[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 730. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
CHRISTMAS-TIME.
'So many men so many minds' has been a proverb long before our days,
and will be to the end of time and human history; and uniformity of
sentiment is the one thing which men need never hope to attain.
Christmas-time is one of these battle-fields of feeling. To some it is
just the consecration of so many circumstances of torture; to others
the meeting-point of so many facts of pleasure. From the conventional
greeting to the orthodox dinner--from the 'seasonable gifts' that are
more obligatory than voluntary, to the toast that heralds the punch,
and the dreams that follow on that last glass--all is so much pain to
the flesh and weariness to the spirit; and they wonder how any one
can find it otherwise. What is there in Christmas-time to make it
pleasurable? they say. The gathering together of the family? A lot
of rough boys home from school, who spoil the furniture and tease
the dogs, lame the horses and ravage the garden, make the servants
cross, the girls rude, and the younger children insubordinate; who
upset all the order of the house, destroy its comfort like its quiet,
and to whose safe return to discipline and your own restoration to
tranquillity you look forward with impatient longing from the first
hour of their arrival to the last of their stay? Or the advent of your
married daughter with her two spoilt babies, who cry if they are looked
at and want everything that they see, and that very objectionable young
man her husband, with his ultra opinions and passion for argument,
whom she would marry in spite of all that you could say, but to whom
you can scarcely force yourself to be decently civil, not to speak of
cordial, and whose presence is a perpetual blister while it lasts? Is
this the family gathering about which you are expected to gush?--this
with the addition of your son's fine-lady wife who snubs his mother
and sisters with as little breeding as reserve, finds nothing at your
table that she can eat, lives with her smelling-bottle to her nose and
propped up with cushions on the sofa, and gives you to understand that
she considers herself humiliated by her association with your family,
and your son as much exalted as she is degraded? This is the domestic
aspect of Christmas-time which is to make you forget all the ordinary
troubles of life, creating in their stead a Utopia where ill-feeling
is as little known as _ennui_, and family jars are as impossible as
personal discomfort and dissent. Holding this picture in your hand, you
decline to subscribe your name to the Io pæan universally chanted in
praise of Christmas, and wrap yourself up in sullen silence when your
neighbour congratulates you on having all your family about you, and
wishes you a merry Christmas as if he meant it.
If the domestic aspect is disagreeable, what is the social?--A round
of dinners of which the _menu_ is precisely the same from Alpha to
Omega:--turbot and thick lobster-sauce; roast-beef and boiled turkey;
indigestible plum-pudding and murderous mince-pies; with sour oranges
and sweet sherry to keep the balance even, and by the creation of two
acids perhaps neutralise each other and the third. This is the food
set before unoffending citizens under the name and style of Christmas
dinners for the month or six weeks during which the idiotic custom of
Christmas dinners at all is supposed to last. You are expected to live
in this monotony of dyspepsia and antipathetic diet till you loathe the
very sight of the familiar food, and long for a change with a vehemence
which makes you ashamed of yourself, and more than half afraid that you
are developing into a gourmand of the worst kind.
As if your nights were not sufficiently broken by the horrible
compounds which trouble your digestion and disturb your brain,
torturers known as the 'waits' prowl through the streets from midnight
to dawn, causing you agonies beyond those which even the hurdy-gurdy
men inflict. You are just falling to sleep--painfully courted and
hardly won--when a hideous discord worse than the wailings of cats
startles you into a nervous wakefulness which banishes all hope for
that night. What can you do? They are too far off for that jug of
water to take effect, and you must not fire; anathemas do not hurt
them, and if said aloud only waken up your wife and make her cry if
she does not preach. You have nothing for it then but to lie still
and groan inwardly, devoting to the infernal gods all the idiotic
circumstances by which your life is rendered wretched, and your health,
already frail, set still further wrong. In the morning, when wearied
and nervously feverish from want of sleep, you go into the garden for
a little quiet and delectation, you find your greenhouses stripped of
the flowers which you had been lovingly watching for weeks, and your
evergreens as ridiculously cropped as a shaved poodle. This is the day
for the decoration of the church, and you, having made an expensive
hobby of your garden, have to contribute what has cost months and good
money to rear, for the childish satisfaction of John and Joan, lasting
just two hours and five minutes. Not only have you lost your flowers
and your evergreens--that splendid holly, which yesterday glowed like a
flame, today nothing but a bundle of chopped ends!--but you know that
your favourite daughter is flirting with the curate, and that a great
deal is going on under cover of wreaths and crosses, laurustinus and
chrysanthemum, of which you strongly disapprove yet cannot check. It is
Christmas-time; decorating the church has become in these later days a
kind of religious duty; and as a conscript father of your village, you
must not forbid your daughter this pious pleasure any more than you can
refuse your costly contribution in kind.
Turn to the financial side of the time; and what have you?--bills
coming in that you neither expected nor knew of, and every one looking
for a Christmas-box, and insolent or irritated if they do not get it.
The servants obsequious to the worth of half a sovereign--tradesmen
and their lads punctual in anticipation of half-crowns--postmen
levying blackmail, and watermen and dustmen demanding as their
right that they should be fee'd for their persistent neglect of
duty--every one making a dead set at your pocket and trying to get
your money for themselves--the very children more caressing and
affectionate because it is Christmas and papa always gives them
something on Christmas-day:--You groan as you ask yourself where is
disinterestedness on this earth?--and you groan still more as you draw
your cheques and reduce your balance and wonder by what law of right it
is that you should be the pipe by which other folks are to be supplied.
No; you see no good or pleasure in this boasted Christmas-time as
we keep it up in our benighted country. Its mirth is a sham and its
inflictions are only too real. A time of tumult and expense, of
indigestion and discomfort, you wait, grimly or fretfully as your mood
may be, till it has passed and the current of your life is allowed
to flow evenly as before. When you hear people sing its praises you
long to stop their mouths, as you longed to silence the waits who
woke you up out of your first sleep and spoilt your rest for the
night. What manner of men are these, you think, who can find cause of
congratulation in so much absurdity, if the fun is real to them--so
much dreary make-believe, if it is unreal? You despise your genial,
laughing, merry-hearted neighbour who goes into everything _con amore_,
and accepts it all, from forfeits and snapdragon to plum-pudding and
Christmas-boxes, as if he really liked it. You think what a fool he
must be to be pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw like this.
But for the most part you do not believe in his mirth; and then you
despise him still more as a hypocrite as well. For a hypocrite shamming
folly is an offender against reason as well as truth, whom you find it
hard to forgive, let the motive of his mummery be what it may.
This is one side of the question; your neighbour takes the other.
Who on earth, he says with his hands in his pockets, his back to the
fire and his kindly smiling face to the room, who on earth can grumble
at the facts of Christmas-time? For his part he finds it the jolliest
season of the year, and he finds each season as jolly as the other,
and all perfect in their own appointed way. He is none of your crying
philosophers who go through life bewailing its miseries and oppressed
by its misfortunes. Not he! He thinks the earth beautiful, men and
women pleasant, and God very good; and of all occasions wherein he can
transact his cheerful philosophy, Christmas is the best. The boys are
home for their holidays; and it is a pleasure to him to take them out
hunting and shooting, and initiate them into the personal circumstances
belonging to English country gentlemen. He looks forward to the time
when they will take his place and carry on the traditions of the
family, and he wishes them to be worthy of their name and an honour
to their country. He is not one of those nervous self-centred men who
live by rule and measure and cannot have a line of the day's ordering
disturbed. He likes his own way certainly; and he has it; but he can
press his elbows to his sides on occasions, and give room for others
to expand. He does not find it such an unbearable infliction that his
boys should come home and racket about the place, even though they are
a little upsetting, and do not leave everything quite as smooth and
straight as they found it. He remembers his own youth and how happy it
made him to come home and racket; and he supposes that his lads are
very much the same as he was at their age. He thinks too that they do
the girls good--wake them up a little--and while not making them rough
or rude--the mother takes care of that--yet that they prevent them from
becoming prim and missy, as girls are apt to be who have no brothers
and are left too much to themselves. Certainly he does not approve of
the flood of slang which is let loose in the house during their stay;
but school-boy slang at the worst is not permanent, and in a week's
time will be forgotten.
As for the married daughter's children, they are the merriest little
rogues in the world; and his wife looks ten years younger since they
came. She was always fond of babies; and her grandchildren seem to
renew her own past nursery with all the pleasure and none of the
anxiety of the olden time. He rather wonders at his girl's taste in
the matter of her husband--most fathers do--and cannot for the life of
him see what there is to love in him. But if not an Alcibiades he is
a good fellow in the main, and makes his young wife happy; which is
the principal thing. And if his daughter-in-law is a trifle stiff, and
fond of giving herself fine-lady airs, he for his part never stands
that kind of nonsense, and will laugh her out of it before she has
been twenty-four hours in the house. He finds good-humour and taking no
offence the best weapons in the world against folly and ill-temper; and
prefers them as curative agents to any other. The girl is a nice girl
enough, but she has been badly brought up--had a lot of false ideas
instilled into her by a foolish mother--but when she has been away
from the old influences, and associated with themselves for a little
while, she will open her eyes and see things in their right light.
Who indeed could resist the sweet sensible influence of his wife, her
mother-in-law?--and are not his girls the very perfection of honest
wholesome English ladies? It will all come right in time; he has no
doubt of that; and meanwhile they must be patient and forbearing for
Dick's sake, and not make matters worse than they are by their own want
of self-control.
Then as to the Christmas-boxes and the tips sacred to the season--well!
well! after all they do not amount to much in the year, and see what
pleasure they give! A man must be but a poor-spirited surly kind of
hound who does not like to see his fellow-creatures happy; and a very
little kindness goes a great way in that direction. He takes care to
live within his income, and therefore he has always a margin to go on;
and he does not object to use it. The servants have been very good on
the whole, and do their duty fairly enough. And when they fail--as
they do at times--why, to fail is human, and are they alone of all
mankind to be blameless and never swerving in the right way? And are
they alone of all mankind to be judged of by their worst and not by
their best?--to be blamed for failure, but not praised for well-doing?
He does not think so; and not thinking this, his half-sovereigns are
given freely without the grudging which makes them an ungracious
tax instead of a kindly voluntary gift. The tradespeople, too, do
fairly well, and--they must have their profit like any one else!
Those Christmas-boxes to their lads may be the nest-eggs for future
savings; and even if they do go in a little finery or personal pleasure
instead--young people will be young, and his own boys are fond of being
smart and amused: so why not these others? You grumble at the waits? If
you in your warm bed, well fed, well clothed, prosperous altogether,
fret at the loss of an hour's sleep, what must these poor fellows feel,
out in the cold frosty night, with the wind blowing and the sleet
falling fast, and they not half fed nor a quarter clothed? For his own
part he would like to give them a glass of hot grog all round; and as
for grumbling at the few coppers which they brave all this physical
discomfort to earn, he makes it shillings, and hopes it will do them
good. We must live and let live, he says with his broad smile; and
if we are sometimes a little inconvenienced by the efforts made by
the poor to accomplish the art of living for their own parts--we must
remember that our loss is their gain, and that they are men and women
like ourselves--fathers of families who want to keep the pot boiling
and the fire alight--mothers who love their children, and are anxious
to do the best for them that nature and man will allow.
You complain of indigestion and grumble at the monotony of your
Christmas fare?--That is strange! Who can grumble at good plain
succulent meat?--and why do you eat the sweets if they disagree with
you? Neither pudding nor mince-pie comes into the eternal necessities
of things, and you would do very well if only you would refrain. He
does not eat things that he cannot digest, and in consequence he sleeps
well, and when he wakes has neither regret nor remorse. Surely that is
not such a painful trial--to forbear eating what is hurtful to your
health, and in touching your health corroding your happiness as well.
In a word, the whole difference of the spirit in which we meet the
facts of Christmas depends on the good or ill humour with which we are
naturally endowed, and which we have cultivated by common-sense on the
one hand, or suffered to ride rough-shod over our reason on the other.
If we are unselfish and sympathetic, Christmas-time is as pleasant
to us as popular tradition would make it; if we are egotistical and
peevish, it is a wearisome infliction and a sham which no honest man
can pretend to believe in, nor any sensible one to admire.
For our own part we believe in Christmas, because we believe in the
kindness of man to man, in genial good-humour, in unselfishness, and
the liking of wholesome natures to give happiness; and so far as we
have gone yet we have seen no reason to change our views. A merry
Christmas then to you all, friends, readers, and countrymen; and a
happy New Year to follow after; and may God bless the rich and care
for the poor, and lead us all in the right way while the day lasts and
before the night has come!
A CAST OF THE NET.
THE STORY OF A DETECTIVE OFFICER.
CHAPTER IV.
Long after it had grown quite dark, all remained quiet, and at last
I resolved upon making a move. I had determined upon fetching Peter
Tilley. I had plenty of assistance, but I thought I should like to have
Peter with me. So I went down to the ferry; a gas-light which burned at
the corner shewed me before I left my post that the bony ferryman was
not there; and choosing a pretty good boat, with a strong young fellow
to pull, I got in. It was a most unpleasant night; as dark as pitch,
which was bad enough, but every now and then it lightened, which was
worse, as it dazzled my eyes, and made me think we were running smash
on board some great vessel which I had not seen a moment before, and
couldn't see a moment after. However, the boatman was used to all kinds
of weather, I suppose, and knew the river thoroughly; so through the
darkness and the rain, which never left off for a moment, we reached
the other side.
I left the boat to wait for me, and ran up to the _Yarmouth Smack_. I
looked in, and saw Peter leaning against the bar and smoking a short
pipe, as a labourer ought to do; and he was talking in a friendly way
to some rough-looking fellows. I slipped in, and using the name we had
agreed upon, spoke to him. He knew my voice of course; but seeing me
so changed, for my make-up was really splendid (it was, although I say
so that shouldn't), it gave him such a shock that he was obliged to
put the pewter down he was going to drink from and look steadily at me
before he answered. 'I'm acoming,' he said at last, and we got outside;
when, as we walked down to the ferry, I gave him a sort of idea of what
was going on, and how I expected to make a great catch that night.
Peter of course was very glad to be in for such a big thing as this,
for he had never been mixed up with anything so important.
Not to trust the boatman too much, I kept Peter back a few yards from
the water while I finished my story, standing a little on one side, so
as to be out of the way of the people who came and went to and from the
ferry. While I was talking to him, a wherry ran in; we heard her grate
on the pebbles and the sculls rattle as the man laid 'em in; but that
we had heard before. It's a part of my habit to notice little things
however, and I looked to see who had come in by this boat. There was
only one passenger, a woman, and she passed us walking quickly; but
quick as she walked, I saw her, and she saw me. Blessed if it wasn't
Miss Doyle! My being there was no odds to Miss Doyle, nor could it have
signified to her if she had seen me fifty times; yet I felt I would
rather not have met her just then; it looked unlucky, and she was such
an uncommonly sharp one too. Sharp or not, I couldn't see what she
could make out of my standing under a wall on a wet night talking to
another labourer.
Having finished my explanation, we both got into the wherry, and I
asked the man if he would like a good long job, which might perhaps
last all night.
'The longer the better, governor,' he says, 'if the pay is accordin'.'
'The pay _will_ be accordin',' I answered; 'and so you are engaged.'
The first thing I made him do was to row round that oyster-smack, for
the tide had risen enough to take us round her. I shewed no light, but
we went inside her twice; and the fellow on the watch was very sharp,
so he was leaning over the side when we came round the second time, and
I could say quite quiet-like: 'I am in this boat now--watch the river.'
That was quite enough; he knew he would not now have to look to the
_Anchor_ for signals.
After this began what I believe was the most disagreeable sort of
patrol I ever had. There was a time when I used to envy the Thames
police; but I can't say I ever did after that night. We were obliged
to be in motion almost continually, because we did not know from which
side of the river the paper might come, and we weren't quite sure that
it would come at all, especially on that night; and I don't know,
speaking from my own experience, that there is anything more trying to
the spirits than the pulling backwards and forwards and loitering about
on the river Thames in a raw October night with a small thick rain
falling. Twice we landed, and went once to the _Smack_ and once to the
_Anchor_. I couldn't grudge the men a glass of hot grog; in fact I was
obliged to have some myself, even if I missed my capture through it.
It grew later and later; the flashes of lightning still came at long
intervals; but the lights on the shore went out, and excepting the
gas-lamps which burnt at street-corners, ferries, and wharfs, all was
dark. The traffic on the river had long ceased, no shouts or rattle
of wheels came from the shore; and the rain still falling, it was,
I give you my word, most horribly miserable, dull and sloppy beyond
description. Twelve o'clock had struck, and one, and perhaps half an
hour beyond it. I had cautioned my companions to speak very low; so the
boatman only whispered when he said: 'It's as quiet as it is likely
to be, governor, if you've got anything to run. I have just seen the
police galley creep along on the other side; I see her under that lamp.
Now's your time.'
He thought we were smugglers! Perhaps he didn't care if we were
thieves. I told him to be patient; when at that very instant, just as
we were creeping along under the lee of a coal-barge, a wherry shot
very silently by, right in front of us, going across stream, and not
six feet from our bows. In her sat the sulky ferryman; I knew him at a
glance, dark as it was. 'Pull after that wherry,' I said.
'Peter Tilley, my lad,' I continued, turning to Peter, 'the time's
acoming, I think.'
'I'm precious glad of it,' says Peter; 'for I'm catching a cold in my
head every minute I sit in this confounded boat; and it's all soaking
wet where I'm sitting.'
Our man pulled on; he was a very strong fellow, as I have said, and
we could have overtaken the other boat directly; but this of course I
did not want. I knew where to look for the old scamp; and sure enough,
after a few strokes across stream, he bent to the left and ran under
the bows of the Dutch trader.
All was dark and silent as the grave aboard the ship; but that didn't
deceive the old boatman, nor did it deceive me. I stopped our man in
the shade of the next vessel, if you can call anywhere a shade, when
it was all pitch dark. We had not been there a minute before I heard a
slight noise--it was impossible to see any one unless he stood between
you and the sky--and then I could tell by the sound that a man had
dropped into the wherry. There was no need to tell me what man it was.
With an almost noiseless dip, the ferryman dropped his sculls into the
river again and rowed on, we still after him. I took it for granted he
was going to the other side of the ferry; but he suddenly bore off to
the right, and rowed on for some little time, then striking in between
two vessels, he went straight for the land.
'Where is he going to?' I whispered.
'To the landing at Byrle's wharf,' says the boatman in the same tone.
So he was; and it appeared this landing-place was at the farther side
of the wharf; that is, lower down the river.
It was so dark we could hardly see them--for we could just make out
there were now two persons in the boat--but as they reached the shore,
a lamp that was burning on the wharf helped us a little. We could not
clearly see what they were doing; but they certainly got out of the
boat, and as certainly there were then more than two figures moving
about, and seemingly engaged in placing parcels in the wherry. But it
was very gloomy there; they were in the shade of the wharf, and the
lamp glimmered weak and faint through the thick rain. It was the more
difficult to see what was being done, because there were several boats
tied up to the landing-place, making some confusion in the darkness. At
last, however, we could see that they were pushing off from the shore;
so it was time for us to move. We pulled back for a while (there was no
doubt as to which way the others would come), and then sheering off,
lay between two colliers until we saw the wherry we had watched go by,
and then we once more pulled after them.
'I'm blest if I don't think there's another boat following _us_,' says
Peter Tilley, staring as hard as he could behind us. I looked, but
couldn't see anything; and Peter owned he might have been mistaken.
We could not make out how many there were in the foremost boat. There
was only one man rowing, that was plain; and he pulled short round
at the proper place, as I knew he would, and rowed towards the Dutch
trader. As he did so, we lost him for a second, a big steamer lying
between us; but the hull of this vessel did not obstruct the view up
the river. I seized the moment, and waved my lantern twice. It was all
right. As quick as thought the light on board the oyster-smack was
moved twice also, and then we too were pulling across the stream. I
wanted to capture my men on board the trader, as otherwise the paper
might be got rid of, because I couldn't be positively certain that it
was not already on board. In fact, Mr Edmund Byrle was my chief aim,
not the skipper.
The wherry pulled under the bows of the vessel; we followed just in
time to see, by a very convenient flash of lightning, two packages
handed up; then a figure, which we had recognised by the same flash as
the bony ferryman, got into the ship. As he disappeared, our wherry
touched the vessel; and at the same instant, to my great relief, a
long black Thames police galley came alongside us, and its crew, five
constables, with Barney Wilkins, who was there as guide, clambered
up like cats. I and Peter imitated them, but not quite so quickly;
and when I looked over the bulwark, I saw by the light of a couple of
lanterns, screened from the outside, four or five men, the boatman
and the skipper being two, lifting up a great lid which fitted in
the deck--the hatches I heard it called--while by their side lay the
packages of paper. I could not see Mr Byrle; but there was no time to
consider; we all jumped in at once, the men looking round in amazement
at the noise. I fancied that just then I heard a shout from the boat.
'What do you all want here?' said the skipper angrily.
'We hold a warrant'--I began.
'Oh, it is _you_, is it?' he screeched, like a hyena, or something of
that sort. 'I owe you a little for a past score, and you shall have
it.' As quick as lightning he pulled a long straight knife from the
side of his trousers, where it must have been in some sort of sheath,
and jumped at me with such suddenness that he would have stabbed me,
only Barney Wilkins snatched a handspike from the deck, and dashing
between us, hit him down with such a blow, that the skipper fell with a
crash like a bullock when it is killed, the blood pouring from his head
instantly.
It was all as quick as thought. The other men were all seized in a
breath. So quick was it all done, that I had no idea Barney was hurt,
until he reeled, made a wild clutch as if he caught at something for
support, and then pitched forward on his hands and knees.
'Hollo, Barney!' I said, stooping down to him. 'What's the matter, old
fellow?'
'It's all up, Mr Nickham,' he gasped; 'he's done me. I only hope I've
killed him. Where's the other?'
'Oh, never mind the other, Barney,' I says. 'Where are you hurt?'
But as I spoke, one of the men came with a lantern, and Barney had
no occasion to answer me, for I could see a straight stream of blood
running from his chest on to the deck; and his hands giving way from
weakness, he fell over on his side.
'Pull in for the shore, you, sir!' said the sergeant of the Thames
police to my waterman. 'You know Marigold Street? Knock up Mr Gartley,
and tell him what has happened. Say we are afraid to move the man to
his house, so he had better come aboard.'
'Send one of your own men, will you?' answers the boatman. 'I've got
something to tell the governor' (that was me), 'as I think he ought to
know.'
'Cut away then, Bill,' says the sergeant to a constable; 'these fellows
are ironed, and we can manage all that are aboard this craft.'
So the man went off in my wherry; and the Thames men tried to make poor
Barney a little more comfortable, while I undid his waistcoat, hoping
to stop the bleeding.
'It ain't no use,' he said; but in that short time his voice was almost
gone, and we could tell that he was dying. 'I'm done for, Mr Nickham.
If there's a reward, you'll act fair and square, I know; you always was
a gentleman--let my sister have'---- And with that he gave a gasp, and
was dead.
I rose up, dreadfully vexed for the poor chap. The sergeant and one of
his men were looking after the skipper, when I felt myself touched on
the arm.
'I say, sir,' said the boatman, 'when I'm in for a thing, I go through
with it honourable. Did you know as you was followed?'
'Followed? no!' I said.
'I thought we was!' said Peter Tilley.
'We was followed, sir, by a light wherry with two people in it,'
continues the boatman; 'and when they see our boats, they held hard;
and as you all boarded the ship and the noise began, they rowed away as
hard as they could go.'
'Which way did they go?' I said.
'Down river,' says the man. 'But it's of no use thinking of looking
after them now. They are ashore long afore this.'
This was likely enough; and it was quite certain that Mr Edmund Byrle
was one of the two in the boat, and I had lost him for the present.
Well, it couldn't be helped; so we set to work to question the men and
search the ship, till the doctor came. The men knew nothing more about
the business than that they were going to have two passengers, a lady
and a gentleman, this voyage. One of the Thames men understood Dutch,
or we should not have heard even this scrap of information. The sulky
boatman never uttered a word, except that once he said as I passed him,
and he said it with a bitter curse: 'I always had my doubts of _you_.'
The doctor came off; but poor Barney was stone-dead, while the
skipper's skull was badly fractured. However, the paper was all there;
so I supposed, and so it proved; and I shouldn't have cared if the
skipper's head had been broken fifty times over.
We got our prisoners to the shore, leaving the craft in charge of a
Thames police galley that came in answer to our signals; and late as
it was, I drove with Peter Tilley in a cab to the City. Our people
there were immensely glad, I can tell you; and when I went over to the
Bank (for there was no need for secrecy or dodging now), I thought the
gentlemen never would have left off paying me compliments. Poor Barney
Wilkins that was dead deserved most credit; but it could not do him
any good to say so now, so I let them go on. The paper was examined,
and found to be exactly the quantity required; enough, I believe, to
have made about twenty thousand bank-notes. Ah! if they _had_ got into
circulation!
I hope you will understand, however, that I did act fair and square;
and when the reward was paid (and the Bank people did come down most
liberal; I bought my house at Pentonville with my share), I told the
gentlemen about poor Barney and his wishes; and I'm proud to say they
found his sister out and took her away; and after a time she went
abroad with kind people who looked after her, and took care of her
money till she got married, and did well. Why, she sent me a snuff-box
made out of pure Australian gold, with a letter signed by herself and
her husband, who was a butcher in a great way of business out there;
and they sent it as an acknowledgment of my having acted all fair and
square. I promised so to do, and I did.
Edmund Byrle was never caught, and so far as we were concerned, was
never heard of; and if it hadn't been for his father, I should never
have understood a lot of things that puzzled me. I had given a pretty
good guess as to how Miss Doyle came in the first place to inquire
about Mr Byrle and the detective; a very clever idea in itself, but
like many other clever things, it lost her the game. Mr Byrle had
talked with his friends about employing detectives; and Miss Doyle
knowing about the Bank paper, and being always on the watch, had got
hold of just enough to mislead her. She went out with Edmund Byrle to
Turkey, I think, and was married to him; and old Mr Byrle sent out
a friend to see them; and it was in this way I got the particulars.
It appears she knew me again--only as the limping labourer, of
course--when she saw me talking at the ferry to Tilley. But she knew
_him_ as the detective at the _Yarmouth Smack_, and she thought that
although it might be all right, yet a detective was a dangerous
customer, and his acquaintances might be dangerous also. Consequently
she tried to persuade Edmund to put off his journey; but he wanted
the money for the paper, and wouldn't listen to her. But he agreed at
last to go aboard in another boat, which satisfied her, as she felt so
certain the skipper's boat would be attacked. As I have explained, her
precaution saved him from fifteen years' 'penal,' which is the least
he would have had. The skipper was sent for life, having killed a man
in his arrest; but he didn't live six months in prison; he never got
over the tremendous blow he received from Barney. All the reports spoke
of his being a receiver of 'stolen goods.' The Bank paper was never
mentioned, for the authorities did not want to unsettle the public
again, or let them see what a narrow escape they had had.
And now comes about the queerest part of my story. Call me names if I
didn't stop the thieving at Byrle's factory as well as recover the Bank
paper, killing two birds with one stone.
It was all through my catching the bony ferryman. Finding that things
was going hard with him, and hoping to make them easier, and being
disappointed that those who were concerned with him did not come
forward with money to provide for his defence, he 'rounded' on them; he
split on them all, and owned how he was the means of taking the metal
over to a fence on his side of the water, the things being stolen by a
mechanic and a watchman who were in league. (I see I have used the word
'fence;' this means a receiver of stolen goods; but though I have been
warned by the editor of this magazine, we can't do without _some_ slang
words.)
Peter Tilley got a tidy present, and was noted for promotion through
this business. I was glad of it, for Peter was a capital chap--never
wanted to play first-fiddle; and I admire people of that disposition. I
tell you what I did: I got the newest five-pound note of all what the
Bank gave me, and they were all very clean and crisp, and I wrapped old
Bob the gatekeeper's own sixpence in it; and I went to the factory and
I stood a pint of ale, and says: 'Bob, here's your sixpence!' He hadn't
known exactly who I was till then, for I had made excuses as usual; and
then I'm blessed if he didn't quite cry over his luck. Mr Byrle too
thought a lot of Bob's kindness, for I told the old gent about it; and
I heard that on that very account he put six shillings a week on Bob's
wages, and I was glad to hear it.
They couldn't keep me off the detective staff after this; and although
I am free to confess--now I am on my pension and nothing matters to
me--that I only stumbled upon these discoveries by accident, I was
praised to the skies by those for whom I worked. However, it all
died away, as such things do; but I had managed to get my house at
Pentonville, as I have hinted; and a pleasanter neighbourhood I don't
know, or one more convenient for getting about. I have had some rather
odd adventures since I have lived in my street; you can't help seeing
strange things, if you keep your eyes open in London. But I didn't
begin to tell about _them_. I have finished my account of the robberies
at Byrle & Co.'s and my story finishes in consequence.
FEATS OF ENDURANCE.
London, which has witnessed many strange doings in its day, was
lately the scene of the most wonderful feats of pedestrianism ever
accomplished within a given period.
Every hour, day and night, for six weary weeks a man plodded on his way
round a measured track, until the grand total of fifteen hundred miles
in one thousand hours had been made up, finishing his self-imposed task
with his physical and mental faculties apparently unimpaired.
The task of walking fifteen hundred miles in a thousand hours had never
before been attempted, and henceforth the new achievement will throw
into the cold shade of obscurity even the marvellous act of walking a
thousand miles in as many hours, which was once accomplished in 1809
by Captain Robert Barclay of Ury, a Scotchman, who proposed to perform
the then incredible task of walking a thousand miles in a thousand
consecutive hours. The proposition was received with every sign of
incredulity, though, when the affair was finally arranged to take
place, many thousands of pounds were staked on the event. Newmarket
Heath was selected as the scene of the exploit, and the famous walk
began on the 1st of June 1809, at midnight. It is unnecessary to
repeat the details of this feat; it will suffice to mention that the
enterprising captain completed his task on the 12th July, at four
o'clock in the afternoon.
Since then, an attempt has, we believe, been made to walk the same
distance _backwards_; and within the past twelve months, Weston, the
American pedestrian, has performed some remarkable exploits of the
kind; being however at last beaten by an Irishman named Kelly.
The hero of the lately completed task (fifteen hundred miles in a
thousand hours) is a little Welshman of not more than five feet three
and a half inches in height, and about forty-two years of age; while
in personal appearance and general _physique_ he presents anything but
what is usually supposed to be the characteristic of a good pedestrian.
His name is William Gale, and he is a bookbinder by trade, living at
Clerkenwell.
At the commencement of his task on Sunday the 26th of August, he
weighed no more than eight stone four pounds (8 st. 4 lbs.); and from
that day until Saturday the 6th October, during a portion of every hour
day and night, he pursued his monotonous way around the inclosure at
Lillie Bridge grounds, Brompton. When the attempt was first announced,
even those most acquainted with pedestrian feats where great endurance
was required, expressed themselves dubious as to the result; and in
order to have a reliable record of his proceedings, Gale requested the
different sporting papers to appoint competent men as judges--a request
which was at once generously complied with.
Thus we have an official report of his great exploit, and the public
are enabled to judge for themselves on the nature of the feat
performed. Gale's average pace appears to have been about four miles
an hour; but when he had reached his thousandth mile he assumed a
brave spurt, and footed it in ten minutes, or at the rate of six miles
an hour. During the last few days of his walking he started rather
stiffly at first, owing to the pain caused by the swelling of some
varicose veins in his left leg; but undaunted by so great and manifest
a disadvantage, and other disadvantages which we shall presently
refer to, the gallant little Welshman 'plodded his weary way' with a
determined pluck that won the admiration and applause of every one
present.
On Friday the 5th October, the day before the finish of the tramp,
Dr Gant of the Royal Free Hospital was called in to see this
extraordinary walker, and after examining his legs, he pronounced
Gale to be in excellent condition so far as his physical powers were
concerned; there being no fever, the pulse only seventy, no murmur
at the heart; and the varicose veins which had been the cause of so
much pain to him, were rather better than worse, having considerably
decreased in size. Perhaps the most remarkable part of the performance
is, that it has been accomplished on a system of training which
entirely sets at variance all athletic rules, for Gale partook of no
fixed refreshment, neither did he have his meals at stated hours. His
chief food was plain mutton-chops; and as an instance of how he varied
his dishes, his afternoon meal on Friday the 5th October, which might
have been either breakfast, dinner, or supper (so irregular had he been
in this respect), consisted of a lobster and bread and butter, followed
by a fried sole, and one or two cups of ordinarily strong tea. During
the walk he also drank a good deal of beer--not strong beer, but the
ale which is usually sold at fourpence per quart, which he seemed to
prefer to any other kind, probably on account of its freedom from that
tendency to increase rather than assuage thirst, so remarkably apparent
in the stronger beers.
Many strange incidents occurred in the course of the six weeks, which
were calculated to while away the time, and occasionally to bring a
smile to the pedestrian's lips. For instance, a certain illustrated
sheet, notorious for its very sensational cartoons, published a picture
of Gale on the track followed by Old Time with the conventional scythe
on his shoulder; and many people it would seem actually paid their
money with the idea that they were going to see the two figures as
thus represented. One man, who had evidently gone to the grounds for
this purpose, had watched Gale go round the track several times, when
he could no longer control his disappointment. He shouted aloud,
angrily demanding his money back, because, as he said with the greatest
_naïveté_ possible, 'the beggar with the scythe hadn't turned up!'
As the last week of the great walking match wore on, signs of weariness
in the indomitable pedestrian became painfully apparent, and many
persons began to fear that the task he had set himself would after all
remain unaccomplished. On several of the rounds he fell asleep whilst
walking, and dropped to the ground; but this contact with mother earth
seemed to revive him instantly, and he plodded on as pluckily as before.
At length success crowned his efforts; and at seventeen minutes past
five o'clock (less a second) on Saturday afternoon the 6th October
1877, Gale terminated his long and dreary walk in the presence of a
large, fashionable, and enthusiastic assemblage, who rewarded his
efforts with several rounds of hearty applause.
From the commencement of his task to the finish Gale bore up against
all obstacles with extraordinary pluck and determination, his last mile
being performed in _ten minutes and eight seconds_. He was at once
removed to the tent or pavilion under which he had snatched so many
brief half-hours' rest, and was examined by three medical men, who
found that his heart was quite natural in its movements, and that the
temperature of his body did not exceed one hundred and six degrees.
The great feat which has thus been accomplished without the aid of
artificial training, is a marvellous instance of what human endurance,
allied with courage and determination, can effect; though of what
particular benefit it may be to the world at large it is utterly
impossible to imagine.
* * * * *
Since the preceding account was written, Gale has accomplished a
still more extraordinary feat, and one which for strength of will
and physical endurance far surpasses his previous efforts. We still
fail, however, to see the benefit which can accrue from exhibitions
of this kind, and well might he have been contented with the laurels
he had already won. He had scarcely allowed himself time to recover
from his former task, when he once more appeared at a public place of
entertainment, namely the Agricultural Hall at Islington, to walk four
thousand quarter-miles under the astounding condition, that it was to
be done in four thousand consecutive periods of ten minutes.
This of course deprived him of the half-hour's rest which he could
obtain at one time in the former race, and only allowed him a few
minutes between each round to get a little sleep. Despite these
drawbacks, however, Gale finished his task at eleven o'clock P.M.
on the 17th November, after a dreary walk of nearly four weeks. By
accomplishing his task, he has placed himself at the head of all the
famous pedestrians the world has known; and we trust that this fact
will be sufficient to satisfy his craving after what is at best but
ephemeral fame.
Men have on many occasions attempted walking feats which required a
vast amount of physical endurance, and have failed from their utter
inability to go without the natural quantum of sleep; but Gale has not
only shewn himself to be possessed of the former, but to be altogether
independent of the latter. This, however, instead of indicating 'pluck'
merely, would rather seem to point to a peculiarity in the man's
constitution; as there are doubtless many persons whose courage would
enable them to perform the same or even a greater task if, like Gale,
they could walk about in a state of somnolency or semi-sleep--a state
in which, to use his own words, he was as one in a dream, unconscious
of all that was going on around him, and believing himself to be
walking in forests and other places of silvan beauty; and the truth of
this was made evident by the fact that he would have often exceeded the
limit of his walk had not the voice of his attendant aroused him from
his stupor.
The average time occupied by this extraordinary walker was by day
about three minutes for each quarter of a mile, and by night about
five minutes; and the fastest round recorded was done in two minutes
and forty-two seconds. His pulse was always found to indicate a
perfect state of health, and was as regular when he left off as when
he commenced his task. His food consisted principally of fish, fowl,
chops, eggs, and light puddings; and his drink was, with only one
exception during the whole time, tea.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the whole affair was the fact
that, although he sank into a deep sleep directly he reached his chair
behind the curtain, which hid him from view between his walks, the
moment the bell rang the second time, he would appear as fresh as ever
and begin trudging away again.
When the feat was accomplished, Sir John Astley stepped forward, and
amid a scene of great enthusiasm, presented the undaunted Welshman with
a silver belt of the value of a hundred guineas, bearing the following
inscription: 'This belt was presented to WILLIAM GALE of Cardiff, on
the 17th November 1877, by some of the nobility and gentry of Great
Britain, in commemoration of his hitherto unprecedented feat, namely
walking one thousand five hundred miles in one thousand hours at Lillie
Bridge Grounds, August 26th to October 6th, 1877; and four thousand
quarter-miles in four thousand consecutive periods of ten minutes, at
the Agricultural Hall, London, October 21st to November 17th, 1877.'
The belt is of lion's skin, mounted on velvet, the metal portion of it
weighing one hundred ounces of sterling silver.
None will begrudge Gale his well-earned reward; but it is to be hoped
that such exhibitions will in future be discountenanced by the general
public, as they not only detract from the dignity of man, but are
needless and unwarrantable in a country which, we trust, will ever
pride itself on a nobler civilisation than that which is founded upon
mere physical endurance.
A DIFFICULT QUESTION.
THE STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS EVES.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.--PROLOGUE.
In the gray light of an Indian dawn, with the cool breeze blowing
through the curtains of the tent, and his friend's sorrowful eyes
looking down on him, a soldier lay on his rough couch--waiting for
death. They were soon to be parted those two, who had lived and fought
together; but the face of the one who was starting on that journey
of which none has measured the distance, was smilingly calm, while
the eyes of the other glistened with regretful tears as he spoke low,
faltering, remorseful words.
'Hush, Ralph, hush!' the other said at last. 'Don't you think, dear
old fellow, I would sooner lose my life in having saved yours, than in
any other way? After all, a few days or years sooner or later, what
does it signify? My fate is perhaps the happiest, though I hope it is
not. I don't think life is so very desirable,' he continued; 'I am only
twenty-six; but mine has not been a happy one. It was my own fault,
though. Take my advice, Ralph; don't marry young. There is only one
thing that troubles me'----
'Your little girl,' Ralph interrupted. 'Wrayworth, let me take care
of her; if I can make her happy, it will be some slight atonement,
some'----
'You would take care of her, Ralph? would you?' The dying man's eyes
shone gratefully as he looked up in his friend's face. 'She has
nothing, poor little thing,' he went on sadly--'motherless, fatherless,
scarcely more than a baby either. It would be a heavy charge to leave
you, Ralph.'