II. Contemporary Newspapers and Magazines

1.	The Public Advertiser, March 1784.
2.	The Gazetteer and New Advertiser, August 14, 1783, and March 1784.
3.	The General Evening Post,	March 1784.
4.	The Bath Chronicle,	do.
5.	The Bristol Journal,	do.
6.	The London Gazette, March 9, 1784.
7.	The Times, March 1784, January 1802.
8.	Morning Post, July 21 and August 12 and 13, 1783, March 1784, January 1802.
9.	Morning Chronicle,	March 1784,	January 1802.
10.	Morning Herald,	do.	do.
11.	St James’ Chronicle,	do.	do.
12.	Lloyd’s Evening Post,		do.
13.	The True Briton and Porcupine,		do.
14.	The Star,		do.

In the Morning Post of August 13, 1783, there appears the report of the court-martial held at the Horse Guards on July 7 and following days, which practically acquitted Wall of the charges brought against him by Captain Roberts. The Gazette of March 9, 1784, contains the King’s Proclamation, dated March 8, describing the personal appearance of the escaped prisoner, and offering a reward of £200 for his apprehension. To those who consult contemporary journals for a first time there will come a surprise, for they will learn that Governor Wall on July 10 and 11, 1782, flogged to death not one man but three. No account later than the Espriella Papers, and not one of the many Newgate Calendars, gives this information. Surgeon Ferrick’s letter appeared in The Times, February 5, 1802.

15. The Gentleman’s Magazine (1784), part i. p. 227; (1802), part i. p. 81.

The January number, 1802, endorses the statement that Augustine Wall, the brother of the Governor of Goree, was “the first person, who presumed to publish Parliamentary Reports with the real names of the speakers prefixed.” This evidence is important, as Sylvanus Urban might have grudged such an admission. His own claims, however, are set forth very modestly. “Dr Johnston (in our magazine) dressed them (i.e. the speakers in Parliament) in Roman characters. Others gave them as orators in the senate of Lilliput. Mr Wall laid the foundation of a practice which, we trust for the sake of Parliament, and the nation, will never be abandoned.”

16. The European Magazine (1802), pp. 74, 154-157.

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

NOTES

Note I.—Dict. Nat. Biog.

Although reference is made to the dubious case of the flogging of the man Paterson during Wall’s outward voyage to Goree, there is no mention of the fact that four other soldiers were flogged by the Governor’s order on the same day and the day following the punishment of Benj. Armstrong, and that two of these also died of their wounds. There seems to be no authority for the statement that Wall “appears to have been in liquor” when he passed sentence on the men, and as such a presumption, which was never put forward by the prosecution, sweeps away all defence, and proves that the act was murder, it should not be accepted without the most trustworthy evidence. Mrs Wall’s father, Kenneth Mackenzie, Lord Fortrose, never became Lord Seaforth; her brother did. Since Wall did not remain at Goree for more than two years, and left the island on July 11, 1782, it is evident that he did not become Governor in 1779. His letter to Lord Pelham, offering to stand his trial, was written on October 5, 1801, not on October 28. State Trials, vol. xxviii. p. 99.

Note II.—State Trials of the Nineteenth Century. By G. Latham Brown (Sampson Low, 1882). Vol. i. pp. 28-42.

On page 31 the author states that he has searched the records of the Privy Council in vain for a report of the charges brought against Wall by Captain Roberts in 1783. As stated previously, he would have found what he required in the columns of the Morning Post of August 13, or the Gazetteer, August 14, 1783. It is strange that he is unaware that Wall flogged to death two other soldiers besides Benj. Armstrong.

Note III.—Edinburgh Review, January 1883, vide criticism of G. L. Brown’s book, p. 81.

To the writer of this review belongs the credit of being the first to hint a doubt as to the justice of Wall’s conviction.

Note IV.—A Tale without a Name—a tribute to Joseph Wall’s noble wife—will be found in the works of James Montgomery, Longman (1841), vol. iii. p. 278. Vide also Life of Montgomery, by Holland and Everett. Longman (1855), vol. iii. p. 253.

Note V.—Other contemporary authorities are Letters from England by Don Alvarez Espriella, Robert Southey, vol. i. pp. 97, 108, and the familiar Book for a Rainy Day, by J. T. Smith, pp. 165-173.

THE KESWICK IMPOSTOR
THE CASE OF JOHN HADFIELD, 1802-3

“... a story drawn
From our own ground,—the Maid of Buttermere,—
And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife
Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came,
And woo’d the artless daughter of the hills,
And wedded her, in cruel mockery
Of love and marriage bonds....
Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth
Her new-born infant....
... Happy are they both,
Mother and child!...”
—The Prelude, Book vii. Wordsworth.

During the late autumn of 1792, a retired military man of amiable disposition and poetic temperament, who had made a recent tour through Cumberland and Westmoreland, published his impressions in a small volume which bore the title A Fortnight’s Ramble to the Lakes. The book displays the literary stamp of its period just as clearly as a coin indicates the reign in which it is moulded. Fashion had banished the rigour of the pedant in favour of idyllic simplicity. The well-groomed poet, who for so long had recited his marble-work epistle to Belinda of satin brocade, now spoke to deaf ears; while the unkempt bard, who sang a ballad of some muslin-clad rustic maid, caught the newly-awakened sympathies of the artistic world.

Etched by J. Chapman

John Hatfield.

Published J. Cundee Ivy Lane

The author of A Fortnight’s Ramble, having the instinct of a good literary salesman, was not backward in sentiment, and among his thumb-nail sketches of rural life he was careful not to omit the portrait of a village damsel. There is certainly much charm in the impression of his humble heroine, whom he discovered in a tiny hamlet on the shores of Lake Buttermere, where, according to the laws of romance, she was the maid of the inn. No doubt the child of fourteen was as beautiful as he describes her—with her long brown curls, big blue eyes, rosy lips, and clear complexion, and with a grace of figure matured beyond her years. The pity is that the picture was ever drawn.

Before the close of the year the charms of ‘Sally of Buttermere’ had been quoted in a London magazine, and henceforth the tourist was as eager to catch a glimpse of the famous young beauty as to visit Scale Force or Lodore. Very soon the inn where she lived—“a poor little pot-house, with the sign of the Char”—became a place of popular resort. Verses in her praise began to cover the white-washed walls; and while she was in the full bloom of youth, wandering artists, who have handed down to us her likeness, took the opportunity of persuading her to sit for them. That Mary Robinson was a modest and attractive girl is shown by the testimony of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and there is evidence that she remained unspoilt in spite of her celebrity.

Six years after the publication of A Fortnight’s Ramble, its author, Joseph Budworth, paid a second visit to the home of his ‘Sally of Buttermere’ Mary, who was nineteen, and still charming, seemed destined (after the fashion of village maidens) to become a buxom beauty, and it is said, indeed, that she had been most lovely at the age of sixteen. Budworth, however, saw that she was quite pretty enough to attract hosts of admirers, and conscience told him that he had not done well in making her famous. There was Christmas merrymaking at the little inn, and she reigned as queen of the rustic ball. Next morning he confessed to her that he had written the book which had brought her into public notice.

“Strangers will come and have come,” said he, “purposely to see you, and some of them with very bad intentions. We hope you will never suffer from them, but never cease to be on your guard.”

Mary listened quietly to this tardy advice, and thanked him politely.

“You really are not so handsome as you promised to be,” Budworth continued. “I have long wished by conversation like this to do away what mischief the flattering character I gave of you may expose you to. Be merry and wise.”

Then, taking advantage of his seniority of twenty-three years, the good-natured traveller “gave her a hearty salute,” and bade her farewell. Unfortunately, he repeated his previous indiscretion by publishing another long account of the Buttermere Beauty in the Gentleman’s Magazine, and, like Wordsworth, who in similar manner paraded the charms of ‘little Barbara Lewthwaite’ he lived to regret what he had written.

Two years later, a handsome middle-aged gentleman of fine presence and gallant manners paid a visit to the Lake District, bearing the name of Alexander Augustus Hope (brother to the third Earl Hopetoun), who, after a successful military career, had represented the burgh of Dumfries, and now sat in Parliament as member for Linlithgowshire. An active, strong-limbed fellow, with courtly demeanour and an insinuating Irish brogue, the contrast between his thick black brows and his fair hair, between the patch of grey over his right temple and the fresh colour of his face, added to an appearance of singular attractiveness. These were the days of the dandies, when young Mr George Brummell was teaching the Prince of Wales how a gentleman should be attired; and Colonel Hope was distinguished by the neatness and simplicity of a well-dressed man of fashion.

The new-comer reached Keswick about the third week in July, travelling in his own carriage without ostentation, having hired horses and no servant. Soon after his arrival he went over to Buttermere, and remained there for two or three days. Towards the end of the month he visited Grassmere, where he became acquainted with a genial merchant from Liverpool, whose name was John Crump. Being a most entertaining companion—for he was a great traveller, had fought in the American War, and, as might be expected of one so gallant and handsome, had been engaged in numerous duels—Colonel Hope had the knack of fascinating all whom he met. With Mr Crump, who for some reason was not in favour with the young poet at Greta Hall, he struck up a great friendship during his three weeks’ stay at Grassmere, and a little later the merchant showed his appreciation by christening one of his children ‘Augustus Hope’ as a compliment to his new acquaintance.

About the end of the third week in August the member of Parliament, whose passion, we are told, was a rod and fly, left Grassmere, and, for the sake of the char-fishing, took up his quarters at the little inn at Buttermere. So pleased was he with the district, that he contemplated the purchase of an estate, and Mr Skelton, a neighbouring landowner, went with him to inspect a property near Loweswater. During his sojourn at the Char Inn he paid frequent visits to Keswick to meet his friend John Crump. Although wishing, for the sake of quiet and seclusion, to travel incognito, Colonel Hope seems to have been a gregarious person, and could not help extending the number of his acquaintances. At the ‘Queen’s Head’ Keswick, where his Liverpool friend was in the habit of stopping, he came across a kindred spirit in Colonel Nathaniel Montgomery Moore, who had represented the town of Strabane in the recently extinct Irish Parliament.

Since the two had much in common, a close intimacy ensued; but there was another reason for Colonel Hope’s friendly advances. A pretty young lady of fortune, to whom Mr Moore was guardian, was one of his party, and the new acquaintance began to pay her the most evident attention. Colonel Hope, in fact, always had been remarkable for his insinuating behaviour in the society of women, and since his arrival in the Lake District he had been concerned in an affair of gallantry with at least two local maidens far beneath him in station. However, this was a pardonable weakness, for the Prince himself, and his brothers of York and Clarence, did not disdain to stoop to conquer. But on the present occasion the gay Colonel apparently had fallen in love, and when, before very long, he asked the lady to be his wife, he was accepted.

It is not strange that a man of his power of fascination and handsome appearance should have met with success even on so short an acquaintance. The match seemed a most suitable one in every respect, and Mr Moore would have been well satisfied that his ward should be engaged to a man of Alexander Hope’s rank and position. Yet the lover did not hasten to take the guardian into his confidence. Remaining at the little inn on the shores of Buttermere, only occasionally he made the fourteen miles’ drive to visit his fiancée at Keswick. Colonel Moore, who could not remain blind to the flirtation, became anxious lest his ward should place herself in a false position. It was evident that the two behaved to each other as lovers, and the Irishman was impatient for the announcement of the betrothal. Still, the love affair ran a smooth course until the close of the third week in September; but as the time went on, and the engagement remained a secret, the suspicions of the lady’s guardian began to be aroused. Since it was apparent that his friend had committed himself, his duty was plain. There were only three explanations of his reticence. Colonel Hope was not the man he pretended to be, or he had quarrelled with his relatives, or else his passion was beginning to cool.

The first proposition already had been whispered among a few. Although his bonhomie and air of distinction had made him a great favourite with his inferiors, yet the fact that the reputed Colonel Hope was travelling without servants, and had selected a woman of fortune as his conquest, prejudiced critical minds. Coleridge, who was engaged in basting the succulent humour of the gentle Elia before a roasting fire, seems to have cast the eye of a sceptic upon the popular tourist from the day of his arrival. However, no open rupture took place between the Irishman and Alexander Hope, but towards the close of September they met less frequently.

On Friday, the 1st of October, Colonel Hope sent over a letter to his friend at Keswick, explaining that business called him to Scotland, and enclosing a draft for thirty pounds, drawn on Mr Crump of Liverpool, which he asked him to cash. Pleased, no doubt, at this mark of confidence, which may have appeared a favourable augury of his ward’s happiness, Colonel Moore at once obeyed the request, and forwarded ten pounds in addition, so that his friend might not be short of funds on his journey. On the next day, the sensation of a lifetime burst upon the people of Keswick. At noon, the landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’ returning from the country, brought with him the great intelligence that the Hon. Colonel Hope had married the Beauty of Buttermere!

It was obvious to everyone—aye, even to the sceptic of Greta Hall—that the mystery was at an end. Alexander Hope was no impostor. Avarice had not led him to attempt the capture of a lady of fortune. Torn between love and honour, he had doubted whether to give his hand when his heart was disposed elsewhere, or to break his word. Thus, obeying the impulse of love, he had married a girl of the people. Native pride in the Beauty of Buttermere was strong in every breast, and the next mail conveyed to London the news of her great triumph.

But Colonel Moore, who had the right to be wroth and suspicious, would not be appeased by the explanations which satisfied the multitude. Since he could not believe that a gentleman would behave in such a fashion, he made haste to test the credentials of his late friend. The bill of exchange was forwarded to Mr Crump, who, delighted to be of service to Colonel Hope, from whom he had received an affectionate note requesting the favour, at once accepted it! Still the Irishman refused to be convinced, and he sent a letter to the bridegroom, informing him that he should write to his brother, Lord Hopetoun. Moreover, he told all friends of his intentions.

J. Smith, sculp.

The Beauty of Buttermere.

Published in the Act directs. June 25-1803.

During his five or six weeks’ residence at the Char Inn, the amorous tourist must have had full opportunity of forming a contrast between the Irish girl and Mary Robinson. The Beauty of Buttermere was now in her twenty-fifth year. A healthy outdoor life had matured her robust physique, and her figure, though graceful still, had lost the lines of perfect symmetry. The keen mountain air had robbed her complexion of its former delicacy, and with the advance of womanhood her features had not retained their refined, girlish prettiness. Still, her face was comely and pleasant to look upon. The charm of her kind and modest nature was felt by all who met her, and she seems to have possessed culture and distinction far in advance of her lowly station. Indeed, one of her most celebrated admirers hints plainly that a mystery surrounded her parentage, and that her breadth of mind and her polished manners were the result of gentle birth. However, there appears no warrant for such a surmise.

So, at last, Colonel Hope had begun to waver in his ardour for the Irish girl. Naturally, she was not content to remain under a secret engagement, and her inclinations favoured a brilliant wedding, which her husband’s noble relatives should honour with their presence. Such delay had not pleased the lover, who wished the announcement of the betrothal to be followed by a speedy marriage. In this respect his other inamorata had been less exacting. Poor Mary expected no pomp or ceremony, and had never imagined that a peer and his people would come to her wedding. All the odium that can attach to the man who pays his addresses to two women at the same time is certainly his, for it is stated on good authority that he made his first proposal to the Cumberland girl before he commenced the courtship of Colonel Moore’s rich ward.

Then, when the heiress refused to fall in with his wishes, he made the final choice. On the 25th of September he went over to Whitehaven—about twelve miles as the crow flies from Buttermere—with the Rev. John Nicholson, chaplain of Loweswater, a friend of two weeks’ standing, to obtain a special licence for his marriage with Mary Robinson. Naturally, no opposition was raised by the parents; and although it has been said that the reluctant girl was overruled by their persuasions, it is certain—as far as any judgment of human nature can be certain—that she was a willing bride. Nor—since his record shows that each woman whom he cared to fascinate was unable to resist him—is it difficult to believe that Mary was in love with her handsome suitor.

On the morning of Saturday, the 2nd of October, the wedding took place in the picturesque old church at Loweswater, in the beautiful vale of Lorton, about seven miles from Buttermere. The ceremony was performed by Mr Nicholson, who had become as firm a friend of the bridegroom as Crump himself. Immediately after the service the newly married pair posted off north to visit Colonel Hope’s Scotch estate. Their first day’s journey was a remarkable one. Passing through Cockermouth and Carlisle, they reached Longtown, near Gretna Green, at eight o’clock in the evening, a distance of over forty miles. The next day being Sunday, the bridegroom, who on occasions could affect much religious zeal, is careful to record, in a letter to the chaplain of Loweswater, that they made two appearances in church. On Tuesday or Wednesday they continued their tour across the Border, but on the following Friday, owing to Mary’s anxiety to receive news from her parents (so her husband alleged), they retraced their steps to Longtown. Here, two days later, important communications reached Colonel Hope, which made him resolve to return to Buttermere without delay.

Friend Nicholson wrote that scandalous reports concerning his honour had been spread in the neighbourhood since his departure, and that his wife’s parents had been much disturbed by the rumours that had reached their ears—informing him also of Colonel Moore’s opinion of his behaviour. This latter news was superfluous, for there was a letter from the Irishman himself. Its contents may be gathered from the reply that the traveller despatched to Nicholson on the 10th of October. With amazing effrontery he tells his friend that his attentions to the Irish heiress had never been serious, and expresses his astonishment that Colonel Moore should censure his conduct. Yet he shows his concern for the attacks on his integrity, declaring that he will come back at once to meet his calumniators face to face. Moreover, he was as good as his word. Probably he left Longtown for Carlisle, according to promise, the next morning, and arrived at Buttermere on Tuesday, the 12th of October. Thus Mary’s brief honeymoon came to an end.

As luck would have it, a somewhat remarkable person, who happened to be acquainted with Colonel Hope, was now staying at Keswick. This was George Hardinge, senior justice of Brecon, the late Horace Walpole’s friend and neighbour, the ‘waggish Welsh judge’ of whom Lord Byron has sung. Having heard of the romantic marriage, and being anxious to meet Colonel Hope, he sent a letter to Buttermere requesting a visit. Early on Wednesday morning the newly married man drove over to Keswick in a carriage and four, accompanied by his factotum, the Rev. John Nicholson, to answer the summons in person. The meeting, which took place at the ‘Queen’s Head’ Hotel, was an embarrassing one. Pertinacious Nathaniel Moore, who no doubt had kindled in Justice Hardinge’s mind the suspicions which had caused him to solicit the interview, was present at the encounter. The Welsh judge found that Colonel Hope of Buttermere renown was an entire stranger to him!

However, the other was in no way abashed, but pointed out pleasantly that the mistake had arisen through the coincidence of names. Mr Hardinge persisted that it was remarkable that he should be Alexander Augustus Hope, M.P. for Linlithgowshire, when the name of the representative of that county was Alexander Hope. The reply was a flat denial that these names and titles had been assumed, and we are told that the credulous clergyman bore witness to the truth of this statement. Nevertheless, other testimony against the accused man had more weight with the astute George Hardinge. Not only was there Colonel Moore’s declaration that the stranger had always passed as Lord Hopetoun’s brother, but the Keswick postmaster was able to prove that he had franked letters as a member of Parliament. The result was an appeal for a warrant of arrest to a neighbouring magistrate, and the suspected Mr Hope was placed in charge of a constable.

Still, he did not appear disconcerted, but treated the whole matter as a joke. Others, too, were of the same opinion, for during the course of the day he presented a bill of exchange for twenty pounds, drawn once more on John Crump, to the landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’ which that individual cashed without hesitation. The stranger at once sent £10 to Colonel Moore to cancel the gratuitous loan received before his departure to Scotland. Faithful Nicholson, too, retained full confidence in his genial friend, who ordered dinner to be prepared for both at the hotel, and continued to bear him company.

Presently, the prisoner, chafing at the thought of being kept in durance, asked permission to sail on the lake. As this appeared a reasonable request, the wise constable gave his consent. The clergyman accompanied his companion to the water’s edge, while he made fervent protests of innocence.

“If he were conscious of any crime,” he told his trusting friend, “a hair would hold him.”

Since, however, he declared that he was guiltless, as a natural corollary he had no intention of being held by the whole force of the Keswick constabulary, and Nicholson must have been aware of his design. For not only did he give his friend a guinea to pay for the dinner at the ‘Queen’s Head’ which was a plain hint that he did not mean to return, but he told him that, as his carriage had been seized by his accusers, his only chance of rejoining his wife at Buttermere was by rowing down the lake.

Luck favoured him. A fisherman named Burkett, who had been his companion on many previous expeditions, had a boat ready for him, and soon he was far across Derwentwater. A crowd of sympathisers, full of wrath against his enemies, for they were sure he was a great man (as an impostor would have had no motive in marrying poor Mary), stood on the shore with Nicholson and the intelligent constable to watch his departure. Soon the short October day drew to a close, and darkness fell upon the waters, but ‘Colonel Hope’ did not return. Keswick never saw his face again.

The conduct of the Rev. John Nicholson has been the subject of keen censure. Although the province of a parson is not that of the detective, it is unfortunate that he did not suggest to the parents of Mary of Buttermere that it would be wise to verify the statements of their daughter’s suitor. On the other hand, it must be admitted that everyone was infatuated by the splendid impostor, and it is evident that the clergyman was not aware of the flirtation with the Irish heiress. It is more difficult to defend Nicholson’s conduct at the interview between Judge Hardinge and the swindler; for although we have no precise details of the conversation, it is plain that the chaplain of Loweswater was guilty of a strange reticence. Naturally, he knew that his mysterious friend had passed under the name of Colonel Hope, and had franked letters as a member of Parliament. Still, not only did he refrain from exposing, but even continued to trust him, though he must have perceived him to be a liar. However, charity may suggest the conclusion that the clergyman was full of compassion for Mary Robinson; and since he believed that her husband would join her at the little Char Inn, he was determined, whether felon or not, that he should have the chance of escape.

The first announcement of the marriage of the celebrated Buttermere Beauty with the brother of the Earl of Hopetoun was printed in the Morning Post on the 11th of October. Yet, three days later—the morning after the remarkable escape at Derwentwater—a letter, written on the highest authority, appeared in the same journal, denying the previous report and stating that the real Colonel Alexander Hope was travelling on the Continent. Thus, by chance, London and Keswick became aware almost simultaneously that Mary Robinson had been the victim of a cruel fraud.

Although his flight had made it evident that the pretended member of Parliament was an impostor, it was not until the last day of October that his identity was discovered. Meanwhile, the most strange rumours had been aroused. The fact that all his plate and linen were found packed in his travelling carriage, which was retained by the landlord in pledge for his twenty pounds, gave rise to the suspicion that he had meant to desert his poor young bride. On the other hand, his admirers persisted that he was an Irish gentleman, hiding from the authorities because of his share in the recent rebellion. A costly dressing-case, which he had left behind, was examined under warrant from a magistrate, but nothing turned up to reveal his true name. In the end this discovery was made by Mary herself. While looking over the dressing-box more carefully, she disclosed a secret hiding-place containing a number of letters addressed to him who had forsaken her. Alas for the Beauty of Buttermere! No anticipation could have exceeded the cruel reality. The handsome bridegroom was a married man, and these letters had been written by the heart-broken wife whom he had deserted. ‘Colonel Hope’ her supposed rich and noble husband, was a notorious swindler—guilty of a capital felony—whose real name was John Hadfield!

Mary of Buttermere.

Since the days of ‘Old Patch’ no impostor had reached the eminence of Hadfield. Born of well-to-do parents at Cradden-brook, Mottram-in-Longdendale, Cheshire—where a neighbouring village may have lent his family its surname—forty-three years before the adventure at Keswick, his habits and disposition had always been superior to his station in life. As a youth he was apprenticed to the woollen trade, but proved too fond of adventure to succeed in business. Though much of his career is wrapped in mystery, we know that he was in America between the years 1775-1781, during the War of Independence, and that he married a natural daughter of a younger brother of that famous warrior the Marquis of Granby.

Having squandered the small fortune he had received with her, the elegant Hadfield left his wife and their children to take care of themselves, and by means of credit managed for a short time to enjoy a career of dissipation in London. By his favourite device of extortion—passing drafts or bills of exchange upon persons of wealth, who would be unlikely to prefer a charge against him—he was enabled to continue his impositions without any more serious consequence than an occasional visit to gaol.

The King’s Bench Prison, where in 1782 he was confined for a debt of £160, appears as the next grim landmark in his life. By a lucky chance he was able to lay his case before the Duke of Rutland, who, having discovered that the prisoner had married a daughter of his late uncle, but being ignorant that the wife had died of a broken heart in consequence of her husband’s desertion, generously paid the sum necessary to obtain his release. For many years the impostor’s dexterity in obtaining money under false pretences from credulous strangers, who believed him to be a connection of the Manners family, made it possible for him to associate with those far above his rank.

During 1784, after a brief career of fraud in Dublin, where he posed as a relative of the Viceroy, and by means of this falsehood contracted a host of fraudulent debts, he was lodged in the Marshalsea Prison. With unblushing impudence he appealed to the Lord Lieutenant—his previous benefactor, the Duke of Rutland—who agreed to pay his debts on the understanding that he should leave Ireland immediately.

In the year 1792 Scarborough became the scene of his depredations. Staying at one of the principal hotels, he announced his intention of representing the town in Parliament in the interest of the Manners family. A portrait of poor Captain Lord Robert caused him to burst into tears, which evidence of feeling won the sympathy of all who witnessed it. As usual, his sparkling conversation and distinguished appearance disarmed suspicion, and for several weeks he lived in princely style at the expense of his landlord. When pressed for money he did not hesitate to offer bills of exchange, which the local tradesmen accepted without demur. Yet the day of reckoning, which this remarkable man never seemed to anticipate, could not be postponed. On the 25th of April he was arrested for the hotel debt, and, not being able to find bail, was cast into prison. Some weeks later, a detainer was lodged against him by a London creditor, and for eight years he remained an inmate of the Scarborough Gaol.

During his long confinement he maintained his favourite pose as a luckless aristocrat, writing poetry, and publishing much abuse against the authorities. At last fortune smiled upon the interesting captive. Neither Faublas nor Casanova ruled with more success over the female heart, and it was to a woman that he owed his release. A Devonshire lady, named Nation, who, it is said, occupied rooms facing the prison, took compassion upon him, and paid his debts. On the 13th of September 1800 the impostor became a free man, and the next morning, notwithstanding that hitherto they had been strangers, he married his benefactress. The pair made their home at Hele Bridge, near Dulverton, on the borders of Somerset and Devon, where the bride’s father was steward to a neighbouring landowner, and before very long Hadfield plunged once more into a career of fraud.

A marvellous aplomb, his previous commercial experience, and a deposit of £3000 which he contributed towards the firm, induced Messrs Dennis and Company, merchants of repute in the neighbouring town of Tiverton, to admit him as a partner. In consequence of this new enterprise, he removed during the summer of 1801 with his wife and child to a cottage at the village of Washfield to be near his business. As before, the utter lack of prescience and sagacity characteristic of the man prevented him from reaping the fruits of his perverted genius, as a less clever but more prudent would have done. The whole transaction was a smartly conceived but clumsily arranged swindle. Since the money for the partnership had been obtained by inducing a Mr Nucella, merchant of London, to transfer Government stock, which soon would have to be replaced, to the credit of Messrs Dennis, Hadfield was compelled to realise his winnings without delay. For the sake of a few hundred pounds of ready cash, he seems to have been eager to sacrifice all that a man usually holds dear, and to have become a lawless adventurer once again.

In April 1802 he was obliged to decamp from Devonshire, leaving his wife and children as before, while his partners in Tiverton, who soon discovered that they had been defrauded by a swindler, proceeded to strike his name off the books of the firm. During the following June he was declared a bankrupt. Meanwhile he had proceeded to cut a dash in London, and it is said that he came forward as candidate for Queenborough, with the object of obtaining immunity from arrest as a member of Parliament. Being still provided with funds, he made no attempt to surrender to the commission issued against him; but compelled, through fear of exposure, to relinquish his political ambitions, he went on a leisurely tour through Scotland and Ireland, and in the month of July appeared at Keswick as ‘Colonel Hope’ to work the crowning mischief of his life.

There has been much conjecture with regard to the motives of Hadfield in his conduct to poor Mary Robinson. The explanation that he was actuated by pure animalism cannot be reconciled with our knowledge of his temperament or his methods, setting aside the initial objection that the sensualist, already cloyed by innumerable conquests, does not usually play a heavy stake to gratify a passing fancy. Nor is it credible that a man who had the heart to forsake two wives and five children could have been influenced by love. At first sight it seems probable that, just as the most reckless speculator often cuts a desperate loss, he wished to quit a hazardous career of fraud, and to live a life of quiet and seclusion in the humble home of the Beauty of Buttermere. Such foresight, however, was wholly inconsistent with the nature of the man; and even had he been capable of this reasoning, a moment’s reflection must have taught him that his recent ostentation had made retirement impossible. No; like that of every gambler, John Hadfield’s destiny was ruled by chance. Each stake he played was determined by the exigency of the moment; win or lose, he could not draw back nor rest, but must follow blindly the fortunes of the day to cover the losses of the past. Although not able to possess his Irish heiress, the tiny dowry of Mary Robinson, the poor little inn at Buttermere, seemed to lie at his mercy, and so he seized upon it and threw it—as he would have thrown his winnings of any shape or kind—into the pool. John Hadfield was a fatalist, and his motto, Quam minimum credula postero.

After the interview with Judge Hardinge, the adventurer became the sport of chance once more. When he took boat from Keswick on the evening of his clever escape, he steered his course to the southern extremity of Derwentwater. The cluster of little islands soon must have hid him from view, and no one thought of pursuit. Whatever may have been his impulse, there was no time to bid adieu to his bride. The path to safety lay far ahead over the high mountains. Having left the lake under the guidance of his faithful friend Burkett the fisherman, his course for a few miles was a comparatively easy one; but twilight must have fallen before he had traversed the gorge of Borrowdale, and his flight up the desolate Langstrath valley, which cleaves its way between Glaramara and Langdale Pike, was made in the darkness. By night the journey was a terrible one—over rocks and boulders, along a broken path winding its course beside the mountain torrent, up the face of the precipitous crags, and across the Stake, a tremendous pass high up in the hills, dividing northern lakeland from the south. From Langdale he struck west towards the coast, and after a journey of some fourteen miles reached the seaport of Ravenglass, on the estuary of the Esk. In this place he borrowed a seaman’s dress, and took refuge in a little sloop moored near the shore, and here he was recognised on the 25th of October. With a hue and cry against him, it was not safe to remain near the scene of his latest crime. Going by coach to Ulverstone, he continued his flight thence to Chester, where early in November he was seen at the theatre by an old acquaintance. Then he appears to have walked on to Northwich, and there for some time all trace of him was lost. An advertisement, describing his appearance and offering a reward of fifty pounds for his arrest, was published on the 8th of November and scattered broadcast over the country.

The next tidings of him came from Builth in Wales, where, on the 11th of November, he is said to have swindled a friend, who had no knowledge that he was the Keswick impostor, by the usual device of a bill of exchange. On the day following this performance, the London post brought the newspapers containing the description of his person, and he hurried away from the little town on the banks of the Wye in his flight towards the south. For a time he still baffled capture, but the pursuers steadily closed upon his track. On the 22nd of November the authorities at Swansea were informed that a man resembling the published account of the impostor had been seen in the mountains beyond Neath, and the next day Hadfield was run to earth at the ‘Lamb and Flag’ an old coaching inn about seventeen miles from the seaport town. At once he was lodged in Brecon Gaol, and in about a fortnight’s time the newspapers inform us that he was brought up to town by one Pearkes, robin-redbreast.

The romance of the case attracted a great crowd to Bow Street when the notorious swindler was brought up for examination by Sir Richard Ford on the 6th of December, and the investigation appears to have been difficult and tedious, for he appeared before the magistrate each Monday morning during the next three weeks. On one of these occasions his attire is described as “respectable, though he was quite en déshabillé,” his dress being a black coat and waistcoat, fustian breeches, and boots, while his hair was worn tied behind without powder, and he was permitted to appear unfettered by irons. Among other requests he asked for a private room at Tothill Fields Prison, as he objected to herd with common pickpockets, and he desired also to be sent as soon as possible to Newgate. Although his wishes were not granted, the solicitor for his bankruptcy made him an allowance of a guinea a week.

Most pathetic was the loyalty of the wife and benefactress whom he had used so cruelly. The poor woman, who was the mother of two children, travelled from Devonshire—a journey occupying a couple of days and a night—to spend Christmas Day in prison with her unfaithful husband. Numerous celebrities visited the court during the examination of the impostor. Amongst those who were noticed more than once was the Duke of Cumberland, drawn possibly by a fellow-feeling for the culprit, and Monk Lewis, on the look-out for fresh melodrama. At last all the charges against him were proved to the hilt—his offence against the law of bankruptcy, his repeated frauds on the Post Office, the two bills of exchange forged at Keswick. Still, although the iniquities of his past were fully revealed, and although a shoal of unpaid debts, fraudulently contracted, stood against his name, one circumstance alone was responsible for the great popular interest, and aroused also universal abhorrence. John Hadfield had been damned to everlasting fame as the seducer of Mary of Buttermere.

The extent of his baseness was disclosed in the course of the proceedings at Bow Street. It was found that the poor girl was destined to become the mother of his child, and that he was in debt to her father for a sum of £180. Indeed, the motive of his mock marriage became apparent, for he had endeavoured to persuade the trusting parents to allow him to sell the little inn on their behalf, and possibly, but for the interference of Justice Hardinge, he might have succeeded. Mary refused to prosecute him for bigamy, but she was induced to send a letter to Sir Richard Ford, which was read in court at Hadfield’s fourth examination.

“Sir,” she wrote, in the first agony of her cruel disenchantment, “the man whom I had the misfortune to marry, and who has ruined me and my aged and unhappy parents, always told me that he was the Honourable Colonel Hope, the next brother to the Earl of Hopetoun.”

Contemporary newspapers show that the Beauty of Buttermere became the heroine of the hour—she was the theme of ballads in the streets; her sad story was upon every lip; never was there so much sympathy for one of her humble birth.

Early in the new year, Hadfield, who received as much notice from the journals as Madame Récamier’s wonderful new bed, was committed to Newgate. With cool effrontery he dictated a letter to the press, asking the public to reserve judgment until his case was heard, and, as a wanton Tory newspaper declared, like Mr Fox and Mr Windham, he complained bitterly of misrepresentation. A long interval elapsed before he was sent north to stand his trial, and he did not reach Carlisle Gaol until the 25th of May, whither he was conveyed by an officer from Bow Street, who bore the appropriate name of Rivett.

At the next assizes, on the 15th of August, he was arraigned before Sir Alexander Thomson, nicknamed the ‘Staymaker’ owing to his habit of checking voluble witnesses—a figure to be held in dread by law-breakers of the northern counties, as the Luddite riots in a few years were to show. Hadfield was not lucky in his judge, for the man who, at a later date, could be harsh enough to consign to the hangman the poor little cripple boy Abraham Charlson, was not likely to extend mercy to a forger.

The prisoner stood charged upon three indictments:—

(a) With having drawn a bill of exchange upon John Gregory Crump for the sum of £20, under the false and fictitious name of the Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope.

(b) With having forged a bill of exchange for £30, drawn upon John Gregory Crump, and payable to Colonel Nathaniel Montgomery Moore.

Only the first two were capital offences.

James Scarlett, afterwards Baron Abinger, was counsel for the Crown, and Hadfield was defended by George Holroyd, who, as a judge, displayed masterly strength fourteen years later in directing the acquittal of Abraham Thornton. It is recorded by some aggrieved journalist that the crowd was so great it was difficult to take notes. Such odium had been aroused against the betrayer by the sad story of Mary of Buttermere, that ladies and gentlemen are said to have travelled twenty miles to be present at his condemnation. At eleven o’clock in the morning the prisoner was placed in the dock. The principal witnesses for the Crown were George Wood, landlord of the ‘Queen’s Head’ Keswick; the Rev. John Nicholson; and good-natured Mr Crump, who proved conclusively that he had assumed a false name and had forged a bill of exchange. A clerk in the house of Heathfield, Lardner and Co. (late Dennis), of Tiverton, called Quick, and a Colonel Parke, a friend of the real Colonel Alexander Hope, supplied other necessary evidence. One witness only—a lawyer named Newton, who had been employed by Hadfield in the summer of 1800 to recover an estate worth £100 a year, which he had inherited from his late wife—was summoned by the defence.

The prisoner bore himself in a calm and dignified manner, taking copious notes, and offering suggestions to his counsel. But his speech to the jury—for still, and for many years afterwards, a barrister was not allowed to address the court on behalf of his client, except on some technical point of law—shows that he anticipated his doom. “I feel some degree of satisfaction,” he declared, “in having my sufferings terminated, as I know they must be, by your verdict. For the space of nine months I have been dragged from prison to prison, and torn from place to place, subject to all the misrepresentation of calumny. Whatever will be my fate, I am content. It is the award of justice, impartially and virtuously administered. But I will solemnly declare that in all transactions I never intended to defraud or injure those persons whose names have appeared in the prosecution. This I will maintain to the last of my life.”

Very properly the judge would not accept the plea set up by the defence, that the financial position of the prisoner was a guarantee that no fraud had been meditated. At seven o’clock in the evening, after a consultation of ten minutes, the jury returned a verdict of guilty. Hadfield received the announcement with composure, and when he was brought up for sentence the next day—as was the barbarous custom of those times—he displayed equal coolness. Kneeling down, and looking steadily at the judge—who began to roll out a stream of sonorous platitudes—he did not speak a word.

From the first he seems to have been resigned to his fate, and gave no trouble to his gaolers, but spent his time quietly in writing letters and reading the Bible. Indeed, his whole behaviour was that of one utterly weary of existence, and he does not appear to have desired or expected a reprieve. All his life he had posed as a religious man, and he lent an eager ear to the ministrations of two local clergymen who attended him. Since there is no evidence that he was penitent, we may adopt the more rational supposition that he was playing for popular sympathy. It was seldom that he spoke of himself, and the only reference he made to his own case was that he had never sought to defraud either John Crump or Colonel Moore. A contemporary report states that “he was in considerable distress before he received a supply of money from his father. Afterwards he lived in great style, frequently making presents to his fellow-felons. In the gaol he was considered as a kind of emperor, being allowed to do what he pleased, and no one took offence at the air of superiority which he assumed.” Some days before his death he sent for an undertaker to measure him for a coffin, and gave his instructions to the man without any signs of agitation.

On the day of his sentence, Wordsworth and Coleridge, who were passing through Carlisle, sought an interview with him. While he received the former, as he received all who wished to see him, he denied himself to Coleridge, which makes it clear that he had read and resented the articles written by the latter to the Morning Post. Neither his father (said to have been an honest man in a small way of business) nor his sisters visited him. Also his faithful wife, since probably the state of her health or her poverty would not allow her to make the long journey from Devonshire to Carlisle, was unable to bid him farewell.

There has been much idle gossip concerning the conduct of Mary of Buttermere after her betrayer was condemned to die. Some have said that she was overwhelmed with grief, that she supplied him with money to make his prison life more comfortable, and that she was dissuaded with difficulty from coming to see him. Without accepting the alternative suggested, among others, by De Quincey, that she was quite indifferent to his fate, there are reasons for rejecting the other suppositions. It is impossible that the most amiable of women would continue to love a man who had shown so little affection towards her, and whose hard heart did not shrink from crowning her betrayal by the ruin of her parents. The story of the gift of money, also, seems unlikely, as her father had been impoverished by the swindler, and the fund for his relief, raised by a subscription in London—which did not receive too generous support—had not yet been sent to Buttermere. And, finally—alas! for romance—since the moral code even of the dawn of the nineteenth century did not allow Mary Robinson to usurp the duties, more than the name, of wife to the prisoner, it is incredible that a modest woman would wish to renew the memories of her unhallowed union by an interview with the man whose association with her had brought only dishonour.

The execution of John Hadfield took place on Saturday, the 3rd of September. Rising at six, he spent half an hour in the prison chapel. At ten o’clock his fetters were removed, and he was occupied most of the morning in prayer with the two clergymen, who, we are told, drank coffee with him. The authorities do not seem to have had any fear that he would attempt his life, for they allowed him the use of a razor. About the hour of three he made a hearty meal, at which his gaoler kept him company. In those times there was a tradition in Carlisle that a reprieve had once arrived in the afternoon for a criminal who was hanged in the morning. Thus, nearly three weeks had been allowed to elapse between Hadfield’s trial and execution—in order that there might be plenty of time for a communication from London—and even on the last day the fatal hour was postponed until the mail from the south was delivered.

Although it had been the opinion of the town that he would not suffer the extreme penalty, the Saturday post, which arrived early in the afternoon, brought no pardon. At half-past three he was taken to the turnkey’s lodge, where he was pinioned, his bonds being tied loosely at his request. Here he showed a great desire to see the executioner—who, oddly enough, hailed from Dumfries, the town which the real Colonel Hope had represented in Parliament—and gave him half a crown, the only money he possessed. It was four o’clock when the procession started from the prison, in the midst of an immense concourse of spectators. Hadfield occupied a post-chaise, ordered from a local inn, and a body of yeomanry surrounded the carriage. Without avail he petitioned for the windows to be closed. The gallows—two posts fixed in the ground, about six feet apart, with a bar laid across them—had been erected during the previous night on an island, known locally as the Sands, formed by the river Eden on the south side of the town beyond the Scotch gate, and between the two bridges. A small dung-cart, boarded over, stood beneath the cross-bar, Tyburn fashion, in lieu of the new drop. As soon as it met his eyes, the condemned man asked if this was where he was to die, and upon being answered in the affirmative, he exclaimed, “Oh, happy sight! I see it with pleasure!”

John Hadfield met his fate with the heroism which great criminals invariably exhibit. Aged since his arrest, for he had been in prison nearly ten months, he looked at least fifty. In every respect he had become very different from the sprightly ‘Colonel Hope’ of the previous summer. When he alighted from the carriage at the shambles he seemed faint and exhausted, but this weakness was due to physical infirmity and not to fear. A feeble and piteous smile occasionally played over his white face. Yet none of the arrogance of pseudo-martyrdom marked his bearing, but his quiet resignation and reverent aspect won the pity of the vast crowd, bitterly hostile to him a short while before. It was remarked that he had still an air of distinction, and was neatly dressed; his jacket and silk waistcoat were black, and he wore fustian breeches and white thread stockings. Just before he was turned off he was heard to murmur, “My spirit is strong, though my body is weak.” We are told that he seemed to die in a moment without any struggle, and did not even raise his hands. An hour and a half later he was lying in a grave in St Mary’s Churchyard, for his request that he should be buried at Burgh-on-Sands was disregarded out of consideration for the pious memory of Edward I.

Were it not for his dastardly treatment of the women who gave him their love, the fate of John Hadfield would seem hard. He was not hanged for swindling John Crump out of £50—which indeed the value of his carriage and its contents, left behind at Keswick, would have more than cancelled—but for attempting to swindle him under the fictitious name of Colonel Hope. Thus by assuming the character of another man he became entangled in one of the fine-spun meshes of the law, and was held guilty of an intention to defraud. Our great-grandfathers, who, with the assistance of Sir Alexander Thomson, could hang an old woman for stealing a few potatoes in a bread riot, thought it expedient also to kill a man who obtained £50 by telling a lie.

There is much truth in the proposition, which has been stated with such inaccuracy by De Quincey, that, but for his heartless conduct to Mary of Buttermere, John Hadfield might have escaped the gallows. It is probable that Mr Crump would have been loth to advertise himself as a credulous dupe, unless he had thought that it was his duty to give evidence against a heartless seducer. Parson Nicholson, also, would have had no reason to depart from the attitude he had taken up before he was aware that he had officiated at a bigamous marriage.

Mary of Buttermere.

Sketched from Life July 1800

Notwithstanding that his career was marked by so many villainies, John Hadfield is in many respects an admirable rascal. Setting aside his behaviour towards women—if that is possible even for a moment—he played a part which required infinite tact and magnificent courage. Although occasionally he robbed a man who was not rich, yet until the crime of Buttermere such an occurrence was in the nature of an accident, and was rather the fault of the wronged one for putting himself in the path. Like Claude Duval, the Keswick impostor was in the main merciful towards the impecunious; not indeed for conscience sake, but because he believed that his rightful place was among the wealthy. A hunter of big game, dukes, members of Parliament, and prosperous merchants were his proper prey! And the man who could maintain a decent social position for twenty years, in spite of the heavy handicaps of poverty and lowly birth, and could compel those whom one of his class should have met only as a lackey to receive him on equal terms, was more than a common trickster. An insatiable love of pleasure robbed him of all foresight and prudence, or such a consummate liar might have climbed high. Even as he was—had an earl been his father—he might have gone down to posterity as one of the greatest diplomats the world has ever seen.

The career of Samuel Denmore Hayward, hanged at the Old Bailey for forgery on the 27th of November 1821, a picture of whom, dancing with ‘a lady of quality’ ornaments one version of the Newgate Calendar, is similar to that of the Keswick impostor. Both men seem to have had culture and address; each was distinguished for his social ambition, and both were famous for gallantry. With the exception of James Maclean, illustrious as the friend of Lady Caroline Petersham and little Miss Ashe, none of our rogues—not even William Parsons, the baronet’s son—have been such fine gentlemen.

Mary Robinson’s child was born early in June 1803, but did not survive its birth. Who can tell whether she wept over it; or if the words that came from the lips of her parents, when they heard of the death of her betrayer, did not seem a fitting epitaph—“God be thanked!” To avoid the gaze of curious travellers the unhappy girl was obliged for a period to leave her native place, and the shadow that had fallen upon her young life was not lifted for many years. Yet, brighter days were in store for the Maid of Buttermere. In the course of time she was wooed and won by a Cumberland ‘statesman’ named Richard Harrison, to whom she was married at Brigham Church in the May of 1808. Two of her sons, born at Buttermere, where she resided for a period after her marriage, died in infancy; but when her husband took her to his farm at ‘Todcrofts’ Caldbeck, beyond Skiddaw—where the Harrison family had been ‘statesmen’ for generations—she became the mother of five more children, three daughters and two sons, all of whom grew up and married. In later years it was remarked that her girls were as pretty as Mary had been herself when she was the Maid of the Inn. There is reason to believe that the rest of her career was happy and prosperous, and she lived tranquilly in her home at ‘Todcrofts’ where she died in her fifty-ninth year. The tombstone records that she passed away on the 7th of February 1837, while her husband survived her for sixteen years. Both rest in the churchyard that holds the ashes of immortal John Peel, who followed Richard Harrison to ‘the happy hunting-fields’ within a few months.

(I am indebted to the kindness of Mr Richard Greenup, of Beckstones, Caldbeck, one of Mary Robinson’s few surviving grandchildren, for much interesting information.)