“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’!”