doubt, that he is the gentleman who was here in the early part of the
summer?—I thought so. He is in this neighbourhood; is not far from
here. He dares not enter our house at Elm Knoll, as that is not only
under special watch, but we have reason to think that one or more of
our servants are bought over, and would act as spies and informers. He
cannot get away without assistance; and you, he thinks, are the only
man he can trust.’
‘_I_ am!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, what can I do?’
‘Perhaps nothing; perhaps everything,’ replied Miss Cleabyrn. ‘He has
been seen and recognised here, and every hour makes it more dangerous
for him to linger. He knows he can trust you. I am sure of it too,’ she
added, after a moment’s hesitation; ‘your very look justifies me in
saying so much.’
Ah! she knew what my poor stupid looks had revealed, months before, and
speculated rightly that I would have been taken out and shot dead on
the line, rather than have betrayed her slightest confidence.
I told her that I would do anything to assist her, and the captain too.
‘In what way,’ I continued, ‘do you——?’
‘You must get him away in one of the carriages,’ she interrupted—‘some
carriage which leaves here; for if he ventures to the station, he will
certainly be arrested. You can, for the present, conceal him in your
cottage, where, as I know, nobody lives but your mother and yourself.
We leave all to you. He will come here to-morrow night. The rest is in
your hands.—These are all I can give you now,’ she continued. ‘What
ready money we can command, he will want; but in a short time you shall
be properly rewarded.’ As she spoke, I saw her hands were busy under
her cloak; and in the next instant she laid on the desk before me a
handsome gold watch and chain.
‘Miss Cleabyrn!’ I gasped at last; ‘you do not think—do not suppose for
a moment that I want—would take from you anything to buy my aid! I am
only too willing to give it. I shall be proud’——
‘They are yours!’ she interrupted. ‘Watch for the captain to-morrow
night.—Do not follow me.—No; keep them! All we can do will be but
trifling to show our undying gratitude, if you aid us now.’ She opened
the door as she said this, and in a moment was lost in the darkness of
the night, leaving me standing with the watch and chain in my hand.
MY DETECTIVE EXPERIENCES.
Novel-readers are well acquainted with the modern detective. He is
almost as important a personage as the rich nabob, who was so lavishly
utilised by our progenitors in cutting the Gordian knot of difficulties
in their contemporary works of fiction. If ‘the good man struggling
with the storms of Fate’ required instant rescue from his troubles,
a rich uncle from India appeared upon the scene. So in our day the
villain is run to earth by a supernaturally gifted detective. But
making allowances for the fact that a great part of our fiction is the
work of women, who cannot (presumably) have come in contact with the
detective class, the sketches of these useful individuals by feminine
pens are tolerably close to nature, although they are copies of
pre-existing portraits; or evolved from their inner consciousness, in
the same way as the most vivid description of Switzerland is said to be
the work of Schiller, who had never seen the country.
My first professional experience of a detective was as follows. On
a certain evening, I found, to my dismay, that the entrance-hall of
my house had been practically cleared of its contents—a hat, two
umbrellas, and a valuable sealskin cloak having disappeared. I gave
information at the nearest police station, and was informed that a
police-officer would wait upon me. On the following day, the servant
announced that a man wanted to speak to me at the street-door. I found
an herculean individual in the garb of a navvy, with large sandy
whiskers and red hair, who informed me that he was a detective. I
ushered him into the dining-room, where he seated himself, and listened
very patiently to my story. He inquired as to the character of the girl
who answered the door. ‘Tolerable,’ I replied. ‘But she is under notice
to leave.’
He expressed his conviction that the servant was in collusion with
the thief or thieves. At this moment I was again summoned to the
door, where I beheld a somewhat diminutive individual, attired
as a clergyman. He was an elderly man, with silver hair, a clear
pink-and-white complexion, and wore a suit of superfine broadcloth,
with a white cravat. His ‘get-up’ to the smallest detail was faultless,
even to the gold-rimmed double eyeglass. ‘You have a detective here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am a sergeant of the E division; can I speak to him?’
In another minute the pair were seated side by side, as great a
contrast as it is possible to conceive.
Finding that my business alone was not the cause of his visit, I
courteously left them to themselves. In a few minutes, the ‘clergyman’
left the house, expressing a hope that I should obtain some tidings of
my lost property. The ‘navvy’ remained for about half an hour, relating
some of his experiences. ‘You see, sir, we have different tools for
different jobs. If there is to be any rough-and-tumble business, any
work requiring strength and muscle, anything dangerous, they employ a
man like me.’ The speaker stretched his powerful limbs as he spoke with
some natural pride. ‘Our sergeant would be of no use at all in such
work. He does the delicate work, the organising part of the affair—same
as a general.’ The ‘navvy’ then went on to relate how he had lately
been employed to detect the supposed defalcations of a barmaid at a
small beershop in a low quarter of the town. The customary expedient
of paying for supplies with marked coin was not deemed sufficient,
as an opinion existed that the girl was a member of a gang, whom
it was deemed prudent to discover. ‘So, for a fortnight, I haunted
that public, as you see me now, passing for a navvy who was taking a
holiday and spending his savings; sometimes sitting in the taproom, and
sometimes in front of the bar, smoking and chatting with all comers.
The suspicions formed proved to be correct; and the girl turned out to
be an agent of a gang of area-sneaks and burglars.’
I am compelled to record that my loquacious friend was not equally
successful in my case, no trace of the missing property ever having
been discovered.
My next experience of detectives was on two occasions when I officiated
as a grand-juryman. The reader is probably aware that the grand-jurymen
sit in a room in the immediate proximity of the court, listening to
evidence for the prosecution only, the prisoner not being produced;
the object being to discover whether the prisoner shall be put on his
trial or not. Sometimes there is a perfect procession of detectives,
of every type, according to the nature of the case. One will appear
habited as a workman, unshaven, and giving one the notion of being
out of employment; to be followed by another dressed in the most
faultless style. They are all remarkable for giving their evidence
in an admirable manner, beginning at the beginning, never using a
superfluous word, and leaving off when the end has arrived. This is in
strong contrast to the ordinary witness, especially the female witness,
whom it is difficult to keep to the point. One of the detectives made
a lasting impression on me. He might have stepped on to the boards
of a fashionable theatre as the exponent of Sir Frederick Blount in
Lord Lytton’s play of _Money_—a very light overcoat, check trousers,
patent leather boots, white gaiters and pearl buttons, lemon-coloured
kid gloves, and a silver-headed Malacca cane. He was very pale, with
flaxen hair parted down the middle, and a light fluffy moustache. The
jury opened their eyes very wide when he commenced his business-like
statement by saying that he was a sergeant in the detective force. He
had been driving a swell dogcart in company with another detective,
on the look-out for some noted horse-stealers in one of the Eastern
Counties. He had met them driving a cart to which a stolen horse was
attached. They obeyed his command for a while to follow him to the
market town, but suddenly attempted flight across the fields, deserting
their cart and horses; but were pursued and captured.
The following is a notable instance of shrewdness on the part of a
detective. Some burglars had been disturbed in their work in a house
near the Regent’s Park by a wakeful butler. He was armed with a gun,
and he succeeded in capturing one burglar and wounding another, who
escaped. There was no doubt of the latter fact, as spots of blood
were plainly discernible on the snowy ground. When the day for the
examination of the captured burglar arrived, a detective placed
himself in the police court in a position whence he could watch
the countenances of the general public. He wisely argued that some
friend of the prisoner would attend in order to convey the earliest
information to the wounded burglar of the result of the examination of
his friend. For a while the detective scanned the grimy features of the
audience in vain; at length he fancied that a woman betrayed more than
ordinary interest in the evidence adduced. At the conclusion of the
examination, he followed the woman to a humble lodging in the Borough;
and there, stretched on a miserable pallet, lay the burglar with a
bullet-wound in his leg.
A detective who had followed a felonious clerk from England to the
United States, lost the scent at Buffalo, which is about twenty miles
from the celebrated Falls of Niagara. The detective argued that no one
would come so near to the Falls without paying a visit to them. He went
accordingly, and the first person he saw was the runaway clerk absorbed
in admiration of the Horse-shoe Fall.
With a singular occurrence, which happened to myself, I will conclude
these rambling notes. On the 25th of January 1885, I was seated at tea
with my family in my house, which is located in a very quiet street
in West Kensington. The servant appeared and said a gentleman wished
to speak to me. He had not inquired for any one in particular, but
had said that ‘any gentleman would do.’ I must remind the reader that
all London was at this time ringing with the details of the dynamite
explosion at the House of Commons and the Tower on the preceding day. I
found a tall gentlemanly individual about thirty, of the genus ‘swell,’
who spoke with all the tone and manner of a person accustomed to good
society. After a momentary glance at me, he turned his head and kept
his eyes intently fixed on the farther end of the street. He spoke in a
low tone, and in somewhat hurried and excited accents. ‘I want you to
assist me in arresting two Irish Americans. I have been following them
for some time, and they have just discovered that fact.’
‘Are you a detective?’ I inquired.
‘I am,’ he replied with his gaze still concentrated on the somewhat
foggy street. ‘I can see them still,’ he continued.
Now, I am afraid, when I record my reply, I shall be placed on the same
pedestal with Sir John Falstaff at the battle of Shrewsbury, so far as
physical courage is concerned. But I had only lately recovered from a
prostrating illness, which had left me very weak, and had been confined
to the house for a fortnight under medical certificate. I briefly
stated these facts, and added, that I feared I was not at that moment
qualified for an affair such as he alluded to. He sighed in response,
and without removing his gaze from his quarry, said: ‘I wish I could
see a policeman,’ and walked rapidly away in the direction of the two
men.
Assuming his story to be a true one, the men must have purposely
decoyed him into a quiet street, and there waited, in order to solve
the point whether they were in reality being tracked. Reluctant to
attempt their arrest single-handed, the detective rang at the first
door he came to, to throw them off their guard, and cause them to
suppose that he had friends in the street; also on the chance that he
might obtain a stalwart assistant in his desperate adventure. I have
never heard anything further of my mysterious visitor. My readers can
easily imagine the diversified comments to which my cautious conduct
has given rise—how I have missed a golden opportunity of immortalising
myself, and of becoming the hero of the day! how I have probably
escaped death by knife or revolver from two desperadoes, who, under
the circumstances, could easily have effected their escape in a retired
street and in the gray dusk of a Sabbath evening.
A BONE TO PICK WITH ARTISTS.
I have a bone to pick with my friends the artists! I use the word
‘friends’ advisedly, for have I not had the entrée for years to several
studios in artistic Kensington? First and foremost was that of poor
T. L. Rowbotham, who was so suddenly removed from amongst us some ten
years ago, leaving a reputation for breezy coast scenery, which is
still green in the memory of the public. My ground of offence is this:
that they invest their subjects with so much of their own poetical
imagination, that when we subsequently make acquaintance with the
localities, an acute sense of disappointment is experienced. Thus, I
had been familiar for years with the exquisite engraving after Turner
of Abbotsford, wherein the abode of the Wizard of the North peers
forth like some huge baronial castle from a dense forest of trees
which extends to the bank of the murmuring Tweed. The happy time
arrived at length when I was fated to make acquaintance with Scotland
and its lovely scenery. Need I say that I included in my explorations
Abbotsford and Melrose. My heart beat high as I felt that I was within
a couple of miles of renowned Abbotsford. Could I not see in my mind’s
eye the massive entrance porch, as sketched by Sir William Allan, R.A.;
the baronial hall with the knights in armour, and so on? What was the
reality? A very comfortable country mansion, not of any great size,
and the dense forest melted into thin air! I must candidly admit, with
respect to the last point, that the artist was not responsible for this
omission, as the plantation had been cut down for sanitary reasons by
the descendants of the great Sir Walter. But the rooms were terribly
shrunken as compared with the images in my mind’s eye, as created by
the imaginative Turner and Allan. Melrose Abbey could not be better;
but I was disappointed to find the sacred fane so hemmed in by poor
buildings, which never appear in the artist’s sketches.
On one occasion, I was carefully watching the deft fingers of my friend
Smith, as he rapidly placed upon paper the outward resemblance of a
picturesque water-mill in a valley in the Lowlands. Suddenly his pencil
described a swelling mountain in the far distance. In vain I protested
at this outrage on authenticity and vraisemblance. Smith was firm, and
descanted in eloquent terms on the improvement caused by the addition.
Herein lies the key of my ground of complaint.
Haddon Hall is another of my painful awakenings. It is worthy a
pilgrimage to explore those tapestried halls, for they are full of
interest, and the Hall itself is beautifully situated. But he who has
never studied the hundreds of views of Haddon which are in existence,
will be the happier man. The chambers have a dwarfed and shrunken
appearance. The miniature terrace with its moss-grown steps looking
like a view seen through the wrong end of a telescope, completed my
disappointment.
Fontainebleau was a success, because I was not familiar with any
magnified views thereof. Always excepting the famous courtyard in front
of the renowned horse-shoe staircase, down the steps of which the
defeated Emperor slowly trod ere he bade farewell to his legions, prior
to his departure for Elba. Do we not all know the celebrated print
after Horace Vernet, wherein Napoleon I. is depicted embracing General
Petit, while the stalwart standard-bearer of the erst victorious eagle
covers his weeping face with one hand. In the immense space, the
serried ranks of the Imperial Guard stand like mournful statues. I
sighed as I contemplated the moderate-sized square. Another illusion
had departed!
Any one who has seen the chamber at Holyrood in which Mary Stuart
held high festival with her ladies, listening the while to the
love-songs of the Italian Rizzio, will candidly admit that it is one
of the smallest supper-rooms in existence! Snug, decidedly—‘exceeding
snug,’ as Sir Lucius O’Trigger remarks with respect to intramural
interment in the Abbey at Bath. And here I must admit that there is
one brilliant exception to the theory I have laid down—Edinburgh! I
have never heard a single individual express disappointment with the
first sight of ‘Auld Reekie!’ Climatic surroundings of course increase
or diminish the enthusiasm. Probably no city has been so profusely
illustrated, and when the special points are seen for the first time,
they are recognised as old familiar friends. Well do I remember my
first experience. The transit from the south at that time was not
managed with the same speed or the same punctuality as nowadays. I
was timed to arrive at the Caledonian station at eleven P.M. It was
considerably past midnight, and dark as pitch, when I stepped into a
cab amidst torrents of rain, and requested to be driven to a certain
hotel. During the journey, I fancied I caught a glimpse of the Scott
Monument, and felt a spasmodic thrill in consequence. When I descended
to the breakfast-room the following morning, all was changed. Before my
gaze stretched the long line of Princes Street, with the elegant Gothic
spire of Scott’s Monument tapering gracefully into the blue sunlit air.
The cries of the Newhaven fishwives were as music to my ear.
I was so impatient to mount the Castle Hill and the Calton Hill, that
I wished I could be Sir Boyle Roche’s bird, and be in two places at
once. To describe the views from these celebrated eminences would be
to relate a ‘twice-told tale.’ But even at this distance of time I
smile at my outspoken delight as I ‘spotted’ places I had been familiar
with from childhood (on paper), and their unexpected relation to each
other. ‘Why, that is Holyrood below me!’ and then I remembered that the
old palace must have a local habitation somewhere. But there are two
effects which remain for ever imprinted on my memory. The rainclouds
had gathered again, and as they scudded rapidly across the heavens, the
Castle and Rock were one moment in bright sunlight, and then involved
in the deepest gloom, so that the green-covered base appeared as
unsubstantial in the mist as a fairy palace. The second effect was the
Old Town at night as viewed from Princes Street, with the twinkling
lights piled high in air, as if they denoted the lofty towers of a
palace of the gnomes. The walk of a few yards changes the entire scene.
Arthur Seat, Salisbury Crags, and the Pentlands seen from a different
angle create a new picture. Edinburgh, changeable and inexhaustible,
the kaleidoscope of cities!
I wish to touch with becoming reverence on the disillusions which may
lie under the pictorial representations of the Holy Land. Inspired by
those illustrations, how often have I in imagination left Jerusalem by
one of the city gates, and explored the Valley of Jehoshaphat, ascended
the Mount of Olives, and followed the convolutions of the brook Kedron,
the gently rising moon illumining meanwhile the garden of Gethsemane!
Would a personal examination of some of those sacred places be attended
with perfect satisfaction? I fear not.
THE SICKROOM FIRE.
I am neither doctor nor nurse by profession, but have had twice in my
lifetime to abandon my ordinary occupation and take charge of members
of my family who suffered from severe illness. Like others who were not
taught ‘the regular way,’ I had to meet difficulties as they arose,
and, as often happens, necessity became the mother of invention.
My first patient was my father: he suffered from nervous fever; and the
slightest noise caused him great suffering, every sound appearing to
be magnified to an extraordinary degree. It was, of course, important
that nothing should occur to break the light sleep which he got from
time to time. His illness occurred in winter, and the season was an
unusually severe one of frost. It was necessary to keep a fire in the
bedroom; yet I found that the poking of it, dropping of cinders on the
fender-pan, and the putting of coals on the fire, interfered sadly
with my patient’s rest; and I saw that I must get rid of the noise if
my nursing was to be a success. My first step was to send out of the
room both fender and fire-irons, and to get an ordinary walking-stick,
such as is sold for sixpence. With this I cleared the bars and did
what poking was necessary for several weeks. When it took fire, as
it occasionally did, a rub upon the hob put it out. All the rattle
of fire-irons and fender was got rid of, and my first difficulty was
overcome. My remaining trouble was putting coals on the fire. If I
shook them out of the scuttle into the grate, it made a deal of noise;
if I rooted them out with a scoop, the sound was nearly as great, and
more irritating, because more prolonged. I managed to get out of that
difficulty by making up the coal in parcels. I brought my coal-box
downstairs, and taking a couple of scoopfuls of coal at a time, I
folded it in a piece of newspaper, and then tied each parcel with
string. I put the parcels one upon another in it until the coal-box
was full, and took them to my patient’s room. When the fire wanted
replenishing, I placed a parcel upon it; the paper burned, away, and
the coal settled down gently with little or no sound. After this, the
fire was no longer a trouble to me or to my patient.
Some years after my first experience at nursing, my wife was suddenly
attacked with typhus fever. I had to clear the house of children and
servants, and send for two hospital nurses. When I was preparing for
the night on the evening of their arrival, the nurse who was about to
sit up smiled when she saw me bring into the patient’s room a coal-box
full of paper parcels. She evidently looked upon it as the whim of an
amateur. The next morning, she took quite another view of the case,
and said: ‘I thought, sir, that I knew my business pretty well; but
you certainly have taught me something I did not know—how to manage a
sickroom fire. Why, I often let the fire out, and had to sit for hours
in the cold, for fear of wakening patients when they were getting a
good sleep, besides missing the fire afterwards, when they wakened, and
I had not a warm drink for them or the means of making it. With your
parcels, I had a good fire all night without a sound, and never had to
soil my fingers.’
THE CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY’S WESTERN TERMINUS.
Port Moody, at the head of Burrard Inlet, was the point first selected
as a terminus for the Canadian Pacific Railway. The terminus finally
decided upon, however, lies on Coal Harbour, near the entrance to
this inlet, where the city of Vancouver is now springing up with
great rapidity. The Company’s machine-shops and terminal works will
be located here, and it promises to be an important commercial city
at no distant date. Tenders have been spoken of for a fortnightly
mail-service between that point and Yokohama and Hong-kong. It is also
probable that the carrying of the bulk of tea shipments for England and
the eastern American States and provinces will be done by this route.
This makes the outlook all the more promising for Vancouver. Town-lots
of land have been laid off by the provincial government fronting the
anchorage on English Bay, a large portion of which will be used by the
railway Company for terminal works.
‘LET THERE BE LIGHT.’
‘Let there be light;’ and through the abysmal deep,
Where Darkness sat enthroned in silent state,
A tremor passed, as though propitious Fate
Had roused some charmèd castle from the sleep
That sealed all eyes from battlement to keep;
For man or friend the warder dare not wait
To parley with the Voice outside the gate,
For living thing must walk, fly, swim, and creep.
‘Let there be light:’ thus at Creation’s dawn,
Ere earth had shape, the glorious mandate ran.
Nature obeyed; and o’er the face of night
Went forth the rosy streaks of our first morn.
Still Nature keeps to one unvarying plan,
And God-like souls still cry: ‘Let there be light.’