Part 4

Certain species of foreign spiders, however, when examined with a view to their silk, offer a field of very considerable encouragement. In the island of Ceylon there is one described by Sir Samuel Baker as being two inches long, with a large yellow spot upon its back, which spins a beautiful yellow web two and a half feet in diameter, so strong that an ordinary walking-stick thrown in is entangled, and retained among the meshes. As might be expected, the filament, which is said to exhibit a more silky appearance than common spider’s web, is easily wound by hand on a card, without any special care being exercised in the operation. A spider of even more formidable dimensions is alluded to in the fascinating work, _The Gardens of the Sun_, by Mr F. W. Burbidge. It is a large, black, yellow-spotted creature, measuring six or eight inches across its extended legs, and it spins a web strained on lines as stout as fine sewing-cotton.

The prince of the species, however, seems to be the _Aranea maculata_ of Brazil, vouched for by Dr Walsh as having been seen and examined by him during his travels in that country. In this huge, ungainly, yet harmless and domesticated creature, we evidently possess a treasure of a silk-spinner, with which the non-nervous and practical among our colonial ladies, situated in moderately warm localities like Northern New Zealand, Queensland, and the Cape of Good Hope, might spend many a profitable hour when they became mutually acquainted. It is not only free from the vices of the European spider in not devouring its kind, but it actually exists in little harmonious communities of over one hundred individuals of different ages and sizes occupying the same web. Like the last-mentioned spider, this one is of similar colossal dimensions, and it spins a beautiful yellow network ten or twelve feet in diameter quite as strong as the silk of commerce. Regarding the toughness of this filament, the doctor says: ‘In passing through an opening between some trees, I felt my head entangled in some obstruction, and on withdrawing it, my light straw-hat remained behind. When I looked up, I saw it suspended in the air, entangled in the meshes of an immense cobweb, which was drawn like a veil of thick gauze across the opening, and was expanded from branch to branch of the opposite trees as large as a sheet, ten or twelve feet in diameter.’ Another traveller, Lieutenant Herndon of the United States navy, confirms Dr Walsh’s account of this enormous spider, with the addition that he saw a single web which nearly covered a lemon tree; and he estimated its diameter at ten yards!

Probably the latest addition to our knowledge of spider-silk has recently come from the Paris ‘Ecole pratique d’Acclimation,’ a member of which has discovered an African species which spins a strong yellow web, so like the product of the silkworm as to be scarcely distinguishable from it. So promising a material as a fibre of commerce does this seem to be, that, after close investigation, a syndicate of Lyons silk-merchants has reported in its favour; the more so as there is said to be no difficulty in acclimatising the spider in France.

In those gigantic spiders there is evidently the nucleus of an important industry of the future, which colonists might perhaps easily ingraft upon their ordinary sericultural or other occupations. If the period has scarcely yet arrived for the profitable utilisation of ordinary spider’s web, surely something might be evolved from the less attenuated filaments just alluded to, which are strong enough to whisk a man’s hat from his head and retain his walking-stick dangling in the air. There are countless difficulties to be surmounted, such as the feeling of repulsion, or even disgust, at being brought into proximity with monstrous spiders like Dr Walsh’s pets; but as this species, unlike the _Lycosa tarantula_ and other poisonous and dreaded kinds, is harmless to human beings, and as their silk would evidently become a valuable addition to the resources of the loom as well as the boudoir, any such feelings and other obstacles would probably soon be overcome. The French—always in the van in such matters, notwithstanding their comparatively limited colonial opportunities—are not likely to allow this curious and interesting occupation to go begging for want of experiment and patience. But Britain—with her numerous dependencies and myriads of active, scheming, inventive brains scattered all over the globe—occupies a peculiarly favourable position to test and localise such an industry.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In theodolites and other similar instruments for taking observations, lines of spider-silk cross the centre of the glass at right angles for certain purposes of observation.

THIEVES AND THIEVING.

The days when Border moss-troopers made a raid on the well-stocked farmyards of Northumberland, or when Highland caterans swooped down from Rob Roy’s country to levy ‘blackmail’ or ‘toom a fauld’ in the Lennox or in the Carse of Stirling, and departed, leaving burning byres or weeping widows behind, are for ever gone. Gone, too, are those later days when bold highwaymen of the Dick Turpin type—all well mounted and equipped, if we are to credit the legends that have come down to us—stopped the mailcoach or the travelling postchaise, and made the terrified passengers hand over their valuables. The traveller of to-day, whether cyclist or pedestrian, may roam from John o’ Groat’s to Land’s End without interruption from highwayman or footpad. The thieving profession has changed its character; and as now unfolded in courts of justice, it appears vulgar, prosaic, and mean. Indeed, we are doubtful if it was not always so. The pen of the novelist has thrown a glamour of romance around that as well as other features of former times, which we love to read about, but should not care to experience. But while this is so, the study of thieves as a class is far from being uninteresting. It has been our lot to see much of them and to learn more, from sources whose reliability is unquestionable.

There are many grades of intellect and ability among these Ishmaelites—from the low type of thief that lies in wait in our large towns for children going messages, and, beguiling them into a dark close, strips them of clothing and money—to the well-dressed, well-bred man of the world, who floats a swindling Company, has his office in a good locality, moves for a time in the best circles, and then decamps, carrying with him the capital of the elderly annuitant, or the hard-earned savings of the struggling tradesman. To her shame be it said, the child-stripper is generally a woman. Far more to his shame, the high-class swindler is generally a well-educated man, who occupies a good position in society, and has often only his own folly to blame for his having fallen to be a needy adventurer. They differ in degree, but not in kind; and though the law may call their offences by different names, the essence of the crime is the same in both cases.

It is sad to see mere children, charged with daring acts of pocket-picking or purse-snatching, brought before a court; but such is often their only chance of salvation from a life of crime. Smutty-faced, ragged little urchins many of them are, dressed in clothes and shoes a world too big for them; and yet, when the dirt is washed from their faces, there is the glance of keen intelligence, and often comely features, underneath. Brought up in the murky closes that yet occupy the older parts of most of our cities, surrounded by influences such as may be inhaled from drunken, swearing men, and tawdry, coarse, and unkempt women, how could they grow up other than they do? Perchance they are reared in low lodging-houses, where a clever theft or an artful dodge is extolled as worthy of the highest admiration, or where some old hand is assiduous in giving them training lessons in crime. Industrial and Reformatory Schools are worthy of all support, checking as they do the career of these young prodigals while yet there is some hope. Apart altogether from considerations of a higher nature, it is surely to the interest of the public that children should be trained into useful wealth-producing members of the community, instead of growing up to prey upon society when out of prison, and burden the ratepayers when in.

A large number of thieves are merely skirmishers or auxiliaries, as it were, on the flanks of the regular army. These auxiliaries do not live wholly by crime, but have some ostensible occupation which they follow. At the same time, they never lose a good opportunity of stealing. In all large towns, the cinder-gatherer may be seen. Late at night and early in the morning she goes through the streets and lanes, probing with a long knife the depths and shallows of every dust-heap, and rescuing therefrom every scrap that will sell. Papers, rags, bones, cinders, and old boots are transferred with marvellous celerity into the depths of the capacious bag which she carries. Should a stray door-mat be lying handy, or an unsecured back-door give access to a green where clothes lie bleaching, her ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_ become straightway rather hazy, and the chances are that a theft is reported next morning. A large number of thefts of umbrellas and greatcoats from lobbies are the work of pedlars, beggars, or old-clothesmen, who loaf around and watch their chance. A smart ‘professional’ of our acquaintance, who is at present in penal servitude, was an adept at stealing greatcoats. He had a piece of wire with a sort of hook on one end, with which he could snatch them from lobby-pegs without making his own appearance. Each ‘professional’ has his own particular style of thieving in which he has graduated. These soon become known to the detectives, who, on learning the _modus operandi_ of a theft, are often able to pounce on the person wanted, even when no description can be supplied.

One class of theft was very prevalent in Glasgow and neighbourhood some time ago. A man dressed like a tradesman called at a number of houses where the owners happened to be absent. (Of course the operator satisfied himself on that point first.) He represented that he had been sent by some well-known firm of upholsterers to measure a room for a new carpet, or by a joiner to repair the windows. In various instances, he got into houses, and generally found an opportunity to steal. Another thief well known in Dundee does the ‘pigeon’ trick. His method is to look out for an open window, ring the bell, and say that a pigeon has just flown away from him on the street and fluttered in at the window. Would they kindly search for it, or permit him to do so? Once in, ten to one but the clever thief manages to commit a theft before he goes out lamenting the loss of his bird, which, of course, cannot be found.

A decrepit youth used to go about the city in which the writer lives. This lad’s legs were useless, so he had flat boards fastened with straps below his knees, and, assisted by short crutches, he crept along the pavement. He was a dexterous thief. If a lady stopped to look in at a shop-window, he could just reach her handbag or pocket; and if she was unwary, she was minus her purse in a few seconds, while the insignificant appearance of the thief disarmed suspicion.

Thieves sometimes quarrel in their cups, and if a detective happens to meet them before the heat of anger has passed off, spitefulness often induces them to give him valuable information. Criminals are almost always prodigal in spending their ill-gotten gains, and the old proverb, ‘Lightly come, lightly go,’ seems specially applicable to them. If in funds, they share freely with their needy brethren, probably with an eye to receiving similar help when out at the knees and elbows themselves.

Stolen property is often stowed away in very curious hiding-places. A lame man was convicted at Leeds assizes last year of passing base coin. When apprehended, it was found he had a receptacle in his wooden leg, in which a considerable stock of the bad money was cunningly secreted. We have sometimes seen a considerable pile of coins unearthed from the voluminous folds of a ragged coat, trousers, or vest. Banknotes, for obvious reasons, are capable of being stowed away in little space; and thieves often hide them in the cracked joints of a dilapidated old table, chair, or bed. Underneath a picture, or between the portrait and the back, appears to be a favourite place of concealment. Articles are often ‘planked’ in the chimney behind the grate; and a watch has even been tossed into a glowing coal-fire, when pursuit was close, although in at least one instance the latter device was unavailing. Two detectives were once searching the house of a well-known thief for some stolen jewellery. The scent was keen, and the examination searching. High and low they rummaged, but without success. From the air of the thief, the officers were satisfied the stolen property was concealed in or about the room. One of them observed that the interest of the ‘suspect’ got always most intense as they approached the window. Taking this as his cue, the officer narrowly examined the shutters, and even tore off the straps that kept in the window-sashes; but without result. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and lifting the lower sash, he scanned the outside of the wall closely. About three or four feet below the window-sill he saw a stone in the wall that appeared to be loose. Calling his comrade to hold him by the legs, he reached down, pulled out a small square stone, thrust in his hand, and found a nice little ‘hide,’ containing not only the articles he was in search of, but also other stolen property sufficient to connect the thief with several ‘jobs,’ and to procure him a long term of quiet contemplation.

A smart female thief once very nearly outwitted an officer by wrapping a crumpled and dirty five-pound note round a candle, and stuffing it into a candlestick, which she then obligingly handed to him. He searched a considerable time before discovering that he had the object of his search in his hand. Another detective, after in vain searching a house for some trussed poultry that had been stolen, cast one parting glance around, when his eye chanced to alight on a cradle in which a woman was vainly trying to hush a squalling baby. A thought struck him. He asked her to lift the child. The woman made some excuse, but the officer insisted, and was immediately rewarded by finding a couple of the stolen fowls.

A slight clue, sometimes discovered by the merest accident, often helps to unravel not only one, but a whole series of thefts. A peculiar button, a footmark, or a portion of dress, will spring a mine under the feet of a rascal who thought he was off scot-free. Of late years, thefts of money by young clerks or salesmen from their employers have become increasingly common. There are several causes for this. Beyond doubt the tastes and habits of the young men of to-day are more expensive than those of their fathers. With small means, or no means at all, they dress up as ‘mashers,’ and smoke choice cigars, attend theatres, concerts, balls, and race-meetings. If often indulged in, these are rather expensive luxuries; and as the supply of youths anxious for genteel employment is always in excess of the demand, the salaries given are in many cases low. Then firms are sometimes very lax in the oversight of young men who have large sums of money daily passing through their hands. It seems so easy to take the loan of a small sum, which, of course, is to be put back again. After the first false step, the descent is rapid; and many a young man fills a felon’s cell, or has to fly the country, under circumstances due to his master’s carelessness as well as his own folly.

The plea of kleptomania is now put forward in defence of thieves much oftener than it used to be. Of course there are some cases in which kleptomania is indisputable, as, for instance, when we hear of a nobleman having to be watched by his valet to prevent him from pocketing his own silver spoons. We know a respectable bookseller who had for a considerable time, at intervals, been missing books from his shop. He was satisfied some of his customers were helping themselves, but he could not say which. At last his suspicions rested on a reverend gentleman of great abilities, but rather eccentric character. He watched him narrowly, and one day caught him in the act of surreptitiously carrying off a volume. The divine tried to explain it away; but the bookseller, after listening gravely, called a cab, and insisted on accompanying him home and examining his library. He hinted that otherwise he would be under the painful necessity of calling in the police. The clergyman made no further objection. They went to his house; and the bookseller brought back a number of valuable books, some of which he had not before missed, and said no more about the matter. The thief was a wealthy man, and had a large library; but he was a bibliomaniac.

Some thefts, however, are of a different character, and in these the plea of kleptomania, like that of insanity in cases of murder, is sometimes pushed rather far. Without attempting to argue the matter on scientific principles, it seems rather strange that kleptomania appears only to affect those who are rich enough to pay an able advocate, and that the morbid desire to steal something—instead of moving them to carry it off openly—appears to be accompanied by an equally morbid desire to secrete the article stolen.

We shall conclude this paper by one or two instances which show that thieving has also its comic side.

A fire was raging fiercely in a grocery store, and the owner, accompanied by an active staff of assistants, was trying to rescue some of the goods by removing them to one side. Immense cheeses and hams were lying about in tempting profusion. A keen-eyed thief had just secured a large Gouda, and was marching off with it, when he found himself face to face with a policeman. The rogue grasped the situation instantly. ‘Here, policeman!’ cried he, planting the cheese in X’s arms before that officer knew what he was about; ‘you had better take charge of that, or somebody’ll be carrying it off;’ and in an instant the nimble rascal disappeared in the crowd.

One morning, a merchant who had come by rail from his country residence was hurrying along the street to his counting-house in a pouring rain. He had forgotten his umbrella; but spying, as he thought, a friend with a large one a little before him, he hastened up, and seizing the handle of the umbrella, jocularly observed: ‘Hillo! is this mine you’ve got?’ He had just had time to observe that the man was a complete stranger to him, and was about to apologise in some embarrassment, when the unknown saved him the trouble, by saying coolly: ‘Oh, it’s yours, is it? Pardon me; I did not know.’ And he hurried off, leaving the astonished merchant in full possession.

About two years ago, a constable in a business part of London found a horse and van, about midnight, standing at the door of a grocer’s shop. He approached, and saw several men in aprons, apparently carrying chests of tea into the shop. Remarking that they were late at work, one of the men replied: ‘O yes; we’re preparing for Christmas;’ and the constable, thinking all was right, walked on. Next morning it was found the shop had been entered by thieves, who had carried off what they evidently took to be twenty-two half-chests of tea, most of which had been standing in the shop-window. The rogues had gone leisurely to work, and being caught by the constable, had employed themselves in carrying _in_ some of the boxes, till he should pass. The reader may judge the surprise and disgust of the thieves, when they found that only one of the chests contained tea, and a second tea-dust, the remaining twenty boxes being merely ‘dummies’ filled with sawdust, with a sprinkling of tea on the top!

Nothing tends more to root out and lessen the number of nests of thieves than the exercise of the power vested in corporations to pull down old houses, which, densely populated with the poorer classes, become at last the abodes of filth, disease, and crime. The former inmates cannot stand the new sanitary and social atmosphere introduced by wider streets and purer air. They gradually betake themselves to other and more honest modes of employment, or seek for ‘fresh woods and pastures new.’ On the other hand, the exercise of a little prudence and common-sense by the general public would prevent an opportunity being given for the commission of a large number of petty but often very annoying thefts.

ST JOHN’S GATE.

A short distance from the very heart of London, stands—for it has not yet been swept away by the builder’s hand—one of the finest remaining relics of the ancient city. It is a heavy fortified gate, built of large blocks of freestone, and flanked by bastions. It has a fine groined Norman arch; and though it is now old and decayed, it is still strong, and shows us what its strength and stability have been in days gone by. It was built by, and belonged to, at one time, that famous order of chivalry, ‘The Knights Hospitallers,’ or ‘Knights of St John of Jerusalem,’ the great rivals of the Templars, and who did such good service in the Holy Land in the time of the crusades; and when Palestine was hopelessly lost, kept up their incessant war against the Infidel in Rhodes, and when driven from that island by the Turks—in Malta.

This order had at one time many religious houses scattered over Europe; and their London priory, that of St John of Clerkenwell, has quite a history of its own to tell. It was founded in the year 1100 by a devout baron named Jordan Briset, this being the time that the first crusade, led by Godfrey of Bouillon, was going on. For a considerable time after this, we know little of the priory, save that the knights were growing in riches and arrogance, and thus were making themselves obnoxious to the people, although some of the old chroniclers tell us that ‘they tended the sick and the needy.’ In fact, they got to be so disliked by the common people, that in the riots which took place in the reign of Richard II.—in which Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, and John Ball took so prominent a part, the last-named being a clergyman, who, in his harangues to the multitude, took for his text the rhyme,

When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then a gentleman?

and made the people think that all the property of the rich was really theirs—the rebels made the Priory of St John a special mark of their fury, and after destroying houses and much property belonging to the knights, they attacked the place itself and burnt it to the ground; and capturing the prior soon after, they executed him upon the spot.

For many years after, the knights were engaged in building a new priory; but the work went slowly on, owing to the troubled state of the order at what was then their great stronghold, Rhodes, and the large numbers of men and sums of money required there to assist in keeping back the conquering Turks, who were fighting with great zeal under the victorious Sultan Solyman. Gradually, a fine church, whose bell is related to have had an exceedingly fine tone, was added to the priory; and soon after the church was finished, Thomas Dockwra, who was then prior, built the gate; this being in or about the year 1504, in the latter part of the reign of Henry VII., the first of the famous dynasty of Tudor sovereigns.