sea-risks, is in contemplation; the necessity of new harbours of
refuge is attracting more attention, and the very recent official
Report in favour of building a harbour at Peterhead commends itself
to everybody. But both these are matters which involve delay. In
the meantime, with our enormously increased tonnage, and with the
heightened competition which practically compels steamships to travel
in any state of weather under the significant orders, ‘Full speed
ahead,’ with the result that collisions are year by year becoming more
frequent and more fatal, it is idle to hope for a decrease in the loss
of life at sea. Our lifeboats have done good work, and will do good
work in the storms to come; but it is a question which will sooner
or later have to be answered, whether the time has not come when, at
every point on the English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish coasts, fully
equipped and serviceable lifeboats should be ready for use. This is not
only perfectly feasible, but it is a national duty. The time has gone
by when we can afford to be satisfied with an open verdict upon our
drowned sailors and fishermen; and, apart from other considerations,
such as the overloading of vessels, until we have done all that can be
done to render rescue possible, we cannot be content with the selfish
excuse that ‘no one’s to blame.’
IN QUEER COMPANY.
IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.
In the company to which I had been introduced, it was exceedingly
difficult to ask any questions respecting the details, or working, of
what I may call the profession to which all present belonged. But as
the evening wore on, those present became much more communicative than
they had been at first. Welsh-rabbits, devilled kidneys, and other
supper-dishes were called for; and were followed by potations, which,
if not intoxicating, had the effect of loosing men’s tongues, and of
making them talk of what they regarded as past triumphs, and of future
success, which they hoped and believed would come to pass. Some of the
stories related I remembered, and made rough notes of when I went home
that night; but many more I forgot; for with the most earnest intention
in the world, it is almost impossible to recollect tales that are told
one after another, and with not a few interruptions between them.
There was one member of this respectable society to whom I happened
to sit next, and who told me in an undertone that he had once held a
commission in the Indian army. Without appearing to do so, I put in the
course of the evening some half-dozen leading questions to him, and
found that not only was he telling me the truth, but that I remembered
perfectly well the circumstances, some fifteen years previously, which
caused him to be tried by a general court-martial and cashiered. He was
evidently a leading spirit amongst those present. What his real name
is—or rather was, for I learned by accident, a short time ago, that
he was dead—I don’t care to mention. Under the peculiar circumstances
which brought me amongst those I spent the evening with, there may well
be applied the old adage of ‘honour amongst thieves.’ And although
only the younger son of a younger son, this man belonged to a family
of which the head is a respectable baronet, not unknown in either the
political or the fashionable world. But never once, throughout the
whole evening, was this individual addressed by his right name, of
which I am certain the rest of the company were ignorant. In fact, he
never told me in so many words who he really was; it was only when he
mentioned the circumstances connected with his court-martial and said
to what corps he had belonged, that I remembered all about him. He
appeared to be not only very popular, but quite a leading man, and an
authority amongst those present. But it certainly seemed wonderful to
see him, a well-born, well-brought-up man, who had been educated at
Harrow, had afterwards held a commission for some years in the Indian
army, and had risen to the rank of captain, so fallen as to have become
not only a professional thief, but even to glory in his shame.
Throughout the evening, he told stories of his adventures in
rascal-land, which were always listened to, and invariably applauded.
In one of these tales he related how he had, some years previously,
taken lodgings in a well-known street near St James’s Square, calling
himself Lord So-and-so. A ‘pal’ of his, who was ‘in the swim’ with
him, had gone to a certain wealthy gentleman in South Kensington and
had asked for the place of butler, giving a reference to the so-called
‘lord,’ who told the tale with great glee. The gentleman who had
advertised for a butler was known to have in his house a considerable
quantity of plate, and his wife to have a great deal of valuable
jewellery. They were wealthy people, having lately returned from one
of the colonies, where the gentleman had acquired a large fortune. The
latter called upon the would-be nobleman to ask about the character of
the butler.
‘I received him,’ said he who told the tale, ‘with a kindly
condescension and consideration which seemed to please him, and yet to
make him very respectful. I gave Tommy’—the sham-butler—‘an excellent
character, saying that I had only parted with him because I was going
to travel in the East for a couple of years. The party was quite
satisfied, and quite agreeable to take him. Tommy got the place, was
much liked, and remained there about two months. Then’—winking his
eye—‘there was a robbery of plate and jewels to a large amount. Tommy
beat a speedy retreat, and I went to the States; and there Tommy met
me. It was a good thing, a very good thing, was that plant, and a very
simple one too. To this day, I don’t believe the party has any idea
that the noble lord in the West End lodgings was a deceiver. He wrote
to me to say how he had been robbed, and that he feared the butler had
had a hand in the business. I replied—on paper with a coronet, if you
please—that I was very sorry, but could hardly believe my old servant
would have been guilty of such a crime. In these days the police were
not very fly, and the whole affair was soon forgotten.’
Another little adventure of the same kind which this ex-officer related
of himself did not turn out quite so fortunate; or rather, as he
expressed himself, he had ‘very nearly come to grief.’ He had gone to
Paris, put up at a very good hotel, paid his way regularly, and had
purchased from time to time a considerable quantity of jewellery at a
fashionable shop; for which he had, as he expressed it, ‘parted with
the ready’ to the extent of some two hundred pounds. When he thought
that he had won the confidence of the shopkeeper, he ordered a number
of bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, all of great value, to be
sent to the hotel, intending to play off the old trick of taking the
goods into another room for an imaginary lady—who was said to be ill
in bed—to select from, and then to make off with the whole parcel.
But the shopman who took the things to the hotel seemed to have some
misgiving about the intending purchaser, and insisted upon following
the latter into the inner room, where there was no lady at all, either
sick or well. As the individual who told the story said of himself, he
blundered over the affair, and did not deserve to succeed, for he ought
to have secured assistance to work the affair properly. The shopman
got angry and went away, threatening to expose him. But the intending
thief was too sharp for him. He had already paid his hotel bill and had
ordered a cab, so as to be ready for a start. He now took advantage
of these preparations, and drove off to the Calais railway station,
remained there a short time; then ordered another vehicle, made his way
to the St Lazare station, got to Havre, and arrived safely in London.
But his regrets, when he told the story, at having expended two
hundred pounds without making any profit, were curious to hear. Any
one who listened to him, without hearing the first part of his story,
would have imagined that he had lost the money in the most legitimate
speculation. The company who heard his tale condoled with him, as if
he was a merchant who had been unfortunate in some venture that he had
tried and failed.
I was anxious to know what the company I was amongst thought of the
London as compared with the French police in the work of detecting
crime. But under the circumstances, it was a difficult matter to
question them about. I was afraid to ask questions on the subject,
lest I should be thought to display too much curiosity, and should
awaken the suspicions of those amongst whom I was, and so cause them
to suspect I was not one of themselves. But it so happened that I
found the subject made easy for me. The newspapers had very lately
been discussing the details of a robbery of bullion that had taken
place on one of the French railways. To the company amongst whom I
found myself, such a subject was as interesting and as certain to be
discussed as the Two Thousand or the Derby would be at a sporting
club. In this affair the thieves had been successful at first; but so
soon as it became known, the French police had telegraphed to every
seaport in France, and had set themselves to work in Paris to find out
the culprits. They were successful, and managed to lay their hands upon
the three men who had carried out the robbery. But this had been done
in a manner which the company I was amongst that evening stigmatised as
‘sneaking’ and ‘cowardly.’
‘In England,’ said one of those present, ‘the police are hard upon
a fellow when they catch him. But when they are trying to find the
men they want, they are fair and above-board. They have no dirty
spies; they act honourably. You can always tell pretty well when a
plain-clothes officer is after you. But the French have a low, sneaking
way of going to work. You never know but what the landlord of the
hotel, or the waiter, or the porter, or the shopman who brings you a
parcel, may not be a detective in disguise. No; give me Old England to
do business in! Everybody here, even the police, is on the square.’
To this patriotic sentiment (!) there was a universal assent given.
‘Yes,’ said one of the party, who talked a good deal about Paris, and
seemed, from what he said, to have ‘done business’ in that city to some
extent; ‘and that’s not the worst of it. Why, I have known these French
police employ women to spot down a fellow. There was two years ago a
big affair in the Champs-Elysées. The chief hand in it was a New-Yorker
called Johnson. He would have got clean away with everything, had it
not been for a female with whom he associated. He was caught, and got
what they call _travaux forcés_ for ten years. He never could find out
who it was that peached on him. But one of his French pals discovered,
after he was taken, that this woman had been all along in the pay of
the police, receiving money from them as well as from Johnson.—Do you
call _that_ fair-play?’ he asked indignantly; to which a universal cry
of ‘Shame! shame!’ was set up in reply.
There was one thing which struck me very forcibly throughout the
evening I spent in what Frenchmen would call this eccentric company;
and that was, how none of those present ever once compromised
themselves by talking of any future ‘business.’ At anyrate, such
matters were never made a subject of general conversation. For some
time after I first joined the party, I noticed that some one or other
of them would go and talk to another individual in a low tone of voice;
but those who thus spoke to one another evidently took great care that
what they said should not be heard.
In England, we set great value upon the publicity given by the press
to everything that takes place. The company in which I found myself
on this memorable evening—or at anyrate those with whom I spoke on
the subject—praised this national peculiarity as much as, or even
more than, most of us do. They said that the newspaper reports about
‘plants’ and the manner in which robberies are carried out, are, as a
rule, the most utter rubbish; and that the daily accounts of what the
police had or had not done in any particular case were of the utmost
service to them, and virtually kept them informed of what their
enemies, the guardians of society, were doing. The more publicity
given to all cases in which they were concerned, the better prepared
were they to avoid places and persons that might be dangerous to their
safety, from arrest and other troubles. Several of the party expressed
themselves very earnestly to the effect that the English newspapers
would always be allowed to publish the fullest details of what the
police knew in cases of robbery. On the other hand, they abused the
French government in no measured terms for not allowing similar
intelligence to be made public; one of the company asking in a very
sarcastic tone and manner, whether _that_ was republican liberty, which
put a stop to the press telling people facts which had really happened.
From what was said on this subject, it would seem that the gentlemen
who follow the profession of those amongst whom I found myself that
night look upon publicity in all police inquiries as of the greatest
use to them.
In the course of the evening I got my friend who had brought me to the
place to ask one of the party, in a sort of offhand manner, whether he
and his friends were not afraid of a detective officer coming amongst
them and giving information to the authorities of all he saw and heard.
The question was purposely put in a rather loud tone of voice, and at
a moment when there was a lull in the general conversation, so that
others might hear it. For answer, there was returned a general laugh;
and then a burly, somewhat elderly man—who, if I may judge from his
talk, must have had considerable experience in the profession—spoke up.
‘Detectives!’ said he. ‘We don’t fear no detectives here, in London.
We know them all in their plain clothes, just as well as if they wore
uniform. They acts on the square with us. _They_ don’t go a-making of
themselves up to be what they ain’t. They don’t _tell_ us what they
are; but we know ’em well. Just let any one with eyes in his head go
a-loafing round the police courts for a minute or two, and he’ll know
every detective in London.’ After a short pause, this individual—who
was evidently a sort of oracle amongst his fellows—continued: ‘There’s
one thing I will say for the plain-clothes officers, you can’t “square”
them; and it’s no use trying to do so. But then you have them in
another way; you know them at first sight; and it would only be a
duffer of the first water that would allow hisself to be taken in by
them.’
To this my friend replied: ‘Well, there _are_ people who get taken in
by them.’
‘More fools they,’ was the rejoinder. ‘I don’t think you’ll find one of
this ere company who has ever come to trouble through them, unless it
were his own fault.’
As the night advanced, the persons who formed this assembly began to
leave the place, singly and by twos and threes, bringing to a close the
most extraordinary evening it was ever my lot to pass. On leaving the
place, my friend linked his arm in mine, and took me through several
narrow streets, none of which I recognised—crossing and turning very
often—until all of a sudden we found ourselves on the south side of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in a few minutes more were in Fleet Street.
My companion, knowing that I wrote for newspapers and periodicals,
asked me, as a personal favour, not to give any account of the affair
until at least a couple of years should have passed. This I promised
to do. And as more than seven years have elapsed since I passed that
evening amongst the agents of thieves, my promise has not been broken.
As for the person who was my guide that night, I only saw him once or
twice afterwards. He came to call on me in the winter of 1878, and told
me he was about to sail for America, but would not be away more than
four or five months. But from that day to this I have never heard a
word about him, and cannot tell whether he is dead or alive.
SOME INSTANCES OF EASTERN TRADING.
The inevitable necessity that a Levantine or Asiatic feels to ask more
than double the actual value of his goods, and allow himself afterwards
to be beaten down to something less than half what he originally
asked, is a cause of bewilderment to the untravelled Briton, and a
continual sore rankling in the bosom of the unwary tourist who has
fallen a victim. It is not only the unlicensed hawker who takes his
wares on board ships as they put in to the various ports along their
route, and whose prices are merely a speculation as to how great an
extent his customer may be imposed upon; but in the regular shops
and markets, this system of haggling is perfectly recognised; and
a trader who fixed a fair price on his goods, and kept to the one
price, would run considerable risk of losing his entire custom, as
the satisfaction of having beaten down a tradesman, and forced him to
strike off something from his original price, gives an appreciable
flavour to the transaction. As an instance of how ingrained is this
idea of trading, I remember a story a friend of mine in the navy told
me of a Greek messman on board his ship, who was paying his first visit
to England. The first time he went on shore to buy provisions, he was
in a butcher’s shop, and inquired the price of some prime beef he saw
hanging up. ‘Fourteenpence a pound,’ was the reply. ‘I will give you
eightpence,’ said he, in perfect good faith, and without a minute’s
hesitation. This somewhat startled the butcher; and it was only after a
considerable amount of difficulty that the Greek was made to understand
that his system of trading was not in accordance with English ideas.
For long afterwards, he spoke of English shopkeepers as ‘wonderful
people—they have but one price.’
But the ship’s hawker or the small shopkeeper in the East is different.
For a good thorough-paced scoundrel in trade, he carries off the
palm. He looks at his customer, making up his mind how much he may
ask him, which is usually about three times as much as he thinks he
may get, that being about five hundred per cent. beyond the actual
value of the article. The year before last, when I was quartered in
Alexandria, I went into a small _boutique_ to buy a trifle I saw in the
window. I asked the price. ‘Ten francs.’ ‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘Five,
sir’—‘Two’—‘One franc only.’ Eventually, I bought it for two large
piastres (fourpence-halfpenny). Not a bad instance that of a sudden
fall in the prices.
But it is the passengers by the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s
steamers who are the most readily recognised objects for fleecing
purposes; so much so, that a special expression has been strung
together to denote one of this highly favoured victim band. A few
days after I was sent out to Aden, I had the imprudence to go out
shopping on the day that the Peninsular and Oriental boat called into
that port. I inquired the price of a few ostrich feathers. ‘Seventy
rupees,’ the man said. ‘Do you take me for a Peninsular and Oriental
passenger-fool?’ I asked, having been instructed by old hands as to the
little ways of these innocent Arab dealers, and the proper responses
with which to meet them. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he replied, and
offered them to me for twenty-five rupees. I got them eventually for
five.
But of all the stories of imposture of this description, none excels
the following, which was told me by my naval friend mentioned above.
Being on his way home from China, the ship put in at one of the Ceylon
ports, and the usual crowd of hucksters invaded the ship. My friend had
gone on shore, and only returned on board about half an hour before
the time fixed for sailing. Coming out on deck, he was accosted by a
be-turbaned, venerable old gentleman, who said he had some valuable
stones for sale, if my friend would only look at them. He opened
his case, and presented for inspection a small number of rubies and
emeralds of various sizes, a fine collection of stones unset—the usual
condition in which they are offered for sale in Ceylon—and said that
the price was thirty pounds, apparently about their actual value out
there. This was a large sum to my friend; so, after admiring the stones
for some time, he said he was afraid he could not spend so much money.
After considerable hesitation, and declaring that he should not make a
penny by the transaction, the dealer lowered his price to twenty-nine
pounds. My friend still considered, and was on the point of offering
twenty-five pounds, as the stones would then have been a really good
bargain, when the trader went down to twenty-eight pounds. My friend
waited, and eventually twenty pounds was reached. A slight suspicion
dawned over my friend’s mind, and on the chance, he looked straight
into the man’s face and said: ‘I will give you a shilling.’ ‘Very good,
sir,’ said the man, pocketed his shilling, handed in his ‘precious
stones,’ and was over the side just in time before the ship got under
weigh. The precious stones were mere glass.
‘JERRY-BUILDING’ IN THE MIDDLE AGES.
It has been generally thought that this peculiar style of building,
that is outward show and inward rottenness, was a modern invention;
but the public will be somewhat astonished to hear that a specimen
of genuine jerry-work has recently been discovered in Peterborough
Cathedral, of all places in the world. It will be remembered that early
in 1883 certain ominous-looking rents and cracks showed themselves in
the great central tower, and in the two eastern of the four great piers
which supported it. After a careful survey by Mr Pearson, the architect
of Truro Cathedral, it was determined at once to take down the tower
itself and these two piers; and it was during this operation that the
amazing discovery was made that these great massive piers, which, with
the two corresponding piers on the west, had to carry the enormous
weight of the tower above, and which, of course, every one had supposed
were of solid masonry, were found to be mere hollow shams—cases, in
fact, so to speak, of Barnack ragstone, with no solid interior beyond a
quantity of loose stones and rubble just thrown in, without mortar or
packing, by which the outer casing of the piers was really weakened,
instead of being in any way strengthened. This system was continued
from top to bottom. Further investigations brought to light the fact
that these great piers did not even rest on proper or firm foundations,
but on sand and loose stones thrown in upon gravel, when a fine
foundation on the solid rock might easily have been secured only two
feet below. The two western piers were now examined, and were found to
have been constructed in the same shameful manner; and it is almost
a miracle that the tower has not collapsed long ago without sign or
warning. Nothing but the strength and tenacity of the Barnack ragstone
prevented so terrible a catastrophe.
All these four piers are now being rebuilt in the most substantial
manner, and founded on the solid rock. The sum of twenty-one thousand
pounds has already been secured for these restorations; but sixty-one
thousand pounds will be required for the entire work, which it is
proposed to raise by general subscriptions.
JULY.
Scarcely a whisper stirs the summer leaves,
Or bends the whitening barley; sultry-fierce,
The July sunshine beats upon the sward,
The brown-parched sward, whose scorching grass-blades thirst
For the life-giving rain!
The fuchsias droop;
The full-blown roses drop their withering leaves;
The thrush sits mute upon the apple-bough;
A drowsy silence, an unnatural calm,
Pervades the face of nature!
In the fields,
The cattle idly lie beside the hedge,
Seeking for shelter from the sweltering heat;
The blackbird, tenant of the farmhouse porch,
Listless and dumb, sits in his wicker cage;
The house-dog, curled, lies blinking in the sun,
Careless of passing tramps.
Hark! What is that?
A threatening rumble, muttered, sullen, low,
In the far-distant sky; a thunder-peal,
Telling of welcome rain!
Anon the drops,
The thick big drops, in quick succession fall
Upon the parching earth: the flowers revive;
The house-dog rises; and the cattle crowd
Beneath the meadow trees; a gentle breeze
Springs up, and rustles through the barley-ears;
The sultry air is cooled: the fresh earth owns
The power beneficent of healing rain!
* * * * *
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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