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.