IT is not often that I have had to deal with irregular criminals, by which I mean those that are not moulded and hardened in infancy and early youth, but who, from some inherent weakness of nature have, by the force of example, or the spur of unlawful gratifications, been precipitated—sometimes against the silent admonitions of their better genius—into a breach of the laws. I have said already that those whom Mr Moxey used to call “abnormals” are comparatively few, and it is not difficult to see how it should happen that their cases are the most painful exhibitions of misery that can be witnessed in this—to most, I fear—very miserable world. In the normals the heart is all in one way. Seldom is there any conscience stirring to produce the terrors of retribution; nay, the conscience is often completely reversed, so that the struggle of pain or anxiety, if it exists, is between the impulse of selfishness and the check imposed by the restraining laws. If a regular thief is sorry for anything, it is for being detected before he has enjoyed the fruit of his ingenuity or violence. There are only two powers in opposition—self, and the world. God is not feared, simply because He is never thought of; religion has no sanction, because it is not known. In the irregulars again, their heart is divided between God and the devil. Yes, that’s my blunt way of putting it. And we may naturally look for some misery, I think, where the poor sensitive mind of the human creature is made the theatre of a contest between such powers.

In September 1850, Mr M——o, solicitor in Regent Terrace, had his bank account in the National Bank operated upon by a forged cheque to the extent of £195. So far as I remember, the forgery was not discovered at the time: nor did the startling intelligence come to him singly—at least it did not remain long single, for there was a crop of minor fabrications that started up like lesser evils round a great one. The forger, whoever he might be, had begun in a small way, as these abnormals generally do—boggling at the first step, then another as the terror waned and the confidence increased, then another and another, till primed for the great leap at length taken. The small cheque-books often kept by gentlemen in the names of their children with the Savings Bank, for the purpose of inducing habits of care and economy, were forged to the effect of abstracting such accumulations of the little daughters as £3 10s., and thereby—small sums and small sufferers—and then came the great feat on the great victim. How true a history of the progress of vice—the sliding scale of crime; fear leading passion to prey upon the weak and helpless, and passion throwing off fear, to rush headlong upon the strong!

At first there was a great obscurity as to the depredator. It was with a recoil that Mr M——o thought of his clerks, until suspicion began to be raised by the fact of the absence from the office of one of them, of the name of William L—— O——, who (as usual) seemed to be the very last on whom the mind of a confiding master could fix as the author of an act so treacherous, heartless, and cruel. The determination was at length come to, that he should be secured, and the charge of doing so was committed to me. I got my description, and how true it is that almost every case of the kind presents marks of personal aspect the very reverse of those we would expect; nay, I would say that, with the exception of a side look, expressive of fear, there is nothing about the face of a criminal that would imply either one thing or another as to the existence of tendencies towards even the greater crimes. Hence the common expressions, “Who would have supposed it?” “He was so unlike it,” and so forth; all perfectly true. I have seen a devil with the meek face of an infant not less often than I have witnessed the softness and smoothness of infancy overlying nerves of steel leading to powder-pouches of fury and revenge. So be it; but I would not give a very long or very decided squint for all your fanciful expressions of this devilry or t’other; and so in this case. I had enough of marks; but I soon learned that I was now, or later, sure of my man, for I ascertained that, like most other novices, he had taken to drink, to keep up his nerve and down his shame—a resource which throws a sought-for personage into my hands the quickest of any. He had changed his lodgings, and for a time I could only find traces of his fiery passage through taverns, as he flew, sometimes trembling with drink and horror, from one to another, seeking from a fiend, whose gift is delirium, that peace which can only be got from one who behind a rough providence hides a smiling face. His friends, who knew nothing of the charge against him, told me that he had gone with the quickness of a shot into this wild life, and that they considered him mad. I knew otherwise. I deemed that his disease was not remorse, though all such fits are placed to the account of that mysterious power; he was simply under the despair of terror, and as the impulse of fear is the quickest of all passions to take the wind out of a man, I had no doubt I would overtake him between the fiend’s temple and the suicide’s death-bed.

Nor was my expectation long delayed. The search among the lodgings was difficult; he must have changed in lucid intervals, for he cleared away so effectually all behind him, that no one could tell me where he now lived. But at length I discovered his retreat. Placing a couple of constables at the foot of the stair for fear of a window-drop, I ascended to his room, at the door of which I placed my assistant. It was not a case for premonition by knocking, so I opened the door, which was merely on the lock-catch, and behold my sporter of the little Savings-Bank portions! He was sitting at a table, with a glass and bottle before him; but I could mark from the state of the bottle that his potations at this time had only commenced; nor was I blind to the conviction that the drink-fever was still careering through his veins; the old signs so familiar to me—the trembling hands—the flush—the tumid swellings at the top of the cheeks—the hare-brained eye, with its lightnings of fear.

I doubt if he knew who I was, but he needed no personal knowledge of me to quicken an apprehension that responded, no doubt, to every movement, even to that of a mouse. The first look of me bound him to the easy-chair,—not made for terror-ridden criminals these rests,—to which he fixed himself by hands grasping the soft cushioned arms; his mouth gaped quite open, so that I could even see his parched tongue, as it quivered like a touched jelly-fish, and his eye shot like a fox’s when the hounds rush on him with their yell. I am not exaggerating—I doubt if any one can in such a case; at least all language appears to fall far short in depicting the real state of a man in this young offender’s position. Even the best describers in such cases are only botchers. We see only physical conditions,—mere palpable signs given in the flesh; nor know aught of the spirit, with its agonising recollections of home,—father, sisters, brothers,—hopes once entertained of a successful future to shed happiness upon them,—all blasted and destroyed, and the only contrast a jail and ignominy.

Yet amidst all this I had a calm part to play.

“You are Mr William L—— O——?”

“Yes.”

“You were clerk to Mr M——o, of the Regent Terrace?”

As I uttered the words, I saw in an instant a change come over him, of a kind I have often noticed in people merely nervous from temperament and not drink. He clasped the arms of the chair more firmly, his trembling ceased as if in an instant, and his eye became steady. Yes, the energy of the instinct of self-preservation shot up through the drink-fever, confirmed his nerves, and prepared him for an onset. I have seen fear run into firmness like the congelations of a liquid metal; but such appearances, which I have learned to understand, never in any case shook my suspicions.

“Yes,” replied he; “and what then?”

“Not much,” said I, “in so far as I am interested, but something in so far as Mr M——o and his young daughters are concerned.”

“I have left his employment, and do not intend to go back,” was the answer, framed to avoid the main chance.

“I am not going to take you back to your office, but rather to take you up to ours, with a view to get some explanation of certain forgeries on the National and Savings Banks, perpetrated by some one.”

“Then get that some one,” said he, waxing firmer.

“I am just going to take him,” replied I, a little nettled, and taking out my handcuffs.

The sight of these produced another effect, which may be said to be inconsistent with human nature. For my part, I don’t know what human nature is, except just so far as I see it, and I never saw much consistency in it. The attempt to be firm, against the nervousness produced by his week’s drunkenness, seemed to give way, as if suddenly let loose by the opening of some unseen aperture, and the effort to say something strong was changed into a kind of hysterical laugh—something like the cackle of a goose, and dying away into loud breathings. This was the mere going down of the barometer; it got up again on the courage side.

“I deny all knowledge of these forgeries,” he cried.

“Well,” said I, “it will only put us to a little trouble in proving it. In the meantime, accept the handcuffs.”

To this I got no reply. He seemed to be struggling for stronger words of defiance, but they would not come at his bidding, and I heard nothing but a jabber, which expressed nothing but determination. I called in my assistant, and while he lay back in the chair we put on the cuffs—observing, as I have done before, the clenched hand, with the perspiration in the act of oozing out between the rigid fingers. Can any man imagine the fearful agony that could effect this, or the state of that conscience-riven and bursting heart?

Having raised him up, a little bit of romance introduced itself into this very prosaic affair, and, as it did not come out at the trial, was never known. He was standing by the side of a bureau, and suddenly he snatched with his left hand a miniature (that indispensable appurtenance of the romance-wrights), and placed it in his breast.

“What is that?” said I.

“The portrait of my mother,” he said, and the tear stood in his eye.

“Let me see it,” said I, taking hold of it; and examining it, I found that he had told me what was false. It was the portrait of a young woman, not above twenty years of age, with long black ringlets—exceedingly beautiful, of course—they all are in the velvet-coated case; but as I am no despiser of a good face, I may admit she was really a fair creature,—ay, even as regards beauty, such a one as a man with more love than duty would even forge for.

“Why,” said I, “this is the portrait of a young lady. Why did you tell me a lie?”

He paused for a moment. His heart got big, all his hardness had gone, and with a choking voice he said, “I don’t want it to be known that she was connected with me, or ever saw me. So for God’s sake give it me back.”

I saw the impolicy of complying with this request, and put the miniature in my waistcoat pocket.

“No,” said I, “you deny the forgery, and this face may lead me to a witness!”

“Never!” he cried, “she is too innocent to know aught of evil.”

“Be it so,” said I; “I will make no improper use of it, and whatever may happen, I promise to return it to you.”

With this he seemed satisfied,—and we took him up to the Office, where he was locked up in a cell, with but little light, and where, I fear, in the dark hours he would see, in the magic lantern of a criminal’s fancy, many more familiar faces than that of the mysterious original of the portrait. A mother’s, at all events, would not fail to be illuminated there.

Somewhat troublesome as the apprehension of this unfortunate young man had been, it was far more easy than to procure the proper evidence to support an indictment. It turned out, to the annoyance of the authorities, who had no doubt of his guilt, that the imitation of the handwriting of Mr M——o was so skilfully executed, that the cheat was almost too much for the engravers. Forgery is, in this respect, a peculiar kind of crime. You may prove that the forger drew the money; but what then, if he was the person that ought to have drawn it for his master? Then, of whatever respectability the proprietor of the forged name, he is only a witness on his own behalf. Suppose the imitation inimitable, where are you? Yet it is to be confessed that so fine a case seldom happens, so that what I have said about the devil’s limp is true here. It seems to be almost beyond the power of a human being to write the name of another in all respects so like that it cannot be detected, even although he has been in the practice of doing so several times a-day for years. But what is still more wonderful, as I’ve been told—for I am now speaking much from hearsay—it is even more difficult to imitate a rude and illiterate hand than a learned one; just as if Providence cared more for the poor, who cannot so well guard and protect themselves against such attempts.

The indictment was, however, prepared and served, and as the case was now more in the hands of the engravers, I had little to do with it; but I could not get quit of my portrait. There it was, still in my waistcoat pocket, just as if I had been some love-smitten swain, doing the romantic, notwithstanding my advanced years; so, thought I sometimes, if I had dropt down dead, or hung myself on a tree, or thrown myself over the Dean Bridge, as wiser men have done before me, what a story might have been founded on this miniature, and how appropriate for a woodcut stuck in front of my works! Doubtless some italic letters would have been in request by the printer:—“This great man hanged himself for love. The object of his affections was never known, and must remain a mysterious secret till that time when all things shall be revealed.”

But even such thoughts as these had passed away. One night I went home late. I lighted my gas and sat down by the fire, in one of those reveries which have always taken possession of me when alone; very unlike other people’s reveries, I suspect—for while these are occupied about catching money, or sweethearts, or fame, and sometimes the faces of departed friends, mine never had any other object than the catching of men. From a dream of this kind, and far removed from the case of the young man O——, I heard my door open, and, looking up, saw before me the figure of a fine tall young woman, muffled up in a cloak, and with a veil drawn closely under her chin, and held there by a gloved hand. Even I was amazed; for though I have had strange visitors, there was a something about this one that I am not much in the habit of seeing, at least within the walls of my humble dwelling—something of style and breeding so much above my Bess M‘Diarmids and my Jean Brashes, that I was put off my calculations as to character.

“Are you Mr M‘Levy?” said she, in a clear silvery voice.

“Ay, ma’am, at your service.”

“It was you, I think, who apprehended the unfortunate young man, Mr L—— O——?”

“Yes.”

“When you took him away from his lodgings, did you see about him the miniature of a young female?”

“Yes,” replied I; and here my practical character began to shew signs of activity. I suspected my mysterious visitor had under her veil the fair face from which that miniature had been painted, and my detective instincts carried my hand to my waistcoat pocket.

“Now, my young lady,” said I, “we have a peculiar curiosity about concealed things. If you will shew me your face, I will tell you whether this miniature I hold in my hand is the one you are inquiring after.”

“That I dare not do,” replied she, with a tremble.

“Then I cannot shew you the picture,” said I.

“Would money move you?” said she.

“Not unless gold could cut or dissolve steel,” replied I.

“Ah, then, I am miserable indeed!” she said. “I would not for the whole world that my friends, who are of rank, should know that the miniature of their relative had been found in the possession of a forger.”

“I see no occasion for that coming out,” said I; “the picture is of no use at the trial, and I can prevent every chance of such a circumstance obtaining publicity.”

“Oh, Heaven bless you for the words!” she cried. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes,” said I; but becoming again official, and not relishing the idea of being done by a female, I could not help adding, “But if you can have faith in my promise as regards the picture, why do you doubt me as respects the original?”

“I cannot—I dare not,” she ejaculated, as she held the veil more firmly. “Adieu! I trust to your pity for one who truly deserves compassion.”

And my mysterious visitor departed. I never heard or saw more of her; but I have since frequently thought of that lovely face, as portrayed no doubt truthfully in the miniature, and formed numerous conjectures:—the disappointed hopes, it might be, of early affection,—the bleeding heart, brooding in secret over the shame of such a connexion,—or, stranger still, the misplaced sympathy of a woman’s love clinging with mistaken tenacity to the unworthy object, notwithstanding the disgraceful crime of which he had been convicted,—these and many others have often passed across my mind as the mysterious visit occurred to me. Nor is it possible to contemplate this affair without wondering at the fatality of the youth, with beauty if not rank in his power, and yet preying on the portions of children.

I have only to add, in conclusion, that the unfortunate young man was found guilty, and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation,—a life of misery entailed, and everything worth living for obscured and forfeited, by the unprincipled and criminal desire of display and prodigality. What a lesson for those holding confidential positions against listening for a moment to the insidious wiles of the tempter!