CHAPTERLXXX.HOME LIFE OF CHARLES PEACE—A MUSICAL EVENING—THE DETECTIVE’S STORY.As far as outward appearance was concerned, our hero at this time was leading a quiet, respectable sort of life. He was to be seen at work in his shop for the greater portion of the day, and was on friendly and familiar terms with most of his neighbours.In the evenings he entertained his visitors in a rational way—playing his violin and singing duets with his step-son—so that most of his friends regarded him as a genial fellow, a little egotistical perhaps, but withal an agreeable companion.He appears to have had remarkable control over animals and birds, having at his house the billygoat before alluded to, two cats, three dogs, several guinea pigs, a parrot, and a cockatoo, together with a collection of canaries and other song birds.His family gave him but little trouble: indeed, they ministered to his pleasure during his hours of relaxation—and, with all his faults, it is pretty generally admitted that he was remarkably kind and indulgent to his docile pets.The sociable evenings in his house at Sheffield were in many ways pleasurable ones.The police speak of him as being a clever fellow, who, as a cracksman, was A1 in his profession.The London police speak of him with respect, and it takes a good deal for them to get over their contempt for provincial people in the burglarious and other professions.Though he gave evidence of having a thorough contempt for the suffering inflicted on persons, it has been asserted “that he would not kill a mouse” if he had been required to do so.He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to go without it all his life.Whether from curiosity or interest, he had studied carefully the major portions of the Scriptural writings, had read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on theological questions.One afternoon when Peace lived in the Brocco he had a long conversation with theRev.Dr. Potter on religious topics, and astonished that gentleman by the knowledge of the subject.Even the most prejudiced against the convict, and who knew anything of his antecedents, admit that he was not a man adicted to drinking intoxicating liquors. He appears to have had a horror of a drunken man, and it is asserted that he never exceeded, save in very rare instances, the bounds of moderation.This, the more remarkable, seeing that his fiddling at public-houses would lead him into the habit of taking more than was good for him. It is, however, quite clear that he had strength of mind sufficient to resist any such temptation.One evening, when it so chanced that our hero had one or two friends in his parlour, Bandy-legged Bill happened to drop in.“Ah, you are engaged. I’ll call again some other time,” said the gipsy.“No time like the present—come in you old cripple,” returned Peace, “and make your miserable life happy.”Bill did not want a second invitation. He was introduced to the company present, and sat himself down.“We are just having a little practice,” observed Peace. “This young girl is a pupil of mine.”The gipsy glanced at the person alluded to, and beheld a sweet-looking child, who, to all appearances, was about ten or eleven years of age. She held in her hands a flutina.“A pupil, eh, and a very clever little thing, I’ll dare be sworn,” said the gipsy.“Pretty well,” returned Peace; “but you shall hear and judge for yourself. Now Esther, dear,” this was addressed to the girl, “let the gentleman hear what you can do, or rather what we can both do.”Music was placed before Esther, then Peace led off with his violin, while the child accompanied him on the flutina.The duet was most creditably performed. The girl was a little nervous at first, but gradually gaining courage as she proceeded, did credit to her master.The occupants of the room were loud in their praises, and the general impression seemed to be that Peace’s pupil was a prodigy. Without going so far as this, it must be admitted that she was possessed of considerable ability, and her master was very proud of her.She was the daughter of a poor operative; Peace therefore gave her lessons gratuitously. He had an eye to business, however, and very shortly after this he took her with him to public-houses where she sang and played duets with her master.“And who has taught you to play so beautifully?” said one of our hero’s visitors, addressing herself to the child.“Mr. Peace; I never had any other master,” she answered.“Ah, but you don’t know half her accomplishments. She sings like a nightingale. Now, dear, let the gentleman hear you sing. Let’s have the ‘Life Clock.’ Come, don’t be bashful.”After some hesitation the child commenced, Peace playing a violin accompaniment. The words were as follows—There is a little mystic clock,No human eye hath seen,That beateth on and beateth on,From morning until e’en.And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,And heareth not a sound,It ticks and ticks the live-long night,And never runneth down.Ah! wondrous is that work of artWhich knells the parting hour!But art ne’er formed nor mind conceivedThe life-clock’s magic power.Nor set in gold nor decked with gems,By wealth and pride possessed,But rich or poor, or high or low,Each bears it in his breast.When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowersAll still and softly glides,Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beatIt warns of passing tides.When threatening darkness gathers o’er,And hope’s bright visions flee,Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,It beateth heavily.When passion nerves the warrior’s armFor deeds of hate and wrong,Though heeded not the fearful sound,The knell is deep and strong.Such is the clock that measures life,Of flesh and spirit blended,And thus ’twill run within the breastTill that strange life is ended.The voice of the singer was singularly sweet and sympathetic. The ditty was simple, but the words were set to a flowing melody, and the young, fresh voice of the little maiden entranced the ears of her audience.“My word, Charlie, but she is most charming,” cried the owner of a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood. “You must bring her with you when you next come.”“She’s too diffident at present to sing before all you ruffians,” cried Peace, with a smile. “No, no, guv’nor, I want her to do better things than that.”“Well, but it ’ud be good practice, you know,” observed the gipsy.“Possibly; but she’s not my daughter, and I can’t do as I like. She’s only my pupil, and is at present but a beginner.”“She does jolly well for a beginner, old man,” cried the publican, “and there’s a lot in her. She’s a lump of talent—any one can see that.”“Shut up,” said Peace; “you’ll make the child vain.”“Well, I’m sorry I spoke, if you take it like that.”“Here, this is your sort of customer,” observed Peace, making a motion to his billygoat.The animal at once stood on its hind legs, and, as its master played a merry tune, danced to the sound of the music in a most comical and grotesque manner.The occupants of the parlour laughed till they cried again.Peace put the goat through a number of tricks and antics, which were irresistibly droll.“He’s a regular stunner, that’s what he is,” said the gipsy. “I’d give the world to have an animal like that; but, lor bless you, I suppose I shouldn’t be able to do much with him. Horses are more in my line.”After this performance was over Peace went through one with his two dogs, who were as docile as the goat; they seemed to understand every motion or look of their master.The little singer, Esther Genge, petted and fondled the animals, who seemed to know her almost as well as they did their master.“Why don’t you do a show, old man of this happy united family?” observed Bandy-legged Bill.“It aint so easy as you imagine, and costs a lot of money in moving about from town to town,” said our hero.“Ah, I ’spose it does.”“Ah, yes, you want a lot of the rhino to begin that sort of business; besides that, I should soon get tired of it.”“Well, pitch us a stave, Charlie,” said the publican; “fire away.”“My voice isn’t up to much,” observed Peace, “but I’ll do my best.”With this he played a long prelude on his violin, and then sang the following:—HOLD YOUR HEAD UP LIKE A MAN.If the stormy winds should rustle,While you tread the world’s highway,Still against them bravely tussle,Hope and labour day by day.Falter not, no matter whetherThere is sunshine, storm, or calm,And in every kind of weatherHold your head up like a man.If your brother should deceive you,And should act a traitor’s part,Never let his treason grieve you,Jog along with lightsome heart.Fortune seldom follows fawning,Boldness always is the plan;Hoping for a better dawningHold your head up like a man.Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow,Yields not for the worthless drone,But the bold and honest fellow,He can shift and stand alone.Spurn the knave of every nation,Always do the best you can,And no matter what your stationHold your head up like a man.Of course everyone professed to be delighted with the ditty.Peace at one time had a very fair voice, but it told better in concerted pieces, not being so well adapted for solos, but he sang in time and tune. His knowledge of music could not fail to ensure that.In the course of the evening he sang a duette with the little girl.This was executed with remarkable precision, and created quite a furore.Singular to relate, one of the persons present, was a retired detective, who had been introduced to Peace by Mr. Wrench.He knew perfectly well that our hero had been in trouble, and had done his four years but that was no reason for his discontinuing his acquaintance with Peace, who he hoped and believed was at this time a reformed character.“Upon my word, Peace,” said Mr. Hilton, the detective alluded to, “you ought to do well; for—I don’t say it out of flattery—you are clever in many ways.”“It isn’t the most clever persons who get on in this world,” remarked Peace. “I am afraid, if we examined closely, that the contrary is the case. No one ought to know this better than yourself.”“A man can’t do much nowadays without capital,” remarked the publican. “He may strive and work his fingers to the bone, but unless he has the fore horse by the head it aint of much use.”“There’s a great deal of truth in that,” returned Hilton; “but we come into the world without anything, and when we go out of it we can’t take anything with us, so I suppose it’s pretty much the same in the long run.”“Our friend here has seen something of life, mind you that,” said Peace. “He’s been a celebrated man in his day. You wouldn’t believe it, to look at him, that he has been a detective; but you see,” he added, with a smile, “we are all honest people here, and so it does not much matter.”“All honest till you are found out, old man,” cried Hilton.The company burst out in a roar at this last observation.“We must be a little cautious,” remarked one of the company.“Ah! don’t mind me; I’ve given up the business long since,” said Hilton.“You found it a harassing sort of life, I suppose?”“Well, I don’t know that I did. I have often heard it said that the best part of my life must have been a harassing and painful one, but it was not without its pleasures. The scene of my operations was chiefly in the city of Edinburgh, and as my reputation grew I was obliged to get up at midnight to pursue thieves and recover property, often with little or no clue, and was constrained to trust to chance and wait, like Mr. Micawber, till ‘something turned up.’”“And something generally did turn up,” said Peace, with a knowing wink at the company.“Well, yes, generally, I admit; for I need hardly say if any profession nowadays can be enlivened by adventure it is that of a detective officer.“With the enthusiasm of a sportsman whose aim is to hunt and shoot innocent animals, he is impelled by the superior motive of benefiting mankind by ridding society of pests, and restoring the broken fortunes of suffering victims.”“Charming occupation,” suggested Peace.“It’s all very well for you to make game of our business, my friend, but let me tell you that the ingenuity of the detective is taxed, while it is solicited by the sufferers and repaid by the applause of a generous public. I need hardly say how very much is due to decision in the business of detection. A single minute will often peril the object of your inquiry, and then it does not often happen—at least I have not found it—that the patience that is required in ferreting is joined to the power of dashing at an emergency.”“You can’t expect an impetuous man to be patient,” observed Peace. “All are not constituted alike, but it requires a man of exceptional qualities to hunt down thieves or robbers, and, as you say, inflexibility of purpose or decision is absolutely requisite.”“My friend, M‘Levy,” said Hilton, “who was a celebrated man in his day, and who perhaps brought more offenders to justice than any other man of his class, given an instance, in his work called ‘The Curiosities of Crime,’ of the value of decision.”“Does he? and what might the case be to which he alludes?” inquired Peace, who was always interested in anything appertaining to crime or criminals; it was an interest which might be said to be engrained within him.“If you wish to hear it, I can’t do better than give it in his own words, for he was a far better hand at telling a story or narrative than I am myself,” said Hilton.“On the 4th of January, 1852,” says M‘Levy, “as a man whose name has by some mischance been omitted from my book, was going along the head of the Cowgate, he was instantaneously set upon by three young men, thrown down, and robbed of his watch. A man of the name of W. Duncan, who came up at the moment to lift up the stunned victim, met the robbers as they made off. It was dark, and he had a difficulty in catching marks, so as to be able to identify them. All that he could say when he came to the office was only general, so that it would have been impossible to proceed with any certainty on his description. In addition to this disadvantage, it happened that any information that I could get from him was got at the door of the office, where I met him as he hurried in. I was just on the eve of setting out on a hunting expedition, accompanied by my assistant, Reilly, with a draper, who had got taken from his shop a quantity of goods, and whose case was urgent. How can I get so much from Duncan—enough to point my mind towards three young men—David Dunnett, Robert Brodie, and Archibald Miller—the last of whom I knew to be a returned convict.”“Ah, you knew the gentlemen, eh?” cried one of listeners.“Not me” said Hilton. “I am giving you the narrative as M‘Levy tells it in his work.”“M‘Levy!—what a rum name!” observed the publican. “A Scotch Jew, I suppose?”“Nothing of the kind. M‘Levy was an Irishman by birth, though he followed the avocation of a detective, like myself, in the city of Edinburgh. Of course it was impossible,” says M‘Levy, “that the man could give me a description of all three, but he said sufficient for me to draw my own conclusions, for when once a gang is formed, they generally act in concert, so that if you get a clue to one, the other birds are easily trapped. The particular line of the suspected persons, I knew perfectly well, was robbing from the person, and knowing this, I was more easily led to the conclusion that they were the guilty parties—at least such was my impression. It was only that, not a positive or absolute conviction; and, indeed, so much was I taken up with the draper’s business, that I sent Duncan to report regularly.”“Duncan?”“Yes, Duncan is in his grave now, and nothing can touch him further,” remarked Mr. Hilton, sententious.”In the circumstances (continues M‘Levy narrative), the affair was soon out of my mind, occupied as I was with the poor draper, who sighed for his goods, and no doubt thought that I was the man to repair his loss.A reputation thus gets a man into toils, but I hope I never regretted this consequence, so long as I could give my poor services to anxious, and often miserable victims.How often have I walked through Edinburgh in the middle of the night, and far on in the morning—when all were asleep but those who turn night into day—accompanied by some silent man or woman, groaning inwardly over a loss sufficient to break their fortunes and affect them for life—threading dark, noisome wynds, entering dens where nothing was heard but cursing, and nothing seen but deeds without shame, endeavouring in the midst of all this sea to find the sighed-for property, or detect the cruel robber.Wearied to the uttermost, I have often despaired, at the very moment when I was to pounce upon what I sought, redeem my spirits, and render happy my fellows.In the present case I had a task of the same kind. We went through a great part of the Old Town, upstairs and downstairs; through long dark lobbies, and into all kinds of habitations, but the draper was not that night, at least, to be made happy.We had entirely failed, and were all knocked up by disappointment and fatigue.If the robbery at the Cowgate had scarcely taken hold of me when we set out, all interest had passed away, if not all recollection.Some hope had taken us over to the far end of the Pleasance, and we were returning by that street. The hour was late—between twelve and one o’clock—and a dark night, every sound hushed.We were worn out with fatigue, and were fit only for our beds. I think we had got as far as the foot of Adam-street, when up came three young fellows, so rapidly that they were within a yard of us before they saw us or we saw them.I did not hesitate a moment. “Seize them!” I cried.We sprang upon them on a sudden impulse. I seized Miller and Dunnett each with a hand while Reilly engaged Brodie.A fierce struggle ensued, as you can readily imagine, during which I cried, “Search Brodie.”And no sooner was the cry raised than Brodie threw something away from him as far as he could throw it. The sound of the article seemed to be music to the ear of the draper.He ran at once to the spot and picked up a silver watch. The very “ticker” that had been taken from the man in the Cowgate three hours before.In the meantime the struggle continued, and man but those who have had to deal with robbers can form an idea of the energy they display when caught suddenly after an exploit.Then the worst passions are aroused, and the terror of apprehension gives them a power which is perfectly marvellous. Were this not so criminals would never escape as they have been frequently known to do out of the hands of courageous and determined officers.At length, and receiving some aid from our valiant draper, who lost the sense of his loss in a kind of revenge against the class from which he had suffered, we succeeded in quelling them, whereto we were probably aided, too, by passengers who stopped to witness the row.We landed them all safely, and they got their reward. Brodie, who had the watch, was sentenced to seven years’ transportation; Miller, the returned convict, got two years’ imprisonment; against Dunnet, not proven, for there was no proper identification. I have said that Miller was a returned convict. I am not sure but that the old notion that punishment tends to reformation hangs yet about many minds. For God’s sake, let us get quit of that.I have had through my hands so many convicted persons, that the moment I have known they were loose I have watched them almost instinctively for a new offence. The simple truth is, that punishment hardens.It is forgotten by the hopeful people that it is clay they have to work upon, not gold, and, therefore, while they are passing the material through the fire, they are making bricks, not golden crowns of righteousness.Enough, too, has been made of the evident enough fact that they must continue their old courses because there is no asylum for them.You may build as many asylums as you please, but the law of these strange nurslings of society’s own maternity cannot be changed in this way.I say nothing of God’s grace—that is above my comprehension—but, except for that, we need entertain no hope of the repentance and amendment of regular thieves and robbers.They have perhaps their use—they can be made examples of to others, but seldom or never good examples to themselves.“There are instances of reformation, I suppose,” said one of the company. “Once a thief, always a thief, is not a very humane doctrine.”“There are instances, of course, but they form the exception to the rule,” observed Mr. Hilton. “But that the habitual criminal, as he is termed, will always exist, is, I fear, fated; but modern experience tells us that they may be diminished by simply drawing them when very young within the circle of civilisation, in place of the old way of keeping them out of it.”“Some will never reform, do what you will,” remarked Peace, “and this is a very sad reflection.”He could moralise with the best of them, and went on for the space of several minutes discoursing upon the question of the treatment of the criminal part of the community. He blamed the government more than the public, or, indeed, the felons, and talked so morally, and in such a proper manner, that his listeners were charmed with his discourse.Then when the subject began to prove wearisome he played a fantasia on his violin, and made the little girl, his pupil, dance to the sound of the music.His guests appeared to enjoy themselves—indeed they could hardly fail to do so for Peace, in addition to being an entertainer, played the part of a host in a highly satisfactory manner. Mr. Hilton was the first to leave. After his departure the publican said—“Ah! a very nice chap, that friend of yours.”“Yes, pretty well, for a detective.”At this observation they all laughed, as a matter of course, and some chaffing went on which Peace bore with admirable good temper until the remainder of the company left, with the exception of Bandy-legged Bill, who remained behind to have atête-à-tetewith his boon companion and accomplice in crime.
As far as outward appearance was concerned, our hero at this time was leading a quiet, respectable sort of life. He was to be seen at work in his shop for the greater portion of the day, and was on friendly and familiar terms with most of his neighbours.
In the evenings he entertained his visitors in a rational way—playing his violin and singing duets with his step-son—so that most of his friends regarded him as a genial fellow, a little egotistical perhaps, but withal an agreeable companion.
He appears to have had remarkable control over animals and birds, having at his house the billygoat before alluded to, two cats, three dogs, several guinea pigs, a parrot, and a cockatoo, together with a collection of canaries and other song birds.
His family gave him but little trouble: indeed, they ministered to his pleasure during his hours of relaxation—and, with all his faults, it is pretty generally admitted that he was remarkably kind and indulgent to his docile pets.
The sociable evenings in his house at Sheffield were in many ways pleasurable ones.
The police speak of him as being a clever fellow, who, as a cracksman, was A1 in his profession.
The London police speak of him with respect, and it takes a good deal for them to get over their contempt for provincial people in the burglarious and other professions.
Though he gave evidence of having a thorough contempt for the suffering inflicted on persons, it has been asserted “that he would not kill a mouse” if he had been required to do so.
He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to go without it all his life.
Whether from curiosity or interest, he had studied carefully the major portions of the Scriptural writings, had read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on theological questions.
One afternoon when Peace lived in the Brocco he had a long conversation with theRev.Dr. Potter on religious topics, and astonished that gentleman by the knowledge of the subject.
Even the most prejudiced against the convict, and who knew anything of his antecedents, admit that he was not a man adicted to drinking intoxicating liquors. He appears to have had a horror of a drunken man, and it is asserted that he never exceeded, save in very rare instances, the bounds of moderation.
This, the more remarkable, seeing that his fiddling at public-houses would lead him into the habit of taking more than was good for him. It is, however, quite clear that he had strength of mind sufficient to resist any such temptation.
One evening, when it so chanced that our hero had one or two friends in his parlour, Bandy-legged Bill happened to drop in.
“Ah, you are engaged. I’ll call again some other time,” said the gipsy.
“No time like the present—come in you old cripple,” returned Peace, “and make your miserable life happy.”
Bill did not want a second invitation. He was introduced to the company present, and sat himself down.
“We are just having a little practice,” observed Peace. “This young girl is a pupil of mine.”
The gipsy glanced at the person alluded to, and beheld a sweet-looking child, who, to all appearances, was about ten or eleven years of age. She held in her hands a flutina.
“A pupil, eh, and a very clever little thing, I’ll dare be sworn,” said the gipsy.
“Pretty well,” returned Peace; “but you shall hear and judge for yourself. Now Esther, dear,” this was addressed to the girl, “let the gentleman hear what you can do, or rather what we can both do.”
Music was placed before Esther, then Peace led off with his violin, while the child accompanied him on the flutina.
The duet was most creditably performed. The girl was a little nervous at first, but gradually gaining courage as she proceeded, did credit to her master.
The occupants of the room were loud in their praises, and the general impression seemed to be that Peace’s pupil was a prodigy. Without going so far as this, it must be admitted that she was possessed of considerable ability, and her master was very proud of her.
She was the daughter of a poor operative; Peace therefore gave her lessons gratuitously. He had an eye to business, however, and very shortly after this he took her with him to public-houses where she sang and played duets with her master.
“And who has taught you to play so beautifully?” said one of our hero’s visitors, addressing herself to the child.
“Mr. Peace; I never had any other master,” she answered.
“Ah, but you don’t know half her accomplishments. She sings like a nightingale. Now, dear, let the gentleman hear you sing. Let’s have the ‘Life Clock.’ Come, don’t be bashful.”
After some hesitation the child commenced, Peace playing a violin accompaniment. The words were as follows—
There is a little mystic clock,No human eye hath seen,That beateth on and beateth on,From morning until e’en.And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,And heareth not a sound,It ticks and ticks the live-long night,And never runneth down.Ah! wondrous is that work of artWhich knells the parting hour!But art ne’er formed nor mind conceivedThe life-clock’s magic power.Nor set in gold nor decked with gems,By wealth and pride possessed,But rich or poor, or high or low,Each bears it in his breast.When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowersAll still and softly glides,Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beatIt warns of passing tides.When threatening darkness gathers o’er,And hope’s bright visions flee,Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,It beateth heavily.When passion nerves the warrior’s armFor deeds of hate and wrong,Though heeded not the fearful sound,The knell is deep and strong.Such is the clock that measures life,Of flesh and spirit blended,And thus ’twill run within the breastTill that strange life is ended.
There is a little mystic clock,No human eye hath seen,That beateth on and beateth on,From morning until e’en.And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,And heareth not a sound,It ticks and ticks the live-long night,And never runneth down.Ah! wondrous is that work of artWhich knells the parting hour!But art ne’er formed nor mind conceivedThe life-clock’s magic power.Nor set in gold nor decked with gems,By wealth and pride possessed,But rich or poor, or high or low,Each bears it in his breast.When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowersAll still and softly glides,Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beatIt warns of passing tides.When threatening darkness gathers o’er,And hope’s bright visions flee,Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,It beateth heavily.When passion nerves the warrior’s armFor deeds of hate and wrong,Though heeded not the fearful sound,The knell is deep and strong.Such is the clock that measures life,Of flesh and spirit blended,And thus ’twill run within the breastTill that strange life is ended.
There is a little mystic clock,No human eye hath seen,That beateth on and beateth on,From morning until e’en.
There is a little mystic clock,
No human eye hath seen,
That beateth on and beateth on,
From morning until e’en.
And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,And heareth not a sound,It ticks and ticks the live-long night,And never runneth down.
And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,
And heareth not a sound,
It ticks and ticks the live-long night,
And never runneth down.
Ah! wondrous is that work of artWhich knells the parting hour!But art ne’er formed nor mind conceivedThe life-clock’s magic power.
Ah! wondrous is that work of art
Which knells the parting hour!
But art ne’er formed nor mind conceived
The life-clock’s magic power.
Nor set in gold nor decked with gems,By wealth and pride possessed,But rich or poor, or high or low,Each bears it in his breast.
Nor set in gold nor decked with gems,
By wealth and pride possessed,
But rich or poor, or high or low,
Each bears it in his breast.
When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowersAll still and softly glides,Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beatIt warns of passing tides.
When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowers
All still and softly glides,
Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beat
It warns of passing tides.
When threatening darkness gathers o’er,And hope’s bright visions flee,Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,It beateth heavily.
When threatening darkness gathers o’er,
And hope’s bright visions flee,
Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,
It beateth heavily.
When passion nerves the warrior’s armFor deeds of hate and wrong,Though heeded not the fearful sound,The knell is deep and strong.
When passion nerves the warrior’s arm
For deeds of hate and wrong,
Though heeded not the fearful sound,
The knell is deep and strong.
Such is the clock that measures life,Of flesh and spirit blended,And thus ’twill run within the breastTill that strange life is ended.
Such is the clock that measures life,
Of flesh and spirit blended,
And thus ’twill run within the breast
Till that strange life is ended.
The voice of the singer was singularly sweet and sympathetic. The ditty was simple, but the words were set to a flowing melody, and the young, fresh voice of the little maiden entranced the ears of her audience.
“My word, Charlie, but she is most charming,” cried the owner of a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood. “You must bring her with you when you next come.”
“She’s too diffident at present to sing before all you ruffians,” cried Peace, with a smile. “No, no, guv’nor, I want her to do better things than that.”
“Well, but it ’ud be good practice, you know,” observed the gipsy.
“Possibly; but she’s not my daughter, and I can’t do as I like. She’s only my pupil, and is at present but a beginner.”
“She does jolly well for a beginner, old man,” cried the publican, “and there’s a lot in her. She’s a lump of talent—any one can see that.”
“Shut up,” said Peace; “you’ll make the child vain.”
“Well, I’m sorry I spoke, if you take it like that.”
“Here, this is your sort of customer,” observed Peace, making a motion to his billygoat.
The animal at once stood on its hind legs, and, as its master played a merry tune, danced to the sound of the music in a most comical and grotesque manner.
The occupants of the parlour laughed till they cried again.
Peace put the goat through a number of tricks and antics, which were irresistibly droll.
“He’s a regular stunner, that’s what he is,” said the gipsy. “I’d give the world to have an animal like that; but, lor bless you, I suppose I shouldn’t be able to do much with him. Horses are more in my line.”
After this performance was over Peace went through one with his two dogs, who were as docile as the goat; they seemed to understand every motion or look of their master.
The little singer, Esther Genge, petted and fondled the animals, who seemed to know her almost as well as they did their master.
“Why don’t you do a show, old man of this happy united family?” observed Bandy-legged Bill.
“It aint so easy as you imagine, and costs a lot of money in moving about from town to town,” said our hero.
“Ah, I ’spose it does.”
“Ah, yes, you want a lot of the rhino to begin that sort of business; besides that, I should soon get tired of it.”
“Well, pitch us a stave, Charlie,” said the publican; “fire away.”
“My voice isn’t up to much,” observed Peace, “but I’ll do my best.”
With this he played a long prelude on his violin, and then sang the following:—
HOLD YOUR HEAD UP LIKE A MAN.
If the stormy winds should rustle,While you tread the world’s highway,Still against them bravely tussle,Hope and labour day by day.Falter not, no matter whetherThere is sunshine, storm, or calm,And in every kind of weatherHold your head up like a man.If your brother should deceive you,And should act a traitor’s part,Never let his treason grieve you,Jog along with lightsome heart.Fortune seldom follows fawning,Boldness always is the plan;Hoping for a better dawningHold your head up like a man.Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow,Yields not for the worthless drone,But the bold and honest fellow,He can shift and stand alone.Spurn the knave of every nation,Always do the best you can,And no matter what your stationHold your head up like a man.
If the stormy winds should rustle,While you tread the world’s highway,Still against them bravely tussle,Hope and labour day by day.Falter not, no matter whetherThere is sunshine, storm, or calm,And in every kind of weatherHold your head up like a man.If your brother should deceive you,And should act a traitor’s part,Never let his treason grieve you,Jog along with lightsome heart.Fortune seldom follows fawning,Boldness always is the plan;Hoping for a better dawningHold your head up like a man.Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow,Yields not for the worthless drone,But the bold and honest fellow,He can shift and stand alone.Spurn the knave of every nation,Always do the best you can,And no matter what your stationHold your head up like a man.
If the stormy winds should rustle,While you tread the world’s highway,Still against them bravely tussle,Hope and labour day by day.Falter not, no matter whetherThere is sunshine, storm, or calm,And in every kind of weatherHold your head up like a man.
If the stormy winds should rustle,
While you tread the world’s highway,
Still against them bravely tussle,
Hope and labour day by day.
Falter not, no matter whether
There is sunshine, storm, or calm,
And in every kind of weather
Hold your head up like a man.
If your brother should deceive you,And should act a traitor’s part,Never let his treason grieve you,Jog along with lightsome heart.Fortune seldom follows fawning,Boldness always is the plan;Hoping for a better dawningHold your head up like a man.
If your brother should deceive you,
And should act a traitor’s part,
Never let his treason grieve you,
Jog along with lightsome heart.
Fortune seldom follows fawning,
Boldness always is the plan;
Hoping for a better dawning
Hold your head up like a man.
Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow,Yields not for the worthless drone,But the bold and honest fellow,He can shift and stand alone.Spurn the knave of every nation,Always do the best you can,And no matter what your stationHold your head up like a man.
Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow,
Yields not for the worthless drone,
But the bold and honest fellow,
He can shift and stand alone.
Spurn the knave of every nation,
Always do the best you can,
And no matter what your station
Hold your head up like a man.
Of course everyone professed to be delighted with the ditty.
Peace at one time had a very fair voice, but it told better in concerted pieces, not being so well adapted for solos, but he sang in time and tune. His knowledge of music could not fail to ensure that.
In the course of the evening he sang a duette with the little girl.
This was executed with remarkable precision, and created quite a furore.
Singular to relate, one of the persons present, was a retired detective, who had been introduced to Peace by Mr. Wrench.
He knew perfectly well that our hero had been in trouble, and had done his four years but that was no reason for his discontinuing his acquaintance with Peace, who he hoped and believed was at this time a reformed character.
“Upon my word, Peace,” said Mr. Hilton, the detective alluded to, “you ought to do well; for—I don’t say it out of flattery—you are clever in many ways.”
“It isn’t the most clever persons who get on in this world,” remarked Peace. “I am afraid, if we examined closely, that the contrary is the case. No one ought to know this better than yourself.”
“A man can’t do much nowadays without capital,” remarked the publican. “He may strive and work his fingers to the bone, but unless he has the fore horse by the head it aint of much use.”
“There’s a great deal of truth in that,” returned Hilton; “but we come into the world without anything, and when we go out of it we can’t take anything with us, so I suppose it’s pretty much the same in the long run.”
“Our friend here has seen something of life, mind you that,” said Peace. “He’s been a celebrated man in his day. You wouldn’t believe it, to look at him, that he has been a detective; but you see,” he added, with a smile, “we are all honest people here, and so it does not much matter.”
“All honest till you are found out, old man,” cried Hilton.
The company burst out in a roar at this last observation.
“We must be a little cautious,” remarked one of the company.
“Ah! don’t mind me; I’ve given up the business long since,” said Hilton.
“You found it a harassing sort of life, I suppose?”
“Well, I don’t know that I did. I have often heard it said that the best part of my life must have been a harassing and painful one, but it was not without its pleasures. The scene of my operations was chiefly in the city of Edinburgh, and as my reputation grew I was obliged to get up at midnight to pursue thieves and recover property, often with little or no clue, and was constrained to trust to chance and wait, like Mr. Micawber, till ‘something turned up.’”
“And something generally did turn up,” said Peace, with a knowing wink at the company.
“Well, yes, generally, I admit; for I need hardly say if any profession nowadays can be enlivened by adventure it is that of a detective officer.
“With the enthusiasm of a sportsman whose aim is to hunt and shoot innocent animals, he is impelled by the superior motive of benefiting mankind by ridding society of pests, and restoring the broken fortunes of suffering victims.”
“Charming occupation,” suggested Peace.
“It’s all very well for you to make game of our business, my friend, but let me tell you that the ingenuity of the detective is taxed, while it is solicited by the sufferers and repaid by the applause of a generous public. I need hardly say how very much is due to decision in the business of detection. A single minute will often peril the object of your inquiry, and then it does not often happen—at least I have not found it—that the patience that is required in ferreting is joined to the power of dashing at an emergency.”
“You can’t expect an impetuous man to be patient,” observed Peace. “All are not constituted alike, but it requires a man of exceptional qualities to hunt down thieves or robbers, and, as you say, inflexibility of purpose or decision is absolutely requisite.”
“My friend, M‘Levy,” said Hilton, “who was a celebrated man in his day, and who perhaps brought more offenders to justice than any other man of his class, given an instance, in his work called ‘The Curiosities of Crime,’ of the value of decision.”
“Does he? and what might the case be to which he alludes?” inquired Peace, who was always interested in anything appertaining to crime or criminals; it was an interest which might be said to be engrained within him.
“If you wish to hear it, I can’t do better than give it in his own words, for he was a far better hand at telling a story or narrative than I am myself,” said Hilton.
“On the 4th of January, 1852,” says M‘Levy, “as a man whose name has by some mischance been omitted from my book, was going along the head of the Cowgate, he was instantaneously set upon by three young men, thrown down, and robbed of his watch. A man of the name of W. Duncan, who came up at the moment to lift up the stunned victim, met the robbers as they made off. It was dark, and he had a difficulty in catching marks, so as to be able to identify them. All that he could say when he came to the office was only general, so that it would have been impossible to proceed with any certainty on his description. In addition to this disadvantage, it happened that any information that I could get from him was got at the door of the office, where I met him as he hurried in. I was just on the eve of setting out on a hunting expedition, accompanied by my assistant, Reilly, with a draper, who had got taken from his shop a quantity of goods, and whose case was urgent. How can I get so much from Duncan—enough to point my mind towards three young men—David Dunnett, Robert Brodie, and Archibald Miller—the last of whom I knew to be a returned convict.”
“Ah, you knew the gentlemen, eh?” cried one of listeners.
“Not me” said Hilton. “I am giving you the narrative as M‘Levy tells it in his work.”
“M‘Levy!—what a rum name!” observed the publican. “A Scotch Jew, I suppose?”
“Nothing of the kind. M‘Levy was an Irishman by birth, though he followed the avocation of a detective, like myself, in the city of Edinburgh. Of course it was impossible,” says M‘Levy, “that the man could give me a description of all three, but he said sufficient for me to draw my own conclusions, for when once a gang is formed, they generally act in concert, so that if you get a clue to one, the other birds are easily trapped. The particular line of the suspected persons, I knew perfectly well, was robbing from the person, and knowing this, I was more easily led to the conclusion that they were the guilty parties—at least such was my impression. It was only that, not a positive or absolute conviction; and, indeed, so much was I taken up with the draper’s business, that I sent Duncan to report regularly.”
“Duncan?”
“Yes, Duncan is in his grave now, and nothing can touch him further,” remarked Mr. Hilton, sententious.”
In the circumstances (continues M‘Levy narrative), the affair was soon out of my mind, occupied as I was with the poor draper, who sighed for his goods, and no doubt thought that I was the man to repair his loss.
A reputation thus gets a man into toils, but I hope I never regretted this consequence, so long as I could give my poor services to anxious, and often miserable victims.
How often have I walked through Edinburgh in the middle of the night, and far on in the morning—when all were asleep but those who turn night into day—accompanied by some silent man or woman, groaning inwardly over a loss sufficient to break their fortunes and affect them for life—threading dark, noisome wynds, entering dens where nothing was heard but cursing, and nothing seen but deeds without shame, endeavouring in the midst of all this sea to find the sighed-for property, or detect the cruel robber.
Wearied to the uttermost, I have often despaired, at the very moment when I was to pounce upon what I sought, redeem my spirits, and render happy my fellows.
In the present case I had a task of the same kind. We went through a great part of the Old Town, upstairs and downstairs; through long dark lobbies, and into all kinds of habitations, but the draper was not that night, at least, to be made happy.
We had entirely failed, and were all knocked up by disappointment and fatigue.
If the robbery at the Cowgate had scarcely taken hold of me when we set out, all interest had passed away, if not all recollection.
Some hope had taken us over to the far end of the Pleasance, and we were returning by that street. The hour was late—between twelve and one o’clock—and a dark night, every sound hushed.
We were worn out with fatigue, and were fit only for our beds. I think we had got as far as the foot of Adam-street, when up came three young fellows, so rapidly that they were within a yard of us before they saw us or we saw them.
I did not hesitate a moment. “Seize them!” I cried.
We sprang upon them on a sudden impulse. I seized Miller and Dunnett each with a hand while Reilly engaged Brodie.
A fierce struggle ensued, as you can readily imagine, during which I cried, “Search Brodie.”
And no sooner was the cry raised than Brodie threw something away from him as far as he could throw it. The sound of the article seemed to be music to the ear of the draper.
He ran at once to the spot and picked up a silver watch. The very “ticker” that had been taken from the man in the Cowgate three hours before.
In the meantime the struggle continued, and man but those who have had to deal with robbers can form an idea of the energy they display when caught suddenly after an exploit.
Then the worst passions are aroused, and the terror of apprehension gives them a power which is perfectly marvellous. Were this not so criminals would never escape as they have been frequently known to do out of the hands of courageous and determined officers.
At length, and receiving some aid from our valiant draper, who lost the sense of his loss in a kind of revenge against the class from which he had suffered, we succeeded in quelling them, whereto we were probably aided, too, by passengers who stopped to witness the row.
We landed them all safely, and they got their reward. Brodie, who had the watch, was sentenced to seven years’ transportation; Miller, the returned convict, got two years’ imprisonment; against Dunnet, not proven, for there was no proper identification. I have said that Miller was a returned convict. I am not sure but that the old notion that punishment tends to reformation hangs yet about many minds. For God’s sake, let us get quit of that.
I have had through my hands so many convicted persons, that the moment I have known they were loose I have watched them almost instinctively for a new offence. The simple truth is, that punishment hardens.
It is forgotten by the hopeful people that it is clay they have to work upon, not gold, and, therefore, while they are passing the material through the fire, they are making bricks, not golden crowns of righteousness.
Enough, too, has been made of the evident enough fact that they must continue their old courses because there is no asylum for them.
You may build as many asylums as you please, but the law of these strange nurslings of society’s own maternity cannot be changed in this way.
I say nothing of God’s grace—that is above my comprehension—but, except for that, we need entertain no hope of the repentance and amendment of regular thieves and robbers.
They have perhaps their use—they can be made examples of to others, but seldom or never good examples to themselves.
“There are instances of reformation, I suppose,” said one of the company. “Once a thief, always a thief, is not a very humane doctrine.”
“There are instances, of course, but they form the exception to the rule,” observed Mr. Hilton. “But that the habitual criminal, as he is termed, will always exist, is, I fear, fated; but modern experience tells us that they may be diminished by simply drawing them when very young within the circle of civilisation, in place of the old way of keeping them out of it.”
“Some will never reform, do what you will,” remarked Peace, “and this is a very sad reflection.”
He could moralise with the best of them, and went on for the space of several minutes discoursing upon the question of the treatment of the criminal part of the community. He blamed the government more than the public, or, indeed, the felons, and talked so morally, and in such a proper manner, that his listeners were charmed with his discourse.
Then when the subject began to prove wearisome he played a fantasia on his violin, and made the little girl, his pupil, dance to the sound of the music.
His guests appeared to enjoy themselves—indeed they could hardly fail to do so for Peace, in addition to being an entertainer, played the part of a host in a highly satisfactory manner. Mr. Hilton was the first to leave. After his departure the publican said—
“Ah! a very nice chap, that friend of yours.”
“Yes, pretty well, for a detective.”
At this observation they all laughed, as a matter of course, and some chaffing went on which Peace bore with admirable good temper until the remainder of the company left, with the exception of Bandy-legged Bill, who remained behind to have atête-à-tetewith his boon companion and accomplice in crime.