MY UNCLE’S STORY
The career of vice is generally a simple history; a progressive advance from bad to worse, as the feelings deaden and the conscience, becomes seared and callous, by degrees. My earlier follies might have been easily arrested by parental intervention, but Mr. Clifford was reserved and proud; his displeasure was evinced by frigid mannerism, and his reproofs conveyed in the cold terms of general disapprobation. He never reasoned to the understanding—never appealed to the heart. I listened to him as I would to a lecture; and I came away without the slightest impression having been made upon an ardent disposition, which under better management might have been awakened and reclaimed.
My ruin at last was consummated. I was discarded by my father; avoided by the good—deserted by the bad—and, finally, driven from the land, dishonoured and disgraced, where, by inheritance and birth, I should have held a proud position.
Months had passed since I had been alienated from an angry father. The means by which I had managed, for a time, to obtain the sums of money my extravagance demanded, had been overtaxed, and consequently, my resources were completely exhausted. The woman who lured me on to crime and ruin had heartlessly abandoned me, and those who had plundered me of hundreds refused me a shilling to buy bread! For a whole day I had not tasted food, and for two nights no roof had sheltered me—and without any definite object in my wanderings, I had turned my steps to the home from which I had been long since rejected. I was ashamed to let any who had known me in the palmy days of youth witness the degradation that crime had caused; and, after night-fall, avoiding the village, I stole unperceived through a broken paling, and, like a thief and not the heir, entered the grounds of Clifford Hall.
William Morley had been in boyhood my favourite companion. Although his birth was menial, I treated him, from regard, rather like an equal than an inferior. My purse was ever open to his wants; and my attachment gradually obtained for him the notice of my father. Step by step, he rose in Mr. Clifford’s confidence, until he gained an influence over his easy master that none besides possessed. I fancied him a friend; and I had every reason to suppose him one, for his professions of regard were warm, and his assurances of gratitude unbounded. When the kindly relations between my parent and myself were first disturbed, I trusted to Morley’s good offices to extenuate my offendings, and soften down the displeasure of an angry father. He promised to exert his influence to the uttermost. I believed him; followed his advice; and acted as he counselled. Alas! I little dreamed that Morley was all the while a deadly enemy, and that he was sapping to the foundation any slight remains of parental affection, and alienating the father from the child. Why should he thus play me false? and wherefore wear the mask of friendship, and hate me in his heart? Unconsciously, I had provoked his deadliest animosity by crossing his path in love.
Morley was in heart a libertine; but he had sufficient cunning to conceal it from the world. A village beauty had been the object of his pursuit for months; and fascinated by her superior attractions, his secret attentions were incessant, and there was no reason to doubt but they would ultimately be rewarded by success. I returned, after a long absence, to the Hall. I heard of Mary Davis. A glowing description of her charms was given me. I saw her—report had only done common justice to her beauty—and I became her slave. My attentions flattered her pride—and the heir of Clifford Hall supplanted the son of a deceased menial. In a word, the weak girl eloped with me—deserted her peaceful home for a brief career of splendid profligacy; broke her poor mother’s heart; drew down on me the lasting displeasure of my father; and rendered Morley my enemy for life. But of the consequence of my misconduct, 1 remained as yet in ignorance.
To obtain his revenge, Morley worked secretly and steadily. Every act of imprudence was artfully communicated to my father; while the treacherous scoundrel led his confiding master to believe that he was kindly, but unsuccessfully, endeavouring to hide from him the criminal proceedings of his child. My slightest failings, blazoned by false colouring, appeared enormities. My letters in explanation were suppressed; the breach between us became wider every day; Morley’s demoniac ingenuity at last was crowned with full success; I was discarded—looked upon as one dead—consigned to poverty and degradation—and became a beggar and an outcast.
What was the villain’s triumph, when, stealing through the shrubberies, I sought the well-remembered window of his apartment! Lights were burning, and there sat Morley. He had numerous papers and accounts before him; bank-notes and gold were spread over the table carelessly; and a bottle of wine was opened, from which, as I peeped in, he liberally helped himself. Heavens! how low had I fallen!—how abject did I feel myself! With me, indeed, the cup of misery was at the overflow. I dreaded to knock! I—the born-heir of all around, fearful to disturb the son of my father’s menial! At last I mustered sufficient resolution to tap gently on the casement. The steward expected a different visitor. He seized his hat, hurried from the room, locked the door carefully, let himself out by a private entrance, of which he kept a key, and in another minute approached the evergreens to which I had retreated, and softly pronounced a woman’s name.
“Morley!” I timidly replied.
“Ha!—a man’s voice!—Who’s there?” he demanded.
“An unfortunate—your old playfellow—he who once was your master’s son!” I answered.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible! And have you dared to venture hither?”
“I once thought,” I replied dejectedly, “that none would question my right of entrance to this domain, which by birth and descent is, or should be, mine. I am indeed fallen!”
“What do ye want?” he demanded, as I fancied, in a haughty tone. “Why have you disturbed me at this unseasonable hour?”
“Dire necessity obliged me to come here. I am perishing; food has not crossed my lips since yesterday. I am without a home,—the humblest shelter would be acceptable.”
“I cannot offer you one. Were it known that I spoke to you, or gave you the slightest assistance, your father would discharge me.”
“Is his anger, then, so unmitigable?” I asked in a desponding voice. “It is beyond the power of being appeased. Advisedly, he would not breathe the same atmosphere that you did; and the most welcome tidings he could receive, would be those that assured him that you were no more return ed the steward.
“I am starving!—pennyless! By Heaven, I will crawl into these evergreens, and die in sight of that mansion which once was destined to be mine.”
Morley started at the declaration. “Pshaw!” said he, with an appearance of more feeling than before; “this is mere folly! Let me see—I dare not afford aught but temporary relief; and in doing so I risk the loss of Mr. Clifford’s favour, were the thing discovered. Stay; I will bring you some refreshment, and see whether I cannot do something to save you from actual starvation afterwards he then returned to the house, and in a few minutes reappeared with the remnant of the supper he had eaten, and a portion of the wine I noticed on the table. I ate ravenously—drank to the bottom of the flask—and then listened to the false scoundrel as he thus continued:—
“I have a relation in London, who perhaps might enable you to leave the country for a season. It is possible that time might soften your father’s animosity, were you removed beyond his notice; and the violence of his resentment might happily cool down. Here. It is a guinea, and some silver; ’twill carry you to London; and when you get to town, inquire at the Post Office, and you will find an anonymous letter to give you future directions how to act. To save myself from ruin, requires the greatest caution on my part. Push forward to the next village on the London road; and when you have reached the metropolis to-morrow, you will be fully instructed what to do. For Heaven’s sake, stay not another moment!—Steal secretly from the park, as you entered it; and all I can do for you shall be done.” He hastily left me, as if in fear; I heard him bar the private entrance, and observed him close the shutters of his chamber, while I, in a state of humiliation bordering on insensibility, obeyed the order, and, like a felon, stole out of that domain where, two years previously, my will was absolute.
I slept at a mean public-house; but what a luxury was a bed to me! and yet the lowliest servant on my father’s establishment would have rejected what his fallen child gratefully received!
Next morning I put myself on the roof of a coach which in other days I had frequently driven. Neither guard nor coachman remembered me. Of course, the vulgar scoundrels had heard of my downfall. Well, they only imitated men of better birth! They forgot me when it was convenient.
I entered London. It was the anniversary of a victory^ and I remembered it well. Two years before, by a singular coincidence, I had driven in with my own four-in-hand—and as the slang went then, it was “the best appointed drag in England.” Mary Davis was on the box. Ah, two years had made a difference! I was a pauper on a stagecoach—Mary Davis, a wanderer on the streets! A ice, with her, poor girl, commenced in luxury, but to both it brought what it generally does—ruin and disgrace!
The paltry supply that Morley had given was half consumed by my journey; and I sought one of the humblest hostleries which London, in its infinity of accommodation, presents. The extent of my degradation had nearly stupified me; but next morning I went to the Postoffice to inquire for the promised communication, scarcely caring whether it arrived or not. The steward, however, had been punctual; and the expected letter was delivered. It was brief—written in a disguised hand—and merely desired me to call at some rascally place in one of the worst localities of the oldest portion of the city.
I proceeded to find out the street, and with some difficulty succeeded. The person I inquired for was from home, but I was directed to a low public-house in the neighbourhood, and there I found him in company with several blackguard-looking personages. The room reeked with tobacco smoke; the table was splashed over with spilt liquors; the ceiling in many places had fallen in; and the contrivances to stop the broken casement, and exclude the air, were extraordinary. The man I sought took me to an inner closet, called for a stoup of gin, shut the door carefully, and then proceeded to business.
“You are the gentleman Mr. M. has recommended to me?’’ said the stranger.
“I am that unfortunate person.”
“And you want to leave the country for a while? Well, there’s no great difficulty in doing that, if a person was not very particular about the way he travelled. It’s only getting lagged, you know.’
“Lagged! I don’t understand you.”
“Don’t ye?” replied my new acquaintance. “Why I’m certain I speak plain English. I mean, if you did not mind transportation, why you could travel at the king’s expense. But I see you’re raw. Well, I’ll try how far I can oblige the gentleman who takes an interest about ye. Let me see—I have some appointments to keep which will detain me all morning; but meet me at eight this evening in the Borough,” and on the back of an old tavern bill he scrawled, in villanous characters, the place and hour of meeting; told me to be punctual; drank the gin; desired me to pay for it; and conducting me to the door, left me to wear the wretched day through in any way I pleased.
If I might form any opinion from personal appearance, Morley’s friend was every thing but respectable. ‘Well, he was the fitter acquaintance for an outcast like me. I had none better left; and at the appointed time I crossed over London Bridge, to seek the place where the interview with the stranger was to take place.
The house was found. I asked for Mr. Pilch, and was conducted into a private room. He was seated in the corner, with several companions round the table. They were gambling when I entered; but they put away the greasy cards, and then one by one dropped out, leaving Morley’s friend and me together.
“I think I have arranged this matter to your satisfaction,” said he, “and secured a comfortable passage for you to the States. The vessel will sail the beginning of next week, and you will have no time to lose in getting your outfit ready. I have been commissioned by a friend, who shall be nameless, but who you may possibly make a shrewd guess at, to give you what money you may require and, taking out a pocket-book, he handed me several bank notes. You will excuse the liberty I take, in hinting that this money is intended to cover the necessary expenses attendant on a long voyage, and not to be idly wasted; and therefore I recommend you to secure it well, and use it prudently. What!” he exclaimed, as he perceived me about to put the notes into an outer pocket of my coat; “do you carry money so loosely on your person?—in London too, where you cannot enter a tavern or cross a street without encountering a plunderer? Come, my young friend, take a lesson from an old and leary cove like me. Keep but one flimsey out for present purposes, and secure the rest, as I do, in the neckcloth.”
He put his hand across the table and undid my handkerchief, folded the bank notes carefully within it, and then returned it to me. One five-pound note he desired me to put into my purse. My purse!—many a day had passed since I had needed such a conveniency.
I pocketed the money, and the stranger took his leave, appointing, however, another meeting at the same hour and place tomorrow.
I remained after he was gone musing before the fire. I was astonished at Morley’s unexpected generosity, and I secretly censured myself for having doubted the attachment of my old playfellow and friend. His bearing towards me on the night of my stolen visit to Clifford Hall was now perfectly accounted for. I thought it, at the moment, cold and heartless. I now perceived that it arose from a caution imposed by stern necessity; and the secrecy observed in the manner in which he had conveyed the liberal supply, now confirmed it. Even to the agent he employed I had been guilty of injustice. It is true, the man was neither prepossessing in appearance, nor polished in address; but the candid manner in which he exhorted me to be prudent, and the care with which he secured my money against accident, all proved a friendly interest in my welfare; and when I left the public-house, I admitted that I had slandered mankind, in imagining that pity for misfortune was banished from human hearts.
As I quitted the Coach and Horses, I remarked a man drawn up in a corner of the gateway, and standing in a position that intimated he wished to escape my notice. He wore a white hat, and, from rather a remarkable coat, I easily recognised him to be one of the men I had disturbed at play, when I entered the back room in search of Mr. Pilch. Well, he might have some private reasons for concealment; and it was no atfair in which I had any interest. I strolled onwards towards London Bridge, and happening to pass the shop of an out-litter, I stepped in to make some purchases for my voyage. The selection of different articles delayed me half an hour. Once I observed the man with the white hat pass the door; and again, I detected him peeping through the window. He was probably an idler; and I continued to purchase what I wanted in the shop. The articles were tied up; the account written and presented; I handed the shopman a five-pound note; he desired me to endorse it. I took the pen, and wrote a fictitious name, as I had determined to drop that on which I had brought so much obloquy and disgrace already. The man handed some change in silver, and I took up the parcel, and left the shop.
I had nearly reached the extremity of the bridge when I heard footsteps behind, and perceived several men running in the direction in which I was walking. They came up rapidly; and, in another minute, I was seized, pushed into a shop, and charged with felony. My identity was certain—the parcel confirmed it; and, to my horror, I heard the captors accuse me of passing a forged note. The charge astounded me; I could not speak, and my silence was mistaken for a tacit acknowledgment of guilt.
I turned my eyes in mute despair at the men who surrounded me. By Heaven! one of them was the white-hatted stranger, who had been playing at cards with Mr. Pilch! It was providential, he could corroborate the statement I commenced. He had seen me—was a friend of Mr. Pilch—his evidence would be invaluable. I told the manner in which the money was obtained. My statement elicited a laugh of derision from the hearers. I appealed to the gentleman in the white hat, but the gentleman in the white hat disclaimed all knowledge of me, and goodnaturedly added, that he fancied he had seen me once before, at a fair he mentioned, in company with a party of the swell mob. My pockets were searched. Nothing to criminate me further was found. I casually looked round, and saw “White-hat” wink at-an officer, and point significantly to my handkerchief. It was instantly loosed and opened. My name was worked upon it in the dark hair of my faithless mistress; and five other notes were found; they were examined—and all of them pronounced forgeries!
For a minute, I felt as if my heart had ceased its pulsations, but, gradually, I became conscious of the position in which I was placed. None could doubt my guilt. Could any deny that I was a felon? I, with forced notes concealed upon my person, of which I had uttered one already under a fictitious name. The observations of the crowd occasionally reached me. There was no difference of opinion as to my destiny—my career would close upon the scaffold!
Oh Heaven! if thoughtless youth could only fancy the agony of soul I felt, how many would be deterred from crime, and saved from ruin! To die!—to perish in the very opening of my manhood! And how die? Like a dog—stared at by a gaping crowd—pitied by some—laughed at by others—choked—hanged!
“Never, by Heavens!” I muttered to myself,—“Never shall a Clifford, no matter how fallen, die such a felon-death! The grave is open for me; what matters it whether it hide me now, or in a brief space after? Come, man thyself, Edward Clifford, for a last effort—and die!”
Nothing remained but to convey me before a magistrate for committal.
The crowd retired; the officers took me away in custody. My passive conduct throughout, led them to set me down a heartless wretch, with whom hope was at an end; and mine seemed
“The composure of settled despair,”
which enables the criminal to meet his doom in sullen apathy. How little they suspected the dark thoughts which then occupied my mind, or the deadly purpose which I meditated!
An old watchman held my collar in his feeble grasp, and two or three others surrounded me. The mob kept generally in advance of us, to enable them to frequently indulge their curiosity with a view of the criminal. Before we had moved a dozen paces, I made a sudden spring, shook off the man who held me, overturned another in my rear, and started off, at headlong speed, to gain the bridge which was immediately contiguous.
A wild outcry announced my escape; an instant pursuit succeeded. The mob were the only persons I had to fear; for the old men who watched the city then, wrapped in their great coats, and encumbered with poles and lanterns, were incapable of rapid movements. Several persons, however, kept me well in sight; they little knew that death, and not deliverance, was what I aimed at; and they raised a cry to warn the passengers who were approaching in the opposite direction. I saw several men draw themselves across the bridge to bar my farther progress. I stopped, leaped upon the balustrade—“Seize him!” cried a dozen voices—they were the last words I heard—I muttered one brief adjuration to Heaven to pardon the act I was about to commit, closed my eyes, sprang from the battlement, and the waters closed over me!
Mr. Clifford paused. His usual stern composure was unequal to conquer the agitation which the terrible recollections of early imprudence had brought back. A short silence was unbroken, when suddenly the door unclosed, and the dark functionary presented himself, and handed me a letter of most unprepossessing appearance. He announced that the messenger would not leave without an answer—and ill-timed as the interruption was, my uncle signalled me to break the wafer. I obeyed, and communicated to him the contents of the following singular epistle:—
“For Captain Hectur O’Haleran, esquare, or Mister Hartlay, if he’s out.
“Honered Sir,—
“i am sorray too inform ye we are in Trubbel and at Present undir the Skrew in the Watehouse they call Watlin Street, and all Contrarey to sense and Justis. We went into a dacint-lookin’ house, with a Woman without a head for the sign of it, and cald for half a pint, and sat down fair and asey at the fire, when in coms three Blakgards. Immadately they begins to rig us. ‘Morra, Pat,’ says one of them. ‘Devil a worse guess ye iver med, young man,’ says I. ‘Arrah!’ says he, ‘Does ye’r mother know your out?’ ‘What the blazes have ye to say to my mother?’ says I. ‘What a hole you could make in a saucepan of patatays the night she was married!’ says he; and then he goes on aggravatin’ us, and abusin’ the old country, swarin’ Saint Patrick wasn’t a reglar saint at all, and not fit to powder Saint Gorge’s wig, af he wore one. ‘Oh! by the groves of Blarney,’ says Mr. O’Toole, ‘the divil wouldn’t stand this i’ so he offs wid the coat, and offered to box the biggest of the lot for thirty shilhns. “Well, they agrees to it at wonse, and Mark and the big’un set-to. Sorra handier boy iver it was my luck to meet with! he made nothin’ of the chap—a couple of rounds settled his hash, and he gives in. “Well, what does they do? insted of comin’ down with the battel money, they charges us on the watch, and we were bunddled off here, as if we were a pair of Pickpockets. We sends off to the Dials to say we were in trubbel, and before half an hour, there was the full of the street of dacent acquaintances. Some wanted to give bail, others offered to pull down the watchouse; and an honest man, whose father came from Ballyhawnis, went off to knock up the Priest, and get him to write us a Carakter. The divil a one of the bailsmen the constable would touch with the tongs; and so here we remain, snug and warm in the Black hole, unless your honir will bee plased to get us off.
“I Remain, till Death, your Obediant Servint,
“James McGrale.”
“Poscrip.—There’s a Poor woman here, the lord Pity her, callid Finigen. I forget her own name, but she has a Brother that lives under magor Blake, and her unkel was parish priest of Carintubber, a Man grately respected. I often heerd my father spake about him—as he cured the Failin’ siknis with a charm, and plaid butifully on the Fiddel. Well, she’s in quod, the crater, for just Nothing at all. She had words with a vagabone that lives in the back Attick, and he insinevated, in the Presens of the hole lodgers, that she wasn’t aney better than she ought to be. ‘Misses Finigen,’ says he, ‘might I fatague ye for a sqint at ye’r Marrige lines, if ye happen to have sich an article in ye’r pocket,’ which ye know was as much as sayin’, the Divil a certifikit she had at all. The crature couldn’t but resint it, and she took the fire out of the vagabone’s left eye wid a brass Candelstik she had in her fist—and that’s all she’s loked up for. Maybe your honir would Include her in the Bail—the lord sees it would be Charatey.”
“N. B.—I forgot to Say the Blakgards offered to make it up for ten shillins, half in drink, and half in money—but it’s such an Impisi-shin, that nather mark or Me would listin to it.”
“P. S.—For the sake of the blessed Mother cum soon, or they’ll have the Roof off the Watchouse, and then We’ll be Trunsportid for life. The more I see of this Unsivilized Country, the Better plased I am that we’re lavin it.
“No more at Presint from
“Yours to Command,
J. McGrale.”
“Plase answir by Return of post—I mane by the boy wid the red hair that carries this. Remembir Mr. O’Toole and me to Mister hartlay and his Daughtir, onley we don’t know her name. Also to mister domnik, the Black gentleman, whose as Civil and well manerd as a Christian, for all that he’s so dusky in the skin.