FEW cities have preserved more faithfully than Edinburgh the traditions of former days, and none is richer in the material of romance. Throughout the length of the Royal mile extending from Holyrood to the Castle Hill, each tortuous wynd and narrow close owns its peculiar association, each obscure court and towering “land” has contributed, if but by a footnote, to the volume of the city’s history. And where these visible memorials have perished beneath the slow assault of time, or succumbed to the more lethal methods of modern improvement, the legends which they embodied survive their dissolution and serve in turn to perpetuate their fame.

Of the many memories that haunt the lover of old Edinburgh, wandering to-day among the vestiges of her romantic and insanitary past, perhaps the most curious is that of William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights and doyen of the double life; by day “a considerable house carpenter” and member of the Town Council; by night a housebreaker and the companion of thieves.

It is nearly a hundred and twenty years since Deacon Brodie played out his twofold part at the west end of the Luckenbooths one grey October afternoon in 1788; but the close in the Lawnmarket which bears his name remains to this day. Here he was born and lived, man and boy, robber and decent burgess, for many reputable years; here his old father passed away, happy in the possession of so excellent a son; and from hence did the son essay that “last fatal” adventure, the issue of which was, for him, discovery and the scaffold.

The house itself has long since vanished—a victim to the indiscriminate destruction which has swept away so much else worthy of preservation. You can no longer see the heavy oaken door with the cunning lock of the Deacon’s own contriving, and the turnpike stair down which, with mask and lantern, he so often stole at midnight upon his secret and criminous affairs. But if you follow him in fancy down the High Street and past the Nether Bow, to where a gloomy “pend” leads into Chessel’s Court, you will find the tall front of the old Excise Office still rising within its “palisadoes,” behind which lurked the trembling Ainslie; and if it be about the dusk of the evening, and your imagination is informed with the spirit of the place, you may even see the man rush wildly forth from the doorway up the court, and hear, in the succeeding silence, the three blasts of an ivory whistle.

The trial of Deacon Brodie has many claims upon the attention of a later age. It is of value to the antiquarian for the vivid picture it presents of the manners and customs of our forbears at a time when the life of Edinburgh yet flowed in the ancient arteries of the old city on the ridge, although beginning to circulate more freely in the spacious thoroughfares of the New Town already invading the fields across the valley. To the lawyer it is notable as affording a singularly graphic view of the old-time practice of our criminal Courts, as well as for the galaxy of legal talent engaged upon its conduct—with such men as Braxfield on the bench and Henry Erskine and John Clerk at the bar the proceedings could lack neither picturesqueness nor importance. The psychologic interest of the chief actor’s character and the dramatic elements in which his career abounds make a more general appeal; and so long as human nature remains the same will the story of the Deacon’s downfall be accorded an indulgent hearing.

That story had for Robert Louis Stevenson a strong attraction. As early as 1864 he prepared the draft of a play founded upon it, which—after being at various times re-cast—finally took shape in the melodrama, “Deacon Brodie, or the Double Life,” written in collaboration with the late W. E. Henley, and published in 1892. It may even be that the conception of “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” was suggested to Stevenson by his study of the dual nature so strikingly exemplified in his earlier hero; while in other of his writings he has touched the Deacon with a felicitous and kindly hand.

The birth of Deacon Brodie is thus recorded in the Register of Births for the city of Edinburgh—

It is an inexplicable circumstance, although by no means uncommon, that so goodly a family tree as that of the Brodies should, in due course of nature, bear such degenerate fruit as the subject of this entry was destined to prove. His great-grandfather, Francis Brodie of Milnton, Elginshire, was a member of a family well known in the North of Scotland, and his grandfather, Ludovick Brodie of Whytfield, was a much respected Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh, who, on his death in 1758, was the oldest member of the Society. His father, Francis Brodie, was born in 1708, and in 1740 married Cecil, daughter of William Grant, writer in Edinburgh, with whose family he was already connected. Both the Deacon’s grandfathers, therefore, were members of the legal profession.

There will be found in the Appendix a copy of a MS. Register of Births and Deaths kept by Francis Brodie in his family Bible, together with some account of that interesting volume, from which it appears that William was the eldest of eleven children, most of whom died in infancy. The entry relating to his birth has been cut out of the Register, presumably on his public disgrace some forty-seven years later.

Francis Brodie was a substantial wright and cabinetmaker in the Lawnmarket of Edinburgh, where he carried on an extensive and prosperous business. In 1735 he was made a Burgess, and in 1763, a Guild Brother of his native burgh. That he stood high in the estimation of his fellow-craftsmen is evidenced by his being, in 1775 and 1776, elected a member of the Town Council as Deacon of the Incorporation of Wrights, and again in 1779 and 1780, in the same capacity; while in 1776 he also represented the Incorporated Trades of the city as their Deacon Convener. A further proof of the position and circumstances of the family is to be found in the fact that the close in which their house was situated became known by their name.

This mansion, the most important in the close, was originally the town residence of the Littles of Craigmillar, having been built by William Little, a magistrate of Edinburgh, in 1570, whose brother, Clement Little, was the founder of the University Library. In the earlier titles of the property the close bears the name of its old residenters; but in Edgar’s map of 1742 it appears as Lord Cullen’s Close, from the eminent judge, Sir Francis Grant of Cullen, who in turn resided there. Brodie’s Close was formerly a “throwgang” or thoroughfare passing from the Lawnmarket to the Cowgate, the upper portion of which alone has escaped the “improvements” that have so effectively changed the features of this part of the Old Town. The area occupied by the Deacon’s dwelling is now covered by Victoria Terrace, the building having been demolished about 1835, when the principal carved stones of the mansion were transported by Clement Little’s descendants, in whose possession the property remained, to the garden of the family seat, Inch House, near Liberton, as relics of the habitation of their ancestors. The lower extremity of the close, in which were situated the Deacon’s workshops and woodyard, survived until a later date, the last traces of it disappearing to make way for the foundations of the Free Library.

In the fine old tenement at the head of the close—often erroneously described as Brodie’s residence—is still to be seen the decorated hall of the Roman Eagle Lodge, a famous Masonic society of the eighteenth century, immediately beyond which, on the east side of an open court, stood the Deacon’s house. It is thus described by Chambers in his “Traditions of Edinburgh” as it existed in 1825—“Brodie’s house is to be found in its original state, first door up a turnpike stair in the south-east corner of a small court near the foot of the close. The outer door is remarkable for its curious, elaborate workmanship. The house is well built, and the rooms exhibit some decorations of taste. The principal apartment, of which the ceiling is remarkably high, contains a large panel painting of the ‘Adoration of the Wise Men,’ and has an uncommonly large arched window to the west.” What became of this painting, which was attributed to Alexander Runciman, is now unknown.

Of the early years of William Brodie we have, unfortunately, no record, but it may be assumed that he received an education suitable for the son of a well-to-do burgess. He was apprenticed

to his father’s trade, and in due time became associated with him in his thriving business. In those days no self-denying ordinance obtained in the Town Council, and Francis Brodie’s municipal connection secured for him and his son the most of the city work. The young man had the ball at his foot, as the saying goes, and only good behaviour and application to business were required for the attainment of an assured position. Unhappily for himself, however, he soon exhibited that taste for dissipation which ultimately led to such dire results; and while his days were occupied in following his respectable employment, in which he speedily obtained proficiency, his nights were largely devoted to gambling and kindred pursuits.

The social customs of the time were not conducive to steadiness and sobriety among the youthful citizens. It was the Edinburgh of Humphrey Clinker and of Topham’s Letters; the “Auld Reikie” of Fergusson’s convivial muse—

The early hours of the evening were at that period universally spent by Edinburgh tradesmen in one or other of the innumerable taverns of the old town. So soon as the business of the day was over, as Fergusson tells us—

“All the shops in the town,” says Chambers, “were then shut at eight o’clock, and from that hour until ten—when the drum of the Town Guard announced at once a sort of licence for the deluging of the streets with nuisances, and a warning of the inhabitants home to their beds—unrestrained scope was given to the delights of the table.” At the latter hour the more reputable roysterers sought their homes; but it was then that the clubs, which formed so prominent a feature of the old city life, began the business of the evening. Fergusson, who has given us in his incomparable “Auld Reikie” a glowing picture of the Edinburgh of his day, thus alludes to the subject—

Of this, the most famous of the Edinburgh social clubs, Brodie was admitted a member on 25th February, 1775. The Cape Club usually held its festivals in James Mann’s tavern, facetiously known as “The Isle of Man Arms,” situated in Craig’s Close. The roll of the Knights Companions of the Cape contains many celebrated names, including those of David Herd, the antiquarian; Robert Fergusson, the poet; Alexander Runciman, the painter; and Sir Henry Raeburn—William Brodie’s election occurring four months after Fergusson’s death. Each member was required to assume some fanciful title, Brodie taking that of “Sir Lluyd.” On the margin of the roll prefixed to the minute-book an ingenious member has drawn a representation of his last public appearance on the new drop, some thirteen years later. The insignia of the Sovereign of the Cape are in the possession of the Society of Antiquaries, together with the club records, excerpts from which relating to Deacon Brodie will be found in the Appendix.

Had young Brodie been satisfied with the legitimate and very ample convivialities afforded by the Cape Club it would have been better for himself. But he became a frequenter of a disreputable tavern kept by James Clark, vintner, at the head of the Fleshmarket Close, where gambling by means of

dice was nightly practised in a select company of sharpers and their dupes. It is probable that this house still survives in the truncated portion of the close remaining between the High Street and Cockburn Street. He also developed, among other “gentlemanly vices,” a passion for cock-fighting, at that time a fashionable recreation among the young bloods of the capital, and was a regular attender at the mains held in the cock-pit belonging to Michael Henderson, stabler in the Grass-market, of whom we shall hear further in the sequel. Brodie, who is said to have lost large sums in betting on his favourite sport, was present, among other “eminent cockers,” at the historic match between the counties of Lanark and Haddington, of which an account is given in “Kay’s Portraits.” In allusion to this contest, Kay observes—“It cannot but appear surprising that noblemen and gentlemen, who upon any other occasion will hardly show the smallest degree of condescension to their inferiors, will, in the prosecution of this barbarous amusement, demean themselves so far as to associate with the very lowest characters in society.” Brodie himself kept game-cocks in a pen in his woodyard, and retained to the last his attachment to the “art of cocking.” Between his bets at the cock-pits and his gambling at Clark’s, the young man must have got rid of a good deal of money; and it is believed that he had already begun to supplement his income by the nefarious means which later he certainly employed.

One night in August, 1768, the counting-house of Johnston & Smith, bankers in the Exchange, was entered by means of a false key, and upwards of £800 in bank notes carried off. Two nights afterwards £225 of the money was found, wrapped in paper, at the door of the Council Chamber; but the balance was never recovered, and no clue to the delinquent could be obtained. The discovery, many years afterwards, of Deacon Brodie’s exploits induced a strong suspicion that he was concerned in the affair. It was then recollected that, prior to the robbery, the Deacon had been employed in making various repairs on the premises, and had frequent occasion to be in the bank. The key of the outer door, from which it was ascertained he had taken an impression in putty, usually hung in the passage, a custom of which the Deacon, as we shall find, often afterwards took unscrupulous advantage.

At this time, however, no one dreamt of suspecting Brodie, whose secret dissipations were known only to his disreputable associates. Outwardly he was following worthily in his father’s footsteps, and, on 9th February, 1763, was, like him, made a Burgess and Guild Brother of Edinburgh. In September, 1781, he also became a member of the Town Council as Deacon of the Incorporation of Wrights, and his connection with the Council continued from that date till the year before his apprehension, as follows:—Deacon of the Wrights in 1782 and 1783; Trades Councillor in 1784, and, again, Deacon of the Wrights in 1786 and 1787. In 1785 he was not a member of the Town Council. Robert Fergusson, in his poem, “The Election,” has, with his usual felicity, portrayed the humours of an Edinburgh municipal election according to the old mode, when—

The minute of Deacon Brodie’s last election, on 20th September, 1786, will be found in the Appendix, together with other excerpts from the Council records, bearing upon his official life.

In the new Deacon’s first year of office occurred the political contest between Sir Laurence Dundas, who had represented the city in Parliament from 1760 to 1780, and William Miller, afterwards Lord Glenlee. The Town Council was divided into two hostile camps, and extraordinary efforts were made by each party to secure the return of its own candidate. Both claimed to have been duly elected member for Edinburgh; but, as the result of a parliamentary inquiry, Sir Laurence retained the seat. Deacon Brodie made a conspicuous figure in this election by keeping back his promise to vote for either party, in consequence of which he became a man of great moment to both the candidates, because upon his vote the election turned.

On 1st June, 1782, Convener Francis Brodie “died of the Palsy att his own house in Edinburgh, att 5 o’clock afternoon, in the 74th year of his age”; and William, his son, reigned in his stead. We read in the Annual Register for 1788—“However extraordinary it may appear, it is a certain fact that Mr. Brodie at the death of his father, which happened about six years ago, inherited a considerable estate in houses in the city of Edinburgh, together with £10,000 in specie; but by an unhappy connection and a too great propensity to that destructive, though too predominant passion, gaming, he is reduced to his present deplorable situation.” That the Deacon owned some heritable property other than the family mansion in Brodie’s Close, appears from a statement by the author of “Kay’s Portraits” (1877, vol. I., pp. 141-2). It is there said that a house in Gourlay’s Land, Old Bank Close, was purchased from the trustee for the Deacon’s creditors in 1789 by William Martin, bookseller and auctioneer in Edinburgh, who subsequently sold the property to the Bank of Scotland in 1793. From the state of affairs, which he prepared at a later date as aftermentioned, it is evident that Brodie owned, in addition to this property, three other tenements, respectively situated in Horse Wynd, at the Nether Bow, and in World’s End Close. We also find from the Council records that, in 1785, he was speculating in the building lots of the New Town.

The “unhappy connection” above mentioned refers to the Deacon’s two mistresses, Anne Grant and Jean Watt. Anne Grant resided in Cant’s Close, and her relations with William Brodie must have been long continued, for she had borne three children to him, the eldest, Cecil, being a girl of twelve at the time of his trial. To Anne Grant he addressed one of the letters written after his escape from Scotland, by which, as will be seen, he was traced and brought to justice. Jean Watt, by whom he had two boys, lived in Libberton’s Wynd, close to his own house, and was the principal witness to the alibi attempted to be set up for him at his trial. Each of these women was presumably ignorant of the other’s existence, and the Deacon’s connection with both appears to have been unknown to his family and friends. After his father’s death his sister, Jean Brodie, presided over his household; his other sister, Jacobina, to whom he refers in his letters as “Jamie,” having married Matthew Sheriff, an upholsterer in Edinburgh.

It seems incredible, regard being had to the confined and crowded stage on which the old city life was played, that Deacon Brodie’s protracted peccadilloes escaped the notice of those “stairhead critics,” who, Fergusson tells us—

But, if the facts were generally known, the estimable reputation which he nevertheless enjoyed is characteristic of the social conventions of his day.

Had it not been for the Deacon’s unhappy propensity for gambling and dissipation, his circumstances at this time should have been highly satisfactory. During his term of office he was regularly employed by his fellow-Councillors to execute wrightwork in connection with the town—his accounts for the year 1782-3, for instance, amounting to upwards of £600. In addition to the city work, his social and official position had secured for him the best cabinetmaking business in Edinburgh; but, notwithstanding these advantages, he was frequently at a loss for money.

Deacon Brodie was already, in Stevenson’s striking phrase, “a man harassed below a mountain of duplicity,” and to one so circumstanced it is not surprising that the idea occurred of putting his professional opportunities to an unlawful use. He knew the locks and bolts of all the houses of his customers; was familiar with their internal arrangements and the habits of the owners; and could, without incurring remark, exhibit in such matters a professional interest in the houses of his friends and acquaintances. No doubt he was sometimes consulted, at a later stage, as to the best means of defence against his own infraction. He was shortly, as we shall see, to become the leader of a gang of robbers, whose mysterious depredations, under his skilful conduct, were, during eighteen months, to baffle the authorities and strike terror to the hearts of wealthy burgesses; but at the outset of his career of crime the Deacon worked alone.

“Many a citizen,” says Stevenson, “was proud to welcome the Deacon to supper, and dismissed him with regret at a timeous hour, who would have been vastly disconcerted had he known how soon, and in what guise, his visitor returned. Many stories are told of this redoubtable Edinburgh burglar, but the one I have in my mind most vividly gives the key of all the rest. A friend of Brodie’s, nesting some way towards heaven in one of these great ‘lands,’ had told him of a projected visit to the country, and afterwards, detained by some affairs, put it off and stayed the night in town. The good man had lain some time awake; it was far on in the small hours by the Tron bell; when suddenly there came a creak, a jar, a faint light. Softly he clambered out of bed and up to a false window which looked upon another room, and there, by the glimmer of a thieves’ lantern, was his good friend the Deacon in a mask.”

Another story, illustrative of the methods of this pioneer of amateur cracksmen, is as follows:—One Sunday an old lady, precluded by indisposition from attending the kirk, was quietly reading her Bible at home. She was alone in the house—her servant having gone to church—when she was startled by the apparition of a man, with a crape over his face, in the room where she was sitting. The stranger quietly lifted the keys which were lying on the table beside her, opened her bureau, from which he took out a large sum of money, and then, having locked it and replaced the keys upon the table, retired with a respectful bow. The old lady, meanwhile, had looked on in speechless amazement, but no sooner was she left alone than she exclaimed, “Surely that was Deacon Brodie!”—which subsequent events proved to be the fact.

On both of these occasions it is to be noted that, although the Deacon was recognised, no action was taken by his victims. In the first instance the man hesitated to denounce his friend; in the second the old lady preferred to doubt the evidence of her senses—a striking proof of the advantages conferred by a respectable reputation.

Apart altogether from the question of gain, it is probable that Deacon Brodie, in adopting these criminal courses, was influenced by the dramatic possibilities of his new part. The minor duplicities which hitherto he had so successfully practised would thus be capable of development upon a larger stage; and, to one of his peculiar temperament, the prospect doubtless afforded fascinating opportunities for deception. To rob a friend’s house of an evening, and in the morning condole with him upon his loss; to carry through some daring burglary overnight, and gravely deliberate next day in the Council Chamber as to offering a reward for discovery of the perpetrator—these were situations after the Deacon’s heart.

Throughout the whole course of the robberies which we are about to consider, it is to be kept in view that Deacon Brodie retained the respect and esteem of his fellow-citizens—for his reputation among the associates of his secret life is immaterial; daily pursued his lawful avocations; and regularly attended the meetings of the Council, taking his share in the conduct of the town’s affairs. And so masterly was his performance of this dual rÔle that no suspicion of the Deacon’s integrity was aroused, until the failure of the “last fatal” business of the Excise Office and the treachery of an accomplice shattered, at once and for ever, the elaborate fabric of his deceit.

We can form a vivid impression of the appearance of Deacon Brodie about this time from the description of him which was circulated some two years later. From this it appears that he was a small man—“about 5 feet 4 inches”—of a slender build, and looking younger than his age. He had “dark brown, full eyes, with large black eyebrows, and a cast with his eye that gave him somewhat the look of a Jew,” a sallow complexion, and a peculiar manner of speaking, “which he did full and slow.” From the minute details of his dress and toilet it is evident that the Deacon was something of a dandy, or, in the language of the day, “a macaroni.” He had also “a particular air in his walk, and moved in a proud, swaggering sort of style,” while the advertisement includes such particulars as the size of his ankles and the turn of his calves. We shall afterwards find that this very candid portrait was not appreciated by its original.

About the month of July, 1786, there arrived in Edinburgh a man who was to exercise a powerful influence for evil upon the Deacon’s fortunes. This was George Smith, a native of Boxford, near Newburgh, in Berkshire, who was travelling the country as a hawker with a horse and cart. He was a stranger to Edinburgh, and put up at Michael Henderson’s house in the Grassmarket, having heard it mentioned on the road as a traveller’s inn. Soon after his arrival he fell sick, and, his illness lasting for some four months, he was reduced to selling his goods, and finally his horse, in order to support himself and his wife, for whom he had meanwhile sent into England to join him. Among the frequenters of Michael Henderson’s tavern were two men, Andrew Ainslie and John Brown alias Humphry Moore, of whom, prior to their doings in connection with the robbing of the Excise Office, but little is known. Ainslie is designed in the Crown list of witnesses as “sometime shoemaker in Edinburgh,” but his attention to his professional practice was less marked than his addiction to dicing and the company of cheats. Brown—like Smith, an Englishman—was a noted sharper, and had been convicted of theft at the Old Bailey in April, 1784, and sentenced to transportation beyond the seas for a term of seven years. He had, however, contrived to escape from justice, and was then lurking in Edinburgh, ready for any villainy that might prove remunerative.

With these two agreeable acquaintances Smith beguiled the tedium of convalescence in various games of hazard, in which, owing to the skill of the players, but little was left to the blindness of Fortune; and at this time he first made the acquaintance of Deacon Brodie, who, in connection with his cock-fighting proclivities, had long been a patron of the house. It is probable that, at this juncture, the Deacon’s resources were at a low ebb. Notwithstanding the income he derived from his varied interests and pursuits, his passion for gambling was a constant drain upon his purse, and the expense of maintaining no less than three establishments at once must also have been considerable, while the success of his earlier robberies doubtless induced him to extend his future operations by the assumption of a partner.

Be that as it may, we have it from Smith’s second declaration that Brodie, early in the intimacy which, in spite of the disparity in their social positions, speedily sprang up between them, suggested to him in the course of conversation “that several things could be done in this place, if prudently managed, to great advantage, and proposed that they should lay their heads together for that purpose.” Smith is said to have been at one period of his career a locksmith in Birmingham, and his abilities in this direction may have first led the Deacon to select him as an accomplice. From the readiness with which Smith embraced this proposition we may assume that his past record was not so blameless as he would have us believe.

In the following account of the burglaries (other than that of the Excise Office) committed by Deacon Brodie and his associates, the details are given from the various statements made by Smith, and, so far as possible, in his own words; but there is good reason for believing that these by no means disclose the full extent of the depredations for which the gang was responsible.

When the invalid was sufficiently recovered, the new friends, “in consequence of this concert, were in use to go about together in order to find out proper places where business could be done with success.” In the course of these interesting excursions, Smith relates that one evening in November, 1786, they visited a hardware shop in Bridge Street belonging to Davidson M‘Kain, armed with false keys, an iron crow, and a dark lantern. Having opened the outer door, Smith entered the shop, his companion remaining outside to watch. Smith was inside for about half-an-hour, and Brodie, becoming impatient, called out what made him stay so long—was he taking an inventory of the shop? The result appears to have been disappointing; but among the goods removed was a red pocket-book, which Smith presented, as a token of gratitude, to “Michael Henderson, stabler in Grassmarket, his daughter.”

About a fortnight later the two worthies again repaired to M‘Kain’s shop with the view of making a more thorough clearance. The same methods were adopted; but before Smith could get to work he was disturbed by movements in a neighbouring room, and fled, shutting the shop door after him. Brodie had already beaten a retreat. A little later, however, the pair walked arm-in-arm down Bridge Street to reconnoitre the premises, but, seeing a man on the watch, “and a guard soldier standing opposite at the head of the stair which goes down to the Fleshmarket, they passed along the bridge, and afterwards went to their several homes, as nothing could be done further that night.” This, according to Smith, was their first joint depredation; but there is reason to believe that a much more important robbery, which was committed on 9th October, the previous month—when a goldsmith’s shop near the Council Chambers was broken into and many valuable articles carried off—was also the Deacon’s handiwork.

An ostensible occupation had been found for Smith, and he was established in a house in the Cowgate, where his wife and he kept a small grocery shop. Brodie had now introduced his new friend to his own favourite “howff”—Clark, the vintner’s at the head of the Fleshmarket Close—where it was their habit to foregather nightly for the purpose of gambling and discussing future opportunities for the exercise of their felonious talents. Hither, also, came Ainslie and Brown, from the lodging which they occupied together at the foot of Burnet’s Close, but who were not yet admitted to share the others’ councils. On 8th December, we read that “the shop of John Law, tobacconist in the Enchange, was broken into, and a cannister containing between ten and twelve pounds of money carried off.” This robbery, though not confessed to by Smith, was probably committed by him and Brodie.

Stimulated to further efforts by the inadequate results of these operations, the Deacon now proposed to Smith a more important undertaking. He had recently been employed by the magistrates, in consequence of the lowering of the streets, to alter the door of the shop in Bridge Street belonging to Messrs. John & Andrew Bruce, jewellers, there. This, he said, “would be a very proper shop for breaking into,” as it contained valuable goods, and his familiarity with the lock would make it an easy matter to effect an entrance. It was accordingly agreed that they should meet at Clark’s on the evening of Saturday, 24th December, for the purpose of carrying out the robbery. Arriving there, they fell to playing hazard with other members of “the club,” as it was called by the questionable characters who frequented the house, and Smith, the luck being against him, soon lost all his money. Brodie, on the other hand, was winning steadily, and refused to leave, turning a deaf ear to his friend’s repeated reminders that business should come before pleasure and their work awaited them. It was nearly four in the morning when Smith decided to wait no longer, “as the time for doing their business was going,” and started by himself upon the exploit. The lock presented no difficulties, and, by the light of his dark lantern, he was able to reap an excellent harvest. “Ten watches, five of them gold, three silver, with the whole rings, lockets, and other jewellery and gold trinkets in the show-boxes,” were all stuffed into two old black stockings and carried by Smith to the hospitable Mr. Henderson’s stable, where he hid them in a manger, and was at last free to seek the shelter of his grocery establishment in the Cowgate.

Smith was up betimes on the Sunday, and by eight o’clock was “tirling” at the door in Brodie’s Close, to inform the Deacon of what he had missed. The maid told him, however, that her master was still in bed, so Smith left a message that he wanted to see him, and returned home. Later in the day the Deacon called upon him, and Smith, having meantime fetched the black stockings from the Grassmarket, poured out upon the bed their glittering contents, remarking, “You see what luck I have been in; you might have been there, but, as you did not go, you cannot expect a full share. But there are the goods; pick out what you choose for yourself”—which certainly seems handsome behaviour on Smith’s part, although Brodie afterwards complained that he had been treated badly in the matter. The Deacon accordingly selected for his own use a gold seal, a gold watch-key set with garnet stones, and two gold rings. They valued the whole articles at £350 sterling, and must have been good judges, for that was the figure which the owners themselves subsequently put upon the goods.

That same day they walked past Bruce’s shop several times to see if the robbery had been discovered, but found everything as they had left it. Delighted at the success of his coup, Smith boldly proposed returning that night “in order,” as he said, “to sweep the shop clean,” but Brodie dissuaded him from so hazardous an attempt. They then consulted as to the safest means of disposing of the goods, with the result that, on the following Wednesday, Smith set off with them on foot to Dunbar, and from thence took the mail-coach to Chesterfield, where he parted with them to one John Tasker alias Murray—who had previously been banished from Scotland—for £105. The Deacon had advanced five and a half guineas for the expenses of the journey, and, on his return, Smith repaid this sum, and entrusted Brodie with the balance to keep for him, and give him as he required it; but Brodie “gained a great part of it at play.” The Deacon, therefore, did not do so badly after all.

It is interesting to note in passing that during this period—the winter of 1786-7—Deacon Brodie had for an opposite neighbour no less a person than Robert Burns. While the poet was sharing his friend Richmond’s lodgings in Baxter’s Close, Lawnmarket, there also dwelt in the adjacent Wardrop’s Court Alexander Nasmyth, the artist, whose portrait of Burns was painted at this time. It is probable that the poet, the painter, and the Deacon foregathered with other kindred spirits at Johnnie Dowie’s tavern in Libberton’s Wynd, the recognised resort of the Edinburgh wits of that day.

The partners seem to have rested satisfied with the substantial profits of their last transaction for a considerable time, for the next robbery of which we have any details was not carried out till 16th August, 1787. In this, for the first time, they had the advantage of Ainslie’s assistance, he being taken into their confidence for that end. The three repaired to Leith, to the shop of John Carnegie, a grocer at the foot of St. Andrew Street, which Ainslie and Smith entered by means of pick-locks—Brodie remaining without to watch—and carried off “350 pounds of fine black tea,” at that period a very valuable haul. Two wallets were filled from the chests in the shop, but “Ainslie being ill at this time and Brodie being weakly,” they were forced to abandon one of the wallets, which they hid in a shed in a field by the Bonnington Road, where it was afterwards recovered. The Deacon objected to the other wallet being taken to his house, and what became of it is not known.

In their next undertaking the company was raised to its full strength by the accession of John Brown alias Humphry Moore, whose previous experiences in England eminently qualified him to take an important part in such criminal enterprises. Brown appears to have been spending the autumn in Stirlingshire, but his visit was suddenly brought to a close in September on his banishment from that county by the Justices of the Peace for a theft committed by him within their jurisdiction. This was a more boldly conceived robbery than the gang had yet attempted—no less than the theft of the silver mace belonging to the University of Edinburgh. The Deacon, in the course of those walks with Smith, in which healthful exercise was combined with an eye to business, “carried” the latter “to the College Library, where, having observed the mace standing, Brodie said that they must have it.” Ainslie was accordingly sent to see where the mace was usually kept, and reported that it was in the Library, where the others had seen it. Accordingly, on the night of 29th October, 1787, the quartet proceeded to the University. “Having got access at the under gate, they opened the under door leading to the Library with a false key, which broke in the lock; and thereafter they broke open the door of the Library with an iron crow, and carried away the College mace.” The magistrates offered a reward of ten guineas for a discovery of the thieves, but without success. The mace was forthwith despatched to the accommodating Tasker, of Chesterfield, at the appropriate address of the “Bird in Hand,” and the macer thereof knew it no more.

Brown appears entitled to the credit of planning the next robbery, and took a leading part in its execution. In those days the merchants of Edinburgh usually resided above their business premises, and the key of the shop was hung on the inside of the door—a habit highly appreciated by the Deacon’s little band. Brown brought to Smith the key of a shop belonging to one John Tapp, which, he said, also opened the door of that gentleman’s house; and Smith, having cast a professional eye over same, assured him “there was nothing in it.” Thereafter, one evening about Christmas time, between nine and ten o’clock, Brown dropped in upon John Tapp, whom he detained in his shop over a friendly and seasonable bottle. His associates, meanwhile, opened the house door with a false key and rifled the good man’s repositories, making off with “eighteen guinea notes, and a twenty shilling one, a silver watch, some rings, and a miniature picture of a gentleman belonging to Tapp’s wife, which picture they broke for the sake of the gold with which it was backed.” One wonders if Mrs. Tapp mentioned the loss to her husband. These valuables accompanied the mace to Chesterfield, where John Tasker alias Murray seems to have driven a brisk, though illegitimate, trade, along with a letter to him, written by Brown in Smith’s name, arranging for their disposal.

Soon after this the Deacon, ever on the alert for a good stroke of business, suggested to his partners the “doing” of the shop of Messrs. Inglis & Horner, silk mercers at the Cross of Edinburgh, “as the goods there were very rich and valuable, and a small bulk of them carried off would amount to a large sum.” He and Smith frequently went to examine the padlock, “which they did most commonly on the Sunday forenoon when the people were in church.” They found this necessary, as the lock proved to be of a difficult construction. Brodie made a key for it himself, and went one night alone to test its efficacy, probably with the view of stealing a march upon the rest, and doing a little private practice outwith the knowledge of his colleagues. When he tried the key, however, although it unlocked the padlock it would not lock it again, and he had to disclose the state of matters to the others. On learning of his attempt “they were all very angry with him, and said that he had more than likely spoilt the place after all the trouble they had been about; but Brodie told them he hoped not, as he had fixed the padlock with a bit stick in a way that it would not be discovered, and upon looking at the place afterwards, which they all did, they found the lock to be just as it was.” Eventually Smith made a key that was more reliable, and on the night of 8th January, 1788, an entry was effected, and silks and cambrics to the value of between £300 and £400 successfully removed.

Next day a reward of £100 was offered by the Procurator-Fiscal for the discovery of the criminals, but, as usual, without success. The owners, however, did not let the matter rest there, and on their representations the Government, on 25th January, offered an increased reward of £150 to any one who, within six months, would give such information as should lead to the discovery and conviction of the perpetrators, and twenty guineas for the names of the offenders whether they should be convicted or not. In addition, “His Majesty’s gracious pardon” was promised to any accomplice who should within the like period procure the apprehension of the guilty parties. Though this offer elicited no information at the time, it was, ultimately, as we shall see, the means of breaking up that dangerous association from whose depredations the inhabitants of the good town of Edinburgh had so long and severely suffered.

From the spoils of Inglis & Horner’s shop Smith tells us that Brown selected “a piece of plain white sattin, a piece of variegated ditto, and a lead-coloured silk, in quantity about ten yards, which he gave to a girl, an acquaintance of his of the name of Johnston.” One is pleased to notice in passing this indication of a gentler element in Mr. Brown’s rugged nature. The remainder of the goods were concealed in a cellar which Ainslie had hired for the purpose in Stevenlaw’s Close, and were subsequently despatched in two trunks—one by the Berwick carrier and the other by the Newcastle waggoner—to our old friend at the “Bird in Hand,” Chesterfield. We shall hear more of them later.

The reader must have been struck, in following the account of the robberies committed by Deacon Brodie, with the singular incapacity displayed by the official guardians of the public safety. These were the Old Town Guard, a body of armed police which existed in Edinburgh from an early date until 1817, when it was finally disbanded. The corps was composed of some hundred and twenty veterans, chiefly drawn from the Highland regiments, who were in continual conflict with the youth of the capital. Fergusson, in his poems, has many a hit at the peculiarities of this “canker’d pack”—

Indeed, so frequently does he refer to them that Scott, in “The Heart of Midlothian,” calls him their poet laureate. Evidently these antiquated warriors were no match for the Deacon and his merry men.

Notwithstanding the many calls upon his time, owing to the varied character of his engagements and pursuits, Deacon Brodie managed to drop in at the club in the Fleshmarket Close of an evening as frequently as ever, and, in spite of the magnitude of his recent operations, was not above winning a few guineas from any one foolish enough to lose them. On the night of the 17th of January, therefore, Brodie, Smith, and Ainslie were at Clark’s, according to their own account, “innocently amusing themselves with a game of dice over a glass of punch,” when their privacy was intruded upon by John Hamilton, a master chimney-sweep in Portsburgh, who insisted on joining them at play. This person was, within a surprisingly short time, relieved by the trio of “five guinea notes, two half guineas in gold, and six shillings in silver,” and being apparently a bad loser, he promptly seized the dice, which, on examination, were found to be “loaded, or false dice, filled at one end or corner with lead.” Here was a pretty scandal for the respectable Deacon to be mixed up in! Outraged innocence was of no avail—the dice spoke for themselves.

But the master sweep’s blood was up, and the matter was not allowed to end there. Hamilton forthwith presented to the magistrates of Edinburgh a petition and complaint against Brodie, Smith, and Ainslie, setting forth his meeting with them at Clark’s, and his being invited to join them in a friendly game, with the result above narrated. The petitioner concluded with praying for a warrant to apprehend and incarcerate the said persons until they should repeat the sum of which he had been so defrauded, and pay a sum over and above in name of damages and expenses. Answers were lodged for Brodie, and separate answers for Smith and Ainslie, in which it was stated that if false dice were used it was unknown to the defenders, as the dice they played with belonged to the house; that Brodie had only gained seven and sixpence; and that “the petitioner himself was a noted adept in the science of gambling, and it was not very credible that he would have allowed himself to be imposed upon in the manner he had alleged.”

Hamilton’s replies to these answers are conceived in a fine vein of irony—“Mr. Brodie knows nothing of such vile tricks—not he! He never made them his study—not he! Mr. Brodie never haunted night houses, where nothing but the blackest and vilest arts were practised to catch a pigeon, nor ever was accessory, either by himself or others in his combination, to behold the poor young creature plucked alive, and not one feather left upon its wings—not he, indeed! He never was accessory to see or be concerned in fleecing the ignorant, the thoughtless, the young, and the unwary, nor ever made it his study, his anxious study, with unwearied concern, at midnight hours, to haunt the rooms where he thought of meeting with the company from which there was a possibility of fetching from a scurvy sixpence to a hundred guineas—not he, indeed! He is unacquainted altogether either with packing or shuffling a set of cards—he is, indeed!” This, one would think, must have been painful reading for the Deacon’s fellow-Councillors; but nothing further appears to have been done in the matter, and the affair blew over without damaging the worthy man’s repute: a singular comment on the moral standard of the time.

In spite of the consummate skill with which Deacon Brodie had hitherto sustained his double character, one is hardly prepared, in view of his manner of life, to find him figuring in a criminal trial in any other capacity than that of the central figure. Strange as it may seem, however, his next public appearance was in the jury-box of the High Court of Justiciary, when, on 4th February, 1788, Allan M‘Farlane, officer of Excise, and Richard Firmin, soldier in the 39th Regiment of Foot, were placed at the bar charged with the murder of Dougald Fergusson, ferryman at Dunoon, Argyllshire.

The facts brought out at the trial were, briefly, as follows:—A party of Excise officers, accompanied by some soldiers, had, in the previous July, gone to Dunoon and seized certain illicit stills, which they put on board their boat. Fergusson, a zealous freetrader, had rung the kirk bell, assembled a mob, who pelted the officers with stones, and, boarding the boat, had knocked down the two boatmen and attempted to carry off the stills. In these circumstances, M‘Farlane ordered Firmin to fire, which he did, killing Fergusson on the spot. The charge against Firmin was abandoned by the Lord Advocate in his address, as it was proved that he had only acted under orders; and the point for the jury to consider was whether M‘Farlane was justified in giving the order to fire in self-defence, in view of the danger to which the Excise party were exposed from the hostile mob behind them, had Fergusson succeeded in carrying off the boat. The jury unanimously found both panels not guilty.

Thus did the Deacon, at the very time when all Edinburgh trembled at his depredations and the authorities were straining

every nerve to discover the guilty author, calmly officiate upon a jury to judge of the crimes of others. But, although he may have laughed in his sleeve at this ironical situation—for he had a pretty wit, and doubtless relished the humour of it keenly—fate had prepared for him one yet more dramatic. A few months later he himself would sit in that dock on trial for his life, the same counsel would conduct the prosecution, the same judges occupy the bench; but the verdict would be a different one, and the sentence to follow upon it, death.

Undisturbed by any shadow of coming disaster, and emboldened by his previous successes, Deacon Brodie now decided to carry out a robbery upon a grander scale than any he had previously attempted, the daring and danger of which were commensurate with the advantages to be gained. The General Excise Office for Scotland was at that period kept in a large mansion, enclosed by a parapet wall and iron railing, situated in Chessel’s Court, Canongate. The building had formerly been occupied as a dwelling-house, and was by no means a secure repository for the great sums of money which in those days were collected there from all parts of the country. The Deacon, in his professional capacity, was familiar with the arrangements of the office, his men having at various times executed repairs on the premises. A connection of his, Mr. Corbett, of Stirling, too, was in the habit of coming to Edinburgh frequently on Excise business, and Brodie took the opportunity of accompanying him upon these occasions with a view to studying how the land lay.

Having learned all that was necessary for his purpose, the Deacon went one day to the office with Smith, on pretence of inquiring for Mr. Corbett, and while he thus engaged the attention of the cashier, Smith took an impression in putty of the key of the outer door, which, according to the prevailing ingenuous custom, was hung upon a nail inside it. From this Brodie prepared a drawing of the wards, and Smith filed a key of similar pattern. The next step was to ascertain the habits of the watchman who guarded the premises, and for this purpose Ainslie—whose department seems to have been scouting—was deputed to observe the office on several successive nights. He found that it was usually closed for the day at eight o’clock; that when all the clerks had left the outer door was locked, and the key taken to Mr. Dundas, “the housekeeper,” who lived in the court, and that the night watchman did not come on duty until ten o’clock. The Excise Office was thus left wholly unguarded between the hours of eight and ten at night.

Smith and Brown had already tried the efficiency of the new key, which readily opened the outer door, but the lock of the inner door to the cashier’s room refused to yield to their persuasive methods. Smith was of opinion that its resistance could only be overcome by violence, observing that the coulter of a plough would be a suitable instrument for that purpose. Accordingly, on the afternoon of Friday, 28th February, Ainslie and Brown repaired to Duddingston as a likely spot for picking up such an implement. Having refreshed themselves after their walk with a bottle of porter at a house in the village, they entered a field in the neighbourhood, where they had seen a man ploughing, and, when his back was turned, removed the coulter of the plough and two iron wedges, which on their way home by the King’s Park they hid in Salisbury Crags. Unfortunately for themselves and Smith, they were accompanied upon this country ramble by a black dog, belonging to the latter, named “Rodney,” which, curiously enough, was at a later stage to bear testimony against its master before the Sheriff.

On Tuesday, 4th March, a final consultation was held by the four desperadoes at Smith’s house in the Cowgate to arrange the details of the attack upon the Excise Office, which was fixed for the following night, when, as they had ascertained, it was the turn of an old man, who watched night about with the other porter, to be on guard. According to Smith’s second declaration, “it was concerted by Brodie, in case of interruption by the man coming into the office before the business was accomplished, to conceal themselves quietly until he was gone to rest, and then to secure him; and they were, if this happened, to personate smugglers who came in search of their property that had been seized; and the declarant had a wig of Brodie’s father in his pocket in order to disguise himself.” Little did that decent old gentleman dream to what base uses his respectable wig would one day be assigned by his cynical and degenerate offspring. The Deacon also furnished Smith with a coil of rope to be knotted into a ladder, so that if taken by surprise they could lock the outer door of the office and make good their escape by the back windows into the garden behind. Having decided upon their plan of campaign, the meeting adjourned till the following afternoon.

Wednesday, the 5th of March, 1788, was a busy day for the Deacon. Between two and three o’clock he was back at Smith’s, attired in “the white-coloured clothes he usually wore,” with various requisites for the night’s adventure—pick-locks, false keys, an ivory whistle, “a strong chisel with a brass virral,” and a spur, which was to be left on the scene of the robbery, “to make it believed it had been done by some person on horseback, in order that it might appear, when found, to have dropped from the foot by its being torn by accident at the buckle.”

By three o’clock he was presiding in his own dining-room, with the panel painting and the great arched window, at a dinner-party consisting of his aunt, his two sisters, Matthew Sheriff, his brother-in-law, and “a stranger gentleman” whose identity was not disclosed. “We drank together,” says Mr. Sheriff, “from dinner to tea, which I think was brought in about six o’clock, and then the stranger gentleman went away.” Probably he thought discretion the better part of valour. The brothers-in-law, however, continued the sederunt till shortly before eight o’clock, when Sheriff retired to his residence in Bunker’s Hill—the name by which St. James’ Square was then known. The moment his guest had gone the Deacon, hastily attiring himself in an old-fashioned black suit, a cocked hat, and a light-coloured great-coat, put his pistols and dark lantern in his pocket, and hurried off to the business of the evening.

It had been arranged that the gang should assemble at Smith’s house at seven o’clock, since which hour the others had been impatiently awaiting their leader’s arrival. The Deacon was in a merry mood; his spirits were high as his hopes, and the potations of the afternoon had doubtless contributed to their elation. He burst in upon his anxious friends with a pistol in his hand, singing a stave from his favourite “Beggar’s Opera”—

It was a raw and wintry evening of a type familiar to the Edinburgh spring—that “meteorological purgatory” of Stevenson; there had been a considerable fall of snow, followed by an intense frost, and few people were out of doors. Smith, Brown, and Ainslie were sitting in an upper room beguiling the time with a light refection of herrings and chicken, washed down by draughts of gin and “black cork,” i.e., Bell’s beer. Ainslie and Brown had, whenever it was sufficiently dark, brought the coulter of the plough and the iron wedges from their hiding-place in Salisbury Crags. No time was to be lost, and so soon as the Deacon arrived the final arrangements were quickly made. Three brace of pistols—one of which had been obligingly lent by Michael Henderson—were loaded by Smith with powder and ball, each member of the party, excepting Ainslie, being armed with a pair, “as they were determined not to be taken, whatever should be the consequence.” Three crape masks were also prepared for the use of Smith, Ainslie, and Brown. To Smith and Brown was appointed the task of forcing the doors and rifling the premises; the Deacon was to be stationed in the hall behind the outer door to prevent a surprise; while it was Ainslie’s duty to keep watch within the “palisadoes” outside the office, where, concealed by the parapet wall, he could command a view of the court and entry. Ainslie was provided with a whistle of ivory, purchased by Brodie the night before, with which, if the watchman appeared, he was to give one whistle, so that they might be prepared to secure him; and, if more than one man or any appearance of danger was perceived, he was to give three whistles, and then make the best of his way to the gardens behind, in order to assist the others in escaping by the back windows. Brodie, on hearing the signal, was, in turn, to give the alarm to Brown and Smith within the building.

In pursuance of this arrangement, Ainslie left first for the scene of action in Chessel’s Court, carrying with him the coulter, and, having taken up his position within the “palisadoes,” saw the porter come out with a light and lock the outer door behind him. Shortly thereafter Smith arrived. On hearing that the coast was clear, he lost no time in opening the front door with his false key and went into the office. He was followed five minutes later by Deacon Brodie, who, learning that Smith was within, but that Brown had not yet put in an appearance, went back up the court to look for him. They met in the entry and returned together, Brown explaining that, on his arrival, he had seen the old man who usually locked up the office leaving the court, and had dogged him home as a precautionary measure. Brown then inquired of Ainslie “whether or not he had ‘Great Samuel’?”—by which playful appellation he referred to the coulter—and Ainslie handed it to him through the railings. The Deacon and Brown then entered the office, leaving the outer door on the latch, behind which the former ensconced himself.

Smith had meanwhile opened the spring catch of the inner door with a pair of curling irons or “toupee tongs” which he had prepared for that purpose, and was awaiting Brown in the hall. By means of the coulter and an iron crow—“Little Samuel,” in Brown’s humorous phraseology—the two burglars at length succeeded in forcing the door of the cashier’s room, and by the light of the Deacon’s lantern they proceeded to prize open every desk and press which it contained. In the cashier’s desk they found and appropriated two five-pound notes, six guinea notes, and some odd silver; but after half-an-hour’s diligent searching their utmost efforts failed to discover the accumulated riches which they had confidently expected to secure.

In the hurry of the search, by a curious chance, a secret drawer, concealed beneath the cashier’s desk, containing no less than £600 sterling, escaped their notice.

Unwilling to accept their defeat, the two men were ransacking the desks afresh when they heard the front door open, but, supposing Brodie to be at his post, paid no attention. They were about to leave the room to prosecute their investigation of the premises when they heard some one come hastily down the stairs, “which made them stop or they must have met him.” Upon this Brown whispered, “Here must be treachery; get out your pistols and cock them!” They then heard the front door close with a crash. Perceiving that something was wrong, they now hastened into the hall, when, to their amazement, they found that the Deacon had vanished, and, on opening the door, that Ainslie also had disappeared. Cursing their ill luck and the defection of their companions, the puzzled burglars hurried through the court into the Canongate; and, quite at sea as to what had happened, made the best of their way to Smith’s house, leaving behind them in the office the heavy coulter and the spur which was designed to mislead the discoverers of the robbery.

We must now return to Ainslie, whom we left on the watch behind the railings. A servant girl, returning from a message to her master’s house in the court, saw him looking over the wall, and, “judging him to be a light or suspicious person”—in which diagnosis she was not far wrong—sought safety within doors. He had not been long at his post when the silence of the court was broken by the sound of a man running into it from the street, and Ainslie, peering through the railings, was alarmed to see him go in at the open door of the Excise Office. At the very moment of his entrance another man rushed from the doorway and fled at full speed up the court; and before Ainslie could recover from his surprise at this unlooked-for situation, a third man, as he supposed, came immediately out of the office and also disappeared towards the Canongate after the other.

The scanty oil lamps with which in those days the city was “illuminated” after nightfall served but as feeble foils to the surrounding darkness, and to Ainslie, in the dimly-lighted court, friend and foe were equally indistinguishable. These mysterious and unlooked-for doings proved too much for the watcher’s nerve; so, having hastily given the agreed-on signal of retreat by three blasts upon his whistle, he, too, made for the entry, and, turning down St. John’s Street, came through the gardens of the Canongate to the back of the Excise Office. Finding no trace of his associates there, Ainslie in his turn repaired to Smith’s.

The explanation of these occurrences, which had dispersed the gang in bewilderment and consternation, was singularly simple, but the issue might have been very different. Mr. James Bonar, Deputy Solicitor of Excise, had returned to the office about half-past eight o’clock to get certain papers which he had left in his room. Finding the outer door on the latch, he assumed that some of the clerks were still in the building, and was entering the office when the Deacon, who appears to have lost his usual presence of mind, bounced out from behind the door, and, brushing past him, fled hastily from the court. Mr. Bonar attached no importance to this incident, thinking the person belonged to the office, and, being pressed for time, ran upstairs to his own room, got what he wanted, and hastened from the building, slamming the outer door after him.

If Ainslie had not lost his head at the sudden entrance and exit of the Solicitor and the Deacon, but had blown his whistle, as he should have done, whenever the former appeared, Smith and Brown, rushing out with their pistols cocked, would have encountered Mr. Bonar in the lobby, and murder would doubtless have been done. As it was, that gentleman probably owed his life to the pusillanimity of Ainslie and Brodie, the latter of whom could, from his ambush, easily have closed with him as he entered the hall.

After his undignified flight from the Excise Office, Deacon Brodie reached his own house about nine o’clock, where he once more changed his attire, putting on the fine white suit he usually wore. He then hurried to the house of his mistress, Jean Watt, in Libberton’s Wynd, where he remained till the following morning. Meanwhile, at Smith’s house the other three were discussing the disappointing result of the night’s expedition and indulging in mutual recriminations. The non-appearance of Brodie added to their uncertainty, and they parted for the night in no amiable mood, Ainslie and Brown going over to the New Town, where, in a tavern kept by one Fraser, they sought consolation in a bowl of punch. The next day—Thursday—the Deacon came to Brown and Ainslie’s lodging in Burnet’s Close and laughingly told them that Smith had accused him of deserting his post the previous night. He was received but sourly by Brown, who made no secret of sharing Smith’s opinion. These, however, were minor matters, the vital question being whether or not suspicion would be directed to themselves. It was arranged that they should all meet at Smith’s the following night, when the sixteen pounds—miserable recompense of so much risk and labour!—was to be equally divided among them.

Accordingly, upon the Friday evening, in the upper room of Smith’s house, each man received his share, amounting to a little over four pounds. Ainslie, to whom Brodie owed a “debt of honour,” took occasion to require payment, and got one of the five-pound notes and some gold from him. The Deacon, who had staked infinitely more, thus made less than any of them by the adventure. Brown, so soon as he had received his share, went out, like Judas, and for a similar purpose.

The reader may remember the two trunks in which the silks stolen from Inglis & Horner’s shop were packed with a view to transmission to John Tasker at Chesterfield. One of these had been despatched some time before by the Berwick carrier, the other had been forwarded that week by the Newcastle waggoner, and Smith’s wife was to leave for England on the Saturday in order to treat personally with the proprietor of the “Bird in Hand,” who was probably a difficult customer to deal with. Smith and Ainslie therefore proceeded to the New Town, where, at the inn kept by William Drysdale, they purchased a ticket for Mrs. Smith by the mail-coach to Newcastle on the following day. The five-pound note was tendered in payment, and they received the change, less the price of the ticket.

Let us now see how prudent Mr. Brown had been improving his time. Daily since the 25th of January there had appeared in each of the three Edinburgh newspapers advertisements offering £150 reward and a free pardon to whoever should disclose the robbers of Inglis & Horner’s shop. The excitement occasioned by that crime had been revived and increased tenfold by the discovery of the attack upon the Excise Office, which was made by ten o’clock on the night of its occurrence, and the vigilance of the authorities was proportionally augmented.

Brown stood in a more ticklish situation towards the outraged majesty of the law than any of his companions, for over him hung the sentence of transportation, which he had hitherto successfully evaded; and it would go hard with him if he fell into the hands of justice in connection with any of his later villainies, which might happen at any moment. He was, moreover, profoundly disgusted with the manner in which the Excise business had miscarried through no fault of his own, and would not be sorry to steal a march on his cowardly associates. He was also cunning enough to foresee that, if he turned informer, he would not only earn a handsome reward, but enjoy immunity for his past performances, as it would be necessary for the public prosecutor to obtain a pardon for his old offence also, before his evidence could be made available against his fellow-criminals.

Having carefully considered his position, therefore, and immediately after securing his dividend at Smith’s, Brown proceeded to William Middleton, of the Sheriff-Clerk’s Office, and informed him that he had certain discoveries to make concerning the robberies recently committed in the city. Late as it then was—eleven o’clock—Middleton at once took Brown to the Procurator-Fiscal, to whom he told the whole story, suppressing, however, in the meantime, all mention of Deacon Brodie’s name in connection with the crimes. His object in taking this course was doubtless to secure a hold upon the Deacon which would enable him, at his leisure, to blackmail that respectable gentleman with impunity. At his own request the Procurator-Fiscal and Middleton went with him that same night to Salisbury Crags, where Brown pointed out a number of false keys underneath a stone, hidden there by Smith after the affair at the Excise Office, of which the Fiscal took possession.

The next morning, Saturday, 8th March, Brown, accompanied by Middleton, left for Chesterfield in pursuit of Inglis & Horner’s goods by the very coach in which Mrs. Smith was to have performed the same journey. How they fared upon their errand is not recorded, but it would have been interesting to know what happened when John Tasker’s unexpected guests dropped in at the “Bird in Hand.”

The same day Ainslie, Smith, and his wife, and servant-maid were apprehended; and, having been examined before the Sheriff, were committed to the Tolbooth, the two women being subsequently set at liberty.

That Saturday evening the rumour of the prisoners’ arrest spread like wildfire through the city, and on Deacon Brodie, confident in his fool’s paradise, the intelligence must have fallen like a thunderbolt. Apart from his temporary loss of nerve at the Excise Office, he was undoubtedly a man of courage and resource, and the step he now determined to take might well have daunted a less intrepid character. This was to visit the Tolbooth in person and obtain speech with Smith and Ainslie, so as to induce them, if it were not too late, to hold their tongues. To do this, knowing nothing of where he stood or how much had come out, was to put his head into the lion’s mouth; but he saw that, at all costs, he must ascertain what had happened. Accordingly, having taken his cane and cocked hat, the Deacon, with that “particular air” which characterised his walk, sallied forth upon his desperate errand. The Tolbooth was but a few paces from his own door, and he was familiar with the jail, both as a Town Councillor and in the ordinary course of his employment. Arrived there, he congratulated the officials on their capture, and expressed his curiosity to see the redoubtable burglars with whose deeds all Edinburgh was then ringing, but was informed that no one was allowed access to them. He was therefore compelled to return home no wiser than he went, where, it is probable, the owner of the house in Brodie’s Close passed a sleepless and remorseful night.

Next morning, realising that the game was up, and that he must prepare for the worst—for he might now be arrested at any moment—Deacon Brodie sent for his foreman, Robert Smith, at eight o’clock, told him that he was about to leave town for a day or two on business, and gave him a message about a waistcoat and a pair of breeches he required for the journey. He then casually asked “if there were any news about the people who had broke into the Excise.” The foreman answered that Smith was in custody, and that Brown had been sent to England; and, knowing his master’s intimacy with these men, added that he hoped he (Brodie) was not concerned with them, to which the other made no reply.

If he was to fly the country it was essential that the Deacon should be in touch with his relations in Edinburgh, upon whose assistance he would principally have to rely. He therefore promptly called upon his cousin—whose name was considerately withheld in the subsequent proceedings—and explained the situation. This gentleman’s feelings, as he listened to the disclosures of his respectable relative, may readily be imagined. But the honour of the family was at stake, and he seems to have done everything he could to further the Deacon’s plans. The necessary arrangements made, early in the forenoon of Sunday, 9th March, while the good folks of Edinburgh were still in church, Deacon Brodie burnt his boats and stole secretly out of the city.

Had the Deacon’s confidence in the loyalty of his late companions been stronger, it is possible he might even yet have weathered the storm, for neither Smith nor Ainslie in the declarations emitted by them on the Saturday had admitted their guilt or made any reference to his connection with them. So far, therefore, the statements of Brown were uncorroborated; and if, in modern parlance, Brodie had decided “to face the music” and remain in Edinburgh, his fortunes might have taken a different turn.

In the course of Smith’s first examination before the Sheriff a curious incident occurred. He was confronted with the ploughman, John Kinnear, whose coulter had been stolen by Ainslie and Brown as before narrated, in order to try if that person could identify him. Kinnear, never having seen him before, failed to do so. At this moment, however, Smith’s dog “Rodney,” having followed his master to the Sheriff-Clerk’s Office, came into the room, and the ploughman at once recognised it as the black dog which he had seen with the men in the field at Duddingston. The animal ran up to Smith and fawned upon him, thus, in spite of his denial, establishing the fact of his ownership. “Rodney” figures in Kay’s sketch of the first meeting of Brodie and Smith.

On Monday, 10th March, Smith, learning that the Deacon had decamped, and no doubt hoping to secure more favourable terms for himself, sent for the Sheriff and informed him “that he wished to have an opportunity of making a clean breast and telling the truth.” He thereupon emitted his second declaration, laying bare the whole operations of the gang, and implicating Brodie to the fullest extent, his admissions being afterwards confirmed by Ainslie.

The following paragraph appeared next day in the Edinburgh Evening Courant:—“The depredations that have been committed by housebreakers in and about this city for this some time past have been no less alarming than the art with which they have been executed, and the concealment that has attended them has been surprising. From a discovery, however, just made, there is reason to hope that a stop will soon be put to such acts of atrocious villainy. With what amazement must it strike every friend to virtue and honesty to find that a person is charged with a crime of the above nature who very lately held a distinguished rank among his fellow-citizens? With what pity and compunction must we view the unfortunate victim who falls a sacrifice to justice for having violated the laws of his country, to which violation he was perhaps impelled by necessity, when rank, ease, and opulence are forfeited in endeavouring to gratify the most sordid avarice? For to what other cause than avarice can we impute the late robbery committed upon the Excise Office, when the situation of the supposed perpetrator is considered? No excuse from necessity can be pled for a man in the enjoyment of thousands, who will run the risk of life, honour, and reputation in order to attain the unlawful possession of what could in a very trifling degree add to his supposed happiness.—See the advertisement from the Sheriff-Clerk’s Office.”

The advertisement to which this article refers—a copy of which will be found in the Appendix—was the offer by the Procurator-Fiscal of a reward of two hundred pounds for the apprehension of “William Brodie, a considerable house carpenter, and burgess of the city of Edinburgh,” together with the minute and somewhat unflattering description of that gentleman’s personal appearance, to which we have already alluded. So the murder was out at last, and the ex-Town Councillor became a fugitive from justice with a price upon his head.

In consequence of the revelations of Smith, the officers of justice proceeded on Monday, 10th March, to search the house in Brodie’s Close. There Smith, who accompanied them, unearthed the Deacon’s pistols, buried in his woodyard. His dark lantern, several pick-locks, and a parcel of false keys were also found—the first “in a pen where game-cocks had been

kept”—together with “a black case, with a lid to it, the case full of potty,” with which it had been the Deacon’s amiable habit to take impressions of his friends’ door keys, and of which Smith remarked that he “approved of Brodie keeping the potty in a case, as the lid prevented an impression of a key, when taken, from being defaced.” On a subsequent occasion, Smith conducted the sheriff-officers to the foot of Warriston’s Close, where the iron crow—“Little Samuel”—the “toupee tongs,” and the false key for the Excise Office door were discovered hidden “in an old dyke.” The Deacon’s dark lantern and twenty-five false keys were, on 13th December, 1841, presented by the then Clerk of Justiciary to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, in whose museum they still remain.

On Tuesday, 11th March, George Williamson, King’s Messenger for Scotland, was deputed to search for the missing Deacon. He tried several of Brodie’s haunts in Edinburgh and Leith—even examining the enclosed tombs in Greyfriars Churchyard, which had more than once sheltered living offenders against the law—but without success. Prosecuting his inquiries along the London Road, Williamson first got scent of his quarry at Dunbar, which the fugitive had left at four o’clock on the Sunday afternoon in a post-chaise, and afterwards traced him to Newcastle, where he had taken the “Flying Mercury” light coach for York and London. From the coachman of that vehicle Williamson learned that Deacon Brodie had left the coach at the foot of Old Street, Moorfields, instead of proceeding to the “Bull and Mouth,” where the coach stopped, and there all trace of him was lost. His pursuer repaired to the billiard tables, hazard tables, cock-pits, tennis courts, and other likely places, without hearing anything of him, and pushed his inquiries as far as Margate, Deal, and Dover, with the like result. Finally, after eighteen days’ fruitless search, the King’s Messenger was compelled to return to Edinburgh and confess himself at fault.

We must now, in our turn, set forth in search of Mr. Brodie; and as to his doings after leaving Edinburgh we have the evidence of his own letter to Michael Henderson. He writes—“Were I to write you all that has happened to me, and the hair-breadth escapes I made from a well-scented pack of bloodhounds, it would make a small volume. I arrived in London on Wednesday, 12th March, where I remained snug and safe in the house of an old female friend until Sunday, 23rd March (whose care for me I shall never forget, and only wish I may ever have it in my power to reward her sufficiently), within five hundred yards of Bow Street. I did not keep the house all this time, but so altered, excepting the scar under my eye, I think you could not have rapt [swore] to me. I saw Mr. Williamson twice; but although countrymen commonly shake hands when they meet from home, yet I did not choose to make so free with him notwithstanding he brought a letter to me. He is a clever man, and I give him credit for his conduct. My female gave me great uneasiness by introducing a flash man to me, but she assured me he was a true man, and he proved himself so, notwithstanding the great reward, and was useful to me. I saw my picture [his description in the newspapers] six hours before, exhibited to public view, and my intelligence of what was doing at Bow Street Office was as good as ever I had in Edinburgh. I make no doubt but that designing villain Brown is now in high favour with Mr. Cockburn [the Sheriff], for I can see some strokes of his pencil in my portrait. May God forgive him for all his crimes and falsehoods.” It is evident that the impartial terms of this description were unpalatable to its subject.

The scar to which the Deacon here alludes was a souvenir of his membership of the club in the Fleshmarket Close, and the occasion of his receiving it is thus referred to in the answers of Hamilton, the master sweep, in the process before mentioned—“Mr. Brodie, in all his innocent amusements, never met with any person who, after having been fleeced of money to the amount of a hundred pounds, and detected of the vile and dishonest methods by which it had been abstracted from him, received, as a return for his moral rectitude, a very handsome incision on the eye—never he, indeed! He never was in such company, nor ever met with such an accident—not he!” This scar may be observed in the portraits of the Deacon by Kay.

Deacon Brodie had brought with him to London an introduction from his cousin to Mr. William Walker, attorney in the Adelphi, who busied himself in the fugitive’s affairs, lent him twelve guineas, and arranged to have him shipped safely off to the Continent so soon as the coast was sufficiently clear.

On Sunday, 23rd March, that “constant trader,” the sloop “Endeavour,” of Carron, John Dent, master, bound for the port of Leith, lay at her anchor at Blackwall. About twelve o’clock that night the captain, who had gone ashore, came aboard with the owners, Messrs. Hamilton and Pinkerton, and an elderly gentleman, apparently in feeble health. After a short conversation the owners left the ship; the passenger, who had been “allotted a bed in the state-room near the fire, as he was sick,” withdrew to the privacy of his cabin; and the “Endeavour” began her voyage. Off Tilbury Point, however, she went aground, and did not clear the Thames for a fortnight. No one seems to have thought this misadventure at all remarkable, and such incidents were doubtless common enough in those spacious days, when time, generally speaking, was no object.

The only other passengers on board were John Geddes, a tobacconist in Mid-Calder, and his wife, who were returning to Leith after a visit to the metropolis. The leisurely methods of the “Endeavour” afforded ample opportunity for cultivating the acquaintance of their fellow-passenger, whose name they found was Mr. John Dixon. They passed the time agreeably together, and Mr. Dixon on one occasion entertained his fellow-voyagers to dinner at a neighbouring village, though for the most part, while the vessel was aground, he remained on board.

At length, having been successfully refloated, the “Endeavour” resumed her interrupted voyage. No sooner, however, were they well out at sea than Mr. John Dixon produced and handed to Captain Dent sealed orders from the owners, wherein he was instructed to make sail for Ostend, where Mr. Dixon was to be landed, before proceeding to Leith, and the vessel was accordingly headed for the coast of Flanders. Owing to thick weather and cross winds, she failed to make that port, and finally put in to Flushing. Even this fresh delay appears in no way to have disturbed the equanimity of the easy-going Geddeses; and, having arrived on the 8th of April at their unlooked-for destination, they improved the occasion by making some purchases of contraband goods as a memento of their visit. Mr. John Dixon, meanwhile, before leaving the ship, wrote three letters—which he entrusted to the care of Geddes for delivery on his arrival in Edinburgh—directed respectively to Michael Henderson, stabler in the Grassmarket; Mrs. Anne Grant, Cant’s Close; and Mr. Matthew Sheriff, upholsterer in Edinburgh. Having taken a cordial farewell of each other, Mr. Dixon and Geddes parted company, the former—in whom the astute reader has ere now discerned the perfidious Deacon—setting out for Ostend in a skiff, and the latter resuming his protracted voyage.

When the “Endeavour” eventually arrived at Leith, where her non-appearance had caused considerable anxiety, Geddes, on perusing the newspapers, saw the Deacon’s description; but, though satisfied that the letters he carried were written by the notorious William Brodie, for three weeks after making the discovery he did nothing further in the matter. Perhaps a dilatory habit had been induced by his late experiences, or his conscience may have required some persuasion. Having at last decided to open the letters, he showed them to various persons, and subsequently delivered them over to the Sheriff. In taking this course, Geddes was probably actuated less by a sense of duty to his country than by a desire to secure the reward. If so, it is satisfactory to find that he did not receive it. The authorities had now, through the Deacon’s singular imprudence, obtained the necessary clue to his whereabouts, and no time was lost in following it up.

What were the contents of the letter to Anne Grant we have now no means of knowing, for that document was not produced at the trial, but the other two letters will be found at length in the following report. In all the contemporary accounts of the trial the names of persons referred to by Deacon Brodie in his letters were, for obvious reasons, omitted. These are now printed in full for the first time from the originals in the Justiciary Office, Edinburgh. In that addressed to his brother-in-law, Matthew Sheriff, dated 8th April, the Deacon writes—“My stock is seven guineas; but by I reach Ostend will be reduced to less than six. My wardrobe is all on my back, excepting two check shirts and two white ones; one of them an old rag I had from my cousin Milton, with an old hat (which I left behind). My coat, an old blue one, out at arms and elbows, I also had from him, with an old striped waistcoat and a pair of good boots. Perhaps my cousin judged right that old things were best for my purpose. However, no reflections; he is my cousin and a good prudent lad, and showed great anxiety for my safety; rather too anxious, for he would not let me take my black coat with me. I could not extract one guinea from him, although he owes me twenty-four pounds for three years past. He cannot help his natural temper.” Evidently the spruce and dapper gentleman keenly felt the sartorial straits to which his cousin’s parsimony had reduced him. He requests that wearing apparel, tools, and certain articles connected with his trade be forwarded to him at an address in New York; desires that his remittances may be as liberal as possible—“for without money I can make but a poor shift”; and adds in a postscript, “Let my name and destination be a profound secret, for fear of bad consequences.”

To Michael Henderson he writes, on 10th April, after the passages already quoted, asking what is likely to become of “poor Ainslie, Smith, and his wife; I hope that neither you nor any of your connections has been innocently involved by these unfortunate men. Write me how the Main went; how you came on in it; if my black cock fought and gained, &c., &c.”—from which we are pleased to note that the Deacon, amid the ruin of his fortunes, retained his kindly disposition and sporting instincts. One hopes that the black cock came off victorious. It is interesting to find in the Edinburgh Evening Courant of 5th April, 1788, the following advertisement of the “Main” to which the Deacon refers:—

Brodie concludes his letter thus—“I am very uneasy on account of Mrs. Grant and my three children by her; they will miss me more than any other in Scotland. May God in His infinite goodness stir up some friendly aid for their support, for it is not in my power at present to give them the smallest assistance. Yet I think they will not absolutely starve in a Christian land, where their father once had friends, and who was always liberal to the distressed. My eldest daughter, Cecil, should be put apprentice to the milliner or mantuamaking business; but I wish she could learn a little writing and arithmetic first. I wish to God some of my friends would take some charge of Cecil; she is a fine, sensible girl, considering the little opportunity she has had for improvement.” Here we have a glimpse of another and better element in the complex character of this extraordinary man.

Information of the circumstances disclosed in these letters was instantly despatched to the authorities in London, and the Secretary of State, Lord Carmarthen, at once communicated with Sir John Potter, the British Consul at Ostend, in consequence of which Deacon Brodie was traced to Flushing and Middleburgh, and from thence to Amsterdam. Application was immediately made to Sir James Harris, British Consul there, with the result that the Deacon was apprehended in an alehouse, through the instrumentality of John Daly, an Irishman, on the eve of embarking for America.

The circumstances of his capture were as follows:—Daly, armed with an exact description of the fugitive, ascertained his whereabouts in Amsterdam from two Jews “who attend the passengers that arrive in the treck schoots.” On reaching the alehouse where Brodie was lodged, the landlord told him that the gentleman he inquired for was above. Daly proceeded to the first floor, knocked once or twice at the door, and, receiving no answer, entered the room. It was seemingly empty, but a search of the apartment disclosed the unlucky tenant hiding in a cupboard. “How do you do, Captain John Dixon alias William Brodie?” said Daly; “come along with me”; and the Deacon, realising that resistance was useless, surrendered at discretion, and was duly lodged in the Stadthouse. It is disappointing to find our hero yielding thus tamely to his Irish captor, but it must be remembered that, physically, the Deacon was a small man, and, moreover, at this time was not in good health. Having seen his captive safely disposed of, John Daly left for London to claim and receive the reward.

On 1st July, Mr. Groves, Messenger-at-arms, was despatched from London to bring the prisoner back to England. The journal kept by Groves on this expedition—a copy of which is contained in the Appendix—gives an interesting account of the proceedings before the magistrates at Amsterdam in connection with the extradition of the Deacon. There was some difficulty in establishing the prisoner’s identity, the evidence of two witnesses on oath to that effect being required by the law of Holland. One witness, who had seen Brodie in Edinburgh, stated that he had no doubt he was the same man, “but would not swear he had no doubt”—a nice distinction. The Deacon would admit nothing. Ultimately the magistrates declared themselves satisfied, and the prisoner was delivered up to Mr. Groves, who conducted his charge in triumph to Helvoetsluys.

The journey was accomplished, with all the pomp and circumstance befitting so important an occasion, in “two carriages, and four guides, with four horses in each carriage,” and the poor Deacon “properly secured” inside. Next day they sailed for Harwich, the prisoner being “watched two hours alternately on board by the ship’s crew, his hands and arms confined, and his meat cut up for him, &c.” Mr. John Dixon must have recalled with regret the comforts of his earlier voyage.

On 11th July the pair arrived in London, where Deacon Brodie was examined at Bow Street before Sir Sampson Wright, chief magistrate, and Mr. Longlands, solicitor to the Treasury, in whose presence he admitted his identity. He was accordingly committed to Tothilfields Bridewell, pending his removal to Scotland.

At Bow Street two trunks belonging to Brodie were opened, and in one of them was found a bundle of papers. Among these were two draft letters or unsigned scrolls, afterwards produced at the trial, and printed in the following report, which throw much interesting light upon the writer’s position and prospects. They were evidently intended for friends in Edinburgh, and written subsequent to the letters which he had intrusted to the treacherous Geddes. He writes—“I hope to embark in the first ship for America, to whatever port she is bound, which will probably be Charlestown, South Carolina, as there is a ship lying-to for that port. I will settle there, if I think I can do better than at Philadelphia or New York.” He asks his correspondent to inform him “what has been done with the two unfortunate men Smith and Ainslie, and the greater villain, John Brown alias Humphry Moore? Was John Murray alias Jack Tasker brought from England? I shall ever repent keeping such company; and whatever they may allege, I had no direct concern in any of their depredations, excepting the last fatal one, by which I lost ten pounds in cash. But I doubt not all will be laid to my charge, and some that I never heard of.” The last quoted passage told strongly against him at the trial, and it is difficult to see why he had preserved such compromising documents.

In the same trunk was found an account or state of Brodie’s affairs prepared by himself on 24th March, the day after he embarked in the “Endeavour.” This document was founded on in the indictment and produced at the trial; but Creech tells us, in the introduction to his report, that, “although laid on the table for the inspection of the jury, yet, being of a private nature and not necessarily connected with the crime charged, the jury had too much delicacy to look into; and it is hoped the same motive will be a sufficient apology for not laying it before the public.” It was, accordingly, not published in any of the contemporary accounts of the trial, and is now for the first time printed in the following report from the original MS. in the Justiciary Office. From this most interesting document we are able to learn the financial position of Deacon Brodie at the time of his flight, and it is surprising to find that he brings out a balance in his favour of upwards of £1800.

Our old friend, George Williamson, the King’s Messenger, was sent from Edinburgh to conduct the reluctant Deacon back to his native city. On the journey north, Williamson tells us, “Mr. Brodie was in good spirits, and told many things that had happened to him in Holland.” Among other items of interest, he mentioned that, while in Amsterdam, he had formed the acquaintance of a gentleman living in that city on the proceeds of a successful forgery committed upon the Bank of Scotland. Forgery was a branch of the learned professions which the Deacon had hitherto neglected, and he was receiving instruction from this obliging practitioner, when his studies were abruptly terminated by Mr. Daly’s call. “Brodie said he was a very ingenious fellow, and that, had

it not been for his own apprehension, he would have been master of the process in a week.” Before arriving in Edinburgh the Deacon, ever careful of his personal appearance, was anxious to obtain a shave—a luxury to which, in the turmoil of his affairs, the dapper gentleman had been for some days a stranger. Williamson, afraid to trust a razor to one so circumstanced, himself essayed the task. His intention must have been superior to his execution, for, when the operation was over, the patient remarked, “George, if you’re no better at your own business than at shaving, a person may employ you once, but I’ll be d——d if ever he does so again!”

On 17th July the Caledonian Mercury was able to announce to its readers—“This morning early Mr. Brodie arrived from London. He was immediately carried to the house of Mr. Sheriff Cockburn, at the back of the Meadows, or Hope Park, for examination. Mr. George Williamson, Messenger, and Mr. Groves, one of Sir Sampson Wright’s clerks, accompanied Mr. Brodie in a post-chaise from Tothilfields Bridewell. He was this forenoon committed to the Tolbooth. They were only fifty-four hours on the road.”

While their leader was enlarging his experience of life on the Continent, Smith and Ainslie had varied the monotony of existence in the Tolbooth by a vigorous attempt to regain their liberty. We read in the Scots Magazine for May, 1788, that “in the night between the 4th and 5th of May, George Smith, prisoner in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, accused of shop-breaking and theft, had the ingenuity to make his way from his own apartment to that of Andrew Ainslie, a supposed accomplice in the same crimes, though Ainslie’s room was situated two storeys above that occupied by Smith. This, it would appear, was achieved by his converting the iron handle of the jack or bucket of the necessary into a pick-lock, and one of the iron hoops round the bucket into a saw. By a dextrous use of these instruments Smith took off one door from the hinges, and opened the other which led to Ainslie’s apartment. They then both set to work, and cut a hole through the ceiling of Ainslie’s room, as well as through the roof of the prison itself. Luckily, however, the falling of the slates and lime into the street, between three and four o’clock in the morning, attracted the attention of the sentinel upon duty, who immediately gave the alarm, and the inner keeper had them soon after properly secured. In order to let themselves down from the top of the prison they had prepared 16 fathoms of rope, which they had artfully manufactured out of the sheets of their beds.”

This daring and ingenious bid for freedom deserved a better fate, and it is a testimony to Smith’s skill that he was able to achieve so much by means so grotesquely inadequate. Little wonder that, with liberty and his tools, he was a competent and successful practitioner.

Mr. Brown, that unamiable informer, was, strangely enough, also at this time an inmate of the Tolbooth. The Edinburgh Magazine for the same month gives an account of his arrest, along with George White, tanner, and William Peacock, flesher, charged with being concerned in the murder of James M‘Arthur, change-keeper in Halkerston’s Wynd, during a quarrel in the latter’s house—“alleged not to be one of very good repute”—in which M‘Arthur was fatally assaulted with a bottle. The consequences of this regrettable incident were, so far as Brown was concerned, averted by the pardon aftermentioned. White, however, was brought to trial and found guilty of culpable homicide.

The law officers of the Crown were now busily preparing their case against Brodie, Smith, and Ainslie; and as, apart from the testimony to be borne by Brown, there was no direct evidence of the commission of the crime available, it was decided to accept Ainslie as King’s evidence, and proceed only against Brodie and Smith upon the charge of breaking into and robbing the General Excise Office for Scotland. Accordingly, on 19th July, an indictment was served upon them, the trial being fixed to take place on 4th August. Owing, however, to some additional evidence having come to the knowledge of the Public Prosecutor, on 11th August, a new indictment had to be served, and the trial postponed until the 27th of that month.

Meanwhile, on 28th July, His Majesty’s most gracious pardon had been obtained for John Brown alias Humphry Moore, which, in law, rendered that miscreant, as a witness, “habile and testable,” notwithstanding the baseness of his character and his infamous record.

Deacon Brodie had, since his apprehension, been kept in close confinement in the Tolbooth. He was carefully watched day and night by two soldiers of the City Guard, and was not allowed either knife or fork with which to eat his victuals in case of dangerous consequences. On account of this inconvenient restriction, the Deacon, shortly before his trial, addressed the following remonstrance to a brother member of the Town Council and one of the magistrates of the city:—

This curious instance of a sense of humour retained in the most unfavourable circumstances throws an interesting sidelight on the Deacon’s character.

On the Friday before the trial Smith, who appears to have abandoned all hope of an acquittal, wrote a letter to the Board of Excise, saying “that he was not to give them any trouble, for he would plead Guilty.” He also prepared a written statement, which it was his intention to have read to the Court, but he was dissuaded from this course by his agent, Mr. Morrison, and finally decided to take his chance and plead not guilty. In this remarkable document—a copy of which is contained in the Appendix—Smith gives, inter alia, the following list of “such robberies as my accomplices and myself had determined to commit, had we not been timeously prevented:—

• “1. On Dalgleish & Dickie, watchmakers.
• 2. On White & Mitchell, lottery-office keepers.
• 3. On a rich baker near Brodie’s Close—the name forgot.
• 4. The Council Chamber, for the mace.
• 5. The Chamberlain’s Office, for money.
• 6. Forrester & Co.’s, jewellers.
• 7. Gilchrist & Co.’s, linen drapers.

Besides these, and as depredations of greater magnitude—

• 8. The Bank of Scotland (or Old Bank) was to have been broke into.
• 9. The Stirling stage coach, carrying a thousand pounds to pay the Carron workmen, was to have been stopped and robbed.
• 10. Mr. Latimer, Collector of Excise for the Dalkeith district, reported to have generally from one to two thousand pounds, was to have been robbed.”

This comprehensive catalogue of the gang’s prospective arrangements was, doubtless, perused with much interest by the intended victims, and the rich baker must have congratulated himself on escaping the attention of his respectable neighbour. The only one of these contemplated robberies, towards the accomplishment of which any steps would seem to have been taken, was that of the office of the City Chamberlain. We read in Smith’s third declaration that “a false key was made by Brodie for the purpose of opening the door of the Chamberlain’s cash-room of the city of Edinburgh; the declarant and Brodie had frequently been at the door of the Chamberlain’s Office, in order to take the impression of the keyhole; that Brodie showed the declarant the said key after it was made; and Brodie told the declarant that it did not answer”—which was fortunate for the City Chamberlain. But the laudable intention which Smith, since his apprehension, had evinced “of making a clean breast” was not destined to gain for him any temporal advantage.

The public interest in the approaching trial was intense, both on account of the magnitude of the late robberies and the prominent position which Deacon Brodie had so long occupied in Edinburgh. His escape and capture had further whetted the popular excitement, and at an early hour on the morning of Wednesday, 27th August, 1788, every part of the Justiciary Court was crowded to its utmost capacity. A detachment of the 7th Regiment of Foot from the Castle lined the Parliament Square for the purpose of securing an easy access for the members of the Court and jurymen, and to prevent any confusion that might arise from the great crowd assembled at the doors.

At a quarter to nine o’clock the prisoners were brought from the Tolbooth into Court. “They were conveyed, upon their request, in chairs, but each having a sentinel of the City Guard on the right and left, with naked bayonets, and a sergeant’s guard behind, with muskets and fixed bayonets.” A contemporary account informs us that “Mr. Brodie was genteelly dressed in a new dark-blue coat, a fashionable fancy waistcoat, black satin breeches, and white silk stockings, a cocked hat, and had his hair fully dressed and powdered.” In contrast to the dashing appearance cut by his companion, Smith, we are told, was “but poorly clothed, having had no money since his confinement, which had already lasted six months.” The Deacon affected an easy and confident demeanour; Smith, on the contrary, looked timid and dejected.

At nine o’clock the five judges, preceded by a macer bearing the Justiciary mace, and headed by the formidable Braxfield, took their seats, “and, the Court being fenced and the action called in the usual manner,” the trial then commenced. As a verbatim report of the proceedings is contained in the following pages, and some account of the judges and counsel engaged therein will be found in the Appendix, it is only necessary here briefly to comment upon the more salient incidents which occurred in the course of the trial.

It is worthy of note that among those who served upon the jury were William Creech, the celebrated Edinburgh publisher and man of letters, and also Sir William Fettes, afterwards Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and James Donaldson, the well-known printer and pioneer of cheap literature, to whose munificence the city is indebted for the famous college and palatial hospital which bear the names of their respective founders.

The interest of the Deacon’s friends had secured for him the services of Henry Erskine, then Dean of Faculty, and the chief ornament of the Scots bar, with whom were Alexander Wight, and Charles Hay, afterwards the jovial Lord Newton; while Smith’s case was entrusted to the celebrated John Clerk of Eldin, at that time an inconsiderable junior, and Robert Hamilton, in later years the colleague of Sir Walter Scott. The Lord Advocate (Ilay Campbell) and the Solicitor-General (Robert Dundas), assisted by two Advocates-depute, conducted the prosecution.

Both prisoners pleaded not guilty; no objections were taken to the relevancy of the indictment; and it was stated for Brodie that he intended to prove an alibi. An objection taken by the Dean of Faculty to the specification of certain of the articles libelled on having been repelled, John Clerk attempted to make some observations on behalf of Smith, which resulted in the first of those passages of arms between him and Braxfield, whereby the dignified course of the proceedings was frequently enlivened. Clerk had then been at the bar less than three years; this was the most important case in which he had yet been employed; and it is said to have been his first appearance in the Justiciary Court. The remarkable and characteristic energy with which on that occasion he conducted his client’s defence attracted the attention of the profession, and laid the foundations of his subsequent reputation and practice.

An interesting point of law arose in connection with the calling of Smith’s wife as a witness for the prosecution against Brodie. Her proposed evidence was vigorously objected to by Clerk on account of the relation in which she stood to his client—both panels were included in one indictment, and it was impossible to criminate the one without the other. A sharp encounter with Braxfield ensued; but the Court admitted the witness. When Mrs. Smith entered the box, however, Alexander Wight, for Brodie, stated a fresh objection, viz., that the maiden name of the witness was wrongly given in the Crown list as “Mary Hubbart,” whereas her real name was “Hibbutt,” which, on her being requested by Braxfield to sign her name, turned out to be the fact. In view of this misnomer the objection was sustained and the witness dismissed.

Another legal point of interest arose when it was proposed to identify the five-pound bank-note libelled on, the Dean of Faculty objecting that it was not a “bank-note,” as described in the indictment, having been issued by a private banking company in Glasgow. The Court sustained the objection, holding that nothing was to be deemed a bank-note but one issued from a bank established by Royal Charter.

The crucial question of the case, however, both for the prosecution and the defence, was whether or not Ainslie and Brown should be admitted as witnesses to prove the panels’ guilt. So far the proof of their complicity in the robbery was mainly circumstantial. Although Smith, in his second declaration, had confessed his accession to the crime, yet, having pleaded not guilty, this was not in itself sufficient to convict him; while as regards the Deacon, apart from the statements of Smith, his guilt was only to be inferred from his flight and certain passages in his letters. It was, therefore, of vital importance to the prisoners that the direct evidence of their accomplices should be excluded, while the Crown case equally depended for a verdict upon its admission.

To the determining of this question each side accordingly addressed its strongest efforts, and the debate which followed will be found both lively and instructive. The authority of Sir George Mackenzie was quoted against the admission of the witnesses; but that venerable jurist was somewhat severely handled. The principal objection to Ainslie, as stated by the Dean of Faculty, was that he had been himself accused of the crime he was now to fasten upon another, and that the Sheriff of Edinburgh had offered him his life if he would criminate Brodie, of whose complicity he had hitherto said nothing. In the case of Brown, the battle was joined upon the precise effect of the pardon which had been obtained for that interesting criminal, and to what extent the pristine purity of his character was thereby restored. The Court, however, repelled the objections, and admitted both witnesses; and the evidence which they gave finally disposed of all chance of the panels’ acquittal.

At the conclusion of Brown’s evidence the Lord Justice-Clerk addressed that truculent scoundrel as follows:—“John Brown, you appear to be a clever fellow, and I hope you will now abandon your dissipated courses, and betake yourself to some honest employment.” To which Brown suitably replied, “My Lord, be assured my future life shall make amends for my past conduct.” He then left the box, and so passes out of the story, of which he was undoubtedly “the greater villain,” and surely never did witness less merit judicial commendation than John Brown alias Humphry Moore.

The Crown case closed with the reading of the prisoners’ declarations and the Deacon’s letters, such portions of the former as related to matters unconnected with the trial being withheld from the jury. For the defence no witnesses were called for Smith, and an attempt to prove an alibi made on behalf of Brodie was entirely unsuccessful, the principal witnesses to it being his brother-in-law, Matthew Sheriff, and his mistress, Jean Watt, both obviously friendly to the Deacon’s interests.

At one o’clock on the morning of Thursday, 28th August, the exculpatory proof was closed, and the Lord Advocate began his address to the jury. His Lordship’s speech, while an able and convincing statement of the Crown case, was marred by one or two passages which would now be considered to exceed the limits of legitimate advocacy. Such are the references to facts “which would have been likewise sworn to by Smith’s wife, if she had been allowed to be examined”; the assumption that the Deacon’s foreman, Robert Smith, was convinced of his master’s guilt; the use made of Ainslie’s declaration, which that witness was told had been destroyed, and which was not before the Court; and the passage in the peroration referring to the “consequences to the inhabitants of this populous city” of the Deacon’s acquittal.

At the conclusion of the evidence the Dean of Faculty and John Clerk had held a final consultation, when it was arranged that Clerk should speak first for Smith, and that Erskine should follow for Brodie, and strengthen or take up such points as he might think necessary. In order to put himself in fighting form, Clerk, we are told, drank a bottle of claret before commencing his address. This speech, the only extant example of his celebrated method of advocacy, was, in all the contemporary reports, reduced to a minimum for fear of offending the judges. Fortunately, however, a later writer, Peter Mackenzie, has preserved, in his “Reminiscences of Glasgow” (Glasgow, 1866), a full account of the suppressed passages, which he gives on the unquestionable authority of Æneas Morrison, the agent for Smith, who himself furnished the author with these particulars. They have accordingly been incorporated in the following report.

When Clerk, in the course of his address, came to deal with the evidence of Ainslie and Brown, a scene, almost incredible to us nowadays, occurred between the irrepressible young advocate and the overbearing judge. Clerk informed the jury that, in his opinion, these witnesses ought never to have been admitted, a statement which the bench naturally resented, and he went on to insist that, notwithstanding the ruling of the Court, the jury should discard their evidence entirely, as they (the jury) were to judge of the law as well as of the fact. In the course of the discussion which followed, the intervention of the Lord Advocate was met by a graceful allusion to His Majesty’s Tory Administration as “villains” likely to contaminate the Crown.

A heated altercation between Clerk and Braxfield ensued, and, finally, the latter bade him go on with his speech at his peril. On Clerk refusing to proceed unless allowed to do so in his own way, Braxfield invited the Dean of Faculty to commence his address for Brodie, which that gentleman declined to do. Thereupon the Lord Justice-Clerk was about to charge the jury himself, when Clerk, starting to his feet and shaking his fist at the bench, cried out, “Hang my client if ye daur, my Lord, without hearing me in his defence!” These amazing words, the like of which had seldom echoed in judicial ears, caused the utmost sensation in Court, and, after an awful pause, the judges left the bench to hold a consultation. But, on their return, instead of anything tremendous taking place, his Lordship civilly requested Clerk to continue his address, and the incident terminated.

Thus was the redoubtable Braxfield forced to yield to the persistence of the fiery young counsel. On reading the discussion as reported, one cannot but think that Clerk was clearly in the wrong, and that his contention as to the jury being judges both of the fact and of the law was, as Braxfield roundly put it, “talking nonsense.” Nor does it appear that the line which he saw fit to adopt could in any way benefit his unfortunate client, whose interests would have been better served by more temperate methods. Clerk, however, was thoroughly pleased with his performance, and subsequently observed that it was “the making of him” professionally.

It is said that Clerk’s indignant repudiation of the prosecutor’s argument that the King’s pardon made Brown an honest man reached the ears of Robert Burns, and led him afterwards to write the famous lines—

At three o’clock in the morning the Dean of Faculty rose to address the jury on behalf of Deacon Brodie. In spite of the fact that he had been continuously engaged upon the case since nine o’clock the preceding morning, no signs of exhaustion appear in his eloquent and powerful speech. Every point telling in favour of the prisoner was given due prominence, and the utmost was made of the somewhat flimsy material of the alibi; the whole address forms a fine example of forensic oratory.

At half-past four o’clock the Lord Justice-Clerk—who is said never to have left the bench since the proceedings began—delivered his charge to the jury, which, one is glad to find, notwithstanding what had previously occurred, was a fair and impartial review of the evidence. His Lordship having concluded his charge at six o’clock on Thursday morning, the Court adjourned until one o’clock afternoon; the jury were inclosed; and the prisoners taken back to prison.

The Edinburgh Advertiser remarks—“Mr. Brodie’s behaviour during the whole trial was perfectly collected. He was respectful to the Court, and when anything ludicrous occurred in the evidence he smiled as if he had been an indifferent spectator.”

When the Court met again at one o’clock, the Chancellor of the jury handed in their written verdict, sealed with black wax, which unanimously found both panels guilty of the crime libelled, and the Lord Advocate formally moved for sentence.

A final effort was now made on behalf of the prisoners. Counsel for Brodie stated a plea in arrest of judgment, in respect that the verdict found the panels guilty “of breaking into the house in which the General Excise Office for Scotland was kept,” whereas it appeared from the evidence that there were, in fact, two separate and distinct houses occupied as the Excise Office. This objection was, after argument, repelled by the Court, and the prisoners were sentenced to death, their execution being appointed to take place on Wednesday, 1st October.

When the sentence was pronounced, we are told “Mr. Brodie discovered some inclination to address himself to the Court, but was restrained by his counsel,” and contented himself with bowing to the bench. The prisoners were then removed to the Tolbooth, escorted by the City Guard, amid a great concourse of spectators, and the proceedings terminated.

Æneas Morrison, the agent for Smith, adds the following particulars:—“The panels behaved in a manner different from each other, Smith appearing to be much dejected, especially at receiving his dreadful sentence, although in many instances he showed very great acuteness in his remarks upon the depositions of the witnesses and in the questions to them which he suggested. Mr. Brodie, on the other hand, affected coolness and determination in his behaviour. When the sentence of death was pronounced he put one hand in his breast and the other in his side and looked full around him. It is said that he accused his companion of pusillanimity, and even kicked him as they were leaving the Court. Thus ended a trial which had excited the public curiosity to an extraordinary degree, and in which their expectations were not disappointed. During the space of twenty-one hours—the time it lasted—circumstances continually followed each other to render it highly interesting, and more particularly to the gentlemen of the law, on account of the great variety and importance of the legal topics which were discussed and decided.”

The prisoners were lodged in the condemned cell of the Tolbooth, along with two men, James Falconer and Peter Bruce, then under sentence of death for breaking into and robbing the office of the Dundee Banking Company. They were each chained by one foot to an iron bar, but a contemporary account records that “Brodie’s chain is longer than the rest, as he can sit at a table and write by himself. They have behaved tolerable well, considering the small room they have on the goad, which goes across the room, very securely fixed from one end to the other in the wall, and hath four divisions or places on which the chains are fixed, with strong iron supporters fastened into the stone floor, and each has a mattress to lie on opposite to himself.”

A terrible change this, for the unfortunate Deacon, from the comfortable chambers of his house in Brodie’s Close and the social advantages which he had so long and undeservedly enjoyed. He seems, notwithstanding, to have kept up his spirits, and is said to have been as particular as ever in the matter of his dress. Having contrived to cut out the figure of a draughtboard on the stone floor of his dungeon, he amused himself by playing with any one who would join him, and in default of such, with his right hand against his left. The author of “Traditions of Edinburgh” states that this diagram remained in the room, where it was so strangely out of place, till the demolition of the Old Tolbooth in 1817. Many of his friends came to see him, for, until the time of his execution drew near, no restriction was placed upon their visits, and every effort was made by them to obtain a commutation of the death sentence to one of transportation for life.

In furtherance of this object Deacon Brodie, on 10th September, wrote letters to the Right Hon. Henry Dundas, afterwards Viscount Melville, and to the Duchess of Buccleuch, soliciting their influence in support of an application then being made to the Government on his behalf. Copies of these most interesting documents, which have never before been published, will be found in the Appendix—that addressed to the Duchess being also given in facsimile. This lady was Elizabeth, daughter of George, Duke of Montague, and wife of Henry, third Duke of Buccleuch, the friend of Sir Walter Scott, whose daughter-in-law, when Countess of Dalkeith, inspired “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” It is noteworthy that, in spite of his position and presumed education, the Deacon’s spelling is more remarkable for originality than accuracy. His friends’ “aplication above,” however, proved unsuccessful, and the inevitable end had to be faced.

Deacon Brodie continued to bear up bravely, referring to his approaching exit as “a leap in the dark,” and is said to have only once broken down, when he was visited by his eldest daughter, Cecil, on the Friday before his execution. On the Sunday preceding his death, the other two prisoners, Falconer and Bruce, who were to have been executed on the same day, were granted a respite of six weeks. Smith observed that six weeks was but a short time; whereupon the Deacon exclaimed, “George, what would you and I give for six weeks longer? Six weeks would be an age to us!” On the Tuesday he was visited by a friend, when, we are told, “the conversation turning upon the female sex, he began singing with the greatest cheerfulness from the ‘Beggar’s Opera’ ‘’Tis woman that seduces all mankind,’ &c.”

The “Beggar’s Opera,” the well-known work of the poet and dramatist, John Gay, appears to have been a special favourite with the Deacon, for it will be remembered that he sang a stave from it on the night of the robbery of the Excise Office. The opera was frequently performed at the Old Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, at this period, and he had, no doubt, had many opportunities of hearing it. Commenting on this incident, the Edinburgh Advertiser remarks—“Brodie seemed to take the character of Captain Macheath as his model, and the day before his death was singing one of the songs from the ‘Beggar’s Opera.’ This is another proof of the dangerous tendency of that play, which ought to be prohibited from being performed on the British stage. It is inconceivable how many highwaymen and robbers this opera has given birth to.” The editor of the Advertiser was evidently less gifted with a sense of humour than the Deacon, and had never read Fergusson’s lines “To Sir John Fielding, on his attempt to suppress the ‘Beggar’s Opera.’”

On the night before the execution, Deacon Brodie complained of the noise made by the workmen in effecting the alterations on the gibbet necessitated by the reprieve of the other prisoners, Falconer and Bruce; and it is stated in a contemporary report of the trial, published by Robertson on 2nd October, 1788, the day after the execution, that Brodie then said “he planned the model of the new place of execution, he purchased the wood, and gave his assistance in finishing it—but little did he imagine at the time that he himself would make his exit on it.” The Edinburgh Advertiser of 3rd October, 1788, describing the execution, says—“It is not a little remarkable that Brodie was the planner, a few years since, of the new-invented gallows on which he suffered”; and Robert Chambers, in his “Minor Antiquities of Edinburgh,” (1833, p. 168), remarks—“As the Earl of Morton was the first man executed by the ‘Maiden,’ so was Brodie the first who proved the excellence of an improvement he had formerly made on the apparatus of the gibbet. This was the substitution of what is called the ‘drop’ for the ancient practice of the double ladder. He inspected the thing with a professional air, and seemed to view the result of his ingenuity with a smile of satisfaction.” William Chambers, however, in his “Book of Scotland” (1830, pp. 327-8), takes a different view, holding that the drop was first employed at Newgate in 1784, and had already been used in Edinburgh at an execution in 1785.

Popular tradition, with a fine sense of the requirements of poetic justice, has steadfastly held that Deacon Brodie was the first to test the efficacy of the drop which he himself invented, and was thus, in a double sense, the artificer of his own downfall. And although such a circumstance would be well in keeping with the Deacon’s singularly dramatic career, it must unfortunately be dismissed as a picturesque improvement on the literal truth.

A careful examination of the Council records discloses the following facts, now for the first time published:—On 18th August, 1784, the Town Council remitted to Convener Jameson (mason), Deacon Hill (wright), and Deacon Brodie to inspect the west wall of the Tolbooth and consider in what manner a door or passage could be made in order that criminals might be executed there, and to report. Up till that time all public executions had taken place in the Grassmarket at the foot of the West Bow; and it was now proposed that criminals should be executed upon a platform to be erected on the low building which projected from the west gable of the Tolbooth. The report of the committee on the subject does not appear on the record; but in September the new Council was elected for the ensuing year, and Deacon Brodie was not chosen a member of it.

On 24th November, 1784, “pursuant to a late remit to the Magistrates to consider as to fitting up a place adjoining to the Tolbooth of this city for the execution of criminals,” estimates by Convener Jameson and Deacon Hill (who were members of the new Council) were accepted for the mason and wright work respectively. On 11th April, 1785, estimates by the same two Councillors were accepted for rebuilding the shops affected by the proposed alterations, “exclusive of the wright work for the platform and the machinery for an execution, conform to a former estimate.” On the 13th of the same month, the Dean of Guild having inspected the work and reported favourably upon it, the magistrates passed an Act of Council appointing the west end of the Tolbooth to be the common place of execution in all time coming; and ordained Archibald Stewart, then under sentence of death for housebreaking, to be executed there in pursuance of his sentence. The execution was accordingly carried out on 20th April, 1785, but not, it would appear, upon the moveable platform or drop. On 7th September of that year, five months after Stewart’s death, the Council for the first time authorised Deacon Hill “to make a moveable platform for the execution of criminals in terms of his estimate”; and among certain accounts ordered to be paid by the City Chamberlain on 13th September, 1786, we find one due “To Thomas Hill for erecting a second platform, west end of the Tolbooth, twenty-one pounds, seven shillings and elevenpence halfpenny”—his account for the former work being also mentioned.

This was, without doubt, the drop upon which, two years later, Deacon Brodie was to suffer the penalty of the law. It is possible, and indeed, from the contemporary evidence already quoted, probable that he himself designed the model, adopting the improvement recently introduced in England. He may even have sent in an estimate for the work, but, as he was not that year a member of Council, Deacon Hill had the better chance of securing the contract, and certainly obtained it.

It was, therefore, on the platform above referred to that the execution of William Brodie and George Smith took place, at half-past two o’clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, 1st October, 1788, in presence of an immense crowd of spectators, great numbers having come from all parts of the country to witness the event. The Caledonian Mercury observes—“The crowd on this occasion was the greatest ever known; the whole space from the prison to the Castle Hill being filled with spectators, pressed together in one compact and immoveable column.” The proceedings were conducted with more than usual solemnity; the magistrates attended in their robes of office, “with white gloves and white staves”; ministers of divers denominations were present in their gowns and bands; and the City Guard formed a cordon round the place of execution. We read that “the great bell tolled during the ceremony, which had an awful and solemn effect.” This is said to have been the first occasion of the kind on which the bell of St. Giles’ Church was tolled. It is characteristic of the man that, on his last public appearance, we are informed, “Mr. Brodie appeared in a handsome suit of black clothes, and had his hair powdered and dressed with taste.” Twice, owing to some defect in the adjustment of the ropes, did the Deacon descend from the platform and enter into conversation with his friends; but, notwithstanding this dreadful delay, his fortitude remained unshaken, and he met his fate with a courage and equanimity worthy of a better cause:

With his hand thrust carelessly into the open front of his vest, as we see him in his portrait, the Deacon calmly took that step out of the world which his own ingenuity is said to have shortened.

The Edinburgh Evening Courant of 2nd October, 1788, voices the popular sentiment of the time as follows:—“Thus ended the life of William Brodie, whose conduct, when we consider his situation in life, is equally singular and contradictory. By the low and vicious connections he formed he had everything to lose—he could gain little even if successful; for, from the moment he embarked in the enterprises of his desperate associates, his property, his life, was at their mercy. Indeed, his crimes appear to be rather the result of infatuation than depravity; and he seemed to be more attracted by the dexterity of thieving than the profit arising from it. To excel in the performance of some paltry legerdemain or slight-of-hand tricks, to be able to converse in the cant or flash language of thieves, or to chant with spirit a song from the ‘Beggar’s Opera,’ was to him the highest ambition. Those who knew him best agree that his

disposition was friendly and generous, and that he had infinitely more of the dupe than the knave in his composition; and was, indeed, admirably fitted for designing and wicked men to work upon.” The Deacon, even in his own day, did not lack apologists. And though there may be some diversity of opinion regarding the precise shade which that unhappy gentleman had stained a character in other respects not without redeeming traits, there can be none as to the monstrous injustice of the penalty exacted by the law for his offence. In these more merciful times, when conscientious juries hesitate to convict the guilty upon a capital charge, and rather than deliver a fellow-being to an irrevocable doom will sometimes evade responsibility by the via media of “not proven,” it is difficult to realise the callous indifference to human life for which our criminal code was formerly notorious. At that period a man might, literally, as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb; and that the Deacon should suffer a punishment so disproportionate to his deserts would, however repugnant to modern feeling, seem natural enough to his stoical contemporaries.

In explanation of the singular degree of coolness exhibited to the last by Deacon Brodie, a curious story became current. Much anxiety had undoubtedly been shown both by himself and others that his body might not be detained in prison, but should be delivered to his friends so soon as the execution had taken place. With this view the Deacon, on the forenoon of the fatal day, addressed to the Lord Provost the following remarkable letter:—

“Both of which requests,” we are told, “his Lordship most readily granted.” It is said, by the author of the letterpress in “Kay’s Portraits” (1877, vol. 1., pp. 262-3), on the authority of an eye-witness of the execution, that Brodie had been visited in prison by a French quack, Dr. Peter Degravers, who undertook to restore him to life after he had hung the usual time; that, on the day preceding the execution, this individual had marked the Deacon’s temples and arms with a pencil, in order to know the more readily where to apply his lancet; and that with this view the hangman had been bargained with for a short fall. “The excess of caution, however, exercised by the executioner in the first instance in shortening the rope proved fatal by his inadvertency in making it latterly too long. After he was cut down his body was immediately given to two of his own workmen, who, by order of the guard, placed it in a cart and drove at a furious rate round the back of the Castle. The object of this order was probably an idea that the jolting motion of the cart might be the means of resuscitation, as had once actually happened in the case of the celebrated ‘half-hangit Maggie Dickson.’ The body was afterwards conveyed to one of Brodie’s own workshops in the Lawnmarket, where Degravers was in attendance. He attempted bleeding, &c., but all would not do. Brodie was fairly gone.”

The irregular practitioner above mentioned was certainly in Edinburgh about that time, for we read in the newspapers of the day advertisements, which he issued from his rooms in Charles Street, offering his professional services to the public at the moderate fee of half-a-crown “in all cases.” Judging by the testimonials from grateful patients which he also published, the doctor must have given wonderful value for the money; but in the somewhat exceptional circumstances of the Deacon’s case he would, if successful, have surely been entitled to a larger fee.

A more picturesque, if less probable version of the same story is given by the author of “Reminiscences of Glasgow,” on the authority of Æneas Morrison. It is there stated that any attempt to effect the Deacon’s rescue by overpowering the City Guard or breaking into the Tolbooth having, after due consideration, been abandoned by his friends as hopeless, the following elaborate scheme was to be attempted to save his life. Shortly before the hour of his execution, the Deacon was to beg that he might speak to certain of his friends alone for a few moments upon his private affairs. This request being complied with, the opportunity should be seized for introducing into his throat and mouth a small silver tube made for the purpose, with the view of preventing suffocation, and wires were to be carried down his sides from head to foot to save the jerk from the scaffold. The executioner was to be induced to give him a short drop, and other liberties were to be taken with the fatal rope. A surgeon—doubtless the philanthropic Degravers—was to be in attendance to bleed him as soon as the body was cut down; and, if this succeeded, the Deacon was to lie quiet in his coffin, exhibiting no symptom of life, till such time as it could be safely removed to his own house for presumed interment by his relatives. Whether or not this remarkable programme was ever carried out is not recorded.

It would appear from these reports that an attempt of some kind was made with a view to resuscitate the Deacon; and there is no doubt that many people believed at the time that he had “cheated the wuddy” after all. It was said that he had actually revived and made good his escape from Scotland; that he was afterwards seen and conversed with in Paris. His coffin was certainly interred in the north-east corner of the burying-ground of St. Cuthbert’s Chapel of Ease—now Buccleuch Parish Church; but there is a tradition that, on a subsequent occasion, the grave was opened, when no trace of his body could be found.

These stories are probably apocryphal; but they are curious as showing the exceptional interest which the Deacon’s strange career aroused in the minds of his fellow-townsmen. And although his mortal remains, wheresoever situated, must long since have crumbled into dust, the name and doings of Deacon Brodie are indissolubly associated with the annals of that ancient city in which, to a conclusion so disastrous, he played his double part.