attainable, and the motive was assuredly far more subtle.  Brodie, in fact, was of a romantic turn.  He was, so to say, a glorified schoolboy, surfeited with penny dreadfuls.  He loved above all things to patter the flash, to dream himself another Macheath, to trick himself out with all the trappings of a crime he was unfit to commit.  It was never the job itself that attracted him:  he would always rather throw the dice than force a neighbour’s window.  But he must needs have a distraction from the respectability of his life.  Everybody was at his feet; he was Deacon of his Guild, at an age whereat his fellows were striving to earn a reputable living; his masterpieces were fashioned, and the wrights’ trade was already a burden.  To go upon the cross seemed a dream of freedom, until he snapped his fingers at the world, filled his mouth with slang, prepared his alibi, and furnished him a whole wardrobe of disguises.

With a conscious irony, maybe, he buried his pistols beneath the domestic hearth, jammed his dark lantern into the press, where he kept his game-cocks, and determined to make an inextricable jumble of his career.  Drink is sometimes a sufficient reaction against the orderliness of a successful life.

But drink and cards failed with the Deacon, and at the Vintner’s of his frequentation he encountered accomplices proper for his schemes.  Never was so outrageous a protest offered against domesticity.  Yet Brodie’s resolution was romantic after its fashion, and was far more respectable than the blackguardism of the French Revolution, which distracted housewifely discontent a year after the Deacon swung.  Moreover, it gave occasion for his dandyism and his love of display.  If in one incarnation he was the complete gentleman, in another he dressed the part of the perfect scoundrel, and the list of his costumes would have filled one of his own ledgers.

But, when once the possibility of housebreaking was taken from him, he returned to his familiar dignity.  Being questioned by the Procurator Fiscal, he shrugged his shoulders, regretting that other affairs demanded his attention.  As who should say:  it is unpardonable to disturb the meditations of a gentleman.  He made a will bequeathing his knowledge of law to the magistrates of Edinburgh, his dexterity in cards and dice to Hamilton the chimney-sweeper, and all his bad qualities to his good friends and old companions, Brown and Ainslie, not doubting, however, that their own will secure them ‘a rope at last.’  In prison it was his worst complaint that, though the nails of his toes and fingers were not quite so long as Nebuchadnezzar’s, they were long enough for a mandarin, and much longer than he found convenient.  Thus he preserved an untroubled demeanour until the day of his death.  Always polite, and even joyous, he met the smallest indulgence with enthusiasm.  When Smith complained that a respite of six weeks was of small account, Brodie exclaimed, ’George, what would you and I give for six weeks longer?  Six weeks would be an age to us.’