Iago.--Virtue; a fig!--‘t is in ourselves that we are thus
and thus.--Othello.
“So, so, my little one, don’t let me disturb you. Madam, dare I venture
to hope your acceptance of this fruit? I chose it myself, and I am
somewhat of a judge. Oh! Glendower, here is the pamphlet you wished to
see.”
With this salutation, Crauford drew his chair to the table by which
Glendower sat, and entered into conversation with his purposed victim. A
comely and a pleasing countenance had Richard Crauford! the lonely light
of the room fell upon a face which, though forty years of guile had
gone over it, was as fair and unwrinkled as a boy’s. Small, well-cut
features; a blooming complexion; eyes of the lightest blue; a forehead
high, though narrow; and a mouth from which the smile was never
absent,--these, joined to a manner at once soft and confident, and an
elegant though unaffected study of dress, gave to Crauford a personal
appearance well suited to aid the effect of his hypocritical and
dissembling mind.
“Well, my friend,” said he, “always at your books, eh? Ah! it is a happy
taste; would that I had cultivated it more; but we who are condemned to
business have little leisure to follow our own inclinations. It is only
on Sundays that I have time to read; and then (to say truth) I am an
old-fashioned man, whom the gayer part of the world laughs at, and then
I am too occupied with the Book of Books to think of any less important
study.”
Not deeming that a peculiar reply was required to this pious speech,
Glendower did not take that advantage of Crauford’s pause which it was
evidently intended that he should. With a glance towards the student’s
wife, our mercantile friend continued: “I did once--once in my young
dreams--intend that whenever I married I would relinquish a profession
for which, after all, I am but little calculated. I pictured to myself a
country retreat, well stored with books; and having concentrated in one
home all the attractions which would have tempted my thoughts abroad, I
had designed to surrender myself solely to those studies which, I lament
to say, were but ill attended to in my earlier education. But--but”
(here Mr. Crauford sighed deeply, and averted his face) “fate willed it
otherwise!”
Whatever reply of sympathetic admiration or condolence Glendower might
have made was interrupted by one of those sudden and overpowering
attacks of faintness which had of late seized the delicate and declining
health of his wife. He rose, and leaned over her with a fondness and
alarm which curled the lip of his visitor.
“Thus it is,” said Crauford to himself, “with weak minds, under the
influence of habit. The love of lust becomes the love of custom, and the
last is as strong as the first.”
When--she had recovered, she rose, and (with her child) retired to
rest, the only restorative she ever found effectual for her complaint.
Glendower went with her, and, after having seen her eyes, which swam
with tears of gratitude at his love, close in the seeming slumber
she affected in order to release him from his watch, he returned to
Crauford. He found that gentleman leaning against the chimney-piece with
folded arms, and apparently immersed in thought. A very good opportunity
had Glendower’s absence afforded to a man whose boast it was never
to lose one. Looking over the papers on the table, he had seen and
possessed himself of the address of the bookseller the student dealt
with. “So much for business, now for philanthropy,” said Mr. Crauford,
in his favorite antithetical phrase, throwing himself in his attitude
against the chimney-piece.
As Glendower entered, Crauford started from his revery, and with a
melancholy air and pensive voice said,--
“Alas, my friend, when I look upon this humble apartment, the weak
health of your unequalled wife, your obscurity, your misfortunes; when I
look upon these, and contrast them with your mind, your talents, and all
that you were born and fitted for, I cannot but feel tempted to believe
with those who imagine the pursuit of virtue a chimera, and who justify
their own worldly policy by the example of all their kind.”
“Virtue,” said Glendower, “would indeed be a chimera, did it require
support from those whom you have cited.”
“True,--most true,” answered Crauford, somewhat disconcerted in reality,
though not in appearance; “and yet, strange as it may seem, I have known
some of those persons very good, admirably good men. They were extremely
moral and religious: they only played the great game for worldly
advantage upon the same terms as the other players; nay, they never made
a move in it without most fervently and sincerely praying for divine
assistance.”
“I readily believe you,” said Glendower, who always, if possible,
avoided a controversy: “the easiest person to deceive is one’s own
self.”
“Admirably said,” answered Crauford, who thought it nevertheless one of
the most foolish observations he had ever heard, “admirably said! and
yet my heart does grieve bitterly for the trials and distresses it
surveys. One must make excuses for poor human frailty; and one is often
placed in such circumstances as to render it scarcely possible without
the grace of God” (here Crauford lifted up his eyes) “not to be urged,
as it were, into the reasonings and actions of the world.”
Not exactly comprehending this observation, and not very closely
attending to it, Glendower merely bowed, as in assent, and Crauford
continued,--
“I remember a remarkable instance of this truth. One of my partner’s
clerks had, through misfortune or imprudence, fallen into the greatest
distress. His wife, his children (he had a numerous family), were on
the literal and absolute verge of starvation. Another clerk, taking
advantage of these circumstances, communicated to the distressed man
a plan for defrauding his employer. The poor fellow yielded to the
temptation, and was at last discovered. I spoke to him myself, for I
was interested in his fate, and had always esteemed him. ‘What,’ said
I, ‘was your motive for this fraud?’ ‘My duty!’ answered the man,
fervently; ‘my duty! Was I to suffer my wife, my children, to starve
before my face, when I could save them at a little personal risk? No:
my duty forbade it!’ and in truth, Glendower, there was something very
plausible in this manner of putting the question.”
“You might, in answering it,” said Glendower, “have put the point in a
manner equally plausible and more true: was he to commit a great crime
against the millions connected by social order, for the sake of serving
a single family, and that his own?”
“Quite right,” answered Crauford: “that was just the point of view
in which I did put it; but the man, who was something of a reasoner,
replied, ‘Public law is instituted for public happiness. Now if mine and
my children’s happiness is infinitely and immeasurably more served by
this comparatively petty fraud than my employer’s is advanced by my
abstaining from, or injured by my committing it, why, the origin of
law itself allows me to do it.’ What say you to that, Glendower? It is
something in your Utilitarian, or, as you term it, Epicurean [See the
article on Mr. Moore’s “Epicurean” in the “Westminster Review.” Though
the strictures on that work are harsh and unjust, yet the part relating
to the real philosophy of Epicurus is one of the most masterly things in
criticism.] principle; is it not?” and Crauford, shading his eyes, as
if from the light, watched narrowly Glendower’s countenance, while he
concealed his own.
“Poor fool!” said Glendower; “the man was ignorant of the first lesson
in his moral primer. Did he not know that no rule is to be applied to
a peculiar instance, but extended to its most general bearings? Is it
necessary even to observe that the particular consequence of fraud
in this man might, it is true, be but the ridding his employer of
superfluities, scarcely missed, for the relief of most urgent want in
two or three individuals; but the general consequences of fraud and
treachery would be the disorganization of all society? Do not think,
therefore, that this man was a disciple of my, or of any, system of
morality.”
“It is very just, very,” said Mr. Crauford, with a benevolent sigh; “but
you will own that want seldom allows great nicety in moral distinctions,
and that when those whom you love most in the world are starving, you
may be pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of the after laws of
Nature and recurring to her first ordinance, self-preservation.”
“We should be harsh, indeed,” answered Glendower, “if we did not pity;
or, even while the law condemned, if the individual did not forgive.”
“So I said, so I said,” cried Crauford; “and in interceding for the
poor fellow, whose pardon I am happy to say I procured, I could not help
declaring that, if I were placed in the same circumstances, I am not
sure that my crime would not have been the same.”
“No man could feel sure!” said Glendower, dejectedly. Delighted and
surprised with this confession, Crauford continued: “I believe,--I
fear not; thank God, our virtue can never be so tried: but even you,
Glendower, even you, philosopher, moralist as you are,--just, good,
wise, religious,--even you might be tempted, if you saw your angel wife
dying for want of the aid, the very sustenance, necessary to existence,
and your innocent and beautiful daughter stretch her little hands to you
and cry in the accents of famine for bread.”
The student made no reply for a few moments, but averted his
countenance, and then in a slow tone said, “Let us drop this subject:
none know their strength till they are tried; self-confidence should
accompany virtue, but not precede it.”
A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold eye of Richard
Crauford. “He is mine,” thought he: “the very name of want abases his
pride: what will the reality do? O human nature, how I know and mock
thee!”
“You are right,” said Crauford, aloud; “let us talk of the pamphlet.”
And after a short conversation upon indifferent subjects, the visitor
departed. Early the next morning was Mr. Crauford seen on foot, taking
his way to the bookseller whose address he had learnt. The bookseller
was known as a man of a strongly evangelical bias. “We must insinuate a
lie or two,” said Crauford, inly, “about Glendower’s principles. He! he!
it will be a fine stroke of genius to make the upright tradesman suffer
Glendower to starve out of a principle of religion. But who would have
thought my prey had been so easily snared? why, if I had proposed the
matter last night, I verily think he would have agreed to it.”
Amusing himself with these thoughts, Crauford arrived at the
bookseller’s. There he found Fate had saved him from one crime at least.
The whole house was in confusion: the bookseller had that morning died
of an apoplectic fit.
“Good God! how shocking!” said Crauford to the foreman; “but he was a
most worthy man, and Providence could no longer spare him. The ways of
Heaven are inscrutable! Oblige me with three copies of that precious
tract termed the ‘Divine Call.’ I should like to be allowed permission
to attend the funeral of so excellent a man. Good morning, sir. Alas!
alas!” and, shaking his head piteously, Mr. Crauford left the shop.
“Hurra!” said he, almost audibly, when he was once more in the street,
“hurra! my victim is made; my game is won: death or the devil fights for
me. But, hold: there are other booksellers in this monstrous city!--ay,
but not above two or three in our philosopher’s way. I must forestall
him there,--so, so,--that is soon settled. Now, then, I must leave him a
little while, undisturbed, to his fate. Perhaps my next visit may be to
him in jail: your debtor’s side of the Fleet is almost as good a pleader
as an empty stomach,--he! he! He!--but the stroke must be made soon,
for time presses, and this d--d business spreads so fast that if I don’t
have a speedy help, it will be too much for my hands, griping as they
are. However, if it holds on a year longer, I will change my seat in the
Lower House for one in the Upper; twenty thousand pounds to the minister
may make a merchant a very pretty peer. O brave Richard Crauford, wise
Richard Crauford, fortunate Richard Crauford, noble Richard Crauford!
Why, if thou art ever hanged, it will be by a jury of peers. ‘Gad, the
rope would then have a dignity in it, instead of disgrace. But stay,
here comes the Dean of ----; not orthodox, it is said,--rigid Calvinist!
out with the ‘Divine Call’!”
When Mr. Richard Crauford repaired next to Glendower, what was his
astonishment and dismay at hearing he had left his home, none knew
whither nor could give the inquirer the slightest clew.
“How long has he left?” said Crauford to the landlady.
“Five days, sir.”
“And will he not return to settle any little debts he may have
incurred?” said Crauford.
“Oh, no, sir: he paid them all before he went. Poor gentleman,--for
though he was poor, he was the finest and most thorough gentleman I ever
saw!--my heart bled for him. They parted with all their valuables to
discharge their debts: the books and instruments and busts,--all went;
and what I saw, though he spoke so indifferently about it, hurt him the
most,--he sold even the lady’s picture. ‘Mrs. Croftson,’ said he, ‘Mr.
----, the painter, will send for that picture the day after I leave
you. See that he has it, and that the greatest care is taken of it in
delivery.’”
“And you cannot even guess where he has gone to?”
“No, sir; a single porter was sufficient to convey his remaining goods,
and he took him from some distant part of the town.”
“Ten thousand devils!” muttered Crauford, as he turned away; “I should
have foreseen this! He is lost now. Of course he will again change
his name; and in the d--d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of
houses, how shall I ever find him out? and time presses too! Well, well,
well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer, or, as fools would say,
more rascally than others; but there is a world of trouble in winning
it. But come; I will go home, lock myself up, and get drunk! I am as
melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid; and, faith, one
must get spirits in order to hit on a new invention. But if there be
consistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or wit in Richard
Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim--and preserver!”