No doubt he admitted afterwards that he had stolen from the shop the other articles amissing, but he asserted that it was the desire to possess the tobacco that urged him to the robbery, and that once being in he had laid hold of whatever came to his hand. I cannot help remarking, that my poor tobacco-fancier paid dear for his quid, in giving for it seven long years of servitude in Botany Bay. I have sometimes wondered whether, when there, he ever took a pipe into his mouth. Not unlikely.
The Thieves’ Wedding.
I HAVE already alluded to the subject of the flinty-heartedness of the fraternity among whom I have so long laboured, and I may illustrate the same feature by another case, which is calculated as well to shew a peculiarity somewhat better known—the elasticity of their enjoyments, if the rant and roar of their mirth can go by a name expressive of a heartfelt affection.
Is there any reason in the world why thieves should not marry one with 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.