Chapter II: Part 2

My sister’s room and mine adjoined each other, with a door of communication between, which generally stood partly open at night, for the sake of companionship. The windows of both rooms looked into the garden, which ran in a wide strip along that side of the house, and was shut in by a wall some seven or eight feet high, beyond which were three or four meadows, and then the boundary-wall of Dorrington Park.

It was close on one o’clock—as I found out afterwards—when I woke suddenly from a sound sleep. The instant I opened my eyes the room was illumined by a vivid flash of lightning, and in all probability it was a peal of thunder that had broken my slumbers. Another flash followed after a brief interval, succeeded again by the deafening accompaniment. My sleep was effectually broken. I arose, flung a shawl over my shoulders, and crossing to the window, drew back the blind and peered out. As long ago as I can remember, lightning has always had a singular fascination for me. As a child, I loved to gaze upon its vivid splendours, and in this respect at least years have left me unchanged. A board creaked as I crossed the floor.

‘Is that you, Barbara?’ asked my sister from the other room.

‘Yes, dear. I am going to look out for a few minutes. Is not the lightning beautiful?’

‘Very beautiful; only I wish it were anywhere rather than here,’ answered Bessie, who at such times was just as nervous as I was the reverse.

The flashes followed each other at intervals of about a minute. I had witnessed three or four when suddenly I gave a start, and an exclamation broke involuntarily from my lips. The last flash had revealed to me the figures of two men in the act of climbing over the garden-wall. One of the men was a stranger to me; but in the other, instantaneous as was the revelation, I recognised the somewhat peculiar face and figure of a man named Dethel, whom my brother had employed temporarily during the last week or two in the garden, our regular man being laid up at the time with rheumatism. There was something in the looks of the man in question which had set me against him from the first; but if we were all to be judged by our looks alone, what would become of us! For aught I knew to the contrary, Dethel might be an honest, hard-working fellow, with a wife and children dependent on him; but for all that, on the days he was working for us I carefully refrained from going into the garden.

And now, here was this man, and another with him, effecting a surreptitious entry of the premises at one o’clock in the morning! Such a proceeding could have but one end in view. Two questions at once put themselves to me. Firstly, were these men aware that my brother was from home for the night, and that only three helpless women and a girl were left in the house? Secondly, had they by some means become cognisant of the fact that a few hours previously Mr Shillito had paid my brother a considerable sum of money, which must necessarily still be somewhere on the premises? In my mind there was little doubt that both these facts were fully known to the men. My brother’s movements were as open as the day, and Dethel had doubtless ascertained from Reuben the groom that his master would be from home on this particular night; while as for Mr Shillito, everybody knew how he talked in his loud-voiced way about his most private affairs when he had taken more to drink than was good for him. At the bar of more than one tavern that evening, every one who might chance to be within hearing would not fail to be informed that Mr Shillito had just paid John Waldron his half-year’s rent.

These thoughts flashed through my mind almost as quickly as that flash which revealed so much. Breathlessly I waited for the next flash. It came, shattering the darkness for an instant, and then it, too, was swallowed up. The men were no longer visible. Between the two flashes they had had time to drop on the inner side of the wall, where the thick clumps of evergreens which clothed that part of the grounds would effectually screen them from view. At that very moment they were doubtless making their way stealthily towards the house. What was to be done? Never had I realised so fully as at that moment how helpless a creature a woman is. Drawing my shawl more closely round me and putting on a pair of list slippers which I wore about the house in cold weather, I crept noiselessly out of the room. At the top of the stairs I halted and listened; but all was silence the most profound. The corridor out of which the bedroom opened was lighted at the opposite end by a high narrow window which looked into the garden. To this window I now made my way, and there, with one ear pressed to the cold glass, I stood and listened. Presently I heard the faint sound of footsteps, and then the subdued voices of two people talking to each other. Directly under the place where I was standing was the back drawing-room, which opened on the garden by means of a French-window; and although this window was secured at night by shutters, I had an idea that the security in question was more fancied than real, and was of a kind that would be laughed to scorn by any burglar who was acquainted with his business. If the men had made up their minds to break into the house—and with what other object could they be there?—the probability was that they would make the attempt by way of the French-window. Even while this thought was passing through my mind, the voices of the men sank to a whisper, and a low peculiar grating sound made itself heard. Evidently they had already begun to force the fastenings of the window. I crept back to my room, feeling utterly dazed and helpless.

‘Is that you, Barbara? Where have you been?’ asked my sister.

Going into her room, I sat down on the side of the bed and told her everything in as few words as possible. She was of a somewhat timid and nervous disposition, and my news visibly affected her. She sat up in bed, trembling and clinging to my arm.

‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘if we lock our bedroom doors and keep very quiet, they will go away without coming near us.’

‘Why, you goose, it’s not us they have come after, but Mr Shillito’s ninety pounds,’ I answered.

‘And there’s poor mamma’s silver tea-service down-stairs; I hope they won’t find that,’ said Bessie.

I hoped so too; but there was no judging how much Dethel had contrived to ascertain respecting us and our affairs. I went to the corridor window again and listened. The noise made by the men was now plainly distinguishable. It seemed as if they were trying to file or cut their way through some obstruction. After listening for a few moments, I went back to my room and began almost mechanically to put on a few articles of clothing, asking myself again and again as I did so whether it was not possible to do something—though what that something ought to be I knew no more than the man in the moon. The nearest house was a quarter of a mile away; and even if I could have stolen out unnoticed by way of the front-door, before I could have reached the farm and brought back help, the burglars would have effected their purpose and decamped. Our pecuniary means at that time were very straitened. For some time back John had been paying off some old family debts; and the loss of the ninety pounds—which, as a matter of course, he would feel bound to make good—would be a great blow to him. If I could only have got at the money, and have hidden it where the burglars would not be likely to find it, I felt that I should have accomplished something. But the bag was locked up in John’s strong mahogany desk, and was as utterly beyond my reach as if it had been in the coffers of the Bank of England, while yet it could hardly have been placed more conveniently ready to the hands of the thieves. To them the strong mahogany desk would seem a trifling obstacle indeed.

All this time, metaphorically speaking, I was wringing my hands, knowing full well how precious were the fast-fleeting moments, but only feeling my helplessness the more, the more I strove to discern some loophole of escape. Oh, the wretchedness of such a feeling! I hope never to experience it again in the same degree as I experienced it that night.

The lightning, if not quite so vivid as it had been a little while previously, still came in as frequent flashes, and by its light my sister and I made a hurried toilet. Our house stood a little way back from the high-road, from which it was divided by a tiny lawn and a low screen of evergreens. Once or twice in the course of the night one of the mounted constabulary would ride slowly past as he went his rounds; but I was without any knowledge as to the particular time when he might be expected, or whether, in fact, the time at which he might be looked for at any specified point did not vary from night to night. Still, there was just a possibility that he might put in an appearance at any moment; so I stationed Bessie at the window to keep a lookout for him, and be in readiness to raise an alarm the moment she heard the tramp of his horse’s hoofs. For once in a way the lightning was something to be thankful for; each flash lighted up the high-road for a considerable distance on both sides of the house.

When this was done, it seemed as if everything possible had been done; and yet it was next to nothing. With both hands pressed to my eyes, I stood thinking as I seemed never to have thought before. Then it was that—as sudden, swift, and startling as one of those flashes which were momently illumining the outer world—an idea shot through my brain, which for an instant or two seemed to cause my heart to stand still. And yet at the first blush it was an idea that had about it something so preposterous, so ludicrous, even, that had the need been at all less imminent, I should have discarded it at once as little better than the inspiration of a mad woman. But preposterous as the idea might seem, for the life of me I could think of no other, and every minute now was invaluable. There was no time for hesitation. I must discard it or adopt it, and that without a moment’s delay. ‘I will try it; it can but fail,’ I said to myself with an inward groan.

On the toilet-table was a jar of white tooth-powder, which had been replenished the previous day. I shook out a quantity of this powder, shut my eyes, and proceeded to rub it thickly over my face, arms, and hands. That done, I drew the white coverlet off the bed, and draped myself with it loosely from head to foot; then I unbound my hair, which in those days was ebon black and reached below my waist, and shook it round my face and over my shoulders in ‘most admired disorder.’ I was now ready for the rôle I had made up my mind to enact.

Bessie has told me since that she thought I had taken leave of my senses. Just at the moment my toilet was completed, and as I turned and advanced towards her, another long, quivering flash lighted up the room. A low shriek burst involuntarily from my sister’s lips, and she shrank away from me as though I were something altogether uncanny.

‘O Barbara, dear, what is the matter?’ she cried. ‘Why do you frighten me so?’

‘It is not you I want to frighten, but the men down-stairs,’ I replied. Then, in a few hurried words, I told her my plan.

She would have tried to dissuade me; but there was no time to listen. Leaving her there watching by the window, ready to raise an alarm in case the mounted constable should pass on his round, I stole swiftly and noiselessly down the carpeted staircase, and only paused when I reached the corridor below. I could hear a subdued murmur of voices, and a moment later I was startled by a noise of falling glass. The burglars had succeeded in effecting an entrance. They and I were separated only by the drawing-room door, which, although locked, was an obstacle that very few minutes would suffice to overcome. With an indrawing of my breath I sped quickly past the door along the length of the corridor until I reached the opposite end, where there were two more doors, one of them being that of my brother’s office, which also was locked, and from the lock of which I now withdrew the key. I have omitted to state that the window of John’s office was secured by two stout bars, which was probably one reason why the thieves had chosen to effect an entrance at a point more readily adapted for their purpose. The second door at the end of the corridor shut off a short passage leading to the kitchen. This door I succeeded in opening without noise. I had decided to take my stand a little way on the inner side of it, and there await the course of events. By this time the men were busily at work forcing the lock of the drawing-room door. A thin thread of light which shone from under showed that although the lightning was still as frequent as before, they did not find it sufficient for their purpose.

Scarcely breathing, I waited. I was too excited, too wrought up, the tension of my nerves was too extreme, to allow of any personal fear. It was all terribly real, yet with a strange, vague sense of unreality underlying it. I felt as if I should not have been surprised had I woke up and found the whole affair resolve itself into a dream; while yet fully assured in my mind that it was nothing of the kind. Suddenly the noise at the door ceased; the lock had been forced. The thread of light disappeared; for a few moments all was silence the most profound. Then a faint creaking, which at any other time would have been inaudible, told me that the drawing-room door was being opened and that the crucial moment had come. I pressed one hand over my heart, and for a few brief seconds an almost overpowering longing seized me to get back to my room at any cost and lock myself within. But it was too late; by this time the men were in the corridor. I knew it, although I could not see them.

‘Where’s the door we want?’ I heard one whisper to the other.

‘On the right—the first door we come to.’

As they advanced a step, I did the same.

‘What noise was that?’ asked one of them quickly.

‘Don’t be a fool. There was no noise.’

‘I tell you there was.—Where’s the glim?’

But the lightning was quicker than the bull’s-eye. It came, smiting the darkness, and flooding the corridor with the blinding intensity of its glare. Then I saw the men, and the men saw me, but darkness had hidden us from each other again before they had time to make sure that their eyes had not deceived them.

One of them gave a gasp and whispered to his mate: ‘What was that tall, white thing at the end of the passage? Seemed to me like a ghost.’

‘Ghost be dashed! There ain’t no such things.—Here’s the glim. We’ll soon see what it is.’ As he spoke, the light of his bull’s-eye lantern was turned full upon me.

I advanced a couple of paces, and the men fell back in speechless surprise and terror. I have often tried since to picture to myself the appearance I must have presented when seen at such a moment and by that uncertain light, with my ghastly, death-like face, my dilated eyes, my black, snake-like locks, my tall figure all in white, and with one extended arm and finger pointed direct at the men. I cannot wonder at their fright.

At this juncture came another flash, and a terrible peal of thunder startled the air and shook the house. At the very instant, impelled thereto by something within me that I was powerless to control, I burst into a wild peal of maniacal, blood-curdling laughter. One step nearer I advanced; but that was enough. With a loud yell of terror, the men turned and fled by the way they had come. I heard a crash of shattered glass; and after that, I remember nothing more till I came to my senses, to find Bessie supporting my head on her lap and pressing her smelling-salts to my nose.

But John’s ninety pounds were saved, and it is hardly necessary to add that Dethel the ex-gardener was never seen in those parts again.

SPIDER-SILK.

It may not be inopportune to recall to the minds of our readers a somewhat neglected silk-source, which may perhaps at some future period form a profitable commercial undertaking. It is unnecessary to expatiate upon the beauty of the gossamer spun by the _Aranea diadema_, or common Garden spider, as the fairy-like tracery must be familiar to every one who has wandered through the woods in autumn, when the gauzy films festooned between and over the bushes were rendered prominent through saturation with dew or a sprinkling of hoar-frost. The thread produced by this little creature is estimated to be many times finer than the most attenuated filament of the well-known silkworm of Europe, the _Bombyx mori_; consequently, as may be imagined, the difficulty of obtaining such silk is so great that, except for land-surveying purposes, the web of spiders as a class has not been permanently utilised. For the latter object, the plan adopted by our surveying instrument makers[1] in order to secure small supplies of spider’s line, is remarkably simple, and affords an illustration of how closely instinct in the lower creation sometimes approaches reasoning intelligence in the higher. Having caught the selected spider, it is immediately tossed backwards and forwards from hand to hand of the operator, until the impulse of self-preservation induces the emission of its thread. Meanwhile, a wire, bent double like a hairpin—the distance between the prongs being slightly greater than the diameter of the telescope to be fitted—is at hand to receive the silk. As soon as the filament appears, the end is attached to the wire and the spider dropped, when it immediately emits its thread with great rapidity, in the hope of reaching the ground and escaping. This is frustrated by a dexterous revolution of the extemporised reel, which winds up the line as fast as it is produced, until the spider’s store of silk is exhausted. It is then allowed its liberty; and a touch of gum on each prong secures the silk in convenient lengths for future use.

Rather more than fifty years ago, it seemed as if a new and important trade was about to be inaugurated by the rearing of spiders for their silk, which the Society of Arts marked with their approval by awarding a medal to a Mr Rolt for his success in obtaining an appreciable quantity from the Garden spider. This gentleman accomplished his purpose by connecting a reel with a steam-engine, setting it revolving at the rate of one hundred and fifty feet per minute; when, after two hours’ patience, he wound off eighteen thousand feet of beautiful white line of a metallic lustre from twenty-four spiders. Subsequent examination proved this thread to be only the thirty-thousandth part of an inch in diameter, so that a single pound-weight was estimated to be sufficient to encircle the globe. Although this gentleman appears not to have pushed his interesting experiments much further, a Frenchman of Languedoc afterwards established a factory for producing and weaving spider-silk into articles of utility. He manufactured gloves and stockings which were much admired; but the difficulty of rearing a sufficiently numerous family of spinners within a reasonable space, on account of their extreme pugnacity, soon interfered with this budding industry, and led to its abandonment. No difficulty was experienced by M. Reaumur in collecting some five thousand spiders and immuring them in fifty separate cells; but unfortunately, on one occasion there occurred a scarcity of flies; a food-panic ensued, and the hungry and infuriated prisoners, escaping during the night, fell upon one another with such deadly ferocity, that when the anxious proprietor paid his usual morning visit, only a few gorged and bloated specimens survived. It seemed, indeed, so vain to expect European spiders to exist peacefully within sight and reach of each other without their usual employment conducted after their own fashion, that the hope of rendering them useful for commercial purposes gradually died away, and has for many years been almost wholly relinquished.

Certain species of foreign spiders, however, when examined with a view to their silk, offer a field of very considerable encouragement. In the island of Ceylon there is one described by Sir Samuel Baker as being two inches long, with a large yellow spot upon its back, which spins a beautiful yellow web two and a half feet in diameter, so strong that an ordinary walking-stick thrown in is entangled, and retained among the meshes. As might be expected, the filament, which is said to exhibit a more silky appearance than common spider’s web, is easily wound by hand on a card, without any special care being exercised in the operation. A spider of even more formidable dimensions is alluded to in the fascinating work, _The Gardens of the Sun_, by Mr F. W. Burbidge. It is a large, black, yellow-spotted creature, measuring six or eight inches across its extended legs, and it spins a web strained on lines as stout as fine sewing-cotton.

The prince of the species, however, seems to be the _Aranea maculata_ 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.

The old gate is now turned into a tavern, called _Old Jerusalem Tavern_, and inside may still be seen some interesting relics of the former days of the gate, when it was the chief entrance to the priory of one of the most powerful religious bodies in Europe. Who can look upon such a relic without being reminded of the great spirit of chivalry, that strange compound of barbarity and courtesy; of the crusades, and the great changes which have taken place since the time of the prosperous days of the old priory? and we cannot but feel thankful that we live in a happier, less troubled, and more enlightened age; and as we gaze upon the grim old gate, think of the words of Shakspeare: ‘To what base uses may we return.’

’TWIXT DAYBREAK AND DAYLIGHT.

The glint and glimmer of the daybreak shows
In the fast-reddening east; the sable clouds
With roseate streaks and golden threads are lined;
And the first early cock, awakening, rings
His shrill clear challenge on the breaking morn!

A voiceless stir of many murmurings,
From woodland, hill, and dale, and meadow, tells
The flight of slumber: now the cricket chirps
Amid the barley, and the skylark plumes
His wing for early rising; passes by
The milkmaid to the pasture; and the farm
Grows noisy with the many-varied sounds
Of rustic labour, telling that hath fled
The drowsy sweet forgetfulness of night!

Shadows of dreamland pass from earth away
Into the mystic world of things unseen;
The stern necessities of daily life
Again their round commence, as, one by one,
Toilers awaken to the coming day!

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._