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.

Miss Mary had understood my directions very well, for they never hesitated or stopped till they got to the top of the stair leading to the station-house. Being so utterly unknown to our English friends, there was no necessity for my usual caution; and accordingly, the moment they disappeared, Riley and I went forward to the parapet overlooking the stair and platform, and placing our elbows upon it, we put ourselves in the position of lounging onlookers. Our point of observation was excellent. We could see the entire platform, and everything that was going on there. A crowd of people were there, among whom a number of likely ladies, with pockets far better filled than those of mere promenaders in Princes Street. A kindred feeling might suggest to our “party of pleasure,” that people can’t travel now-a-days without a considerable sum of money with them, and therefore wherever there was a pocket there would also be money. And then the habit of purse-carrying, which brings all the money together—the notes in the one end, and the silver or gold in the other—is a preparation just made for thieves, a convenience for which, with little time to spare, they cannot be too grateful. My friends seemed to be delighted with the bustling assemblage, but then it was to last only for a few minutes, when the train would be down, and the platform left in solitude. So they behoved to make hay while the sun shone, and they knew it. The first observation I made was to the effect that they took no tickets—just as I suspected. My second, that they began play at once, though with care, and in that shy way preliminarily to the required boldness when the hurry-scurry would begin with the coming of the train. It rather seemed that they only marked victims in the meantime—keeping separate—threading the crowd with alacrity and hope, picking up suitabilities by rapid glances.

Then came the rumble of the train down the tunnel, at the sound of which the passengers began to move, carrying their luggage to the edge of the platform, and all on the tiptoe of expectation. But now I fairly admit that I never more regretted so much the want of half-a-dozen of eyes. The nimble artistes were all at work at the same time—they were, in short, in a hurry of pocket-picking; and though myself cool enough, I was for an instant or two under the embarrassment of a choice to direct my vision from one to another, or to fix upon one. Miss Mary Smith was at the farther end—Evans busy helping a fat lady with her luggage—the little Beaumont deep among floating silks, and invisible. My mark was Miss Grant, who was devoted to the first-class passengers, and though versatile in the extreme, had a main chance in her eye, a lady who afterwards turned out to be Mrs C——n in Danube Street. From this lady, I saw her take a purse, just as the silk gown was being pulled in after the body. The whistle blows, away goes the train, and our friends are left all but alone on the platform.

It was now our time. Moving slowly—for though they had been in a great hurry, that was no reason for my being so too—accompanied by Riley, I entered the door at the top of the gangway, where we met the party coming up. Miss Mary Grant had not had time even to deposit her purse in her pocket, and Riley seizing her hand took it from her. They saw at once that they had been watched, and the face of the Miss Mary, whom I had directed to the scene, paled under my eye. A sign to the porters behind me brought them ready to help, and the station-master coming forward, with his assistance we bundled the whole four into the station-house. A telegraphic message was instantly sent to Burntisland, calling for the lady who had been robbed to return, and I then proceeded to search my “party of pleasure.” The purse captured contained only 9s. 6d., but from their pockets altogether I took notes to the amount of £50. And next came an evidence of the strength of that friendship which exists among this class of people, and which in those four, in particular, appeared to be so strong and heartfelt only a short time before. They swore beautiful English oaths that no one of them was known to the other; and as to the unfortunate Mary, who had the purse, they all repudiated her, even the dapper Beaumont, who swore that he was an English gentleman of family, connected distantly—how far, a point of honour prevented him from condescending on—with the noble family of that name. But if the unhappy Mary was thus disowned, she could be a self-sacrifice, for she acknowledged that she did not know them, and that she had angled on her own hook. We had thus, like a bomb thrown among combustibles, severed a very close connexion; but then I had the consolation to think that we would be able to bring them together again at the bar of the court, where, if they should be once more separated, they might celebrate the occasion with tears.

It was, I admit, rather an occasion that, on which, helped by the station-master and the gallant porters, and escorted by an admiring crowd who wondered at such fine gentry being in the hands of the police, I conducted my swells to my place of deposit. I’m not sure if we had not some hurras, though I did not court notoriety of this kind; but the moment the people got an inkling they were English thieves, the old feelings between the nations seemed to rise up again—at least I could see nothing but satisfaction in the faces around us; nor was my satisfaction less when I introduced my friends to my superior, who doubtless did not expect the honour of receiving in his chambers four persons so distinguished, one being no less than a Beaumont—by Jupiter, 5 feet 2 inches, by the line!

The great Jack Cade, after swaying thousands of people, at last fell into the hands of a very simple clown. So here, as we soon understood, I had had the good fortune, in a very accidental way, of catching, at the very commencement of their Scotch career, four of the most celebrated of the English swells. They were quite well known to the authorities of London, Liverpool, and Manchester, where they had exercised their skill with so much adroitness that they had slipt through many well-drawn loops of the law; and having escaped so often there, where the detectives are supposed to be so much cleverer than ours, they had some grounds for the hope, so well expressed by their hilarity, short-lived as it was, that they would again cross the borders well loaded with Scotch booty.

Next day Mrs C——n obeyed the telegraph—an instrument, by the by, which seems to have more command at the end of the wire than spoken or written words, the more by token, perhaps, that it speaks like old Jove, through lightning. She at once identified the purse with the 9s. 6d.—yes, that 9s. 6d. which condemned parties who had ravished England of hundreds, and brought down a pillar of the house of Beaumont. The trial was just as easy an affair as the capture. Sheriff Hallard, that judge so steeled against all difference between rich and poor, genteel or ungenteel, tried them. I figured more than I desired or merited in his speech—which, by the by, I would like to reproduce, but I fear to affront the honourable judge’s eloquence. There is no harm in an attempt at shewing my powers of memory, when I give warning that they are feeble in forensic display, whatever they may be in retaining the faces of thieves.

“Prisoners, you have been found guilty of robbing from the person. It is not often that I have to pass sentence on people of your description from England, but I hope the circumstance of my being a Scottish judge will not be held to sway me in the discharge of my duty. Yet I am not sure if the circumstance of your being English men and women is not a considerable aggravation of your crime. What did Scotland ever do to you that you should come here, hundreds of miles, to prey upon her unwary subjects? Was it not rather that you thought her honest and simple people would become easy victims in hands made expert by efforts to elude the grasp of English authorities? You forgot, too, that in comparison of England we are poor, and less able to lose what we earn by hard labour. But such considerations have small weight with persons of your description, who, if you can get money to be spent in debauchery, care little whether it come from the rich or the poor. Now the issue has proved that you had made a wrong calculation, not only as to the intelligence and sharpness of our people, but the boldness and adroitness of our detectives; and I hope you will bear in mind, and tell your compeers in England, what we fear they sometimes forget, that we have not renounced our emblem of a thistle—the pricks of which you may expect to feel, when I now sentence you to sixty days’ hard labour. I am only sorry it cannot be made months,—a period more suited to your offence. For the advantage you thus gain, you are indebted to that cleverness in Mr M‘Levy and his assistant by which you were so soon caught; for if you had been allowed to go on, you would have earned the attention of the High Court, and the privilege of being transported. I hope you may profit by the lesson he has taught you.”