I doubt whether the good philanthropical people are even yet quite up to all the advantages of ragged schools. The salvation of society from a host of harpies is not the main chance; neither is it that the poor wretches are sold into the slavery of vice and misery before they know right from wrong. There’s something more. I have a suspicion that society loses often what might become its sharpest and most intelligent members in these half-starved youngsters, whose first putting out of the hand is the beginning of a battle with the world. I’m not to try to account for the fact, but I am pretty well satisfied, from all I have seen, that the children of these poor half-starved people are something more apt than the sons of your gentlemen. You who are learned may try your hand at the paradox, and make as much of it as you do of the other riddles of human life. Here is a plea for the John Poundses and Dr Guthries, of which they could make something. Every ragged urchin they lay hold of to make him learn from books has been at a school of another kind, where he has got his energies sharpened on a different whetstone from that found within a school, and then the school does its duty in directing these energies.
Just fancy what some of our card-sharpers would have been if their cleverness had been directed towards honest and lawful undertakings. I have known some of these gentlemen so adroit at the great problem of ways and means that they might have shone as Chancellors of the Exchequer. It is not their fault that we find them out. Their great drawback is, that they begin to be cunning and adroit before they know the world. All this close cunning defeats itself. The young rogues put me often in mind of moles. They work in dark holes, but they are always coming near the surface, where they hitch up friable hillocks to let air in, and so are caught. Nay, they sometimes hitch themselves out into the mid-day sun of justice. I have at this moment two or three of these misdirected geniuses in my eye whom I have traced from early childhood—ay, that period when the Raggedier officers should have laid hold of them.
In April 1854, an honest joiner in Banff of the name of Donald M‘Beath, had taken it into his head that he would do well to go to England, where his talents would be appreciated. In short, Donald had working within him the instinct of that little insect so familiar to the Highlanders, the tendency of which is to go south—probably because it knows in some inscrutable way that Englishmen have thick blood. Then he had friends in Newcastle who had gone before him, and found out that the yellow blood corpuscles of the social body flowed there more plentifully than in Banff. Were I to be more fanciful, I would say that Donald M‘Beath had the second sight—for money. He loved it so well that he had stomach for “ta hail Pank of England,” and would “maype return in ta grand coach and ta grey horses.” Nor had this love been as yet without fruits, for he had by Highland penury saved no less a sum than seven pounds, all stowed away in a sealskin spleuchan, besides seven more which he had laid out on a capital silver watch—convinced that no Highland shentleman1 bearing a royal name, as he did, could pass muster in England without this commodity.
The Highlanders were never at any time in the habit of getting lighter or leaner by moving from one place to another, if they were not generally a good deal heavier at the end of their journey than at the beginning. So true to the genius of his race, he laid his plans so that, in progressing south, he would lay contributions on his “friends” all the way, in order that, if it “could pe possible,” he might keep the seven pounds all entire—some extra shillings being provided for the voyage in the Britannia from Leith to Newcastle. How many Highland cousins suffered during this transport of the valuable person of the King’s clansman till he got to Leith, I never had any means of knowing. We cannot be far wrong, however, in supposing that he shook them all heartily by the hand; and no pedigree of the M‘Farlans from Parlan downwards, was ever courted with more industry than that of the M‘Beaths, if it was possible to bring within the tree any collateral branch with M‘Beath blood in his veins, meal in his girnal, and a bed fit for a Highlander. Then the shake of the hand, and the “Oigh, oigh” of true happiness, were the gratitude which is paid beforehand—the only kind that Donald knew anything of; or any other body I suspect—at least if I can judge from what I have received from so many to whom I have given lodgings, meat, and free passages.
Arrived at Leith, the first thing Donald did was to get out the little bit of snuff-coloured paper which contained the names of the cousins, and where, among the rest, was that of an old woman in the Kirkgate who was a descendant of the sister of Donald’s grandmother, a Macnab,—as unconscious of being related to the clan of the murderous king as any one could be, before such a flood of light was cast upon her history as Donald was well able to shed. He soon found her out; and though Janet Macnab could make nothing of the pedigree, she could count feelings of humanity; and what was more, she had a supper and a bed to save an infraction upon the said seven pounds.
Next morning, after having partaken of a Highland breakfast from poor Janet, which could only be calculated by the professions of eternal friendship uttered by a Gael, Donald went forth to see the craft which in some cheap berth was to transport him to the land of gold; and, to be sure, it was not long till he saw the vessel lying alongside of the quay. No doubt she was to be honoured in her freight. It was not every day the Britannia carried a M‘Beath with seven pounds in his pocket, a seven-pound watch in his fob, and a chest of tools, which was to cut his way to fortune. Then if it were just possible that the captain had ever been in Banff, or had in his veins a drop of Celtic blood—he would ascertain that by and by, he might even be a M‘Beath or a M‘Nab.
Much, however, as he expected from the clanship of the captain of the Britannia, who was not then to be seen, he had sense enough to know that that officer could not abate his passage-money. Nay, he knew that he must take out his ticket at the office on the shore, and thither he accordingly hied to make a bargain. Unfortunately these tickets are not liable to be affected by Highland prigging2; but the loose shillings to which I have alluded allowed him still to retain untouched the seven pounds. Yea, that seven pounds seemed to have a charmed life, the charm being only to be broken by some such wonder as the march of some wood or forest from one part of the kingdom to the other, or by the man who should try to take it having been from the belly of a shark “untimely ript.”
It wanted still some considerable time until the Britannia sailed, and Donald thought that he might as well get his chest of tools and bag of clothes put on board. He accordingly hied away to Mrs M‘Nab’s, and having returned his thanks for her kindness, if he did not promise her a part of his fortune “when it should be made,” he got the packets on his broad shoulders, and proceeded to the vessel. He was more lucky this time. A seaman, very probably the captain, was busy walking the deck.
“Hallo, tare!” cried Donald to the seaman, “you’ll pe ta captain?”
“Yes, all right,” replied the other; “and you’ll be a passenger for Newcastle; what have you got there?”
“My tool-chest and clothes,” replied Donald; “fery valuable, cost seven pounds ten shillings.”
“Heave them along the gunwale there,” said the seaman, “they can be stowed away afterwards; but you’re too soon, we wont heave off for an hour.”
“Ower sune is easy mended,” replied the Gael.
“And sometimes,” in a jolly way, said the other, “we have time for a dram.”
“Ay, and inclination maype too,” cried Donald, quite happy.
“Come away, then, our lockers are shut, so we’ll have it up the way, where I know they keep the real peat-reek, and I’ll pay.”
And Donald, leaving his luggage, but carrying with him a notion that the captain of the Britannia deserved to be one of her Majesty’s Admirals of the Blue, followed his guide until they entered the house of the publican, whose name I do not at present recollect. Nor was this notion in any way modified even when they were seated at the same table with three very respectable-looking men, apparently engaged in the harmless pastime of playing at cards. Nay, the notion was evidently shared by the three strangers, who, although they had clearly never seen the captain of the Britannia before, offered him, with a generosity wonderful to Donald, a share of their liquor. On his side, the generosity was equalled by his insisting that they, whom he declared he had never seen before, should take a part of his. Never was there such generous unanimity among strangers; and even Donald was included in the new-born friendship. Then the harmless play went on. There were only three cards used, two diamonds and one clubs; and the game was so simple that the Gael understood it in a moment, for it consisted in a little shuffling, and if one drew the clubs, he was the winner of the stakes. The generous captain laid down a stake of a pound; one of the players laid down another; then the cards were shuffled in so obvious a manner that a child might have seen where the clubs lay; and so to be sure the captain saw what a child might have seen, drew the slip, and pocketed the two pounds. This was repeated, until the captain pocketed six pounds; and Donald seeing fortune beckoning on, tabled one of the seven with the charmed unity. None of these men had been cut out of the belly of a shark, and so Donald M‘Beath’s seven was made eight.
“Play on,” whispered the captain, “while I go to look after your luggage.”
And so to be sure the Highlander did. He staked pound after pound, gained once in thrice, got furious, and staked on and on till the seven was nil.
Then rose the Highlander’s revenge; the watch was tabled against seven pounds, and went at a sweep.
“And now, py Cot, to croon a’, ta Pritannia will be gone,” he cried, as he rushed out in agony.
Frantic as he was, he could yet find his way to the part of the pier where he expected to see the vessel with the noble captain on board. The steamer was gone; and as he stood transfixed in despair, a man came up to him.
“Was it you who carried some luggage on board the Britannia about an hour ago?”
“Ay, just me.”
“Well, then, I saw a man dressed in seaman’s clothes carry it away. He seemed to make for Edinburgh, likely by the Easter Road.”
“And whaur is ta Easter Road?” cried the Gael, as he turned round to run in some direction, though in what he knew not.
At length, after many inquiries, he got into the said road, and hurrying along at the top of his speed, he expected every moment to see the captain. He questioned every one he met, got no trace, and began to lose hope with breath; for, long ere this, he had seen the full scope of his folly, and suspected that the captain was one of the cardsharpers. Fairly worn out,—more the consequence of the excited play of his lungs and galloping blood than the effect of his chase,—he slackened his pace when he came to the Canongate. There he was—a ruined man, not a penny left, the hopes of a fortune blasted, even his tool-chest, with which he might have cut his way anywhere, gone,—a terrible condition, no doubt, not to be even conceived properly by those who have not experienced the shock of sudden and total ruin. No sight had any interest for him, no face any beauty or ugliness, except as it carried any feature like what he recollected of his cruel and heartless companions. Nor was he free from self-impeachment, blaming his love of money as well as the blindness of his credulity. While in this humour, and making his way by inquiry to the Police-office, he met right in the face, and seemed to spring up three inches as he detected the features of one of his spoilers. In an instant, his hand clutched, with the tension of a tiger’s muscle, the gasping throat of the villain. The Highland blood was boiling, and you might have seen the red glare of his eye, as if all his revenge for what he considered to be the ruin of a life had been concentrated in that one terrible glance. The sharper, strong, and with all the recklessness of a tribe of the most desperate kind, was only as a sapling in his grasp.
“My money and my watch, you tam villain!”
Words which, accompanied by the contortion of Gaelic gesticulation, only brought about him a crowd, among whom two constables made their appearance. The sharper was transferred to their hands, glad enough to be relieved of his more furious antagonist, and all the three made for the Office.
It was at this part of the strange drama I came into play. The moment I saw the Highlander enter with his man, I suspected the nature of the complaint, for I knew he was from the country, and the sharper, David Wallace, was one of my most respected protégés in the card and thimblerigging3 line; but I required the information given me by the Highlander to make me understand all the dexterity of the trick which the pseudo-captain of the Britannia had practised. The club, I knew, consisted of four, David Wallace, Richard Kyles, John Dewar, and John Sweeny. It was regularly organised, each man having attached to him his gillet of a helpmate, ready to secrete or carry the watches and other property won by their lords at this most unequal game. I have always considered those daylight sharpers, who, without instruments other than three cards or three thimbles and a pea, contrive to levy extensive contributions on society, as men worthy to have been drawn into the ranks of honest citizens, where their talents could not have failed to elevate them into wealth. Even the manipulation of these simple instruments is more wonderful than the tricks of a conjurer. Fix your eyes as you may, be suspicious even to certainty that the player is cheating you, I will defy you to detect the moment when, by the light if not elegant touch of the finger, your pea has been slipped from the right thimble to the wrong, or the right card to the wrong—yea, to the end, you could swear that no deception has been or could be practised upon you; and even when your watch is forfeited you could hardly think but that your misfortune lay on some defect in your power of penetration. And so it does. You are cheated—nay, fairly cheated. You can’t expect from such men that they should undertake not to deceive you. If they had no art, you would ruin them in five minutes, for all you would have to do (and you insist on the unfair privilege) is to watch the thimble under which your fortune lies and snatch it. There is, therefore, no pity due to the victims of these men’s deceptions, and this we can say with a thorough condemnation of the men themselves.
As soon as I understood the transaction, it was my duty to detect the right thimble, and I had no fear of deception. I sent Wallace, under charge of a constable, to the Leith Office, and told M‘Beath that I would have the three others there in the course of a couple of hours. I had no doubt that Dewar, the cleverest of them, had personated the captain, and that he had rejoined his associates to share the booty. I knew their haunt, a public house in Bristo Street, and, taking Riley with me, I went direct to the place. My luck was nothing less than wonderful. Just as I entered I met my three men coming out of a room, and holding out my arms—
“Stop, gentlemen,” said I; “I have got something to say to you.”
But I didn’t need to say it. They understood me as well as I did them.
“Captain Dewar of the Britannia,” said I, looking to Dewar.
“At your service,” replied the rogue, with a spice of humour, at which, in the very midst of their choking wrath, they could not help leering.
Well, the old process. “Search,” said I; “I want seven pounds and a watch.”
And calling in my assistant, I began my search. No resistance. They were too well up to their calling.
I found the watch on Wallace. No more. The pounds had been given to the fancies.
I kept my word by having them all three at Leith within a couple of hours, safely lodged in prison. They were afterwards tried by the Leith magistrates, aided by an assessor, and sentenced to sixty days each, with sixty more if they did not give up the money and luggage. The sentence seemed judicious, and in one sense it was; but the worthy bailies did not consider that they were offering a premium on the seductive and depredating energies of the trulls4, who (long after the seven pounds was spent) in order to get their birds out of the cage, set about their arts and redeemed them from bondage.
James McLevy 