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- Herausgeber: Krill Press
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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HISTORICAL MYSTERIES
Andrew Lang
DOSSIER PRESS
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This book is a work of nonfiction and is intended to be factually accurate.
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Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Lang
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
I: THE CASE OF ELIZABETH CANNING
II: THE MURDER OF ESCOVEDO
III: THE CAMPDEN MYSTERY: I
II
IV: THE CASE OF ALLAN BRECK
V: THE CARDINAL’S NECKLACE
VI: THE MYSTERY OF KASPAR HAUSER: THE CHILD OF EUROPE
VII: THE GOWRIE CONSPIRACY
VIII: THE STRANGE CASE OF DANIEL DUNGLAS HOME
IX: THE CASE OF CAPTAIN GREEN
X: QUEEN OGLETHORPE
XI: THE CHEVALIER D’ÉON
XII: SAINT-GERMAIN THE DEATHLESS
XIII: THE MYSTERY OF THE KIRKS
XIV: THE END OF JEANNE DE LA MOTTE
Historical Mysteries
By
Andrew Lang
Historical Mysteries
Published by Dossier Press
New York City, NY
First published circa 1912
Copyright © Dossier Press, 2015
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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PREFACE
THESE ESSAYS, WHICH APPEARED, WITH two exceptions, in The Cornhill Magazine, 1904, have been revised, and some alterations, corrections, and additions have been made in them. ‘Queen Oglethorpe,’ in which Miss Alice Shield collaborated, doing most of the research, is reprinted by the courteous permission of the editor, from Blackwood’s Magazine. A note on ‘The End of Jeanne de la Motte,’ has been added as a sequel to ‘The Cardinal’s Necklace:’ it appeared in The Morning Post, the Editor kindly granting leave to republish.
The author wishes to acknowledge the able assistance of Miss E.M. Thompson, who made researches for him in the British Museum and at the Record Office.
PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH CANNING.
I: THE CASE OF ELIZABETH CANNING
‘EVERYONE HAS HEARD OF THE case of Elizabeth Canning,’ writes Mr. John Paget; and till recently I agreed with him. But five or six years ago the case of Elizabeth Canning repeated itself in a marvellous way, and then but few persons of my acquaintance had ever heard of that mysterious girl.
The recent case, so strange a parallel to that of 1753, was this: In Cheshire lived a young woman whose business in life was that of a daily governess. One Sunday her family went to church in the morning, but she set off to skate, by herself, on a lonely pond. She was never seen of or heard of again till, in the dusk of the following Thursday, her hat was found outside of the door of her father’s farmyard. Her friend discovered her further off in a most miserable condition, weak, emaciated, and with her skull fractured. Her explanation was that a man had seized her on the ice, or as she left it, had dragged her across the fields, and had shut her up in a house, from which she escaped, crawled to her father’s home, and, when she found herself unable to go further, tossed her hat towards the farm door. Neither such a man as she described, nor the house in which she had been imprisoned, was ever found. The girl’s character was excellent, nothing pointed to her condition being the result d’une orgie échevelée; but the neighbours, of course, made insinuations, and a lady of my acquaintance, who visited the girl’s mother, found herself almost alone in placing a charitable construction on the adventure.
My theory was that the girl had fractured her skull by a fall on the ice, had crawled to and lain in an unvisited outhouse of the farm, and on that Thursday night was wandering out, in a distraught state, not wandering in. Her story would be the result of her cerebral condition—concussion of the brain.
It was while people were discussing this affair, a second edition of Elizabeth Canning’s, that one found out how forgotten was Elizabeth.
On January 1, 1753, Elizabeth was in her eighteenth year. She was the daughter of a carpenter in Aldermanbury; her mother, who had four younger children, was a widow, very poor, and of the best character. Elizabeth was short of stature, ruddy of complexion, and, owing to an accident in childhood—the falling of a garret ceiling on her head—was subject to fits of unconsciousness on any alarm. On learning this, the mind flies to hysteria, with its accompaniment of diabolical falseness, for an explanation of her adventure. But hysteria does not serve the turn. The girl had been for years in service with a Mr. Wintlebury, a publican. He gave her the highest character for honesty and reserve; she did not attend to the customers at the bar, she kept to herself, she had no young man, and she only left Wintlebury’s for a better place—at a Mr. Lyon’s, a near neighbour of her mother. Lyon, a carpenter, corroborated, as did all the neighbours, on the points of modesty and honesty.
On New Year’s Day, 1753, Elizabeth wore her holiday best—’a purple masquerade stuff gown, a white handkerchief and apron, a black quilted petticoat, a green undercoat, black shoes, blue stockings, a white shaving hat with green ribbons,’ and ‘a very ruddy colour.’ She had her wages, or Christmas-box, in her pocket—a golden half guinea in a little box, with three shillings and a few coppers, including a farthing. The pence she gave to three of her little brothers and sisters. One boy, however, ‘had huffed her,’ and got no penny. But she relented, and, when she went out, bought for him a mince-pie. Her visit of New Year’s Day was to her maternal aunt, Mrs. Colley, living at Saltpetre Bank (Dock Street, behind the London Dock). She meant to return in time to buy, with her mother, a cloak, but the Colleys had a cold early dinner, and kept her till about 9 p.m. for a hot supper.
Already, at 9 p.m., Mr. Lyon had sent to Mrs. Canning’s to make inquiries; the girl was not wont to stay out so late on a holiday. About 9 p.m., in fact, the two Colleys were escorting Elizabeth as far as Houndsditch.
The rest is mystery!
On Elizabeth’s non-arrival Mrs. Canning sent her lad, a little after ten, to the Colleys, who were in bed. The night was passed in anxious search, to no avail; by six in the morning inquiries were vainly renewed. Weeks went by. Mrs. Canning, aided by the neighbours, advertised in the papers, mentioning a report of shrieks heard from a coach in Bishopsgate Street in the small morning hours of January 2. The mother, a Churchwoman, had prayers put up at several churches, and at Mr. Wesley’s chapel. She also consulted a cheap ‘wise man,’ whose aspect alarmed her, but whose wisdom took the form of advising her to go on advertising. It was later rumoured that he said the girl was in the hands of ‘an old black woman,’ and would return; but Mrs. Canning admitted nothing of all this. Sceptics, with their usual acuteness, maintained that the disappearance was meant to stimulate charity, and that the mother knew where the daughter was; or, on the other hand, the daughter had fled to give birth to a child in secret, or for another reason incident to ‘the young and gay,’ as one of the counsel employed euphemistically put the case. The medical evidence did not confirm these suggestions. Details are needless, but these theories were certainly improbable. The character of La Pucelle was not more stainless than Elizabeth’s.
About 10.15 p.m. on January 29, on the Eve of the Martyrdom of King Charles—as the poor women dated it—Mrs. Canning was on her knees, praying—so said her apprentice—that she might behold even if it were but an apparition of her daughter; such was her daily prayer. It was as in Wordsworth’s Affliction of Margaret:
I look for ghosts, but none will force Their way to me; ‘tis falsely said That ever there was intercourse Between the living and the dead!
At that moment there was a sound at the door. The ‘prentice opened it, and was aghast; the mother’s prayer seemed to be answered, for there, bleeding, bowed double, livid, ragged, with a cloth about her head, and clad in a dirty dressing-jacket and a filthy draggled petticoat, was Elizabeth Canning. She had neglected her little brother that ‘huffed her’ on New Year’s Day, but she had been thinking of him, and now she gave her mother for him all that she had—the farthing!
You see that I am on Elizabeth’s side: that farthing touch, and another, with the piety, honesty, loyalty, and even the superstition of her people, have made me her partisan, as was Mr. Henry Fielding, the well-known magistrate.
Some friends were sent for, Mrs. Myers, Miss Polly Lyon, daughter of her master, and others; while busybodies flocked in, among them one Robert Scarrat, a toiler, who had no personal knowledge of Elizabeth. A little wine was mulled; the girl could not swallow it, emaciated as she was. Her condition need not be described in detail, but she was very near her death, as the medical evidence, and that of a midwife (who consoled Mrs. Canning on one point), proves beyond possibility of cavil.
The girl told her story; but what did she tell? Mr. Austin Dobson, in The Dictionary of National Biography, says that her tale ‘gradually took shape under the questions of sympathising neighbours,’ and certainly, on some points, she gave affirmative answers to leading questions asked by Robert Scarrat. The difficulty is that the neighbours’ accounts of what Elizabeth said in her woful condition were given when the girl was tried for perjury in April-May 1754. We must therefore make allowance for friendly bias and mythopœic memory. On January 31, 1753, Elizabeth made her statement before Alderman Chitty, and the chief count against her is that what she told Chitty did not tally with what the neighbours, in May 1754, swore that she told them when she came home on January 29, 1753. This point is overlooked by Mr. Paget in his essay on the subject.
On the other hand, by 1754 the town was divided into two factions, believers and disbelievers in Elizabeth; and Chitty was then a disbeliever. Chitty took but a few notes on January 31, 1753. ‘I did not make it so distinct as I could wish, not thinking it could be the subject of so much inquiry,’ he admitted in 1754. Moreover, the notes which he then produced were not the notes which he made at the time, ‘but what I took since from that paper I took then’ (January 31, 1753) ‘of hers and other persons that were brought before me.’ This is not intelligible, and is not satisfactory. If Elizabeth handed in a paper, Chitty should have produced it in 1754. If he took notes of the evidence, why did he not produce the original notes?
These notes, made when, and from what source, is vague, bear that Elizabeth’s tale was this: At a dead wall by Bedlam, in Moorfields, about ten p.m., on January 1, 1753, two men stripped her of gown, apron, and hat, robbed her of thirteen shillings and sixpence, ‘struck her, stunned her, and pushed her along Bishopsgate Street.’ She lost consciousness—one of her ‘fits’—and recovered herself (near Enfield Wash). Here she was taken to a house, later said to be ‘Mother Wells’s,’ where ‘several persons’ were. Chitty, unluckily, does not say what sort of persons, and on that point all turns. She was asked ‘to do as they did,’ ‘a woman forced her upstairs into a room, and cut the lace of her stays,’ told her there were bread and water in the room, and that her throat would be cut if she came out. The door was locked on her. (There was no lock; the door was merely bolted.) She lived on fragments of a quartern loaf and water ‘in a pitcher,’ with the mince-pie bought for her naughty little brother. She escaped about four in the afternoon of January 29. In the room were ‘an old stool or two, an old picture over the chimney,’ two windows, an old table, and so on. She forced a pane in a window, ‘and got out on a small shed of boards or penthouse,’ and so slid to the ground. She did not say, the alderman added, that there was any hay in the room. Of bread there were ‘four or five’ or ‘five or six pieces.’ ‘She never mentioned the name of Wells.’ Some one else did that at a venture. ‘She said she could tell nothing of the woman’s name.’ The alderman issued a warrant against this Mrs. Wells, apparently on newspaper suggestion.
The chief points against Elizabeth were that, when Wells’s place was examined, there was no penthouse to aid an escape, and no old picture. But, under a wretched kind of bed, supporting the thing, was a picture, on wood, of a Crown. Madam Wells had at one time used this loyal emblem as a sign, she keeping a very ill-famed house of call. But, in December 1745, when certain Highland and Lowland gentlemen were accompanying bonny Prince Charlie towards the metropolis, Mrs. Wells removed into a room the picture of the Crown, as being apt to cause political emotions. This sign may have been ‘the old picture.’ As to hay, there was hay in the room later searched; but penthouse there was none.
That is the worst point in the alderman’s notes, of whatever value these enigmatic documents may be held.
One Nash, butler to the Goldsmiths’ Company, was present at the examination before Chitty on January 31, 1753. He averred, in May 1754, what Chitty did not, that Elizabeth spoke of the place of her imprisonment as ‘a little, square, darkish room,’ with ‘a few old pictures.’ Here the one old picture of the notes is better evidence, if the notes are evidence, than Nash’s memory. But I find that he was harping on ‘a few old pictures’ as early as March 1753. Elizabeth said she hurt her ear in getting out of the window, and, in fact, it was freshly cut and bleeding when she arrived at home.
All this of Nash is, so far, the better evidence, as next day, February 1, 1753, when a most tumultuous popular investigation of the supposed house of captivity was made, he says that he and others, finding the dungeon not to be square, small, and darkish, but a long, narrow slit of a loft, half full of hay, expressed disbelief. Yet it was proved that he went on suggesting to Lyon, Elizabeth’s master, that people should give money to Elizabeth, and ‘wished him success.’ The proof was a letter of his, dated February 10, 1753. Also, Nash, and two like-minded friends, hearing Elizabeth perjure herself, as they thought, at the trial of Mrs. Wells (whom Elizabeth never mentioned to Chitty), did not give evidence against her—on the most absurdly flimsy excuses. One man was so horrified that, in place of denouncing the perjury, he fled incontinent! Another went to a dinner, and Nash to Goldsmiths’ Hall, to his duties as butler. Such was then the vigour of their scepticism.
On the other hand, at the trial in 1754 the neighbours reported Elizabeth’s tale as told on the night when she came home, more dead than alive. Mrs. Myers had known Elizabeth for eleven years, ‘a very sober, honest girl as any in England.’ Mrs. Myers found her livid, her fingers ‘stood crooked;’ Mrs. Canning, Mrs. Woodward, and Polly Lyon were then present, and Mrs. Myers knelt beside Elizabeth to hear her story. It was as Chitty gave it, till the point where she was carried into a house. The ‘several persons’ there, she said, were ‘an elderly woman and two young ones.’ Her stays were cut by the old woman. She was then thrust upstairs into a room, wherein was hay, a pitcher of water, and bread in pieces. Bread may have been brought in, water too, while she slept, a point never noted in the trials. She ‘heard the name of Mother Wills, or Wells, mentioned.’
Now Scarrat, in 1754, said that he, being present on January 29, 1753, and hearing of the house, ‘offered to bet a guinea to a farthing that it was Mother Wells’s.’ But Mrs. Myers believed that Elizabeth had mentioned hearing that name earlier; and Mrs. Myers must have heard Scarrat, if he suggested it, before Elizabeth named it. The point is uncertain.
Mrs. Woodward was in Mrs. Canning’s room a quarter of an hour after Elizabeth’s arrival. The girl said she was almost starved to death in a house on the Hertfordshire road, which she knew by seeing the Hertford coach, with which she was familiar, go by. The woman who cut her stays was ‘a tall, black, swarthy woman.’ Scarrat said ‘that was not Mrs. Wells,’ which was fair on Scarrat’s part. Elizabeth described the two young women as being one fair, the other dark; so Scarrat swore. Wintlebury, her old master, and several others corroborated.
If these accounts by Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Woodward, Scarrat, Wintlebury, and others are trustworthy, then Elizabeth Canning’s narrative is true, for she found the two girls, the tall, swarthy woman, the hay, and the broken water-pitcher, and almost everything else that she had mentioned on January 29, at Mother Wells’s house when it was visited on February 1. But we must remember that most accounts of what Elizabeth said on January 29 and on January 31 are fifteen months after date, and are biassed on both sides.
To Mother Wells’s the girl was taken on February 1, in what a company! The coach, or cab, was crammed full, some friends walked, several curious citizens rode, and, when Elizabeth arrived at the house, Nash, the butler, and other busybodies had made a descent on it. The officer with the warrant was already there. Lyon, Aldridge, and Hague were with Nash in a cab, and were met by others ‘riding hard,’ who had seized the people found at Mrs. Wells’s. There was a rabble of persons on foot and on horse about the door.
On entering the doorway the parlour was to your left, the house staircase in front of you, on your right the kitchen, at the further end thereof was a door, and, when that was opened, a flight of stairs led to a long slit of a loft which, Nash later declared, did not answer to Elizabeth’s description, especially as there was hay, and, before Chitty, Elizabeth had mentioned none. There was a filthy kind of bed, on which now slept a labourer and his wife, Fortune and Judith Natus. Nash kept talking about the hay, and one Adamson rode to meet Elizabeth, and came back saying that she said there was hay. By Adamson’s account he only asked her, ‘What kind of place was it?’ and she said, ‘A wild kind of place with hay in it,’ as in the neighbours’ version of her first narrative. Mrs. Myers, who was in the coach, corroborated Adamson.
The point of the sceptics was that till Adamson rode back to her on her way to Wells’s house she had never mentioned hay. They argued that Adamson had asked her, ‘Was there hay in the room?’ and that she, taking the hint, had said ‘Yes!’ By May 1754 Adamson and Mrs. Myers, who was in the cab with Elizabeth, would believe that Adamson had asked ‘What kind of place is it?’ and that Elizabeth then spoke, without suggestion, of the hay. The point would be crucial, but nobody in 1754 appears to have remembered that on February 21, three weeks after the event, at the trial of Mother Wells, Adamson had given exactly the same evidence as in May 1754. ‘I returned to meet her, and asked her about the room. She described the room with some hay in it ... an odd sort of an empty room.’
Arriving at Mother Wells’s, Elizabeth, very faint, was borne in and set on a dresser in the kitchen. Why did she not at once say, ‘My room was up the stairs, beyond the door at the further end of the room’? I know not, unless she was dazed, as she well might be. Next she, with a mob of the curious, was carried into the parlour, where were all the inmates of the house. She paid no attention to Mrs. Wells, but at once picked out a tall old woman huddled over the fire smoking a pipe. She did this, by the sceptical Nash’s evidence, instantly and without hesitation. The old woman rose. She was ‘tall and swarthy,’ a gipsy, and according to all witnesses inconceivably hideous, her underlip was ‘the size of a small child’s arm,’ and she was marked with some disease. ‘Pray look at this face,’ she said; ‘I think God never made such another.’ She was named Mary Squires. She added that on January 1 she was in Dorset—’at Abbotsbury,’ said her son George, who was present.
In 1754 thirty-six people testified to Mary Squires’s presence in Dorset, or to meeting her on her way to London, while twenty-seven, at Enfield alone, swore as positively that they had seen her and her daughter at or near Mrs. Wells’s, and had conversed with her, between December 18, 1752, and the middle of January. Some of the Enfield witnesses were of a more prosperous and educated class than the witnesses for the gipsy. Many, on both sides, had been eager to swear, indeed, many had made affidavits as early as March 1753.
This business of the cross-swearing is absolutely inexplicable; on both sides the same entire certainty was exhibited, as a rule, yet the woman was unmistakable, as she justly remarked. The gipsy, at all events, had her alibi ready at once; her denial was as prompt and unhesitating as Elizabeth’s accusation. But, if guilty, she had enjoyed plenty of time since the girl’s escape to think out her line of defence. If guilty, it was wiser to allege an alibi than to decamp when Elizabeth made off, for she could not hope to escape pursuit. George Squires, her son, so prompt with his ‘at Abbotsbury on January 1,’ could not tell, in May 1754, where he had passed the Christmas Day before that New Year’s Day, and Christmas is a notable day. Elizabeth also recognised in Lucy Squires, the gipsy’s daughter, and in Virtue Hall, the two girls, dark and fair, who were present when her stays were cut.
After the recognition, Elizabeth was carried through the house, and, according to Nash, in the loft up the stairs from the kitchen she said, in answer to his question, ‘This is the room, for here is the hay I lay upon, but I think there is more of it.’ She also identified the pitcher with the broken mouth, which she certainly mentioned to Chitty, as that which held her allowance of water. A chest, or nest, of drawers she declared that she did not remember. An attempt was made to suggest that one of her party brought the pitcher in with him to confirm her account. This attempt failed; but that she had mentioned the pitcher was admitted. Mrs. Myers, in May 1754, quoted Elizabeth’s words as to there being more hay exactly in the terms of Nash. Mrs. Myers was present in the loft, and added that Elizabeth ‘took her foot, and put the hay away, and showed the gentlemen two holes, and said they were in the room when she was in it before.’
On February 7, Elizabeth swore to her narrative, formally made out by her solicitor, before the author of Tom Jones, and Mr. Fielding, by threats of prosecution if she kept on shuffling, induced Virtue Hall to corroborate, after she had vexed his kind heart by endless prevarications. But as Virtue Hall was later ‘got at’ by the other side and recanted, we leave her evidence on one side.
On February 21-26 Mary Squires was tried at the Old Bailey and condemned to death, Virtue Hall corroborating Elizabeth. Mrs. Wells was branded on the hand. Three Dorset witnesses to the gipsy’s alibi were not credited, and Fortune and Judith Natus did not appear in court, though subpœnaed. In 1754 they accounted for this by their fear of the mob. The three sceptics, Nash, Hague, and Aldridge, held their peace. The Lord Mayor, Sir Crispin Gascoyne, who was on the bench at the trial of Squires and Wells, was dissatisfied. He secured many affidavits which seem unimpeachable, for the gipsy’s alibi, and so did the other side for her presence at Enfield. He also got at Virtue Hall, or rather a sceptical Dr. Hill got at her and handed her over to Gascoyne. She, as we saw, recanted. George Squires, the gipsy’s son, with an attorney, worked up the evidence for the gipsy’s alibi; she received a free pardon, and on April 29, 1754, there began the trial of Elizabeth Canning for ‘wilful and corrupt perjury.’
Mr. Davy, opening for the Crown, charitably suggested that Elizabeth had absconded ‘to preserve her character,’ and had told a romantic story to raise money! ‘And, having by this time subdued all remains of virtue, she preferred the offer of money, though she must wade through innocent blood’—that of the gipsy—’to attain it.’
These hypotheses are absurd; her character certainly needed no saving.
Mr. Davy then remarked on the gross improbabilities of the story of Elizabeth. They are glaring, but, as Fielding said, so are the improbabilities of the facts. Somebody had stripped and starved and imprisoned the girl; that is absolutely certain. She was brought ‘within an inch of her life.’ She did not suffer all these things to excite compassion; that is out of the question. Had she plunged into ‘gaiety’ on New Year’s night, the consequences would be other than instant starvation. They might have been ‘guilty splendour.’ She had been most abominably misused, and it was to the last degree improbable that any mortal should so misuse an honest quiet lass. But the grossly improbable had certainly occurred. It was next to impossible that, in 1856, a respectable-looking man should offer to take a little boy for a drive, and that, six weeks later, the naked body of the boy, who had been starved to death, should be found in a ditch near Acton. But the facts occurred. To Squires and Wells a rosy girl might prove more valuable than a little boy to anybody.
That Elizabeth could live for a month on a loaf did not surprise Mrs. Canning. ‘When things were very hard with her,’ said Mrs. Canning, ‘the child had lived on half a roll a day.’ This is that other touch which, with the story of the farthing, helps to make me a partisan of Elizabeth.
Mr. Davy said that on January 31, before Chitty, Elizabeth ‘did not pretend to certainty’ about Mrs. Wells. She never did at any time; she neither knew, nor affected to know, anything about Mrs. Wells. She had only seen a tall, swarthy woman, a dark girl, and a fair girl, whom she recognised in the gipsy, her daughter, and Virtue Hall. Mr. Davy preferred Nash’s evidence to that of all the neighbours, and even to Chitty’s notes, when Nash and Chitty varied. Mr. Davy said that Nash ‘withdrew his assistance’ after the visit to the house. It was proved, we saw, by his letter of February 10, that he did not withdraw his assistance, which, like that of Mr. Tracy Tupman, took the form of hoping that other people would subscribe money.
Certain varieties of statement as to the time when Elizabeth finished the water proved fatal, and the penthouse of Chitty’s notes was played for all that it was worth. It was alleged, as matter of fact, that Adamson brought the broken pitcher into the house—this by Mr. Willes, later Solicitor-General. Now, for three months before February 1, Adamson had not seen Elizabeth Canning, nor had he heard her description of the room. He was riding, and could not carry a gallon pitcher in his coat pocket. He could not carry it in John Gilpin’s fashion; and, whatever else was denied, it was admitted that from the first Elizabeth mentioned the pitcher. The statement of Mr. Willes, that Adamson brought in the pitcher, was one that no barrister should have made.
The Natus pair were now brought in to say that they slept in the loft during the time that Elizabeth said she was there. As a reason for not giving evidence at the gipsy’s trial, they alleged fear of the mob, as we saw.
The witnesses for the gipsy’s alibi were called. Mrs. Hopkins, of South Parrot, Dorset, was not very confident that she had seen the gipsy at her inn on December 29, 1752. She, if Mary Squires she was, told Mrs. Hopkins that they ‘sold hardware’; in fact they sold soft ware, smuggled nankin and other stuffs. Alice Farnham recognised the gipsies, whom she had seen after New Christmas (new style). ‘They said they would come to see me after the Old Christmas holidays’—which is unlikely!
Lucy Squires, the daughter, was clean, well dressed, and, teste Mr. Davy, she was pretty. She was not called.
George Squires was next examined. He had been well tutored as to what he did after December 29, but could not tell where he was on Christmas Day, four days earlier! His memory only existed from the hour when he arrived at Mrs. Hopkins’s inn, at South Parrot (December 29, 1752). His own counsel must have been amazed; but in cross-examination Mr. Morton showed that, for all time up to December 29, 1752, George’s memory was an utter blank. On January 1, George dined, he said, at Abbotsbury, with one Clarke, a sweetheart of his sister. They had two boiled fowls. But Clarke said they had only ‘a part of a fowl between them.’ There was such a discrepancy of evidence here as to time on the part of one of the gipsy’s witnesses that Mr. Davy told him he was drunk. Yet he persisted that he kissed Lucy Squires, at an hour when Lucy, to suit the case, could not have been present.
There was documentary evidence—a letter of Lucy to Clarke, from Basingstoke. It was dated January 18, 1753, but the figure after 175 was torn off the postmark; that was the only injury to the letter. Had there not been a battalion of as hard swearers to the presence of the gipsies at Enfield in December-January 1752-1753 as there was to their absence from Enfield and to their presence in Dorset, the gipsy party would have proved their case. As matters stand, we must remember that the Dorset evidence had been organised by a solicitor, that the route was one which the Squires party habitually used; that by the confession of Mr. Davy, the prosecuting counsel, the Squires family ‘stood in’ with the smuggling interest, compact and unscrupulous. They were ‘gipsies dealing in smuggled goods,’ said Mr. Davy. Again, while George Squires had been taught his lesson like a parrot, the prosecution dared not call his sister, pretty Lucy, as a witness. They said that George was ‘stupid,’ but that Lucy was much more dull. The more stupid was George, the less unlikely was he to kidnap Elizabeth Canning as prize of war after robbing her. But she did not swear to him.
As to the presence of the gipsies at Mrs. Wells’s, at Enfield, as early as January 19, Mrs. Howard swore. Her husband lived on his own property, and her house, with a well, which she allowed the villagers to use, was opposite Mrs. Wells’s. Mrs. Howard had seen the gipsy girl at the well, and been curtsied to by her, at a distance of three or four yards. She had heard earlier from her servants of the arrival of the gipsies, and had ‘looked wishfully,’ or earnestly, at them. She was not so positive as to Mary Squires, whom she had seen at a greater distance.
William Headland swore to seeing Mary Squires on January 9; he fixed the date by a market-day. Also, on the 12th, he saw her in Mrs. Wells’s house. He picked up a blood-stained piece of thin lead under the window from which Elizabeth escaped, and took it to his mother, who corroborated. Samuel Story, who knew Mary Squires from of old, saw her on December 22 in White Webs Lane, so called from the old house noted as a meeting-place of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators. Story was a retired clockmaker. Mr. Smith, a tenant of the Duke of Portland, saw Mary Squires in his cowhouse on December 15, 1752. She wanted leave to camp there, as she had done in other years. The gipsies then lost a pony. Several witnesses swore to this, and one swore to conversations with Mary Squires about the pony. She gave her name, and said that it was on the clog by which the beast was tethered.
Loomworth Dane swore to Mary Squires, whom he had observed so closely as to note a great hole in the heel of her stocking. The date was Old Christmas Day, 1752. Dane was landlord of the Bell, at Enfield, and a maker of horse-collars. Sarah Star, whose house was next to Mrs. Wells’s, saw Mary Squires in her own house on January 18 or 19; Mary wanted to buy pork, and hung about for three-quarters of an hour, offering to tell fortunes. Mrs. Star got rid of her by a present of some pig’s flesh. She fixed the date by a document which she had given to Miles, a solicitor; it was not in court. James Pratt swore to talk with Mary Squires before Christmas as to her lost pony; she had then a man with her. He was asked to look round the court to see if the man was present, whereon George Squires ducked his head, and was rebuked by the prosecuting counsel, Mr. Davy, who said ‘It does not look well.’ It was hardly the demeanour of conscious innocence. But Pratt would not swear to him. Mary Squires told Pratt that she would consult ‘a cunning-man about the lost pony,’ and Mr. Nares foolishly asked why a cunning woman should consult a cunning man? ‘One black fellow will often tell you that he can and does something magical, whilst all the time he is perfectly aware that he cannot, and yet firmly believes that some other man can really do it.’ So write Messrs. Spencer and Gillen in their excellent book on The Native Tribes of Central Australia (p. 130); and so it was with the gipsy, who, though a ‘wise woman,’ believed in a ‘wise man.’
This witness (Pratt) said, with great emphasis: ‘Upon my oath, that is the woman.... I am positive in my conscience, and I am sure that it was no other woman; this is the woman I saw at that blessed time.’ Moreover, she gave him her name as the name on the clog of the lost pony. The affair of the pony was just what would impress a man like Pratt, and, on the gipsies’ own version, they had no pony with them in their march from Dorset.
All this occurred before Pratt left his house, which was on December 22, ‘three days before New Christmas.’ He then left Enfield for Cheshunt, and his evidence carries conviction.
In some other cases witnesses were very stupid—could not tell in what month Christmas fell. One witness, an old woman, made an error, confusing January 16 with January 23. A document on which she relied gave the later date.
If witnesses on either side were a year out in their reckoning, the discrepancies would be accountable; but Pratt, for example, could not forget when he left Enfield for Cheshunt, and Farmer Smith and Mrs. Howard could be under no such confusion of memory. It may be prejudice, but I rather prefer the Enfield evidence in some ways, as did Mr. Paget. In others, the Dorset evidence seems better.
Elizabeth had sworn to having asked a man to point out the way to London after she escaped into the lane beside Mrs. Wells’s house. A man, Thomas Bennet, swore that on January 29, 1753, he met ‘a miserable, poor wretch, about half-past four,’ ‘near the ten-mile stone,’ in a lane. She asked her way to London; ‘she said she was affrighted by the tanner’s dog.’ The tanner’s house was about two hundred yards nearer London, and the prosecution made much of this, as if a dog, with plenty of leisure and a feud against tramps, could not move two hundred yards, or much more, if he were taking a walk abroad, to combat the object of his dislike. Bennet knew that the dog was the tanner’s; probably he saw the dog when he met the wayfarer, and it does not follow that the wayfarer herself called it ‘the tanner’s dog.’ Bennet fixed the date with precision. Four days later, hearing of the trouble at Mrs. Wells’s, Bennet said, ‘I will be hanged if I did not meet the young woman near this place and told her the way to London.’ Mr. Davy could only combat Bennet by laying stress on the wayfarer’s talking of ‘the tanner’s dog.’ But the dog, at the moment of the meeting, was probably well in view. Bennet knew him, and Bennet was not asked, ‘Did the woman call the dog “the tanner’s dog,” or do you say this of your own knowledge?’ Moreover, the tannery was well in view, and the hound may have conspicuously started from that base of operations. Mr. Davy’s reply was a quibble.
His closing speech merely took up the old line: Elizabeth was absent to conceal ‘a misfortune’; her cunning mother was her accomplice. There was no proof of Elizabeth’s unchastity; nay, she had an excellent character, ‘but there is a time, gentlemen, when people begin to be wicked.’ If engaged for the other side Mr. Davy would have placed his ‘Nemo repente fuit turpissimus’—no person of unblemished character wades straight into ‘innocent blood,’ to use his own phrase.
The Recorder summed up against Elizabeth. He steadily assumed that Nash was always right, and the neighbours always wrong, as to the girl’s original story. He said nothing of Bennet; the tanner’s dog had done for Bennet. He said that, if the Enfield witnesses were right, the Dorset witnesses were wilfully perjured. He did not add that, if the Dorset witnesses were right, the Enfield testifiers were perjured.
The jury brought in a verdict of ‘Guilty of perjury, but not wilful and corrupt.’ This was an acquittal, but, the Recorder refusing the verdict, they did what they were desired to do, and sentence was passed. Two jurors made affidavit that they never intended a conviction. The whole point had turned, in the minds of the jury, on a discrepancy as to when Elizabeth finished the water in the broken pitcher—on Wednesday, January 27, or on Friday, January 29. Both accounts could not be true. Here, then, was ‘perjury,’ thought the jury, but not ‘wilful and corrupt,’ not purposeful. But the jury had learned that ‘the court was impatient;’ they had already brought Elizabeth in guilty of perjury, by which they meant guilty of a casual discrepancy not unnatural in a person hovering between life and death. They thought that they could not go back on their ‘Guilty,’ and so they went all the way to ‘corrupt and wilful perjury’—murder by false oath—and consistently added ‘an earnest recommendation to mercy’!
By a majority of one out of seventeen judges, Elizabeth was banished for seven years to New England. She was accused in the Press of being an ‘enthusiast,’ but the Rev. William Reyner, who attended her in prison, publicly proclaimed her a good Churchwoman and a good girl (June 7, 1754). Elizabeth (June 24) stuck to her guns in a manifesto—she had not once ‘knowingly deviated from the truth.’
Mr. Davy had promised the jury that when Elizabeth was once condemned all would come out—the whole secret. But though the most careful attempts were made to discover her whereabouts from January 1 to January 29, 1753, nothing was ever found out—a fact most easily explained by the hypothesis that she was where she said she was, at Mother Wells’s.
As to Elizabeth’s later fortunes, accounts differ, but she quite certainly married, in Connecticut, a Mr. Treat, a respectable yeoman, said to have been opulent. She died in Connecticut in June 1773, leaving a family.
In my opinion Elizabeth Canning was a victim of the common sense of the eighteenth century. She told a very strange tale, and common-sense holds that what is strange cannot be true. Yet something strange had undeniably occurred. It was very strange if Elizabeth on the night of January 1, retired to become a mother, of which there was no appearance, while of an amour even gossip could not furnish a hint. It was very strange if, having thus retired, she was robbed, starved, stripped and brought to death’s door, bleeding and broken down. It was very strange that no vestige of evidence as to her real place of concealment could ever be discovered. It was amazingly strange that a girl, previously and afterwards of golden character, should in a moment aim by perjury at ‘innocent blood.’ But the eighteenth century, as represented by Mr. Davy, Mr. Willes, the barrister who fabled in court, and the Recorder, found none of these things one half so strange as Elizabeth Canning’s story. Mr. Henry Fielding, who had some knowledge of human nature, was of the same opinion as the present candid inquirer. ‘In this case,’ writes the author of Tom Jones, ‘one of the most simple girls I ever saw, if she be a wicked one, hath been too hard for me. I am firmly persuaded that Elizabeth Canning is a poor, honest, simple, innocent girl.’
Moi aussi, but—I would not have condemned the gipsy!
In this case the most perplexing thing of all is to be found in the conflicting unpublished affidavits sworn in March 1753, when memories as to the whereabouts of the gipsies were fresh. They form a great mass of papers in State Papers Domestic, at the Record Office. I owe to Mr. Courtney Kenny my knowledge of the two unpublished letters of Fielding to the Duke of Newcastle which follow:
‘My Lord Duke,—I received an order from my Lord Chancellor immediately after the breaking up of the Council to lay before your Grace all the Affidavits I had taken since the Gipsy Trial which related to that Affair. I then told the Messenger that I had taken none, as indeed the fact is the Affidavits of which I gave my Lord Chancellor an Abstract having been all sworn before Justices of the Peace in the Neighbourhood of Endfield, and remain I believe in the Possession of an Attorney in the City.
‘However in Consequence of the Commands with which your Grace was pleased to honour me yesterday, I sent my Clerk immediately to the Attorney to acquaint him with the Commands, which I doubt not he will instantly obey. This I did from my great Duty to your Grace, for I have long had no Concern in this Affair, nor have I seen any of the Parties lately unless once when I was desired to send for the Girl (Canning) to my House that a great number of Noblemen and Gentlemen might see her and ask her what Questions they pleased. I am, with the highest Duty,
‘My Lord,
‘Your Grace’s most obedient
and most humble Servant,
‘Henry Fielding.
‘Ealing; April 14, 1753.
‘His Grace the Duke of Newcastle.’
‘Endorsed: Ealing, April 14th, 1753
Mr. Fielding.
R. 16th.’
