I HAVE often thought we are a little mole-eyed in social questions. How much were we to have paid the devil for our letting in mental food to the people, for the introduction of machinery, for giving up hanging poor wretches! and yet we have paid him nothing,—all movements coming to a poise. When I lay hold of a robber by the throat, we have a tussle, but it does not last long. Either he or I may be down; we don’t murder each other; the forces destroy themselves, and there’s peace. Where is all the expected crop of forgeries and coinings that were to spring up under the spread of the guano of education? The art of learning to write was to be the learning to forge, and electro-plating (if I can spell it) was to turn off half-crowns by the thousand. Nothing of all this. The people are better fed, the working men better employed, fewer murders, fewer forgeries, fewer coinings. I think we have rather taken from his majesty below, and I suspect he is fretful. What a fury we would put him in were we to take the young from him, of whom, in a certain class, he has had the charge since Adam coined that bad penny, Cain!

So I thought, when I told the story of the pewter spoons. I thought I had not another case of coining in my books; but I find I was wrong. Not long ago, in November 1858, I happened (I was always happening) to meet, at the foot of the stair leading to Ashley Buildings, in Nether Bow, near John Knox’s Church, a clot of little boys and girls busy looking at some wonderful things, with eyes as bright and round as a new-turned-out shilling. On bending my head over the little people, and directing my eyes down through the midst of them, I found that the objects of their delight were a number (turned out to be a dozen) of beautiful glittering half-crowns and florins, all new from the mint. Was ever a nest of Raggediers shone upon with a blaze of such glory! Did ever her Majesty’s face appear so beautiful to any of her loyal subjects!

On inquiry, I found that the urchins, when playing in the stair of Ashley Buildings, had found the pieces secreted in the corners of two window-soles. They were placed outside, so that any person going up the stair could reach them without entering any of the flats. I examined the places of deposit under the direction of my leaders—six of the pieces were on the window-sole of the first flat, and the other six on that of the highest. Then they had been cunningly placed in small-scooped crevices, close by the rybats. On coming down with my coins in my hand, and my troop around me, all chattering and vindicating their rights to the waifs, I was a little taken aback by the appearance of two ladies coming up the dark, dingy stair. At the first glance, and under the impression of the rustle of their heavy silk skirts, I took them for philanthropical grandees from the New Town on a visit of mercy to the hags of Ashley Land; and no wonder, for the very gayest of our crinolined nymphs, so far as regarded silk velvet and ribbons, were not qualified to tie the latchet of one of their boots. Nor was my impression changed when, standing to a side to give space to the swirl of their wide skirts, as well as honour to their progress, I looked respectfully, if not with a little awe (not much in my way) into their faces,—delicate, pretty, genteel, nor with a single indication of the flaunting lightness sometimes, in my experience, accompanying, but not adorning very gay attire.

On ascending two steps above me, one of them turned round, and, with an inquiring gaze, asked what was the matter, in a clear, bell-like voice, which was to me at the moment perhaps the more musical, because it came from such a delicate throat; but the speech was English, and we want that spoken music in Scotland,—at least there’s not much of it among the denizens of Ashley Land.

“A little row among the boys,” said I, just as a suddenly rising thought suggested something,—I won’t say what.

“He’s ta’en our half-croons, mem,” cried a bantam, whose windpipe I could have squeezed.

Upon hearing which, my ladies turned somewhat abruptly, and proceeded down stairs. I could even fancy that the noise of their silks was increased by a flurry,—a movement altogether which I could not, even with the aid of my sudden thought, very well understand. On getting to the foot of the stair, and quit of my brawlers, I observed my two damsels walking majestically up the High Street, as if they had utterly forgotten their visit of mercy, for which their purses, and probably their Bibles, had been put in preparation. I had intercepted grace, condescension, and mercy, even when about to light, like ministering angels, on the hearts and homes of the miserable. Well, another time—mercy is long-suffering.

Just as I thus found myself a little satirical perhaps, up comes the man Richardson, who lived in Ashley Buildings.

“It’s not often,” said he, “that folks like me and my wife have lodgers in our small room like yon,” pointing in the direction of my ladies.

“Like whom?” said I.

“Why, did you not see them coming out of our stair?”

“Yes, I saw two ladies superbly dressed; who are they?”

“Just my lodgers; your common lodging-house keepers can’t touch that, I think.”

“Why, no,” said I; “but you haven’t told me who or what they are.”

“That’s a hard question,” replied he; “I can only say they are English, very polite, and pay their score.”

“Any more?” said I; for although I had no doubt of the man’s honesty, I did not wish to be forward with my half-crowns, as a “let up” in the first instance.

“Why, we are not sure of them,” said he. “They are the strangest customers we ever had. They keep their door shut, and every second day there comes to them a man, as much a tailor and jeweller-made swell in his way as they are in theirs. Then the door is still more sure to be locked, and the key-hole screened.”

“Did you ever hear his name?”

“Oh, yes—Mr Harvey.”

“And theirs?”

“Miss Matilda Jerome and Miss Elizabeth Jackson.”

“Is he English too?” inquired I.

“Yes, of the highest tone, but very condescending. He asks Mrs Richardson how she does, and she says, ‘Quite well, I thank you, sir;’ but this doesn’t prevent her, you know, from sometimes trying a chink—the key-hole is an impossibility.”

“And what has she seen?”

“Not much yet. The little is strange. The great Mr Harvey, the moment he gets in, takes off his fine suit and his rings, and puts on a fustian jacket and breeches. They work at something requiring a great deal of the fire, and then we hear birrs, and clanks, and whizzes—what you might expect where some small machinery is in gear.”

“Producing, perhaps,” said I, “something like that?” shewing him a half-crown piece.

“Our very suspicion,” replied he, as he took the piece into his hand, and seemed to wonder at the “turn out” of his little room. “But where got you it?”

“With eleven more, on two of the window-soles of your staircase.”

“Hidden there by them?”

“I can’t say,” replied I; “but hark ye, when would be the best time for me to see the ladies and Mr Harvey together—if in the fustian, so much the better?”

“To-morrow forenoon,” replied he. “They are all on the stravaig to-day.”

“Well, in the meantime, Richardson, you are mum.”

“Dumb.”

And leaving my useful informant, I proceeded on my way, ruminating as usual. It didn’t need a witch to tell the intention of the deposit, or the place selected for it. The false money would, of course, be dangerous in their room, and even in their pockets it would be imprudent to have more at a time than perhaps the single piece they were trying to utter. The deposit was thus a little outside bank, from which the three might severally supply themselves any number of times a-day; and though the bank stood a chance of being broken, they could lose nothing, while there would always be the difficulty of connecting them with it either as depositors or drawers. The scheme exhibited at least adroitness enough to satisfy me that the three were experienced hands. And yet, just observe the insanity of crime, whereby it renders itself a fool to itself. These clever people, no doubt, never thought that their splendid dresses, their engrossing admiration of their persons, and their exacting claims on the attention of those who would have been very willing to pass them by, only tended to the sharpening of official vision.

On making some inquiries at the Office, I learned that from what we knew as yet of the great Mr Harvey, there could be little doubt that he was a personage who for years had been driving the same trade in the south of England, where he had been often in trouble, and where not less than in London he was reputed as the best “coiner” in the kingdom. His companions were also known as adepts, whose beauty and accomplishments in another peculiar line enabled them to help the common store. Nor was Harvey limited to one department alone, being as well adapted and inclined for taking good money as for coining or uttering bad; so that viewing them as possessed of these three sources of income, we need not be astonished at their personal equipment. How little people know of the money that passes, like water over stones, through the hands of such gentry! The swell is talked of as a poor devil, with stolen finery, who lives merely in that sense from hand to mouth, which implies only freedom from want. A swell is not thus made up or maintained. It is an expensive character. The hunger and burst may haunt him as an inevitable condition; but as is the hunger, so is the burst with them—an extravagance this latter that would provoke the envy of many a fast youth, born in a mansion, and who runs through his property as fast as the horse he rides. I am speaking of England. It is seldom that we have the pleasure of seeing the true grandee here. Scotland is too poor for them. Yet I have sometimes caught them grazing on our lean turnips, when the English fields were infested with these foxes, the detectives.

So I had got on my beat no fewer than three swells, and surely a hunter of sorry thieves like me behoved to be on my honour. There is, I understand, a difficult etiquette how to approach the great, and how to recede, without shewing to their circumcised eyes the back part of your person. Would I not require a lesson to save me from being dishonoured and disgraced by some offence against the code of genteel behaviour? Might they not smile at my Scotch bluntness and vulgarity, and refuse obedience to a baton of Scotch fir? One consolation at least—if the rose is for polite nostrils, the thistle is for thin skins. I scarcely think that I tried a rehearsal that night; but I was saved from all fears by my hope of being received by my great man in a fustian jacket; and as for the ladies, they might consider an Earlston gingham or a Manchester print sufficient for the trade of melting and silvering.

Next day I was on my watch, when about twelve o’clock I saw my great man enter the stair-foot of Ashley Buildings. The glance I got of him satisfied me that Richardson had not exaggerated his grandeur. Everything on him was of the best, and the jemmy cane shewed the delicacy of the hand by which it was held, and by which, too, it was made to go through those exquisite twirls, so expressive of a total absence of such a thing as thought, always necessarily vulgar, when one is surrounded by vulgar people. I gave him time to be natural, that I might be easy, and then went up stairs, leaving my assistant and two constables at the foot. Mrs Richardson shewed me in, but the mint was locked, on the principle of the Queen’s establishment, where valuables run a risk of being taken away. I knocked and listened. Surely my grandees were in dishabille. At last my appeal, which they knew probably was not an usual one, produced uneasiness, so that the cool-bloodedness, which betokens high breeding, was reversed—low words, but quick—rapid movements—small chatterings. At length, perhaps at mere hazard, a voice inquired—

“Is that you, Missus Richardson?”

“No,” replied I.

“Mister Richardson?”

“No,” again.

“Who, then?”

“A friend.”

And so the door gave way to the charmed word.

“Friend? why, a lie!” said the voice of a man.

“Perhaps not,” said I, as I stood before them, and made my usual rapid survey.

I had been wrong in my expectation. The fustian jacket had not taken the place of the surtout, and my ladies were in the same splendid attire I had seen them in on the previous day, only the bonnets were not on their heads—adorned these with an exquisite abundance of fine hair, smooth and glossy, and done up in the first style of fashion. Yes, I defy you to have found in Moray Place more personable young women; nor if I had been there on a visit of condolence for the loss of one of their dearest friends, could I have found manners more staid and correct—I might add graceful, if I could lay claim to knowing much of the true and the false of that accomplishment. But all this I observed by one or two rapid glances diverted from my principal investigation, which latter yielded me at first but little: the indispensable bed—the table and chairs—the plate-rack, and some trunks. It was clear that they had resolved on no work that day, and no trace of their machinery was visible. My principal hope lay in an inviting press; and as I made a motion to proceed towards it, I thought I observed something like an indication that my gentleman would make free with the door; so applying my fingers to my mouth, I gave a shrill whistle, the sound of which echoed through the flat, startled my ladies out of their composure, and, what I wanted, reached the ear of my assistant, who, obeying the call, was instantly at the door.

I now proceeded to my work of search. From the lower part of the press I drew out the identical fustian coat and trousers described to me by Richardson.

“Your working-suit,” said I to Mr Harvey, who seemed to survey the articles with extreme contempt. “A fustian coat,” continued I, as I traced the blots of chemicals, and traces of quicksilver, and various scorchings, “is a thing I cannot but treat with respect, when it belongs to arms of independence. It is the fustian that makes the broadcloth and the silks.”

“They’re not mine,” said Harvey; “they must belong to the house.”

“They ain’t Mr Harvey’s, I assure you, sir,” said Miss Matilda Jerome.

“Perhaps not,” said I, as I proceeded, “some people have a habit of possessing things that do not belong to them—possession just wants a point to make property, and perhaps this point is awanting here.”

Forthwith I produced from the press several likely things—a bottle with quicksilver—some others with chemicals unknown to me—a portable vice with a screw to fix to the table, which latter had the screw mark upon it still—a hammer—files, coarse and fine—the indispensable stamp—but no galvanic battery as I was led to expect,—a circumstance which puzzled me, because I never could suppose that such adepts could be contented with the old process of salt and friction.

I had got enough for my purpose in the meantime, so, turning round—

“Please put on your bonnets and plaids, my ladies,” said I, “that you, Mr Harvey, and I, may walk up the High Street to my quarters.”

They obeyed with something even like alacrity, on the principle of that sensible man known to history, who, when standing at the gallows foot, said, “If it is to be done, let it be done quickly.” Such are the advantages of having to do with genteel people.

I have no doubt we made an excellent appearance in our promenade up the High Street, only I doubt if any one could comprehend the possibility of such people condescending to enter a police cell. In searching the women we got, strangely enough, no bad money, but a considerable amount of good. The deposit on the window soles had been intended for this day’s work, and scared a little by its having been taken away, they had resolved on out-door adventures.

I still wanted something, as I have said, to complete the catalogue of my articles in the working department, and, above all, I required to connect Mr Harvey with that, so I applied to him for help.

“I wish to know where you live, when in town, Mr Harvey.”

“In Mr Campbell’s, Bell’s Wynd,” he replied promptly affording still the same evidence of the advantages of having to do with high-bred people.

“Then you will please go with me and point it out.”

“Certainly.”

And getting again my assistant, I proceeded with him to Bell’s Wynd, where, having mounted one of the worst stairs in that dark alley, we came to a wretched little dwelling of two rooms and a dark closet. How the great man could have put up in that hovel is difficult to conceive, except upon the supposition that the swells shrink when they get home. With the exception of a truckle-bed and a shake-down, there was scarcely a bit of furniture in the house; nor could I find a recess in any way inviting to me except the dark closet, which was adroitly barricaded by the mattress of the shake-down, upon which Mrs Campbell, a miserable invalid, lay in squalid misery. I made short work here. Laying hold of the mattress, I pulled it and its burden away from the closet door into the middle of the floor. A loud scream burst from the invalid, which, from her look I knew to be intended as a fence to the closet, and not an expression of pain. The door was not locked, the bed and its occupant having probably been deemed a sufficient bar.

“Ye’ve murdered me,” cried the cunning wretch, so near her grave, and yet so keen in the concealment of vice. “The malison o’ the Lord light on your head, and blast it! Haud awa’! my grave-claes are in that closet, and nae man will enter till that day when my soul gaes hame to glory.”

“If you never die till you’re fit, you’ll live for ever,” said I, when I saw there was not a trace of grave-clothes in the dark hole,—from which, however, I brought the galvanic battery, which I had found awanting in Ashley Buildings to complete the apparatus, along with sixteen base shillings. I also got some other things of less importance.

“And now, Mrs Campbell, I will push you back again,” said I, as I impelled the mattress to its old place.

“And the devil push you hame,” she cried, “for you’ve murdered me.”

And she groaned even in that way which aged people do when their wickedness is brought home to them; for that there was a complicity in these old people with Harvey, I had no doubt, even from the conduct of the harridan,—a conclusion confirmed by the assertion of Campbell himself that Harvey was his nephew.

I now took Mr Harvey back to the Police Office, thinking, as I went, upon the small amount of real happiness enjoyed by these adventurers among the rocks that lie in the midst of civilisation. Harvey’s domestic comforts may be guessed from the account I have given. He was a man, and could bear the want of ease at night, in consideration of his privilege of walking the streets in a fine dress, and dining in the “Rainbow,” with respectable people next box. But what are we to say for the women, with apparently delicate forms, and at least so much of feminine feeling as we might see shining through their really handsome faces? One might sum up all their pleasure in saying, that it consisted in promenading the streets in a silk gown. Even then they cannot be, and are not, devoid of fear. The same fear follows them home to an extinct fire, a truckle-bed with a few thin clothes, into which they huddle themselves, and try in sleep to get away from their own thoughts,—which thoughts sometimes go into the forms of dreams, wherein they take their own way, rejoicing in the tricks of a horrible nightmare. Such a being is everything but the woman she was intended to be,—her enjoyments everything but the affections and sympathies she was made to feel. Of course, I am assuming here, and I go upon appearances, that Miss Matilda Jerome and Miss Elizabeth Jackson were not originally Arabs. I might make another estimate in that case, for these are seldom touched by fear; and being against society, as society is against them, there is some inversion in them, the true nature of which, in enabling them to seek some strange kind of happiness, we cannot understand,—at least I could never understand it, and I have seen them in all humours. I suspect, however, that what we here sometimes call happiness, is only a kind of accommodation of misery. Thus they take the sign for the thing; and when they are roaring over the tankard, they think they are enjoying themselves. Perhaps they have more of the real thing in the hardness of their rebellion; for I think I have read somewhere, that man (and woman too, I suspect) is such a strange being that he can feel a pleasure in the very spite of pleasure. I can’t say I would relish that happiness very much.

Well, I find I am at my old trade of spinning morals, without a touch of which I suspect my experiences would not be of much service to mankind; and if I had had no hope of that, I doubt if I would have been at the trouble of opening my black book of two thousand detections. I have little more to say about my grandees. They were brought to trial before the High Court, where, on the evidence of Richardson and his wife, the urchins who found the pieces, our own testimony, and the tale told by the utensils, they were found guilty. This was not, as I have said, the first, nor the second, nor the third time for the gentleman; but the ladies had never been handled so roughly before. Harvey got eight years’ penal servitude, and the two belles five years each. As they sat at the bar, I could not help thinking of their appearance that day I took them for ladies of rank on a mission of charity and mercy. Surely our real LADIES, in their present rage for finery, never think how easily, and by what base copyists, they are imitated.

One word more on this subject. I am certainly not over-fastidious as regards female dress. I have seen it in all its varieties, from the scanty cincture that adorned our first mother Eve, to the ingenious complications of modern taste and refinement; but I must observe, with all proper deference to the LADIES, that, in adopting the prevalent redundancy of skirt, the imitated have become the imitators, as the first of these “circumambient amplitudes” that I ever saw in Edinburgh, was sported by one of the most distinguished “Nightingales” that ever walked Princes Street. In fact, after the experience of thirty years, I find it almost impossible to distinguish the maiden from the matron,—the human vehicle for smuggled or surreptitiously acquired property from the sonsy housekeeper,—or the frail Magdalene, who knows there is a living secret to conceal, from the robust “habitante” just returned from an annual visit to her country cousins; nay, Paterfamilias himself, I have heard, on entering a cab or a box at the theatre, has breathed, if he did not utter, a heartfelt and pocketfelt anathema against such a superabundant and inconvenient display of hoop and crinoline.

Without attempting to quote the words of Pope as to “ribs of whale,” I would simply say to all LADIES, as Hamlet said to the players, “I pray you avoid it.”