Chapter XVIII (2)

My next experience of detectives was on two occasions when I officiated as a grand-juryman. The reader is probably aware that the grand-jurymen sit in a room in the immediate proximity of the court, listening to evidence for the prosecution only, the prisoner not being produced; the object being to discover whether the prisoner shall be put on his trial or not. Sometimes there is a perfect procession of detectives, of every type, according to the nature of the case. One will appear habited as a workman, unshaven, and giving one the notion of being out of employment; to be followed by another dressed in the most faultless style. They are all remarkable for giving their evidence in an admirable manner, beginning at the beginning, never using a superfluous word, and leaving off when the end has arrived. This is in strong contrast to the ordinary witness, especially the female witness, whom it is difficult to keep to the point. One of the detectives made a lasting impression on me. He might have stepped on to the boards of a fashionable theatre as the exponent of Sir Frederick Blount in Lord Lytton’s play of _Money_—a very light overcoat, check trousers, patent leather boots, white gaiters and pearl buttons, lemon-coloured kid gloves, and a silver-headed Malacca cane. He was very pale, with flaxen hair parted down the middle, and a light fluffy moustache. The jury opened their eyes very wide when he commenced his business-like statement by saying that he was a sergeant in the detective force. He had been driving a swell dogcart in company with another detective, on the look-out for some noted horse-stealers in one of the Eastern Counties. He had met them driving a cart to which a stolen horse was attached. They obeyed his command for a while to follow him to the market town, but suddenly attempted flight across the fields, deserting their cart and horses; but were pursued and captured.

The following is a notable instance of shrewdness on the part of a detective. Some burglars had been disturbed in their work in a house near the Regent’s Park by a wakeful butler. He was armed with a gun, and he succeeded in capturing one burglar and wounding another, who escaped. There was no doubt of the latter fact, as spots of blood were plainly discernible on the snowy ground. When the day for the examination of the captured burglar arrived, a detective placed himself in the police court in a position whence he could watch the countenances of the general public. He wisely argued that some friend of the prisoner would attend in order to convey the earliest information to the wounded burglar of the result of the examination of his friend. For a while the detective scanned the grimy features of the audience in vain; at length he fancied that a woman betrayed more than ordinary interest in the evidence adduced. At the conclusion of the examination, he followed the woman to a humble lodging in the Borough; and there, stretched on a miserable pallet, lay the burglar with a bullet-wound in his leg.

A detective who had followed a felonious clerk from England to the United States, lost the scent at Buffalo, which is about twenty miles from the celebrated Falls of Niagara. The detective argued that no one would come so near to the Falls without paying a visit to them. He went accordingly, and the first person he saw was the runaway clerk absorbed in admiration of the Horse-shoe Fall.

With a singular occurrence, which happened to myself, I will conclude these rambling notes. On the 25th of January 1885, I was seated at tea with my family in my house, which is located in a very quiet street in West Kensington. The servant appeared and said a gentleman wished to speak to me. He had not inquired for any one in particular, but had said that ‘any gentleman would do.’ I must remind the reader that all London was at this time ringing with the details of the dynamite explosion at the House of Commons and the Tower on the preceding day. I found a tall gentlemanly individual about thirty, of the genus ‘swell,’ who spoke with all the tone and manner of a person accustomed to good society. After a momentary glance at me, he turned his head and kept his eyes intently fixed on the farther end of the street. He spoke in a low tone, and in somewhat hurried and excited accents. ‘I want you to assist me in arresting two Irish Americans. I have been following them for some time, and they have just discovered that fact.’

‘Are you a detective?’ I inquired.

‘I am,’ he replied with his gaze still concentrated on the somewhat foggy street. ‘I can see them still,’ he continued.

Now, I am afraid, when I record my reply, I shall be placed on the same pedestal with Sir John Falstaff at the battle of Shrewsbury, so far as physical courage is concerned. But I had only lately recovered from a prostrating illness, which had left me very weak, and had been confined to the house for a fortnight under medical certificate. I briefly stated these facts, and added, that I feared I was not at that moment qualified for an affair such as he alluded to. He sighed in response, and without removing his gaze from his quarry, said: ‘I wish I could see a policeman,’ and walked rapidly away in the direction of the two men.

Assuming his story to be a true one, the men must have purposely decoyed him into a quiet street, and there waited, in order to solve the point whether they were in reality being tracked. Reluctant to attempt their arrest single-handed, the detective rang at the first door he came to, to throw them off their guard, and cause them to suppose that he had friends in the street; also on the chance that he might obtain a stalwart assistant in his desperate adventure. I have never heard anything further of my mysterious visitor. My readers can easily imagine the diversified comments to which my cautious conduct has given rise—how I have missed a golden opportunity of immortalising myself, and of becoming the hero of the day! how I have probably escaped death by knife or revolver from two desperadoes, who, under the circumstances, could easily have effected their escape in a retired street and in the gray dusk of a Sabbath evening.

A BONE TO PICK WITH ARTISTS.

I have a bone to pick with my friends the artists! I use the word ‘friends’ advisedly, for have I not had the entrée for years to several studios in artistic Kensington? First and foremost was that of poor T. L. Rowbotham, who was so suddenly removed from amongst us some ten years ago, leaving a reputation for breezy coast scenery, which is still green in the memory of the public. My ground of offence is this: that they invest their subjects with so much of their own poetical imagination, that when we subsequently make acquaintance with the localities, an acute sense of disappointment is experienced. Thus, I had been familiar for years with the exquisite engraving after Turner of Abbotsford, wherein the abode of the Wizard of the North peers forth like some huge baronial castle from a dense forest of trees which extends to the bank of the murmuring Tweed. The happy time arrived at length when I was fated to make acquaintance with Scotland and its lovely scenery. Need I say that I included in my explorations Abbotsford and Melrose. My heart beat high as I felt that I was within a couple of miles of renowned Abbotsford. Could I not see in my mind’s eye the massive entrance porch, as sketched by Sir William Allan, R.A.; the baronial hall with the knights in armour, and so on? What was the reality? A very comfortable country mansion, not of any great size, and the dense forest melted into thin air! I must candidly admit, with respect to the last point, that the artist was not responsible for this omission, as the plantation had been cut down for sanitary reasons by the descendants of the great Sir Walter. But the rooms were terribly shrunken as compared with the images in my mind’s eye, as created by the imaginative Turner and Allan. Melrose Abbey could not be better; but I was disappointed to find the sacred fane so hemmed in by poor buildings, which never appear in the artist’s sketches.

On one occasion, I was carefully watching the deft fingers of my friend Smith, as he rapidly placed upon paper the outward resemblance of a picturesque water-mill in a valley in the Lowlands. Suddenly his pencil described a swelling mountain in the far distance. In vain I protested at this outrage on authenticity and vraisemblance. Smith was firm, and descanted in eloquent terms on the improvement caused by the addition. Herein lies the key of my ground of complaint.

Haddon Hall is another of my painful awakenings. It is worthy a pilgrimage to explore those tapestried halls, for they are full of interest, and the Hall itself is beautifully situated. But he who has never studied the hundreds of views of Haddon which are in existence, will be the happier man. The chambers have a dwarfed and shrunken appearance. The miniature terrace with its moss-grown steps looking like a view seen through the wrong end of a telescope, completed my disappointment.

Fontainebleau was a success, because I was not familiar with any magnified views thereof. Always excepting the famous courtyard in front of the renowned horse-shoe staircase, down the steps of which the defeated Emperor slowly trod ere he bade farewell to his legions, prior to his departure for Elba. Do we not all know the celebrated print after Horace Vernet, wherein Napoleon I. is depicted embracing General Petit, while the stalwart standard-bearer of the erst victorious eagle covers his weeping face with one hand. In the immense space, the serried ranks of the Imperial Guard stand like mournful statues. I sighed as I contemplated the moderate-sized square. Another illusion had departed!

Any one who has seen the chamber at Holyrood in which Mary Stuart held high festival with her ladies, listening the while to the love-songs of the Italian Rizzio, will candidly admit that it is one of the smallest supper-rooms in existence! Snug, decidedly—‘exceeding snug,’ as Sir Lucius O’Trigger remarks with respect to intramural interment in the Abbey at Bath. And here I must admit that there is one brilliant exception to the theory I have laid down—Edinburgh! I have never heard a single individual express disappointment with the first sight of ‘Auld Reekie!’ Climatic surroundings of course increase or diminish the enthusiasm. Probably no city has been so profusely illustrated, and when the special points are seen for the first time, they are recognised as old familiar friends. Well do I remember my first experience. The transit from the south at that time was not managed with the same speed or the same punctuality as nowadays. I was timed to arrive at the Caledonian station at eleven P.M. It was considerably past midnight, and dark as pitch, when I stepped into a cab amidst torrents of rain, and requested to be driven to a certain hotel. During the journey, I fancied I caught a glimpse of the Scott Monument, and felt a spasmodic thrill in consequence. When I descended to the breakfast-room the following morning, all was changed. Before my gaze stretched the long line of Princes Street, with the elegant Gothic spire of Scott’s Monument tapering gracefully into the blue sunlit air. The cries of the Newhaven fishwives were as music to my ear.

I was so impatient to mount the Castle Hill and the Calton Hill, that I wished I could be Sir Boyle Roche’s bird, and be in two places at once. To describe the views from these celebrated eminences would be to relate a ‘twice-told tale.’ But even at this distance of time I smile at my outspoken delight as I ‘spotted’ places I had been familiar with from childhood (on paper), and their unexpected relation to each other. ‘Why, that is Holyrood below me!’ and then I remembered that the old palace must have a local habitation somewhere. But there are two effects which remain for ever imprinted on my memory. The rainclouds had gathered again, and as they scudded rapidly across the heavens, the Castle and Rock were one moment in bright sunlight, and then involved in the deepest gloom, so that the green-covered base appeared as unsubstantial in the mist as a fairy palace. The second effect was the Old Town at night as viewed from Princes Street, with the twinkling lights piled high in air, as if they denoted the lofty towers of a palace of the gnomes. The walk of a few yards changes the entire scene. Arthur Seat, Salisbury Crags, and the Pentlands seen from a different angle create a new picture. Edinburgh, changeable and inexhaustible, the kaleidoscope of cities!

I wish to touch with becoming reverence on the disillusions which may lie under the pictorial representations of the Holy Land. Inspired by those illustrations, how often have I in imagination left Jerusalem by one of the city gates, and explored the Valley of Jehoshaphat, ascended the Mount of Olives, and followed the convolutions of the brook Kedron, the gently rising moon illumining meanwhile the garden of Gethsemane! Would a personal examination of some of those sacred places be attended with perfect satisfaction? I fear not.

THE SICKROOM FIRE.

I am neither doctor nor nurse by profession, but have had twice in my lifetime to abandon my ordinary occupation and take charge of members of my family who suffered from severe illness. Like others who were not taught ‘the regular way,’ I had to meet difficulties as they arose, and, as often happens, necessity became the mother of invention.

My first patient was my father: he suffered from nervous fever; and the slightest noise caused him great suffering, every sound appearing to be magnified to an extraordinary degree. It was, of course, important that nothing should occur to break the light sleep which he got from time to time. His illness occurred in winter, and the season was an unusually severe one of frost. It was necessary to keep a fire in the bedroom; yet I found that the poking of it, dropping of cinders on the fender-pan, and the putting of coals on the fire, interfered sadly with my patient’s rest; and I saw that I must get rid of the noise if my nursing was to be a success. My first step was to send out of the room both fender and fire-irons, and to get an ordinary walking-stick, such as is sold for sixpence. With this I cleared the bars and did what poking was necessary for several weeks. When it took fire, as it occasionally did, a rub upon the hob put it out. All the rattle of fire-irons and fender was got rid of, and my first difficulty was overcome. My remaining trouble was putting coals on the fire. If I shook them out of the scuttle into the grate, it made a deal of noise; if I rooted them out with a scoop, the sound was nearly as great, and more irritating, because more prolonged. I managed to get out of that difficulty by making up the coal in parcels. I brought my coal-box downstairs, and taking a couple of scoopfuls of coal at a time, I folded it in a piece of newspaper, and then tied each parcel with string. I put the parcels one upon another in it until the coal-box was full, and took them to my patient’s room. When the fire wanted replenishing, I placed a parcel upon it; the paper burned, away, and the coal settled down gently with little or no sound. After this, the fire was no longer a trouble to me or to my patient.

Some years after my first experience at nursing, my wife was suddenly attacked with typhus fever. I had to clear the house of children and servants, and send for two hospital nurses. When I was preparing for the night on the evening of their arrival, the nurse who was about to sit up smiled when she saw me bring into the patient’s room a coal-box full of paper parcels. She evidently looked upon it as the whim of an amateur. The next morning, she took quite another view of the case, and said: ‘I thought, sir, that I knew my business pretty well; but you certainly have taught me something I did not know—how to manage a sickroom fire. Why, I often let the fire out, and had to sit for hours in the cold, for fear of wakening patients when they were getting a good sleep, besides missing the fire afterwards, when they wakened, and I had not a warm drink for them or the means of making it. With your parcels, I had a good fire all night without a sound, and never had to soil my fingers.’

THE CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY’S WESTERN TERMINUS.

Port Moody, at the head of Burrard Inlet, was the point first selected as a terminus for the Canadian Pacific Railway. The terminus finally decided upon, however, lies on Coal Harbour, near the entrance to this inlet, where the city of Vancouver is now springing up with great rapidity. The Company’s machine-shops and terminal works will be located here, and it promises to be an important commercial city at no distant date. Tenders have been spoken of for a fortnightly mail-service between that point and Yokohama and Hong-kong. It is also probable that the carrying of the bulk of tea shipments for England and the eastern American States and provinces will be done by this route. This makes the outlook all the more promising for Vancouver. Town-lots of land have been laid off by the provincial government fronting the anchorage on English Bay, a large portion of which will be used by the railway Company for terminal works.

‘LET THERE BE LIGHT.’

‘Let there be light;’ and through the abysmal deep,
Where Darkness sat enthroned in silent state,
A tremor passed, as though propitious Fate
Had roused some charmèd castle from the sleep
That sealed all eyes from battlement to keep;
For man or friend the warder dare not wait
To parley with the Voice outside the gate,
For living thing must walk, fly, swim, and creep.

‘Let there be light:’ thus at Creation’s dawn,
Ere earth had shape, the glorious mandate ran.
Nature obeyed; and o’er the face of night
Went forth the rosy streaks of our first morn.
Still Nature keeps to one unvarying plan,
And God-like souls still cry: ‘Let there be light.’

ALBERT FRANCIS CROSS.

* * * * *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

_All Rights Reserved._