Then the sound of voices swells louder while the march is stayed. Through the windows of his coach he can see the three bare posts close at hand, so that he can almost touch them. Slowly the creaking carts roll forward, halting beneath the wooden bars, and a sweeping circle of soldiers spreads itself around. Perched upon the park wall is a long mass of expectant faces. Here and there rise huge stands, tier upon tier, choked to the full with swaying humanity. As far as the eye can reach is a dense, surging throng, crushing forward, ever crushing, as though eager to press the victims to their doom.
Presently the black clouds that have been slowly unfurling their shadows across the August sky burst in a peal of thunder, and the tempest rushes through the air. Amidst the flashes of lightning, a fierce rainstorm hurls itself to earth. For a moment the bloody work must pause, since it is impossible to stand against the blinding torrents. Half an hour passes. Then the deluge ceases as suddenly as it arose. Hastily the Sheriff gives his orders, and soon expert hands have arranged the ropes around the necks of the three rain-soaked wretches in the cart. Swiftly the second tumbril, in which the sick man is lying prostrate, backs to the coach where sits the penitent housebreaker, and he is summoned to the gallows. In a few moments the halters are placed upon their heads, while the contrite thief entreats the multitude to take warning from his fate. At last, when all is ready, they call upon Mr Ryland. Springing lightly down the steps, he mounts the cart, and stands beside his two fellow-sufferers—a brave, graceful gentleman in black, quiet and unflinching. Strange contrast indeed to the swooning creature on the floor, or to the noisy burglar, who shrieks to heaven, wringing his hands. Ordinary Villette comes forward, pressing his holy attentions upon the unhappy artist, who listens to him calmly and respectfully, while close at hand his wretched companions pray long and loud. Suddenly there is a shrill, wailing sound, rising and falling in equal cadence with the see-saw rhythm of a hymn, “The Sinner’s Lamentation,” which four terror-stricken creatures, with their heads thrown back, bellow loudly to the skies. And all this time, firm, motionless, inscrutable, bearing even the greatest ignominy—the contact of these foul ones—without a tremor, Wynne Ryland stands silent, waiting for the last cruel moment. Swiftly it comes. His face is covered, the hangman lashes his horse, the foothold sweeps from beneath, and he passes into oblivion. To the other five who sway in the air at his elbow (save one) death also is merciful.
A holiday of butchery, cries Mercy; yea, and more, a holiday in which butchery alone has a part, giving naught that chance or strength or valour might lend its victim; butchery a thousand times more squalid than that of the noble Roman. Ah, but it is the pious retribution of majestic laws, declares the spirit of those times; the just conclusion of the social contract; butchery, alas! for these poor victims can have no resemblance to the gladiators of the arena. Yes, indeed, retorts Mercy; it is the vengeance of the sacred majesty of commerce, whose garments have been soiled by the hands of these malefactors, which cannot be appeased by the code of savages, an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Yet ’tis stern for the sake of utility, pleads the spirit; harsh for the public good, so that the evil-doer may be terrified to the advantage of all innocence, and to the encouragement of a Christian life. But what of that handsome youth, is the reply, whose face is seared by vice, and whose hand is in the fob of your sleek, well-fed City merchant: is this one dismayed by these six dangling victims on the tree? No, answers the spirit; but we must not adopt a universal conclusion from a particular case, for how can we judge how many of the tempted have been saved from crime by the terrible example of the fatal rope? True in logic, false in truth, Mercy well may thunder—a valid deduction from conditional premiss, but the terms of jurisprudence should not be qualified by an ‘if’ Thus, surely, unless we admit the old Hebrew ‘eye for an eye’ dogma, must we view all legal punishments that deprive a fellow-creature of his life. Alas, that we are controlled by the logic of other times!
The same coach that conveyed William Wynne Ryland along the road to Tyburn brought back his dead body to his friends. Five days later—on Thursday, the 3rd of September—they took him to the tiny churchyard of Feltham, beyond Hounslow, where his father and mother had been laid to rest. For a long time after his death Mrs Ryland continued to keep a print-shop at the corner of Berners Street, where her husband’s engravings commanded a large sale. Subsequently she transferred her business to New Bond Street. From contemporary newspapers we learn that the Ryland plates were much sought after in Paris when his untimely fate became known. Nine years later, on the 20th of October 1792, the unhappy wife went to join her husband in the little grass-plot of the village by the Thames.
With the exception of that mighty scholar Eugene Aram, the eighteenth century never suffered deeper loss by the hangman’s rope than in the death of brave and graceful Wynne Ryland. Just as the marvellous usher is the greatest of schoolmen, so is the Strand engraver incomparably the greatest artist that ended his days upon the scaffold. With him the dissolute and passionate Theodore Gardelle can no more be contrasted than poet Gahagan with the former. Yet, unlike the sombre Aram, poor Ryland did not bear the stain of blood upon his hands. Nor was the evidence of his guilt less open to doubt. Because he failed to prove his innocence they sent him to his death. Still, although there was no lack of tears and lamentation, his cruel fate did not excite the same interest nor cause the universal consternation that was aroused in similar cases. Neither Horace Walpole, Mrs Delany, nor George Selwyn speak his name, and gossip Tom Smith merely mentions him incidentally in a list of engravers. A reason is not far to seek. Not being a man of fashion, how was it possible that an epoch which had beheld so many stupendous melodramas should be greatly shocked by his atonement? Preacher Dodd, the pet of devout ladies; the unfortunate brothers over whom the charms of Margaret Rudd cast the halo of romance; soldier-parson Hackman, with his love and madness; poisonous Captain Donellan of Lawford Hall—all these magnificent criminals had lately made the march to Tyburn, or elsewhere. Little wonder that society, ennuyé by the sight of the gallows, had lost its zest for convict-worship.
To say that William Wynne Ryland might have been the greatest engraver that the world has seen would be to state an equivocal proposition, since modern print-science, to which the splendid art has given birth, scarce realises comparative methods, and has no complete list of precise terms. Yet the assertion that none have ever excelled him as a creator of the coloured stipple is a mere platitude. Also, it would be difficult to name any other artist who has produced finer work in all the three great branches of engraving—line, dot, and mezzotint. Still, like every rolling stone, he suggests rather than demonstrates the possession of superlative powers. Although few surpass him as a draughtsman, colourist, and craftsman, he shares the fate of all who pursue unworthy models. While the fair Kauffman sinks into insignificance in contrast to Sir Joshua, the man who translated her pictures into their popular form is worthy to take his place beside all the masters who fashioned engravings after Reynolds. Through the whole of his life it is the same. In careless vigour he speeds along the difficult paths that lead to the golden mountain-tops, but never reaches the summit. To Wale or to Oudry he gives more than to François Boucher. Smiling Ramsay and courtly Bute snatch him from his allegiance to the mighty Italians. Always opportunist, the pleasures of the world entangle him amidst a stifling undergrowth, where his wings may not expand to bear him aloft, free and unconfined.
Nor are his copies of Angelica the best that she can offer. In humble servitude he seems to take all that is given to him. The slave of popular taste, unlike Bartolozzi he never casts off his shackles. A simpering Venus, an over-fed Cupid, a Grecian warrior with a feminine frame—these are the subjects upon which he wastes his powers. Even when opportunity comes to draw a human portrait in the person of a noble woman, he has to struggle against the mockery of a burlesque dress—furled Turkish trousers, or a Grecian turban. Yet how different is the obvious ideal! Since he could transform the work of ‘Miss Angel’ with such wondrous art, conjecture may dream of entrancing pictures after Gainsborough, in miniature, but in perfect semblance, glowing with all the gorgeous tints of the great master.
An illustrious feather-pate, gazing with idolatry upon his own modern photograph, has screamed, “Camera beats the brush! Look upon that picture, and then presume to tell me that Rembrandt or Velasquez has fashioned its equal.” Obviously, for those painters never had such a model as illustrious feather-pate. Yet feather-pate but babbles the gibberish of his times. All who inveigh against soulless lithograph or poll-parrot photography, saying that monarchs of the brush are with us still whose works are worthy of the engraver’s steel, cry as prophets of the wilderness. “Camera beats the print,” shrieks Cosmos; “magna est vilitas, et prævalebit.” Thus poor Cinderella, who never went to the ball with her more gorgeous sisters, is driven even from her home in the kitchen.
Still, could some god transport Wynne Ryland from the sunny plains, he would find work for his hand as alluring as the canvas of Angelica Kauffman. In the gossamer creations of such as Alma Tadema and Blair Leighton, the soft-coloured print might begin a new life. Is it too late to hope that ere he passed over the dark river he left his mantle upon the shore?