Come, Death, these are thy victims, and the axe
Waits those who claimed the chariot.--Thus we count
Our treasures in the dark, and when the light
Breaks on the cheated eye, we find the coin
Was skulls--
......
Yet the while
Fate links strange contrasts, and the scaffold’s gloom
Is neighboured by the altar.--ANONYMOUS.
When Crauford’s guilt and imprisonment became known; when inquiry
developed, day after day, some new maze in the mighty and intricate
machinery of his sublime dishonesty; when houses of the most reputed
wealth and profuse splendour, whose affairs Crauford had transacted,
were discovered to have been for years utterly undermined and beggared,
and only supported by the extraordinary genius of the individual by
whose extraordinary guilt, now no longer concealed, they were suddenly
and irretrievably destroyed; when it was ascertained that, for nearly
the fifth part of a century, a system of villany had been carried on
throughout Europe, in a thousand different relations, without a single
breath of suspicion, and yet which a single breath of suspicion could
at once have arrested and exposed; when it was proved that a man whose
luxury had exceeded the pomp of princes, and whose wealth was supposed
more inexhaustible than the enchanted purse of Fortunatus, had for
eighteen years been a penniless pensioner upon the prosperity of others;
when the long scroll of this almost incredible fraud was slowly, piece
by piece, unrolled before the terrified curiosity of his public, an
invading army at the Temple gates could scarcely have excited such
universal consternation and dismay.
The mob, always the first to execute justice, in their own inimitable
way took vengeance upon Crauford by burning the house no longer his,
and the houses of his partners, who were the worst and most innocent
sufferers for his crime. No epithet of horror and hatred was too severe
for the offender; and serious apprehension for the safety of Newgate,
his present habitation, was generally expressed. The more saintly
members of that sect to which the hypocrite had ostensibly belonged,
held up their hands, and declared that the fall of the Pharisee was a
judgment of Providence. Nor did they think it worth while to make, for a
moment, the trifling inquiry how far the judgment of Providence was also
implicated in the destruction of the numerous and innocent families he
had ruined!
But, whether from that admiration for genius, common to the vulgar,
which forgets all crime in the cleverness of committing it, or from that
sagacious disposition peculiar to the English, which makes a hero of any
person eminently wicked, no sooner did Crauford’s trial come on than the
tide of popular feeling experienced a sudden revulsion. It became, in an
instant, the fashion to admire and to pity a gentleman so talented and
so unfortunate. Likenesses of Mr. Crauford appeared in every print-shop
in town; the papers discovered that he was the very fac-simile of the
great King of Prussia. The laureate made an ode upon him, which was set
to music; and the public learned, with tears of compassionate regret
at so romantic a circumstance, that pigeon-pies were sent daily to his
prison, made by the delicate hands of one of his former mistresses. Some
sensation, also, was excited by the circumstance of his poor wife (who
soon afterwards died of a broken heart) coming to him in prison, and
being with difficulty torn away; but then, conjugal affection is so very
commonplace, and there was something so engrossingly pathetic in the
anecdote of the pigeon-pies!
It must be confessed that Crauford displayed singular address and
ability upon his trial; and fighting every inch of ground, even to the
last, when so strong a phalanx of circumstances appeared against him
that no hope of a favourable verdict could for a moment have supported
him, he concluded the trial with a speech delivered by himself, so
impressive, so powerful, so dignified, yet so impassioned, that the
whole audience, hot as they were, dissolved into tears.
Sentence was passed,--Death! But such was the infatuation of the people
that every one expected that a pardon, for crime more complicated and
extensive than half the “Newgate Calendar” could equal, would of course
be obtained. Persons of the highest rank interested themselves in his
behalf; and up to the night before his execution, expectations, almost
amounting to certainty, were entertained by the criminal, his friends,
and the public. On that night was conveyed to Crauford the positive and
peremptory assurance that there was no hope. Let us now enter his cell,
and be the sole witnesses of his solitude.
Crauford was, as we have seen, a man in some respects of great moral
courage, of extraordinary daring in the formation of schemes, of
unwavering resolution in supporting them, and of a temper which rather
rejoiced in, than shunned, the braving of a distant danger for the sake
of an adequate reward. But this courage was supported and fed solely by
the self-persuasion of consummate genius, and his profound confidence
both in his good fortune and the inexhaustibility of his resources.
Physically he was a coward! immediate peril to be confronted by the
person, not the mind, had ever appalled him like a child. He had never
dared to back a spirited horse. He had been known to remain for days in
an obscure ale-house in the country, to which a shower had accidentally
driven him, because it had been idly reported that a wild beast had
escaped from a caravan and been seen in the vicinity of the inn. No dog
had ever been allowed in his household lest it might go mad. In a
word, Crauford was one to whom life and sensual enjoyments were
everything,--the supreme blessings, the only blessings.
As long as he had the hope, and it was a sanguine hope, of saving life,
nothing had disturbed his mind from its serenity. His gayety had never
forsaken him; and his cheerfulness and fortitude had been the theme of
every one admitted to his presence. But when this hope was abruptly
and finally closed; when Death, immediate and unavoidable,--Death, the
extinction of existence, the cessation of sense,--stood bare and hideous
before him, his genius seemed at once to abandon him to his fate, and
the inherent weakness of his nature to gush over every prop and barrier
of his art.
“No hope!” muttered he, in a voice of the keenest anguish, “no
hope; merciful God! none, none? What, I, I, who have shamed kings in
luxury,--I to die on the gibbet, among the reeking, gaping, swinish
crowd with whom--O God, that I were one of them even! that I were the
most loathsome beggar that ever crept forth to taint the air with sores!
that I were a toad immured in a stone, sweltering in the atmosphere of
its own venom! a snail crawling on these very walls, and tracking his
painful path in slime!--anything, anything, but death! And such death!
The gallows, the scaffold, the halter, the fingers of the hangman
paddling round the neck where the softest caresses have clung and sated.
To die, die, die! What, I whose pulse now beats so strongly! whose blood
keeps so warm and vigorous a motion! in the very prime of enjoyment and
manhood; all life’s million paths of pleasure before me,--to die, to
swing to the winds, to hang,--ay, ay--to hang! to be cut down, distorted
and hideous; to be thrust into the earth with worms; to rot, or--or--or
hell! is there a hell?--better that even than annihilation!”
“Fool! fool!--damnable fool that I was” (and in his sudden rage he
clenched his own flesh till the nails met in it); “had I but got to
France one day sooner! Why don’t you save me, save me, you whom I have
banqueted and feasted, and lent money to! one word from you might have
saved me; I will not die! I don’t deserve it! I am innocent! I tell you,
Not guilty, my lord,--not guilty! Have you no heart, no consciences?
Murder! murder! murder!” and the wretched man sank upon the ground, and
tried with his hands to grasp the stone floor, as if to cling to it from
some imaginary violence.
Turn we from him to the cell in which another criminal awaits also the
awful coming of his latest morrow.
Pale, motionless, silent, with his face bending over his bosom and hands
clasped tightly upon his knees, Wolfe sat in his dungeon, and collected
his spirit against the approaching consummation of his turbulent and
stormy fate. His bitterest punishment had been already past; mysterious
Chance, or rather the Power above chance, had denied to him the haughty
triumph of self-applause. No sophistry, now, could compare his doom to
that of Sidney, or his deed to the act of the avenging Brutus.
Murder--causeless, objectless, universally execrated--rested, and would
rest (till oblivion wrapped it) upon his name. It had appeared, too,
upon his trial, that he had, in the information he had received, been
the mere tool of a spy in the ministers’ pay; and that, for weeks before
his intended deed, his design had been known, and his conspiracy only
not bared to the public eye because political craft awaited a riper
opportunity for the disclosure. He had not then merely been the blind
dupe of his own passions, but, more humbling still, an instrument in the
hands of the very men whom his hatred was sworn to destroy. Not a wreck,
not a straw, of the vain glory for which he had forfeited life and
risked his soul, could he hug to a sinking heart, and say, “This is my
support.”
The remorse of gratitude embittered his cup still further. On Mordaunt’s
person had been discovered a memorandum of the money anonymously
inclosed to Wolfe on the day of the murder; and it was couched in words
of esteem which melted the fierce heart of the republican into the only
tears he had shed since childhood. From that time, a sullen, silent
spirit fell upon him. He spoke to none,--heeded none; he made no defence
on trial, no complaint of severity, no appeal from judgment. The iron
had entered into his soul; but it supported, while it tortured. Even
now as we gaze upon his inflexible and dark countenance, no transitory
emotion; no natural spasm of sudden fear for the catastrophe of the
morrow; no intense and working passions, struggling into calm; no
sign of internal hurricanes, rising as it were from the hidden depths,
agitate the surface, or betray the secrets of the unfathomable world
within. The mute lip; the rigid brow; the downcast eye; a heavy and
dread stillness, brooding over every feature,--these are all we behold.
Is it that thought sleeps, locked in the torpor of a senseless and
rayless dream; or that an evil incubus weighs upon it, crushing its
risings, but deadening not its pangs? Does Memory fly to the green
fields and happy home of his childhood, or the lonely studies of his
daring and restless youth, or his earliest homage to that Spirit of
Freedom which shone bright and still and pure upon the solitary chamber
of him who sang of heaven [Milton]; or (dwelling on its last and most
fearful object) rolls it only through one tumultuous and convulsive
channel,--Despair? Whatever be within the silent and deep heart, pride,
or courage, or callousness, or that stubborn firmness, which, once
principle, has grown habit, cover all as with a pall; and the strung
nerves and the hard endurance of the human flesh sustain what the
immortal mind perhaps quails beneath, in its dark retreat, but once
dreamed that it would exult to bear.
The fatal hour had come! and, through the long dim passages of the
prison, four criminals were led forth to execution. The first was
Crauford’s associate, Bradley. This man prayed fervently; and, though
he was trembling and pale, his mien and aspect bore something of the
calmness of resignation.
It has been said that there is no friendship among the wicked. I
have examined this maxim closely, and believe it, like most popular
proverbs,--false. In wickedness there is peril, and mutual terror is the
strongest of ties. At all events, the wicked can, not unoften, excite
an attachment in their followers denied to virtue. Habitually courteous,
caressing, and familiar, Crauford had, despite his own suspicions of
Bradley, really touched the heart of one whom weakness and want, not
nature, had gained to vice; and it was not till Crauford’s guilt was by
other witnesses undeniably proved that Bradley could be tempted to make
any confession tending to implicate him.
He now crept close to his former partner, and frequently clasped his
hand, and besought him to take courage and to pray. But Crauford’s eye
was glassy and dim, and his veins seemed filled with water: so
numbed and cold and white was his cheek. Fear, in him, had passed its
paroxysms, and was now insensibility; it was only when they urged him to
pray that a sort of benighted consciousness strayed over his countenance
and his ashen lips muttered something which none heard.
After him came the Creole, who had been Wolfe’s accomplice. On the night
of the murder, he had taken advantage of the general loneliness and
the confusion of the few present, and fled. He was found, however, fast
asleep in a garret, before morning, by the officers of justice; and, on
trial, he had confessed all. This man was in a rapid consumption. The
delay of another week would have given to Nature the termination of his
life. He, like Bradley, seemed earnest and absorbed in prayer.
Last came Wolfe, his tall, gaunt frame worn by confinement and internal
conflict into a gigantic skeleton; his countenance, too, had undergone a
withering change; his grizzled hair seemed now to have acquired only the
one hoary hue of age; and, though you might trace in his air and eye the
sternness, you could no longer detect the fire, of former days. Calm, as
on the preceding night, no emotion broke over his dark but not defying
features. He rejected, though not irreverently, all aid from the
benevolent priest, and seemed to seek in the pride of his own heart a
substitute for the resignation of Religion.
“Miserable man!” at last said the good clergyman, in whom zeal overcame
kindness, “have you at this awful hour no prayer upon your lips?”
A living light shot then for a moment over Wolfe’s eye and brow. “I
have!” said he; and raising his clasped hands to Heaven, he continued in
the memorable words of Sidney, “Lord, defend Thy own cause, and defend
those who defend it! Stir up such as are faint; direct those that are
willing; confirm those that waver; give wisdom and integrity to all:
order all things so as may most redound to Thine own glory!
“I had once hoped,” added Wolfe, sinking in his tone, “I had once hoped
that I might with justice have continued that holy prayer; [“Grant that
I may die glorifying Thee for all Thy mercies, and that at the last Thou
hast permitted me to be singled out as a witness of Thy truth, and even
by the confession of my opposers for that OLD CAUSE in which I was from
my youth engaged, and for which Thou hast often and wonderfully declared
Thyself.”--ALGERNON SIDNEY.] but--” he ceased abruptly; the glow passed
from his countenance, his lip quivered, and the tears stood in his eyes;
and that was the only weakness he betrayed, and those were his last
words.
Crauford continued, even while the rope was put round him, mute and
unconscious of everything. It was said that his pulse (that of an
uncommonly strong and healthy man on the previous day) had become so low
and faint that, an hour before his execution, it could not be felt. He
and the Creole were the only ones who struggled; Wolfe died, seemingly,
without a pang.
From these feverish and fearful scenes, the mind turns, with a feeling
of grateful relief, to contemplate the happiness of one whose candid
and high nature, and warm affections, Fortune, long befriending, had at
length blessed.
It was on an evening in the earliest flush of returning spring that Lord
Ulswater, with his beautiful bride, entered his magnificent domains. It
had been his wish and order, in consequence of his brother’s untimely
death, that no public rejoicings should be made on his marriage: but
the good old steward could not persuade himself entirely to enforce
obedience to the first order of his new master; and as the carriage
drove into the park-gates, crowds on crowds were assembled to welcome
and to gaze.
No sooner had they caught a glimpse of their young lord, whose
affability and handsome person had endeared him to all who remembered
his early days, and of the half-blushing, half-smiling countenance
beside him, than their enthusiasm could be no longer restrained. The
whole scene rang with shouts of joy; and through an air filled with
blessings, and amidst an avenue of happy faces, the bridal pair arrived
at their home.
“Ah! Clarence (for so I must still call you),” said Flora, her beautiful
eyes streaming with delicious tears, “let us never leave these kind
hearts; let us live amongst them, and strive to repay and deserve the
blessings which they shower upon us! Is not Benevolence, dearest, better
than Ambition?”
“Can it not rather, my own Flora, be Ambition itself?”
CONCLUSION.
So rest you, merry gentlemen.--Monsieur Thomas.
The Author has now only to take his leave of the less important
characters whom he has assembled together; and then, all due courtesy to
his numerous guests being performed, to retire himself to repose.
First, then, for Mr. Morris Brown: In the second year of Lord Ulswater’s
marriage, the worthy broker paid Mrs. Minden’s nephew a visit, in which
he persuaded that gentleman to accept, “as presents,” two admirable fire
screens, the property of the late Lady Waddilove: the same may be now
seen in the housekeeper’s room at Borodaile Park by any person
willing to satisfy his curiosity and--the housekeeper. Of all further
particulars respecting Mr. Morris Brown, history is silent.
In the obituary for 1792, we find the following paragraph:
“Died at his house in Putney, aged seventy-three, Sir Nicholas Copperas,
Knt., a gentleman well known on the Exchange for his facetious humour.
Several of his bons-mots are still recorded in the Common Council. When
residing many years ago in the suburbs of London, this worthy gentleman
was accustomed to go from his own house to the Exchange in a coach
called ‘the Swallow,’ that passed his door just at breakfast-time;
upon which occasion he was wont wittily to observe to his accomplished
spouse, ‘And now, Mrs. Copperas, having swallowed in the roll, I will
e’en roll in the Swallow!’ His whole property is left to Adolphus
Copperas, Esq., banker.”
And in the next year we discover,--
“Died, on Wednesday last, at her jointure house, Putney, in her
sixty-eighth year, the amiable and elegant Lady Copperas, relict of the
late Sir Nicholas, Knt.”
Mr. Trollolop, having exhausted the whole world of metaphysics, died
like Descartes, “in believing he had left nothing unexplained.”
Mr. Callythorpe entered the House of Commons at the time of the French
Revolution. He distinguished himself by many votes in favour of Mr.
Pitt, and one speech which ran thus: “Sir, I believe my right honourable
friend who spoke last (Mr. Pitt) designs to ruin the country: but I will
support him through all. Honourable Gentlemen may laugh; but I’m a true
Briton, and will not serve my friend the less because I scorn to flatter
him.”
Sir Christopher Findlater lost his life by an accident arising from the
upsetting of his carriage, his good heart not having suffered him to
part with a drunken coachman.
Mr. Glumford turned miser in his old age; and died of want, and an
extravagant son.
Our honest Cole and his wife were always among the most welcome visitors
at Lord Ulswater’s. In his extreme old age, the ex-king took a journey
to Scotland, to see the Author of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” Nor
should we do justice to the chief’s critical discernment if we neglected
to record that, from the earliest dawn of that great luminary of
our age, he predicted its meridian splendour. The eldest son of the
gypsy-monarch inherited his father’s spirit, and is yet alive, a
general, and G.C.B.
Mr. Harrison married Miss Elizabeth, and succeeded to the Golden Fleece.
The Duke of Haverfield and Lord Ulswater continued their friendship
through life; and the letters of our dear Flora to her correspondent,
Eleanor, did not cease even with that critical and perilous period
to all maiden correspondents,--Marriage. If we may judge from the
subsequent letters which we have been permitted to see, Eleanor never
repented her brilliant nuptials, nor discovered (as the Duchess of ----
once said from experience) “that Dukes are as intolerable for husbands
as they are delightful for matches.”
And Isabel Mordaunt?--Ah! not in these pages shall her history be told
even in epitome. Perhaps for some future narrative, her romantic and
eventful fate may be reserved. Suffice it for the present, that the
childhood of the young heiress passed in the house of Lord Ulswater,
whose proudest boast, through a triumphant and prosperous life, was to
have been her father’s friend; and that as she grew up, she inherited
her mother’s beauty and gentle heart, and seemed to bear in her deep
eyes and melancholy smile some remembrance of the scenes in which her
infancy had been passed.
But for Him, the husband and the father, whose trials through this wrong
world I have portrayed,--for him let there be neither murmurs at the
blindness of Fate, nor sorrow at the darkness of his doom. Better that
the lofty and bright spirit should pass away before the petty business
of life had bowed it, or the sordid mists of this low earth breathed a
shadow on its lustre! Who would have asked that spirit to have struggled
on for years in the intrigues, the hopes, the objects of meaner souls?
Who would have desired that the heavenward and impatient heart should
have grown insured to the chains and toil of this enslaved state, or
hardened into the callousness of age? Nor would we claim the vulgar
pittance of compassion for a lot which is exalted above regret! Pity
is for our weaknesses: to our weaknesses only be it given. It is
the aliment of love; it is the wages of ambition; it is the rightful
heritage of error! But why should pity be entertained for the soul which
never fell? for the courage which never quailed? for the majesty never
humbled? for the wisdom which, from the rough things of the common
world, raised an empire above earth and destiny? for the stormy
life?--it was a triumph! for the early death?--it was immortality!
I have stood beside Mordaunt’s tomb: his will had directed that he
should sleep not in the vaults of his haughty line; and his last
dwelling is surrounded by a green and pleasant spot. The trees shadow
it like a temple; and a silver though fitful brook wails with a constant
yet not ungrateful dirge at the foot of the hill on which the tomb is
placed. I have stood there in those ardent years when our wishes know no
boundary and our ambition no curb; yet, even then, I would have changed
my wildest vision of romance for that quiet grave, and the dreams of the
distant spirit whose relics reposed beneath it.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Disowned, Complete, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton