neither am I without my friends. A lady, from whom I have received particular favours, is uncommonly kind to me. _For the credit of your side of the water, she is an Irishwoman. Her agreeable husband, by his beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country. He is remarkable also for his feelings._

Adieu! This will affect you, I dare say, in the same manner your account affected me.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _July 1, 1776_.

Your little billet, of the 25th of last month, was a proper reproof for the contents of one of mine. Until I saw the joke I was truly unhappy. If you had not written the long and kind letter the next day, which came in the same packet, I should have been miserable. Yet, I wish you happy, _most_ happy; but I cannot bear the thoughts of your receiving happiness from any hands (man, woman, or child) but mine. Had my affections not been fixed, as they are unalterably elsewhere, the wife of my _friend_, with all her charms, would never fix them. I have but two masters, Love and Honour. If I did not consider you as my wife, I would add, you know I have but _one_ mistress.

A friend of mine is going to England (happy fellow I shall think him, to be in the same country with you). He will call at the Cannon Coffee House for me. Do send me, thither, the French book you mention, _Werther_. If you do not, I positively never will forgive you. Nonsense, to say it will make me unhappy, or that I shall not be able to read it! Must I pistol myself, because a thick-blooded German has been fool enough to set the example, or because a German novelist has feigned such a story? If _you_ do not lend it me, I will most assuredly procure it some time or another; so, you may as well have the merit of obliging me. My friend will send a small parcel for you to D. Street. The books I send you, because I know you have not got them, and because they are so much cheaper here. If you are afraid of emptying my purse (which, by the way, is almost worn out), you shall be my debtor for them. So send me a note of hand, _value received_. The other things are surely not worth mentioning.

_To MR. HACKMAN._

+England+, _August 20, 1776_.

For God’s sake! where are you? What is the matter? Why don’t you write? Are you ill? God forbid! Am I not with you to nurse you? If you are, why don’t you let somebody else write to me? Better that all should be discovered, than suffer what I suffer. It is more than a month since I heard from you. A month used to bring me eight or ten letters. When I grew uneasy, it was in vain, as I said in my last, that I endeavoured to find your friend who brought the parcel (for I would certainly have seen him, and asked him about you). What is become of all my letters for this last month? Did you get what I returned by your friend? Do you like the purse? The book you mentioned is just the only book you should never read. On my knees I beg that you will never, never read it! Perhaps you _have_ read it. Perhaps!—I am distracted. Heaven only knows to whom I may be writing this letter!

Madam, or Sir,

If you are a woman, I _think_ you will, if you are a man, and ever loved, I am _sure_ you will, oblige me with one line to say what is become of Mr. Hackman, of the 68th Regiment. Direct to Mrs. ——, D. Street, London. Any person whose hands my letter may fall into, will not think this much trouble; and, if they send me good news, heaven knows how a woman, who loves, if possible, too well, will thank them.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _Sept. 10, 1776_.

As I am no sportsman, there is no merit, you may think, in devoting a morning to this employment. Nor do I claim any merit. It is only making myself happy.

Now, I hope, you are quite at ease about me. My health, upon my honour, upon our love, is almost re-established. Were I not determined to keep on _this_ side the truth, I would say _quite_. The four letters I have written to you, since I received your frantic sheet of paper, have explained and made up everything. How can I sufficiently thank you for all your letters? Especially for that of this week? Never did you pen a better. Did I know anybody employed in a work, where that letter could properly appear, he should insert it in your own words.

Excuse me, I am unwillingly called away.

What I said this morning about your letter, brings to my recollection something of that sort. Shall I tell it you? I will.

James Hirst, in the year 1711, lived servant with the Honourable Edward Wortley. It happened, one day, in re-delivering a parcel of letters to his master, by mistake he gave him one which he had written to his sweetheart, and kept back one of Mr. Wortley’s. He soon discovered the mistake, and hurried back to his master; but unfortunately for poor James, it happened to be the first that presented itself to Mr. Wortley, and, before James returned, he had given way to a curiosity which led him to open it, and read the love-told story of an enamoured footman. It was in vain that James begged to have it returned. “No,” says Mr. Wortley, “James, you shall be a great man, this letter shall appear in the _Spectator_.”

Mr. Wortley communicated the letter to his friend, Sir Richard Steel. It was accordingly published in his own words, and is that letter, No. 71, volume the first of the _Spectator_, beginning “Dear Betty.”

James found means to remove that unkindness of which he complains in his letter; but, alas! before their wishes were completed, a speedy end was put to a passion, which would not discredit much superior rank, by the unexpected death of Betty. James, out of the great regard and love of Betty, after her death, married the sister. He dies, not many years since, in the neighbourhood of Wortley, near Leeds, Yorkshire.

To marry you is the utmost of my wishes; but, remember, I do not engage to marry your sister, in case of your death.... Death! How can I think of such a thing, though it be but in joke.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _September 15, 1776_.

The commands of your last letter, for the reasons you give, I have immediately obeyed. My enquiries about the young Englishman you mention amount to this. He is liked tolerably well here. He would be liked more, if he took more pains to be liked. His contempt for some people in the world, whom others despise perhaps as well as himself, is sometimes too conspicuous. Accident has given me an opportunity to see and know a great deal of him; and with certainty. His heart is certainly not bad. His abilities are as certainly not equal to what he once confesses to have thought them; perhaps they are superior to the opinion he now entertains of them. He has ambition and emulation enough to have almost supplied any want of genius, and to have made him almost anything, had he fallen into proper hands. But his schoolmasters knew nothing of his human heart, nor over much of the head. Though indolent to a degree, a keen eye might have discovered, may still discover, industry at the bottom; a good cultivator might have turned it, may still turn it, to good account. His friendships are warm, sincere, decided—his enmities the same. He complains now and then, that some of his friends will pretend to know him better than they know themselves, and better than they know anything else. “They would play upon him; they would seem to know his stops; they pretend to be able to sound him from his lowest note to the top of his compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in a little pipe, yet cannot they make it speak. Do they think,” he demands, “that he is easier to be played upon than a pipe?” Why, really, I do not think this is the case at present, whatever it may have been. Secrecy is not brought _into_ the world, it is acquired _in_ the world. An honest heart can only acquire it by experience. The character which he had certainly gotten among some of his intimates has been of service both to them and to himself. They made a point of secrecy, after they chose to discover a want of it in him; and now he has made a point of it himself. My dearest secret (_you_ know what that is) should now sooner be trusted to him than to any of his former accusers. The loudest of them, to my knowledge, was little calculated to judge; for though he might not absolutely think him a coward, he certainly did not suspect his friend of courage, till sufficient proof of it was given under his own eye. Now, in my opinion, true courage and resolution are this gentleman’s marking characteristics. This is no great compliment; for, without them, I would not give a farthing for any man.

Such, in my judgment, is the young gentleman about whom you wished me to inquire, and with whom I have happened to live a good deal. His principal merit is that my amiable friend (the mention of whose wife just jogged your jealousy) sincerely loves him. That worthy man seldom threw away his attachment where it is not deserved. Nor do I know anything in the gentleman whose character I have been sketching which gives me more pleasure, or which it would give him more pleasure to have noticed, than the love and respect which I am sure he feels for my friend; unless perhaps, his affectionate sense of the obligations which I believe I have told you he lies under to a Mr. B——.

So much for business. Now for an article of news. The latter end of last month a lady and her servant, as they were riding in Phœnix Park, were stopped by a man on foot, very genteelly dressed in white clothes and a gold-laced hat. He demanded the lady’s money, which she gave him, amounting to twenty-six guineas. The person put the cash into one of his pockets, and took from the other a small diamond hoop-ring, which he presented to the lady, desiring her to wear it for the sake of an extraordinary robber who made it a point of honour to take no more from a beautiful lady than he could make a return for in value. He then, with great agility, vaulted over the wall and disappeared.

This you may perhaps call an Irish way of robbing. There certainly was something original in it. The gentleman seems clearly to imagine that an exchange is no robbery.

As to your threat, I will answer it in the same style. “I _will_ love you—and, if——!” But neither my answer, nor your threat is original. Reading this morning a history of this country, I found the following anecdote: In 1487, a dreadful war was carried on in Ulster, between the chieftain O’Neal, and the neighbouring chieftain of Tirconnel. This war had nothing more considerable for its immediate cause than the pride of O’Neal, who demanded that his enemy should recognise his authority by paying tribute. The laconic style, in which the demand was made and rejected, would not have disgraced a nobler contest. “Send me tribute—or _else!_——” was the message of O’Neal. To which was returned, with the same princely brevity, “I owe you none—and _if——!_” But I talk nonsense, this does not prove _your threat_ to have been borrowed; for I dare say, you never heard of O’Neal till this moment. It only proves that two people may express themselves alike.

Should any man who loved like me (if any man ever did love like me) have spoke of his love in terms like those I used to speak of mine, follows it therefore that I have borrowed either his passion or his language? Were it possible for you to think so, I never would forgive you. Pray copy the music you mention in your next.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _September 18, 1776_.

How happens it that I have not sooner noticed what you say, in a letter the beginning of last month, about the new punishment of working upon the Thames? Politicians may write more learnedly upon the matter, but I will defy Beccaria to write more feelingly or humanely. There certainly is much truth in what you say. Experience, however, will be the best test. Perhaps my true reason for noticing your sensible letter thus late, was to introduce a scene which passed in the quicksilver mines of Idra, a still more unpleasant abode than Mr. Campbell’s academy. This used to be Colonel G.’s method, you remember, of introducing his home-made jokes. Not that my story is home-made. I take it from some Italian letters which a brother officer lent me, written by Mr. Everard, and I give it you almost in his own words, except in one or two passages, where I think he has lost an opportunity of surprising the reader.

“The pleasure I always take in writing to you, wherever I am, and whatever I am doing, in some measure dispels my present uneasiness, and uneasiness caused at once by the disagreeable aspect of everything around me, and the more disagreeable scene to which I have been witness.

“Something, too, I have to tell you of Count Alberti. You remember him one of the gayest, most agreeable persons at the Court of Vienna, at once the example of the men and the favourite of the fair sex. I often heard you repeat his name with esteem as one of the few that did honour to the present age; as possessed of generosity and pity in the highest degree; as one who made no other use of fortune but to alleviate the distress of mankind. But first of all, the scene I mentioned.

“After passing several parts of the Alps, and having visited Germany, I thought I could not well return home without visiting the quicksilver mines at Idra, and seeing those dreadful subterranean caverns where thousands are condemned to reside, shut out from all hopes of ever again beholding the cheerful light of the sun, and obliged to toil out a miserable life under the whips of imperious taskmasters. Imagine to yourself a hole in the side of a mountain of about five yards over. Down this you are let in a kind of a bucket more than an hundred fathom, the prospect growing still more gloomy, yet still widening, as you descend. At length, after swinging in terrible suspense for some time in this precarious situation you at length reach the bottom and tread on the ground, which, by its hollow sound under your feet and the reverberations of the echo, seems thundering at every step you take. In this gloomy and frightful solitude you are enlightened by the feeble gleam of lamps here and there disposed, so that the wretched inhabitants of these mansions cannot go from one part to another without a guide. And yet, let me assure you, that though they by custom could see objects very distinctly by these lights, I could scarce discern for some time anything, not even the person who came with me to show me these scenes of horror.

“From this description, I suppose, you have but a disagreeable idea of the place; yet let me assure you that it is a palace if we compare the habitation with the inhabitants. Such wretches mine eyes never yet beheld. The blackness of their visages only serves to cover an horrid paleness caused by the noxious qualities of the mineral which they are employed to procure. As they in general consist of malefactors condemned for life to this task, they are fed at the public expense, but they seldom consume much provision. They lose their appetites in a short time, and commonly, in about two years, expire from a total contraction of the joints of the body.

“In this horrid mansion I walked after my guide for some time, pondering on the strange tyranny and avarice of mankind, when I was accosted by a voice behind me, calling me by name, and enquiring after my health with the most cordial affection. I turned and saw a creature all black and hideous, who approached me with a most piteous accent, demanding, ‘Ah! Mr. Everard, do not you know me?’ Good God! what was my surprise, when, through the veil of his wretchedness, I discovered the features of my old and dear friend, Count Alberti! I flew to him with affection, and, after a tear of condolence, asked how he came there? To this he replied that, having fought a duel with a General of the Austrian infantry against the Emperor’s command, and having left him for dead, he was obliged to fly into one of the forests of Istria, where he was first taken, and afterwards sheltered by some banditti, who had long infested that quarter. With these he had lived nine months, till, by a close investiture of the place in which they were concealed, and after a very obstinate resistance, in which the greatest part of them fell, he was secured and carried to Vienna, in order to be broken alive on the wheel. When he arrived at the capital, he was quickly known, and several of the associates of his accusation and danger witnessing his innocence, his punishment of the rack was changed into that of perpetual confinement and labour in the mines of Idra. A sentence, in my opinion, a thousand times worse than death.

“As Alberti was giving me this account, a young woman came up to him, who, at once I saw, had been born for better fortune. The dreadful situation of the place was not able to destroy her beauty, and even in this scene of wretchedness she seemed to have charms to grace the most brilliant assembly.

“This lady was daughter to one of the first families in Germany, and, having tried every means to procure her lover’s pardon without effect, was at last resolved to share his miseries, as she could not relieve them. With him she accordingly descended into these mansions, from which few ever return; and with him she is contented to live, forgetting the gaieties of life; with him to toil, despising the splendours of opulence, and contented with the consciousness of her own constancy.

“I am, dear Sir,

“Yours, &c.”

Now can I tell all the feelings of your dear heart. Now see I your fancy busy with her magic pencil; and affecting is the picture it has begun. Begun; for your weeping eyes will not suffer you to finish it. Can not you, through all your tears, distinguish Alberti and his wife dying in each other’s arms after about half a year? What a scene!

Is there any sum of money you would not give to have this tragedy end happily? That, of course, is impossible. But Everard speaks of the poor souls in his next letter, which I may perhaps send you in _my next_.

Come, Martha, be a good girl, and you shall have it now, though it will not give you _much_ consolation.

“My last to you was expressive, and perhaps too much so, of the gloomy situation of my mind. I own the deplorable condition of the worthy man described in it was enough to add double severity to the hideous mansions. At present, however, I have the happiness to inform you, that I was spectator of the most affecting scene I ever yet beheld. Nine days after I had written my last a person came post from Vienna to the little village near the mouth of the greater shaft. He was also followed by a second, and he by a third. The first enquiry was after the unfortunate Count; and I, happening to overhear the demand, gave them the best information. Two of these were the brother and cousin of the lady, the third was an intimate friend and fellow-soldier of the Count. They came with his pardon, which had been procured by the General with whom the duel had been fought, who was perfectly recovered from his wounds. I led them with all the expedition of joy down to his dreary abode, and presented to him his friends, and informed him of the happy change in his circumstances. It would be impossible to describe the joy that brightened up his grief-worn countenance; nor was the young lady’s emotion less vivid at seeing her friends, and hearing of her husband’s freedom: some hours were employed in mending the appearance of this faithful couple, nor could I without a tear behold him taking leave of the former wretched companions of his toil. To one he left his mattock; to another his working clothes; to a third his little household utensils, such as were necessary for him in that situation. We soon emerged from the mine, and he once again revisited the sight of the sun, which he had totally despaired of ever seeing. A post-chaise was ready the next morning to take them to Vienna, whither, I am since informed by a letter from himself, they are returned. The Empress has taken them into favour; his fortune and rank are restored; and he and his fair partner now have the pleasing satisfaction of feeling happiness with double relish, because they once knew what it was to be miserable.”

Says not our friend Sterne, that the circumstance of his being at Rennes at the very time the Marquis reclaimed his forfeited nobility and his sword, was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to any traveller but a sentimental one? I believe it; and may every other incident of good fortune befall all such travellers.

Did I not say this second part of the story would not afford you _much_ consolation? Excuse me for such a falsity. That was only to surprise you. Well I knew what would be my Martha’s feelings.

Are you as deep in astrology as when you wrote last to me? On the page I have to spare I will send you some hasty lines which I scribbled the other day to ridicule the weakness of a Dr. W., who is as great a—fool at least as Dryden, and never fails to cast the nativity of his children:

Kind heaven has heard the parent’s prayer,
Each gossip hails the son and heir.
“Pray let the Doctor see,”
“My master, ma’am? Your labour past;
He’s got among the stars, to cast
His son’s nativity.”

Three hours elaps’d, our sage descends,
With “Well, and how’s the child, my friend?”
“He’s happy, sir, ere this.”
“Happy! why yonder stars ne’er shed
Benigner influence on the head
Of happier, I guess.

“Worth, virtue, wisdom, honour, wealth,
Man’s best and only riches, health,
Assuredly await
Heav’n’s favour’d child—or never more
Say I have knowledge to explore
The secret page of fate.

“’Twas there I read my happy boy
Full seventy summers should enjoy,
“Ere”—when nurse sobb’d and said,
“Good lack! the babe to whom kind heaven
So many bounteous gifts hath given,
_These two hours hath been—Dead_.”

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _January 26, 1777_.

One of Lord Harcourt’s suite will carry this to England. His lordship was relieved from guard yesterday by the arrival of a new Lord Lieutenant. As politics have not much to do with love, I shall not trouble you with a history of the late reign, or with a prophecy of what will be the present. Only let our great actors take care they do not play the farce of America in Ireland. My spirits, I thank you, are now tolerable well. But you know I am, at least I know I have been ever since you have known me, a strange comical fellow. Neither one thing nor t’other. Sometimes in the garret, but, much oftener, down in the cellar. If Salvator Rosa, or Rousseau, wanted to draw a particular character, I am their man. But you and I shall yet be happy together, I know; and then my spirits and passions will return into their usual channels. Why do you complain of the language of my letters? Suppose they were not tender. What would you say, what would you think, then? Must not love speak the language of love? Nay, do not we see every day that love and religion have mutual obligations, and continually borrow phrases from each other? Put Jamie or Jenny, instead of Christ, and see what you will make of Mr. Rowe’s most solemn poems, or of Dr. Watts’ hymns. Let me transcribe you a letter written by another person to a lady.

“Sir Benjamin telling me you were not come to town at three o’clock makes me in pain to know how your son does, and I can’t help inquiring after him and dear Mrs. Freeman. The Bishop of Worcester was with me this morning before I was dressed. I gave him my letter to the Queen, and he has promised to second it, and seemed to undertake it very willingly: though, by all the discourse I had with him (of which I will give you a particular account when I see you) I find him very partial to her. The last time he was here, I told him you had several times desired you might go from me, and I have repeated the same thing again to him. For you may easily imagine I would not neglect doing you right on all occasions. But I beg it again, for Christ Jesus’s sake, that you would never name it any more to me; for, be assured, if you should ever do so cruel a thing as to leave me, from that moment I shall never enjoy one quiet hour. And, should you do it without asking my consent (which if I ever give you, may I never see the face of heaven) I will shut myself up, and never see the world more, but live where I may be forgotten by human kind.”

What think you of this letter? If it should have been written by a woman to a woman, surely you will allow H. to write a little tenderly to his own Martha! This was really the case. It is transcribed from “An Account of the Conduct of the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough,” printed for W. Smith, Dame Street, Dublin, 1742, which I bought at Wilson’s in Dane Street yesterday. This pamphlet contains others as loving. This I find, page 40. It was written to Lady Marlborough by her mistress (one would have thought the word _mistress_ in one sense did belong to one of the parties) when she was only Princess of Denmark. It refers to the quarrel between the Princess and her royal sister and brother-in-law, because she would not part with her favourite, upon Lord Marlborough’s having displeased the king. These two female lovers always corresponded, under the names of Mrs. Freeman and Mrs. Morley, at the particular desire of the Princess, who fixed upon the names. And this, after she was Queen Anne. Be assured, my Martha, that, although I write to you with almost the same madness of affection, I will never imitate her example, for all its royalty, and exchange you for a mushroom of your own raising.

* * * * *

From this date Hackman’s letters have a morbid vein running through them. He mentions that he has received several letters from Miss Reay, but none of them, however, seem to have been preserved.

* * * * *

_To MISS REAY_,

+Ireland+, _Feb. 6, 1777_.

_My_ last was merry, you know. I cannot say as much for _your_ last. To-day you must suffer me to indulge my present turn of mind in transcribing something which was left behind her by a Mrs. Dixon, who poisoned herself not long since at Inniskillen. It was communicated to me by a gentleman, after a dinner yesterday, who is come hither about business, and lives in the neighbourhood of Inniskillen.

The unhappy woman was not above nineteen years of age. She had been married about two years, and lived with her husband all that time with seeming ease and cheerfulness.

She was remarkably cheerful all the fatal day, had company to dine with her, made tea for them, in the evening set them down to cards, retired to her chamber, and drank her cup of arsenic.

She left a writing on her table, in which is obscurely hinted the sad circumstance which urged her impatience to this desperate act.

Enclosed is an exact copy even to the spelling.

“This is to let all the world know, that hears of me, that it is no crime I ever committed occasions this my untimely end; but despair of ever being happy in this world, as I have sufficient reasons to think so. I own it is a sinful remedy, and very uncertain to seek happiness, but I hope that God will forgive my poor soul; Lord have mercy on it! But all I beg is to let none reproach my friends with it, or suspect my virtue or my honour in the least, though I am to be no more.

“Comfort my poor unhappy mother, and brothers and sisters, and let all mothers take care, and never force a child as mine did me; but I forgive her, and hopes God will forgive me, as I believe she meant my good by my marriage.

“Oh! that unfortunate day I gave my hand to one, whilst my heart was another’s, but hoping that time and prudence would at length return my former peace and tranquillity of mind, which I wanted for a long time; but oh, it grieves me to think of the length of eternity; and the Lord save me from eternal damnation! Let no one blame Martin Dixon (her husband), for he is in no fault of it.

“I have a few articles which I have a greater regard for than anything else that’s mine, on account of him that gave them to me (but _he_ is not to be mentioned), and I have some well-wishers that I think proper to give them to.

“First, to Betty Balfour, my silver buckles; to Polly Deeryn, my diamond ring; to Betty Mulligan, my laced suit, cap, handkerchief, and ruffles; to Peggy Delap, a new muslin handkerchief not yet hemmed, which is in my drawer, and hope for my sake those persons will accept of these trifles as a testimony of my regard for them.

“I would advise Jack Watson [her brother] to behave himself in an honest and obedient manner in respect to his mother and family, as he is all she has to depend upon now.

“I now go in God’s name, though against His commands, without wrath or spleen to any one upon earth. The very person I die for, I love him more than ever, and forgive him. I pray God grant him more content and happiness than he ever had, and hope he will forgive me, only to remember such a one died for him.

“There was, not long ago, some persons pleased to talk something against my reputation, as to a man in this town; but now, when I ought to tell the truth, I may be believed. If ever I knew him, or any other but my husband, may I never enter into glory; and them I forgive who said so; but let that man’s wife take care of them that told her so; for they meant her no good by it.

“With love to one, friendship to few, and goodwill to all the world, I die, saying, Lord have mercy on my soul; with _an advice to all people never to suffer a passion of any sort to command them as mine did in spite of me_. I pray God to bless all my friends and acquaintance, and begs them all to comfort my mother, who is unhappy in having such a child as I, who is ashamed to subscribe myself an unworthy and disgraceful member of the Church of Scotland.

“+Jane Watson+, otherwise +Dixon+.”

My pen shall not interrupt your meditations hereon by making a single reflection. We both of us have made, I dare say, too many on it. She, too, was _Jenny_ and had her _Robin Gray_.

_To MISS REAY._

+Ireland+, _April 20, 1777_.

Now you see there is something in dreams. But why is not your alarming letter more particular about your complaint? Do they nurse you as tenderly as I would? Are they careful about your medicines? For God’s sake tell them all round what happened lately here to Sir William Yorke, the Chief Justice.

Sir William was grievously afflicted with the stone. In his severe fits he used to take a certain quantity of laudanum drops. On calling for his usual remedy, during the most racking pains of his distemper, the drops could not be found. The servant was despatched to his apothecary; but, instead of laudanum drops, he asked for laudanum. A quantity of laudanum was accordingly sent, with a special charge not to give Sir William more than twenty-four drops. But the fellow, forgetting the caution, gave the bottle into his master’s hand, who, in his agony, drank up the whole contents, and expired in less than an hour.

Why, my dearest love, did you conceal your illness from me so long? Now, you may have revealed the situation of your health to me too late. God forbid! If I write more, I shall write like a madman. A gentleman takes this who sails for England to-day. To-morrow or next day the Colonel will be here. If Lord Sandwich, as I have reason to expect, has influenced him to refuse me leave of absence, I will most certainly sell out directly, which I have an opportunity to do. At any rate, I will be with you in a few days. If I come without a commission you must not be angry. To find you both displeased and ill, will be too much for your poor H. For my sake, be careful. Dr. —— I insist upon your not having any longer. His experience and humanity are upon a par. Positively you must contrive some method for me to see you. How can love like mine support existence if you should be ill, and I should not be permitted to see you. But I can neither think nor write any more.

* * * * *

Hackman then sold out and left at once for England, arriving in London in the beginning of May 1777.