The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete by Walter Scott (books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

under the city!”

“Begging your honour’s pardon,” said the city’s procurator-fiscal, upon whom the duties of superintendent of police devolved, “Mr. Fairscrieve is perfectly in the right. It is just sic as Ratcliffe that the town needs in my department; an’ if sae be that he’s disposed to turn his knowledge to the city service, yell no find a better man.—Ye’ll get nae saints to be searchers for uncustomed goods, or for thieves and sic like;—and your decent sort of men, religious professors, and broken tradesmen, that are put into the like o’ sic trust, can do nae gude ava. They are feared for this, and they are scrupulous about that, and they arena free to tell a lie, though it may be for the benefit of the city; and they dinna like to be out at irregular hours, and in a dark cauld night, and they like a clout ower the crown far waur; and sae between the fear o’ God, and the fear o’ man, and the fear o’ getting a sair throat, or sair banes, there’s a dozen o’ our city-folk, baith waiters, and officers, and constables, that can find out naething but a wee bit skulduddery for the benefit of the Kirk treasurer. Jock Porteous, that’s stiff and stark, puir fallow, was worth a dozen o’ them; for he never had ony fears, or scruples, or doubts, or conscience, about onything your honours bade him.”

“He was a gude servant o’ the town,” said the Bailie, “though he was an ower free-living man. But if you really think this rascal Ratcliffe could do us ony service in discovering these malefactors, I would insure him life, reward, and promotion. It’s an awsome thing this mischance for the city, Mr. Fairscrieve. It will be very ill taen wi’ abune stairs. Queen Caroline, God bless her! is a woman—at least I judge sae, and it’s nae treason to speak my mind sae far—and ye maybe ken as weel as I do, for ye hae a housekeeper, though ye arena a married man, that women are wilfu’, and downa bide a slight. And it will sound ill in her ears, that sic a confused mistake suld come to pass, and naebody sae muckle as to be put into the Tolbooth about it.”

“If ye thought that, sir,” said the procurator-fiscal, “we could easily clap into the prison a few blackguards upon suspicion. It will have a gude active look, and I hae aye plenty on my list, that wadna be a hair the waur of a week or twa’s imprisonment; and if ye thought it no strictly just, ye could be just the easier wi’ them the neist time they did onything to deserve it; they arena the sort to be lang o’ gieing ye an opportunity to clear scores wi’ them on that account.”

“I doubt that will hardly do in this case, Mr. Sharpitlaw,” returned the town-clerk; “they’ll run their letters,* and be adrift again, before ye ken where ye are.”

* A Scottish form of procedure, answering, in some respects, to the English Habeas Corpus.

“I will speak to the Lord Provost,” said the magistrate, “about Ratcliffe’s business. Mr. Sharpitlaw, you will go with me, and receive instructions—something may be made too out of this story of Butler’s and his unknown gentleman—I know no business any man has to swagger about in the King’s Park, and call himself the devil, to the terror of honest folks, who dinna care to hear mair about the devil than is said from the pulpit on the Sabbath. I cannot think the preacher himsell wad be heading the mob, though the time has been, they hae been as forward in a bruilzie as their neighbours.”

“But these times are lang by,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw. “In my father’s time, there was mair search for silenced ministers about the Bow-head and the Covenant Close, and all the tents of Kedar, as they ca’d the dwellings o’ the godly in those days, than there’s now for thieves and vagabonds in the Laigh Calton and the back o’ the Canongate. But that time’s weel by, an it bide. And if the Bailie will get me directions and authority from the Provost, I’ll speak wi’ Daddie Rat mysell; for I’m thinking I’ll make mair out o’ him than ye’ll do.”

Mr. Sharpitlaw, being necessarily a man of high trust, was accordingly empowered, in the course of the day, to make such arrangements as might seem in the emergency most advantageous for the Good Town. He went to the jail accordingly, and saw Ratcliffe in private.

The relative positions of a police-officer and a professed thief bear a different complexion, according to circumstances. The most obvious simile of a hawk pouncing upon his prey is often least applicable. Sometimes the guardian of justice has the air of a cat watching a mouse, and, while he suspends his purpose of springing upon the pilferer, takes care so to calculate his motions that he shall not get beyond his power. Sometimes, more passive still, he uses the art of fascination ascribed to the rattlesnake, and contents himself with glaring on the victim, through all his devious flutterings; certain that his terror, confusion, and disorder of ideas, will bring him into his jaws at last. The interview between Ratcliffe and Sharpitlaw had an aspect different from all these. They sat for five minutes silent, on opposite sides of a small table, and looked fixedly at each other, with a sharp, knowing, and alert cast of countenance, not unmingled with an inclination to laugh, and resembled more than anything else, two dogs, who, preparing for a game at romps, are seen to couch down, and remain in that posture for a little time, watching each other’s movements, and waiting which shall begin the game.

“So, Mr. Ratcliffe,” said the officer, conceiving it suited his dignity to speak first, “you give up business, I find?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ratcliffe; “I shall be on that lay nae mair—and I think that will save your folk some trouble, Mr. Sharpitlaw?”

“Which Jock Daigleish” (then finisher of the law* in the Scottish metropolis) “wad save them as easily,” returned the procurator-fiscal.

* [Among the flying leaves of the period, there is one called “Sutherland’s Lament for the loss of his post,—with his advice, to John Daglees his successor.” He was whipped and banished 25th July 1722. There is another, called the Speech and dying words of John Dalgleish, lockman alias hangman of Edinburgh, containing these lines:—

Death, I’ve a Favour for to beg, That ye wad only gie a Fleg, And spare my Life; As I did to ill-hanged Megg, The Webster’s Wife.”]

“Ay; if I waited in the Tolbooth here to have him fit my cravat—but that’s an idle way o’ speaking, Mr. Sharpitlaw.”

“Why, I suppose you know you are under sentence of death, Mr. Ratcliffe?” replied Mr. Sharpitlaw.

“Aye, so are a’, as that worthy minister said in the Tolbooth Kirk the day Robertson wan off; but naebody kens when it will be executed. Gude faith, he had better reason to say sae than he dreamed off, before the play was played out that morning!”

“This Robertson,” said Sharpitlaw, in a lower and something like a confidential tone, “d’ye ken, Rat—that is, can ye gie us ony inkling