Chapter IV: Part III: In London (1)

_To MISS REAY_,

+Cannon Coffee House+, _May 4, 1777_.

Did you get the incoherent scrawls I wrote you yesterday and the day before? Yours I have this instant read and wept over. Your feeble writing speaks you weaker than you own. Heavens, am I come hither only to find I must not see you! Better I had staid in Ireland. Yet, do I now breathe the air with you. Nothing but your note last night could have prevented me, at all hazards, from forcing my way to your bedside. In vain did I watch the windows afterwards, to gather information from the passing lights whether you were better or worse. For God of heaven’s sake send me an answer to this!

_To MR. HACKMAN._

+Admiralty+, _May 4, 1774_.—3 o’clock.

My dear mistress bids me write this from her mouth: “These are the last words I speak. My last thoughts will be upon you, my dearest, dear H. In the next world we shall meet. Live and cherish my memory. Accept the contents of this little box. Be a friend to my children. My little girl.”

_TO THE SAME._

+Admiralty+, _May 4, 1777_.—5 o’clock.

+My Dear Soul+,

At the hazard of my life I write this to tell you Heaven has spared my life to your prayers. The unfinished note, which my hasty maid—I cannot go on.

“Sir,

My dear Mistress bids me say, Sir, that her disorder has taken a turn within this hour, and the physicians have pronounced her out of all danger. Honoured Sir, I humbly crave your pardon for sending away my scribble just now, which I am afraid has made you uneasy; but indeed, Honoured Sir, I thought it was all over with my poor dear mistress; and then, I am sure I should have broke my heart. For, to be sure, no servant ever had a better, nor a kinder mistress. Sir, I presume to see your honour to-morrow. My mistress fainted away as she began this, but is now better.

“_Admiralty.—6 o’clock._”

_To MISS REAY._

+Cannon Coffee House+, _June 27, 1777_.
5 o’clock.

As I want both appetite and spirit to touch my dinner, though it has been standing before me these ten minutes, I can claim no merit in writing to you. May you enjoy that pleasure in your delightful situation on the banks of the Thames, which no situation, no thing upon earth, can in your absence afford me!

Do you ask me what has lowered my spirits to-day? I will tell you. Do not be angry, but I have been to see the last of poor Dodd. Yes, “poor Dodd!” though his life was justly forfeited to the laws of his country. The scene was affecting—it was the first of the kind I had ever seen, and shall certainly be the last. Though, had I been in England when Peter Tolosa was deservedly executed in February, for killing Duarzey, a young French woman with whom he lived, I believe I should have attended the last moments of a man, who could murder the object of his love. For the credit of my country, this man (does he deserve the name of _man?_) was a Spaniard.

Do not think I want tenderness because I was present this morning. Will you allow yourself to want tenderness, because you have been present at Lear’s madness, or Ophelia’s? Certainly not. Believe me (you _will_ believe me, I am sure) I do not make a profession of it, like George S. Your H. is neither _artiste_ nor _amateur_, nor do I, like Paoli’s friend and historian, hire a window by the year, which looks upon the Grassmarket at Edinburgh.

Raynal’s book you have read, and admire. For its humanity it merits admiration. The Abbé does not countenance an attendant on scenes at this sort by his writings, but he does by his conduct. And I would sooner take Practice’s word than Theory’s. Upon my honour Raynal and Charles Fox, notwithstanding the rain, beheld the whole from the top of an unfinished house, close by the stand in which I had a place.

However meanly Dodd behaved formerly, in throwing the blame of his application to the chancellor on his wife, he certainly died with resolution. More than once to-day I have heard that resolution ascribed to his hope that his friend Hawes, the humane founder of the Humane Society, would be able to restore him to life. But I give him more credit. Besides, Voltaire observes that the courage of a dying man is in proportion to the number of those who are present, and St. Everemond (the friend of the French M.) discovered that _les Anglais surpassent toutes les nations à mourir_. Let me surpass all mankind in happiness, by possessing my _Ninon_ for life, and I care not how I die.

Some little circumstances struck me this morning, which, however you may refuse to forgive me for so spending my morning, I am sure you would not forgive me were I to omit. Before the melancholy procession arrived, a sow was driven into the space left for the sad ceremony, nor could the idea of the approaching scene, which had brought the spectators together, prevent too many from laughing, and shouting, and enjoying the poor animal’s distress, as if they had only come to Tyburn to see a sow baited.

After the arrival of the procession, the preparation of the unhappy victim mixed something disagreeably ludicrous with the solemnity. The tenderest could not but feel it, though they might be sorry that they _did_ feel it. The poor man’s wig was to be taken off, and the nightcap brought for the purpose was too little, and could not be pulled on without force. _Valets de chambre_ are the greatest enemies to heroes. Every guinea in my pocket would I have given that he had not worn a wig, or that (wearing one) the cap had been bigger.

At last arrived the moment of death. The driving away of the cart was accompanied with a noise which best explained the feelings of the spectators for the sufferer. Did you never observe, at the sight or relation of anything shocking, that you closed your teeth hard, and drew in your breath hard through them, so as to make a sort of hissing sound? This was done so universally at the fatal moment that I am persuaded the noise might have been heard at a considerable distance. For my own part, I detected myself, in a certain manner, accompanying his body with the motion of my own.

Not all the resuscitating powers of Mr. Hawes can, I fear, have any effect; it was so long before the mob would suffer the hearse to drive away with his body.

Thus ended the life of Dr. Dodd. How shocking, that a man, with whom I have eaten and drunk, should leave the world in such a manner! A manner which, from familiarity, has almost ceased to shock us, except when our attention is called to a Perreau or a Dodd. How many men, how many women, how many young, and, as they fancy, tender females, with all their sensibilities about them, hear the sounds, by which at this moment I am disturbed, with as much indifference as they hear muffins and matches cried along the street! _The last dying speech and confession, birth, parentage, and education._ Familiarity has even annexed a kind of humour to the cry. We forget that it always announces the death (and what a death!) of one fellow being; sometimes of half-a-dozen, or even _more_.

A lady talks with greater concern of cattle-day than of hanging-day. And her maid contemplates the mournful engraving at the top of a dying speech with more indifference than she regards the honest tar hugging his sweetheart at the top of “Black-eyed Susan.” All that strikes us is the ridiculous tone in which the halfpenny balladmonger singer chants the _requiem_. We little recollect that, while we are smiling at the voice of the charmer, wives or husbands (charm she never so wisely), children, parents, or friends, perhaps all these and more than these, as pure from crimes as we, and purer still, perhaps, are weeping over the crime and punishment of the darling and support of their lives. Still less do we at this moment (for the printer always gets the start of the hangman, and many a man has bought his own dying speech on his return to Newgate by virtue of a reprieve)—still less do we ask ourselves, whether the wretch, who, at the moment we hear this (which ought to strike us as an) awful sound, finds the halter of death about his neck, and now takes the longing farewell, and now hears the horses whipped and encouraged to draw from under him for ever the cart which he now, now, now feels depart from his lingering feet—whether this wretch really deserved to die more than we. Alas! were no spectators to attend executions but those who deserve to live, Tyburn would be honoured with much thinner congregations.

* * * * *

Well, I have made an uncomfortable sort of a meal on tea, and now I will continue my conversation with you. _Conversation_—a plague on words, they will bring along with them ideas. This is all the conversation we must have together for some days. Have I deserved the misery of being absent from my M.? To bring proofs of my love would be to bring proofs of my existence. They must end together. Oh, Martha, does the chaste resolution which I have so religiously observed ever since I offered you marriage deserve no smiles from fortune? Is then my evil genius never to relent? Had I not determined to deserve that success which it is not for mortals to command, I should never have struggled with my passions as I did the first time we met after your recovery. What a struggle! The time of year, the time of day, the situation, the danger from which you were hardly recovered, the number of months since we had met, the languor of your mind and body, the bed, the everything. Ye cold-blooded, white-livered sons and daughters of chastity, have ye no praises to bestow on such a forbearance as that? Yet, when your strength failed you, and grief and tenderness dissolved you in my arms; when you reclined your cheek upon my shoulder, and your warm tears dropt into my bosom, then who could refrain? then——

What then, ye clay-cold hypercritics in morality?

Then, even then, “I took but one kiss, and I tore myself away.”

Oh that I could take only one look at this moment!

Your last says _the sun will shine_. Alas! I see no signs of it. Our prospects seem shut up for ever.

With regard to the stage, we will talk of it. My objections are not because I doubt your success. They are of a different kind—the objections of love and delicacy. Be not uneasy about my selling out. The step was not so imprudent. What think you of orders? More than once you know you have told me I have too much religion for a soldier. Will you condescend to be a poor parson’s wife?

But I shall write to-morrow at this rate.

_To MISS REAY._

_July 7, 1777._

Since last night I have changed my mind, totally changed it. I charge you not to see Mrs. Yates this morning. Write her word that your mind is changed. Never will I consent to be supported by your labours. Never, never shall your face, your person, your accomplishments be exposed for so much an hour. By heaven! I will not forgive you if you do not give up all thoughts of such a thing.

* * * * *

Miss Reay seems, after all, to have abandoned her intention of going on the stage, although she was studying at the time with Signora Galli, an Italian opera-singer, who had been appointed companion to Miss Reay by Lord Sandwich. It is probable that Galli was also instructed to play the part of spy over Miss Reay’s actions. The following four letters from Hackman cover a period of twelve months, during which time he was preparing to enter the Church.

_To MISS REAY._

+Croydon+, _Sept. 20, 1777_.

That you have taken to drawing gives me particular pleasure. Depend upon it, you will find it suit your genius. But, in truth, your genius seizes everything. While your old friend is eating his corn I sit down to tell you this, which I would not say to your face lest you should call it flattery, though you well know flattery is a thing in which _we_ never deal. My opinion of the great man’s style of painting who condescends to improve you in drawing is exactly yours. Posterity will agree with us. The subjects you recommended to his pencil are such as I should have expected from my M.’s fancy. While I walked my horse hither this morning two or three subjects of different sorts occurred to me. All of them would not suit his style. But I know one or two of them would not displease you if well executed. Some of them I will send you.

Louis XIV. when a boy, viewing the battle of St. Anthony from the top of Charonne. In 1650, I think.

Richard Cromwell, when the Prince de Conti, Condé’s brother, told him in conversation, at Montpelier, without knowing him, that Oliver was a great man, but that Oliver’s son was a miscreant for not knowing how to profit by his father’s crimes.

Milton, when the idea first struck him of changing his mystery into an epic poem.

Demosthenes declaiming in a storm.

William the Conqueror and his rebellious son Robert discovering each other in a battle, after they had encountered hand to hand for some time.

Charles XII. tearing the Vizir’s robe with his spur.

And again, after lying in bed ten months at Demotica.

... Though my mother could na speak,
She look’d in my face till my heart was like to break.

The Abra of Prior’s Solomon.

When she, with modest scorn, the wreath return’d,
Reclin’d her beauteous neck, and inward mourn’d.

Our Elizabeth, when she gave her Essex a box on the ear.

Chatterton’s Sir Charles Bawdin parting from his wife.

Then tir’d out with raving loud,
She fell upon the floor;
Sir Charles exerted all his might,
And _march’d_ from out the door.

The Conference of Augustus, Anthony and Lepidus (you are deep in Goldsmith, I know). Do you remember the scene? Equally suspicious of treachery, they agreed to meet on a little island near Mutina. Lepidus first past over. Finding every thing safe, he made the signal. Behold them, yonder, seated on the ground, on the highest part of a desolate island, unattended, fearful of one another, marking out cities and nations, dividing the whole world between them, and mutually resigning to destruction, agreeably to lists which each presented, their dearest friends and nearest relations. Salvator Rosa would not make me quarrel with him for doing the background. Your friend, if any one living, could execute the figures.

Let me suggest one more subject. Monmouth’s decapitation, in the time of James II. History speaks well of his face and person. The circumstances of his death are these: He desired the executioner to dispatch him with more skill than he had dispatched Russel. This only added to the poor fellow’s confusion, who struck an ineffectual blow. Monmouth raised his face from the block, and with a look (which I cannot describe, but the painter must give) reproached his failure. By the turn of the head, the effect of the blow might be concealed, and left to fancy; which might collect it from the faces of the nearest spectators. The remainder of the scene is too shocking for the eye, almost for the ear. But, I know not how, whenever I am away from you, nothing is too shocking for _me_. Monmouth again laid down his head. The executioner struck again _and again_, to as little purpose; and, at last, threw down the axe. The sheriff obliged the man, whose feelings all must pity and respect, to renew his attempt. Two strokes more finished the butchery.

Were it possible to tear off this last subject without destroying half my letter, I really would. It will make you shudder too much. But, you see, it is not possible; and you prefer such a letter as this, I know, to none. The paper only affords me room to say my horse is ready. Every step he carries me from you will be a step from happiness. My imagination _would_ busy herself just now about the manner in which I should behave, if I were to die as ignominiously as Monmouth. But, as I feel no inclination for rebellion, fancy threw away her pains.

_To MISS REAY._

_Feb. 5, 1778._

Oh! my dearest Martha, what I have gone through since I wrote to you last night it is impossible for me to describe. Thank God, you were not in town! Suffice it that my honour and life are both as you wish them. Now, mine of last night is more intelligible. How strange, that the kindest letter that you almost ever wrote me, should come to me precisely at the time I was obliged to make up my mind to quit the world, or, what is more, _much more_, to quit you! Yet, so it was.

The story my letter mentioned, of a friend who had received such an affront as no human being could away with, was my own. Your feelings agreed with me, I am sure. Duelling is not what I defend. In general, almost always, it may be avoided. But cases may be put, in which it can be avoided only by worse than death, by everlasting disgrace and infamy. Had I fallen, I know where my last thoughts would have lingered; and you and your children would have had some tokens of my regard. Be assured the matter is for ever at an end, and at an end as properly as even you can wish. How happy shall we be in ’79 or ’80 (for before that time we shall surely be blest with each other!), to have those friends about us who where privy to this day, and to talk over the possibility of it!

H., in all thy future life, sacred be every fifth of February!

My mind is too much agitated to write any more this evening. To-morrow I will be more particular. My last I am sure could not alarm you; though, had anything happened, it would have prepared you. Do not be alarmed by this. Upon my honour (with which you know I never preface a falsity) I am not hurt; nor, as it since turns out, is the other gentleman, at least, not materially.

One trifling circumstance I must mention. As I was determined either to kill or be killed (unless sufficient apologies should be made), _the only proper and least pernicious idea of duelling_, I did not see why I should not recruit my strength as much as possible. So, about three o’clock, I took some cold saddle of mutton and brandy and water at my friend’s. After which I went home to seal up some things for you, where my friend was to call for me. When I saw him coming to my door between four and five, I had just wrung the affectionate hand of the man I most value, and committed to his care you and your dear little girl, and my dear sister, &c. &c. Love, honour, revenge, and all my various feelings would, in spite of myself, parch my tongue. As I took my hat out of my dressing-room, I filled a wineglass of water, and drank half of it, to moisten my mouth. When I saw that glass again, about an hour ago, on returning to that home, which I never again thought to see, in order to write to her of whom I thought I had taken my last leave in this world—when I took that glass again into my hand, recollected my feelings on setting it down, and emptied the remainder of its contents, a libation of gratitude to the superintending Providence of Heaven, oh! M., no pen, not even yours, can paint my feelings!

Only remember, in all our future life, each fifth of February be ever sacred!

_To MISS REAY._

_March 2, 1778._

Your going out of town so suddenly has not served to mend my spirits. But I will be as merry as I can. Were I to be _very_ miserable after my late miraculous adventure, I should be guilty of _sullenness_ against Providence. The minute account I gave you of it last week, was, I assure you, dictated by my feelings before they had forgotten the affecting circumstances. Your observations are truly just and striking. Unpardonable as the affront which I had received appears to mortal eyes, I should not readily, I fear, have found an answer to the question of the enquiring angel, on entering the world of spirits, “What brings you hither?”

Did I not tell you on Saturday the particulars of the poor fellow who suffered this day se’nnight for murdering Mrs. Knightly? They are singular. He was an Italian, I understand. Such a thing is not credible but of an Italian.

Mrs. Knightly’s account was, that on the 18th of January Ceppi came into her room (she being in bed), locked the door, sat himself in a chair, and told her he was come to do her business. She, not understanding this, asked him to let her get out of bed, which he did. He then took from his pocket two pistols. She went towards the door in order to get out, but he set his back against it. She, to appease him, told him he might stay to breakfast. He answered he would have none, but would give her a good one. She then called out to alarm the house, ran towards the bed, and said, “Pray do not shoot me!” and drew up close to the curtains. He followed, and discharged the pistol, after which he threw himself across the bed and fired the other pistol at himself, which did not take effect. During this a washerwoman ran upstairs, and with a poker broke the bottom panel of the door, through which Mrs. Knightly was drawn half naked, and Ceppi, following, ran downstairs, but was pursued and taken. In his defence, he said he had proposed honourable terms of marriage to her, but that she had refused and deserted him; that he was overcome with grief and love, and that his design was not to hurt her, but to shoot himself in her presence.

It appears, I am afraid, from all the circumstances, that, whatever his despair meant with regard to his own life, he certainly was determined to take away hers. How unaccountably must Nature have formed him. Besides the criminality and brutality of the business, the folly of it strikes _me_. What! because the person, on whom I have fixed _my_ affections, has robbed me of happiness by withdrawing _hers_, shall I let her add to the injury by depriving me of existence also in this world, and of everything in the next? In my opinion, to run the chance of being murdered by the new object of her affections or of murdering him, is as little reconcileable to common sense as to common religion. How much less so to commit complicated murder, which must cut off all hopes in other worlds.

Yet, could I believe (which I own I cannot, from the evidence in this case) that the idea of destroying her never struck him till his finger was at the trigger; that his only intention was to lay the breathless body of an injured lover at her feet—had this been the fact, however I might have condemned the deed, I certainly should have wept over the momentary phrenzy which committed it. But, as nothing appears to have past which could at all make him change his plan, I must (impossible as it seems) suppose him to have deliberately formed so diabolical a plan; and must rejoice that he was not of the same country, while I lament that he was of the same order of beings with myself.

* * * * *

If the favour I mentioned to you on Saturday be at all out of course, pray do not ask it. Yet the worthy veteran I want to serve has now and then seen things happen not altogether _in_ course. When he called this morning to learn how I had succeeded, I observed to him, while we were talking, that he was bald. “Yes,” said he, shaking his grey hairs, “it will happen so by people’s continually stepping over one’s head.”

He little suspected the channel of my application, but he asked me this morning whether £50, if he could scrape it together, properly slid into Miss Reay’s hand, might not forward his views. My answer was, that I had no acquaintance with the lady, but I knew _for certain_ that she had never in her life soiled her fingers with the smallest present of this sort.

Happy, blest, to know you, to love you, and be loved by you!

_To MISS REAY._

+Hockerill+, _September 5, 1778_.

Here did I sit, more than two years ago, in this very room, perhaps in this very chair, thanking you for bliss, for paradise, all claim to which I soon after voluntarily resigned, because I hoped they would soon be mine by claims more just, if possible, than those of love. Two years—how have I borne existence all the while! But delicacy and respect for you enjoined forbearance; and Hope led me on from day to day, deceiving Time with distant prospects which I thought at hand. When will the tedious journey end? When will my weary feet find rest? When shall I sleep away my fatigues on the down-soft pillow of the bosom of love? Should hope continue to deceive me, you never shall make me happy, till you make me your husband. Yet, as we sate upon the grass, under the trees near the water, just before you returned me my stick, because you thought the gentleman coming along the path by the mill was a certain person—yet, had I then loosened another button or two of my favourite habit which was already opened by the heat; had I then (you remember, my Laura, the conversation and the scene) forgotten my resolution, forgotten everything, and rioted in all your glowing charms, which only love like mine could withstand—who is he that would dare to blame me? Who would dare to say I had done what he would not have done? But the scene must be shifted. Sally Harris, you know, arrived only at the dignity of Pomona at Hockerill. Had my Martha her due, mankind at large would admit her double claim to the titles of Minerva and of Venus.

To sleep _here_ is impossible. As well expect the miser to sleep in a place where he once hung in raptures over a hidden treasure which is now lost. This letter I have an opportunity to send to our old friend, for you, without taking it to town. Let me fill up the remainder of my paper with an almost incredible anecdote I learned from a gentleman who joined me on the road this morning and travelled some miles with me. It happened last week, I think. Peter Ceppi you remember. Surely that Providence which prevents the propagation of monsters, does not suffer such _monstrous_ examples as these to propagate.

One Empson, a footman to Dr. Bell, having in vain courted for some time a servant belonging to Lord Spencer, at last caused the banns to be put up at church, without her consent, which she forbad. Being thus disappointed, he meditated revenge; and having got a person to write a letter to her, appointing a meeting, he contrived to waylay her, and surprise her in Lord Spencer’s park. On her screaming, he discharged a pistol at her, and made his escape. The ball wounded her, but not mortally.

Oh love, love, canst thou not be content to make fools of thy slaves, to make them miserable, to make them what thou pleasest! Must thou also goad them on to crimes! Must thou also convert them into devils, hell-hounds!

_To MISS REAY._

+Craven Street+, _Jan. 28, 1779_.

The short note I wrote to you last night, immediately on my reaching town, you received. But why no answer to it? Why do you not say when we shall meet? I have ten thousand things to tell you. My situation in Norfolk is lovely. Exactly what you like. The parsonage-house may be made very comfortable at a trifling expense. How happily shall we spend our time there! How glad am I that I have taken orders, and what obligations have I to my dear B. to Mr. H. and Dr. V.! Now, my happiness can be deferred no longer. My character and profession are, now, additional weights in the scale. Oh, then, consent to marry me directly. The day I lead you to the altar will be the happiest day of my existence.

Thanks, a thousand thanks for your tender and affectionate letters while I was in Norfolk. Be assured Galli could mean nothing by what she said. She is our firm friend, I am persuaded. About an hour ago I called there; but she was out. Presently, I shall go again with this, in the hope of hearing something about you.

Oh, Martha! every day I live I do but discover more and more how impossible it is for me to live without you.

Do not forget the 5th of next month. We _must_ keep that day sacred together.

* * * * *

There seems to be a mistake in the date of this letter, as Hackman was not ordained deacon until Wednesday, February 24, 1779; he became a priest at a general ordination on the following Sunday, and received the living of Wiveton, in Norfolk, on March 1 of the same year, the day on which he wrote the last letter he ever sent to Miss Reay. Full of hope and happiness he looks forward to the new life that is before them, and he expresses his thankfulness for Signora Galli’s kindness. But there is no doubt that this woman, whose conduct throughout was sinister, is morally responsible for the events that followed.

* * * * *

_To MISS REAY._

_March 1, 1779._

Though we meet to-morrow, I must write you two words to-night, just to say that I have all the hopes in the world that ten days at the utmost will complete the business. When that is done, your only objection is removed along with your debts; and we may, surely, then be happy, and be so _soon_. In a month, or _six weeks at furthest_, from this time, I might certainly call you mine. Only remember that my _character_, now I have taken orders, makes expedition necessary. By to-night’s post I shall write into Norfolk about the alterations at _our_ parsonage. To-morrow! Galli’s friendship is more than I can ever return.

* * * * *

But Miss Reay, either out of consideration for the future welfare of her children, or because she found that she was no longer in love with Hackman, gave him to understand, through the agency of Signora Galli, that, after all, she could not consent to marry him. Hackman, almost crazy with disappointed love, wrote immediately to a friend in the country, who replied advising Hackman not to believe anything that Galli had said; he also offered to come to town if he could be of any assistance. Hackman then wrote, in answer, the following letter.

_March 20, 1779._

Your coming to town, my dear friend, will answer no end. Galli has been such a friend to me, it is not possible to doubt her information. What interest has she to serve? Certainly none. Look over the letters, with which I have so pestered you for these two years, about this business. Look at what I have written to you about Galli since I returned from Ireland. She can only mean _well_ to me. Be not apprehensive. Your friend will take no step to disgrace himself. What I shall do I know not. Without her I do not think I can exist. Yet I will be, you shall see, _a man_, as well as a lover. Should there be a rival, and should he merit chastisement, I know you will be my friend. But I will have ocular proof of everything before I believe.

Yours ever.

* * * * *

A fortnight later Hackman wrote again to the same friend.

* * * * *

It signifies not. Your reasoning I admit. Despair goads me on. Death only can relieve me. By what I wrote yesterday you must see my resolution was taken. Often have I made use of my key to let myself into the Admiralty, that I might die at her feet. She gave it me as the key of love; little did she think it would ever prove the key of death. But the loss of Lady Hinchinbrook keeps Lord Sandwich within.

My dear Charles, is it possible for me to doubt Galli’s information? Even _you_ were staggered by the account I gave you of what passed between us in the Park. What then have I to do, who only lived when she loved me, but to cease to live now she ceases to love? The propriety of suicide, its cowardice, its crime, I have nothing to do with them. All I pretend to prove or to disprove is my misery, and the possibility of my existing under it.

Till within this month, till Galli’s information, I thought of self-murder as you think of it. Nothing now is left for me but to leap the world to come. If it be a crime, as I too much fear, and we are accountable for our passions, I must stand the trial and the punishment. My invention can paint no punishment equal to what I suffer here.

Think of those passions, my friend; those passions of which you have so often, since I knew Miss Reay, spoken to me and written to me. If you will not let me fly from my misery, will you not let me fly from my passions? They are a pack of bloodhounds which will inevitably tear me to pieces. My carelessness has suffered them to overtake me, and now there is no possibility, but this, of escaping them. The hand of Nature heaped upon every species of combustible in my bosom. The torch of love has set the heap on fire. I must perish in the flames. At first I might perhaps have extinguished them; now they rage too fiercely. _If_ they can be smothered, they can never be got under. Suppose they should consume any other person beside myself? And who is he, that will answer for passions such as mine? At present, I am innocent....

* * * * *

Hackman dined the next day with Mr. Frederick Booth and his sister. He went afterwards to the Admiralty in the hope of catching a glimpse of Miss Reay, and, seeing Lord Sandwich’s carriage standing there, he guessed that she was going out in it and would probably call on Signora Galli, who had rooms in the Haymarket. So he walked to the Cannon Coffee House, in order that he might see the carriage pass. Miss Reay soon drove up and he followed the carriage from the Haymarket to Covent Garden Theatre, where “Love in a Village” was being performed. The moment Miss Reay and Galli alighted, the handsome Lord Coleraine came forward to meet them, whereupon Hackman, mad with jealousy, decided to commit suicide. He went away and, having bought a brace of pistols (in case one should miss fire) he returned to the Opera House. Croker says: “The ladies sat in a front box, and three gentlemen, all connected with the Admiralty, occasionally paid their compliments to them. Mr. Hackman was sometimes in the lobby, sometimes in an upper side-box, and more than once at the Bedford Coffee House to take brandy and water, but still seemed unable to gain any information.” When the opera was over, Miss Reay was standing in the vestibule waiting for the carriage to be announced, and it is related, in the “Life and Correspondence of M. G. Lewis,” that “Mrs. Lewis happened to make some remark on a beautiful rose which Miss Reay wore in her bosom. Just as the words were uttered the flower fell to the ground. The poor girl, who had been depressed in spirits before, was evidently affected by this incident, and said, in a slightly faltering voice, ‘I trust I am not to consider this as an evil omen!’”

Hackman, who was watching her, tried to push his way through the crowd, but was unable to do so, until Lord Sandwich’s carriage being called, Miss Reay tried to get to the door. A Mr. Macnamara, of Lincoln’s Inn, seeing the difficulty she was in, offered his arm to her and led her towards her carriage.

This seems to have added fresh fuel to the jealousy which was consuming Hackman, so forcing his way up to Miss Reay, he drew one pistol out of his pocket and shot her in the forehead, shooting himself with the other the instant after, and they fell together on the pavement. Hackman, to his infinite despair, found that he had not inflicted a mortal wound upon himself, so he beat his head frantically with the butt-end of the pistol as he lay upon the ground, crying out the while “Kill me! Kill me!” He was prevented from doing himself any further injury by Mr. Mahon, an apothecary, of Russell Street, and both he and his unfortunate victim were removed to the Shakespeare Tavern, where, a medical examination having been made, it was found that Miss Reay was dead. A letter to Mr. Booth, Hackman’s brother-in-law, was found in one of his pockets, which shows that Hackman’s original intention was to kill himself, and that the murder was only the result of a momentary impulse.

* * * * *

_April 7, 1779._

+My Dear Frederick+,

When this reaches you I shall be no more, but do not let my unhappy fate distress you too much. I strove against it as long as possible, but it now overpowers me. You know where my affections were placed; my having by some means or other lost hers (an idea which I could not support) has driven me to madness. The world will condemn, but your heart will pity me. God bless you, my dear Frederick! Would I had a sum of money to leave you to convince you of my great regard. You were almost my only friend. I have hid one circumstance from you which gives me great pain. I owe Mr. W. of Gosport one hundred pounds, for which he has the writings of my houses; but I hope in God, when they are sold, and all other matters collected, there will be nearly enough to settle your account. May Almighty God bless you and _yours_ with comfort and happiness, and may you ever be a stranger to the pangs I now feel! May Heaven protect my beloved woman and forgive this act, which alone could relieve me from a world of misery I have long endured! Oh, if it should be in your power to do her any act of friendship remember your faithful friend,

+James Hackman.+

* * * * *

When Hackman had so far recovered as to be able to speak he inquired anxiously of Mr. Bond the surgeon as to the condition of Miss Reay. Being informed that she was dead he earnestly implored him to prevent her corpse being exposed to the gaze of the public.

The news of the tragedy was at once carried to the Admiralty, and Croker says that Lord Sandwich “stood, as it were, petrified, till suddenly seizing a candle, he ran upstairs and threw himself on the bed, and in an agony exclaimed, ‘Leave me for awhile to myself; I could have borne anything but this.’ The attendants remained for a considerable time at the top of the staircase, till his lordship rang the bell and ordered that they should all go to bed.”

Sir John Fielding, the magistrate, was sent for, about three o’clock the next morning, from Brompton. He arrived two hours later, and finding that Hackman’s wounds were not dangerous, he ordered the surgeon to take him to Tothill Fields prison. The corpse of Miss Reay was removed to an undertaker’s in Leicester Square, and she was subsequently buried near her mother in the parish church of her native village, Elstree, in Hertfordshire, where, says Leigh Hunt, “she had been a lowly and happy child, running about with her blooming face, and little thinking what trouble it was to cost her.”

On the following day there was an article in the _Morning Post_ upon the tragedy, which contained a eulogistic reference to Miss Reay:

“There was scarce any polite art at which she was not an adept, nor any part of female literature with which she was not conversant. All the world are acquainted with the universal sweetness of her vocal powers; but it was the peculiar pleasure of a few only to know that her conversation, her feelings, and indeed her general deportment, all participated of an unparalleled delicacy which had characterised her through life.”

Miss Reay’s personality must have been singularly fascinating, as otherwise she could never have kept her hold upon her dissipated “protector” for so many years. Croker relates that Lord Sandwich after her death went away into the country, “but, after a great length of time, he was persuaded by our open-hearted friend, Admiral Walsingham, to meet a select party at his house. All passed off exceedingly well for a while, and his lordship appeared more cheerful than could have been expected; but, after coffee, as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were present, something was mentioned about music, and one of the company requested that Mrs. Bates would favour them with “Shepherds, I have lost my love.” This was unfortunately the very air that had been introduced by Miss Reay at Hinchinbrook and had been always called for by Lord Sandwich. Mr. Bates immediately endeavoured to prevent its being sung, and by his anxiety increased his distress; but it was too late to pause. Lord Sandwich struggled for a while to overcome his feelings, but they were so apparent that at last he went up to Mrs. Walsingham and in a very confused manner said he hoped she would excuse his not staying longer at that time, but that he had just recollected some pressing business which required his return to the Admiralty, and bowing to all the company, rather hastily left the room.”

Unpopular as the Earl was, there was general sympathy felt for him as the following quatrain from the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ shows:

Britannia weeps, since S——’s heart can feel,
That heart long tempered of the hardest steel!
These tears most generous—we may all aver
To weep for him who never felt for her.

On the morning of April 8, Hackman wrote to his friend, the Rev. Charles Porter, of Clapham, to whom he afterwards entrusted these letters and the fragments of manuscript, which he wrote while in Newgate, asking him to bring him some poison.

* * * * *

+Tothill Fields+, _April 8, 1779_.

I am alive—and she is dead. I shot her and not myself. Some of her blood and brains is still upon my clothes. I do not ask you to speak to me. Only come hither, and bring me a little poison; such as is strong enough. Upon my knees, I beg, if your friendship for me ever was sincere, do, _do_, bring me some poison.

* * * * *

On Friday, April 9, at half-past nine in the morning, Mr. Hackman was brought up to Sir John Fielding’s private office, by the governor of Tothill Fields prison. A contemporary account says that “the surgeons, constables, and witnesses attended, and were severally sworn to their depositions taken on Thursday last. Mr. Bond read over these depositions to the prisoner, who wept very much, and was quite convulsed each time the name of the deceased was mentioned. He did not attempt to palliate his offence; but said he eagerly wished to die. Upon the whole, it was impossible to behold him without pity, notwithstanding the enormity of his offence. He was committed to Newgate, and Sir John Fielding desired that a person might be set over the prisoner to prevent him destroying himself. Lord Essex and several other noblemen and gentlemen were present at the above examination.”

The same day he wrote to Mr. Porter, who had refused, at first, to visit him.

* * * * *

_April 9, 1779._

Your note just now, and the long letter I received at the same time, which should have found me the day before yesterday, have changed my resolution. The promise you desire, I most solemnly give you. I will make no attempt upon my life. Had I received your comfortable letter when you meant I should, I verily do not think this would have happened.

Pardon what I wrote to you about the poison. Indeed, I am too composed for any such thing now. Nothing should tempt me. My death is all the recompense I can make to the laws of my country. Dr. V. has sent me some excellent advice, and Mr. H. has refuted all my false arguments. Even such a being as I find friends.

Oh, that my feelings and his feeling would let me see my _dearest_ friend. Then I would tell you how this happened.

* * * * *

Two days before his trial, he wrote again.

_To THE SAME._

+Newgate+, _April 14, 1779_.

My best thanks for all your goodness since this day se’nnight. Oh, Charles, this is about the time. I cannot write.

* * * * *

My trial comes on either Friday or Saturday. It will be indeed a trial. God (whom I have so outraged) can alone tell how I shall go through it. My resolution is not fixed as yet about pleading guilty. The arguments by which they tell me I may escape that death which is so much my due, I certainly will not suffer to be used.

* * * * *

Whatever the world may think, you, I know, believe that I had no intention against her till the _very instant_. The account I wrote to you of the shocking business since it happened, was the real truth. All Tuesday, after I had finished my letter to you, I, in vain sought for an opportunity to destroy myself in her presence. So, again, on the Wednesday, all the morning. In the afternoon, after dining at poor Booth’s, I saw Lord Sandwich’s coach pass by the Cannon Coffee House, where I was watching for it. I followed it to Galli’s (inhuman, and yet not guilty, Galli!) From her house I saw it take them to the play. Now, I was determined; and went to my lodgings for my pistols, where I wrote a letter to Booth which I put into my pocket, intending to send it; but, as I forgot it, the letter was found there. When I returned to Covent Garden, I waited for the conclusion of the play, in the Bedford Coffee House. What a figure must I have been! Indeed, I overheard one gentleman say to a friend, that I looked as if I was out of my senses. Oh, how I wished for the play to be over! I had charged my pistols with the kindest letter she ever wrote me, a letter which made me the happiest of mortals, and which had ever since been my talisman. At last, arrived the end of the play, and the beginning of my tragedy. I met them in the stone passage, and had then got the pistol to my forehead, but she did not see me (nor did any one, I suppose). And the crowd separated us. This accident I considered as the immediate intervention of Providence. I put up my pistol, turned about, and should (I most firmly believe) have gone out the other way, and have laid aside my horrid resolution, had I not looked round and seen Mr. Macnamara (whom I immediately construed into the favoured lover described by Galli) offer her a hand, which I thought was received with particular pleasure. The stream of my passions, which had been stopped, now overwhelmed me with redoubled violence. It hurried me after them. Jealousy suggested a new crime; and nerved anew the arm of despair. I overtook them at the carriage, and—and, at about the time I am now writing this, felt more than all the tortures of all the damned together.

What shall I not feel at the necessary recital of the tragedy at my trial!

* * * * *

On Friday, April 16, Hackman’s trial came on before Judge Blackstone, “for feloniously, wilfully, and with malice aforethought, shooting Miss Reay in the forehead.” Mr. Fielding and Mr. Howarth prosecuted for the Crown; Hackman was defended by Mr. Davenport. After all the witnesses had been heard, Judge Blackstone called upon Hackman to make his defence. In a nervous and affecting manner, which produced a painful impression on all present, he made the following speech:

+My Lord+,

I should not have troubled the Court with the examination of witnesses to support the charge against me, had I not thought that the pleading guilty to the indictment would give an indication of contemning death, not suitable to my present condition; and would, in some measure, make me accessary to a second peril of my life. And I likewise thought that the justice of my country ought to be satisfied by suffering my offence to be proved, and the fact to be established by evidence.

I stand here the most wretched of human beings, and confess myself criminal in a high degree. I acknowledge _with shame and repentence_ that my determination against my own life was formal and complete. I protest, with that regard to truth which becomes my situation, that the will to destroy her, who was ever dearer to me than life, was never mine until a momentary frenzy overcame me, and induced me to commit the deed I deplore. The letter which I meant for my brother-in-law, after my decease, will have its due weight, as to this point, with good men.

Before this dreadful act, I trust nothing will be found in the tenor of my life which the common charity of mankind will not readily excuse. I have no wish to avoid the punishment which the laws of my country appoint for my crime; but, being already too unhappy to feel a punishment in death, or a satisfaction in life, I submit myself to the disposal and judgment of Almighty God, and to the consequences of this enquiry into my conduct and intention.

* * * * *

Mr. Davenport urged Hackman’s acquittal on a point of law—that of insanity, and also pleaded that the letter to Mr. Booth, which was found in Hackman’s pocket, proved that it was not his previous intention to kill Miss Reay. Judge Blackstone, in the course of his summing-up, said that to constitute murder it was not necessary that there should be a long form of deliberation; that the bare wilfully shooting at one man and killing another was wilful murder; that it was also wilful murder if a man, in attempting to shoot himself, should kill another; that the prisoner had rested his defence on the ground of insanity, but it was not every fit or start of passion that would justify the killing of another, but it must be the total loss of reason, and incapability of reason in every part of life. With regard to the letter found in the prisoner’s pocket, his lordship said he was sorry to say that it argued a coolness and deliberation which in no way accorded with the ideas of insanity. On the whole, he left it to the jury to consider of the fact and not the point of law, adding that, if in discharge of their consciences, they were convinced that the prisoner was totally dispossessed of his reason and understanding, they would acquit; if not, they must find him guilty. The jury consulted for a few minutes, then brought in a verdict of guilty; and Baron Massieres, the Recorder’s assistant, immediately pronounced sentence of death. Hackman behaved with perfect fortitude, and, bowing to the court and jury, retired. Lord Sandwich, who had great personal influence with George III., wrote to Hackman, that if he wished to live, “the man whom he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his life.”