of Brazil, vouched for by Dr Walsh as having been seen and examined by
him during his travels in that country. In this huge, ungainly, yet
harmless and domesticated creature, we evidently possess a treasure
of a silk-spinner, with which the non-nervous and practical among our
colonial ladies, situated in moderately warm localities like Northern
New Zealand, Queensland, and the Cape of Good Hope, might spend many
a profitable hour when they became mutually acquainted. It is not
only free from the vices of the European spider in not devouring its
kind, but it actually exists in little harmonious communities of
over one hundred individuals of different ages and sizes occupying
the same web. Like the last-mentioned spider, this one is of similar
colossal dimensions, and it spins a beautiful yellow network ten or
twelve feet in diameter quite as strong as the silk of commerce.
Regarding the toughness of this filament, the doctor says: ‘In passing
through an opening between some trees, I felt my head entangled in
some obstruction, and on withdrawing it, my light straw-hat remained
behind. When I looked up, I saw it suspended in the air, entangled in
the meshes of an immense cobweb, which was drawn like a veil of thick
gauze across the opening, and was expanded from branch to branch of the
opposite trees as large as a sheet, ten or twelve feet in diameter.’
Another traveller, Lieutenant Herndon of the United States navy,
confirms Dr Walsh’s account of this enormous spider, with the addition
that he saw a single web which nearly covered a lemon tree; and he
estimated its diameter at ten yards!
Probably the latest addition to our knowledge of spider-silk has
recently come from the Paris ‘Ecole pratique d’Acclimation,’ a member
of which has discovered an African species which spins a strong
yellow web, so like the product of the silkworm as to be scarcely
distinguishable from it. So promising a material as a fibre of commerce
does this seem to be, that, after close investigation, a syndicate of
Lyons silk-merchants has reported in its favour; the more so as there
is said to be no difficulty in acclimatising the spider in France.
In those gigantic spiders there is evidently the nucleus of an
important industry of the future, which colonists might perhaps easily
ingraft upon their ordinary sericultural or other occupations. If
the period has scarcely yet arrived for the profitable utilisation
of ordinary spider’s web, surely something might be evolved from the
less attenuated filaments just alluded to, which are strong enough to
whisk a man’s hat from his head and retain his walking-stick dangling
in the air. There are countless difficulties to be surmounted, such
as the feeling of repulsion, or even disgust, at being brought into
proximity with monstrous spiders like Dr Walsh’s pets; but as this
species, unlike the _Lycosa tarantula_ and other poisonous and dreaded
kinds, is harmless to human beings, and as their silk would evidently
become a valuable addition to the resources of the loom as well as the
boudoir, any such feelings and other obstacles would probably soon be
overcome. The French—always in the van in such matters, notwithstanding
their comparatively limited colonial opportunities—are not likely to
allow this curious and interesting occupation to go begging for want of
experiment and patience. But Britain—with her numerous dependencies and
myriads of active, scheming, inventive brains scattered all over the
globe—occupies a peculiarly favourable position to test and localise
such an industry.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In theodolites and other similar instruments for taking
observations, lines of spider-silk cross the centre of the glass at
right angles for certain purposes of observation.
THIEVES AND THIEVING.
The days when Border moss-troopers made a raid on the well-stocked
farmyards of Northumberland, or when Highland caterans swooped down
from Rob Roy’s country to levy ‘blackmail’ or ‘toom a fauld’ in the
Lennox or in the Carse of Stirling, and departed, leaving burning byres
or weeping widows behind, are for ever gone. Gone, too, are those later
days when bold highwaymen of the Dick Turpin type—all well mounted
and equipped, if we are to credit the legends that have come down
to us—stopped the mailcoach or the travelling postchaise, and made
the terrified passengers hand over their valuables. The traveller of
to-day, whether cyclist or pedestrian, may roam from John o’ Groat’s
to Land’s End without interruption from highwayman or footpad. The
thieving profession has changed its character; and as now unfolded in
courts of justice, it appears vulgar, prosaic, and mean. Indeed, we are
doubtful if it was not always so. The pen of the novelist has thrown
a glamour of romance around that as well as other features of former
times, which we love to read about, but should not care to experience.
But while this is so, the study of thieves as a class is far from being
uninteresting. It has been our lot to see much of them and to learn
more, from sources whose reliability is unquestionable.
There are many grades of intellect and ability among these
Ishmaelites—from the low type of thief that lies in wait in our
large towns for children going messages, and, beguiling them into a
dark close, strips them of clothing and money—to the well-dressed,
well-bred man of the world, who floats a swindling Company, has his
office in a good locality, moves for a time in the best circles, and
then decamps, carrying with him the capital of the elderly annuitant,
or the hard-earned savings of the struggling tradesman. To her shame
be it said, the child-stripper is generally a woman. Far more to his
shame, the high-class swindler is generally a well-educated man, who
occupies a good position in society, and has often only his own folly
to blame for his having fallen to be a needy adventurer. They differ in
degree, but not in kind; and though the law may call their offences by
different names, the essence of the crime is the same in both cases.
It is sad to see mere children, charged with daring acts of
pocket-picking or purse-snatching, brought before a court; but
such is often their only chance of salvation from a life of crime.
Smutty-faced, ragged little urchins many of them are, dressed in
clothes and shoes a world too big for them; and yet, when the dirt is
washed from their faces, there is the glance of keen intelligence,
and often comely features, underneath. Brought up in the murky closes
that yet occupy the older parts of most of our cities, surrounded by
influences such as may be inhaled from drunken, swearing men, and
tawdry, coarse, and unkempt women, how could they grow up other than
they do? Perchance they are reared in low lodging-houses, where a
clever theft or an artful dodge is extolled as worthy of the highest
admiration, or where some old hand is assiduous in giving them training
lessons in crime. Industrial and Reformatory Schools are worthy of
all support, checking as they do the career of these young prodigals
while yet there is some hope. Apart altogether from considerations
of a higher nature, it is surely to the interest of the public that
children should be trained into useful wealth-producing members of
the community, instead of growing up to prey upon society when out of
prison, and burden the ratepayers when in.
A large number of thieves are merely skirmishers or auxiliaries, as
it were, on the flanks of the regular army. These auxiliaries do
not live wholly by crime, but have some ostensible occupation which
they follow. At the same time, they never lose a good opportunity of
stealing. In all large towns, the cinder-gatherer may be seen. Late
at night and early in the morning she goes through the streets and
lanes, probing with a long knife the depths and shallows of every
dust-heap, and rescuing therefrom every scrap that will sell. Papers,
rags, bones, cinders, and old boots are transferred with marvellous
celerity into the depths of the capacious bag which she carries.
Should a stray door-mat be lying handy, or an unsecured back-door
give access to a green where clothes lie bleaching, her ideas of
_meum_ and _tuum_ become straightway rather hazy, and the chances
are that a theft is reported next morning. A large number of thefts
of umbrellas and greatcoats from lobbies are the work of pedlars,
beggars, or old-clothesmen, who loaf around and watch their chance. A
smart ‘professional’ of our acquaintance, who is at present in penal
servitude, was an adept at stealing greatcoats. He had a piece of wire
with a sort of hook on one end, with which he could snatch them from
lobby-pegs without making his own appearance. Each ‘professional’
has his own particular style of thieving in which he has graduated.
These soon become known to the detectives, who, on learning the _modus
operandi_ of a theft, are often able to pounce on the person wanted,
even when no description can be supplied.
One class of theft was very prevalent in Glasgow and neighbourhood
some time ago. A man dressed like a tradesman called at a number of
houses where the owners happened to be absent. (Of course the operator
satisfied himself on that point first.) He represented that he had been
sent by some well-known firm of upholsterers to measure a room for a
new carpet, or by a joiner to repair the windows. In various instances,
he got into houses, and generally found an opportunity to steal.
Another thief well known in Dundee does the ‘pigeon’ trick. His method
is to look out for an open window, ring the bell, and say that a pigeon
has just flown away from him on the street and fluttered in at the
window. Would they kindly search for it, or permit him to do so? Once
in, ten to one but the clever thief manages to commit a theft before he
goes out lamenting the loss of his bird, which, of course, cannot be
found.
A decrepit youth used to go about the city in which the writer lives.
This lad’s legs were useless, so he had flat boards fastened with
straps below his knees, and, assisted by short crutches, he crept along
the pavement. He was a dexterous thief. If a lady stopped to look in
at a shop-window, he could just reach her handbag or pocket; and if
she was unwary, she was minus her purse in a few seconds, while the
insignificant appearance of the thief disarmed suspicion.
Thieves sometimes quarrel in their cups, and if a detective happens
to meet them before the heat of anger has passed off, spitefulness
often induces them to give him valuable information. Criminals are
almost always prodigal in spending their ill-gotten gains, and the
old proverb, ‘Lightly come, lightly go,’ seems specially applicable
to them. If in funds, they share freely with their needy brethren,
probably with an eye to receiving similar help when out at the knees
and elbows themselves.
Stolen property is often stowed away in very curious hiding-places. A
lame man was convicted at Leeds assizes last year of passing base coin.
When apprehended, it was found he had a receptacle in his wooden leg,
in which a considerable stock of the bad money was cunningly secreted.
We have sometimes seen a considerable pile of coins unearthed from the
voluminous folds of a ragged coat, trousers, or vest. Banknotes, for
obvious reasons, are capable of being stowed away in little space; and
thieves often hide them in the cracked joints of a dilapidated old
table, chair, or bed. Underneath a picture, or between the portrait
and the back, appears to be a favourite place of concealment. Articles
are often ‘planked’ in the chimney behind the grate; and a watch has
even been tossed into a glowing coal-fire, when pursuit was close,
although in at least one instance the latter device was unavailing.
Two detectives were once searching the house of a well-known thief
for some stolen jewellery. The scent was keen, and the examination
searching. High and low they rummaged, but without success. From the
air of the thief, the officers were satisfied the stolen property was
concealed in or about the room. One of them observed that the interest
of the ‘suspect’ got always most intense as they approached the window.
Taking this as his cue, the officer narrowly examined the shutters, and
even tore off the straps that kept in the window-sashes; but without
result. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and lifting the lower sash, he
scanned the outside of the wall closely. About three or four feet below
the window-sill he saw a stone in the wall that appeared to be loose.
Calling his comrade to hold him by the legs, he reached down, pulled
out a small square stone, thrust in his hand, and found a nice little
‘hide,’ containing not only the articles he was in search of, but also
other stolen property sufficient to connect the thief with several
‘jobs,’ and to procure him a long term of quiet contemplation.
A smart female thief once very nearly outwitted an officer by wrapping
a crumpled and dirty five-pound note round a candle, and stuffing
it into a candlestick, which she then obligingly handed to him. He
searched a considerable time before discovering that he had the object
of his search in his hand. Another detective, after in vain searching a
house for some trussed poultry that had been stolen, cast one parting
glance around, when his eye chanced to alight on a cradle in which a
woman was vainly trying to hush a squalling baby. A thought struck him.
He asked her to lift the child. The woman made some excuse, but the
officer insisted, and was immediately rewarded by finding a couple of
the stolen fowls.
A slight clue, sometimes discovered by the merest accident, often helps
to unravel not only one, but a whole series of thefts. A peculiar
button, a footmark, or a portion of dress, will spring a mine under
the feet of a rascal who thought he was off scot-free. Of late years,
thefts of money by young clerks or salesmen from their employers
have become increasingly common. There are several causes for this.
Beyond doubt the tastes and habits of the young men of to-day are
more expensive than those of their fathers. With small means, or no
means at all, they dress up as ‘mashers,’ and smoke choice cigars,
attend theatres, concerts, balls, and race-meetings. If often indulged
in, these are rather expensive luxuries; and as the supply of youths
anxious for genteel employment is always in excess of the demand,
the salaries given are in many cases low. Then firms are sometimes
very lax in the oversight of young men who have large sums of money
daily passing through their hands. It seems so easy to take the loan
of a small sum, which, of course, is to be put back again. After the
first false step, the descent is rapid; and many a young man fills a
felon’s cell, or has to fly the country, under circumstances due to his
master’s carelessness as well as his own folly.
The plea of kleptomania is now put forward in defence of thieves
much oftener than it used to be. Of course there are some cases in
which kleptomania is indisputable, as, for instance, when we hear
of a nobleman having to be watched by his valet to prevent him from
pocketing his own silver spoons. We know a respectable bookseller
who had for a considerable time, at intervals, been missing books
from his shop. He was satisfied some of his customers were helping
themselves, but he could not say which. At last his suspicions rested
on a reverend gentleman of great abilities, but rather eccentric
character. He watched him narrowly, and one day caught him in the act
of surreptitiously carrying off a volume. The divine tried to explain
it away; but the bookseller, after listening gravely, called a cab, and
insisted on accompanying him home and examining his library. He hinted
that otherwise he would be under the painful necessity of calling in
the police. The clergyman made no further objection. They went to his
house; and the bookseller brought back a number of valuable books, some
of which he had not before missed, and said no more about the matter.
The thief was a wealthy man, and had a large library; but he was a
bibliomaniac.
Some thefts, however, are of a different character, and in these the
plea of kleptomania, like that of insanity in cases of murder, is
sometimes pushed rather far. Without attempting to argue the matter on
scientific principles, it seems rather strange that kleptomania appears
only to affect those who are rich enough to pay an able advocate, and
that the morbid desire to steal something—instead of moving them to
carry it off openly—appears to be accompanied by an equally morbid
desire to secrete the article stolen.
We shall conclude this paper by one or two instances which show that
thieving has also its comic side.
A fire was raging fiercely in a grocery store, and the owner,
accompanied by an active staff of assistants, was trying to rescue some
of the goods by removing them to one side. Immense cheeses and hams
were lying about in tempting profusion. A keen-eyed thief had just
secured a large Gouda, and was marching off with it, when he found
himself face to face with a policeman. The rogue grasped the situation
instantly. ‘Here, policeman!’ cried he, planting the cheese in X’s arms
before that officer knew what he was about; ‘you had better take charge
of that, or somebody’ll be carrying it off;’ and in an instant the
nimble rascal disappeared in the crowd.
One morning, a merchant who had come by rail from his country residence
was hurrying along the street to his counting-house in a pouring rain.
He had forgotten his umbrella; but spying, as he thought, a friend with
a large one a little before him, he hastened up, and seizing the handle
of the umbrella, jocularly observed: ‘Hillo! is this mine you’ve got?’
He had just had time to observe that the man was a complete stranger to
him, and was about to apologise in some embarrassment, when the unknown
saved him the trouble, by saying coolly: ‘Oh, it’s yours, is it?
Pardon me; I did not know.’ And he hurried off, leaving the astonished
merchant in full possession.
About two years ago, a constable in a business part of London found
a horse and van, about midnight, standing at the door of a grocer’s
shop. He approached, and saw several men in aprons, apparently carrying
chests of tea into the shop. Remarking that they were late at work,
one of the men replied: ‘O yes; we’re preparing for Christmas;’ and
the constable, thinking all was right, walked on. Next morning it was
found the shop had been entered by thieves, who had carried off what
they evidently took to be twenty-two half-chests of tea, most of which
had been standing in the shop-window. The rogues had gone leisurely
to work, and being caught by the constable, had employed themselves
in carrying _in_ some of the boxes, till he should pass. The reader
may judge the surprise and disgust of the thieves, when they found
that only one of the chests contained tea, and a second tea-dust, the
remaining twenty boxes being merely ‘dummies’ filled with sawdust, with
a sprinkling of tea on the top!
Nothing tends more to root out and lessen the number of nests of
thieves than the exercise of the power vested in corporations to pull
down old houses, which, densely populated with the poorer classes,
become at last the abodes of filth, disease, and crime. The former
inmates cannot stand the new sanitary and social atmosphere introduced
by wider streets and purer air. They gradually betake themselves to
other and more honest modes of employment, or seek for ‘fresh woods and
pastures new.’ On the other hand, the exercise of a little prudence and
common-sense by the general public would prevent an opportunity being
given for the commission of a large number of petty but often very
annoying thefts.
ST JOHN’S GATE.
A short distance from the very heart of London, stands—for it has not
yet been swept away by the builder’s hand—one of the finest remaining
relics of the ancient city. It is a heavy fortified gate, built of
large blocks of freestone, and flanked by bastions. It has a fine
groined Norman arch; and though it is now old and decayed, it is still
strong, and shows us what its strength and stability have been in days
gone by. It was built by, and belonged to, at one time, that famous
order of chivalry, ‘The Knights Hospitallers,’ or ‘Knights of St John
of Jerusalem,’ the great rivals of the Templars, and who did such
good service in the Holy Land in the time of the crusades; and when
Palestine was hopelessly lost, kept up their incessant war against the
Infidel in Rhodes, and when driven from that island by the Turks—in
Malta.
This order had at one time many religious houses scattered over Europe;
and their London priory, that of St John of Clerkenwell, has quite
a history of its own to tell. It was founded in the year 1100 by a
devout baron named Jordan Briset, this being the time that the first
crusade, led by Godfrey of Bouillon, was going on. For a considerable
time after this, we know little of the priory, save that the knights
were growing in riches and arrogance, and thus were making themselves
obnoxious to the people, although some of the old chroniclers tell us
that ‘they tended the sick and the needy.’ In fact, they got to be so
disliked by the common people, that in the riots which took place in
the reign of Richard II.—in which Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, and John Ball
took so prominent a part, the last-named being a clergyman, who, in his
harangues to the multitude, took for his text the rhyme,
When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then a gentleman?
and made the people think that all the property of the rich was really
theirs—the rebels made the Priory of St John a special mark of their
fury, and after destroying houses and much property belonging to the
knights, they attacked the place itself and burnt it to the ground; and
capturing the prior soon after, they executed him upon the spot.
For many years after, the knights were engaged in building a new
priory; but the work went slowly on, owing to the troubled state of the
order at what was then their great stronghold, Rhodes, and the large
numbers of men and sums of money required there to assist in keeping
back the conquering Turks, who were fighting with great zeal under the
victorious Sultan Solyman. Gradually, a fine church, whose bell is
related to have had an exceedingly fine tone, was added to the priory;
and soon after the church was finished, Thomas Dockwra, who was then
prior, built the gate; this being in or about the year 1504, in the
latter part of the reign of Henry VII., the first of the famous dynasty
of Tudor sovereigns.
About the year 1540, Henry VIII. suppressed all the larger monasteries
and private religious houses in England, and the venerable priory
fell with the others. This was a severe blow to the prosperity of the
order, and is said to have broken the heart of the valiant old L’isle
Adam, the grandmaster, who held Rhodes till he could hold it no longer,
and then, obtaining honourable terms from the Sultan Solyman, removed
to the island of Malta, where the knights continued to be a powerful
enemy to the Turks until 1798, when, ‘through the treachery of the
Maltese, and the cowardice of D’Hompesch the grandmaster, the island
was surrendered to the French;’ and soon after this, most of the
property still belonging to the order in many parts of Europe was
confiscated by the various governments. Since then, the order, which
had been gradually degenerating, has not had any political importance.
The priory, however, was not destroyed, like most of its kindred
buildings, at the Reformation, for even the bluff, matter-of-fact
King Henry had some respect for the venerable old building; and so,
instead of destroying it, we are told that he used it for a military
storehouse. In Edward VI.’s reign, however, a more ruthless and
sweeping hand came to deal with it. The proud and ambitious Seymour,
Duke of Somerset, at that time Lord Protector, had no kindly feeling
for such places; and the church and all the rest of the priory, with
the exception of the gate, were blown up with gunpowder. The large
blocks of stone were used to build Somerset’s palace in the Strand in
1549. It remained till the year 1776, when it gave place to the present
one, a building erected after the Palladian style, from the designs of
Sir William Chambers.
We hear nothing more of the gate till the reign of James I., when
that monarch bestowed the building on Sir Roger Wilbraham, who lived
there for many years. Long after this, Cave the printer rented the old
gate for a small sum, and here was first printed and published the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_. This was one of the first places to which Dr
Johnson, then poor, and almost unknown, came, when he settled in the
great city. Here he made his first literary efforts by helping Cave
in his publication. Here also Garrick the actor first played, some of
Cave’s interested workmen taking the other parts of the pieces.