Viewing crime even in its diminished extent, there is another consideration which has often opened my eyes pretty wide. We are always a-being told that the human heart has really some good soil in it—(I don’t go with those who think that people inherit evil as they do sometimes six toes)—and that, though the devil has always a large granary of tares, we have an abundance of good seed from Jerusalem. I would just ask what use we have been making of that good seed? Have we not been keeping it in the bushel just as we keep the light under the bushel? In my beat I see a routh of the tares; then I get a sickle put into my hands, and I cut away just as the gardeners do when they prune in order to make the old branches shoot out with more vigour, and, behold, the twisted saplings, how stiff and rigid they become!
But I suspect I am here getting out of my beat. I set out with stating that I had got thrown in my teeth cases where, by the ingenuity of thieves, we have been defeated. They are not cases of mine, any how. I may take one or two that relate to one of the most successful artists of the tender sex that ever appeared in Edinburgh, viz., the well-known Jean Brash. I knew her very well, but, strange as it may appear, her ladyship always contrived to keep out of my hands; not that she came always scaithless out of the hands of others, any more than that her victims came without damage out of hers, but that she usually, by her adroitness, achieved a miserable success, sufficient to form the foundation of a romantic story. At an early period, she could boast of some attractions, but she could boast more of making these run along with her power of extraction; yea, she had three wonderful powers, viz., those of captivating her cullies, retaining them if she chose, and of losing them by capturing their means. Of the last of these she was more proud than of the others, and if she could, in addition, enjoy the triumph of deceiving an astute constable, she got to the top of her pride—a creature or fiend, otherwise strangely formed, for if she seduced and robbed by instinct, she strengthened and justified the inborn propensity by a kind of devil’s logic, to the effect that, as she had ruined her immortal soul for the sake of man, she was not only entitled to receive from him the common wages of sin, but also to take from him whatever her subtle fingers could enable her to lay hold of by way of compensation. On one occasion, when, as I think, she resided in the Salt Backet, and when I had occasionally my eye upon her with a look of official love, which she could return with a leer of rather a different kind from that wherewith she wrought her stratagems, she had sallied out, after night-fall, to try her skill on hearts, gold watches, or little bits of bank paper. Doubtless, no more now than on any other occasion, did she imitate the old sirens of whom I have read somewhere. She did not sing them into her toils, that is, her art was not thrown out any more than when a cat purs at a mouse-hole. Her power could be in reserve, and yet be available, so that a man in place of being a dupe, might flatter himself that he was a duper seeking for her charms in the shape of shrinking modesty. So probably thought the happy Mr C——, a mercantile traveller in the hard goods line from Birmingham, but not himself a Brummagem article of false glitter,—a sterling man, if one might judge from the value of the money he carried. In her demureness, Jean appears a real jewel, and he would secure the prize, yet not in the way of an “uncommercial traveller,” for he could and would purchase, and surely in so modest-looking a creature he would make an excellent bargain. Look you, here is a little consolation for us, as we wander about seeking for the vicious to catch them and punish them into virtue. We see occasionally the vicious prowling, in the shades of night, seeking the vicious to deceive them into further vice, and yet sure to be deceived in turn and brought to ruin, while they are trying to make a capital of pleasure out of a poor wretch’s necessity. So it has always been: voluptuousness gets hysterical over modesty (Jean Brash’s modesty!) and how can we be sorry when we see it choked with the wind-ball of its desire? Then, look ye, is it not a little curious to see vice so conservative of virtue as to become a detective?
Well, Jean is caught by the commercial traveller, how unwittingly the reader may pretty safely guess, and not only caught, but led as a kind of triumph to the Salt Backet, where resides one of those “decent women” who take pity on errant lovers; probably if Jean had said that the house was her own, he might have doubted of a modesty which could belie itself at home among friends. Then, as they say love has quick wings where there is a shady grove in prospect—not always of sweet myrtle—not seldom of common pine firs, with a good many nettles and thistles growing about the temple—so they were speedily under the auspices of the decent priestess. How long it was before the heart of this lover, which had only been for a little absent from his commercial interests, returned to these so as to make him alive to the conviction that he had been robbed of a hundred-pound Bank of England note, I cannot say, for I was not in this case; but certain it is, that rather quiet part of the town soon echoed to a cry of horror, to the effect that he had been relieved from the anxiety of carrying about with him a bit of paper of that value.
Of all this I have no doubt, because I was perfectly aware that Jean was a woman who could confer the boon of such a relief from anxiety as easily as she could transfer that anxiety to herself; nor could any one who knew her doubt that she could contrive to make the care a very light one. Even the more romantic part of the story which “illustrates” the memory of this remarkable woman, I have no proper right to gainsay—how the commercial traveller rushed down stairs and bawled out at the top of his English voice for a constable—how the constable made his appearance while the traveller kept watch at the door—how they hurried up-stairs to seize when they should discover the money—how they found Jean quite in an easy state of conscious innocence—how she adjured the constable to search the house and her own body, and satisfy himself that the unfortunate man was in error—how, for that purpose, she quietly handed to him a lighted candle placed in a brass candlestick, and well fixed there by a round of paper not to oscillate in the way of unsteady lights—how the constable searched for the missing note with this candle, so fixed by the paper roll at the end thereof, all the while that Jean was muttering to herself, “The fool has taken the wrong end”—how he failed in his search, and how the traveller gave up all hope, if he did not suspect that he had lost his note elsewhere, and therefore resolved to avoid the fearful exposure of committing the woman—and how Jean was at length left quietly in her state of innocence. The reader may guess that Jean at her own time undid the piece of paper from the end of the candle, thus rescuing the “Governor and Company of the Bank of England” from their temporary degradation, and enjoying a quiet chuckle at her successful ingenuity.
Now, I confess I never liked very well to hear this romantic bit of Jean’s history, and simply for this reason, that I was not there to hold the candle.
On another occasion—though I am bound to say I have heard the credit of the adventure ascribed to a young unfortunate of the name of Catherine Brown, who lived in Richmond Street—our Jean was pursuing her nomade vocation in Princes Street. The night was dark enough, and the hour late enough, to inspire adventurers with sufficient confidence to flirt a little with the coy damsel, without being detected by curious friends. There are always numbers of these shy and frolicsome fish who are fond of poking their noses into the dangerous meshes, without any intention of entering the seine, where they would be pretty sure to be caught. The regular tramps, such as our heroine, are quite up to these amateurs, hate them heartily, and sometimes make them pay, and very deservedly too, golden guineas for silvern words. I can’t say I have much sympathy for them when they fall into misfortune, and ask our help to get money restored to their pockets, which pockets they voluntarily placed within the range of curious fingers. Why, if these fingers are delicate enough to be fondled and kissed without recompense, the men shew a bad grace in complaining that the same fingers fondled in their turn a bit of gold or paper supposed to be beyond their reach. Of course we do our duty, but always with a feeling in such cases that the victims did not do theirs, and impose upon us the trouble of rectifying the results of their folly, if not vice. Such fire-ships shew enough of light to enable these gay yachtmen to steer sufficiently aloof. (Were I able to be fanciful myself, I would not need to borrow the words of one of our well-read Lieutenants.) These young men play round the rancid candle-light of impurity, which at once enables them to see reflected in their self-conceit their immunity from danger, and imparts a little heat to their imagination. Rather fine language for me, but I see the sense of it.
With one of these gaudy night-moths our famous heroine had forgathered; and thinking probably that if he did not choose to consider her soft hand sacred from his squeeze, she was not bound to esteem his pocket tabooed against the prying curiosity of her fingers, she made free with the contents thereof. At least the youth thought so; for on the instant he bawled out to the passing bull’s-eye that he had been robbed. The constable, who knew Jean—as who didn’t—immediately laid hold of her, and as there were no passers-by to complicate the affair, the money would of course be got upon the instant. It was no less than a five-pound note, at least so said the young man; but Jean, whose coolness never forsook her, simply denied the charge.
It was a matter of short work for the constable to search her so far as he could,—an act in which he was helped by the young man. Her pockets were turned out, but with the exception of a scent-bottle, a white handkerchief, and some brown pawn-tickets, nothing was found there. All round the pavement the light of the lantern shewed nothing in the shape of the valuable bit of paper, and there was no sympathiser to whom she could have handed it.
“You must be under a delusion,” said the policeman.
“Impossible!” cried the youth. “There are as many folds in a woman’s dress as there are loops and lies in her mind. March her up.”