another? or rather, were we to bear in mind the words of the priest,
importing the necessity of faith and confidence in each other, might we
not rather expect that these celebrations should occur oftener than they
do? The nature of the connexion might, indeed, suggest an addition to
the formula, to the effect that they should be made to promise not "to
peach" on each other; and as for the words, "Whom God hath joined
together let no man separate," these might be dispensed with, to save
the judges and such as I from breaking a law of the Bible. The "duty,"
"obedience," and "affection" might remain as approved by experience. But
however decorous these unions, (and pearls, you know, have been called
unions, as well they might,) it is certain that we see very few of them.
When they occur, they are very genuine, in so much as the contracting
parties _know each other_,--a peculiarity almost entirely confined to
their case; but, as I have said, they occur very seldom. They seem to
have a sort of instinct that they are liable to changes of _dwelling_ as
well as changes of _country_, and hence their notion that it is better
for both males and females to join their fortunes and affections in that
loose and easy way, which enables them to snap the silken bands when it
is necessary to assume the iron fetters.
So much of prosy prelude to that gay scene which occurred in Bailie's
Court, head of the Cowgate, in January 1855, when Richard Webb and
Catharine Bryce were, amidst the strains of the Tam Lucas of the feast,
made man and wife. That they knew each other was beyond doubt, for had
not the gay Catharine been twice condemned for shop-lifting, and Richard
carried the honours of as many convictions for the minor crime of theft?
Yes, it would be well for our Beatrices and Birons if they knew
beforehand tempers so well developed. When did you ever hear of thieves
disgracing themselves by going to the divorce courts? They are contented
with the justiciary, or even the sheriff. They despise, too,
restorations of tocher; and as for the one turning witness against the
other's frailties, you never hear of it.
This celebration, when I heard of it, appeared to me curious. I don't
say ludicrous, because marriage is an august ceremony, originated in
Paradise, and so very often ending there. And why should not M'Levy be
among his children, to whose happiness he had devoted so many years of
his life, of toil and danger? I know that you will say, Why should he
not be there? And to be sure there he was. I got indeed no invitation,
any more than I did when the handsome hawker was to have been joined, by
a "closing thread" well birsed, to the disappointed snab. When people
are insulted in this way, they get over it by calling it an
oversight--yet they don't put the parties right by going as I did, and
shewing that degree of magnanimity which consists in heaping coals of
fire on the head.
As Bailie's Court, in the Cowgate, does not often respond to the strains
of a marriage fiddle, there behoved to be a crowd, and it behoved that
crowd to be witty at the expense of the happy pair; for when were not
the poor, who form such crowds, envious? When I arrived, I found them
all in that kind of uproar--hurraing at every new comer--which
characterises scenes of this nature; and my appearance quickened the
humour into such bursts as "M'Levy is to join them with handcuffs," "Let
up the priest," "Where is your white cravat," and the like--jokes which
were really not happy, in so much as the nuptial knot had already been
tied, and the sacred restraints of the guests were loosened to the
extent of the freedom of dancing. On going up stairs, I found that all
my suspicions of affront at not being invited were mocked by an open
door for all comers, whence issued just such sounds of fiddle, feet, and
fun, as one might expect. On my entry, there awaited me an honour which
I believe would not have been awarded to the Lord Justice-Clerk; for my
very appearance stopt the merrymakers when in full spring, just as if
they were overawed by the appearance of a winged messenger. And no
wonder, for I saw there many for whom I had procured lodgings, supplied
with food, and even sent on an excursion to the sunny climes of the
south; but no man has a right to enforce more gratitude than what is due
to him, and I was vexed at throwing a cloud over so happy a scene.
"Go on, my lads and lasses," said I. "You know you belong to me, but
this night you shall have your liberty."
"Give him a dram," cried the bride.
And straightway, to be sure, I got my glass of whisky; but not content
with that gift, they pulled me into the middle of a reel, where I am not
sure if I did not actually dance,--nay, I won't answer for it that I was
not whirled round by some very passable arms, not only for good colour,
but for softness.
I remained only for a short time. I had gratified my curiosity, and I
wished to save them from the embarrassment of a presence in many ways
suggestive of associations. I had not been disappointed; but I am sure
that when I appeared again to the crowd without having Webb or Catharine
with me, or at least some of the guests, they were disappointed--so
envious, I am sorry to say, is that common nature of ours, and so
impatient of the joys of others. Another thing gave a kind of
satisfaction. I saw no chance for this celebration being disgraced by
pocket-picking--an occurrence so common in crowds--for here truly there
were no pockets to pick, that is, no pockets with anything in them,
beyond a quid of tobacco and a pipe, or at most a few pence. You will
see how this fond hope was destined to be disappointed.
Having joined my assistant, who waited for me at the foot of the stair,
we went along to the Cowgate on the look-out; and having finished our
survey, we turned to retrace our steps by the scene of the marriage. It
was a frosty night, I remember, with thick snow, heaps of which were
thrown up on the sides of the cart-ruts. As we were thus proceeding, I
heard coming up the rapid steps of a runner; and who should this be but
Bill Orr, one of my own. He stumbled against a heap of snow, and fell at
my feet.
"What's all the hurry, Bill?" said I, as he was getting up.
But Bill clearly did not like the question, far less did he like the
anticipation of being laid hold of, for he was up in an instant and
off, much quicker than a wind-driven snow-flake.
"Where's the pursuer?" said I to my assistant; "Bill Orr is not the man
to run at that rate to get out of the snow."
The pertinancy of the question was no more apparent to me, than to you,
or any one who notices the common actions of mankind, which display a
proportion in their vivacity corresponding to the degrees of impulse;
nor did the notion leave me that something was wrong with my old friend,
and I was accordingly on the outlook. On coming again to Bailie's Court
I was attracted by some noises, not at all like the fun I had witnessed
before in that quarter; and on going forward, ascertained, from the
lamentations of an old poors'-house pensioner--a very old woman, who in
spite of her age and poverty had been attracted in that cold night by
the festivity of the marriage--that she had been robbed; yes, a
poors'-house pensioner robbed of the sum of four pennies and one
halfpenny. Ludicrous enough; ay, but pitiful enough too, when you
remember that that fourpence-halfpenny would keep, and was intended to
keep, that very _poor_ pauper a day out of the very few she would see on
this side of the grave. Don't wonder, therefore, at a grief which was
intense, if it did not amount to as strong an agony as those shrivelled
nerves could bear without snapping. I had here my sympathies; and if
anything could add to my disturbance, it was that in spite of my hopes
this auspicious wedding was disgraced.
"Be easy, my good woman," said I; "I will get both your
fourpence-halfpenny and the heartless rogue that took it."
"God bless you, Mr M'Levy; ye've saved mony a ane's property, and ye're
sent here this night to save mine."
And had she no right to think fourpence-halfpenny entitled to be
designated _property_? It was at least her all; and when all is lost, it
is, I suspect, of little importance whether it be a thousand pounds or a
penny. Nor was she less miserable than one would be at the loss of a
fortune,--only the _tear_ was not there, perhaps because an out-door
pensioner does not get nourishment with sap enough in it to produce that
peculiar evidence (which is said to be limited to our species) of human
grief.
And now there was another contrast between what was going on up-stairs
and that which was enacted below. There, merriment was the produce of
thieving; here, the offspring of the same parent was sorrow.
"Wait there, my good woman," said I, "till I bring you your property and
the thief."
And upon the instant there arose a cry of, "Hurra for M'Levy," which I
received with becoming modesty.
So away I went back the road I had come; nor did I diverge till I came
to the house of Mrs M'Lachlan, who sold beer and whisky to be
_consumed_ and to _consume_ on the premises, where, in a room,
surrounded by some of his own tribe, who should have been at the
marriage, I discovered Bill Orr, with his own stoup before him, in all
the confidence of security, and in all the joy of his fourpence-halfpenny.
"What was your hurry, Bill, when you fell?" said I. "You haven't told me
that yet."
"Perhaps to get to this jug of ale in a cold night," replied the rogue.
"No," said I; "you wanted away from the poor old pensioner whom you
robbed of fourpence-halfpenny."
Bill was choked with the truth.
"Mrs M'Lachlan," continued I, "has Bill paid for his stoup?"
"Ay, I never trust till the ale's drunk," replied she; "for sometimes it
taks awa' the memory, and they get confused, and say they paid afore."
"A penny the stoup?"
"Ay."
"And therefore I expect there's threepence-halfpenny in your pocket,
Bill. Turn it out." But he wouldn't, and I was obliged to extract it.
"And now, Mrs M'Lachlan," said I, "though stolen money cannot be
reclaimed, when I tell you that our friend Bill here stole it from the
pocket of an old woman-pensioner, you'll not refuse to repay it."
"No, though it were a shilling," replied she, as she put down the penny.
"Now there is one I shall make happy," said I, as I put the money in my
pocket, and taking Bill by the coat I carried him off, without even
permitting him to finish his pot, the remaining contents of which would
be a halfpenny to Mrs M'Lachlan for her penny.
So pulling Bill along--I might safely have allowed him to walk between
me and my assistant, but I felt some yearning to hold him tight--I took
my "pearl of Orr's Island" to Bailie's Court, where there waited for me
my poor pensioner, as well as the crowd, who no doubt wanted to see
whether I would fulfil my promise. The moment they saw Bill in my hands
they raised three cheers, more grateful to me than the _eclat_ of having
recovered a thousand pounds. There stood the woman, and before her Bill,
the personification of lusty youth preying on shrivelled old age; but
Bill was as unmoved as a stone, and I thought of making him feel a
little, if that were possible. I knew I had no right to give up the
money, but I was inclined to make an exception, were it for nothing else
than to save the credit of the thieves' wedding.
"Now," said I, "Bill, you will give this money to the woman to whom it
belongs."
And the rogue, finding it useless to disobey, took the money and handed
it to the woman, in the midst of another shout. I never received so
many blessings from a sufferer all my life as I did from this poor
pensioner; and the feelings of the crowd, depraved as many of them no
doubt were, shewed that there was something at the bottom of the most
callous spirits that responds to justice. But I was not satisfied, for I
made him declare to his victim that he was sorry he had robbed her,--an
admission due to the fear he entertained of being torn by the angry
people. Nor was even this all, for I sent up to the wedding-party for a
dram to the sufferer, whereby I still maintained the _honour_ of the
marriage, and had the satisfaction to see the old woman's eye lighted up
as bright as that of the bride.
And having gone through all these manoeuvres, which afforded me no
little satisfaction, and perhaps more to the crowd, I again took hold of
Bill, and dragged him as roughly to the Office as was compatible with my
obligation not to punish a man before sentence.
Sometime after, Bill was tried by the High Court. He was an old
offender, and this had its weight with the judge; but it was easily to
be seen that the peculiar circumstances of the case had more than their
usual weight. The judge became quite eloquent, and no doubt he had a
good subject to handle, but a very impenetrable object to impress. Bill
was as unmoved as ever; I am not sure if he did not laugh,--another
example of what I have so often stated, that the hardihood of these
creatures is not modified by punishment, nay, even transportation. Yet
I have no doubt that if this young fellow's heart had been handled
softly when it was capable of being mollified, he might have been of
some use to his kind, if not a credit to himself. We have sometimes
reason to doubt the effect of training even among the children of
respectable people, but I suspect such a result arises from their being
otherwise spoiled. The parents let out at the one end the web woven by
the schoolmaster at the other, and thus education loses the character of
its efficacy. With the "Raggediers" in an industrial school, no such
spoiling would be permitted. The good tendency would be all in one way;
and the devil would not, through the parents, be permitted to pull in
the opposite direction. What though Bill Orr got a _year_ for every
_penny_, and one to boot for the odd halfpenny! He would be the same
Bill Orr at the end as he was that night of the thieves' wedding.
So much for another phase of the "sliding scale," exhibiting, as it
does, the facility with which the thief can _descend_ even to the zero
of criminality, as exemplified in this pitiful robbery,--the very
minimum point, I may say, in the whole scale of theftuous depravity.
The Pleasure-Party.
No kind of literature can be more detrimental to morals than that of
which we have had some melancholy examples from the London press, where
the colours that belong to romance are thrown over pictures of crime
otherwise revolting. Nor is much required for this kind of writing,--a
touch of fate calling for sympathy, or a dash of cleverness extorting
admiration, will suffice. Shave the fellow's head, and put a canvas
jacket on him, and you have your hero as he ought to be. See M'Pherson
with the fiddle out of his hands, and think of his beating the rump of a
poor widow's cow which he had stolen, and was to feed on half raw, like
a savage, as he was, and what comes of Burns' immortal song? Catch
nature painting up those things with any other colours than those of
blood and mud. And yet I have been a little weak sometimes in this way
myself, when I have found boldness joined to dexterity. One needs an
effort to get quit of rather natural feelings in contemplating some four
youths, male and female, well endowed in person and intellect, and with
so much of that extraneous elegance derived from the tailor and a
well-practised imitation of the great, set down to plan an invasion of a
foreign country, strange to them in language and manners, and with no
other weapons for spoil than their boldness and their wits. A little
attention enables us to disabuse ourselves, by pointing out that the
boldness is impudence, and the invention deceit, and we come pleasantly
back to the huckaback--the rig and furrow, and the shaved head.
In September 1856, I was in Princes Street on a general survey. It was a
fine day for the time of the year, and the street was crowded with that
mixed set of people, preponderating so much towards the grand and gay,
for which that famous promenade has of late years become remarkable.
Yes, there has been a change going on, and I have marked it:--a far more
expensive style of dressing in the middle classes--a more perfect
imitation of the gait and manners of the higher, so that I defy you to
tell a shopkeeper's son or daughter from a lord's--more of the grandees,
too, and ten foreigners for one formerly seen--the only indelible mark
remaining being that of the female "unfortunates," destined to be for
ever distinguished, and something about my old friends which they cannot
conceal from a practised eye. Between St David Street and St Andrew
Street, my attention was claimed by two ladies and a gentleman, who
appeared to me to be English. They were what we call "tops,"--that is,
you could hardly suppose it possible for one to be more obliged to the
secretion of the silk-worm, or the ingenuity of the tailor or milliner.
It was far more easy for me to mark them than to give you reasons why
they had an interest for me. What though I were to say that they
appeared a degree too curious about the dresses of the lady-promenaders,
and verified too much the common saying, which really has no reference
to pocket-fanciers, that if you look in at a window, you will presently
find people at your back?
At any rate, I thought I had some claims upon them, not that they were
"old legs," as we call the regulars, for, as I have hinted, they were
entirely new to me, but that it appeared they thought they had claims
upon others,--the natural claims, you know, that are born with us. A
new-born infant will hang at any breast, or even fix to a glass nipple,
and these people only retain their infantine nature. So I told Riley to
shew deference, and keep off before them, always within eyeshot, while I
kept up my interesting observation. I soon noticed that they were
hopeful, with all that fidgettiness which belongs to flattering
expectation. They wanted something, and would doubtless have been glad
to see an old lady or gentleman faint; but there were none in that way,
and no runaway horse would strike against a lamp-post, and throw its
rider on the pavement. Neither did those clots of people at the windows
seem worthy of their attention, yet they flitted about them, parted to
meet again, and were as active as butterflies whirling in the air, and
sucking no honey. With all this idle play, they kept up their
cheerfulness, indulging in jokes, laughter, and other high jinks, so
that I was doubtful whether they were less happy than I.
With the same fluttering levity, indulged in amidst what appeared to me
might have been considered heavy expectations, they all three went
tripping gaily up St Andrew Street, at the top of the northern division
of which they met a very little dapper dandy, not over five feet and an
inch or two. A more exquisite miniature for the cabinet of a fine lady I
had never seen before,--dressed, brushed, combed, studded, ringed, and
anointed; and so nimble, that if Gulliver had put him into his
coat-pocket, it wouldn't have been without danger to his silver
snuff-box. He seemed to be the friend of the taller belle, and, as I
afterwards learned, bore the historical name of Beaumont, while she
travelled by the name of Miss Mary Grant; the other, Evans, was devoted
to the lesser lady, Miss Mary Smith. The little man must have been more
successful than they, if I could judge from a united laugh which
followed a stealthy glimpse of something which he shewed cautiously, and
which I naturally took for a purse. They seemed to have much in
hand--one pointing one way--another, another--then a few minutes'
deliberation, not without signs of impatience, as if they thought they
were losing time. At length Beaumont, who, though small, seemed to be
the leader, pointed north, drawing out the while a watch, and they
appeared decided, all setting off along St Andrew Square. I immediately
concluded they were for Scotland Street station, for I knew the northern
train went about the time, and there is there often a conveniently
crowded platform.
My conjecture was right. The party made direct for Scotland Street, and
I signalled for Riley, who had kept his distance, without losing his
vision. We followed, keeping apart, and enjoyed as we went the frolics
of the party, who, coming from the heart of civilisation, probably
considered themselves among some savage people, who could not help
admiring--and would not be difficult to rob. As for the police of
Scotland, they need not be much considered, and they at least had not
heard of so humble an individual as I. So new to the town were they,
that one of them, taking me by surprise, came running back, and asked me
the way to the station. It was Miss Mary Grant.
"Very easy, ma'am--down to the end of the street, turn the railing on
the left, and go round till you come to Scotland Street on a line with
this."
"Thank you, sir, and much obliged."
Your _obligation_ may be increased by and by, said I to myself, as I saw
her hopping on to join the party--not the first time I've been asked the
way to the net.
Miss Mary had understood my directions very well, for they never
hesitated or stopped till they got to the top of the stair leading to
the station-house. Being so utterly unknown to our English friends,
there was no necessity for my usual caution; and accordingly, the moment
they disappeared, Riley and I went forward to the parapet overlooking
the stair and platform, and placing our elbows upon it, we put ourselves
in the position of lounging onlookers. Our point of observation was
excellent. We could see the entire platform, and everything that was
going on there. A crowd of people were there, among whom a number of
likely ladies, with pockets far better filled than those of mere
promenaders in Princes Street. A kindred feeling might suggest to our
"party of pleasure," that people can't travel now-a-days without a
considerable sum of money with them, and therefore wherever there was a
pocket there would also be money. And then the habit of purse-carrying,
which brings all the money together--the notes in the one end, and the
silver or gold in the other--is a preparation just made for thieves, a
convenience for which, with little time to spare, they cannot be too
grateful. My friends seemed to be delighted with the bustling
assemblage, but then it was to last only for a few minutes, when the
train would be down, and the platform left in solitude. So they behoved
to make hay while the sun shone, and they knew it. The first observation
I made was to the effect that they took no tickets--just as I
suspected. My second, that they began play at once, though with care,
and in that shy way preliminarily to the required boldness when the
hurry-scurry would begin with the coming of the train. It rather seemed
that they only _marked_ victims in the meantime--keeping
separate--threading the crowd with alacrity and hope, picking up
suitabilities by rapid glances.
Then came the rumble of the train down the tunnel, at the sound of which
the passengers began to move, carrying their luggage to the edge of the
platform, and all on the tiptoe of expectation. But now I fairly admit
that I never more regretted so much the want of half-a-dozen of eyes.
The nimble artistes were all at work at the same time--they were, in
short, in a hurry of pocket-picking; and though myself cool enough, I
was for an instant or two under the embarrassment of a choice to direct
my vision from one to another, or to fix upon one. Miss Mary Smith was
at the farther end--Evans busy helping a fat lady with her luggage--the
little Beaumont deep among floating silks, and invisible. My mark was
Miss Grant, who was devoted to the first-class passengers, and though
versatile in the extreme, had a main chance in her eye, a lady who
afterwards turned out to be Mrs C----n in Danube Street. From this
lady, I saw her take a purse, just as the silk gown was being pulled in
after the body. The whistle blows, away goes the train, and our friends
are left all but alone on the platform.