Almost from the moment of her arrival, Miss Reay and her friends were watched eagerly by a hollow-eyed, morose3 gentleman in black. He looked as if he had not slept for many nights; and no one observing him could have failed to perceive that he had come to the theatre not for the sake of the play which was being performed, but to watch the lady. He kept his fierce eyes fixed4 upon her, and he frowned every time that she turned to make a remark to one of her friends; his eyes blazed every time that one of her friends smiled over her shoulder, and his hands clenched5 if she smiled in return. Several times it seemed as if he found it impossible to remain in his place in the upper side box, where his seat was, for he started up and hurried out to the great lobby, walking to and fro in great agitation6. More than once he strode away from the lobby into the Bedford Coffee House just outside the theatre, and there partook of brandy and water, returning after brief intervals7 to stare at Miss Reay and her companions in the front row of the boxes.
0327
At the conclusion of the play, he went hastily into the vestibule, standing8 to one side, not far from the exit from the boxes; but if he intended to be close to Miss Reay while she walked to the main exit, his object was defeated by reason of the crush of people congregating9 in the vestibule, the people of quality waiting for their carriages to be announced, the others waiting for the satisfaction of being in such close proximity10 to people of quality.
Among the crowd there was a lady who had recently become the wife of a curious gentleman named Lewis, who some years later wrote a grisly book entitled The Monk11, bringing him such great fame as cancelled for posterity12 the names of Matthew Gregory, given to him by his parents, and caused him to be identified by the name of his book only. This lady made a remark to her neighbour in respect of a lovely rose which Miss Reay was wearing when she left the box exit and stood in the vestibule—a beautiful rose early in the month of April might have excited remark in those days; at any rate, Mrs. Lewis has left the record that at the very moment of her speaking, the rose fell to the floor, and Miss Reay appeared to be profoundly affected13 by this trifling14 incident, and said in a faltering15 voice, “I trust that I am not to consider this as an evil omen2!” So Mrs. Lewis stated.
A few moments later Lord Sandwich's carriage was announced, and Miss Reay and her companion made a move in the direction of the door. The gentlemen of the party seem to have left earlier, for on the ladies being impeded17 by the crush in the vestibule, a stranger, named Mr. Macnamara, of Lincoln's Inn, proffered18 his services to help them to get to the carriage. Miss Reay thanked him, took his arm, and the crowd opened for them in some measure. It quickly opened wider under a more acute persuasion19 a few seconds later, when the morose gentleman in black pushed his way among the people until he was within a few feet of the lady and her escort. Only for a second did he pause—certainly he spoke20 no word to Miss Reay or any one else—before he pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired almost point-blank at her before any one could knock up his hand. Immediately afterwards he turned a second pistol against his own forehead and pulled the trigger, and fell to the ground.
The scene that followed can easily be imagined. Every woman present shrieked21, except Miss Reay, who was supported by Mr. Macnamara. The ghastly effects of the bullet were apparent not only upon the forehead of the lady where it lodged22, but upon the bespattered garments of every one about the door, and upon the columns of the hall. Above the shrieks23 of the terror-stricken people were heard the yells of the murderer, who lay on the ground, hammering at his head with the butt24 end of his weapon, and crying, “Kill me! Kill me!”
A Mr. Mahon, of Russell Street, who was said to be an apothecary25, was the first to lay a hand upon the wretched man. He wrested26 the pistol from his grasp and prevented him from doing further mischief27 to himself. He was quickly handed over to the police, and, with his unfortunate victim, was removed to the Shakespeare Tavern28, a surgeon named Bond being in prompt attendance. It did not take long to find that Miss Reay had never breathed after the shot had been fired at her; the bullet had smashed the skull29 and passed through the brain. The man remained for some time unconscious, but even before he recovered he was identified as James Hackman, a gentleman who had been an officer in the army, and on retiring had taken Orders, being admitted a priest of the Church of England scarcely a month before his crime. There were rumours30 respecting his infatuation for Miss Reay, and in a surprisingly short space of time, owing most likely to the exertions31 of Signora Galli, the Italian whom Lord Sandwich had hired to be her companion, the greater part of the romantic story of the wretched man's life, as far as it related to Miss Reay, was revealed.
It formed a nine days' wonder during the spring of the same year (1779). The grief displayed by Lord Sandwich on being made acquainted with the circumstances of the murder was freely commented on, and the sympathy which was felt for him may have diminished in some measure from his unpopularity. The story told by Croker of the reception of the news by Lord Sandwich is certainly not deficient32 in detail. “He stood as it were petrified,” we are told, “till suddenly, seizing a candle, he ran upstairs and threw himself on the bed, and in agony exclaimed, 'Leave me for a while 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.”
Before his lordship left the scene of his grief in the morning Sir John Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate33, had arrived at the Shakespeare Tavern from his house at Brompton, and, after a brief inquiry34, ordered Hackman to be taken to Tothill Fields Prison. In due course he was committed to Newgate, and on April 16th his trial took place before Blackstone, the Recorder. The facts of the tragedy were deposed35 to by several witnesses, and the cause of the lady's death was certified36 by Mr. Bond, the surgeon. The prisoner was then called on for his defence. He made a brief speech, explaining that he would have pleaded guilty at once had he not felt that doing so “would give an indication of contemning37 death, not suitable to my present condition, and would in some measure make me accessory to a second peril38 of my life. And I likewise thought,” he added, “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.”
This curious affectation of a finer perception of the balance of justice than is possessed39 by most men was quite characteristic of this man, as was also his subsequent expression of his willingness to submit to the sentence of the court. His counsel endeavoured to show that he had been insane from the moment of his purchasing his pistols until he had committed the deed for which he was being tried—he did not say anything about “a wave of insanity41,” however, though that picturesque42 phrase would have aptly described the nature of his plea. He argued that a letter which was found in the prisoner's pocket, and in which suicide only was threatened, should be accepted as proof that he had no intention of killing43 Miss Reay when he went to the theatre.
The Recorder, of course, made short work of such a plea. He explained to the jury that “for a plea of insanity to be successful it must be shown not merely that it was a matter of fits and starts, but that it was a definite thing—a total loss of reason and incapability44 of reason.” Referring to the letter, he said that it seemed to him to argue a coolness and premeditation incompatible45 with such insanity as he described.
The result was, as might have been anticipated, the jury, without leaving the box, found Hackman guilty, and he was sentenced to be hanged.
Mr. Boswell, who was nearly as fond of hearing death-sentences pronounced as he was of seeing them carried out, was present in the court during the trial, and to him Mr. Booth, the brother-in-law of the prisoner, applied46—he himself had been too greatly agitated47 to be able to remain in the court—for information as to how Hackman had deported48 himself, and Boswell was able to assure him that he had behaved “as well, sir, as you or any of his friends could wish; with decency49, propriety50, and in such a manner as to interest every one present. He might have pleaded that he shot Miss Reay by accident, but he fairly told the truth that in a moment of frenzy51 he did intend it.”
While he was in the condemned52 cell at Newgate he received a message from Lord Sandwich to the effect that if he wished for his life, he (Lord Sandwich) had influence with the King, and might succeed in obtaining a commutation of his sentence. Hackman replied that he had no wish to live, but he implored53 his lordship to give him such assurance that those whom Miss Reay had left behind her would be carefully looked after, as would, on meeting her in another world, enable him to make this pleasing communication to her.
He spent the few days that remained to him in writing fervid55 letters to his friends and in penning moralisings, in a style which was just the smallest degree more pronounced than that which was fashionable at his period—the style of the sentimental56 hero of Richardson and his inferior followers57.
His execution at Tyburn attracted the most enormous crowds ever seen upon such an occasion. The carriage in which the wretched man was conveyed to the gibbet could only proceed at a walking pace; but still, the vehicle which followed it, containing the Earl of Carlisle and James Boswell, arrived in good time for the final scene of this singular tragedy, which for weeks, as the Countess of Ossory wrote to George Selwyn, was the sole topic of conversation.
And, as a matter of course, Horace Walpole had something to communicate to one of his carefully-selected correspondents. Oddly enough it was to a parson he wrote to express the opinion that he was still uncertain “whether our clergy58 are growing Mahometans or not”; adding sagely59, “they certainly are not what they profess60 themselves; but as you and I should not agree, perhaps, in assigning the same defects to them, I will not enter on a subject which I have promised you to drop, all I allude61 to now is the shocking murder of Miss Reay by a divine. In my own opinion we are growing more fit for Bedlam62 than for Mahomet's paradise. The poor criminal, I am persuaded, is mad, and the misfortune is the law does not know how to define the shades of madness; and thus there are twenty out-pensioners of Bedlam for one that is confined.”
Most persons will come to the conclusion that the judge who tried Hackman made a most successful attempt to expound63 to the jury exactly where the law drew a line in differentiating64 between the man who should be sent to Bedlam and the man who should be sent to Tyburn, and will agree with the justice of the law that condemned to the gallows65 this divine of three weeks' standing for committing an atrocious crime, even though the chances are that Hackman spoke the truth when he affirmed that he had brought his pistols down to the theatre with no more felonious intent than to blow out his own brains in the presence of the lady and to fall dead at her feet. At the same time one is not precluded66 from agreeing with Walpole's opinion that the people of his period were growing more fit for Bedlam than for Eblis.
The truth is that an extraordinary wave of what was called “sensibility” was passing over England at that time. It was a wave of sentimentality—that maudlin67 sentimentality which was the exquisite68 characteristic of the hero and heroine of almost every novel that attained69 to any degree of success. To people who have formed their ideas of the latter half of the eighteenth century from studying Boswell's Life of Johnson, every page of which shows a healthy common sense; or from the plates of Hogarth—robust even to a point of vulgarity—it would seem incredible that there should exist in England at practically the same time a cult70 of the maudlin and the lachrymose71. Such a cult had, however, obtained so great a hold on a large section of society that all the satire72 of Smollett, Sterne, and Goldsmith, was unable to ridicule73 it out of existence.
And the worst of the matter was that the types of these weeping sentimentalists were not unreal. They began by being unreal, but in the course of a short time they became real, the fact being that people in all directions began to frame their conduct and their conversation upon these flaccid creatures of the unhealthy fancy of third-rate novelists and fourth-rate poetasters. More than once, it may be remarked, even in our own time “movements” have had their origin in the fancy of a painter—in one case of a subtle caricaturist. An artist possessed of a distorted sense of what is beautiful in woman has been able to set a certain fashion in the unreal, until people were well-nigh persuaded that it was the painter who had taken the figures in his pictures from the persons who had simply sought a cheap notoriety by adopting the pose and the dress of the scraggy posturantes for whose anatomy74 he was responsible.
So it was that, when certain novel-writers in the eighteenth century, having no experience of the life which they attempted to depict76, brought forth77 creatures out of their own unhealthy imaginations, and placed them before their readers as types of heroes and heroines, the public never failed to include quite a number of readers who were ready to live up to all those essentials that constituted the personages of the fiction.
And not alone over England had the sighs of a perpetually sighing hero and heroine sent a lachrymose flood; France and Germany, if not actually inundated78, were at least rendered humid by its influence. The Sorrows of Werther was only one of the many books which helped on the cult of the sentimental, and it was as widely read in England as in Germany. Gessner's Death of Abel had an enormous vogue79 in its English translation. The boarding-school version of the tale of Abelard and Heloise was also much wept over both in France and Germany; and the true story of James Hackman and Martha Reay, as recorded by the correspondence of the pair, published shortly after the last scene in the tragedy had been enacted80, and reissued with connecting notes some twelve years ago, might pass only as a somewhat crude attempt to surpass these masterpieces of fancy-woven woes81. James and Martha might have been as happy as thousands of other Jameses and Marthas have been, but they chose to believe that the Fates were bothering themselves with this particular case of James and Martha—they chose to feel that they were doomed82 to a life of sorrowful love—at any rate, this was Martha's notion—and they kept on exchanging emotional sentiments until James's poor head gave way, and he sought to end up their romance in accordance with the mode of the best models, stretching himself a pallid83 corpse84 at the feet of his Martha; but then it was that Fate put out a meddlesome85 finger, and so caused the scene of the last chapter to take place at Tyburn.
The romance of Mr. Hackman and Miss Reay would never have taken place, if Lord Sandwich had been as exemplary a husband as George III or Dr. Johnson or Edmund Burke—the only exemplary husbands of the eighteenth century that one can recall at a moment's notice. Unhappily his lordship was one of the many examples of the unexemplary husband of that period. If the Earl of Chesterfield advanced the ill-treatment of a wife to one of the fine arts, it may be said that the Earl of Sandwich made it one of the coarse. He was brutal86 in his treatment of the Countess, and never more so than when he purchased the pretty child that Miss Reay must have been at the age of thirteen, and had her educated to suit his tastes. He went about the transaction with the same deliberation as a gourmand87 might display in ordering his dinner. He was extremely fond of music, so he had the child's education in this direction carefully attended to. His place at Hinchinbrook had been the scene of the performance of several oratorios88, his lordship taking his place in the orchestra at the kettledrums; and he hoped that by the time he should have his purchase sent home, her voice would be equal to the demands put upon it by the most exacting89 of the sacred soprano music of Handel or Gluck.
As it turned out he was not disappointed. Martha Reay, when she went to live at Hinchinbrook at the age of eighteen, showed herself to be a most accomplished91 young lady, as she certainly was a very charming one. She was found to possess a lovely voice, and was quite fitted to take her place, not merely in his lordship's music-room, but also in his drawing-room to which he advanced her. To say that she was treated as one of his lordship's family would be to convey a wrong impression, considering how he treated the principal member of his family, but certainly he introduced her to his guests, and she took her place at his table at dinner parties. He even put her next to the wife of a bishop92 upon one occasion, feeling sure that she would captivate that lady, and as it turned out, his anticipations93 were fully54 realised; only the bishop's lady, on making inquiries94 later on, protested that she was scandalised by being placed in such a position as permitted of her yielding to the fascinations95 of a young person occupying a somewhat equivocal position in the household.
It was when she was at Hinchinbrook, in October, 1775, that Miss Reay met the man who was to play so important a part in her life—and death. Cradock, the “country gentleman,” tells in his Memoirs96 the story of the first meeting of the two. Lord Sandwich was anxious that a friend of his own should be elected to a professorship at Cambridge, and Cradock, having a vote, was invited to use it on behalf of his lordship's candidate, and to stay for a night at Hinchinbrook on his way back to London. He travelled in Lord Sandwich's coach, and when in the act of driving through the gateway97 at Hinchinbrook, it overtook a certain Major Reynolds and another officer who was stationed on recruiting duty in the neighbourhood. Lord Sandwich, being acquainted with Reynolds, dismounted and invited him and his friend to a family dinner at his lordship's place that evening. Major Reynolds expressed his appreciation98 of this act of courtesy, and introduced his friend as Captain Hackman. The party was a simple affair.
It consisted of Lord Sandwich, Miss Reay, another lady, the two officers, and Mr. Cradock. After coffee had been served two rubbers of whist were played, and the party broke up.
This was the first meeting of Hackman and Miss Reay. They seem to have fallen in love immediately, each with the other, for the first letter in the correspondence, written in December, 1775, contains a good deal that suggests the adolescence99 of a passion. Hackman was a man of education and some culture, and he showed few signs of developing into that maudlin sentimentalist who corresponded with the lady a year or two later. He was but twenty-three years of age, the son of a retired100 officer in the navy, who had sent him to St. John's College, Cambridge, and afterwards bought him a commission in the 68th Foot. He was probably only an ensign when he was stationed at Huntingdon, but being in charge of the recruiting party, enjoyed the temporary rank of captain.
He must have had a pretty fair conceit101 of his own ability as a correspondent, for he kept a copy of his love letters. Of course, there is no means of ascertaining102 if he kept copies of all that he ever wrote; he may have sent off some in the hot passion of the moment, but those which passed into the hands of his brother-in-law and were afterwards published, were copies which he had retained. Miss Reay was doubtless discreet103 enough to destroy the originals before they had a chance of falling into the hands of Lord Sandwich. It is difficult for us who live in this age of scrawls104 and “correspondence cards” to imagine the existence of that enormous army of letter-writers who flourished their quills105 in the eighteenth century, for the entertainment of their descendants in the nineteenth and twentieth; but still more difficult is it to understand how, before the invention of any mechanical means of reproducing manuscript, these voluminous correspondents first made a rough draft of every letter, then corrected and afterwards copied it, before sending it—securing a frank from a friendly Member of Parliament—to its destination.
Superlatively difficult is it to imagine an ardent106 lover sitting down to transcribe107 into the pages of a notebook the outpourings of his passion. But this is what Ensign Hackman did, although so far as the consequences of his love-making were concerned, he is deserving of a far higher place among great lovers than Charlotte's Werther, or Mr. Swinburne's Dolores. Charlotte we know “went on cutting bread and butter” after the death of her honourable108 lover; but poor little Miss Reay was the victim of the passion which she undoubtedly109 fanned into a flame of madness. Ensign Hackman made copies of his love-letters, and we are grateful to him, for by their aid we can perceive the progress of his disease. They are like the successive pictures in a biograph series lately exhibited at a conversazione of the Royal Society, showing the development of a blossom into a perfect flower. We see by the aid of these letters how he gave way under the attack of what we should now call the bacillus of that maudlin sentimentality which was in the air in his day.
He began his love-letters like a gallant110 officer, but ended them in the strain of the distracted curate who had been jilted just when he has laid down the cork111 lino in the new study and got rid of the plumbers112. He wrote merrily of his “Corporal Trim,” who was the bearer of a “billet” from her. “He will be as good a soldier to Cupid as to Mars, I dare say. And Mars and Cupid are not now to begin their acquaintance, you know.” Then he goes on to talk in a fine soldierly strain of the drum “beating for volunteers to Bacchus. In plain English, the drum tells me dinner is ready, for a drum gives us bloody113-minded heroes an appetite for eating as well as for fighting.... Adieu—whatever hard service I may have after dinner, no quantity of wine shall make me let drop or forget my appointment with you tomorrow. We certainly were not seen yesterday, for reasons I will give you.”
This letter was written on December 7th, and it was followed by another the next day, and a still longer one the day following. In fact, Corporal Trim must have been kept as busy as his original in the service of Uncle Toby, during the month of December, his duty being to receive the lady's letters, as well as to deliver the gentleman's, and he seems to have been equally a pattern of fidelity114.
Hackman's letters at this time were models of good taste, with only the smallest amount of swagger in them. His intentions were strictly115 honourable, and they were not concealed116 within any cocoon117 of sentimental phraseology. One gathers from his first letters that he was a simple and straightforward118 gentleman, who, having fallen pretty deeply in love with a young woman, seeks to make her his wife at the earliest possible moment. Unfortunately however, the lady had fallen under the influence of the prevailing119 affectation, and her scheme of life did not include a commonplace marriage with a subaltern in a marching regiment120. One might be disposed to say that she knew when she was well off. The aspiration121 to be made “a respectable woman” by marriage in a church was not sufficiently122 strong in her to compel her to sacrifice the many good things with which she was surrounded, in order to realise it. But, of course, she was ready to pose as a miserable123 woman, linked to a man whom she did not love, but too honourable to leave him, and far too thoughtful for the career of the man whom she did love with all her soul ever to become a burden to him. She had read the ballad124 of “Auld125 Robin126 Gray”—she quoted it in full in one of her letters—and she was greatly interested to find how closely her case resembled that of the wife in the poem. She had brought herself to think of the man who had bought her just as he would buy a peach tree, or a new tulip, as her “benefactor127.” Did she not owe to him the blessing128 of a good education, and the culture of her voice, her knowledge of painting—nay, her “keep” for several years, and her introduction to the people of quality who visited at Hinchinbrook and at the Admiralty? She seemed to think it impossible for any one to doubt that Lord Sandwich had acted toward her with extraordinary generosity129, and that she would be showing the most contemptible130 ingratitude131 were she to forsake133 so noble a benefactor. But all the same she found Hinchinbrook intolerably dull at times, and she was so pleased at the prospect134 of having a lover, that she came to fancy that she loved the first one who turned up.
She was undoubtedly greatly impressed by the ballad of “Auld Robin Gray,” and she at once accepted the r?le of the unhappy wife, only she found it convenient to modify one rather important line—
“I fain would think o' Jamie, but that would be a sin.”
She was fain to think on her Jamie whether it was a sin or not, but she did so without having the smallest intention of leaving her Auld Robin Gray. So whimsical an interpretation135 of the poem could scarcely occur to any one not under the influence of the sentimental malady136 of the day; but it served both for Miss Reay and her Jamie. They accepted it, and became deeply sensible of its pathos137 as applied to themselves. Ensign Hackman assured her that he was too high-minded to dream of making love to her under the roof of Lord Sandwich, her “benefactor.”
“Our love, the inexorable tyrant138 of our hearts,” he wrote, “claims his sacrifices, but does not bid us insult his lordship's walls with it. How civilly did he invite me to Hinchinbrook in October last, though an unknown recruiting officer. How politely himself first introduced me to himself! Often has the recollection made me struggle with my passion. Still it shall restrain it on this side honour.”
This was in reply to her remonstrance139, and probably she regretted that she had been so strenuous140 in pointing out to him how dreadful it would be were she to show herself wanting in gratitude132 to Lord Sandwich. She wanted to play the part of Jenny, the lawful141 wife of Robin Gray, with as few sacrifices as possible, and she had no idea of sacrificing young Jamie, the lover, any more than she had of relinquishing142 the many privileges she enjoyed at Hinchinbrook by making Jamie the lover into Jamie the husband.
It is very curious to find Hackman protesting to her all this time that his passions are “wild as the torrent's roar,” apologising for making his simile143 water when the element most congenial to his nature was fire. “Swift had water in his brain. I have a burning coal of fire; your hand can light it up to rapture144, rage, or madness. Men, real men, have never been wild enough for my admiration145, it has wandered into the ideal world of fancy. Othello (but he should have put himself to death in his wife's sight, not his wife), Zanga are my heroes. Milk-and-water passions are like sentimental comedy.”
Read in the light of future events this letter has a peculiar146 significance. Although he became more sentimental than the hero of any of the comedies at which he was sneering147, he was still able to make an honest attempt to act up to his ideal of Othello. “He should have put himself to death in his wife's sight.” It will be remembered that he pleaded at his trial that he had no design upon the life of Miss Reay, but only aimed at throwing himself dead at her feet.
Equally significant are some of the passages in the next letters which he wrote to her. They show that even within the first month of his acquaintance with his Martha his mind had a peculiar bent148. He was giving his attention to Hervey's Meditations149, and takes pains to point out to her two passages which he affirms to be as fine as they are natural. Did ever love-letter contain anything so grisly? “A beam or two finds its way through the grates (of the vault), and reflects a feeble glimness from the nails of the coffins150.” This is one passage—ghastly enough in all conscience. But it is surpassed by the others which he quotes: “Should the haggard skeleton lift a clattering151 hand.” Respecting the latter he remarks, “I know not whether the epithet152 'haggard' might not be spared.” It is possible that the lady on receiving this curious love-letter was under the impression that the whole passage might have been spared her.
But he seems to have been supping off horrors at this time, for he goes on to tell a revolting story about the black hole of Calcutta; and then he returns with zest153 to his former theme of murder and suicide. He had been reading the poem of “Faldoni and Teresa,” by Jerningham, and he criticises it quite admirably. “The melancholy154 tale will not take up three words, though Mr. J. has bestowed155 upon it 335 melancholy lines,” he tells the young lady. “Two lovers, meeting with an invincible156 object to their union, determined157 to put an end to their existence with pistols. The place they chose for the execution of their terrible project was a chapel158 that stood at a little distance from the house. They even decorated the altar for the occasion, they paid a particular attention to their own dress. Teresa was dressed in white with rose-coloured ribbands. The same coloured ribbands were tied to the pistols. Each held the ribband that was fastened to the other's trigger, which they drew at a certain signal.” His criticism of the poem includes the remark that Faldoni and Teresa might be prevented from making proselytes by working up their affecting story so as to take off the edge of the dangerous example they offer. This, he says, the author has failed to do, and he certainly proves his point later by affirming that “while I talk of taking off the dangerous edge of their example, they have almost listed me under their bloody banners.”
This shows the morbid159 tendency of the man's mind, though it must be confessed that nearly all the remarks which he makes on ordinary topics are eminently160 sane40 and well considered.
A few days later we find him entering with enthusiasm into a scheme, suggested by her, of meeting while she was on her way to London, and it is plain from the rapturous letter which he wrote to her that their plot was successful; but when she reached town she had a great deal to occupy her, so that it is not strange she should neglect him for a time. The fact was, as Cradock states in his Memoirs, that the unpopularity of Lord Sandwich and Miss Reay had increased during the winter to such a point that it became dangerous for them to show themselves together in public. Ribald ballads161 were sung under the windows of the Admiralty, and Cradock more than once heard some strange insults shouted out by people in the park. It was at this time that she spoke to Cradock about appearing in opera, and he states that it reached his ears that she had been offered three thousand pounds and a free benefit (a possible extra five hundred) for one season's performances.
Now if she had really been in love with Hackman this was surely the moment when she should have gone to him, suffered him to marry her, and thus made up by a few years on the lyric162 stage for any deficiency in his fortune or for the forfeiture163 of any settlement her “benefactor” might have been disposed to make in her favour. But she seems to have shown a remarkable164 amount of prudence165 throughout the whole of her intrigue166, and she certainly had a premonition of the danger to which she was exposed by her connection with him. “Fate stands between us,” she wrote in reply to one of his impetuous upbraiding167 letters. “We are doomed to be wretched. And I, every now and then, think some terrible catastrophe168 will be the result of our connection. 'Some dire16 event,' as Storge prophetically says in Jephtha, 'hangs over our heads.' Oh, that it were no crime to quit this world like Faldoni and Teresa... by your hand I could even die with pleasure. I know I could.”
An extraordinary premonition, beyond doubt, to write thus, and one is tempted75 to believe that she had ceased for a moment merely to play the part of the afflicted169 heroine. But her allusion170 to Jephtha and, later in the same letter, to a vow171 which she said she had made never to marry him so long as she was encumbered172 with debts, alleging173 that this was the “insuperable reason” at which she had hinted on a previous occasion, makes one suspicious. One feels that if she had not been practising the music of Jephtha she would not have thought about her vow not to marry him until she could go to him free from debt. Why, she had only to sing three times to release herself from that burden.
Some time afterwards she seems to have suggested such a way of getting over her difficulties, but it is pretty certain she knew that he would never listen to her. Her position at this time was undoubtedly one of great difficulty. Hackman was writing to her almost every day, and becoming more high-minded and imperious in every communication, and she was in terror lest some of his letters should fall into the hands of Lord Sandwich. She was ready to testify to his lordship's generosity in educating her to suit his own tastes, but she suspected its strength to withstand such a strain as would be put on it if he came upon one of Mr. Hackman's impetuous letters.
She thought that when she had induced her lover to join his regiment in Ireland she had extricated174 herself from one of the difficulties that surrounded her; and had she been strong enough to refrain from writing to the man, she might have been saved from the result of her indiscretion. Unhappily for herself, however, she felt it incumbent175 on her to resume her correspondence with him. Upon one occasion she sent him a bank-note for fifty pounds, but this he promptly176 returned with a very proper letter. Indeed, all his letters from Ireland are interesting, being far less impassioned than those which she wrote to him. Again she mentioned having read Werther, and he promptly begged of her to send the book to him. “If you do not,” he adds, “I positively177 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 feigned178 such a story?”
But it would appear that she knew the man's nature better than he himself did, for she quickly replied: “The book you mention is just the only book you should never read. On my knees I beg that you will never, never read it!” But if he never read Werther he was never without some story of the same type to console him for its absence, and he seems to have gloated over the telling of all to her. One day he is giving her the particulars of a woman who committed suicide in Enniskillen because she married one man while she was in love with another. His comment is, “She, too, was Jenny and had her Robin Gray.” His last letter from Ireland was equally morbid. In it he avowed179 his intention, if he were not granted leave of absence for the purpose of visiting her, of selling out of his regiment. He kept his promise but too faithfully. He sold out and crossed to England without delay, arriving in London only to find Miss Reay extremely ill.
His attempts to cheer her convalescence180 cannot possibly be thought very happy. He describes his attendance upon the occasion of the hanging of Dr. Dodd, the clergyman who had committed forgery181; and this reminds him that he was unfortunately out of England when one Peter Tolosa was hanged for killing his sweetheart, so that he had no chance of taking part in this ceremony as well, although, he says, unlike George S.—meaning Selwyn—he does not make a profession of attending executions; adding that “the friend and historian of Paoli hired a window by the year, looking out on the Grass Market in Edinburgh, where malefactors were hanged.” This reference to Boswell is somewhat sinister182. All this letter is devoted183 to a minute account of the execution of Dodd, and another deals with the revolting story of the butchery of Monmouth, which he suggests to her as an appropriate subject for a picture.
At this time he was preparing for ordination184, and, incidentally, for the culmination185 of the tragedy of his life. He had undoubtedly become a monomaniac, his “subject” being murder and suicide. His last lurid186 story was of a footman who, “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 meditated187 revenge, and, having got a person to write a letter to her appointing a meeting, he contrived188 to waylay189 her, and surprise her in Lord Spencer's park. On her screaming he discharged a pistol at her and made his escape.”
“Oh love, love, canst thou not be content to make fools of thy slaves,” he wrote, “to make them miserable, to make them what thou pleasest? Must thou also goad190 them on to crimes?”
Only two more letters did he write to his victim. He took Orders and received the living of Wiveton, in Norfolk, seeming to take it for granted that, in spite of her repeated refusals to marry him, she would relent when she heard of the snug191 parsonage. This was acting90 on precisely192 the same lines as the butler of whom he wrote. When he found that Miss Reay was determined to play the part taken by the servant in the same story, the wretched man hurried up to London and bought his pistols.
The whole story is a pitiful one. That the man was mad no one except a judge and jury could doubt. That his victim was amply punished for her indiscretion in leading him on even the strictest censor193 of conduct must allow.
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1
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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13
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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14
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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16
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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20
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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21
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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25
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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26
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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27
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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28
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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29
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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30
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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32
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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33
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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34
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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35
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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36
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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37
contemning
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的现在分词 ) | |
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38
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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39
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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40
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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41
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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43
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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44
incapability
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| n.无能 | |
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45
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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46
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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47
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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48
deported
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 )；举止 | |
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49
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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50
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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51
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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52
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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55
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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56
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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57
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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58
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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59
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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60
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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61
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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62
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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63
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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64
differentiating
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| [计] 微分的 | |
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65
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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66
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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67
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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70
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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71
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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72
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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73
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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74
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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75
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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76
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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80
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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82
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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83
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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84
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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85
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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86
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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87
gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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88
oratorios
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| n.（以宗教为主题的）清唱剧，神剧( oratorio的名词复数 ) | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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91
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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92
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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93
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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94
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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100
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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101
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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103
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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104
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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105
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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106
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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107
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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108
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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109
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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111
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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112
plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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113
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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114
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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115
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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116
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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117
cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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118
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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119
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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120
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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121
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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122
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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123
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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124
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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125
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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126
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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127
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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128
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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129
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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130
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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131
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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132
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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133
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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134
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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135
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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136
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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137
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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138
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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139
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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140
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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141
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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142
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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143
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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144
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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145
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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146
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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148
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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149
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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150
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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151
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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152
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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153
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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154
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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155
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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157
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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158
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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159
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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160
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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161
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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162
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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163
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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164
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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165
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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166
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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167
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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168
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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169
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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171
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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172
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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174
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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176
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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177
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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178
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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179
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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180
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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181
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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182
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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183
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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184
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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185
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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186
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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187
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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188
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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189
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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190
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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191
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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192
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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193
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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