Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold

From his garret window the guilty engraver beholds the coming of the bloodhounds. With a brief prayer for pardon he flies to his razor, and when the constables burst through the door they find him stretched upon the boards with a gash across his throat. Still, he has not cheated cruel fate. A surgeon staunches his wound, and watchers surround his bed lest he should seek to meet death once more. In the agony of that long night, while physical torture conquers even the deep, black pain of unutterable despair, the wretched sufferer atones for the sins of a lifetime. Yet on the morrow they take him rudely from his couch, and while the foul cobbler goes clamouring to the India House for his blood-money, Ryland is brought before Sir Sampson Wright, who sits in the place of blind John Fielding in the office at Bow Street. There he is given over to Governor Smith, who carries him to the Bridewell at Tothill Fields, where he lies for weeks sick almost unto death.

Newspaper canards spring up in wonted manner like mushrooms from a dunghill. Mr Ryland, who cannot recover – so they say – has confessed his crime to Sheriff Robert Taylor, naming also a pair of accomplices, and hints a third. As he cannot recover – so they say – Keeper Smith has a couple of men to watch him always, lest he should kill himself. Newspaper reason uses these odd arguments and more. Among the feasts of scandal crammed down the public gullet one fact is readily digested – Ryland is guilty beyond all refutation! Forged E.I.C. bills have been found in shoals – none but the great engraver could have been their author – he attempted self-murder because he was certain of conviction. All true, possibly; nay, probably, but where is the proof?

The trial of the poor sick artist skips a session. In tender mercy those in power do not shut him up in fetid, overcrowded Newgate, but allow him to remain under the watchful care of good Keeper Smith. His kind jailor does everything in his power to lighten his dreary lot, making him a trusted friend, allowing him to take walks with him in the open street, confident that he will not break his parole. It is not until the eve of the session that they drive him to the Old Bailey, around whose bloodstained walls he used to play with his brothers as a child.

On Saturday, the 26th of July, he is brought to face his accusers. Not until the last moment do Crown lawyers intimate the terms of indictment, for there are several forged bills laid to his charge, and, conviction appearing a matter of doubt, the Honourable E.I.C. wishes to be certain of its prey. So Crown lawyers select a minor charge – a small bill for £210 – which they assert Ryland has copied and engraved from a true document, uttering it knowing it to be forged. Both bills have been lately in the prisoner’s possession – this is made clear – but which is the counterfeit? A hard nut for Crown lawyers, since both are like as two peas. Unless they show that the first which Ryland had received is the true one, their case falls to the ground, for no man can copy what he has not seen. A breathless crowd, whose hearts are all for the man in the dock, watch the ghastly duel of keen wits, for it is death to one if he is vanquished. Witnesses come and go, but tierce and parry keep the defendant unscathed. Witnesses advance and retire, but Crown lawyers find them weak reeds. Banker Ammersley swears to his signature on the first bill, but this proves nothing, as Banker Ammersley’s autograph is not the seal of Company John. One Holt, late E.I.C. secretary, whose brain is not so clear as it was, makes a dismal display in the box, while the courage of Ryland’s friends mounts high. One Omer, E.I.C. clerk, tries to spot the true bill, but counsel Peckham involves him in a maze of legerdemain. All the gallant little host of well-wishers, who have drunk deeply of newspaper canards, and still more insidious City gossip, are amazed that Hicks’s Hall should have deemed such evidence worthy of a true bill – amazed, moreover, that their friend seems to have a chance of escape.

Suddenly the quick shadow of despair flits across the face of the prisoner. For a moment the brave, easy self-confidence leaves him naked to his enemies. Crown counsel Sylvester – who lives in fame as the judge of maiden Fenning – has played his last card, calling to the witness-box a calm, unemotional man of commerce, Mr Waterman of Maidstone, papermaker for twenty years. Then the reason of the Hicks’s Hall opinion is made clear. Papermaker Waterman brushes aside all doubts – he made the sheet upon which one of the bills is printed, recognising the marks of his moulds, distinguishable only by expert eye. Since this Maidstone Waterman is positive that the paper on which one of the E.I.C. acceptances is stamped did not reach London till May 1783, it is certain that the first bill which came into the possession of Ryland was the true one accepted by the Company. Thus two counts of the indictment are decided – the last bill is the spurious one, and it was uttered by the prisoner.

Yet what is the whole significance of this carefully accumulated evidence! Merely that an amazing forgery has been wrought, and that Ryland alone, who had the motive and the skill, possessed also the opportunity. Every heart within the crowded court is filled with pity for the accused man. Bankers Moreland and Ammersley, though called by the Crown, have striven to assist the defence. Prosecutors Sylvester, Rous, and Graham have shown no vindictive spirit. Even stripping Judge Buller – he who drew up a specification of rod for the benefit of wife-beaters – strives to find a “chasm in the evidence,” endeavouring to prove that the honourable servants of the E.I.C. have made a mistake. Finally, when this big-brained lady-whipping Buller comes to instruct the jury, he specially commends the prisoner’s defence – read by the clerk of arraigns, as poor Ryland’s throat is too sore for the effort – for its matter and good sense.

Then mercy hides her face, for the youthful judge lays down calmly the most astounding of eighteenth-century judicial dogmas. “It stands prisoner,” declares this Buller, “to show how he came by the bill in order to prove he did not know it to be forged.” So – musty old twiners of red tape – they cannot fasten the guilt upon the man, thus with impotent tu quoque they demand that he shall prove his innocence. Since they cannot rip him open in the witness-box, they shift their own burden upon his shoulders. Since he cannot prove his innocence, they deem him guilty, forgetting the good British legal converse of this proposition. Bewildered by judicial hair-splitting, the jury at last withdraw. No direct evidence convicts him – circumstances, prejudice rather, the whispered stories of numerous E.I.C. bills (forgeries all) that have passed through the hands of the engraver. If one indictment does not draw, others will follow – he had the motive, means, and opportunity, and he flew to his razor when the runners came to take him. Half an hour of such reasoning kneads the brains of jury into proper hanging shape, and they decide that to Tyburn the prisoner must go.

Quiet and brave, as he has been through his long trial, the man in the dock rises to his feet when his judges return. Courage is stamped on the strong, deep lines of his face, though the face is white as his soft ruffles, or as the snowy vest that lies beneath his russet coat. Coming forward, he listens calmly while they declare him guilty, bowing to the Bench. A thrill runs through the court when the foreman pronounces the dread word, but, though all hearts are throbbing with pain, one fond hope rises in every breast – that the power of a gracious king will rescue this erring genius from a shameful death. Also, the poor servant himself thinks first of his royal master; for as he is conducted back to loathsome Newgate, he tells the friends around him that, although he has been the victim of persecution, he can perceive a beam of mercy. Alas, he could not know his sovereign!

A week later the dreary session draws to a close, and Ryland is brought up again, and alone, before the rest of the convicts, to hear his sentence. Calmly and bravely he bears this ordeal like the last. Already two petitions have been presented at Windsor – one the day after he was condemned, the other on the thirtieth of the month. It is supposed that he will be kept alive for a while, since he has begged that his life may be preserved a little longer, not for his own sake, but that he may finish some plates for the benefit of his wife and children. Even the heart of royal George may have been touched by the piteous request. So the prisoner spends the gloomy days in toiling at his task, scraping the copper sheets with his stipple-graver, literally dying in harness. Nor is it inadequate work, for when his printer is allowed to bring him the proofs he is able to murmur with satisfaction, “Mr Haddrill, my task is finished!” Yet two pictures after all are left incomplete, one of which Bartolozzi, to whom he sends to beg the favour, and who owes him as a master of his craft so much, promises to take in hand, while jovial William Sharp polishes the other. For King George, when pressed once more to spare the poor artist because of his great genius, replies sternly – “No; a man with such ample means of providing for his wants could not reasonably plead necessity as an excuse for his crime.” Material logic, worthy of the man!

On Friday, the 29th of August, dawns the fatal morning. Before nine o’clock the outer Press Yard is overflowing with sight-seers; but because of Governor Akerman’s humane order, none are allowed within the smaller court to disturb the last moments of the unhappy sufferers. Presently the iron-studded door of the lodge is flung open, and Sheriff Taylor, bearing his wand of office, enters the prison to demand the bodies of his victims. Then through the expectant crowd the turnkeys slowly force a path, and down this narrow lane the malefactors walk one by one with hideous clank of fetters. On his knees beside a block of stone a creature with punch and hammer deftly rids them of their chains. Five times the strident blows echo through the vaulted walls, while as many unhappy wretches pass into the hands of the hangman’s lacqueys, busy with their bonds and cords. Last of all comes a slim, graceful figure, clad in a suit of mourning with white ruffles and silver shoe-buckles, unencumbered by chains, walking as unconcernedly as though he were a spectator of the scene. A shudder runs through the throng as all eyes rest upon the gifted artist, who, as he passes on, quietly salutes those friends whom he chances to recognise. With a respectful bow the Sheriff advances and leads the prisoner to the lodge, away from the crowded quadrangle.

“Don’t tie Mr Ryland too tight,” he commands the attendants as they fasten the cords.

“Never mind, sir,” is the quiet answer; “they give me no uneasiness.”

All the time he chats calmly to those around, bearing himself in this, as through all other scenes to the end, as a brave heart and a gentleman. Then the clatter of arms is heard outside, for the City Marshal is bringing up his troop. A moment later the door is thrown back, and from the steps a stentorian voice bellows aloud, “Mr Ryland’s coach.” With brisk, easy steps he passes out into the street, closely followed by the attendant Ordinary. Suddenly he springs forward, and in an instant a tiny girl has thrown her little hands around his pinioned arms, while he kisses her passionately – his own daughter, the child of sin. Tenderly they induce him to hasten the agonising farewell, but his steel-clad soul is steadfast and unshaken. Tearing himself away, he hurries on with a firm tread.

Then the procession moves forward. A strong company of Sheriff’s men and City Marshal’s constables leads the way, parting the dense surging mob for the progress of the official chariots and the black mourning-coach that follows next in line. Another carriage, in which sits one Lloyd, an ex-housebreaker turned psalm-singing penitent, comes after that of Ryland, and then the pair of loathsome carts with four more miserable victims. No cant or cowardice marks the bearing of the poor artist. Unlike the conventional hypocrite of such a time, his lips do not move in response to the exhortations of white-banded Ordinary Villette. No prayer-book rests in his fingers. Having made his peace with God, he does not deign to humour the prejudices of man. Unjustly, they are sending him to a cruel death. Why should he appear to worship in the fashion they have chosen? Thus, while the procession moves onward, his calm, inscrutable face gazes upon the scene that passes before his eyes.

An amazing spectacle, this eighteenth-century march to Tyburn, revealing as completely as the roofless city of romance the human animal taken unawares. No braver picture of dauntless courage ever has been displayed in battlefield than the serene victim, tied and bound, who is drawn along slowly to his shameful death. Though the deep toll of St Sepulchre’s passing bell may beat in cruel blows against his heart, as he moves past the old church at whose font his brothers and sisters were given their Christian names, there is no tremor visible to the thousands who gloat upon his form. Down the slopes of Snow Hill runs the quick, eager whisper, for the eyes of all seek but one man, “Which is Mr Ryland?” And the careless murmur swells into a louder key, “There he is in the coach – that is he – that is Ryland” – the heartless babble of a multitude of savages. Thicker and thicker teems the concourse, as the procession crawls over the bridge and up Holbourn Hill, swollen like a black, turgid river by streams that flow from haunts of filth and foulness – the sweepings of the slums. Thieves, cut-throats, hoarse drunkards, and shrill strumpets join in the delirious march with the loud, mad tread of a thousand clattering feet.

Thus they move onward. Within the sable coach the smug Ordinary is mumbling scraps of Holy Writ pertaining to the time and place, the valley of the shadow of death. In response, a hundred ribald oaths and loathsome jests are pealing all around. Within the sable coach the poor ecstatic housebreaker is piping a quavering hymn, his joints shaking in palsy, his eyes, which gleam in horrible whiteness, raised to the skies. All around, the hands of a hundred thieves are busy at work as they tramp along in this march to the grave. Beyond Chancery Lane the wide thoroughfare seems to pass into a new world. Although the street echoes still to the tread of ten thousand squalid footsteps, high up on either side, at the windows or in the narrow balconies, wealth and beauty take their part in the mighty spectacle. Sweet, pale faces look down, while soft, heaving bosoms press the casements. Beings who might soar amidst the stars are sunk in the mire – all compelled by the haunting, irresistible tramp rolling onward in the march of death.

Yet the footsteps never pause. Forward still, winding through St Giles, the highroad to Tyburn opens to the view. There is no halt now for the Lazar-house bowl, nor would those fettered men in the carts wish to quaff it. Huddled together in the first, the three are babbling supplications; prone and fainting, a half-dying creature is stretched within the last. In front, the hysterical housebreaker is swaying like a drunkard on the seat of his coach, still quavering forth his piteous hymn. Only the artist, whose carriage leads the way to the shambles, gazing calmly around with grave, stony face, will have no truck with the cant of humanity. For his thoughts are far distant, fleeing from the mighty roll of footsteps till they soften to his ears like the murmur of muffled drums. All around him are visions of bygone days. Yon narrow road that is pouring forth its human torrent leads to Soho, where, with the gentle Gwynn, he used to visit the gilded palace of Therese Cornelys, or that other Carlisle House, the fencing-school of splendid Angelo. Down that long street is Golden Square, but there is no pretty Miss Angel to weep for him. And far away, beyond the distant horizon, lies the palace of his king, but before it there is reared the gaunt, frightful spectre of the triple tree.

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.