At War with Society; or, Tales of the Outcasts

The Child-Strippers. The Child-Strippers. H OW different are the estimates people form of mankind! Some say that the world is just very much as you take it—the old notion that truth is just as you think it. If you wear a rough glove, you may think all those you shake hands with are rough in the palms; and if you wear a soft one, so in the other way; and no doubt if you grin in a glass, you will get a grin in return—if you smile, you will be repaid with a smile. All very well this in the clever way; but I’ve a notion that there are depths of depravity not to be gauged in this short plumb way, just as there are heights of perfection not to be got at by our own estimates of ourselves. As for the general “top-to-toe rottenness” so congenial to some religious sects, why there’s a little truth there too—at least I would look sharp at a man who could turn his eye in and about his own heart, and just say, with a nice smirk, “Well, I am glad to find that man is an angel after all.” It is as well for me anyhow that I am not given to making a kaleidoscope of my heart, turning up only varieties of beauty, without considering that a few hard pebbles form the elements of the fine display, otherwise how could I have had any belief in the existence of such beings as Kate Lang and Nell Duff. I would as readily have believed in M. Chaillo’s account of the Gorillas; only these optimist gentry do admit, with a smile of satisfaction, that a hungry tiger is not to be trusted with a live infant—no more is Kate Lang, say I. The practice of child-stripping, which is not so common now, is one of those depths of depravity to which I have alluded. It is not that there is so much cruelty done. It forms a fine subject for very tender people who wail about the poor innocents left shivering in their shirts. But there is more fancy than fact here; they don’t shiver long in a crowded city; nay, the stripping is sometimes productive of good, in so much as the neighbours contrive to get the victim pretty well supplied with even better clothes than those stolen. There is more sympathy due to the case which happens sometimes where a heartless thief makes off with the clothes, shirt and all, of a bather, about the solitary parts of Granton; for here the situation of the victim is really terrible. To run after the thief is nearly out of the question as regards success, even if he could make up his mind to a chase in his very natural condition; nor is his remaining remedy much better—a walk so unlike that of Adam through Paradise to the nearest house, a mile off, where he must knock at a door, drive away the opener with a scream, bolt like a robber into a bed-room, and get a walk home in a suit of clothes in which his friends cannot recognise him. Our feelings depend often upon such strange turns of thought, that a case of this latter kind, so replete with even agony, can scarcely be told without something like a smile working among the gravely-disposed muscles of the face of the hearer; while that of the child, almost always left its skin linen, is viewed with indignation and pity. I cannot explain this difference; but it is not difficult to see how, independently of the rather exaggerated notions we entertain of the condition of the victim, the crime of child-stripping should be visited with the execration it generally meets. In 1838, and thereabouts, this offence of child-stripping increased to an extent which roused the fears of mothers. The depradators were of course women. My only doubts were, whether there were more than one; for, as I have taken occasion to remark, all such peculiar and out of the way offences are generally the work of some one ingenious artiste; and if more are concerned, they are only parties to a league in which the inventor is the leader. I confess I was more inclined to believe in the single performer, but I was destined in this instance to find myself wrong. I was at least determined to get at the bottom of the mystery, and it wasn’t long until I was gratified. In the month of May of the year mentioned, the cases had accumulated, and as yet my inquiries had been unsuccessful. In the new town the cases had been limited to the narrow streets, and latterly they had increased about the foot of the Canongate. In that quarter, accordingly, I found it necessary to be, though not very expedient to be seen, and I soon got upon my proper scent. One day I observed coming from the Watergate three or four women, all of the lowest section of Conglomerates—not altogether a perfectly applicable name here, in so much as my “clear grits” were not rounded by healthy washings, but sharpened by the abrasion of vice and misery. They were busy tying up a bundle, and after indulging in many stealthy looks to the right and left, they made forward up the Canongate. I might safely have stopped them and made inquiry into the contents of their bundle, but I had something else in view, and was content with noting them, all known to me as they were—cast-off Fancies, not genteel enough for being leagued with respectable thieves, and yet below the summer heat of love—trulls or trollops—troganmongers during day, and troglodytes during night. I have said I had hopes, and accordingly I had scarcely lost sight of them when I encountered, a little on this side of the Abbey strand, a small Cupid of a fellow standing in the middle of the street, (he had crept from a stair foot,) having a little bit of a shirt on him coming down to his knees, and crying lustily with beslubbered face. That’s my robbed traveller, said I to myself, as I made up to the young sufferer who had so early fallen among thieves. And just at the same time as the wondering women of the Watergate were pouring in to see the interesting personage, up comes the mother, who (as I afterwards learned) having sent out Johnny for a loaf of bread, and finding he didn’t return, issued forth to seek for him. One may guess her astonishment at meeting him within so short a time, probably not ten minutes, in a state approaching to nudity, but the guess would hardly come up to the real thing. The notion of his having been robbed and stripped didn’t occur to her, and her amazement did not abate until I told her the truth, whereupon the women—like so many hens whose chickens had been seized by a hawk—broke into a scream of execration which excited the wit of an Irishman, “Have the vagabonds taken the watch from the gintleman? Why didn’t they take the shirt too, and make a naked shaim ov it?” And having taken the name of the mother, I made after my strippers. Nor was it long until I got them again within my vision. It seemed to be a feasting-day with the ogresses. They met and parted, every one looking out for some little Red Ridinghood, who was doubtless unconscious of the tender mercies of the she-wolves. The league consisted of five, all of whom had been through my hands for thefts and robberies—Catharine Lang, Helen Duff, Mary Joice, Margaret Joice, and Robina Finnie. If you have ever been among the wynds, you can form an idea of these hags; if you haven’t, you must excuse me—squalor-painting is at best a mud-daub. Amongst all, mark this strange feature—that though some of them had been mothers, the mother was here inverted, the natural feelings turned upside down; the innocent creatures for whom some stray sympathy might have been expected, changed into objects of rapine and cruelty for the sake of a few rags. I soon not only marked their movements, but saw that an opportunity waited them—for where in the old town will you not find clots of children? and are not these, when engaged in play, artless and confiding? Who, however degraded, will harm them? Nay, if there is any creature secure from the drunkard, the libertine, or the thief, it is the merry playmates of the pavement, whose gambols bring back to the seared heart of the vicious the happiness and innocence they have so long been strangers to. Yes, all true, though a little poetical; but I suspect there is a depth even below vice. The wolves’ eyes were, as I could see, on the merry Red Ridinghoods; and as their number was five, I beckoned to a constable to get one or two of his brethren and watch in the neighbouring close-mouths. As for myself, I betook me to a stair-foot at the top of New Street, where, besides the advantage of a look-out, I had the chance, according to my calculation, of being on the very spot of the expected operation, for there were but few convenient places about. The women were so intent upon their victims, that they seemed to have forgotten that while they were supervising they might themselves be supervised. Nor was it long before I began to see that my expectations would be realised. Lang had almost immediately the best dressed of the gambolers in her motherly hand, and the bit of sugar-candy was working its charm; so true it is that there is awaiting every one a bait at the end of the standing line, stretched out in the waters of life, about which we are always swimming and flapping our tails, passing and repassing without ever dreaming of the hook. Ay, there are big fish intent upon large enterprises among the deeper places, who will snap at the dead worm even in the midst of living gold-fish. And is it not a pleasure sometimes to see them caught by the garbage when one can net the angler as well as the angled? My moral applies not to the gudgeons, but the pikes. Yes, I was right, Lang, with the girl in her hand, and followed by Duff and one of the Joices, made right for my entry. I stepped up the stair a few paces to be out of the way. I wanted for ardent reasons that the operation should be as complete as possible, for the cancer had become too deep for any good from mere skin-cutting. The moment they got the confiding soul in, who no doubt thought herself in hands far more kindly than her mother’s, the sugar-candy of temptation was changed for the aloes of force. The three, stimulated by the fear of some one coming in upon them, either from below or above, flew at her like hawks pouncing upon a gowdie. Did ever before the fingers of ogresses go with such rapidity to strip the clothes that they might gobble up the body? The little mouth, still stuffed with the sweet bait, was taken care of by a rough hand. The plucking was the work of an instant—bonnet, pinny, napkin, frock, petticoats, boots and stockings. “It’s a good shurt, Kate.” “Worth a shilling, Nell.” “Off wid it,” cried Joice. The little chemise is whirled over the head, and the minum “nude” is left roaring alone—a chance living lay figure, which would have charmed even Lord Haddo, if he had a palette and brush, with its exquisite natural tints. If I had had time to wait and see, I might have observed a bit of child life also worthy of a Paton or a Faed; for just as I was hurrying down, in came rushing the playmates, all with wondering eyes to see Phemy (I ascertained her name afterwards) standing naked within a few minutes after she had left their play. Do you think they would ever forget that sight all their born days? But I had another sight in view more interesting to me—even one in wolf-life, with some difference in expression and tints—the grandmammas with the canines and long claws, so formidable to the Ridinghoods. Nor was I disappointed. I had set my trap so well that I had no need of the candy-bait. The instant the constables had seen what was going on, they had laid hold of the other Joice and Robina Finnie, and the three who had been engaged, having seen their dear sisters in custody, turned down New Street, up which they had gone a few steps, and were seized by me and another constable from behind. Meanwhile the cries of the little nude, mixed with those of her tiny sisterhood, brought a crowd, who, instantly ascertaining the cause of all the uproar, showered their indignation on the culprits with a severity that excluded even Irish humour. Nay, so furious were the hen-mothers, that unless we had taken good care of our sparrow-hawks, there would that day have been more stript than Phemy and her brother-victim of the Watergate; nor would I have answered for discolorations or broken bones. But care was also taken of the tender chicken, who, rolled up in a shawl, became in the midst of the crowd a little heroine, honoured with more endearing epithets and sympathetic condolences than would perhaps ever fall to her portion again. At the top of the street we collected our prisoners, and marched them gallantly up the Canongate and High Street. One likes to possess the favour of the female part of the people, and this day I got as much of the incense of hero-worship as if I had stopped a massacre of the innocents. I am not sure if some males, too, much given to baby-love, did not glugger with reddened gills in anger at the spoilers of their wives’ darlings; all which was no doubt heightened by the impression then in the public mind, produced by the repeated accounts of the instances of this nefarious traffic. The prisoners had even during the previous part of that day committed four strippings of the same kind besides those I had witnessed. It was not long till I ascertained that I had been wrong in my original conjecture, and that the whole of these thefts had been perpetrated by a gang. During their confinement, and when we expected that they would hold out in their denial of guilt, it was quite a scene to witness the identifications. The witnesses were, of course, the little victims themselves, on whose minds the features of the women had been so indelibly impressed, especially where, like the case of Phemy, “the shurt was a good un,” that they not only knew them, but screamed with terror the moment they were brought before them. And to the women, no doubt, they were of that kind of terrible infants so well described by the French, the more by reason, perhaps, that among that people the children have more strange things to see than in our decent country. From searches we got the evidence of the little wardrobes themselves, chiefly through pawns, shewing the immense extent of their assiduous labours. Nor had it been an unprofitable traffic to them; many of the dresses were taken from well-dressed youngsters in the new town, and you have only to buy those things to know what money it costs to rigg out a little man or woman in our day, when the children are taught pride and a love of finery with the supping of porridge. But, after all, it came out that we didn’t need these evidences. The vagabonds broke down in the end under the accumulation of proof, and admitted to I do not know how many strippings. They each got eighteen months’ imprisonment, and the community was relieved from the cold-blooded and unfeeling practice of child-stripping for a long period afterwards. The Tobacco-Glutton. I T is almost a peculiarity of the thief that he is in his furtive appetite omnivorous. Everything that can be reduced to the chyle of money is acceptable to him. While others have predilections, he has absolutely none. It is not that he is always, however, or even often in need, and therefore glad to seize whatever comes in his way. I have known instances where he was by no means driven to his calling by necessity, and yet not only was the passion to appropriate strong in him, but he was at same time regardless of the kind of prey. Yes; it would seem as if his passion sprang out of an inverted view of property, so that the word “yours” incited him to change its meaning. As a certain valorous bird becomes ready for war the moment a brother of the same species is placed opposite to him on the barn-floor, so the regularly-trained “appropriator” gluggers and burns to be at a “possessor,” as representing in his person some actual commodity. As a consequence of this strange feeling I have found, however unlikely it may appear, that thieves have really nothing of the common sense of property—that is, love to it—after they obtain it. Unless for the supply of a want, they often treat what they have stolen as if they not only did not care for it, but absolutely wished it out of their possession,—not from fear of being detected by its presence, but for some loathing not easily accounted for. I have a case, however, of a real predilective artiste , the more curious that it stands in my books almost alone. The way in which I became acquainted with Peter Sutherland was singular enough. I was, in April 1837, walking in the Meadows, where I have more than once met wandering stagers whom I could turn to account of my knowledge of mankind. I came up to a young man very busy sending from a black pipe large clouds of tobacco smoke. Always on the alert to add to my number of profiles, I felt some curiosity about this lover of the weed, and going up to him, I made my very usual request for a light. “By all means,” said he, as he drew out his matchbox (and matches were then dear, sometime after Jones’s monopoly) and struck for me what I wanted; “and I can fill your pipe too,” said he, “for I like a smoker.” “Very well,” said I, as I handed him my pipe, which was not out of the need of a supply; “I like a smoke, though I cannot very well tell why.” “Why, just because, like me, you like it,” said he laughing; “it makes one comfortable. I deny the half of the rhyme— ‘Tobacco and tobacco reek, It maks me weel when I’m sick; Tobacco and tobacco reek, When I’m weel it maks me sick.’ It never makes me sick,—I smoke at all times, sick or well, night or day, in or out, working or idle.” “You carry it farther than I do,” said I, “or, I rather think, than any body I ever knew. I cannot touch the pipe when I’m unwell.” “I never found myself in that way yet,” replied he. “I believe if death could take a cutty within those grinning teeth of his, I would smoke a pipe with him.” “But it must cost you much money,” said I, as I glanced at his seedy coat and squabashed hat. “Oh, I can keep it off the price of my dinner,” was the reply. “But does it not dry your throat and make you yearn for ale?” “Never a bit; though water, I admit, is a bad smoking drink. I take the ale when I can get it, and if you’ll stand a pot, this minute I’m ready. If I can’t get it, I stick to the tobacco.” “And if you can’t get the tobacco,” said I, with more meaning perhaps than he wotted, “what do you do?” “That never happened yet,” replied he, with a chuckle, “and it never will.” “You wouldn’t steal it, would you?”—a question much in my way. “I hope not,” said he; “but if I did, ’twould only be the starved wretch taking a roll out of the baker’s basket, and you know that’s not punishable. My roll is just of another kind.” “You’d better not try the experiment.” “Never fear,” said he; “I intend always to smoke my own twist, and have a bit to give to a friend in need.” And under the influence of this generous sentiment, he sent forth a cloud worthy of Jove’s breath to send it away into thin air, and leaving me, he struck off in the direction of the links, probably to see the golfers. As I looked after him, there he was blowing away in the distance, and apparently not less happy than King Coil, albeit that king was of a nation that loved another weed. I have known great smokers, but never found that the passion, like that of opium, goes on without a term. It has a conservative way about it, I think, and cures its own excess by producing a reaction in the stomach somehow. I have noticed, too, that the greatest smokers give up at some period of their lives, almost always—at least much oftener than the moderate-cloud compellers. But be all that as it may, it is certain that I looked upon my friend as a kind of tobacco-glutton, only a curiosity not in my way, nor did I expect that he would ever be so. I say not, being unaware that I have learned my readers a bad habit in looking for some ingenious connexion where none as yet exists—just as if I were a weaver of a cunning web, where the red thread is taken up where it suits me. By no means so, I may say; but will I thereby prevent you throwing your detective vision before my narrative, when I begin to tell you that some considerable time after this interview with my tobacco-fancier, I got information of a robbery of a grocer’s shop at Ratho, from which a great many articles were taken, among the rest several rolls of tobacco, besides a number of ounces? Just the man, you will say, and so said I, as I went over the description of the thief as given to the grocer by some neighbours who saw him hanging about the shop. I recollected my friend perfectly; but in order to abate your wonder at such coincidences, please to remember that I was in the habit of going up to every lounger I met, and that I have so retentive a remembrance of faces, that I have a hundred times picked out my man from impressions derived from these casual encounters. I had never seen my tobacco-lover before nor after, and knew no more where to go for him, than where to look for another such jolly smoker out of Holland. One night (just the old way) I was walking, with Mulholland behind me, down towards the west end of West Crosscauseway. My object at the time, I recollect, was to observe what was going on about Flinn’s house in that quarter; and I frankly confess, that so little hope had I of ever seeing my old friend of the Meadow Walk, that I was thinking nothing about him; nor when I saw a lounging-like fellow—it was in the gloaming—standing at the turn of the street speaking to a woman, had I the slightest suspicion that he was one on whom I had any claims for attention; and perhaps if there is to be a miracle in the matter, by hook or crook, it consisted in this, that with a view to get a nearer look of him to see whether he belonged to Flinn’s, I again went up to ask, what I did not want, a light. My first glance satisfied me that I had my tobacco-fancier before me; but I was perfectly satisfied he had no recollection of his friend of the Meadow Walk, and with this confidence I could enjoy a little fun. He took my pipe quite frankly. “Why, there’s nothing in it,” said he, with the old generosity, “I will fill it for you, for I don’t like to see a smoker with his pipe not only out, but empty.” And taking out a pretty large piece of tobacco, he twisted off a bit, took out a knife, and bidding me hold my hand, he cut it into shreds, filled my pipe, and lighted it. “You seem to have plenty of tobacco,” said I. “Oh yes,” said he; “and since you seem to be smoked out, I’ll give you a quid for supper.” And to be sure he was not slack in giving me at least a quarter of an ounce. “Capital stuff,” said I, as I blew away; “where do you get it?” “Special shops,” said he; “I won’t have your small green-shop article.” I admit to have been a little cruel in this case, for I felt an inclination to play with my old friend, and straightway gave him the end of the thread he had drawn in the Meadows. By and by he got on in the old strain in praise of the object of his passion. “It makes me comfortable,” and so forth, reverting again to the rhyme, to the half of which he again demurred, and which I really rejoiced to hear, nor can help repeating— “Tobacco and tobacco reek, It maks me weel when I’m sick; Tobacco and tobacco reek, When I’m weel it maks me sick.” Restraining my laughter, and recurring again to the subject of the shop where such excellent stuff was to be got, “In Edinburgh?” said I. “No,” said he, grandly, “there’s no such thing in Edinburgh. It’s made by a special manufacturer, who uses the best young leaf from Virginia, and who wouldn’t put a piece of common continental stuff in—no an’ it were to make his fortune. Ah, he likes a good smoke himself, and that’s the reason, as I take it.” “It’s so wonderfully good stuff,” said I, preparing for my last whiff, “that if I knew where to send for half a pound, I would be at the expense of the carriage. I see no reason why you should keep it a secret; such a manufacturer deserves encouragement. Come, is it at Leith, where so much of the real thing is smuggled?” “Never uses smuggled tobacco,” said he, as he looked to the woman with complacent smile, as if, according to my thought, he wanted to appear big in her presence—a little simple even I myself in this thought, as you will see immediately. “I find no use,” he added, “in blowing in the Queen’s face.” “Ratho?” said I. And the word was no sooner out, than the girl went off like a flash, proving thereby that she was an accomplice, and he at the same instant; and, before I could seize him, he made up the Potterrow like a Cherokee Indian throwing away his calumet of peace in escaping from war. I made instantly after him, quickened by the conviction of my folly in uttering the charmed word without using at the same time my hand . Being supple in those days, and, though I say it, a first-rate runner, sufficient to have coped with Lapsley himself—whom I had afterwards something to do with, though not in the running line—I made up with my man in the entry leading from the Potterrow to Nicolson Square, where, collaring him, I brought him to a stand. He became quite peaceful, and as I walked him to the Office, I let him up to our old acquaintanceship—the recollection of the part he took in which, so like the conversation into which I had so playfully led him, made him bite his lip for his stupidity. “I fear you will now know,” said I, “whether your case of the starved wretch and the roll is applicable to your roll . I put you on your guard at the time, and you see what you have made of it.” “Tobacco!” said the poor fellow with a groan, which went to my heart like so many other groans necessitated to be shut out. “I began to smoke when a mere child. I imitated my father. The passion grew upon me by degrees, till I came to spend more money on’t than I did upon meal. I was never happy unless I was steeped in the beloved lethargy, and always miserable when I could not get it. It has been to me what drink is to so many. I would have pawned my coat for a pipeful; ay, and I have pawned for it. Surely this is God’s work following the devil’s.” And letting his head drop upon his breast, he groaned again deeper than before. “Yes,” said I, “you have been upon the sliding scale. You began with a whiff , and you will end with a blast that will carry you to Botany Bay.” “Yes, yes,” he responded, “I now see that a very small gratification may be fed up into a passion, and that passion to a crime, and then the burst.” And after some time he added, “But maybe the judges may have pity on me, when they know how I was pushed on from less to more.” “Then they would pity all that come before them,” said I; “all crimes have small beginnings and big endings.” And so I took him to the Office, where I proceeded to search him, and here is something curious: He wore a kind of bonnet—a Gilmerton bonnet, because it is usually worn by the carters of that village. The article has often a hoop in it, to keep it light on the head; and concealed in the case of the hoop there were a number of plies of the stolen twist. Nor was this all. On pulling up the legs of his trousers, there were discovered three or four ply on each leg, serving the purpose of garters. Then within his neckcloth there were so many plies, that he might have been said to have had a tobacco neckerchief. You might have called him a tobacco idol, fitted for being set up to be worshipped by the votaries of the leaf. No doubt he admitted afterwards that he had stolen from the shop the other articles amissing, but he asserted that it was the desire to possess the tobacco that urged him to the robbery, and that once being in he had laid hold of whatever came to his hand. I cannot help remarking, that my poor tobacco-fancier paid dear for his quid, in giving for it seven long years of servitude in Botany Bay. I have sometimes wondered whether, when there, he ever took a pipe into his mouth. Not unlikely. The Thieves’ Wedding. I HAVE already alluded to the subject of the flinty-heartedness of the fraternity among whom I have so long laboured, and I may illustrate the same feature by another case, which is calculated as well to shew a peculiarity somewhat better known—the elasticity of their enjoyments, if the rant and roar of their mirth can go by a name expressive of a heartfelt affection. Is there any reason in the world why thieves should not marry one with another? or rather, were we to bear in mind the words of the priest, importing the necessity of faith and confidence in each other, might we not rather expect that these celebrations should occur oftener than they do? The nature of the connexion might, indeed, suggest an addition to the formula, to the effect that they should be made to promise not “to peach” on each other; and as for the words, “Whom God hath joined together let no man separate,” these might be dispensed with, to save the judges and such as I from breaking a law of the Bible. The “duty,” “obedience,” and “affection” might remain as approved by experience. But however decorous these unions, (and pearls, you know, have been called unions, as well they might,) it is certain that we see very few of them. When they occur, they are very genuine, in so much as the contracting parties know each other ,—a peculiarity almost entirely confined to their case; but, as I have said, they occur very seldom. They seem to have a sort of instinct that they are liable to changes of dwelling as well as changes of country , and hence their notion that it is better for both males and females to join their fortunes and affections in that loose and easy way, which enables them to snap the silken bands when it is necessary to assume the iron fetters. So much of prosy prelude to that gay scene which occurred in Bailie’s Court, head of the Cowgate, in January 1855, when Richard Webb and Catharine Bryce were, amidst the strains of the Tam Lucas of the feast, made man and wife. That they knew each other was beyond doubt, for had not the gay Catharine been twice condemned for shop-lifting, and Richard carried the honours of as many convictions for the minor crime of theft? Yes, it would be well for our Beatrices and Birons if they knew beforehand tempers so well developed. When did you ever hear of thieves disgracing themselves by going to the divorce courts? They are contented with the justiciary, or even the sheriff. They despise, too, restorations of tocher; and as for the one turning witness against the other’s frailties, you never hear of it. This celebration, when I heard of it, appeared to me curious. I don’t say ludicrous, because marriage is an august ceremony, originated in Paradise, and so very often ending there. And why should not M‘Levy be among his children, to whose happiness he had devoted so many years of his life, of toil and danger? I know that you will say, Why should he not be there? And to be sure there he was. I got indeed no invitation, any more than I did when the handsome hawker was to have been joined, by a “closing thread” well birsed, to the disappointed snab. When people are insulted in this way, they get over it by calling it an oversight—yet they don’t put the parties right by going as I did, and shewing that degree of magnanimity which consists in heaping coals of fire on the head. As Bailie’s Court, in the Cowgate, does not often respond to the strains of a marriage fiddle, there behoved to be a crowd, and it behoved that crowd to be witty at the expense of the happy pair; for when were not the poor, who form such crowds, envious? When I arrived, I found them all in that kind of uproar—hurraing at every new comer—which characterises scenes of this nature; and my appearance quickened the humour into such bursts as “M‘Levy is to join them with handcuffs,” “Let up the priest,” “Where is your white cravat,” and the like—jokes which were really not happy, in so much as the nuptial knot had already been tied, and the sacred restraints of the guests were loosened to the extent of the freedom of dancing. On going up stairs, I found that all my suspicions of affront at not being invited were mocked by an open door for all comers, whence issued just such sounds of fiddle, feet, and fun, as one might expect. On my entry, there awaited me an honour which I believe would not have been awarded to the Lord Justice-Clerk; for my very appearance stopt the merrymakers when in full spring, just as if they were overawed by the appearance of a winged messenger. And no wonder, for I saw there many for whom I had procured lodgings, supplied with food, and even sent on an excursion to the sunny climes of the south; but no man has a right to enforce more gratitude than what is due to him, and I was vexed at throwing a cloud over so happy a scene. “Go on, my lads and lasses,” said I. “You know you belong to me, but this night you shall have your liberty.” “Give him a dram,” cried the bride. And straightway, to be sure, I got my glass of whisky; but not content with that gift, they pulled me into the middle of a reel, where I am not sure if I did not actually dance,—nay, I won’t answer for it that I was not whirled round by some very passable arms, not only for good colour, but for softness. I remained only for a short time. I had gratified my curiosity, and I wished to save them from the embarrassment of a presence in many ways suggestive of associations. I had not been disappointed; but I am sure that when I appeared again to the crowd without having Webb or Catharine with me, or at least some of the guests, they were disappointed—so envious, I am sorry to say, is that common nature of ours, and so impatient of the joys of others. Another thing gave a kind of satisfaction. I saw no chance for this celebration being disgraced by pocket-picking—an occurrence so common in crowds—for here truly there were no pockets to pick, that is, no pockets with anything in them, beyond a quid of tobacco and a pipe, or at most a few pence. You will see how this fond hope was destined to be disappointed. Having joined my assistant, who waited for me at the foot of the stair, we went along to the Cowgate on the look-out; and having finished our survey, we turned to retrace our steps by the scene of the marriage. It was a frosty night, I remember, with thick snow, heaps of which were thrown up on the sides of the cart-ruts. As we were thus proceeding, I heard coming up the rapid steps of a runner; and who should this be but Bill Orr, one of my own. He stumbled against a heap of snow, and fell at my feet. “What’s all the hurry, Bill?” said I, as he was getting up. But Bill clearly did not like the question, far less did he like the anticipation of being laid hold of, for he was up in an instant and off, much quicker than a wind-driven snow-flake. “Where’s the pursuer?” said I to my assistant; “Bill Orr is not the man to run at that rate to get out of the snow.” The pertinancy of the question was no more apparent to me, than to you, or any one who notices the common actions of mankind, which display a proportion in their vivacity corresponding to the degrees of impulse; nor did the notion leave me that something was wrong with my old friend, and I was accordingly on the outlook. On coming again to Bailie’s Court I was attracted by some noises, not at all like the fun I had witnessed before in that quarter; and on going forward, ascertained, from the lamentations of an old poors’-house pensioner—a very old woman, who in spite of her age and poverty had been attracted in that cold night by the festivity of the marriage—that she had been robbed; yes, a poors’-house pensioner robbed of the sum of four pennies and one halfpenny. Ludicrous enough; ay, but pitiful enough too, when you remember that that fourpence-halfpenny would keep, and was intended to keep, that very poor pauper a day out of the very few she would see on this side of the grave. Don’t wonder, therefore, at a grief which was intense, if it did not amount to as strong an agony as those shrivelled nerves could bear without snapping. I had here my sympathies; and if anything could add to my disturbance, it was that in spite of my hopes this auspicious wedding was disgraced. “Be easy, my good woman,” said I; “I will get both your fourpence-halfpenny and the heartless rogue that took it.” “God bless you, Mr M‘Levy; ye’ve saved mony a ane’s property, and ye’re sent here this night to save mine.” And had she no right to think fourpence-halfpenny entitled to be designated property ? It was at least her all; and when all is lost, it is, I suspect, of little importance whether it be a thousand pounds or a penny. Nor was she less miserable than one would be at the loss of a fortune,—only the tear was not there, perhaps because an out-door pensioner does not get nourishment with sap enough in it to produce that peculiar evidence (which is said to be limited to our species) of human grief. And now there was another contrast between what was going on up-stairs and that which was enacted below. There, merriment was the produce of thieving; here, the offspring of the same parent was sorrow. “Wait there, my good woman,” said I, “till I bring you your property and the thief.” And upon the instant there arose a cry of, “Hurra for M‘Levy,” which I received with becoming modesty. So away I went back the road I had come; nor did I diverge till I came to the house of Mrs M‘Lachlan, who sold beer and whisky to be consumed and to consume on the premises, where, in a room, surrounded by some of his own tribe, who should have been at the marriage, I discovered Bill Orr, with his own stoup before him, in all the confidence of security, and in all the joy of his fourpence-halfpenny. “What was your hurry, Bill, when you fell?” said I. “You haven’t told me that yet.” “Perhaps to get to this jug of ale in a cold night,” replied the rogue. “No,” said I; “you wanted away from the poor old pensioner whom you robbed of fourpence-halfpenny.” Bill was choked with the truth. “Mrs M‘Lachlan,” continued I, “has Bill paid for his stoup?” “Ay, I never trust till the ale’s drunk,” replied she; “for sometimes it taks awa’ the memory, and they get confused, and say they paid afore.” “A penny the stoup?” “Ay.” “And therefore I expect there’s threepence-halfpenny in your pocket, Bill. Turn it out.” But he wouldn’t, and I was obliged to extract it. “And now, Mrs M‘Lachlan,” said I, “though stolen money cannot be reclaimed, when I tell you that our friend Bill here stole it from the pocket of an old woman-pensioner, you’ll not refuse to repay it.” “No, though it were a shilling,” replied she, as she put down the penny. “Now there is one I shall make happy,” said I, as I put the money in my pocket, and taking Bill by the coat I carried him off, without even permitting him to finish his pot, the remaining contents of which would be a halfpenny to Mrs M‘Lachlan for her penny. So pulling Bill along—I might safely have allowed him to walk between me and my assistant, but I felt some yearning to hold him tight—I took my “pearl of Orr’s Island” to Bailie’s Court, where there waited for me my poor pensioner, as well as the crowd, who no doubt wanted to see whether I would fulfil my promise. The moment they saw Bill in my hands they raised three cheers, more grateful to me than the eclat of having recovered a thousand pounds. There stood the woman, and before her Bill, the personification of lusty youth preying on shrivelled old age; but Bill was as unmoved as a stone, and I thought of making him feel a little, if that were possible. I knew I had no right to give up the money, but I was inclined to make an exception, were it for nothing else than to save the credit of the thieves’ wedding. “Now,” said I, “Bill, you will give this money to the woman to whom it belongs.” And the rogue, finding it useless to disobey, took the money and handed it to the woman, in the midst of another shout. I never received so many blessings from a sufferer all my life as I did from this poor pensioner; and the feelings of the crowd, depraved as many of them no doubt were, shewed that there was something at the bottom of the most callous spirits that responds to justice. But I was not satisfied, for I made him declare to his victim that he was sorry he had robbed her,—an admission due to the fear he entertained of being torn by the angry people. Nor was even this all, for I sent up to the wedding-party for a dram to the sufferer, whereby I still maintained the honour of the marriage, and had the satisfaction to see the old woman’s eye lighted up as bright as that of the bride. And having gone through all these manœuvres, which afforded me no little satisfaction, and perhaps more to the crowd, I again took hold of Bill, and dragged him as roughly to the Office as was compatible with my obligation not to punish a man before sentence. Sometime after, Bill was tried by the High Court. He was an old offender, and this had its weight with the judge; but it was easily to be seen that the peculiar circumstances of the case had more than their usual weight. The judge became quite eloquent, and no doubt he had a good subject to handle, but a very impenetrable object to impress. Bill was as unmoved as ever; I am not sure if he did not laugh,—another example of what I have so often stated, that the hardihood of these creatures is not modified by punishment, nay, even transportation. Yet I have no doubt that if this young fellow’s heart had been handled softly when it was capable of being mollified, he might have been of some use to his kind, if not a credit to himself. We have sometimes reason to doubt the effect of training even among the children of respectable people, but I suspect such a result arises from their being otherwise spoiled. The parents let out at the one end the web woven by the schoolmaster at the other, and thus education loses the character of its efficacy. With the “Raggediers” in an industrial school, no such spoiling would be permitted. The good tendency would be all in one way; and the devil would not, through the parents, be permitted to pull in the opposite direction. What though Bill Orr got a year for every penny , and one to boot for the odd halfpenny! He would be the same Bill Orr at the end as he was that night of the thieves’ wedding. So much for another phase of the “sliding scale,” exhibiting, as it does, the facility with which the thief can descend even to the zero of criminality, as exemplified in this pitiful robbery,—the very minimum point, I may say, in the whole scale of theftuous depravity. The Pleasure-Party. N O kind of literature can be more detrimental to morals than that of which we have had some melancholy examples from the London press, where the colours that belong to romance are thrown over pictures of crime otherwise revolting. Nor is much required for this kind of writing,—a touch of fate calling for sympathy, or a dash of cleverness extorting admiration, will suffice. Shave the fellow’s head, and put a canvas jacket on him, and you have your hero as he ought to be. See M‘Pherson with the fiddle out of his hands, and think of his beating the rump of a poor widow’s cow which he had stolen, and was to feed on half raw, like a savage, as he was, and what comes of Burns’ immortal song? Catch nature painting up those things with any other colours than those of blood and mud. And yet I have been a little weak sometimes in this way myself, when I have found boldness joined to dexterity. One needs an effort to get quit of rather natural feelings in contemplating some four youths, male and female, well endowed in person and intellect, and with so much of that extraneous elegance derived from the tailor and a well-practised imitation of the great, set down to plan an invasion of a foreign country, strange to them in language and manners, and with no other weapons for spoil than their boldness and their wits. A little attention enables us to disabuse ourselves, by pointing out that the boldness is impudence, and the invention deceit, and we come pleasantly back to the huckaback—the rig and furrow, and the shaved head. In September 1856, I was in Princes Street on a general survey. It was a fine day for the time of the year, and the street was crowded with that mixed set of people, preponderating so much towards the grand and gay, for which that famous promenade has of late years become remarkable. Yes, there has been a change going on, and I have marked it:—a far more expensive style of dressing in the middle classes—a more perfect imitation of the gait and manners of the higher, so that I defy you to tell a shopkeeper’s son or daughter from a lord’s—more of the grandees, too, and ten foreigners for one formerly seen—the only indelible mark remaining being that of the female “unfortunates,” destined to be for ever distinguished, and something about my old friends which they cannot conceal from a practised eye. Between St David Street and St Andrew Street, my attention was claimed by two ladies and a gentleman, who appeared to me to be English. They were what we call “tops,”—that is, you could hardly suppose it possible for one to be more obliged to the secretion of the silk-worm, or the ingenuity of the tailor or milliner. It was far more easy for me to mark them than to give you reasons why they had an interest for me. What though I were to say that they appeared a degree too curious about the dresses of the lady-promenaders, and verified too much the common saying, which really has no reference to pocket-fanciers, that if you look in at a window, you will presently find people at your back? At any rate, I thought I had some claims upon them, not that they were “old legs,” as we call the regulars, for, as I have hinted, they were entirely new to me, but that it appeared they thought they had claims upon others,—the natural claims, you know, that are born with us. A new-born infant will hang at any breast, or even fix to a glass nipple, and these people only retain their infantine nature. So I told Riley to shew deference, and keep off before them, always within eyeshot, while I kept up my interesting observation. I soon noticed that they were hopeful, with all that fidgettiness which belongs to flattering expectation. They wanted something, and would doubtless have been glad to see an old lady or gentleman faint; but there were none in that way, and no runaway horse would strike against a lamp-post, and throw its rider on the pavement. Neither did those clots of people at the windows seem worthy of their attention, yet they flitted about them, parted to meet again, and were as active as butterflies whirling in the air, and sucking no honey. With all this idle play, they kept up their cheerfulness, indulging in jokes, laughter, and other high jinks, so that I was doubtful whether they were less happy than I. With the same fluttering levity, indulged in amidst what appeared to me might have been considered heavy expectations, they all three went tripping gaily up St Andrew Street, at the top of the northern division of which they met a very little dapper dandy, not over five feet and an inch or two. A more exquisite miniature for the cabinet of a fine lady I had never seen before,—dressed, brushed, combed, studded, ringed, and anointed; and so nimble, that if Gulliver had put him into his coat-pocket, it wouldn’t have been without danger to his silver snuff-box. He seemed to be the friend of the taller belle, and, as I afterwards learned, bore the historical name of Beaumont, while she travelled by the name of Miss Mary Grant; the other, Evans, was devoted to the lesser lady, Miss Mary Smith. The little man must have been more successful than they, if I could judge from a united laugh which followed a stealthy glimpse of something which he shewed cautiously, and which I naturally took for a purse. They seemed to have much in hand—one pointing one way—another, another—then a few minutes’ deliberation, not without signs of impatience, as if they thought they were losing time. At length Beaumont, who, though small, seemed to be the leader, pointed north, drawing out the while a watch, and they appeared decided, all setting off along St Andrew Square. I immediately concluded they were for Scotland Street station, for I knew the northern train went about the time, and there is there often a conveniently crowded platform. My conjecture was right. The party made direct for Scotland Street, and I signalled for Riley, who had kept his distance, without losing his vision. We followed, keeping apart, and enjoyed as we went the frolics of the party, who, coming from the heart of civilisation, probably considered themselves among some savage people, who could not help admiring—and would not be difficult to rob. As for the police of Scotland, they need not be much considered, and they at least had not heard of so humble an individual as I. So new to the town were they, that one of them, taking me by surprise, came running back, and asked me the way to the station. It was Miss Mary Grant. “Very easy, ma’am—down to the end of the street, turn the railing on the left, and go round till you come to Scotland Street on a line with this.” “Thank you, sir, and much obliged.” Your obligation may be increased by and by, said I to myself, as I saw her hopping on to join the party—not the first time I’ve been asked the way to the net. Miss Mary had understood my directions very well, for they never hesitated or stopped till they got to the top of the stair leading to the station-house. Being so utterly unknown to our English friends, there was no necessity for my usual caution; and accordingly, the moment they disappeared, Riley and I went forward to the parapet overlooking the stair and platform, and placing our elbows upon it, we put ourselves in the position of lounging onlookers. Our point of observation was excellent. We could see the entire platform, and everything that was going on there. A crowd of people were there, among whom a number of likely ladies, with pockets far better filled than those of mere promenaders in Princes Street. A kindred feeling might suggest to our “party of pleasure,” that people can’t travel now-a-days without a considerable sum of money with them, and therefore wherever there was a pocket there would also be money. And then the habit of purse-carrying, which brings all the money together—the notes in the one end, and the silver or gold in the other—is a preparation just made for thieves, a convenience for which, with little time to spare, they cannot be too grateful. My friends seemed to be delighted with the bustling assemblage, but then it was to last only for a few minutes, when the train would be down, and the platform left in solitude. So they behoved to make hay while the sun shone, and they knew it. The first observation I made was to the effect that they took no tickets—just as I suspected. My second, that they began play at once, though with care, and in that shy way preliminarily to the required boldness when the hurry-scurry would begin with the coming of the train. It rather seemed that they only marked victims in the meantime—keeping separate—threading the crowd with alacrity and hope, picking up suitabilities by rapid glances. Then came the rumble of the train down the tunnel, at the sound of which the passengers began to move, carrying their luggage to the edge of the platform, and all on the tiptoe of expectation. But now I fairly admit that I never more regretted so much the want of half-a-dozen of eyes. The nimble artistes were all at work at the same time—they were, in short, in a hurry of pocket-picking; and though myself cool enough, I was for an instant or two under the embarrassment of a choice to direct my vision from one to another, or to fix upon one. Miss Mary Smith was at the farther end—Evans busy helping a fat lady with her luggage—the little Beaumont deep among floating silks, and invisible. My mark was Miss Grant, who was devoted to the first-class passengers, and though versatile in the extreme, had a main chance in her eye, a lady who afterwards turned out to be Mrs C——n in Danube Street. From this lady, I saw her take a purse, just as the silk gown was being pulled in after the body. The whistle blows, away goes the train, and our friends are left all but alone on the platform. It was now our time. Moving slowly—for though they had been in a great hurry, that was no reason for my being so too—accompanied by Riley, I entered the door at the top of the gangway, where we met the party coming up. Miss Mary Grant had not had time even to deposit her purse in her pocket, and Riley seizing her hand took it from her. They saw at once that they had been watched, and the face of the Miss Mary, whom I had directed to the scene, paled under my eye. A sign to the porters behind me brought them ready to help, and the station-master coming forward, with his assistance we bundled the whole four into the station-house. A telegraphic message was instantly sent to Burntisland, calling for the lady who had been robbed to return, and I then proceeded to search my “party of pleasure.” The purse captured contained only 9s. 6d., but from their pockets altogether I took notes to the amount of £50. And next came an evidence of the strength of that friendship which exists among this class of people, and which in those four, in particular, appeared to be so strong and heartfelt only a short time before. They swore beautiful English oaths that no one of them was known to the other; and as to the unfortunate Mary, who had the purse, they all repudiated her, even the dapper Beaumont, who swore that he was an English gentleman of family, connected distantly—how far, a point of honour prevented him from condescending on—with the noble family of that name. But if the unhappy Mary was thus disowned, she could be a self-sacrifice, for she acknowledged that she did not know them, and that she had angled on her own hook. We had thus, like a bomb thrown among combustibles, severed a very close connexion; but then I had the consolation to think that we would be able to bring them together again at the bar of the court, where, if they should be once more separated, they might celebrate the occasion with tears. It was, I admit, rather an occasion that, on which, helped by the station-master and the gallant porters, and escorted by an admiring crowd who wondered at such fine gentry being in the hands of the police, I conducted my swells to my place of deposit. I’m not sure if we had not some hurras, though I did not court notoriety of this kind; but the moment the people got an inkling they were English thieves, the old feelings between the nations seemed to rise up again—at least I could see nothing but satisfaction in the faces around us; nor was my satisfaction less when I introduced my friends to my superior, who doubtless did not expect the honour of receiving in his chambers four persons so distinguished, one being no less than a Beaumont—by Jupiter, 5 feet 2 inches, by the line! The great Jack Cade, after swaying thousands of people, at last fell into the hands of a very simple clown. So here, as we soon understood, I had had the good fortune, in a very accidental way, of catching, at the very commencement of their Scotch career, four of the most celebrated of the English swells. They were quite well known to the authorities of London, Liverpool, and Manchester, where they had exercised their skill with so much adroitness that they had slipt through many well-drawn loops of the law; and having escaped so often there, where the detectives are supposed to be so much cleverer than ours, they had some grounds for the hope, so well expressed by their hilarity, short-lived as it was, that they would again cross the borders well loaded with Scotch booty. Next day Mrs C——n obeyed the telegraph—an instrument, by the by, which seems to have more command at the end of the wire than spoken or written words, the more by token, perhaps, that it speaks like old Jove, through lightning. She at once identified the purse with the 9s. 6d.—yes, that 9s. 6d. which condemned parties who had ravished England of hundreds, and brought down a pillar of the house of Beaumont. The trial was just as easy an affair as the capture. Sheriff Hallard, that judge so steeled against all difference between rich and poor, genteel or ungenteel, tried them. I figured more than I desired or merited in his speech—which, by the by, I would like to reproduce, but I fear to affront the honourable judge’s eloquence. There is no harm in an attempt at shewing my powers of memory, when I give warning that they are feeble in forensic display, whatever they may be in retaining the faces of thieves. “Prisoners, you have been found guilty of robbing from the person. It is not often that I have to pass sentence on people of your description from England, but I hope the circumstance of my being a Scottish judge will not be held to sway me in the discharge of my duty. Yet I am not sure if the circumstance of your being English men and women is not a considerable aggravation of your crime. What did Scotland ever do to you that you should come here, hundreds of miles, to prey upon her unwary subjects? Was it not rather that you thought her honest and simple people would become easy victims in hands made expert by efforts to elude the grasp of English authorities? You forgot, too, that in comparison of England we are poor, and less able to lose what we earn by hard labour. But such considerations have small weight with persons of your description, who, if you can get money to be spent in debauchery, care little whether it come from the rich or the poor. Now the issue has proved that you had made a wrong calculation, not only as to the intelligence and sharpness of our people, but the boldness and adroitness of our detectives; and I hope you will bear in mind, and tell your compeers in England, what we fear they sometimes forget, that we have not renounced our emblem of a thistle—the pricks of which you may expect to feel, when I now sentence you to sixty days’ hard labour. I am only sorry it cannot be made months,—a period more suited to your offence. For the advantage you thus gain, you are indebted to that cleverness in Mr M‘Levy and his assistant by which you were so soon caught; for if you had been allowed to go on, you would have earned the attention of the High Court, and the privilege of being transported. I hope you may profit by the lesson he has taught you.” The Club Newspaper. T HE sliding scale is so far applicable to us as well as to thieves. As the latter proceed from crime to crime, the less to the greater—in the scarlet tint from the lighter to the deeper, so we slide on from trace to trace till we get to the fountain. And there is this similarity, too, between the cases. Our beginnings are small, but they are hopeful, and as the traces increase, we get more energetic and bolder: so with the thieves; there is an achieved success which leads to the greater triumph. Nay, I have known the parallel carried further. If we fail in one attempt, we try again; and I have a case to give, but not just now, where the urchin Gibbon’s first attempt at a till, from which he appropriated one farthing , and for which he was punished by confinement, was quickly succeeded by a greater triumph, to the amount of seventeen shillings and sixpence . My present case has a peculiarity, in so far as I contrived to make a paltry theft the lever whereby to raise up another of a serious description. In 1840, Mr Ellis, the manager of the Queen Street Club, was exposed to much trouble, suspicion, and difficulty, by complaint after complaint, on the part of the officers frequenting and sleeping in the house, that money, in five and ten-pound notes, had been taken from their portmanteaus. The case was painful to Mr Ellis in more respects than one; for although no suspicion could attach to him, yet in all such concealed robberies, the natural shades that spread everywhere over all in positions liable to be suspected, require to be elevated or dispersed by the light of reason, and that light comes always with an effort. Mr Ellis came to the Office, and I got my charge. I saw at once that the culprit was one of the waiters; but then there were several in the house, and I knew all the difficulties of a case of that kind. The wider spread the suspicion, the less easy the concentration. I would do my best, and Mr Ellis had confidence at least in my zeal. Repairing, accordingly, to the Club, one forenoon, I questioned Mr Ellis as to the habits of the waiters, and, in particular, which of them lived out of the house. I found that one man, Donald M‘Leod, had a house in Rose Street, with a wife and no children; and in order that I may not take too much credit to myself, I may state that that man was more suspected by his master than any of the others. I was now so far on my way. I called the waiters together in a room with closed doors. “Now, gentlemen,” (that’s my polite way) “I have to inform you that there is a robber among you. Bags and portmanteaus have for a lengthened period been opened in this house, and sums of money extracted. All who are innocent will be glad to answer in the affirmative to my question. Will you consent to your trunks and persons being searched?” “Yes,” answered every one. “Donald M‘Leod,” continued I, “an honest married man, with a decent wife, I have no doubt can have no objection to my going to his house and taking a look about it—not that I have any suspicion of him because he lives out of the Club, but that his trunks being at home, I must make him like the others.” “No objection,” replied honest Donald, whose honesty, however, did not sit so easy upon him as honest Rab’s of certain romantic notoriety. “You will all remain here till I finish my process in the house.” To which last question having got the answer I expected, I went out and told Mr Ellis to take care that no messenger should, in the meantime, be allowed to leave the house. The search among the trunks yielded me just as much as I expected—perhaps a little more, in the shape of certain love epistles, which might have made a little fortune to the street speech-criers. What a strange undercurrent, swirling in eddies, does love keep for ever moving! But what had I to do with love, who only wanted money,—two things that are so often cruelly separated, but which should be for ever joined. I then proceeded to Rose Street, and soon finding my house, I knocked gently. A quiet, decent-looking woman opened it. “Are you Mrs M‘Leod?” “Ay,” she answered without fear or suspicion, for what did she know of James M‘Levy the thief-catcher? “Well, my good woman,” said I, as I shut the door behind me somewhat carefully, and afterwards sat down, “you don’t know, I fancy, that some things have been amissing belonging to the gentlemen of the Club? Donald, no doubt, so far as I know, is innocent; but as all the waiters, like honest men, have consented that their trunks should be searched, it is but fair, you know, that I should take a look through your house, to put them all on a footing of equality.” “And that’s right,” said she, with really so little timidity, or rather with so much apparent sincerity, that, if I had not been M‘Levy, I would have thought that Donald was an honest man after all. With this permission, and under so kindly a sanction, I commenced my search, by no means a superficial one—perhaps deeper in proportion to Mrs M‘Leod’s seeming sincerity. It was not altogether unsuccessful—small thefts lead on in the scale to big ones, and superficial traces to deeper. I got some newspapers, one with the Club’s address, and putting them together, said— “Mrs M‘Leod, you will allow me to take these papers; I fancy Mr Ellis allows Donald, as a favourite, to take away an old one now and then to amuse him at home, and, perhaps, to read to you.” “Nae doot,” said she, “ye dinna fancy Donald wad steal them.” “By no means. I never said it,” replied I. I was not bound to say I never thought it—a little beyond my candour. So I bade Mrs M‘Leod good day, and making my way to the Club, I told Mr Ellis the result of my search. “Well,” replied he, “you have got something, and you have got nothing.” “Had Donald M‘Leod any authority from you to take these papers, and this one especially directed to the Club?” “Certainly not; but the matter is so small, that I can’t see how anything can be made of it.” “And you would give up the charge?” “Yes; it cannot lead to my money.” “Well,” said I, “if that is your decision, I bow to it; but I tell you this, that out of that solitary old newspaper I will get your money. Will you give me my own way?” “Well, I have heard so much of your success in desperate cases, I don’t care though I do.” “Agreed,” said I. And without further parley, I went to Donald, who was at the time in the lobby. “Donald,” said I, “I want you up to the Office.” “Me,” replied Donald, with an ounce less blood in his cheek-veins than he had a minute before, “do you think I’m the robber?” “I don’t say so,” said I; “but I want some information from you which I cannot so well get here.” And Donald, a little reconciled, and with a little of the blood in the act of returning, took his hat. When I got him to the Office, I immediately clapped him into a cell, and locking the door, was under way once more for Rose Street. “Mrs M‘Leod,” said I, as the honest Gael opened the door, and shut it, “I am a little vexed.”

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