to be very plain, I was laughing in my sleeve; because, in the first
place, a detective is not a Methodist preacher; and in the second place,
because I have a right to my fun as well as others; and in the third
place, because I came to the conclusion that Dan Gillies had some reason
for shaving his whiskers which ought to interest me. In short, I had no
doubt that Dan and his "wife" had been at the ship-launch.
With the laugh, I suppose, still hanging about my lips as a comfortable
solace after my ineffectual hunt after the brewer's clerk and the jolly
maman, I entered the Office, where the first information I got was, that
a lady had been robbed of her purse at Leith, and that a young wench
was in hands there as having been an accomplice along with a swell of a
pickpocket who had escaped.
"I was thinking as much," said I, with a revival of my laugh; "I know
the man."
And so I might well say, for I had now got to the secret of the shaved
whiskers.
"What mean you?" said the lieutenant.
"Why, just that if you want the man, I will bring him to you. I will
give you the reason of my confidence at another time."
"To be sure we want him," was the rather sharp reply of my superior.
"Then I will fetch him," said I.
And so I went direct to Brown's Close, where I knew the copartnership of
Gillies and M'Diarmid formerly carried on business, both in the domestic
and trading way. Domestic! what a strange word as applied to these
creatures--charm, as it is, to conjure up almost all the associations
which are contained in the whole round of human happiness! Yes, I say
domestic; happiness is a thing of accommodation. These beings will go
forth in the morning in the spring of hope, and after threading dangers
which are nothing less than wonderful, jinking the throw of the loop of
the line which grazes their very shoulders, and turning and doubling in
a thousand directions to escape justice, they meet at nightfall to
_enjoy_ the happiness of a home. The beefsteak, as it fries, gives out
the ordinary sound, the plunk of the drawn cork is heard, and they
narrate their hairbreadth escapes, their dangers, and their triumphs.
They laugh, they sleep, but their enjoyment terminates with my knock at
the door. The solitary inmate is wondering at the absence of the female
without whom the word "domestic" becomes something like a mockery. It is
needless to deny him affections; he has them, and she has them, as the
tiger and the tigress have them. They don't complain like other folk,
because they don't bark or growl at Providence; but the iron screw is in
the heart. I have read its pangs in the very repression of its
expression.
I had been so quick in my movements that I went right in upon my man
just as he had entered, no doubt after the cautious doublings consequent
upon our prior interview. The salutation given me was a growl of the
wrath which had been seething in the Pappin's digestor of his heart.
"What right have you to hound me in this way?" he cried, as he closed
his fist and then ground his teeth.
"Why, Dan," said I, calmly, "I'm still curious about the whiskers."
"Whiskers again," he roared.
"Aye, just the whiskers," said I. "I have told you I am curious about
them, and I want to know why you parted with what you seemed so proud
of?"
"Gibe on; you'll make nothing of me," he cried again. "I defy you."
"Well, but I cannot give up the whiskers in that easy way," said I,
"because I have an impression that if the lady in Leith had not lost her
purse, your whiskers would still have clothed your cheeks."
From which cheeks the colour fled in an instant. Even to the hardest of
criminals the pinch of a fact is like the effect of a screw turned upon
the heart. It is only we who can observe the changes of their
expression. Dan knew, in short, that he was caught; and I have before
remarked that the regular thieves can go through the business of a
detection in a regular way.
"Well," he said, as he felt the closing noose, and with even a kind of
grim smile, "I might as well have kept my hair."
"Never mind," said I, "it will have time to grow in the jail. Come
along. The cuffs?"
"Oh no, I think you have no occasion. Them things are only for the
irregulars, you know. But do you think you'll mend Daniel Gillies by the
jail?"
"No," said I, "I don't expect it."
"Then why do you intend to send me there?"
"Why," replied I, in something like sympathy for one who I knew to be of
those who are trained to vice before they have the choice of good or
evil laid before them, "just because it is my trade."
And, strange as it may seem, I observed a tear start into his red eye.
"Your trade," said he, as he rubbed the cuff of his coat over his face,
"your trade; and have you a better right to follow it than I have to
pursue mine? You didn't learn yours from your father and mother, did
you?"
"No, Dan, but I know you did."
"Yes, and the more's the pity," replied he, as he got even to an
hysterical blubber. "I have had thoughts on the subject. Even when last
in the Calton I could not sleep. Something inside told me I was wronged,
but not by God--by man. I was trained by fiends who made money by what
they taught me, and I have been pursued by fiends all my life. When was
a good lesson ever given me, or a kindly word ever said to me, except by
a preacher in the jail with a Bible in his hand? Suppose I had listened
to him, and when I got out had taken that book into my hand, and had
gone to the High Street and bawled out, 'Put me to a trade, employ me,
and give me wages.' Who would have listened to me? A few pence from one,
and the word 'hypocrite' from another, and then left to my old shifts,
or starve. Take me up, but you'll never mend me by punishment."
I always knew Dan to be a clever fellow, but I was not prepared for this
burst. Yet I knew in my heart it was true.
"Well," said I, "Dan, I pity you. I have often thought that if that old
villain David, and that old Jezebel Meg, who were your parents, had not
corrupted you, you had heart and sense to be a good boy."
"Ay, and it has often wrung my heart," he replied, "when I have seen
others who were born near me, though only in Blackfriars' Wynd,
respectable and happy, and I a criminal in misery by the chance of
birth; but all this is of no use now. Then where's Bess, poor wretch?"
"She's in Leith jail."
"Right," cried he, as he blubbered again. "I sent her there. She was a
playmate of mine, and I led her on in the path into which I was led. She
might have been as good as the best of them."
And the poor fellow, throwing himself on a chair, cried bitterly.
I have encountered more than one of these scenes. They have only pained
me, and seldom been of any service to the victims themselves. Were a
thousand such cases sent up to the Privy Council, I doubt if their
obduracy in endowing ragged and industrial schools would be in the
slightest degree modified.
I believe little more passed. I had my duty to perform, and Dan was not
disobedient. That same evening he was sent to Leith. He was afterwards
tried. He was identified by the lady and a boy who knew him, and
sentenced to twelve months. Bess got off on the plea of not proven. I
lost all trace of them, but have no hopes that either the one or the
other was mended by the detection through the whiskers. The hair would
grow again not more naturally than would spring up the old roots of evil
planted by those who should have engrafted better shoots on the stock of
nature.
The White Coffin.
If the Conglomerates of our old town are troubled with many miseries, as
the consequences of their privations and vices, it is certain the whole
squalid theatre they play their strange parts in, is the scene of more
incidents, often humorous, nay romantic--if there can be a romance of
low life--than can be found in the quiet saloons of the higher grades in
the new town. The observation indeed is almost so trite, that I need not
mention that while in the one case you have nature overlaid with the art
of concealment, the slave of decorum, in the other you have the old
mother, free, fresh, and frisky--her true characters, rapid movements,
quick thoughts, intertwined plots, the jerks of passion, the humorous
and the serious, the comedy and the melodrama of the tale of life--an
idiot's one, if you please, even in the grave ranks of the highest.
In February 1837, as I was on my saunter with my faithful Mulholland
among the haunts of the old town, we observed our old friends Andrew
Ireland, John Templeton, and David Toppen, doubling the mouth of one of
the closes leading to Paul's Work. These industrious gentry are never
idle; as they carry their tools along with them, they can work anywhere;
and, like the authors, a species of vagabonds who live on their wits,
and steal one from another, they need no stock in trade. It was clear to
me that we were unobserved, and proceeding down another close, I
expected to meet them probably about their scene of action. I may
mention that I was somewhat quickened in my movements by some
recollections that Ireland had cost me a deal of trouble--the more by
token that he was called "the Climber," as being the best hand at a
scramble, when cats would shudder, in all the city, for which he had
refused for some time to give me even the pledge of his body. We got
down the close and round the corner, just in the nick of time to see the
tail of Andrew's coat disappearing from the top of a pretty high dyke.
The two others followed the example of the Climber, and when they had
disappeared, we placed ourselves at the side of the wall to receive them
on their descent. The cackling of fowls soon told us the nature of their
work, and the gluggering of choking craigs was a clear indication that
the robbers were acting on the old rule that "the dead tell no tales."
"Sure of the Climber this time," I said to my assistant. "I will seize
Andrew and Templeton, and lay you hold of Toppen."
And the words were scarcely out of my mouth, when we received gratefully
our friends in our arms. The dead hens were flung away, and darting at
the throats of my two charges, I secured them on the instant. Mulholland
lost his hold, but so pleased was I at my capture, especially of Andrew,
that I could not resist a few words in my old way.
"I was afraid you would fall and break your neck, Andrew," said I.
"Thank you for the warm reception," replied the cool rogue, as he
recovered breath after the short tussle.
"No apology," said I. "I have told you by a hundred looks that I wanted
you."
"And sold for a hen at last," he added, with an oath.
"And not allowed to eat it," said I. "What a glorious supper you and the
old woman would have had!"
The taunt was at least due to his oath.
"Pick up the hens, Mulholland," said I, "and let us march, we will have
a laugh in the High Street."
And proceeding with my man in each hand till I came to the head of the
close, I gave one of them in charge of a constable, retaining the other.
Mulholland with the hens brought up the rear, and I believe we cut a
good figure in our march, if I could judge from the shouts of the
urchins--tickled with a kind of walking anecdote, that carried its
meaning so clearly in the face of it, for it is seldom that the booty
makes its appearance in these processions.
On arriving at the Office, my charges were locked up. Toppen was caught
the same evening; and this part of my story of the metamorphosis being
so far prelusive, I may just say that my hen-stealers were forthwith
tried by the Sheriff and a jury. Each got the price of his hen even at a
higher rate than the present price of a fashionable cockerel--Ireland
getting nine months, Templeton six, and Toppen four. But the Climber
vindicated his great reputation in a manner that entitled him to still
greater fame. Whether it was that the jailer was not made aware of his
abilities, or that he was placed in a cell which it was held to be
impossible for any creature without claws on all the four members to get
out of, I cannot say; but true it is that, to the utter amazement of
every one connected with the jail, Andrew Ireland got out by the
skylight, and finding his way over ridges and down descents that might
have defied an Orkney eagle-hunter, descended at the north back of the
Canongate, and got clear off.
Once more "done" by my agile friend, my pride was up, and I must have
him by hook or by crook. I knew he was one of those enchanted beings
whose love to the old town prevents them from leaving it. It has such a
charm for them that they will stick to it at all hazards, even when, day
by day, and night by night, they are hounded through closes and alleys
like wild beasts, and have, as it were, nowhere to lay their heads. I
have known them sleep on the tops of houses, and in crannies of old
buildings, half-starved and half-clothed, in all weathers, summer or
winter, rather than seek rest by leaving the scenes of their wild
infancy. And all this they will do in the almost dead certainty that
ultimately they will be seized. I was thus satisfied that Andrew was
about the town; and even when, after the lapse of months, I could get no
trace of him, I still retained my conviction that he was in hiding.
That conviction was destined to receive a grotesque and grim
verification. I was one day at the top of Leith Wynd. A number of people
were looking at the slow march of some poor wretch's funeral, the coffin
borne by some ragged Irishmen, a few others going behind. As I stood
looking at the solemn affair--more solemn and impressive to right minds
than the plumed pageant that leaves the mansion with the inverted
shield, and goes to the vault where are conserved, with the care of
sacred relics, the remains of proud ancestors--a poor woman, who seemed
to have been among the mourners, came up to me.
"And do you see your work, now?" quoth she, in a true Irish accent. "Do
you know who is in that white coffin there, wid the bit black cloth over
it?"
"No," said I.
"And you don't know the darling you murthered for stealing a hen at
Paul's Work?"
"You don't mean to say," replied I, "that that's the funeral of your
son, Mrs Ireland?"
"Ay, and, by my soul, I do, and murthered by you. He never lifted up his
head agin, but pined and dwined like a heart-broken cratur as he was;
and now he's there going as fast as the boys can carry him to his
grave."
"Well," said I, "I am sorry for it."
"The devil a bit of you, you vagabond! It's all sham and blarney, and a
burning shame to you, to boot."
"Peace, Janet," said I; "he's perhaps happier now than he was here
stealing and drinking. There are no sky-lights in the Canongate graves,
and he'll not climb out to do any more evil."
"Sky-lights!" cried Janet; "ay, but there is, and Andrew Ireland will
climb out and get to heaven, while you, you varmint, will be breaking
firewood in h--to roast their honours the judges who condemned my
innocent darling."
"Quiet, Janet."
"Well, thin, to roast yourself; will that plaise ye?"
"Yes, yes," said I.
And fearing that the woman's passions, inflamed by her grief, might
reach the height of a howl, I moved away, while she, muttering words of
wrath, proceeded after the white coffin. Nor can I say I was altogether
comfortable as I proceeded to the Office, for there is something in the
wild moving yet miserable lives of these Arabs of the wynds when wound
up by death that is really touching. Nay, it is scarcely possible to
avoid the thought that they are not free agents, if they do not claim
from our sympathy the character of victims. In truth I was getting
muffish, if I did not soliloquise a bit about other climbers whose feet
rested on the backs of such poor wretches, and who, by means not very
different, get into high places, where they join the fashionable cry
about philanthropy--yes, a philanthropy that helps the devil, by
allowing him to brain the objects they attempt to benefit.
But a police-office soon takes the softness out of a man. I had scarcely
entered when I got notice of a robbery, committed on the prior night at
the workshop of Messrs Robb and Whittens, working silversmiths in
Thistle Street. On repairing to the spot, I ascertained that the robber
had made off with a number of silver articles, sugar-tongs, spoons, and
other valuables; among the rest a number of silver screws. I
particularly notice these, because they served my purpose in quite
another way than that for which they were originally intended. But as to
the manner of the robbery, I could get no satisfactory information
beyond the fact that a suspicion attached to two chimney-sweeps, who had
been passing in the morning, and had been employed to sweep the vents of
the workshop; nor was my disappointment lessened by finding that the
sweeps were utterly unknown to the parties connected with the shop. They
could not even tell whether they came from the new town or the old. Then
as to identification, even had I been angel enough to bring so
unrecognisable a creature before them, who ever heard of any distinctive
features in a chimney-sweep, if he has not a hump on his back or wants a
nose on his face! Even I, who have seen through all manner of disguises,
am often at fault with them until I almost rub noses with them--a
process in which I would catch a "devilish sight" more than I wanted.
Notwithstanding these difficulties, I did not altogether despair,
insomuch as I at least became pretty well satisfied that it really was
the gentlemen in black who had done the deed. So wherever there was
smoke to be cured and vents sweeped, I considered it my duty to call and
try if I could find, not the features of my men, but some trace of the
tongs and screws; for in many cases where I have had right to search, I
have got my pipe lighted at a fire, the light of which has shewn me what
I wanted. Yet all wouldn't do; nor was I a whit more lucky among the
brokers and pawn-shops. Nay, although I _screwed_ my ingenuity to the
last turn, could I trace anything of the stolen silver screws. It was no
go, as the lovers of slang say; and if it had not been that I was born
never to know the meaning of "Give it up," I would have renounced the
pursuit of men who are beyond the landmarks of society.
Not altogether without a result, however, these vain searches. I was
impressed with a curiosity about chimney-sweeps, and I never eyed one
without a wish to know something about him. They had formerly
interested me very little; for, to do them justice, though they have
means of entering houses seldom in the power of others, and which none
but fiery lovers ever think of, they have seldom qualified themselves
for my attentions. They have no likings for the whitewashing processes
of jails. At the same time, however, as cleanliness is next to
godliness, they seldom appear in church; the grace would not pay the
soap.
With this affection for the tribe still hanging about me, I was one day,
a considerable period after the robbery, going along the Pleasance, in
an expedition connected with the house called the Castle of Clouts,
where I expected to find some remnants not left by the builder of that
famous pile. I was not looking for sweeps, and yet my pipe was not out.
I had been blowing some puffs, when, on turning round, I saw two of my
black gentlemen standing smoking loungingly, with their backs to the
wall. "Ah, some of the bright creatures of my fancy," thought I; "yea,
those aerial beings who for months have been hovering over me in my
dreams, yet altogether without wings." My first act was to put that same
pipe out, my next to watch their movements. They were very busy talking
to each other; but what interested me most was the curiosity with which
they were contemplating some articles which one of them was shewing to
the other,--nay, there seemed to be a silvery look about the things,
which was the more apparent that they were a contrast to the hands that
held them.
So straightway my pipe, which I had extinguished, required a light, and
these curers of smoke could even produce that which they professed to
banish. In a moment I was standing before them.
"Well, lads," said I, "can you give me a light?"
One of them recoiled a little as he caught my eye. He seemed to know me,
though I am free to confess I did not know him.
"To be sure," said the other.
And striking a match upon the wall he handed me a light, whereupon I
began to puff away; and as smoking is a social act, I found myself
irresistibly attracted by my friend, who in my first going up appeared
to be so shy.
"Do you know where the Castle of Clouts is?" said I, as I peered and
peered into the dark face of him who tried to avoid my gaze.
But I was still at fault. His features were familiar to me, but the soot
still came between me and my identification. At length I got my clue.
"Andrew Ireland," said I, "when did you come out of the Canongate
churchyard? Was there a skylight in the top of the coffin?"
"Andrew Stewart is my name," replied the black ghost.
"And when did you turn sweep, Andrew?"
"When seven years old," said he; "but I tell you my name is Stewart, and
be d----d to you."
"Well, I don't apprehend names," said I, "only bodies. Then I'm not sure
if you are not a spirit, for Janet shewed me your coffin on its way to
the Canongate."
"Perhaps it was Andrew Ireland's coffin you saw," said he. "It wasn't
mine, anyhow."
"Oh, I see," said I, "it would be Andrew Stewart's, and I have committed
a mistake. No matter; I want to know what you have in your right
coat-pocket."
And at the same instant I held up my hand. My assistant was presently at
my side. I saw by the fire of his eye--something like a chimney on
fire--that he was bent on resistance, and instantly taking him by the
neckcloth with my right hand, I was proceeding to plunge my left into
his pocket, when he seized me with his wonted ferocity, and for his
pains got himself laid on his back.
"Now, Andrew," said I, as he lay grinning at me so like another black
gentleman when angry, "as sure as you are your mother's darling, I will
take you up and throw you again if you are not peaceable, and behave
yourself like a gentleman."
And getting my assistant to hold him, I took from his pocket three
silver screws. It was all up with my ghost, who almost instantly became
as gentle as these creatures, even the real white kind, generally are.
He got up, and we proceeded to the Office. Nor did all the parts of
this remarkable case end here, for, as we passed along St Mary's Wynd,
whom should we meet but Janet Ireland. The moment she saw us, she
appeared stupified.
"He is risen again, Janet," said I, in a kind of whisper, "they forgot
to fasten the coffin with the silver screws."
"And the more shame yours, you thaif of a thousand," she cried, "to
steal the darling boy of a poor widow. Dead! isn't he worse than dead
when in the hands of the biggest scoundrel that ever walked the airth?"
And what, in addition to this ingenuous turn which Janet gave to the
story of the white coffin, Janet said or roared, I cannot tell, for we
hurried away to avoid a gathering crowd.
I will never forget the look of the Superintendent when I told him that
the man before him was the dead and buried Andrew Ireland, the stealer
of the hens, the climber through the skylight of the jail, and the
robber of the silversmiths' shop. What puzzled him most was, how, with
the conviction on my mind that the lad was dead and buried, I could have
recognised him through the soot. He looked at him again and again, nor
could he say that, with the minutest investigation, he could say that he
recognised the well-known thief who had cost us so much trouble.
Andrew was tried for the escape from prison as well as for the robbery;
and that the judges did not think he was the short-lived person
described by Janet, appears from the judgment, which condemned him to
fourteen years' transportation.
The Sea Captain.